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Why Are You Late?

Why are you late?
My mother said that almost every time I walked in the door. Sometimes I was down the street at a friend’s house. His family had the first television on the block. Mickey Mouse Club came on at 4 p.m., and was an hour long. The first half was singing, dancing and acting silly. It was all right. I was too young to appreciate fully Annette Funicello at that time. When I was older she became Annette Full of Jello and much more fascinating. The second half was a serial. My favorite was Spin and Marty, two boys at a summer camp. Spin was a city street kid, and Marty was a naïve rich kid. At first they didn’t like each other, but by the third season they were buddies. As soon as the final song–“MIC, see you real soon, KEY, Why? Because we love you”—finished I was supposed to be out the door and headed home. In the winter the sky was getting dark at that time of time. Everyone knew if you were caught outside after dark, something terrible was going to happen.
The only situation worse was to be out of the house in the dark and dark clouds rumbled with thunder and lightning. My brother was bringing me home from the movies one time. He always resented having to pick me up places. It cut into his cruising time up and down the main drag of downtown. On the average I’d have to wait about thirty minutes on the street outside the theater. When I decided to start walking home, he became even madder I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
“Why are you late? Didn’t you see the clouds in the sky? Didn’t you realize it was about to rain?” my mother said with a particularly angry exasperation.
Yes, I knew it was about to rain. I knew she was going to be hysterical, but there wasn’t much I could do about it since my brother continued to scour Main Street for a girl desperate enough to go out with him. Of course, I would never get away with saying that so I instead went into my sniveling little coward role and whined, “I’m sorry.” I suspected she gave up her tirade because she didn’t want to listen to me whimper. On the other hand, my brother jutted his chin up and out as he walked right past Mother without acknowledging her.
As a child I seriously debated with myself whether I wished to bother to try to date when I was a teen-ager. The appeal of the young ladies hardly seemed worth the inquisition. If my brother came in after ten o’clock, she would greet him at the front door with her hands on her hips. She knew the movie downtown never let out after nine o’clock. You could drive a young lady home anywhere in town and still be home by ten.
“Why are you late?”
He tried to ignore as was his custom, but she blocked his path. Squinting she pushed her nose into his face.
“Let me smell your breath.”
“Aww, Mom.” He took a quick step to the left and escaped into the next room.
“Are you having sex with that girl? You better not get her pregnant!”
That imperative statement contained two major ironies. One, my brother did start coming in staggering from too many beers, and when he did Mother just stood there giggling, finding the way he lost his balance and fell on the sofa to be quaintly enchanting.
However, Father was not amused at all. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re scaring the hell out of your little brother!”
The other irony was that by the time he finally got a woman pregnant I was married and had impregnated my wife, and I was six years younger than he was.
The fear of being on the receiving end of the withering question “Why are you late?” tended to make any situation worse. One year for Halloween my mother took me downtown to a five and dime so I could buy a mask for the school festival. She sat out in the car while I was supposed to rush in to pick out the mask. I stood in front of the table and froze. Not only did it infuriate Mother for me to be late, she also blew up if I spent too much money on foolish things such as Halloween masks. I saw ones I liked but they were too expensive. Dithering for too long a moment, I finally decided on the cheapest thing I could find. By the time I paid for it and ran out to the car, it was too late—Mother’s face was crimson.
“Why are you late? How hard was it to pick out a simple mask? Now I have a splitting headache!”
Well, that took the thrill out of Halloween, and it was the last one before entering junior high school. Once you’re in junior high you’re too big to wear silly Halloween masks.
I soon found out the reason Mother had such a short fuse. She had cancer and died before I entered high school. All dread of the scoldings went out the window. After a while I kind of missed them. It wasn’t any fun staying out after midnight on a date because Father went to bed at 9 o’clock every night and didn’t know when I came in or even that I had gone out in the first place. In fact, I was usually home by ten o’clock anyway. After all, the movie was over by 9:30. We could make the drag a couple of times to see who else was out that night, drop by the local drive-in for a quick soda and still be home in time to make Mother happy, if Mother had been there.
I am now older than my mother was when she died. I’m still home by ten o’clock. I never had to stand by the front door demanding why my children were late coming home. My son hardly ever went to movies unless it was Star Wars, and my daughter always dated guys who had earlier curfews than she did.
With luck I have a few more years. Boring people like me usually live a long time. It’s too strenuous to do anything exciting. But I do know that when my life is up and I finally am reunited with my loved ones in heaven, my mother will be standing at the Pearly Gates with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her lips.
“Why are you late?”

