Burning Garbage

  Dorothy laughed out loud at little Sarah’s reasoning, but the little girl's words and the sweat trickling down her back convinced her. “Okay, you wore me down—go on ahead; I’ll come in as soon as I’m ready.” Allison and the children ran down the beach, their feet skipping over the hot sand.

  Dorothy set her reading glasses down on a safe place on a picnic table and sighed as she walked over to the changing room. “Once I’m in the water, I’m sure it’ll be worth it,” she mumbled under her breath. She was still apprehensive and self-conscience, but squeezed into the solid black skirted bathing suit, grabbed her beach towel and ambled down towards the water.

  Sarah watched her approach, a confused expression on her face. “Miss An’erson, you look funny!” Dorothy was suddenly feeling a little less enthusiastic. Sarah’s high-pitched voice seemed especially loud. “Hey Alli, doesn’t Miss An’erson look funny?” Allison felt bad for her Aunt and bent down to whisper in Sarah’s ear.

  Dorothy got her ample self under the waves as fast as she could and sat down so she was buried up to her shoulders in the water so people couldn’t see the rest of her. She hoped hiding her body would keep Sarah from saying anything else. No such luck.

  “Hey ev’ybuddy! Look at Miss An’erson! She looks funny!”

  Dorothy was feeling very low, and wondered why Sarah chose to bring her size to everyone’s attention and not one of the many other plus-size people on the beach. She wished she had stayed up at the picnic area with the older ladies sitting in the shade fanning themselves with paper plates, as they watched as the older men napped or played cards. She also wished Sarah’s mother would come over and quiet her.

  Sarah pulled away from Allison and waded close to Dorothy. She put her little hands on Dorothy’s cheeks and stared her straight in the eyes. “Miss An’erson! You look funny! I neber seed you wif’out your glasses before!”

  The Murder of Eleven-Thirty

  “Hurry up girls! We’re late!” I yelled up the steps as I quickly gathered the items I needed for the day; purse, books, computer, calculator, shopping list, lunches

  “We’re always late,” Grace grumbled as she took her good-old time coming down the stairs dragging her back-pack behind her, swish-thud, swish-thud, swish-thud.

  “I can’t find my shoes!” Lucy’s muffled voice drifted down from the upstairs. I could envision her throwing her belongings around the disaster area that was her room, rifling through the debris in an apparently vain attempt to find them. I felt a headache coming on.

  “Just put something on your feet!” I yelled again as I jammed my books into my computer bag. Grace rolled her eyes as she stood near the front door. “Hurry up, Mom. We’re late!” she said sarcastically. I shot her a look with my Mom eyes. That subdued her a bit.

  I looked up the staircase. “Hurry up Lucy!” I yelled again. No answer. I ran up the steps and down the hall to her room. She was dancing and spinning around in circles, watching her dress flare out. I looked at her feet. Tap shoes. I sighed, “Come on. We’re late.” She followed me down the hall and tromped down the stairs loudly, taking full advantage of the metal taps.

  Finally everyone was downstairs; all items collected and ready to go. “Okay, go get in the car, and don’t forget to buckle up,” I told them as I went into the kitchen to get Lucy’s forgotten sandwich.

  At last we were on our way, running late as usual. I pulled out onto the dirt road and headed down the hill. “Now I’ll have to stop at the Dollar Store to get Lucy some sandals,” I thought. I figured tap shoes and the Mall’s stone tile floor wasn’t a good combination.

  I rounded the turn at the Shagbark Hickory, coming dangerously close to the ditch. “Mom you’re going too fast,” Grace complained as I sailed passed the cemetery. “Don’t worry about it.” I said as I straightened the wheel. Under my breath I mumbled, “I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive.”

  “Watch out for the big bump,” Lucy called out as the car approached the bottom of the hill below the cemetery.

  “I know,” I answered exasperatingly. The car lurched. I missed the bump, but hit the dip beside it.

  “I tol’ ja, I tol’ ja, I tol’ ja to watch out,” Lucy sang in a triumphant sing-song voice.

  You’re going too fast,” Grace complained again. I gritted my teeth and kept my mouth shut as I continued down the road, the car bumping along as vehicles on dirt roads do, the billows of dust flying out from behind the car like the exhaust from a rocket engine.

