Thirteen Steps

             Ancient echoes quivered with each step across the marble foyer. Dick didn't like coming home to an empty house and regretted giving Smithers the night off.  Nell’s happy chatter usually filled the rooms, but she wouldn't be with him for three hours. He had to let her go to the birthday party, she needed to play, be with other kids, eat cake and ice cream. 

            He poured himself a scotch, the leaded crystal decanter familiar in his hands. Memories of afternoon drinks with his father surfaced. Quiet conversations, the aroma of a good cigar, and a scotch always finished their day.  Dick tilted his head draining the glass, accepting the smooth burn as it caressed his throat.  The pleasantness past when the scotch reached his ulcers. They screamed. He didn't care. He stood a moment concentrating on keeping the contents of his stomach where they belonged. He won.

            “I've lost so much,” he groaned, “Let me have this.”

            The echoes followed as he counted thirteen steps across the cold marble dismissing a sense of foreboding that seemed to pierce his soul. 

            “Don’t be an idiot. She’s locked in the mental ward 200 miles away.”

            Dick walked slowly up the stairs he walked as a child, loving each creak in the old oak. Always the same creaks, always on the same stairs.  He entered the library welcoming the room’s cold kiss on his face. He rekindled the fire, staring at the flames as they licked the grate, allowing the heat to warm him from the outside in. 

            His childhood greeted him as he sat in the overstuffed chair. The same chair he sat in with his father, the same chair he sat in with Nell.   Dick was content when Nell sat with him by this very same fireplace watching as shadowed flames danced across dark paneled walls. He wanted her to read the very same books, and roam the very same halls he did as a child. 

            “Just, Nell and me. That’s good enough.”

             Dick and Jane married within six months of meeting. His dad warned him.

            “She’s like a trap set, just waiting for the rat.”  Dick didn't listen, which in after thought was odd, he usually listened to his father’s advice, but he was enamored with Jane. She was tall, gorgeous, and smart.  She responded to his touch as though she had been waiting for the conductor of her symphony. They blended perfectly. He wanted her.

            The first years were all he had hoped. They spent hours walking the wooded paths surrounding their estate, making plans, making love beneath the aged oak. Their Ballet complete, he would watch the moons light as it danced across Jane’s perfect skin. 

             The insanity crept in slowly, but soon Jane spent hours wandering the halls, peeking into closets and spare rooms, calling for him when she thought she saw something.

            “What did you see?” Dick would ask each time.

            “It moves so fast,” she cried, “I just see a blur.” He pleaded with her to get help. Her reply was always the same,

            “There is nothing wrong with me!”

            She quit eating and got so thin her veins looked like road maps beneath her white skin. Again he pleaded. Again her reply,

            “There is nothing wrong with me. Someone is trying to make me crazy.”

            “Is that why you don’t eat? You think someone is trying to poison you?”

             “Someone is trying to drive me insane! I won’t let them! Nothing from this house will touch my lips!”

            Jane vanished for days at a time and Dick began to think she was having an affair. When he confronted her she told him,

            “I hide in the woods when it gets too close.”

            “When what gets too close?” He would ask.

            “I don’t know.”

             He felt helpless. As the years wore on, Dick began to see he couldn't save her, but he couldn't leave. He asked his father why he loved an insane woman.

            “Why can’t I let her go? What’s wrong with me?”

            “I don’t know that there’s anything wrong with you,” His father replied, “You’re still in love with her,” but thought to himself. At 35 you’re still looking for the woman you lost when you were five.

            Dick begged Jane to get help. She begged him to believe her. After more years and countless doctors, no hope remained that she would ever be anywhere near sane. In her continued protests someone was after her, she refused any medication. Shortly before Dick was to serve divorce papers, Jane told him she was pregnant. If he hadn't had that one weak moment this would have been the second Immaculate Conception or…. someone else’s child.

            Dick knew six months after Nell was born she was his. The likeness to his mother cast away all doubts. Jane improved. Dick hoped. He didn't want to lose his wife. He was raised without a mother, the only other woman he had ever loved, and didn't want his Nell to have the same fate.

