Six Hearts Under the Christmas Tree - Michael Henry

CHAPTER 1

    One of the perks of staying in an executive suite in one of the best hotels on New York’s Fifth Avenue was the grand piano in the living room. Over the six months of their stay, Veronica had become used to waking up to the sound of Katrina running scales or trying new material, but what was with her playing the Wedding March?

    Opening the door of her own room, Veronica was greeted by the sight of her best friend, client and employer, Katrina Marshal, grinning from ear to ear while she thumped out the notes and sang, "tum tum tetum, tum tum tetum." The singer was dressed in the Christmas pajamas she’d worn for the last scene of the special they’d shot last night--a gift, probably, from the delighted and grateful sponsor.

    "Going for grand opera next?" Veronica asked as she poured her first coffee from the room service carafe. "You’ll have to learn the words. I’m sure they insist on that."

    The pianist’s good mood was unflappable. "I happen to know the words Ms. Smarty Pants. I am, after all, the all-around musician that you, my super agent, keeps telling people I am. I think you’ve scared my fans into thinking they better buy my songs or I’ll go sing with the Met and they’ll have to endure culture in order to hear me. Do you want me to practice the piece for your big event? I can see it now. Me singing, accompanied by the New York Philharmonic, you in white with a fifty-foot train carried by cherubs. The groom can afford cherubs, can’t he?"

    "What in the world are you talking about?" Veronica demanded.

Katrina pointed to a small package resting on the piano next to Snuggle Mutt, the toy Dachshund that Veronica had given her for Christmas when they were in the second grade. The box was tied with red and green silk ribbons, and the toy wore a seasonal collar and red cap. "Those came this morning. Room service brought them up with breakfast."

    "Oh my God, it can’t be," Veronica moaned.

    "It’s the right size," Katrina said. "And that store doesn't exactly sell bonbons. If you don’t open it, I’m going to."

    Veronica opened the package, then the box inside. Katrina sat back at the piano and played the first few bars of 'Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend.'

    "You could sprain a finger wearing that rock," she said.

    "Oh lord, I hope this doesn’t get out," Veronica said.

    "Well, actually," Katrina reached into the piano bench. "You should maybe see this morning’s papers?"

    "I’ll kill him. I’ll murder him. I don’t know what I’ll do." Veronica was now pacing while reading the gushing news spread over not only the society pages, but a few front pages as well.

    "It was on the morning shows too," Katrina said. "Let me see, what kind of announcement will you guys have? I know! Alix Retstone, the nicest, most handsome, richer than just about anybody and only about two hundred dead English relatives away from being king, announces his intention to marry Miss it doesn’t count if I haven’t made it by the sweat of my own brow, can’t imagine why anyone thinks I’m a success, and doesn’t think she deserves the best. How’s that?"

    "Cute. You know perfectly well I haven’t said yes to Alix. I just don’t know if I love him."

    "From the size of that rock, I’d guess he’s in love with you," Katrina said.

    "You still don’t get it." Veronica said. "The Retstones don’t marry for love. To them, a wedding is a merger with flowers and champaign thrown in. This last six months with Alix has not been a whirlwind romance. It's been an extended job interview."

    "Some interview, some job," Katrina said, and swung into a blues version of 'Santa Baby.'

    Veronica went on, "I should have been suspicious when he didn’t just happen to meet me. He had my bio memorized that first night."

    "You were flattered," her friend reminded her. "And you said yourself, very rich people have to be careful whom they date."

    It had happened the previous May at the party welcoming Katrina to New York for her six-months-long Broadway appearance. The star had dutifully allowed herself to be introduced to the critics and editors, most of whom had come for the free drinks, as well as the dignitaries, who wanted to meet and be photographed with the star. After the news people had gone off to file their stories and the crowd had thinned down to a few hangers-on, the guest of honor did what she always did in social events, organized an impromptu jam session with the other musicians.

