Month: January 2018

Murder Mistake

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On the Sunday of Sally’s sixtieth birthday she awoke to find herself in an empty bed. Since her husband, Will, had retired she was always the first to rise to go to work; now the vacant spot next to her struck her as odd. A number of explanations flitted through her mind. She glanced toward their bathroom; the dawn sun streamed in through its east window but she heard no movement, no Will. Could he have already gone downstairs, or perhaps taken their dog, Opie, for a walk. How he loved that dog! You would think that after forty-two years of marriage and four children that he wouldn’t need a dog to shower with affection. Sally, with a tinge of jealousy, often speculated that he loved the dog more than he loved her, perhaps because, they had been together for so long. 

She got up and walked to the head of the stairs. From that vantage point she could see Opie’s leash hanging on its hook beside the front door, she concluded that Will had not taken Opie for a morning stroll. Silence reigned. She wondered if Will had chosen this occasion to leave her. After last night’s fight, when so much had been said in anger it could be possible. But, if he had, surely, he would have taken Opie and his leash with him, or no, perhaps, in his haste, he had forgotten the leash or intended to use the one that they kept in the car. 

She had had her suspicions for some time. The coffee cup with orange lipstick on it, a color that she never wore, his frequent walks with their dog Opie, his growing remoteness. Once or twice she had made a point of going home early to see what he was doing. He was usually in front of his enhanced view computer, the characters so big on the screen that it made her eyes dance.  Once their neighbor, Janet, was in the living room with him. She looked at Will sheepishly as though they shared a secret. Will explained that Janet had helpfully driven him to his ophthalmologist appointment. To Sally’s eyes Janet seemed nervous as she made a quick exit. After Janet’s’ departure Sally gathered up their coffee mugs; recognizing the lipstick color and vowing that one day she would take Janet aside and demand what she thought she was doing with some-one else’s husband. 

When Sally heard Will stumble out of the kitchen she hurried back to bed. She listened to his slow footsteps as he navigated the stairs. The sound reminded her how he could once glide upstairs as noiselessly as a cat burglar. Now every footstep was audible; old age does that to you she thought. She heard him walk slowly across the landing and come into their bedroom

“Happy birthday, dear!” he said and placed a breakfast tray on the dresser. Sally stared in wonder. After all her suspicions, here he was, giving her breakfast in bed. She reached out her hand to draw him in for a kiss. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood awkwardly beside the bed. 

“I made you toast and scrambled eggs.

Sally sat up and allowed the tray to be placed on her knees. She was especially touched to see a pink Mal Maison rose in a bud vase on the tray. She paused to smell the rose, inhaling its sweet perfume.  

“This is simply wonderful,’ she murmured, “thank-you, my darling husband!

The eggs were good, she ate fast. She looked at Will with love in her eyes, their quarrel of the previous night forgotten. There was more scrambled egg than she could eat. Will took the plate and gave the leftovers to Opie who wagged his skimpy tail and wolfed it down as only a dog can do. 

Half an hour later Sally was in agony. She vomited as though her whole intestine was disgorging. She called Will upstairs,

“I need a doctor. Call 911. I am very sick. What did you put into those eggs?  I know it, you are trying to kill me so that you and Janet can cohabit.” 

Will, shook his head and was about to respond to her accusation when Opie began to retch. Sally was still in pain and dry heaving but the sight of the poor dog disgorging his breakfast gave her comfort. Will might poison her to get rid of her, and after last night’s words he might desire to do so; but Opie? No, she knew that Will loved Opie. She knew that he would never do anything to hurt that dog

Sally looked at Will and asked, “What did you put in those eggs?” 

“Just eggs, seasoning and some fried onion.

“Fried onion, but we don’t have any onions.” 

“Yes, we do, I found them in the bottom drawer. They were smaller than usual: must be gourmet onions.

“Oh no,” Sally gasped as she clutched her stomach, “those weren’t onions, those were the tulip bulbs which I as saving for re-planting next spring.” Then it hit Sally, Will’s deteriorating eyesight was more advanced than he had let on. Perhaps he was merely associating with Janet to hitch rides to his doctor appointments. 

When the ER doctor called back he assured Sally that her symptoms, though painful, didn’t appear to be life threatening and that she should let nature take its course, going to the emergency room only if her condition worsened.

