THE RECONSTRUCTION

Neville died at four o’clock in the morning. Darci watched him take his last ragged breath and that was the end of that. She lay her head on the bed next to him and fell asleep. It was her daughter Rose that woke her. A hand on her shoulder, and a voice calling, “Mom. Mom! Wake up.”

Wouldn’t you know it—her neck had a kink? Well, of course, it was almost nine o’clock.

“Daddy’s gone,” Rose said, her face contorting.

“I know,” Darci declared, rising from the chair.

“When?” Rose asked, she was standing at her father’s side, touching his cold cheek.

“A few hours ago.”

“We better call.”

“I suppose we should,” Darci said, feeling sick and tired of the word “should”.

*****

We buried my sweet husband at Forest Lawn, next to our son Slade. Rose was upset with me for leaving on a cruise two weeks after Neville’s funeral. I explained that his long drawn out illness had already provided me with more than enough time to mourn—more than enough. I had willed him to die at the end. I couldn’t wait. Don't get your panties in a bunch, I’m not stupid, I didn’t tell my daughter that I willed him to go. She couldn’t begin to understand.

Neville had always wanted to take an Alaskan cruise but we’d never gotten around to it. He was only forty-six, and like most couples do, we assumed that we had all the time in the world to grow old together. We planned on making fun of each other’s wrinkles and liver spots. But Cancer robbed us of our future together.

I sigh when I sit on the bed in the cabin on the ship. I don’t cry yet. I just sigh. Since Neville wouldn’t stand for cremation I don’t have any ashes to spread. The cruise is my version of moving on. I know a little something about moving on. You don’t lose a child without learning a little something about moving on. Good God. Here I am, on my way to Alaska, and I can’t wait for the ship to pull out of the harbor. I can’t wait to see whales and the icebergs. I can’t wait to eat, drink, and be merry. I can use a little merriness. Is merriness a word? I can’t wait to escape. That’s a better way to put it. I am making a great escape.

I met a couple of ladies the second day out to sea. Frankie and Anita are widows too. We’ve banded together. I guess you could say I belong to a club of sorts. It doesn’t matter that they’re both a good fifteen years older than I am. We find common ground. My new friends are from Seattle. They live in the same condo complex. I tell them about my sprawling acreage, the big house, the animals, and all the responsibility waiting at home. I learn about their old lives, how they’ve managed to pare all that mumbo jumbo down. Things change drastically when you lose your man, they confide. I begin to ponder letting go. Deciding to give the horses and goats to Rose. I make up my mind to sell the house. This information is kept a secret for the time being. The deconstruction and reconstruction of my life is in the planning stages.

The cruise ends and we pledge to keep in touch: Frankie, Anita, and me.

Once home I begin to deconstruct. The son-in-law comes for the animals. I keep the dog. Boss is ancient. He’s on his way out. I could never expect the kids to take him. He pees all over the place and reeks from the inside out. No amount of bathing can improve my dog’s odor. 

I’ve made arrangements to only work a few days a week. It takes weeks to clean out the closets. I use e-bay, Craigslist, The Pennysaver. I purge. Good-bye sterling silver, (who has time to polish silver?) Good-bye Neville’s wardrobe, (many people will benefit from his good taste.) Good-bye books, (I bought an electronic reading device.) Good-bye piano, (I never did get lessons.) Good-bye pool table, (the son-in-law nabbed that one!) Good-bye old life.

“Mom,” Rose says, when she sees how empty the living room is, “I think you better slow down. You aren’t old. You’re only forty-six. When I see you reacting this way I have to wonder if you wouldn’t benefit from some grief counseling. You never went to see anyone after Slade…”

I cut her off. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Don’t go there.”

This is what happens—right? Change? I’m embracing the inevitable. I’m being proactive in my own life. From here on in I decide to have a say in what I am forced to give up.

“It’s just…”

I cut Rose off again. “Do you want the rug?” I ask, pointing to my mother’s pastel pride and joy. A Persian family of five worked their fingers to the bones for years and years to produce the silken wonder back at the turn of the century.

“Mom!” Rose cries. “That rug’s worth a fortune. Have you lost your mind?”

“If you don’t want it I will sell it,” I say.

“No offense, but the colors don’t match anything in my house.” Rose is staring at the giant pink cabbage roses and the turquoise border. Her brow's all furrowed and I think she might break out in tears. “But, Grandma loved Her Oriental so much.”

“Grandma’s gone,” I say. “I’ll give that rug merchant in San Francisco a call. He’ll want it. The colors are all wrong for your place.”

A week later I bring in a hotshot realtor. “I want to buy your house for myself,” she says, and she hasn't even seen the upstairs.

So I sell the realtor my house for a fair price. Lower than market. Hey, it does my broken heart good, knowing that someone loves the place as much as Neville and I did.

Laugh all you want but I bought a motor home. I finally quit my job, so Boss and I hit the road. I had always wanted to see The Deep South, so we headed east. Funny, how that old dog has adapted to life on the road so well. We'll drive a spell, and then stop to eat lunch. Then I take him for a walk. We get back in the motor home, drive a bit longer, and then stop for the night.

One fine sunny spring day, just outside of Charleston, I pull into McDonald’s for an ice cream cone. I call to Boss, (he just loves chicken McNuggets), but he doesn’t respond. Which isn’t all that unusual. The old boy sleeps so soundly lately. I find a parking place, touch his wiry fur, and I know. The dog has left the building. I get down on the floor for one last hug. Then I feel it, an eruption from way deep inside causes me to make sounds that I never thought I’d be capable of making. Every sad song, every sad movie, every loss and every miserable moment converge to send me right over the edge. I remember my mother talking about those pour souls that can’t hold on and I worry that I have become one. I cry and wail and scream and curse. I throw everything and anything that I can get my hands on. I bang my head against the window. I cannot choose what I will lose. I can only choose what to do next. If Boss smells now he will only smell worse if I don’t do something. So I use my phone to find the address of the closest vet and I drive there and take care of business. After depositing my dog for disposal, I look at the open page of the atlas I decide to drive to The Great Lakes. I have no way of knowing just what will happen next, but then, who the hell does?






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

IN THE SHADOWS

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SORRY, I'M ATTENDING A MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR MY NEPHEW DAVID

So, I won't be posting for a couple of days. Please feel free to check out the many stories in my archives here on this blog.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Short Story for Sunday

Continue Shopping

How Veronica Earley chose to live her life was nobody’s business—Lydia knew that. Her new boss spent a good deal of time making online purchases that she couldn’t afford. Lydia kept the books, and what bothered her was how duped the boss’s husband Donny was, that gullible semi-retired softy of a man trusted his dynamo mortgage broker wife beyond reason. The Earley’s were headed for certain ruin if Veronica didn’t get a grip on reality and modify her runaway compulsions. They’d borrowed against their house so often in the past that they’d chewed up most of their equity. The market had gone straight in the toilet so they couldn’t sell even if they had a mind to. Lydia performed magic acts on a regular basis juggling Veronica’s finances. The machinations employed to avoid late charges and certain calamity made the poor girl a nervous wreck. Only three months into the job and Lydia worried that she might be developing an ulcer. Rolaids, Maalox, Zantac, none of these over-the-counter remedies were able to quell her burning gut. Her late father suffered with an ulcer for most of his life, she must have inherited the susceptibility.

You might wonder why Lydia didn’t quit working for Earley Creative Asset Solutions if the job caused her such marked distress. For one thing, she had a six-year old special needs child, so Lydia preferred flexible hours. And, since she was a notary public Veronica saw to it that Lydia was present for the signing of loan docs, and that brought in extra money. Jobs were hard to find or keep with the economy in the state of a rapid downward spiral. They had to eat! Little Oliver was a huge responsibility and Lydia intended to do right by him. It wasn’t her son’s fault that his sperm donor had turned out to be a doper and a deserter. It wasn’t her son’s fault that for all intents and purposes his mother was an orphan and totally on her own. Little Oliver’s circumstances plagued Lydia. What could she do but persevere?

The office Lydia toiled away in was attached to the Earley’s rambling ranch house. The close proximity meant that she was privy to family squabbles, household mishaps, and the day-today tumult that was their norm. At home in her apartment, while seeing to Oliver’s supper, while helping him with his homework, or bathing him, Lydia would marvel at the uncluttered and sane atmosphere. She was a Virgo. Order brought peace of mind at the end of a hectic day.

