Short Story Paris Part 4 of 4 That's all!

 

The café, was once again my place of refuge, in spite of the rain and a considerate number of patrons. And also once again, Stan was missing. 

 

I found Beatrice alone at a table near the back, smiled as I stepped through the door. She waved to me.  I unfolded my umbrella and put it the barrel next to the door before I took a chair.

 

“Did you have a good time with Madam de Rohan?”

 

“And why did you tell me she was in her nineties and wanted sex?”

 

She skipped over my question. “She’s nice lady.  Good time?”

 

“Helen is very nice. It was a special evening.”

 

“It surprising me.” Heavy French accent, without this and that in English, but much better than my café French. 

 

To change the subject: “How is Stanley? I haven’t seen him lately.”

 

“I don’t seen him late. He has troubles.”

 

“With the lawyer?”

 

“What lawyer?”

 

“The one who met him here. Something about his writing.”

 

“I know nothing of that.  I know he does….how do you say it….putting money down.”

 

“You don’t mean betting?”

 

Her eyes lit up.  “Yes! That things!”

 

“He’s in trouble?”

 

“Yes. I warn him. He do not listen.”

 

Well, that was another conversation and another glimpse into the strange life of Mr. Stanley.

 

“How is his writing going?”

 

She shrugged. “He has to finish.”

 

Finish? “A new book?”

 

“It is complication. The bookers want him to write more to pay more.”

 

“And he hasn’t?”

 

Another shrug.

 

“Will he be here, maybe today or tomorrow?”

 

“Qui sait?” Who knows is right.

 

Today or tomorrow turned out to be never, at least for this café.  Beatrice dropped in, met me for an early coffee and told me when and where.  It was quiet between sips. The bookers, as she put it had not showed up the times she had come by.

 

“And you hear more about Helen?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You have things together?”

 

“Art museums, déjeuner, Lunch. Le dîner, Dinner.”

 

“Seul?”

 

My turn to shrug, but without a smile. Damn if I was going to tell her if we had supper alone or any other secrets.  Pretty certain Helen wouldn’t.

The next time I saw Stanley I didn’t approach him and he didn’t see me. Le Lit des Roses, The Bed of Roses Café was fairly filled almost out to the road.

 

The same greasy, naughty lad sat across from Stan and neither of them looked happy and neither was sipping their cups of red wine.

 

I eased closer, with my back to them. I did sip my wine.

 

“You still own me money.”

 

“I gave you every Euro.”

 

“Not enough.”

 

“What do you mean, Recardo, you cheap bastard?”

 

It went on and on until I left.

 

Sometimes you just have to let things go, friend or not. What was I going to do? Track him down and slit his throat?

 

The next evening, I met Helen at her lovely little cubby of artistic wonders. Gaston made dinner for us. Of course, a well-known chef was a close friend. Not my friend of course. What one man could do with one chicken, butter, wine and herbs de Provence would fascinate hungry angels.

 

Gaston sat with us. Like many classic chefs, he spoke English and god knows how many other languages. But, when necessary to help poor me, Helen jumped in.

 

The conversation drifted past cooking and politics, to weather, trips taken and going to taken, until we got to friends.  Somehow, writers came into the stream. Of course, Gaston had never heard of me, or at least the author me.

 

For reasons that confounds me, Gaston mentioned Stanley. He’s read a couple of his books, which astounded me.

 

I couldn’t help myself. Not right then, but a few days earlier. Helen had somehow crossed the line from let’s have dinner to more subtly conversations, that led to our own fascinations. And eventually pillow talk to my worries linked to Stanley’s mix-up. Not the whole thing, more like half of this and that.

 

“Funny you mentioned that author, Gaston. He’s a friend of ours. There’s a hoodlum giving him something of a bit of trouble.”

 

It pays to know people who know people. With the right people, bad things can disappear, or bad things can happen to bad people.

 

I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t say a word when Stanley is back in our favorite café and Recardo never did.

 

I won’t tell the rest of the story, but I’m happy and so is Helen. That’s enough for the two of us.

 

 

The Boy in the Garden

 

I often come to this garden.  I don’t know why.  Well, yes I do, but I seldom talk about it. Way too personal.

 

Anyway, I come.  So relaxing and clouded with long lost memories and mysteries. 

 

The fountain is gone, but the statue remains.  Don’t know why, but I suspect money had something to do with it. Money always seeps in to turn simple harmony and blissful joy into something else.

 

But, wonder of wonders, the statue is still here.  The boy with shells at his feet and a clear face of welcoming joy.  It’s not a smile.  It’s a knowing. A connection.  Do you know what I mean? I don’t blame you if you don’t.  These days, adult lives are burdened with what they can buy, as if that means anything. Things are tinged with money.

