by Scott, D. D.
A few in the crowd laughed, raising their glasses.
The chaplain, looking slightly miffed at this departure from protocol, tried to get the proceedings back in line. “So let us toast Harold and Rosemary one final time as they depart.”
As he raised his glass, the cries of “Hear, hear,” and “cheers” were accompanied by loud weeping and moaning. The chaplain leaned into the microphone and started a round of Auld Lang Syne as the two honorees walked over to the pink contraption.
Rosemary lifted her foot onto the velvet step while Harold gallantly handed her up and over the edge. She climbed nimbly to the far side and settled into the deep pink plush, her back raised slightly so that she could see their friends and family singing, toasting and crying.
One by one the children and grandchildren approached the heart-shaped vehicle and kissed her, as Harold, now nestled in beside her, joked and smiled and hugged each in turn. Celeste was wailing by the time her husband pulled her away from her mother, tears streaming down her cheeks and leaving great black tracks. The photographer snapped merrily away and the videographer continued to record the scene for posterity.
Wagnerian music rose from the speakers embedded in the sides of the contraption, and a fine pink mist settled gently down on Rosemary and her husband as the gears started whirring and the lid began to close on them. Slowly, slowly, it made its mechanized way down, a huge clamshell encircling two humans.
Like a scene from The Wizard of Oz, the crowd began to wave and shout “Goodbye! Goodbye!” as the top came down. For a moment Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut.
It’s okay, she told herself. I’m only giving up six years.
What would I have done in those six years that I couldn’t have done already?
And suddenly she was standing up, faster than she thought possible. She put her right arm out to slow the lid as it came down over her, and thrust her body up and over the side with the adrenalin of someone outrunning death.
“I’m sorry, Harold. I just can’t do it!” Rosemary sprinted across the floor, dashing away from the horrible pink coffin. Shouts and screams accompanied her mad escape. There were those who tried to capture her and those who egged her on. It seemed to be the girls against the boys.
“Rosemary – Rosie! What are you doing?” Harold shouted at her, raising his body up as far as he could. He put his own arm against the lid, which was inexorably making its way down to cover him. “Somebody stop this thing!”
“Harold… I can’t go with you. I’ve got six more years!” Rosemary was weeping as she shouted to him, tears running down her cheeks. She could barely believe what she had done.
“Rosemary, you promised to go with me!” He was banging on the side of the coffin now, trying to get the contraption to stop.
“Forgive me, darling…” Rosemary screamed across the room as pandemonium broke out amongst the guests.
The chaplain, looking horrified, tried to push Harold’s arm back in. “Mr. Smith, please. The Blissful Journey® vehicle cannot be halted once the mechanism has been activated.” He lifted his foot high and tried discretely to hasten the closing of the coffin. “Anyway, it’s your time to go. It’s only 17 minutes before midnight, and you know the law. Once you reach your 75th birthday, you can be shot on sight.”
The chaplain leaned down further to catch Harold’s eye before the lid closed completely. “Believe me, it’s better this way, Mr. Smith. Civilized. Elegant. You’re making way for the new generation! It’s the patriotic thing to do.”
As the chaplain looked around at the array of guests, now dashing about in various modes of panic, he nodded to himself. “And what a lovely party.”
The videographer was in heaven, turning his camera right and left to capture the action. Harold was still shouting, his eyes wide and spittle flying from his mouth as the lid closed in a final pink spasm of mist and glorious trumpets. It sounded like he said “Credit card debt, Rosie!”
The chaplain straightened up, adjusting his vestments, adorned with the golden logo of Blissful Journey®, a set of wings around a heart. Gently patting the large pink vehicle, which was now purring quietly, he seemed to be trying to regain the appropriate demeanor.
Rosemary stood at the far end of the hall, gazing in shock at the closed coffin. She was hyperventilating. Celeste brought her a glass of water and sat her down in a gilded chair.
