Home -- flash fiction

“Good morning Ms. Jenkins. Did you go home for the holidays?” he asked over his shoulder as he stepped away with the empty pill bottle.

She thought about that. Spring was such a beautiful time for a holiday. School was out for a week, always enough time to go home. Things would be blooming. The folks would have vegetables growing strong. Lettuces and peas would already be coming off. Forsythia would be done, but the tulips and daffodils would still be blooming. Her mother must have had umpteen varieties of daffodils. Mom always said they looked like bits of sunshine.

She lost her forsythia last winter. Too dry and too cold.

Dad would be ready to put out his tomatoes and peppers, if he hadn’t already. And his potatoes would be big and strong. He liked to have fryers big enough for fried chicken Memorial Day weekend and new potatoes. That was his aim. And corn on the cob fresh from the garden by Fourth of July. He never planted his corn until after Easter, though. When the ground was warm.

She hadn’t missed an Easter at home in she didn’t know how long. First, trips home from college, then with Jim and the children. Except those two years in a row when James Jr. had the three-day measles. Twice.

Jim built her two raised beds. Four feet by eight feet. And she had a long planter on the south end of the deck. That was her “salad bar.” She planted it full of all kinds of lettuces. Just broadcast the seeds. The raised beds, she planted in an organized fashion. Her dad always took great pride in straight rows. Once a farmer, always a farmer.

She had to wait until after Mother’s Day to plant here. Except the lettuces. She just threw a sheet over them. Nights it got too cold. They’d had a nice big salad fresh from her deck, Easter Sunday.

“Here’s your prescription,” he said as he came back to the counter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear if you went home this year.”

“Not this year,” she said as she slid her card. It had been a difficult year. Emergency trips home. “Not this year,” she repeated. “This year the children and grandchildren came home.”

Dear Santa -- 4th of 4

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If you missed Dee's first letter click Dear Santa No. 1. For her second one click Dear Santa No. 2. For her third letter click Dear Santa No. 3.



Dear Santa,

   Happy almost Christmas.

   I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire damaged house is repaired.

   Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

   The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

   Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

   He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

   We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

   My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

   And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

   In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

   Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

   I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

   At almost ten, Michael is the wise elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVD’s and Netflix.

   Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

   Not that they get enough of that at my house. Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the Crèche, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up (he’s working graveyards) and saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. He got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

   Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

   After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

   Poor Rodney. Smoke rose from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

   Needless to say, we were all in bed early.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes.

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy the Saturday after Christmas, we’re having a few friends in for dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa -- 3rd of 4

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If you missed Dee's first letter click Dear Santa No. 1 or her second one click Dear Santa No. 2.

Dear Santa,

   It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two dogs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

   I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

   Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

   They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

   Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

   I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

   Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. Well, I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

   Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

   And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

   Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

   If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

   At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

   Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

   Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

   When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to her and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

   Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

   Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls and Jerry crying.

   As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened then or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

   There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

   Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. What good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy, I can’t imagine.

   Mac the Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

   Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee 

For the final Dear Santa letter in this series click here.

Dear Santa -- 2nd of 4

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If you have not read Dee's first letter to Santa click Dear Santa No. 1

Dear Santa,

   It’s me again. Dee, the woman from the Thanksgiving Day parade. My son moved home and my daughter’s having a baby, remember? Well, Becca's not having a baby right now, but maybe by the time you get this letter.

   My daughter, and her husband Thurman had a setback. Thurman’s a policeman. Very nice man. Becca’s a loan officer at the credit union. Anyway, their house caught fire. Thank goodness no one was hurt and the house didn’t burn to the ground. But there was extensive smoke and water damage, so it looks like it’ll be after Christmas before they can move back in.

   Marvin – you remember my husband that died three years ago on Black Friday? I do miss that man. He had no idea how much we’d need the basement. The kids being grown and gone by the time he got around to it. I just thank goodness he put in the bedrooms and bath. My cat Cleo and I are in the front bedroom down there. Rodney – you remember my son? The one with the rabbits? He’s in the back bedroom.

   I let Becca and Thurman have my bedroom and their two boys have the other upstairs bedroom. Maggie, my five-year-old granddaughter, is sleeping in my sewing room on the futon. That’s upstairs, too. So Becca’s family is all upstairs.

   And their two Labradors.

   Cleo wasn’t best pleased when the dogs moved in. We had quite a rodeo. They didn’t know much about cats. I guess Cleo decided to indoctrinate them right from the get-go. She bowed up and hissed and spit at Buddy. He’s the old dog. Poor thing. He wasn’t sure how to act, but then she slapped him – claws out – right across the muzzle. He wasn’t having that at all. And the chase was on.

   Becca may be pregnant out to here, but she reacted immediately, plunging headlong after Buddy. The younger dog Rocky cowered against Thurman’s legs and tripped him when he tried to help Becca. Those two boys laughed to high heaven and Maggie screamed like she was the one being chased.

   I was so shocked, I just stood there watching the cat, the dog, and the pregnant girl. Through the living room into the dining room, then the kitchen and back into the living room. Cleo must have recognized me as some kind of King’s X. Her second time around she ran right up me. Thank goodness Becca grabbed Buddy’s collar before he climbed up me, too.

