Tag Archives: love

Wheezes in the Dark

I hate August in Florida. And it’s not because of what you think. Sure it’s hot, but I never minded that. I grew up in Texas where it was still 99 degrees at midnight in August.
No, what I hate about August in Florida are all of the disgusting plants in the swamp decide to pollinate and release their nasty little pollen spores whose only purpose in life is to find their way up my nose.
Once ensconced in my nasal cavities, they begin to work their magic. I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records for the number of sneezes in a row—and no little choo-choos but ACHOO, ACHOOs.
Invariably I would also get an infection wanting to join the party so then I have to include a doctor in the game who supplies the drugs—antibiotics, I mean. I thought I was smart enough to end the party when it wanted to travel down to the lungs because that can lead to pneumonia which can end in death even now in the 21st century.
Which brings me to where the real story begins. A few weeks ago I was hosting another mucous gala when I realized that the infection arrived. For whatever reason I decided not to go to my doctor for an antibiotic. Maybe I thought this time the routine would be different. At age seventy-one I should have known better.
I noticed in the quiet of the night I could hear the wheezing from the lowest recesses of my lungs, and those wheezes began to sound like voices. This was not new to me. I have a REM sleep disorder which means I stay in the dream state all the time. I think I see things and hear things in that nether world between dreams and reality.
At first I thought they were clever and cute. I had never heard these voices before. They were like new friends at the mucous party. They stayed for several more evenings and I kept feeling worse. I dragged through the days and lost more of the little sleep I did get.
Then one night the voice changed. It shouldn’t be called a voice at all. It was just wheezing from the bottom of my lungs which no one else could hear. But this voice was very clear and recognizable. It was my five-year-old granddaughter.
“Papa, please call home.”
At first I thought of the line from the movie ET but she sounded scared instead of motivated.
“Papa, please call home, please.”
It was so real I actually woke up, so concerned now I almost considered call my daughter in the middle of the night to make sure everyone was all right. Then I thought the phone call itself would upset her more than any upset she might be in. And if everything was all right there, then she would assume there was something wrong with me. And there was nothing wrong with me.
Oh.
Wait.
Cough. Cough.
The next day I called my doctor who checked me out and prescribed an antibiotic and prednisone. The mucous party is over, and I really do feel better.
All I’ve got to say now is if my granddaughter wants to talk to me through my wheezes in the dark, she has my loving permission.

Portrait of a Ballerina, Part Two

Previously, twin sisters become estranged when one of them does not correct a ballet director’s decision.
Upon La Vieja’s death, she willed the dance school to Nina. Jose became a master electrician and settled down into a satisfying prosperous life. They had two sons. Jorge played soccer and Miguel became a dancer. In the meantime, Nina continued to read stories in the newspapers about Maria’s successful career and her disastrous private life. Maria had several affairs with prominent men, but none of them married her. Maria’s lowest point was a miscarriage of a baby whose father was a local politician who refused to divorce his wife. Nina never shed a tear for her.
The years passed, and Nina took an assistant to demonstrate new steps to her students. Again she read in the papers about her sister when she broke her leg attempting a difficult leap. The ballet company urged her to teach, but she refused and instead retired to concentrate on her oil painting.
When he grew up, Miguel auditioned for the French National Ballet and was accepted. Jorge joined his father’s expanding electrical company.
Over time Nina’s students learned, grew and often returned to thank her for the training and for being like a second mother. Some of them actually became professional dancers, accepted by companies across Europe.
When Nina read Maria had a painting accepted by the national gallery, she only grunted and raised an eyebrow. She told her sons she was too happy being abuela to her own grandchildren to be concerned with her sister. Nina didn’t show any grief when she read Maria died, collapsed on the museum floor in front of her painting.
A few days later she received a phone call from the executive director of the Prado who informed her Maria put in her will that her sister and family be invited to a memorial service at her painting in the gallery. It was Maria’s wish, the director said, for the rope to be removed and for Nina to be the first to observe the painting up close.
“Never.”
Nina was adamant until her husband Jose and her grown sons hugged her and reminded her there was no reward in heaven for holding a grudge. They didn’t knew what the bitterness was, they told her, and that they didn’t want to know what it was. But, they added, her heart would heal if she relented and looked at the painting as her sister wanted. Against her will of steel, Nina conceded to call the museum and agreed to attend the ceremony.
On the day of the event Nina and her family arrived exactly on time. She didn’t want to be early and subject herself to questions that were none of the reporters’ business. With great pomp the museum officials removed the red rope, and the Prado director led Nina to the picture. She looked at it but only saw globs of black and white.
“Mama,” Jorge whispered, “Look at the face of the ballerina. It looks exactly like you.”
“Of course it does,” Nina snapped. “We were twins.”
“No, I’ve lived with that face for forty-five years,” Jose interceded. “That’s you, Nina.”
“Look again, Mama,” Miguel urged. “Look closer.”
As Nina focused on the face she had to admit it was her chin, her nose, her eyes, her mouth. There were the slight differences only a twin could detect. So, yes, it was she as a young ballerina, almost ten feet tall.
Miguel stepped closer to the shadows behind the ballerina. “Mama, look at this.”
Nina stood next to him and saw in varying shades of black, gray and dark blue, other dancers cowering, pulling away. The faces on them were that of Maria. The closest figure to the dancer in the spotlight was definitely Maria on the day of the audition. Her face bared shock, disappointment and shame.
As the spotlight’s glow faded more figures appeared, each of the same dancer, aging in despair the further she went from the star until she was a hunched-over vieja. Many of them cried. Others moaned. Still more pulled at their hair in loneliness and self-loathing. The last figure, in the farthest corner, was a barely detectable body, collapsed on the floor, like a pile of dirty rags.
Nina remembered reading in the morning newspaper that Maria was found with a small can of black paint and a tiny brush in her hand, as though she died applying the final stroke.
“Nina, my chica, will you finally tell us what all this is all about?” Jose asked in tenderness.
“No.” She clinched her jaw. “I have never spoken of it and neither did Maria. In all the interviews, if someone asked her about her audition for the ballet she would leave the room. It said so in the newspapers and magazines. So no, it is a secret we shall both take to our graves. And perhaps in death we may finally forgive each other.”
“But Mama,” Jorge begged. “We are your family. We have always loved you, respected your wishes, and will be by your side when you leave this life.”
“Yes, Mama,” Miguel took up the case. “Don’t you think we deserve to know? After all, we love you more than we can say.”
Nina smiled as her wrinkled face found grace and peace. She waved her shriveled hand across the vast expanse of the canvas.
“You want to know the truth. It’s all right there in front of you. All you have to do is discover what it means.”

