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    • On the River in the Sun

      Posted at 3:41 pm by writergherlone, on February 18, 2021

      On the River in the Sun

      Story and Art by Kristy Gherlone

      **This story originally appeared in the January 2020 issue of “Scarlet Leaf Review.”

      “Charlie? Time to get up, son.” 

           Pulled from sleep, Charlie stretched and kicked the covers aside. He’d been in the middle of a dream. He’d been digging through the ice cream chest at the corner store up the road from his grandpa’s cottage, trying to decide between a Klondike or a Snickers bar.‘Take ‘em both if you’d like. A little ice cream on a hot day never killed anyone,’ his grandfather had chuckled. ‘You’re gonna need some fuel to catch those trout’. Charlie was still smiling when he opened his eyes and looked up. 

           “Did you hear me?” his father asked, switching on the light. He was wearing his suit and tie.

           “I heard,” Charlie answered back. He sat up and yawned. Fully roused, the events of the day before came rushing back. It made his chest feel heavy, as if someone was squeezing it. His grandfather wasn’t at the cottage. He was laying as still as a sunning turtle in a wood box under the ground.

           “I have to go into the office,” his father said. “Your mother’s getting your breakfast ready. She’s going to drop you off at school and then go and sit with your Aunt June.”

           Charlie flopped back down, grabbed the covers, and pulled them up over his head. “You said you had the whole day off ‘cause of what happened,” he whined. “You said I didn’t have to go to school.”

           “I know and I’m sorry. Things didn’t work out like I planned. Besides, I think it’s best if everyone just gets back to normal. There’s no sense in sitting around moping. You’ll feel better once you see your friends. You’ll see,” he said before breezing out. 

           Charlie threw the covers back off. “Dad,” he called.

           “Yeah?” his father answered.

           “How long is Grandpa planning on being dead for?”

           Charlie’s father sighed. He came back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought we talked about this. You’re eight now. You’re old enough to understand about death.” 

           Charlie understood about death. He didn’t know why he’d asked such a dumb question. He figured it was because he wanted his father to say something; something that would make everything alright.

           “Dead is forever,” his father said. He brushed the hair out of Charlie’s eyes. “Remember when Copper died? Do you remember what we told you?”

           Charlie nodded

           “Well, it’s the same thing with grandpa. He’s in a better place now.”

           “With Copper?” Charlie asked. 

           “Maybe,” his father shrugged.

           Charlie pulled the blanket back up over his head. It wasn’t possible there was a place better for his grandpa than the cottage. There might be somewhere better for a dog, but people were different. 

           “Listen, I have to get going,” his father said, getting up. “If you have any more questions, I’m sure your mom can help you out. I’m late.”

           “But what if Grandpa gets to that place, wherever it is, and doesn’t like it?” 

           “He can’t come back, Charlie,” his father said, his voice firm. “It’s not possible. I know it’s hard, but that’s just the way it is.”

           “But summer’s starting in a couple of weeks. Who’s going to watch me? Who’s going to take me to the cottage?” 

           “Let’s not worry about that right now. We’ll figure something out. Now hurry up, okay? Your mom’s waiting.” 

            Charlie got up and plodded towards the bathroom. His parents were talking down in the kitchen. 

          “I can’t believe you’re going in to work so soon after your father’s funeral,” Charlie’s mother said. “I know you two didn’t see eye to eye, but it just doesn’t seem right. I mean, what about Charlie? Your father may have been a thorn in your side, but Charlie loved him very much. He needs you right now.”

          “Shhh,” his father said. “He’ll hear you.”

           Charlie crept over to the top of the stairs to listen, even though he wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop.

          “Well, I just can’t believe it,” his mother said, lowering her voice.

          “Why?” his father asked. “He would have done the same thing. The man didn’t take a day off from work in forty years.” 

          “But it’s your father,” she said. “And now I’m the one who has to go and comfort your sister all day.”

          “Then don’t go! I don’t know why she’s so bent out of shape anyway. He treated her the same way he treated me. He was barely even around when we were growing up and when he was, he ignored us. The only thing that man ever cared about was work.” 

          “That’s not true,” Charlie’s mother said. “He cared about Charlie.”

