Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

Tag: family

• The Forest Fire

  Posted at 1:17 pm by writergherlone, on April 7, 2018

  

  The Forest Fire

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

       Frankie was seven years old the time her mother pulled up in front of her aunt’s house in a borrowed convertible and hollered for her to come outside.

       “I have an arrangement at the lake. Get in,” Frankie’smom said as she opened the passenger door. “We can stay up there for the rest of the summer, but I’ll have to clean cabins.”

       Frankie was delighted. She had been missing her mother so fiercely, she’d started wearing one of her shirts to bed, just so she’d feel near. Her mother was wild that year, sneaking in sometimes in the middle of the night to whisk Frankie away for a few days; other times, not showing up for weeks.  Frankie was used to spending a few nights a week with her aunt, but as the summer wore on, her mother began to leave her more frequently and for longer stretches of time. This time, her mother had been gone so long, Frankie worried she’d never come back.

       Frankie leapt into her arms and covered her with kisses. Then she sensed her mother’s mood. It was something she’d been able to do for a long time. She was glad, because it told her how she should feel and how to behave. Today, her mother was needles and sparkler spray. Sometimes she was birthday parties and balloons, but at others she was bees and burdocks. Frankie stiffened and slid down. It was becoming harder to tell. She’d have to be careful.

       “Where’d you get the car?” Frankie asked. The last time her mother had been by, she didn’t have a car. Frankie inspected it and tried to remain calm.

       Her mother’s eyes roamed constantly, as if she was trying to see everything at once. She flinched when a crow flew overhead.

       “I got it in case I need to escape in a hurry,” she said.

       Frankie wanted to ask if she would come to get her if that time came. “It’s dirty,” she remarked instead. A thick layer of grime covered the exterior. She ran a finger up the side, revealing the red paint underneath.

       “Well, we haven’t had rain in months! Everything’s dirty. Hurry up! We’ve got to go!” Frankie’s mother stomped her foot and rattled the door.

       “How long this time, Nancy?” Frankie’s aunt asked. She was standing at the doorway with Frankie’s suitcase.

       Her mother glared. “You just never mind how long,” she snapped. “It will be what it will be.”

       Frankie grimaced. Her mother and aunt didn’t get along. When the two of them were together it was like getting called to the principal’s office. She loved her aunt because she was always pancakes and coloring books, but she loved her mother more.

       “It’ll be okay,” her aunt said with a wink. “Don’t run off without your stuff, now.” She handed Frankie the bag and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.” She glanced at the car. “Does that thing have a top, Nancy? Supposed to storm later.”

       “Nope. It’s busted,” Frankie’s mother said as she scanned the sky. “I guess I can throw a tarp over it if I have to.” Then without warning she screamed, “Tornado!”

       Frankie knew there wasn’t a tornado, but she dropped into a crouch right there on the steps and covered her head.

        “Good,” her mother said. “Now what?”

       “Find a basement to hide in,” Frankie said.

        “Very good.”

       “You need to stop doing those ridiculous drills, Nancy!” her aunt cut in. “You’re going to scare that child to death!”

       “A lot of bad things can happen. I’m trying to prepare her!”

       Frankie felt her mother’s mood shift again. It was skating on a pond and hearing the ice crack. She grew still and quiet.

       “Prepare her for what, for heaven sakes?”

       “The unexpected.”

       “Well, a tornado in Maine would certainly be unexpected.” Her aunt shook her head.

       “Let’s go!” Frankie’s mother boomed. Frankie jumped. She threw her stuff into the back, kicking up a whirlwind of filth, and hopped in the car.

       Her mother’s hair, cut too short, fluttered around her face as they drove up the twisting road towards the mountain. Her hands shook as she fished a pack of cigarettes out of the console.

       “You smoke?” Frankie croaked. Her mother said people only smoked when they wanted to kill themselves. Frankie wanted to rip them out of her hand and chuck them out of the car.

       She struck a match and lit one. “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t,’ she said, flicking the match and letting the wind carry it away.

       The car swerved. “Accident!” she hollered. “Brace!”

       Frankie tucked her head in between her knees.

       “You’ll need to be faster than that, Frankie. Accidents can happen at any time. And don’t forget to cover your head.”

       Before Frankie could sit back up all the way, her mother was at it again. “Crash!” she shrieked, only this time it was for real. Frankie squeaked as her mother slammed on the brakes. A cow moose bounded on gangly legs across the road and missed the car by inches.

       “See?” her mother said, clutching her chest. “You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

       “No,” Frankie admitted, trying to catch her breath.

       “From now on, you’ll have to be the lookout. Don’t take your eyes off the side of the road for even a second. Tell me immediately if you see anything.”

       Frankie stayed alert. She scanned back and forth, looking for animals on the sides of the road while her mother stared straight ahead. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly, Frankie was sure it would disintegrate in her fingers.

       “We’re here,” her mother finally announced, letting out a sigh of relief. She pulled up in front of a tiny, brown cabin. “You stay here while I go square things with the owner.”

       Frankie nodded. Her mother was clean sheets and Saturday morning donuts. Her stomach relaxed. She got out of the car. The air was a mix of boggy freshness from the lake and tangy pine dander. Somewhere, way off, a loon called.

       “We’re all set,” her mother said. She dangled a set of keys in her hand. “I’m afraid I won’t have much time to spend with you, so after you put your stuff away you can just go play. But don’t go too far,” she added.

       Frankie dumped her stuff into the cabin and started towards the water.

       “Wait!” her mother bellowed. Frankie skidded to a stop. “Don’t talk to strangers, especially men. Don’t go into the water past your knees, and for God sakes, get back to the cabin if you see any lightning.”

       “Okay,” Frankie said. She took a couple of steps and waited.

       “Don’t touch any wild animals and look out for ticks. Put on some bug spray.”

       Frankie went back in, grabbed a can of Ben’s, and went back outside.

       “You know what?” her mother said, surveying the grounds, “I think you better stay right here. There’s too much that could go wrong.”

       Frankie sighed.

       “I’ll just feel better,” her mother said. “And don’t give me that look. I’ll be back later and then we can roast some hot dogs.”

       That night, Frankie put her sleeping bag onto a platform bed and wiggled inside. The frogs were croaking, ga-gunk, back and forth down by the lake, competing with the sound of distant thunder that had begun. It was warm and cozy in there, and she was almost lulled to sleep when her mother came in to kiss her goodnight. She was the first day at a new school. Frankie’s stomach tightened. “Is everything okay? Is there anything I need to worry about?”

       “I’m not sure just yet. I’ll be outside, watching this storm. It might turn out to be a bad one.”

       “Okay,” Frankie said. She was too tired to worry.

       A few hours later, she awoke with a start. The cabin was pitch black. Her mother’s face was a mask of terror as it came into view, suddenly illuminated by flash of white light.

       “There’s a fire,” she said, her voice high and tight. She was the day her father hadn’t come home. “We need to leave.”

       Frankie sucked in her breath, startled, and got a lungful of smoke. It made her teeth chatter. She jumped up, still in her sleeping bag. “Where? What happened? What should we do?”

       “I don’t know! It was a lightning strike up in the mountains. All I know is that we need to get out of here before it spreads.”

       Frankie wrestled out of the bag and stumbled around in the dark trying to collect her clothes and toys.

       “Leave it all here! We have to go!”  her mother said. She pulled Frankie towards the door. They got into the car and started down the road, but the only way out was blocked by fire trucks and rescue vehicles. Frankie glanced behind them. The side of the mountain danced with orange flames.

       “What’s the drill?” Frankie cried. “How do we prepare?”

       Her mother’s eyes darted wildly. “I … I don’t know,” she stammered. “I didn’t expect this.”

       A fireman approached the vehicle. “You’re gonna have to turn around. The whole road is blocked all the way to town with people coming to help.”

       “What are we supposed to do?” Frankie’s mother howled.

       “Hunker down the best you can. Cover yourselves with wet blankets or get into the lake if you have to,” he suggested before racing off again.

       Frankie’s mother whipped the car around and drove back to the campground. People were pointing and crying. “It’s coming this way!” someone screamed.

       Frankie’s mother shouted, “Everyone grab a blanket and head to the lake!”

       A panicked woman stood in the middle of the chaos. She seemed to be having a hard time breathing. Her eyes were wide with fear. Frankie’s mother took her hand and tried to pull her towards the shore, but the woman wouldn’t budge. “I can’t swim!” she bawled.

       “You’re going to be okay!” Frankie’s mother told her. “It’s going to be okay. Everyone stick together. Follow me!” she ordered over the noise. The woman began to move along with the rest of the others. Everyone followed Frankie’s mother down to the lake. Frankie stopped for just a second to check her mood, so she would know how to feel. For the first time in a long time, her mother’s eyes were still. She was learning to ride a bike or climbing to the top of the monkey bars. She was strong.

