Author: Jane Stansfeld

The Hidden Treasure

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When his father died of a sudden heart attack, twenty-one-year-old Kent joined his mother in a search for what they regarded as his father’s hidden treasure. The mystery began during the last six months of his father’s life when the old man developed a paranoia founded on his belief that the entire US financial system was about to collapse. Both Kent and his mother had watched him systematically liquidate his assets. He talked incessantly about his mission. However, just as he shared his fears for the future and his active response, he never told them what he did with his accumulated cache of money. They both knew that he neither gambled nor used drugs and were sure that he had hidden the money somewhere.

After a short period of mourning Kent and his mother sat and discussed the missing funds which they estimated to be in the order of a hundred thousand dollars. Together they went through his papers but found nothing. They searched for hidden cash, under, and in, his mattress. They turned the house upside down; they made inquiries about a possible deposit box at his favorite bank; and they talked to his lawyer and his handful of friends. They found nothing.

Each year afterwards Kent and his mother dreamed about the missing hoard and speculated what they would do if they ever found it. As time passed they both recalculated and dreamed letting their estimate of the value of the hoard grow. It held a spell over them tighter than the spell of the lottery. Kent’s mother stayed in her small house while Kent moved into a one-bedroom apartment, both dreaming of a time when they would suddenly become affluent.  By the time, a few years later, that Kent’s mother died of diabetic complications they both believed that finding the lost treasure would make them millionaires.

Now that his mother had passed away Kent resumed his search in conjunction with his duty, as sole heir, of disposing of her possessions. He was assisted by his mother’s cat Mack who came with the rest of her tiny estate. Each day he spent his spare time in her small house cleaning out her cupboards and shelves. Mack always joined him and would settle down in a comfortable location close to where Kent was sorting and watch him with glass-like yellow-green eyes.

When he began on the bedroom Kent realized that his mother had never disposed of her husband’s clothing.  He felt a moment of excitement. Although they had both been through his things Kent speculated that the clue to his father’s missing fortune could be concealed amongst his old garments. He abandoned his mother’s side of the closet and began to systematically go through his father’s side. He patted every seam and went through every pocket prior to neatly folding each garment. He stowed the searched items into bags to take to charity. On the second day of his work he became so immersed in his task that he lost track of time, suddenly he glanced at his watch.

“Oh no, it is two-thirty already!” he exclaimed, “I’ve only got another thirty minutes before I need to be at work, and still nothing.”

He glanced at Mack, angry at himself for talking to a cat, who, on this occasion, sat on the bed and watching him with unblinking eyes. Mack returned Kent’s stare and continued to purr gently, apparently oblivious to both Kent’s comment and his change in ownership. Kent accepted Mack’s feline disinterest and continued,

“Go on, you ugly ball of fur, tell me what he did with it.”

Mack remained silent.

“You know don’t you, you mean creature. How could a man of sixty-two, cash in all his assets and then die leaving no clue where they went?”

Mack blinked at Kent and slowly got up and approached him with a look which said that Kent’s insults didn’t affect him. He arched his back and rubbed himself against Kent’s left arm. He purred, letting his coat brush against Kent’s watch to send stray hair strands into the air. Kent sneezed.

“All right, out!” Kent pointed to the door.

Mack stalked out his tail waving gently to register his annoyance at his dismissal. Kent glanced at his watch again and continued with his task.

The next day Kent was back again sorting clothes. Out of the entire closet of clothes and shoes all he found was a key lodged deep in a Christmas waistcoat pocket. He set the key on the bed-side table. Mack left his spot on the bed to amble over and sniff it. He opened his mouth to use his vomeronasal, (Jacobson’s), organ. Kent watched.

“Leave that alone.” Kent moved quickly to the table and snatched up the cat. He held him up high and looked him in the eyes, “Go on, you, insufferable creature, tell me what he did with it!” Mack began to lick Kent’s watch. Kent dropped him resulting in a snarl. Mack left the room.

Kent took the key to the locksmith in Home Depot. The man examined it and announced that it was not a key to a bank vault box or a door into a storage facility; rather it was a cheap key to a small home lock-box, the type sold in Walmart. The next day a crew from the Salvation Army arrived to take away furniture which Kent was donating to charity. A small lock box fell off the top of the TV wardrobe. Kent pounced on it with a cat-like leap. He could scarcely contain his excitement but managed to wait until the movers left. Then he set the box on the kitchen counter and tried the key. It opened. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, were a pair of gold cuff links and tie pin and a scrap of paper on which was written;

“Sam’s Estate and Jewelry, 615 South Lamar”

Kent went to 615 South Lamar but there was no Sam’s Estate and Jewelry instead a store with a huge neon sign announced “Pete’s Pawn Shop” and “We pay top dollars for gold.” Kent went inside. He asked the man behind the counter whether he knew what had happened to Sam’s Estate and Jewelry. He was told that Sam had died and his children had closed the store. Disappointed, Kent was about to leave when he remembered the gold cuff links and pin which he carried in his pocket. He drew them out and placed them on the counter and asked the man what he could give for them. The man took the articles and examined them with his jeweler’s monocle.

“Gold.” He announced, “I need to weigh them in the back then I’ll give you an offer.” He returned a few minutes later.

“They are quite nice, cost about $150 new, I can give you $75 for them.”

Kent gasped, “I was hoping for more.”

The man shook his head,

“I’m sorry that’s the best I can do.

Kent sighed and against his better judgement said, “OK, it’s disappointing, but I need the cash so I’ll take the $75!”

As the man counted out $75 he went on talking, “If you need cash, what about that watch which you are wearing. I can see that it is a nice one. I could probably give you a couple of hundred for it.”

