Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)

by N. Godwin

  This is the first time we’ve seen Sandy in over a month and I cannot believe the transformation. Sandy must be at least fifty pounds thinner and looks ten years younger if she looks a day, and this makes me smile. Eunice has not been entirely pleased by Sandy’s transformation because Sandy had not only stopped coming to eat with Eunice twice a day, but has also started taking summer courses at the local community college.

  “Ooh, Jimmy-Sue,” Eunice hails as Sandy whispers in her ear. “Bring another bottle, sweetie and come here a minute, please.”

  I turn to leave and Ken reaches down immediately and scoops Cecile up and places her on the counter beside him. “Cecile child, have I ever told you about the killer political range of James Brown? No? Little sister, he’s another brown dude with a message who rocks.”

  “Hey! I thought you couldn’t talk much,” Genie growls at Ken. “What’s your disorder called again?

  “Social phobia,” I allow.

  “With a touch of Avoidance Personality Disorder thrown in from being abandoned,” Ken tells her speaking very slowly. “But it isn’t that I can’t talk, it’s that I choose not to talk, like Cecile here.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Genie snaps restlessly as she pops her bubblegum and frowns again. “Seems to me all you do lately is talk. ‘Don’t do this, don’t say that, yada yada yada.”

  “She’s right, Killer,” I laugh and agree. I find Cecile’s tickle-spot and give her a big loud juicy kiss right on target. Cecile howls with laughter.

  “Yeah and what about you,” Genie says to me with a scowl, “little Miss Don’t Dare Touch My Virgin White Skin! Ain’t there a name for what you got?”

  “Isn’t there a name,” I correct. “And my disorders are tired feet and lack of sleep, brought on from dealing with Hyperactive Conduct Disorders like yours.”

  “No way!” she says, placing her hands firmly on her hips and glaring at me. “Are you telling me if I grow normal I’ll end up just like you and never have a date?!”

  Ken and I look at one another then burst into laughter. Suddenly Ken, Cecile, and I are having a group hug and laughing hysterically. I open our circle and motion Genie to join us. She hesitates for only a moment then barrels on in, hugging us real hard, and I laugh louder when I realize this time there are fewer stings in their touch. We hang there for a minute, hugging and laughing, until we’re all giddy.

  “I love you guys,” Ken says.

  Cecile raises her little hand then points to her heart, then to me, and to Ken, and to Genie, and to the entire café.

  “Man, I’m gonna cry!” Genie says.

  “Jimmy-Sue!” Eunice shouts.

  I reluctantly pull away from our circle, grab a watered down bottle of wine—now only 20% wine-- then head back to the table by the noisy ice machine while Eunice hails me once again. I arrive at her table already anticipating her words.

  “It’s Andrea,” Eunice tells me with a nod in her direction. “What’s with the no red meat thingy again?”

  “Andrea’s refusing to cook seven hamburgers for my granddaughter’s Girl Scout friends who are showing up here any minute!” Sandy rushes to tell me. “I don’t want to take them up The Strip for hamburgers because I want to visit with Eunice! I have so much to tell her.” Both set of eyes rest on me.

  “Andrea says red meat is injected with so many carcinogens and antibiotics that we’ll all end up with AIDS type viruses before the year 2020,” I remind Eunice again as I wipe her smudgy, cat-eye, glasses on my apron.

  Eunice seems not to notice my actions and I see her cigarette is in need of thumping so I hold my hand under her nose and flick the end of her cigarette before it can fall in her red wine. It occurs to me though that maybe the ashes would hold some kind of nutritional value for her and I fight the urge to turn my hand over and let the ashes fall in Eunice’s glass.

  “Ah, no red meat from Andrea, deal with it,” Eunice tells Sandy. “And, girlfriend, you look wonderful!”

  “Speaking of red, Jimmy-Sue, you sure do look beautiful in red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that color. It’s kind of seductive. You should dress like this more often, with that shade of lipstick and all.” Sandy says as she studies me closely.

  “I was talking about you, Sandy,” Eunice says and pats Sandy’s hand affectionately. “I…I missed you and you look wonderful. But, come to think of it, our little Jimmy-Sue does look different tonight, too. What’s the deal, sweetheart?”

