KJ Hannah Greenberg: Defense

Honorable Milktoe George Wallibun II, Regional Magistrate,

Last week, Ducky Earl, owner of Galactic Leveraging and Landscaping Service of The Milky Way, gave me an estimate for some work. Mr. Earl said it would cost Intergalactic Standard 245.00 to subdue four specimens, and an additional Intergalactic Standard 174.00 to move them, plus any other species (up to 1 rocket’s worth), to Bode’s Galaxy from my home in The Virgo Cluster. Mr. Earl also said it would cost Intergalactic Standard 262.00 to reintegrate those specified beasts. Last, he quoted me an additional cost of Intergalactic Standard 40.00, per man-hour, for subduing and transporting any additional large species and an additional 29.00, per man-hour for subsequent, but less skilled ,work. I agreed to those terms and paid him a deposit of Intergalactic Standard 500.00 on June 1.

On June 6, Galactic Leveraging subdued the four indicated specimen. The work took longer than the Mr. Earl had estimated. As a result, Galactic Leveraging only subdued three of the seven hydras I had wanted transported, citing that the company lacked time to subdue more. As a result, my large red pyrohydra, my colony of cryohydra, and others of my mature specimens, were left behind. In about half of an hour, Galactic Leveraging loaded, onto two of their rockets, all of the available reintegratable materials, both what Galactic Leveraging had subdued and what a neighbor’s teenager had subdued prior to Galactic Leverageing’s arrival.

Once in Bode’s Galaxy, Galactic Leveraging interned the four large items. Galactic Leveraging did terminate two chimeras in order to do so and did move one chthonic water beast away from its destined location. Meanwhile, since Galactic Leveraging had such a long haul, I had the star cluster’s best ethnic restaurant restock their galley and I shipped them classic Coke from my own personal larder.

Galactic Leveraging interned nothing else for me during that span since Mr. Earl said it was imperative for his team to go home. Thus, three of the precious hydras of mine, that had been transported, were left uninterned. All of the other members of my menagerie, which made transport, too, were left uninterned (and remain that way to this day-I have lost thousands of Intergalactic Standard units on dead and dying specimens). Meanwhile, I gave the Mr. Earl another 500.00 and suggested we figure out the balance when he returned to reintegrate the remaining hydras.

His people did not return until June 20, after many pulse messages from me, to reintegrate the hydras (are a large variant of the species, about eight Galactic in circumference). Galactic Leveraging interned them where there was no room for any further hydras to grow. Mr. Earl acknowledged that he was aware that one of the hydras would suffer stunting given the location in which he had had his men locate it. So I asked them to rereintegrate all of the transported hydras, never dreaming they would charge me for correcting their error.

While the men were working on the hydras, the Mr. Earl and I sat down to discuss billing. We agreed on: the Intergalactic Standard 245.00, the Intergalactic Standard174.00 and the Intergalactic Standard 262.00 charges (see above) to a total of Intergalactic Standard 681.00. We did not agree on the Intergalactic Standard100.00 extra Mr. Earl asked me to pay for the second rocket.

As a negotiation strategy, I asked Mr. Earl to estimate the actual time it took his crew to subdue, to transport and to reintegrate the three leftover hydras, to terminate the two chimeras and to make hash out of the small, but lethal, gelatinous blue flying quip that Mr. Earl found when his men interned the three hydras.

Mr. Earl asked for eight and one half extra man hours, en total:
* one extra man hours for loading;
* one extra man hour for unloading
* one and one half extra man hours for terminating the chimeras and the gelatinous flying quip
* three extra man hours for working with the hydras
*two and one half extra man hours for miscellaneous fees, including the time involved in rushing a worker to a galactic hospital
For a total of 8 ½ extra man hours beyond Galactic Leveraging’s initial estimate at a cost of an additional Intergalactic Standard 681.00

In sum,
At Intergalactic Standard 29.00/hr, 8.5 extra hours =Intergalactic Standard 246.50.
At Intergalactic Standard 40.00/hr, 8.5 extra hours=Intergalactic Standard 340.00.  Intergalactic Standard 681.00 + Intergalactic Standard 246.50=Intergalactic Standard 927.50;
Intergalactic Standard 681.00 +Intergalactic Standard 340.00 =Intergalactic Standard1021.00.

