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“Okay, hold him up a little higher…”

“Hurry up, he’s heavy!”

“Got it!”

It’s amazing how much a seven-month-old weighs when you’re holding him over your head. I swore I felt the beginnings of muscle fatigue as I settled Sam into the crook of my arm. The life-size cardboard cutout of Elvis, with Sam beside him, would make a fun addition to the ever-expanding cache of baby pictures.

It was Christmas weekend, cold and bright, and the rest stop was full of happy tourists. Many of them toted cameras like Jim’s, and were snapping pictures of their kids in the play area. One man in particular caught my attention. “Hon? Look over there.”

Jim paused to see where I was pointing. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a man on a bench. But there was something…

His hair was blond, the sort of pale golden shade that rarely lasts past childhood, and his face was ageless. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. His clothing was simple, functional. Jeans, boots; a denim jacket with a sheepskin collar. His attention was on the children at play, and a benign smile softened his features.

As I watched him, I came to realize that he was focused on one little boy. Son? Grandson? Had to be. Surely such a nice, ordinary-looking man couldn’t be one of… those kinds of people.

Jim seemed to share my fascination with the stranger, and clicked off several shots with the camera. It’s our shared hobby, that camera. Jim takes endless pictures and I fill endless photo albums. Nine times out of ten, they’re just ordinary photographs. Every once in a while, though, magic happens. A single ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate a perfect rose. A diamond-bright drop of water preparing to fall from an icicle. A cherub-faced Sam, looking impossibly tiny as his two-week-old self is cradled in my hands. These are the moments that feed the shutterbug.

Jim and I headed back towards the main building of the rest stop. I wanted to check the state map; Jim was probably looking for one more picture. We’d taken about ten steps when the scream froze us both in our tracks.

It was like being underwater. That cliché about everything moving on slow motion? It’s true. Time slowed to a crawl as we watched, helpless to stop the scene that unfolded before us.

The little boy who had been the object of interest for the blond stranger had tired of his play. Breaking loose from his mother’s hand, he bolted for the family car across the parking lot. He almost made it.

The car that skidded toward him is permanently engraved on my mind. Lime green, with rust around the fender wells. A crack in the windshield. The obligatory fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. The worn tires that lost traction on a patch of ice and sent the car straight for the little boy.

The boy’s mother was screaming as she ran, a look of horrified certainty on her face. Jim ran, too, stumbling over a clod of frozen dirt. Everyone in the area ran, but none of them had a hope of reaching the little boy. Except one.

Out of absolutely nowhere, the blond stranger swept the frightened little boy into his arms and out of harm’s way. The car screeched to a halt, the driver’s eyes wide and terrified. His shocked and babbling apologies were lost amid the tears and cheering from everyone who had witnessed the event.

We all took turns hugging the sobbing, elated mother and her boy. And the stranger? He faded into the background. The boy’s mother couldn’t even find him later to pour out her thanks.

Jim and I talked about that moment for the rest of our trip. We couldn’t wait to print the pictures we’d taken. When they came back, I flipped through to the rest area shots. The temperature of the room dropped about ten degrees as I looked at the blond stranger.

There was a flaw in the film. Well, not a flaw, but something none of us had seen at the time. Hovering above the blond stranger, as he watched the little boy he was soon to save, was a pair of large shadows.

Wings.

By Penny Dreadful

Off to work

Mary smiled ruefully to herself as as the sound of her husband's voice boomed out,

"Do you know where my suit is? I can't find it in its usual place and I'll be late."

She slipped the clothes brush back into the pocket of her apron.

"I'm just brushing it now dear." Amusement glittered on each syllable.

The sound of embarrassed masculine grumblings bounced around the upper storey before the stairs complained under the onslaught of stockinged feet.

Men! She smiled. Nick claimed to have a 20/20 memory but the reality was so different. How he managed to get all his work done was a wonder in itself, though she supposed in fairness to him that he was a good manager and he certainly delegated work to his staff properly. She knew how stressful it was at this time of year, all those orders to process and everyone wanting their own one dispatched before Christmas as if they were the only clients.

He snuggled behind her and circled her waist, giving her a quick squeeze - Mary was sure he'd put on a bit of weight and Christmas wasn't over yet; there was plenty of time to add to that tummy. She knew he'd over-indulge as usual, mince pies were just too tempting.

"Thanks Mary. I don't know how I'd cope without you."

"Poppycock. You managed perfectly well before we were married and you're just as good at your job now. They won't be putting you out to grass just yet."

