to Kellan and Julia ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Andrew Langholf, Langholf Photography, www.langholfphotography.com for all of the images used for the stories and the cover, except, Tracy Bouffard, the photo accompanying “MEMO: To All Parents” Free Flash Five Thom Mahoney Published by Thom Mahoney at Smashwords Copyright 2011 Thom Mahoney This e-book and the content therein is copyrighted by Thom Mahoney, except those images by Andrew Langholf, Langholf Photography, and Tracy Bouffard. All rights reserved. This free e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please feel free to distribute to all of your friends. More stories can be found at www.thommahoney.com. Support your local writer: Buy a book. TABLE OF CONTENTS Cover (start of book) Dancing on Miz Ives In Her Purse The Longest Valley Preying Hands MEMO: To All Parents DANCING ON MIZ IVES The rain had stopped, but the air was thick and smelled of green moss and black dirt. Steam rose from the muddy creek, and mosquitoes buzzed in marauding packs. Mamaw sat on the porch, blotting her face and her neck with one of her late husband’s bandanas. “Why do we have to go see Miz Ives?” Candy asked. She was visiting her grandmother for Easter and was put out that she had to take part in this gruesome ritual. “We’re goin,’” Mamaw said. “That’s all there is to it.” “But going to a grave is creepy.” “C’est dommage,” Mamaw shrugged. Candy was from Shreveport and found the practice barbaric. Certainly nothing anyone from the city would ever, ever do. Dancing on some old lady’s grave. “But why?” “It’s what Miz Ives asked, right ‘fore she passed.” “But there’s nothing there anymore, is there?” “The Petit Maison is gone, but the ol’ arch is still standin.’” “But we’re not even related to her.” “You livin’ in her house, ain’t you?” “I’m visiting.” “Then you livin’ in her house.” Candy sighed. There was no use arguing. Miz Ives had taken Mamaw in as a little girl and raised her and let her live in the back shack when she started a family of her own. And for some fool reason she had a Petite Maison, or Little House, built before she passed, and Mamaw had promised to dance over her grave every Saturday before Easter, which was her most favorite holiday. When Mamaw and Candy arrived, they tended the grave and pulled weeds and trimmed back overgrown bushes, and after an hour in the thick and dense air Mamaw pulled a pitcher of lemonade and finger sandwiches from a cooler in the back of the truck, and they sat on the tailgate and ate and drank and rested, before Mamaw got up and walked through the concrete arch that used to be at the front of the Petite Maison and put her arms out from her sides and began to spin real slow. Then Candy watched as Mamaw kicked up her heels in a fais-do-do, suddenly a young woman again, her face beaming, before climbing down from the truck and walking through the arch and joining in. “Y’awful quiet, child,” Mamaw said on the way back, the yellow glow of the truck’s headlights cutting through the night fog. “I was thinking how happy you looked when you were dancing on Miz Ives.” “I loved Miz Ives like a mother, and somehow doin’ this for her every year brings her back.” “I’ll dance on your grave if you’d like,” Candy said, a little later. “I’d like that, Cher. But not too soon.” IN HER PURSE “You’re not going to leave those things on there, are you?” Tina asked, though it didn’t sound much like a question. Her husband, Darwin, was the proud owner of a set of blue TruckNutz his friend Mike had given him. They were celebrating the successful installation with a couple of beers, when Tina pulled into the driveway. “They were a present,” Darwin said. “It wouldn’t be right to be rude, now, would it?” That didn’t sound like much of a question, either. “We will talk about it later.” She didn’t wait for a response. Nor did she prevent the front door from slamming. “You’re in the shit house now,” Mike said. “Nah. She knows it’s my truck. I can do what I want with it.” “Wear the pants in the family, huh?” Mike taunted. “At least Tina doesn’t keep my balls in her purse like your wife.” Mike punched Darwin’s shoulder. Then they cracked open two more beers. That night they ate dinner in front of the TV as they usually did, Tina controlling the clicker until she got up for some reason, whereupon Darwin would find something more preferable. Tonight it was cage fighting. “We’re not going to watch that, are we?” “We’ve already seen that ‘Law and Order.’ Twice, I think.” “So that’s the way it is,” she said, getting up and leaving the room. “How would you like it if I hung boobs from my rear view mirror,” she asked, when Darwin went up later to reason with her. “Or maybe a vagina from my back bumper?” He forced himself not to laugh. “I think every single straight man on the planet would love it.” That wasn’t the right answer. “It’s vulgar and disrespectful,” she said. “What if one of my friends should see it…them…those?” “We never take my truck anywhere.” Darwin said. “When we go out, we always take your car, don’t we?” Darwin slept on the sofa that night. The following morning, Darwin helped Tina in her garden, then made sandwiches for lunch, and even loaded the dishwasher, and later that afternoon they enjoyed a cocktail before dressing to go to the Berk’s for a bar-b-cue. “What the hell is that?” Darwin asked, horrified, after climbing behind the wheel of her Pontiac. Dangling by their strings from the rear view mirror were three tampons. “You were right. You should do what you want with your truck, and I’ll do the same.” “No, no, no,” Darwin protested, unfastening his seat belt and getting out of the car. “I’m not driving to the Berk’s with those things in my face.” Then Tina pointed out her newly applied bumper sticker: PMS: Punish Men Severely. Darwin considered his options. Blue balls or give in. After accepting a kiss from Tina, Darwin followed her to his truck, where she disconnected the TruckNutz and dropped them in her purse, before removing the tampons and heading to the Berk’s for bar-b-cue. But she left the bumper sticker. THE LONGEST VALLEY We had been out for five days when the late summer snow began to fall, soft and gentle at first, swirly and confusing, looking at times as if it was floating upward, instead of falling downward. Soon, the clouds thickened, and it became more difficult to see, large and wet snowflakes piling up around us like some overfilled heavenly wheelbarrow had been dumped over. It didn’t take long for the two trails up and out to become unsafe for us. Though, really, anymore it doesn’t take much to make anything unsafe for either of us. Who knows? I saw weather coming. Maybe I just wanted to take the long way out, one last time. Is was to be our last trip together. And we’d come to the valley to walk along its craggy walls as we once had, to watch the clouds blow in with each afternoon’s rain. But now, it was time to go. The long way. We’d spent the summer visiting all of our old haunts, Boomer and me. We’d camped at Hattie, outside Laramie, warmed our aching joints in Saratoga, threw away a few worms up near Walden, paddled the old Coleman canoe down the Poudre to follow the eagles and herons. After the two years with Alice, Boomer and I were glad to get outdoors again, though each of us felt her absence with each day, each sun shower, each step through beloved and treasured memories. She’d said right before the end that the thought of the two of us out there again made her passing sweet. I never believed her. She was jealous, and we both knew it. One thing she was right about, though, was what two years of taking care of her had done to Boomer and me. We’d gotten fat and out of shape, and by winter we were both chomping our Celebrex with breakfast. Imagine my surprise when the vet explained Celebrex would be good for Boomer’s arthritis , too. Damn dog always had been more human than beast. And now, soon, we’d both be put down, in our own ways. Me to the residential community the kids got for me right before Alice passed and the reverse mortgage was used up. And Boomer? Well, I was still working on that. The kids couldn’t take the old guy. Schedules were too busy, yards were too small, lives were too complicated for a dog. I’d spent the summer trying to find a place for him, trying to remember to be grateful for what the kids had done. Though they just couldn’t swing the cost for a place Boomer and me could stay together. We reached the car by dark with the snow still coming down. I had to lift Boomer’s hind legs to get him in the seat, and he sat close next to me, watching the oncoming traffic, the valley snow still melting in our hair. PREYING HANDS He was eight the first time it happened, a sleepover at his best friend’s house. R had a pool table, and they had potato chips and Dr. Pepper with dinner, and his mother made bowls of popcorn and root beer floats. They made a blanket fort in the basement rec room, where they watched TV and played monopoly, and when it was way past ten his mother brought down sleeping bags and pillows. He had never slept in a sleeping bag and at first it was fun, but then it got scary the way he couldn’t roll over without using his elbows and