A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts

by Marilyn M Schulz

  Red Riding Hood came to mind then, and she knew she really needed to eat something before she said something stupid.

  He said again, quietly now, “You don’t say much.”

  “Sometimes I babble, when it doesn’t matter. But nothing I can say could possibly match my imagination. I just like looking at you.”Ó

  She was horrified at that coming out loud.

  He only said, “Me too.”

  The waitress said, “You two haven’t touched anything, is your food okay?”

  What food?

  The End

  Blind Date

  * * * * *

  “To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.” ~Jane Austen

  “Part of the joy of dancing is conversation. Trouble is, some men can’t talk and dance a the same time.” ~Ginger Rogers

  “Dance like there's nobody watching;

  Love like you'll never be hurt.

  Sing like there's nobody listening,

  And live like it's heaven on earth.”

  ~William W. Purkey

  ~~~

  DANCE WITH ME AGAIN

  The rest home observed all the holidays, including Veteran’s Day and the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. Most people didn’t notice them both anymore, but people their age still remembered. Often the talk turned to what they were doing way back then.

  Viola said, “Those were the days—I never danced so much in my life. I have forgotten many of the steps, and I haven’t danced in . . .”

  She couldn’t recall when—probably at one of her children’s weddings. Of course, the last one was without her husband, who was dead by then. Poor Ronald, he wasn’t very good at those things. He was a good provider, a popular man too with his business associates.

  In the end, she didn’t like him much herself, but that was only natural when your husband was a philanderer. The last years of his life she still danced, but it was usually just by herself. Voila blushed, thinking of those times. When the children were young, it was different—they all loved to dance, which she assumed they got from her, and what they had all learned from her when growing up.

  Turn the music up loud and let loose—it was better than turning to drinking in the afternoons, which was what some of the women she played pinochle with did.

  She shouldn’t have married so soon after the war, but when the men came marching home again, everyone was so happy to see them. Women who had been working in the farms and factories and stores had to give up their jobs for the men too. What else was there to do for most of them but get married and have children and be happy with that?

  Henry was looking at her strangely again. He had done that since the day she came here to this place—that was months ago now. He was the newest resident before, and so neither of them had been here a long time like some of the others who had been here for years.

  She sold her house because her children had talked her into it. She had no regrets that it was gone, but she did miss her garden, and the space in the place where she could go waltzing around on her own.

  She smiled slightly at Henry, and he took that as encouragement—it was.

  He said, “That happens, you know, but you only think you forget. It would come back to you again, those steps, if you heard the same music.”

  “I suppose. I used to dance for the USO in one of those halls by the bases where the men shipped out to those battleground places with the exotic names like the Coral Sea, Palau, Saipan and Iwo Jima.”

  He only nodded, now not looking at her, but into the distance. He was listening still, she knew. She called it that battle fatigue haze—sometimes her husband also had it, but for him, he’d spent his war behind a desk, and probably with any women who could stand him.

  Viola continued low enough so only he could hear, “Sometimes I think about the men in uniform, though I can’t remember their faces . . . and I wonder if all those men I ever danced with are now dead.

  She sighed then and added, apologetically, “I know that’s morbid.”

  He nodded, but smiled—it was a sad smile that did not reach his eyes. Usually his eyes were bright and laughing when he talked to her—she noticed that about him right away. He made her feel like a girl again, like when the war had begun in the first place, and she was just out of high school and wondering what to do.

  They were about the same age, though he was a year older—both born in May though, but in a different part of the state. When he gave her some spring flowers to celebrate—which she loved—it was a way of introduction. They had been best friends ever since.

  That’s why Viola always got the truth from Henry. She called him that, though most other people called him Hank. Hank was for a younger man, not for someone their age.

  He murmured, “I loved to dance then, still do. But I was in it, you know, that combat. I shipped out from one of those bases. That’s the last time I danced too . . .”

  He paused as if there were more, but she wasn’t thinking of that. They both knew they were speaking of World War 2. People in their generation were dying faster than people could remember them. How many funerals had they been to themselves?

  Viola had vowed to never go to another—not even her own. She wanted to be cremated and spread in someone’s rose garden instead.

  Henry felt the same way—well, not into the flowerbed, but he wanted to be on some shore, anyplace where children played, and people were free. Most folks thought that morbid, because you think of sand there on the beach, but not somebody’s ashes.

  Of course, who knows what the sea would churn up—including all the sewage of sea life and refuse from boats and ships and who knows?

  He explained his wishes only to Viola though, but she already knew: He wanted to be there on the shore so he could forever hear the sound of laughter, and people having fun, especially the children.

  ~~~

  It wasn’t unusual for people here to get married. Some did it because they were lonely. They wanted to feel that warm body in the bed next to them like they had for decades with their spouse who had passed on.