His lips squeezed in a tight line, tension darkening crow's feet around his eyes. It was always the same, but she knew he'd get by. He always did. She turned, lifted her head and kissed him, seeing when she opened her eyes his whole face bathed rosy in love-light.

"Away with you now. Go on, off you go." She turned to the kitchen, fussing with something as much to hide an incipient tear at his vulnerability as to encourage him to get dressed and out to work. In due course she heard the door close and his footsteps crunching outside.

She gave him a few minutes, then unable to resist she opened the door and felt the age-old rush of excitement as Nick flicked the reins making the reindeer explode into the night sky, Nick a scarlet blur on the sleigh behind them.

By Penny Dreadful

Never Too Old

The air was crisp to the point of freezing, the kind of day when the atmosphere was so still and cold that it seemed as if the smallest noise would bring the whole edifice of the day tumbling down like so much shattered glass. Streaks of pale cloud flitted high across a water-blue sky, seemingly afraid to venture closer to the ground whose coldness crept insidiously through the soles of the man's shoes. He stood immobile, incapable of anything save the essential task of being there.

A thrush sang on the winter-weeping branch of a birch tree, and the man felt a despair bordering on anger well within him that this creature could be so free, so happy, when the world had ended.

He looked to the sky through tear-glazed eyes and sniffed not so much as a result of the cold, but in a desperate battle not to utterly humiliate himself by breaking down in public.

The minister’s words and the quiet rattle of soil on a coffin lid caused a thickening in his throat so complete that he felt as if he would never breathe again, a situation which appealed to him just at that moment.

Walking away from the grave, the leaves crackling in their frosty coats under his feet the last thing he needed, wanted, was comfort, but he accepted his mother's arm more for the form of the thing, her embrace and her shoulder (offered as unconditionally as a mother's always are) for his tears.

You are never too old.

By Penny Dreadful

The Eyes Have It

Didn’t matter none how big a man you were, or thought you were, when she give you That Look you’d feel two inches high and green as grass.

I seen it once. Them eyes of hers would go from summer-sky blue to ice, so cold they’d freeze right to your soul. Yeah, I seen it once, aimed my way. Don’t much care to see it again.

About six months after her man died, it was. Jim Highson was what you’d call a regular feller. A good word for everybody and a good day’s work for his pay. He was crazy for Molly from the day he fetched his cart up against hers at the market. Any other man would’ve gotten That Look, but any other man wasn’t Jim Highson.

They got hitched close on a year later. It worked for ‘em. The usual ups and downs, the house, crops, the cars, dinner with the neighbors. No kids, but it happens that way sometimes. Fifteen years into it, the big C takes Jim and leaves Molly with a hunnerd-sixty acres and one hired man to tend it. That’s me, and that’s the job I been doin'. One of ‘em, anyhow.

So Jim was gone and Molly was alone. Folks is practical around here; they figured she’d grieve a proper length of time, then see about findin' a new man to mind the land, the accounts, all that. A rich, good-lookin' widow is a popular lady, but not all widows’re like Molly. I’d be workin' on whatever, tractor maybe, and here comes this one or that one, duded up with flowers in hand. Wouldn’t take but a few minutes of him yappin' before That Look showed up on Molly’s face and he’d slink out of there.

After a few weeks of this, word started goin' around that Molly was gettin' above herself. I was on my third cup of coffee at the café when I caught a drift of conversation.

“…needs to be taken down a peg…”

There was a little more to that effect, and some more I didn’t hear, but the meanin' was plain. Thing of it was, Molly wasn’t the type you could just tell somethin' like this to. I never got the chance to, anyhow. By the time I’d finished my business in town, it was goin' on dark. By the time I got out to Molly’s to check on her, it was full dark.

There was a car in the drive.

I knew that car, and I knew who’d be in the house. The Dempsay brothers could be called the rotten limbs on their family tree. After so many years of Juvie and real jail and who knows what-all, their folks had given up and written ‘em off. Now they was here to, as they said, take Molly down a peg.

I looked in the window, figurin' to check the lay of the land. Even without the tumped-over chairs and such, it was plain there’d been trouble. Molly was backed up against the china hutch Jim’d given her on their fifth anniversary. Her sleeve was tore, and the corner of her mouth was bleedin'.

I could hear what was bein' said, but I won’t go into that. Let’s just say that the Dempsays was statin' their case and decidin' who’d go first. They mighta been too drunk to try, but not too drunk to put Molly in a hurt.

