Visiting Mary Illustrated Short Story By Nancy Reil Riojas Edited by Kyle Brant U.S. Copyright Office ~ Washington, D.C. 2010 Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas Smashwords Edition ISBN: 9781476139869 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means. As sole owner of all my published stories, they are copyrighted through the U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D.C. It is illegal for anyone to violate any of the rights provided by the copyright law without written permission from the owner of copyright. Thank you. Visiting Mary A Christmas Story Whenever I went along, visiting Mother’s best friend Mary was always fun until the coldest day of the year, the Saturday before Christmas in 1959. We were buttoned tight in our heavy, full length coats, but the cold wind still made me shiver when it blew up around my legs. As we walked, Mother pulled my hand. I twisted my neck while looking back to watch a family drag a Christmas tree through their front door. After the first mile, “Hurry up,” Mother said as she stopped and bent down to retie the hood cord under my chin. “We only have four blocks to go.” I saw the determined look on her face as well as the tears that flowed down her cheeks. Then she briskly walked, forcing me to run. Mary lived in an old two story apartment house on San Pedro Street. Mother said Mary’s father helped build it not long after the Civil War. Finally, we slowed down when reaching the long, wooden front porch which we could smell had recently been painted. My eyes followed the wide, circular pillars with ornate curves that met with the porch ceiling thirty feet up. Reaching for the handle, Mother opened the aged, creaking door which was larger than our church door. We walked down the dark hallway lined with poinsettia plants, as our shoes “clanked” on polished hardwood floors. I grabbed each fat, sturdy spindle while we climbed up the staircase, where the smell of old wood was more intense. Carpet affixed in the center of the hall allowed a soundless walk. Mother twisted the doorbell that sounded like a bicycle bell. Mary Martin answered the door wearing the Christmas apron that I remembered Mother gave her years ago. It had been almost a year since I had seen Mary, yet to me, she aged so much more. Mother often said, “She gets around good for eighty-nine and holding.” No one ever embraced Mother quite like Mary, long and meaningfully. Once we removed our coats and their eyes met, it was as if I was not there. In just moments, I felt that was okay; then Mother started to cry, and quickly, Mary caressed Mother’s shoulder and escorted her into the kitchen. I could hear Mother softly telling the story in Spanish of the bad argument she and father had had the night before. During their conversation, Mother reiterated that she was not happy living with Father. Understanding English and Spanish, I had no choice but to listen as sadness burrowed into my chest. With hands together behind my back, slowly, I stepped into Mary’s parlor to further my mind from Mother’s pain. Every time before, Mary made sure that the McAllister’s little girl from down the hall would be here waiting to play with me . . . but not today. As I stood staring at Mary’s Christmas tree, I thought to myself, “Now, what is a ten year old to do in the apartment of an eighty-nine year old lady?” I did the only thing I could, allow my eyes to go on an adventure in Mary’s parlor . . . and what an adventure it was. In comparison to our home, there was none; much was uniquely different about Mary Martin’s home. Her surroundings were museum-like . . . yet showcased so prim and proper. In as much as my eyes were level with the cabinet drawers, I closely studied the intricate carvings of her antique cabinets, all the way down to their feet. Her side tables, coffee table, and crystal lamps that dazzled the eye were unlike any I had ever seen. Step by step, I made my way to the far side of the parlor. Proudly displayed, her photos of loved ones’ faces were bordered with fine lace behind the beveled glass frames. And then in rows of half circles, they huddled on top of her organ. Among the countless grand frames, one suddenly reached out to me . . . a picture of Father and Mother cheek to cheek, smiling and hugging each other. So thrilled, my heart started pounding. I slowly brought my hands forward from behind my back and carefully reached over and between the others to grasp my parents. I felt they took me to another time and place while I stood staring into their faces. . . . . I was wishing . . . . and hoping. Through the crack in the kitchen door, I peeked in on Mary and Mother from time to time while I tightly embraced the picture. Keeping her eyes on Mother, Mary reached for two cups in her glass door cupboard but dropped one when Mother said, “I want to leave him; I packed this morning, but I’m so scared I won’t make it on my own.” I walked away at that alarming moment to continue on my journey, studying more details on Mary’s