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Mabel Washington - part one

Mabel Washington pulled her coat tighter around her as her eyes bounced left and right, scanning the shadows on the cobblestone path next to the river. Ahead a hundred yards was her bridge, gas-lamped brightly across its wide span. But she wasn’t there yet. Her shivering was not just from the dark.

Right here, what few shorefront businesses that were still open were mostly hidden behind large ash trees. The trees should have been trimmed recently to open up the dark walkway, but the work crews went where the poshes lived, keeping their streets bright and beautiful.

Mabel was returning from work at the flower shop. Today she closed. Her employer, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, had deemed it a light day, and besides, they had a party at the Williams tonight. They’d been looking forward for weeks. Mrs. Harrington had a new dress, and her husband desperately wanted to make the contacts at the party.

The sun set just as Mabel locked the front door of the shop. Her path home was a long walk, but she was used to that part. The lamp-lighters tipped their caps to her as they skipped up and down their ladders.

But this section, before the bridge, was dark. She hated it, and quickened her pace. Day after day she’d told herself there was nothing to be afraid of, but day after day she gripped her little handbag in near terror.

Finally though she was one dark spot away from the bridge lights when someone stepped directly in front of her.

She stopped, startled. She knew she should do something, but couldn’t think.

The person, tall, wearing a long cloak and gentleman’s top hat, took a step towards her.

She remembered then. She should scream. But before she could, a strong hand covered her mouth and a powerful arm wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground. There was something in the hand covering her mouth, some smell, something… that made her…head ache … and made her… sleepy.

The two tall figures rushed together and picked her up, carrying her easily to an enclosed coach on the road nearby. One gagged her, the other tied leather cords around her wrists and ankles. Seeing her unconscious, the one tying her wrists took off the gag. He didn’t want her to choke on her vomit.

The second man wore a laborer’s cap and he took the reins of the coach while the top-hatted man sat in the back watching over their prize.

Multiple turns down ever-darker streets brought them to a miserable riverfront shack that had once served as a temporary warehouse for river cargo. The men each took one of Mabel’s arms and carried her inside the shack. They waited nervously in the dark, and neither spoke.

In a moment a seedy steam tug came from down river and pulled into the remains of the dock.

“How many?” a grungy looking sailor said.

“Just one,” Mr. Top Hat replied.

The two abductors again wrapped the helpless woman’s arms around their shoulders and dragged her aboard the ship, through an open galley door and into a small compartment. They dropped her somewhat carefully – mustn’t damage the merchandise – onto a bed and tied her down, Top Hat tilting her head to one side, just in case.

Back on the open deck, another man, the ship’s captain, said, “Any trouble?”

They shook their head.

“She have a name?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Very well.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and drew out a thick wallet.

“Here you go, fifty each.”

The two men grinned eagerly.

“We won’t be back tomorrow, but the day after try to get us two. Understand?”

But the men were already thinking how they would be spending their loot in the next few minutes. Then again, they knew the routine.

The captain dismissed them with a small nod, then commanded his mate to turn back down river and out to sea.

In twenty minutes, Mabel’s still unconscious body was brought aboard a large steamer, anchored just off shore. The routine was well established. Put the new ones in a cabin till they came around. Later they would be moved below, with the others.

The steamer headed out to sea, but only a little way. It was just going across the channel, south along the coastline. Their prize was headed to a holding cell in a remote town, in a remote country. She would eventually be sent to a very exotic place, where nasty men would pay handsomely for such a strange creature.

That was the plan, but sometimes plans get changed.

This plan would change because Mabel Washington had a sister.

And Penny Washington was a pirate.

 

(to be continued)

Remains

The colors were astounding, though rust now was working with time to reverse the manufacturing process. Soon enough, all would be bare minerals again.

I stared at the huge boiler, wondering when it had last held steam. Not for some time, I imagined. I doubted even rats ventured in. Too many other, dryer, more promising holes to use for homes.

But I held out hope that I would be able to find something salvageable, something useful, in the midst of the dying building. I began climbing up stairs, over walkways rotted half away, one hand on whatever looked sturdy, eyes desperately scanning for clues, hints, messages that long-fled workers may have scrawled on walls and forgotten, but there was nothing. Nothing except official signs – “Hot”, “Danger”, “Main Steam Stop Valve”.

In idleness, I wondered if I could trace the flow of … anything – water, steam, oil, electricity. It seemed futile – everything disappeared into a wall or an overhead. There was no complete circuit in the room that I could find.

Except for one thing. Blood. A trail, sometimes thin, sometimes thick, browned with age, but unmistakable, even to my untrained eyes. I’m sure some expert could determine the direction – up or down, left or right, but I could only guess. Whoever it was that had been bleeding kept moving though. If it had been me, I think I would have worked my way out – to get help.

Unless I was being chased. Then I would go further in, try to find a hiding place.

I looked again at the big boiler. There was a large opening on the bottom, jagged on one edge like it had been cut open. Someone could crawl inside there and hide, I thought.

No, no. That would be a trap, a hidey hole with no way out. But maybe there were spaces around the boiler, along the sides, in back. I scrambled around, squeezing my way between pipes and walls. But there was nothing.

Well, why bother. Whatever had happened was a long time ago. Whatever mystery there was, would have to remain a mystery.

I made my way back down aching metal steps that bounced with my weight into an anteroom that must have served as a kind of office for the crew working the boilers. And there I saw it, or I should say, I saw him. What was left of him. Shreds of clothes hung on bits of bone, but it was recognizable as the skeleton of a man. Clearly the rats had torn away all that they wanted, leaving just enough.

I approached the remains, inadvertently kicking something as I stepped into the room. Bones of some kind. I wanted to respect what was left of him – the overalls seemed to be that of a man, not a woman – but respect had been denied him by the new rodent rulers of this realm.

There seemed to be some kind of marking on the upper part of the overalls. I bent down, straining my eyes in the poor light. It was a name: “Johns…”. Just Johns. I think there was more to it, but the fabric was gone.

Well, Johns, I thought, sorry for your plight. I wish I could do something for you, but you seem to be resting peacefully. I hope you don’t mind – I’m just going to leave you here. Good luck. If I see any of your friends, I’ll tell them you said hi.

I backed out. I thought about trying to bury his bones, despite my goodbye speech, then thought I’d see if I had the time later. I did not expect to.

Something about Johns’ fate burned in my head, and it seemed best to leave. There was no way for me to tell how long he’d been there, but it sure seemed like he had been hurt - cut or shot or something - and whoever did it to him, just might be interested in doing it to me.

I made my way outside, then crossed the empty area around the factory back through the remains of the fence and into the woods beyond.