    Satisfied that she had accomplished a good evening’s work, arranging just the right mix of publicity to guarantee sold-out houses well through Thanksgiving and beyond, Veronica sought out some alone time. The rooftop balcony was perfect for what she had in mind, contemplating the lights of the city that had once been the culmination of her dreams and ambitions. Lost in memories, she had been mildly annoyed at the interruption, then curious about the tall, impeccably-dressed man who joined her carrying champagne and two glasses.

    "That lighted corner office, two buildings over, would have been yours if you had stayed in New York," he said. "Your old boss says you could have it now if you wanted. The partnership offer is still good."

    "You seem to know a lot about me," Veronica had answered, accepting a glass. "It’s Mr. Retstone, isn’t it?"

    "Please, call me Alix. We met a year ago at a fundraiser for some disease or other. Before then, back when you were about to move into that corner office, you handled the PR for some of the family’s charities. You were destined to be the partner in charge of good works."

    It was flattering, and fun, being pursued by the best-looking millionaire in New York. And their six-month affair was nothing short of amazing.

Dates with Alix ranged from hotdogs in the park to opera in Vienna. Everything necessary for a fairy-tale romance was present, except the feelings. The word love never came up, even at Thanksgiving when Alix began to talk about a 'permanent union.'

    It was then she realized, she was being recruited for a job.

                                                                           * * *

    "So it’s a job," Katrina said. "...with so many down-sides." She played a dirge on the base keys. "Like being driven in limos, flying in private airplanes, houses all over, travel, hot and cold running servants, hopping over to Paris to shop. You poor thing, how will you cope?"

    "Not interested," Veronica said. "I like driving myself, we already fly first class, one half a house is good enough for now. Heaven knows the last ten years have cured me of the travel bug, and I prefer to do my shopping from the LL Bean catalogue, thank you."

    Katrina put on one of her rare serious faces.

    "Alix has his good qualities too, you know,” she said. “He’ll never be unfaithful. He’ll always be reasonable. You haven’t complained about him as a lover, and I just know he’d be a wonderful father. So you don’t feel mad, weak-in-the-knees romance. You could do a lot worse. We both could. We have, in fact."

    "Don’t you see?" Veronica said. "He would be all of those out of duty. The Retstone men have duty pounded into their heads from the time they start to walk. Is it too much to expect all of that, simply because he loves me?"

    "Maybe," answered the singer. “...it’s time to be practical."

    Veronica looked at her friend in amazement. Of all the characteristics that made up the beautiful, talented Katrina Marshal, practical was not one.

    She wondered what could be going on under that gorgeous mop of red hair.

                                                                          * * *

    Veronica had planned the day around three main tasks: finalize their Christmas-giving list, deal with an unpleasant situation in Brookline...and, deliver Katrina and herself to the airport in time for the five o'clock flight.

    She opened her laptop, thought for a moment, sighed, and closed it.

    "I’m going to have to go see Alix before we leave New York," she stated.

    "Seems like maybe one of those things you really need to do," Katrina agreed.

    Veronica thought over her now-shattered schedule. She hated having plans disrupted.

    "We’ll have to go over the charity list tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I’ll deal with Alix, then the other problem, and be back in plenty of time for the airport." She didn’t believe in pushing her luck where deadlines and airline schedules were concerned.

    Katrina offered to step in. "I’ll go to Brookline. After all, he is my problem. I should be the one to deal with him.”

    "That’s what you have me for," Veronica reminded her. "Besides, you’re way too soft-hearted. You’re the talent, I’m the hard-hearted one. Let’s each play to our strengths."

    As she headed for her room to shower and dress, she heard Katrina play and sing "Hard Hearted Hanna the Vamp of Savanna."

    Veronica showered quickly and put on the one outfit she hadn’t packed, winter boots with a good tread for icy sidewalks, a dark gray wool skirt that brushed the top of those boots, a white blouse and a light gray cardigan. She finished dressing for the weather with a matching gray leather coat and Irish rain hat.

