2011 Writing Contest Winners
(For 2012 winners click here.)
(For 2010 winners click here.)
Fiction:
1st Place Jan Nieman Transitions PDF
2nd Place Judy Loose Not the Way It’s Supposed to Work PDF
3rd Place Fay Ellen Graetz Reflections in a Coffee Spoon PDF
Nonfiction:
1st Place Martha Jeffers Return to Sender
2nd Place Larry Stiles The Qualifying Run PDF
3rd Place Jan Nieman
The Creche PDF
Honorable
Mention Pat Janda The Stand In PDF
Poetry:
1st Place Larry Stiles Winter’s Calling PDF
2nd Place Mary Beth Lundgren First Christmas Gift PDF
3rd Place Judy Loose Woodchuck PDF
First Place Poetry
Winter's Calling
Is winter calling me?
Drawing me back to frosted glen and ridge
where powdered sugar dusts the giant firs,
and snow bound laurels in their tight knit thicket stand,
a huddled mass of frozen trolls.Where in the hollow of the tallest oak
the tail of one gray squirrel flashes, then withdraws,
as he settles in to ponder Hamlet's hesitation
(with his small imagination),
wondering, in a season's sleep:
What dreams may come?
What dreams ....When cold and calm conspire
to dull the senses –
fingers first, and fist and feet and face,
touch and movement slowly lost
until the numbness steals all grace,
until the numbness owns it all.Then from his fragile, icy perch the mockingbird
Mocks Me with varied melody,
for he,
despite his cold adversity,
finds ample cause to sing.Is winter calling out to me?
Will there be another spring?-- Larry Stiles
Second Place Poetry
FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT
Driving a winding two-lane road at dawn
rain hitting our car like darts,
we feel threatened by the gray, fog-shrouded world
and coming family drama
on our first Christmas together
and first with the children.
Shoulders tight, clenched fists,
separate statues stressed by atmospheric pressure—
blood throbs through veins long played-out,
pulses in ears waiting for answers.
And then
temperatures
dropped
below freezing
and, in a flash, our day
spins us
into a secret world,
acres of trees—maple, sycamore, oak—
where every tiniest twig
glitters like crystal in candlelight.
We laugh
at this first gift, grace
on our first Christmas together—
dreams safe
in nature’s wrapping,
tied by ribbons of peace
and new-love.
Mary Beth Lundgren 3/2011
Third Place Poetry
Woodchuck
Sliding under my garden fence,
so fluffy brown, so round.
How can she flatten herself to an inch
down so close to the ground?What she consumed I could not squeeze
through such a tiny hole.
The largest thing, should fit between,
would be the smallest mole.Standing on her two hind feet,
she boldly stares me down.
Her bright eyes seem to speak to me,
brow wrinkled in a frown.Let me be, so I may feed
my babies under your shed.
So they can grow to help me feast
upon your garden bed.If I could only train her to
eat bugs and pests for her health.
Then I might have a few things left
to feast upon myself.-- Judy Loose
Second Place NonFiction
The Qualifying Run
Most people thought of my uncle as an educator. After all he was the principal at several schools and the superintendent of a couple of county school systems. The last dozen or so years of his career were spent as the statewide director of educational television. However, if you scratched the surface, beneath all that education he was a farmer at heart. Many of the summers of my youth were spent on my grandfather's farm where you could usually find my uncle in the fields. And this is where I learned that if you scratch the surface of this farmer you'd find a true educator – one who realized that all the "book learning" in the world doesn't matter if you don't believe in yourself.
One particularly hot August afternoon my uncle and a few hired men were collecting up bales of recently cut hay. As usual I was making a pest of myself in the guise of insisting that I could help. My uncle could have merely dismissed me -- sending me to the next pasture to find a four leaf clover, knowing full well that the pasture had been sown with alfalfa. Instead he studied the situation looking for a way to apply my limited abilities to a difficult task. At nine years of age the bed of the wagon was about chin high on my small frame. Each of the bales of hay probably weighed twice what I did. There was absolutely no possibility that I could toss the bales of hay onto the wagon, much less line them up in neat rows like so many bricks. The most probable outcome of an attempt to do so would be to find myself face down in the dirt with a wagon tread running down my back. However, with the seat pulled all the way forward my legs were just long enough to reach the two brake pedals on the tractor. So my uncle took the time to teach me how to turn the tractor in place using first the left and then the right brake pedal at the end of each row. He taught me to steer straight lines parallel to the previous row and he taught me to set throttle so the tractor stayed just in front of the day laborers tossing the bales.
At the end of the day my uncle's small investment in my training had freed up an extra pair of hands for the heavy lifting. And I was on top of the world. I was just nine years old but I had been entrusted with the task of driving – even if it was just a farm tractor. Having pushed that big old tractor at the breakneck speed of 2 miles an hour along arrow straight lines interspersed with all those hairpin turns, I was now ready for the Indy 500.