The Old Dress in the Trunk

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(Author’s Note: I always think of November as the time to remember family, with Thanksgiving and all. So every Monday in November I’m going to share memories about my family.)
Grady and Florida had been married so many years they had forgotten why.
Florida liked to tell how they met. She was on a joy ride with a boy who was showing off his new car. The car was more interesting than the boy. She lived in Era, a farming community in North Texas during the Great Depression. Girls had to do something for thrills. They were chugging along at a breathtaking thirty-five miles per hour down a dusty road, when Florida saw this young man walking in the same direction they were going. He was tall, had thick black hair, and his shoulders were as broad as a barn.
“Oh, there’s a good-looking man,” she chirped. “Let’s stop.”
Well, the durned fool stopped. She thought it was mean of him to put her in an awkward position just because she asked for it. Florida jumped from the car and walked up to the man who was still walking down the lane.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said in her best damsel in distress voice.
He kept on walking. Now was that rude of him. She ran to catch up and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said peevishly. “I called to you. Didn’t you hear me?”
When he turned to look at her, she blinked. He looked like a cowboy movie star. Florida could not quite decide which one. Next she noticed he had only one good eye. The other one was oddly white.
“Huh?”
Great, she thought. He’s half blind and deaf. He smiled and deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. The one eye, which was a dark brown, was gorgeous. Then there were those broad shoulders and the hair she wanted to run her fingers through.
“I said do you know if the high school football schedule has been announced yet?” she asked in a loud voice.
“No.”
“Sorry to have bothered you.” She smiled sweetly.
“Okay.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Florida Flowers. We have a farm on the other side of town.”
He looked at her hand a moment like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Finally he shook it, gently, because it was so small.
“Okay.”
“Now, remember. Florida Flowers. Like, Florida is the land of flowers.”
“Okay.”
“And what is your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Grady.”
“Grady what?” She glanced behind to make sure the boy was still waiting for her. Much to her displeasure, he was laughing.
“Grady Cowling.”
“It was certainly a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grady Cowling.”
“Okay.”
“You do remember my name, don’t you?”
“Sure. Florida.”
“Florida what?” She didn’t know if she were getting annoyed or romantically aroused.
“Miss Florida Flowers.”
“I hope to see you at one of the football games this season, Mr. Cowling.”
“Okay.”
In September she attended the first game between Era Hornets and Valley View Panthers. Looking around the stands she saw Grady sitting by himself. She plopped herself next to him and began to talk. She talked and he listened for the next six months. When she stopped to take a breath sometime in April, Grady asked her to marry him. He had saved enough money to rent a farm down the road from her family so it was convenient if she wanted to visit her mama from time to time. That made sense to her so they went to the preacher’s house the next week and said their vows. She had sewn herself a new dress, and Grady took a bath.
“How much do I owe you?” Grady asked the preacher, with his wallet in his hand.
“Pay me what you think she’s worth.”
“Oh, I couldn’t pay you that much.”
Florida did not remember what bill he took from his wallet, but she thought at the time he could have afforded to give the preacher a bit more.
She did not mind much. Florida knew he was a hard worker and saved every penny he could. After a few years they could afford to buy the farm they were renting. The house was small. She had to store memorabilia in a trunk stored in the barn. Maybe they could add a room as the family grew. And it did grow. They had two boys right off, but one of them died. Doctor bills took the money set aside to buy the farm. Then another boy came along. Florida was excited the year Grady had a bumper crop of cotton. This would be the year they would buy the farm. But the government ordered half of all cotton plants be plowed under to boost prices. She cried when she watched Grady tilled over them. Grady did not say anything. It was just another day of work.
As the boys grew, the possibility of buying the land diminished until one day the dream died as they sat around the kitchen table and decided they had best pack up and move to the nearest town, Gainesville. With ten thousand people, it was almost considered a city. Grady had already found a job driving a Royal Crown Cola truck. Eventually, hopefully, they could buy a house with a big enough lot to plant some corn, potatoes and beans. And a flower garden. Florida always liked her flowers.
The day came when Grady borrowed his brother’s big truck to load the furniture. They were in the barn gathering the last of their possessions. It was a slow job, because Florida had to stop and cry. Each item that went into the truck reinforced the reality they would never have their own farm. Grady just kept on working. Besides, he did not know what to say to her.
Last to be loaded on the truck was an old trunk. It had been there as long as they had been married, and they had forgotten what was in it. Florida wanted to take a moment to look inside. Grady opened it, and lifted out an old dress, dirty, stained and gnawed around the edges by rats that inhabited the barn’s dark corners.
“I bet you don’t even remember what that is,” she said. Her voice—which she always raised so he could hear her–was tinged with bitterness. It had just crept in over the years of hope, despair and the monotonous chore of surviving.
Grady held the dress tenderly, like he had held her hand the first day they met on the dirt road.
“It’s the dress you got married in.”
Without another word, he put it back in the trunk which he lifted into the truck. The boys clambered into the back. Grady and Florida sat silently in the cab as the truck headed to Gainesville for the next phase of their lives. They didn’t expect much, just more of the same.
They had the wedding dress though. Like their marriage, it was dirty, stained, had holes in it, but it was still there.

