Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Karla S. Bryant, a glass of wine

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”

by Karla S. Bryant

 

“Who is H. G. Wells,” I yell out loud at my TV.

The Jeopardy contestant looks hopeful and asks, “Who was Orson Wells?”

I almost choke on my food.

“Sorry,” the host says, “The Time Machine’ was written by H.G. Wells.”

 

I put down my phone, then finish the last bite of my sushi delivered by one of the four Door Dash drivers in town. I look in the fridge for something else to eat. I close the door as soon as I spot the leftover pizza, lean against the fridge, and shut my eyes.

Damn! I know better than this. After the big break-up with Lee Sobieski, I couldn’t eat enough Bassett’s ice cream. Salted caramel pretzel. I loved that ice cream. I loved Lee. I really believed I did. But it hadn’t been a love worth the ten-pound weight gain.

Ben Harmon? I couldn’t even pretend the relationship had been more than an attempt to stave off the nagging feeling that no one cared about me. Like, am I even attractive? Does anybody actually want to be with me? It was exhausting. In the end, truth be told, I didn’t really care about Ben. I no longer found him attractive, and I didn’t really want to be with him. By the time I ended things, it was like pulling off a Band-Aid that had lost its stickiness days ago.

 

I glance at my phone on the counter. Linda had left a voicemail an hour ago. I tap her message.

“Hey, Mimi! You’re going to hate me, but I’m bailing on our Girls Weekend. Jen is having her cake tasting party and I just found out. Ugh! Is this wedding planning never going to end? Let’s reschedule. Sorry for the short notice. Love you!”

I’d been afraid she’d cancel. Fine. She’d probably just talk about the plans for her daughter’s wedding the whole time. I feel like I’d passed the “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” stage decades ago and was now at the “Always a guest, never a bridesmaid” level.

I pour myself a glass of wine and look out the window at the “skyline” of Mooresville. Only four buildings reach three stories. The rest are one or two stories. There’s the McNeil Trucking Company Headquarters, the Riesman Brothers Window Manufacturing building, the Holiday Inn Express - Mooresville at the PA Turnpike Exchange (it’s actual full name), and the Mooresville High School. I stare down the main street at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe, where I’ve worked for three decades.

Even if you’re a close runner-up for a scholarship, if you don’t get it and your parents are scraping to make mortgage payments, college won’t be your path. And once you start working in a small town and dating someone in that small town, you forget about your big city dreams.

I worked for Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe on weekends and during summers through high school and after graduation, I worked there full time. Mary Beth is pleasant enough, but she’s had enough of it all. She doesn’t want to spend the majority of her days surrounded by Cranberry-Cinnamon, Vanilla Latte, or Northwoods Pine scents. She promoted me to Manager when I turned thirty. The title didn’t mean a lot to me, but what mattered was the raise that went with it. I could afford an apartment of my own. And food. And clothes, within my budget.

I rinse out my wine glass and get ready for bed. Maybe I really live in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, not Mooresville, Pennsylvania. Every day is a repeat of the one before. I wake up each morning and see the oak tree branches brush against my window. I open my closet and grab whatever seems to go together and get ready for another quiet day at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe. It’s not like Mooresville has a tourist season. I know almost all of the local customers and they know me.
I stare at my reflection and run my fingers through my hair. At fifty-three, I’ve somehow avoided gray hair so far. Must be in the genes. But the lines around my eyes are unavoidable.

 

I wake up and the first thing I realize is that there is no oak tree pressed against my window, but elm branches sway in a breeze overhead. And I’m not lying down on my bed. I sit on a… bench? I rub my eyes and look straight ahead. Independence Hall. My conscious mind knows Independence Hall is in Philadelphia, a 4-hour drive from Mooresville. It’s a beautiful fall day and I feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard… but why and how am I here? I’m in Philadelphia? The “big city” that my parents never let me visit because it was “too dangerous”? The city I couldn’t talk my Mooresville friends (or boyfriends) into going to for a weekend? How? In movies, there’s a fade in or fade out before a dream starts. Mine happened in a split second with no warning.

          There’s a man, about twenty-five, to my left on the bench. Thick, dark hair. He has small headphones on and stares down at his Sony Walkman. It can’t really be? I lean forward a bit and can see the cassette reels turning. I gasp.

           “Hey, are you okay?”
           Wow. What a smile. This guy is gorgeous. I notice he’s wearing a bright aqua t-shirt and baggy black pants made from… parachute fabric. Is this guy doing some kind of ‘80s cosplay or something?

I smile back and try to sound as normal as I can. “Sorry! I just haven’t seen a real Sony Walkman in a long time.”
           “No? They’ve been out for like five years.”
            I wonder if he’s all there. “Where did you get it… eBay?”
           “Ebay? I don’t know where that is.”
           Before I can respond to his incomprehensible comment, he adds, “I bought it over at Tower Records.”
           “Tower Records?”
           “You’re something else! You’ve never heard of Tower Records?”
           “I’ve always heard about Tower Records! I mean – where I live there was only one record store and when I’d ask for a new release, they’d always say, ‘Who do you think we are? Tower Records?”

