Time Trials

by Lee, Terry

  “Perfect!” Janie ran her hands down her hips like the famous female Muppet. “There’s just so much more of me to love.”

  “And you don’t think that’s fucking harsh?” Dena walked into the great room.

  “Hell no…I love Miss Piggy.” Janie tilted her head upward. “And better yet, she loves herself.”

  “Good point.” Dena plopped down onto one of the two brocade cushions on the floor at the end of the coffee table.

  Suzanne eased herself down on the cushion next to Dena. “Hey, I have this recipe for pink margaritas. Do you think Joseph would let us make some?”

  “Sure, why not?” Dena, as usual, had brought her box of wine to the coffee table. “He’s just a chef, not the kitchen warden. What’s in it?”

  “I have it right here.” Suzanne pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Pink lemonade, limeade, tequila, and water. You mix it together and then freeze it. It’s slushy.”

  Frannie entered the great room after changing into something more casual. “That doesn’t sound at all like you, Suzanne.”

  “I got it from my youngest daughter.” Suzanne raised her eyebrows, as if sharing a conspiracy secret. “She’s the only fun person in our family.” She paused and then smiled. “I’ve decided I like her best.”

  The BAGs howled. How unlike the old Suzanne. The new emerging version had finally broken out of her shell, like a baby chick yelling “Hello world!”

  “Okay.” Dena raised her hand. “I volunteer to drive the butt-mobile to the store in the morning for the lemonade and limeade. But Suzanne, you’re coming with me.”

  “That’s the name of the golf-cart?” The old Suzanne would have reacted like she’d just caught a whiff of a dumpster. The new Suzanne replied with excitement in her voice. “How cool!”