Crows Over the Cornfield

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“Caw! Caw!” The crows were circling the cornfield, and below all the little wild creatures were scared to death.
“Squeak! Squeak!” The field mice were running around and pointing at the sky. “The crows are coming! The crows are coming! Help! Help!”
The big burly rats lumbered out. “Don’t be afraid. The crows want to eat the corn and not us.”
“But what if they swoop down into the dark cornfield and snatch up something, fly back high in the sky and look into their claws. ‘This is not a sweet juicy ear of corn. It’s just an old rat.’ And they’ll throw you down into the darkness. What will you do then?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. What’ll I do? Help! Help!”
The possums came out next and they were shaking. “W-w-we’re not scared of crows. If they come too near we’ll just roll over and play dead.”
“Then the crows will tell their friends the vultures that there are dead possums in the cornfield. Do you know what the vultures will say?” the rats said.
“N-n-no, what will the vultures say?”
“The vultures will say, ‘It’s suppertime!’”
“Help! Help!”
They made such a racket that the raccoons came out. “What’s going on here?”
“The crows are coming! The crows are coming!” the mice screamed.
“Oh no! Crows are dirty, filthy creatures and we don’t have enough water to bathe them! What are we going to do! Help! Help!”
Cora the snake slithered out and said, “Stop that screaming. I’m trying to sleep.”
“The crows are coming! The crows are coming!” the mice screamed.
“Crows make me mad,” Cora said. “I want to bite them.”
“But what if they grabbed you up before you have a chance to bite them?” the rats said.
“Oh no! I hadn’t thought of that! Help! Help!”
The next thing they heard was “Arf! Arf! Arf!”
The farm dog was running to the cornfield to the rescue. And behind the farm dog were all of the farm kids who were waving scare crows as they ran up and down the corn rows.
Now the crows—“Caw! Caw!”—looked down to see some strange creatures in the corn and a dog barking at them. “That’s too scary for us. We need a calmer cornfield.” And they flew away.
“You don’t have to be scared again,” the farm kids said. “We’ll stick the scarecrows in the ground right now.”
“We weren’t scared,” the rats said.
“Yes, you were,” the mice said.
“W-w-we weren’t scared,” the possums said.
“Yes, you were,” the mice said.
“We weren’t scared, we just didn’t have enough water to bathe them,” the raccoons said.
“Yes, you were scared,” the mice said.
“You mice are making me mad,” Cora the snake said. “I want to bite you.”
“Why bite anybody?” the dog said. “We scared off the crows. It’s time to play games.”
And that’s what they did. The animals played and played in the cornfield all night long.

