THE SILENT FIGURINE -Speculative Short Fiction

 

The Silent Figurine

I’d never seen anyone like her, with her black silky hair mixed with disgusting dreadlocks. I pictured myself running my fingers through it just to see what it felt like. But one does not run their fingers through the hair of a witch.

Cordelia started school midway through the second term, just as Halloween ended. She stood in front of the class, catching everyone’s attention with her two different colored eyes: the right one black and the left green. Her spicey-leathery smell reached the back of the classroom.

“She’s a witch,” Kayden leaned toward me and whispered, but not softly. Cordelia shot her gaze at us, and Kayden and I looked away like cowards.

It horrified and slightly intrigued me when she showed up in microbiology, and the teacher assigned her as my lab partner.

“You will partner up with A’lamar.” He directed her toward me.

Cordelia took the empty seat at my table, stuffing her patched bag next to my feet.

“So, you’re the boy who thinks I am a witch,” she said, staring at me with eyes as powerful as Medusa’s. I looked away so she didn’t turn me to stone.

I had no answer for her.

Paper crinkled behind me, and someone sneezed. I squirmed in my chair and sat on my hands, trying to pretend a witch wasn’t right next to me.

The teacher, Mr. Crombie, said, “Alright, everyone, we are going to be studying the cells of plants today.”

Cordelia leaned into me and whispered into my ear. “I am a witch.” Her acidic breath blew into my face.

My blood curdled in my veins.

And wouldn’t you know it, she got on my bus after school.

“Where’s your broom?” A kid named Mike said as she walked down the aisle.

She stopped next to his seat. “Why don’t you come home with me, and I will show you.”

Mike scooted closer to his seat partner.

“That’s what I thought,” she purred and continued toward the back of the bus. Her eyes caught mine and locked them in for the kill.

Oh no, Kayden isn’t here yet. She is going to sit by me. I know it.

“A’lamar,” she said as she turned her butt into me and tried to sit. I threw my arm over the empty space.

“This seat is taken,” I squeaked out.

“By me,” she said as she pushed her weight into the spot. I scrunched next to the window. I could taste her odor of incense or whatever clung to her clothes. I stared out the window and acted as if she wasn’t there.

The bus driver’s awful country music played, with the twaining and sadness that those annoying songs bring. The cheap speakers popped and crackled. Why couldn’t he play popular hits?

“So that is how you are going to be,” she said halfway through the ride home.

I didn’t respond.

“Listen, A’lamar. You don’t want to piss off a witch. You know, you can show me some kindness.”

I thought about continuing to ignore her, but she was right. I didn’t want to piss off a witch.

I turned to her but avoided those eyes. “Are you really a witch?”

Cordelia rolled up the sleeve of her brown velvet blouse and showed a tattoo of some pagan star with curly Latin words around it. She took her finger and rubbed a powder across my lips.

Angered by her unwanted touch, I almost barked at her, but then my deepest thoughts spewed out. “That’s dope. Your parents let you get a tattoo? I’d like a tattoo, but my parents said they’d kick me out if I got one. They are so controlling. I hate them. They control everything I do. My mom is the ultimate Karen.”

A kid from the front crawled toward the back of the bus, trying to avoid the bus driver’s mirror. He breathed heavily as his hands slapped against the floor. At the very back, he popped up, grabbed a kid’s backpack, and ran toward the front. The bus hit a pothole, and the kid flew momentarily, then slammed against the floor.

“Sit down!” the driver screamed.

I had momentarily stopped speaking to watch the action but soon returned to going on and on about my life.

I couldn’t stop myself from sharing intimate details until we came to a new stop on the bus route. We pulled up next to the city cemetery. Cordelia smiled at me. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“She’s getting off at the cemetery,” a kid said as Cordelia walked to the front.

“I told you she is a witch.”

Cordelia turned, waving her gnarly fingernail at us. “I am a witch, and you better watch out, or I will hex every one of you.” And then she cackled. Her voice high and shrill, sounded just like a witch.

No one spoke as Cordelia got off. The bus driver turned the corner before I could see where Cordelia had gone.

“I bet she lives at the cemetery,” Kayden said, sliding beside me.

“I am sure she does.”

“Bruh, why didn’t you save my seat?”

“The witch said she’d put a spell on me if I didn’t let her sit.”

Kayden stared at my face as we hit a bump and bounced in our seat. “What is on your lips?” he asked.

I wiped them, and brown powder dusted my finger.

“I dunno. The witch wiped something on them.”

Kayden shuttered. “That is creepy.”

“You’re telling me. I think it was a truth spell, of some sort, because I couldn’t stop telling her all about my life.”

The next day in Microbiology, after Mr. Crombie explained the assignment, he said, “You have forty-five minutes to complete the lab.” He leaned back in his chair, put his feet on his desk, and pulled out his phone.

Chatter erupted as we knew he no longer cared how the rest of the period went. And parents say that we teens are always on the phone. They would be surprised to see how many teachers don’t actually teach. They just scroll on social media while we are left to our own.

“I’ll gather the supplies,” I said to Cordelia. I grabbed the microscope and slide kit and returned to our table.

“Have you ever done anything with microscopes?”

Cordelia shook her head.

“Here, I will set up the slide.”

“You know,” she said. “I have been thinking about all the injustice you told me about your parents. I have a solution for you.”