 

Ah, well, too much blather. Let me listen to the songs of birds, the rustle of the leaves, the warmth of the sun, my breathing in and out that keeps me knowing I’m alive, a part of the world.

 

The poets knew, the philosophers knew.  Children know. At least the happy ones.

 

As I sit on this bench and marvel at the look on the boy’s face, the statue, I reflect on poems.  You probably don’t want to hear that rant. But, it’s important to me. So here it is.

 

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

 

William Wordsworth knew what the hell he was talking about. Pity you if you don’t.

 

One day, I just heard a voice, or maybe the swaying of the trees. Nope. Not a tree, a boy. A little face appeared from behind a bush. Couldn’t be more than four or five.

 

“Hi,” he said. “Why are you sitting on this bench?” Light brown hair. Blue eyes.  Tan shorts held up by tan suspenders, sewed in at the back, buttoned at the front. A white, short sleeved boy’s polo.

 

A clever boy. Went right to the heart of it.

 

“I like it here.”

 

“Me, too,” he said.

 

“Where are you parents?”

 

He pointed to the garden café, maybe only ten or fifteen yards away.  A woman waved and smiled.   Good parents, keeping a sharp eye.

 

“Why do you come here?” he asked.

 

I looked at him. “To see my brother.  Do you have a brother?”

 

“Where is he?”

 

I pointed to the statue.

 

“I don’t have a brother,” he said, looking hard at the statue, trying his best to understand.  Then he turned back to me and asked an honest question. “Why do you call him your brother?”

 

“When I grew up, I didn’t have a brother. I was lonely.  Have you ever been lonely?”

 

He nodded, eyes downcast as if it shamed him. He looked back at me.  “Not all the time. But I wish I had a brother.”

 

His mind skipped to birds and flowers, asking me questions that I struggled to answer.  I knew the names of the common ones, pointing out a robin-red-breast, a bright red male cardinal, an English sparrow, some lilies and black eyed Susans.

 

“You know a lot,” he said, his voice so serious. “Who taught you?”

 

“My mother and my brother.”

 

“But you didn’t have a brother. Not a real brother.”

 

“Have you ever had a make-believe friend?”

 

He nodded slowly. “I call him Frank.”

 

“Why Frank?” He shrugged. Out of the blue, “Will you be my brother and teach me things?”

 

I did my best to hold back tears that had been held back for years, maybe decades. I remembered the lonely days, the days of longing. I was like the boy. I had talked for hours with the boy-statue, my only friend. It gave me joy. I loved him, needed him.

 

“Why are you crying?”

 

“I still love my brother,” I said, wiping away the streaks running down my cheeks.

 

“Will you be my brother?”

 

“Oh my God, son!” The tears could no longer be held back.

 

“I’ll be your brother and we can both have the boy-statue as another brother,” he said.  His face lit up as if he’d discovered heaven.

 

The boy’s mother approached, short, slim, smiling.  “Is he bothering you?”

 

I quickly wiped my face. “No, no, he’s fine.”  I should have said he’s brought me more joy than I’ve ever had.

 

“Momma, momma, he’s going to be my brother!” His excitement showed eyes as bright as the bright sunshine.

 

She smiled again and put her arm on his shoulder. “What’s that about?”

 

Now the boy is grown. I haven’t seen him in years. But now when I come to the garden to see my brother, I have to wipe away the tears. I can’t help myself, I miss him so, and always will. But the statue is still there and still my brother.

 

 

 

 

 

The French Lady

 

Horras Wheatman was known for picking winners.  Not horses or roulette, but movies and TV shows and the occasional starlet. He could smell success, but in this case, with his sniffer on the blink, he would be forced to listen to Charlie Blankenship explain what he called “The next big thing.” Mr. Blankenship was the friend of a friend of his wife, which made listening to this clash of idiocy mandatory.

 

“Just call me Charlie.”

 

Oh yes.  And what else should I call you.  But Horras didn’t say that.  How could he? His wife insisted and on and on and so forth.

 

Horras had been through this churning of the stomach many times and knew how to think about other things like flowers and breasts while appearing to concentrate. He leaned back, fingers touching his lips like a church steeple, his brown tweed suit, with a white shirt under his one tone darker brown vest, set off with a fashionable, but subdued blue and pale-yellow tie.  He and Mr. Blankenship had already gone through the formalities, of greetings, handshakes and an offer to take a seat.

 

“So, Mr. ….I mean Charlie…tell me about this screen play…”

 

“It’s a sure winner,” Charlie broke in.