They was also too drunk, and too busy arguin', to notice that Molly had slipped into the drawer of the hutch and pulled out Jim’s tenth anniversary present. Those ice-chip eyes of hers blinked twice, once for each shot.

I made sure to announce myself on the way in the door, I can tell you.

We stood there some minutes, the clock ticking, us thinkin' and the Dempsays very dead. Finally, I cleared my throat.

“You, uh, want me to call somebody…?”

Molly leveled That Look at me. Two inches tall and green as grass.

“Just get the shovel, Frank. Put ‘em out with the others.”

By Penny Dreadful

The Mulberry Bush

“Hello. This is Nicola Paddock and I’m calling from Manfield Engineering.”

“Very well thank you, and yourself?”

“Good. Yes, it’s been quite a long time.”

“I’m just phoning to check the progress of one of our orders.”

“Two months ago; we placed it on 21st July.”

“Yes, I’d expected to receive it by now.”

“Ah, our order number is 26549. That’s Manfield Instrumentation. ”

“Thanks.”

“Yes it was a special. You were going to make it for us, said it might take six to eight weeks.”

“Oh, right, you’ll check. Thanks. No, I’ll hold on.”

***

“It should be ready for despatch tomorrow?”

“Good. Thanks.”

“I’ve just had an idea, we did move premises recently and you might have the old address.”

“Yes, we’ve been using up old order forms. We might not have written in the new address. Yes, bit of a money saving binge at the moment.”

“Right then. Our new address is: 15 Victory industrial estate, Manfield, postcode Mama Alpha 34, 6 Papa Oscar.”

“Oh, you can’t accept a change of address over the phone. No, that’s OK, we’ve got exactly that policy too, can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry phoning up to change addresses can you?”

“So if I drop you a note on company letterhead with the new address on it then that’ll be OK? No, that’s fine, no trouble.”

“So do I post it for your attention to 57-59 Long Road, Low Wiccombe?”

“No?”

“So you’ve changed address too? That’s a co-incidence.”

“Bigger premises then?”

“So if you just drop me a note on your company letterhead with your new address on it…”

By Penny Dreadful

Best Served Cold

The books always make it seem surreal, I think. I mean really, how often do wronged wives behead the lovers – or cut the brake line of the family car? Honestly. No, in real life that’s not the case. Prison cells would be full of women who had grounds for hysteric actions, lawyers making a fortune and citing moon cycles and hormone studies as defense suits. In real life, revenge has to be something…. subtle. Spiteful, pointed… poking a stick in the eye without anyone else really seeing it; know what I mean?

Not that I ever consider anything I would do would really constitute a vengeful act. I just don’t have the stomach for it.

I’ll just another sip of my tea while I calm a bit more. Really, I must be quite rational here. 10 years of marriage is not to be taken lightly, and I do have to think of my social standing. 10 years with this miserable stinking bastard who thinks its fine to dilly dally with his floozies… but I digress. Sorry. I should be thinking calm thoughts. Yoga was good for that – all that standing on my head and chi and blood flow and stuff. It was just terrible when our yogi slipped down the stairs after class that day – and just steps in front of us all, too! I wasn’t able to run down and help her as fast as the others, even though I was the closest – it must have been that extra 15 pounds she said I was carrying. Slowed me down a bit I guess. I hear the neck brace comes off in a few weeks and they expect she’ll be walking again come November.

There, that’s better. I feel much calmer now – thanks.

You know me, actually. I am the smooth, sleek haired Real Estate agent that everyone waves at on the way through the arcade. Or maybe I am the woman who wears the white jacket and holds the orange flag as she stands in the centre of the road, ensuring the school children cross safely. I am reliable, mildly invisible, and solidly dependable. I smile, I nod, I wave and I know everyone’s name. So while terrible things seem to happen to people around me, I remain untouched. Charmed, some say.

Perhaps so. I just like to think I am nice. Noble, you know.

I would never do anything nasty. Even when Sylvia from work stole my submission for the council application and put it into the manager in her own name. Of course I was peeved, but really, it wasn’t worth getting my knickers in a twist about. Funny, though, how she became so ill with the runs for days afterwards and was not able to attend the interview for the position. Imagine 3 days of stomach cramps out of the blue, just like that! Right about the time the syrup of Ipecac went missing from the first aid supplies too. Certainly made me chuckle! I do hope she liked the lamb stew I sent over to help her recover and gather some nutrients again.