I set the slide down and looked at her. Her eyes almost seemed to glow.

Next to us a kid angrily stood up as his chair scraped against the floor. All eyes turned to him as he yelled, “It is my turn.” He saw us watch him, and his face went red. He slumped back into his seat.

Cordelia stared at him for a second more, then turned to me. “I have been working on a potion that I think will solve your problems.”

“Mm,” I said apathetically. Why had I shared my problems with a witch?

“Meet me at the cemetery tonight at one minute past midnight. I think I can end all those unwanted interactions you have with your parents.”

“Yeah, yeah, for sure,” I said sarcastically. I picked the slide back up and attached a plant cell to it. Why did I get stuck with a looney witch as a lab partner?

After school, I walked into the house to find my parents sitting in the parlor, waiting for me. They had that look on their faces that told me my life was about to end.

“A’lamar, sit!”

“What’s this about?” I didn’t sit but threw my weight on my back leg and folded my arms. I hated it when they ganged up on me. I hadn’t done anything wrong in a while. This wasn’t fair.

“Well, we put spyware on your phone, and we’ve been watching what sights you visit, and we’ve read your texts and…”

I exploded. “You have no right to spy on me.”

My dad stormed toward me. “Do not talk to your mother that way.”

I stood my ground. “You don’t have any right to spy.”

“Give me your phone,” My dad commanded, with his hand outstretched.

I backed toward the wall. “No.”

“Harold, sit down,” my mom said.

My dad stepped into me, stared at me, and then, like a faithful dog, sat by my mom.

“Listen, A’lamar, we saw everything on your phone. And I mean everything.”

Her words sunk in. All my private searches. All my texts. Oh no, they saw my texts with Lizzy. My head spun, and I stumbled into the wall.

“Give us your phone.”

I couldn’t think. What all have they seen?

As guilt entered me, it washed away my defense. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and handed it to my mom.

“How long are you going to keep my phone?”

“Forever. You have shown you are not responsible enough for a phone. You can buy your own phone when you are an adult.”

Guilt gone. Anger returned.

“You can’t do that to me!”

“And we have put heavy restrictions on your laptop. You will only be able to access your school account.”

A demon of hate crawled out of the floorboards and took over my body. A rumbling exploded in me, and I grabbed my mom’s glass figurine. I knew I held her most prized possession. It was her most cherished heirloom, dating back to the cavemen. Wait, maybe she had purchased it on her honeymoon in the Amazon rainforest. Perhaps it was my father’s engagement gift to her.

Regardless, she loved the figurine more than me, and to make her hurt like she made me hurt, I smashed it against the wall.

My mom let out the sound a rabbit makes while being slaughtered.

Her disappointment wasn’t enough.

“Rarrr!” I kicked my foot into the curio and shattered the glass and a couple more figurines inside.

“To your room now, boy, before I call the cops!”

“Gladly,” I stomped to my room and slammed the door so hard that the knob broke.

“I hate my parents. I hate my parents. I hate my parents.”

The evening dragged on as I had nothing to do. The fury in me built as I stayed locked in confinement. I heard my parents go to bed around ten. I couldn’t sleep. I refused to lay in my covers as my mind spun in madness.

At 11:30, my mind wandered to my earlier conversation with Cordelia. “I have been thinking about all the injustice you told me about your parents. I have a solution for you,” she had said. “I have been working on a potion that I think will solve your problems.”

Could she solve my problems?

At 11:45, impulsively, I crawled out of my window and skated to the cemetery.

I didn’t think I was the scared type, but as I walked between the gravestones, my legs started rebelling by hardly moving. Every sound made me jump as I searched for Cordelia. Where am I supposed to meet her anyway?

This is so stupid.

The cemetery smelled of wet dirt and moss. And death? Do I smell death? I thought I might.

I turned to head home when I heard, “A’lamar.”

Hearing a witch call my name in the cemetery made my eye twitch. A chill came over the graveyard as flakes of snow fell upward. Seriously, they emerged from the ground and formed dark clouds above us.

I didn’t want to turn to Cordelia. I wanted to run, but where was she?

An ice-cold hand touched my shoulder. I jumped higher than the jocks who did the high jump at school. My heart beat so fast I wondered if it would explode.

“Are you ready to change your life,” her wispy voice said.

I shrugged. I turned and looked at Cordelia. If I had ever doubted that she was a witch, those feelings disappeared. She stood in the dark as the light of the moon illuminated her long cloak and freaky facial grin. I have made a mistake. I never should have come.

Cordelia sprinkled a potion on my head as she circled me, chanting words that felt like the very devil was speaking. My skin tingled. I looked at my arm and saw spiders crawl out of my sleeves.

“What are you doing?” I madly swatted at my arms, chest, and legs. Spiders swarmed my face, and they all started biting—millions of tiny fangs sunk into my skin.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Make it stop!”

Cordelia didn’t stop.

And then, the pain hit. A piercing, stinging pain entered every single cell. My cells felt like they were swelling to the point of exploding, and then they imploded. Burning. Stretching. Shrinking. I levitated off the ground and spun in circles. I spun so fast that I thought I might enter another realm. My body tightened, and I shrunk smaller and smaller until I was the size of a Barbie doll.