       They all splashed into the lake as hot embers rained down around them. “Wet your blankets and put them over your head,” Frankie’s mother advised.

       The water was heated by the sun of a hundred days of summer drought. They were safe under their blankets, but Frankie’s mother announced that she needed to go back to the cabin. Frankie panicked. She grabbed her mother’s legs and tried to stop her. “Don’t go! Please, don’t leave me! Stay here with me!” she begged, sure something awful was about to happen or that her mother would use the car to somehow escape.

       Frankie’s mother kissed her nose, “It’ll be okay,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like warm milk and caramels. “I promise. I’ll be right back.” She darted out from under the blanket. Frankie sobbed as she watched her mother dodge falling branches. Just when Frankie thought she’d left for good, she returned and passed around water and food to those in need. Frankie nearly collapsed with relief.

        They spent the rest of the night there in the lake, whispering words of comfort to one another and swapping stories.  When the sun came up, they were tired, but unscathed. The fire had been contained, but it had cut out a large swath of the trees to the west of them. Frankie saw black scars marring the landscape and steamy whiffs of smoldering ash rising from the ground. The people emerged from the water tired but spared.

       The crowd began to dwindle as the roads cleared. They uttered words of thanks to Frankie’s mom as they drove away. She packed up the car and they, too, drove towards town. She didn’t call out any drills on the return, and her eyes stayed quiet. She was the first day of feeling good after a long sickness.

       She pulled up in front of a house that Frankie didn’t recognize.

       “What are we doing here?” Frankie asked.

        “Returning this car,” Frankie’s mother said.

       “Don’t you need it? What about your escape? What if something bad happens?” Frankie asked, holding her breath.

       “If it does,” her mother said, “I hope we’ll be able to work it out together. I’d like to try.”

       For once, Frankie knew how to feel all on her own. It was happy.

  End

  *This story was originally published by Edify Fiction on January 1, 2018

  **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without consent from the author

  

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, challenges, childhood, family, familyfriendly, fiction, fire, forestfire, innerstrength, lake, mentalillness, mother, mountains, overcomingadversity, parenting, shortstory, strength

• No Parking

  Posted at 1:56 pm by writergherlone, on February 28, 2018

  

   

   

  No Parking

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

  It was early September in 1973 when Stevie stood in bare feet on the edge of her grandmother’s yard and watched the bus pull up and park.

  The ground was chilly that time of year in Maine, but her feet had grown so tough and calloused over the summer, she hardly even noticed.

  She went out to the street and circled the length of the bus. It might have been bright red at one time, but a layer of rust clung to the exterior. It made the whole thing look as if it had been painted with blood and set out in the sun to dry. She shook her head and sighed. The entrance doors screeched as they flapped open. Her mother poked her head out and grinned. “Hey, kiddo. Whaddya think?”

  “Are we really going to live in that thing?” Stevie asked.

  Before her mother could answer, the rear exit opened with a clanking boom and slammed against the side of the bus. It caught Stevie off guard, making her jump. The heel of her foot landed on a sharp stone. She cried out and hopped around, rubbing at it, as her father began to hurl vinyl and steel into the road.

  “It’s going to be an adventure. You’ll see,” her mother hollered over the noise as she bounded down the steps.

  “Why can’t we just stay with Grandma?”

  “What?” her mother mouthed, pointing to her ear.

  Stevie waited for a pause in the noise before asking again. “Why can’t we stay with Grandma?”

  “She doesn’t have room. You know that. It’s bad enough that we’ve taken up her yard all summer with our tent. Besides, your father can make a lot more money on the road.”  Finally noticing Stevie’s discomfort, she asked, “Where are your shoes?”

  “I still don’t have any. Remember?”

  “Oh. Well, we’ll get you some. Listen, I’ve gotta give your father a hand. We should be finished gutting it today. Going to be just like a regular house when we’re done.” She slapped the side for emphasis. Gold flecks shimmied the ground.

  Stevie bent over and scooped up a handful. She took a plastic bag out of her pocket and sprinkled some inside. She tucked the bag back into her pocket.

  “Will there be a bathroom?” she asked, as more parts of the bus clattered into the road.

  Her mother raised her eyebrows in question. “What, Stevie? I can’t hear you.”

  Stevie shook her head. “Never mind.”  She wandered over to her grandmother’s lawn and sat.

  She ripped out a handful of grass and flung it over her head. As she watched the stray pieces flutter and fall, she noticed something white. She snatched it from the air and examined it. A feather! She put it in her pocket.

  She scowled at the bus. She couldn’t help wishing she was back home. But home, as she’d grown to think of it, never belonged to them. They’d only been renting the pretty little farm house on Merry Meeting Bay. Not even the furniture was theirs, but it was the longest they’d stayed anywhere.

  Green rows of farmland swept wide on both sides, and the bay was right out front. There was even a treehouse in the back yard. It looked impossibly high when she’d first seen it. It was way out of reach for someone her age. She’d stood at the base and peered up at the tiny house in the branches. It seemed as though she’d never be big enough to climb up and see inside, but eventually, she was.

  She and her mother used to take long, lazy walks down to the shore in the afternoons. A crooked cedar tree jutted out over the water, and Stevie used to climb up on it like a horse and sit there watching the ducks and geese take off and land. The air smelled of flowers, and of hay and boggy water. Sitting there with her mother in the scented air warmed her tummy. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever feel that way again.

  Her father had been a carpenter. He made good money, but he hated the work. He wanted to be a singer in a band. Every weekend he’d hold practice at the house. Friday night, cars would pile into the driveway and spill out scruffy men carrying guitars and beer. They’d listen to loud music and try to copy the sounds they heard with their own instruments. Stevie’s nose stung from the acrid smoke wafting out of their skinny cigarettes. The smell made her dizzy and giddy. On Saturday mornings, she’d have to pick her way around half a dozen sleeping men to get to the kitchen. When her father was a carpenter they could afford to pay rent, but not anymore.

  Stevie had come home from school in the spring to find the kitchen full of boxes.

  “What’s going on?” she’d asked her mother.

  “Your father’s quit his job. He’s going to play music full time.  We can’t stay here anymore. We’ve been evicted. We have to be out by the end of today.”

  “What?” Stevie cried.

  “Take what you can carry. We’ll have to leave the rest behind.”

  “Where are we going to go?” She couldn’t breathe.

  “We’ll think of something. You know your father hates staying in one place too long, anyway. This is a good thing.” Her mother stopped packing and smiled with reassurance. “A really good thing. I promise.” She planted a kiss on Stevie’s forehead. “Go on, now. Git!” She swatted her with a spatula.

  Stevie picked up a few empty boxes and climbed the narrow stairway to her room. She looked around, trying to decide what to take with her.

  Her father peeked in. “Just the essentials. I need room for my equipment.”

  “Well, what should I bring?”

  “None of that junk, that’s for sure.” He pointed towards Barbie’s town house and a collection of stuffed animals. “Just pack some clothes and whatever else you absolutely need.”

  “Dad! I can’t leave all my stuff behind!” She snatched a Teddy bear from the floor and hugged it to her chest.

  “You’re just going to have to. Besides, you can’t go anywhere in life if you’ve got too much junk weighing you down. Keep things light, then you can hit the road whenever you want. Don’t ever ground yourself with material stuff.”

  “But, Dad …”

  “Nothing is permanent. Remember that.”

  Stevie’s eyes filled with tears.

  He turned away. “Leave it all here.” His shoulders were tight as he paused at the doorway. For a second, Stevie thought he might change his mind. “I mean it,” he said, and started down the stairs.

  Stevie loved her father, but in that moment, she hated him, too. She hated him for quitting his job. She hated him for making them move. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t even sing all that well, and everyone knew it. People lied to him to make him feel better, and now it was going to ruin everything! She may have only been eight, but she knew that much.

  She closed her eyes and prayed that roots would grow out of her feet. She envisioned them busting out of her skin, breaking through the floor, and snaking through the thick earth beneath the house.

  Her mother hollered up the stairs. “Get a move on!”

  She checked her feet and scowled when she didn’t see anything. She stuffed a few of her favorite things in the boxes and hid them under her clothes.

  Later that afternoon, it felt as if she was leaving pieces of herself behind as they pulled away from the house for the last time. It made her feel sick and weak and hopeless as she watched the house get smaller and smaller in the rear window. Her stomach flipped when she thought about some strange kid playing with her toys.

  They had to stay in a tent in her grandparents’ yard ever since.  Stevie’s mom said it was just until they figured things out, but it had already been months.

  ***

  Stevie’s mom got off the bus. She shook padding and dust out of her hair as she climbed down the steps.

  Stevie stood and put her hands on her hips. “How am I supposed to go to school?” she asked.

  “You’re not. I’m going to teach you. Isn’t that neat?”

  “But you’re not a teacher.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean anything. I wouldn’t worry about it. The stuff you’re going to learn can’t be taught in school.”

