BOOK EXCERPTS

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IT’S A MYSTERY - Tales of Intrigue
by Judith Post & Emily Jean Carroll

From DUTY BOUND
by
Emily Jean Carroll
 

“Where is he, Gram?” Lucy Ann stood just inside the front door. Her voice had an unmistakable edge of fear in it, a touch of disdain.

“He’s out back,” the old lady in the rocking chair replied. She loosened a strand of blue-to-white variegated yarn from its skein and her knitting needles began to work. “Come on in, Lucy Ann.”

“I’m not staying.” The young girl’s voice was just above a whisper. “I’m just picking up a few of Ma’s things. The doctor says they wear their own clothes there—not like a hospital at all. But just slippers, no shoes.”

The old lady rocked, her knitting needles clicking in time to the creak of the rocker. “That’s nice, Lucy Ann. You tell your ma to get better real soon so she can come home.”

“I will, but you know she won’t be coming back here.”

“I wish she’d come home. I miss her.”

The girl sighed. “I don’t think so, Gram.” She glanced toward the kitchen, then went to the bedroom down the hall. She came back to the small dark living room carrying two plastic grocery bags stuffed with clothing.

“Sit down and visit, Lucy Ann. No need to rush off.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to see him.”

“Don’t you worry, girl. Sit and visit. I get so lonely now that James left and your ma ain’t here. James sent me a letter from that place he’s at. What’s it called?”

The girl perched on the edge of a chair, the bags of clothing clutched in her hand. “He’s in Springfield. He works in a factory there, remember? Remember he sends you money now and again?”

“That’s right. He sent me a letter. Twenty dollars in it.” She rocked and worked. “It’s nice your ma can wear clothes. She must be getting better.”

Lucy Ann hunched on the chair, twisting the handle of one bag. “She is, but she doesn’t talk yet. The doctor says it may take a long while.”

“She never was one to speak up. Timid as a mouse. The first time I saw her, when Marion brought her home, I thought to myself, Now Marion has got his self a real nice wife. Pretty too.” She shook her head. “So quiet. Jumped every time Marion spoke. Waited on him hand and foot. Good in the kitchen too. Pitched right in and helped me with canning and such. She was a worker all right.”

“That was a long time ago, Gram.”

“Well, I know that. Long before you and the boys came along. Derek’s grown and gone way out to California. James grown and off to wherever that is.” Her hands stilled and her mouth pulled down at the corners. “You’ve left too. Everybody’s gone.”

Lucy Ann glanced toward the kitchen again “I really got to go,” she whispered.

The old woman smiled wistfully. The needles and the chair started again.

“I know you don't want to stay, Lucy Ann. You and James and Derek, you all got away quick as you could.”

“So did Chad. He got away.” The words were sharp and bitter.

The old woman’s eyes filled. “Chad was a sensitive soul. He couldn’t hold up like you and the older boys. The baby of the family always seems to be the sensitive one. Now your uncles were both sensitive. Not at all like Marion.” She pulled a hankie from her sweater pocket, dabbed her eyes and pinched her nose. “I hate to say it, but Chad was my favorite. Maybe you already knew. He came so late. Your ma was wore out by then. Chad and me kind of took to each other. He was my favorite. Sensitive boy, like your ma.”

Lucy Ann dropped her bags to kneel by the rocker. She put her arm around the frail shoulders of the old woman. “I know, Gram. I know. And it was you who had to find him. I’m so sorry.”

“There, there.” She patted her granddaughter’s hand. “I just rue that I didn’t cut him down. I should have cut him down.”

“You couldn’t. How could you have got him down? Don’t think about it.”

“I know, but I should have tried before your ma saw him hangin

From A PLACE TO LOVE
     Grant guided Dee to the stairs and they raced down the steps. He tripped over his bedspread toga and nearly fell, caught his balance, and wished he’d kept his clothes on. It was still quiet except for the hail. The rain seemed to have stopped.
     “Quick. In here.” He pushed open the door to the furnace room. They stumbled in.
     “Get down,” he said. “Here in the corner, against the wall.”
     He put his arm around Dee and pulled her close. He could feel her trembling, or was it the vibration of his heart hammering?
     “I hope we were wrong about the funnel. I’d hate to be swept away in a storm dressed like this,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. He pulled the rose spread up over his knees.
     “Don’t worry. The wind would whip it away from you and no one would ever know.”
     He appreciated her attempt at humor when she was undoubtedly scared to death. He wasn’t feeling too brave himself.
     They waited in silence. He was listening for the “sound of a train” that seemed to be the description people used when talking about a tornado, but all he heard was the wind growing stronger.
     “Do you hear it?” Dee whispered. “Oh, Grant, I’m so scared.”
     “Just the wind,” he said.
     “No. Listen.”
     He heard it. A rumble, growing louder. An unmistakable roar, but more like a jet engine than the chugging of a train.
     “Just hold on. We’re safe here. It will be over in seconds.”
     His mouth was at her ear, his arm around her shoulders. “Hold on tight.”

