Burning Garbage

Burning Garbage

  a collection of short stories

  by Leola Harlan Crosley

  copyright 2013 LLCrosley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Burning Garbage

  Leftover Soup

  The Ample Miss Anderson

  The Murder of Eleven-Thirty

  The Spinning of the Yarn

  Window Shopping

  One Fish

  Weapons of Mass Destruction

  Silver Spoon

  Trespassers

  Overlooked

  Imagine That

  In the Bag

  Sugar Daddy

  23

  A Calming Hope

  Doofus Duo

  Burning Garbage

  It was safe behind the chair in this corner of the parlor. There were few safe places here. Her room wasn’t safe. Her Grandmother’s flower garden was safe, but it was two doors down the street. Her Grandma’s house wasn’t safe either; just the hidden garden, a small patch of grass surrounded by tall, yellow-flowered plants.

  She knew to stay quiet and out of the way. She had long ago learned to pull her fear and emotions in, and pack those feelings away deep inside, unseen and untouched. She clutched her tattered Raggedy Ann doll to her chest and closed her eyes against his latest tirade.

  “. . . little Sally Ann, sittin’ in the sand, cry Sally cry, stick yer finger in yer eye . . .” She wondered what Georgie had done to anger him. She knew her brother was the main target this time. Their father only called Georgie “Sally Ann,” not the girls.

  “. . . you kids are killin’ yer mother!” She could feel the hate in his voice. It slammed into her soul like the ax on the chicken’s neck that one afternoon in the backyard. “She’s workin’ ‘cause you kids take everything!” She knew the real reason her mother had to work. It was because he missed so many days at the factory that the other workers took bets on whether or not he’d show up . . . “an’ when she’s dead I’m puttin’ the bunch a ya inta a home!” His voice grew louder and louder as he raged on. She knew the neighbors could hear. She could tell by the way they looked at her.

  She peeked out from her safe place. He was holding Georgie’s best softball menacingly over his head. Her sisters were cowering near the open door, Georgie bearing the brunt of the rampage. “. . . an’ if I hear a single sound outta you kids I’m gonna git my belt an’ tan yer hides!” He was going upstairs to sleep off the six-pack he had for lunch. She was glad. The house would be safe for a while.

  As soon as they could, she knew the others would escape to their safe places. Her brother would go down the hill to play ball, June would go to their Grandmother’s, and Jenny would run to the next street over, to her friend Lisa’s house.

  He probably wouldn’t give Georgie back his softball. She knew where he hid their favorite things. She would get it back when he left. She once rescued her doll Annie from that small, damp space going down the cellar stairs.

  She had a dim memory of being shoved into that dark place in the wall where the bricks had fallen down. She was crying. Her father was laughing as he pushed her into the tight crawl space. There were spiders there. She shuddered as she huddled back into her safe corner and squeezed her eyes shut against the dark memories assaulting her from the deep recesses of her mind.

  She pressed her hands over her ears at a memory of him interrogating them, demanding to know which one of the “useless, worthless brats” touched the meringue on the pie. Georgie spoke up and said, “You can blame it on me,” to protect his sisters. He stood stoically, no stranger to punishment. “LIAR!” their father shouted, and shoved Georgie down, bending him backwards over the table.

  Her mind turned back to a certain ride on the bus to the elementary school. Jenny had showed her the blood on the underpants she was wearing. She told her little sister to go see the school nurse. Later that day the doctor told their mother Arlene that Jenny caused the injury herself by falling onto the sissy bar on Georgie’s bike. Her mother would sit in the rocking chair and hold Jenny and rock her back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

  The scenes shuffled through her mind like a deck of cards as she remembered cleaning the kitchen when she was so small she could only reach the sink by standing on a chair. He came in and surveyed the room while she was washing dishes, using Comet to scour a stained plastic bowl. “Did you sweep under the table?” he demanded. She said yes. He sneered at her, “Liar!” and backhanded her across the face. She fell off the chair, and lay stunned on the worn linoleum as he left the room saying, “Suits you right—I hate you lying brats."