  “You know, I could always …”

  “You’re not staying here.” Her mother’s voice was firm.

  “Fine.” Stevie ran to the tent and dove in.

   

  Stevie’s father finished fixing the bus the day before the sky spit the first snowflake. She was allowed in for the first time. All of the original seats were gone, except for the driver’s. Towards the front, there was a small table and chairs, a battered love seat, and a pot-bellied stove. Out back, there was a walled-in room for her parents and a bunk for Stevie in the middle. In place of a bathroom was a plastic toilet that had to be emptied. A shower curtain enclosed the area, giving it a small measure of privacy.

  “This is it?” she asked in surprise.

  Her father whirled around. His eyes were full of disappointment. “What more do you need?”

  Stevie got off the bus and ran over to her grandmother. “Don’t make me go. I don’t want to leave,” she whispered. She jumped up and wrapped her arms and legs around the woman.

  Stevie’s grandmother unwound her and set her down. “You take care now,” she said, dismissing her with a kiss on the head. “Be wary of strangers,” she added, swatting her on the butt. Her eyes twinkled as she reached up to capture her son’s face. “I’m just so proud of you,” she beamed, squeezing his cheeks. “I’m proud of all of my kids, but you …” she pulled his face down to meet hers. “You are my star.” She kissed him on the nose. “Follow your dreams, Frankie. You’re going to be a big hit.”

  Stevie’s father grinned.

  “Corrine? You take care of my boy. Hear?”

  Stevie’s mother cleared her throat. “Of course, Mother.”

  She waved from the driveway as they pulled away from the curb.

  The first night on the bus was cold and strange. They’d driven several hours before her father pulled down onto a dirt road and parked. The heat from the stove didn’t reach all the way to Stevie’s bed. Unfamiliar noises like wolves howling and a woman’s screams sneaked in through the windows. Stevie wrapped herself in a blanket, plodded down to the front, and fell asleep in front of the stove.

  The next morning when she woke up, her neck was stiff and sore. She untangled herself from the blanket and peeked out the window. There was a police car parked next to their bus. She tip-toed to the back of the bus and woke her father.

  “Break down?” the officer asked.

  “Nope. No sir. We’re just fine.” He scratched his chest and yawned.

  “This here is a private road. I’m going to have to ask you folks to leave. You can’t park out here like this.”

  “Sorry. We’ll be on our way real soon.” He began to close the door.

  “That kid in school?” the officer asked, nodding towards Stevie.

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  “Well, actually it is.” He smiled at Stevie. “How old are you, honey?” he asked.

  Stevie’s father pulled the door shut. He jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  The officer pounded on the side of the bus. “It’s against the law! She needs to be in school.”

  He put the gears in reverse and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Stevie’s heart pounded as the tires kicked up rocks and dust. They flew out of the road backwards and sped away as soon as they reached the pavement.

  As time went on, Stevie’s father got a better feel for where they could and couldn’t park in each of the towns they visited, but it wasn’t always foolproof.

  They’d been on the road for a couple of months when they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned farm house. They’d stayed there a couple of times and no one had ever bothered them before.

  Stevie liked to explore the half-fallen down barn on the property. She was doing just that when she noticed a man come out of the woods across the field and start walking towards her. She wasn’t scared until she saw that he had a shotgun slung over his shoulder. She froze.

  “You got any parents around?” he asked. He lowered his arm, letting the strap fall. He caught the gun in his hands.

  Stevie nodded, wide-eyed, and motioned towards the bus.

  “Get ‘em,” he ordered.

  Stevie’s feet flew. She bounded up the stairs out of breath. “Dad! There’s a man out there with a gun!” she cried. “He wants to talk to you.” She ran and hid behind her mother.

  Stevie’s father shoved his feet into his shoes. “Stay here,” he said.

  Stevie watched from the window as her dad got off the bus. “Can I help you?” she heard him ask. His voice was high-pitched and nervous.

  “Yeah, you can help me. You can get the hell off my property. Goddamn squatters think you can just park anywhere you want. You have exactly five minutes, too, before I start shooting.”

  “Sorry. We didn’t know anyone lived here,” Stevie’s father explained, holding up his hands in apology.

  “Don’t matter if anyone does or doesn’t. It ain’t yours, is it? You’re probably the same damn folks that have been tearing up my road. It’ll take me all spring to right it again.” He held up the gun. “Now git and don’t ever come back. You hear me?”

  “I’m sorry we invaded your space, man, but you got no call to point a gun at me,” Stevie’s father said.

  “Don’t you tell me what I got the call to do on my own damn property. I could shoot you right now just for trespassing. I suggest you get back on that rattletrap of yours and get the hell out of my sight.”

  Stevie’s father didn’t argue any further. He jumped back in and started the bus. “Hold on,” he said grumpily.

  He gunned the engine and wrenched the gears into drive. Clots of mud flew up and splattered the windshield. Stevie dared a glance back as they pulled away. The man chased after them screaming words that were swallowed by the sound of the spinning tires.

  When they got out to the pavement, he whipped the bus around and didn’t stop driving until they came to a shopping plaza. He drove to the end and parked.

  “I’ve gotta look for work,” he said, shoving his feet into his scuffed cowboy boots. “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Bring back some food, okay?” Stevie’s mom called after him.

  “Won’t be much,” he said. “Gotta get gas today, remember?”

  Stevie looked out the window. Something captured by the wind skittered across the empty lot. She waited for her father to leave before getting out. She chased it around until it crashed into a guardrail and flapped against the cold metal. It almost took flight again, but she caught it just in time and held it up.  It was a baseball card. She didn’t know much about baseball, but she shoved it into her back pocket anyway and got back onto the bus.

  “What did you find out there, Stevie?” her mother asked as she poked at the fire.

  “Nothing, really,” she said. She pulled it out of her pocket and gave it to her.

  “Huh. The Giants … Willie Mays …” She turned it over in her hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about sports.” She passed it back to Stevie.

  “Me either,” Stevie said. She went over to her bunk and rummaged around underneath. She pulled out the shoe box and opened the top.

  “Stevie?” Her mother called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you happy?” Her voice was high and strange.

  “I guess,” Stevie answered. She put the card inside and closed the lid. “Are you?” She held her breath.

  “I guess,” her mother answered, not looking up.

  “I miss school,” Stevie admitted.

  “Yeah,” her mother said sadly.  “I miss …” She didn’t finish the sentence. “I’ll try to get you some books soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said suddenly. Her eyes were moist.

  “It’s cold out,” Stevie cautioned.

  “Yeah.” She grabbed a sweater off from the chair and draped it over her shoulders. “I’ll be back,” she said.

  Stevie went to the windows. Her mother’s shoulders shook as she hurried away. Stevie was sure it didn’t have anything to do with the temperature.

  ***

  Stevie’s father didn’t have a lot of work lined up that winter.  Sometimes he’d spend all day trying to find a bar that would let him sing for the night. He didn’t make a lot of money that way, but it would get them by for another day.

  Sometimes when he did secure a gig, Stevie’s mom would go in and watch and leave her out in the bus alone. She’d stare up at the apartments that were lined against the street. Lamplight glowed through the windows, casting shadows that ghosted on the brick sidewalks as the people inside moved around.

  She imagined herself inside. She could feel the soft carpet under her feet and the smell of dinner wafting from the kitchen. She could feel the heat from the furnace wrapping around her shoulders, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

  One night in late February, Stevie’s father parked in front of a bar in Brunswick.

  “We won’t be long. Short set tonight,” Stevie’s mom said. “Don’t open the door for strangers!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, and put another log on in about an hour, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  She started down the steps, but hesitated. “Stevie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you, you know.”

  “I know,” Stevie said. She poked at the fire.

  “It won’t be like this forever.”

  “Okay,” Stevie said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “It won’t.”

  “Okay,” Stevie said again, looking up.

  Her mother smiled. “Okay,” she said with confidence and walked off the bus.

  They hadn’t been gone long when someone came pounding on the door.

  Stevie looked out. It was a police officer.

  “This bus needs to be moved,” he shouted, spotting Stevie.

  Stevie went and opened the door. “I’ll have to get my mom,” she said.

  “You do that. Tell her there’s no parking here.”

  Stevie got dressed and went in to find her mother. She batted the cigarette smoke away from her nose as she tried to make her way to the stage. Colorful lights zig-zagged from the ceiling, illuminating the darkened room for a few seconds at a time. It made her feel dizzy and like she was walking funny. She tripped and almost fell.

  A woman sitting at one of the tables caught her arm and righted her. “Hey there, toots!  Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?” she said. “Come sit next to me.” She patted the chair next to her and smiled through hot pink lips. Her fingernails looked like talons as she tapped on the seat, and her hair looked like the sun on fire. “Come on. I won’t hurt ya. I’m Patti.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Mimi. Everyone does.” Her hearty laugh turned into a violent cough. “What’s a nice kid like you doing in a place like this?” she rasped after catching her breath.