    Stepping out of her room, Veronica found Katrina still at the piano, working over variations of the same song. As she stuffed her slim briefcase, she joined in singing the phrase, "I saw Hanna down by the shore, pouring water on a drowning man."

    "Just getting in the right mood," Veronica said as she let herself out the door.

    "You know why she’s going to turn him down, don’t you?" Katrina asked the stuffed dog. "Us, of course. She doesn’t think I can manage on my own. And darn it, she’s probably right."

    The toy had patches of fur missing from being held. His button eyes didn’t match and one ear had been poorly repaired. Katrina’s fans sent her a constant stream of replacement stuffed dogs, which Katrina passed on to Christmas toy drives.

    Only talking to Snuggle Mutt would do, when she needed to think.

                                                                           * * *

    If Veronica wanted a taste of what life as a Retstone would be like, she only had to step outside her hotel suite.

    The theater had treated their star soloist to the best. Their floor, just below the Presidential and Royal Suites, had a full-time concierge on duty, day and night, to see to the guests’ any need or whim.

    Upon seeing her, that gentleman quickly arose from his desk by the elevators.

    "Good morning Ms. Nobel," he said. "Allow me to say how happy we all are to read the news! And please convey my heartiest congratulations and best wishes to your husband-to-be. He is truly a lucky man. I speak for the hotel and staff, as well as for myself, of course."

    Veronica couldn’t help but laugh. "Andrei, you are a silver-tongued devil. I’ll pass on your regards."

    A door slammed at the end of the hall and a raucous voice spoiled the moment.

    "Daahling, there you are, the woman of the hour! You did it. You hooked the biggest fish in the pond."

    The woman hurrying to share the elevator with Veronica wore plain slacks, a sweater, dark glasses and a scarf over her pile of blond hair. It was a completely effective disguise, provided you had never seen a movie, watched television, or read a tabloid.

    The star turned from Veronica to the concierge. "See to it that Mr. uhh . . . "

    "Smith, Madam," Andrei said, in a perfectly formal, ice-tinged voice.

    "Yes, see that Mr. Smith gets breakfast, just eggs and bacon, and knows to check out before noon," the actress ordered.

    Turning her attention back to Veronica as they entered the elevator, she gushed,

    "Daahling, I’ve got to see that stone! You’re not wearing it? Of course, it has to be sized, doesn’t it? Is he going to stick you with a prenup? Don’t sign it, dear. I can give you the name of a lawyer who can tie it up in knots."

    The annoying woman stayed with Veronica as she walked through the lobby and out onto Fifth Avenue. It seemed the actress was an expert in the care and handling of rich husbands, of which she’d had several. Her lecture only ended when they stepped onto the street and were faced by a solid line of photographers.

    The actress preened. Veronica, used to being ignored by paparazzi, began walking away only to have half of the news hounds follow her.

    "Have you and Mr. Retstone set a date?" one shouted.

    "Will you keep your name?" another wanted to know.

    Flustered, Veronica turned. "There’s no news today. I’m on my way to talk to my fiancé now. When there are more details, we will announce them through the proper channels."

    Disappointed, some of the reporters turned back to the actress.

    "You just live a couple of blocks from here," one asked her. "What were you doing coming out of this hotel?"

    As a public relations professional, Veronica was interested in how the guilty party would answer.

    "Isn’t it obvious?" she heard the actress say. "I was here trying to convince Veronica Nobel to handle my career. We in show business are of course happy for her, but it’s so sad that we’re losing the greatest agent in fifty years. Katrina Marshal must be devastated. My heart goes out to her."    The PR side of Veronica had to admire the quick-witted lie. True, the actress, like many others, had pestered her to take her on, and had been turned down.    Somebody should ask about Mr. Smith. No he might have a wife who could be hurt. Leave it to his conscience, Veronica thought and walked rapidly away.

    She had other concerns.