Portrait of a Ballerina

Nina Carmen de Seguin read in the morning newspaper on the front page that Spain’s greatest prima ballerina Maria Consuelo Rodriguez—her sister—died.
She did not cry.
Nina further read that Maria’s body had been found on the floor of the Prado Museum in front of her classic self-portrait, which Maria previously proclaimed would never be finished. She began the painting early in her career and art critics judged it to be a masterpiece comparable to eighteenth century giants in light and composition. It was of a ballerina in a spotlight, on pointe with her arms outstretched. Behind her were indiscernible dark shapes. Maria eventually conceded to have the painting displayed on the stipulation that no one be allowed to stand closer than thirty feet away from the twelve-by-eight foot oil painting behind a red velvet cord. She also demanded that she be allowed to continue work on it at night and at her discretion. Now that Maria had passed, Prado officials announced the rope would be removed so museum visitors at last could behold the masterpiece up close.
Wadding the newspaper, Nina threw it across the room.
“It’s so like her to remain the center of attention even after death,” she muttered.
Nina hated her sister and had not spoken to her in fifty years since the day they both auditioned for the Spanish National Ballet company. The sisters were twin sixteen-year-olds. They swore to each other that the ultimate dream would be for both of them to chosen. But if only one were selected, the other would be fully supportive. They walked on the stage, holding hands and wearing matching costumes for good luck.
The company director looked grim. “I must tell you now we can only take one of you, even though we have been informed that you are both equally talented. The least mistake may be the deciding factor. I sincerely apologize.”
The girls squeezed hands and smiled at each other with love. Then the music began. Nina and Maria squared their shoulders and extended their arms as though they were wings. Each performed leaps, pirouettes and lunges. At one point they held hands and twirled on pointe, their backs arched and their heads looking up into the heavens. Nina’s heart broke a bit as she noticed Maria lose her balance and waver. They broke the position and went into their final bows.
Holding hands they watched the company director and his staff confer. Finally the director spoke.
“A wonderful performance by both of you. Of course, the stumble at the end ultimately cemented our decision, but we must be blunt. The winning performance was far superior from the very beginning. The one who stumbled never showed the spirit of the winner.”
Nina’s breathing became labored as she realized her dearest dreams were about to come true. The director came to her and gave her a full embrace.
“Do not be discouraged,” he whispered. “You have great technical skills. Please consider opening your own ballet school when you are older and hope someday a dancer you trained will join your sister at the national ballet.”
Nina went numb and lost her ability to speak as the director turned to Maria and shook her hand.
“Congratulations. Your audition shows you will be the greatest ballerina of your generation.”
Nina waited for her sister to correct the director, to tell him she was the one who stumbled. All Maria could do was smile and mumble thank you. Once Nina realized Maria was not going to reveal to the director he had been confused because they were twins, she made a quick exit. When she arrived home Nina informed her mother she was going to live with her aunt in Barcelona. Her mother was caught off guard.
“When?”
“Tonight.
“Call Tia Rosa now, and I’ll be on the next bus to her house.”
Tia Rosa often confided Nina was her favorite niece so she knew her aunt would welcome her. She packed with efficiency and was out the door.
When she arrived in Barcelona, Nina ran and fell into Tia Rosa’s arms. Her aunt never asked the reason for the move. Nina enrolled in the local parochial school so she could finish her education. Then she found a dance studio owned by an elderly woman who in her youth had been in the corps de ballet with the national company.
One day Nina worked up the courage to talk about her past with La Vieja, but the teacher raised her hand.
“All you have to say is that you auditioned for the Ballet Espana. Say nothing more. Be assured you will always be loved here.”
Nina’s family never communicated with her. All Tia Rosa would reveal from the letters she received from her sister, Nina’s mother, was that the family thought she had failed to support her sister Maria. As the years passed Nina was content to have Rosa as her only family. She read the newspapers about the rise of a new ballerina named Maria but never dwelt on the news’ secret meaning to her.
She became too enamored of La Vieja’s handsome grandson Jose de Seguin who was an apprentice electrician. His dark eyes sparkled every time he saw her and refused to kiss her good night until she had danced for him. When they married, she even danced down the aisle to everyone’s delight. Of course, no one from the Madrid family attended, but Nina didn’t mind. Now she had La Vieja as her abuela.
(To be continued)