  Before Stevie could answer, a man stumbled and bumped into the table, spilling Mimi’s drink.

  “You clod!” she yelled, jumping up. Watch where you’re going!” She grabbed a napkin and began sopping up the mess. “You owe me a drink!” She glared, but the man was already staggering away. She sat back down. “Well, never mind. Let me get you a drink, sugar.” She patted the seat again. “Hey, Earl?” she yelled. “Get this little lady a Shirley Temple, would ya? And get me a drink, too. Put it on my tab.”

  Hesitantly, Stevie sat. She craned her neck around, trying to spot her mother, but didn’t see her anywhere. Sitting on the table in front of her was the smallest glass she’d ever seen. It had a picture of a lobster on it. She waited until Mimi wasn’t looking before stuffing it into the waistband of her pants. She pulled her shirt down to cover it.

  “She can’t stay here, Mimi. Even you ought to know that,” the bartender said as he sauntered over.

  Stevie stood back up. “I’m just looking for my mom. Have you seen her?”

  “Who’s your mom, honey?” the woman asked.

  Stevie didn’t know how to describe her. “Well, my father is the one on the guitar.”

  Mimi’s mouth fell open. “Oh, sweetie! That’s your dad? He’s a looker! A real heart breaker.” She put her hand over her heart and swooned.

  “Out,” the bartender said to Stevie.

  “For God’s sake, let her stay. You want to see your daddy sing, don’t you baby?” she crooned, batting her eyes at the bartender.

  “She can’t be in here, Mimi. Christ.” He grabbed Stevie’s arm. “Out,” he said, shoving her towards the door.

  “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll find your momma and send her out.” Mimi winked. She slurped the last drop in her drink, stood up, and headed towards the stage.

  The bartender pushed Stevie outside and shut the door. Stevie started for the bus, but there was a man standing near the back. He wasn’t facing her, but Stevie could see a golden arch of liquid coming from the front of his pants. It cascaded over the tire and splattered onto the road.

  Stevie’s parents stumbled out together right then. “Don’t come back!” the bartender yelled. “More trouble than you’re worth with that hunk of junk parked out front and your damn kid. Goddamn gypsies,” he grumbled.

  The next day Stevie’s father said, “I think we’ll head down to Florida. I’ve had it with this state. Besides, there’s a lot more clubs down there.”

  “How will we afford the gas?” Stevie’s mom asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I say we head up north first and visit my sis. She’ll lend us some money and then we can be on our way. We should say goodbye to her anyway. Once we get down to Florida, I might not want to come back.”

  “Am I a gypsy?” Stevie asked suddenly, thinking about what the bartender had said.

  “Heavens, no.” Stevie’s mom laughed. “Well, maybe … by default, anyway,” she teased, ruffling Stevie’s hair. “Your father’s just full of wanderlust. He can’t help it.”

   

  A week later they were on their way. Stevie had never been that far north before. It was late afternoon when they neared their destination. Stevie saw the town where her aunt lived up ahead in the distance. It looked as if it had erupted from the earth and spilled out all over a sea of wilderness.

  “What’s that smell?” she cried as they got closer.

  “This is a mill town,” her mother said, pointing out the window and towards the sky. “See those stacks over there? That’s part of it. Looks like they’re making clouds, doesn’t it?”

  Stevie nodded. She watched as towering columns shot out fluffy white puffs and tossed them into the air. She laughed and held her nose. “It’s neat, but it smells like boiled eggs.”

  “It does stink,” her mother agreed, holding her own nose, “but I suppose people get used to it after a while. Oh! Look over there!” she squealed, as they came to the top of a hill.

  Stevie stood. Over the rise, she saw a mountain. It was jagged and tall, swallowing half the sky. It was a magical place.

  They descended and paused at a traffic light.

  “Almost there,” Stevie’s father said. “Sit down.”

  Stevie sat back down, but kept looking out. There was a lot to see. She liked the way all of the houses seemed to be lined up in neat rows and how all of the people she saw were smiling. She liked that place. It looked like a good place to grow roots in.

  “We’re here,” her father said. He pulled over and stopped the bus in front of a tall, green, shingled house.

  He opened the doors and Stevie ran out. There was a dime sticking out of a snow bank on the sidewalk. She snatched it up and put it in her pocket. Right beside it, there was a Pepsi cap. She put that in her pocket, too.
  “Hey, Sis.” Stevie’s father caught his sister in a welcoming embrace.

   

  Just before the sun rose a few days later, Stevie’s father shook her shoulders, waking her up. “We need to get going,” he whispered.

  “What?” Stevie asked, rubbing the sleep sand from her eyes.

  “We have to go. I have a gig in Jacksonville on Friday.”

  Her stomach filled with dread. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay. She wanted to go to school and make friends. She wanted to sleep in a warm room and go to the bathroom in a place that would flush. She wanted to climb that mountain and look out over a town she could call her own.

  “Hurry up,” her father said. He turned and tip-toed down the stairs.

  She jumped up. Her heart pounded as she got down onto the floor and snatched the shoe box from underneath the bed. With a fluttery stomach, she went to find her father.

  He was in the kitchen, rummaging through his sister’s purse. He looked around nervously before shoving a wad of bills into his pocket.

  Stevie’s mom stood at the back door, looking out.  She had a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “We need to go!” he hissed, heading towards the door. He pushed Stevie’s mother out, but she didn’t move past the steps.

  “I can’t leave!” Stevie blurted.

  “What?” her father asked, surprised. He stopped moving and gaped.

  “I can’t leave,” she repeated. Her voice was shaky but defiant.  She sat down in one of her aunt’s kitchen chairs and opened the box.

  “I don’t have time for this. We have to go now!” His eyes were daggers as he held the door.

  “You’ll have to go without me.”

  “What in the world is your problem?” he asked. He stormed back in and grabbed Stevie’s arm, trying to pull her along.

  “I can’t leave because I have too much stuff!” she said. She emptied the shoe box onto the table. All of the things she had been collecting fell out. “You’re the one who said you couldn’t go anywhere if you had too much stuff. I think I have too much stuff.”

  “Corrine?” he said, appealing to his wife.

  Stevie’s mother came back into the house. Her face was strange. She took her pocket book off from her shoulder and spilled the contents onto the counter. “I think I do, too,” she said.

  End

  *This popular story, written by Kristy Gherlone, was originally published by Bedlam Magazine’s Loud Zoo on April 30, 2017. From there, it went on to appear in Fiction on the Web in December 2017

  **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

  

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, childhood, family, familyrelations, fiction, gypsy, learning, maine, mountains, moving, nomad, published, school, shortstory, travel, traveling, writing

• The Whupping Tree

  Posted at 6:01 pm by writergherlone, on February 5, 2018

  

  **This story was originally published by The Mystic Blue Review in September 2017

  **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

  The Whupping Tree

  by Kristy Gherlone

  Henry Hunton wasn’t quite right. His father told him as much all the time. He was so wrong, in fact, his mother took one look at him, fresh out of the womb, and ran away.

  “Your mother whizzed out of that hospital so fast, my hair got swept away with her. Left you all covered in innards before anyone had a chance to clean you up,” his father told him. “When they did, you looked just like a squirrel with a bad case of the mange. Ugliest damn thing I ever did see! Whoo-wee, you was ugly!”

  Henry thought about that. He couldn’t wrap his mind around a lot of things, but his mother was gone, and his father was bald. The old mirror hanging above his father’s shaving kit told him everything else he needed to know.

  “How come you wanted me if I was so ugly?” he asked.

  “Well,” his father said, scratching at his stubble, “I guessed you were kin, so I figured I’d probably better take you on. Plus, I s’posed you’d be all right enough to work the fields someday.”

  Henry didn’t know if he should be glad or not. They lived on a rundown farm, and his father had him hauling potatoes as soon as he’d learned to walk. It was a tough job and Henry struggled. He tried as hard as he could, but sometimes, even with all that trying, he got it wrong. His brain would tell him to do one thing, but his body would do something else. Or his mind would want to say something, but his tongue would get all mixed and he’d stutter.

  “You water the south crop?” his father would ask.

  “Y-y-y-yes sir,” Henry would answer.

  “You ain’t right, boy,” he’d say, smacking him in the head. “I swear you’re nummer’n a pounded thumb. Git on out there to the whupping tree and cut me a switch. I swear I’m gonna beat you until you learn to talk right.”

  Henry would hang his head and go out into the yard where the old willow tree stood. It had been there since before his great-great grandfather had been born. It was called the whupping tree because everyone in the family had been spanked with the branches at one time or another.

  It was a beautiful tree and Henry hated to cut it almost as much as he hated getting a whupping. “I’m sorry,” he’d whisper, snapping off a shoot. “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, but Daddy says I’ve gotta get a whupping. He would go back inside. His father would put him over his knee and lash on him until he cried.