I told Mr. Earl we could settle the tens of Intergalactic Standards later, when he finished reintegrateing my smaller specimens. He already had Intergalactic Standard1,000.00 of my money in the form of a deposit.

In answer, Mr. Earl fumed and fussed about the hours that his crew had used to subdue and to reintegrate the above listed specimens. He said that the work had taken two or three times what he had estimated.

I acknowledged that, in hindsight, he had underestimated, but offered to pay him no extra for that error. I would not have hired him had I thought it would cost twice what his written estimate had stated.

I had to leave my new Bode’s Galaxy home to conclude some business in The Virgo Cluster. When I returned, rather than finding others of my specimens reintegrated, I found Mr. Earl, his men, their rockets, and their tools gone.

On June 29th, I received a statement from Mr. Earl claiming that I owed him an additional Intergalactic Standard 1,046.00. He also mailed to me official paperwork, which he wanted mailed back to him, claiming that his work was a capital improvement and therefore not subject to tax (form enclosed).

On the statement, the Mr. Earl charged me for the labors that I had executed myself or that I had hired a neighbor’s kid to complete. What’s more, Mr. Earl charged me for many more man hours than he had orally specified in our conversation of June 20, i.e. for twenty-five man hours of unloading specimens, rather than for the half hour he had originally claimed. He charged, too, for “consultation with customer on reintegration placement.” That latter business was nonsense since I, myself, had made the drawings of where each species was to be placed in my biological gardens, including the destined locations for the specimens Mr. Earl had failed to subdue or to move for me. Finally, Mr. Earl also meant to charge me for relocating the last three hydras even though he, himself, had admitted that he had botched that job.

I was shocked at that letter. First, Mr. Earl hadn’t even tried to contact me via pulsing channels. Second, the nature of the letter amazed me. “Audacious” seems a polite term for Mr. Earl’s behavior.

On the advice of a friend, I waited to sort out my sentiments before responding. Thus, it happened that I received a second copy of Mr. Earl’s June 29’s letter on July 24 and he had heard nothing from me.

Again, I was counseled to wait. On August 19, I received a third copy of his letter with a warning attached that Mr. Earl would be seeking legal remedy.

Today, Sept. 22, I received a certified letter (having received a fourth, uncertified, copy in today’s mail). Those letters summon me to small claims court. Mr. Earl thinks I should pay Galactic Leveraging and Landscaping Service of The Milky Way the additional Intergalactic Standard 1,046.00 that he has “documented” in his series of mailings, plus that I should pay his Intergalactic Standard 16.00 court filing fee.

I think I should pay Galactic Leveraging Intergalactic Standard100.00 for the extra rocket, only. If there are other fees to be adjudicated, it’s the case that Mr. Earl owes me. Many of my specimen collection was neither subdued nor shipped. In addition, my zoo called for the reintegration of all seven of my hydras, not merely for the three that he chose to subdue on his second trip to Bode’s Galaxy. Even those three fared poorly, having grown impossibly wild during the weeks between their arrival and their internment.  I believe that Mr. Earl needs, as well, to reimburse me for the specimens that rotted in his crates when left at the star port.

Please advise, at your first convenience, a suitable remedy. My garden is destroyed. I do not want that bandit to have the pleasure of ruining my pocket money, too.

Sincerely,
Clarence P. Snickleberry

M.N. O'Brien: Mr. Bennett's Holes

Robert Bennett arrived in Jefferson some years ago, wearing a navy blue suit and round red spectacles. He had purchased a sizable plot of land of twelve square acres in the remote part of town, south of the railroad. Since his arrival, Mr. Bennett had caused quite a stir of gossip in the small New England community. It was not his high-end attire that caused the commotion, though it likely accumulated some ill will towards the man at first; the town was quite poor economically, and such a well-dressed man is bound to be observed with tempered speculation. The main concern of the town involved Mr. Bennett’s use of the land he acquired.

The plot of land was fertile and ideal for farming an impressive array of crops. As various planting seasons came and went without produce being grown from Mr. Bennett’s land, the townspeople came to wonder why a lucrative investment opportunity was going to waste. Then one day, Mr. Bennett walked out upon his land in denim overalls and red flannel shirt and started to dig.