Kent clutched his wrist, stared at his watch and then looked at the man. He felt a surge of pride for his watch and thrust his arm across the counter for the man to have a better look. He explained,

“It was my Dad’s. It is all I have to remember him by. He bought it shortly before he died. He really loved this watch.” Kent paused and gently rubbed the face of the watch with his right hand. He looked up at the man, “Ma wanted to bury him in it but when I saw it on his wrist in the coffin I broke down. I knew that it would be the best reminder of him that I could ever possess. I’m sure that he would have wanted me to wear it. It gets lots of complements, every time I look at it I think of him!”

The man nodded, “Suit yourself,” he said, “But if you ever want to sell I’ll give you top dollar for it, on second thoughts I’ll up my offer to $500.”

The offer intrigued Kent but the man seemed too willing to buy, and so he left, determined to research the true value of his watch. He went to a reputable jeweler in town and they inspected it, called in experts and eventually confirmed it to be a rare antique Omega 1980’s (reference 345.0802) Speedmaster Professional in 18 carat gold as worn by James Cooney.  They declared it to be in in pristine condition, and told Kent that they could give him $100,000 for it.

Kent wasn’t sure whether he was pleased with this information or not. He hurried home determined to give Mack more respect and to ponder his options

Nick’s Indecision – a short story

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Nick awakes to bird song. He stealthily wiggles out of his warm sleeping bag careful not to wake Alice who sleeps on. He takes time to gaze at her. He thinks to himself how pleasant it is to see this vibrant demanding, nay ofttimes, domineering woman, at peace. Her face is relaxed into the semblance of a smile, a Mona Lisa smile, thinks Nick. He knows that if he lingers too long he will be tempted to stroke her luxurious hair, and then kiss her lips. Past experience warns him that if he woke her up she would probably be annoyed and the morning would erupt into a cacophony of human activity. Right now Nick needs time to think. He peeps out of his tent.

Their camp site looks orderly. It is located on a flat swale at the head of an inlet of Horsetooth Reservoir. A few feet away are the tents of his future parents-in-law and his future brother-in-law and his wife; closer is a park picnic table and residue of last night’s camp fire. The lake waters lap gently at his future in-law’s boat partially beached among the reeds; while behind stand their three vehicles with their orderly stow of supplies.

Nick stands and inhales to absorb the magnificence of the dawn. The reservoir is nestled into the foot-hills of the Rockies. Each of the surrounding hills is capped by a fold of red Dakota sandstone. From Nick’s vantage point, next to the water, the land looks as though it is covered by a giant’s petrified folded red cloth. Under the folds the land, covered with green scrub, stretches down to the water’s edge. The rising sun silhouettes the folds of sandstone and highlights isolated shoreline trees. The lake waters shimmer. The calm before the storm, thinks Nick, for soon an assortment of pleasure craft be on the water making headway for the further reaches of the reservoir where speeding and surf-boarding is permitted.

Nick wonders why he feels so uneasy. Six months ago when Alice invited him to move in with her he’d been happy enough to comply. He tells himself that it has been a good six months even though he, at times, felt trapped. He remembers his mother giving him her engagement ring for him to give to his future wife and how he had carried it in his pocket for weeks. When Alice proposed he had drawn it out and given it to her. He remembers her happiness which momentarily eclipsed his feeling of betrayal, or was it entrapment? He thinks back to admit to himself that his whole life had been that way. Didn’t he always comply with the suggestions of others, and let himself be subjected to their whims? He never asserting himself. He questions whether this makes him less than a man even though, he concedes, that most often he doesn’t know what he wants or what he’d do if he did assert himself. He thinks of himself as being on an unstoppable roller coaster.  Tomorrow they are going to Steamboat Springs to meet up with Nick’s parents and a few friends for the celebration of his and Alice’s ‘destination’ style wedding to be held at the bottom of Fish Creek Falls. It is a place only accessible by foot.

A couple of hours later the campsite is a hive of activity. Everyone is awake and have feasted on freshly cooked bacon and eggs and drunk copious amounts of coffee. Now they clean up in preparation for a boat ride. Nick prefers gentle coasting with the boat moving smoothly through the water making as little impact on its surface as possible, his idea of a quiet communion with nature. His future in-laws, however, love speed and as soon as they are beyond the ‘no wake’ zone his future father-in-law revs up the engine to a roar and they speed throwing up a white plume of water behind them. The boat is tilted with her bow raised as she slices through the water. Other boats are doing the same thing and so they jump each wake wave which meets them. The reservoir is now nosier than a busy traffic intersection at rush hour. Nick’s future father-in-law, although tall, perches uncomfortably on the top of the back of the driver’s seat to be able to see out over the speed induced tilt of the boat.

Then the engine is cut and Nick sighs inwardly. They are going to wake-board. His future brother-in-law goes first. He is expert, he jumps the wake and performs acrobatic leaps and somersaults.  When he tires, Alice has her turn and is equally spectacular. His future brother-in-law’s wife takes a spin. She is hesitant and, although able to stay upright, does not perform maneuvers.  Nick, unable to say no, takes to the water. He vows to himself that he will be safe and content himself with keeping upright but as he sails along his confidence builds and soon he is weaving back and forth across the wake. He is exhilarated. When they cross the wake of another boat Nick flounders and falls. They turn and pick him up. He groans as he is dragged on board his ankle hurts, he wonders if he has broken something.

Back on shore Nick’s future brother-in-law, who is a doctor, examines his ankle and declares that it is a bad sprain but not broken. He bandages it up and recommends that Nick keep it elevated. Nick accepts this counsel and is happy to skip their planned afternoon boating activities. Alice, although solicitous, asks Nick if he faking it to mess up their nuptials of the morrow.  He spends the afternoon in solitude reading and daydreaming. Is this, he wonders, his opportunity to call off the wedding? He evaluates his options, for yes, although his ankle hurts it is not as bad as he is trying to imply.  He now has his own choice to make. He can ‘miraculously’ recover sufficiently to walk to his wedding location at the foot of Fish Creek Falls or he can claim himself unable to walk and call off this marriage. He is not sure that he likes this feeling of power but knows that this time, whatever he does, he will make sure that it is his decision and his alone.