  “I’ve been told to broaden my horizons and aim toward the occasional fun.” Both set of oblivious eyes rest on me. “I just had to have this dress, you see. It called to me,” I say with an indulgent chuckle. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion and since today’s forecast was so glum I decided to wear it. I think I’ll do high tea for everyone later, too, just for fun. Make some scones or something.”

  “Looks to me like you’re going on a manhunt,” Eunice says as she studies me.

  “Ooh,” Sandy says and winks at me.

  “That’ll be the day!” I laugh, looking at my reflection over the bar. I do look different.

  As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I notice Randy walk in behind me with my cousin Alison draped on his arm. He does a little jig when he sees my face reflecting my displeasure in the mirror.

  I turn and stare at them as Ali waves to me with several exaggerated sweeps of both her hands. “Hey, girl, Randy says I can help out tonight because you’re so busy and all.”

  Sandy steps up into my face: “Jimmy-Sue, I know you’re not on kitchen duty but will you cook those hamburgers for my hungry Girl Scouts, please?” she pleads.

  “Yes, I will cook red meat because your Girl Scouts will be a welcomed balance tonight. Thank you for bringing them.”

  “Try to get something green down them, if you can, sweetie,” Sandy whispers behind a closed hand.

  When I turn back around I am staring my cousin in the face. She is sitting primly at Randy’s bar and smiles at me and pats the stool beside her, motioning for me to sit down and visit. She is dressed in her typical Sunday best with her red hair swept back the exact way I taught her six years back, almost to the day.

  “I’ve got burgers to make,” I say instead as I walk beyond Ali into the kitchen.

  “That dress, cousin,” she allows slowly as I pass. “It’s …almost sexy. I’ve never owned a red dress before like that. Can I borrow it this weekend?”

  “May I,” I correct, “and you most certainly may not wear it if this weekend involves Randy. I’d have to burn it afterwards,” I reply uncharitably and shudder.

  “I told you she was nuts,” Randy grumbles from behind the bar.

  Ali sighs and studies Randy then me. ”I wish the two of you would at least try to get along!” She shakes her finger first at Randy then at me. “Just because Randy doesn’t return your affection is no reason to be rude to him. That is not the way to win a man.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Let me get this straight,” I say stopping beside Randy for a moment and giving him an incendiary gaze. “You’ve told my cousin I want you, is this correct?”

  “Shh,” Randy says to me, finger to his lips. “Shh, don’t bother trying to deny it,” he emotes, giving Ali a wink and dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “Everyone can tell.”

  I turn to Ali. “How could I deny such torrid passion? I want him, Ali. I’ll arm wrestle you for him.”

  “Really?” Randy looks over at me quickly then gets it when I raise my eyebrow. “Bitch!” he says, automatically reaching in his pocket and pulling out a folded-up one dollar bill that he will again lie about and say was a five-dollar bill after he slips it in the swearing jar.

  Ali’s stares at me with her jaw gaping open as I spot the three wise fishermen coming in the door. Bud is holding a huge red snapper by its gills, Otis has a bag of oranges, and Bubba has two grocery bags full of his homegrown tomatoes, squash and cucumbers. I wave and almost skip over to them because they always bring fun along with food. P
art of the magic of the DemiMonde is how our friends always know when we need them the most.

  “Bringing the rain with us, girl,” Bud laughs, greeting me with a nod and a wink. He slaps the snapper on the counter in front of Cecile and she shrieks with delight when the fish slaps around the bar.

  “Rains coming in on our heels,” Otis greets us through the gaping holes in his gums where his teeth used to be. “Hope it’ll push the stinkweed back out to sea.”

  “Comin preti near now’t gain,” Bubba agrees with a nod.

  Sometimes I wonder if I might really be losing it after all because every now and then I swear I can actually understand Bubba’s language. But Eunice is hailing me again and I’ve got burgers to cook.

  “Can we listen to something soft for a change instead of this loud nonsense? I know its metal by the way. I hate heavy metal. It activates the dudes.” Eunice shouts to me. “I want some Dolly Parton or Dan Fogelburg.”