The townspeople quieted down for a respectable amount of time, rationalizing that Mr. Bennett was finally going to put his land to good use. After several weeks had passed from any ideal growing season, Mr. Bennett continued to dig holes all over his property. Rumors spread across town as to the reasoning behind Mr. Bennett’s holes.

Theories grew across town from both sides of the tracks. Mrs. Williston hypothesized Mr. Bennett was digging holes for graves for a future apocalyptic war or famine. Harold Bridges son, Jack, thought Mr. Bennett was trying to dig for oil. Dr. Jamieson, the dentist, believed that Mr. Bennett was constructing a minefield. Some people thought Mr. Bennett was digging for fossils, others thought he was some sort of geologist, and conducting a study of the area, for some scientific reason. The townspeople became divided into schools of thought in regards to the purpose of Mr. Bennett’s holes.

Several more bold speculators inquired Mr. Bennett as to what he was doing. Jeff Higgins would stop by every few days, lean on the rickety old post-and-rail wooden fence that bordered Mr. Bennett’s land from the road and shouted inquiries and offers to aid him in his task. Higgins would jokingly ask Mr. Bennett if he was trying to get to China. All the inquiries went unanswered by Mr. Bennett. Though the townspeople were frustrated with the man, it was only when Mrs. Everett came home from the supermarket one day when anyone from the town felt threatened by Mr. Bennett’s peculiar actions.

Mrs. Everett had finished putting her groceries away and was about to call her son Bill to get ready for dinner when she spotted him in the backyard. Bill was digging a hole. When asked by his mother what purpose he had digging a hole in the backyard, Bill replied, “Why not?”

Soon, several of the children of began digging holes in their parents’ lawn. The trend caused such a significant outcry from members of both the church and the PTA, that the town had a meeting at City Hall to discuss a possible solution, and cast blame on the responsible party. Mr. Bennett was not in attendance.

Mrs. Howard, head of the PTA, told members of the council in a firm voice that Mr. Bennett was having a negative impact on Jefferson's youth, as well as Jefferson’s image by ruining the town’s aesthetic quality with a bunch of holes. Several uproarious citizens shouted in agreement. One person shouted the suggestion that the whole community go over to Mr. Bennett’s house and fill all his holes. This created laughter among the children who were in attendance, but the adults found the laughter more reason to dislike Mr. Bennett. Another concerned parent asked what right Mr. Bennett had, keeping his head underground all day.

After several more outbursts, the committee issued a cease and desist order to Mr. Bennett. The order forbid Mr. Bennett to dig holes that were not going to be used for crops. In addition, Mr. Bennett was to fill the existing holes on his property. The order was delivered to Mr. Bennett’s house through mail, as none of the local authorities wished to confront Mr. Bennett, as curious as they were to witness the man’s reaction.

Within two weeks of receiving the order, Mr. Bennett filled the holes on his property and sold it back at a fraction of the price. It was presumed that Mr. Bennett had returned to where he came, though it is unknown if he knew the reason why he was ordered to fill up his holes. The citizens couldn’t care less. The town of Jefferson returned to its life without any holes.

David Weisberg: Salt

What had he done? Something bad. What had she done in the dark room? Something bad with her eyes closed. Something bad with her mouth open and he hurting her and she letting him. The next morning my elbow didn’t hurt and the bed was wet and Mama was frying bacon and he was gone.

He walked back in with a cigarette paper stuck by sweat to his palm. Thumb and forefinger pinched the tobacco, rubbing together like a cricket’s legs. Brown and black, dry, he rolled it in the paper with one hand and lit it with the other. Mama was on the couch but she got up and grabbed him. It was hot. The fan wasn’t working. The windows stuck shut and they shut the door behind them.

I watched through the crack. Mama’s pale skin thick with veins, her legs curled around him. Outline of his body pressed against hers, she moved backward when he moved forward; that when her back arched his body bent too; that if her head fell back his mouth fell to her neck, or if it bent forward his chin rested on her shoulder.  They never asked each other if they could. I didn’t ask if I could watch either, because some nights they waited for me to go to sleep, or because some nights Mama sent me outside to get wood when he got there, or because some nights when he got there he touched her in the living room and I saw and she looked at me and bent her eyebrows like she was angry and then sent me to bed like it was me who done something wrong.