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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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.

Ski Romance

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Amie loved skiing. She was always passionate about her loves, and this one began when she was in elementary school. It intensified every year. When she graduated from high school, her parents suggested that she take a ‘gap’ year to pander to her appetite for the slopes and to help her forget her high-school sweet-heart who ditched her after prom. Her parents managed to get her a waitress position including accommodation, in Steamboat Springs Colorado.

Amie arrived in Colorado in mid-September. She had never visited the State in the fall and was greeted by a land of color instead of the white wonderland of winter. She immediately texted her best friend, Betty.

“Hey, Bets, Wish you were here. It’s beautiful. Bet you’ve never seen aspen in their fall color. Pic attached, It’s better than that Nat Geo article Mrs. X made us study last year. So much gold; and the silver bark adds to the image. All this haloed by giant rock outcroppings and dark evergreens. Even though it is too early for snow I’m off to inspect the slopes on Sunday – hope that it swarms with unattached handsome men. LOL, A.”

As planned Amie took the Sunday gondola up to the lowest ski lodge and staging area. Although she was accustomed to ski lifts, she found the ride scary. She kept thinking about a dramatic rescue which and been shown on national TV in which a passenger moved down the open wires to rescue a boy hanging by his back-pack. The support system struck her as precarious – one small connector between gondola and cables and a fifty-foot plunge to the slopes below.

She was relieved when she arrived at the top and walked briskly through the building to view the slopes beyond. A grassy green carpet surrounded by brilliantly colored trees spread out from the building. Visitors dawdled on a paved veranda at the top of the swale and gazed at a sole moose. The magnificent animal, with his head of multi-pointed antlers and large hanging dewlap under his chin pawed the ground and returned his audience’s stare. A park ranger stood between the animal and the spectators making sure that no-one got too close. Cameras snapped wildly. Amie overheard the ranger explaining to a group of boys that the moose is the most dangerous animal in Colorado. Unlike the black bear that avoids people, the moose is fearless and will charge at random. When it ambled sedately into the trees, the ranger waved his hand and allowed visitors to walk across the swath of green to a pedestrian trail leading up the mountain.

Amie followed the crowd. The wind was blowing up the mountainside through the trees. It roared like the sea as it swayed the evergreens. It rustled the stands of aspen whose brilliant golden-yellow leaves danced making a noise like rain upon water. Many of the leaves detached and floated onto the footpath and branches of the evergreens. Amie took photographs of this golden snow. By now, she was feeling tired and so, when she saw a bench next to the path, she sat down. She took a long drink from her water bottle, proud of herself in her knowledge that altitude adaptation requires the body to make more blood and needs extra water to do this. She took out her phone and texted a picture to Betty.

“It’s beautiful, would be even better if there were some beaus around! Feeling tired, must be the altitude. LOL, Amie”

She felt comfortable on her bench and watched other visitors walk by as they also enjoyed the well-used trail. She exchanged greetings with them and shared friendly comments on the beauty of the aspen. Gradually, she felt a presence next to her and turned to find that she was sharing her bench with an attractive young man of her own age. She deduced that she must have dozed off and not noticed his arrival.

“Hi,” he offered a gloved hand, “I’m Chas. I hope that you don’t mind sharing this bench with me.”

Sharing, heck no, Amie was happy to have him beside her, she shook his hand and murmured “Amie, pleased to meet you!”

They sat and chatted about the beauty of the fall colors. Then they joined the other visitors hiking up the path. Their conversation never lagged as they talked about skiing and their mutual expectations for the season. When they returned to the bench, they sat next to each-other. Chas took Amie’s hand in his. She already felt at ease with him and rested her head on his shoulder. She must have dozed off again for when she awoke he was gone.

That evening she called Betty and told her about the strange young man who had caused her heart to flutter. She described his tanned face, resolute stride, teasing blue eyes and gentle voice. During the following week, Amie worked learning the ropes of her waitress position and the layout of Steamboat Springs, all the while speculating about Chas and looking forward to Sunday, the only day the gondolas run in the pre-season. When it came she dressed carefully and took her ride.

This time the aspen stood bare and the golden landscape gone. The ground was bathed in a light cover of fresh snow. It silhouetted the bare aspen branches and coated the tops of the evergreen branches of green needles. Amie took photographs to text to Betty and her parents. She hiked up the path. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was searching for Chas, although she knew that this was her purpose. He was nowhere to be seen. Each time that she saw a man she hurried to scrutinize his face hoping that one of them would turn out to be him. Disappointed, and tired by her exertion, she returned to her bench.

The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shone warm melting the snow. She took out a book and began to read. She wasn’t sure when she first felt his presence, for it seemed to invade upon her gently. She turned and smiled. He put his arm around her,

“Been waiting long?”

“Not really,’ she lied ‘I’m glad that you came.”

“Me too.”

They conversed and walked up the path holding hands. She shared some of her innermost secrets with him and found him to be a sympathetic listener. He responded with stories about his youth but omitted to tell her why he was on the slopes. When they returned to the bench, and she cuddled up against his chest eventually dozing off. She awoke with a start as a park ranger shook her.

The sun, in a red sky, was setting behind the building to the west, and she realized that she was cold, very cold.

“It’s time to leave,” said the ranger “you don’t want to miss the last gondola.”

She looked into his friendly face and asked, “The young man who was with me. Did you see him?” The blank look on his face worried her. She went on, “He is tall, very good looking, and is wearing a navy-blue ski jacket and matching pants, both with hot pink stripes on the sides.