          “Well it was true for me!” Charlie’s father boomed, then lowered his voice again. “I’m glad he cared about Charlie. I’m glad he took an interest. I just wish…,” he started, but didn’t finish.

          “Wish what?” his mother prodded.

          “I just wish he’d shown me the same affection when I was Charlie’s age.”

          “I wish he had too, Ben, for your sake, but don’t you think he made up for it a little with Charlie? He did us a pretty big favor by watching him, so we didn’t have to pay for a sitter. Charlie learned a lot from him. Don’t you think we owe him a little something for that at least?”

          “I don’t owe him anything.” 

           There was a long silence before his mother spoke again. 

          “Well, I still think you should be the one to go to your sister’s,” she said. “You two need to discuss what’s going to happen to his estate.”

          “There’s nothing to discuss. Everything will be sold, and the proceeds will be split in half.”

          “What about the cottage?” she asked.

           Charlie stopped breathing. His heart thudded inside of his chest as he waited to hear his father’s answer.

          “Well?” his mother asked again.

          “I guess it will be sold.”

          “No!” Charlie cried. 

           “Charlie?” his mom called. “Is that you?”

           Charlie dashed into the bathroom. Hot tears stung his eyes. His father couldn’t sell the cottage! He just couldn’t! 

           “Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said.

           Charlie didn’t care about stupid breakfast. “I’m not hungry,” he answered grumpily.

           “Your mother cooked you a nice breakfast, so you get down here. Now!” his father said.

           Charlie pouted. He blew his nose and went down to the kitchen, where he sat with a slump at the table.

           “Morning, sweetheart,” his mother said brightly. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and set a plate of pancakes in front of him.

           “I’ve got to go,” Charlie’s father said, checking his watch. “Try to have a good day.” He reached down to ruffle Charlie’s hair, but Charlie pulled away. His father frowned. “Maybe we can throw the ball around when I get home. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

           Charlie didn’t answer. He wasn’t talking to his father.

           “Well, see you later, Champ,” his father said. “I’ll try to come home early,” he added before rushing out. Charlie scowled. His father wouldn’t come home early. He never did. 

           Charlie waited for his father’s car to pull out of the driveway before asking, “Why didn’t Daddy like Grandpa?”

           Charlie’s mother stopped washing dishes. “Oh honey, he loved your grandpa. What would make you ask such a thing?” she asked. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and went over to sit with him.

           “I don’t know,” Charlie answered, pushing the food around on his plate. “It’s just that he never came up to the cottage. All the time we were up there, he never came. Not for fishing, not for a barbecue, not for anything.”

           “Your dad’s a busy man, Charlie,” she said, coming to his defense. “He has an important job.”

           “But Grandpa told me that Daddy had a lot of fun at the cottage when he was little. He said he never wanted to leave. If he loved the cottage so much, then he must have stayed away because of Grandpa,” Charlie surmised. “Or maybe he didn’t come because he didn’t want to spend time with me,” he added, though it pained him. 

           “That’s just not true!”  his mother cried. “Daddy loves you very much. He just has a lot of responsibilities. I’m sure he would have gone if he’d found the time.”

           “Well, I’m never going to be too busy to go the cottage,” Charlie said, fixing his jaw. 

           “Charlie…” his mother started softly, reaching for his hand. 

           Charlie snatched it away. “Well, I won’t! And I’m not going to change either! I’ll always want to go. And if you let Daddy sell it, I’m never speaking to you guys again! You just wait and see if it’s true!”  he said. He jumped up and ran to his room.

             Charlie’s parents didn’t talk about selling the cottage again for a while. He hoped it meant that his father had changed his mind, but when school let out, instead of spending the first week of summer vacation swimming and fishing at the cottage, Charlie went to his Aunt June’s. The city was hot in the summertime, and her backyard was an oven in the afternoon heat. She didn’t like to go to the town pool, or to the park, or much of anything that had to do with the outside. 

           Charlie kept thinking about Grandpa and the cottage. He worried about the fish and the chipmunks. He and his grandpa always brought food to feed the creatures. What would happen when there was no one there to feed them? Would they starve? 

           Charlie’s Aunt June drove him home on Friday afternoon. When they got to the house, Charlie’s father was hooking a trailer to their van and his mother was loading suitcases into the back seat. Charlie hopped out of the car. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked. 