“What did you do to me?” My little voice squeaked. The spinning stopped, and I fell to the ground. I went to stand up but didn’t move. I was as stiff as a statue. I always thought the witch with her two-colored eyes was like Medusa and would turn me to stone.

Cordelia’s giant body hovered above as she looked down at me.

“Oh crap,” her loud voice rumbled through my chest.

She picked me up. “I think I screwed up.”

You think?

Cordelia put me in her bag, and I jiggled all around as she ran home. It smelt funky in her bag, like a mixture of stinky socks, books, and spices. I desperately wanted to crawl out and breathe fresh air, yet nothing moved on me. I remained in her bag for well over a week. At times, I heard her living her life at school and home; other times, there was only silence. I had my thoughts to keep me company, but nothing else. I couldn’t move.

Then, one night, the bag opened up, and a large hand pulled me out.

“Cordelia! What have you done?”

An adult witch held me. This had to be her mom. She had the same two-color eyes, except the black and green were in opposite eyes. She wore a black laced dress that could have come from the 1800s.

“Cordelia, get in here now!” The voice pierced my ears, yet I couldn’t cover them. The smell of sage lingered around me, and my stomach growled. I was dying to eat something, starving for over a week. The witch put me on a table.

“Cordelia!”

I scanned the area around me with its scattered papers, bundles of weeds, and stuff. My parents kept a home so clean that I was afraid to even breathe in it because my breath might soil something of mom’s. I liked the chaotic energy of the witch’s home.

Cordelia walked into the room. She looked at me and then at the adult-witch. Both her hands flew to her mouth, and she backed away slowly.

“Stop! Cordelia. Where are you going? Tell me what you’ve done.”

“Well, I might have cast the mutatio spell on a kid from my class.”

“You might have?”

“Well, I did.”

The witch clicked her tongue. “This is not the mutatio spell. Give me your spell book. Show me what you did.”

Cordelia left, then returned with an ancient leather book. She opened it and pointed to a page. “There, the mutatio spell.”

The adult-witch intently studied it. “Did you follow it exactly to the T?”

“Well, yes and no. I might have improvised.”

“Improvised. Do tell.”

“Well, I didn’t have bat drool, so I used dog drool. And instead of doing it by the light of a full moon, I did it under a waxing gibbous moon.”

“CORDELIA!”

“I am sorry, Mom.”

“Who is this boy, anyway?”

“I dunno. Just some boy.”

“His name?”

“A’lamar, something or other.”

The witch-mom counted her fingers. “So, he’s been like this for ten days?”

“I guess.” Cordelia looked away. She didn’t seem so confident as she cowered under her mother’s disapproval.

“We must take him to his parents.”

“No, Mom, he hates his parents. That’s why I was doing the spell.”

“I told you never to do a spell on your own.”

Cordelia moved out of my line of vision. “I know,” I heard her say.

“Let us take him to his parents,” the witch-mom said, picking me up.

“Oh, Mom, please no.”

“We have to.”

“What if the parents have us arrested or, worse, drown us or burn us with faggots as they did our ancestors?”

“I will put a spell of contentment on them,” the witch-mom said. “But they have the right to their son. They have the right to know what has been done. I will see what I can do to counter the spell.”

“Can’t you undo it?”

“Only you can undo the spell, and I doubt you have any idea how to do that.”

“I don’t, but you could teach me.”

The witch-mom let out a long sigh. “If I knew what spell you cast on him, then perhaps, but you altered it, and I don’t know how you would undo it.”

Cordelia’s voice sounded weak. “I am sorry, Mom.”

The witch-mom grabbed a glass container that had a tarantula in it. She lifted the dome, removed the tarantula, put me in its place, and closed the glass dome on me.

I wanted to scream!

I needed to scream!

But I couldn’t.

“Where does the boy live?” The witch-mom asked.

“I dunno.”

“I will ask the stones,” the witch-mom said. She spread a handful of stones on the table and studied them.

“Awe, that is where you live,” she said.

I wanted power to do that.

The two carried me to my front door, and before they knocked, the witch-mom chanted something and then waved her hands at the door. It must have been her spell of contentment. I wasn’t sure what that would do. I guess to stop my parents from calling the police on them.

My mom answered the door. She had massive bags under her eyes, looking fifty years older than I remembered.

When she saw the witches, she stepped back into the house. “Can I help you?”

The witch-mom showed the glass dome with me in it.

My mom let out a horrific scream and collapsed on the ground. I heard my dad’s feet pound as he came to the door.

“What did you do to my wife?” He snapped as he knelt next to my mom.

“I am afraid my daughter put a spell on your son.”

My dad’s head jerked up. “You know where A’lamar is. His anger disappeared as he came to their side. He looked at my mom on the ground, then at the witches. “Oh, please tell me he isn’t dead.”

Tears came to my dad’s eyes.

The witch-mom held the dome to my dad. He looked at it. I don’t think he processed what he saw. He returned his eyes to Cordelia. When he saw her eyes, he shuttered.

“Please tell me where A’lamar is.”

“He is in the dome.”

My dad scratched his head. “I don’t follow.”

The witch-mom shoved me into my dad’s face. He moaned as if she had dumped boiling tar on his skin.

“What is going on?” His voice became defensive as he backed up.

“My daughter put a spell on him.”

“You are witches.”

“Yes.”