“Sounds like Chas!”

“Yes, yes,” she breathed with pleasure, “yes, that’s him, Chas.”

“You must’ve been dreaming. Chas is no longer with us.”

“But’ she stammered ‘he was here, beside me. Yes, what is more, he promised that he is going to ski with me when the slopes officially open.”

The ranger sighed, and touched Amie’s arm again, “My dear young lady. It’s been three years.” He raised his arms in exasperation, “You must remember, at the time it was all over the newspapers; our Olympic hopeful, Chas, died in an unfortunate skiing accident.”

Amie shook her head and turned away to disguise her clouded eyes. The ranger pressed on,

“Don’t you remember the story, just before his big jump he was spooked by a moose and landed wrong.’ He pointed at the bench,

“Look at the plaque on this bench, it carries his name. It was donated by his parents. You’re sitting on his memorial.”

Broken – a short story

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The coffee mug slipped out of my hand. I watched it, seemingly in slow motion, as it fell to the floor. I wondered if this might be my lucky day, and it wouldn’t break. That was a vain thought, and I knew better. When it hit the hard Saltillo tile floor, it exploded and sent shards of pottery across the kitchen. “Oh well,” I thought, “at least it didn’t have coffee in it!” By the time that I’d swept up the pieces the muffins were ready. I took them out of the oven and placed them and the fresh coffee on the kitchen counter. I hoped that the aroma would draw out my visiting daughter and son-in-law. It seemed to have my desired effect, and they emerged smiling

It was an inviting Houston spring morning. We took our muffins and coffee outside and sat around the patio table. The dogs greeted us thrusting their soft expectant noses in our laps. Their tails waged in happy greeting. The garden, always its best during the spring, was bursting with growth, and our roses bloomed in a magnificent profusion of color. The setting was peacefully idyllic. For a while, we chatted about the garden, and then my daughter turned to me and casually asked, 

“Mum, what did you break this morning?”

I had already forgotten my mishap, and so I replied, “Oh, nothing, just a coffee mug. Why do you ask?

She smiled and looked at her husband, “This morning David remarked that he hadn’t heard anything being broken this visit. I was just chiding him when we heard the crash echoing down the hall. We had to laugh because he is so right!

I nodded in accord. Sometimes I wonder why I break so many things. Is it because I move too fast, or is it my eyesight or perhaps eye/hand coordination, or merely a case of pathological clumsiness? It has always been a problem. Nowadays, I am thankful for Replacements Inc which I have bookmarked in my computer. My casual one item accidents are so commonplace that they don’t upset the household. Sitting there sipping coffee and enjoying the spring air, I let my daughter’s question prompt my recollection of a more dramatic calamity during my early teens. Looking back, I wondered whether it was the natural precursor or jinx which set me on my clumsy path

It happened when I was growing up in Durham in the north of England. From time to time, my parents gave dinner parties. My mother was a superb cook, and my father had an excellent wine cellar, and so these parties were elaborate affairs. Guests were first ushered into our formal ‘drawing room’ with its full-length pale blue curtains, and robin’s-egg-blue upholstered chairs. Here they were served my father’s signature ‘gin and it” cocktail. After an appropriate time, the party would adjoin to the adjacent dining room where a magnificent table awaited them. Against the backdrop of full-length golden- -yellow damask draped windows stood a long mahogany table polished to such a high gloss that you could see your reflection in its surface. Each place setting was immaculate, fine China, antique three-pronged Georgian silver, crystal glasses, brilliant linen and sparkling candles in silver candelabra

My mother didn’t have kitchen help so first course was generally already set out on the table. My father usually poured a light white wine to accompany this delicacy. When it was finished my parents would hurry the dirty dishes out of the room. The kitchen was remote from the dining room, and so they stacked the dirties on our large breakfast table in our breakfast room adjoining the kitchen. With a flourish, my mother would then present her main dish, and my father would pour an accompanying wine. So, the meal progressed, the dirties were again whisked into the breakfast room, and desert was served together with a sweet white wine. When they had finished eating they would go back to the drawing room to drink coffee and nibble on After Eight chocolates. I imagine that my father served after dinner drinks, brandy and scotch, although I don’t remember. Conversation would wax loud, and they sat and talked until late

While the dinner was in progress on my sister, and I were banished to our room. My parents didn’t have a dish-washer and so after the guests left they would clear the table and slowly work their way through the accumulation of dirty dishes stacked upon the breakfast room table. On the occasion of my recollection, my sister and I decided that we would creep downstairs and do the washing-up as a surprise for our parents

The design and layout of our kitchen was a mess. Looking back, I am amazed that my mother managed to produce her trade-mark culinary marvels in such poor surroundings. It was a large room but, unlike modern American kitchens, it didn’t have lengths of built-in cabinets or continuous counters or an island. Along the side with a window was a large double sink with draining boards on either side and beyond these on either side were full height built-in cabinets in which china and glass were stored. My mother had two trestle tables which she placed in front of these built-ins to serve as staging areas / work surfaces when the ‘good’ china and glass were not in use. On the occasion of a dinner party, they were pulled out into the room to give access to the cabinets. Along an adjacent side was the oven, cook-top, another small table, and tiny under-counter style refrigerator. The other sides were mostly taken up by doors, larder door (it is cold enough in the north of England for the larder to serve like a refrigerator), an outside door, and the breakfast room door leading into the rest of the house. My sister and I adopted the two trestle tables as staging areas and began with the glass.