It suddenly occurred to me that eventually the woods would win. They would march closer and closer to the factory, then finally strangle it and take it down. Maybe the factory’s metals would enrich the soil for the trees and the weeds, maybe there would be a shallow spot in the growth for a while until the metallic poisons washed away. The rats would still be there, though, I was pretty sure.

I turned away.

Storm

(An excerpt from Joy, Peace, Hope, Love, available on Amazon and other places).

 

Waiting for the blessed hope, the appearing.

 

Storms came through all the time, some heavy, some easy, some monsters. You couldn’t always tell. The weathermen, they lie, they don’t know.

It was hot that July day, you know how they get. Off east there was dark clouds and stuff, but the wind was blowing east, pushing everything away.

Mindy had me running to the store for some stuff, you know, last minute stuff – diapers for the baby, more paper plates, napkins, you know, for the party, the baby’s birthday party.

I couldn’t believe little Mikey was one year old already. How did that happen? It was so fast. We just brought him home from the hospital a few days ago, seems like.

Mom and Dad were coming to the party for sure, but my brother Jake wasn’t sure. The oil jobs were paying big bucks and it was only a baby’s party. I guess I didn’t blame him. I was that way a few years back. You know, back before I met Mindy and we got married and all and then Mikey came. Everything changed. Everything was always changing, you know.

I didn’t mind. I love Mindy. She’s incredible. Somehow, I don’t know, she gets me, she puts up with me. She’s terrific. And Mikey. How do you let a kid take over you, you know?

Anyway, I was coming back from the store in the pickup when I felt the temperature drop. I mean fast. I couldn’t see any clouds in front of me at first. But then, out of the corner of my eye, from the north the sky looked darker. Then it came up from the south. I bet the temperature dropped twenty degrees. I still didn’t see nothing ahead of me, but then there was a raindrop on the windshield, then more, then a ton, all of a sudden like, you know.

The squall line came up behind me from the east and started pounding the road and the fields. I barely got the window rolled up when it started pouring. It about a minute the first lightning hit and then BOOM, the thunder blasted me. It was right on top of me.

I slowed, you know. You’ve got to slow down. I heard it somewhere that the first twenty minutes of a rainstorm are the most dangerous ‘cause the road oils mix with the rain and make it really slick. You know, till the water gets to wash most of it away.

Anyway, I eased up, then eased up some more. It started coming down in buckets. The wipers weren’t really keeping up so everything was a big blur. I knew the road. It was a straight shot home, maybe 8, 10 miles straight on to the turnoff, so I thought I would just keep going, you know. Take it easy, keep it pointed straight and I’d get there, a little later but I’d get there.

But then it rained even harder. I couldn’t see a thing. I slowed even more, then edged over to the side. I was pretty sure no one would run up on me ‘cause they couldn’t see nothing neither. I could feel the gravel under the tires and just stopped.

The sky was dark but flashes of lightning lit everything up over and over and I could see I was near that little stand of oak trees about seven miles from my place – you know where I mean? I didn’t really want to be under trees, but they were about 80 feet from the road, so, you know.

Anyway, more lightning, more thunder. The wind picked up and started shaking the truck, like I was bouncing along in the fields or something. I gotta admit I was getting a little scared.

The thing I was thinking was tornado. I wasn’t in one before, but I heard, everybody always said there was always lots of wind blowing every which way. I started thinking about what to do. Should I jump out of the truck and like hide in a ditch or something?

A blast of wind rocked me and I about decided. I was going to jump out, run to one of the big trees and hold on, maybe wrap my belt around the tree and me somehow. I put my hand on the door handle and tried to judge a good time to jump, like wait for the wind to settle for a few seconds and then just bail out of there and go for it.

I waited. The wind didn’t stop. I think it grew stronger. The truck started leaning to the right, pushed by the wind. The rain was like a fire hose right on me, right on the door.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped.

I jumped out and ran to the first tree I could find. I whipped my belt off and looped one end around one wrist, then around the tree, then I sort of tried to wrap it and tie around the other wrist.

The wind came back, but it pushed me into the tree. I got soaked in a second.

I just held on.

And I … I guess I started to pray. I told God I knew I was a dirty punk, but please forgive me, please help me out of this. I don’t want to die. I gotta get back to Mindy and Mikey. Especially Mikey – he’s so little, he really needs me right now. Please God. Please. Please God.

More lightning. More thunder. I swear a bolt of lightning hit a few feet away from me. I suddenly felt like my skin was on fire – I guess it was the electricity or something.

But I held on, with all my might, with everything I had.

Somehow, someway, the wind started dying. I was so soaked I couldn’t tell if the rain had stopped, you know the rain right on top of me. I guess so. I bet it was a half hour when I thought it was over. I was barely hanging on, my knees were so weak. I couldn’t even feel my arms. It took me another couple minutes to straighten up, then somehow untangle my belt from my wrists. I soon as the belt broke free I fell to the ground. I was wiped out.

I manage to kind of roll over to my hands and knees then work my way back up using the tree for support, you know.

I looked up and saw my truck was still there. I don’t know how.

And the roads were actually dry. The wind had pushed all the water off ‘em somehow.

I staggered back to the truck like I was drunk. When I got to the door and put my hand on the handle I realized my hand was shaking. Adrenaline, I guess.

It took me another five minutes to start the truck up again. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the truck, I just couldn’t calm down enough to get it going.

Finally I started rolling again, slowly. The fields were flattened. These were Johnson’s fields, but I knew mine had to be the same.

I drove on, half expecting to see my house gone, but it was still there. In fact, it didn’t look too bad. The fence was knocked over by the driveway, but otherwise it was okay. I couldn’t believe it.

I parked and started walking to the door, my legs mostly steady. To my surprise, there was Mindy, smiling, relaxed, like nothing had happened. I found out later the storm wasn’t that bad just at the house.

I stepped in and Mikey came toddling over, wobbling along. He wrapped his arms around my legs.

I couldn’t reach down to pick him up. I could just stand there staring at Mindy.

I guess I was just, you know, thanking God, for, you know, everything.

 

Doc's House

Christina, her brother called her Chris, folded the crisply clean bandages tightly and pushed them to the back of the shelf, where her brother, Doc Reckins, could get at them easily. She picked up the package the postman had delivered that morning and started inventorying the medicines. Nothing too valuable, but Doc liked to keep everything in the locked fridge to keep them fresh.

One hand pushed back the blond hair from her face behind her ear. It was always falling forward and she often forgot anymore to pin it with a barrette. She knew she was what people called “a handsome woman”. They meant it as a compliment – that she was strong, not a stunning beauty, but pleasant. Some of the local gents had buzzed around in time past, but she usually shushed them away. Lately, she had thoughts about the days and nights that were too, too quiet.

This morning Doc was tending the Michael’s woman, six months along and struggling a bit with the pregnancy. Jan Michael, the husband, had asked Doc to stop by to look in on his wife. This was their second and Betty seemed more tired than usual.