Veronica would hide her purchases from Donny. Lamps and duvet covers, vases and purses, bracelets and self-help books, tacky silk flower arrangements and designer perfumes, all this and more could be found shoved to the back of closets, under beds, and piled behind a row of tall file cabinets out in the garage. One day a package arrived from Peru. Lydia watched Veronica unwrap the box frantically, the way her bony fingers trembled with anticipation. As she handed Lydia the invoice for a four-hundred-dollar-plus Alpaca sweater, she cried, “Isn’t it divine?”

“You ought to send it back,” Lydia warned. “The Rodriquez loan fell through, you must stop spending money you don’t have!”
Veronica frowned and began to shake her head like some kind of madwoman. “But I’m putting that big commercial deal together, you’ll see! We’ll be singing…we’re in the money, we’re in the money.”

A bully at school attacked Little Oliver one day. The bratty monster scratched his innocent angelic face and pulled down his pants in front of the other children. Lydia sat in front of the principal’s big oak desk and expressed her dismay and frustration with teachers that could stand idly by and let something so horrible happen under their watch. “I’m sorry,” the young principal told Lydia. “I agree with everything you’re saying. Heads will roll. I won’t stand for my students being brutalized.”

Lydia considered the principal then, she leaned forward in her chair and really saw him for the first time. Mr. Covington, what a nice name for a nice man. Why, he actually cared. Lydia saw sincere concern, her pretty face crumpled, and soon she was crying hysterically, making a complete fool of herself. “It’s just so hard,” she whined. Mr. Covington brought over a box Kleenex, patted her shoulder softly and offered support while she struggled to regain her composure.

Three months into her engagement to Dustin Covington Lydia walked into the office of Earley Creative Asset Solutions and gave notice.

Veronica’s eyes widened and she pointed at the door. “Leave now then!”

Donny came in from the garage wearing one of his ridiculous golf outfits and asked, “What the heck’s going on in here?”

“She’s leaving me!” Veronica screamed.

Donny faced Lydia as she told him, “I put in a month’s notice but Veronica wants me to go now, which is fine by me.” Lydia plucked two framed photos of Little Oliver off her desk and shoved them in her bag. She opened a drawer and grabbed a bag of trial mix. It seemed odd that she didn’t have anything else to take.

“Hold on,” Donny said. “Let’s cool down.”

“Leaving today’s fine by me,” Lydia snapped. She couldn’t count how many times she’d seen the words Continue Shopping flash across Veronica’s computer screen, and the image compelled her to say to Donny, “You really need to know, there’s not enough money to cover the American Express bill this month. I have no idea how you guys are going to make ends meet, unless you take funds from your retirement account. To be truthful, I’m glad that I won’t have to worry about the sorry state of your finances anymore.”

“Veronica?” Donny said lamely, before sitting down. The deluded husband had no clue. No clue at all.

Lydia rushed past the arguing couple, opened the door, and made a beeline for her car. Veronica followed, her wagging mouth demanding that Lydia come back and listen to reason, but Lydia did not respond. Driving away, she felt the tight knots in her belly begin to unravel at last, and a grin spread across her face as put the car in neutral and coasted down the long hill leading home.

Marathon Shopper Art courtesy of PopArtDiva.com, copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

DREAM ON

My son had a dream that he was drinking the most amazing icy water from a glacier source last night. The first thing he did when he woke up was to run downstairs and fetch a glass. Naturally, the ice and water from our fridge did not measure up to the frosty potion he had dreamt about. What a drag.

Some dreams come to us at night when we are sleeping and some are merely daydreams. We daydream about winning the lottery, fitting into jeans we used to fit into, going to Belize or Fiji or some such tropical getaway spot, phantom lovers and fame. Some of us confuse our fantasies and wild imaginings with the here and now. This may cause trouble.

I often dream about houses. Sometimes I find these houses, sometimes my husband or brother are the ones to find them. Never average or ugly—oh no—and they almost always stand above or near bodies of water—usually the ocean. We make our way through them room to room, and wonders are revealed, like secret hallways or attics full of treasures.

In one such dream we pulled up to a Spanish house, parked at the curb, and I boldly pulled my husband inside upon finding the entry door ajar. The living room ceilings were vaulted and beamed. There was a huge fireplace, and a charming balcony at the top of the iron staircase. The dining room had crystal laden wall sconces that matched a magnificent chandelier. The kitchen had majolica on display, and an arched picture window that looked out over a pool and cabana.

About a month later we were on our way to visit friends, driving in a town called Whittier just outside of L.A., and I spotted that very same house! A realtor was placing balloons and flags out front, a sign read OPEN HOUSE NOON TO 5:00.

I told my husband that it was the house from my dream. The one I had described to him in such detail over coffee the following morning. He said we must have driven past it before and that’s what triggered my active imagination. I agreed.

But, explain this, I had never been inside, and the interiors and yard were exactly as I remembered. The claw-foot tub, the lemon tree, the whitewashed pavers and hardwood floors, an upstairs bathroom with turquoise tile and a built-in vanity, that incredible view of Los Angeles’s skyline from the backyard—an exact replica!

The house was for sale but for an incredibly high price. We climbed into the Fiat and drove away lost in our own thoughts.

I have had other dreams that are difficult to explain and many like the one my son had last night. He was just incredibly thirsty and needed to hydrate.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MICRO STORY

Modified People

I was an all-knowing freak from the beginning. When I was little I knew what the grown-ups thought I didn’t know, and I saw what they thought I couldn’t see. That’s what fucked me up. I’m sure of it. It’s damn near impossible to have a happy go lucky childhood when you realize that your mother loves your father’s brother and not your dad. It was hard to relate to other children, the other kids in the neighborhood seemed so clueless about so many things. I wanted to ask them why they were so oblivious but knew better than to do that. Take my older sister for example. Brenda never could figure out what was really going on, she was too busy playing jump rope and planning her future wedding to Prince William, (yes, she was convinced that they would marry. Even though he lived clear over in Jolly-Old-England, and we lived in boring with a capital B Sandusky Ohio.) I kept my opinions and observations to myself. I harbored deep dark secrets.

Now I work in an office and I see what my co-workers think nobody sees. Marvin for instance, he’s gawking at porno on his Dell when he should be making cold calls. And that bitch Fiona, she was banging our married boss Shep after happy hour every Thursday. Don’t ask me why I know but Fiona had to have an abortion last month and won’t sleep with Shep anymore. Trudy makes long distance phone calls to her ex husband out in California on the company dime. Lest you think that I enjoy being the person that knows—I don’t—it’s a never-ending burden.

So, when I read an article in People magazine about a renegade doctor that specializes in modifying people, I didn’t waste any time signing up to be on his extensive waiting list. After a few months I finally stepped foot into his posh office suite in Long Beach for a consultation. I longed to be like everybody else. Focused on sex and money and status and all that regular stuff. I told Dr. Armstrong to shorten my nose and perform a little liposuction, and while he was at it, could he teach me how to flirt? I’d always been shy around guys. I confessed that I was sexually repressed and still a virgin. Dr. Armstrong said it would take about two years to modify me. Did I have the patience? He wasn’t so sure. I made a pledge, if there was one thing I had going for me, it was patience.

He began to renovate my personality and characteristics. We had a rough road ahead of us, he explained, because I was the sum total of all that had formed me. He would do his best to undo the damage. Hypnosis was Dr. Armstrong’s tool. Luckily, I was highly susceptible to suggestion.

You could say that these subtle changes happen so slowly you aren’t even aware that you are changing. One day Sadie from accounting asked me if I’d noticed how much weight Darla in sales had put on recently. And I hadn’t! My lack of interest was a revelation. I hadn’t been hitting the chocolaty snacks either. I preferred carrot and celery sticks to Hostess cupcakes. My energy level had skyrocketed. Happy Hour held no allure, alcohol no appeal. On the anniversary of my first year with Dr. Armstrong we celebrated by scheduling my nose job. He suggested I straighten my teeth as well and I went for it. Why not?

Do you love happy endings? Because I do. When Dr. Armstrong was finished with my modification he asked me to marry him. It seemed that I had become the perfect woman. Did I mention that I also had breast implants and completed schooling to obtain a nursing degree, so I run his office now? Well I did and I do. We live in a lovely home in Palos Verdes and I am expecting our first child. Life is amazing. I’m so lucky to belong to the exclusive club, to be one of the modified people.