          “Yes,” his mother answered. “We’re going up to the cottage this weekend.”

           “Yippee!” Charlie screeched, leaping into the air.

           “Don’t get too excited,” his father cautioned. “We’re only going to gather some of your grandpa’s personal things and to clean the place up a bit so we can list it with a realtor.”

           Charlie’s heart sank. His father had made his decision. The cottage would be sold. Soon, it would be gone forever, just like his grandpa. 

           “If you’d rather stay here, with Aunt June,” Charlie’s father offered, “no one will blame you. There’s a lot of work to do up there. I won’t have much time to spend with you.”

           “I think he should go. It might be good for him,” his mother said, cutting in. “He has a lot of memories there. He might want to see it one last time.”

           “I suppose,” his father shrugged. 

           “What do you think, Sweetheart?” his mother asked him.

          “I want to go,” Charlie decided. It would be hard when it was time to say goodbye, but at least he’d have one last weekend of fun.

          Charlie’s father smiled. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. “In time, you’ll understand why we couldn’t keep it,” he added, but Charlie knew he wouldn’t understand if he lived to be a million years old. 

           Charlie went into the house to gather some things for the trip. He stopped by the kitchen to fill his pockets with peanuts and crackers. He hoped it was enough to satisfy the fish and chipmunks for a long time.

             Outside, Charlie’s father honked the horn. “Come on you guys! Time’s wasting. We’ve got to get going if we’re going to beat traffic,” he hollered.

           Charlie ran out and got into the back seat of the van. His stomach flipped and flopped. He felt all churned up inside, like his happy and sad parts were fighting with each other.

           Charlie’s mother came out last, juggling a pile of boxes. “Thanks for the help,” she muttered. She tossed them into the trailer and got in next to Charlie’s father. “Do you think we’ll need more?” she asked, but he didn’t hear her. He was talking on his phone about work stuff.  

           “What did you say, Beth?” Charlie’s father asked finally, after he’d hung up.

           “I asked if you think we’ll need more boxes.”

           “If we do, I’m sure there will be places to get some. I don’t know what’s around. I haven’t been up there in years, but there’s bound to be a shopping plaza or something.”

           Charlie turned his attention out the window as they started along. He liked to watch the city get smaller and smaller until it turned into forest. His grandpa used to tell him that there was an invisible fence to keep the city from spilling over and messing up the woods. Green hills lay before them. The car climbed, winding its way up the highway. Charlie watched for the familiar lakes and streams before they disappeared on the descent.

           “This scenery is gorgeous,” Charlie’s mother remarked. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Just look at those valleys!”

           “The glaciers left those holes when the ice melted away,” Charlie said.

           “Well, isn’t that something,” Charlie’s mother said. “I bet your grandpa told you that. He was a very smart man.” 

           Charlie was about to say that he was; that he was the smartest man he knew, but his father’s phone rang.  “Quiet! I need to take this,” he said. He answered and talked on and on about more work things that Charlie didn’t pay attention to. 

           When they reached their exit, Charlie’s father got off the phone. He turned off the main highway and onto the long, country road that ran through the town near the cottage. Charlie spotted the store that he and his grandpa used to go to. He wanted to ask his father to stop in for ice cream, but decided against it. 

           Finally, they came to the fire road that went down to the lake. Pine branches scraped against the side of their van, screeching and scratching as they went along the narrow dirt road. “Well, the road’s still the same,” Charlie’s father grumbled. “You’d think after all this time, they’d have widened it a little.”

           “Oh, that’s all we need are more scratches on this car!” Charlie’s mother tsked.

           “I’m not sure if I remember which driveway is ours,” Charlie’s father said, slowing. “There’s a lot more cottages than there used to be.” 

           “I know which one it is,” Charlie said with confidence. “It’s the next one, right up there.” 

           Charlie’s father turned into the driveway and stopped. Charlie threw the door open and jumped out. He bolted down to the pond, grabbed a handful of pebbles, and threw them into the water. Sunfish darted out from underneath the lily pads and pecked at them, thinking it food. “The fish are still here!” he laughed.  

           “You be careful, Charlie!” his mother warned, as she got out of the car.  