 

Honduran Travel by Fishing Boat

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10

This one  isn’t one of my fiction stories but instead an account of an interesting travel experience.                                                             

It is late December when the Honduran November 2017 election fiasco forces us to make drastic modifications to our travel plans. Travel out in early December was thwart by inclement weather and random road blocks but our journey is rewarded by the joys of welcoming a new grandson into the world. But now it is time to go back home to the US. We decide to circumvent the road blocks by taking a fishing boat up the coast. Our son-in-law delivers us to the beach and, after a short wait, leaves to get to a telephone so that he can find out where our boat is.

The beach, if I could call it a beach, consists of a small stretch of sand flanked by disintegrating trees and vegetation extending into the ocean. The shore is strewn with trash as are so many places in poor countries, but, if I raise my glaze up to the bay, I can forget the trash and let myself be transported into the awesome wonder of our planet. Standing there I know that I am at the center of the universe. This is something that, deep down, I knew all along, but am now content to witness in confirmation. The beach is located in the center of a huge magnificent bay. On either extremity the land, with its prolific vegetation, stretches out into the water. I take in the essence of the land’s loving embrace. The sea ripples in the morning light and the rising sun highlights the clouds on the horizon where they float over the barely visible islands of Kios Cochinos. I wonder what these magical islands, ranked by some as one of the most beautiful places on earth, are really like. Right now, they wink and beckon to me, much in the way that Bali Hai called in the 1958 Rogers and Hammerstein movie, ‘South Pacifi

I raise my arms in symbolic prayer to absorb the beauty, and then turn to look inland. My luggage, a small carry-on suitcase, stands next to me amongst the trash. Beyond it I take in the short dirt drive leading to the Honduran shore-line pot-holed dirt road which connects Belfate to La Ceiba. It is 6:30 in the morning and here I am, accompanied by my husband and our bags, standing, marooned, in what now seems like the middle of no-where. I wonder if we are crazy to be here, unable to speak or understand Spanish, in the midst of this Honduran election fiasco. I know that the roads are periodically blocked and there is no telephone reception. If the small fishing boat which was scheduled to pick us up doesn’t come I don’t know what our next action will be. We need to get to the Roatan airport so that we can catch our flight back to Austin tomorrow, and they only fly once a week. I rationalize to myself that someone warned us that the Honduran fishermen are notoriously late. I urge my husband to join me in staying calm by consciously concentrating on absorbing the natural beauty before us. Of course, both of us are also letting our eyes constantly scan the bay for signs of a boat, anything human.

Time passes. I hear a vehicle on the road behind me; it is an ancient bus. I take this as a good omen, perhaps there will be others, perhaps there may yet be a way out. It is almost 7:30 when I notice something red in the ocean bobbing towards us. It seems to have materialized out of nothing for I didn’t see it enter the bay by rounding the distant point. As it approaches I realize several things. First that, surely, it must be our scheduled fishing boat, and second that it is very small. I also quickly deduce that the only way that we are going to be able to board is by wading in the water. I console myself with the reminder that I came for adventure and reach down and take off my shoes and socks and roll up my jeans. I am thankful that Honduras is tropical and that it is warm, even now, in December

There are two men on the boat. I wonder if they are friendly. One jumps out into the water. He gives me a warm smile exposing a set of stained teeth, I notice that one of the front ones is missing. He is shoeless and wears a torn t-shirt and baggy pants. He asks if there are others, we confirm that we are alone. We climb on board and over a pile of suspect-looking grimy life vests to seat ourselves on the bench seat in the middle of the boat. I am happy that we are not told to put on one of those vests. We watch our suitcases being whisked on board and stowed and tucked in under a large blue tarpaulin in the prow of the boat. I ask whether we will get wet. The toothy one shakes his head “no.”

The out-board motor springs into action with a deafening roar and we surge forward. Again, I raise my arms in symbolic thankful joy at the wonder of this enchanted place. The sea which looked so calm from our beach turns out to have a three-foot swell. At times we hit a wave just right and it throws up spray. I resign myself to the inevitable fact that we will get wet for I am too frightened by the boat’s bounce to stand up and put on my rain poncho which accompanies my shoes, socks, money and travel documents in my “purse” under my feet.