            He spent the next few years watching over this child, forever cautious, forever on alert. By the time Nell turned three, Dick was beginning to think Jane was somehow cured. She still ate little and refused any medication, but she seemed to be holding her own. He felt like he had been holding his breath for three years. 

            Dick heard a familiar creak and for an instant thought his father was coming up the stairs. Disappointment followed. His father had been dead five years. The fireplace crackled, bits of embers floated to the stone hearth. Dick watched as the cinders turned to ash. His eyes were drawn to the doorway. Anxiety’s mantle suddenly gripped him. His spine stiffened.

             “This is stupid,” he muttered as he got up to turn on the radio. Beethoven’s glory filled the room.  He refilled his scotch, winced, then poured another.

            The day he came home to find Jane hiding under their bed, five year old Nell held tight to her breast, was the day he knew she had to go. Dick was afraid of what she would do. To him or Nell.  Vague memories plagued him. Shadows roamed in the back of his head, but he could never bring them into focus. He wished his dad was still alive and wished he had listened to him sooner.

            He served Jane with divorce papers, got her an apartment in town, and never saw her again. He had no trouble convincing a judge she was unstable. Jane had supervised visits, but soon never kept her appointments. He and Nell were settling into a routine when he got the first call. He knew it was Jane… although she never said a word. He knew she was stalking him… although he never actually saw more than a red coat running away from him every time he turned around. 

            “Beethoven’s Fifth has been interrupted to bring a news bulletin. Three mental patients overpowered guards, killing one, escaping from Holly Oaks mental hospital. Two of the patients were captured in less than an hour. One still remains at large.”

            Dick didn't need to hear the name of the patient not yet in custody.

            Creak…creak…creak.

             Panic captured him. He reached for the crystal decanter; blood trickled down the etched glass as he tightened his grip. A familiar ache knotted his gut, he fought for control. He lost.  Dick leaned his head over the side of the chair. Vomit splashed the Persian rug like paint from a can; the green puke spread across the peacock’s tail, blending, merging.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A whispered call floated up the stairs.

             “Ricky. Ricky.”

            The sound of her voice hurled him to his feet… the crystal shattered. Bile rose in his throat. He refused it. Running across the library to a hidden panel, he pressed firmly. It opened. Dick removed the loaded rifle. He shoved the overstuffed chair till it faced the door, the fireplace roared at his back. He knew which step she was on by the sound of the creaks. 

            Creak, creak, thud. Creak, creak, thud.

            “I have a gun!” Dick hollered.

            “I have ammunition too.” She sang.

            “Jesus God. Jesus God.” Dick chanted.

            Creak, creak, thud. She was almost at the top of the stairs.

            “I don’t want to shoot you.” He rasped.

            “I’ve been dead for years.” She giggled.

            Dick’s dry eyes held the doorway. A woman entered, her red coat hanging loosely, her shining eyes barely visible through wild hair. Lost shadowed images crowded Dick’s brain.

            “I have something for you Ricky.” She held a rope in her hand, it hung slack… she pulled it to her. A guttural laugh escaped her throat.

             “I know you,” he whispered.

            “Of course you do,” she cooed.

            Dick sprang from his chair, the rifle firm against his shoulder. Stifled screams punctured the chilled air as scarred wrists pulled the knotted rope. Grunts escaped the graveled throat as she dragged her burden through the doorway. In triumph she held the rope high, her shining eyes dancing.

            “For you,” she murmured, pointing to her burden on the floor.                                                      The burden struggled… Jane lay at his mother’s feet… the rope tight around her slender neck.

             “Now do you believe me?” Jane gasped.

What Do You Mean You're In Labor

                                                         

                                                                                                               

Cast: Woman in labor-           (Sally)

          Frantic Brother           

          In- Law-                        (Jeff)

         New Father-                  (Bert)

         Sister in Law                  (June)

Scene 1: Front porch of small house.