But sometimes she’d sit us down and fixed up some chicken legs, or some steak, or a bowl of pasta, or some fish. I didn’t like fish— she gutting it first, then scaling it, then washing the body but leaving the head because he liked to eat the eyes. Some salt on it wet quick and disappearing. Then she’d dash some pepper, I could count them all but didn’t know if I could, all the black and gray specks. Fish on the pan jaw stuck open waiting to die again, and I thought he was trying to scream, or maybe just trying to sing a long note, or maybe got some salt in its mouth and trying to clear his throat.

She was on the couch most nights sweating, legs together, hands on her lap, eyes moving from the TV to the door. Her hairs stuck to the side of her face and crossed over each other like the vines on the tree behind the house. I used to watch her pick at them, pull them off, press them back against her head. I’d ask her what she was waiting for and her lips would purse and her chin would tremble and she’d tell me to go back to my markers, to bring over the laundry, to get some more meat from the freezer in the shed and set it in water to defrost for the morning. Sometimes she’d forget to tell me to come inside from playing and I’d come in from the dark and her eyes would be wet and she wouldn’t even notice. But lots of times Mama’d be in bed already and I’d be watching TV with the lights off and he’d come through the door in his gray jacket and hang it on the hook on the door and all the light through the window from the porch lantern as he bent to remove his boots. 

He came as the night coming, passing over the trees and the lawn and the car and the windowsills and into her room—his teeth like a slice of moon, beading stars down his shoulder,  the whites of his eyes when they were open and watching her like the lights of a car behind us when we’d drive home late from town. Or like animal eyes in the dark that I watched through my window. Or like the time I poured pepper all over the fish when she wasn’t watching so you could barely see the flesh anymore but kept the eyes clear because I knew Mama’d get mad. I thought she’d like that but she just threw it out and microwaved some chicken nuggets and sent me to bed.

And when I watched I always thought that’s not Mama, that’s just the night making noises. That’s just the wail of the cicada and the growl of the coyote. That’s just the hoot of the owl, the purr of the mountain lion. That’s just the sound of the chicken clucking in the barn, or the snake that bit me in the field, hissing in the dark. That’s just the fish if it jumped right out of the lake, oiled and peppered in the pan, waiting for the oven, singing.

Jim Ethridge: Let ‘er Rip

It was the spring of ’53, and we were preparing for our end of school program.  I believe all schools did this back then, and it was a big deal.  We prepared for it diligently.

The 3rd grade was to sing several songs, and I remember one I was especially taken with, “How Much is That Doggie in the Window”.  Patti Page made this song very popular in ’53.

We were all lined up ready to rehearse on the stage for the first time.  I was front row center and could not wait to share my talents and my zeal for this song with the others.  Mrs. Kennedy cued us, the music started, and I began to belt out, “How much is that doggie in the window, the one with the . . .”

“Stop, stop, just a moment.”  She approached me in her kindly manner.  (I deeply loved this teacher.)  She said she thought it might sound better if I moved back to the middle row.  I gladly obliged, knowing she knew more about music than I.  We were all in our new positions and began again.  “How much is that doggie in the window, the one with the wagglely tail . . .”

I belted out even louder to make up for being one row back, when again dear Mrs. Kennedy said, “Just a minute, please.”  She approached me and whispered in my ear.  “Jimmy, your voice is so powerful I don’t think the other parents will be able to hear their children.  Would you mind moving to the back row?”

“Sure,” I thought, “with my powerful voice, I carry this group through this song.”  And again we began.  Now I really had to let ‘er rip because I was all the way in the back.  “How much is that doggie in the window?  The one with the wagglely tail.  How much is that doggie in the window?  I do hope that doggie’s for sale . . .”

“Just a moment,” came from Mrs. Kennedy.  As she approached me and laid her hand on my shoulder I was beaming.  Then she whispered in my ear as she led me aside, “Jimmy the other children’s voices just don’t seem to be able to blend with yours.  Would you mind just standing in the back row and moving your mouth like you’re singing, but don’t let any sound come out?”

Even at nine years old, I had not just fallen off a turnip truck.  That was my awakening.  I could not sing.  Mrs. Kennedy tried to be as nice as possible, but she must have known had she not intervened, the kids would begin to make fun of me.  (And they would have; kids are cruel.)  I’m sure in her mind she could envision my family in total embarrassment at the program.  Thus ended my public singing for these fifty-seven years.