  In the midst of her unbidden reverie, she unconsciously brought a trembling hand to her face and touched her cheek, again feeling the sting from the strike as well as the comment.

  Her mind forced her away again to when he was walking up the road in front of her while holding a long garter snake in his left hand, it's wriggling length trailing on the road. She knew what he would do, even in front of everyone. Still she pleaded, “It’s harmless, let it go!” He laughed as he snapped the snake forward then sharply down, like a whip. She was splattered with blood and flesh from the snake.

  The scene shifted to a night when they were sleeping on the back porch, pretending it was a tent. He told them it was going to storm. He told them there were bats and bears out at night, and he hoped a skunk would pee on them. He glared at them from the small rectangular window on the door. They heard the distinctive click of the lock. All other nights the door was left unlocked.

  That brought to her mind the thought of another time when she had come up onto the front porch and heard screaming coming from the parlor. She had peered cautiously in the window and saw him straddling her sister June, pinning her to the floor. She was sorry for June, but was glad it wasn’t her that time.

  She huddled deeper into the corner of her safe place, her thin body trembling, her breaths coming in soft, whimpering gasps.

  There was a rare occurrence of her parents fighting. Her mother threw a metal coffee pot at him and screamed, “Allen gets to see his mother, Caroline gets to see her mother—I WANT TO SEE MY MOTHER!” They all got into the old brown station wagon and traveled the forty miles to their Mother’s parent’s home. She was glad. Their Mom seldom spoke up against him. Grandma Woodley’s house was safe, and there was always something good to eat there.

  A sudden sharp noise broke the onslaught of sounds and images, and she pushed the disturbing memories deep down inside her troubled mind where they couldn’t hurt her as she came back to herself with the slam of the door. It was quiet. The others got away. She peeked out and looked towards the kitchen, then quickly drew back as he swaggered into the parlor, passing her safe place without seeing her. He went to the fireplace, took a couple of pine logs from the stack of wood, and built up the fire. She heard the carpeted steps squeak in protest as he went upstairs.

  She clutched Annie to her chest and quietly came trembling out from behind the chair and looked towards the fireplace. He had forgotten to set the fire screen in place. She watched with fascination as the flames erupted into beautiful orange and yellow furls. She would have slid the mesh metal screen in place herself, but had learned on the pain of a beating not to go near the fireplace.

  Small bursts of sparks from the logs escaped the firebox and landed on the small pile of fire-starter newspapers. She watched as the newsprint darkened and the bright orange specks faded away. A snap and pop of the logs sent another shower of orange embers into the room. They smoldered for an instant as they lay on the p
aper, then suddenly caught, a tiny flame quickly springing to life.

  She watched the fire dance for a moment, gray tendrils of smoke curling upwards. She watched as the plumes hit the ceiling and blanketed their way to the walls where they reversed their course. She pulled her t-shirt up over her mouth and nose as she glanced from the fireplace to the stairway, then back as the flames snaked their way across the carpet and the air in the room thickened with smoke. She took a tentative step towards the stairs, then closed her eyes for an instant as a memory flashed into her mind of him flinging a tiny gray kitten off the bridge into the churning waters of the creek, then a mewling black kitten after it. She shuddered and opened her eyes, then resolutely backed out of the parlor and closed the folding wooden doors behind her.

  She ran through the living room and kitchen, out the back door, behind the house and into the tall weeds by the ditch. She followed the path of filthy water down to the back of her Grandmother’s house, coming out into the hidden flower garden behind the chestnut tree. She stood up and looked back towards her father’s house.

  “Why hello Joy! I didn’t see you playing there!” It was their neighbor Edna from the street behind theirs, removing a load of dried laundry from the clothesline. She approached the girl. “Would you like a popcicle, honey?” Edna always gave them orange popcicles. Joy figured her husband and idiot son liked the red and purple ones. That’s why they always got orange.