Death Visits Savannah

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This story comes from Boris Karloff, the original Mummy, the original Frankenstein monster. He was in his last movie which was the first movie directed by Peter Bogdonovich. It was called “Targets” and was inspired by the sniper shootings from the University of Texas tower in Austin in 1968. Mr. Karloff played—basically—himself, an old actor tired of his image as the King of Horror. In one scene he tells a simple story, the camera fixed on his face. His story took place in the Persia during the Middle Ages. I place my version in Atlanta in the 1880s.
Joe was a servant who worked for a wealthy merchant in Atlanta, Georgia, Percival Hawthorne. Hawthorne had the largest mercantile establishment in not only Atlanta but also Macon, Valdosta, McDonough and Savannah. Joe was his personal valet, tending to his every need. For his loyal service Joe slept in his own room at Hawthorne’s mansion, wore new clothes and ate as well as his employer. He was never whipped, never had to do heavy lifting, nor did he ever break a sweat.
One day at noon Hawthorne called Joe into his office and asked him to walk a few blocks down the street to the farmers market to buy apples for his lunch. Nodding with a big grin, Joe left the large store and walked down the street. He was happy and content with his life. When he reached the open air market he carefully examined each vendor’s produce. He wanted only the best apples for Mr. Hawthorne.
Suddenly, Joe stopped short because standing before him on the streets of Atlanta, was Death. When their eyes met, Joe saw that Death was surprised. Death’s mouth fell open and he pointed his boney finger at Joe.
Joe knew when Death pointed his finger at you, no one else in a huge crowd but you, it meant only one thing. Your days on this earth were numbered. Joe turned and ran away, knocking people out of his way, going back to Mr. Hawthorne.
“Sir, forgive me. I did not buy your apples.”
“And why not, Joe?”
“I saw Death,” he replied. “He pointed his boney finger at me. And you know what it means when Death points at you.” Joe choked back the tears. “I am not ready to die.”
“And I am not ready to see you die, Joe.” Hawthorne stood and put his arm around his loyal servant. “Go now to my stable. Tell them I order them to pick out the fastest horse and give it to you. Mount the horse, Joe, and ride all night to the store in Savannah. There is a bedroom over the store. Stay there. Death will never find you there.”
Joe did exactly as his employer told him. He went to the stable and asked for the fastest horse. As he rode out of Atlanta and down the dusty road to Savannah, his spirits lifted. Death would never find him now. He would live a long and happy life.
The next day at noon, Hawthorne left his office and walked down to the farmers market for his apples for lunch. There, standing among the fruit and vegetable stalls, was Death. Hawthorne approached Death and accosted him.
“Why did you point at my man Joe yesterday in this market?”
“I am sorry, sir.” Death said. “I did not mean to gape and point at your man, but I did not expect to see him at the farmers market in Atlanta. I have an appointment with him at midnight tomorrow in Savannah.”