-- Larry Stiles
Third Place NonFiction
The Crèche
by Jan Nieman
Poof! Without warning the manager whisked me from Woolworth’s street-level candy counter (perhaps sampling too much of the inventory?) to the downstairs hardware department. The basement, with unvarnished wood floors, smelled musty, and shoppers idly strolling for impulse items weren’t going to be lured down there. For a teen with her first work permit, nuts, bolts and hammers held no fascination, and except for the key-making machine, clerking downstairs was a demotion.
The day after Thanksgiving the manager told me to clear out one side of a counter and stock it with new merchandise. When I opened the first carton, I was surprised to spot hundreds of nativity-scene figures nestled in shredded newspaper. I grouped them in their respective bins – cattle in one, donkeys next to them, sheep close to the shepherds, Mary, Joseph, and a very tiny Jesus in a straw manger in the largest space, wise men near the far end, and look, an angel in the very last space.
But, something was missing.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a stable?” I asked the manager.
“It looks like we’ll just be selling the figures.”
While we were speaking, a gray-haired, whiskered man ambled down the stairs.
“Where do I put this?” he asked, and held up a 10 x 10 piece of cardboard with the words “STABLE” written in large black letters. Under it was printed “$10, Concord 4-8401” and at the very bottom, his address.
My manager said, “Well, looks like you got your stable. Think it should go right over the Mary bin,” and he taped the cardboard onto a support post.
A tad confused, I asked, “So when customers ask about a stable, I give them this man’s phone number?”
“That’s right,” the old guy answered for himself, “I live just behind the store. You send them right over, Missy.”
As Christmas grew nearer, shoppers flocked to the basement displays and I no longer was disappointed working in that department. I loved those nativity figures (one step above playing with dolls) and when I received my paycheck two weeks later, I purchased one of each and had enough money left over for a couple of extra lambs. But, I couldn’t afford the stable until Christmas Eve when cash in hand, I hurried to the old man’s home and eagerly exchanged ten dollars for the stable.
It was a crude wooden affair – vertical, dark, shellacked sides propped on a straw strewn base. On top rested a slanted, flat roof, a Christmas light-bulb tucked underneath. Inside, a loft stretched from one side to the other. I shivered with excitement as I set it up under our tree and plugged in the light. A soft glow caressed Mary, Joseph and the babe.
It was perfect – my first adult purchase. I covered it with a pillow case and later that evening proudly presented it to my family. I whisked off the stable’s covering and waited for their astonished responses.
My father, who worked with wood as a pattern maker, ran his finger down one of the stable’s sides and said, ‘Oh, interesting, pretty rough, though.”
My mother held up a figurine and remarked, “Bernice, these aren’t painted very well.”
My cousin said, “That stable looks like it was made by a kid.”
Excitement doused, I turned to my contribution. Yes, it had flaws and perhaps the paint job could have been better, but it was mine. I had thought of it. I had purchased it, and I decided it was just right for me. Year after year, much to my family’s amusement, I continued to display it as one would a funky Christmas tree ornament that had value only because of its origin.
When I married and unpacked the crèche, my new husband said, “The figures are hollow and kind of cheap looking.”
“I know. But it was the first “to me, from me” Christmas present I bought when I was a kid and it means a lot to me.”
Plus, we were in no position, as expectant newly-weds struggling to stay in college, to purchase anything better. By the time baby number four arrived, the necessities of life and Christmas toys were on the list, not a fancy crèche.
As the economy grew richer, travelers to Europe returned with ever larger crèches and figures, some all shiny white, some beige with gold etched on the kings’ robes, some artistically disfigured into distorted shapes, some ethnically diverse. The new statues grew to towering twelve-inch beauties placed on white cloth draped over tiers, with nary a stable in sight. If one was added, it was a magnificent affair. But still, year after year, as I set up my treasures, the awe of the scene never failed to remind me of the “why” of Christmas.
Our first-born turned twelve and when he unpacked Mary, he commented, “You know, Mom, she probably should have dark hair, not yellow.”
I smiled, said, “Maybe,” and we continued constructing the scene.
The following year he became critical of my lowly barn. “Say, Mom, Jesus probably wasn’t born in a stable made of wood. We learned they stayed in a cave.”
I handed him the angel and suggested that he mold a cave for next year’s crèche.
At age fifteen he unwrapped one of the wise men, and passionate about the civil rights movement asked, “Why do you always put the black king behind the other two? And, Mom, chances are the wise men didn’t show up alone. They probably had servants and at least a dozen camels and guards. Besides, they didn’t arrive until months later. They don’t even belong in this scene.”
“Oh, really?” I said, as though I’d never considered that and moved the black king forward in the procession.