           Charlie’s father got out too, and stretched. “Smell that air!” he said, taking in a deep breath. “I’d forgotten how clean it smells up here. It’s like we’re a million miles from the city and it’s really not that far away.” 

           “It’s pretty,” Charlie’s mother said. “And so quiet. I can see why Charlie’s so fond of it.”

           Charlie’s father joined him at the edge of the pond. Startled by the sudden movement, the sunfish scattered, but it wasn’t long before they made their way back. “Boy oh boy, are those fish still hanging around?” he chuckled. “They were here when I was kid. I used to feed them bread crusts.”

           “I know. Grandpa told me,” Charlie said. “He said you used to stand in the water and let them bite your toes.”

           “That’s right! I did. I’d forgotten all about that,” he said, then grew quiet as he gazed out over the water. His smile faded. “I used to spend a lot of time down here, Charlie. A lot of time,” he said finally. 

           “We could go fishing, if you want,” Charlie offered after a while.

           His father shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “I wish I could, but I have too many things to do,” he said. 

           Charlie stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

           “I warned you it wouldn’t be much fun,” his father said and took his phone out of his pocket.

           Charlie sighed and kicked at the sand. “Can we go later?”

           “Shush. Not now, Charlie,” his father said, putting the phone to his ear. After a moment, he lowered it again and inspected the screen. “I don’t seem to have any service out here. Honey? Is your phone working?”

           “Lord, I don’t know!” she huffed, spitting bangs out of her face as she carried an arm load of boxes. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

            “Hmmm…” Charlie’s father frowned. He zig-zagged around the yard, holding the phone over his head as he searched for a signal. Unable to find a connection, he scowled and shoved the phone back into his pocket. “What were you saying, Charlie?” 

           “I asked if we could go later?”

           “Like I told you before, we came to get things in order, not to play. Besides, I don’t even have a fishing pole.”

           “Yes, you do,” Charlie said. “It’s right inside. It’s the one you had when you were little.”

           “What?” his father croaked in surprise. “That old thing is still here?”

           “Uh huh. Grandpa said he was saving it for when you came back. He saved your tackle box too.”

            “Well how about that,” Charlie’s father said.

           “So, can we go?” 

            His father cleared his throat. “You go on ahead,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come down in a little while.”

           “But there’s only junk fish out here,” Charlie persisted, motioning towards the lake. “Just a lot of suckers and yellow perch. We need to go down to the river if we want to catch any good ones.”

           “Grandpa took you to the river?” 

           Charlie nodded. “All the time.”

           “Well I’ll be,” his father uttered with a snort. “I used to beg and beg him to take me, but he was usually too busy.” Just then, his phone began to ring. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered. “Hello? Oh, hey Tom,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to call you. The service here is terrible.”

           Charlie sighed and wandered back down to the lake. He hopped up onto the wharf, took his shoes off, and stuck his feet into the cold water, just like he and his grandpa used to do. He shivered, though the sun beat down hot on his back. He felt a pang thinking about how cold and dark it was where his grandpa’s body rested. He peered up at the sky and wondered about the place up there, where his grandpa’s spirit was supposed to be. Did it have a lake or a sun? Did it have ice cream or peanuts? He wanted to ask his father more about it, but he would be mad if Charlie interrupted him. 

           A fish swam up and pecked at Charlie’s toe. He dug a cracker out of his pocket, which by then was more crumbs than cracker, and threw the pieces in. He watched as the fish fought over the food. “You guys are going to have to find something else to eat now,” Charlie told them sadly.

           “Charlie? Ben?” Charlie’s mother called, sticking her head out the screened door. “I made you guys some sandwiches. Are you hungry?”

           “I guess,” Charlie said. He got up and scanned the yard for his father, but he was still on the phone. He picked up his shoes and went inside without him.

            The cottage still smelled like his grandpa. Charlie’s chest felt heavy again as he glanced around. The newspaper his grandpa had been reading the last time they’d come was still laying in the seat of his recliner. His flannel shirt hung over the back. The puzzle they had been working on was half-finished on the coffee table. Charlie’s eyes filled with tears. It hurt down deep inside. He wished like anything that his grandpa would pop out and tell him he was only kidding about being dead. 