My First Date

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Every so often I think of my first date when I was 14 years old. I don’ know why, but I felt some social obligation to start dating that early. Even today I can imagine someone reading this and thinking, “Fourteen? Why so late?”
It was around Christmas and my school’s National Junior Honor Society was having a party at this private club’s lodge across the Red River from my home in Gainesville, Texas. That meant we were going out of state into the woods of Oklahoma. Only God knew the exact location of this place.
To be honest, I thought it was the best way to get close to this girl who went to the same church as I did. You see, I thought we would be more likely to get home if God knew it was two good church kids under his guidance. More than that, I had an awful crush on her. She was a year ahead of me in school, had a sweet smile, was smart and never said anything bad about anyone. She was perfect. Freud would add that she looked like my mother, but I think that’s a creepy observation so I’m just going to move on from there with no further comment.
My mother couldn’t drive me to pick up the girl so she asked my uncle to do it. Big mistake. He laughed too loud and tended to spit out the car window and sometimes the spittle landed in the back seat.
He decided to walk to the girl’s front door and wait in her living room with me until my date emerged. Her father sat on the sofa watching television.
“And there’s her big ol’ fat daddy!” My uncle laughed, very much amused by his own humor.
He took us to the school where all the couples were put into the backseats of cars driven by chaperones and/or parents. We ended up in the backseat of a car driven by the banker’s wife. It was a tight fit because the banker’s son was the star of the football team. His date was also a high school freshman, like my date. The girls knew each other and chatted all the way from Texas to Oklahoma.
The private club’s lodge looked like an abandoned house in the woods. The main room was not much bigger than my living room. We sat with another couple—the girl also knew my date and the guy also played football. He wasn’t a star like the banker’s son but still did some fancy footwork on the field. He sat slouched in a chair staring at nothing and stood every so often when the girl wanted to dance.
Neither my date nor I danced because, after all, we were good church kids. I thought this would be my chance to show what a brilliant conversationalist I was.
From time to time she’d crinkle her cute little brow and ask, “Is that a joke? I never know when you’re not being serious.”
When all four of us were together I tried to make a joke about what the adults were saying in the other room.
“Why do you care?” the football player’s date pointedly asked.
After that I imitated the football player, slouched in my chair and stared straight ahead. At one point the adults told us to line up for refreshments. As a gentleman I asked my date if she would like for me to bring her something so she wouldn’t have to stand in line. She said yes.
It was only after that I noticed all the other girls were in line and there sat my date waiting to be served, with a sweet smile on her face.
The party eventually ended, proving that there was indeed a God. On the way home, however, my faith in the church and all things sacred was put to another test. The banker’s wife, once she crossed the Red River into Texas, took a turn off down a road I had never been on before. It was dark with lots of trees on each side of the road. Then I heard this murmuring which bordered on moaning. And slurping sounds. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the other couple had merged into a squirming monolithic dark romantic mass.
I don’t think this was the banker’s son’s first date.
Somewhat emboldened by the example he was giving, I raised my right arm up and put it across the back of the seat. That was the extent of my courage, however, because I didn’t lower my arm around my date’s shoulder. After all, she was a good church girl and was perfect.
I glanced over at my date, and she still had that sweet smile on her face, pretending nothing unusual was going on. After all, she was perfect.
Within minutes my arm began to hurt, but the back seat was so tight I couldn’t return my arm to its original position. It was stuck on the back of the seat until the banker’s wife had given her son enough whoopee time with his date and returned to the main road where I saw the lights of civilization again. This detour through hell was almost over.
The banker’s wife first dropped my date off at her house. I said I hope she had a nice time, and she replied she did. At least she got to talk to two of her girlfriends part of the time.
I felt relief when the banker’s wife finally pulled into my driveway. I thanked her for the nice time and said good night to the football player and his date who giggled, “Bye.” He only grunted. Thank goodness that was over. I got ready for bed and slipped in only to find my mother there.
“Well, how did it go?” Her eyes twinkled.
I told her what my uncle had said. She replied it sounded just like something he would say. I told her we had a nice time listening to the music while the others danced. Honestly I can’t remember if I confided in her about the ride home. There are certain things you don’t share with your mother.
“And how did your date enjoy the evening?”
I put on a nice sweet smile.
“Oh, she was perfect.”
Perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.