In Memoriam for What Should Have Been

In the last couple of weeks a very dear friend died. She was ninety years old, so she had a long life enriched by love, art, friends and contribution to the community. No one can grieve a life well lived.
What does make me sad is what I was unable to do for her.
Her husband, who had died three years ago, had a rich life of design in theater, costumes, dresses, cuisine and home decoration. Over the years he wrote a historical romance novel about an eighteenth century Irish actress. Many times he tried to sell it to traditional publishing houses, but at the end his manuscript was stuck in a drawer.
His wife could not stand the idea of all that work going uncelebrated. I decided to help out because I had experience in formatting manuscripts for e-publishing and in preparing paperback copies for a regional print company.
I offered to do this work for her because I read her husband’s book and fell in love with it. He used all of his knowledge to create the world of theater in Dublin and London in a time of doublets and powdered wigs.
The actress, Peg Woffington, left home as a child to join the circus. When she was a teen-ager her contract was sold to a Dublin theater where she learned quickly to shine on stage. She became a star as she moved to larger theaters until she was the talk of London. Peg shocked people by turning to her fellow actors instead of addressing the audience. She regularly played the male lead. Her love life was the scandal of the British Isles. She was not called Peg. She was “The Woffington”, with the emphasis on wolf.
The paperback copies sold quickly. Friends assured her they were buying the e-books on line. My friends bought it on line and told me how much they loved it.
The problem was my friend never received payment from the e-publisher. She had modest goals. She figured she had $200 in royalties coming to her. She kept telling me she needed that $200. She talked to company representatives. I talked to company representatives. Still no $200. At one point I offered to advance her the money, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
I knew how she felt. I self-published several books and am still in the hole. That’s why I put my stories now on my blog and let people read them for free. If I get a “thumbs up” along the way, that’s good enough.
But it wasn’t enough for my friend. We were still figuring out what to do when I saw her obituary in the newspaper.
I don’t know what else I could have done to help her. I did the best I could, but my best wasn’t good enough.