I do my best to take in the natural beauty and wonder of this view of the Honduran coast. There is a narrow line of yellow where water meets land and beyond it a flat zone of intense dark green tropical vegetation. Beyond this is the first range of mountains clad in the same tropical vegetation. Behind this range I see a second and in some locations a third range of mountains. These distant peaks look ethereal and blend magically into the sky overhead.

The swell increases and I grip my wood seat with both hands, one behind and one in front. I speculate that if I fell overboard it would be the end, for my water-logged clothing would inhibit swimming. I entertain a frightening thought that we are at the mercy of the two fishermen crewing this boat. If they chose they could pitch my husband and I overboard and make off with our possessions. I tell myself that no-one would ever find our bodies. I am concerned that I never even looked our skipper in the face. I turn to look at him. He is standing close behind me in the stern of the boat with the tiller in his hand. Since we are heading west the rising morning sun casts a silver path stretching from the receding beach where we embarked to silhouette this man. I cannot make out his features although his stance outlined in silver strikes me as being saintly. Partially reassured I return my gaze to the west.

A sole bird swoops into view flying close to the water I watch him as he passes out of view. A fish jumps out of the water. Can it be mocking the bird? We pass several tiny home-made one-man fishing boats with black triangular sails which look like converted garbage bags. By the time that we round our final peninsular and see the La Ceiba harbor wall the swell is up to four to five feet and I can taste salt on my lips.

The water is calm in the harbor which is very small. There is an ancient barge on one side, which        I speculate be abandoned due to its dilapidated state, and two or three other fishing boats not much larger than the one we are on. We approach the harbor wall closest to the ferry dock. For a split second I am transported back to a moment of terror when I was an eight-year-old. Together with my parents we were taking a Spring trip to the Farne Island bird sanctuary. We embarked from Seahouses, at what must have been low tide, for we had to climb down a ladder slung over the wall to get down to the boat. In my recollection that wall was at least twenty feet and the climb down so frightening that I still carry the memory of it with me. The climb up this wall is only a few feet. A man reaches out his hand and then another and I am soon pulled up and onto dry land, our bags follow.

My husband settles up with our fishermen. $275 covers our almost two-hour voyage. It seems reasonable to us, in our American affluence, although I speculate that it is a small fortune to these Hondurans. My comparison is the going rate of $1 US an hour that my daughter pays her gardener, maid and nanny all of whom work part-time for her meaning that they probably only make about $25-$30  a week.

The Funniest Joke

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At a recent Christmas party, our host commented that you are the funniest person he knows. On our way home I told you that I didn’t find you to be unusually funny. You responded,

“It’s a dry humor. Perhaps it is mundane to you because you’re British.”

“Hmm,” I said, “now your brother has the dry part down pat. Do you remember…”

I didn’t have to say any more as we chorused his punchline of some five years ago and we both laughed. I laughed so hard that tears rolled down my cheeks.

Afterwards I wondered why we found the memory of this innocuous, not very funny, punch-line so hilarious. I postulate that, like all good humor, it was timing and delivery. To this day I recall the set-up. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving when both our brothers were visiting.  As the day was balmy as Austin, Texas can be in November, you three men had taken up residence on my sister’s patio. Ostensively, you were slow-cooking a brisket on the BBQ although I recall that large quantities of beer were being imbibed. Your brother sat on the right, mine in the middle, draped rather than sitting, with his feet upon the wrought-iron patio table. You sat on the left, rising from time to time to baste the brisket or to get more beer. We, women, were inside chatting and preparing accompaniments for the brisket.

Then my brother began to laugh. A good rich belly rumble of a laugh. His feet came off the table and he rocked back and forth in his mirth. You echoed his laughter and your brother, who looked somewhat surprised at the reaction to his joke, joined in. It was at least half an hour before we, women, could get one of you to stop laughing long enough to share the cause of your mirth. My brother pointed at yours,

“Out of the blue he asks, ‘What did the mother turkey say to her disobedient children?’ No warning, nothing.” At this point you all three took up laughing again. We wondered what that punch line could be, and waited for you to regain composure.  At last you spoke to your brother,

“Go on tell them!”

Your brother, in his dead pan voice gave us the line “If your father could see you now, he’d turn over in his gravy!”

Of course, the mirth resumed again and, we, the women, joined in, chuckling, not at the joke, but at our men-folk.