Portrait of a Ballerina, Part Two

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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

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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)

The Laugh

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When the kids were young and mayhem reigned supreme in the house, I sometimes begged my wife to allow me to go camping by myself for a weekend for a little peace and quiet.
My favorite spot was out in the woods by the Withlacoochee River. My little pup tent took no time at all to set up and a quick trip among the trees provided enough wood and kindling for the fire. Sometimes I could hear other campers in the distance but most of the time I savored my solitude in the silence. It was about midnight several years ago that my contemplations were interrupted by several howls of laughter.
Looking about, I tried to determine where the noise was coming from. The laughter stopped, only to be followed by the crunching of leaves and twigs. I felt my heart in my throat. My mouth went dry. I cursed myself for not owning a gun even though I didn’t know how to use one. Maybe one of the larger logs in the fire would suffice as a weapon. I heard the laugh right behind me and jumped.
“What you all fidgety about, man?”
From the shadows ambled a bear of an old man with a long gray-streaked beard which I supposed had been dark amber when he was young. He had a limp which favored his left foot which looked like it had been mauled by something with sharp teeth. He plopped to the ground up across the fire from me and let out such a giggle-tinged grunt that I could no longer be afraid of him.
“Think there be skunk apes here about?” he asked more as a joke than a question.
“Well,” I replied, “I’ve never seen one.”
“Ever thunk they be ghosts of critters long gone? That’s how you folks can sometimes see them, but never catch one or see a track. Maybe they just love these old swamps and don’t want to go away.”
When he smiled, I noticed his teeth look like yellowed stalactites and stalagmites in a yawning cavern. His tongue darted out like a pink slime creature venturing from the abyss of his gullet.
“That’s an interesting theory.” I covered my mouth with my hand to keep him from seeing the flicker of a smile. “Have you ever seen a skunk ape?”
He let go with another cackling laugh. “You’d be surprised by what I’ve done and seen in these swamps.”
“Is that so?” I replied with my hand still across my lips. I began to think my kids weren’t so peculiar after all.
“You ain’t scared, are you, young fella? There ain’t no need to be.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I can tell you don’t believe in skunk apes, ghosts or nothin’ else that lurks about in the darkness.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but, no, I don’t believe in skunk apes, ghosts or things that go bump in the night.”
“Then more fool you!” The old man threw back his head, howled in laughter for several moments before evaporating into the darkness.

Sorry

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Everyone told me the best place to make out with your girlfriend was on Radio Hill Road.
“You got to see the lights of downtown from Radio Hill Road.” Use that line to persuade her. After about a minute and a half you slip your arm around her shoulder. This action should cause her to look from the lights and smile at you. Then go in for the kiss.
I knew the radio station was on Radio Hill Road but not much else; if you didn’t need to be on the radio, why bother to go out there? At 16-years-old, I had a high squeaky voice, and when I was nervous I tended to get loud. So, the night before my big date, I drove out there to familiarize myself with the best place to park. No lie, the view impressed me for a small town in Texas. I even practiced lowering my voice. That sounded creepy so I ditched the idea. Only a few second later, however, I saw a bright object in the sky, lingering over downtown. At first I dismissed it as an airplane, but this body had no extra blinking colored lights and seemed to linger before turning sharply and shooting directly over my car at a speed unattainable by any ordinary airliner.
Had I just encountered a space ship from another planet? Here I sat all alone on Radio Hill Road, and little green men knew it. I was ripe for the picking, just a laser beam away from being transported up for some exploratory surgery. Fumbling with my keys, I finally started my car and started down the hill when I passed a pair of headlights come in the opposite direction.
“Ahh!!” I screamed like a little girl. No. A little girl could not be that loud.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, kid?”
This teen-aged boy’s eyes widened, startled by my outburst. The girl sitting next to him began giggling. I felt bad that I had broken their mood. No necking for them tonight. Not only was I afraid of what I had seen in the sky, I also feared the story of my scream would be all over school on Monday morning. At the intersection of Radio Hill Road and the county highway heading back toward town, I stopped to gain my composure. I could never tell anyone about this. Everyone in school thought I was weird enough already without this new incident. Maybe the couple in the other car didn’t recognize me. After all, it was dark.
Tap, tap. A noise drew my attention to the car window. A little green man snapped his long skinny fingers which caused my window all by itself. I screamed again. This was it, I thought. I was the object of an alien’s next science experiment. Maybe it was all for the best. My social life at high school was over.
“Pardon me, young human.” A surprisingly deep voice came from a slit in the green head. “I didn’t mean to make you scream. Could you please direct me to the nearest United States of America Air Force Base? I’m meeting with your leader tomorrow morning, and I’m lost.”

