Anna, Babette, and Charlie or Why She's Late -- Flash Fiction

A 1900s postcard from Zazzle

The girls had their showers and bath last night before bed. Anna and Babette take showers these days. Charlie still takes baths.

We are scheduled to eat a late lunch with Neil's mother then sit for a family portrait in front of the Christmas tree.

I reminded Anna, my thirteen-year-old going on 20, of our departure time as she disappeared into her room. We had agreed that she would wear her new blue dress. Her first dry-clean-only dress. Nothing would do, but she have that exact one. And she did look lovely in it. She's a rather fastidious child so it seemed an acceptable choice.

"Babette, have you decided what you're wearing?"

"The white one with blue stars," she shouts over her shoulder as she plunks down on the couch next to her dad.

At eleven, Babette is the athlete/artist in the family. She couldn't care less what she wears as long as it's not "too girlie." I'm never quite sure just what "too girlie" is. Pink is fine. Flounces around the hem are fine. Ruffles at the neckline are not fine. "Too girlie." White with stars is perfectly fine for the portrait, but she is not a careful child. Not with her art supplies or eating. I don't know why Neil's mother planned a portrait sitting for AFTER lunch. I'm tempted to take a spare outfit for her. Babette, not Neil's mother.

Charlie (Charlotte MacKenzie) the baby of the family loves clothes. That child can change clothes more times in a day than the Crawleys on Downton Abbey. I decided to wait until the last minute to dress her.

"Mom," Anna calls. "I can't find my blue tights."

I poke my head into her room, the cat and Charlie close on my heels. "When did you wear them last?" I ask.

"Tuesday."

"Then, they're probably in the dirty clothes. Did you look?"

"Can you wash them?" She asks.

Might as well, throw in Neil's dark colored dress shirts. My dad was a welder, so he never wore dress shirts unless it was to a wedding or a funeral. Somehow, it always seemed kind of fun to wash Neil's "work" shirts. Almost like I was a kid playing house. Fancy house. But they had to be taken out of the dryer as soon as it finished or they'd wrinkle, and neither he nor I like to iron.

"Babette, do you need anything washed before school tomorrow?"

She races past me down the hall and into her room. The cat and Charlie flatten themselves against the wall.

All calm and in control she steps into the hall and hands me her soccer uniform. "Thanks, Mom. I almost forgot."

Thank goodness her team colors are blue and grey. They'll wash just fine with her sister's tights and Neil's shirts. But they're another have-to-take-them-out-of-the-dryer-quick.

Not a problem. I've got time.

Neil passed the laundry room on his way to our bathroom. "Gonna take my shower now."

"Okay," I say rummaging through the dirty clothes to find Anna's tights.

I hear the shower start and thank goodness for the new water heater. We haven't run out of hot water since we got it.

"Gloria, Hon, I forgot to get a towel."

"Just a minute," I say interrupting my search for the tights. "Charlie, don't let the cat get in the dryer."

I get Neil a towel, find the tights, and start the washer. Charlie and the cat have disappeared and I can't hear them over the washer and Neil's singing. He always sings in the shower. Opera, usually. He actually sounds pretty good when he limits himself to the baritone parts. Not so much when he does all the roles. But he enjoys it.

The dishwasher is finished so I put the dishes away. That's when I heard the most mournful yowl. Having survived two girls as toddlers, I knew I'd better see what Charlie had done to the cat. It wasn't in the dryer. I checked.

I knew they weren't in Charlie's bedroom because the door was wide open. My next guess was the hall bathroom.

"Charlie, have you got the cat in there with you?"

There was much scrabbling going on and things falling on the other side of the door.

"Charlotte, why is the door locked? Open the door."

Nothing. The hall bathroom had gone silent. Neil burst into his falsetto soprano part.

"Charlotte MacKenzie Smith. Open this door. NOW!"

Charlie opened the door and a wet cat streaked past me, sliding as he made the turn to tear down the hall. The four-year-old stood there, shoulders hunched, eyes huge in terror, her mouth puckered in an O.

"He's wet! He's all over my stuff!" Anna screeched from her bedroom.

Charlie was soaked. Toiletries lay scattered across the flooded bathroom floor. The picture of the young man tap dancing in New Orleans hung askew and the wall clock was practically upside down.

Babette peeked out of her door, took one look at me, then ducked out of sight.