ornate oil lamps. Sitting among ornaments, lamps sparkled like prisms in sunlight that beamed in through the parlor window. An hour later, I could no longer hear conversation. I nervously walked to the crack at the door. My eye followed Mary as she picked up the coffee pot from the Chambers stove and said in Spanish, “Happiness, you need to think of your children; how could they live without you? Good mothers never leave their children.” After a few moments of silence, I stood in the kitchen doorway, gently weeping. Mary looked surprised when she saw me . . . . as she forgot I came along. “Deborah, dear, everything’s going to be okay. Come sit with us, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.” During the moments I slowly stepped toward the kitchen table, I searched for courage to ask Mary if I could have her picture of my parents. Reading my thoughts, she looked into my eyes and said, “That picture belongs to you now.” We stood on the sidewalk and looked up to see Mary waving from her parlor window while a family with arms full of Christmas packages rushed by us. Mother smiled at me, bent down, tied the hood cord under my chin, and kissed my cheek. She walked slower and calmer then took my hand . . . . while I hugged my parents’ picture all the way home. **~ ~ ~ ~** Today, fifty-four years later, that picture sits in my parlor. Looking somewhat like Mary’s, my crowded parlor reveals rare, one-hundred-year-old items, all prim and proper. I attribute this appreciation for antiques to Mary; however, more importantly I will be forever indebted to her for keeping Mother with the five of us during that joyous Christmas in 1959. THE END Author’s Afterword Thank you for reading a personal family story, “Visiting Mary,” which is dedicated to my three brothers, Andrew Reil, Anthony Reil, and Lee Reil (who was only three months old). Four newspaper editors in Texas chose to publish this Christmas narrative in their December issues. In its entirety, The Bandera County Courier in Bandera, Texas publishes it every Christmas. If you have a moment, please leave a review. Excerpts of illustrated narratives follow for your entertainment: **** Moonshiner The Wolf (Family Theatre ~ Short Novel) This book shares influences of early 1900s Anglo-Saxon culture and society on Angela. A struggling poor soul, she strives toward a dream in arid West Texas, the land of her forefathers. Moonshiner, the silver-haired alpha wolf suffers many bloody battles to overcome obstacles in her life. He saves Angela, her home, and her granddaughter to who Angela leaves her great legacy. Excerpt: “The flat, barren terrain is easier to walk but hotter. Angela’s superior condition has her fifteen miles out before she slows down a pace and searches for Moonshiner yet instead notices only his whisking tail amid some tall brush. His big head rises, looking in her direction. Not pleased that she chooses to take this trip once again, he knows this is coyote country. But no matter the degree of danger, his allegiance will always be to her. She calls out and waves to him, “Moonshiner! It’s time to rest, right here where I stand!” Without taking another step, Angela removes her cash bag, moist with sweat, food bag, water bowl, and large canteen, then wraps and ties them together with her head scarf to form a pillow of sorts. Half of Angela’s long hair has fallen loose from its braid and glues to her neck. In the sunset Moonshiner watches her silhouette on a mound. The silhouette bends forward to swiftly re-braid her glistening hair. She forms a bun on top of her head and reattaches the hair comb then lies down and reaches in her pocket for the small bottle containing olive oil that she applies to her burned, cracked lips. Then, what Moonshiner dreads that could happen, does. He instantly lifts his snout straight up and twitches his ears– the night air moves gently, carrying the sound of swiftly running coyotes. The dust they create reaches focused Moonshiner, witnessing them thrust toward a rabbit that runs for his life. But they soon stop cold in their tracks to trade the rabbit away when they come upon Angela, resting. Overcome with fear, wide-eyed Angela nervously snatches her pillow to protect herself and slowly stands. She shuffles too quickly toward Moonshiner which stimulates the coyotes’ predatory responses. They freeze when they see him, all groaning to one another in a low tone. Moonshiner recalls he has accosted these killers before, yet vague paw prints they leave behind assure him—no need for help. He knows that regardless of distance, this pack’s signaller lifts his head to send the most accurate and loudest cues to their receiver, even better than the signaller in Moonshiner’s own pack. The alpha, the receiver, and the rest of their pack now race toward them. To Moonshiner, all coyotes are cowards, but these cowards, he has only minutes to kill. He clenches their full attention toward himself by leaping to meet them eye to eye. Growls exchange. The wolf-like dogs know an “alpha” wolf stares them down one at a time, but because of the size of their group, they see him as a challenge and grow daring: the starving group knows they have to kill this big leader before they can feed on Angela, a human delicacy, then when the others arrive, they can feed on him. One coyote snaps at him yet withdraws. Moonshiner’s demeanor shifts from expectation to annihilation: his rigid back expands, head held high cocks to one side, paws stand wide apart, leans on his back legs as if ready to spring. He’s dangerously outnumbered, and Angela fears for his life and hers. At once, they all leap toward him and latch on with their fangs like hawks with their talons. Not quick enough, he struggles to break necks with his brute-force jaws. While the coyotes squirm, he uses his weight and jaws to slam necks into petrified ground, and while emaciated bodies bounce up for more abuse, they suffer being split in half. All the while, Moonshiner’s nervous eyes detect when Angela shifts position. She remains near. The boldest coyote approaches her; Moonshiner drops the limp one from his mouth, lunges toward the one encroaching into his jaws and hurls him several yards. Moments later she tries to distract the fresh coyotes from closing in by pitching her pillow toward them. Salivating, which started acres ago, they act oblivious of her for the moment and nosedive into the aggression, holding firm to Moonshiner. Money from the cash bag scatters in the breeze. Coyotes usually eat anything, but Angela’s food is now unsavory, strewn about by riled coyotes. With palms pressing her temples, she stands behind him while watching the wild viciousness in him—that has to be. Oh—how she wishes for the Winchester!” **** Monster at My Window (Sci-Fi Thriller ~ Novella) Brave men battle socialized beasts in the storm drain tunnels of Brownsville, Texas Excerpt: “Suddenly the beasts slow, keeping their distance. Having heard of their odd, savage attacks, the men freeze then frown at hideousness. The silent men, aiming .44 Magnums stand strong, waiting… waiting for the right moment. Created from dogs and insects, instinctively the intelligent beasts sense the fortitude of the men and realize this confrontation may not compare to others when defenseless, shocked animals and humans do not defend themselves. As if these beasts are not frightening enough, the larger Master flies out of the tunnel, immediately stops to an upright stance, and drops his wings at his sides. Inflating his torso, he holds his big head high, lashes out and squirms a long, forked tongue, and with bulging, bloodshot, half shut eyes that swiftly shift from one man’s eyes to the next, he disappointedly reads their low level of fear. At the moment Ortiz reaches the group, his trailing wind falls upon the Master who then turns toward his small battalion and lifts his head like a howling dog to scream a shriek that can rattle glass, for he realizes not only that Ortiz is their leader, but he possesses the strongest urge for battle, a big fighting heart, searching for its young.” Excerpt: “Only slightly wounded the Master poses atop a rock prison and buzzes communication to family, ‘Our fiercest enemy is savage man. Beware of him, for he has caused us much pain. For thousands of moons we have roamed underbrush and sneaked down riverbanks until we found our permanent homes, which we will never abandon. Savage man tortures us, cages us, and kills us and all we do is exist, same as they. Same as a wolf feeds on a deer, just as a cat feeds on a bird, and like a spider feeds on a fly, we too have the right to survive.’ ” **** The Rabbi’s Books (Non-Fiction ~ Short Story) Rare books in the Rabbi’s office reveal Holocaust truths not taught in schools, and 30 years later she lives to see it happen. Excerpt: “As I was greatly intrigued by the facts of the Holocaust for so many years, I waited weeks, hoping for the right opportunity to ask the Rabbi my question, which surely he could satisfy. On this hot summer morning, bright sun shined thru his tall office window as he stood in the warmth of sun rays. With hands behind his back, he stared out at the meticulously maintained lawn. “Rabbi Stadt, I have a question for you,” said I. He turned to look at me, “What is it?” “Why did the Holocaust happen?” The Rabbi’s demeanor changed, folding his arms at his chest and lifting his glasses to rub his nose where they had rested. Moments were passing like minutes as I patiently sat at my desk waiting. He looked out the window once again and said, “I do not know. . . . I have two books here in my office that I would like for you to read, but please do not remove them from the temple. Return the books when you’re done.” Words could not express how disappointed I was with his answer, for was he not one who could best articulate that phenomenon, which undoubtedly touched him deeply, that phenomenon of (40) forty million deaths? When he walked toward his shelves of books that spanned the entire wall from top to bottom, he knew exactly