  A tinge of smoky air passed over Edna. She paused, raised her wrinkled face up, sniffed at the breeze, then looked at the girl. “It smells like someone’s burning garbage, dear, doesn’t it? Good thing these clothes are dry.” Edna balanced the basket on her hip and pulled the girl towards her house, not expecting an answer, since Joy seldom spoke and never smiled.

  Into the sounds of small-town life cries of “FIRE!” erupted. The girl heard them immediately. Edna was slightly hard-of-hearing, but the sight of people frantically running up the street caught her attention, and she turned around. “Oh my!” she exclaimed as her laundry basket dropped to the ground, clean clothes tumbling over the grass. She grabbed Joy by the arm and pulled her through the lawn. “Come along dear.” The girl was surprised the old woman could move so fast.

  They passed through the neighbor’s yard and came out onto the middle street, Edna not letting go of her arm. They joined a growing crowd of agitated people gathering on the road in front of her Grandmother’s house. The fire siren down at the company store began to scream.

  The crowd was buzzing with concern and excitement.

  “Is anyone in the house?”

  Where are the kids?”

  Lisa’s mother hollered, “Jenny’s right here!”

  She saw her Grandmother clutching June’s hand.

  “I have Joy!” Edna called out, firmly holding the girl’s shoulders.

  “Where’s the boy?” a man yelled, his voice reflecting the growing panic of the crowd. The rumbling sound of the fire truck’s engine roared to life in the distance, along with the excited yells of voices drawing near.

  The girl answered, her calm voice cutting through the surrounding noise. “Georgie’s playing ball.” The ball diamond was just down the hill, and he and his friends would soon follow the smoke signal, the fire truck, and the rest of the crowd.

  “What about Arlene!”

  “She’s at work.” Their Grandmother spoke with just a trace of a quiver in her voice. She glanced towards the burning house, then looked down at June, putting a protective arm around her.

  “What about—him?” Old Thomas looked at their Grandmother, his gravelly experienced voice commanding the crowd’s attention.

  Everyone quieted and turned to her.

  Joy looked up at her Grandma’s tranquil face as her Grandmother turned towards her son’s house, now fully engulfed in flames.

  Leftover Soup

  I began cleaning the counter at the end near the pantry cupboard. Ruby was sitting on a kitchen chair, the vinyl upholstery covered with faded blue flowers. She bent over the kitchen table, holding a bright red pen in her trembling 94-year-old hand. She leaned forward, peering at the shopping list in front of her. “I can hardly read my writing! Eddie had beautiful handwriting,” she said.

  I took my damp cloth and wiped a coating of flour and coffee grounds from the canisters.

  “I think I fell in love with his handwriting first,” Ruby stated with a dreamy sigh. “Did I ever tell you what beautiful handwriting Eddie had?

  “I think you did.” I moved the canisters back into place.

  Ruby surveyed her shopping list. I listened as she muttered something about Swiss chard and eggs. She looked up at me. “I have a lot of leftover soup. I’ll never eat it. Why don’t you take it home so you won’t have to cook tonight?”

  “Thanks Ruby. That would be nice.” I wiped the cloth over the surface of the counter, scooping up stale crumbs that had escaped from the breadbasket.

  Ruby surveyed her list again, holding the paper close and squinting her eyes. “You know, Eddie had the most beautiful handwriting.”

  “Did he really?” I answered automatically.

  The list drifted to the tabletop as Ruby looked towards the kitchen window, her rheumy eyes unfocused with her attention centered on the distant past. “I wish I still had his letters. I wonder what happened to them,” she murmured. “Maybe I should invite Andy over for supper tonight, I have a lot of leftover soup that needs used up.”

  “He would like that, Ruby; you don’t see him much since Eddie died.” I continued cleaning my way down the length of the counter, systematically wiping an item off and setting it back into place.

  “Eddie had such beautiful handwriting,” Ruby repeated.

  “He sure did.” I looked over at her as she rifled through the flowered wicker catch-all that sat on the shining blue-and-chrome 1950s style kitchen table.