              Early  morning

            

(Stage Direction: Doberman at open front door barking

                           Lady in bathrobe walking to the door

                          Pregnant lady at the door wearing a coat that doesn’t reach all the way around her belly.)

(Pregnant lady presses her nose against the screen door ignoring the barking dog. She has both hands holding onto her huge stomach.  Seeing June approach she starts talking before her sister-in-law reaches the door.)

Sally: I know it’s early, but I didn’t think I should wait any longer.

June: It’s six o’clock in the morning.  (June tries to open the door, but Sally has her body pressed against it, her tummy has made the screen pooch in.)

June: What the heck are you doing here so early on a Saturday? Where’s Bert? (June forces the screen door open takes Sally by the arm and brings her in.)

Sally: He’ll be here in a minute; he stopped at the store for a shoe string.

(June walks to the kitchen, Sally follows, they both sit.)

June: That’s nice; I guess you can’t have too many shoe strings.

(June rises and goes to the counter for coffee then sets a cup in front of Sally)

Sally: No thanks, I don’t think I’m supposed to eat or drink anything till after.

June: Till after what?

Sally: The baby.

June: You aren’t going to eat for a whole month?

Sally: Well, I’m hoping it won’t take that long.

June: What are you talking about?

Sally: I’m hoping my labor won’t last too long.

June: It’s a bit early to worry about that.

Sally: Not really.

June Will you please tell me what’s going on?

Sally: I’m in labor.

June: That’s not possible; you aren’t due for another month.

Sally: I guess I miscalculated.

June: You can’t be in labor. The room isn’t ready!

Sally: It’s ready enough.

(June quickly gets up and starts to pace.)

June: But I wanted to paint the walls.

Sally: Better hurry.

(June grabs the Lysol, a rag and a bucket of water then disappears into the bedroom.)

June: Wait there.

Sally: Where would I go? Shopping?

(June runs through the kitchen carrying a pile of sheets, throws them in the washer than runs back to the bedroom. Sally moves to the den and lies down on the sofa. An aroma of Lysol floats through the house.)

                                                       Ten Hours Later

(Stage direction: Sally is sprawled on the rumpled bed, June is nervously pacing, Bert pulls a shoe string from his pocket and holds it out to June.)

Bert: Could you put this in boiling water for 15 minutes?

June: What do you need an old used shoe string for?

Bert: I couldn’t find a store that was open so we have to use the lace from my shoe.

(Bert holds up his shoe to show it has no lace.)

June: What do you need it for?

Bert: To tie off the umbilical cord.

June: You waited ten hours to tell me you need a shoe string and you’re going to tie that dirty old thing around the umbilical cord?

Bert: That’s why I want you to boil it for 15 minutes.

June: What! You did research and know that 15 minutes will kill all the germs?

Bert: It’s all I have.

(June hurries to the kitchen and dumps her junk drawer onto the counter, finds a pack of shoe strings and brings them to Bert. June unwraps the shoe strings and holds them up to Bert. They’re about 12 inches long.)

June: Is this long enough?

Bert: They still have to be boiled.

Sally: What’s all the pounding?

June: Jeff is working on the plumbing.

Sally: Under the house?

June: That’s where we keep it.

Bert: Did he turn off the water?

June: Of course.

Sally: Does he have to work on it right now?

June: Excuse me, he’s nervous. We’ve never had a baby before.

Bert: But we need a pot of water to boil the shoe strings.

June: I’ll be right back.

(June runs to the kitchen, grabs a pot than runs to her neighbor’s house and pounds on the door. No one answers. She jumps off the porch, finds the hose, fills the pot, then goes home. She puts a lid on the pot, the pot on the stove, then returns to the bedroom.)

Bert: How long will it take to get the water hot?

June: I don’t know, it’s a big pot, maybe 30 minutes.

Bert: But she’s crowning, I don’t think we have that much time.

June: You didn’t really think all this through very well did you?