Eight years later, in the spring of my junior year, I met a special girl.  Again back in those days and perhaps even now, when a boy and a girl felt that special magic, that tingling feeling all over, and the butterflies in the stomach, when that kind of relationship occurred, almost always they danced at sox hops or played the juke box at the corner drug store or listened to the car radio on a country road until the battery ran down.  They would pick a song, and it would be “our song”.  Like no one else could hear it or enjoy it.  It was their song!  It did not matter if you broke up at the end of the summer or loved blossomed and you were together for a life time, wherever you were years later when you heard that song, the miles and the years did not matter.  Your thoughts would return to that special time and place, and those special feeling would return for just a moment as they played “our song”.

Our song happened to be “The Twelfth of Never” by Johnny Mathis, and I was lucky that my feelings survived not only the summer of ’59 but for fifty more summers.

As I’ve grown older some things seem less important to me.  Christmas does not excite me as it once did.  It’s mostly for children.  As I have advanced in age, birthdays have almost become a time for mourning.  I’ve never been good at anniversaries or valentines.  What are roses and candy?  Only wilt and flab in a few days.  But unique gifts are rare and long remembered.  A few years ago as Valentine’s Day approached, I happened to hear “The Twelfth of Never” on the radio, and the old thoughts returned that had so long gone dormant.  So I came up with what I thought was a very unique gift for my wife.  I looked up the words to “The Twelfth of Never”.  I practiced it a few times.  No sense wasting a lot of time.  Mrs. Kennedy was right.  I got out the tape recorder and without accompaniment of any kind I just began to sing.  “You ask how much I need you . . . must I explain . . .”  And finished with “Un-til the twelfth of nev-er and that’s a long, long time.  Eat your heart out Johnny Mathis.  Love you, Jim.”

I just laid the tape and the player on her bed and said nothing.  That night when she went to bed, I could hear the tape through her closed door.  When it finished she did not come out, so I gently peeked in to see my wife of many years wiping the tears from her face.  I know the singing was bad, but it was not the bad singing that brought out these tears.  It was the thoughtfulness or the look into the past that prompted them.

Mrs. Kennedy was right, and what she did was motivated, I’m sure, by her kindness to me, my family, and the other children.  Having said that, I believe there is still a time to just let ‘er rip.  So here goes.  You people are so lucky this is the written word and not an audio version.

“How much is that doggie in the window?
The one with the waggely tail.
How much is that doggie in the window?
I do hope that doggie’s for sale.
I must take a trip to California . . .”

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy.  Just a moment . . .”

Donal Mahoney: Rural Princess

Gloria Gompers' first husband died from a stroke on the third day of their honeymoon. It was a terrible inconvenience for Gloria, having to bring his body back from Hawaii to New York so her husband's parents could hold a funeral. Had it been up to Gloria, cremation in Honolulu would have sufficed. 

"I would have brought the ashes back in a nice urn," Gloria told her mother. "But his parents wouldn't stand for it."

She said that Max's parents, Hyman and Maxine Stein, had a big living room with mahogany woodwork and that she had found a lovely urn the exact same color. It would have looked nice, she thought, in the middle of the long mantel. She described the urn to the Steins by phone the day Max died. But they didn't care if it was a good fit. 

"It would mean Max would be with you forever," Gloria told Mrs. Stein, who was crying and not impressed.

Gloria understood Mrs. Stein had had to have time to mourn but decisions had to be made. Max was dead and getting colder by the minute. 

Eventually, Mr. Stein got on the phone. 

"Be nice now, Gloria," Hyman said, " and bring Max back to New York. We'll take care of everything." 

There were Jewish burial rites that had to be observed, Mr. Stein explained. Gloria didn't know what to say. She knew a little about kosher food but nothing about Jewish traditions. She had been trying to learn how to say Rosh Hashanah. And her in-laws were dismayed when she asked at dinner one evening if Yom Kippur was a fish. Max had worn his "beany," as Gloria called it, only once--at their marriage ceremony under a tent in the Steins' big back yard. 

"It was more like a park than a yard," Gloria recalled. 

And stepping on that glass after the ceremony really befuddled her. 