  After the punishment, his father would go over to the pot-bellied stove and rub his hands as if to say, ‘that’s that,’ and throw in the switch as Henry lay sobbing with his backside full of welts.

  “Don’t sit there blubbering, either,” he’d say. “My father used to lick me. Smartened me up and straightened me right out. Yep. Smart as a whip now, and tough as nails too. You don’t hear me stuttering, do you?  You won’t do it either, when I’m done with ya.” He’d nod his head and smile.

  Henry knew he wasn’t smart. He’d never been to school. His father said he wasn’t smart enough for school.

  “Boy, you’re too stupid for school. They’d laugh you right out of there. Nope, you stick to the fields,” he’d said, but Henry knew enough to know that a spanking wouldn’t help his stutter or make him any smarter.

  Sometimes Henry would go out into the yard in the early mornings before he went to work in the fields. He’d sit under the willow tree and talk to it as if it were a real person.

  “I don’t know why Daddy’s so mean,” he’d whisper, rubbing his bruises. “You suppose I’ll be like him, someday?” The tree never answered, but it was a kind and patient listener.

  “If Daddy is the way he is, and my granddaddy, and his daddy before him were that way, how come I don’t feel the same? You’d think there’d have to be some goodness in someone, somewhere along the way. I don’t want to hurt nobody. Not nobody ever. When I have kids, I’m never going to hit them. And I’m going to make sure they go to school.” He didn’t know if the tree understood, but he’d keep talking on and on about all the things he wanted to do and about all the things he’d been thinking about while the tree cradled a nest of young birds and rocked them to sleep.

  His father caught him one day. He overheard Henry’s ambition to become a forest ranger.  “You’re a fool,” he yelled. “That tree can’t understand you. That tree doesn’t care if you live or die.  No one does, except me. I swear, you’re softer’n a jack rabbit’s scruff. Forest ranger,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re never going nowhere.  You’re gonna stay right here and farm potatoes just like I do and just like your granddaddy did and his daddy before him did.  I guess I need to smarten that hide of yours up some more. Go on now, cut me a switch. I’m going to make you the meanest and smartest son of a gun there ever was, then maybe I’ll get some real work out of you.

  Henry didn’t know a lot, but he knew that a spanking wouldn’t make him mean. He also knew that it wouldn’t make him want to farm potatoes. He didn’t want to be like his father, or his father’s father, or anyone before him.

  As he grew older, the tree started to die. The limbs began to dwindle until there were only big ones left.  Each whupping became more painful than the last. One day when Henry went outside to get a switch, there was a woman standing behind the tree. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

  “Hi.” She smiled shyly and poked out her head. “You sure have grown up tall and handsome. You’ve changed a lot in fourteen years.”

  Henry turned around to see to whom she was talking. There was nobody there but him. “Who, me?” he asked.

  “Yes, you. What’d your daddy name you?” she whispered.

  “Henry,” he said. He didn’t know what to make of the whole situation. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your momma, Henry.” She smiled again as she tried out his name.

  “Oh. W-want me to go and get Daddy?” he asked.

  “No! Don’t tell him I’m here,” she said, her eyes wide and fearful.

  Henry felt kind of sorry for her but didn’t know if he should. “Why’d you run off and leave me when I was just a little baby?” he asked.

  “I didn’t run off. Your daddy threw me out when he took up with another woman. He used to beat me something fierce. He told me he’d kill you and me if I ever came back to claim you.”

  Henry didn’t remember any other woman being around. “You sure you didn’t leave because I was so ugly?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “Is that what your daddy told you?”

  “Yep, but I didn’t need him to tell me. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.”

  “I bet you’ve been looking in your daddy’s shaving mirror,” she said. “That thing is so old and warped, everyone looks awful in it. When I lived here, it got so I felt pretty ugly, too. It got so I forgot what I really looked like. I was afraid to leave the house because I thought people would laugh at me.”

  Henry wrinkled his nose. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

  “See for yourself,” she said. She fished a tiny mirror out of her purse and handed it to Henry. He glanced at his reflection and grinned. He needed a haircut, but other than that, he liked what he saw. He didn’t look anything like he did in his daddy’s mirror.

  “You were just about the sweetest baby I’d ever laid eyes on,” his mother said.

  “But I’m not too bright. Never was. C-can’t even talk right.”

  “Nonsense! All you need is a little schooling. Don’t let anyone ever call you stupid!”

  Just then, Henry’s father came out of the house. Henry’s mother ducked behind the tree.

  “Where you at, boy? Hurry up with that switch!”

  “I’m coming!” Henry said.

  When his father went back into the house, his mother came out from behind the tree.

  “He sure has changed! He’s just a little old man now. He’s shrunk five inches! I can’t believe I used to be so scared of him,” she cried, surprised.

  “Well, I’ve gotta get in,” Henry said. “I’m getting a whupping for breaking the harvester.”

  “He hits you too, does he?” She glared towards the house. “That man is as mean as a snake.”

  “Yep,” Henry said, cutting off a large, dead branch. He reached over and rubbed the tree’s trunk, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I hope I didn’t hurt you too much.”

  “You talk to this old tree, too?” she asked, giving it a slap. “I used to do the same thing. It was about the only thing I had to talk to.”

  “Yeah, I talk to it, but it’s pretty near dead now. I don’t know what daddy’s going to use to whup me with when it’s gone.”

  “Henry, I bet you’re two feet taller than he is, and I bet you outweigh him by a hundred pounds! He can’t beat you if you don’t let him.”

  Henry hadn’t thought about that. He was much bigger than his father. He couldn’t even put Henry over his knee anymore. Still, though, he feared him. “I can’t go against him,” he said.

  “You can if you want to. Why, I bet you could give him a whupping”, she said, testing him.

  Henry looked at the branch. It was a big one. It was big enough to break bones; but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even his father.

  “Nah,” he said. “I can’t hurt nobody.”

  “You’re nothing like your daddy, are you Henry?” his mother asked quietly.

  “Nope. I don’t suspect I am.”

  “That’s good,” she said, relieved. “Would you like to come home with me? We could sign you up for school.”

  Henry thought about that. “Would you hit me?”

  “Never!” she gasped at the question. “I could never hurt anyone.”

  Henry grinned. He didn’t know a lot, but he knew right then and there where he got his goodness from. He also knew that he’d have to go to school if he ever wanted to be a forest ranger. “That sounds okay,” he said.

  “Good,” his mother smiled. “You go and pack your things. I’ll wait out here.”

  Henry went inside to tell his father.

  “Like hell you’re leaving!” his father spit with rage. “You give me that stick. I’m gonna whup you double now.”

  Henry looked at the stick and then back at his father. “I’m bigger than you and probably a whole lot stronger,” he said, surprised when he didn’t stutter.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Well, I figure I could probably whup you if I wanted.”

  “Is that what you aim to do?” his father asked, fixing his jaw, but stepping back a few feet.

  “Nope. I’m just going to leave,” he said, and that’s just what he did.  He went to live with his mother and his aunt a few towns away. He went to school and worked hard. When he grew up, be became a forest ranger, just like he’d always wanted to.

  One day, Henry received a call while he was at work, telling him that his father had a stroke. Henry wanted to see him, because no matter what, his father would always be his father.  He made the drive over, his stomach flopping around the whole way. All the wounds inflicted upon him, growing up, felt raw again when he pulled into the driveway. He rubbed at old bruises as he got out, opened the back of his truck, and took out a can of poison. There was something he needed to do.

  He walked into the yard. Henry got tears in his eyes when he saw his old friend. The once beautiful whupping tree was now a crumbling stump.  “You were a good friend for listening to me all those years,” he murmured.  “I know it wasn’t your fault that I got spanked so often, so I hope you understand what I have to do.”  New budding shoots sprung up from the ground underneath it, promising new life and another generation of whuppings.  Henry didn’t want to take any chances there that might be some bad in him somewhere. He placed his hand on the withering trunk. “It’s time for you to go,” he whispered. He uncapped the poison, poured some into what remained of the tree, and went in to the house.

  His father was lying in bed. He couldn’t talk very well or move anymore; the stroke having stolen his functions. Henry fed him some soup.

  “Th-th-thanks, H-henry,” he said, drooling and looking embarrassed. “I s’pose you oughta get a switch and whup me. C-c-can’t even talk right n’more.”

  Henry wiped the soup off his father’s chin, “Nope. I figure this family has taken enough beatings. I’m just going to love you.”

  

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged abuse, contemporaryfiction, dreams, family, familyhardship, familyissues, fiction, published, shortstory

• Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

  Posted at 11:43 am by writergherlone, on January 24, 2018

  

   

   

  Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

  By Kristy Gherlone

  

  It was Valentine’s Day and Sassafras was sad. She wanted to get something special for her Daddy, but she didn’t have any money.

  

  “What’s wrong, Sassafras?” her mother asked, noticing how unhappy she seemed.

  “It’s Valentine’s Day, but I don’t have anything for Daddy. How will he know that I love him if I don’t buy him a present?”