My dad wrapped his arms around his chest. I had never seen him scared. “Why would you do that?” He sounded like he might cry.

“He wanted me to.”

I did not!

“Can you please make him big?”

My mom moved, moaned, then sat up. She held her forehead and rapidly blinked her eyes. My dad dropped to her side. “Oh, Helen.”

She scooted farther away from the witches.

“Are you alright, honey?”

My mom looked like she might pass out again. My dad left her side and returned to the witches.

“Please undo your spell and return A’lamar to us.”

“I am sorry. We cannot. The only thing I was able to do was put a counterspell on your son. He will stay as this figurine until November 6th. Every year, on the anniversary of the spell, he will have one day to become his full self again. But, at one minute past midnight, he will return to this state for another year.”

My mom curled into the fetal position. “What do you mean?”

“I think I explained it.”

“Please, please, please, you must undo this spell.”

“I have done all that I could.” The witch thrust the dome with me in at my dad. He grabbed it. I could no longer see the witches, but I could hear them walk down our steps.

“Wait, you can’t leave. Don’t leave. Return our son to us.”

They didn’t reply.

And so, that is how I became stuck in my glass prison. At first, my mom carried me around with her all day. Then, as the weeks went by, she would put me on the counter, where I would stay for half of the day. After several months, I spent more time alone in the kitchen or parlor. Eventually, I was placed on the fireplace mantel.

My glass dome was worse than hell. I watched my family live their life without me. They had parties. They celebrated holidays, and all I could do was watch. My mind never stopped working. I would play out conversations in my head that they would never hear. My body still had sensations like hunger, pain, and sorrow, yet I could do nothing to satisfy them.

I had lost track of time, but when my mom started decorating for Halloween, I got excited. Soon, it would be November, and then the 6th. I couldn’t wait to become myself again if that really would happen. I had my doubts.

After the trick-or-treaters left, I started counting down the days. Six days. Five days. Only three to go.

On the eve of my anniversary, so much anticipation built in me. What if I didn’t get my day? What if nothing happened? That night, my mom slept on the couch with my dome on the end table by her head. At precisely 12:01 a.m., a sonic boom shook our house, and I sprawled out on the end table.

The big me.

The full me.

The me who could walk and talk.

“A’lamar!” My mom screamed through tears and joy. She grabbed my head and kissed it all over. Her touch felt amazing. I embraced her in the longest hug I had ever given anyone. I never wanted to let her go.

“Honey!” My mom hollered. “Honey, A’lamar is alive.”

My dad ran into the room. The three of us embraced as we did this little hug dance.

They couldn’t stop kissing me.

I didn’t mind.

We spent the following 23.59 hours soaking in each other’s company. My mom made me three of my favorite meals, which I devoured until I puked. I didn’t care. It felt excellent to eat. My dad returned from the store with four cartons of ice cream, sprinkles, whipped cream, and other toppings. I took a mixing bowl and made the largest ice cream Sunday ever!

We played a few card games. My parents told me all about the previous year and the events that had happened away from home. The day was more magical than any trip to Disneyland could ever be.

But sadly.

Oh, so sadly, one minute after midnight hit. My mom clutched me so tight I could hardly breathe. She wanted to defy the spell. -to stop the inevitable. But she couldn’t.

My body wretched in pain, as if it would rip apart. And like that, I was the silent figurine once again.

And then.

It happened.

All over again.

365 days of agonizing loneliness. No one to talk to. No one to hear my deepest thoughts and desires. There I stood, day in and day out, with throbbing legs that wanted a break. I watched my family move on without me. They celebrated life while I detested it. They laughed, they cried, they yelled, they fought. I did none of those things. I existed, but only that.

I watched my mom go through her mental challenges. Never could I ease her pain or comfort her. I watched my dad shut down to stress. Never could I lift his load.

The smells of breakfast and dinner would torment me. Sometimes, the house smelt so wonderful I felt ravenous. I would have given anything to break my spell and eat. -anything.

And then my day would come, a day I would spend 365 days planning for. One time, we celebrated every holiday. But it made things worse. Those presents my parents gave me only brought pain, pain of what couldn’t be. The presents sat on the couch for a month and mocked me, tormenting me that I could no longer enjoy them.

My parents spent the first few years seeking out the witches. After basic inquiry, they discovered Cordelia Schmidt and her mom, Evanora Schmidt, had registered their house with the school district as 928 Cemetery Rd. The problem was that was the address of the cemetery’s maintenance shed. The day after the witches returned me home, Cordelia quit going to school.

What was their purpose in moving to our town? Why had Cordelia decided to go to school? Would we ever find them again? -doubtful. And even if we did, it sounded like they didn’t know how to break the spell. The best the mom-witch could do was give me 24 hours of freedom once a year.

Was the freedom worth it? Nothing in the world was sweeter than those 24 hours, yet it left me in such a depression that I would have thrown myself off the fireplace hearth if I could. It usually took five months to pull out of the depression.

If only I could just talk to someone.

I regretted my last day as a real person when I broke my mom’s prized figurine. I would go the rest of my life without a phone and computer if it meant just having my abilities back, just having the gift of being me. But instead, I will spend the rest of my life in the glass dome, watching my parents age, yet I don’t seem to.

Will I live for eternity?

Maybe someone should just smash me against a wall.

