A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts

by Marilyn M Schulz

“Red Badge of Courage.”

  “Appropriate.” The judge chuckled, and then pulled a bottle and glasses out of the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured the Cognac, and they had a toast to old friends.

  The judge said, “To Claire and the others, rest in peace. We’ll find out what happened, I give my word.”

  Roland, Claire’s lawyer, but also her friend, said, “Amen.”

  They drank, flinching as the liquor went down.

  The judge said, “Well, that’s that for now. You’re the executor of her will, and let me know if there’s anything else you need. Deborah asked about you, wondered if you and Sally would like to come for dinner some time soon.”

  “How is Deb? Sally said they lost touch when her family moved from the old neighborhood. I guess we all did.”

  “Pleased to be a grandmother again—that’s three now.”

  “Congratulations—holidays must be wonderful.”

  The judge laughed full out, and then picked up Claire’s letters again. He sighed, “Jeffrey was a lucky man. I wonder if my grandkids would be interested in this sort of thing.”

  They had another toast: “To Claire and Jeffrey.”

  ~~~

  The little girl wasn’t surprised at the kindness of a stranger, though everyone else in the neighborhood was. Her name was Malika Dobbs, and she lived alone with her mother, as her father had done some desperate things and was in prison now for three to five years to come.

  The neighborhood was also surprised when the health inspector came to the hospice first, followed closely by the public building inspector who pasted up all sorts of fliers about the hospice building now being condemned. No one was supposed to live there, and most people weren’t even supposed to go in.

  Then several ambulances came to take the old folks away to better places, and finally came the police to haul the staff away to worse ones.

  It all happened in one day.

  Under advisement of the will’s executor, Malika’s mother bought a new house and sent her to a private school while her mother went to vocational college to learn new skills of her own.

  At home, Malika kept her battered bear and ratty old doll, and a picture she had drawn of the old woman looking out the window. She’d made it on the kind of brown paper that came from grocery bags because that’s all she had.

  The picture was very good, and Roland, the lawyer, had it framed for her.

  The son-in-law and head nurse were charged with all sorts of horrible things, and some of the nurses were also charged as co-conspirators and accessories before and after the fact. Claire’s daughter, a battered wife, filed for divorce, and received help from Roland (with those reserved funds he got as executor) and also from Claire’s other childhood friends, including the judge and his family.

  She took a course and got a job and moved to another town where she also got counseling for her children who were traumatized by their father’s death in prison.

  Eventually, while employed as a legal assistant, she met and married a son of one of the partners in the law firm where she worked.

  She sent Roland a wedding invitation, and one to the judge too. For Claire’s daughter, it was finally to be a happy ending. At the wedding reception, she pulled them aside and asked them to listen as she apologized to her mother. They all knew that while Claire wasn’t there in body, she was in spirit.

  The judge said, “Claire would have approved of your choices now.”

  Her daughter was crying, but Roland took her hand and said, “Now, now, my dear, only tears of joy on your wedding day.”

  The judge said, “You have a second chance, and we can’t change what happened, only move forward and try to do better. This time you have a good man to help you.”

  Her daughter whispered, “Do you think she would have forgiven me?”

  Surprised, Roland said, “Heavens, I don’t think she ever blamed you, my dear.”

  When a breeze came up and blew at the curtain of the open window of the rectory, and it was like a sigh of relief. They all felt it, but only exchanged glances, and then warm wishes for the future.

  ~~~

  When she was much older, Malika—a young woman now—graduated college with both her mother and father in attendance. She now looked out the window of her apartment. The place was near the bus route to get to her new job as a commercial artist. It was also just a ten-minute walk from an art museum.

  It was the first place she could afford on her own, and while it wasn’t grand or fancy, it was home. Well, it would be home when she finished unpacking. But first things first, and that included her art supplies and then her music.

  She had the stereo set up, and already put on some tunes to help her get through the rest of the task of going through all the moving boxes and figuring out what was going where. She began to unpack her beloved books and other things that the old woman had left her, but paused, just to remember . . .

  Malika had always taken something of Claire with her no matter where she stayed. She sighed and said what her mother always did: “Thank God for Claire.”

  As she hung the picture she had drawn of the woman whose name she hadn’t known then, Malika glanced out the open window at the noise of children playing somewhere near.

  That’s right, she recalled, she wasn’t that far from a school as well. She wondered if the school needed a volunteer to assist in art classes. Perhaps she could arrange something after school if they didn’t have those classes. Many schools didn’t anymore, and she was lucky to . . .

  Malika sighed—she was lucky in a lot of ways.

  But the kids must have run off, doing whatever it was, because all Malika saw now was a thin little girl in pigtails and big faded overalls. The legs were rolled up because they were much too long for her. The straps hung off her boney shoulders too, and the crotch looked like it reached all the way to the girl’s knees.