He laughs. “Where do you live? Mars?” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m a jerk. Didn’t even introduce myself or ask your name. Let’s start over.”
He holds out his hand and smiles – that smile again! “I’m Matt. Matt Baros. What’s your name?”
              I shake his hand. “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
              Matt tilts his head, “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”
              “Thanks.”
              “Mimi,” he says my name as if he’s practicing it. “You want to go to Tower Records with me? It’s just over at 100 South Broad. Maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

“Okay!”

A couple walks by, the man carrying a boom box. He wears a black jacket over a white t-shirt, snug black jeans, boots, and sunglasses. The woman wears a fluorescent pink t-shirt with large black lips on it and a denim jacket slung over her shoulders. Her leggings have a black tiger stripe print against bright pink, and she balances herself well on stilettos.  I can’t make out the song that ended, but the opening bars to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” blast out.

I stare at Matt. How do I ask him what year it is? How do I find out? I have to find out.
            “Hey, is it okay if I use your phone?”
            “Use my phone?” He looks taken aback. “I don’t live nearby.”

“So?”
            He laughs. “So? What do you mean ‘so’? You think I carry my phone with me? How would that work? It’s on the wall in my kitchen.”
My head is spinning.

I smile. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m beginning to love it. I realize that if I can’t figure out what’s going on, I may as well throw my arms up and enjoy the ride.

 

We walk past a large plate glass window of a store on the corner. I stop, frozen on the spot. I stare at my reflection. I’m my twenty-three-year-old self. What the hell? My hair is permed and styled, and my make-up is dramatically on-point. For the first time, I see I’m wearing snug jeans and an over-sized lime green top that hangs off of one shoulder. If I don’t say so myself, I look damn good and now I see why Matt smiles at me the way he does.

He points at the display. “Those VHS camcorders are crazy, huh?”
           “I guess.”
           “Now, any one of us can be a camera man, like it used to be only the people on a movie set or working in tv. If there’s a birthday, an anniversary, something special like that, you can have an actual movie of it.”
            His amazement is endearing.
            “You could even, “ I say carefully, “Make your own movie. You could write your own script, hire actors, and film it yourself.”
             Matt laughed. “Now that’s going too far, Mimi.”
             He shields his eyes to minimize the reflection on the glass. Matt is startled. “I think they’re selling those Casio calculator watches!”
            “The what?” I must have missed this trend.

He points against the glass and puts his arm around my shoulder. We both lean in.
“Right there, right there. See it? Look how small the calculator buttons are under that screen.”
            “What does the screen show?”
            “The time.”
End of story. I hesitate. Well, why not go for it?
              “Imagine if the Casio calculator watch screen could show you messages from people, from friends, in real time? Or if you could watch actual movies on the screen. It could even tell you your heart rate and how fast you’re walking.”
               Matt laughs. “You’re something, you know that? You’ve got an amazing imagination. Or you’ve been thinking about Dick Tracy watches too much!”
               We laugh and keep walking, past the Reading train station on Arch Street and turn at City Hall. I look up at the statue of William Penn on top of the ornate building.
               “Did you know,” Matt says, “It’s an unwritten rule that no one is allowed to construct a building taller than the top of William Penn’s hat?”
               “What if someone does?”
               Matt shakes his head. “It’ll never happen.”
 

We finally near Tower Records, the yellow and red sign overwhelming everything else on the street. I can’t remember the last time my smile was so big. Matt notices it. He takes my hand, and my heart almost skips a beat. We step inside Tower Records and I’m speechless at the sight of so many albums, so much vinyl! Rows and rows and another story upstairs with more rows and rows.

“Where do you even begin?”
           Matt leads the way. “Start with your favorites.”

He stands in front of a row of albums, the middle tab he looks at is labeled “REM”.

“Oh! I like them, too!”
            “Yeah, they’re from Georgia, I think.”
Matt awkwardly tries to hold on to his Walkman, wires, and headphones while sifting through albums.

“Here.” I extend my hand. “I can hold that for you while you look.”
            “Thanks!”
As he looks through more albums, he asks, “You like any local bands? The Hooters? Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers?”

I feel like I’d heard of them when I was… well, twenty-three.
           “Yeah, I do.” I stare at the steps to the upper level. “Matt, do you mind if I take a look upstairs?”
            He’s on a mission flipping through another row of albums. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
            I turn and head towards the stairs. I feel dizzy… I am actually surrounded by albums. I’m in Philadelphia in the 1980s and I have no idea how any of this happened, but I’m relishing every moment. I mean, I have to wake up at some point. I just have never had such a vivid dream before.
             As I walk up the steps, I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the smells of cardboard and plastic and stale cigarette smoke and some kind of weird incense. All at once, I fall. Like a house of cards. My heel caught on a step at an odd angle, and I can’t catch myself. I don’t want to drop Matt’s Walkman and try to grab the railing with one hand. It doesn’t work. Everything around me blurs as I go down.