Christina had agreed with her brother than Betty needed some vitamins, and more rest, and would probably be okay.

A lonely old squawking crow caught Christina’s attention and she looked out at the warming day. There were usually songbirds. The crow meant someone was coming.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she moved over to the door to look down the road. Nothing north. She turned. In the distance someone was walking unsteadily. It took her a minute to see it was a tall man, staggering, holding his hand over his right side. Without hesitation she moved out to the road and towards him.

He looked up and saw her, then reached out with his other hand in her direction.

She ran to him and just caught him with her shoulder as his knees buckled. She wrapped his arm around her shoulder and drag-walked him back to the house.

“What happened, mister?” she asked as he stumbled.

The man winced and said, “I’ve been stabbed, here on my right side. I’m looking for the doctor.”

“This is his place. He’s away just now, but he’ll be back soon. I’ll take care of you till he gets back.”

She managed to get him into the examination room, which was also the operating room, and they together got him up on the table, laying back. He still held his right side and there was lots of blood.

Christina pulled out a small basin, filled it from the faucet, then grabbed a bandage. She carefully moved the man’s hand away from the wound, then pealed back his soaked shirt. He looked like he’d been traveling – his clothes were worn and dusty and he had bit of a scruffy beard.

The wound looked ugly, but she’d seen worse. It also looked like the bleeding was slowing. She decided, she would clean it out carefully and pour on some antiseptic.

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Bout an hour ago.”

Yes, she thought, clean it, press a bandage on it to stop or slow the bleeding. Her brother should be able to sew it up when he got back, if it wasn’t too long.

The man seemed to be recovering a bit from the pain and finally noticed who it was who was helping him.

“When do you think the doc will be back?”

Christina smiled. People usually doubted her ability to help at first, till they saw her calm helpful actions.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. This wound doesn’t look too bad, but the doctor will probably want to put in some stitches when he gets back. Till then, we’ll just stop the bleeding and keep the wound clean.”

The man blinked. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t help. Guess I’m not thinking too straight.”

Christina finished cleaning and covering the cut, though she had to gently push the man back on the table a couple of times.

“Just lay back. We want that bleeding to stop.”

He gave a long sigh, then stopped struggling.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

Just then Christina noticed his smile. She blinked, shook her head slightly, so he didn’t see. What are you doing, she said to herself, the man is hurt! But after she’d stopped fussing over him, she stood next to the table and placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him. When she lowered it, he grabbed it and held her hand.

She was a little confused. Was he just needing some comfort? That cut probably still hurt. Or was he just holding her hand because he wanted to?

With his free hand he brushed back his longish dark hair and gave out another sigh.

“What’s your name?” he said simply.

“Christina. Yours?”

“Johnson, Rick Johnson.” A pause. “Don’t you want to know how this happened?”

She thought for a second, but something about his calmness told her it was okay. “Yes. What happened?”

“A couple fellas jumped me at my campsite a few miles south of here. Stole my horse and my rig. I tried to grab one of ‘em when the other fella stabbed me. They took off, west I think. I been making my way here since then.”

“Oh, you’ll want Sheriff Tenet! You need to report this!”

“Yes ma’am, Christina. But I thought I better see to this cut first.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

She smiled, her mind racing. She should get a message to the Sheriff right away. And she should see if somebody could go get her brother to hurry back. And she should … keep watching that bandage. And she should …

She should think about why she was still holding his hand.

“Um, Christina?” the man began, “I, uh, notice you’re not wearing a ring. So you must be the doc’s …?”

“Sister,” she said.

He smiled. “Ah, good.”

She thought mightily what to say next. Finally she got out, “Um, why were you traveling? Where were you headed?”

“Well, I was headed to National City up ahead. I was hoping … well, to start things up again. Had some bad times back home. My uncle asked me to come help him run the general store. Maybe you know him – Peter Hooking?”

“Oh yes. I know Peter. We all know Peter. Good man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“So,” Christina said hesitantly, “you’ll probably staying for a while?”

He took a moment to answer. He looked right at her just like all those old beaus had done in days past.

“Yup. I believe I’ll be staying for quite a while.”

Christina gave a little smile, then pulled her hand away to take a look at the bandage. Seeing it was soaked, but the bleeding had almost stopped, she put that bandage in the sink and grabbed a clean one, carefully and gently placing it over the wound.

She could feel his eyes following her every move.

And when she was done with the bandage, she looked right back at him, and grabbed his hand again.

 

 

Dinner Party

From Tracks, a story collection book.

Also available on Amazon.

“When are they arriving?” Jonathan said, clearly dreading the moment.

“Oh shush,” Mary responded, “They’ll get here when they get here. Never mind. Come help me in the kitchen.”

Jonathan slumped again, trying to show his boredom to his wife, but she was having none of it. She was too busy with last minute fussings. She hustled to the kitchen, Jonathan dragging along behind, and she greeted Martha, the caterer, and Martha’s assistant, Jules, a young woman who seemed eager to be learning the catering business from her older, more mellow boss.

“How are things going?” Mary asked.

“The turkey is browning nicely,” Martha replied, “and the mashed potatoes are underway. Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Montelly.”

Mary smiled, but couldn’t help peeking in various pots on the stove and the pastry dough being rolled out on the counter by Jules. That was for the pies, berry and apple, whose ingredients were setting in bowls on the counter, waiting to be stuffed in the crusts.

“Is there anything I can do?” Mary asked, probably for the twentieth time.

Martha smiled. She was used to this kind of nervousness from her employers.

“Perhaps you and Mr. Montelly could decide on which of the wines you’d like to start with.” Martha had a small set of vintages laid out, and she knew the Montellys couldn’t go wrong with any of them. And it gave them something to do.

Jonathan perked up a bit. He led Mary to the pantry area and began reading the labels, though he was no connoisseur and was just guessing. Mary gave him a skeptical eye, but having seen the meal preparations in a good state, was content to let Jonathan have a little something to do.

She was a little more worried about her quest list. Some relatives, some friends, some local business people she was trying to impress. It should be a good blend; she wanted it to be as low-key as possible, but you never knew.

The one pair of guests who were an unknown quantity were the new police chief, Staley Swenson and her husband Tom. Captain Swenson had just been hired as chief in the small mountain town of Pinecrest Meadows, population 5,238 (out of season), and her husband was some kind of semi-retired financier – Mary intended to learn more about him today. The Swensons and Montellys went to the same church, and Mary had decided to have the little Thanksgiving party as a sort of welcome for the chief. There were only two other officers in the Pinecrest Meadows police force, one young man – Tommy Jensen - and one younger woman – Amy… something or other, Mary forgot her last name at the moment.

Mary had told the guests to be there about 6, but she didn’t expect to begin the meal till 7. It was now 4:45.