Remember Chapter Twenty-Five

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam. Troubles of the day overwhelms her and she dreams of a a fire in the boardinghouse.
Bertha knocked at Lucinda’s door. “Lucy? Can I come in? I have to apologize. Lucy?” Coming through the door, she saw the teacher on her bed. The late afternoon sun spotlighted her limp body, her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Bertha’s hand flew up to her mouth. “Emma! Cassie! Come here quick!”
Emma and Cassie rushed in. The mother goes over to the bed while the daughter comforted her aunt.
“What on earth is goin’ on here?” Emma peered at Lucinda’s face. “What a stupid look.”
“She’s dead, Emma.” Bertha had trouble forming the words. “I kinda got into a fit with her, just a few minutes ago. The last thing I ever said to her wasn’t very kind.”
“Don’t worry.” Cassie hugged her. “You didn’t know she was goin’ to die.”
“But you should always treat people like you was never goin’ to see them again, so that if the last thing they ever hear in life is from you, it’s somethin’ sweet,” Bertha replied, as though in a revelation.
“Don’t worry about it,” Emma told her sister. “At least she was paid up a month ahead.”
“We better call the hospital,” Cassie said.
“You call the police when you find somebody dead.” Emma spoke with a weary tone. Cassie should already know things like that.
“I never could figure that out,” Cassie muttered as she followed her mother and aunt down the staircase.
Nancy came in the front door but stopped short when she saw the three women coming down the steps. Bertha was wiping tears from her eyes, Cassie shook her head and Emma puffed deeply on her cigarette.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“We jest found Miz Cambridge dead in her room,” Cassie replied.
“Oh no.” Nancy turned to look through the screen door at Shirley who was playing with a couple of neighborhood friends on the front lawn.
“I know you didn’t care for her much,” Emma said bluntly as she went toward the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry.” Nancy put a hand to the screen.
Bertha patted her on the back. “Don’t worry about it none. You didn’t know she was goin’ to drop dead.” She followed her sister down the hall.
“You goin’ to be all right, Nancy?” Cassie wrinkled her brow.
“I guess.”
“Well, if you need us we’ll be in the kitchen callin’ the cops.”
Nancy hurried up the stairs to Lucinda’s room. She didn’t want to go in, but something forced her, perhaps a sense of atonement. Walking over to the bed, Nancy was surprised to see a smile on the old woman’s face. She looked around the room until she found the college yearbook from the year she and Vernon were in school. She picked it up and turned to the page with Vernon’s picture. As she left the room, Vernon’s memory appeared again, as though evoked from dreams long abandoned. Going over to the bed, he tapped Lucinda’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Cambridge?” he whispered.
Lucinda’s eyes fluttered open. “Vernon?”
“Thanks for coming back to save me, Mrs. Cambridge. And thank you for Shirley.” He helped her to her feet.
She looked back on the bed to see her body, the serene smile still on her graying, cold face. “Then I’m dead?”
“Just like me.”
“Then if we’re still here, that means we must be someone else’s memory now.”
“As long as somebody thinks about you, you’re never really gone.”
Lucinda hugged Vernon. “Oh, whoever you are, remember us. Please remember!”
Nancy went out on the porch and called out, “Shirley! Come here!”
Shirley stopped talking with her friends to look at her mother. “What’s wrong?”
Nancy smiled at Shirley’s friends. “You girls need to go home now. Shirley can play later.”
The children walked away, looking back a couple of times. Shirley took each stair with apprehension. Nancy pulled her close, and they sat on the top step.
“Mrs. Cambridge, she’s dead,” Nancy whispered.
“What?”
“She was old, Shirley.” Gentleness entered her voice. “It was her time.” Nancy held up the yearbook and opened it to the right page. “You know that yearbook you wanted to look at? Well, here it is. Let me show you a picture.”
“Vernon Singleberry?” Shirley asked.
“Yes. A very sweet, wonderful man. He looked a whole lot like you.”