 

“Perhaps you could favor me with a hint.” Sarcasm past his visitor like a mud slide.

 

Charlie’s smile faded only a bit. “Yes, of course. You see, it’s a love story.  Well, not exactly a love story. A sort of love story that begins in London…”

 

“Allow me to interrupt. The characters are English?”

 

“No. See that’s the twist. The man is American, but the woman is French.”

 

“Go on.” He sighed, meaning go on and shoot yourself.

 

“What’s taken them to London is that they have both dropped out of art school…shall I read you a few scenes of how they met?”

 

“By all means.” And by that I mean shoot yourself again, just to be sure.

 

“Picture the both of them walking across the bridge…”

 

“Which bridge?”

 

“Well, I haven’t decided. Does it really matter?”

 

“The Tower Bridge, the Millennium Bridge, the Westminster Bridge.  Pick one.” Patience picked up a rifle and cocked it.

 

“The one that Shakespeare wrote about.  The Shakespeare Bridge?”

 

“Tough to cling to that thought, the Shakespeare Bridge being In Los Angles.”

 

“Well, anyway, the man…”

 

“What’s the man’s name?”

 

“I don’t know. No one knows. He’s without a name.”

 

“No name, yes?”

 

“Well, he’s forgotten his name because he doesn’t know who his father is and his mother has dementia and works for the CIA.  She’s still stalking the person who killed President Truman. It’s the only way she can get her memory back.”

 

“Truman was never assassinated.”

 

“I’m getting to that. See, she goes back in time to solve the puzzle.”

 

“What puzzle?”

 

“Why her son didn’t finish Med School.”

 

“I thought he dropped out of art school.”

 

“I have lots of other films in mind.”

 

“Such as…”

 

“Diapers for Waldo, Pale Muffins, Customers in Purgatory, and my favorite, The Magician Does Tricks.”

 

“Tell me about the last one.”

 

“The plot is a magician turning transvestites into football quarterbacks.”

 

What team? I want to place a bet. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

 

“One more…. A Cardinal Error. See the New Pope is a lesbian who has the Sistine Chapel painted blue and pink to be more inclusive.”

 

“Have you thought of instead of a lesbian, the new pope is the ghost of Mussolini? And by the way, have you been to the Vatican?  If not, go and we’ll speak again when you wander back.” 

 

With Charlie gone, hopefully forever, Horras sighed. He pushed a button and another wantabee came in and sat down without being asked.  This one was a woman, the daughter of a friend of his wife.  She crossed her long legs as soon as she sat. Horras swallowed hard. Tall. Slender. Blonde. French. Her English was perfectly French. Lots of z’s, and lots of common French phrases tossed in to prove it. “Jen-say-pah. Naturalment. D’a corde. Merci.”Twisting Horras’ libido into knots.

 

A beautiful voice and the way she sat and ran a hand across her skirt made Horras have to refrain from biting his tongue. My God!  This one was better than any starlet! 

 

She offered a wonderful, mair-ve-use, story about a little less than nothing.

 

“So what do you zink?”

 

I really like your dress and would you run your palm across your skirt just one more time?  And pull it up a little higher? But, of course he didn’t say any like that.

 

“I think your story about a beautiful older woman, a carpenter who becomes Robespierre’s mistress, and having his child just before he lost his head, has real possibilities. Suppose we chat about it over dinner. I know a lovely little restaurant in Bordeaux.”

 

She smiled coyly. “I louf Bordeaux, en particulier (especially) in zee Spring.”

 

She left with a smile, walked two blocks, went into a very nice coffee shop and took a seat across from a man with a movie star face, dressed as suited a lawyer.

 

“So, did he buy it?”

 

Her French accent had quickly led her from France to Iowa. “Swallowed it like a hungry fish and damn near swallowed me too.”

 

“Did you get it recorded”. 

 

She nodded and smiled. “His wife is going to love this.”

 

“You sure as hell made my job easier!”  

 

“So, does that mean you’re taking me to dinner?”

 

He smiled.  “Not in Bordeaux.”

 

THE BODY ON THE BEACH

                                           The Body on the Beach

The Body on the Beach

 

It was a bright sunny day on Lepitor Beach, the surf lapping gently. The beach almost deserted, except for a lone man lying down a hundred yards away, which caught Edna Lustski’s attention. She stood in the sun next to the red tent that was large enough to hold a dozen sun lovers and their dogs and kids.  But today there was only her husband, Mr. Lustski, plus their ancient dog, Rex.