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Monday Blues

Stupid Lists

What’s wrong with my life? So many things. I’m compiling a list on this dreary Monday morning. I’ll start with a pertinent question, who names their kid after an unpopular president? I couldn’t be a William, or a Thomas Nixon? No, good old Dad chose Richard. And now that damn movie’s out, the one Opie directed about David Frost’s interview, so Nixon’s on everybody’s mind again. Great. My brother-in-law’s taken to calling me Tricky Dick. I go by Rich. Looking back, I should have changed my last name a long time ago.

I lost my job last year. I was riding high, managing a giant warehouse, busy selling flooring to high-end, and not-so-high-end customers feverishly willing to spend their equity money like water. But the bottom fell out of the housing market and now many houses in our neighborhood are in foreclosure. So, here I am. To make ends meet I took a job with my maniacal brother-in-law Steve. He’s a commercial electrical contractor and I’m his glorified he’ll-do-anything-I-ask-him-to-do-flunky-monkey. I should have gone to college. Too late now. Got a wife that isn’t interested in working outside the home, (she’s a Dr. Laura groupie), three kids, four goats, a horse, two dogs and God only knows how many cats. All these creatures are relying on me for support.

I stopped into 7-Eleven to pick up my customary giant cup of coffee, and just my luck, I run into Mr. Perfect. Sam Waterhouse stands before me at the coffee station. We used to live on the same street when we were kids. He’s a doctor now. Works over at Loma Linda, drives a sleek black Mercedes, and likes to make small talk whenever we meet. “How is Monica?” he inquired. He’s married to an internist, and she’s got a face like a hawk. I wasn’t surprised when he asked after my fetching wife, he always does. He took Monica on a date in junior high.

“Monica’s good,” I say. Please don’t ask me anything about work.

“Still home-schooling the kids?” He’d already poured three sugars into his travel mug, whoa that’s a lot of packets.

“Yes.” I subtly began to back away. I really was going to be late for work and Steve would berate me in front of the crew for sure.

“We’re trying to get pregnant,” Mr. Perfect volunteered.

“Cool. Good luck with that. Oh, man,” I said, looking at my watch in a blatantly conspicuous manner, “excuse me Sam, got a meeting, and I’m running late.”

As predicted Steve really laid into me, I was only about ten minutes late but he carried on as if I'd showed up at noon. He took off. Got to keep bidding on jobs, especially in this economy. I’m supposed to be combing over these invoices but I’m too busy listing out what sucks about being me.

Did I mention that I put on weight? I eat donuts, hamburgers, Cheese Curls, anything and everything that’s handy. And I don’t exercise. I’m too depressed to exercise. When I get home from work I watch TV. I like Dirty Jobs. The Food Network. Sports. Monica rolls her eyes as she heads for the gym. She encourages me to join her but I don’t. So I’m a fat dismal failure at the ripe old age of thirty-four.

My parents sold their spread for big bucks before the bubble burst and they moved away, to Arizona. They live in a cookie cutter house that resembles all the other cookie cutter houses. I identified theirs by the garden gnome that Mom's owned for years, after I spot him standing in front of a cluster of cactus. Dad retired, he plays golf now. Mom works in a scrap-booking store. I miss dropping by to see them after work. I think about driving out to see them again but I know that Monica will squelch that idea. We’re too broke. We’re too broke to go to the movies, or out for breakfast. We’re too broke to buy a lift-pass so our oldest might go snowboarding this year like he usually does. We can’t even afford cable but I insist that we keep it. I will give up every other luxury, but I won’t give up cable. I point this out to Monica, she’s still paying her gym dues—still hitting that treadmill. Well, I need my couch and TV.

Sure, it crosses my mind. Monica could meet some Mr. Body Beautiful at The Fitness Factory, and leave me for him. But Dr. Laura would frown on that kind of behavior so I don’t think Monica would even go there. She’s a loyal, sweet wife. I’m lucky to be married to such a great girl.

I should probably stop with the self-loathing and focus on what I have going for me. At least I have a damn job. Many don’t. We haven’t lost the house. Our kids are great. The animals are getting fed. We own our Honda and my Ford pick-up truck free and clear. Things aren’t so bad as all that. I crumple up my stupid list and get back to work.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Internet Sluts

The Crazy Letter

Some chick sent my husband this letter. Of course he thought it was hilarious and e-mailed it to me so we could have a laugh. I got to thinking, how many men fall for this kind of thing? Lonely vulnerable men. Oh, I know so many women don’t believe that men can be vulnerable but they can be, especially when they get older. If they lose a spouse of many years they are particularly suseptable to younger women that pray on older men. Not that my hubby is that old, we have no idea how in the heck this woman found him in the first place. Anyway, I thought I’d share this silly letter today.

Hello my dear,

How are you today? Well I am of hope that you are doing fine, my name is Miss Suzann Badango I am a very simple honest and kind girl. I saw your contact email while browsing through the internet so I decided to contact you despite that I have not seen you in person. I am a single girl and it will be my pleasure to communicate with you. My heart welcomes you I hope we can make a good friend with a wish for much happiness Smile. I will like to know you more,most especially what you like and what you dislike. Please I don't want to end up missing you, hope to hear from you soon,so that I can give you my pic and I will tell you more about myself. Have a nice day and think about me. kiss Hug with love.

Thanks and God bless.

Love from,
Suzann

Go to my archives and read , MOB, which was written long before this letter arrived, incidentally. People get a kick out of this humorous short story.

Elizabeth.

© 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Confronting Reality Isn't Easy

Charles Manson and Other Monsters

In the spring of 1976 I was twenty years old and busy chasing around after an eighteen-month old son while five months pregnant with my second child. I lived in a post WWII bungalow in East Los Angeles with my husband Jack. My mother and sister lived in Northern Canada. It was all I could do not to pick up the phone to call them everyday in a futile effort to put my loneliness at bay. Long distance charges were expensive, so I could only call home twice a month. Our house was located on a traffic ridden main artery, which ran from downtown all the way out to the suburbs and was frequented by various automobiles, loud buses, and semi-trucks, twenty-four hours a day. I had to play our portable television at full volume just to hear the dialogue on my favorite shows over the rumbling uproar outside the vibrating windows.

We did enjoy our decent-sized backyard. In the southern foremost corner stood a ten-foot tall poinsettia tree. I was shocked to find that poinsettias could grow to be so huge. Even though the deafening semi trucks shook the nearby fence as they passed by, and we were directly under the flight pattern for the jets flying in and out of LAX, I spent many happy hours gardening, as my little son Jackie played in his sandbox or followed and mimicked me as I went about my business.

I began to suffer horrific panic attacks after watching Helter Skelter—a TV movie about the Manson family committing the Tate-La Bianca murders. I became afraid to even venture outside.

On the far side of my son’s room stood a large picture window. Despite the cheerful Mickey Mouse curtains covering the glass, I felt that he was in certain danger. How easy it would be for some menacing stranger to break into my little guy’s hypothetically safe haven to inflict harm. Maybe hormones fed my paranoia, but I was well aware that we didn’t live in the best of neighborhoods to begin with. I grew more and more agitated and concerned for my family. In my mind, we were in imminent peril, absolute jeopardy.

The shocking violence and random tactics that the Manson family employed to seek out their victims gave me insight into just how vulnerable my child was. How vulnerable I was. This helpless state of mind sent me into a state of dread. Alone in the house one day, I called my father for help. I had come to California after graduating from high school in Northern Canada because he had always promised to put me through college. But when I stepped off the plane, suitcase in hand, I came face to face with his new family. He had shacked up with a Tennessee woman seventeen years his junior, and her three small children. There was a love seat for me to sleep on, out in the living room. I kept my clothes on the bottom shelf of a linen closet. And, how did I figure to escape the scorn of this future stepmother? I married Jack to get out of her house. That woman made it perfectly clear, I was not welcome. That afternoon I regaled my tale of alarm to my father, I poured my heart out over the phone, did my best to explain the foreboding thoughts that I was having. Dad thought I was being hysterical, offered no solutions or help of any kind.

We had to move—I knew that. I orchestrated it.

Our new home in Simi Valley provided a pastoral setting where I was able to suspend my doubts and fears, where I could raise my two young sons surrounded by giant boulders, blue skies, and peace and quiet.