Oh, and then poor Lydia. Remember her? At the Christmas party, too! In her pretty red dress and sparkly earrings, she was the centre of attention, and my, didn’t I make sure that told her how gorgeous she looked in those oh-so-high heels! Why, I even offered to hold her purse and fur coat while she went to the ladies room. Well, it wasn’t really a room, was it? One of those portable toilet rooms they had installed on the green especially for our outdoor party. Of course, when the cubicle tipped over, everyone came rushing to help – and wasn’t I the one who took her home, paid the cab fare and all? Leaving a party through the middle of the fancy white gazebo covered in excrement in front of 200 people is bad enough – paying the cab fare was the least I could do.

I am nice like that.

And of course, there was Jackson. He never did find out who poured milk through the open sunroof of his sport scar while he was on his overseas trip, did he? Mind you, it was helpful to me because I did not have to listen to those damn wheels spinning at 4AM every goddamned day as he sped off to his job at the bakery. Apparently they could not remove the smell at all. Bugger that his insurance had lapsed, he didn’t even notice it never arrived in his mailbox, yet the company says they posted the renewal at the same time they do every year. He does not seem to mind catching the bus too much… and I even offered to feed his cat every afternoon for him. I mean, a 2 hour commute twice a day does make the working day long.

Nice cat, and now I can lock her inside between feeds I don’t even have to worry about those nasty little gifts she would leave on the front mat from time to time. See? Nice person.

But husbands… husbands who cheat. Maybe they do deserve a little taste of their own medicine.

What do you think? After this nice cup of tea is downed, I am thinking I may have to indulge in a little revenge, just this once…

By Penny Dreadful

Jam - Part 2

“Well?” There was a hint of impatience in the voice.

“Errr.”

“Yes?”

“It seems weird but either everyone’s playing a trick on me or I’ve lost a day somewhere.”

The older woman’s brow furrowed. “Sorry?”

“Well, everyone says it’s Tuesday, even the newspaper, but I‘m sure it‘s Monday. I seem to have missed yesterday completely. I didn’t come to work yesterday, I‘m sure. It‘s ridiculous but...” Alice petered out, but was amazed when the nurse seemed to take her complaint seriously and didn’t dismiss it as hysteria.

“Hmmm. This might just be a more mild case of a lost weekend. Were you drinking at the weekend?

“No.”

“Did you take anything? It’s all right, it is confidential, it won’t go on your record.”Alice was confused, and showed it.

“Drugs, dear.”

“Oh, no, I’ve never done drugs.”

“That’s odd. And you’re sure it’s Monday?”

“Completely. But everyone else says it’s tomorrow, well, it’s tomorrow now for me, but today for…” She dried up in the grammatical tense-tangle which time travel induces.

“So you think it’s today, but everyone else says it’s tomorrow?”

”Yes.” Alice found her voice retreating into itself in the face of this questioning.

“You don’t think it’s yesterday once more? Because that would be Carpenter’s syndrome, and that’s much more serious.”

“No, it‘s today, today.” Alice wasn’t sure whether she’d have preferred just to be laughed out of the room. Mrs White’s understanding was unnerving. Her confusion mangled her grammar further. The next question caught her completely unawares though.

“What did you have for breakfast?” There was a quizzical, thoughtful expression on the nurse’s face.

“Sorry?”

“What did you have for breakfast?” The beginnings of exaggerated patience this time.

“Err, tea, and two slices of toast and jam.”

A ghost of something flitted across the older woman’s face.

“A new jar?”

“Yes.”

“Difficult to open?

“Yes.”

If you asked her, in later life, about that moment Alice would have said that it really did appear as if a light bulb switched on in Mrs White’s face. She’d always thought the metaphor overworked, but here, for the first time, she saw it in real life. The nurse nodded knowingly, confidence shining through her papery skin, and inhaled a deep satisfying draught.

“Thought so; that would do it.”

“What do you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you can have jam yesterday, or jam tomorrow, but never jam today. Because you were so determined to have jam it can’t be today for you, so you’ve skipped straight to tomorrow.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Really?” Whilst the logic was sound its application to the everyday world left Alice even more confused. There was a pause whilst she tried to ally herself with this bizarre notion.

“I recommend that you don’t worry about it, and in the morning it will have sorted itself out.” How could the nurse be so casual about it? She’d lost a whole day, and goodness knew what the wages office would do if they found out.

“As long as you don’t have any more jam of course.”


By Penny Dreadful