He left home and married, but always returned for holidays with his family. One Christmas Eve, after hugs and “Merry Christmas’s,” he looked under the tree and asked, “Where’s the crèche?”
“Well, Son, we didn’t bring it out this year…didn’t think you’d miss it. Besides, it’s tricky for Dad or me at our age to use the step-ladder. “
After opening several gifts my son announced, “Gotta get something; be right back,” and left the house. I wasn’t surprised to see the crèche box in his arms when he returned. My son beamed while watching his children unwrap the nativity figures and positioning them in their proper, historical places. He said, “It wouldn’t have been Christmas without Mom’s crèche.”
Our first-born grandchild, age twelve, held up Mary and scrutinized her. “Dad, if Mary was a Jew, don’t you think she’d have brown hair?”
He winked at me, grinned, and said, “Maybe.”
Honorary Mention NonFiction
 Dennis and Michael |
The Stand-In by Pat Janda |
When you think of a stand-in, you picture someone taking the place of an actor/actress in a play or movie—a substitute. It’s not quite that way with Dennis. However, I don’t know what else to call him. He’s someone I’ve never met in my life, but I know his voice immediately on the phone when he says, “Hi, how are ya?” His calls come every few weeks or so from Tacoma, Washington to my home in Fort Myers, Florida and has for the past five years—since just after April 4, 2004. That’s the day my son died—my Michael. Only forty-seven years old, he died of a seizure in Tacoma, Washington. It was Palm Sunday, but he died anyway.
It was unbelievable. Only a week earlier, when we were having our usual Saturday conversation, he interrupted himself and said, “You know, Mom, I’ve always been so proud you’re my mother. You’ve always been on my side.” Those words are engraved on my heart.
In order to tell you about Dennis, I have to tell you about Michael first. Their lives were entwined in a way no one could ever tear apart.
Michael was a renegade—he marched to a different drummer. Ever since he was a young boy, he did everything his own way.
No, he wasn’t spoiled, but he was persistent: a real trial in school. And yet, his teachers loved him, even if they wanted to strangle him at times! It was the same with my husband, Don, and me. No matter what, nothing worked.
As the years drifted by he was often in trouble. I recall the time, after a night out with his teenage friends, the police banged on our door.
“We didn’t mean to blow up the police car, Mom,” he said. “It was in a junk yard and no good anyway.”
As I said, he marched to a different drummer. One thing after another: skipping school numerous days, bar fights after too much drinking. And then—one day he was gone. I discovered a duffle bag in his room the night before he left and had the feeling he might leave. I hid the bag under the large flowered hassock in the den—so he wouldn’t go. But, he did anyway. No car, no clothes, he just left. He was 18 at the time and left a note, “The road calls.”
Weeks passed before he phoned. We were, needless to say, frantic. “I got a job helping load a truck,” he told us, “and then I had enough money to call you up.”
“In the future, call collect.” That was the beginning of hundreds of collect calls from all over the country—Colorado, Montana, Arizona, California – the list goes on and on. And when he called, he’d say, “I just need to hear the voice of home.”
He got into trouble in Tucson, Arizona and called from the police station. Don was on a company business trip in Colorado. Frantic, I reached Don and told him what was happening. He contacted the Vice President of the company and was told to take all the time he needed to help our son.
The company also wired one thousand dollars to cover any costs he might encounter. Don drove straight to Tucson. It took some doing and several days, but he was able to get Michael temporarily released until a court date the following week. He then bought Michael a tan leisure suit, which was popular at the time, and had his shoulder length hair cut a few inches. When they arrived in court, to their surprise, the case was dismissed!
The two returned home to Kankakee, Illinois. Michael found a job at a furniture company a short time later and all seemed to be going well. Then, a month or so later, he surprised me with the news that he felt he must go back on the road.
I could hardly believe it! Michael gathered up his few belonging and started for the door. I didn’t feel he no longer loved us. I just knew this was the way he was and probably would always be. Rather than have him hitchhike to the main road out of town, I said, “Get in the car and I’ll take you to the highway.” I guess that was the hardest thing I ever did. We drove to the interstate and he kissed me good-bye. I can still see him, all these years later, standing by the side of that four-lane highway with his thumb out. Eventually a car stopped and, as he opened the door, he waved to me. Once again—the road called.
Michael settled in California first and then finally the State of Washington, where he lived for many years. He was born in the Navy Hospital in San Diego, so he felt like he was returning home in a way. He eventually married and had a son, Travis, and daughter, Alyssa.
The marriage didn’t last, but his love for his children remained solid as concrete.
He also continued to care about Denise, his former wife, who also lived in the same town: Tacoma.
The roofing business turned out to be the type of work he loved and did well in. He acquired a 1964 Harley Davidson Pan Head motorcycle and became friends with a group of bikers who, though rough and tumble kind of men, were the salt of the earth.