  Dena scratched the side of her head and smiled that beautiful Dena smile. “No, you goofball. I just thought that’d be an appropriate name for something that could haul all these old butts around.”

  ~~~

  Allison noticed the mellowness of conversation topics over the next couple of days. Not that there still wasn’t the laughter and constant bantering, but the tone was what caught her attention. A softness…more love, appreciation? She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she came to a conclusion. It was nice.

  Frannie shared with the group that she was considering making a switch to children’s books. Now that she was a grandmother, she wanted something age-appropriate for her grandkids that had her name as the author. The BAGs had a blast discussing possible subjects from their own experiences of watching the violence of cartoons, like the roadrunner always dodging Wile E Coyote, whose main purpose in life was to kill the roadrunner for his next meal. Then there was Sylvester the Cat always trying to capture sweet, loveable Tweety Bird for his next dining experience. Or their all-time favorite, Bambi, a loveable baby deer who lost his mother due to a shotgun blast by a hunter.

  “Speaking of Looney Tunes, what was with Walt Disney? It’s surprising we’re not all serial-killers.” Dena shook her head. “I never let my mother forget how damaged I was after seeing that movie.” She winked. “I blamed all my faux-pas on her, bless her heart.”

  Animation, fairy tales, and children’s books had come a long way over the years. Now, most books, programs, and movies contained a learning tool of sorts. Also, creators were clever enough, especially with movies, to produce content also enjoyable for adults. Nothing from the fifties or sixties held a candle to the children’s entertainment of today, such as Ice Age, Monster’s Inc., Shrek, Cars, or Finding Nemo, to name a few.

  Janie mentioned she had run across Buddy’s dog tags not long ago and all the memories that had surfaced.

  “My first love,” she said. “And even now, I have no idea whether he’s still alive.” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “Stupid war. If it wasn’t for LBJ….” Janie paused. “It just never should have happened.”

  Dena raised the timeout flag. “I know you still hold a lot of sadness over Buddy’s life, but you did everything you could. He’s the one who walked away from you, remember?” Dena reached over and grabbed Janie’s hand. “And I say this with love…rule #1, no politics or religion. Even more so these days, now that we actually have opinions. Got it?”

  “If you weren’t so damn pretty, I’d smack that perfect smile off your face.” Janie reached over and gave Dena a hug.

  Regina talked about her shock one day when she’d driven by Fountain Oaks, her old apartment complex.

  “Something serious has happened,” she said. “I almost drove right past it. The place has been painted, and they’ve replaced that eyesore of a carport. And the landscaping?” Regina’s eyes widened. “It was gorgeous. I had to back up to make sure it was the same place. Then I saw the maintenance man was still there.”

  “The one who dressed in army fatigues?” Allison asked.

  Regina jerked her head back. “How did you remember that?”

  “Suzanne and I were there when you interviewed your landlord, remember?” Allison grinned. “We were your support team.”

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember that day. I was scared shitless.” Regina brushed a stray piece of hair from her face. “The maintenance man’s name was Fletcher. I can’t believe he’s still there.”

  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Suzanne pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up further on her nose. “I cut it out. I think it’s in my purse.”

  “What?” Regina asked.

  “There was an article in The Chronicle not long ago. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the caption caught my attention.” She pulled the folded piece of newspaper from her purse. Suzanne was never far away from her purse. Some things did not change. She handed the clipping to Regina.

  “Woman Buried At Sea Along With Son’s Dog Tags.”

  The gist of the article stated that Ms. Viola Middleton, owner and apartment manager of Fountain Oaks, had died of a heart attack. Her service had taken place on a yacht, where family members released a bio-degradable “pillow” of Ms. Middleton’s ashes, which also included her son’s military dog tags.

  “Cremated remains are to be released no closer than three nautical miles from land,” Regina read. “Flowers, wreaths, or any other memorabilia must consist of materials which are readily decomposable in the marine environment.” Her eyebrows came together. “It says apparently it leaked out somehow about the dog tags, which are made from a corrosion-resistant metal.”

  “Oops,” Allison said. “Anyone get in trouble?”

  Regina continued to skim the article. “Says a verbal reprimand was issued, but due to the circumstances of the metal being military dog tags, the case was dropped.” She laid the article in her lap. “Remember, that’s what the interview was about. That’s the day she was presented the dog tags.” Regina touched her forehead. “She was not a pleasant woman. And she owned Fountain Oaks?”

  “Well, peace be with her now,” Dena said. “Anyone want a bloody Mary?”

  Suzanne wagged her finger at Dena. “It’s not even noon.”

  “My point exactly. At noon we can have a beer.”

  Chapter 37

  Allison - 2012