  I walk to the stereo and slide in some vintage Fogleburg and the mood of the café visibly mellows down two notches. I head straight to the kitchen to light the grill then nuzzle Cecile and shoot the breeze with the fishermen for a moment.

  “Jus go mysef mar’d ‘gain,” Bubba tells me proudly.

  “Got himself married again,” Otis translates.

  “How many times is that now? I lose track,” I say, counting on both hands.

  “Sen.”

  “Seven,” Otis insists shaking his head. “Can’t understand the mind of a man who’d want to pour on more alimony than God intended.”

  “Seven times?” Alan gasps from his end of the bar. “That’s downright vulgar.”

  Lightning suddenly crashes outside and everyone standing within five feet of Bubba jumps back as quickly as humanly possible, yet Bubba doesn’t even seem to notice, which just goes to show you why he’s probably been struck so many times. Bubba’s even listed in Guinness World Book of Records as having survived the most lightning strikes. It was six on last count, which might have a direct correlation with the number of his ex-wives. Each time Bubba gets struck his language pattern alters dramatically. No scars, no burns, just bizarre speech degeneration, and a new wife.

  “I keep telling him,” Bud says, scratching underneath his Braves hat, “the only reason another woman will marry him is because she figures to be collecting some double indemnity any day now.”

  “Yeah,” I agree and decide right then and there to take Bubba’s name off my list. I mean, it seems to me that if the good Lord wanted Bubba he’d have taken him long ago. God knows he had the opportunities.

  Tell me I’m right! I look up to the ceiling and wait.

  A nanosecond later, the loudest bolt of lightning any of us have ever heard strikes down on the road just beside our parking lot, and I shake my head and chuckle, seeing such obvious disqualifying merits, merits I should have noticed from the beginning. Bubba just wanted to communicate. I can recognize this much. He was clearly guilty of gluttony as far as wives were concerned…or maybe it was lust? Okay, probably both, but he was the salt of the earth and the spice of life, and a good man despite. Not to mention, he was spoken for. Only a fool would intervene here and now instead of taking this lesson to heart.

  “I li bein mared,” Bubba tells me almost shyly. “Mared sam wom tre tims.”

  “Well, you know they say, the third times the charm,” I reply with a chuckle. “So, God bless your union and may this one last forever.” I give Bubba an affectionate smile.

  “Chur welkim,” he says, smiling back.

  “Hey, Bubba, you want to see how many saltines I can stuff in my mouth and still swallow?” Robert jumps between us to ask.

  I sigh and look away and pretend to be juggling the daily recipes while prepping for hamburgers, but in truth I am going deep back into the heart of the subject, down below where the worst was yet to come. Now that Bubba is off the list that leaves…six remaining names, right? Eunice is off, as was Hobie. Freckles is off because I couldn’t orphan an entire neighborhood, not to mention orphan the Halflings… John and Horst are off and so is Sandy. So, who’s left?

  Ken.

  I don’t want to have to think about Ken because of my growing suspicions, so I won’t yet. Randy. Ugh. But he’s hard, too, because if he’s not the one then it will most likely have to be someone I care about, which is my worst case scenario, but I don’t want to dwell and jinx myself...

  Bud and Otis? I think I’m going to have to give in and go fishing on their boat in order to figure out their connection. Alan Mulligan? He should be easier, but then, once again is someone I care about, unlike my number 13, Harold. But Harold is a whole new ball of wax and I plan on delaying studying that one as long as I can. I am far too unskilled and untrained to figure out how to get that spooky giant across any sacrificial alter. So, I’m not going to think about that today, seeing how I still have a little under two months left and all.

  I give in to the temptation and look around the café and smile as everyone around me seems relatively occupied, because the natives have been restless today. Only Andrea plods across the room towards me with aggravation on her face.

  “I’m going to bleed to death!” she says. “My period is a real downer this time. I could chew somebody’s head off,” she insists as Robert walks over to us. She stares him down and growls. “And don’t let it be your head, flyboy!”