(June runs back to the kitchen, pours half of the water into a bowl and puts the bowl and the laces in the microwave for ten minutes. She’s talking to herself out loud.)

June: How much water do you need to boil a skinny shoe string?

(June runs back to the bedroom. Just as she enters Sally gives out a holler and a wet soppy baby is lying between Sally’s legs. )

June: Oh my!

(June runs back to the kitchen grabs the laces with a pair of tongs then runs back to the bedroom with the dripping laces held out in front of her.  From the front door they hear.)

Jeff: Okay, the water’s back on.

                                                                                                           

                                                                      

(Stage direction: June is standing next to Bert, he hands her the newborn, she wraps it in a blanket and hands it gently to Sally.)

June: Here’s your beautiful baby girl.

Sally: She is beautiful, isn’t she?

(June sits on the bed near Sally, her back is facing Bert. June and Sally coo over the baby. Bert wraps something in newspaper then taps June on the shoulder and hands it to her.)

June: What’s this?

Bert: The sac.

June: Sack of what?

Bert: You know the thing the baby came in. The sac.

Sally: It’s the placenta June, we need to get it buried.

(June stands up holding the damp newspaper away from her.)

June: It’s dark outside.

Bert: Take a flashlight.

June: I guess you better get right on that Bert, there’s a shovel in the garage.

Bert: I thought you would take care of it.

June: You thought wrong.

Sally: Bert, just go dig a hole, I’m too tired to listen to you two argue.

June: There’s no argument here!

Bert: But, don’t you think I should stay with Sally?

June: No!

Bert: But I need to get her cleaned up and into dry clothes.

June: I doubt she’s going anywhere just yet.

Sally: Bert, please just do it.

(Bert reluctantly takes the bundle from June and walks out the bedroom door. He meets Jeff at the front door.) 

Jeff: What ja got there Bert?

(June hollers from the bedroom.)

June: You don’t want to know Jeff, just get him a shovel.

(Jeff takes a few steps back. His face turns red, he starts to sweat.)

Jeff: I hope that’s not what I think it is.

Bert: Of course it’s what you think it is. Now, would you please get me the shovel?

Jeff: Why?

Bert: I want to bury it.

Jeff: Not in my back yard you aren’t.

Bert: Fine, I’ll bury it on the side yard. I don’t care where we bury it as long as it’s at least three feet deep.

Jeff: I don’t think it’s legal.

Bert: You don’t think what’s legal?

(Jeff hangs his head and whispers.)

Jeff: Bert really. Why are you getting us involved in this?

Bert: What am I supposed to do with it?

(A loud cry comes from the bedroom)

Jeff: What was that?

Bert: What do you mean what was that. Where have you been the last 13 hours?

Jeff: Under the house mostly.

Bert: Why were you under the house?

Jeff: I was trying to keep out of the way.

Bert: Yes, but why were you staying out of the way?

Jeff: There was a lot of noise and screaming and stuff.

Bert: So you know we just had a baby?

Jeff: I know that was the plan. I didn’t really like the plan, but I didn’t have a vote.

Bert: So if you knew labor was going on in your house I would assume you expected a baby to arrive eventually.

Jeff: Yes I did. But I didn’t expect to see what you have in that newspaper.

(Jeff steps back even farther)

Bert: What do you think this is?

Jeff: I don’t want to think about it.

Bert: Have you ever seen a baby being born?

Jeff: No.

Bert: Well, they come in a cute little sac and that sac has to be buried.

Jeff: So what your saying is, there’s no baby in the paper?

Bert: You thought I was going to bury the baby?

Jeff: What else would I think? I heard all the hollering, it didn’t sound good.

Bert: You have a lot to learn my friend. Now get me a shovel.

(Bert follows Jeff to the garage for the shovel and flashlight.  They both walk outside to dig a hole…on the side yard.)