Slowly, our life together began to change. A menacing presence infiltrated our small family. Jack’s disturbing childhood, the cruelty and neglect he’d experienced began to surface in the form of unbridled anger. Periodically, he’d lose his temper for the most trivial reasons, and his peculiar behavior slowly but surely began to spiral out of control. Still—due to my extreme empathy—I didn’t tell anyone about his sporadic outbursts. I felt protective of him. And I reasoned, he never actually hit us. I could handle a few verbal attacks.

One day in a fit of temper he heaved a table saw through the air, and sent it flying across the garage. There it was, sticking straight out of the wall, a strangely surreal sight. Minutes after these displays of rage Jack would calm down, and a bizarre euphoria would set in. He’d be in the best mood! I would be angry and dismayed with his behavior—unable to process the quick turnaround in his demeanor. I’d be disgusted with how high he seemed.

By the end of the day he had repaired the wall, the table saw was operational, and in Jack’s mind, all was right with the world. But…as I watched him shovel down a giant chocolate sundae, (he’d customarily turn to chocolate for solace), I feared the next outburst.

My brother Dave protected me. Although he lived over two-and-a-half hours away, I knew Jack resisted the urge to let me have it during his out-of-control tantrums, because he knew that my brother would pull a Sonny Corleone if he laid a finger on me.

A few years rolled on by. Jack’s violence escalated and I began to lose my empathy for what he’d been through as a child. Surely, the abuse he’d suffered did not give him carte blanche to turn around and inflict abuse! My son’s were three and five by then. I could see that their father’s uncontrollable anger and criticism had taken its toll. His flawed parenting was ruining their lives, and I was becoming a skittish person that I no longer recognized. My oldest son would freak out and throw a mini version of his father’s temper tantrum, as the little one would shrink back and witness his brother’s fury with a blank expression.

Was I searching the horizon for a last straw? Don’t people like Jack inevitably force the issue? Don’t they always break the camel’s back? Push the envelope? Bring events to a boiling point?

My youngest son Mark used to wet the bed from time to time. One night I heard the poor little guy crying outside our bedroom door, and Jackie whispering, “Don’t wake Daddy, he’ll get mad.”

I joined them on the landing of the stairs. I took Mark in the bathroom and cleaned him up. I put on dry jammy bottoms and told him that it was okay. I changed the sheets. My husband came out and started yelling at him for having another accident. Mark shrunk back and apologized, saying, “I torry Daddy, I torry.”

“Stop it!” I told Jack. “Leave him alone!”

“Mama,” Mark asked, “Could I have a drink of water?”

“Go get him a drink,” I told Jack. Silently, he went downstairs to fetch the water.

Jack returned and began carrying on about what a moron I was because I was about to let my son have some water when he had just wet the damn bed. How stupid could I be?

I said, “Get a hold of yourself.”

That’s when he threw the heavy bottomed tumbler at me. It hit me square in the forehead and I fell backward. I regained my composure and said, “You are divorced. You crossed a line here.”

I took the two boys in hand, went back into our bedroom, and locked Jack out.

The next morning I found my temperamental husband in an excellent mood. I marveled at his-other-self, his sweet-tongued-devil-self. Fawning all over the boys as if nothing had happened. Offering to make coffee, suggesting a trip to an amusement park.

I never slept with him again. The divorce would get ugly and it took several years for the smoke to clear.

I feared strange predators, imagined that villanous Charles-Manson-type-monsters were lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce, but learned that I was living with the real brute all along. Jack did more damage and inflicted more wounds to the three of us than I care to remember. I focused on burying the past and marching forward to build a new life for my young sons. Recalling these old wounds has proved to be difficult, but has also shed light on how I repressed my true fears by focusing on the abstract. You can’t undo what’s been done, but you can learn from your past. I know I have.



All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

ON INSPIRATION

New Blank Document

I react one of two ways when I click on New Blank Document, not all that often with dread, most times with a head rush, because I can’t get busy typing fast enough to suit my need to purge. My best ideas often come to me while I’m hanging out in that half-conscious zone between wakefulness and sleep. On occasion I have a dream so amazing that I can only hope to remember the gist of it the next morning, hastily jotting down the highlights on scratch paper before forgotten. Last night I dreamt up an amazing saga chock full of vibrant characters and wild plot turns. My dream was so wonderful I forced myself to wake up and rush over to the computer to write down a rough outline. Needless to say, the nightly arrival of  inspirational ideas and visions does tend to hinder the likelihood of a getting a good night’s sleep. I hold on to the belief that God invented coffee for us possessed creative types.

Another purpose served by clicking on New Blank Document, I’m able put off those pesky mundane tasks like paying bills, sweeping the garage, going for that much needed walk, or planning dinner in good conscience. Once I click on that header I am compelled to compose something worthwhile before hitting command save—a little something worthy of neglecting real life—utterly and wholeheartedly compelled.

I keep a folder marked Ideas & Notions. It’s full of snappy and not-so-snappy titles, notes, scarcely started stories, inspiring quotes and sentences. When my mind needs to be nudged into gear I will venture into that Ideas & Notions file, poke around to find something that hits me between the eyes, and presto, a path of interest is discovered.

This confession may lead to trouble, but I'll go ahead and divulge my ugly little secret anyway, I don’t encounter writer’s block all that often. I’m a middle-aged woman, thrilled to be here holed up in my office and able to spin yarns. Thrilled.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

ONE WOMAN'S LIFE

The Adventure

When Nina was carrying Alec she rode the bus to downtown Windsor, and a medical lab she’d read about in the newspaper actually paid her cash money to collect her urine. Seemed the urine of pregnant women was valuable for some reason or another. They paid Johnny on the spot too. Unfortunately, she was only able to made the trip twice. The distance to the lab was too far away to surmount by foot and they simply couldn’t afford the bus fare for the trip. That’s how broke they were. As it was, her husband Hank’s cousin swung by to pick him up every morning, they both worked on the line at Chrysler.

Nina was stuck in the one room apartment all day alone. The only entertainment available, after the household chores were completed to her satisfaction, was the stack of books that she checked out from the library once a week, and the only company to be had during the day was her neighbor Dolores and her colicky baby, Lila. She truly feared giving birth to such a desperate needy creature. At times Nina wished that she had stayed put in business school—she would dare to wish that she had never married. But, she had seen fit to quit business school and had recklessly married Hank as soon as he returned from overseas. Such a romantic figure returning from storming the beach at Normandy and doing his part to defeat the Nazis. Nina had succumbed to infatuation readily. A woman made her bed and a woman had to sleep in it.

Nina stood five-foot-three and weighed only one-hundred-and-one-pounds. The doctor told her to start caring about the living baby, and to put on some weight. But she had no appetite to speak of, and had never been much of an eater. Besides, they were on a tight budget. Thank goodness her mother kept her in tea bags. Nina could subsist on hot tea and toast.

One sunny afternoon, while sitting out on Dolores’s porch shelling peas, Nina told Dolores about the book she was reading, describing the plight of all the starving people in China. How could those poor mothers stand it, Nina wondered, when their children cried for nourishment and they were unable to feed them? While reading about all that gut-retching hunger she wondered if there was something wrong with her physiology because she didn’t seem to feel hungry all that often, maybe she was defective. The doctor feared for the health of the unborn child, he wanted her to eat liver and to drink milk. Nina grew ill at the thought of either substance. But she did manage to down a bowl of boiling hot water with a little ketchup mixed in with plenty of pepper, after being scolded for being neglectful towards the fetus.

Dolores grew thoughtful as she listened to Nina recount the terrible tales of mass food shortages and starving children so far away on the other side of the world. When Nina stopped talking, Dolores said, “They don’t care about their children the way we do. They aren’t like us you know. Those Orientals aren’t truly human.”

Nina involuntarily let go of the bowl that had been resting atop her bony knees and it fell, sending beans scattering.

“Oh my!” Dolores cried.

Nina dropped down on the floorboards at once, grabbed hold of the wobbling wooden bowl, and began to retrieve the shelled beans.

“Stop!” Dolores said, putting her hand on Nina’s shoulder. “Never mind that. Are you having pains Dearie?”

Of course Nina was fine, she had just been shocked at her friend’s ridiculous observation. Surely she couldn’t believe that Chinese women did not have the capacity to love their children, that they were less than human? Nina told a lie, she said she didn’t feel all that well, and then hurried off to her own apartment where she spent the rest of the afternoon watching the shadow of an elm tree on the bare wall above the dry sink dance and change size and shape as the sun descended. Waiting for her handsome husband to come home and tell her how much he hated working at Chrysler, about how damn bored he was. She couldn’t imagine that Hank could be any wearier with the drudgery of daily life than she was.