where they were; then, while locking eyes with mine, he placed them on my desk. That was almost eerie. I believed he had his opinions, but chose not to share them. Why? At that moment, I knew the Holocaust subject would intrigue me until death. My father’s recollection of the Holocaust victims was horrific enough. Yet, while reading and turning the pages of these two shocking books, I realized the innocent were slaughtered, slaughtered, and then even more were slaughtered. Although I knew none of them, there was a firm sense of why deep-heated anger and heartache would unveil in any person of any race, particularly the relatives of the victims and the surviving victims themselves. It may have been strange to some, but I walked into the Rabbi’s office tightly hugging those books then gently set them on his desk. He glanced up then returned to placing the refill into his pen. He quickly looked up again and made a facial expression as if he wanted to say something, but withdrew. He tipped his head, “Thank you,” said the Rabbi. Feeling relieved, I replied, “No, thank you, Rabbi Stadt.” **** Hannibal ~ A True Story (Thriller ~ Short Story) A man craves revenge against a young woman and uses his enormous canine that, in the end, ultimately yearns to kill her. Which one survives? Excerpt: “I look out the window as the bright sun half blocks the ability to see Dale holding my scarf to Hannibal’s nostrils. While speaking in his ear, Dale suddenly repeatedly slugs his snout. Even from a long distance, I see fear in Hannibal’s eyes. What I suspect, I simply do not want to believe; not enough courage to share that with anyone.” Excerpt: “When Hannibal peers down from the Caterpillar roof, his thick chain flops over the edge and dangles in front of Sampson’s face. Sampson continues to bark while he tries to climb, but his large size causes him to topple back down to the ground. He constantly jumps up against the side of the Caterpillar and ultimately clenches, between his teeth, the chain from Hannibal’s collar. Sampson tugs like a plow, anchors his big front paws into soft earth, and yanks and yanks while watching Hannibal’s head jerk again and again. Hannibal resists, claws the metal roof, and incessantly tries to heave Sampson’s weight until the groaning body loses balance at the edge, drags off the Caterpillar roof, and lands with a loud thud into the dirt below.” ****Flood of 1965 (Non-fiction ~ Short Story) A family tries to make it out, alive. Excerpt: “Soon the water level rises even higher, and the heavy car suddenly shifts and rocks side to side, side to side. It rams against our home, vibrating the walls. As it rocks, it hits . . . . rocks then hits. While riding the tumultuous water toward the back yard, the titanic car cracks a bedroom window on the last ram. Water seeps in at first; then with thin glass unable to hold back tremendous weight . . . . flood waters burst in! Mom evolves into a frantic mess, rattling off Spanish I have never heard while Rusty and I run from window to window, all the way to our back bedroom to watch the car bob and shift, seeming like a mile down the driveway. But then I cringe more, as the water’s force spins the car in front of the garage which siphons the garage doors open and sucks our beautiful bikes out. For what seems like a long while, they all gyrate in a whirlpool and s-c-r-e-e-c-h each time they collide – like a horror movie – all three head for my window! I grab Rusty by the collar and throw him up into my arms while I remain focused on the threatening trio that tread nearer and nearer. I walk backward until bumping into my brother’s bed. My mouth opens to scream when I clearly see the front license plate numbers through the glass. As if the car is truly running, it wobbles to an about-face, floors the gas pedal, speeds over the club house with our bikes following suit, and heads for the back fence, knocking it over. The demolition ball and our mangled bikes will surely settle down at some suitable stopping-place. I turn around. Still not fully awake from peaceful dreams, my frightened brothers stand in their pajamas and face this nightmarish reality. Not knowing what to do, we scatter throughout the house, terror-stricken, while watching the floodwater seep under the front and back doors. Mother yells, “Put on your shoes and shirts right now!” While trying to catch our shoes floating at our ankles, we are too young to realize the ramifications of this harrowing event. In unison we jerk our heads toward the splash and clearly see the swaying water half fill the other side of the window glass. When they all seep, not another minute passes before each window takes its turn to burst open, the next step to devouring our home. None of us has ever moved so fast, as we rush to save some possessions. After shoving the antique table and buffet against the wall, Andrew and Father toss furniture on top: living room sofa, formal chairs, portable stereo, radio, blankets, bedding, and clothing. From the bookcase, Mother