  Friday morning Dena drove the butt-mobile to the quaint nearby grocery store for the frozen margarita ingredients. Suzanne rode shotgun. The new and improved Little Miss Suzanne Sunshine then instructed Joseph on how to throw together the simple recipe. Good thing they had planned a three-day get-together, because the concoction took at least eighteen hours to freeze. Meaning Saturday afternoon cocktails would be pink margaritas and whatever wonderful appetizer Joseph would prepare.

  Sitting around the breakfast table that morning, Allison received an unusual text from Michelle.

  “Not an emergency, but call as soon as you get a chance.”

  Allison excused herself from the group and stepped out on the deck before pushing Michelle’s name on her iPhone’s favorites list.

  “Hey Michelley, what�
��s up? Everything okay?” Allison shaded her eyes against the morning sun. She thought someone on the beach must be feeding the birds due to the loud squabbling laugh from the swirling mass of seagulls.

  “Where are you?” Michelle asked. “What’s that noise?”

  “Seagulls. Lots of them. Didn’t I tell you? The BAGs are having a three-day weekend down at Jamaica Beach.”

  “Well…that might have something to do with the dream I had last night.”

  “I’m listening.” Allison put a finger in her other ear to block out some of the noise.

  “It was Mom again. Guess she knew y’all were together.” Michelle paused. “I still think that’s weird.”

  Allison smiled and shook her head, thinking how many battled the idea of accepting something they couldn’t easily understand or explain. She recalled one of her favorite Einstein quotes. “Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”

  Herself? She had no problem not having all the answers.

  “Okay, so what’s your mom up to?”

  “It was that dang rug again. I don’t get it. This is the third dream about that silly thing.”

  “Anything different this time?” Allison had been keeping mental notes of Michelle’s dreams about Denise.

  “Yeah. Hold on for a minute. I’ve got to grab Lily.”

  Allison unplugged her ear as the feeding frenzy ended, sending the army of seagulls off on another food hunt.

  “Okay, I’m back. Lily says hi, by the way.”

  “Give that baby girl a kiss from G-Ma Ally.” Allison smiled, thinking about Denise’s latest grandchild.

  “I will. Anyway…Mom wasn’t holding the rug. It was hanging on the wall behind her. She kept pointing at it.”

  “Same rug?”

  “I guess. Just a bunch of colored threads. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to see, but I had this really strong feeling I was supposed to let you know…like now.”

  That call had ended a couple of hours ago. And after several beers on the deck with their light lunch, some of the BAGs were taking what they called their “beer nap.” Allison had opted for water at lunch and didn’t feel the need for a snooze. Not that she didn’t like beer…she had decided to pace herself, knowing more adult beverages would be flowing later in the day. Over the years, alcohol had greatly disrupted her sleep pattern. One of the issues of growing older that she found less than endearing.

  Dena said the house had been professionally decorated, of course. Chandeliers, free standing sculptures, paintings, and rugs from all over the world dotted the interior of this exquisite house. She refrained from calling it a home because it reminded her more of a model-home—albeit an expensive model-home, but not one she’d feel comfortable letting her grandkids run through freely. She smiled, thinking of the finger and nose prints that would have to be wiped off the wall of windows showcasing the beach. Or the Capri Sun stains professional steam cleaners would have to remove from one of the rugs. Yikes. Yeah, not really a place for kids.

  The floor plan of the house had rooms on the second and third floor angled to open up to a hallway, with a railing to overlook the great room. While the others got their forty winks, read a magazine, or had their own little “quiet time,” Allison roamed the hallway of the second floor, stopping at each of the paintings. She had taken an art appreciation class back at Sam, but she’d slept since then and nothing of any importance came to mind as she studied the paintings. One she did find particularly interesting. Not due to any artistic critique, just something that kept her rooted in front of the art piece for quite some time.

  Leaving the second floor and using the back staircase, she found Joseph in the kitchen preparing their appetizers. Sitting at the bar, she watched him fill miniature phyllo cups with small wedges of brie. He then drizzled a small dab of honey on the pieces of soft cheese and topped each with a pecan half.

  “Geez, it’s like watching my own private cooking show.”

  “You must remember this appetizer. It is so easy.” Joseph rinsed off his hands. “You can use anything over the brie, any kind of preserves. I personally like the touch of the honey with the pecan. But just use your imagination. Then pop them in the oven for five to ten minutes, and voila!”

  “Looks great,” Allison said, wondering when and where she’d ever have the occasion to serve something so elegant. Simple yes, but elegant. Her usual evening appetizer with a glass of wine consisted of pretzels and chunks of cheddar cheese. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to know the history of some of these artifacts, paintings, stuff like that, would you?”