The baby was full term but he only weighed a smidge over four pounds and the doctors kept him in the incubator. Hank said his son’s head was shaped like a loaf of French bread. A baguette, Nina’s mother corrected him in her pronounced accent. Her parents were French Canadian.

Hank smiled and took his wife’s hand in his once they were alone. In a conspiratorial manner he whispered, “We gotta get you outa here, I have big plans.”

He wouldn’t fill her in on his big plans just yet. She was to rest. In those days they kept women flat on their backs for days and days after childbirth. The doctor showed and explained to Nina that they could not circumcise Alec because he was too weak.

At home Dolores helped with the baby. Nina didn’t feel the same about her friend since she’d made the unfeeling comment about those unfortunate Chinese women. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. Nina’s mother couldn’t come help out as planned because she had pneumonia again. Alex was a quiet baby. Nina’s milk hadn’t come in, so he was on formula. He took the bottle fine and burped with ease. He was so tiny they used handkerchiefs instead of diapers for the first few weeks. After he’d grown a bit Dolores cut up some of Lila’s old diapers and gave them to Nina. She forgave her friend’s ignorance. Dolores’s kindness towards Nina and Alex melted her anger away. But, those warm feelings aside, Nina intended to set her neighbor straight about her peculiar beliefs and prejudices, once she felt better.

What got into Hank was an article he’d read in the lunchroom at the factory about the exotic, wild North Country out west. He asked Nina to bring home books about Alaska. They would sit at night and read them together. Hank’s favorite book was Jack London’s The Call of the Wild.

When Alec was a toddler barely three years old Hank returned home from work and announced that they were leaving Windsor. They were finally going out west. He spread a map out on their kitchen table. A friend had given him a truck. They were heading for a better life. Hank was sick to death of working in a factory. He would most certainly die a bitter old man if he stayed put. Nina didn’t protest. The adventure appealed to her.

They didn’t make as far as Alaska, but they reached Northern British Columbia. Hank worked in the mines and became a union leader. They didn’t miss The East one little bit. Nina had to hike over a knoll and down to the creek for water, then lug it back up the hill, but she didn’t mind. She grew strong and muscular. They had a view of the mountain from the kitchen window and the sky was a vast theater that Nina never tired of studying: swirling clouds against turquoise, or thunderous gunmetal grayness billowing and bellowing, one day a huge rainbow after a rain, and some nights, on occasion, the aurora borealis would appear, the most spectacular light show on earth on display—free of charge.

These are the memories that ran through Nina’s head right before she closed her eyes for the last time at the age of seventy-eight. And they were good memories.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Grandfather's Wisdom Not Lost On This Girl!

LESSONS

I didn’t understand what I was getting myself into when I moved Grandfather into my tiny two bedroom, one bath cracker-box house. Mom had made plans to put him in a home but I wouldn’t hear of it. Had she forgotten that Armand Weese was a brilliant man? I firmly believed that my grandfather wasn’t ready to be put out to pasture. Mom did her best to talk me out of my half-baked plan, in vain. She explained, in that irritating levelheaded manner of hers, Alzheimer’s had taken hold and it was just a matter of time before Grandfather would prove to be too hard to handle. His wife of twenty-five years, my Mom’s stepmother Sheila, had the audacity to leave him in his darkest hour. Despite all the years of financial and emotional support Armand had bestowed upon the self-centered wench. Not only did he provide an incredible lifestyle for Sheila, but also for her insufferable offspring, three sons with bad manners and a propensity towards alcoholism that they’d inherited from their errant absentee father. Grandfather’s deteriorating mental condition sent Sheila packing. Miss, I have a short memory, forgot that she was only a temp earning barely enough to get by when Grandfather rescued her from mediocrity. My grandmother had been in her grave barely a year. A desperate divorcee with big breasts, a spotty intellect, and three snotty nosed brats in grade school, Sheila was fifteen years Armand’s junior. Our entire family collectively gasped in disbelief when he married that woman in Vegas only six months after she’d shown up at his firm to answer the phones and do light paperwork.

Sheila and her three goons, (my pet name for her spawn), emptied the contents of the house while Grandfather stood in the driveway watching in disbelief and distress. The poor old guy never even made a move to stop the plundering. They drove off and left him standing in the driveway. Grandfather found himself lost and all alone in the big house without Sheila. They only left him a twin bed in the guest room, a TV tray, and a portable refrigerator. Luckily, after several attempts, Armand somehow managed to punch the speed dial and reach Mom. (I know--how kind of Sheila to leave a phone!) We got on a plane and flew up to Oregon that same afternoon.

We had no idea how Grandfather’s short-term memory had deteriorated. He no longer drove a car, apparently hadn’t since Sheila saw fit to hide the keys from him a few months earlier after he got lost and drove into a ditch while running an errand. Then, because he kept asking for the keys back, she sold his beloved Lincoln behind his back. Why hadn’t Sheila shared this news? We figured she wanted to empty out the bank accounts and abscond with as much cold hard cash as she could without setting any alarms off.

Although he had retired years before, Grandfather had plenty of connections in the legal field. Sheila didn’t get away with as much as she would have liked to. Mom saw to that. But the big house on the lake had to be sold, and that’s when I stepped in and took it upon myself to take Grandfather home instead of letting Mom place him in a memory care facility near where she lived in Orange County. How hard could it be to take care of one seventy-eight year old man?

Ha! Hard—extremely hard! I learned that in short order.

I settled him into the smallish back bedroom with a narrow daybed, chest of drawers, flat-screen TV, and comfy leather recliner. His door was conveniently located right off the kitchen. If he needed a snack or a drink, he could just help himself without disturbing me. That was the plan anyway. My dining room is my office and I work out of my home. All day long I’d tolerate one interruption after another. Conversely, if I didn’t hear a peep out of him for too long a period of time, I’d go on a hunt. Investigate what kind of shenanigans he’d gotten himself into. A few days into his stay he found my newly-purchased-giant-telescoping-super-sharp-tree-trimmer and butchered my Ponderosa lemon tree and a row of poor unsuspecting hibiscus bushes over on the east side of my postage stamp yard all to hell. I perceived their psychic screams and produced a few of my own.

Grandfather had lost forty pounds on the Atkins diet three years prior, and obsessively held on to the notion that he must eat eggs for breakfast. He went through a long drawn out process of preparing an egg white omelet every single morning, without fail. One morning I watched as he filled his creation with diced peaches, a cut-up leftover enchilada, and gobs of minced garlic. I said nothing. He ate it with grand relish and washed the God-awful mess down with cup after cup of coffee. When the pot was empty he tried to make another but managed to flood the counter top. I cleaned up the mess, there were coffee grounds everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I purchased a giant pump thermos, and from that day forward would drag my ass out of bed to fill it at the crack of dawn so Grandfather had plenty to drink and wouldn’t attempt to brew coffee on his own.

One day I brought home a bright red ceramic pitcher shaped like a milk cow. I set it on the top shelf of my old-fashioned O'Keefe & Merritt range to hold my wooden spoons. Grandfather had a fit when he spied the smiling red cow the next morning as he was cooking his customary omelet. He claimed the creature had a devil face and made me put it out on the back porch. He had never been religious. I knew something was amiss. Mom drove up to L.A. and took him in to see a doctor.

The disease was progressing. They prescribed medication. After returning, Mom tried to talk me into letting her take Grandfather away. She’d already lined up the facility. She’d met with the director. Mom really did believe that Grandfather would be better off there. But I’m a stubborn person. I whispered so he wouldn't hear, “Not yet, not yet.”

Grandfather was still strong physically, so we went for a nice long walk just about every single day, weather permitting. We strolled over to the La Brea Tar Pits one weekday, he complained of a headache, so I brought him over to a bench and sat him down. He was saying how strange it was to think that the ancient tar pits were in the middle of the city of Los Angeles one minute, and then he suddenly slumped over. I started screaming my head off when he didn’t respond to me. Soon we were riding in an ambulance down Wilshire Boulevard, sirens ringing in my ears as the cute paramedic tended to Grandfather.

An aneurysm had burst in his head. When he was released from the hospital Grandfather went into rehab. A few weeks later, he went to live down the street from Mom, in a place called, Meadowood. No meadow, no wood. But, I have to admit it was a nice home, well decorated, clean, and the staff was caring and attentive. Grandfather had learned how to get around again with the use of a walker. His demeanor had changed radically. He didn’t know Mom’s face or mine. We were treated the same as the girl that fed him lunch, the guy that administered his meds.