    Had she just acknowledged her intention to accept Alix? Had she just settled for practical rather than love?

                                                                         *******

    Thank you for reading the beginning of Six Hearts Under the Christmas Tree. If you like this sample, I believe you will enjoy the full story of Veronica, Katrina and four others who are determined to find their life partners without all the nonsense of love and romance. That is until Christmas, an old boyfriend or two, a gold digging starlet. A vengeful hacker, and an overly ambitious government lawyer all conspire to spoil the most practical of marriage plans.    

    Six Hearts is available from Amazon http://amzn.com/B0063Q0PH8

Father Christmas - Elizabeth Ann Scarborough with K.B. Dundee

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring; not even a mouse. Rats! While I’d been out chasing vampires and zombies, my furry housemates had hunted all the fun prey. Now my fourteen feline roomies were all asleep, our human mom Darcy was gone for the weekend leaving us on our own with just a cat-sitter coming in to feed us, and I felt restless. I was nine months old, and this was my first Christmas.

It felt like something ought to happen. It felt like something was going to happen, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be in my boring house with my boring friends and relatives.

On the other hand, it was snowing outside. We were having a white Christmas. Bah, humbug. Bad weather is what it is, the kind that clots white cold stuff in your paw pads. Unacceptable. I would wait until the weather humans came to their senses to go out, I had decided.

That was before I heard the prancing and pawing of each little hoof, apparently coming from up on my roof. I sat down to think, curling my tail around my front paws, my calm pose betrayed only by a slight flick at the creamy end of my plumy appendage. There were stockings hung by the propane stove with care, but a trip down that chimney would be disastrous for anybody, since they’d just end up inside the stove and wouldn’t be able to get out. I considered waking my mother for a further explanation of the powers of Santa Claws. But then I thought that if anyone would know what was going on, it would be Rocky. I jumped onto the kitchen counter and stood against the corner cupboard. I am a very long cat, even without taking my tail into account. My front feet could just reach the top cabinet, where Rocky liked to lurk during the day. Inserting my paw beneath the door’s trim, I pushed. It smelled like vampire cat in there, but not as though the vampire cat was actually in there. Rocky was out. Well, it was night. He wouldn’t mind the snow.

Some more scrabbling on the roof, and I suddenly thought, what if Rocky has Santa Claws and is feeding on him? He might. He was my friend, but he was definitely no respecter of age, gender, or mythological belief system.

I bolted out my private entrance. Only Rocky and I were able to come and go through that new cat flap that had been installed for me since my last adventure. I had a chip in my neck that activated it. Rocky had my old collar containing a similar chip, the one I’d worn before I went to the vet and got tagged.

The cold air hit me with a shock, and the snow wet my pink paw pads, though the heavy tufts of fur between them formed natural snowshoes. I was a very convenient breed of cat for this climate, actually. Maine Coon cats, or their undocumented relatives like me, were built for cold and wet and according to the Critter Channel, used to be ships’ cats on Viking vessels. I didn’t mind a nice trip around the bay on a nice day, but this snow stuff wasn’t my cup of—well, snow.

I dashed into the snow without the benefit of any sort of vehicle, responding to the clatter, and from a safe distance, gazed back at the roof to see what was the matter. Other than snow.

The feel of the air shifted behind me, and I glanced back to see five deer step out of the moon shadows beneath the big apple tree. Nelda, Buck, and some other deer I knew fairly well—as well as a cat can know a family of deer, anyway—stood behind me, whuffing steam from their nostrils and looking up toward the noise.

I saw nothing special up there. Just weathered red tiles, our smokeless chimney, and snow falling on it.

“You guys weren’t just up there, were you?” I asked Nelda.

“No, silly. How would deer get on your roof?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “You know—it’s Christmas and everything, so I just wondered . . .”

“What’s that got to do with Christmas?” Nelda asked.