La Habra 1957

                                                                                   

            One of the advantages of being a nine year old tom boy was being fearless. Okay, wrong word, but since this is my story, I will be fearless. Another advantage I had was being born on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn’t know it was the wrong side until I was in the fifth grade and a classmate told me. My neighborhood was called “The Camp.” I remember, sort of, that it was an army base at one time. The houses were made of tin and ours was painted Pea Green, maybe that was an army thing. The tract was surrounded by fields and the back field held more delights than can be imagined… Horses. Of course there was a fence around the horses and signs posted that read “Do Not Trespass,” but we didn’t mind that. We didn’t mind it almost every day.

            We could hear the horse’s neighs’ a block away as they lined the fence waiting for their treats of apples and sugar cubes. We didn’t have saddles and bridles, since we weren’t supposed to be riding the horses in the first place, so we had to ride them bareback. This presented the problem of getting on top of these magnificent animals. This problem was solved with some planning and careful timing.  My favorite horse was the one standing closest to the fence. I don’t know why we didn’t just use the gate, maybe it was locked and anyway the fence was easily climbed.  I had to be careful because sometimes I would get one leg across the horses back and he would walk away. There I would be dangling between the fence and the horse, and you know the horse won. If I was lucky, I missed the pile of warm manure the horse left behind and I still wonder if the horse didn’t plan for me to fall in the soft pile, I mean, his timing was perfect! Once on the horses back he would sometimes just stand there, but sometimes he would actually start walking, to my delight, around the paddock.

            The Miniature horses were easier to get on, but not as nice…I got bucked off every time. Bucked isn’t really the right word. When I knew he was getting mad, I would stand on tip toes and walk backwards as fast as I could, because he would kick up his heels, and getting hit with those hooves was a hard lesson learned. I loved walking around the corral, the smell of hay, the aroma of sweat, (mine and the horses) and I even liked the scent of manure. There wasn’t a better way to spend a summer day even though it was on the wrong side of the tracks. But really, how far on the wrong side could it have been, when we had hills to climb, horses to ride and Bastunchury Lake to fish in?

Another Ordinary Day

                                                                                                                       

          Lightning streaked across the black sky illuminating the old Eucalyptus. Wind swept through the tree thrashing the branches as though they were twigs, forcing them to the ground, beating the earth until the tempest past. The shaken limbs regained their height, trembling after the impact. Frank tiled his head back finishing the last bit of scotch, welcoming the warm liquid as it caressed his throat. He refilled his glass before returning to his chair.

          “Wish they would get home,”Frank whispered.                                                                            

 Frank expected his wife and children any time, Christmas was only days away and his wife had told him she needed to pick up a few things. She left dinner in the oven, so he headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t used to eating alone and if it hadn’t been for the rain and thunder, he didn’t think he would have been able to stand all the quiet, although he was always complaining about how much noise the kids made.                                                                                                                                                        

          “I guess I’m never satisfied,” He chuckled.

           Leaving the dishes on the table it occurred to him he should probably rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. 

         “I’ll get to it later.”                                                                                                                          

            He went back to the den where a stack of paperwork waited on the table. 

           “I should probably get that finished. What the hell, I’ve got tomorrow.”

          Frank freshened his drink, grabbed the newspaper then relaxed his tall frame into his favorite chair. There was an article about a drunk driver killing some pedestrians and Frank was glad he didn’t drink and drive, well, not lately. Sometimes, it couldn’t be helped. Like that time he had to pick up his twelve year old daughter, Amy, from school on the spur of the moment. He told his wife, Jenny, he hadn’t been drinking and not to worry.

           “I wonder if Amy ever told her mother I made her drive home. Must not have or there would have been hell to pay. That little Amy sure is a trooper.”

          Frank awoke with a start; the storm had passed leaving an eerie silence. He forgot where he was for a moment. He waited till his head stopped spinning then picked up his glass of scotch.                                                                                               

        “What would I do without you to get me through the day?”                                                 

        Frank was well aware of how his wife felt about his scotch consumption. He didn’t drink, not that much, when they first got married, but what with the kids and the business it seemed he was relying on it more and more every day. He had promised Jenny six months ago he would stop, but hadn’t kept his word.                                                                                                                 

     “I guess she’s gotten used to it.” Frank knew he had everything under control, including his drinking. He didn’t drink in front of the kids and his liquor cabinet was always locked. Jenny hadn’t complained for quite awhile.       