The Hunt for Sam Bass’s Gold

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Hogg Nubbins had been a cowpoke for most near all his life. He wasn’t much good for anything else. He couldn’t read or write, not that he was interested in reading anything that would give him ideas. If he could write he wouldn’t know what to put on the paper. Hogg had just one goal in life: to find Sam Bass’s gold.
Riding up and down the Chisholm Trail in Texas all he ever heard was the Ballad of Sam Bass. Other cowpokes said the song was written to lull the cows into walking the same direction and to keep the cowboys from falling asleep. It was quite a yarn, that Ballad of Sam Bass.
Sam had one hell of a life, yessiree. Born in Indiana, he came to Texas as a young man, filled with piss and vinegar, and set out to make himself some money. This was all in the song. The guys on the trail filled in facts left out because the songwriter ran out of notes. Sam and his buddies started robbing trains and banks all the way from Central Texas to the Dakotas and points in between. One time they robbed a train, beat a man to a pulp before the guy gave up and opened the safe.
“Sixty thousand dollars,” old Pete, the chuck wagon boss, said. Pete was a youngin’ when they finally shot Sam to death at Round Rock, Texas, so he should know. “All in mint twenty dollar gold coins. The biggest train robbery ever.”
The ballad said Sam was like some kind of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, being loyal to his friends and all.
“The only poor people Sam ever gave money to was bartenders and whores,” Pete snorted.
“The whole sixty thousand dollars to bartenders and whores?” Hogg asked, his mouth falling open.
“Oh hell, there ain’t enough whores in Texas to spend sixty thousand dollars on,” Pete replied. He doused the campfire, and that was the end of the story.
The next morning on the trail the cowpokes around Hogg started singing the Ballad of Sam Bass again. He went back to thinking about that sixty thousand dollars. Damn, he thought, if he had that much money he might buy himself some of those fancy false teeth he heard talked about. Hogg didn’t have a tooth in his head. They had all rotted out by the time he was thirty.
That night as he gummed his chili and corn pone Hogg asked Pete, “Well, if Sam Bass didn’t spend all sixty thousand dollars on whores what do you think he done with it?”
“He hid it,” Burly piped up. Burly was almost as old as Pete, but he was still spry enough to ride a horse and herd cattle. “That’s what I always heard.”
“Where?” Hogg was getting excited now. If somebody can hide a bunch of gold coins then somebody else can find them.
“Sam’s last words were, ‘I bet those folks in Cooke County will be huntin’ a long time for that gold.’ So it must be in Cooke County,” Burly said.
“Where’s Cooke County?” Hogg asked.
“Aww, that’s bullshit,” Pete said as he spooned out the last of the chili. “Sam’s last words was ‘The world is bobbing around me.’ And I had fellers who was right there when he died tell me that.”
“It ain’t no bullshit at all,” Burly shot back. Pete and Burly hated each other for years. Some said they once fought over a woman. Others said they were just a couple of sonovabitches that couldn’t get along. “It didn’t have to be the absolute last thing Sam said. Hell, it took him a full day to die after they shot him. He probably said a lot of things before he actually died.”
“I still say bullshit.” Pete looked at the cowpokes around the fire. “Anybody want the last cornpone?”
“Now where is this Cooke County?” Hogg asked again. He figured he could spend the gold coins on whores just like Sam did.
“Everybody that got a lick of sense knows that Sam Bass hung out in Cooke County as much as he hung out anyplace else in Texas,” Burly continued in a loud defiant voice. “I know for a fact Sam and his gang hid out in Cove Holler. That’s in the southwest corner of Cooke County, and hardly nobody lives there.”
“Only a idiot would hide out in Cove Holler. It’s so thick with oak and walnut trees and vines and brush the sun can’t shine through at noon day,” Pete countered.