We took turns being washer-up and drier. Sixty glasses got washed and successfully put away. Then we began on the plates, bread plates, appetizer plates, and dessert plates all without mishap. The next step was the dinner plates which we stacked on one of the trestle tables ready to wash. That was when I noticed that the heavy Waterford crystal water jug was also on the trestle table. I decided that it could be emptied and put away without washing and took it off the table.  To my horror the table tilted and deposited all twelve crown-something dinner plates on the floor. They all shattered

At this point, I showed tremendous presence of mind and had to comment that at least they were still dirty! Looking back, I can only speculate that sometimes nervous laughter is the best way to relieve tension. We shoveled up the mess, and disposed of the broken pieces in the trash. We swept and washed the floor and finished our self-imposed task by washing and polished the antique silver flat-ware. By now the enormity if the breakage had begun to sink in and knowing how wild my mother could be I decided that I’d rather not face her initial outburst and that the better part of valor was to retire to my bedroom

The dinner party broke up soon after I went upstairs. When my parents returned to the breakfast room and kitchen to begin their clean-up my mother’s first comment was

“It’s immaculate – so clean!” Then she looked around and asked, “But, where’s Jane?” I’m sure that my absence was odd and that she wished to thank us together.

My sister, with her honed sense of drama, responded. “Oh, Jane ……, – she’s upstairs committing suicide!

The Locked Room – short story

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Philip stood next to his parents and stared at the locked door. It was obviously a bedroom door except the hardware, unlike the other bedroom door privacy knob-sets in this luxurious ski rental property was a deadbolt lock. An elegant gold-tone plaque was attached to the door; on it, in black letters, was the word “Ursula.” Philip looked quizzically at his dad.

Sensing his son’s question, his father returned his glance and remarked: “Yep, I agree. A dead-bolt locked bedroom in a rental property doesn’t make sense. I can’t imagine why an owner would want to turn a four-bedroom, sleeps-eight, into a three-bedroom, sleeps-six. I can only assume that it has been converted to some kind of store room.”

“Okay. Dad,” responded his eighteen-year-old son, “but why the second-best bedroom on this upper floor, why not one of the lower level bedrooms like the one I am to sleep in?”

His mother looked at the two and chimed in, “I agree with you, Philip. What’s more there are almost a dozen lockers in the mud room and a couple of locked closets in the other bedrooms all with names on them. Surely there couldn’t have been a need for an additional store room. In my book, it is very odd!”

Philip’s father disliked conundrums and so, he waved his hand dismissively and turned away from the offending door. “I say, whatever the reason, we should be happy as it got us this lovely extra-large home with the three bedrooms that we need together with all the amenities of a larger home, Jacuzzi, sauna, large dining and living room, the list goes on!”

At that moment the two teen-age girls of the family pounded upstairs accompanied by shriek’s and giggles. “Come on, you slow pokes, we only have a few days, why are you staring at a locked door? It is gorgeous outside, let’s get some skiing in before dark!”

They descended to the main level. As they passed through the living area they paused to admire a magnificent view of Steamboat Springs and the ski slopes. The afternoon sun made the snow sparkle white on the west facing slopes. They could see the skiers in their multi-colored clothing weaving down the slope making fantastic blurs of color.  Philip and his dad exchanged a high-five as they hurried after the girls. This was the first year that the family had taken their annual ski holiday here, and they liked what they saw.

Hours later, they returned tired and happy. They entered through the ‘back’ mud-room door next to a bear-mauled trash room door. Philip took out his phone and snapped a picture of the bear’s strange claw marks. He wondered whether they were merely an attempt to break down the door or a more significant marking of territory. While his parents and siblings played cards upstairs he surfed for bear information and posted the image on Facebook. He found time to re-read Michael Rosen & Helen Oxenbury’s children’s book “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt” which was displayed in a helpful collection of children’s books in his allotted bedroom. He ruminated on the possibility that even when the object of a quest is known the final denouement may defy that initial preconception.

The next evening, the family took a hot steamy sauna upon their return from skiing. The sauna with its glass door was adjacent to the locked door affording Philip time to stare and wonder. He still couldn’t rationalize the concept that the room had been converted into a mere extra store room. Did it house a piece of forbidden equipment or maybe crime-scene evidence? Later he returned to try to look through the keyhole without success; he even attempted to pick the lock. Lock picking looks easy in movies but, to his chagrin, he discovered that in this case it wasn’t. He listened intently and thought that he heard grunt-like sounds inside the room. He also noticed a faint shadow of a stain in the tan-colored Berber carpet immediately outside the door. He mentioned his observations to his dad who dismissively stated that the house was part of a duplex, and the sounds were undoubtedly coming from the adjacent tenants muffled by the wall insulation. As for the stain, well people often spill things on carpets.

The following morning, Philip went and stood outside the door to ruminate on its mystery. As he stared he had a break-through thought. The room was a bedroom, surely it had windows! He quickly slipped down to the main level and outside to investigate. He was right; the room did have windows. He identified two, which overlooked the main entry porch roof. There was a planter on the porch and, over it, a hole through the roof to allow natural irrigation. Philip saw that he could easily climb up on the planter and haul himself onto the roof. Then it would be easy, he thought, to navigate the roof and look in through the windows. He decided to return from the slopes early so that he could put his plan into execution unhindered by parental scrutiny.

The climb onto the roof was easier than he expected, however the crawl across ten feet of snow covered roof was more challenging. The snow was not thick. He brushed it off with his gloved hands and found footholds on the anti-slip roof hooks. To his amazement he found that both windows were open. He peered in and saw what looked like a normal bedroom; queen-sized bed with attractive cream and red comforter, bedside tables with lamps, a dresser with TV on top, and a closet. Hard as he tried he could detect nothing unusual. He pushed his anti-glare ski goggles onto    his head and looked closer. He observed that the closet door was ajar enabling him to see its contents strewn on the floor. They consisted of a grey blanket and an enormous stuffed animal. It was the sort, he thought that one wins at carnivals; except this one wasn’t pink, it was black. He noticed that a couple of small teddy bears like the one he had as a child were also mixed in the pile. He was disappointed and wondered whether he should give up or climb into the room for further investigation.