 

I open my eyes and look over at the branches of an oak tree pressed against my bedroom window. I lie on my side and stare at it. I know it had all been a dream, but the confirmation of it cuts.  In my mind, I start hearing Bryan Adams’ “It Cuts Like a Knife”.

With a sigh, I try to remember if it’s a weekday or the weekend. I stretch my arms and feel something drop out of my hand. It’s a Sony Walkman.

I pick it up and look at it more closely. It’s an actual Sony Walkman. I pop it open and pull out the cassette. “Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers: Rumble”. Scrawled across the label is a name: Matt Baros.

I hold my hands to my chest and look around my bedroom. What had happened? How had it happened? A smile spreads across my face. What in the world could I do to make it happen again?
           One thing was sure. Nothing’s going to happen if I stayed in Mooresville. I shower, take extra care doing my hair and make-up, choose a flattering outfit, and drive to Harrisburg, where I know I can catch a train to Philadelphia.

 

And I do. I stare out the window of the Amtrak passenger car and watch trees, utility poles, farms, and towns flash by. I have no expectations. I only know I have to consciously go on this one adventure. This one crazy, impractical, impulsive adventure.

The train finally stops at 8^th and Market. My app says it’s my destination. Small suitcase in hand, I carefully walk down the steps, go up the escalator, and out on Market Street.

It was as bustling as it had been on my recent visit to the ‘80s. The affluent mix with the not-affluent in a steady stream of pedestrians. It’s noon. Most people may be starting their lunch hour. I join in the flow, I pass Macy’s… which I now know had been John Wanamaker’s department store at one time. I look up. William Penn still looks over the City of Brotherly Love. But massive skyscrapers stand in every direction, dwarfing his one-time status. I lift my iPhone to take a photo. I have the perfect shot. Well, maybe if I stand back a couple yards. I begin to walk backwards and, not for the first time in Philadelphia, fall down. I don’t even know what I tripped on. As I scramble to stand back up and grab my suitcase, I feel a hand on my elbow. Someone is helping me up. I turn around.

A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair smiles at me. And what a smile.
            “Hey, are you okay?”
            My own smile couldn’t have been brighter. “I think so.” I pause. “Matt, right? Aren’t you Matt Baros?”                              
           He nods and grins, “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve met before?”
          “A long time ago.”
         “I think I should remember you. What’s your name?”
         “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
         “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”

And just like that, I have a second chance. A do-over of my life. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get it right. This time I’ll grab the chance to live my actual dream. Or whatever it was.

 

About the author 

 

Karla S. Bryant is a published author and essayist. She is also a produced independent screenwriter. She focuses her work on people in midlife, exploring the richness of their layered histories and how they play a part when their lives take unexpected turns. 

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One of our Novices is Missing by Maxine Flam, wine

 

‘Hey Joe, you think Shelly came in early and she made us a pot of coffee, huh?’ said Kelby as they dragged into the squad room.

            ‘I certainly hope so. I can use some fresh hot coffee after that mud we’ve been drinking on that stakeout but there are three other things I want more: A long hot shower, a large breakfast with eggs, potatoes, bacon, and toast, and a warm bed to sleep in for at least twelve hours,’ replied Miller.

            Overhearing the boys talking, Captain Reno shouted, ‘Sorry boys, except for coffee and some left over donuts, the sleeping will have to wait.’

            ‘Aw, come on Captain,’ whined Miller. ‘We just got back from three days trailing that murder suspect up to the high desert. We haven’t even finished the paperwork yet. And you’re giving us another assignment?’

            ‘I have no choice. The other teams are out and I have something that came in marked urgent. It’s a missing person’s case…but before you say that’s not your department, it came from the top man himself….You’ll have time to go home, shower, and change, but you need to step in my office to be briefed…now!’

            Miller and Kelby stopped eating the hard, stale donuts left over from Friday morning and went into Captain Reno’s office.

            ‘Mother Superior, I’d like you to meet Detectives Joe Miller and Bill Kelby.’

            Mother Superior put her hand out to shake each of their hands and they did the likewise.

            ‘What can we do for you…Mother?’ said Bill hesitantly.

            ‘One of my novices is missing. Her name is Suzanna Tompkins. She was set to take her final vows Saturday and didn’t show up with the rest of the class. I checked the sleeping quarters, chapel, church, and the rest of the grounds but she wasn’t any where to be found.’

            ‘Maybe she got cold feet and went home to her family,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘Her mother and stepfather were at the ceremony and were as surprised as the rest of us to see she wasn’t there. They were there for the ceremony.’

            ‘Was everyone in the family happy that she was becoming a nun?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Her father didn’t like it all.’