 

Edna, wearing a straw hat and a bikini that had lost all hope of ever looking sexy on her darkly tanned, greatly wrinkled body. She squinted and put an equally wrinkled hand across her brow for a better squint.  She extending a thin arm and pointing a boney finger.  “Arnold, I think that man over there is dead! He hasn’t moved!”

 

Her husband continued to lie on his back, eyes closed, his ponderous belly making a mockery of his Speedo trunks. “He’s probably just sleeping.  Look my way. I’ll show you how it’s done.”  Rex the Ancient, lying beside him didn’t move.  Long ago, Rex was a championship barker, but these days he found it was not worth the trouble.  He did open one eye then quickly closed it.

 

“Arnold!  I tell you that man is dead!”

 

“He probably saw you staring and is playing dead. Anyway, how in hell would you know at this distance?”

 

“Well, how would you know without opening your eyes.” Frustration festered.

 

“Go closer and give him a kiss.  If he doesn’t scream and race to drown himself you’ll know for sure he’s dead.”

 

“Man lying in this sun, with no sunglasses or umbrella?  Impossible!” Edna walked the beach in the man’s direction, leaving tracks in the sand. Slowly. Then slowed her pace even more, like a woman not ready to go on her final date with Jesus.  She got closer, then closer until she was standing over the man. He was lying on a dark blue beach towel, not moving, her straw sun hat casting a shadow across his chest.  His eyes were closed, his mouth partially open, the hairs on his chest blowing slightly in the gentle breeze, his bald head a roasty brown.

 

She nudged him with a thick, yellowish big toenail poking out the front of her sand-colored beach sandals. He didn’t move. Well, maybe he did. Maybe not. Didn’t look like he was breathing, but with her sun glasses on….. She nudged him harder, more like an unfriendly kick in the ribs.

 

The man’s eyes flew open!  He rolled toward her and gripped her leg like a steel vice.

 

Her hand went to her mouth as she sucked in enough air to fill a balloon, and fell back onto the hot sand and appeared to have stopped breathing.

 

The man knelt and put an ear to Edna’s mouth, then jumped to his feet and yelled for help.  “I think this woman is dead! Somebody help!”

 

Mr. lustski stayed on his back, eyes still closed, and yelled, “How can you tell?”

 

Rex didn’t move either.

 

 

 

 

 

Fractured- an incredibly short story

        


         I know Mr. Charles doesn’t like me.  You can see it in his beady eyes and the way his lips curl ever so slightly when he stops by my cubical.  He won’t look straight at me.  How can he when the hostility just oozes from him like putrefied garbage?  Thumbs locked under his braces, he rocks back on his heels and you can hear the breath hiss out of him.  A viper about to sink his fangs.  And he asks such inane questions.  “How is the project coming?  Is your wife going to attend the office Christmas party?”  Like he really understands my project, or really knows my wife.  That whiney voice is a dead giveaway.  He should be shot and I don’t mean metaphorically.

         I’m working on the same project I’ve been working on for the past two weeks.  Every Monday morning and every Friday morning, I send a full complement of charts and graphs that fully explains the situation.  It isn’t easy, but of course he wouldn’t know that.  He always calls me, right after the meeting he has on Mondays and Fridays with Mr. Fimburt, and he always implies my work is somehow incomplete.  Next time he comes in my office, I’m going to gut him.

         “What are the results we can expect if sales drop less than one percent in the quarter?”

         “Graph three, sir.”

         A pause, a shuffling of paper.  “That graph is of somewhat limited value.”

         “It’s the one you asked for.”  I told him the graph was useless when he asked me to make it, but of course he ignored me.

         Pause.  More paper movement.  “Perhaps we should rethink the relevance of putting projections and hard number columns on the same page. It’s confusing.”

         “I can easily separate them, if you’d prefer, sir.”  It was my idea to separate them in the first place.  His tongue should be ripped from his head.

         On and on it goes.  Half my life is re-answering questions and rearranging the same figures on new charts, in the futile hope of penetrating his fogged mind.  Fat chance.  I tell you, the man doesn’t like anything about me.  It’s true I got a hefty raise, but that was only because he couldn’t very well turn his back after all the things I’ve done for the company.  No, my raise was just to cover his own backsides.  He thinks I’m fooled by it, but I’m not.  Not even for a minute.  He’ll soon find out how unfooled I am.

         And the bit about the Christmas party?  What a crock!  If I asked him, Mr. Charles wouldn’t know my wife’s name if I branded it on his chest.  I may do just that.  He’s met her at least four or five times!  Where does the company find these cretins and why do they put them in charge?  I remember Mr. Charles’ wife’s name.  It’s Emily.  Not that I ever call her Emily.  I always call her Mrs. Charles, but at least I know her Christian name.  I know his children’s names and his street address and his home phone number.  Once when I was in his office and he kicked off his shoes, scattering them all over the place, I glanced down and noted his shoe size.   Oh, yes, I know lots about our Mr. Charles and he can’t even remember my wife’s first name? Harriet.   Not an especially tough name to remember is it?