Remember Chapter Twenty-Four

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam. Troubles of the day overwhelms her and she dreams of a a fire in the boardinghouse.
Bertha whimpered as the teacher guided her out the door and to the top of the stairs. “Now. You go downstairs and out the front door while I get Cassie!”
“No! Don’t leave me!” Bertha clutched her. “I’ll die if you leave me!”
“You won’t die walking down the stairs and out the front door!”
“If I git confused and go wrong, I’ll walk right into the fire! I’ll die! You must guide me!”
“Very well. But hurry!” Lucinda ordered. The two women walked looked down at their down at their feet with stealth caution as they went down the stairs and out the front door. “Here, now you’re safe on the front lawn.”
“Thank you. I guess I was silly. I could have gotten out by myself.”
“No time for that. I’ve got to go back to get Cassie and Mrs. Lawrence!”
“Oh no! My foolishness cost time!” Bertha rebuked herself, bawling. “They’re already dead! I killed them!
“Oh shut up!” Lucinda went back inside the house and started up the stairs, but Cassie was already limping down.
“So it finally happened. Mommy caught the house on fire. Let’s git out of here!” She clasped Lucinda’s hand. “Come on, Miz Cambridge!”
She stopped as she thought of Emma. “I’ve got to get your mother!”
“Don’t worry about her!” Cassie replied with brutal honesty as she tugged on Lucinda’s hand, dragging her to the bottom of the stairs.
“No! I must save her! Where’s her bedroom?”
“Back by the kitchen.” She pointed down the hall before going through the front door. “I’m gittin’ out of here!”
Lucinda only made it partway down the hall before being repulsed by smoke and overwhelming heat. Flames peeked through the door to the kitchen. She ran back to the front, out the door and down the steps.
“Where’s Emma?” Bertha’s voice overflowed with hysteria. “Where’s my sister? Oh God, she’s dead! My sister’s dead!”
“Oh shut up, Aunt Bertha!” Cassie ordered, She was all out of patience.
Lucinda reached out to hold her hand. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I was too late.”
“I understand.” She looked at the house. “She was probably smoking in bed again. This time she fell asleep and the cigarette must have set the sheets on fire.”
Bertha put her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “At least we’re all safe.”
“Oh! There is one more person!” Lucinda jumped and ran back up the steps into the house.
“No! Don’t!” Bertha screamed. “You’ll be killed!”
Lucinda barged through the front door and saw that the blazes headed down the hall toward her. She kept her eyes on the steps as she went up the stairs. She yelled, “Vernon! Vernon! Wake up! Fire!”
Rushing into her room, Lucinda went to the bed and jostled the sleeping body. Rolling over, Vernon sat up, looking sleepy and disoriented. But he was young and fresh again, no battle scars, no emotional pain etched his face. To Lucinda, he looked like a lovely angel, unravaged by the harsh realities of life. She heard a crackling, as though the flames were scorching the stairs.
“Hurry! Fire!” A loud pop let them know the wood staircase fractured and collapsed. “Oh my God! The flames are already up the stairs! We’re trapped! What can we do?” She looked at the window and remembered what Cassie told her about the drain pipe. “The window! Quick! Out the window!
Lucinda pulled Vernon from the bed and almost had him out the window when he hesitated.
“Go ahead, Vernon! There’s a drainpipe outside my window! Crawl down it!”
“You go first.” He tried to push her in front of him and out the sill.
“No! Vernon! We don’t have time! The flames are at my door!”
“I’m not leaving without my little girl.”
“Shirley!” Lucinda thought she had escaped with her mother. She turned around to see the little girl in her pajamas, smiling as though unaware of the flames.
“Here I am!” Shirley ran straight to Vernon and hugged him. “Daddy!
Another loud crackle drew Lucinda’s attention to the bedroom door which popped opened from unbearable heat. The blaze, now glaring white with tinges of orange and yellow around the edges advanced on its prey.
“You don’t have time! The fire!” Lucinda urged them through the window.
Vernon and Shirley crawled through, looked back, smiled and each one kissed Lucinda on the cheek. They disappeared down the drain pipe and into the darkness of the night. Lucinda stunned by the kisses, held her cheek and smiled. The withering heat entered her lungs; she felt scorching pain inside her old wrinkled body for only a split second before she collapsed; and the flames overwhelmed her.

Remember Chapter Twenty-Three

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam.
Bertha slammed the bedroom door as she left Lucinda in her rocking chair, looking up with her eyes closed.
“Give me strength.” She sighed. Her head drooped, and Vernon came back into view. Oh. I had almost forgotten about you, Vernon.”
Standing, she went over to Vernon’s body and sank to the floor. Lucinda could not decide if this were actually happening or was some figment torturing her soul. At this point, she did not care. All pretense was swept away and Lucinda felt as though nothing else mattered but reconciling her spirit with Vernon’s. “I’m sorry, Vernon. So, so sorry. I should have said something kind. Something comforting but I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t? I didn’t because I loved you so much. I loved you in more ways than is decent for a woman my age to love a young man like you.” Her shaking hand ran down the side of his body. “You see, I didn’t like Nancy Meyers just because she lied and cheated in class and because I knew she slept with other boys. I hated her because she could love you the way I never could. And because you loved her. I was wrong. And I drove you away from me. And I don’t think you ever knew. You were so sweet and innocent. You didn’t know how Nancy loved you so little. You were too good for this world, Vernon. Oh, how I wish I could tell you how sorry I am. Oh, how I wish I could make it up to you.”
Lucinda rose and went to her stacks of books. “Maybe there’s something here that I can read to make me feel better.” She picked up a slender, frayed leather-bound volume. “Voltaire. Candide. This is the best of all possible worlds.” She threw it down. “No, this isn’t! This is the worst of all possible worlds!
“Dickens,” she said in a flat tone. “It was the best of times and the worst of times.” Lucinda hurled it at the window, wishing it would disappear into thin air. “No! No! Only the worst!”
Leaning over at the books in the boxes Cassie had brought to her, she lifted another one, this time a paperback. “Cervantes. Don Quixote. Oh, Vernon, you weren’t a knight on a mission for a pure chaste girl. Nancy Meyers wasn’t pure or chaste. Don Quixote was mad.” Instead of throwing it, she just let it slip through her fingers and drop to the floor. “And I’m going mad!”
“I’m sorry, Vernon. I can’t help you.” Lucinda walked toward her bed which seemed to be calling her to one last long slumber. “I don’t know how to help you. I can’t find anything in my books to help you. Or me.” Lying down, she hugged her pillow. “I have to rest now. I have to sleep. To sleep. Perchance to dream.”
Straightaway she went to sleep, her jaw hanging loose. How peaceful, how sublime, her subconscious reveled in the absolute vacuum. The scent of smoke crept into her nostrils, causing her to jerk her eyes open and sit up. Lucinda decided she must have slept for hours because the sun had set, and moonless night engulfed her. She looked down at the floor and squinted. Vernon was no longer there. The stench of rubber, plastic and moldy wood grew stronger.
“What’s that!?” She stood and sniffed several times. “Smoke!! Oh my God!! The house is on fire!!”
Lucinda ran to the door, opened it and walked into the hall which was beginning to fill with smoke. Her first thought was to save Vernon’s little girl Shirley and her mother Nancy. She felt her way down the hall to their room and banged on the door.
“Nancy! Shirley! Fire”
“Fire?” Nancy called out.
“Yes! You’ve got to get Shirley out of there!”
“I’ll get Shirley! You tell the others!” Nancy shouted.
The next door down was Bertha’s room. Lucinda’s fist slammed into the wood. When she did not answer the teacher opened the door and ran to the bed, shaking the old woman. “Bertha! Bertha! Wake up! Wake up! Fire! Fire! You must wake up! The house is on fire!”
Bertha roused slowly, her eyes fluttering open. As she smelled the smoke she jumped from her bed, her eyes wild with panic.
“My God! We’re all goin’ to die! I’m goin’ to burn to death!”
“No, we’re not!” Lucinda took her by the arm to lead her to the door. “The fire isn’t upstairs yet! We have time!”
“I’m goin’ to die!” Bertha screeched, refusing to move an inch. “I’m goin’ to die!”
“Shut up!” Lucinda slapped her. “Move!”