            ‘Did he make his objections known?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Oh, yes. He came to the church Friday morning and asked if Suzanna was still going through with it and then begged her not to. He told her she didn’t understand all the ramifications of giving her life to the church. Never marrying, never having children. He wanted her to wait and think about it some more. I understand he spent a great deal of time talking to her. She had been a postulate and novice for the given amount of time. Of all the women, she was one of the most focused on the charitable nature of the church. She loved working with children. She even worked with runaways helping to reunite them with their families after getting them counseling.’

            ‘This lady sounds like she has a big heart. Is there anyone else who could have been against her taking her final vows?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Well, before she came to the church, she was a troubled girl. The church gave her structure. She had been seeing a young man who said he was madly in love with her and if he couldn’t have her, no one else could.’

            ‘So, now we have two suspects. Her father and her ex-boyfriend. Anyone else?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Not really. You know some of the girls were jealous but that’s normal.’

            ‘Mother Superior, you’ve given us a place to start. Do you have a recent picture of her?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘I don’t have one in her novice attire but her mother gave me this photo that was taken in her regular clothes when she visited with her before she disappeared.’

            ‘So this photo was taken on Friday?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Yes, it’s a Polaroid but it’s a good quality picture of her.’

            ‘Thank you Mother Superior. Should we have any further questions, leave your phone number with Captain Reno and we’ll get back to you if or when we get any information.’

            ‘Bless you both. I’ll be praying that you find her soon.’

##

            ‘As I see it there are only two possibilities,’ said Miller.

            ‘And they are?’

            ‘She left willingly or she didn’t.’

            ‘Brilliant. You thought that up all by yourself,’ replied Kelby.

            Ignoring the remark, Miller continued, ‘If she left on her own volition, then maybe she returned to her old boyfriend's place or to her father’s house.’

            ‘And if not?’

            ‘Then we have problems, partner, because it could be foul play and maybe, and I don’t want to even think this is a possibility, she was kidnapped or even killed.’

            ‘Who would want to kidnap a novice nun?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘It goes back to the father and the ex-boyfriend wanting to prevent her from taking her final vows. The jealousy with the other nuns has to be checked out but I think that’s a dead end.’

            ‘There could be a third option.’

            ‘Which is?’ asked Miller.

            ‘She simply left. She couldn’t stand the pressure and needed time to think. So she went somewhere to get her head on straight.’

            ‘If that’s true, where would she go? I’ll drop you off at your home to shower, put on fresh clothes, and grab some breakfast. Then we’ll go over to the church and take a look at her living quarters. We can talk to some of the other novices. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and one of them knows something and hasn’t said anything because she doesn’t know that she knows.’

            ‘You want to run that by me again…never mind. I’ll see you in ninety minutes,’ said Kelby.

##

            The detectives arrived at the church after morning prayers had ended. They walked in the back of the church feeling like fish out of water as neither one had been to church since they were children. Kelby attended a Catholic grammar school but that was twenty-five years ago. He felt a little guilty walking in so he went to the altar, knelt, and made the sign of the cross. Miller stood there waiting patiently for him. Father Johnson approached.

            ‘You must be the detectives that the Mother Superior told me about,’ he said.

            ‘Yes, Father…’ said Kelby. ‘We’re here to see if we can figure out what happened to Suzanna Tompkins.’

‘Everyone here will give you their utmost cooperation. Where do you want to go first?’

‘We’d like to walk around the church grounds, take a look at her room, and see if we can come up with anything,’ said Miller.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll have one of the sisters show you around.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ replied Miller.

Father Johnson walked off and Kelby turned to Miller and said, ‘I don’t have a good feeling about him.’

‘He seemed nice enough’ said Miller. ‘Why? You think he’s involved?’

‘Yeah, I do…in some way. I just don’t know how yet. He seemed like he was purposely detaching himself from the situation,’ responded Kelby.

‘I think you’re jumping to conclusions. You haven’t been to church in years. You felt awkward around Mother Superior and now you come in here, you go to the altar; kneel, cross yourself, and meet the priest. Just what do you think he’s done? I can’t believe I’m saying this but you have nothing to go on.’

‘Only my gut…We need to interview the novices who just became nuns. I know there's something here. I feel it.’

‘Feel what? I think you’re nuts.’ said Miller.

‘Could be other novices left the church like Suzanna because of something the Father did?’ replied Kelby.

‘I think you’re way off base but we need to check out all the angles,’ said Miller.

‘I’m telling you Joe, I got a bad feeling about him.’

‘We’ll investigate the priest along with her dad and ex-boyfriend.’

‘Let’s get going.’

##

            They entered the nun’s quarters and asked to speak to some of the girls that just graduated.

            ‘Any of you have an inkling why Suzanna left?’ asked Miller.

            ‘No,’ responded Sister Margaret. ‘But she seemed to be struggling with something the day before taking her final vows.’

‘That would be Friday,’ said Miller.’