________________________________________________________

The Silent Figurine

by Stephanie Daich

 

LADIES OF WELLBORN -Short Fiction

  LADIES OF WELLBORN

“Listen, ladies, we can’t permit someone like Janice to move on our private street. She is trash. That is apparent. What? She thinks that she can gold-dig her way into society. I mean, seriously. She is what, in her early twenties, and her husband is in his sixties? She didn’t marry him for love. She married him for his money. I wouldn’t be surprised if she kills vulnerable Henry within the year.” I wipe my brow with my embroidered handkerchief and study the faces of my ladies’ group. We don’t have a title, but we should establish one. The heat in the parlor roasts us as if we had met in my sauna.

“I think Peggy is right. We should-”

“Margo,” I call over Mildred in my no-nonsense voice. Mildred stops talking and glares at me. She should understand this is my house and meeting, and I have more urgent business than her comment. I wipe my neck and start counting in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Margo arrives before I reach ten.

“Mam,” Margo says, with her hands interlocked in front of her.

“Margo, it is way too stifling in here. Please turn the AC up by five degrees.”

“Yes, Mam.” Margo steps to the hall behind me and raises the air conditioning. “Anything more I can do for you, Mam?”

I must give her something so my ladies’ group can see my control. “When you have finished your to-do list, please polish the Lenox collection.”

“If you prefer me to do it ahead of schedule, I will, Mam.”

“Indeed, I do. That will be enough. Leave.”

The combined smell of high-end perfumes creates a toxic layer of pollution above our heads. In courtesy, the ladies should have gone sparingly on their fragrance. Margo will have to fumigate the parlor when they leave. Add that to your to-do list.

I turn to Mildred and fold my arms. She looks at me and shrugs. “Continue,” I say as if she were my servant.

“Um, I forgot.”

“You were going to comment on Janice.”

Mildred rubs her hands down her blouse to straighten the wrinkles out. Seriously, she should talk to her maid. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such an Ill-prepared blouse. “I seem to have forgotten.”

“Nonetheless, we must do all our power to chase Janice away. She is new money, if that, and she doesn’t belong with us Wellborns.”

No one responds.

“Do you ladies concur?”

Everyone mumbles a weak agreement. Do they not feel like I do? How can they not desire to protect our street from rift raft like Janice?

***

I look at the rust on my lettuce and remind myself to talk to the cook. How long has she been in my service?

“Did you see that someone bought the Winchester’s home?” Craig pulls me out of my head.

Pots bang in the kitchen, and I almost tell the staff to quiet. They should know better than make a racket during our mealtime.

“Indeed, I have, and they do not belong here. Can you believe they pulled up in a U-Haul and unloaded their furnishings themselves? And their help. Ragged lower-class slobs, dragging their second-rate furniture in. If they can’t afford movers, then they shouldn’t have bought such a lavish house.”

Craig puts his fork down and gives me that look where he wishes to assert his moral stance upon me. “A bit harsh?”

I shoot out of my chair. “Seriously! You are not concerned about them dragging our property value down?”

Craig’s shoulders relax. “I didn’t think about it like that. I guess that could be a concern.”

“Indeed, it is a concern.” Craig unfolds his napkin. “Marcus went to the city council meeting last night. He has some highly concerning news.”

“I believe you are trying to change the conversation.”

“No. I am deeply troubled. They have proposed that the new toll road runs through our community,”

“Never will happen.” I shift my weight in my seat. It is time to reupholster our chairs. The retro print needs to be updated.

“This is serious. They could steamroller all our homes.”

“Never will happen. There is too much money here.”

“Hmph,” Craig mumbles. He wants to refocus my energy on something other than the new neighbors. He’ll have to try harder than that.

The smell of prime rib wafts into the dining room, and I smile as I sip crisp, filtered water. Craig takes a bite of his Waldorf Salad, dressing dripping from his mouth and onto his shirt.

“Seriously, Craig? Must you eat like a servant?”

I nibble my salad with class as a tutorial for my inept husband, then gently set the Christofle Paris salad fork on the table.

“Dang.” He rubs the Ruvanti napkin over the dressing splotch on his shirt.

“Stop.” I sound like a barking seal. “You are going to set the oil in your shirt and napkin. After dinner, we will have both items immediately sent to dry cleaning. Seriously, Craig. You act as if you were a child.”

Craig drops the napkin on the table, his eyes narrowing at me. “I am finished. You can find me in the office.” He scoots away from the table.

“You have just started the first course. Don’t be ridiculous. Finish eating.”

“Margo,” I call out. One, two, three, four.

“Mam.”

“Remind your staff that mealtime is quiet hour.”

“Mam.”

Craig cradles his chin at the tips of his fingers. “You made me lose my appetite. Have the kitchen staff prepare a cheesecake, and we will take it to welcome the new neighbors tonight.”

“I refuse to construct a welcome party for that family.”

“You are something.” Craig bumps into my chair, clearly deliberate, and stomps out of the room like a furious CEO.

“Who needs you,” I say, spit spraying across my salad. I dab my napkin at my lower lip, “Well, that was unladylike.” To back it up, I let out a giggle-snort. “Oh, my.”

****

“Congratulations, Ladies of Wellborn.” I use our new title. “Six months have passed since Janice moved in, and your reports for ostracizing her meet my approval.”