From O CAT WEST Encounters of the Heart
     It was almost noon by the time the last pumpkin was loaded into the pickup, and Barbara’s back ached from bending and lifting. But the exercise was good. She felt young again when she helped with farm chores.
     John pulled a tarp over the pickup’s cargo, and she helped him tie it at the corners. The sun beat warm on her back and, despite a cold breeze, little beads of perspiration stood out on her upper lip.
     “I’ll fix a quick lunch before you go,” she said.
     “Naw. Too early. I want to get these into town first. I’ll eat when I get back..”
     “You’ll have help unloading?”
     He nodded.
     Barbara leaned back on the truck and raised her face to the sun. “Lovely day,” she sighed, her eyes closed. It was good to be out in the sunshine.
     “Want to ride along?
     The thought of the glorious fall colors spread before them on the ride to town was tempting.
     “No. Think I’ll rake up a few leaves around the house. I’ll have lunch ready when you get back.”
     “Don’t work too hard, Ma.” He kissed her lightly on her up-turned face.
     Barbara looked deep into his faded blue eyes and reached up to smooth lines that crisscrossed his weathered face and etched deep creases at the corners of his mouth. But to her it was still the face of the young man she married.
     “Why do you do that?” she asked, softly.
     “Can’t I kiss my wife?”
     “You know what I mean.” It had been a long time since she’d called him on it. It did no good. In the past she had asked him again and again, usually in hurt or anger. It had started shortly after they married and were expecting their first baby. It was okay then, since she was about to be a mother. It was charming, endearing. When the baby was stillborn, John quit calling her Ma but started again. He quit after Margaret Ann died at sixteen days, and after Thomas Allan died at three days. But it slipped back eventually. How many times had she asked him, told him to stop? Why did he do it? Didn’t he know it hurt?
     She studied his familiar face, the large nose, the heavy brow, the wide mouth quick to smile, quick to call a greeting to friend and neighbor.
     “Why do you insist on calling me Ma?” Her voice was soft. There was no accusation in her tone, only resigned perplexity. “I’m not your ma. I’m not anybody’s ma. Don’t you know how it hurts me?”
     John turned his back to her and busied himself with the tarp. He twisted the rope, untied it, tied it again.
     Would he answer? Sometimes he said he was sorry, sometimes he never even acknowledged her question. Over the years her anger and hurt had given way to frustration, finally to resignation, but never to acceptance.
     John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Barbara,” he said finally, his back still turned.
     She sighed.
     “You know I’m sorry. But I forget.” His usually strong voice was barely a whisper. “To me Ma is soft and caring. Ma is . . . woman.” His words were halting. “Ma is love. You’re the woman I love, Barbara. I try not to say it, but I forget. I think of you as Ma, as woman. I'm sorry. I know you don’t like it."
     "It's okay, John."
     "You were the mother of our children. If that hurts you, I'm sorry." He jerked his cap down over his eyes, pulled open the truck door, and slid in.
     Barbara’s hand reached out toward him, as he pulled away. “I’ll have lunch ready when you get back,” she called, hating to see him go.
     The truck swung slowly around the circle drive to the gravel road, then turned east toward town.
     Barbara watched him out of sight, then, head bent, walked toward the house. She pulled a ragged bit of blue tissue from the pocket of her jeans and wiped the perspiration from her lip . . . and something from her eye.
     In the back of the pickup, O Cat was jarred awake by the rumble of the engine. It was dark. The tarp closed out the light and closed him in. Before he could figure his way out, the truck began to move. The large pumpkin beneath him turned from a nice warm napping spot to a bouncing, jiggling thing of terror. He dug in his claws and hung on.

LAMENT OF A DISPLACED KITTEN
What is this thing come into my home?
This strange gurgling pink-wrapped gnome?
Petted and held like I used to be,
Oo-ed and Ah-ed by company.
What earthly good is a Jennifer,
When it can’t play or even purr!
                                     Marje Downer

PEAS IN A POD
Doesn’t it get your goat
When you’re mad at your mother,
Someone always points out
That you’re just like one another?
                                     Marje Downer