         Come to think of it, Mr. Charles may not even know my first name.  He always calls me mister, then pauses to look at the nameplate on my desk.  He’s shifty and hides it well, but I can tell what he’s doing.  He’d probably deny that.  He’d probably lie.  My first name is Jerry, just so you don’t have to thumb through your Rolodex or type my last name into your computer.  I’m paying you enough that you should at least remember my name.  See, I even know how much you make per hour.  It’s more than you know about me.

         I saw the picture of your wife on your desk and it’s signed ‘Rita.’  The soles of your shoes are worn.  You can obviously afford a new pair, but you just don’t have the time.  Am I right? So, do you even remember what I just told you?  Do you know my wife’s name?  Emily?  Very poor.  That’s Mr. Charles’ wife’s name, numbskull.  You’re not paying attention.  I could tell earlier.  Do you know you shift in your seat a lot?  You’re a squirmer and squirmers don’t usually pay attention.  You know what they say:  if a person can’t remember something it’s because he’s trying hard to forget.  So, maybe you know my wife better than I think you do.

         Look at that!  You dropped your pen.  Very significant if you ask me, and your wafer thin, half-smiles don’t change my opinion one iota.

         Paranoid?  When you call me a name it’s just a weak attempt to change the subject.  You may not think it's important, but I find it not only important, but personally insulting.  You don’t like me, do you doctor?  Well, get in line.

         Here’s another tough question for that giant, doctor brain.  What’s my name?  Jerry?  Very good.  Very, very good.  Maybe I’ll remember to send you your check after all.

         Do I make you nervous?  God, my collar is tight.  Just reach over here and loosen it. Well, answer my question!  Do I Make You Nervous?  The question isn’t that difficult.  Ha, ha!  You’re more nervous when you drive to work.  Very funny!  Do realize you’ve picked up your water glass twice without taking a sip?  What does that tell you?

         What do I think about my wife?  What the hell kind of question is that?  And by the way, I’ll thank you to call her by her name.

         Well, she’s very intelligent for one thing.  She has a Ph.D. and don’t think for a minute she ever lets me or anyone else forget it. Oh, I know the name of the university all right, but it makes me want to puke when I say it, so I won’t say it.

         The other day she told me, “Getting an advanced degree was a burden, but it was worth it and I thank you everyday for putting up with all I had to go through.”  That’s a laugh.  It’s just another way she has of belittling me because I don't’ have Dr. in front of my name.  But, you already know about that, don’t you DOCTOR!

         She’s published in some high-powered journals and got her picture on the cover of Newsweek magazine.  I mean it wasn’t the whole cover.  She was with a group of twenty-five or thirty people.  There she was.  Big, bold smile.  That smile hides a lot.  Ask me anything you want to know about her.  IQ?  Shoe size?  Favorite foods?  I could tell you all about those little trivialities.  Just don’t ask me about sex.  I won’t talk about that even if you are a doctor, you pervert.

         Well, you’re right.  This hour is supposed to be about me, not about that crone I’m married to.  She can get her own shrink and don’t think she couldn’t talk his ear off!  Talk?  That woman makes Larry King seem autistic.

         Why do I call her a crone if she’s beautiful?  The eye of the beholder and all that for one thing.  For another, she hates me.  Hate may be a tad too strong.  The woman is so vapid she’s incapable.   Hate, I mean real hate, takes time, energy, concentration, and most of all emotion.  When it comes to my wife, her bucket of energy and emotion is as dry as an AA meeting.  Anyway, she dislikes me.  That makes her very, very ugly, at least where yours truly is concerned.  I wouldn’t make love to her on a bet, even though she’s always begging for it.  Oh, yeah!  Well, I mean, she doesn’t come right out and say it, but a man can tell, can’t he doctor?  Those chance encounters in the laundry room when she just happens to be hanging up her delicates?  Not a chance.  She’s too ugly where it really counts, on the inside.  She’s got a nice figure, pretty well rounded, if you know what I mean.  But, I just can’t do the deed. 

         Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing wrong with the old equipment. The woman dislikes me, with a capital D-I-S.  Would you make love to a woman whom you know can’t stand you?

         So, doc, when are we going to make some progress?  I’m waiting on progress and at the rate you charge, progress should be riding a bullet train.  You say you want to ask a few more questions?  There always seem to be a few more questions.  Long on questions, short on results is what I’m saying.  You ever been castrated, Doc?  Just wondering if you’d like to know what it feels like.