and I yank out all family photo albums, music albums, my Beatle scrapbooks, my newspaper clippings of the Warren Commission Report then throw them on top of the stacked pile. But, we soon see our efforts prove a waste of time, precious time we need to get out alive!” ****Veil of Doom (Non-Fiction ~ Short Story) When you think of them, they listen. Excerpt: “ One week after Steven’s accident, Mother snapped her fingers. ‘Get down on your knees,’ she said while pointing to the floor. We knew she meant it by the stern look on her face. In her bedroom, we gathered closer together in front of the Virgin Mary and quickly kneeled. She lit the candle beside the statue, performed the sign of the cross, immediately knelt next to us, and said, ‘Keep in mind what I told you: each time you remember a person who has passed on, their spirit reads your thoughts. He’s close to death, but to help save him, we want God to hear our loud prayers . . . . and that will shower us with hope.’ ” Excerpt: The nurses continually whispered about Steven: the fact that he miraculously lived on after the Priest gave him his last rites was mind boggling. He suffered massive internal injuries, broken bones throughout his body, including a broken leg, a skull fracture, and punctured lungs. We kneeled in front of the Virgin Mary many times during his ordeal. With the help of our mother, that was when I began to believe in the power of prayer. Then, on a breezy fall day in September when the bursts of wind blew the curtains wide apart, I saw a man I did not recognize, limping through the leaves toward our home. Unannounced, it was Steven. Quickly swinging the front door open, Mother was elated and able to ignore his appearance. Yet as I stood peeking from behind her, my reaction was one of shock. I corrected my expression before he saw me, as I understood that he had had his fill of pain. Steven did not look like Steven any longer: he moved like a living skeleton; his facial bones protruded; his chest was caved in; his hair was wispy and dry; he had slurred speech. Oh, just how deep could my shock go? However, some things about him had not changed.” ****Visiting Mary (Short Story) (Chosen by four editors in Texas) Days before Christmas in 1959, a ten year old daughter and distraught mother walk to visit the mother’s best friend Mary. The mother tells Mary she’s leaving her husband. The saddened daughter listens then finds a photo of her once happy parents in Mary’s parlor. Mary convinces the mother to. . . Excerpt: “No one ever embraced Mother quite like Mary, long and meaningfully. Once we removed our coats and their eyes really met, it was as if I was not there. In just moments, I felt that was okay; then Mother started to cry. Quickly, Mary caressed Mother’s shoulder and escorted her into the kitchen. I could hear Mother softly telling the story in Spanish of the bad argument she and father had had the night before. During their conversation, Mother reiterated that she was not happy living with Father. Understanding English and Spanish, I had no choice but to listen as sadness burrowed into my chest. With hands together behind my back, slowly, I stepped into Mary’s parlor to further my mind from Mother’s pain. Step by step, I made my way to the far side of the parlor. Proudly displayed, her photos of loved ones’ faces were bordered with fine lace behind beveled glass frames. And then in rows of half circles, they huddled on top of her organ. Among the countless grand frames, one suddenly reached out to me . . . a picture of Father and Mother cheek to cheek, smiling and hugging each other. So thrilled, my heart started pounding! I brought my hands slowly forward from behind my back and carefully reached over and between the others to grasp my parents. I felt they took me to another time and place while I stood staring into their faces. . . . . I was wishing . . . . and hoping.” **** Lucky (Children’s Short Story) Steven finds a bird that falls out of its nest, and as it turns out, the tiny fowl is far, far from ordinary Excerpt: “Very early one July morning, everyone still sleeps but Father. He sits alone in the backyard as the sun rays gently make their way over the hill. While he enjoys his glass of orange juice, Father notices that the sun rays creep into Lucky’s cage, and they slowly unveil the majesty of the handsome, captive bird. Father stands, peers into the cage, and asks, “My God, Lucky, are you a hawk?” Lucky squawks a very distinctive cry as if answering him, “Ke Kerr, KeKeer, Ke Kerr!” “Steven, Andrew, Mother, wake up!” Father exclaims. Lucky’s markings reveal yellow feet with black talons, black and white spotted wings, a rusty shoulder patch, and a grayish tail with a dark stripe that runs across his feathers, almost to the tip. Lucky has grown into a beautiful White-tailed Hawk, extremely rare in Texas.” In the works, Night Invaders (A Novella and sequel to Monster at My Window) U.S. Copyright Office Washington, D.C. Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas