Jack and Jill

by Jerry Guarino

red wine

 

 

Jack and Jill pedaled up the hill in the bright sunshine of a Washington State morning.

            “Sweetheart.  I’m getting too old for these climbs.”

            “I know Jack.  My knee is starting to ache.  But I love our bike time.”

            “Maybe it’s time to get one of those electric bikes.”

            They ordered two eBikes from California, backordered because of the demand.  After a few weeks, Jack opened an email to say the delivery was on its way.

            “Jill, the bikes are leaving California today.  They should arrive on Friday.”

            “I can’t wait!”

            Meanwhile, Tim the delivery driver was winding his way up from the central coast towards Seattle.  Tim loved his job, often stopping along the way to get local treats and generally smelling the roses.  He was not a type A driver.  Although he was only 19, he had the soul of a 1960s hippie.

            His first stop was in San Francisco, delivering some tie dye fabrics for a small clothing boutique in Haight Ashbury. 

            The owner opened the box right away.  “Oh, these are just perfect.  We can make more t-shirts for the farmer’s market this weekend.” 

Tim was intrigued.  “Do you have any shirts done?”

            “Of course, take a look in our shop.”

            Tim browsed the display of colorful shirts, some with peace symbols and some with words.  He finally settled on a blue, orange and green shirt with the words ‘take it easy’ on the back.  He put it on over his uniform shirt.

            Back on the road, his next delivery was in Berkeley, home of the University of California and peaceful protests that hadn’t completely finished from 1969.  Easing down Channing Way, he pulled into the Solar Car Wash (yes, that’s right).

            Opening up the back door, he pulled out two large boxes of solar panels and handed them to the owner.

            “Say, how does this work?”

            “The solar panels store electricity and power the car wash brushes.”

            “What happens if it’s cloudy?”

            “Well, then it’s hand washing until the batteries are full again.  Say, your truck looks like it could use a cleaning.  Half price for delivery trucks.”

            Tim smiled.  “All right, but make it quick, I have to get going.”

            The truck was all lathered up and moving through the wash cycle when the system shut down.  Tim’s truck was locked in the middle of the machine; he tried to see out of the soap covered windshield.

            “Uh Oh.”

            “Hello?  The wash stopped.”

            “Don’t worry, my friend.  The backup generator should kick in any moment.”

            An hour later, the car wash started up, the soap having dried onto the delivery truck and Tim came out the other side.

            The owner apologized.  “I’m so sorry.  No charge.  Take it easy.”

            “No worries, but I have to get going.”

            Driving up University Avenue, he saw a group of women offering car washes.

            “Might as well get this dry soap off.  My truck looks like a pop art experiment.  What are you raising money for?”

            A pretty co-ed in cut off jeans came up.  “We’re donating money to the shelters in town.  There’s a lot of homeless in Berkeley.”

            “I see.  We’ll, here’s $10.”

            Tim thought to himself.  I should have gone to college.

            The Cal sorority girls did a quick, but thorough job cleaning the truck and Tim was back on the road towards Oregon.  He came to a fork, either 101 North, the coastal route or I-5, the faster interstate.  Tim took the slower road along the coast.  That may have been a mistake.

            By the time he reached Eureka, he was exhausted and hungry.  He decided to eat, stay at a motel and get an early start in the morning.  He overslept.  It was 10:00am when he woke up.  He grabbed a fast food order from a drive thru and started driving, knowing he couldn’t make up the time by speeding.

            “I should have taken route 5.  It’s mid-day Thursday and I’m not even in Oregon yet.”

Meanwhile, Jack was checking the status of his bikes.  “Still says Friday by the end of the day Jill.”

            “Great, it will be perfect weather for a ride.”

It was Thursday night, when Tim arrived in Troutdale, Oregon, a small town outside of Portland.  He parked his truck to get dinner at a local diner.

            Inside, he ordered a burger.  A pretty waitress brought it to him.  Her name tag said Heather.  She wore bell bottom jeans, a red Danskin top and flip flops.  Her hair was long and straight.  All she needed was flowers in her hair to complete his fantasy.

            “Would you like anything else?  We’re about to close.” 

            “Where’s a motel?”

            “I can show you.  Let me close your tab and get my things.”

            Tim was starting to get excited.  Maybe this is the beginning of something.

            Heather took Tim to her apartment, a two bedroom she shared with a girlfriend.

            “Sit down, would you like some wine?”

            “Sure.”

            Heather brought a bottle.  They shared it, along with some pot.  Tim was totally relaxed as was Heather.  They made love.  Heather brought out two brownies.

            “Here, try these Tim.”

            They both ate the brownies, hungry from the wine, pot and making love.  What Tim didn’t know was the brownies had LSD in them.

            It was Sunday before Tim left, but he didn’t mind.  He had spent days with his fantasy flower girl and the best love he had ever had.  She kissed him goodbye. 

            “Hope to see you again Tim.”

            He stayed the night.  He could get up early to deliver the bikes to Washington, only a few hours north.

Jill got an email from the shipping company.  The delivery date now says by the end of the day Monday.  “Jack, the bikes won’t be here until Monday.”

            “Man, that’s disappointing.  Three days late.  What happened?”

            “It doesn’t say.”

            “Take it easy, dear.  We’ll have plenty of time to ride.”

***

             

Tim pulled onto his final stop to deliver the eBikes for Jack and Jill.  They came out, a little perturbed.

            “Finally, we thought these were coming on Friday.”

            “I’m sorry guys.  You wouldn’t believe that disasters that I had to go through to get these to you.”

            Tim left for California.  Jack and Jill started to unpack the bikes and began the assembly, following a video provided by the company.  They had almost finished the bikes when they came to the last step: attach the seat and secure it.

            “Where are the seats dear?”

            “Check the boxes.”

            “I did, they’re not here.”

            Tim returned to Troutdale to rendezvous with his new lover Heather.  After another day of bliss, he had to return to the bike company in California.

***

           

 “Tim, where have you been?”

            “Why, I just took my days off in Oregon, seeing the sites.”
            “A customer in Washington said you didn’t deliver the bike seats.  We had to fly them up overnight.  Cost us $100.  We’re docking that from your pay check.”

            Tim checked the back of his truck.  Under some packing blankets, there they were, two eBike seats.

            “Guys, I’ve decided to go back to school.  There’s a nice junior college in Oregon.”

***

 Tim settled into a nice college life with Heather. 

            Jack and Jill could finally go up the hills again.

           

 About the author

 Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "Café Stories: west coast stories", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

Blackbird

by Sheila Kinsella

jasmine tea

I set my rucksack down and notice the strata of the sandstone doorstep, like tiny terraces of dirt and stone, worn away by years of footsteps passing over its threshold. I ring the doorbell.

‘So. It’s you, Eleanor.’ Mum looks me over, blocking the doorway.

‘My name is Leon now,’ I stare at her unblinking, ice-blue eyes.

‘I’ll call you by the name I gave you,’ she moves to close the door.

I hear a familiar voice shout from inside.

‘Ah Mum, let her in. Oops, sorry, him.’  Larry appears behind Mum and swings the door fair off its hinges. ‘Hi!’ He hugs me, pulls me inside and lifts the rucksack into the hallway.

His smell is evocative of my childhood, that faint sweaty odour.

‘Do you want a cuppa? Or is it a beer these days?’ Larry smiles and slaps my arm.

‘Larry, I’ll do it for you,’ Mum pushes past me, her face sour as last week’s milk.

Larry steps aside and leads me into the garden. The crazy paving Dad laid forty years ago zig zags across the yard, broken and loose in places.  Tall blue Delphiniums dwarf the purple Campanula trailing over the ground. Pale pink roses are dotted all around the pergola like a pointillism painting.

‘Don’t mind Mum, she’ll come around.’ Larry sits down on a bench, faded grey by the rain and time.

‘Yeah, Larry. But when?’ I sit down opposite him. ‘It’s been six years.’

‘Anyway, how are you doing up there in Aberdeen?’ Larry smiles.

Fine,’ I reply. ‘I got a job as an environmental engineer. It’s going well. And you?’

‘Well, it’s not been easy.’  Larry picks at a hangnail on this thumb as he talks.

‘I imagine. I heard the garage closed.’

‘You always were the brainy one.’ Larry smirks.  ‘Must have been all that cod liver oil.’ We both laugh at the memory of him passing the golden pearls to his little sister when Mum’s back was turned.

The silence between us is broken by a blackbird singing; its shrill intonation intersperses our conversation. How ironic, the bird’s symbolic meaning is of spirituality and knowledge.

A line of crows caw as they swing to and fro on the telephone wire looped across the street, waiting to pounce on roadkill. The tall trees at the end of the garden rustle as they blow in the breeze. 

We speak at the same time.

‘No, you go,’ our words cross mid-air once more.

‘Don’t you dare say ladies first!’ I mock frown.

‘Seriously, you go.’

‘Were you there at the end?’ I bite my thumbnail; a piece splits off, satisfied, I pinch it with my forefinger and thumb and flick it away.

Larry looks up just as Mum arrives with the tray. As she sets it down on the table, the teapot spills tea over into the tray, mapping out small islands of brown liquid before merging into one.

‘Mum, it’s ok,’ I place my hand on hers. She shakes it off.

Flustered, she tuts and rushes her wiry little body back indoors to get a cloth. Larry and I exchange glances as if to agree to wait until the fuss is finished. She returns with a plate of biscuits, mops up the mess and exits stage right.

‘He wasn’t always lucid. The morphine saw to that.’

‘Did he…’

‘Did he mention you?’ Larry pre-empts my question. ‘Yes.’

‘What did he say.’ I breathe deeply.

‘He told me to make sure you weren’t isolated from the family,’ Larry puts his hand on mine for a second.

‘Did he die here?’ I realise I’m perched on the edge of my seat.

‘She didn’t want him to die in the house.’ Larry sighs. ‘He died in the hospice.’

‘Alone?’ I ask.

‘No, I stayed with him.’ Larry sniffs. ‘The nurses said he hadn’t long.’

‘Mum?’ I ask.

‘She left.’

I look down at my feet and sigh.

‘Will you stay?’ Larry asks.

‘I booked the hotel,’ I reply. ‘But we can still catch up.’

‘He’d have wanted you to stay here.’ Larry emphasises the word here.

‘How can you stay here?’  I ask, raising my hands, palms upwards.

‘It won’t be forever.’ Larry sighs, ‘I’ll find a job soon.’ He twiddles the hairs of his beard as he talks.

‘Always the favourite,’ I smirk.

‘Not that old line again.’ Larry sniggers.

‘I’m of.,’ I make to stand up but Larry gestures for me to stay.

‘Look, I’ve something to tell you,’ he purses his lips together, ‘only not here.’

‘What?’ I ask.

Larry puts his finger to his lips, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. The funeral is at St Mary’s, you need to be at the church for one-thirty tomorrow.’

Mum stands at the back door, arms folded over her pinny, eyes narrowed and lips straight across like a dash.

‘Mum, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I touch her arm. She sniffs and looks the other way.

Next day, I stand in the funeral parlour looking down upon my Dad. His skin is cold and putty-like. His black suit emphasises the death-pallor. I tell him I love him and say goodbye.

Later, at the church, I wait with Larry and Mum as the mourners arrive. The shake hands with us and saying, ‘Sorry for your loss.’ Neighbours and distant cousins I no longer recognise traipse past to fill the pews. When there’s nobody left to arrive, I steer Mum into our pew. For a few seconds, I feel her hand touch mine like it used to.

The funeral ceremony seems interminable. The coffin is carried in by the pallbearers and laid to rest at the altar. The congregation strains to reach the high notes of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful.’ The organ plays a key too high for us.  After the hymn, Larry reads the eulogy. My Dad was a good man, kindness itself, it’s true. I can’t fault it. Mum moves up next to me to fill the space Larry left.

Black funeral cars take us to the hotel in Canterbury for a sit-down meal. I remember coming here for family weddings, including Larry’s. The marriage didn’t last; he was back at our parents’ house within twelve months. The food is bland, salmon with mashed potato and a sprinkling of frozen peas. Mum is omnipresent. I can’t get to talk to Larry alone.

My chest binder is pinching under my arms, I have to release it. Now there’s a dilemma, no gender-neutral toilets here. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I go into the Ladies. I sit on the loo and unbutton my shirt to readjust the binder. I hear the clicking of heels and the door slamming. One woman goes into the cubicle next to me, pees but continues to chatter to the other outside.

‘Did you see the state of her?’ Her voice is high pitched, and she slurs her words together.

‘Short hair, business suit, white shirt and brogues! B-u-u-utchy baby!’ The woman outside shrieks.

I can’t resist. I flush the toilet and open the door.

‘Lesbe friends!’ The woman in the cubicle cackles.

‘Er… Mira, shut up.’ Her friend says as she stares at me, her mascara brush trails down her left cheek, her mouth making the shape of the ‘o’ in a doughnut.

I check my breast binder in the mirror, pulling it down at the sides and pushing my breasts back inside. I savour the moment when reflected in front of me, Mira emerges red-faced from her cubicle looking sheepish.

‘Ladies,’ I nod at them and leave, chuckling to myself.

‘What’s put that smirk on your face?’ Larry asks with a bemused look.

I recount the scene back to him. Soon his belly is aching with laughter.

‘Stop, stop,’ he snorts.

‘Oh, not the piggy snort laugh!’ He sets me off, and the pair of us are crying.

‘Have you no respect!’ Mum’s voice intervenes.

But that just makes it worse. We can’t stop. She stomps off in the direction of the Ladies. I seize my chance.

‘What’s the secret?’

‘Dad left everything to us.’ Larry says.   

       

‘Are you serious?’

‘Well, he told me a while back that he put everything in a Trust,’ Larry says. ‘It means Mum can live in the house, but the capital is kept for us, his children.’

‘Does Mum know?’ I sigh.

‘I don’t think so,’ Larry raises his glass. ‘You know what she’s like. Hides everything under the carpet.’

‘Yeah, stiff upper lip and all that,’ I agree.

‘Look, it’s not an issue. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.’

‘Thanks. I just hate this resentment she feels towards me.’ My eyes start to fill up. ‘I miss her.’

‘I know,’ Larry says.

Suddenly, I hear raised voices coming from the other side of the room. A door slams and crockery crashes to the floor. A waiter rushes over to the table.

‘Excuse me, I think you’d better see to your Mum.’ He’s breathing heavily, carrying a tray of dishes filled with apple pie and ice cream in one hand and pieces of broken china in the other. 

‘In the Ladies,’ he pants.

I rise and hurry over with Larry in pursuit. The two women gossips I encountered earlier are shuffling back to their seats. Mira’s cheek is red and flushed. I overhear her saying that she just went for her.

My mum sits on the frilly pink chair in the women’s toilets. As she looks up at me, tears meander through the wrinkles on her face.

‘Mum, are you okay?’

She reaches her arms out to me. ‘I couldn’t let them say those things about you.’

‘It’s alright Mum. I don’t care.’ I hug her. ‘It’s not important what they think.’ Our eyes meet. ‘It’s what you think that matters.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She pulls a hanky from her sleeve. ‘It’s hard.’

‘Just try,’ I squeeze her arms, ‘just try.’

‘I will.’ She sniffs. ‘How can I go out there now? After this?’

‘We’ll go out together with our heads held high.’

———————————

About the author

Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy. 

Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19660897.Sheila_Kinsella

A Wrong Note

by Henry Lewi

New Orleans iced coffee 

    He stood watching in the corner of the square, the dawn was slowly breaking and the hot moist night turned into an even hotter humid day. The mist rose lazily from the river obscuring his view of Algiers. The match flared as he lit yet another cigarette and silently and still, he watched and waited.

   The heat became oppressive and sweat trickled down his back soaking through his crumpled linen shirt, in the heat, mosquitoes and fat flies buzzed around, but still he watched and waited. 

   The quiet of the early morning was broken by the sound of the first tram of the day as it clattered and clanged its way along the riverbank pausing at the far end of the square to disgorge it passengers. He could hear but not see the sound of the first ferry of the day lazily crossing the river to the island. 

   The hot sun continued to rise bathing the old square in bright sunshine, and more people began to arrive, seeking shelter along it’s shaded edges and a few brave vendors began to set up their stalls in the square. 

  The match flared briefly, he took a long draw of yet another cigarette and in the heat of the day he silently watched.

  The scream broke the silence and very soon he heard the wail of the sirens and he knew that they had found his latest victim. 

He felt no regret, no remorse just sadness.

 He remembered his time at the Conservatoire, the beauty of simple notes, of harmony, the strictness of the regime, the path towards the perfect chord. He’d tried to fulfill his quest as both pupil and teacher. Smiling to himself he ground out his cigarette, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  He turned on his heels slowly walking back out of the square to the roads behind, filled with clubs, absinthe and bourbon bars and restaurants. The music began to play and he wandered from bar to bar, club to club, carefully listening to the notes played by the musicians blowing their saxes, cornets and trumpets. He sat. He listened. He smoked. He sipped his bourbon, and then he heard it, a series of wrong notes, he stood silently, watched the musician responsible, and he knew in the heat of the day he had found his next victim.