“Oh my God, Celeste. What have I done? What have I done?” Rosemary shook her head, and blew her nose into one of the pink cloth napkins. “Your poor father… going all by himself.”
“Mom. I’m so happy you came to your senses.”
Rosemary sighed. “What will people say?” Celeste’s hair had come undone while she wailed into her husband’s chest and her makeup was running down her cheeks. Rosemary spit onto a napkin and started to wipe at her daughter’s face. “You’re a mess, darling.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
Little Harold came running over to his grandmother. “Nana, I thought you and grandpa was going away?” He climbed into her lap and started to suck his thumb, his eyelids drooping “Not sleepy,” he said, as they finally closed.
Rosemary shook her head in the direction of the coffin, which was now being wheeled out. “I told your father the party was going to go too late for the children. But you know him… he wanted to wring every last moment out of life.”
Celeste stood up, trying to pin back some of the hair that had escaped her bun. “I’m so proud of you, Mom. That was brave.”
Rosemary sighed as her daughter took the sleeping child out of her arms and they headed for the door. “I don’t know if it was brave, honey. I – ” she stopped mid step. “Oh my gosh, Celeste. I have no home. Your father sold everything. There’s no money…”
“Don’t worry, Mom. You can come live with us. We’d love it.” She looked at her husband who had come over to take the sleeping boy out of her arms. “Wouldn’t we honey? Love to have Mom come live with us and help with the kids?”
Her husband gave a slightly bemused look, and then said, “Sure,” as he lifted little Harold onto his shoulder. “That would be great, Mom.”
As he walked ahead with the toddler, Celeste linked her arm through her mother’s. “And guess what?”
“What?” Rosemary felt unbalanced. She hadn’t expected to be leaving this room alive. She had no toothbrush. She had no husband.
“There’s a man down the street from us… only 65. His wife died of natural causes two months ago.”
“Oh, Celeste, don’t be ridiculous! I just lost your father. I wouldn’t even consider it.”
“Well, maybe in time, Mom. I mean, you’ve still got six years…”
“I cannot believe you are suggesting that I would be interested in romance. At my age.”
Celeste patted her mother’s arm. “Never mind. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
They made their way through the crowd toward the front. Most of the guests were talking in animated tones, and seemed highly satisfied with the events of the evening.
“Lovely party, Rosemary,” someone called out.
Rosemary nodded and stood in the foyer waving goodbye as the guests carefully descended the snow-covered stairs to where valets waited, holding car doors open.
She turned to her daughter, her voice hushed. “Six more years. Imagine!”
Mother and daughter clasped hands and looked over the landscape, now covered in a blanket of thick snow that glowed under the moonlight.
Rosemary sighed and let a small smile find its way to her face.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrice Fitzgerald is a creative person who was briefly disguised as an attorney. She has spent the last decade or so peeling away the layers and rediscovering the artist within. Her writing includes tightly plotted and fast-paced novels, such as her political thriller about two women candidates for President, RUNNING, which can be found at http://www.amazon.com/RUNNING-ebook/dp/B005AJA43O and on Nook, plus funny and surprising short stor
ies about sex, God, and death – not necessarily in that order – such as LOOKING FOR LANCE, found at http://www.amazon.com/Looking-For-Lance-ebook/dp/B005JMXIGM.
Patrice is also the CEO of eFitzgerald, an electronic publishing company founded in the summer of 2011. eFitzgerald is thrilled to introduce Frisky Dimplebuns, who shares her comic adventures while looking for love in the Frisky Chronicles, available here: http://www.amazon.com/DREAMBOAT-The-Frisky-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0064VK50E
The company is also proud to be the publisher of the David series, a group of short books for developmentally disabled readers. The first in the series, How David Met Sarah, has been endorsed by the National Down Syndrome Society, to which 20% of the book’s profits are to be donated. It can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/How-David-Met-Sarah-ebook/dp/B005SMBFHM as well as on Nook and in a print version.