         “I sure married a great woman.”

          Frank wandered through the empty rooms. “Jenny keeps a nice house.” He past Amy’s room and noticed the big teddy bear he had given her wasn’t in its usual place on the bed. He opened her dresser drawers… empty. He ran to his son’s room… empty.  Panic swept over him as he ran to his bedroom. Everything looked normal. Walking quickly to his wife’s dresser he yanked the drawers open throwing them to the floor…empty. The noise in his head clapped like thunder. Frank sat on the bed until he could breathe, staring into the dark liquid he held in his two shaking hands. Forcing himself to his feet he walked slowly to the kitchen. Dropping two ice cubes into his glass he groaned,

           “I guess I don’t have everything under control.”

Penny and Grandma

                                                  

            A green pasture was the only separation between Penny and her grandma. Dainty yellow flowers bounced on slender stems across the field. Penny ran happily through the clover, jumping over small dirt mounds and gopher holes. She was surprised and delighted when she came to a mud puddle. Quickly taking off her sandals she stepped gently into the middle of the puddle, pressing her feet deep in the mud. She liked the way the mud felt. Little flat dark brown curly ribbons came up between her toes. She made an imprint of her hand in the firm mud around the edges of the puddle to bring to her grandma. Lightly tapping her muddy feet in the water, she rinsed them before putting her sandals back on.

            Penny easily climbed the five steps leading to her grandma’s front door. She sat down on the first step and removed her sandals, setting her hand print on the porch railing. When it was dry she would give it to her grandma.

            “Hello, my sweet Penny. I’ve been waiting for you. How would you like to make some oatmeal cookies?”

            “I love you, Grandma.” Penny put her seven year old hand into her grandma’s and they walked into the kitchen. Penny dragged the green step stool to the counter and climbed up.

            “I’m almost as tall as you Grandma.”

            “Yes, you are pumpkin.”

            Penny’s grandma always smelled of cinnamon. Her long gray hair was twisted into a bun and sat high on her head. Her apron had flour dust across the front and didn’t quite wrap all the way around, so there were flour handprints on her blue house dress. Grandma always wore an apron and a house dress and always had a dish towel over her left shoulder. Her house always smelled of bread, or pies, or cookies. It was the best place in the world to be.

            Grandma separated the cookie dough into two bowls. One bowl would have raisons and walnuts and the other would have only raisons. Penny carefully dropped the dough from a spoon onto the cookie sheet trying to make each one the same size. Her grandma whispered.

            “It doesn’t matter if they aren’t perfect, they will taste delicious.”

            Grandma poured two glasses of milk and she and Penny sat on the front porch eating warm cookies. Penny noticed her grandma’s large wrinkled hands. Blue veins showed through her thin skin. Her gold wedding band was worn thin from 50 years of wear. Penny set her cookie and milk on the table and crawled into her grandma’s lap. Rocking gently grandma held Penny close and sang sweet lullabies, the same songs she had sung to Penny’s mom, the same songs Penny would sing to her own children. Penny opened her sleepy eyes and looked across the field. Someone was walking toward them. Still nestled in her grandma’s arms she waited until the figure came into focus, then climbed down and stood with her grandma on the porch. Penny wrapped her arms around her grandma’s legs in a big hug, then ran down the steps into the field shouting.

            “Mommy, we made cookies!”

            Penny’s mom knelt down gathering her to her breast before picking her up and cradling Penny in her strong arms.

            ‘”Mommy, Grandma knows all our songs.”

            Penny giggled as her mom snuggled her neck.                                                                

           “Of course she does, my sweet.”

           

           

Ten Do's and Don'ts

                                                                            

      Remember this. No matter how much you do, no matter how much you give, no matter how much you love, you won’t make everyone happy, and that’s okay. You do the best you can and that’s all you need to do.