He was still considering options when one of the teddy bears moved its snout and made a small grunt. Philip shuddered and griped the cold window sill. Was he hallucinating? No, this was no delusion for the movement triggered a chain reaction. The large furry object also grunted and gently rolled; then it shoved the small teddy bear towards it’s stomach. Philip’s feet slipped, the snow-covered roof was slick and he almost fell off as the realization came that these were not toys but a live black bear and her cubs taking their annual winter torpor.

Some notes about Black Bears
The black bear’s torpor is a winter sleep in which breathing and heart rates slow down, and body temperatures are slightly depressed. Hibernation refers to a sleep in which the sleeper’s body temperature is drastically reduced. A bear in torpor does not drink, eat, urinate or defecate but can respond to danger signals and moves occasionally. Although Colorado Black Bears generally weigh between 100 – 450 lbs. they are not aggressive toward humans. The most dangerous animal in Colorado is the moose who is fearless and will charge at random. In the fall the bears, who are intelligent with good memories and a very acute sense of smell (ten times better than a dog) will raid dumpsters and anywhere that they can smell food (even in unlocked cars which they know how to open.) Their fall hyperphagia, or voracious eating, is to get fat enough to support their winter torpor when they will lose about 27% of their body weight. Black bears copulate in June after which the fertilized embryos go into stasis and, if the mother gets fat enough in the fall, they implant and grow. A litter of one to three 1 lb. cubs are born in January. From then until spring the cubs nurse on their sleeping mother. Bears have been known to make a basement of an occupied human residence into a winter den. The upper bedroom at the house, featured in my story, was visited by a bear in the fall. The animal got in the same way as Philip. I speculate, that the bear visitor may have been looking for a convenient winter den.

Vanya – a short story

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This is a completely new story  with a new character. It is my second response to the challenge to take Liam from the ‘Doc Salvages the Past’ and tell his story from his point-of-view. In this narration I let the characters take off and the story morphed. The Donner Memorial State Park remains the setting. The story  is appropriate for October – I hope that you enjoy it!

I sit in Dad’s hospice room holding his hand. The room is cozy, more like a private home than an institution. There is even a photograph of Dad with us, his three sons, standing in front of the Donner Memorial State Park monument on his bedside table. Dad and I enjoy the room’s calm, until Vanya arrives. When she makes her uninvited, unexpected entrance I groan. She looks the same as usual, which is to say, ageless and dead-beat gorgeous. She is skinny and moves, or glides, with silent grace. As always, she reminds me of Grimm’s Snow White; hair as black as ebony, skin white as snow and those lips, yes, lips as red as blood. If I had a magic mirror and asked, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” I might easily get the response, “Vanya is the fairest of them all.” Every time that I see her, she is dressed unconventionally, and now, is no exception; a floaty thigh-length purple top, skinny black tights and purple platform shoes. She murmurs a greeting to me, and Dad stirs. He opens his eyes and sees her. He grins, the first smile that I’ve seen in days. No, that’s not exactly correct. It’s more than a smile, he beams at her, pleasure oozes from every pore. Obviously, unlike me, he is delighted to see her:

“You came!”

“Yes, I came!”

She reaches and takes his hand in hers. Her finger nails are unnaturally long and exquisitely manicured with red polish. She brushes my hand aside; her touch is electrifying but icy cold. A nurse enters the room. She takes Dad’s vitals, then beckons to me. We step outside.

“His vitals are much better. Earlier, as I told you, I thought that tonight would be his last. Right now, I think that I was wrong. Anyone can see that he is much better……….” Her voice trails off as though she is in deep thought, then she says, “Can it be that he is responding to her; and anyway, who is she?”

“An old friend.” I say, for I don’t know who she is. Is ‘an old friend’ a way to describe someone who we only meet when we take our annual 4th of July trip to The Donner Memorial State Park. Does it describe someone for whom we have no contact information. “Her name is Vanya” I add, as though this information might help.

I go back into the room and instantly get the impression that these two don’t want me with them. Vanya must sense my reaction, “I’ll spend the night with him. You may go home and sleep.” As she speaks I watch Dad’s face, he is nodding and smiling confirming that this is his desire.

The call came at dawn: “We are so sorry. Your Dad passed away during the night.”

I should have been there. I sigh and, full of sorrow, I drive to the Hospice. Vanya has vanished. Dad looks white. He is pale and shrunken, but his face is seraphic, incredibly happy. I sit beside his body letting my grief wrap around me as I mentally plan all the things which I must do. When I place my hand up to his face to stroke his cheek, I notice a spot of blood on his pajama collar and two red spots on his neck. I can’t be sure, but I know that I’ve seen these marks before. I don’t remember where, or when and decide not to say anything to the hospice staff; all I now wish to do is to follow Dad’s last instructions, cremation and ashes to be scattered at Donner Memorial State Park.

Vanya doesn’t come to the memorial service, but it is well attended. My two brothers are there together with our mother, who divorced him when I was five. Even my estranged wife makes it. Of course, Anna, my thirteen-year-old daughter, who has always lived with me, is also in attendance. She was especially fond of her grand-pa and is taking his death hard. I vow to myself to give her more of my time, after all I’m all she has. I invite anyone, who wishes, to join Anna and I on July 4th at the Donner Memorial State Park to scatter his ashes. Several days later, I drop by and the undertaker gives me Dad’s urn inscribed with his name in gold script. This is not what I requested. My instructions were something inexpensive, simple; this thing looks like a lidded version of one of the vases my mother filled with gladioli when she lived with us. Dad would have hated it; I accept it anyway because, obviously, Dad is past caring. I take it home and place it on my hall table in preparation for its final trip to the Park.