  Her eyes were big, her face a little smudged, and she had a large red ball that looked a little deflated. Yet, she didn’t look unhappy or even lonely. Malika’s heart went out to her—it was as if she could be looking in a mirror.

  And the little girl had been looking up to her window, she was sure. Curious perhaps, but also listening to the music. Malika could swear she heard the child humming along to the old tune. It was one of her mother’s favorites, something she knew as a girl when her mother had hummed along to the radio too.

  Tears came to her eyes, and her mind flew back to another time. How could so much good for her and her family come out of so much bad for Claire and others like her? That old place had been torn down, she knew, along with the rest of the neighborhood.

  When she got old enough, Roland had told her what had gone on back there and then, at the place her mother called ‘that hospice from Hell.’

  He didn’t have to tell her about her friend—Claire. Malika knew she had been a special woman—like a grandmother, or more like a fairy godmother . . . only in a wheelchair and who couldn’t do enough magic to save herself. Claire had saved others though.

  She hadn’t known the old woman’s name until the nice people came to take them to the reading of the will . . . Claire’s last wishes.

  Malika hadn’t kept in touch with Claire’s daughter. When she got old enough, she had written to Roland to get the woman’s address, but he said there were some things that healed badly, and so still hurt now and again. He said that sometimes reminders were just like inflicting the wounds all over again.

  Out the window, she looked at the neighborhood, and inside, she looked at the old apartment, but at her new home. As a child, she hadn’t really understood what was happening in the hospice. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to save her friend. Claire had made this all possible, but she had done enough since then to fulfill Claire’s final wish for her?

  She said it again: “Be kind.”

  Probably not, Malika thought . . . at least, not yet.

  Then she turned back to the window. The child was still t
here, sitting on the red ball and drawing in the dirt with her finger.

  Malika waved.

  The End

  She Waved

  * * * * *

  “Forgiveness is a funny thing. It warms the heart and cools the sting.” ~William Arthur Ward

  “Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got.” ~Robert Brault

  “Every day may not be good, but there's something good in every day.” ~Author Unknown

  ~~~

  SOMETHING GOOD

  Constance moved into the apartment in record time. It was a new job in a new city—it was a new beginning. She had left her family and friends because she needed a change from stale expectations.

  She had gone out with a man for a couple years now, and when Edwin finally proposed, Connie knew she didn’t want what he had to offer after all. He was handsome and rich and well connected so that their future would be secure—all the things a woman wanted . . . or was supposed to.

  Her family and friends didn’t understand, but strangely, Edwin almost seemed . . . relieved. At first, that is. They agreed to be friends, but he couldn’t take all the questions that came next. He had bought the ring, after all, and so everyone knew that she was the one who had refused him—that seemed to matter.

  After that, given his own expectations had been interrupted—and his ego damaged—Edwin grew vindictive. He was working on getting her fired, she knew, and given his family had controlling interest in her employer’s firm, she didn’t think that would take long.

  How much damage would it inflict on her career?

  She wasn’t willing to wait around to see. Connie considered herself lucky that he’d done that though. Otherwise, she might have spent her life wondering about her choice to pass him up. But now she knew she had been right, and what was better than having no regrets?

  This was a new start; there had to be something better waiting for her.

  ~~~

  The apartment building was old—built right before the Great War, the building manager said. He meant World War I, which made it about a hundred years old. The outside and trim showed every year of that too. Art Noveau was the name of the design; she had looked through books of architecture in the town library until she found something similar.

  The building must have been rather ritzy in its day. That day was long past, but there was something about it . . . nostalgic, that was the term. Meanwhile, the plumbing rattled, the heat irregular from old radiators, the wiring was not made for new types of appliances and electronics, it seems.

  The topic had been discussed between the manager of the building and the tenants—many of them had been here for years. He said renovations like those requested were expensive, and given that the rent was still reasonable here . . .

  Of course, if they wanted to pay more, he would be happy to accommodate, and they’d have to move out for a bit while the renovations were made. Once the building was improved, perhaps the owners would consider selling off the units instead, and rid him of the role of landlord altogether.

  Connie only heard that when a few older tenants caught her in the lobby when she was getting her mail in those old fashioned boxes with keys. The boxes had ornate filigree doors and little crystal windows with their apartment numbers in Art Noveau stencils too.

  It seems that her apartment had been coveted, but for some reason, the old ladies whom she interviewed with took a liking to her. She didn’t recall if those ladies even gave their last names, but they introduced themselves as Alva, Gladys and Hester. Their rental agreements had all stated that each floor had the right to approve the new renters . . . or not.

  Their hair was old-fashioned, and mostly gray with streaks left of what the color had been before. Their clothes were old-fashioned too, with long skirts and shawls or cardigans draped over their drooping shoulders.

