WIP Continued

Let Charles make the first move if he intended to when he knocked on the door

“Charles, does a drink appeal to you before we leave?”

He shook his head. “You appeal to me and right now. Do you mind if I hold you, kiss you, touch you? I’ve heard you’re a recent widow. I’m divorced for a while and I’ve gone out several times, a bunch of times, um, a whole lot of times but never felt drawn to a woman like you before.”

They continued to stand near the doorway, dogs at their feet. Joan pushed him back for some space. “Perhaps I’m someone new, a woman who shoots skeet and rides a Harley. She walked fast to the small bar to see what’s what. Actually the Chardonnay sat cold in the fridge.  Her preference.  His arms went around her small waist as if they’d done that a hundred times.

“I said I only want you and now.”

“You must be kidding. We just met this afternoon. Trust me, tonight, we’re going to see a play or nothing. Take your pick.” She felt his hands steer her movements. It felt so exciting. Never in her whole life did she almost give in to pleasure so fast and to a stranger. Joan turned to face Charles. Her breath ran fast and she stopped again. “No and no to everything except for seeing your playhouse or maybe you don’t even have one. You’re used to a quick lay from a widow, I can tell. The answer again is NO.”

At her words, his face took on a red cast like a blush. “I’m so sorry; all I can say is I am truly embarrassed at behaving so crazy but there’s something delectable about you I couldn’t resist.” His head hung down like a child’s. “Please may we begin again. Pretend you just opened the door and offered me a drink. In truth, I seldom drink anything and you gathered your um bag and we left. The theater is about twenty minutes from here, down near the lake, it’s so beautiful there. The play is one of my favorites; Uncle Vanya and the cast is good.”

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Wip-check this out

Newly widowed Joan has her mind in a spin. What to do with his car now that he’s gone and his Harley. Yum. She can ride that baby anytime and the Skeet club he belonged to. Hell, she can shoot skeet just as well as the men. Oh yes. And she had their, uh, her therapy dogs all trained and ready to work. That would take up several days each week.

And so we meet the widow to see what she’s up to.

With high hopes, Joan dressed in Larry’s Harley jacket over his fancy club outfit. His suede jacket fit nicely over her pink cashmere sweater and jeans. Her body had a good shape for an older woman; Larry always said so, the jerk, and best of all, the women never came to the event because they weren’t shooters.

She zoomed into the parking lot causing a commotion right away and she removed Larry’s helmet, shook out her beautiful hair and knew she needed a smaller helmet. James Franklin, the president this year so strong and healthy said, “We were all so sad to lose Larry and of course we will reimburse his yearly dues.

“James, that’s not what I had in mind since I’m an excellent skeet shooter and want to continue.” The tall man nodded, his gray hair combed so smoothly back fell forward: “Joan, we don’t have a rule leaving women out of the club so you are welcome.”

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A WIP!Once again.

Title: Since Larry Died

Newly widowed Joan braced her hands on the edge of the kitchen sink as she stared out at the garden. She breathed in the scent of lilacs wafting through the open window and thought what a mess and she had to fix it, make it right and why? No one’s home and only she would see the flowers bloom anymore; the fun of pulling dandelions together ended the day his heart attacked him.

A laundry list of pleasure left her life but the worst one to top the list was he never even said goodby.

Joan inhaled a deep breath and let it out in hopes the memories would fade in time; then the backload of conviction she’d summed up to battle her wallowing in the abyss, she snapped her shoulders back and spoke to her deceased husband.

“You exited stage left so I’ll write the next scene myself, if that’s okay, my dear.”

She had to write a letter to him; “Dear deceased Larry, you son of a bitch! “It’s your fault you died and left me alone. Take your pills, I said, everyday, but no; and now you’re gone and I’m alone.

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The Long Run

The gravedigger looked up from where he stood six feet below the ground; Rueben,” he said in response to my son’s query as he scrambled out of my father’s final home. He told us he’d been with the Union for sixteen years and made seventeen dollars and thirty five cents an hour.