"Babette, you come back here. Bring me a towel and take one to Anna."

"Yes, ma'am," she said sidling carefully past me.

Tears began trickling down Charlie's face. She didn't move. She didn't even blink. She waited for retribution of biblical proportions.

The shower in my bathroom stopped and Neil called, "Did you get deodorant for me? I can't find it."

"The cat walked on my library book," Anna wailed. "He's ruining it!"

Babette offered me two towels.

"No. Take one to Anna and tell her to dry the cat. Then you come back here and dry your sister."

"But ...." she started to object. After another look at me, she thought better of it.

"Thank you," Neil said as I removed the new can of deodorant from the top shelf in the medicine cabinet, less than an arm's length from him, and handed it to him.

"You're welcome," I said.

"Are the girls about ready to go?" he asked.

I didn't answer. How could he not hear the four-year-old down the hall, sobbing? Her big sister making soothing sounds.

I got the mop bucket out of the garage and sopped up the water on the bathroom floor, straightened the picture and the clock, and dried the toiletries before replacing them on the shelf. At least the cat hadn't knocked the shelf down or ripped the shower curtain in his wild careening around the room.

It wasn't until after I'd put the laundry into the dryer that I calmed down enough to wonder whether or not my youngest had been maimed by the near-drowned cat. But there hadn't been blood in the water on the floor, so I figured she must be fine or at least fine enough.

"How do I look?" Neil asked smoothing his tie. He was freshly showered, deodorized, shaved, and dressed in a white shirt and his navy pinstriped suit pants.

"You're barefoot," I said.

"Couldn't find any blue socks," he said.

"Wear black," I said.

It wasn't until then that he actually looked at me.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing is wrong. Now."

"Okay," he said cautiously. "I think I'll go clean out the car,"

Anna and Babette got themselves dressed and ready to go. Anna without her blue tights. I'll run the laundry again when we get home. Charlotte MacKenzie is dressed and I put a change of clothes in her Elsa backpack. If Babette spills food on her dress, we'll just turn it around back-to-front for the photo.

We're out of hot water and I've still got to shower. I have no idea where the cat's got to.

My husband sits on the couch reading the paper. His three beautiful daughters perched all lady-like around him watching "Meet the Press" or some such on TV as though they're interested. He checks his watch, waiting all too obviously patiently. He doesn't dare ask how much longer I'll be.

I See You -- flash fiction

Hoss, the Jack Russell, always met him at the door, and he always said the same thing. "I see you."

When she wrecked the car, she cried. She hadn't totaled the car. She was not hurt. She'd been thinking about where she was going instead of what she was doing. The officer ticketed the other driver, but if she'd been paying attention, she could have avoided the whole thing, been on time for her meeting, saved the other driver a ticket, saved herself the deductible. Tears were unnecessary. She was just so angry.

"I see you," he said as he tried to put his arm around her.

"Oh, leave me alone," she said and shrugged him off.

But he hadn't left her alone, and he didn't. Until he did.

A brain aneurysm. Asymptomatic. Can cause stroke ending in brain damage or death. "No shit Sherlock." She should be glad he died. He'd have hated brain damage. She'd have hated brain damage. She hated him being dead.

But she was learning. She had learned to go to bed alone. To get up alone. She didn't go out to eat alone or to the movies alone. Not yet.

There were good kinds of alone. Like when you're in a forest beyond the sound of humans. In the spring when everything is damp and just coming green again. Bird song, drops of rain landing on your hat, the quarreling of a squirrel when he realizes you've seen him.

Or in a warm, candle-lit bath. The house quiet, because he's already asleep. And you can almost hear him and the dog breathing.

One reason she'd married him was so she wouldn't have to deal with life alone. And because he was so practical. She'd been called a dreamer, a bleeding heart, a trouble maker. But he never faulted her for being angry or upset. He really could see her. He saw she tried to right the wrongs she railed against. That she tried to find the good in people, especially the people who were hard for her to like. That she wanted her way because she really did think it was the best way for everybody concerned. He saw that sometimes she failed. At big things. At little things. At being perfect.

Like right then. She did not know how to grieve. Not how to do it right. She read books, went to grief counselling.

 At least she could sleep.

She saw him. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe all those bad times were the dream. This seemed real. His hair was freshly cut and he smelled of bath soap and deodorant. He was coming through the trees toward her.