‘Yes, I saw her in the chapel praying. Father Johnson came in. They had words, at which time; she got up from kneeling and ran off.’

            ‘For no reason?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Yes, and that seemed odd.’

            ‘Thank you Sister Margaret,’ responded Kelby.

##

            Miller turned to Kelby and said. ‘You may have something here. Maybe we now need to speak to her father, mother, and the Priest.’

            ‘What about the ex-boyfriend?’

            ‘We’ll save him for last. Maybe the parents know what’s going on. Let’s start with her mother. Perhaps she confided to her.’

##

            Ding dong.

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Detectives Kelby and Miller, Mrs. Hedford?’ said Kelby as they showed their badges.    

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Can we come in?’

            ‘Of course.’

            ‘We need to ask you a few questions,’ stated Miller.

            ‘Tea?’

            ‘No, thank you. We need to clarify something so we have some questions to ask you. As you are her mother,  did he confide in you? We’re not sure we know how to ask this but before you came to the ceremony Saturday, did you spend some time with Suzanna on Friday? We know you took pictures. Did she say anything to you? Also, did you know Father Johnson had words with her? Did you know him from before or had you just met?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Why do you ask?’

            ‘Because of something one of the novices told us. It seems on Friday, he had a conversation that upset Suzanna and she ran from the church,’ said Miller.

            ‘I don’t think…that’s any of your business.’

            ‘Anything that is related to the disappearance of your daughter or this case is our business.’ said Miller.

            ‘It’s hard for me to discuss this.’

            ‘We need a lead to go on. Just say what you have to say,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘This is extremely personal. Twenty-five years ago, I was a teenager attending St. Joseph’s church on the other side of the Valley with my parents and little brother… I was a very impressionable young woman with a crush on a young priest.’

            Bill shoots Joe a look of I told you so.

            ‘He was handsome and charismatic. I joined the choir and tried my best to get him to notice me. He finally did. We…we made love and I got pregnant. My mother sent me to home for unwed mothers run by the nuns at another parish. I was allowed to keep my baby if I finished high school. Eventually I married but the marriage didn’t work out. My first husband wasn’t ready to be a father to someone else’s kid. A few years later I met a wonderful man, married him, and he adopted Suzanna as his own.’

            ‘So let me get this straight. The man who Suzanna thinks is her father isn’t and the man who adopted her is her step-father.  So doesn’t know who her real dad is?’ replied Kelby.

            ‘Not quite. She found out Friday that her real father was Father Johnson…Dear Lord, when I saw her, she was so distraught.’

            ‘Who told her?’ asked Miller.

            ‘He did.’

            ‘That must have been why she ran from the church but why after all these years, did he tell her now?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘That’s the question I’ve asked myself. I don’t know why he would do that unless his secret was about to come out and he wanted to beat the person who knew to the punch. I don’t know. I keep thinking he was being blackmailed.’

            ‘Have you talked to Father Johnson?’ asked Miller.

            ‘No, I’ve kept my distance since…all those years ago and finding out I was pregnant with his child.’

            ‘Who could have found out the secret?’ wondered Kelby.

            ‘If you had the baby at a home for unwed mothers run by the church, the documents are sealed but they are still there. Someone must have gotten a hold of them and decided to blackmail the priest. But for what reason, convincing Suzanna not to be a nun? Money?...So Father Johnson told her first,’ said Miller.

            ‘But why would Suzanna run off,’ questioned Kelby.

‘She couldn’t handle the truth…It makes sense if you know that Suzanne grew up at St. Joseph’s until we moved away and then she went to be a postulate and novice at St. Charles Church. Father Johnson moved over to St. Charles after she did to look out for her as if she were his own because she was his own, said her mother.’

            ‘The sixty-four dollar question is where did she go?’ asked Miller.

‘What if she went into hiding? She didn’t run off because she didn’t have anywhere to run,’ said Kelby.

‘We still didn’t talk to the ex-boyfriend or the first husband.’

‘Let’s go talk to the ex-boyfriend.’

##

            Ring, Ring….Knock, Knock. No answer.

            ‘Bill, I hear someone moving around inside.’

            Knock Knock. ‘This is Detectives Miller and Kelby…We just want to talk to you. Please answer the door,’ said Miller.

            ‘Leave me alone,’ replied a male voice.

            ‘No one is going to hurt you…Open up,’ stated Kelby.

            Gun shots rang out and three bullets hit the door.

            Speaking into his walkie-talkie, Bill said, ‘This is Detective Kelby, we need back-up now at 1587 Chestnut Drive.’

            Joe and Bill drew their guns. Bill covered Joe as he kicked down the door.

            ‘I swear I’ll kill her,’ said the boyfriend holding Suzanna around the waist with a gun to her head.

            ‘We just want to talk…No reason for anyone to get killed,’ said Miller.

            The back-up arrived.

            ‘Come on, put the gun down so we can talk,’ asked Kelby.