         Mr. Charles? You keep changing the subject.  I can’t believe I need to go into more detail.  More useless trivia.  You know, I’m starting to get the idea that you’re not any more fond of me than he is.

         You think I might need a referral?  To whom?  Another shrink?  I don’t care whether you like that term or not.  This isn’t about you; it’s about me, you moron!  Besides, after the nut cutting, you won’t care one way or another.   Sounds like another racket to put somebody else on my payroll.  What the hell do I need with another doctor?  And these straps are really getting tight.  I’m starting to feel like Venus de Milo.   Loosen ‘em up, meathead.  You really do dislike me, don’t you Doc!  Have you been talking to my wife, or maybe to Mr. Charles?  What the hell are you doing with that needle?

Daybreak

 

Bright corners of the new day crawled sleepily through the trees outside her house, a humble home in a humble village.  She stood quietly on the stone veranda, sipping from a white and blue ceramic cup, awakening her throat with the bitter brew, her housecoat wrapped round her slim body. It had become her habit of arising early, embracing the dawn as a symbol of what it meant to be alive.  Boy, did she feel alive! 

 

She hadn’t followed the pattern all her life, but ever since her husband was suddenly gone.  It had been six years to the day when she got the phone call.

 

“I want a divorce.”

 

She didn’t miss him, which also evoked the memory of a certain sadness.  Not the sadness of the phone called, but the sadness that had lingered through twenty years of marriage. Sadness could turn into a bad habit, but at last she’d shoved it away, let it drown in the river of bad memories.

 

Her two kids, both of them grown, had settled far away, on the other side of the globe.  North and South Carolina, Raleigh and Charleston.

 

Maybe she should live closer, but England suited her.  As strange as it sounded, even to her, the weather suited her, the small cottage, the changing seasons, and a location that required little effort to travel to the nearest city, and cities on the continent.  She and her friend, Francine, had just come back from a two months stay in a small town on the edge of Paris. At least she had returned.

 

Her high school French had been brushed up, refurbished, to the extent that she could parler with waiters and trainsmen, and buy a new blouse on the first try, and read the newspapers, except when it was peppered with local dialect.

 

Francine was French and decided to stay. Good for her!  Of course, Jean Pierre had something to do with it. 

 

She had slept with him, too. As excitingly delicious as a fresh croissant with fig jam and a café au lait.  But, of course eating breakfast all the time, and just breakfast, could become slightly boring.  Besides, she found his someone bulging stomach a little off-putting.  No he was not fat, but not the slim French lad that had settled in her imagination since she was a girl.  He did have the French charm, a gallon of it. So the once…or was it twice…?  Francine knew. She had to have known.  Ah, well, Francine never mentioned it and goodness knows she wouldn’t.

 

Jean Pierre and Francine fought off and on, and one night when the heat of confrontation simmered, Francine said, “Here, you take him.”  That was that. C’est l’amour.  But, two nights were enough, sure enough.

 

The French are more open minded.  That’s what Americans say.  Better put to say, in France, liaisons are accepted as a part of nature for both men and women, the part of the brain that says, let’s meet in the afternoon, but don’t let it spoil a friendship.  Cinq à Sept?  Five to seven would be perfect for me, she thought.

 

Francine and Jean Pierre had gotten married a couple of weeks later, the occasion celebrated in a small stone church that was old enough and dusty enough to have served as a delightful spot for honoring the Roman god of dandruff. The priest was slightly younger than the church, short, gray, and a testimony to osteoporosis.  He mumbled in a confused manor that left the bride and groom asking, “Pardon?” more than once or twice. The priest kept going, evidently not able to slow down and risk losing his place in line.  The bride and groom did the best they could and stuck in answers from time to time, randomly, and with great emotion.  “Our heaving faber, how be thy namb.” I do!  Me, too!

 

A small affair and she had served as the Maid of Honor. Several persons from the village of Pont de Pierre, Stonebridge, attended, Pierre meaning stone as well as Peter.  She’d had a chuckle over that.

 

The attendees were a scattering of mostly the old and feeble who’d heard there was an availability of cake. The older women supplied congratulatory tears at various times, whether out of sympathy for the groom, or just forgetting where they were and how they had gotten there.

 

Jean Pierre didn’t just offer cake, but a spit roasted pig and variety of baked vegetables, doused with sauces. Naturally, there was beaucoup wine and chunks of baguettes.  Soon neighbors who had missed the wedding turned up with more jugs of wine and well named homemade brandy referred to as Merde de Chèvres, goat droppings.