His ups and downs continued. He told me once, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Truer words were never spoken.
And then there was this Good Samaritan trait Michael always had. Most people want to help others and be kind, but Michael was more than that. If he met a fellow who was down on his luck and had no place to go, he’d say, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to come home with me.” And they did. In many cases, he had only met the person one time. Though he had very little, he was always willing to share with others. I remember calling him one day and an unfamiliar voice answered.
“Is Michael there?”
“Just a minute.”
“Hi, Michael. Do you have company?”
“No, Mom, that’s Tattoo Bob. He’s living here now—had no place to go.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll take in a serial killer some day?”
“No. I can tell.”
And that’s how Dennis came into the picture. They met at the Cloud Nine bar, a favorite hangout for bikers. Dennis lived in his truck. He had traveled from Florida to Texas to Seattle, Washington and ended up in Tacoma, Washington.
The transmission job Dennis had in Seattle didn’t work out and he now headed for New Mexico. They got to talking about Dennis’ 1945 Harley Davidson Knucklehead and Michael’s ’64 Pan Head. The two had a lot in common. They were both wanderers.
Michael invited Dennis to stay at his house. He could sleep on the sofa. Not wanting to be a burden, Dennis declined. Michael gave him his phone number in case he changed his mind. A couple of days later, as the October winds blew colder; he called Michael and accepted the offer. He intended to stay for a week or so, but was there five years. As time went on, they occasionally argued and bit-by-bit their friendship began to fall apart. Dennis decided to leave one day. He said their friendship meant too much to him to let it go because of disagreements. They kept in touch—both living in the same town.
And then the terrible phone call from Travis—11:00 pm on Palm Sunday: 4-4-04. We live in Florida, but we were there the next day. Our other two sons, Hugh and Chip, flew in from Indiana and Kansas.
It was all a blur, but somehow we lived through it. Our sons are as different from Michael as day and night. Hugh, three years younger than his older brother, is a banker with Wells Fargo. Chip is five years younger than Hugh and a music teacher in Topeka, Kansas with more than fifty students.
Even though they didn’t march to the same drummer as Michael, they were close. Don and I were always glad they didn’t try to emulate him, however! One boy in trouble all the time was enough.
The brothers were our rock during those heart-wrenching days out in Tacoma that April. I know we couldn’t have lived through it without them. No matter how far away we all are, our hearts are entwined. As Hugh said one time, “They’re family—they’re us.”
When we all assembled to discuss the funeral plans, Michael’s buddies suggested a Memorial Service/pot luck supper at the Cloud Nine bar, instead of the traditional Mass we would have planned. They felt he would like that. At the Cloud Nine, as in the television show “Cheers,” everybody knows your name. The fellows posted signs all over the city about the Memorial Service for “Pan Head Mike,” as he was affectionally called.
About 200 Harleys parked out front that Saturday night and the crowd gathered inside. Every fellow who came through the door asked, “Where is she?” They were looking for me.
As I hugged each one, I whispered, “Thank you for being my son’s friend.” And in every case the answer was the same, “But you don’t know what he did for me.” All these men, with their long hair and black shirts and tattoos up their arms, were the tenderest, sweetest men you could ever meet. To see them walking in with a covered dish—well, it was a memory not soon forgotten.
One of the crowd, whom they referred to as The Reverend, gave a touching Eulogy and when he finished, another drove Michael’s Harley slowly in while a recording of “Amazing Grace” played. No matter how tough they were, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Michael would have been shaking his head slowly from side to side, and I know tears would have glistened in the corners of his green eyes.
And then Dennis called Travis on his cell phone. He was not able to come to the Memorial Service because he was in Texas and couldn’t drive his Harley that far in time. He asked to speak to me.
After his words of sympathy, he said, “I never thanked you for the Christmas present you sent when I was at Mike’s. It was a black T-shirt, the only gift I got that year.
It meant a lot to me.” I didn’t even remember the shirt. I often sent a box for whoever was there at the time.
The following month, on Mother’s Day, Dennis sent a card and an old picture of Michael and him. He wrote a note saying he hoped I wouldn’t mind if he sent a Mother’s Day card. I didn’t mind at all.
And that was the beginning of the phone calls that continue to this day. When I hear his voice and especially what he has to say and how he says it, I’m once again talking to Michael.
“I’m thinking of panning for gold out in the hills. I’ve done it before and I just might strike it rich one of these days.” Adventure is his middle name, as it was with Michael.
He’s my son’s stand-in, a streetwise biker, a part of the brotherhood that cares for one another—a band of brothers. Dennis told me one day, “If I can help in any way to keep Michael alive for you, I’ll do it. I’ll call you for the rest of my life.”