Just then the phone rang. It was Amy Matthews, the second police officer.

“Oh, hello, Miss Matthews,” Mary said, suddenly a little worried. “Is there something the matter?”

“Yes, Mrs. Montelly, I’m afraid so. We’ve had a call this afternoon about a death in town. The chief asked me to call you and say she wouldn’t be able to make your dinner party tonight.”

“Oh no,” Mary said, upset more at the change in plans than the death. “Are you sure? Was it an accident of something?”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid it was foul play. At any rate, Chief Swenson sends her regrets.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I understand,” Mary said, though she didn’t understand. But she said, “Duty calls!”

“Yes ma’am. Well, thank you. Good bye.”

“Drat!” Mary said aloud. It was just about the harshest expletive she ever used, so Jonathan turned to her immediately.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked.

“It’s the chief and her husband. I guess there’s been a murder in town and they can’t make it tonight!”

Jonathan knew his wife well and quickly figured out why she was so upset. The dinner party, after all. But he was very interested in the news. He thought of saying something more to his wife, what else she knew, then quickly figured some discretion might be wise. He mumbled and fumbled around a bit, but Mary quickly forgot about him and went into the kitchen to inform the caterer about the change.

Good, Jonathan thought.

He slipped away to his study, a room that had been his office when he had been a lawyer. Now that he was at least semi-retired the room was a quiet spot to read and, on occasion, watch the ball game. Now he called his old friend Bill Williams, the editor of the town’s weekly newspaper the PM Gazette (and also an invitee to this evening’s party).

Jonathan kept his voice low, so Mary wouldn’t hear. “Bill,” he said when his friend answered the phone, “I just heard there’s been a death in town. What have you heard?”

“Hi Jonathan. Yes, we just got word ourselves. It’s Manny Watts.”

“Manny Watts was killed?” Watts was a well know realtor in the city, gregarious and wealthy, and coincidentally, another of their dinner guests.

“Yes. Shot, from what we’ve heard so far.”

“When did it happen? What did you hear?”

“Today, I guess. We’re just learning about it too. I guess his secretary found him in his office.”

“Huh. Any suspects?”

“Well, you’d know as much as I do. You know Watts was rumored to be involved in some funny real estate deals. And then there was his campaign to get the lake front property zoned for commercial development – you know people didn’t like that.”

“Yeah.”

“And of course, there was …um…there was…” He was clearly hesitating.

“You mean the rumors he was fooling around on Betty?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. I didn’t know if you’d heard that or not.”

“Wow, that leaves kind of a long list of people with a motive.”

“Yep. So anyway, it looks like we won’t make it tonight.”

Jonathan reacted with mixed feelings. Bill was one of his good buddies. Jonathan had counted on him to rescue him from a tedious night. On the other hand, maybe the whole evening …

“Hey, Bill,” Jonathan said, “I gotta go. Let me call you back. And I’ll tell Mary about tonight.”

“Okay, thanks. Talk to you later.”

Jonathan hung up just in time to hear Mary on the house phone saying, “Oh no! Not you too! Oh, this is terrible…”

He put two and two together and guessed someone else was cancelling. Uh oh. It was beginning to look like there wasn’t going to be a party at all – they were going to have a lot of leftovers.

He hesitated, then decided he better face the music and see how his wife was doing. As he followed the sound of her voice to the phone in the kitchen, he braced himself.

One look at the scowl on Mary’s face told him he’d guessed right. Someone cancelled. She hung up the phone and glared at him.

“That was the Bentons. They can’t make it tonight! Because of this death thing! Someone was shot!”

“Yes, hon, I know. I just talked to Bill Williams, they can’t come either.”

“What!”

“Sorry, honey. Bill says it was probably a murder – Manny Watts!”

Mary’s jaw dropped and she couldn’t find the words.

But she recovered quickly. Once again, Jonathan was impressed at his wife’s ability to adapt quickly to surprises – the bigger the surprise, the faster the reaction, as a matter of fact. She began ordering Martha to stop the dinner preparations, told him she was going to cancel the party – “well, I guess that’s best” he managed to say – then she went to the phone in the back room and began dialing – calling the rest of the guests with the news.

But before she finished those calls, Jonathan’s office phone rang. He expected Bill to be calling back, but it was Chief Swensen. She had some questions, she said. Could he and Mary come in to the station, right away?

He went to the back room to hear Mary speaking to someone with her best phone voice, then she hung up, and in her regular tone she muttered to him and to no one in particular, “Drat, drat, drat.”

Three drats. She was upset.

“Did you get a hold of everybody?” he asked.

She nodded, clearly annoyed and unhappy.

“Well, I’m afraid I have some more bad news, honey.”

Mary raised an eyebrow in a clear warning sign, but he had to push on. “Chief Swensen just called. She wants us to drop by her office right away. She has some questions.”

Jonathan thought he could actually see steam coming out of Mary’s ears. On the way to the small police station in town, Mary hardly said a word, except for muttering something about a ‘ruined, just ruined dinner party.’

But nothing could describe Mary’s facial expression when she walked into the station and saw, in chairs and standing, all of her would-have-been dinner guests. What? All of them had information that the police wanted to know?

The two junior officers were trying to make their ‘guests’ comfortable, mostly by apologizing over and over for the inconvenience, this won’t take long, yes, please have a seat.

Just then Chief Swenson came into the outer room from her office. She raised a hand and strangely enough, everyone quieted down.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. I’m Police Chief Staley Swenson. I’m sorry to have to take your time this evening, but a rather serious matter has come up that requires immediate attention. I’m guessing that by now you’ve all heard that someone has been shot, a Mr. Manny Watts.”

She was holding a manila folder with several papers inside. “I believe you all have had dealings with Mr. Watts in one way or another. Since there is some urgency to the case, I’ve called you all in here to ask you a few questions. I believe this won’t take long.”

She glanced at the folder again. “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, if I might speak to you first?” She gestured to her office and the Williams filed in, Chief Swenson gesturing to Officer Jenson to come along and then entering herself and closing the door behind her.

The hubbub sprang up again almost immediately. Jonathan wanted to ask the men in the room what they knew, but thought it wise to check on his wife first. But she was already jabbering away at Muriel Jacobsen, so he figured it was safe.

He cornered Dan Miller and Bill Nash. “Guys, what have you heard?” he said.

Bill responded, “Only that Manny had been shot straight through the heart.”

Dan added, “I heard he been shot multiple times. Like someone really wanted him dead real bad.”

Jonathan shook his head, “Yeah, I guess there’s probably lots of suspects.” He paused, thinking. He looked up. “Any idea why we’re all here?”