"It was a very nice glass," she told her mother later. "Why break it?"

On the night of their engagement, Max had told Gloria she was a "rural princess" and not to worry about what his parents said. They had never met anyone like Gloria and she was as mysterious to them as they were to her.

 
"Give 'em a little time," Max said, "and they might come around."

Mr. and Mrs. Gompers hadn't attended their daughter's wedding. They decided to remain at the family home in Sleeper, Missouri, rather than take the Greyhound bus to New York. They told Gloria they couldn't find anyone to milk the cows. And three old hens were still laying eggs. 

It was just as well, Gloria thought. Her parents and the Steins probably wouldn't have had much to talk about. Her parents liked beer in the afternoon and sometimes into the evening. The Steins were fond of different colors of wine at dinner but didn't drink at other times. Gloria had never seen white wine before and she hadn't eaten much fish except for the sandwich they sell at McDonald's. She liked to order that once in awhile back home.

Gloria finally gave up on the urn. She was able to get the funeral home in Honolulu to ship Max to the Steins' mortuary in New York. The Steins paid for everything. Gloria had to admit the funeral was impressive. She had never seen anything like that in Sleeper. 

Back home, the pastor and family members would gather at the gravesite, say a few nice things about the deceased, and then the casket would be lowered slowly into the ground. One time, however, the straps broke and the casket dropped in a hurry. Everybody jumped and groaned, Gloria recalled, but the lady was dead anyway. 

Butch Clinton, a high school classmate of Gloria's, worked at the cemetery. His job was to open the grave, stand in the background during the ceremony, and cover the casket after the mourners were gone. Apparently Butch was pretty good at his job because he had been doing it since graduation. 

Actually, Butch was more than Gloria's classmate in high school. She and Butch used to date, if you could call going on hayrides and to the movies dates. Some girls would like that kind of thing but not Gloria. She had been on enough hayrides with Butch to know he wasn't going to take her anywhere in life. She had a far better future in mind for herself. 

After Max had been dead two years, Gloria decided to leave New York and go to Chicago. She had heard nice things about Chicago and she thought she would like it there. This time she traveled by train, not by Greyhound. Once she arrived, it took her a little time to settle in. She found a good bank to manage the proceeds from Max's estate. And then she found a pleasant job selling perfume in a nice store on Michigan Avenue, even though she didn't really need to work. Max had provided for her very well in his Will. She never knew he had so much money. She knew his parents lived high off the hog, so to speak, but she didn't know Max had been that rich. It was a pleasant surprise.

A few months later, after work, she was walking down Michigan Avenue and met Kevin O'Brien, a very nice man with bright red hair. It stood straight up like a tall crew-cut, as they called that style back home. His sister, a co-worker, introduced them. 

After a short courtship, Gloria married for a second time. As it turned out, however, her luck hadn't changed. Kevin died from a heart attack one month shy of their first anniversary. It was a complete surprise. Kevin had been a track star in college and still jogged two miles a day. She told her mother how Kevin had died and Mrs. Gompers wanted to know why Kevin bothered to run when he didn't have to. 

"It wasn't like someone was chasing him," she said.

This time Gloria didn't have to make any immediate decisions about the remains. Kevin had died at his desk in the office. The body was taken directly to a funeral home at the behest of his company. She had to drive to the mortuary, of course, and make an official identification of the body. 

"He looked the same," Gloria told her mother. "Like he was sleeping, except he wasn't snoring."

This time Gloria had to attend a funeral of a different sort but it was no less lavish than the one held for Max. It was a big Catholic funeral in a posh suburb of Chicago. Kevin's family chose to have a traditional Requiem Mass. It was said in Latin, a language Gloria knew nothing about.

Back in Missouri, the only church in town was the First Baptist. Anyone in Sleeper who went to church went to First Baptist. Everyone else was figured to be a drunk or an atheist or simply not quite right. She had tried to explain to Max and Kevin the difference between "not right" and "not quite right" but neither one seemed to catch on.

"Mishugina is mishugina," Max had said, trying out his limited Yiddish. Kevin just nodded and said, "You mean 'nuts' and 'half nuts.' I get it."