“Well, nobody said Sam was the brightest man around,” Burly replied sullenly. “And the holler is all riddled with limestone caves, just the place to hide a bundle of gold coins.”
“Where is this Cooke County?” Hogg asked for the third time. If anybody could find Sam Bass’s gold, Hogg knew he was the man to do it.
“Hogg, you must be the dumbest sonovabitch I ever done seen. Cooke County is three counties due west of here.” Pete doused the campfire, and the conversation ended right there.
When Hogg mounted up the next morning he kept looking due west toward Cooke County and then at the cattle. He had been herding cattle all these years, and what had it ever got him? A calloused ass and a wallet full of nothing. All he had to do is ride west and keep asking folks along the way where this Cooke County was.
“Hogg! Get movin’! We gotta get across the Red River by night fall!” Burly shouted.
Hogg looked west and then at the cattle one last time, and then he lit out full gallop heading west. The gallop eventually became a trot, and he started laying out his plan to find Sam Bass’s gold. He didn’t want to be none too eager to talk about it, Hogg told himself. When he stopped for the night he ought to be real casual about his conversations with folks. Didn’t want nobody to know what he was up to. That Cove Holler seemed to be the place to look, all right. After a couple of days he found himself in Gainesville, the Cooke County seat. He settled into a chair at the local boarding house dining room. Hogg tried to start up a conversation.
“Nice little town you got here.”
“Wouldn’t know. I’m just passin’ through.” The man had on a fine suit of clothes and had his hair slicked down with something that smelled mighty sweet.
“Then you wouldn’t know about Cove Holler.”
“Everyone in North Texas knows about Cove Hollow,” the man replied with a sniff. “The worst land in the whole territory. Not worth a dime.”
“That’s what I heard too,” Hogg said. “Lots of underbrush and limestone caves. Sounds like a place you wanna to keep away from. Just where is it so I can go in the opposite direction?” Hogg thought he was being very clever.
The fancy dude with the perfumed hair gave him perfect directions—southwest of Gainesville along a long ravine. The nearest ranch was miles away.
When he woke up the next day Hogg checked out of the boarding house and went southwest until he found the beginning of the ravine. When he couldn’t ride any further into the thick underbrush Hogg tied up his horse. The prickly bushes and vines surrounded by oak and walnut trees made walking slow going. He didn’t know exactly where he was or how he would find his way out. All he knew was that he was on the hunt for Sam Bass’s gold.
Soon the foliage thickened so the sun was completely blocked. Only mottled areas of dim light appeared here and there. Hogg squinted from side to side and saw hints of limestone caves in the distance. Suddenly his foot slipped and he fell straight down. At the bottom of the hole Hogg took a moment to regain his senses. He must have fallen into one of them limestone caves. There was so little light he had to wait until his eyes adjust a bit. Then he began to reach his hands out to touch something. Mostly limestone. Smooth, moist limestone. Then he felt something else. Leather. Hogg eagerly grabbed at it. A leather bag. No, two leather bags. No, more than that.
Hogg clumsily clawed at the belt tying one of the leather bags shut. Opening it he frantically stuck his fingers inside. He felt coins, lots of coins. Hogg pulled them out of the bag and peered at them. They were gold coins. Twenty dollar gold coins. And they still looked as new and sparkly as the day Sam Bass took them off the train.
Laughing loudly he quickly opened the other leather bags. They were all filled with gold coins. Enough gold coins to get him some good false teeth and all the whores he’d ever want.
“Glory hallelujah!” Hogg shouted. He looked up. “I found …” Hogg stopped as he stared at the steep slippery limestone shaft above him. He finished in a whimper, “…Sam Bass’s gold.”