Patrice is currently writing the first installment of the Salt & Pepper cozy mystery series, featuring a redheaded lawyer named Pepper who sings and solves crimes along with her psychic sidekick, Sunny Saltonstall.
In real life, Patrice’s background includes a law degree and 15 years practicing intellectual property law followed by a decade working as a freelance writer for magazines in print and online. In addition, she is a professional mezzo-soprano who sings in styles ranging from opera to jazz.
She is the mother of four grown-up kids, two by birth and two by marriage. She lives in Connecticut on the water with her wonderful writing, singing, programming and trumpet-playing husband. She is thrilled to be part of the first WG2E Anthology, and happy to be in such great writing company.
Mayhem on the Winterland Express
by
Kathy Carmichael
I stared in dazed fascination at Dixie Sullivan’s purple crushed-velvet hat as she boarded the Winterland Express. Attached to the hat were various purple, green and gold Mardi Gras decorations including doubloons, beads and what appeared to be a small Mardi Gras king cake. I couldn’t imagine she’d wear the hat for long, because it had to weigh at least five pounds.
The exclusive launch of the new Winterland Express organized by the Women’s Charity League was scheduled to take place at dusk. Dixie and I were among the first to board the train, having made it past the Berry twins, who’d been assigned to collect tickets. The twins were chosen because they never let anyone put anything past them, just like on the girl’s field hockey team when we were in high school.
The Old Railroaders Association had refurbished the old train tracks that the Winterland Express ran on between northern Baldwin County and Fairhope, Alabama.
I’d opened the Skullduggery Inn just over two years ago in Fairhope and, to my excitement, the inn was the Winterland Express’s ultimate destination. The winter attraction would appeal to the guests staying at my inn plus bring new visitors.
Four cars made up the train, with the first three cars used mainly for sitting during the ten-mile ride skirting the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. The fourth and final car offered bench seating beneath the windows, a restroom and a pen each for rescue puppies and kittens.
Even though it was a short trip, the Winterland Express was slower than slow, its ancient engine having been lovingly restored to its superficial, if not so functional, glory. Hence the restroom car, or as the charity league members preferred to call it, the pet car.
The president of the charity league grabbed me when I’d barely planted both feet in the first car.
“Your hair looks so nice today, Ashley,” Noreen Swinson said by way of a greeting. “Is that a different color?”
“Thanks. Must be the new cream rinse.” I knew she didn’t really mean anything more than a hello, since I’d just washed and went.
But I also knew the etiquette drill. “What a gorgeous bracelet you’re wearing.”
I had to compliment her craftwork or I’d be in trouble. Because I’m bad at anything craft related, I genuinely admired anyone who was able to make things with their hands.
She grinned and fingered the multi-faceted beaded bracelet. “This little thing? Why, I whipped it up last night to go with my outfit.”
“It’s lovely.” It was. The incandescent multi-colored beads reflected light and drew the eye. Her bracelet coordinated nicely with the large rhinestones of various jewel tones studding the gargantuan handbag she toted.
“I’m chomping at the bit for Dolores Pickens to get here.” Noreen dragged me over to the far right side of the car, where she could easily keep an eye on the entrance. “It’s Dolores’s first outing since the intervention.”
Most people might think an intervention would involve drugs or alcohol. But this was Noreen Swinson. She was born and raised in southern Alabama, just as her great-grandmother had been before her, so I knew better. “What sort of intervention?”
Noreen sighed and dramatically waved her arms. “It took the entire board of directors of the Women’s Charity League to get through to her. You’d think a quiet whisper from me would have done the trick, but we’re talking hard headed. Dolores just couldn’t understand that wearing white shoes after Labor Day may be fine for Yankees and snowbirds, but for those of us born below the Mason-Dixon Line, it’s unthinkable. It defies the bounds of a proper upbringing, not to mention good taste.”