It was raining the day of Kevin's funeral and Gloria had to borrow an umbrella at the cemetery. What's more, she thought she looked a little out of place in her yellow dress and sun hat with the feather sticking up in back. She couldn't understand a word of the priest's prayers prior to the lowering of the casket. 

The brunch afterward, however, more than made up for the bad weather. Kevin's family had money, maybe more money than Max's family, and the O'Briens pulled out all the stops at a very nice hotel. It was buffet style and Gloria had never seen so much wonderful food. Everything from Eggs Benedict, whatever they were, to Prime Rib, a fancy name for what folks back home in Sleeper called roast beef. 

Gloria, however, was most impressed by the hash browns. She told her mother they "were better than Digby's," which was the diner in Sleeper. Digby's was open for breakfast, lunch and dinner and sometimes as late as midnight if Mr. Digby had been drinking. Everyone in Sleeper liked the food at Digby's. Some people just stopped in for an afternoon snack. His pickled pigs' feet were known for miles around. A couple of gelatinous feet and a cold beer and you weren't hungry till supper.

After Kevin's funeral, Gloria didn't know what she should do next. She was only four years out of high school and twice a widow.  She'd have to sell the nice house that Kevin had bought her if she wanted to leave Chicago. Sitting on the patio and staring at the stars with a glass of iced tea wasn't her idea of excitement but it beat hayrides in Sleeper. So when the phone rang in the middle of the night and her mother said her father had passed away, Gloria told her she'd come right home and help with the funeral. After two dead husbands in less than three years, Gloria had learned quite a bit about funerals. 

When she got back home, the first thing she noticed was that the town hadn't changed since her last visit. She had made it a practice to visit Sleeper prior to each of her marriages. The visits gave her a chance to show her parents and a few friends photos of her future husbands. 

On this visit, however, her friends were baffled. They just couldn't understand how one woman could have been widowed twice in such a short period of time. And now Gloria was back again, but this time with no new husband in mind and no photos. Would she leave again or settle down, they wondered. It was even money as to what she would do. 

Butch Clinton, though, was downright pleased to hear the news. He had never married and he figured maybe it was time to get to know good ol' Gloria again. He had quit his job at the cemetery after his parents were killed in a highway accident. He inherited the family pig farm and it was a thriving business. Butch understood pigs, having grown up on that farm, and he had the moxie to run the place right. 

"Pigs may stink," Butch told Gloria's mother, "but there's a lot of money in them. All you have to do is fatten 'em up and take 'em to market." 

Butch had stayed in touch with Mrs. Gompers ever since Gloria had caught the Greyhound and left town. And it didn't take him long to run into Gloria, since her mother had told him where he'd be able to find her. He strolled into Digby's Diner after church one Sunday and walked right over to the table where Gloria and her mother were finishing off eggs, bacon and hash browns with side orders of biscuits and sausage gravy. 

"Neither of my husbands ever had biscuits and gravy," Gloria was telling her mother when Butch walked up. He was all gussied up in a new red plaid shirt and neatly pressed bib overalls. He even wore a new John Deere cap, and it  looked mighty nice on him, Mrs. Gompers said right away. 

Gloria didn't know what to say to Butch but her mother kept complimenting him. Finally Mrs. Gompers asked him to sit down and have some breakfast.

Since Butch was single, just like Gloria, Mrs. Gompers had a right to hope for the best. If Gloria would marry Butch, she’d probably stay in Sleeper. And Butch wouldn't be dying any time soon. He was one strong fellow. Taking care of pigs seven days a week is no job for a weak man, especially when sows had piglets. Butch needed a wife, Mrs. Gompers thought, but she didn't know how Gloria would fit in with the pigs even if she caught a hankering for Butch. 

The breakfast reunion went well, Butch thought, so he was happy to hear that Gloria planned to stay in town for a while to help her mother adjust to widowhood. Butch had made it a practice during Gloria's absence to take Mrs. Gompers to dinner once a week and now Gloria could come along, too. 

Mrs. Gompers did most of the talking whenever they went to Digby's. Gloria didn't have to say much. In fact one night, after Butch had taken them home, Gloria told her mother that it was too bad Butch was so young.

"The two of you seem to get along real good," Gloria told her, underscoring the obvious. 