 

Everyone celebrated well into the evening.  Ah, the memories. She awoke at the breaking of a new day, next to a somewhat familiar face in her bed. It was that first dawn that reawakened her to the beauty of life.  

 

Now that she was back at home, it was time to readjust a bit.  

 

Jean Pierre’s brother, Andre, a slimmer version of his younger brother, came up behind her, as she stood on the veranda, and put his arm around her waist.  “Pourquoi aimes-tu tant le lever du soleil?” Why do you love the sunrise so much?”

 

 

 

 

Harold Judy Good

Harold sat at a table for two in the bright Florida sun.  At least he sat there for a while before his thinking cap overheated, a black ball cap.  The front read, Love to Hate in red letters. Flashes of sun blocked out the keyboard.  The back of the hat read, also in red letters, You’re My Dream Bitch.  He found this persuasively obnoxious, and a clever disguise.

Once back in the shadows of a large, green canvas awning, he began to type again, a novel of love and deception.  The working title was Hurt So Good.  

 

Harold rather fancied his name de plume, Judy Good.  Hard to believe a bachelor, using a woman’s name could sell books, but he already had half a dozen on the shelves, and just knew Hurt So Good would be his best.  Couldn’t miss.  His technique was to write whatever came into his mind and tickled his fingers.  Afterwards, he could make any necessary changes. 

 

His first romantic novel, Countess Jupiter Is Not Pregnant, did very well, as did the follow up, Oh Yes She Is. However the third part of the trilogy, The Count Has His Doubts, slacked a bit, with several wives writing that he/she had ruined their marriages.

 

But, this next one would be super. Hurt, as he called it, began on the Italian Riviera, with a fisherman’s daughter falling into a net, half drowning before a fabulously good looking millionaire dove off the deck of his passing yacht and saved her.

 

He was the third multimillionaire to dive to her rescue.  Matter of fact, her father had given up fishing completely and was satisfied with just netting.  He spoke perfect English, but broken Italian worked better, especially if the yacht flew an American or British flag.

 

“Help-O!  Help-O!  Mia Butiful dog-ter is she to drown-O!”

 

Adolfo Gleason had waited years for a chance like this; in fact he had tossed many a maiden into the briny just for practice. “Scream louder!” His hands cups as a megaphone.  “Duck your damn head a couple of times!”

 

The last one, Gloria Morning, a Bulgarian stripper, actually could not swim and when she yelled and went under, coming up and sloppily paddling like a terrified house cat, the screams were real.

 

“One of the best!” was Adolfo’s comment, “Really great thrashing,” he said with a glamorous show of perfect, glistening white teeth.

 

Over supper, he suggested Gloria try it again in the blackness of night.  
Against vicious protestations to the contrary, mostly in rapid fire Bulgarian, including an un-translated, “I will strike significant damage to your particulars”, he tossed her overboard. This time the show was really terrific, including the struggle on deck. So terrific in fact, he paid for her year’s stay in a psychiatric hospital, so afraid of water she couldn’t wash her hands without paddling the air and wetting herself.  Doctor Leroy Felter found it amusing and loved to see her do her hippy-hop dance in the hot tub, held down by four very masculine nurses. Then, when unannounced, he joined her, well, it was a real show.

 

One night she escaped, but she didn’t get far.  After changing her pronoun, she forgot to change her given name. She booked a room at the Motel de Jour or de Hour, awaking and screaming loud enough to wake the owner, in the middle of a rain storm.  He plodded through the downpour and seeing the crazy woman on her hands and knees, ripping up carpet with her teeth, he called the police.

 

Dr. Felter welcomed her back with a broad smile and his pet name for her, Hot Tubby, and a smiling shriek of “Take Tubby to the Hot Tubby!”

 

A year later, when she turned catatonic, he pronounced her cured.  She no longer feared water, or conversation, or deodorant, or playing I’ve got a secret. She also found a fondness for bondage, and laboratory animals, and humming the Bulgarian Love Chant.

 

Judy Good (Harold) turned the page and wrote on at a fevered pace. Time to go back to Adolfo and his newly found fisherman’s beautiful daughter, whose name was Triumphina.   She had large….let’s see, he thought.  What the hell should be large that wasn’t a cliché?  Large hair?  No, too Texas.  Must be Italian.  Large spaghetti pots!  Readers might see that as a euphemism, but it was good, and he’d save it for later.  Ah, big nostrils!  Huge nostrils!  Nostrils you could put your fist in!  Maybe that was overdoing it, but at least sizeable nostrils.  Also a large smile!  He’d run with that.  A smile so large lobsters thought it was a trap!  Wolves ran in fear.  Let’s give her a snicker, too.  Let her snicker every time she smiled, which made her sound like she had a serious sinus problem, but after all, she’d almost drowned so many times, she probably had an Ear, Nose and Throat doc on call.