By the time that July 4th rolls around my grief has numbed; and there is a layer of dust on the outside of the urn. Anna and I decide to take our boat to enjoy the water, Dad would have wanted us to go on with our lives. I’ve booked our usual spot in the Splitrock campground. It is furthest from the visitor’s center and the location of the Donner Party’s fateful winter 1846/7 camp-site. I don’t want to be near the place where they starved and froze in the apocryphal blizzards of that winter. I hate even being near the place where they are reputed to have resorting to cannibalism to stay alive. In our more remote campsite we pitch our tents and turn-in early.

The next morning it’s there in the site next to ours. I stand in the dawn and stare, not at the distant shimmering lake but at Vanya’s camper. Just as in the past, she’s turned up during the night, and of course we didn’t hear anything. When Dad was alive, he’d hurry over to welcome her and so begin his hectic July 4th holiday. I remember how happy he always was but how tired he’d become and how it took several months at home for him to regain his strength. In those days, I assumed that it was because he would spend the days with us kids and then as soon as it was dusk he’d go over to Vanya’s and do whatever they did together. Now I come to think of it, I remember where I saw those two little spots before. It was on Dad’s neck as he drove us home from our holiday. I do not go over to Vanya’s, but Anna does. I wait ten minutes and then amble over to rescue my daughter. I am terse and rude but manage to invite Vanya to assist with the ashes.

We hike through the tall pines to a high overlook where Dad loved to come. The “we” is Anna, Vanya and I. The rest of the family and friends, including my two brothers, claimed other family commitments. I am annoyed but not surprised. For once I’m thankful for Vanya’s presence; she somehow makes the little ceremony more dignified. Although it is overcast Vanya wears dark glasses, a becoming hat, long-sleeved shirt and swirling long skirt. We say a few words and cast the light ashes into the wind. It amazes me that Dad has been reduced to this soft dust. I’d love to know how the undertaker does it.

In the afternoon Anna and a girl about her age from an adjacent camp site and I go surf-boarding. I drive, while they surf-board. Anna gives me the James Avery cross and chain that I gave her for her birthday entry into the teens. She tells me that she is frightened that it might get damaged or lost. I don’t have any pockets, and so I put it on.

That evening we make hot dogs over a camp fire. At sunset, Vanya joins us. I surprise myself by feeling a tinge of jealousy as she pays considerably more attention to Anna than to me. In the flickering firelight, Vanya looks like an unblemished teenager, one of Anna’s friends, although I know that she has to be over fifty. Some, like my ex-wife, for instance, might be tempted to kill to know her secret.

When it is time for Anna to turn in Vanya surprises me with an invitation to go for a short moonlit amble up the trail. I am so taken aback that I agree. The night is balmy, the moon full and bright, but I trip on a boulder. Vanya reaches for my hand, hers is cold but I take it rather enjoying the implied intimacy. I am becoming attracted to this enigmatic person and hate myself for doing so. We come to a patch of short grass in a clearing among the trees. Vanya, seemingly impulsive, suggests that we lie down and star gaze. I surprise myself by agreeing. Well, you can imagine the rest, one thing led to another and pretty soon we are in a tight embrace.

“Do you want to know why your Dad loved my company?” she hisses into my ear, her mouth so very close to my neck.

“Yes.” I murmur, for I am sure that she is about to show me.

She bites. I gasp in momentary pain but as my blood begins to flow I am raised to another realm. I am writhing in supreme ecstasy. As I twist and moan in pleasure, my shirt becomes loose and Anna’s little cross is exposed. I don’t know how Vanya sees it, but she does. She lets go, and the pleasure ceases.

“Why do you wear that? You mustn’t if we are to commune.” I reach to tear it off, but she restrains me, “You have had enough for now, maybe another day!”

I sit up and stare at her, “So you are a vampire?” I whisper, and she nods. So many questions run through my mind. I ask, “Do you always give such pleasure?” Again, she nods and I continue, “So that is why…….?” I don’t finish my question, as now I don’t need to.

We walk back to the camp-ground in silence but when we reach her camper, I ask another question.

“So why the interest in my daughter? You keep your lips off her, do you understand.”

She smiles her enigmatic smile, “Again, you have it all wrong. I mean her no harm. She is a virgin who hasn’t reached menses. I am near death for I am about a hundred and eighty years-old. I became what I am in this very place. Cannibalism, no, there was no human cannibalism but there were vampires they had to keep alive that winter. I was one of the Donner Party able to receive the vampire kiss and so here I am today. Before I die, I wish to prolong myself and transmit my characteristics to someone.”

I look at her searching her inscrutable face for a clue, “Convey what to her?”

“Convey her the gift of superior strength, the gift of immunity to human diseases, the gift of long life. I can do all this by one gentle nibble.”

“But” I stammer, “Won’t she become like you, a vampire, a lonely being thirsting for blood.”

“Like me, in exchange for blood, she will give pleasure beyond compare. She will pay her donors with a high. It is an experience which humans, like your father, will eventually wish to exchange their lives to repeat again and again. Think about it. Already you know that you will come back for more, and when you do I shall give you what you want, and you will give me what I want.”

The following morning Vanya’s camper was gone and the park was in uproar, apparently one of the campers took a midnight walk and fell into a cleft among the rocks. His body is mauled and a lot of blood lost. The park rangers speculate this to be the work of a bear or mountain lion. It rained in the early dawn, and footprints are obliterated. The police interview everyone, myself included. I do not share my concerns, they would surely ridicule such a strange story. It takes almost the whole day for things to return to normal by which time there is Vanya’s camper rolling back to its site next to our tents.