I’m not proud to admit this, but I could hardly bear to go see him. I stayed busy, made excuses, lived my life.

In the course of a year I only visited eight or nine times.

When Armand died Mom was beyond relieved. By then he had something wrong with his lower right leg, his circulation, his veins or something like that were failing, and he had open wounds that had to be dressed daily. He kept trying to walk on his own and had taken a few bad spills. He stammered nonsense. When he made sense, he only complained profusely. Grandfather wasn’t happy at all. His quality of life had diminished down to nil.

I couldn’t believe it when Mom told me that Sheila and the goons asked if they might attend the funeral. Unbelievable. Mom said no way Jose. She threatened to hire security guards to keep them out. But they never showed their greedy indecent faces at the mortuary or the grave yard. Good thing, our intentions were to give Grandfather a proper send-off, free of that brand of drama.

I had a terrible struggle attempting to digest the finality of death. I sold my house because I couldn’t bear to live there without Grandfather in that back bedroom. I moved close to the beach. One day I was sitting on a towel watching the surf and I decided to change my focus from losing him to remembering how much I loved him while he was here. I thought about what I’d learned from him. 

Chronologically, these are just a few pointers that Armand Weese imparted to me during our twenty-eight years together: Thin out the seedlings to ensure strong healthy plants. Plant marigolds and garlic in the garden to discourage pests. Cut oranges in eight pieces, and proceed to eat everything but the pith, peel, and seeds, or else a tree will sprout in your tummy and eventually branches will grow out of your two ears. Homemade pickles are best. Keep your car washed and waxed to make a good impression. Shake hands with gusto, a firm handshake indicates character. Singing out loud is food for the soul. Pistachio ice cream is under-rated. Take good care of your face and hands. Laugh when you’re down. Dress well. Never borrow money from friends, and avoid borrowing money from banks, unless it's to buy a house, because you can’t go wrong with real estate if you use your head. Read Dickens to understand mankind, Twain to do the same, but also to enable you to laugh about the human condition. Pets are a heavy-duty responsibility not to be taken lightly--especially dogs. Go to the movie theatre alone so you have no distractions. Never overcook bacon. Travel by automobile from the west to the east coast at least once in your lifetime, and do your best to visit every state in the U.S., and every single continent, if possible. Respect your elders but don’t let them abuse you. Marry for love and for no other reason, but make sure that what you feel is truly love and not merely infatuation. Make sure that you haven’t been blinded by lust. Not bad advice huh? I intend to take heed.




All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Love Moments For A Winter's Day

Reckless

Even if you were born with half a brain you would know that picking up a hitchhiker spells danger. If you happen to be a young woman, it goes without saying, you wouldn’t even consider doing such a thing unless you were reckless. In the first place, he wasn’t hitchhiking, so I have no idea why I just went down that path. He was walking down Wildwood Canyon Road. Mother nature had just seen fit to unleash a cloudburst, an unseasonably torrential downpour so extreme my windshield wipers had a difficult time keeping up. All I could see was a struggling figure with no jacket, no protection whatsoever, hunched forward in an effort to buck the deluge, rivulets of water poured down the beyond-drenched shirt plastered against his strong back. I pulled over. It seemed to be the only humane thing to do.

“Wow,” he said, as soon as he slid into the passenger seat. “Thanks.”

I handed him a roll of paper towels. On Saturday’s I cleaned my grandmother’s house, so my cleaning supplies were easily accessible from the backseat. “You’re soaking wet,” I said, stating the obvious. I fiddled with the knobs to crank up the heat, and warm air began to blow vigorously out of my vents. The rain pounded harder. I couldn’t see out the windshield, and the wipers were wiping as fast as the engineers at Ford knew how to produce back in the nineties. Yes, my car was old, old, old.

“I went for a hike earlier this morning,” my passenger said. “Didn’t bank on this unexpected storm.”

“You know how it is here in the foothills when the weather comes down off that mountain, “ I reminded him.

“Actually—I don’t. I’m from New York. We have weather—you better believe we have weather. But, it was so sunny this morning, clear skies and so warm. The rain seemed to come out of nowhere. I was clear up the trail behind the state park when it hit. Torrents of water turned the steep path I’d taken up into a virtual waterfall. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, because the pouring rain rinsed most of the mud off, but I was filthy. I slipped and fell at least five times trying to make my way back down.”

He finished drying his entire head, leaving his locks wild and untamed. God, I thought, he’s a doll. A living doll. And what did I look like? I was make-up free. I’d haphazardly pulled my bed-head mop into a ponytail with a hair tie that morning before leaving the house, and I reeked of bleach. Wonderful. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt,” I said. “I’m just going to sit here until I can see to drive. Hopefully, my little car won’t wash down the canyon.” You couldn’t make out anything outside the windows but water, that’s how stinking hard it was raining. “So, are you visiting then?”

“Just moved to California three months ago,” he said. “I’m in pediatric residency at Loma Linda.”

“Ah, a pediatrician?” I had three neighbors that worked at Loma Linda Medical Center. Two nurses and a dentist.

He offered his hand. “My name’s Kevin Lovejoy.”

Love. Joy. I smiled and shook his hand heartily. “Glad to meet you, I’m Rosie Murillo.” I thought he might get a gander at all those cleaning supplies and form the opinion that he’d just met a Merry Maid. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a Merry Maid, but dusting and scrubbing wasn’t my calling, that’s for sure. I had spent four long years working my butt off at The University of Redlands, graduating with a degree in accounting. I wanted to make it clear that I was fine dating material for an up and coming doctor. Yes, I was aiming to please, and I’d just met the guy. Pathetic. Maybe. “I live here in Yucaipa, but I work in Redlands. I’m CFO for Turner Environmental.”

We sat there talking until the rain let up. He was the oldest of nine. Imagine, nine kids in one family. His favorite food was pizza. Once a month he went for a hike despite his insane schedule. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed. Life at Loma Linda bore no resemblance to Scrubs.

I realized that I could now make out a car snaking down the hill on the other side of the road. “I can see now,” I said. “Where do I drop you off?”

“Just up the road. Above Mesa Grande.”

Reluctantly, I made my way down the hill. I didn’t want to part with him. What a romantic—I had expectations—I wanted more. He called out directions: left here, right here, another left, there it is, that odd Frenchy-looking house, go ahead and pull in the driveway. I stopped the car and smiled at him, saying some lame something. Good to meet you, blah, blah, blah. I was saying good-bye to one of the sweetest, quite possibly the best-looking guy I’d ever spent time with. He reached for the door handle. “I don’t have much free time,” he said, “but I’m free tonight. Would you like to go to dinner? I’m living with my aunt and she’s a terrible cook, but she doesn’t know it. I’d love an excuse to miss out on tonight’s Hawaiian delight. It’s a sin to put mandarin oranges and tomatoes in the same dish, a mortal sin.”

Broad smiles ensued and excessive nodding. I was a bobble-headed, reckless girl, brave enough to stop and pick up strange men from the side of the road during fierce rainstorms. I had a date with a promising young doctor named Kevin Lovejoy. Wait until he saw how cute I really was. Wait until he saw me with my hair combed and straightened, wearing coal eyeliner and plenty of mascara, in my red dress and heels. He would fall madly in love.

I hurried home to get ready. I would call my mother and drop three words on her. Love. Joy. Doctor!


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

THREE LOVE MOMENTS/MICRO FICTION

Those Eyes

Dillon planned to walk four miles down Imperial Highway, from his apartment building all the way to Pizza Paradise. He was meeting the new girl. His mom was being a total bitch and wouldn’t let him borrow her car, just because he’d backed into a pole and made a dent in the bumper. What was the big deal anyway? He didn't understand why she was so mad. It was a piece of crap car anyway. The new girl’s name was Heather Tracy. She used to live in Beverly Hills. Her dad was some kind of entertainment lawyer. The bastard dumped her mother for some chick that played in soft porn, so they had to move to Orange County, into Heather’s grandma’s house. That’s the term Heather used, soft porn. Her eyes were so blue that the heavy jet-black eyeliner she wore made them pop. He just couldn’t help it—he had to stare as they welled up when she told him about her rotten dad. And when Dillon looked into her deep blue eyes he suddenly knew what love felt like. He didn’t even care how stupid he appeared as he briskly walked along the sidewalk making his way to Pizza Paradise, like some stupid-ass kid from junior high. It was all he could do not to run.



Tell Me

Tell me you haven’t looked at your husband from time to time and thought—get away from me! Well, I looked at mine the other day and I thought, I’m sick to death of you and your lackadaisical attitude towards fashion! I swear to God if I see you wear that old U2 t-shirt one more time, the one that doesn’t fit the way it used to, I’ll up and barf. I really will. That threadbare thing’s shrunk and you’ve expanded.

Tell me you haven’t gotten mad at your husband recently for one reason or another. You know he gets mad at you. He might keep it in but he gets furiously mad at times. You can tell. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, “Hey bitch—get off my frickin back!” But instead he sulks, he sulks and he sulks and he sulks.

So then Valentine’s Day rears it’s ugly little Cupid head. That nasty little arrow penetrated your heart years ago, and now all you have is a festering wound of familiarity and contempt. All you have is responsibility and obligation, drudgery and monotony. Or do you?

On February 14th, what did my husband do? He arranged for his mother to pick our son up from school. He showed up at my office, in a Porsche that he’d rented no less, and then whisked me off to Santa Barbara. We had a lovely Italian dinner, and stayed in a fabulous B&B, like we used to in the old days. There was a giant whirlpool tub in our room, champagne, chocolate covered cherries, red roses! Need I say more? God, I love that man!

Good Luck

Fiona hates bars. Really hates bars. On TV they always depict glamorous people in glamorous surroundings clutching martini glasses and flirting with one another from across the room, as the beat of the music sounds in the background, but in real life bars just blow. The places Fiona’s been to of late: good luck trying to even keep a grip on your cosmopolitan without getting slammed into so many times that you spill more than you drink, good luck on getting off that crowded dance floor without scuffing up those expensive Christian Louboutin’s you saved all your hard earned greenbacks for, good luck trying to carry on a conversation because the music is absolutely deafening, good luck trying to meet any half-way decent guy. Good luck.

“Let’s go to The Pond,” her best friend Dee says.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Fiona says. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“So.” Dee’s too-heavily-plucked eyebrows knit together. She pokes you with her long blue fingernail. “It’ll be fun.”

“No way,” Fiona insists. “I’d rather eat a cockroach.”

“What are you going to do tonight? Stay home? Eat Ben & Jerry’s?”

“I’m taking myself to the movies. I’m going to see, He’s Just Not That Into You.” Fiona already bought her ticket for the seven o’clock show. It was tucked inside her wallet.

After leaving Dee standing on the busy corner in a state of disbelief over why a good-looking girl would go to the movies alone on Valentine’s Day of all days, Fiona decides to treat herself to a mocha frappuccino with whipped cream. Starbucks is crowded. She gets in the back of the line. Then her phone rings. Drat, private number. She answers anyway.

“Hey,” a deep voice sounds through her head. She recognizes the person behind the “hey” immediately. It’s Pat Booker, her boss’s accountant. “Pat Booker,” he says. “How are you Fiona?”

“Good,” she says. “I’m in line at Starbuck’s, how are you Pat?”

“Starbucks sounds good. But then, I’m a caffeine junkie. I know it’s really short notice, but I’ve been invited to a Valentine’s Party. A friend of mine had this great idea--she’s throwing a First Date Valentine’s party. To take the pressure off. Get it?”

“I think so,” Fiona does her best to wrap her mind around the concept. “You’re to bring someone you haven’t been out with before—right?”

“Yes. I know that it’s a slim chance that you don’t already have a date for tonight. But I thought I’d be brave and give it a try. If you don’t have plans—would you like to come with me?”

Slim chance that she has plans—more like it. Pat’s cute. But he’s an accountant. Maybe that’s a good thing. Right brain. Left brain. Why not? She accepts his invitation, ditches Starbucks, flags a cab, and heads home. Tonight she’ll wear those new Betsy Johnson pumps that just scream Be My Valentine. Tonight she might find true love.












All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

MICROS FICTION FOR TUESDAY/FULFILL YOUR OWN DREAMS

HOME AT LAST

Cody did her best to give the realtor the brush off. Tara was a nice enough lady, but a little overbearing, and Cody wanted to be alone when she turned her key in her very own lock. The first thing she noticed was that the lockbox had left a terrible mark on the door below, where it had been attached to the doorknob, she’d have to match the paint so she could touch that up. Once inside, she walked from room to room, her heels clicking against the wood floors. They weren’t big rooms, but they weren’t small either. Cody stood in the two-story entryway; the stairs and the living room were to her right, the dining room, which she intended to make her office, on her left. Down the hallway a double set of French doors led to a lovely courtyard. Just past the powder room, the hallway opened up into the kitchen and family room. Cody smiled to think that she had granite countertops and a wood-burning fireplace.

She hopped up and took a seat on the kitchen island since there was no place else to sit, set her purse down, fished through the contents for her phone, and then punched the “Suzy” button for her mother. The phone rang and rang.

“It’s me, Mom,” Cody said, when Suzy finally answered. “I’m in my house.”

“You are? Already? My, that was fast!”

“Because it was a repo, because I bought it from the bank.”

“Well Girl, I’m forty years old and I’ve never owned my own home. You’re only twenty-three, you’ve got me beat!”

Her mother was currently living out in Florida with her newest boyfriend. One time Cody sat down with her Aunt Lori, and they did their best to figure out just how many different places Cody had lived before she moved to California to live in her Aunt Lori’s house so she might attend college. Between the two of them, they decided that Suzy had moved Cody at least thirty-one times. Apartments, hotels, trailers, condo’s, motels, shelters, into any place and every place but an actual house and home.

Cody said, “I didn’t know we were having a contest Mom.”

“Saul wants to talk to you, hold on a minute.”

Cody did not want to talk to the man. Why did her mother always insist on making her talk to her damn boyfriends?

“Hey,” a scratchy voice rang in her ear, “good for you kid. Take it from an old Jewish guy—homeownership’s where it’s at. And I hear you got a good deal too. Way to go.”

Cody slid off the counter. “Well, Gee Saul. Thanks.” He was probably an okay guy. She just didn’t have a lot of patience for her mother’s boyfriends. She had memories.

Loud knocking ensued, the ringing of the doorbell. “The movers are here,” she said. “I better go.”

Cody made her way down the hallway and into her new life.



All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

LET IT SNOW!

It’s snowing on my house today. I live in Southern California. It does snow here, if you live in the higher elevations and the circumstances are just so. Once upon a time we used to own a mountain cabin, so my two older dogs know what snow is. They even like to see it coming down, barking at the door to go outside. But the puppy, Oliver, he doesn’t agree. Ollie has to be pushed out the door, kicking his paws like wild and yelping. I only left them out there for a few minutes, and when I returned I found Ollie crouched near the dryer vent. Now he smells like fabric softener sheets mixed with wet dog. I would have gotten a picture but as soon as the door opened he shot between my legs into safety and almost knocked me off the steps. Duncan and Bonnie were laughing at him, their little pink Cairn terrier tongues showing. We’re holed up in the house. No reason to go out—better not to.

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

NOT YOUR FATHER'S VALENTINE STORY

Bad Chocolate

I was freaked about making it to the post office on time to meet the deadline, rushing to send a certified letter containing a check I’d written out earlier. There were just so many zeros! I was about to cough up more of my hard earned money at one time than I had ever coughed up in my entire life, to the notorious Internal Revenue Service, no less. The line was very long, and I knew that I would be stuck in that dreary government building for at least thirty minutes, maybe more. Why was the post office so fucking crowded? Because I was there. My luck had been running dry. Case in point—huge tax audit—and my soon to be paltry bank account balance. (The Beatle's Taxman played in my head!)

Just as I entered the door a text message came in. Walking and reading my phone, (no bubblegum to blame), I slammed right into the person at the back of the line. Hard.

Profuse apologies ensued. As soon as I got a good look at the girl that I had crashed into, (Dave Matthew's Crash Into Me played in my head!), her phenomenal beauty registered and sent my hottie meter ballistic. Imagine Gisele Bundchen. Imagine touching her.

She was amazingly understanding about my clumsy attack against her gorgeous personage, we shared a lively exchange about how consuming text messaging had become. A giant package was at her feet and she inched it across the floor with her ballerina-slipper-like shoe. I’m six-foot-two and she wasn’t that much shorter than me. I’m not used to looking chicks in the eye. My last girlfriend was super-short, five-foot-one to be exact. Of course I broke up with her. I always break up with my girlfriends, for one reason or another.