His two friends both shook their heads. Jonathan wanted to ask some more questions when the Chief’s door opened and group walked out, Office Jensen, Tommy, still scribbling furiously in a pad in his hand. The chief shook the Williams hands, then asked the Millers to join her. Dan and Betty went in and the door closed again.

Jonathan asked Bill Williams what the chief had wanted to know.

“Mostly where we were last night between ten and two. Of course we were home in bed. Then she asked if we’d heard of a Vito Conchenza. We never heard of him, of course.”

Jonathan had a small flash in his mind, like he’d heard the name before, but nothing firm followed the flash.

“Oh, and Jonathan, she said we should be a bit more careful for the next few days, and be sure and report anything suspicious.”

Jonathan’s eyebrow raised involuntarily. “Humph. That’s mysterious!”

Bill nodded. “Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna take Betty home, then I’m coming back to see if I can get the rest of the story.  Do me a favor, keep your ears open till I get back.”

“Okay,” Jonathan said.

The Williams hurried off and in a moment the Millers came out of the Chief’s office. Another couple was called in, the Bentons.

A quick conversation with Dan confirmed to Jonathan that the same questions had been asked, and the same warning given. When they left, Jonathan made his way over to his wife and summed up what he’d learned.

Mary took his hand and for the first time that evening, he could see that the annoyance had gone from her, to be replaced by fear.

Jonathan was surprised when it turned out he and Mary were the last ones to be called into the inner office. Jonathan’s eyes were wide open, scanning everything.

“Mr. and Mrs. Montelly, first let me apologize…”

Mary interrupted. “Please, call me Mary.”

The chief smiled. “Of course, Mary. Please call me Staley. I’m so sorry to spoil your dinner party. I hope you can understand.”

“Of course,” Mary said.

“I’m afraid I must ask you a few questions.”

They both nodded.

“First where were you last night between ten and two a.m.?”

Jonathan answered, “In bed asleep, of course.”

“Yes. And could you tell me how you know Mr. Watts?”

Jonathan summarized their relationship – mostly just friends from church. They hadn’t had any financial dealings with Manny. They sometimes shot a round of golf together.

There was a long pause. Then the chief said calmly, “And have you heard from Mr. Watts wife Betty today?”

They were both taken aback. They had completely forgotten about her. They turned to each other, until finally Mary said, “Umm, no, we haven’t. Is she okay?”

The chief didn’t respond right away, clearly weighing how much to say. Finally she said, “Well, I’m afraid she’s missing.” She stared hard at the Montelly’s, trying to gauge their reaction.

“One other question. What do you know of Vito Conchenza?”

They both shook their heads, and Jonathan said, “Never heard of him.”

Chief Swenson turned to Office Jensen, who continued to write furiously, but finally stopped and looked up.

The Chief rose and it was clear the interview was over, when Mary spoke up. “Chief Swensen, Staley, please, can you tell us what happened? Is Betty all right? Is she in some kind of danger? Are we in danger? And who’s this Vito … whatever his name is?”

Swenson started to speak when suddenly the phone on her desk rang.  She picked it up quickly.

“Chief Swenson,” she said, then she listened followed by a “What?” “Where?” and “Well, I’ll be.”

She listened a few more moments, then finally said, “Yes I guess that will do for now. I’ll contact the District Attorney and we’ll let the lawyers work out the next steps. Okay. Thank you.”

She hung up, shaking her head, and then suddenly realized she had the Montelly’s in the office with her still.

“I’m sorry,” she began. She gave a little chuckle, then said, “I guess I may as well tell you what’s happened. That was the State Police. They’ve arrested Mrs. Watts. She was fleeing the state when they pulled her over – we’d put out an APB on her. When they brought her in for questioning, she confessed to everything. She said she shot her husband. She’d apparently found out he’d been cheating on her.”

Jonathan blinked several times. Mary thought of saying something, but no words came.

“The thing is, at the crime scene we found some strange notes. One looked like a confession from Mr. Watts about a bad deal he was in with a Mr. Vito Conchenza. But that was just a nonsense name she invented to throw us off the track. The note said Conchenza was going to “get” everyone who’d cheated on him. But what threw us off with another note that mentioned your dinner party tonight, Mrs., Monte…Mary.

“We didn’t know what to think – if all of those at the party were involved, or if they were in danger… Anyway, she, Mrs. Watts, confessed to the whole thing.”

Swenson shook her head and gave a little smile. “That’s gotta be the quickest I’ve ever “solved” a case!”

Jonathan and Mary returned the smile.

As they were leaving, Bill Williams appeared in the doorway.

“Did you learn anything I can put in the paper?” he asked Jonathan.

Jonathan smiled. “Better ask the chief.”

He turned to Mary. “And I guess we’ll be rescheduling the dinner party for …?”

Mary let out a long sigh. “Next Friday, I guess.”

Well, Jonathan thought, at least that party won’t be boring!

Guitar Man

From Joy, Peace, Hope, Love, A Christmas Advent Collection , available on Amazon, or in various ebook formats here.

From the section called Hope.

 

Though he slay me, I will hope in him.

The cold wind drove the rain through the streets, splashing angrily off towering concrete and glass pretenders to the throne of money and icy hearts.

Curtis D’Angelo futilely turned up the collar of his faded, thin overcoat that used to be gray but was now more brown. He had a hat, a Dodger’s hat he’d picked up somewhere. Threadbare at the rim, it caused tiny waterfalls in front of his face. Curtis paid no attention. He pressed against the building, somebody’s Savings and Loan, working his way around to the alley, and there down a block or two. There was a restaurant whose back door had a little awning, and sometimes there was scraps.

The others let him have that one – it was Curt’s Place.

He knew there wasn’t going to be any money today from people dropping singles, sometimes fives, into his guitar case while he played.

Truth was, he was pretty good. Or anyway, he had been, back when. Back before. Back before … you know … Sheila left … before the bottle. He’d told himself her leaving was first, then the alcohol, but maybe it was the other way around. Now he mostly wondered … what was all this for?

The rain showed no sign of mercy as sheets swept the roads and sidewalks. The few people who dared out, dashed under big umbrellas to waiting cars, or sometimes to the dark, dryer, subway tunnels.

The advertising lights behind the glass sparkled like Christmas lights, and they were surrounded by real Christmas lights, but the gray rain washed a curtain over the windows and Curtis didn’t appreciate the intended festiveness.

It had in fact been some time since he noticed things like Christmas lights, St. Patrick’s Day clovers, Fourth of July banners. Someone would remind him of the current season and he’d try to work in a song or two that fit; sometimes the swarms of workers and tourist bees were bigger. Whatever, as long as they dropped a few bucks in the case.

He had a place, sort of. One room and a bath, and they let him have a hot plate. Once in a long while someone would insist on buying him a meal at Ginny’s. He put on the show he knew they were expecting – ‘Gosh, thanks. I don’t know what to say. It’s been a long time since anybody did something this nice for me!’