And when I try to thank him, he repeats an old motorcycle creed that goes something like this: “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand. For those who understand, no explanation is necessary.”
Yes. He is our stand-in. Michael would be glad.
First Place Fiction
Transitions
by Jan Nieman
The salesman swings his arm to the left, encouraging us from our natural inclination to shuffle along the path to the right. We’re putty in his hands, my husband and I – no hard sell for him this time. He is the authority, we are the uninformed, and the three of us morph into our assigned roles.
“Now this here model has been a popular choice,” he says, exposing his black onyx cufflinks as his smooth puffy hand caresses the leather appointments.
It looks expensive – glittering trim, seamless seams.
My husband brings up the subject of cost. “What does this one run?”
“Ahh,” says Mr. Expert, “the manufacturer has upgraded it for next year, so we can offer quite a saving for you folks.”
If it’s so popular, why do they have to upgrade it?
It’s hard to concentrate as the associate (identified as such by his bronze, pretentious badge) and my husband discuss details. Their voices float into a bubble behind me as I drift ahead. I don’t much care what they decide. A forest green, plush interior catches my attention. It triggers a memory of similar material in the apartment Mom and I shared during a year of upheavals.
“It’s only temporary,” I can hear her saying as we climb the two flights of stairs adjacent to “Lowest Prices Anywhere” Samson’s Appliances. At the top a hallway cuts left, right, and another right leading us to a three room apartment with handprint-smudged woodwork and noncommittal beige walls.
I focus on disturbed dust motes dancing in front of me as sunlight struggles to seep through nine-foot-high filmy windows. A refrigerator, stove and sink cram a living room alcove – no walls to contain odors, no door to hide a messy kitchen – bizarre.
I wrestle to open a window – the growl of a Greyhound bus roars two stories below, towering over road-mates as they jockey to leave the city and self-induced fumes behind. Across the street a Schlitz Beer sign blinks neon white, gold and burgundy, and although I’m unable to hear their words, the body language of the couple standing under it suggests an argument.
It’s impossible to imagine living here. I hate my father for leaving, forcing us to move from the suburbs. I slam the window shut. This is no place for a twelve-year old and my gasp of disgust doesn’t escape Mom’s notice.
“This isn’t going to be so bad after I fix it up,” she cajoles. “We can put a border up there and it’ll bring the ceiling down.” Her arm sweeps toward a wall, “…paint it sort of a rose color. You’ll see, this place will look nice for when we have company.”
Company? I doubt it. I’m not ever bringing my friends here. Phooey, my friends are fifteen miles away; I have none here. My gasp becomes a snort and works it way into a sniffle.
Mom promises, “Remember, it’s only temporary. We won’t be here long, only until I find a better place.”
I check out my bedroom and discover an unexpected plus – a black iron fire escape hangs outside my window. I budge the lower pane up and tentatively step out. A wind gust takes me by surprise, and when I peer through the grid under my tennis shoes, I shudder. I scramble back inside, but the fire escape’s uniqueness has intriguing possibilities.
The movers wheel in my furniture. I paw through my box of clothes, sniffing the familiar and begin unpacking.
Mom hurries into my room, eyes wide and fingertips to her lips. “Sweetie,” she says, “We’re going to have to share the other bedroom. We need to rent this one in order to live here.”
What? We’re not only living in the middle of Cincinnati, but I don’t even get my own bedroom? I stomp into the living-room, and consider running outside. But, where? No bicycle, no park or playground, no corner candy store – simply one building smashed up against another, imprisoned by rolling steel.
My sniffles become sobs and I throw myself on the sofa. Mom, saying nothing, sits beside me and wraps her arms around me until I notice the movers’ glances as they traipse in and out of the apartment. Eyes down, pouting mouth, I move my clothes to her bedroom.
Mom’s true to her word. My aunt and she scrub the walls, working the sponges in circular motions – not to leave steaks – until the bucket’s contents no longer turn a murky gray. All three rooms are painted a soft rose. The high border near the ceiling creates the optical illusion Mom hoped for and the forest green velveteen curtain does, indeed, hide the awkward kitchenette. Our mahogany dining-room table occupies the place of honor in the window nook and becomes a favorite for homework while surveying drunken brawls and streaking fire engines. But, I’m immune to the street-level hubbub as the apartment transitions into a home.
I adapt, an inner-city child, a latch-key kid who discovers recreation is volleying a tennis ball against cement buildings or sunbathing on a flat tarred roof. Other kids in the building and I race through department stores, sample deli-food, pilfer candy, until the manager shoos us out. We catch the streetcar and ride backwards to the end of the line.
A year later when Mom announces, “I found an apartment in a better location. We’ll be moving,” I’m dismayed and….
A cough disrupts my time travel. Clearing his throat, the associate asks, “So, Mrs. Klein, have you made a decision?”