  Others did it to share a room, so that it might also share the cost. One woman here had married three different men to get the survivor’s benefits—the men didn’t last long after the ceremony. No one suspected foul play, and the other old men would murmur during the funeral service that those old goats died with a smile on their face.

  The woman—her name was Alice—finally had enough left to her to move to a more expensive rest home. She asked Hank to come along. Turns out that Hank had a retirement account along with his government checks. He had no close relatives either, and people speculated as to where he’d leave all his money.

  But Hank said to Alice, “No, thanks.”

  When she left, rumor had it that Alice wasn’t as old as she had claimed. In fact, they just called her the Black Widow now instead of by name. Everyone knew who they were talking about , and folks spoke of her without saying her name.

  Especially the old men—she was bad luck, they figured.

  Viola saw Alice once in the park with another victim—er, boyfriend. Boyfriend—that’s how Alice had introduced him.

  Alice said, “Vi, honey, you look wonderful. This is Kenneth, he owns a real estate firm. We’re thinking of finding a private place with just a few people renting apartments. People will have their own spaces, and there will medical attendants for those who need them.”

  Funny term that—boyfriend—for such an old man.

  But Alice was expecting an answer, and Viola couldn’t help but glance down to the woman’s finger—a new engagement ring. Viola thought: Wonder what the man’s kids and grandkids thought of that one? It seemed like a big chunk of change carved out of their inheritance to buy Alice an engagement ring.

  Viola only said, “I spent fifty-six years cleaning house and cooking, and now I like people doing that for me.”

  Alice said, “Oh well, some of us like our independence, and some like to be depended
on.”

  Viola thought: This from a woman who always had a man’s arm to lean on, and man’s bank account to grab.

  She smiled though, and nodded. “Good luck to you, Alice, and to you too . . . Kenneth.”

  That was a young man’s name, or even a kid’s.

  And Viola wanted to say: I hope you survive her.

  But she didn’t say anything more, and that was her upbringing.

  She did watch them stroll away. Viola could tell that Alice wanted to go faster. Kenneth must have a bad heart. It wasn’t a week later that they all got the news: Alice had died herself, and the services would be in that other rest home—none of them attended.

  Viola did often wonder if Kenneth married Alice for her money.