"I see you," he said.

"I see you," she said and reached for him.

Something landed in the middle of her, jolting her awake. Two bright black eyes in a little white face, looking down at her.

"Rotten dog." Her eyes filled with angry tears. But the little dog looked so happy to see her awake.

"I see you," she said letting go of the tears and the anger. "Wanna go to the movies? Or will breakfast do?"

The Elephant in the Room -- flash fiction

Her daughter sat in her normal place at the table. So beautiful. So young.

The girl reached for the rolls and offered them to the young man seated next to her.

Loxodonta, the African Elephant, is one of two extant genera of the family, Elephantidae. Elephas, the Asian, is the other. At an overall length of 18–21 feet, even the smaller Asian elephant would not fit in the room.

"What about school?" she asked pouring them each a glass of lemonade.

"Oh, Mom. They have colleges in Virginia."

The African bush elephant is even bigger, females stand an average of seven to nine feet tall. An ear six feet long by four feet wide cast a shadow twice that large over her dining table.

She knew exactly how far it was from Ft. Wayne to Norfolk, Virginia -- 728.8 miles. She could drive it if she had to, but it would take too long to get there if there were an emergency. And Paul couldn't take off work just any time. He would, though. If it were an emergency.

"Yes, Carrie. I know. But will you go?" She looked at Paul. Dear, steady Paul.

Michael reached for the meat loaf. "That'll give her something to do while I'm deployed. That and the baby."

The elephant's upper lip and nose form a trunk which acts as a fifth limb and a sound amplifier.

"Yes, the baby . . . ." she repeated leaving the table to get something. Paul followed her. What was it she was in the kitchen to get? Napkins? No. A serving spoon.

The African elephant's trunk ends in two opposing lips, whereas the Asian elephant trunk ends in a single lip. The trunk is an important method of touch.

Paul took the spoon from her. "It'll be all right," he said. "She'll be fine." He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine."

The elephant's cortex has as many neurons as that of a human brain.


(The day after this was first posted, a properly edited, rewritten version was posted to show how important editing and rewriting are. If you would like to read that version click on Fix-It.)

If Wishes Were Horses -- flash fiction

The alarm! Shut it off. Quick, before it wakes Ken. If she can just sleep fifteen more minutes. She wishes she had another blanket over her legs. Damned arthritis.

“Mom?” 

The plaintive call to arms moves her to the master bathroom. She leaves the light off taking care not to wake Ken. The night light is enough.

“Mom.”

David’s a good boy. He’s hardly ever sick.

Snores rise from the man still sleeping. And the dog is stirring. Maybe she can get out of the room before the dog wakes Ken. Poor Ken. He doesn’t have to get up until six. She’s sorry about his job. She wishes he weren’t so worried.

“Mom.”

Where are her slippers? She should have put them somewhere specific when she went to bed.

“Hush, girl.” She pats the dog on the head and lets her out into the hall. Mollie’s tail smacks everything. She’ll wake Ken. A dog should wag her tail. She should be happy it’s breakfast time. “Shhhh.” It’s a shame to wish her less than happy.

The hall light is on. The hall light is always on. 

“Morning, Dad.”

Her elderly father shuffles from the bathroom. Yet again. She’s heard him up at least three times this night. It was her habit to listen for him to go back to his room, each time hoping he could find his way. Sometimes he couldn’t.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Haven’t slept since midnight.”

She knows that may or may not be true, but there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing the subject.

“Mom!”

“Just a minute, son.”

“What are you planning for breakfast?” her father asks.

“Oatmeal. I’ll have your pill out for you in a minute,” she says as she opens David’s door. “What is it, son?”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Why are your pillows on the floor?”

She’s tempted to turn on the overhead. Why should she care if it hurts his eyes? But the dog wants breakfast. Her father needs his pill. David would just be one more disruption. A fine way to think of her only child. And he really is a good boy. Gets good grades. Stays out of trouble. She piles the pillows on his bed and props him up. Maybe he’ll sleep at least until Ken is ready to leave.

Her father and Mollie wait outside David’s door. Mollie’s tail wagging enthusiastically. She wishes she felt like wagging a tail.

“Could you heat the water? For my pill?”

“Sure, Dad. Let me feed Mollie first.”