  We came through the trees, the stretch of road we call “the tunnel,” to where the houses begin. “We’re almost at the Cat Lady’s house,” Grace warned.

  “I know, I’m slowing down,” I said exasperatingly as I applied the brakes. The “Cat Lady” was a woman who took in the many cats and kittens that irresponsible, inconsiderate people dumped off near her house so they wouldn’t have to deal with them.

  The girls liked to go to her house to brush the cats and play with the kittens. Once in a while we would buy a forty pound bag of cat food from the Feed Store for her and her husband, just to help out. Usually when you drove by you would see several cats hanging around the garage and the side of the house, waiting for feeding time.

  On this particular day, as we approached the house I could see a cat sitting on the road. Not an uncommon sight. I slowed the car down, my eyes on the road kitty. I drove closer, keeping my eyes on the cat, but not noticing its litter-mate crouching in the grass on the edge of the road. As I continued on, the hidden kitten suddenly jumped out onto the road—and then I saw it … too late.

  I felt the bump and heard the sickening thud. At the same time there was a shriek from the back seat. “Mom, what did you do!” I quickly stopped the car. Both girls realized what happened and began to cry.

  “You two stay in here.” The road kitty had disappeared. I felt tears burning my eyes as I walked behind the car, unsure of what I’d see. I never ran over an animal before.

  The kitten lay on her side. I bent down. “Kitty, kitty?” Nothing. I got back into the car. In the back seat the girls were crying, and I heard a word quietly murmured, “murderer.” I pulled the car into the Cat Lady’s driveway and got back out. I walked down the drive and back onto the road, tears running down my cheeks. I carefully picked up the kitten’s still-warm body and cradled her against my chest. Her dead eyes looked into mine, hating me.

  Holding the kitten, I walked up the driveway and knocked on the back door. The Cat Lady’s husband answered. “I’m-so-sorry-I-didn’t-see-her-I-was-watching-the-other-one-she-ran-onto-the-road-by-the-time-I-noticed-her-it-was-too-late-I’m-so-sorry!” The words tumbled out of my mouth all at once and by then I was fully sobbing.

  Anna, the cat lady, came to the door. Richard carefully took the kitten's body from me. “Which one is this?” He asked his wife.

  “It’s Eleven-Thirty,” she said examining the corpse.

  “11:30? But it’s only 8:30,” I thought as I glanced at their kitchen clock. I must have looked puzzled, as well as upset.

  “Her name was Eleven-Thirty,” Anna told me. “I was running out of names and this one was born around 11:30. Don’t ask me how Search Light and Big Bird got their names,” she said with a chuckle, in an attempt to make me feel better. I was calmer and had the sobbing mostly under control. “Here,” she said, “come wash up.” I washed my hands at the kitchen sink, splashed water on my face, and then dried myself with a paper towel. I kept seeing the kitten’s lifeless eyes staring into mine.

  “I’m really sorry. I feel terrible,” I told them again. Richard said, “Don’t feel so bad. This happens a lot. At least you stopped. Most folks hit ‘em and keep on going.” He took the kitten’s body outside and headed towards the back of the garage.

  I came out of the house onto the porch. The girls were out of the car, standing at the end of the sidewalk. Grace was holding the road kitty. A white kitten was balanced on Lucy’s shoulder, and she held a gray tiger in her arms. They looked at me wi
th accusation in their eyes. So did the girls. I knew they would never let me forget this.

  “Please put the cats down and get back in the car,” I said quietly, “Now we’re really late.” The girls got in the back seat. I looked all around and under the car to make sure there weren’t any cats in the way. I got in and carefully backed down the driveway. Out on the road, I scanned the tall grass on either side before I drove very slowly down the hill, feeling the girls’ sad and disappointed eyes boring into the back of my skull.

  The Spinning of the Yarn

  It was peaceful sitting here with no one around. It didn’t last long. I could hear the dog barking, then the click of a closing car door, then a horn honking as a car drove off. The front door opened, letting in cold wind. The girls came in making a racket, and slammed the door shut.

  “Mom, we’re home!” Rachael yelled. No kidding. I was sitting in plain sight.