                                                                                                                    

1.       Don’t forget God.  Don’t wait until your teenager comes home with their hair dyed green before you re-connect with your Maker. You’re going to need all the kneel time you can get.

2.       Don’t hit your children.  They will soon be able to return the favor. Remember it’s okay to say no to the little dickens.

3.       Do live within your means. It’s actually alright for children to share a bedroom and a bath. With bunk beds you can really pack them in.

4.       Do smile upon your children’s sweet faces. We are the mirror in which they see the world. Will their world frown or smile on them?

5.       Don’t have children just because your mother wants grandkids. Unless she is willing to raise them and you get to visit once a week.

6.       Don’t forget to write it down. I can’t remember what it was at the moment, but I’m sure it will come to me later.

7.       Don’t be afraid to be afraid. No one else knows your stomach is in knots.

8.       Do learn to make bread. I mean the bread you eat, not the bread you spend. There is nothing better than the aroma of homemade bread fresh from the oven.

9.       Do have a cleaning lady. Someone to come in at least every two weeks to cleanup. I mean come on, how much are we expected to do?

10.   Do plant Sterling Roses and Double Delights. They are fragrant and lovely and will bring you joy.

A Perfect Summers Day

Susan felt it surround her like a warm sweater fresh from the dryer, that sense or smell of something in the air. She had to get into her new red convertible and drive with the radio blasting. She raced toward a feeling of well being and strength. Stopping at a red light the car next to her had their radio blasting too, she changed the channel so their music blended, floating on the perfect air. The other driver smiled at her as he sped off.

          “How nice,” she thought as she turned toward the mountain.                                                                                                                                             

 She hugged the center line of the curving road slowing just enough to prevent driving over the cliff. She had to resist the urge to close her eyes and tilt her head back, letting the sun and wind kiss her face. She felt young and vibrant and free. Halfway up the mountain Susan pulled over driving as close to the edge as she could and wondered what it would feel like to fly. She left the radio on and sat on the hood of her car. She was mesmerized by the sky’s clear pure beauty. Lying back, she let the music carry her.

          “How I love the clarinet,” she whispered as she listened to the ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ and silently thanked George Gershwin for writing it. 

          “I wish I had learned to play an instrument,” she mused. “There are a lot of things I wish I had done.”

          Susan pretended she was on vacation and flying over the ocean to a far away place. “I can practically feel the movement of the plane,” she thought. Perfect clouds formed perfect shapes in her perfect sky.

          “This is wonderful. I love that I have such a good imagination.”

          Susan sat up, keeping her eyes on the pure white clouds that seemed to float just out of reach.

          “Oh my,” she whispered, as the car slowly went over the cliff. “I guess I forgot to set the emergency brake.” She pressed her back against the windshield. “So this is how it feels to fly.” Susan stretched her arms wide as she floated on her pure clean air.

          The policeman reached in and turned off the radio as it blasted ‘Islands in the Sun.’ No one could figure out how she stayed on the hood of her car as it careened down the mountain, and even stranger, the smile that was on her face. The paramedics gently laid her on the gurney, then spread a sheet over her, pulling the straps tight across her chest. As they lifted the gurney into the ambulance they heard,

          “WEEEEE”.

          “Didn’t you check her pulse?” the doctor asked.

          “I thought you did.”

          “She isn’t dead.”

          “Of course she’s dead. Who could survive that fall?”

          “She didn’t really fall, she rode down the mountain.”

          “It’s probably just the last of the air escaping her lungs. Lift the sheet and take her pulse.”

          “You lift the sheet and take her pulse, you’re the doctor.”

          “You’re as much of a doctor as I am.”

          “Not really. You can operate, I can’t.”

          “Then operate that sheet and take her pulse. We need to know if she goes to the morgue or the hospital.”

          From under the sheet they heard a low moan,

          “Take me to the hospital. My back hurts a little.”