Remember Chapter Twenty-Two

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam.
Bertha thought hard about what Lucinda had said about how people should always be mindful that what they do today will be with them all their tomorrows. Finally she replied, “But that’s kinda hard to do, ain’t it?”
“Isn’t it.”
“It sure enough is.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Lucinda leaned back in the rocker, drained from her attempts to be Bertha’s teacher.
“So don’t you worry about that boy none.” She reached over and patted Lucinda’s bony knee.
“Thank you very much, my dear.” Lucinda found herself out of breath again. “It was sweet of you to comfort me.”
“Call me Bertha.”
“Very well. Thank you, Bertha.” She decided to be magnanimous. “And you may call me Lucinda.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“Lucinda.” Perhaps not that magnanimous. “Um, I’m sorry I wasn’t a very good sentinel, but your sister flew up the stairs and past me before I could say a word.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t let you complete the call.”
“Well, that’s life, ain’t it?”
“It isn’t my place to talk.” Lucinda wrinkled her brow. Has your sister always been so hard on you?”
“Oh yes, ever since we was little girls.”
Emma exploded through the door, put her hands on her hips and stared at Bertha. “I’ve been callin’ you to help me move the sofa in the parlor.”
“I’m sorry, Emma.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Lucy and me’s been talkin’.”
“So. It’s Lucy now, huh? Well, I don’t care to be on first name basis with jest boarders.”
“Emma, what a thing to say.” A shy little laugh sneaked from Bertha’s mouth. “Why, I’m jest a boarder.”
“Yes, and I’m the landlady because Buster Lawrence saw fit to leave me with this wonderful house, big enough to rent rooms to make a livin’.”
“Seein’ you jest got four boarders, you ain’t makin’ much of a livin’ off of it.”
“That’s right,” Emma retorted. “And one of them ain’t even paid full rent.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in her worn apron, extracted a lighter from another pocket and lit up.
“I’ll pay full rent if you want me to.”
“Oh no. You’re my sister, and I love you.” She blew the smoke in Bertha’s direction. “It’s the least I can do for you since your husband didn’t see fit to leave you as well off as Buster left me.”
“Now why do you always have to say that?” Her face started turning an ominous shade of red. “My Merrill couldn’t help it if he had kidney stones. His three operations took up all the money we’d saved.”
The telephone in the kitchen rang. A moment later Cassie called out, “Mommy! It’s the fire marshal on the phone. He wants to talk to you right now!
“If I find out it was you who set the fire marshal on me I’ll slap your face off!” She went out the door, throwing an order over her shoulder. “Bertha, you git down there in that parlor and wait for me to move that sofa.”
“I should have said, ‘You’re gonna die from cancer by smoking all those cigarettes.’ That’s what I should have said to her. But it wouldn’t have done no good. She’d come back with smart answer.”
“I’m so sorry your sister acts that way.” Lucinda’s hand went to her chest.
“She causes all my fits. I jest know I wouldn’t have none of them if I didn’t have to be around her.”
“Of course. I’m sure,” Lucinda agreed in a whisper.
“But Lucy, why didn’t you back me up on them cigarettes? You know they cause cancer! Practically all the doctors say so now. Everybody knows that!”
“I’m sorry, Bertha.” She looked up to the ceiling. “I suppose I let your sister intimidate me.”
“Well, I jest thought you was stronger than that.” Bertha’s voice was filled with petty spite.
“No, I’m not strong at all.” It was as much a confession to herself as to Bertha.
“You fooled me. And I thought you was perfect.”