I might have known she’d be worked up over some bit of etiquette. I bit the corner of my mouth to keep from grinning. “Shocking.”
The train began filling up with other members of the charity league. Since this was the exclusive launch, everyone who was anyone had turned out.
Noreen patted me on the arm. “Now, don’t you worry, dear heart. I’ve never even seen you wear white shoes. Even though your mama wasn’t one of us, your papa always has been. Your aunt saw to it that you knew right from wrong and up from down. Why, your roots go back to long before the late unpleasantness.”
By late unpleasantness she meant the civil war and not my hair color. I wondered if my sister and I would ever live down the fact that we were born on the wrong side of the Mississippi.
“Unlike some people …” Her voice trailed off as she glared at the entrance to the train car.
I glanced over to see who she meant.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Olivia Cook boarded the train decked out in her mother’s diamond and emerald encrusted necklace.
Not only was I gaping, but all of the members of the Women’s Charity League’s jaws dropped. Not, mind you, because the necklace was valued at over half a million dollars, but because Olivia had the utter audacity to flaunt it in front of them.
She was simply begging for trouble.
Olivia’s mother had promised that on her death the necklace would go to the Women’s Charity League to benefit their major project, the no-kill animal shelter to be built in the area.
Sadly, she passed to the great animal shelter beyond before revising her will to reflect her wishes. When the charity league board members called on Olivia in order to collect on her mother’s promise, Olivia declined.
As president of the charity league, Noreen Swinson didn’t take it well. Word had it she gave Olivia the cut direct when their shopping carts collided at Greer’s Market.
Olivia’s lack of charity made the charity league scramble for multiple fundraisers. The first project was the Winterland Express. All proceeds would go to the shelter. The launch of the winter tour train brought every member of the Women’s Charity League on board, decked out in their finest of finery and, after seeing Olivia, their sourest of expressions.
I’d been working for days to get everything ready at the Skullduggery Inn for tonight’s candlelight reception, including decorating the inn both inside and out as well as preparing Mardi Gras-themed appetizers and beverages.
I wasn’t the only one who’d been working full tilt.
The charity league had brought in an artificial snowmaker to create an authentic snow bank. Since we’re talking southern Alabama, it’s not an easy feat to keep snow, artificial or natural, from melting.
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The train’s whole ten-mile route had been decorated with trees covered in Mardi Gras ornaments, inflatable snowmen, miles upon miles of colored lights and even a life-sized igloo compound. The league had gone all out to create a truly wonderful experience, one that would make snowbirds and local citizens alike haul out their wallets to enjoy the ride.
For now, though, Noreen Swinson wasn’t enjoying herself at all. She pointed her nose in the air. “I can’t tolerate being in the same space with that woman. I’m going to the pet car.”
As she stalked off, I wondered if I should do the same. One part of me didn’t want to miss the scene that bubbled beneath the surface, and another, wiser part of me figured it would be a good idea to stay out of it. Before I could do more than turn toward the back of the car, I heard my name called out.
“Ashley.”
It was Olivia.
I started speed walking and weaving around the crowd blocking my way to the rear exit.
“Ashley Sands, I know you heard me.” This time the voice came from directly behind me.
I wanted to whimper, but instead I spun back and faced her. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a train-car-full of warning glares directed at me, but I didn’t know what I could do without being totally rude. I sucked in a fortifying breath before saying, “Hello, Olivia.”
Mrs. Henderson, the vice-president of the charity league, who was all about formality and genteel elegance, elbowed me and then turned her back.
Obviously I’d made the wrong decision. But then, no one ever described me as genteel.
“I couldn’t miss the maiden voyage,” said Olivia. “When I bought my ticket they told me there is going to be a candlelight reception tonight at your inn.”
I nodded. “The Skullduggery Inn looks beautiful, and I had a hard time resisting the desserts. Even though we’re serving king cake, Kiki also made her trademark cupcakes.”