Paul, my youngest son who traveled with me at a moment’s notice to my hometown Chicago, gathered information about every living creature out of curiousity and intense interest.

So now we knew a lot about Rueben, a Native American, whose long black braid lifted and fell according to the whim of the strong wind that blew across the cemetery on Chicago’s West Side.

I looked into the excavation and pointed to an exposed side of the stone or concrete; their eyes shifted to where I indicated.

Rueben said, “That’s the burial site next door and he jumped into the hole, ran experienced hands over the side, smiled and climbed out. “Good tight fit, no water in there and he bent over and touched the headstone in front of me. “It’s hers.”

The polished marble had my mother’s name engraved on it; I hadn’t knelt down, carressed the letters of her name and years of her life span and lifted the cover protecting her picture from strangers eyes and the harsh element of weather.

I sucked in a deep breath and touched her radiant smile captured forever the day I was married fifty years ago.

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Here’s to our friend Rachel Devineuk. Everyone , please keep her in your loving thoughts as she goes through surgery.

Revealed one more time.

Mom, I hate to interrupt your memories but we have a plane to catch. How come we’re in Pop’s closet?

I sat on the carpeted floor, my hands felt every seam. “At the cemetery, as we watched the casket lower, I turned to my youngest brother and said, “Who was he, this ninety four year old man who cast a long  shadow over all our lives. He was secretive, guarded, private and very wealthy. We never had a conversation and his one piece of advice to his only daughter was ‘never trust anyone.’

“So what did Uncle Garry say?”

“He said the answer was in a hidden pocket in this jacket.”

“That’s why we’re here? You’re searching for an answer to this. . .” “I think I’ve found it, Paul.” My hands shook as I fumbled for a tiny opening in the lining; you look, I’m too nervous.” So he handed the flashlight to me, I gave him the jacket; shined the light and indicated where the pocket was.

He inserted one finger, that’s all he could fit and said: Nothing there, Mom and he turned the jacket upside down, smacked it a few times in an atempt to dislodge anything.

“Nothing, I said. :The secret of my Father was remains a secret.” My heart hurt.

“That’s not right, Mom; there was no secret; he was whatever he was and that’s fine and he pulled me to my feet and we left the closet.

“Can I keep the jacket?”

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It Will All be Revealed, won’t it?

“Too dark in here,” I said to my son, Paul, who had accompanied me to my father’s funeral in Chicago.

“Hit the light switch, Mom.”

“I did but the bulb burned out.”

“Like Poppa,” he said. “Like Poppa what?” I said.

“Burned out.” “Kaput,” I said in the dark, falling into the old word game we’d played since Paul was a pup.

“Fini.” “Bought the farm,” I said. A shared chuckle from the black humor.

A click in the dark and a narrow beam of light illuminated my Father’s  packed closet; I groped for his favorite jacket and there it was, worn brown leather bomber style. I pulled it off the hook where it hung for easy access by aged hands and hugged it to my chest. “Smell this,” my son, the jacket thrust in front of his nose where he couldn’t escape.

He inhaled and questioned, “what is it?”

“Perfecto Garcia Queens, Poppas favorites he sent me to the corner drug store to buy them, a quarter a piece.”

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Short story part 3

After that, it was Joyce and Bob, Bob and Joyce. Seldom was one without the other. What a team! They were everyone’s touchstone. Envious coup[es looked at them in wonder. First, a friendship blossomed and later on, love was added.

The Korean conflict came. It was called a police action, then why didn’t they send cops? Bob went into the aviation cadet program and became a pilot. Letters flew back and forth from Chicago and Joyecy was too revealing how she felt, She would reveal small fragments to her mom. Her mom said, “If he ‘s declaring all this passion for you, dear daughter, I can only guess what your  writing to him.”

Sarah’s face would flush. Those were the days when chastity was a highlly regarded commodiity. Good girls didn’t, bad girls didn’t.

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