  “It was a disaster.” Krystal dropped her purse on the recliner.

  “Yeah, our group had to do everything.” Rachael tossed a woven yarn friendship bracelet in my general direction. It landed beside me. She plopped down on the couch and started reading the words on my laptop. “The Murder of Eleven-Thirty? That doesn’t make any sense!” she said.

  “I’m writing a story about the time I ran over the cat down at the Rawlin's,” I told her. “Oh,” she said, “I remember that. Hey Krystal, you’re in here! See, ‘Grace.’ Grace is Krystal’s middle name.

  “So are you.” I looked up from my laptop and smiled at her. “But I named you Lucy.”

  “Lucy!” she moaned. “Why did you name me Lucy?”

  “Because I didn’t want to use your real name, and ‘Louisa’ just didn’t fit. I didn’t think you’d appreciate ‘Louie,’ so I decided on ‘Lucy.’”

  “Yeah Louie,” Krystal said as she headed up to the bathroom. She called Rachael Louisa “Louie” when she was born because we had told her she was getting a baby brother.

  “Don’t call me LOUIE!” Rachel threw a second bracelet in the direction of her sister.

  “I still think it’s cute, and it was better than Light-Bulb Head or Alien Head,” I told her, referring to the other not-so-nice nick-names the then two-and-a-half year-old Krystal called her when she was a new-born.

  Rachael continued reading. “You make Krystal sound mean, and me sound too young, almost like a baby,” she complained.

  “It’s fiction. I can do anything I want, and it’s just based on something that happened; I’m making most of it up as I go along.”

  By then Krystal was back downstairs. I was able to work in silence for a few minutes, until I needed some input. “Hey you two, I wrote that I had to go back in to get Lucy’s … something.” I looked up at them. “What do you think I should go back in for?”

  They looked at each other, then Rachael looked back at me and said, “saaanndwich,” to which Krystal erupted into giggles. That was a private joke between them. I still don’t get it.

  “I’m not writing ‘sandwich.’” I continued to type. “I went back in for Lucy’s bottle,” I said out loud as I typed the line, getting in a jab for the “too young” remark.

  “No!” Rachael yelled.

  “I went back in for Lucy’s binky.” I said jokingly.

  “You went back in for Lucy’s dart board,” Krystal said, getting into the game.

  “You went back in for Lucy’s stuffed pickle bird,” Rachael laughed. She used to have a toy Vlasic pickle stork that we had donated to Goodwill a few years back. The stuffed pickle-bird.

  “You went back in for Lucy’s eyelash curler,” Krystal said.

  “You went back in for Lucy’s dead fish to feed to the kitties,” Rachael said. Her goldfish died the day before. Its corpse was in the freezer waiting to go back to Walmart for a refund.

  Daisy was standing at the door, probably very confused watching her person giggle and dance around the room. “The dog wants out,” I said, stopping the ridiculousness. I typed, “I went back in to get Lucy’s sandwich.”

  Rachael let the dog out and sat beside me again. She twirled another bracelet around her finger, and read the computer screen. “Why am I wearing tap shoes?” she asked.

  “How many of those things do you have?” I indicated the bracelet.

  “I was bored.” She could whip one up in about five minutes. “Why am I wearing tap shoes?” she asked again.

  “You needed something on your feet, and I thought it was funny,” I answered.

  “I never had tap shoes,” she said.

  “It is funny, isn't it? ” I asked? She wrinkled up her nose.

  I turned back to the computer screen. “Anyway, Krystal did, and you used to wear them around the house. They were way too big for you,” I told her. “You were just a baby when you played with them.”

  “I don’t remember,” she grumbled. “I don’t like getting written about.”

  Krystal said, “I do. Remember. I don’t like getting written about either. It’s annoying.” She shooed a ladybug off her arm.

  “How do you get rid of skin tags?” my husband asked. I looked at him, surprised. Where did that come from?

  “EWWW! Krystal said, regarding the skin tags, and pulled Chooey, our small orange 15-year-old cat, up into her lap.

  “How do you spell ‘EWWW?’” I asked. “The dog wants out again.”