“It doesn’t matter which I choose,” I whisper, too low for him to catch, and nod toward a serviceable, unadorned casket.
The salesman arches an eyebrow and challenges, “Are you sure Mother would want this one?”
“I’m positive. It is, after all, only temporary. She’s already moved to a better location.”
Second Place Fiction
Not the Way It’s Supposed to Work
(chapter from a novel)
By Judy Loose
Bam! I hit a speed bump going too fast. Didn’t expect it. My little red Mini Cooper takes the bumps kinda hard.
I’m so nervous, doing something new to me, poking my nose in other people’s business. Not that I don’t do that all the time, being a PI, but this is really personal.
I’ve tracked down a birth mom for a woman who was adopted. I just started finding adopted kids for their birth mothers and I’ve found two so far. It was pretty easy, since the kids were looking for the moms, too. It’s fun, getting people together. I wasn’t at the reunions, but from what they tell me, they were happy get-togethers with lots of tears and laughter. Nice. So, I added it to the list of things I do.
With the other two, I did all the work on-line, looking up records and sending emails. But, I tracked down this mom right here in Fort Myers, so I decided to contact her in person. She may not want to see me or hear about her daughter. After all, she’s been avoiding her for forty-three years, not even looking, as far as I can tell. Don’t think I could do that, give up a child and ignore it the rest of my life. But, I’ll probably never have a kid since I’m almost thirty and not married.
I find the house, a typical small Florida ranch, built in the fifties or sixties, cinder block, probably two or three bedrooms. It’s a peachy color, reminds me of a Creamsicle. The front yard’s a little dry. Bet she doesn’t have a sprinkler system. Haven’t had any rain yet and it’s May already. Her flowers look nice. She pays more attention to the plants than the lawn. Who am I to criticize? I have no lawn; my plants are more weeds than flowers. I live on an island, so no one notices.
I ring the doorbell but don’t hear anything, so I knock on the front door. Nothing. There’s a white Accord in the carport, eight or ten years old, I’d guess. She’s probably home. I knock on the door, again. Well, maybe I bang on it.
I’m about ready to leave when a woman comes around the corner of the house wearing pink shorts, yellow tee, and bright green muddy crocs. The gloves on her hands are covered with dirt. Saturday gardening. I should probably be doing the same instead of digging up old dirt for this woman.
Except for her pure white hair, she looks about mid-forties, maybe fifty. If she’s the woman I’m looking for, she’s sixty. She’s five or six inches shorter than me, maybe five-six or seven, tan, healthy, none of the roundness or wrinkles that seem to come with age for most women. She’s in good shape for a sixty-year-old.
“Ms. Tipton?”
“Yes?” She smiles, but there’s a question in her green eyes.
“My name is Ernie Pratt from Pratt Associates.” I hold out a card. “I’m a private investigator.”
“What can I do for you?” She starts to reach, then pulls her hand back to remove the dirty glove, wiping her hand on her shorts before taking the card.
“A woman named Geraldine Adams hired me to look for her birth mother.”
The smile on her face disappears. “I don’t know any woman named Geraldine Adams.”
“That’s her married name. Her adopted name was Geraldine Graham and her birth name was Missy Tipton.”
“Oh.” Ms. Tipton leans, almost falls, against the wall of her house. Her face goes pale. Now she looks all of her sixty years. I don’t think she wanted to be found.
“Are you OK?” Stupid question, Pratt. Of course, she’s not OK. She probably feels like I punched her in the gut.
“I’ll be fine in a minute.” She stands up and kind of shakes herself. “Come inside. I’ll make us some ice tea.” She doesn’t even ask if I want any.
I trail after her through the carport and into the kitchen, which is spotless. White tile floors, older cupboards, new appliances. She takes off her crocs at the door, so I slip out of my sandals and stand there, not knowing what to do with myself.
“Go sit. Make yourself at home.” She waves a hand at me, like she’s saying ‘get out of my way.’
The living room is nothing fancy, but comfortable. There are plants in a big window and in the corners with lights shining on them. Furniture is mix and match, old and new. Nice pictures on the walls - no photos that I can see. I park on the couch and a big gray cat jumps into my lap from nowhere. I scratch, he purrs, and my discomfort disappears.
Ms. Tipton plunks two glasses of ice tea on the coffee table and sits at the other end of the couch. “It’s not sweetened. I have no sugar in the house.”
“Fine by me. I like it that way.” I take a sip to prove it.
“Ms. Tipton, about your daughter...”
“The name’s Eleanor. People call me Ellie or El.”
“Ellie, your daughter has been looking for you for years. She’d like to meet you.”
She gazes off across the room like she’s watching something on the blank TV screen, saying nothing. I sip my tea and pet the cat, waiting her out.
She turns and looks at me. “You must be a cat person. Sam doesn’t go near most people.”