I look across my front yard at the elaborate high tea, deliberately scheduling it when Janice will go by on her afternoon run. “I am proud that none of you have caved into a friendship with that imposter.”

The ladies sound like a flock of seagulls, spreading gossip and sipping tea. I look at my watch, already bored of the party. In two minutes, Janice should be running by. I bite into the lime tart, and my lips scrunch together. It could use more sugar. Embarrassed, I look around to see if anyone has the same reaction.

“Oh, hi,” I hear Janice as she runs into the yard.

The nerve! I did not send her an invite.

“This looks like a lovely party.”

“It’s high tea for the Ladies of Wellborn.”

She scratches her sticky armpit. Disgusting. No class. “What does that mean?” Listen to her fish for an invite.

“It is a society of ladies born into money.”

Janice shields her hand above her eyes. “Oh, well, it looks lovely. You have such nice linen setup and fancy China. It looks fun.”

“I wouldn’t term it fun. It is a delightful afternoon of like-minded ladies commencing together.”

Janice steps towards the tables.

“Please, don’t let me get in the way of your run.” I turn my back to her, and my triumph bubbles over like a freshly uncorked bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

***

“Ladies, must I say, another successful Fall Soup and Meet.” I stand at the head of my social room. Everyone looks like fat porkers, as we ate way more than our diets allotted. “Let us wander into the parlor where I will announce the winner of the Soup Contest.” It is a trifle contest, considering our chefs crafted the soups, but the ladies look forward to the good-hearted competition, something personally I could do without.

We leave the aromatic social room and mingle in the parlor.

“This year's winner, of the Ladies of Wellborn Soup Contest is-“

The sounds of chimes interrupt my announcement. -probably an Amazon package at the door.

“Ah, the bells are just building our suspense,” Helen says, and the others laugh. I don’t join the silly chirping.

“Anyways, before I was rudely interrupted, the winner of the Ladies of Wellborn Soup Contest is-“

“Mam, I announce Janice Price,” Margo says at the parlor's entrance.”

“Margo, what have you done?” I whip my body to face Margo as the blood coagulates in my veins. “Mrs. Price does not have an invite to my fall party.”

The other ladies gasp at my boldness. No, not my boldness. They indeed are gasping at Janice’s crashing our party. Red splotches break out on my hands. The ladies will think that Margo lacks discipline for inviting Janice in.

Janice says, “I won’t pretend that I haven’t noticed that I am the only one in the neighborhood not invited to your silly party or the many you have had since I moved in.”

“Mrs. Price!”

“But that is not why I am here. I do not need your silly parties to validate my life.”

I had no idea Janice had such a sharp tongue. She had always seemed timid. She walks deeper into the parlor without my invitation. She swings her hips as if she is someone, then places her hands on her side, which remarkably looks like she might be wearing something from the Sonia Rykiel collection.

“Ah, it looks like someone is playing dress-up.”

I have only seen Janice in T-shirt and jeans or shorts. Even her hair is straightened, almost looking professionally styled.

“Wow, Peggy Kennedy, you are something else.”

I stumble back for theatrics as I gasp. “You crash my party uninvited. Then you insult me. And you wonder why I have never invited you to my functions. Listen, just because you married money, does not make you money. You are low life, and I will always, no we will always see you as such.”

All the Wellborn Ladies wrap their arms around their chests. They should be standing behind me, holding me up, not cowering behind my words.

“For your information, Peggy Kennedy. I am not married, nor ever plan to be.”

I choke on my spit and struggle not to cough out loud. I put my hand to my face until I work through my difficulty. “You are even worse than I thought, shacked up with Henry. Mrs. Price or I mean, Ms. Price, it is time for you to leave.”

“I will, but I first have an announcement to make.”

“Then make it quick.”

A cold hand wraps around my arm, and I jump. “Peggy, please be kind.” I throw Margert’s hand off my arm.

“She does not belong here.”

Margert makes a substantial social faux pas and goes to Peggy’s side. “Go ahead and make your announcement.”

“Margaret!”

“For your information, my name is Janice Vanderbilt and not Peggy Price. Henry Price is my great-uncle, and I took him into my home after his wife died. And no, he is not money. I am money, or that antiquated British term you cling to for your identity, Wellborn. For your information, I am higher Wellborn than all of you combined.”

“That is enough. There is the door,” I say, but utter shock makes me curious for more.

“I am in charge of the Vanderbilt Toll road that will be going through your neighborhood. I had the decision between Pious Estates or the open field on Hwy 12. I moved here to ascertain if your neighborhood was worth saving. I have never been around a more self-centered, unkind group of people before. The decision is easy for me. I will hold onto the field for real estate, and in the spring,” she smiles, then her words come out slow and deliberate, “I will bulldoze every one of your houses.”

The sound in the room rumbles like a subway passing through.

“You have no right to do that,” Margaret roared.

“There is no way the city council will approve that.”

“I own everyone on the city council.”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, I do. Every single person.”

The subway of chatter halted. Not a sound.

“That’s right, you Wellborn Ladies. If you had been kind, you wouldn’t lose your homes.”

And with that, Janice left us to marinate in our Wellborn nothingness.

______________________________________________________

Ladies of Wellborn

by Stephanie Daich

 

 

I AM THE OLD MAN IN THE SEA -Fiction

 I AM THE OLD MAN IN THE SEA

My paddle slices through the frigid water, sending icy spray into my face. It doesn’t matter that it is 5 degrees Fahrenheit outside or that half of Washington County is looking for me. This is where I belong.