  “Daddy knows that you love him. You don’t have to buy gifts to show someone how much you care. There are lots of other ways to do that.”

  “Like how?” Sassafras asked.

  “Well, you could make him a card, if you like. I’m sure he would love that.”

  “That’s a great idea!” Sassafras brightened.

  

  She gathered some art supplies and got to work.

  

  Carefully, she cut out colorful hearts and pasted them to the paper she had folded.

  

  Next, she used crayons to write what she wanted to say.

  “How’s it going in there?” Sassafras’s mother asked.

  

  “Good, but I don’t want you to see until I’m all done.” Sassafras said, jumping onto the card to hide it. She wanted it to be a surprise.

  “That’s fine,” her mother laughed. “You know, when I was a little girl, my favorite Valentine’s were the ones that had treats inside.”

  

  “I have just the thing!” Sassafras said.

  When she finished with the card, she called for her mother to see it.

  

  “That is a lovely card, Sassafras. It came out very nice. What did you write?”

  

  “I wrote, ‘For Daddy, love Sassy.’

  “It’s very nice, but I thought you were going to add some treats?”

  “Well, I was going to share my worms, but I accidentally ate them.”

  Sassafras’s mother smiled. She knew that worms were her very favorite thing. “That’s okay. I think Daddy might like chocolates better anyway. I have some that you can give to him.”

  

  “Oh, thank you! I think he will like those better.”  She chose a few and stuck them to the card.

   “Can I give it to him now? She asked excitedely.

  “Of course. I think you’ll find him on the porch.”

  

  “Wait! I have one for you, too!” Sassafras cried. She gave her mother the paper heart she’d made.

  “Why, thank you, Sassy! You’re so thoughtful.”

  “I know,” Sassafras giggled and went off to find her Dad.

   

  

  “Daddy! I made something for you!”

  Sassafras’s Dad was very happy with the card. He could tell how hard she’d worked on it.

  “Thank you, Sassy! That was very sweet of you.”

  “I made it because I love you.”

  

  “And I love you!” he said, giving Sassafras a hug. “Now we have something for you! Your mother has it in the kitchen. Go and see.”

  “Is it a present?” Sassafras asked.

  “It might be,” her Daddy smiled.

  “But Mama said you don’t need to buy presents to show someone how much you care.”

  “That is true,” he said, ruffling her feathers. “But we got you one anyway.”

  

  “Worms!” she cried happily.  “I love worms and presents and Valentine’s Day. But you know what I love most of all? You!”

  **A new short comedy story of mine has just been published! You can find “Piano Hoarding Christians” in Defenestration Mag!

   

  **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childrensstory, ducks, family, familyfriendly, fiction, hearts, love, pekinduck, picturestory, shortstory, valentinesday

• Pie, Oh Pie Did I Do This?

  Posted at 1:06 am by writergherlone, on November 23, 2017

  

  Thanksgiving is a going to be a little tough for me this year, as most of my family is feuding. Anticipating some depression about missing dinner with my children and grandson, I almost booked a cruise. Sailing into the sun, reggae music playing in the background, and a Pina Colada in my hand sounded like just the thing to cure my blues. However,  I decided to take my best friend up on her offer and join her family for dinner this year. We haven’t been able to spend Thanksgiving together for a long time and I’m excited to have the opportunity. As kids, we often shared the holiday and one of our favorite past times was eating pie for breakfast.  So, I told her I would come and I even offered to make the pies.

  Like any good, respecting Mainer, when we offer to do something, by God, we’re going to do it! I looked up some ideas online and set to work today. Hours later, I’m exhausted and not entirely pleased with my efforts. Pie art is probably something that could be improved with practice and maybe I’ll get there, but it’s doubtful since I rarely make pie. When I have, I have always made traditional pies with an occasional cut leaf here and there for decoration. Nothing to this extent. It was a learning process, but I did come up with some ideas of my own for next time.

  It did occur to me, about halfway through, when I was sweaty and swearing, that I had given myself this challenge to keep my mind off my troubles. It worked. I should have known! Writing, painting, and apparently pie art are all great activities for relaxing the mind and soul.

  Anyway, no matter what you are doing for Thanksgiving, I hope you have a wonderful day. I wanted to share my pies with you and my story. Family issues are brutal during the holidays, so I can only pray that you and your family are together and thankful to be so.  I hope next year will find me in a different circumstance, but in the meantime, I am going to enjoy spending time with my best friend. I am so blessed to have her and I’m grateful for her generosity.

   

  

  

  

  

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged family, familyissues, feuds, holidayblues, pie, thanksgiving

• Cracked

  Posted at 8:46 pm by writergherlone, on November 6, 2017

  

  *Unfortunately, to date, the following story has not made it into the literary pages. It is an old-fashioned story in feel, but a particular favorite of mine, so I thought I’d share.  I hope you enjoy it too! While this one won’t be seen in the magazines, I do have three more that will. “The Forest Fire,” will appear in Edify Fiction on December 29, 2017. “No Parking,” will appear in Fiction on the Web on December 11th, and my new story ( a comedy), was just accepted by Defenestration Magazine. I’ll announce the date for that one as it gets closer. Also, my story, “The Falls,” is now available in print through Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal and you can find it on Amazon, if you are interested.

   

   

  Cracked

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

  There were cracks in the driveway. Deep, ugly grooves that marred the surface of the inky pavement.

  Janice cried out in shock. It wasn’t so much the cracks that bothered her. It was that the cracks had weeds growing in them.

  “Honey? Better get those paver fellows to come back. We have cracks…”

  She set her purse and coffee down onto the top of her car, and plucked a lime green shoot from a crevice.

  In disbelief, she held it up to her eyes, squinting as she rolled it back and forth between her fingers. “What in the Sam holy old hell? How is this even possible?” They’d only just had the driveway done a couple of days before.

  She shook her head and threw it down. She crushed it under the heel of her shoe for good measure.

  “Make sure you call them today, too! Those scamming little bastards are not going to get away with this. We paid good money for this driveway, and they’re going to fix it or we’ll sue!”

  She opened the car door. “Did you hear me? I’ve got to get to work. I’m late!” She jumped in and tore away.

  Later that afternoon when she arrived back home, nothing had been done about the driveway.

  I bet Jack didn’t even call, she thought, fuming.  That man is as useless as tits on a boar hog.  If Tommy was home, he would have made sure they’d come right back over.  Such a good kid, Tommy… nothing like his father.

  She sat, holding the keys in her hand, and wondered about her son. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d left for his cross-country trip to college out in Utah. She was beginning to worry that something was wrong. It wasn’t like him not to call.

  Suddenly, there was a rap on her window. She jumped and whirled around. The afternoon sun had dropped below the horizon! It was nightfall!

  “Who’s out there?” she cried.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Sanborn. Your neighbor, Ted Gatsby.”

  “Who?”

  “Ted Gatsby. Don’t you remember me? Is everything alright?”

  Janice felt foolish. Relieved, but foolish. She rolled down the window. “Of course I remember you. How could I forget? You must think I’m some kind of nut, sitting out here like this. I was tired after work. I guess I must have dozed off for a minute.”

  “I was surprised to see anyone over here this morning. I tried the front door when I saw a car in the driveway, just now. I knocked but no one answered. I was about to leave, but then I saw you sitting inside. You scared me half to death. I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “No, no. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” She rolled up the window and opened the door, “Jack didn’t answer when you knocked?” She scoffed, struggling to get out of the seat.  “That man, I swear to God! All he does is sit in that chair and watch television. I have to light a fire under his ass to get him to do anything.” She swung one of her legs out, but couldn’t go any further.

  “Jack? You mean your husband, Mrs. Sanborn?” Ted asked, bewildered.

  “Of course my husband! Who’d you think I was talking about?”

  Ted’s mouth fell open. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Never mind. Give me a hand, will you? I can’t seem to get out of this thing.” Janice laughed, embarrassed.   “Imagine a forty-year-old woman having so much trouble.”

  Ted chuckled awkwardly, but reached in to take her by the arm. Gently, he pulled and managed to get her out. Her legs quivered beneath her as she stood, clinging to his arm.

  “Is there someone I should call for you?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

  “Call? Heavens, no! Who in the hell would you call unless it’s those damn pavers? Did you see my driveway?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “A kindergartener could have done a better job!”

  “But…” Ted stammered.

  She rolled her eyes and waved him away. “I’m fine. Just a little unsteady. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today, but I’m sure it will pass.   Probably just a bug or something.” She started for the house, but stopped and turned back around. “What did you want, anyway?”

  “Want, Mrs. Sanborn?”

  “Yes, why did you come over?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ted said, suddenly remembering the reason for his visit.  “I thought, maybe, since you were back, you could use some help fixing the old place up again. I could put a coat of sealant on that driveway for you. I have some left over from a job I did over in Chickory. It might keep the weeds from sprouting up.”