the way it felt like he’d be trapped if all of a sudden he had to go to the bathroom. It had gotten better, but for a long time it happened almost every night. Then his mother started waking him up so he could go, and it wasn’t too long before he didn’t need to be awakened because he could wake himself. But what if he didn’t wake up, or woke up but couldn’t get the zipper down? Wetting a sleeping bag on the rec room carpet would be worse than wetting the bed, wouldn’t it? He tried to stay awake, but it was late, and soon he was dreaming he was trapped in the sleeping bag, and he woke up pinching himself and terrified the dream was going to happen. So he got up and ran up the stairs to the bathroom next to the kitchen and stood there trying to go. “Are you OK in there, W?” R’s mother asked, turning the bathroom knob and opening the door a crack and whispering in to him. “I’m fine,” he said, mortified she would come in, that she might know he was a bed-wetter and never have him back for root beer floats and blanket forts. She was seated at the kitchen table in her nightgown when he came out, a dim light over the sink casting a soft yellow glow. “Did you have a bad dream?” “Yeah, I guess.” “Why don’t you tell me about it.” She held out her arms and he climbed in her lap and began making up a dream from TV shows he’d seen and parts of dreams he could remember about monsters and invading aliens from outer space because he couldn’t possibly tell her the real one. And then she touched him. R’s family moved away a couple of months after that, and W and R never spoke about his mother, nor did they ever speak again after he moved away. And it was not until many years later, when his daughter had a friend over for the night for videos and bowls of popcorn, and in the middle of the night a scary nightmare. MEMO TO:All Parents FROM:Henry Dwyer, Principal As another school year draws to a close, I want to take this opportunity on behalf of all of us here at Lillian and Hermann Polk Experiential Elementary to wish all of our families a safe and enjoyable summer. Looking back, I can easily say that this has been the most remarkable academic year in this unique and stimulating school’s short three-year history. And true to our school’s mission to “encourage the development of positive mind and body appreciation,” our little Polkers had some first rate, hands-on experiences they will no doubt cherish forever, as I’m sure many parents will never forget, either. I want to make a special shout-out to all the parents who participated in this year’s Career Day in Ms. Volkner’s Life Awareness class. It was a hit, with police, firemen, doctors, dentists, lawyers, and even a butcher. But let me dispel any rumors right here and now and assure you that none of our Polkers had any actual, direct contact with the gender-reassignment physician. Moving on…. As I have done each year in this newsletter, let me encourage all of our Polkers to read, read, read this summer!!! Please note several changes to Ms. Volkner’s reading list: I Wish Daddy Didn’t Drink So Much, by Judith Vigna, will be replaced by Because Your Daddy Loves You, by Andrew Clements. My Big Sister Takes Drugs, again by Judith Vigna, will be replaced by Best-Ever Big Sister, by Karen Katz. Does God Love Michael’s Two Daddies?, by Sheila K. Butt, will be replaced by I Love Mommies and Daddies, by Joy Berry. And, The House That Crack Built, by Clark Taylor, will be replaced by The House That Mouse Built, by Maggie Rudy. And remember, READING IS FUN!!!! I also want to thank all the parents who helped make Ms. Volkner’s Annual Pageant such a success: Mrs. Drinstuck for the wonderful costumes -WOO-HOO! Mr. Abbot for the wonderful set – YES! And Ms. Akpu-nku for that great script – YOU ROCK!! I would like to take this opportunity, however, to ameliorate some of your concerns about the enactment of this year’s theme, WHERE DO WE COME FROM? As directed, all of the boys Ms. Volkner’s third and fourth periods were dressed in Mrs. Drinstuck’s highly original spermatozoa and heading through Mr. Abbot’s terrific cervix on their way up his uterus and into his fallopian tubes, when half the boys appeared to have fallen off the stage. This was planned, as only one-half of all sperm in real life pick the correct fallopian tube. An extra-special Polk Shout-Out to Little Betty Rubenstein who was a real trooper as the egg with all those sperm boys ramming into her. And finally, on a personal note, we all wish Ms. Volkner the best of success during her leave of absence next year. HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!