  “It’s not my turn.” Krystal held Chooey close so he couldn’t jump down from the chair she was in. “And I can’t get up, Chooey’s on my lap.”

  Rachael put Daisy outside. “She’s calling Anna ‘The Cat Lady,’” she said to Krystal.

  Krystal looked up from her magazine. “Cougar’s attacking the rug again.” Cougar is a cat who adopted us after he moved into our garage about five years ago.

  “I know,” I said to Krystal. I had a clear view of the throw rug in the doorway. Cougar had burrowed under it, the tip of his nose sticking out and was watching me with his golden eyes. I smiled. It amused me when he did that. To Rachael I said, “We called Anna ‘The Cat Lady’ until we learned her name.”

  “El Dama de Gato,” said Krystal.

  “La Dama de Gato,” I corrected her.

  “Sie Katzen Fraulein. Or, Die Katzendame,” Rachael said.

  “Which way’s right?” I asked her.

  “Don't know. I’m just guessing. Which cat is the ‘road kitty?’” Rachael was reading my laptop again. “And I don’t think his name is Richard.”

  “The cat on the road is just a cat in general, but I put Search Light in,” I said. “And I didn’t want to use their real names, so I just picked one. The dog wants in.”

  “Oh well, I’m tired, I’m going to bed.” Rachael stopped reading over my shoulder. I kissed her cheek and she got up from the couch.

  “Night, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.” Her Dad had already gone to bed. She grabbed her stuff, let the dog in, and she went upstairs, the dog plodding along behind her.

  Both girls were tired. They had spent the day helping out at a church dinner and dance. Tom and I didn’t go because I had too much homework. Krystal put a medical show on the Discovery channel and the house was quiet and peaceful again. I watched her as her head started drooping forward. “Go to bed!”

  She quickly lifted her head and sat up straighter. “I’m watching this show. Didn’t you finish that yet?”

  “Your head was falling off.” I was referring to her sleepy nodding. “The draft is almost done. How’s this ending sound?” I read the final paragraph.

  She grimaced. “You make us sound evil. I don’t like being written about,” she repeated her earlier objection.

  I picked up my pencil and scribbled a few lines on a scrap of paper. “What’s that for?” she asked, watching me.

  “I got an idea for another story from what was going on here tonight. Something like ‘The Telling of the Tale,’ or ‘The Spinning of the Yarn,’ or something like that. ‘Spinning yarn’ would work.” I picked up the frien
dship bracelet that Rachael had tossed at me earlier and threw it in her direction.

  “What? Nothing happened here tonight, and what’s it got to do with spinning yarn?” She threw it back at me.

  “A lot happened tonight. And ‘spinning a yarn’ is another way of saying ‘telling a story.’”

  “You said ‘tale,’” she said with a yawn.

  “Tale, story, it doesn’t matter. It’s the same thing. What I’m going to try to do is write a story about writing a story. Gosh, I’m so deep,” I said dramatically.

  “Now that you’ve said that, gosh, you’re so shallow,” she shot back.

  “Go to bed.” I said again.

  Window Shopping

  Sydney loved hats. She had a collection that covered one wall of her bedroom and dominated two shelves in her closet. While we were in town we commented on the ones displayed in the windows of the boutiques as we walked down the sidewalk along the avenue. I was enjoying making fun at what was considered the “height of fashion,” while she admired the items shown in the store’s window displays.

  “Since you like hats so much, why don’t you ever wear any of the ones decorating your room?” I asked her as I giggled at a ridiculously large, floppy, pink-and-white flowered one she was gazing longingly at.

  “I really wish I could, I think they’re so classy,” she said wistfully, “but if I actually wear one, it flattens my curls.” She flipped her head and ran her fingers through her long, glossy blond curls. I rolled my eyes and self-consciously pulled my home-made blue knit cap down over my short mousey brown hair.

  Our attention was suddenly drawn away from the store's windows as we noticed a commotion across the street at a bar called Le Menagerie. A giraffe had burst out the front door, holding a chimpanzee by the scruff of the neck. The giraffe proceeded to drop-kick the chimp across the parking lot.

  We watched in amazement as the ape stood up and brushed himself off, picked up his black silk top hat and placed it resolutely on his head, then ran back towards the bar.