“I have two at home.” We talk about the antics of cats for a while.
“Sam’s adopted,” she says, “like my daughter.” Back to the subject at last. “I don’t think about her at all. That’s what you have to do, you know. Put her out of your mind. When she was born, if you put a child up for adoption, there wasn’t much chance of ever seeing her again. So, you learn to not think about it. Wipe the whole incident out of your memory.
“I wanted to name her Mistake but the social worker wouldn’t let me, so I called her Missy.” Ellie is still staring at the TV. Maybe she’s seeing her past life play out on the tube.
“Seventeen years old, way to young too raise a child.” More silence.
I’m starting to fidget; I’m not the patient type. Sam, the cat, jumps off my lap and disappears. I guess he’s not patient, either.
“Do you want to meet her?” I ask.
“Not really, but I suppose she has the right to meet me if she wants.”
“I can bring her by, or you could meet somewhere for lunch.”
More silence.
Banging on the front door interrupts our non-conversation.
Ellie gets up off the couch and opens the door. Much to my surprise, Geraldine Adams or Missy Tipton stands there. She looks like her mother except for reddish brown hair instead of white. Same height, same build, same green eyes...almost the same face. They even look about the same age.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I followed you. Got tired of waiting.”
“That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”
“Is this my mother?” She points, her finger an inch from Ellie Tipton’s chest.
“Yes, I’m your mother, Missy.”
“Bitch!” Missy screams. Then swings her huge, fully loaded purse and hits Eleanor Tipton on the side of her head, knocking her on her ass.
This is definitely not the way it’s supposed to work.
Third Place Fiction
REFLECTIONS IN A COFFEE SPOON
From the Novel
GETTING WHAT YOU WANT
By Fay Ellen Graetz
I toss my purse on the seat and we slide in the booth, Crystal and I facing Gordy. The coffee shop is decorated in white lattice and artificial ivy. Stamped in gold on the menu: Tiffany’s.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s. How funny,” I say, appreciative of a light topic. “Anybody read the book?”
“Truman Capote,” Gordy says flatly, behind his menu. “In Cold Blood’s more my style.”
The jerk. I poke Crystal in the ribs. “Ever see the movie?” No response. I doubt she’s seen it, but persist anyway. I just can’t take this heavy atmosphere anymore. “Audrey Hepburn plays Holly Golightly. Holly Golightly. Isn’t that a wonderful name, Crystal? Holly Golightly?”
Gordy lowers his menu. His eyes study Crystal as he keeps a grin in check. “That’s you, Crystal! You’re Holly Golightly.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Country girl struggles to make it big in New York.” He focuses on her with spot light intensity. “And you’re Audrey Hepburn, too, sweetheart. Those big brown eyes. Silky skin. Check it out, man. Check it out.”
Crystal feigns concentration on the breakfast choices, but we know she’s listening.
“She loved diamonds,” Gordy continues. “Not exactly your thing.”
“Why aren’t they my thing?”
“Maybe they are. Maybe they are.”
What a schmoozer. He pours on, telling her she should have run east to New York City, not California. Had they met in Manhattan, they’d go clubbing. Dancing at Club 54. Bunch of puke.
Crystal sifts through this information hesitantly, like finding a box of treasures at a flea market. She’s suspicious of its value, yet secretly hording the tidbits that serves her best.
“Hepburn is a square,” she says, appearing not in the mood for flattery.
This is a topic I enjoy. Something I know about. I make a point to stay in the conversation. “Hepburn wasn’t right for that part. In the book, Holly was way way naughtier.”
“So you’re saying I’m naughty?” Crystal shoots a look at me, irritated.
“No…I’m just…I’m telling you about the character in the book. I didn’t say…” I have to stop as the story comes back to me: young greedy nymphet from the boonies seeks fame and fortune.
“That’s who you are, my love,” Gordy croons. He kisses his finger tips and blows it to her. “Holly Golightly.”
For a brief second he darts his eyes in my direction, long enough to dare me to deny Crystal these dishonest compliments. He’s managed to put me in cahoots with him. Manipulative bastard.
Crystal tosses a look toward the ceiling and slaps her menu on the table. “I’m going to the ladies room,” she says, sliding away.
I want to go, too. Don’t leave me alone with this guy. I can feel the plea written across my face, so I lower my eyebrows and take a deep breath in preparation for my own one-on-one with Mr. Coldblood. Looking at my nails, picking at a cuticle, I speak. “You’re going to pay her, right? You’re going to pay her something.”
He fabricates a big yawn which slackens his shoulders. He’s looking at me down his thin nose.
“I never should’ve made the offer. She just, I don’t know, laid there. Didn’t move or, or even help. A blow-up doll would’ve been more responsive.”