Remember Chapter Twenty-One

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has another confrontation with Nancy.
Lucinda covered her face with her hands after Nancy left. She could not stand another confrontation. When she opened her eyes, she saw Vernon, dressed in military fatigues and a helmet. He stood in front of her with a blank expression on his face.
“Vernon! I’m so glad you came back. I wanted to—“
Vernon fell forward, revealing the back of his helmet blown apart and a red mess that was once his brain. Lucinda screamed loud and long. Bertha rushed in the door, grabbed Lucinda and hugged her as she dissolved in tears.
“You poor baby!” Bertha cooed. “What’s wrong?”
“There! There! On the floor! Can’t you see him!?” Lucinda pointed to the form only she could see on the floor. “All that blood? The back of his head! Just blown away!”
“You poor thing!” Bertha patted Lucinda’s head. “I didn’t know you suffered from the hysterics too!”
The very thought that she was not always in complete control of her emotions jolted Lucinda back to reality. Taking several deep breaths, she averted her eyes from the vision of Vernon on the floor. The tears finally stopped. “I’m all right now. Thank you, Mrs. Godwin.”
“Thank goodness. I don’t think I’d have the nerve to slap you into calmin’ down.”
“No.” Lucinda forced a smile. “You won’t have to slap me.”
“Jest what on earth happened to make you have a fit like that?”
Lucinda stood, closed her eyes momentarily then walked to her rocker where she sat. “I was remembering a student of mine.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. Young people today.” Bertha’s eyes widened. “I jest don’t know where we went wrong. They’re so disrespectful and—“
“Oh no,” Lucinda interrupted. “This young man wasn’t bad at all.”
“That’s unusual.” Bertha’s eyebrows went up.
“He was sweet and kind. Not the brightest in his class but the hardest working.” Lucinda dared not to look down. “He was the kind of student that made teaching all worthwhile.”
“Well, what about him upset you?”
“I remembered a spring day, near the end of the semester, many years ago.” She decided confession might be good for her soul. “This very special, very wonderful young man came into my office and announced he had been drafted and was going to serve in Vietnam. He was obviously scared.”
“At least he wasn’t of them draft dodgers.”
“He needed me to say something, to make him feel better, not to be scared anymore.” She smiled in remorse. “And all I said was to worry more about driving home that day than dying in war.”
“But that’s true.”
“There is truth, and then there is reality.” Lucinda leaned back in defeat. “He was dead of a mortar blast to the back of the head less than a year later.”
“At least he died for his country.” Bertha persisted in her perky optimism.
“That’s what he said, that he was going to die for his country.” Lucinda had never allowed herself to be so harsh in self-judgment “And all I could say was something trivial, something so heartless.”
Bertha scooted across the bed to be closer to the teacher. “Now don’t you fret about that and make yourself have fits.”
“But it’s hard not to be.”
“I know a woman who had the same thing happen to her, or jest about. Her husband had a heart condition, and they lived right behind their daughter and her family.”
“Bertha! Come here!” Emma’s voice echoed up through the stairwell.
“One day while the wife was mowin’ the lawn — the man couldn’t, you see, because—“
“Shouldn’t you answer your sister?” The last thing Lucinda wanted was to have Emma bursting through her door in an outrage.
“Oh, if she wants me bad enough she can come git me. Anyway, he couldn’t mow, you see, because of his heart, but that day he followed her every step while she mowed. She said that made her nervous.”
“Bertha! Help me move this sofa so I can clean behind it!”
She continued to ignore her sister. “After supper that night he wanted to go through the back gate and visit—“
“Won’t she hurt herself lifting the sofa?”
“Oh no. Emma’s strong as an ox,” She replied with a sneer. “Anyway, he wanted to go through the back gate and visit the kids. Well, she said she was too tired from mowin’ and that they’d go another night. Sure enough, he died of a heart attack that night, and she felt jest terrible ‘cause she didn’t fulfill his last wish.”
“Bertha!” Emma sounded angrier.
“There was the kids—“
“There were the kids.” Lucinda could not help but correct Bertha’s grammar.
“That’s right. There was them kids close and he couldn’t see them one last time because of her. Why, she jest about drove herself nuts thinkin’ about it. One day while I was over havin’ coffee—“
“Bertha! Where are you!?” Emma was on the verge of erupting like Mount Vesuvius and scorching everyone within her grasp.
Bertha went to the door and shouted, “I’m in the teacher’s room calmin’ her down after a fit!”
“I didn’t have a fit.” Lucinda tried not to sound too offended.
“Hold your horses!” She returned to the bed and sat. “Where was I? Oh yes. We was havin’ coffee, and she jest bust out cryin’ and told me how she felt and — I don’t know why I thought of this but I did and I’m so proud — I asked her if she knew her husband was goin’ to die that night.”
“If I git a hernia it’s your fault!” Emma continued her rant from downstairs.
“Oh git a hernia! I don’t care!” There was a rough angry edge to Bertha’s voice. A sweet smile covered her face when she resumed talking to Lucinda. “Anyways, she looked at me funny and said no. Then I said then you didn’t deprive him of that visit on purpose, did you? And she said no. If you had known it was his last night you’d gone to Timbuktu for him, wouldn’t you? She said yes. Well, I told her no one knows when you’re goin’ so you can’t cry over what you might have done if you had known. You know, she agreed and started feelin’ better right off.”
“But, my dear, don’t you think we should always be mindful that what we do today will be with us all our tomorrows?”