  “So that’s why you’re here?” Janice cried, insulted.  “There is nothing wrong with this house other than that blasted driveway. Old place, indeed! What a thing to say! Our house is the nicest one on this block and you know it! I bet you’re in cahoots with those pavers, aren’t you?”

  “I…well, no! Of course, not,” Ted stammered.

  “I’m not an idiot, so don’t take me for one,” she said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I happen to know a thing or two about contractors. Never met a single one I could trust.”

  “Mrs. Sanborn, please…I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that it’s been a while since anyone…you’ve been gone…”

  “Well you can forget it,” she snapped, cutting him off. She turned on her heels, “I paid good money for that driveway not even a week ago, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay you too. They are just going to have to come back and fix it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a husband to attend to.” She stormed into the house and slammed the door behind her.

  She threw her things down onto the table and stalked into the den. Jack was sitting in his chair. The television was blaring.  Janice walked over and turned it down. “Can you imagine the nerve of some people? You’d think you could trust your own neighbors! Ted Gatsby thought he was going to con us into paying him for something that should have been done right in the first place. Well, I’ll tell you! It’s a good thing you’ve got me around. I set him straight. And where the hell were you when all of this was going on? Sitting right here, just like always. You know, I’m sick of doing everything by myself. I have a good mind to take Sal Eames up on his offer to run away with him.” She smiled smugly and went off to make dinner.

  The next morning, when she stepped into the shower, she noticed the tiles right away. They were cracked. Not all of them, but quite a few. Splintery cracks feathered the delicate flowered porcelain.

  It wasn’t the cracks that bothered her so much. It was the black mold peppering the rubbery grout that baffled her. She scraped some off with her fingernail. “Jeez Louise!” she muttered.

  “Jack!” she hollered over the rush of running water. “What on earth happened up here? The tiles are cracked! I bet you busted them up when you were trying to replace that shower head, didn’t you? I told you to be careful. If water gets in behind those cracks, we’ll have a mess on our hands for sure. There’s already mold growing. Replace them today while I’m gone, will you?”

  She finished with her shower, dressed, and grabbed her lunch out of the fridge. “Well, I’m off. Don’t forget about those chores,” she told Jack before stepping outside.

  She started down the walk, but something on the side of the house caught her attention. She whirled around and froze.  There were cracks in the foundation! Deep fissures ran all the way from the bottom edge of the siding to the ground. Gaping, jagged edges of concrete. Lush green moss clung tightly to the rough gray surface. It was unsightly. Horrified, she dropped her lunch.

  “Jack? Jack! Get out here! We have real problems.”  Stunned, she staggered over to the foundation and dropped to her knees. She began pulling the moss out in clumps. “Did we have an earthquake?  Did you see anything about an earthquake on the news?”

  When Jack didn’t answer, she got up and went back into the house. “Jack?” she yelled, going from room to room.  “Jack?”

  She found him in the den.  “I’ve been shouting for you. I should have known you wouldn’t hear me over that stupid television.”  Exasperated, she snapped it off. “Don’t you ever do anything else besides watch TV?  Did you hear me? I think we’re going to have to call the insurance company. I think we’ve had an earthquake. I’ve got to get to work. Make sure you do it today and get an estimate.”

  She hurried back outside.

  “Mrs. Sanborn?” A voice called to her.

  Janice’s head snapped up. She shielded her eyes from the morning sunlight.

  “It’s just me, again, Mrs. Sanborn,” the voice said, getting closer.

  Janice recognized the voice as Ted Gatsby’s. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she snapped. She hurried over to her car, opened the door, and threw her purse inside.

  “Mrs. Sanborn, I called Gloria. Just sit tight, okay?”

  “Gloria?” she croaked, her anger momentarily forgotten. “My Gloria? Whatever for?”

  “Yes, your Gloria. Your daughter! She was glad to hear that you’re okay. She was very worried about you.”

  “Worried? What on earth for? You didn’t drag her into our spat, did you? You had no right! She needs to be studying instead of worrying about what’s going on here. Why don’t you just mind your own business, Mr. Nosey.” She scowled and got into the car.

  All the fuss and bickering made her tired. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, she felt herself falling and nearly toppled out of the car. “What on earth!” she bellowed.

  “Mama! Oh, mama! You can’t imagine how sick I’ve been with worry,” Gloria wailed. She grasped her mother’s shoulders, and tried to right her again.

  “What?” Janice demanded, confused. She looked up at the sky. The position of the sun told her it was late afternoon! She’d fallen asleep again!  She shook her head, “Gloria! My God, girl, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry mama. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that when Ted called…” she began to cry, “I’m just so glad to see you.”

  “For crying out loud! It’s only been a couple of weeks since daddy and I dropped you off at school. The way you’re carrying on, you’d think we hadn’t seen each other in years. Well, never mind. Give me a hug you foolish girl.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she let Gloria help her out of the car.  “I can’t believe you let Ted Gatsby talk you into coming home from college for something so ridiculous. Well, daddy will be glad to see you anyway. Let’s go in and say hello.”

  Gloria sniffled as she led her mother up the walkway. “Mama, I think we should talk,” she said, helping her mother inside and onto the couch in the foyer.

  “You didn’t flunk out already did you?” Janice tsked. “Is that what all this blubbering is about?”

  “No mama. I…”

  “Something worse then,” she pursed her lips and frowned.  “Well, go and get your father. Whatever you have to say, he should probably hear too. God! I hope you’re not pregnant,” she huffed, clutching her chest.

  Gloria searched her mother’s eyes.  “Please tell me you remember about daddy, mama. And Tommy. You do remember, don’t you?” She reached up to cup her mother’s cheek.

  “Remember what? What has gotten into you today?” Janice said, pushing her hand away. “You just go and get your father, like you’re told.”

  “Mama,” Gloria began gently, “Daddy isn’t here. He’s been gone since the week after Tommy left us.

  “Gone? What are you talking about? He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s right in the den.” She got up and started down the hall. “Jack! You get out here and see your daughter.”

  “He isn’t here,” Gloria said again.  She got up too, and hurried after her. “He couldn’t be.” She caught up and reached for her mother’s shoulder, trying to stop her. “Daddy’s been dead for nearly thirty years.”

  “What?” Janice yelped, pulling away. Her face flushed scarlet. “Why would you say such a thing? Have you gone mad? He’s watching television, the old fool.” She made it to the entrance of the den. She stopped and thrust a finger towards her husband’s chair. “See?” she said. “He’s right there.”

  Gloria followed her in. She walked over to the chair. She held her breath, and turned it around. Other than an old drop cloth, it was empty!

  “What in the world?” Janice cried. Her eyes were frantic as she searched the room. She ran around, opening all the closets, and checking behind all the furniture. “Jack? Don’t play games now! Your daughter is here and wants to see you.”

  “Mama, stop. Please, just stop. Daddy isn’t here. He’s gone. He died of a heart attack. And Tommy died in the accident on Route sixty-six on his way to college.”

  Janice’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! That’s not true! You’re lying,” she rasped.

  “I’m so sorry, but it is true. You have to believe it. You have to remember!”

  Janice began to shake. A flood of horrible memories rushed into her brain, though she tried to push them out. “No!” she wept. “I don’t want to remember!”

  “You have to. I need you! Your grandchildren need you”

  “No, no, no,” Janice shook her head. Her legs gave out and she sat with a slump onto the couch.

  Gloria went and sat next to her. “I thought when Ted called and told me that you were here, that you were starting to remember again. Was I wrong?” she asked.

  “Here? This is my home. Where else would I be?”

  “At the center, mama. We had to take you there after daddy died. You’ve been there all this time.”

  “It can’t be,” Janice said with horror. “It just can’t be.”

  “But it is.  They called when they couldn’t find you yesterday. They didn’t know where you’d gone. We’ve all been so scared. You can’t imagine my relief when Ted called. I thought, then, that you were starting to come back to us.”

  “Come back to you?”

  “Come with me mama.” Gloria got up and held out her hand.

  Janice hesitated, but finally took it and followed her out into the hallway. Grandma’s antique mirror still hung crookedly on the wall, next to the back door.

  “Turn around, mama. I want you to see yourself.”

  “See myself? I’ve seen myself a million times,” she said, but turned towards the mirror anyway.  The woman she saw starring back at her was old. An old woman with crazy, deranged eyes!

  Frightened, she took a step back. Her hands reached up to feel her face. Deep cracks and creases lined her cheeks and forehead. Her lips were dry and puckered. Crinkles erupted next to her eyes as she stood there grimacing. “I’m old,” she whispered. “I can’t be this old. I was just forty a few months ago…”

  Gloria reached over to rub her mother’s back. “It’s been thirty years since you were forty, mama. You’ve been gone a long time, too.”

  “Am I back now?”

  “I hope so, mama. I really hope so.”