           Charlie’s mom came up behind him and laid a hand on his head. “I’m so sorry, sweetie pie. You must be missing him awful bad,” she lamented, leaning down to plant a kiss on his nose.

           Charlie made a face, wiped the kiss off, and ducked out of reach. He didn’t want her to see him cry. “Dad said he might take me fishing later,” he said, changing the subject.

           “That’s great! I guess you better go on and eat then,” she said.

           Charlie had his sandwich alone at the table, while his mother poked around in the cupboards. He’d just finished eating when his father came in. 

           “It’s so nice up here,” Charlie’s mother remarked with a smile. “You never told me how lovely it was. And so peaceful. You know, this is the closest we’ve come to a vacation in years?”

           “It is nice,” Charlie’s father agreed as he gazed out the window. “I’d forgotten how nice,” he added quietly.

            Charlie’s mother yawned. “Well, I’m going to sit and rest for a while,” she decided. “I’m done in. I think I’ll start that book I brought to read. Why don’t you two go off and do something.” she suggested, giving Charlie’s father a wink.

           “I don’t know,” he said, surveying the clutter in the kitchen. “I should start going through some of this stuff.” 

           Charlie’s mother shot him a look. It was the look she gave when she didn’t want to argue but had something to say. 

           “Well,” he relented. “Charlie did mention that he wanted to go fishing.” 

           Charlie jumped out of his chair so fast, it nearly toppled over.

           “Just for a little while, though,” his father said. “What do you say, champ? Want to show me where that old pole of mine is?”

           Charlie ran into the living room and pulled his father’s fishing pole out of the corner. “Here it is. See? Right where you left it,” he said, thrusting it towards his father. “And your tackle box is over by the door.”

           Charlies father took the pole and checked it over. “Man, oh man. I haven’t seen this pole in years. It still looks the same! I hope it works as good as it used to.”

           Charlie snatched his own pole and followed his father toward the door. He hopped around impatiently while his father inspected the contents of his tackle box. 

           “Some if this stuff is probably antique, by now,” his father teased as he sorted through the lures.

           “Everything’s still good,” Charlie assured him. “Can we go now?”

           “Well, these hooks will probably disintegrate as soon as I cast them into the water,” his father said with a frown, “but I guess they’ll have to do.”

           Charlie followed his father outside and together they walked down the trail to the river. Charlie took a few of the nuts out of his pocket and dropped them on the ground for the chipmunks. 

           “You know, when I was your age, I caught the biggest fish of my life down at the river,” Charlie’s father said.

           “I know,” Charlie said. “Grandpa told me. He even showed me a picture. He said it was one of the best days he ever had.”

           Charlie’s father stopped walking and looked at him “He really said that?”

           Charlie nodded.

           “Huh,” Charlie’s father said. “I’m surprised he even remembered that day.”

           “Grandpa remembered lots of stories from when you were little. And you know what? Every time he told me one it kind of felt like you were here.”

            Charlie’s father fixed his jaw. “I’m surprised grandpa had so many stories to tell,” he said, bitterly. “I know he was great with you, but it wasn’t like that for me.”

           Charlie found a loose stone on the trail and kicked it. 

           “I’m sorry,” Charlie’s father said. “I know you loved him very much. It wasn’t right of me to say that.”

           “It’s okay,” Charlie said, even though it wasn’t. He didn’t like knowing that his grandpa made his father feel as sad as Charlie did sometimes. “I loved grandpa, but I love you too. I’m glad we’re going fishing.”

           Charlie’s father smiled. “I’m glad, too.”

           The thundering of the river began to sound through the trees. They were close. Charlie ran ahead. He had a surprise for his father.

           “Wait up, Charlie!” his father said, running after him. “That water is dangerous,” he cautioned.

           Charlie got to the river first and stood in front of the bench his grandfather had placed on the bank. When his father rounded the corner, out of breath, Charlie jumped aside.  “Tada!”

           “What’s this?” his father asked.

           “It’s a bench. Grandpa built it for us. It’s for sitting in the sun while we fish. Look at what he wrote,” he said, pointing to the carving along the back. 

           “‘For Benjamin,’” Charlie’s father began. “’For all the times I wish we’d come but didn’t. For all the….’” His voice cracked. His face crumpled. He turned away from Charlie, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

           Charlie didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen his father cry before. He went to him and wrapped his arms around his waist. “I thought the bench would make you happy.”