Remember Chapter Twenty

Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She tries to advise Cassie but she shrugs it off by saying life is what it is.
Shirley sneaked through the door and tiptoed across the rough wooden floor. “Mrs. Cambridge?”
With effort Lucinda sat up. “Shirley, I really don’t think—“
“I know,” the little girl interrupted her, “but I have to ask you something before mama finds me.”
“You should be asking your mother.”
“Mama won’t tell me.” Shirley sat next to her. “Ever since you moved in here after Christmas, mama didn’t like you. It’s almost like you know some terrible secret.”
“Please, Shirley. I don’t think I can take another outburst from your mother. I’m so tired.” She resisted the temptation to recline.
“You know a secret.” A twinkle entered Shirley’s eyes.
Lucinda shrugged. “It’s not really a secret.”
“Please.”
“Yes, it’s a secret.”
“She scooted closer. “It has something to do with me.”
“Yes.”
“And Vernon Singleberry.”
Nancy blew through the door like a Texas tornado. “Shirley!”
“Oh no,” the girl muttered as she slipped from the bed.
“I can’t afford to miss time at the beauty shop, but I will stay home to make you obey me.” She wagged a finger at her daughter. “You were gone ten minutes before one of the customers asked me where you were!”
Shirley walked swiftly to the door. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“You’ve always been like an angel.” She grabbed her daughter and held her by the shoulders. “But last few days you seem determined to defy me.”
“I’ll never do it again.”
“Thank you. Now wait for me downstairs. I have to have a few words with the teacher woman.”
Before Shirley left she glanced toward Lucinda with apprehension.
“Please don’t attack me again.” Subconsciously the old teacher rubbed her chest. “I’m sick, and I can’t take it.”
“I can’t take it no more either.” Nancy sighed. “We’re moving out tomorrow.”
“I hold no ill will against you.” Lucinda leaned forward, trying to hold back her tears.
“For the past ten years you’ve been watching us, Shirley and me. At the grocery, on the street, in the park. I’ve seen you.”
“I meant nothing by it.” She shook her head.
“Then you move in here.” Nancy pinched her lips and took a couple of steps. “You say it’s because you can’t afford any better, but I don’t believe it. I think you wanted a chance to win your way into my child’s heart. You wanted to hug and pet on her the way you never could have touched Vernon.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Lucinda leaned back in resignation.
“Of course I’m right. That’s why I’m taking Shirley away from you, and I don’t want you to follow.”
“I promise.” She paused, considering whether if she should add a condition to her pledge to stay away. “But you have to tell Shirley the truth about Vernon.”
“The truth? That her mother is a damned fool?” Nancy’s spine slightly buckled in acknowledgement of her own vulnerability.
“We’ve all been fools and made mistakes that left us miserable.” For once, Lucinda did not sound as though she were delivering a lecture in post-modern literature. “If we forget the mistakes then all we have is misery.” She paused and waved in the direction of the door. “Do you want to end your life like Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Hell no.”
She leaned forward. “If you forget Vernon, if you don’t share his memory with Shirley you will. I will stake my life that Mrs. Lawrence did something long ago that she regretted and spent years forgetting. Now she’s just a bitter old woman.”
“I won’t be like her,” Nancy spat back with a stinging denial.
“Even worse,” she whispered, “you could end up like me, a pathetically lonely spinster who only lives for her memories that both comfort and torture her.”
“We’ll be gone tomorrow, and that will be that.” Nancy turned for the door.
“No, it won’t.” Lucinda realized she had difficulty with her breathing.
“Good bye.”