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged age, family, fiction, grief, illness, loss, mental, shortstory

• One Last Moon Rise

  Posted at 1:50 pm by writergherlone, on October 11, 2017

  

   

  *My posts have been less frequent as I have been traveling and working on submissions. This is a busy time of year and I’m having a difficult time managing my time. A lot of my short stories are tied up in the submission process. But, on a side note, another short story of mine has been accepted by Edify Fiction. “The Forest Fire”, will appear on December 29. I’m working hard and hope to be more attentive in the future. 

   

  One Last Moon Rise

  by Kristy Gherlone

  When I started dating my husband back in 2013, he told me that his parent’s owned a lake house in Schroon Lake, New York. It didn’t mean much to me, at the time. I had no idea of where Schroon Lake was or how much time we would even spend there. I was still recovering from the loss of my own childhood cottage in Maine, we both had kids about to graduate, and life was busy.

  However, he wanted me to go and see it, so during the summer, not too long after we’d starting dating, he brought me there. Now, if you you recall a past story of mine, “Road Tripping”, you will remember me talking about my yearly trips to visit my grandparents in Upstate New York. Imagine my surprise when on our three and a half drive up to Schroon Lake, I started to see and recognize some of the places I visited on those trips as a kid. Fort Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain…All those old familiar names and destinations zipping by as we drove along, bringing up a whirl-wind of memories. Fort Ticonderoga was one of my favorites. I still recall the museum there; the blood stained table, where the Native Americans had slaughtered a family of settlers. Gruesome, I know, but it stuck with me, and I’d always wanted to go back and see all of those things again. And now I could. Fort Ticonderoga was only about a twenty minute drive from the Lake House.

  

  

  

  That first summer, we went up to the Lake House as much as we could. I was hooked. The nine mile lake was gorgeous, sitting right below the Adirondack Mountains.  The loons called all day and night, a sound so familiar to me, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was home in Maine. My husband’s parents had a boat and a wave runner. Both were fantastic for exploring the lake. The houses dotting the shore ranged from multi-million dollar estates to one room cottages. Schroon Lake was a hub for outdoor recreation and the town, small and quaint, was something out of a magazine, with it’s old-fashioned theater, town square, and Adirondack shops. We fished in the morning and evening. Dined out, barbecued, shopped, and on the Fourth of July, my husband’s father put on a fireworks show worthy of a New York City celebration. Family and friends gathered there. We had our own company up, when his parents were in Florida and sometimes even when they were not. The main house had three bed rooms, and there was a private apartment, with an additional two bedrooms. Board games, drinking, fishing, and boating, brought us many hours good times and laughter. We even visited the Natural Stone Bridge, just down the road.

  

  

  We even went up in the winter to watch the ice-fishing, and to sit by the fire and just relax and read.

  The camp itself, sat high above the water. Two long stair cases led you to the shore. It was an old-fashioned place, appearing as though it was decorated in the 1950’s, but it had charm!

  

  

  The views out front were incredible. All mountain and sky, with occasional treats such as these:

  

  

  

  It was a retreat. A place to escape to. Not too far away, but just far enough that we felt as though we were a million miles away from our responsibilities. I had come to think that it would be a place that would always be there, but life happens, and as it turns out, my husband’s mother became gravely ill in Florida over the winter. We didn’t think she’d survive. We made the trip to Florida to care for her, and she told us of their decision to sell the house at Schroon Lake. We understood. The up-keep on a place like that could be daunting. The stairs alone, to the lake, were steep and unsettling for even a youngster. She couldn’t do it anymore.

  We thought we’d have some time, but as it turned out, the place sold in less than a month. This last trip, in October, would be our last forever. My husband, not prone to nostalgia, took it in stride. His family exchanged houses quite often when he was growing up. He was used to it, but I sensed a sadness in him that made me tear up, when gazes out at our last moon rise over the lake.

  

  People, places, things; they all come into our lives and then they are gone. Sometimes too quickly. We do plan to go back, maybe at a rental, but it won’t be the same. It never is. We have plans to buy our own cottage, but it will be a few years. I will miss that place, though it wasn’t with me very long. I hate goodbyes and I’m not good with change. My heart hurts a little today for myself and for my husband, who had many more memories there than I. Goodbye, Schroon Lake. Thanks for the good times! Until we meet again.

  Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments | Tagged adirondacks, camp, cottages, family, lakelife, memories, nostalgia, schroon lake, travel

• Daddy’s Coat

  Posted at 4:19 pm by writergherlone, on August 19, 2017

  

   

  Daddy’s Coat

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

  “Mom, you gave me an extra again,” Katie said as she placed the last setting at the table, only to realize she still had a plate in her hand.
  She glanced briefly, but painfully, towards her dad’s chair. Her heart squeezed at the sight. His olive colored winter coat, puffy with downy feathers still hung over the back as if at any moment he’d be coming in to put it on.
  “Just habit, I guess. I’m sorry. Bring it here,” her mom said.
  Katie, lost in a memory, didn’t hear her.
  **
  “What do you want for Christmas daddy?” Katie, at fifteen, had asked her dad that year. She’d taken a part time job a few weeks before, and was proud that she’d finally be able to purchase the gifts for Christmas all on her own.
  She didn’t know, at the time, how tight her parents’ budget was, and what a relief it was for them. She couldn’t know. Her dad never deprived her of anything and never let on how much he went without sometimes.
  “Oh, I don’t know. How about a tin of those peach blossoms I like?”
  “But daddy, I meant a real gift. I always get you candy. I want to get you something you really want.”
  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want you spending your money on me. Save it up! Get yourself something special,” he’d said, ruffling her hair as he headed off for work.
  She’d had to ask her mom later what he wanted.
  “Well, you know… there’s this coat he’s been wanting. He saw it in the Sears and Roebucks. Said it looked real warm. Supposed to be filled with goose feathers or some foolishness, but don’t worry about it. His coat’ll do another year. That one’s too expensive, in my opinion. Ninety-nine dollars!” Her mother clucked and shook her head.
  Katie knew the coat he had been wearing was dangerously worn out. Many years of harsh Maine winters and several dozen washings had left it thin and faded, but he never complained no matter how cold it got. He used to say, ‘I’m tough I is I am I are, and when I’m mad I spits tar.’ It used to make Katie giggle when she was little, and her eyes roll when she got older.
  He probably could have bought a new coat the year before with the money he had in savings, but Katie had needed braces.
  “Ninety-nine dollars?” Katie asked nervously. She had one hundred and fifty saved up. Ninety-nine was a lot of money… Nearly all of her Christmas budget.
  “Yeah. That’s why I said don’t worry about it. He’ll manage.”

  Her mom had married him when Katie was just eight years old, so he wasn’t her real dad then. He’d only become he real dad by the way he treated her, and by the way her heart felt about him. He became as real as anyone else’s. They’d been so poor before. Never enough food, or anything else for that matter.  He’d taken them in, and treated her like she was his very own daughter. That first Christmas he’d bought her every single thing she’d scribbled down on her list. She knew he wanted her to know how loved she was and that she’d never have to worry again.
  Katie went off in search of the catalogue and looked it up. It was nice. It was rated to forty-five below. He could use that, working outside like he did a lot of the time. He was getting old. His hair, gone gray years before, had thinned to unmanageable wisps, and his hands, all gnarly from arthritis, could barely hold a wrench anymore. She knew the cold bothered him, though he’d never admit it.
  Katie studied the picture again.
  Ninety-nine dollars! She sucked in her breath. It was a lot of money. There were so many things she could buy with that!

  Without any more hesitation, Katie called the number on the catalogue.
  Christmas morning, she watched as he opened the big brown box. She’d never seen him cry before, but as he unwrapped the tissue paper and pulled the coat out of the box, his eyes were misty. He choked up as he reached over to hug and thank her.
  He wore that coat every winter day until the last one, and every time he put it on, he’d say the same thing, “Boy oh boy this is a nice coat. So sturdy and warm.”

  **
  “Katie! I said bring it here!” Her mom’s voice, tinged with annoyance, brought her back to the present.
  Katie snapped to and handed the plate back to her mother.
  She turned around and went over to her dad’s chair. She ran her hand over the soft fabric of the coat. She lifted it up and held it to her nose, breathing in deeply.
  It smelled of tobacco and mint. Of wood shavings and oil. There was a whiff of coffee and just a hint of cologne. Everything that was her dad was captured in that coat. There were a thousand memories wrapped up in there; of him pulling her on the sled, the year he taught her to drive a snow mobile, that fall he took her hunting, and of him chopping down countless Christmas trees. The threads that ran through the length of that coat, holding it together, were like the threads of their relationship. Sturdy. Just like her love for him would always be, even though he was gone.
  “I can put it away in the closet if it will make you feel any better,” her mom said.
  “No, don’t!” Katie said quickly. After all, she liked to pretend too.

  There would always be a place at the table, even if only in their memories

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, family, familyfriendly, fiction, flashfiction, shortstory, stepdad

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