She steps out into the garage to get Mollie’s food and wishes she’d found her slippers. If she thought the floor inside the house was cold . . . .

“If wishes were horses,” her mother always said, “even beggars would ride.”

“If wishes were horses,” she thought, “I’d just have more to clean up.”

She misses her mother. 

Life in a Tree -- flash fiction

image from beforeitsnews.com

“Stevie, are you still up there?”

“But what about Daddy?”

“Steven Michael, you come down here this instant. We’ve got to be at the airport in six hours.” Now he decides he’s not going. I won’t have it. He does not make decisions for me. “Steven. Now!”

“I won’t leave Daddy.”

“I’m coming up there.” Climb a tree after a six-year-old? This is the stupidest damn thing I’ve done in a long while. “Steven, do I have to drag you out of this tree?”

“But, Mom, look at the world. You can see the whole world from up here.”

“Yes, very pretty.” She sat down on the limb and let her legs dangle. “Stevie, this is exactly why we’re leaving. What you can see from here is not the whole world. It’s not even a little bit of it.”

He’s just like his father, no imagination. Satisfied, satisfied, satisfied. He’s a little boy. He doesn’t understand. We’re one hundred and fifty miles from an airport. A regional airport. Not even a hub. You can’t get anywhere from here without going somewhere else first. That far from the nearest ballet company. Not that Michael cares how far his son is from a ballet company. But we’re just as far from a hospital – a Level II trauma center. There is no Level I in the whole state. God forbid if he fell out of this tree. We’re talking med flight into Salt Lake or Denver.

“Just think of it Stevie. Washington, D.C., the Capital of the United States, the most important city in the world.”

“But we won’t have a house. Where will we sleep? I don’t like hotels.”

“No, honey, we won’t live in a hotel. We have an apartment there. You’ll have your own room just like here.”

“I don’t think Rufus will like an apartment.”

“He’s too big for an apartment. Besides he can’t go on the plane with us.”

“I’m almost as big as Rufus, maybe I’m too big for an apartment.”

“We’ve been through all this before.”

And much, much more with his father. Michael knew what she was like when they married. He was handsome and brilliant. He was proud to have a wife graduating at the top of her class, then clerking for a State Supreme Court Justice. He knew she wanted out of Wyoming. She thought he would want to go where they could actually make a difference. Actually protect the wildlife he loved so well. She thought the National Park Service would be just the beginning. The first step. Decisions were made in D.C.

Michael should have been there an hour ago. He should be the one up in this tree.

“Hey! What are you two monkeys doing up in the tree?”

“Daddy! Come up. Come up.”

“Yes, Michael. Do come up and see if you can talk some sense into your son.” She moved toward the trunk of the tree. “Wait. Let me come down first.”

He lifted her out of the tree and set her on the ground. “What’s going on?”

“Steven Michael doesn’t want to come with me.”

“Okay.” He took a slow deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. Explain it to him.”

“Explain divorce to a six-year-old? I’m not sure I can.”

She snorted in disgust and stomped away.

He climbed the tree and sat on the third from the bottom most limb. Drawing his son into his lap he asked, “Now why don’t you want to go with Momma?”

“It’s too far away, and you know how she always gets lost and she needs you to tell her how to spell words and Rufus can’t go.” The little boy’s eyes filled with tears.

Michael kissed Steven’s forehead, knowing that this was one hurt he couldn’t kiss away.

“Stevie, your Momma won’t get lost and if she does there’ll be lots of people there to help her find where she wants to go. And you know she never goes anywhere without her phone so she can use it to find out how to spell any word she wants to.”

“Okay.” The child sniffled and snuggled against his dad.

“And Rufus will go to work with me most days.”

“But why, Daddy? Why?”

“Why what?” he asked, knowing very well what. “You know how unhappy Momma’s been, for a long time now. Sometimes grown-ups just don’t love each other anymore.”

She had loved him once, he was sure of that. She was beautiful and intelligent. And she had been enthralled by his intelligence. She could have had any of the campus jocks, but she loved him. She knew what he was like. He lived out-of-doors, in the wild places away from the corrosive element of human beings. Wildlife management was his way to save at least a little part of the world he loved. He thought she would settle into the life, appreciate the vitality of Wyoming, the skies, the fresh air, the unlimited opportunities for discovery.