  “Have you seen my shopping list?” she asked, emptying the basket onto the surface of the table. Old greeting cards, receipts, envelopes and notes covered with scribbled reminders spread out over the tabletop.

  I stepped across and picked up the list in front of her. “Here it is, Ruby.”

  “Oh yes, here it is!” She adjusted her glasses and glanced at the list. “I can hardly read my writing.” She placed the list carefully in the bottom of the catch-all, then looked up at me and asked, “Would you check in the refrigerator and see if there’s any soup left? We could have it for lunch!”

  I smiled. “Sure Ruby, I’ll look as soon as I’m finished,” I told her as I turned around to clean the stove.

  The Ample Miss Anderson

  “Are you planning to go swimming?” Allison grinned at her sleepy-eyed Aunt as she chopped vegetables for the salad, already knowing what the answer would be.

  “Put this body in a swim suit? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Dorothy yawned as she put on her glasses, raised her eyebrows at her favorite niece, then looked down regretfully at her very ample self. Years of succumbing to her weakness for sweets and embracing her abhorrence of physical exertion had done her in.

  She accepted and liked herself as she was, but the thought of being seen in a swimming suit was just too much. Still, she was looking forward to the trip to the beach for the picnic, the scenery, and the company of family and good friends.

  Allison had been goading her Aunt about going for a swim all summer, even to the point of buying her a swim suit. “Come on, you see people of every shape and size at the beach. They’re not self-conscience, so you shouldn’t be either.”

  Dorothy appraised her niece’s slim figure. “That’s easy for you to say, Miss Skinny-Mini-Salad-Muncher,” she lightly teased her niece. She looked to her kitchen counter at the four plastic ice-cream buckets full of cookies, and the six dozen elaborately decorated cupcakes that she made the day before.

  “I don’t know Auntie, you may change your mind. It’s supposed to be in the upper 90’s by lunchtime.” Allison added the bowl of green salad to
the jumbo cooler that already contained pasta and fruit salads.

  Dorothy laughed. “You-know-where will freeze over before you get me in a bathing suit.”

  “If you-know-where did freeze over you wouldn’t need to get into a bathing suit.” Allison laughed with her Aunt while they packed up the supplies they would need for their day of fun in the sun.

  Later they unloaded the car at the picnic shelter, adding their contributions of food and games to the variety provided by their family and friends. There was a happy chaos of talking and laughing, the children racing all around with teenagers chasing after, trying to keep them out of the way and the damage to a minimum.

  Dorothy felt a small hand tugging on her skirt. She looked down at the leader of a mob of children crowding around her. “Miss An’erson! Can we have a cookie or maybe two or 'free? Peeease?” Little Sarah’s big brown eyes were filled with the knowledge that she would get what she asked for.

  Dorothy smiled at Sarah and her cohorts. She couldn’t resist their innocent pleading. “Sure honey, you may each have one cookie,” she beamed at the little ones. Sarah lived next-door and was a frequent visitor and goodie-moocher at her house. “But then no more sweets until after you all have some real food.” Dorothy handed cookies around the small group.

  Soon after lunch, the oppressive heat of early afternoon had adults wilting and children whining, everyone ready for a cool refreshing swim. Many of the group donned their suits and headed for the water. Allison and a few of the children, including Sarah, approached Dorothy. “Aunt Dorothy, are you sure you won’t change your mind? I brought your suit and an extra towel!”

  Dorothy wiped the sweat from her neck and under her eyeglasses with a paper towel and looked longingly at the people splashing and playing in the waves. “I appreciate your thinking of me, honey—It is a lot hotter than I was expecting, but I’m not that desperate!” She smiled at her niece, but thought, “It would be so nice to cool off!”

  Sarah piped up, “You should go swimmin’ Miss An’erson.” She looked up at Dorothy. “Hot peoples get heat-stroked, you know.” The little girl nodded her head and spoke very seriously. “An’ someone needs to watch me and keep the sea monsters away!”