“Dad, we can’t let you go out on Grand Manan Channel,” My controlling daughter Barbra had told me the last time we were together. I regret raising a daughter like her. Joanne and I thought we were clever as we gave our oldest daughter, Barbra, authority in our home, helping us raise our other eight kids. I appreciated having Barbra take over the care of Joanne during the last three years of my lovely wife’s life. But now, Barbra thinks she can bully me and tell me what to do.

I hated how she had peered down her wirerimmed glasses at me, looking and sounding like a rooster, as her hands flayed across her hips. Perhaps she will start pecking at me. At least, that’s what she mentally does.

“I will continue to do what I please.” I tried to stand as my back tightened, sending an electric bolt of pain into all my muscles. I had to hide the grimace, or Barbra would pounce on it. I tried to straighten, but things didn’t work right in my back. An excellent visit to the chiropractor would fix it. I put the weight on my right side and hobbled toward the door.

“Dad, stop! You are Ninety-two. You aren’t twenty-two. Stop acting like it. Look, you can’t even walk, yet you want us to let you kayak in the ocean every day. No way! Not happening!” Her words wrapped around my legs, heart, body, and soul like the chains of Jacob Marley, the ghost who tried to enchain Ebenezer Scrooge. Barbara sucked the living out of my life.

As Barbara lectured me, my eyes wandered to the untouched mystery goop and soggy Brussels sprouts on the plastic tray. The aid had left the ‘food’ in my tiny room, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. That crap smelt a lot like dirty underwear. That old gal Mable, two apartments down, had told me I could order food from my phone, and people would deliver it to me. I would have to start doing that. Again, I looked at the institutional garbage food and was tempted to grab a handful and smear it into Barbra’s overly-processed hair. Instead, I yanked my hearing aid out, chucked it at Barbra, and awkwardly dragged myself toward the door. The rough material of my corduroy pants rubbed against my chunky thighs, which had thickened over the last few years as I walked less and less.

Barbra’s shrill, birdlike voice played in my head. “You want us to let you kayak.”

-Let you kayak.

-Let you kayak!

The nerve!

It wasn’t her choice. I didn’t live with Barbra. She didn’t have power of attorney over me. She couldn’t order me around like she did her husband. Pour soul had no idea what he was getting into when he asked her to marry him 48 years ago. Or was it 49 years?

Nonetheless, it probably felt like a hundred years to him, being told about every move he could or couldn’t make. I think I was good to Joanne. I gave her freedom. I missed her as I wobbled into my room and slammed the door.

I looked at the small room, hating everything about it. Joanne and I had a lovely home in Cutler, Maine, but I sold it to afford the assisted living I had to move her into.

“Just move in with Mom. She cries every night without you.” Barbra carefully laid the trap, and I hadn’t seen it.

“I will die if I live in a nursing home.”

Barbara did her Hillary Clinton laugh. Honestly, if I hadn’t attended Barbara’s birth, I would have thought she was Hillary’s long-lost twin. “It’s an assisted living facility, not a nursing home. -So different. And you don’t need to live here. You are doing it for Mom. Only while she needs you.” Which was Barbra’s code for saying, we will sell everything you have, and after mom dies, you will have nowhere to move and will be a permanent prisoner of the nursing home, AKA assisted living.

The time I spent in assisted living with Joanne almost tore me apart, losing my self and identity like that, but I stayed busy with her care. I took her to all the mind-numbing activities to bring a little sparkle into her dying eyes. But I refused to go to any of that with her gone. Those little babies that ran the place talked to us like we were imbeciles, mere embryos still in the womb. Besides, the activities were crammed with fossils. I might be ninety-two, but I am not dead yet.

Two months after Joanne died, I had to make a break, even if was for only a few hours. I stood at the curb when the shiny black car pulled up. It looked like the one in the app.

“I don’t know how these things work,” I told the baby boy driving the car. He jumped out and opened the door for me.

“You don’t know how what works?”

“How Uber works.”

“You obviously do, because you got me here, didn’t you?” The toddler laughed as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Mable set it up for me. I think she’s hot for me,” I winked at the boy. “By the way, do you even have your learner’s permit? Do they let babies drive today? Back in my day, I got my driver’s license at fourteen. I lived on a farm. But what are you, twelve?”

“You are funny,” he said. “I am twenty-two.” I cringed, wiping the drool from my chin before the driver saw it. Why does this drool thing seem to be happening more?

“You guys just get younger and younger looking every day.” I shifted as the pleather seats crinkled under me. The seats were cold, like sitting on a block of frozen salmon straight from the freezer, the cold moving into my bones.

“Or you get older and older every day.”

“Wow, you have sass. I like it,” I said. “What is your name?”

“Briant.”

The smell of cheap air freshener whacked me on the side of the head. I closed my eyes, and the smell made me feel like I was in a casino in Bangor.

My body shook, and I opened my eyes. “Briant, you do Uber to make money, but you kind of work for yourself. Am I correct in my observation?”

“Sure. Where do you want to go, bruh?”

Oh yeah, I guess he wants to get moving so he can pick up another customer soon. He would be in a hurry, but I wasn’t. I wanted to prolong every minute away from my prison. “How many people are dying for an Uber around here?” I asked.

