“I know this is terribly unhealthy, but it’s so good,” Joseph said, with his mouth full.
“For real,” added Carrie. “I’ll make us all a salad for supper tonight.”
Tommy came running up to the table. “Maymay! Today is the best! I love you!”
“Awww. I love you, too. In fact, I love you more than potato chips.”
“I love you more than chocolate,” Carrie said to Tommy.
“I love you more than pizza,” Joseph told him.
Tommy giggled and smiled.
“And I love you more than coffee,” I said. They all just stared at me.
“Okay, maybe not more than coffee. But, you’re a close second.”
The kids all laughed and Tommy ran off to play some more.
“Coffee and kids,” I thought to myself, “definitely my two favorite things!”
the end
author’s note
You can truly make a difference in the life of a child by becoming a Guardian ad Litem volunteer. For more information, visit
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James 1:27
Find exclusive short stories FREE for members at www.alyssahelton.com
www.alyssahelton.com
other works
by Alyssa Helton
Dogwood Alley
If the Crick Don’t Rise
Joy in the Morning
The Lion Tamer’s Daughter
The SugarKing Shortstop
COMING SOON
Book two
of the Charlotte Ritter Mystery series
frappes, flamingos and a fireman
If you enjoyed this book, you may also like the Michael Tallen novel series. Let me introduce you to these stories with the introduction from the first book:
The Lion Tamer’s Daughter
The Lion Tamer’s Daughter
Written by Alyssa Helton
Copyright © 2016 Alyssa Helton
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1539882176
ISBN-10: 1539882179
INTRODUCTION
I approached the old home with its weathered siding yellowed by dirt and sunlight, and knocked on the rusty screen door. The door rattled and alerted a small dog inside who considered it his duty to bark incessantly until his owner hushed him with a swat from a rolled newspaper. A middle-aged man opened the door and looked me over head to toe before uttering a word.
“Can I help you?” he demanded.
“Yes, Sir. I’m Michael Tallen, a contributing writer with the Herald…”
“We already get the paper,” he interrupted.
“Uh, no, Sir, I’m not selling the paper. I’m here to see a woman named Ruth who called our office. She didn’t give her last name; just said she wanted a writer to come to this address to take down her story as her dying wish.”
“Dyin’ wish? She ain’t dyin’! That woman will outlive us all,” he exclaimed, shaking his head and pushing the screen door open to let me inside.
I stepped into the entry and the little dog, a yorkie, uttered a soft growl while he sniffed my shoes.
“That’s Bruiser. She don’t bite. Of course, I can’t say the same for Ruthie,” he told me with a raised eyebrow and a serious expression. “Somebody get Ruthie and tell her she has a visitor!”
“Quit calling me that, and get outta my way,” demanded an elderly woman, walking our way with the aid of a cane. She had grey hair cut short and styled a bit like Helen Mirren, and wore jeans with a white button-up shirt along with a strand of pearls and ruby red lipstick. Not at all what I expected, I braced myself for her examination of my appearance and blunt disapproval.
“You must be the writer from the Herald. Come on in,” she invited.
I admit I was a bit shocked. Usually one look at my long dark hair tied up in a “man-bun,” my earrings and my tattoos; and people of a certain age would look at me with disgust and turn away. Not her. She didn’t even flinch.
I followed her into a sitting room, and sat on an old, velvet couch that released a puff of dust and dog hair into the air.
“Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” she asked as she sat in a recliner across from me.
“No, thank you. I was under the impression that having someone record your thoughts on your life was your dying wish, but the gentleman who answered the door indicated you’re perfectly healthy.”
“Well, I had to say something to get you here,” she confessed. “I am eighty-nine years old, so I figure I’m closer to dying than most people. Call it ‘creative truthing.’”
I chuckled and opened my notebook. I liked her spunk, and I figured anything she was so determined to say was worth recording.
“May I record this conversation?” I asked, pulling out my digital recorder.
“That’s probably a good idea. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I can’t expect you to memorize it all.”
“A lot of ground, huh? Just what is it you’re wanting me to write…your thoughts on life in general? A valuable lesson you’ve learned?”
“My story.”
“Your story. As in your whole…life…story?”
“Yep.”
I cleared my throat. “Ma’am, first of all, I write short articles for the Herald about the arts and community events. I’m not a biographer. Second of all, the newspaper isn’t the proper medium for sharing one’s life story. They won’t even consider publishing it…”
“I know all that! I’ve followed your work for a long time.”
“Yeah, exciting stuff, isn’t it?”
“There’s been times…regardless, I want YOU to write my story.”
I shifted in my seat and attempted to gather my thoughts. How could I convince her this was a horribly bad idea?
“Ma’am,”
“Call me Ruth.”
“Yes, m…Ruth. Uh…let’s say I agree to write your story. Why is it so important to you to have it written? I mean, if you’re wanting to pass down stories to your grandchildren, you could just have a family member write for you.”
She stared at me with a slight grin, and we sat in awkward silence for a moment. I glanced around the room and noticed several framed black and white portraits in dusty, dark wooden frames. There were also what appeared to be framed newspaper clippings and photos of large animals, like elephants, hanging on the far wall. But, having forgotten to put in my contacts that morning, I couldn’t make out any details.
“This isn’t my house,” she stated abruptly.
“It’s not?”
“No. For the last fifteen years or so, this house was home to my dearest friend and cousin, Lizzie. We lived together as young girls on a farm in Ft. Lauderdale, not too far from here.” She looked away, seemingly lost in thought. “She passed away this week. I came here for her funeral.”
“I am so sorry. My condolences.”