“Daddy?” the child put his hands on either side of Michael’s face and made him look at him.

Michael would never get over how completely beautiful the child was. His child. The wild must be preserved for all the Steven Michaels.

“What?”

“Do they have elk in Washington, D.C.?”

“In the zoo, maybe. They have deer. Not mule deer like we have here, but white tail. And raccoons and rabbits and some varmints like you’ve never seen here.” He set the child on the next lower limb. “Be careful.”

Before the boy climbed down, he asked another question. “Do grown-ups stop loving little boys?”

Tenth Anniversary -- flash fiction

from spin.com

She awoke early. Not a stitch of bedding covered her. She was cold and her left hip ached. At thirty-five she was too young for arthritis. Unfortunately her hip didn’t know that.

Wrapped up in the blankets, her husband slept, breathing through his mouth. Unfortunately, he’d not brushed his teeth after that last beer. If his mouth felt and tasted like it smelled, how could he stand it? Even in his sleep?

Only twenty minutes left before the alarm. She might as well get up. One look at the bathroom floor and she almost forgot why she went in there. His work clothes, underwear, and socks drifted against the dirty clothes hamper. Against the hamper! What was so difficult about lifting the lid and dropping them in there?

And, speaking of lifting the lid, what was so difficult about closing the toilet lid?

She sighed.

She reminded herself that if it bothered her, then it was her problem and she would have to deal with it. She’d told him before that it bothered her. Did he not believe her? Did he enjoy irritating her?

She picked up the clothes and closed the toilet lid after herself.

In the kitchen she hit the coffee maker’s ‘on’ button and leaned against the counter waiting for that wonderful falling water sound that it makes as life-giving liquid pours into the carafe and the soothing aroma fills the room.

Nothing happened. Is it plugged in? Yes, it’s plugged in. There’s no water in the reservoir. There are no fresh grounds in the basket. He told her he’d set it up before he went to bed. He made a special effort to tell her he’d do it. If he hadn’t said he would, she would have.

She slammed the cabinet door. So what if it woke him up? He needed to get up anyway. And he could make his own breakfast. If he could handle pouring oatmeal into the bowl and operate the microwave. Whatever. She certainly was not going to do it.

She heard him get up and go into the bathroom. The toilet flushed. At least he flushed the toilet. He probably didn’t notice that she’d picked his clothes up.

She heard him rummaging around in the hall closet. What was he doing now? That was his closet and she never went into it. She’d be afraid to. Large, furry animals had probably set up housekeeping in there. Heaven knew he hadn’t done any housekeeping in there. Or anywhere else.

He came into the kitchen wearing a do-rag and an old T-shirt from some concert back in the old days when they went to concerts. He must have lost his mind.

Smiling like he’d won the lottery, he waved his phone at her.

“You, my beautiful wife have an appointment at the day spa.”

He HAD lost his mind. Her boss expected a full-day’s work for a full-day’s pay. She didn’t get time off for spa visits.

“It’s all arranged. Alex is letting you off at 2:30 and a taxi will take you to the spa. I’ll pick you up at 5:00. We’ll have a hamburger at that little joint on 23rd and be in the amphitheater by 7:30.”

How could he be so enthusiastic and noisy that early in the morning? She poured herself another cup of coffee.

She set the cup down barely avoiding disaster as he grabbed her around the waist and whirled her in the air. He brandished the phone at her again. This time giving her a chance to read the screen. Two tickets, $118.52. What was he thinking? That much money would almost pay the phone bill.

“Santana! My own black magic woman!” His eyes twinkled, and his breath was minty fresh. “I won the Pick Three. 10-13-4! That was our first date. Ten years ago today.” He threw his hands out wide and wiggled a little dance step. “We saw Santana and you were the most beautiful woman I knew. I couldn’t believe you’d go out with me, but you did. And I’m even gladder now than I was then.”

Gladder? Ah, well. Words were not his life. But she thought he was pretty cute.

“Wear that blue outfit, honey,” he said. “You look really hot in it.” Then he winked. “And even hotter out of it.”

She drank her second cup of coffee and smiled. She knew there were more important things in life than a man who picked up his clothes and brushed his teeth every night before bed. Any man who was lucky enough to win the Pick Three and thoughtful enough to remember their first date – not to mention, think her beautiful – had a lot going for him.