He was glad for the meal. But his heart was cold, tired, wandering like a little boy lost in a wood.

He made it to his restaurant place, the awning, Curt’s Place, and ducked under, but he was already soaked and the wind sprayed cold mist even under this shelter. He turned his back to it and dug in the trash can there. Nothing. Some cardboard boxes that had held lettuce or something were stacked, and there were a few scraps – some carrot pieces.

He nibbled, thinking he would make his way home, the day was a wash. But then a memory came to him, thin and wispy. Home, way back. Outside there was snow, but there was a table with a tablecloth, dishes at several place settings, knives, forks, and plates of food – mashed potatoes, a bean casserole, meat (turkey?) stacked in slices on a large platter. There was noise, people chattering, music, kids running around. Yeah, he was one of them, those kids, but he was standing still, looking at the scene, there but not there, taking it in, feeling the heat, smelling the gravy and the turkey, seeing the flickering candles.

A burst of drumming rain broke his thought.

He decided. Dash home, even though there was no food in his room. Maybe he’d find something on the way. Maybe someone would give him something. He picked up his guitar case and dove into the cold wetness.

Curtis’ Place, his real place, was about six blocks over. He tilted his head into the wind and splashed on. He stepped over most of the puddles he saw, though his thin shoes were wet through already. He finally made his doorway and pushed in.

It wasn’t much warmer, but it was quieter, and he slogged his way up the stairs at the back of the hall to the third floor. His room was on the right. Another room was straight ahead, and there was Jonny in the room on the left. Curtis thought the room straight ahead was empty, anyway, he hadn’t heard any noise from it for a few days and with the thin walls, he should have heard.

He closed the door behind him, propped the guitar case against the corner, found a clothes hanger, and peeling off his coat, hung it from the shower nozzle in the tub. It dripped prodigiously.

He kicked off his shoes and put them in the tub as well. He had one other pair of socks, so he changed out of his wet ones. The rest of his clothes he draped over the lone chair, as he climbed under his blanket, an old dull green with U. S. Army stenciled on it.

He curled up, trying to get warm. Hunger burned in his stomach, but fatigue won out and he drifted to sleep.

Sometime hours later he woke with a start. The darkness confused him for a second, till he realized it must be the middle of the night. He rolled over a few times, but realized he couldn’t sleep, so he dressed in his mostly dry, though cold, clothes.

He sat back down on the bed, leaning against the wall. Night noises, cars, horns, some people talking – he heard as background. To him, it was a quiet night.

Like so many others.

But then he heard a new sound, a voice. He couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from, only it was outside. A woman was singing.

He went to the window and saw the rain had stopped, but he could tell the wind still whistled between the buildings.

The woman was singing a Christmas Song, The First Noel.

How could that be?

Oh yes, he quickly remembered. It was close to Christmas.

“The First Noel the angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds
In fields as they lay.”

The woman’s voice was soft and sweet, and he remembered someone, (was it his mom, or maybe his sister?), singing that song.

“In fields where they

lay keeping their sheep,

on a cold winter's night

that was so deep.”

Something, he didn’t know what, made him go to his guitar case and bring out his old guitar. He knew this song.

Without another thought he began strumming, playing long-familiar chords, but his mind drifted.

A cold, deep winter’s night. Like this one. Those shepherds, alone, seeing something they’d never seen before, hearing something they’d never heard.

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel

And he remembered.

The woman stopped, but he kept playing. His fingers ached, and then his heart did.

And then the woman started singing again, singing along with him.

 

A Grand Thing

Excerpt from Joy, Peace, Hope, Love, a Christmas Advent Collection.

 

“So, you’re saying this is to be different, more different than anything we have ever seen before?”

“Yes, very different. We will not recognize it.”

Number Ninety-five shook his head. “I don’t know. We have seen so much! Grand things! Glorious things! Don’t we sing of them all day long? Isn’t He worthy of all our songs? Hasn’t He done above all anyone can think or do?”

One-oh-four nodded. “This is surely true. My heart swells with joy when I think of all these things. But I have heard! It is coming! And very soon!”

Ninety-five looked on his friend and companion. This one had never lied to him before. He had never fooled him with foolish tales, stories of nonsense that no one should believe.

But this!

He looked up into the darkening sky. The last rays of the day were just barely warming the clouds in the west. The moon was already up and, in the east, sprinkled stars flickered on. The night was glorious, true, but there had been many glorious nights, nights of wonder, nights when even the heavy darkness could not withstand the glory of the carpet of spectacle. Was this such a night also?

Still, Ninety-five wondered, how did his friend know? How could he know? Who could have told him?

He moved closer to his friend, and the two of them moved along a simple dirt path to the brow of a hill. There were hills all around them, and rocky outcroppings. Dim lights glowed on the far horizon to the south and the east – other villages that had not yet shut for the night. Below them just ahead, was another such village, just like the others, yet, somehow, tonight it looked different.

One-oh-four pointed to the eastern edge of the town. It was clearly a poor town, humble from every house and street. A few people still moved about, but they were clearly headed somewhere – surely they were headed home. One-oh-four pulled his companion closer so he could sight along his outstretched arm.

There, Ninety-five could just make them out. Two people, moving slowly, one of them, (a woman?) riding an animal. Must be a donkey, Ninety-five told himself. Then the couple disappeared around a corner.

He looked at his friend. “Yes, I see them. What of it?”

“They are the ones! The chosen ones!”

Ninety-five snapped his head back in that direction, straining to see something, but the man and the woman did not reappear.

He turned back. “And what are we to do?”

“I don’t know, not all of it. I was just told to be ready. We would know.”

Ninety-five said, “I’m not sure what that means, but I have to say, and I clearly see there is something very different here, with us.” He paused, searching for the words, “I … I get a feeling of … great joy. Of His joy, spilling out even more than ever before.”

“Yes, we’ve all felt it. How could we not?”

One-oh-four breathed rapidly, eyes bright even in the darkness. Ninety-five smiled at his friend, then turned to survey the scene again. There was little light now from east to west, north to south. But he could feel the people down in all the valleys and villages. He’d heard them speaking day and night, praying, hoping for … Something … Someone … to come, to help them, to deliver them.

And this, this was when it was going to happen. With each passing moment, as more stars brightened, he could feel it, he could sense it. A cool breeze swept across them, bringing freshness, bringing expectation.

Suddenly, Ninety-five stretched his arms to heaven in joyfulness. He saw his companion next to him do the same.

And a memory came to him. A memory of a promise made a long time before, way, way back.

A prophet, just a man, but a man who had been told what to say by Him. A promise of a change so great and wonderful and powerful that all the heavens and the even the rocks of the earth would want to shout for joy.