  Did the woman even have any left? Viola wondered how Alice moved from one husband to another. She must have mumbled something about it, because it became a topic of conversation, and now with Alice gone, people referred to her now as ‘Dear Alice.’

  ~~~

  Over the weeks after, it must have all given Henry ideas though—life, love, death. He said one day over breakfast, which they always enjoyed earlier than the others so the place was not so crowded, “I think we should get married.”

  She was waiting for more. Instead, he pushed a spoon into his grapefruit, and it squirted into his eye—same as always.

  Viola started laughing then, more than she should have. A lesser man might have been offended, but Henry had been in battle, and this was nothing. He chuckled too, and didn’t let the grapefruit get the better of him.

  She said, “Why did you never marry, Henry?”

  He shrugged—it made him look younger when he did that, and she had no idea as to why or how she would know that. It was like she had known him for a long time, but she had only met him when she came here.

  He said, “I fell in love with a girl but was too shy to say just then, and I was sent away to war soon after.”

  “Did you never write her?”

  He shook his head slowly, but said no more.

  She pried: “And after the war?”

  “After, well, she had gotten on with her life.”

  “You just gave up on love then?”

  “No, I’m still in love with her, always have been.”

  Viola wished some man had cared about her that much. If she knew one, she’d move Heaven and Earth . . . She sighed.

  Then she said, “She can’t be worth that much loneliness if she didn’t wait for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t blame her, never have. How could she know?”

  “It’s a pity you never wrote to her. I can see when you were face to face how you couldn’t mention it. You’ve always been a bit shy, Henry, and I mean that in the very best way. Better shy than overly confident. I have found that just means arrogant, and didn’t I learn that the hard way?”

  “No, I never wrote—I didn’t have the nerve. But I thought of her every day, every single day, and sometimes that’s the only thing that kept me going. When I came home again, I was going to say something, but she had married someone else and . . .”

  Viola stared at him a moment, but her mind was flying back to her own choices. If only . . .

  She sighed. He took her hand and said, very low, “It’s you, silly girl. I love you, I always have. Every since that first dance.”

  She thought he was joking, and she loved him for it.

  Yes, it was true. She loved this man, and at her time of life . . . her children would be mortified . . . Viola didn’t care. Her children had their own lives now, and if they wanted more say in hers, they should have let her move in with them instead of shipping her off to here.

  She didn’t regret that now. Maybe her children would.

  Then he did the strangest thing—started humming a tune that they used to play in those dance halls by the military bases where men used to ship out—where she used to work. It was a labor of love—she loved to dance, and if she could give the men a fond remembrance of a nice girl back home . . .

  Back home . . . fond remembrance . . .

  She said truthfully, “I’m sorry, Henry, but I don’t remember you.”

  “Why should you? I was one of so many.”

  “Heavens, that sounds awful, like I was some sort of—”

  “I remember what you were wearing that night—it was mostly white with little red bunches of cherries with stems and leaves. It reminded me of kitchen wallpaper.”Ó

  She laughed. “That’s not very complimentary—excuse me, miss, but your dress looks like my mother’s wallpaper. But I loved that dress; it was one of my favorites. I made doll clothes out of it for my daughters. In fact, I might still have . . .”

  She sighed again.

  He took her hand. “I meant no offense, just the opposite. I remember thinking then that it was . . . comforting. Like home. They used to take photos in the lobby of the dance hall, do you remember those?”

  Henry took out his wallet and pulled from it a very thin photograph that was ragged around the edges and bent around the corners. It had stains too—it was battle-worn. She hoped those stains weren’t blood.

  Viola worked up her nerve to look closer at the figures. She smiled—one was her own face and form, but her hair was ridiculous. She remembered the smell of the tonic they used to make the permanent waves. Without thinking, she touched her hair. It had gray in it now, and she hadn’t had such a perm in decades.

  The other figure was a young, thin man in uniform. He looked very happy—smiling with all his teeth showing and the twinkle in his eyes was the most attractive thing about him. It was a twinkle of happiness . . . for a man shipping out to war in a matter of hours. He must have had something else on his mind.

  He had: love.

  It was Henry, of course, but she couldn’t see him clearly now, not because the photograph had been carried through battles and decades, but because she had tears in her eyes.

  Henry took the photo back, staring at it as he talked: “I waited and watched back then—partly because I was shy, but also because I thought the other girls were silly. They giggled too much. It sounded put on, like they were just play-acting for the men about to be sent to the slaughter. But you were different—you laughed, not as much, and I could tell you really meant it.”

  That was true, Viola remembered. They were told to be joyous and happy and send the men off with a smile and sometimes a kiss. Nothing more was encouraged, just the opposite, as that would have been inappropriate.

  Still, some of the girls . . .

  Finally she said, “I wish you would have written to me.”

  “I knew your first name, and the town, that’s all. Even so . . .”

  How could he write, how could he know more? In those days, you had to be introduced, and nice girls didn’t just take up with strange men. Someone had introduced her to the man she married—she wished they hadn’t now.

  He too had been in the military during the war—but it wasn’t overseas, and he was home and already out of uniform by the time men fighting battles even heard that the war was over.

  He said, “Even so, I came to town when I got home, got stateside, we used to say. I looked for you, even asked around, but then I saw you coming out of church—you were in your wedding gown. I was too late.”

  She was crying full out now, the tears rolling down her cheeks. She only dabbed at her nose and let the rest of it flow.

  He said, “Were you happy, Viola? Did you have that much? I could bear it all if you were happy.”

  It took awhile, but she finally said, “I don’t regret my children. I did what I had to do to get my kids—but now, I wish they would have been yours.”

  She used the napkin to clean up her face. A lesser woman would have left the table and gone to the restroom, but she didn’t want to leave him—not ever again.

  Henry now was also crying.

  An attendant walking by stopped and asked, but Henry said, “Grapefruit in the eye. They squirt.”

&n
bsp; “That they do,” the attendant said, but it was low and suspicious as she looked from one to the other. But she left them.

  He said, “Do you remember me then?”

  Viola said, “I do.”

  He said, “And will you dance with me again?”

  The End

  Dance With Me Again

  * * * * *

  Traditional nursery rhyme (sort of)

  I saw a little ladybug flying in the air,

  But when I tried to catch her, two bugs were there.

  Two little ladybugs flew up in a tree.

  I tiptoed very quietly, and then I saw three.

  Three little ladybugs—I looked for one more.

  I saw one sitting on the ground—that made four.

  Four little ladybugs—another one arrived.

  I saw her sitting on a flower, and that made five.

  Five little ladybugs, all red and orange—

  I clapped my hands and shouted at them,

  But then there were so many more!

  ~~~

  LADYBUGS

  Lyda had a week off and spent a good deal of time in her foliage. The backyard was lush this time of year; it was almost an entire acre of what she’d made into her own little Garden of Eden.

  There were a few fruit trees in the far corners; she had planted patches of berry vines of all kinds, and built raised beds with vegies of all sorts. She had hazelnut bushes too, and a few bearing fruit like gooseberries and currants.

  Around the edges were big swaths of perennials—lavender, fennel, rosemary, rhubarb and some roses, as well as a variety of succulents that sometimes bloomed too. Some of the plants she used for household purpose, others she gathered or pruned in season and sold to farmer’s markets around the county.