           “It does,” his father said, wiping at his tears. “I’m not crying because of that. I’m crying because I have been a fool. I’m so sorry I never came up here with you and grandpa. At first, it was because I was stubborn, then I just got so busy with work, I forgot how much I was missing out on. I bet you’ve been missing me, just like I missed him all those years and I’m sorry for that, too. Can you ever forgive me?”

           Charlie hugged his father tighter. “I have been missing you,” he said. “But I’m happy you’re here now. Do you want meto read the bench?” he asked.

           Charlie’s father nodded.

           “For Benjamin,” Charlie began, proudly. “For all the times I wish we’d come but didn’t. For all the times you can make up for it with Charlie.”

           Charlie’s father scooped him up and gave him a kiss. “I guess I’ve made some mistakes.”

           “Grandpa told me that he made some too, but that it’s never too late to fix a mistake, until it is.”

           “Your Grandpa was a very smart man,” Charlie’s father said, smiling through his tears. Just then, his phone began to ring. He took it out of his pocket. Charlie thought he’d answer it, but instead, he shut it off, and put in back into his pocket.  

           “Almost as smart as you,” Charlie said.

           Charlie’s father laughed. “Well, let’s hook us some fish and then we’ll go back and tell your mother that we’ve decided to keep the cottage. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

      **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced with consent from the author.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, family, familyfriendly, fiction, grief, loss, parents, relationships, shortstory
    • Hot and Sour

      Posted at 5:11 pm by writergherlone, on August 5, 2020

      IMG_8935

      Hot and Sour

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      My sister and I are hungry. Our father is cramming bread and meat into his mouth as we wait at the table for our mother to give us something to eat.

      “Two sandwiches for yourself and nothing for the children!” she cries when she spies the empty bread wrapper in front of him. She snatches it and turns it upside down. A sprinkling of crumbs fall out and pepper the table. My sister and I lick our fingers, press them to the crumbs, and pop them into our mouths. “You never think of anyone but yourself,” she says. Our father does not spare us a glance as he rises and tosses his wadded-up napkin into the trash.

      “Sorry, girls, but thanks to your father, you’ll go hungry today,” she says.

      My tummy grumbles. My sister wails.

      “Oh, hush,” our mother says. She opens the fridge and peers inside, but it, too, is empty. “Do you have any money?” she asks.

      “Nope. I’m strapped,” our father says. He grabs his boots and sits back down at the table to lace them.

      “That’s just great,” she utters. She stalks off down the hall and returns with a small container of soup. “I was saving this for later.”

      “Saving or hiding?” our father asks, shooting her a hateful look.

      She doesn’t answer as she opens it, dumps the contents into a pan, and begins to cook it on the stove. When the soup is hot, she divides it in half and places two steaming bowls in front of us. “I wouldn’t have to hide things if you weren’t such a selfish pig,” she finally says.

      Our father slams his fist on the table. My sister jumps, overturning her bowl. Scalding soup spreads out in front of us and cascades onto her bare legs. She howls in pain, but quickly scrapes what is left back into her bowl. Red welts erupt on her skin as we lift our spoons to our mouths. Our father reaches out to steal a stray noodle. He tosses it into the air and captures it with his teeth. It shimmies, glistening on his lips as he heads for the door.

      End

       

      *This story originally appeared online in Down in the Dirt Magazine and went on to appear in print in Aurora Volume 168 on February 20, 2020, which is available for purchase on Amazon.

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

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childabuse, childhood, family, familydynamics, familyissues, fiction, fictionvignette, hunger, poverty, shortstory
    • No Parking

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

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

      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.

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      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

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      **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.”

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      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

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      Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

      By Kristy Gherlone

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      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.

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      “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.

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      She gathered some art supplies and got to work.

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

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

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

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      “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.”

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      “I have just the thing!” Sassafras said.

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

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

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      “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.”

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

      IMG_8121 “Can I give it to him now? She asked excitedely.

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

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      “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.

       

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      “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.”

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      “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.”

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      “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

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      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.

       

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

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

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      *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

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      *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.

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      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.

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      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!

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

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      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.IMG_0425

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      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

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      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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