            ‘You’re going to arrest me for missing my meeting with my parole officer.’

            ‘Not even close. We’re investigating the disappearance of your ex-girlfriend. Is this her?’ Kelby said.

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Put the gun down and let’s talk…What’s your name?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Frank.’

            ‘Okay, Frank. Toss the gun over here,’ said Kelby.

            Looking at both detectives, he threw the gun over to the detectives and released Suzanna, and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

            ‘You’re going to have to go to the station for having a gun on parole and shooting it at police officers among other charges,’ said Miller.

            ‘Suzanna, why are you here?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Frank came and got me after I called him. I had just heard that Father Johnson was my birth father and I was beside myself. I couldn’t think. I only knew I had to get away from the church.’

            ‘Did Father Johnson tell you why he suddenly decided now to tell you?’ asked Kelby.

            ‘Yes, and I went nuts. It seems that my mother wasn’t the only woman he had sex with. There were two other women and they had babies that are near my age. My mother’s first husband found out and began blackmailing him. He wanted Father Johnson to tell me the truth before I took my final vows.’

            ‘Do you know who these other women were?’

            ‘One of them was my mother,’ said Frank. My little brother is Father Johnson’s son too.’

‘I also have a sister but I don’t know who she is. It was all too much to process. I had to get away. I’m sorry I worried everyone but everything I worked so hard for had gone up in smoke.’

            ‘It doesn’t mean you can’t be a nun. You just need to put some distance between you and him. You can go to another parish if you still decide you want to dedicate your life to the Lord,’ said Kelby.

            ‘I do. That hasn’t changed. But I need to forgive my mother and my…birth father. I don’t know if I can.’

            ‘You need to look deep into your heart, take some time, and see if you can do that because if you can’t, you won’t be able to take your final vows,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘Thank you…Detective Kelby?’ said Suzanna.

‘Yes?’

‘How did you become so wise?’

‘Life…life and being a cop for the past seven years.’

‘God bless both of you.’

‘Are you going to go back to your mother’s house to think?’

‘No, I can’t. I’m going to talk to the Mother Superior and ask her if I can go one of the retreat houses to pray and decide what to do and where to go.’

‘What are you going to tell Mother Superior?’ asked Miller.

‘The truth. I should have told her that in the beginning and saved everyone the hassle. Whatever happens to Father Johnson is his problem. He brought it on himself. I have to deal with the ramifications of my mother and his affair with her and with the two other women and so does he.’

‘Do the other children know he’s their father?’ asked Kelby.

‘No. He needs to do the right thing and tell them. Then he needs to take whatever punishment the church meters out.’

‘But whatever the punishment is, you need to find it in your heart to forgive him,’ said Kelby.

‘I will but I need time.’

‘We’ll close out the case and tell Mother Superior you’re okay. You realize your mother’s first husband will be charged with blackmail,’ replied Miller.

‘He brought that on himself too. He could have left sleeping dogs lie but instead he messed up the lives of three families and a beloved priest.’

‘Good luck, Suzanna,’ said Detectives Miller and Kelby.

‘Good-bye, and thank you.’

Turning to Suzanna’s boyfriend, Miller began, ‘Alright, you have the right to remain silent…if you give up your right, anything you say will be used against you in a court of law….’

 

About the author 

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Wildwood Café by Chris Morey, a large glass of wine

 As I drove past, I couldn’t miss that the old pizza place had had a makeover –fascia painted in zebra stripes and leopard spots, and ‘Wildwood Café’ plastered in fluorescent green letters across the window. With nothing inspiring in the freezer at home, I parked down the block and went in.

They hadn’t continued the wild-animal theme inside: faux-wood panels and old rock-concert posters. I was the only customer. A notice leaning against the espresso machine on the bar read, ‘Duty Manager: D. Vili.’

A waiter with acne showed me to a table, handed me a menu and a customer survey form. I scanned the form briefly: the usual questions, how did you hear of us, what was the food like, etc. I opened the menu – pizzas, burgers, wraps, standard evening café fare.

I turned to the Chef’s Specials, and my jaw dropped. The first item was ostrich burger. Tanya from work had been pestering me to go vegan, and I’d got as far as cutting out red meat. But ostriches were birds, so that was okay. I turned toward the counter and nodded.

The spotty waiter came over. ‘Are you ready to order, madam?’

‘I’ll have the ostrich burger,’ I told him. ‘It’s not something you often see on a café menu.’

‘We’re trialing it,’ he replied. ‘Chef says there’s a lot of meat on an ostrich, even if you only use the breast.’

‘Yes, they’re pretty big, as birds go. Have you seen a live one?’

‘Only at the zoo. Did you know they can rip open a man’s stomach with one kick? The ancient Romans put them in their circuses.’

‘Really? Do I need to know that when I’m ordering food?’

He apologized and disappeared toward the kitchen.