Suddenly a crack, like thunder sounded, but deeper, shaking their insides.

Above them a light exploded, from horizon to horizon, but only for a split second. And there was another sound, so rich and sweet and strong, they felt to their knees weeping, but weeping tears of joy.

A hand came down on his shoulder. Ninety-five thought it was his companion, but it was, instead, their master, the wise one, the teacher. The three of them were motionless, gasping for breath, not knowing where to look but still seeing everything they could.

Then the sky went dark again.

The trio did not move for a long time.

Finally the master spoke. “Did I not tell you, One-oh-four, that tonight would be a wonder? A wonder like we have never seen!”

Their breathing slowed. One-oh-four stood shakily, turning excitedly left and right, grinning.

Ninety-five also stood. He looked at his friend, then the master.

“I … I have only one question, master.”

“Yes?”

“Why? Why would He do this? These people, they … rebel. They grumble. They even curse Him sometimes. Why would He do this? Why would He … change everything?”

The master sighed a deep sigh, then closed his eyes. Ninety-five watched by the light of the stars as an expression of great peace came across his master’s face.

“My son,” he said softly, “it was love.”

Ninety-five stared at him.

“Yes,” he thought. “That was it. That was always it.”

“Love.”

Fern Man, part 1

A flutter of wings, a whisper of air, and his heart quickens.

He hears a fern tickling the breeze, making it quiver, puffing out the dusty irritant.

Jonafer pulls on the leather around his waist, cinching it for battle. A flicker of light on the horizon illuminates a small spot in the darkness, near the horizon, near the earth, near the city where the battle rages. Near where he must go.

The sun burns above him, for there are many leagues between his hillside glade and the war. Here the day has already stirred awake. There, the people tremble in their dreams and in their beds.

There he has been called.

He must run. His horse sought peace years ago and grazes still further leagues away, no longer willing to plunge into fire. Now he wanders, seeking healing for wounds that are inside.

Jonafer’s wounds will not heal, not yet. They are too fresh. They bleed still, inside. But he has no choice.

His sword rests, for now, strapped to his back along with his few possessions. He shrugs his cloak over his pack, but not over his head. He will let the wind blow across his face, awakening him, flinging his long dark hair behind him, his steady pace thudding a throbbing in his head, his mind, his heart.

He kneels one last time before the brook that has quenched his thirst, drinking deeply, his waterskin already full at his side.

He turns and begins running, slow, steady. In a few moments he passes the boundary that has marked his seclusion, but he does not pause. He does not want to think about what lays ahead or what he is leaving. It is what must be. He must go.

He cannot outrun the sun, so the land brightens before he reaches it. He steps on his own shadow. His head is up and he does not see the woods thinning beside him.

Three miles further and he sees the brown line of the road to the city, coming from his left, seeming to cascade, fall into the city like a river flowing slowly through high plains, but gathering speed, knowing there are falls ahead, rapids.

His footfalls on the road crunch and he lets the sound beat like a war drum, sounding out a steady march for advancing soldiers. But there is only him. An army of one.

He runs to the top of the first ring of circling hills, then pauses. He leans over, breathing harder than he used to for such a mild pace, but it has been a while. He pulls a long draught from his water skin, then looks ahead. It is not a peaceful sight.

The sun now reveals the city. It burns. He remembers the towers that should be catching the light, but they are not there. There are instead curly, swirling pillars of smoke. The northern edge of the city is blackened, burned, like crushed rubble, like the forest after the torrents of flame have stripped them bare.

His heart quickens, but only for a moment. He has steeled himself for this. This is what they told him. This is why they called him.

He takes a long breath, then plunges back onto the road.

The sun is in his face as he tops the last ridge, but he only stares down, at the city. Without a wasted thought he begins assessing the devastation before him. There to the left he sees a massed army, but it is smaller than he expected.

He adjusts. The rest of the army must be on the west side. He looks right, north. Ashes, burnt timbers, tendrils of smoke, but no movement. That part of the city is gone.

Very well, perhaps he can use that.

Now his eyes try to see over the city walls, looking for its defenders. But from his vantage point, he can see none.

He hopes they are hiding. He hopes they are regrouping. He hopes, but he also fears.

A battle plan begins in his head, is shoved to one side as another plan surfaces. And another.

There are no good plans. He must assume he is alone, at least at first. Perhaps others will rally to him. But if not, he will still continue.

He lays down his pack, adjusting the sheath of his sword to lay across his back so he can pull it quickly with his right hand.

He decides. He will approach from the north, from the burnt out ruins. He will search for any in the city still willing and able to fight.

Then he will … well, he thinks, all I can do is fight. We’ll see. We’ll just see.

Council Member

Council member* Smith had a decision to make, and it wasn’t easy. He’d been serving for years on the council* and he’d seen tough issues once in a while. Sometimes they were big, sometimes they were small.

For several days he’d been calling council member* Jones and the others and asking them what they thought. Jones had a strong opinion, but Smith sensed that she felt pressured, like her back was against the wall. He had to admit he felt the same way – pressed, pushed, stuck.

He wished it were an easier issue, one that a clear answer. Most of the time, Smith just needed to keep digging into the facts, ask staff to give him more information, separate the bad from the good. Now he felt confused. He thought he saw there was some good on both sides. He thought he’d heard all the voices.

Maybe.

It had been a long day, a long week, a long time. He glanced at the ugly clock on the wall – 6:35. Too late. He’d probably be eating cold supper again.

He scooped up the papers on his desk and shoved them into his briefcase. More homework. Staff had given him some of the things he’d asked for, but they’d said there’s just wasn’t anything clear that they could point to, nothing that laid it all out.

Smith thanked them, but thought they were probably just being very careful. They didn’t want to stray into the Big Arguments, they wanted to pick out the minor points, law this, law that, zoning this, traffic.

Smith knew, though, there was more to this thing. He knew, for example, the people, the voices on both sides, had stopped listening to each other, long ago.

Liability? Yes there was that. That was what Smith kept coming back to. The potential for lawsuits loomed in his mind. He’d seen how other cities had been slammed, crippled in a court room by a sympathetic jury.

He huffed out a large breath, trying to clear his mind as he made his way to his car and home.

Sure enough, dinner was cold, but a few seconds in the microwave warmed it up. Meat loaf. One of his favorites.

He went to his desk and pulled out the papers he’d been reading all day. But in a few seconds he knew the answer wasn’t there. He sighed, stood up and announced to the family that he was going outside for a few minutes.

It was colder than he expected, and he tugged his jacket closed and turned up the collar.

He glanced up, looking for the moon, but it had already set. A dog a few doors down started up a bark, but gave up after half a minute. Otherwise it was very quiet.

He tried to push out the issue, tried to think of happier times, happier days, days when he was young, when the world seemed so simple, so straight-forward.

