CAROL IS DEAD

Marie Jones sat alone in the corner of the funeral home parlor where her mother, Carol’s body lay in repose. The chatter of the sizable crowd of neighbors and one time friends flowed over her consciousness. Her brother Harold had not come for the funeral. Harold, whose lack of love for his mother was well known, had not been home for the past five years.

Carol’s care during her long illness had left Marie almost as lifeless as Carol. At first it was not so hard. Carol could manage the care of her bodily needs. But as time and disease ravaged her body care fell to Marie. For the last three years Marie had lifted, bathed, dressed, fed and diapered her deteriorating mother.

Marie was shaken from her thoughts by David Harris, her nearest neighbor. “I am so sorry, Marie. I know it must be so hard for you to lose your mother.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“If we can do anything..”

“No”, Marie said wishing she had the courage to ask, ‘Where the hell were you when I needed help?’ “No,” she said “I’m ok.”

She closed her eyes and let her mind imagine what it would be like to go home to an empty house. Empty. But for Carol it had been empty for a long time. Her shaky relationship with Frank had fallen victim to Carol’s intrusion into their lives. Frank had given her an ultimatum. “Either she goes or I go.” Marie could not fault Frank. Had it been his mother she would have done likewise.

What should she have done? What could she have done?  Her mother had no money, nowhere to go, no one to take care of her. Carol’s hostile, demanding, unappreciative behavior had proven the end of Frank, the end of her marriage, the end of her hopes of a family of her own. And the beginning of Marie’s withering spirit and life.

One by one neighbors filed by her. “Marie, she’s in a better place.”  “”She’s not in pain anymore.”  “You took such good care of her.”

Words, words, words. Words pierced the spaces of her thoughts. “I know,” she muttered over and over.

Her mother was better off.  She was no longer in pain. Marie had seen to that. Carefully for months she had monitored and measured  pain medication, daily putting aside some until ---.  She had watched as her mother took that last dose.  Yes, her mother was in a better place.

And certainly Marie was.

THEFT AT THE FARMERS' MARKET

The farmers’ co-op was at odds with itself. Complaints equaled accolades.  Accolades  were  widely proclaimed; complaints – it was hit or miss.  Wealthier  farmers  got attention; others were not so fortunate.

So it was with Charlie who had avidly welcomed the local co-op. It gave him access to big buyers like Bush and De Monte; it eliminated the long haul and overnight stay in Knoxville.

Farmers  delivered their produce to the co-op shed  at  day’s end where it was weighed, labeled and set up on tables for the next day’s auction. Early the next day buyers arrived in their big cars; trucks arrived as did the farmers with their table number certification in hand. By noon it was over.  The trucks were loaded; contracts were signed. Checks would arrive later.  Clean and efficient.  A system that worked for most and was appreciated by most.

Charlie’s doubts and questions came intermittently.  Sometimes the produce he left behind at the end of the set up day looked different from the produce he saw the day of the auction.  Was it possible that someone was switching produce?  Knowing he was at the bottom of the pecking order he said nothing.  He watched, he noted, and he watched until he was sure. And he acted alone for he trusted no one.

On his chosen day for action he delivered  his load of green peppers. He watched as they were weighed, placed in crates and placed on the sale table. No one paid any mind to Charlie sitting near his crates on table 9 and whittling. No one noticed as Charlie scratched his initials on the sides of his crates.

Charlie arrived early the next morning. His crates had been replaced. Up and down the tables he went until he found his marked crates on table 2.  Charlie waited for the table tenant to arrive. Howard Cox from the biggest farm in Rockwood.  Charlie continued to wait until all farmers and buyers were there. He climbed up on the edge of Howard Cox’s table and yelled.  “This man stole my peppers.”  

The buzz activity stopped immediately and all eyes were on him. Charlie presented his case.  One by one all eyes moved from Charlie to Homer.  Homer watched  the farmers helped  Charlie reclaim his crates.

MARGIE'S SECRET TREASURE

This task I so confidently  accepted three weeks ago has challenged and humbled me.  It is not easy to come up with a fewer than 1000 word mystery every week.  But I will keep trying. Thus my new effort—

MARGIE’S  SECRET TREASURE.

The clutter in Harry’s barn challenged description.  Piles of magazines, stacks of books, shelves of bottles and endless rows and columns of boxed whose contents,  if truth be known, even Harry had long forgotten. What better place to hide treasures, treasures of mice, litters of stray cats, hibernating snakes and shelter seeking  wasps.

So thought Margie who for years had nagged Harry to get rid of ‘some of that junk’.  To no avail.  Harry’s stock response was ‘you never know when you might need it’.

It was the bane of Margie’s life for years.  Until Harry died.  He had been central to her life for fifty years.  Fifty years of adventure, ups and downs, tears and laughter, and most of all consuming love.

Harry’s enthusiasm for life knew no end, no end until he met his end, the victim of a drunken driver, leaving behind his wife, his barn, the storehouse of his  life.

Margie met  her loss, alternating between despondent inertia and frenetic activity.

Sort, donate, trash.   Organize, give, toss.  Day after day, month  after month.

At the back of a three tiered stack of boxes she found the wooden trunk, stored unexamined, in the barn after Harry’s mother died. The trunk cleared of dust, mouse drippings, dead lady bugs and abandoned snake skins spoke of another time.  With apprehension, hope and wonder Margie opened the trunk. Fragile crumpled newspaper cradled  hidden items  which Margie eyed with wonder and handled with care. She picked up the first item, carefully removed it the newspaper—The Philadelphia Inquirer, Jan 1925.

Margie rowed up twelve unwrapped  coffee/tea cups and eleven matching  saucers deep enough to be considered bowls. A jingling Clabber Girl Baking Powder resisted her attempts to open it. Margie shook it gently, then vigorously producing the sound of cheap castanets . Tapped gently with the wooden end of a screwdriver,  squirted  liberally with WD-40 the lid yielded.  Inside the can were marbles – aggies and cats eyes. When Margie dumped the marbles into her hand small pieces of marbles slipped through her fingers onto the barn floor. Margie picked up one of the pieces – no color, no evenness. These were not marble shards.  They were – she dared not think that.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered to the barn walls. ‘I am rich.’  She returned the Clabber Girl can contents, refitted the lid and replaced it in the trunk. One by one she rewrapped and carefully positioned  the cups and saucers atop her treasure. She  re-stacked the boxes above the trunk.  No one need know she was rich.