“Lizzie had kept boxes upon boxes of letters, pictures, and other odds and ends from our time together. I’ve been sifting through those precious memories, and well…I think there’s a story to tell in it all.”
She had me hook, line and sinker. I sat there not knowing anything about this woman; not even if she was telling the truth, but completely convinced I should write for her. Her wrinkled hands rested folded in her lap, and her emerald green eyes nearly stared right through me; looking at me with anticipation.
“Alright then,” I began, turning on the recorder, “where do we start?”
She clapped her hands together and smiled, “From the beginning! Oh, but not here. Let’s go down the hall to Lizzie’s room with all the boxes.”
Grabbing her cane, she was up and walking, leading the way to the room full of memories. We stepped inside a small bedroom wallpapered in a pale yellow floral print reminiscent of a Chintz china pattern my grandmother once had. A white metal bed covered in an antique quilt sat against the middle of the back wall. A well-worn wingback chair sat near the window. A simple wooden dresser stood in a corner, and boxes of va
rious sizes, including a few old, round hat boxes, were scattered throughout the room. A few boxes remained sealed, but most of them were open and their contents spilling out onto the bed or the floor.
“Pardon the mess. As I go through each box, my mind wanders to other times and far-away places, and I lose track of time…and any motivation to clean this stuff up.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her, as I perched on the edge of the bed and picked-up a random photograph. It was a photo of a young girl, a teenager, with long hair tied with a ribbon, and holding a large feather in one hand. “This looks like it’s from the late thirties, early forties, I’m guessing.”
“Let me see.” She took the photo from me and sat in the chair by the window. “Ah, yes. I was fourteen. So, that would be…um…nineteen and forty-one. Oh, yes, that’s it…nineteen forty-one.” She handed me back the picture.
“I can see it now…the cheekbones, the eyes.”
“I’m a long way from that girl, now.”
“Nah. She’s still there. I see her.”
She grinned, and I think she even blushed a little.
“Let’s start here,” I suggested. “Tell me about this picture, about you at fourteen, and about this feather.”
Ruth leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, and for a brief moment I thought she may had fallen asleep.
“Feathers have always been my favorite, and that one was a real prize. It was a tail feather from a hawk. Cyrus, one of the snake charmer boys, had found it and given it to me. I begged my mother to make me a sequined headband and attach the feather, but she refused. She didn’t want me to look like the other girls around camp.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Snake charmer? Girls at camp?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t think so. Tell me what?”
“I was the lion tamer’s daughter!”
After Ruth’s exciting and rather bizarre revelation, she excused herself to “fetch a pot of tea” for the two of us. I slouched in my chair and surveyed the boxes of letters and pictures while questioning my sanity for remaining in the midst of such chaos. This poor, delusional, old woman was intent on holding me hostage to listen to her ramblings about a fictional world. Or maybe not. Maybe she was telling the truth.
I grabbed the box closest to me, and reached inside; blindly grabbing whatever rested near the top. Submitting to my grasp were three photos and a folded letter. The first photo showed its age with muted tones and worn edges; and pictured a teenage boy with a thin face and straight, dark hair. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with ruffles down the front, tights and what appeared to be ballet shoes that rested on the back of an elephant. Quickly turning the photograph over, I read a penciled inscription on the back, “Albert, 1941.”
The other photos were of random people. They could have been friends or family, anyone really. And, I didn’t dare read a personal letter without her consent. I stared at the picture of Albert, and realized Ruth might just be telling the truth…and it might be an amazing story that’s worth hearing…and writing.
Ruth hobbled into the room shakily carrying a tray with a small tea pot and two cups with saucers. I swiftly rose to take the tray from her, and cleared a spot on the bed to set it down.
“I brought milk and sugar just like Maggie taught me when I was a girl.”
“Who’s Maggie?” I enquired as I discreetly pressed the record button on my digital recorder.
“She was one of the show girls, and she came all the way from London! She wasn’t terribly talented, but she was beautiful, so Mr. Lewis found her a spot with the acrobats. She mostly stood and smiled and waved her arms about to direct the crowd’s attention to what the acrobats were doing. Sweet girl. She made good tea.”
Ruth poured tea into our cups and allowed me to add sugar and milk to mine as I pleased.
“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I paused the recorder. “So far you’ve told me your father was the lion tamer, there was a girl from London in the show, and some man named Mr. Lewis was apparently in charge. This story is all over the place…mind starting from the beginning?”
“Not at all!” she replied as she leaned back in her chair, holding her cup and saucer in her trembling hands.
“Oh, and I definitely want to know who this is,” I told her, handing her the photograph of Albert.
“Albert!” she exclaimed with a smile as she looked upon the photo. “You will most definitely hear about him!”
“Good. Alright then. Where are we starting? Year? Location?” I took the recorder off pause.
“Hmmm. Well, this may be the best place to start right here; where this picture of Albert was taken. It was 1941 in Bradentown, on our way to Sarasota.”
“I believe you mean Bradenton,” I corrected.
“No, I don’t. I mean Bradentown, as it was called since 1903. It wasn’t until 1943 that the state of Florida merged it with another town, and called it Bradenton.”
Sharp as a freakin’ tac. She got me. I cleared my throat.
“I stand corrected,” I said, apologetically. “Please continue.”
She took a long sip of her tea. “As I was saying,” she said, giving me a certain look. “We were camped in Bradentown. It was summer, and oh so hot…”
Continued in...
THE LION TAMER’S DAUGHTER
Coffee, Kids, and a Kidnapping (A Charlotte Ritter Mystery Book 1) Page 8