  Joseph moved the baking sheets with the afternoon’s appetizers to the counter next to the double convection ovens. “Of course. I’m sort of the museum curator of this place. What would you like to know?”

  After grabbing a bottle of water from the huge sub-zero refrigerator, she returned to her spot at the bar. “I’ve been looking at one of the paintings on the second floor.” She opened the water. “The one closest to the front staircase. What about that one?”

  The museum curator/overseer of the property/chef pulled a large bag of shrimp from the refrigerator and dumped the fresh beauties into a colander he’d placed in the sink.

  “Ah, that’s my favorite.”

  She watched as he started the process of removing the shells and deveining.

  “So, what’s the scoop?”

  “That was actually done by a local artist who is good friends with the owner of this grand place. It’s actually a painting of a tapestry the artist once saw. It’s quite—”

  “Wait. What…did you say?” Allison’s hands gripped the water bottle.

  Joseph eyed Allison. “It’s a painting from a tapestry.”

  “Tapestry.”

  “Yes. The artist had seen this particular tapestry at an exhibit down in the Museum District in Houston.”

  The rest of Joseph’s story blurred in Allison’s mind. She nodded occasionally just to be polite, then excused herself, slipped up to the second floor for another glance at the painting, and headed to her room. Quietly closing the door behind her, she pulled out her iPad and hopped up on the elevated bed. Just last night the BAGs had brought up the Carole King-James Taylor debate over their “theme song.”

  “Not that I agree with the outcome, but I thought we’d put that to rest,” Dena had said.

  Allison looked up “tapestry” in the dictionary.

  A fabric consisting of a warp upon which colored threads are woven by hand to produce a design, often pictorial, used for wall hangings, furniture coverings, etc.

  She rubbed her nose. “The rug,” she said softly.

  Next, she Googled the word tapestry. After the ads at the top of the page under the heading of tapestry, the first two links were actual sites to purchase wall hangings. The third link read:

  Carole King – Tapestry – Amazon.com Music

  Allison fell back on the mound of pillows covering her bed, stretched out her long legs, and placed her hands behind her head. She could not keep the smile off her face, reflecting on the song, “You’ve Got A Friend,” and the battle over the artists after all these years.

  “I’ll be damned. Denise finally chose. We’re tied again.”

  EPILOGUE

  The Bad Ass Girls were “Baby Boomers,” an explosion of births adding 76.4 million babies born between the years 1946 and 1964. Most attributed this to the post-depression era and people getting back on their feet, marrying, and setting up house. Suburban neighborhoods shot up outside the large cities, with developers producing inexpensive tract housing and the G.I. Bill subsidizing low-cost mortgages for returning soldiers.

  In January, 1961, John F. Kennedy took office and spoke the famous last lines of his inauguration address.

  “And so, my fellow Americans:

  ask not what your country can do for you;

  ask what you can do for your country.”

  The country felt relatively safe and united for a shor
t while, until the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, which involved Soviet ballistic missiles deployed in Cuba, aimed directly toward the United States. The Crisis was the closest the country had ever come to a full scale nuclear war. The Bad Ass Girls still remembered the Civil Defense drills practiced in elementary school.

  On August 27, 1963, one of the largest political rallies for human rights in U.S. history took place in Washington, D.C. (at least 250,000 participants), calling for economic rights for African Americans. The following day, Martin Luther King, Jr., standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, delivered his historic “I Have a Dream” speech, which was a call to end racism.

  Three months later, on November 22, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, which seemed to end the age of innocence. Ask any one in the United States about that day and they will give you details of how they heard the news and where. The Bad Ass Girls had been in fifth grade that year. They often relived November 22, 1963, and being from Texas, they all felt shame and embarrassment that this horrific act happened in their own state.

  John F. Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, passed an order in 1965 for the United States to enter the war with Vietnam. The draft was in place at that time, and by November, 1967, the number of American troops deployed approached 500,000, and U.S. casualties alone reached 15,058 with an additional 109,527 wounded.

  The girls were eleven years old at that time, and because of their young age, JFK’s death felt more monumental than the Vietnam issue. However, in later years they would come to understand the full impact of LBJ’s decision to enter the war, especially Janie, who had lost Buddy. Not through death, but Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sadly, the PTSD classification was not introduced in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-III) until 1980, leaving postwar vets without much help or understanding for the traumas they suffered during wartime. In later years, the diagnostic classification filled an important gap in theory and practice for psychiatrists and psychologists in the treatment of all people suffering from a trauma, especially military veterans.