   Cleo’s staying pretty much in the basement now. We have to keep the door closed to the storeroom where the rabbits are. I don’t know if she’d hurt them, but she certainly paid them a lot of attention, so I’d rather be safe than sorry.

   You know, even with Rodney changing their litter every day, it’s pretty ripe down there. I asked him what he plans to do with those rabbits. He said he’s not sure.

   We don’t really need anything. The insurance gave Becca and Thurman some money to replace some of the necessities. They’d already bought most of their Christmas presents and were hiding them at his mother’s house. So come Christmas Eve, the kids will still have a nice visit from you.

   Thurman’s mother has a nice house. They’d have stayed with her, but she’s the nervous sort and they were afraid the three kids would be too much for her.

   We went to the thrift store and got a bassinet, some linens, and clothes for the baby when she gets here. It’s a girl, did I tell you? They’re going to name her Sylvia after his mother.

   I know you’re busy – and heaven knows I am too – so will sign off for now.

Sincerely,

Dee

for Dee's next letter to Santa click here.

Happy Halloween -- Flash Fiction

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Why couldn’t Elizabeth buy the candy? He’d gone into the office early and met with vender reps all morning. He missed those long leisurely, pre-recession luncheons paid for by the reps. All afternoon he’d dealt with a ridiculous personnel problem. How could full-grown people act like hormone-driven teens at work? And now he had to stop and get candy. She’d left a voice mail that he should be home before five with candy.

He didn’t mind that she didn’t work. He made enough money for them to live comfortably now. And he appreciated that she had worked the whole time the children were growing up.

Thank goodness they were all grown up and had been very little trouble in doing it. There’d been no going down to the local police station to retrieve them. Not even meetings with various and sundry school officials about major infractions. What problems there had been Elizabeth had handled.

Shopping for candy should have been a quick in and out deal. He never imagined how many women waited until the last minute to buy Halloween treats. Why did they bring their over-tired kids? Probably fresh from daycare. Shopping in that crowd would probably be the biggest nightmare of the night. Those were, no doubt, the little darlings who would be ringing his bell from five until nine.

Oh, yes, the doorbell and strangers coming to the door after dark. With his dog, that should make for a quiet, peaceful evening. Mungo would be hoarse by morning.

And, no, he would not dress up in some ridiculous costume to hand out candy.

Elizabeth wasn’t there when he got home. She complained about never going out. He didn’t like going out. He was “out” all day. He liked to come home, have a quiet dinner, watch a little TV, and go to bed. He took her out. To eat. Sometimes to a movie. She said they hadn’t been to a movie since the last Star Trek movie. That didn’t sound right, but he didn’t keep track of things like that. Besides, she could go out whenever she wanted. He wasn’t one of those overbearing, macho men who had to have their thumb on “the little woman” every minute.

Had she said where she was going? Probably. Maybe she said something about Christmas and going downtown. That didn’t sound like Elizabeth. He wished he hadn’t deleted the voice mail.

She’d left him stew in the fridge.

Four-forty-five p.m. He considered himself a competent adult. He turned on the news and put a bowl of stew into the microwave. Mungo bounced around his feet. She apparently had not fed the dog. The microwave dinged as he set Mungo’s dinner on the floor. Before he could get to the microwave, the doorbell sounded. Mungo barked like mad and raced to the door.

He hadn’t put the candy in the jack-o-lantern bucket yet. Kids didn’t care about that stuff. He tore the candy bag open and dropped hands-full into a skull bucket, a sparkly princessy bucket, and a grocery bag.

He turned on the porch light and returned to the dinging microwave. Mungo returned to his food. Damn. The stew had splattered all over the microwave. Elizabeth hated it when he forgot to use the cover.

The doorbell again. And he still hadn’t put the candy in the pumpkin bucket. Mungo was off like a rocket – a loud rocket.

By eight o’clock he’d run out of candy. He scrounged through his sock drawer and found two rolls of quarters. But the trick-or-treaters were getting bigger. How many quarters should he give a kid bigger than him, who wasn’t wearing a costume as far as he could tell, and was carrying a king-size pillow case half full of loot? Even Mungo was intimidated.

Nine o’clock and his stew was still in the microwave. Where was Elizabeth?

He turned off the porch light, cleaned up the microwave, and made himself a cheese sandwich. He opened a beer and dumped half a bag of chili cheese corn chips on his plate. He found a movie on the TV. A war movie. He liked Tom Hanks. After this evening, explosions and machine gun fire would be calming.

One-thirty a.m. The doorbell and Mungo woke him. He didn’t understand where he was. There was no more candy and no more quarters. The time glowed red on the cable box. Some kind of zombie thing stumbled across the TV screen. The doorbell rang again. Mungo was going crazy. He shut the dog in Elizabeth’s sewing room. Where was that woman?

He switched the porch light on and looked through the peep hole in the front door – the 180-degree jumbo bronze security viewer he’d spent less than $20 on and more than two hours installing.

And there, on the brightly lit front porch stood two of the biggest cops he’d ever seen, one on either side of Elizabeth in a Santa suit.