He suddenly remembered a time when he and his family had been camping, way back in some woods somewhere. They’d made a campfire and done all the camp things – smores, stories, listening to the night sounds. There had only been crickets then. Today there wasn’t even that.

He let out a long sigh, his eyes adjusting to the night.

Just then, off to his right, he saw a movement in the sky. He strained his eyes to make it out and without being totally sure, thought it was probably an owl.

An owl. Wise old owl.

“Got any suggestions, Mr. Owl?” he said aloud, but of course, there was no answer.

The old days, he thought again.

The old ways.

Just then, the street light in front of his neighbor’s house went dark. Smith was startled, annoyed. Did that happen every night? Was it on a timer or something? He’d have to find out about that, he thought. That was sort of his job, he figured.

He thought about going in, but noticed his night vision was beginning to make out the fence surrounding his back yard, the trees.

And then he looked up, and gasped.

Stars, hundreds of them, thousands.

Why, that was the Milky Way! He scanned left and right, overwhelmed, but trying to pick out stars or constellations he knew. He’d studied all that when he was younger, the stars, but it had been quite a while. He could only name a few.

So he stopped looking at the individual stars and tried to just take it all in, all of them, all the stars, all the expanse from way past his neighbor’s house to the left to way down the street to the right.

It was magnificent. He gave a little laugh, at himself. The stars, they had been there all along, just like they always were every night, he just hadn’t thought about them for a while.

A long while.

And he felt the starry blanket covering him. And he wondered, and he remembered wondering, where did all those stars come from?

Chance? A big explosion?

And he got his answer.

The answer to where the stars came from, and the answer to what to think about his issue – the issue at the Council*. The issue that seemed so big, so unanswerable just a few moments before.

And the answers for both questions was the same.

The stars did not happen by chance. He was not in his place on the council* by chance.

There was another Voice. A Not Chance Voice. And the Voice spoke to him**.

Smith reached a hand out, up over his head, palm up.

“Thanks,” he said aloud, then turned and went inside.

 

*Or maybe it wasn't a City Council, maybe it was a School Board, or a Legislature, or a governing body of some other kind. You know?

** It said: 'Remember there is a God, and you are accountable to this God".  Maybe you will want to consider "He is There and He Is Not Silent. I strongly recommend you buy it now.

Mary, an excerpt from The Word of the Bedlamite

Mary

From the age of 6, Mary had begun to explore the dirigibles her father piloted, and her mother maintained. She found it difficult to decide which was more fun, figuring out how to fix a leaking steam pipe or faulty switch, or navigating the giant gas airships through storms and clouds. The family had visited dozens of ports before she was twelve and at times she felt she had gone days without setting foot on solid ground.

All the major ports were familiar to her, but she often didn’t go out much into the attached cities. There seemed to be no need.  Everything they needed could be found at the port villages, exotic foods and bright clothes, weapons to keep them safe, people who knew people who could get them things.

Her father began to teach her to shoot, but the rest of the deck hands helped her perfect her skills. They treated her as a kid sister, or maybe a kid brother as she fought with them just as hard as any of them could handle.

There was one young boy, however, Jonathan Tanner, who worked on one of her father’s ships but who also recognized her as a girl. They were in love, for two months, until one day he shipped out on another liner, leaving her only a note explaining that he had to be moving on to seek his fortune, or some such nonsense. Mary immediately hated him, and wept for two days.

Because she got to be so good at using a pistol or in general, defending herself, her father put her in charge of watching the ship when they’d been in port a few days, all the cargo had been unloaded and the rest of crew wanted some shore leave.

During one of these times, in the port of New Manchester, she’d set up her perch at one end of the cabin where she could see anyone approaching. When it was quite dark, she saw two small figures approach, dodging from shadow to shadow on the docks, but plainly headed her way. She intended to draw her gun but held her hand trying to understand what she was seeing. The figures were too small to be full grown men. Who, then could be approaching?

When the figures were too close to no longer ignore, she moved to intercept them and prevent their escape.

“Halt! Stop right there!” she ordered.

The pair jumped back, startled. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, mister! We were only exploring!”

Immediately, Mary recognized, these were children.

“What are you doing here? And don’t tell me you were exploring. I don’t buy it!”

She stepped into the light, suddenly feeling the unexpected urge to not frighten the pair. After a moment, out from the shadows stepped a young boy and a smaller, younger girl. Neither could have been more than ten years old.

“Please, miss,” the boy now corrected himself, “we was only looking for bit of food, and maybe a bit of shelter from the night.”

Mary examined them and felt herself softening with everything she saw. The pair were clearly ragged, skinny, dirty, and no doubt, had not recently eaten.

In a much softer tone, she said, “What are your names?”

“Please miss, I’m Jeffrey and this is my sister Nan. We don’t mean no harm. We was wondering, maybe, have you got a bite to eat. We haven’t had anything in three days.”

Mary believed him. His narrow face and his sister’s hangdog look confirmed his words.

She decided. “Okay, come with me, Jeffrey, Nan. Let me get you something.”

She took them aboard the ship around to the galley, deserting her lookout post, deciding this was more important. She fed them, then gave them a bed where they huddled together and immediately fell asleep. She set up a new lookout, where she could keep an eye on her young charges and, at least a little, on the port.

When her parents returned, she explained what had happened to them, and she was surprised when her father wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, these kids, they’re everywhere, in every port. I’m a little amazed you never noticed them before, Mary.”

“Dad, they’ve got nothing. Somebody needs to take care of them. They’re just kids.”

“I know Mary, you’re right. Somebody should take care of them. But who?”

Mary only took a second to think. “I will,” she said. “I’ll take care of them, dad.”

“How Mary? We’re never in one port long enough to do anything for long.”

“Well… I don’t know…but I’ll think of something.”

And she did. From then on, in every port she sought out the children rummaging through the streets. Most of them were wary of her, so she started by just giving them food, which they never refused. When she could, and there was room on board overnight, she gave them a place to sleep that was at least safer than the back alleys and abandoned buildings. 

In a few months, at the more common ports, some of the kids began to seek her out. When she had to leave, she left them with whatever money she could manage.

When her parents died, she was left in charge of the ship as a pilot, but could only find smaller jobs, transporting small amounts of cargo and sometimes people.  Often her customers had to be in desperate need of a pilot/mechanic to convince them to hire a woman.

She continued her practice of protecting the children but had less opportunity since she was making less money per trip and was barely making ends meet herself. When she had nothing else, she roams the streets acting as best she can as a guardian of the children. That was how she met Gerry, who wasn’t doing that consciously, but just by being kind to the kids and by his bulk, he became a natural protector for them.

... 

[Read the rest of the story in The Word of the Bedlamite, available on multiple platforms, like Amazon,  and Many Other Places.]