 

Ah, but her father was certainly fond of Adolfo.  Much better than the last one, Francis of Assisi, whom he had taken to calling Ass-i After being poked in the eye when Ass-i genuflected.   But, Ass-i was rich.  Very rich.  Paid off well when Triumphina reported she was with child.  Not a huge lie because although she wasn’t p.g.,  she did have two kids.

 

But, Adolfo!  What a catch.  Rich as a Cardinal, and with a huge yacht which Triumhina’s father liked to gape at out of his one good eye. Adolfo could be the end all and be all and a clear frontrunner on the trail to riches.

 

How to end this enticing tail?  Judy Good pondered it, then smiled.

 

Trumphina’s father did not bother to tell her that this was the last inning and they were so far ahead Babe Ruth and the entire 1927 Yankees could never catch up.

 

It was the dark of night and he didn’t notice much of anything, but gasped when he got to the fishing boat and saw his daughter jump over the side, into the net!  Who let the net out? Woof Woof, Woof Woof. Why did she jump now? 

 

He climbed on deck and raced to the stern.  He’d seen Triumphina jump, but why didn’t she come back up? Her super large nostrils didn’t even blow large bubbles. A hole in the net told the story.  He looked again and the two cement blocks that usually held the folded net in place were also missing.  Plus, a bit of rope lay near where the net should be.

 

Then a solid board caught him in the back of the head and he also fell overboard and through the net.

 

Adolfo stepped out of the shadows, moved closer and looked down at the water.  No bubbles, although there was the chance the fisherman’s body would eventually rise. 

 

Of no concern. He’d be on his yacht, half a mile from the dock, and on his way within a couple of hours. No one knew him or about his connections to anyone here.  He smiled.

 

Ah, home at last.  The spaciousness was calming.  And alone was even better. Adolfo started to call Stevenson to get his ass in there and fix him a perfect Manhattan, and perhaps a few crackers the cook had conjured up, along with a plate of oil cured olives and slices of aged Manchego.  He’d forgotten he’d given the crew the evening off.  Just as well; if they were questioned, they couldn’t say when he had gone or where he had gone, of when he returned.

 

Ah, yes, a drink.  He poured whiskey over ice and listened to it crackle.  Then he heard a noise, just a slight creaking.  He went back to sipping.  Got to be the boat.  It did shake a little bit.  Not enough to spill his drink.  Took a lot to shake this big bitch of a boat significantly. 

 

Then he heard another noise.  A small boat tapped and scraped against the yacht.  Must be the crew.

 

She stood with a gun in her hand, a small black automatic. Gloria Hot Tubby.

 

“Don’t do it,” he said solemnly, but the ice in his glass did shake a little.

 

She motioned toward the stairs that led to the deck and pointed to a rope.

 

The police ruled it an accident.  Obviously the man had started the boat, caught his foot in a rope and fallen overboard.  The boat was anchored and must have churned in tight circles for an hour or more before someone reported it. Simple. Death by drowning.

 

Dr. Felter sat quietly in his office.  Evening had come, the patients were off to bed, the nurses, except for the ones on the wards sat quietly reading, or sipping coffee.  And then he heard a noise…

 

Judy Good (Harold) reread the skeleton sketch of his story.  And with a few changes, it could be really good.

There were no giant holes, just character nudges.  Toss in some real romance, and a castle or two in Ireland or Scotland.   He could sub a castle for the fishing boat and toss a wedding in there and the mandatory breakup.  Then, right before the wedding, when the bride found who she was really in love with….  A Lard reclaiming lost lands. He’d keep the Adolfo name…Yes, an Italian Lard by marriage, living in Scotland. Some scoundrel and scandal never hurt.   But, where would he put the yacht/castle?

 

No real beauties, but that could be overcome. Christ, get rid of the big nostrils and add some bosoms worthy of a salacious mention….Dr Felter would have to go….no, wait a sec, he could be a knight with a large…. ah dungeon…lots of room for whips and chains and swordfights in the stone corridors.  Suppose Dr Felter’s name was Sir Buford Longshanks.

 

He could do this!  The story almost wrote itself!

 

He signed and turned his hat around.  The waitress walked over and slapped him hard enough to give him a concussion.  “Naughty, naughty lad,” she snarled. “Your hat is an affront to womanhood!”

 

“Would you like to be in a book?  I can fit you right in.”