What am I supposed to say? Defend my friend’s sexual prowess and bed manners? Do I want to suggest it’s his fault? He wasn’t pushing the right buttons?
“You made the deal, Gordy. You know she’s not a ... a ... pro. You’ve gotta pay her.”
A plump Latino waitress arrives at the table with three coffee mugs and starts to pour. We clam up until she’s gone. Gordy winces as he takes a long suck off his cigarette, holding the smoke inside his peaky face and bloodshot brown eyes. A wolf. He looks like the Big Bad Wolf. “Yeah, well….” He sighs out a white cloud right at me. “Where you heading after this?”
I’m fanning the air with my hands like crazy. “Like I’m going to tell you.”
Crystal returns, we focus on the menus. Nobody says nothing, 'til we place our orders.
“Now I gotta take a piss,” Gordy says, sliding away.
“Crystal. We gotta talk. While Gordy’s gone. While we have the chance.” We look over our shoulders. “The man is such a …where do I begin? An asshole con. A dirty filthy pirate.”
Crystal shrugs her shoulders, downplaying like a kid who’s been beaten in the schoolyard.
“Just tell me he didn’t hurt you.”
“Hurt me? Naw. He was thrilled with me. Couldn’t get enough.” She forms a plastic smile. “I really surprised him.” Leaning on her elbows, she dangles a spoon over her steaming coffee, and stares into it, hypnotized by the pendulum.
I’m waiting for our eyes to meet, for a brief confirmation of understanding. She won’t look at me.
“You don’t have to talk about it. I just want to know you’re okay.” I slide a little bowl of sugar packets toward her and she picks out two.
She sighs. Thinking. “You know how you get lost in the sex thing…like you’re high…like when you’re all turned on and nothing else matters?” she asks.
My turn to sigh. “I wish.”
Her shoulders slump and she turns toward me, connects with me again, and I see a glimmer of tears in her beautiful brown eyes. “Well, last night, I just wanted it to be over.”
She rips the ends off the sugar packets, both at once. Granules spill out onto the table. Gritty. Her hands are shaking.
“Not that I didn’t give him his money’s worth. The creep. Like making love to a sour bar rag.” Resting her elbows on the table-top, she covers her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Tell me to shut up. I don’t want it etched in my brain.” She jerks her hands away from her face. She inhales, exhales, deeply, through her nose.
“Never mind,” I say, leaning my shoulder into hers. “It’s over.”
“To hell with it. I was in total control. And he loved it. I mean, that’s what he was buying.” She stirs her coffee hypnotically, making that whirling song. “Still. I don’t know how prostitutes do it.” Ting, ting. She taps the spoon on the edge of her cup, and sets it on a napkin. A brown stain radiates from it like an unholy aura.
The word “prostitute” frightens me. Once, in Home-Economics class, some girl passed Crystal a little folded piece of paper. A one word note: “SLUT.” Crystal crumpled it, popped it in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. I didn’t write it. It wasn’t me. But that’s the look she’s giving me now. Like she just reopened the note and recognized my handwriting. I take a sip of coffee and focus ahead, at a pucker in the green vinyl upholstery where a button is missing.
“If I don’t get the money, well, that would be even worse than the sexual stuff. On top of it all, I’ll have been taken. Been had.”
I can’t help but face her. I feel my entire body grimace. Is she serious? That’s worse?
She sips her coffee and reaches for more sugar. “I can’t get this frickin’ coffee sweet enough.” She straightens herself. “Not that I am one, you know. Not that I’m not a prostitute or anything.”
“Of course not.” I hope I sound convincing. I’ve got to shut myself up. I want to tell her I’m sorry I let her do it. But I’m afraid I’ll only emphasize how I regret it ever happened, and how humiliated I am for her.
She picks up the napkin, dabs her nose and swipes the sugar granules off the table. “Once he pays me, we’ll celebrate. My treat. Stay in a real hotel. Room service. Sleep like babies.”
The waitress places our breakfasts in front of us and one across the table for Gordy. I check the time again.
“Gordy better hurry up,” Crystal says, speckling her eggs with pepper. “His waffles are going to get cold.”
Our eyes locked for a split second. We both slide out of the booth as fast as we can. Crystal runs for the front door and I head back towards the kitchen and the restrooms. The dark hallway is lined with baby booster chairs and cardboard boxes. At the end, a red exit sign glows ominously above a scuffed white door. I shove the door open and lunge outside. The odor of stale restaurant exhaust catches me up. My eyes squint against the blinding sunlight reflecting off the stark alley walls. I look left and right. There is no one in sight except a guy wearing a stained apron, and pulling bags of garbage toward a rusty dumpster.
“Did someone just come out this door?”
He turns toward the sound of my voice. He’s sweaty and wipes his forehead on his sleeve.
“A man?” I prompt.
His slow smile embarrasses me.
THE END