“Not many. I am studying at an online University. Whenever I get a job, I can drop what I am doing to make a buck. If I depended on this for my living, I am in the wrong town.”

Briant rubbed his hands together. I hoped he’d turn the heater up. Was he really twenty-two? He looked preadolescent. “Where am I taking you?”

“Well, I want to go kayak the Grand Manan Channel.”

“Bruh, that’s intense.” He stared at me through the rearview mirror.

“How so?”

“A man of your age.”

“I don’t get the big deal. Listen, I could rot in a nursing home or die in the ocean. I pick ocean.”

“Right on. I love it. I know a good spot for you, but where is your kayak?”

I looked down at my lap. I had been self-sufficient my whole life. I wasn’t used to this lack of control. “I guess I need to rent one. Would you mind running me to a rental shop, then to the channel, then when I am done,” I swallowed. “Back to my prison.”

Briant pointed to the assisted living center. “Your prison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. I can do you one better than that. I have kayaking equipment. I will rent it to you, say, $5 sound fair?”

“More than fair, young man.”

He rubbed his chin, pulled into traffic, and said, “Do you mind if I join you? I could use a break.”

My back ached as the alarms in my brain chimed and banged. “Did Barbra set you up to come babysit me?” I snapped.

“Come again?”

Mable had put the app on my phone. Barbara didn’t even know about this, did she? We sat at the light, and I couldn’t believe it. Barbara made a left turn through the intersection and then turned into my purgatory. Like a stupid kid sneaking out of the house, I ducked in the backseat as my heart raced. I am not going to die in the ocean. I am going to die by Barbra’s suffocating grip.

Barbra must have spotted me because she did a wild turn in the driveway of the institution and then squealed after us. She cruised through the red light, not watching for traffic, when a giant semi-truck slammed into the side of Barbara and then--

“Where ya from before you went to jail?” Briant pulled me out of my fantasy with a chuckle that reminded me of my ole’ rugby mates. I looked back at the intersection to see no demolished vehicles. I could see Barbra’s car parked at the assisted living. I must have imagined her chasing us.

“Did you hear the joke about the frog and the dog?” Briant asked.

I had a fabulous conversation with Briant and nearly forgot he was old enough to be my great-great-great grandson. I hate being old! It turned out, he lived on the beach like Joanne, and I had. Even though he had access to the water whenever he wanted, I smoked him on the kayak. I wished Barbra could see how fabulous I was. Then maybe she would stop nagging like she was my wife. Actually, Joanne never carried on like that. If Barbra had seen me out on the ocean, she would have sent the helicopter police to yank me out of the water.

I ended up telling Briant about my life, my ambitions, and my hell. -the reader’s digest version. I had mixed emotions as he drove me home. That time on the water had been the best time I had in five years. Briant made me feel young again, especially when I out-rowed him. A mile away from my prison, he pulled over. He just sat staring at his steering wheel as the cars sped too close to us. At least if they creamed into us, I wouldn’t have to return to the old folk’s home.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

He rubbed his hands through his brown hair, flipping it around, then turned to me. “I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I have a proposition.”

“Okay.” My skin prickled. I hope he doesn’t have a gun. He could have left me in the channel if he wanted to rob me.

“I have a mother-in-law apartment I fixed up and tried to turn into an Airbnb. I hardly get any bookings. It sounds like you hate your life at the assistant living. I need a little extra cash, and you need a place to live. What do you think about-“

“Yes! I will take it!” I hadn’t even given him a chance to finish speaking. If Briant’s car had been a convertible, I would have jumped high enough to touch the clouds. I felt like the doctors had hooked me up to an alcohol IV, pumping pure alcohol into my veins.

I decided not to tell Barbara, the other kids, or the center about my move. On Sunday, the following weekend, when most of the staff was gone, Briant came through the side doors and moved me out. Not one person saw!

I couldn’t believe how fabulous the apartment was- three times the size of my tiny space at the assisted living. He gave me full access to his kayak. The only thing that made Heaven slightly sweeter than Briant’s place was Joanne was there.

My legs might betray me on land, but my arms are as solid as the Rocky Mountains.

My attention returns to the kayak with the cold wind penetrating my jacket, yet I don’t care. I shout out loud, “Woot!”

It’s been a week since I found freedom and came alive again! I see my image on the news every night. I was smart enough to withdraw my entire savings the Friday before I left so they could not trace me or put a hold on my finances. I had earned every penny, and no one had rights to it but me.

Screw leaving money for the kid’s inheritance. After the assisted living trick, they don’t deserve a penny. Every night, I use their inheritance to order fine food for Briant and me.

Last night, Briant asked, “Bruh, am I going to get arrested for hiding you here?” Briant raised his eyebrow as we watched my image flash across the news. “Randall Craig is still missing. His family is worried sick. If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact-“

“I have done nothing wrong. No one has power of attorney over me but me. I have every right to life, liberty, and happiness as you do.”

“Good enough for me.” I had stretched out in Briant’s warm house, knowing the channel waited for me in the morning.

So, as my fingers turn blue to the cold, I row my paddle in the water, thankful to feel, thankful to breathe, thankful to live!

_______________________________________________________________

I am the Old Man in the Sea

by Stephanie Daich