The burger arrived ten minutes later: a good thick patty in a seeded bun, fries and green salad on the side. I cut into it and took a mouthful: tender and tasty. I looked up at the Springsteen poster on the opposite wall, then down to my plate.

There was no plate there. I sat holding a knife and fork in mid-air, looking like a complete idiot.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, then called the waiter. ‘Did someone clear my plate away?’

‘Ah, no. N-no.’ His face radiated confusion.

‘Well, where is it?’

‘Er... I’ll get the manager.’

He fled as if I and my plate were possessed. Perhaps we were.

Mr. Vili – I presumed – tall and broad, came over.

‘How can I help you, madam?’

‘This’ll sound crazy, but my burger disappeared while I was looking the other way.’

He didn’t seem surprised, which was surprising in itself. ‘I’m very sorry. Can I offer you a complimentary meal?’

‘Ah – I don’t think so. I’ve had somewhat of a shock.’ I picked up my purse, ready to leave.

He apologized again and offered me a voucher for a free meal and drink, which I accepted. I drove home, puzzled and a little scared, and microwaved a frozen pizza. The cardboard box would probably have been tastier.

#

It was a couple of weeks before I went back for my freebie. This time, a couple sat in the far corner, engrossed in their smartphones while their meals cooled in front of them.

D. Vili was Duty Manager again, and he recognized me. ‘We found your plate in the laundry, of all places,’ he told me. ‘One of the waiters must have put it there, heaven knows why. Hope you enjoy your meal tonight.’

A plump, fortyish waitress served me. I wondered if my first waiter had been fired over the lost-burger incident.

I turned to the Specials. The first was llama steak. Another customer survey form dropped from between the pages.

I was feeling adventurous, and damn the no-red-meat rule. ‘I’ll have the llama.’

‘Certainly, madam – rare, medium or well-done?’

‘Medium, please, And a glass of house red.’

She scribbled.

‘Llama’s not something I ever tried,’ I said, for the sake of conversation. ‘Did the ostrich sell well?’

Her brows converged in puzzlement.

‘Last time I was in here,’ I prompted.

‘Oh. Yes. It’s South America this month. We did Africa before that.’

I hoped I wouldn’t be offered sloth, or jaguar. I wouldn’t want to eat an endangered species. Kangaroo for Australia, I supposed, buffalo, maybe, for North America. Penguin for Antarctica?

The steak was plump and succulent. I wondered which part of the llama it came from. I was about half-way through it when the door banged. I turned to look – a party of eight or ten – then turned back.

My plate was gone, again.

I pushed back my chair and marched up to Mr. Vili. He looked at me like he knew exactly what was coming.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I demanded.

‘I can only apologize again. I’m sure there’s some rational explanation.’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Have you any idea what a ‘rational explanation’ might look like? No, I thought not. I won’t be eating here again, and I’ll tell all my friends that. And I’ll post a really shitty online review. And if you show me another Customer Survey, I’ll scream.’

But it wasn’t Vili’s fault, and he didn’t deserve my rant. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘It’s a little unnerving when your food disappears mid-meal.’

‘I’m sure it is, madam. We’ll make every effort to get to the bottom of this. If you’d leave your contact details, we’ll get in touch as soon as we know something.’

He made it sound like the police. I gave him my business card and went home to another microwaved dinner.

#

Three days later, my phone rang at work. ‘Ms. Scott? Des Vili from Wildwood Café. I’m pleased to tell you you’ve won our weekly prize draw, a free dessert and coffee. Come in any time Monday to Thursday.’

I wasn’t aware I’d even entered, but gift horses and mouths came to mind. ‘Will it stay around long enough for me to eat it?’ I asked.

He laughed nervously. ‘I hope this will help make up for the inconvenience we’ve put you to.’

I went around to the Wildwood that evening and looked in the dessert cabinet. ‘That cheesecake looks good,’ I said, pointing. ‘What flavor is it?’.

‘Mango and passionfruit,’ Mr. Vili said.

‘No wild animals in it?’

‘No wild animals, I assure you. Or birds. It won’t fly away.’

I smiled tolerantly. He cut me a generous slice and squirted on aerosol cream.

It didn’t fly away, either. In fact, it was a damn good cheesecake. I finished every crumb.

He came and cleared the table himself. ‘How was the cheesecake?’

‘Great. Home-made?’

‘We have a pastrycook comes in, mornings.’

A squawk of outrage came from a nearby table. ‘What the...?’

The diner’s companion tried to pacify her, to no avail.

‘This pizza – this half-eaten pizza – just materialized in front of me! I don’t even like pepperoni!’

Mr Vili spun around and went to investigate, his soothing voice apologizing and offering free meals and drinks. This problem must be costing them a pretty penny. The customers stayed put.

He took the remains of the pepperoni pizza to the service hatch and came back to my table.

‘Ms. Scott, would you have a moment to talk about the, er, incidents?’

‘I guess.’