It was then that Mrs. Gompers suggested that Butch would make a fine husband. Gloria was dumbfounded and told her that there was more to life than pigs and Butch. But as time went on, and the dinners continued, Gloria began to see a side of Butch that she had never seen before. He was nice to her mother and nice to her. And he wasn't any fancy pants like Max and Kevin. He ate biscuits and gravy just like she and her mother did.

It took a full year before Gloria would let Butch take her to the movie in town. They went out for a drink afterward. He ordered beer for both of them. Gloria had never really taken to wine with Max, and Kevin's whisky just about knocked her over. But she could handle beer real well. One night Butch, after three beers and a couple of hard-boiled eggs, came right out with it.

"What say you and me get married, Gloria? I make a good living. I got hired help. You won't have to mess with no pigs, and we can even get some lady to handle the laundry. My overalls stink somethin' terrible. Your mother can live on the second floor so she won't be lonely. I'll take real good care of both of you."

Gloria didn't say no and she didn't say yes. She told Butch she'd think if over. She really didn't need him to take care of her with all the money she had inherited from her two husbands' estates. She had never told Butch about that money. Her mother knew she had a few bucks but had no idea of the actual amount Gloria had in the bank. She just knew it was a big bank in a pretty big city and that Gloria did all of her business by phone, usually when Mrs. Gompers was taking her afternoon nap. The bank sent Gloria statements and a banker would call to get her okay on any new investments.

“He likes to move money around," Gloria told her mother, “to keep up with market.” Mrs. Gompers didn’t know what she meant but agreed that made a lot of sense. 

Three months later, urged on by her mother, Gloria surrendered. She told Butch she would marry him. He bought her a nice ring, half the size of her other wedding rings but bigger than any ring she had seen on any other woman in Sleeper. 

A month later, they had a beautiful wedding at the First Baptist Church. Pastor Jones had baptized the two of them in eighth grade and now he was marrying them. Gloria's mother sat proudly in the front row and bawled all over her double corsage. Mrs. Gompers was happy she had helped to arrange the marriage. Now maybe Gloria would stay in Sleeper. You can live better with your own kind, Mrs. Gompers had told her a number of times. 

Mrs. Gompers turned out to be right. Butch lived for another 30 years and Gloria gave him six children, three boys and three girls, all with the right number of fingers and toes, although two were cross-eyed. She had never been happier. But she still kept her "Max and Kevin money," as she called it, in that bank in the city. She never did tell Butch or her mother about it. She figured if Butch ever took to drinking too much or cheated on her, she'd leave him and hop the Greyhound to Atlanta. 

A magazine Butch had bought for her said that Atlanta was a very nice city. After looking at the magazine, Mrs. Gompers had agreed that Atlanta looked like a nice place but so was Sleeper. A couple of months later, she died of a brain aneurysm. Gloria took care of the funeral since she had experience in that area.  

Now it was just Gloria and Butch at the home place, as Butch called it. All the kids had grown up and moved off to big cities of their own selection. Four of them had married and had children and the other two were still prospecting. So Gloria decided to sit tight and keep an eye on Butch to see what would happen. Since she had that money in the bank, she could stay in Sleeper or live anywhere she liked. 

If Butch died first, she would move to Atlanta. She didn't care how old she was. She was very healthy and planned to keep it that way. She had quit eating fatback years ago although Butch still wolfed it down with pinto beans and cornbread. But she had to admit Butch and his pigs had provided a nice living for her and the children. She never had to touch her savings. 

Gloria certainly would miss Butch if he died, but if he did, she wouldn't be surprised. His father had died young. His arteries were all clogged up, according to the medical reports. He liked his fatback even thicker than Butch. And he wouldn't say no to a nice hog jowl now and then.

Every Sunday at church, Gloria would thank God for Butch and his pigs. She'd get him all cleaned up on Saturday night so they could sit in the front row, which was informally reserved for folks who tithed. After services, it was off to a nice table in the back of Digby's.

Even though Mr. Digby had died, his children were running the diner and the biscuits and gravy were as good as ever. You wouldn't find anything that good in New York or Chicago. But with Atlanta being in the Deep South, there had to be pretty good biscuits and gravy down there. She figured if the biscuits were fluffy, and if they put enough sausage in the gravy, it might not be such a bad place to live. She'd keep that in mind just in case the fatback caught up with Butch. 

 

 

Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/