  Give them a broom and a hat, and Connie couldn’t help but think of Halloween. They were quite nice old dears though, like her grandmothers had been. The questions they asked seemed to be mostly answered by them too—as if they were trying to convince her to come there instead of the other way round.

  None of the questions were difficult, only things like:

  Do you have any pets? Cat’s are splendid, and birds too, but never together, that’s never a good idea. Small dogs, I suppose, as long as they are quiet. But none of the tenants have large ones, except one of the gentlemen on the second floor. He has a Labrador, but of course, that’s a seeing-eye dog, so I’m not sure that counts.

  Do you have any children, dear? The application says that she’s single. That could mean she’s divorced, or— Oh dear, will that’s really none of our business. Aren’t children hard on furniture, even if they don’t seem like they should be, given they are soft all over. Though not all children are, only the babies, and those aren’t old enough to destroy things, though they do rather stink—their diapers, I mean. Do like well-behaved children, dear?

  Then there was: Where do you work—are you self-employed? Valid question, if it meant whether her income was stable, or not. They didn’t wait for that answer either, but one mentioned that she, herself, had worked in the war—the Second World War. That was in a factory, wasn’t it? My cousin was one of those lady pilots; she ferried airplanes to places where the real pilots took them. She would have been a real pilot too though, wouldn’t she? Well, not like one of those in a war zone, so I don’t think it was the same thing.

  And: Do you expect many visitors? You must explain that they would have to walk up because the elevators are old and so off-limits—well, except for tenants, of course. There is the freight elevator, that’s for lifting and was put in more recently. That’s in the back though, and not many people use that except the cleaning ladies and people taking their garbage down to the basement, or even to use the laundry. That’s not for visitors though—that’s for tradesmen—the elevator, not the laundry. How often do you come and go? That was the question.

  Connie wasn’t sure if she should get in a word or not. They hadn’t really waited for her replies, and it might be seen as rude. And as far as interviews went, this was quite interesting. She learned more about the ladies and the building and the other tenants than they learned about her.

  Finally, one sighed and said, “Poor Laverne.”

  The elderly woman went on to explain that Laverne was the lady who had the apartment before. She had lived there since the Forties, but lived there alone since Fred (the husband) ended up dead in his mistress’s bed.

  With their heads nodding sagely, the two others echoed, “Since Fred ended up dead in his mistress’s bed.”

  It sounded like some sort of chant by old witches stirring over their cauldrons, which is what the old ladies were beginning to resemble to her now, definitely, even without the names.

  Connie certainly felt bewitched because she felt like she’d fit right in, and didn’t care if she ever left again.

  She said, “How long have you lived here yourselves?”

  “Oh, we all moved in together when our husband’s went off to fight the Nazis. We were friends from secretarial school, and the couple who ran that school also owned this building. We landed jobs together then in the typing pool for the military—that was before they had so many women in uniform, you understand.”

  She did. Times were different then.

  One said, “Most of our men came back, but not Hester’s.”

  Alva and Gladys reached out and touched her hand. The woman bowed her head, and clearly it still bothered her.

  Still, she said, “We’d only been married a month when he got called up. I was pregnant, and my parents meant to take me in, but I wanted to stay here and work until the baby came. I wanted to be amongst my friends and do my part. Mother came here to stay when Father passed on. Now my son lives in the state capitol and works for the governor.”

  Alva said, “We’re very proud of him.”

  Connie nodded, expecting the others to share their s
tories too. She was a little disappointed when Gladys said instead, “When can you move in, dear?”Ó

  And Hester said, “The manager will need first and last month’s rent as well as a pet deposit for your dog.”

  Alva said, “The lease is only for six months to start, as a sort of probationary period. After that, it can go on and on.”

  They were all nodding in unison.

  Connie didn’t have a dog, but really had considered getting one. How had they guessed? Was it something she said and didn’t recall? She hated being predictable, so decided to hold off on the dog—just in case she had to move out in six months.

  She hoped not, but as with many things in life, you can’t really tell what’s going to happen.

  ~~~

  She was all settled in and adjusting to the idiosyncrasies of the rules too, like no food delivery people outside the lobby—they were not to come up the elevator or the stairs. Given she was on the six floor of seven, Connie made an effort to go up and down the stairs when she ordered food, as that at least gave her some exercise going down and back up too.

  There was a laundry room off the lobby. It was fairly modern, and the old ladies told her that in the old days, they each had the kind of washers that you hooked to the faucets with hoses, and then wrung the clothes out through wringers. On nice days, the courtyard had clotheslines for their use, and each floor washed on a particular day.

  But they no longer used those kinds of things, and when the management of the building was taken over by a conglomerate, the newly hired building manager took all their washing machines, tore down the clothes lines too, and put in those new-fangled things—washers and dryers, and then anyone could use them whenever they wanted . . . but you had to have quarters and bring your own soap and fabric softener and dryer sheets and then fold them.