He led me to an office the size of a large broom cupboard, mostly taken up with computer hardware. Removing a pile of Customer Surveys from the better chair, he asked me to sit.

‘You seem keen on surveys,’ I said.

‘Yes, Ryan – the boss’s son – he’s a computer whizz, and he’s preparing an in-depth customer profile.’

‘You mean, what kind of exotic dishes they like?’

‘And other things. The llama didn’t go so well. People think of them as cuddly. They’re not, they smell and they spit. Good lean meat, though.’

What I got to eat of it before it vanished, I thought.

‘Now, Ms. Scott,’ he went on, ‘I want to thank you for being so patient with us. I’m glad to say we’re on the track of the problem.’

‘You don’t seem to be, what with that woman’s pizza.’

He winced. ‘I can’t give you any details yet, but I’ll let you know when we have something firm. And I’ll ask the owner to let you have a permanent discount when you order here. Thank you again for your patience.’

#

About a week later, he rang again. ‘Des Vili, Ms. Scott. Can you come into the café this evening to talk about you-know-what? Drinks on the house.’

‘Sure.’

After the first drink, he invited me into the office again. Most of the clutter had gone.

‘What happened to all the computer gear?’ I asked.

‘Ah, that’s part of the solution.’

I looked blank.

‘By the way, we found your second meal up in the roof space, with two others we didn’t know about, all growing mold,’ he went on.

‘Didn’t anyone else report their meal vanishing?’ I asked. ‘Did they just pay for it, leave a tip and go?’

‘It’s odd, isn’t it? But some people don’t like to complain.’ Which didn’t bode well for the survey responses.

‘How does the computer come to be part of the solution, as you put it? It didn’t sneak out into the café and steal my meal.’

He smiled, customer-friendly or humoring me. ‘I told you about Ryan, the computer guy. He had a sideline, mining bitcoins, and he worked out a way of optimizing the computer configuration to speed up processing. At least, he thought that’s what he’d done. What he really did was to set up what he calls a resonance with another dimension. And every so often, a plate’s been disappearing into the other dimension and re-appearing in this one, but in a different place.’

He thought a moment. ‘Of course, it might reappear in the same place, in which case no one would notice.’

Or roughly the same place. What if two diners suddenly found their meals switched over? That’d give them something to talk about.

Des took in my expression of incredulity. ‘I guess this sounds like science-fiction. Ryan asked his professor to come down from the university and explain it to us. He said it’d be quite safe to eat the meal, if you could find it in time. It’s a “localized fracture of the space-time continuum”, whatever that means. And it’ll dissipate in time. “The continuum is highly resilient,” that was what he said.’

‘It sounds unlikely to me. But if it’s true, it’s bad news for FedEx. Instantaneous delivery will always beat same-day.’

‘Except you can’t control where things go. It’s no use for anything except to keep students amused.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, you’re a special customer now. If I’m not on duty, just tell the manager and you’ll be looked after properly.’

He kept me talking, and I began to suspect he had some ulterior motive. Not that I was that irresistible. But you could always tell when a man was undressing you with his eyes.

#

Des told me Ryan the Geek was persuaded – most people would say bribed – to stop his experiments with a return ticket to Europe and a generous allowance. But you can’t keep a good coder down. The last I heard, he was in Malta writing software for online casinos. I hoped his roulette wheels wouldn’t dematerialize in mid-spin.

#

The next time Des phoned me, he mumbled and hesitated, uncharacteristically. Then he got it out.

‘Ms. Scott – er, Christina – could I ask you for a date?’

‘Well...’. He seemed a nice enough guy, and quite good-looking, if a little overweight. All that café food, probably. ‘Okay. By the way, people call me Tina.’

We settled on Thursday, when he was off duty. We had a bite to eat at – guess where? – then took in a movie.

Midway through, I turned my head, and his seat was empty. Oh, no! Was this going to be the story of my life? Was I a Node, or whatever the connection was called? Localized, eh? And it hadn’t exactly dissipated, either. It had already reached the local movie theater, and graduated from dinner-plates to human beings. I gathered up my purse, ready to flee in case it was contagious.

Just to be certain, I looked again. A different face confronted me, one I’d seen before. The waiter with the skin problem, wearing a shell-shocked expression.

‘You!’ I cried, drawing a “Sssh!” from the woman behind me. ‘What the Devil are you doing here?’

‘I might ask you that. I was sitting at home playing Call of Duty, and things went kind of fuzzy. I’ve no idea what happened.’

‘I have. I’ll tell you over a big glass of wine, or something stronger. Let’s go to the Wildwood.’

If it hasn’t dematerialized, and if we don’t before we get there. I stood up. ‘Come on. I’m buying.’

 

About the author 

Chris Morey was born at Cowes, Isle of Wight, and educated at University College London. He has done a wide range of jobs, many in the IT industry. He is widely-travelled, and enjoys performance art and reading. He has been writing creatively since 2015. 

 

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