The tall girl smiled at me.

“That won’t be a cheap date,” I said, pointing at the package on the floor. (I know...I'm such a smooth talker.)

“It looks heavy,” she said, “but it’s just oversized and awkward.” She was looking at the box as if it held a nest of vipers.

I nodded.

“It’s a giant fluffy white bear with a red satin bow,” she volunteered.

“Oh, really?”

“My ex boyfriend gave it to me for Valentines last year. I don’t want it hanging around my apartment anymore, taking up way to much room, so I’m sending it back to him.”

From further down the line, an old lady turned around in the most conspicuously curious manner, so she might see who was talking. And that old lady looked that tall girl up and down, scrutinizing her the way women openly check each other out in public. Only the most piggish guy would ever muster the courage to be so in your face when ogling a pretty girl.

So there I stood, acting cool, doing my best not to resemble a piggish guy.

“He’s such a jerk!” The tall girl told me, she kicked the box. “I hate him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, lamely. She had the smoothest skin I’d ever seen, other than the skin on the beauties I'd drooled over in various magazine layouts. An astute guy like myself is fully aware that those beauties are airbrushed up one side and down the other, of course. Her hair was the color of honey, and smelled like my favorite candy. Hot Tamales. How ironic. (Alanis Morissette's Ironic played in my head!)

“I’m not one bit sorry." Her bottom lip shot out in the most fetching manner. "He’s not worth thinking about.”

I almost said something so stupid, like: If he’s not worth thinking about, why did you go through all the trouble of wrapping up that humongous stuffed animal and carting it all the way to Uncle Sam’s mailroom, where you'll end up spending mucho dinero sending it back to him, at the very same time of year that he gave it to you? But I didn’t. I edited myself. I said, “Valentine’s Day, it’s a stressful holiday.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Her eyes were green and heavily lashed, her earlobes cried out, I’m delicious and I know it!

The man standing directly behind me joined the discussion with, “I hate Valentine’s Day. Last year my wife gave me a heart-shaped box full of bad chocolate. And I got her a Sea-Doo. She gets an awesome recreational toy, complete with trailer, that I’m making hefty monthly payments on by the way, and what do I get? Bad chocolate.”

The woman standing behind the man with the inconsiderate wife said, “Bad chocolate? Is there such a thing?”

The tall girl said, “Oh Gawd, you bet there is. Do you have any idea how long that stuff sits on the shelf? Ew.”

The woman behind the man shook her head vigorously and pressed her point further. “My husband never gives me anything. Not even a stinking card. He doesn’t believe in Valentines Day. I’d take a heart-shaped box of bad chocolate over the big fat zero I recieve anyday.”

The man looked at her and said, “Give me your address. I’m sure I’ll get another one this year, I’ll drop it off at your house.”

The woman shot the man a nasty look, took hold of her small daughter and briskly maneuvered the child between the two of them.

The man couldn't help but notice that the woman felt he'd crossed a line. He said, “Just kidding.”

“I hope I don’t get any bad chocolate,” the tall girl said.

The man swung his head around and smiled at her warmly. “Don’t worry,” he told the exotic creature, “no man in his right mind would give you bad chocolate.”

He made a valid point. If I had a chance with a girl like that I’d buy her frilly valentine cards, and diamonds and cars and whatever else she desired. I’d cheat the IRS and buy her a house, even plant her a garden. (Everclear's I Will Buy You A New Life played in my head!) I got so worked up just thinking about our future life together I almost asked her out. But, as the line inched along, I got to thinking about how empty my pockets would be when the IRS cashed that check, and what a lousy boyfriend I had made in the past, how every single one of my girlfriends had ended up hating me, how every single one of them were enemies. All hell usually broke out whenever I ran into any old girlfriend. So as we got closer and closer to the front of the line in the crowded post office that afternoon, my practical side took over. A tall beautiful girl like that would surely turn me down. Oh, she’d be polite about it, but I would get a no all the same.

Girls like her, they deserve someone special. Someone rich, someone cool. Not a dweeb like me.

Here's the lyrics to Everclear's 

I Will buy You A New Life

Here is the money that I owe you
Yeah, so you can pay the bills
I will give you more when I get paid again
I hate those people who love to tell you
Money is the root of all that kills
They have never been poor
They have never had the joy of a wellfare Christmas
Yeah, I know we will never look back, yeah
You say you wake up crying
Yes and you don't know why
You get up and you go lay down inside my baby's room
Yeah, I guess I'm doing ok
I moved in with the strangest guy
Can you believe he actually thinks that I am really alive
I will buy you a garden, where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car, perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house, way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
Yes I will
Yes I know all about that other guy
The handsome man with athletic thighs
I know about all the time before
With that obsessive little rich boy
They might make you think you're happy
Yeah, maybe for a minute or two
They can't make you laugh
No they can't make you feel the way that I do
I will buy you a garden, where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car, perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house, way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
Yeah I will buy you a new life
Yeah I know we can never look back, yeah
No, oh will you please let me stay the night
Will you please let me stay the night
No one will ever know
I will buy you a garden, where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car, perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house, way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
Oh yeah
I will buy you a garden, where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car, perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house, way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

WHY CAN'T THE UNIVERSE SHUT UP?

LOST FOREVER

I don’t know how it happened because I was doing about a hundred things at once: baking banana bread, sending off a story in e-mail, twittering away on Twitter, reading a text message from my son—plus I was counting pages on my next book—a second installment of Boomer Tales. Anyway, I somehow pasted a recently finished story in place of one of my longest stories! I had been writing, polishing, and editing that story for two and a half months!

I had much more adept computer types try to locate the lost tale. But no! Poof—it’s gone. Now I have one of those handy devices, a thumb drive, (or whatever you want to call it), and I said, just the other day, I said, “Self, you better get your lazy butt upstairs, fetch that thumb drive and download these stories. Before something bad happens.” My Mac is a little long in the tooth. I worry. But I didn’t! I didn’t back up my work. What a moron. What an idiot. This was so avoidable.

That’s the thing with computers, one strike of a key and up, up and away. Hit send on that nasty e-mail and it’s off. No second chances here. The recipient could be reading your vile words before you even realize that what you wrote was in anger and you didn’t mean to send it. Really you didn’t. But you can’t take that regretful e-mail back. It’s a done deal. Whoops.

I did find the original version of the story on my thumb drive. My words many incarnations ago. The infant idea, an outline really. So I’m not empty handed. Still, it will never come out the same. Sort of like spaghetti sauce. Every single time I whip up a batch it’s a little different. A friend said that the universe might be trying to tell me something. Maybe the new version will be better. Why can’t the universe shut up and mind it’s own business?






All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.

Monday Mystery Micro Fiction

Who Is Ruth?

The house stood on a hill way out in the country. Laura grew up playing in the avocado groves. Her father didn’t like music. Father claimed that the sounds of nature filled his head. If that wasn’t music enough for a person, then they must be daft. So, Laura listened to the sounds in the groves, the birds and the bees, the wind in the trees overhead. At night, inside the house, the music came from outside the window, from the frogs down at the creek, the owl, and the coyote’s cry. 

Father home-schooled her. As far as Laura knew, most children were educated in this fashion. As far as Laura knew, all children were motherless. All children were friendless.

***

On her thirteenth birthday a woman arrives in a gleaming low-to-the-ground car, she pulls right up the driveway as if she belongs. Father sends Laura to her room. He thinks she can’t hear from up there, but she does. The woman’s name is Ruth and she plans to take Laura.

A still heart beats harder. Like rolling thunder. Laura eyes shut tight. Is this woman her mother? The other parent? The missing one? Oh heart, don’t hope. Stop. Stop it. You have no mother. He told you that.

Ruth raises her voice. Says he has no right. No right. He is a monster. She will call child services. He hasn’t heard the end of her. Ruth will not give up. Ruth is mad. She calls Father William. William, she pleads. Let me see her.

Laura listens. She listens and she listens and she listens. All she hears is the slamming door, the tires in the gravel, the car’s motor growing fainter and fainter.

For weeks she waits for Ruth. She listens for the car.
Father is William The Monster.
When she asks him, who is Ruth? Father says nobody. Ruth is nobody.

That night the frogs grow louder. They are multiplying. A thunderous deafening presence. Laura waits. She is good at this.


All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.