  “Why do you always call me that?” Robert whines as crackers spill from his mouth.

  “Because you’re so fu—da--friggin’ annoying! That’s why!”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  “Am not!”

  “Seen any Looney Tune characters in the floor boards lately?”

  “Now, children,” I say laughing and clapping my hands. I can sense something out of the corner of my eye, a movement outside in the parking lot and I turn when I hear their noise.

  “Don’t look now but here comes God and his entourage.” Andrea pokes me in the ribs and nods toward the parking lot.

  “He’s not God.”

  “Oh yes he is,” she replies.

  “Holy crap!” Bud says. “That’s them! That’s SEAL Team 6!” he informs the room with so much awe in his voice that we all stop what we’re doing and look where he is pointing.

  Everyone is quiet and straining their necks to get a good look at the Harleys and their drivers as they pull into our lot and rev their engines into a collective cacophony of deafening noise. The windows are shaking, the ground humming and we watch as eleven of the fittest, scariest men any of us have ever seen climb from their bikes.

  “These are subtle guys,” I scoff.

  “What we’re looking at folks is the scariest military machine on the face of the earth,” Bud tells us reverently.

  “Look at ‘um!” Genie whistles.

  “Man, are they here to party or take hostages?” Tony wants to know.

  “See that pin across the left breast, the golden eagle perched on an anchor with a trident in one hand and a pistol in another?” Bud asks us. “Only SEALs get to wear ‘um because they earned them the hard way. And they don’t wear nametags but even if they did they’d never use their real names,” he tells us as we gawk.”

  Almost on cue every SEAL pins a black nametag across his left breast pocket and we all break out laughing, razzing Bud. “I’m telling you, you never see them all out together in public like this, never!” he insists. “But, something’s up today because they’re wearing nametags and they’re coming here. And check out those devices on their belts. When one of them buzzes the whole world holds its breath.”

  We are all holding our breath as Rawly slides out of his enormous, black Hummer and motions to his men with one slight flick of his index finger.

  “Hide the women,” John teases, winking at Mandy.

  Outside the rain finally arrives in huge angry pellets and the SEALS break rank and run the last ten yards to the café. I watch as our quiet world suddenly erupts into deliri
um. I don’t even bother to acknowledge Rawly or his men, just busy myself washing the vegetables the fishermen brought us and cooking hamburgers while Bubba begins scaling and filleting the snapper beside me. I let the burgers sizzle then turn and bathe my arms up to my elbows in the cool water from the sink.

  Where was I anyway? Oh. John is off because of all his hidden dimensions, Sandy because of prejudice, and Horst just because the world needs his tender balance. I turn off the water and dry my hands on the kitchen towel aware that Rawly has splintered off from his men and comes to stand at my counter while his men scatter around the café. Everyone greets them as if they were lost gods come down from Olympus, and this annoys me.

  “Lieutenant Commander!” Bud bellows holding out his hand. “That was some blue marlin you scored last Sunday with the admiral; a near-record, thirteen foot, female, all one thousand and two pounds of her.” Bud tells the room.

  “Captain Bud!” Rawly greets him with a solid pat on his back and a firm handshake. “I’ve never seen another man with your sixth sense for finding fish! Don’t worry; your coordinates are safe with me.” Rawly zips his mouth closed.

  “What’s the skinny?” Bud leans into him to ask. “You guys on some mission?” Everyone in the room eavesdrops. “Must be important to get you all out together at one time in the same place, huh? A little CT operation maybe?”

  “Well,” Rawly begins. “I’d tell you, but--”

  “You’d have to kill him afterwards!” the entire café finishes his sentence then laughs.

  “You got it,” Rawly says with a click of his trigger finger. His eyes look around until they find mine. “Well, hello there, Helen. May I say you’re looking particularly edible this evening? Are you just trolling or do you have another date?” I say nothing and turn my back on him, drying the cucumbers. “Oh, my darling, Rawly,” he mimics raising his voice a few octaves. “I’ve counted the seconds we’ve been apart, dearest. It’s been 86,047 in case you’re curious.”

  “I kicked you out!” I say angrily.