What next I wonder? It was easy to give the James Avery piece back to Anna and to tell her to wear it all the time, but I know that is not enough. I ponder deeply on the quotation attributed to 12-year-old, Elizabeth Kregan, in 1853. It is carved into a rock near the Donner Memorial statue. It reads:

“No one knows the strength of kindred love until it is tried.”

Is my kindred love being tried? Do I have the inner strength and love to save my daughter and forgo a repeat of the most unimaginable acutely addictive pleasure which Vanya gives?

Liam’s story

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When I posted my story “The Doc Salvages the Past” one of my readers challenged me to write the story from Liam’s point-of-view. I made two attempts. In the first, which I call “Vanya,” the characters took off in a different direction so that all the story retains is the setting. I intend to publish this story next week. The second attempt, ‘Liam’s story’ stays closer to “The Doc Salvages the Past.” I leave it open-ended as it didn’t want to wrap up neatly; perhaps one of my readers can offer an enticing idea for a conclusion.

Dad is on dialysis. It has been so long that we now give up hope of finding a compatible AB negative kidney donor before this thing takes him away. He is stoic and tells us to go on with our lives. I’m the oldest, at twenty-five, and he says that nothing would please him more than if I take my two brothers and the boat and spend July 4th at The Donner Memorial State Park.

We are known as  ‘The ‘three Ls’. ‘The three Ls ?’ you may ask; so I’ll explain. When Dad, Laurence, or Larry for short, met and married Lilly, they decided to celebrate their union by baptizing their children with names beginning with ‘L’. Kind ’a stupid, I say, but there we are. I’m Liam, the first born; then there is Lesley, who goes by Les, and Lenard, who has always been little Len. One Hallowe’en, we dressed up as red devils with pointed tails and horns; we said that we were “the three Ls from Hell.” Our school friends must have liked the alliteration because it became our nick-name and, much to our collective chagrin, stuck throughout our school years. 

We three Ls arrive at the park late afternoon and set up camp. The moraine dammed lake glimmers, a resplendent blue and the park smells of pine trees and damp earth. The air is crisp and bracing. The campsite next to ours is taken by a single young woman. She is frantically working to put up her tent. It is obvious that she knows nothing about tent raising, and so I walk over and offer my assistance. I introduce myself, and she responds that she is Doc. Anna. Soon I have her small tent securely erected, and she offers profuse thanks. She is not bad looking, and I can tell that she is taken by me. She says that she is going to the Visitor’s Center to learn about the park’s history. I plan to take the boat out with my brothers, so we part

I watch her from a distance as she walks to the Visitor’s Center. I find that place spooky because the memorial statue on its twenty-two-foot-high pedestal looms over everything. On this balmy July day, it is hard to imagine the twenty-two-feet of 1846/7 snow that the pedestal represents. The man in the statue’s group shields his eyes as he looks toward the future but the woman by his side clutches her baby as she faces ahead as though searching for what he sees. The child behind them looks exhausted; she crouches on her knees behind the man’s left leg. I often wonder if they are intended to be a representation of the ninety-plus poor souls who got marooned in this place the winter of 1846/7, and does it also memorialize the forty-nine survivors from the group, the ones, who, starving and freezing resorted to cannibalism to stay alive

We, three Ls, have a great time on the lake and return to our campsite exhausted and ready for food. We cook hot-dogs over a fire. Food tastes so much better out-of-doors especially when it is washed down with copious amounts of beer! It is dark by the time that we start to toast marshmallows for s’mores. Anna comes up the path. She looks utterly miserable and dejected. She seems to be talking to herself. I call out to her, 

“Hey Doc Anna, come and join us for toasted marshmallows!

She hesitates, and looks at us. By now we three L’s are bare-chested. We may be ‘The three Ls from hell’, but I know that we look great, more like every girl’s dream of ‘The three Ls from heaven’. We are sun-tanned, virile and happy. Our campsite carries a lingering aroma from our meal mingled with male musk and pine needles. The fire welcomes with crackles and dancing flames. She seems about to reject my offer but then starts to walk toward us

“I’d love to.

We exchange pleasantries and laugh a good deal. Doc Anna tells us about her medical school experience. I wonder if she tells us to let us know that she is single and available. Another odd thing; why does she introduce herself as Doc. Anna, why not plain Anna? I decide that this is a strange one, maybe a match for all three Ls. The beer relaxes her, and she gets emotional. She tells us that she is an insomniac suffering from nightmares. I must say that it the most unusual approach I’ve ever heard but play along. I only half hear her narrative about her night-mare as I am evaluating options. By now, I am sitting beside her with my arm about her shoulders to “comfort’ her. She snuggles against me

Now she is rambling on about the fated Donner Party. Apparently, she is descended from one of the survivors and carries a personal burden of guilt associated with the alleged cannibalism. I suppose that she is alluding to that biblical thing about the sins of the fathers visiting on the children, so I remind her that we are all descended from Adam and Eve and Cain and Able. If my brothers hadn’t been there to cramp my style, I’d have put some effort into seducing her and would have ended up in her tiny tent. As it is I walk her over and gallantly wish her good night

I awake in the night, probably due to the beer, and get up and walk over to the camp facilities. On the way back, I glance at Doc Anna’s tent. She has a flashlight on, and I can see her silhouette. It is odd; she is twirling what looks like a knife and appears to have something on her knees. She is making a soft moaning sound. I ask myself what she needs with a knife in the middle of the night. I creep back to my tent. A little later I hear an animal screaming I run outside. Doc Anna’s tent is empty. I begin to worry and check on Les and Len. Both are snoring peacefully. I trek back to the facilities. I go into the women’s side. I check every stall. It is empty, no sign of Doc. Anna. There is a full moon, and it is bright outside. I return to my tent and lie looking up at its walls. Bent figure looms into sight. I see the knife again, what is she doing?