“Oh, grandma,” the young doe Gelda said, “Don’t you know anything? Spam is under the impression that all deer are like those horned ones who pull that sled across the sky.”

“What sled?”

“The one that’s on half the lighted windows downtown.”

Nelda shook her head, flipping off snowflakes melting on her muzzle. “Christmas is very confusing. I’ve been through several now and it never makes any sense to me at all. Why is there a sled with captive deer pulling it?”

“It’s simple, Grandma,” Gelda said. “The sled is magic, and the deer are pulling it through the sky, following a star that will show them where there is a manger with fresh hay. There are humans involved too, but that part isn’t clear to me. The lights in the windows symbolize the star, I believe.”

“Spam, that is species profiling, thinking we’d get up on your roof just because it’s Christmas. Just because we live in this wet climate doesn’t make us rain deer, dear,” Buck said, snorting at his own pun. He’s hilarious sometimes. Nelda and the other deer I’ve met are mostly as refined and classy as they look. I love deer. Most cats do, I think. They smell great and they are the prettiest creatures alive, other than cats. They have charisma—animal magnetism. It’s a little lost on human gardeners; but we cats appreciate it, though Rocky says it’s only because if we were a little larger, or they were a little smaller, we would find them tasty instead of merely tasteful. Okay, maybe they’re a little hazy on some of the holiday mythology, but they are terrific critters.

Even Buck is handsome enough, if you like that sort of thing, and a lot of the does seemed to. But he was on the rowdy side and too big for me to be anything but wary of all that head tossing and prancing and showing off his antlers. Fortunately, he had respect for his mother, and she seemed to have decided to like me.

“You must have heard something too!” I said. I don’t like being laughed at. “Otherwise, why were you looking up there?”

“There were strange noises,” Nelda said. “And strange scents.”

Just then, outlined against the snow, a masked face peeped up above the ridge of the roof.

“Renfrew?” I asked the coon. Who else would it be than my friend, sometimes assistant detective, and frequent moocher? “What are you doing up there?”

The coon opened his mouth to reply, then threw up his front paws, dropping something that clattered down the half of the roof facing me before sliding down the back. “Renfrew, wait!” I called, anxious to see what he was up to.

He didn’t answer me, and I ran to the house to try to catch up with him, but he had slid off the roof and left a coon-shaped bare patch in the snow before waddling off toward the woods.

“Renfrew!”

“Merry Christmas!” he called back. In raccoon, of course, which sounded more like, “Iiiiiiiiiriii chirrit-termaaaaw.” But mostly, interspecies, we read thoughts for any real communication—sometimes you just can’t say what you mean with barks, tweets, growls, or neighs—or other sounds. Meows, of course, and other cat language, are quite eloquent; but other species don’t seem to be able to master the accent.

What had that silly coon been up to that he didn’t even take time to stop and beg some kibble? What had he dropped? I thought he meant it was supposed to be my Christmas present. It was caught in the gutter. Double rats! Very inconvenient.

But I didn’t want to miss out on a gift, so I raced around to the back of the house, where the scrap wood box was, and leaped up on it, thinking to mount the roof myself.

I jumped onto the steeply pitched part of the roof and slid much faster than I’d planned to down to the gutter, to the amusement of my deer audience. The snow had made the roof very slick, even with all my claws extended. I put a paw into the gutter, but it rattled and creaked alarmingly, so I pulled my paw back and tippy-toed along the edge until I spotted the gleam of silver and red.

Most cats would wonder why a raccoon would have a packet of batteries. I knew raccoons liked anything shiny. But in Renfrew’s case, he might have wanted them for what they were made for, to power a phone or a radio or camera or something, at least until he decided to wash it. Renfrew was very clever with such things, which had come in handy when we were fighting vampires together.

It was really nice of him to give them to me, in that case, but other than batting them around the floor, I didn’t have a lot of use for them. I’d just tell him this was the package I’d got for him for Christmas and give them back to him. No use wondering where they originally came from.

Biting down on the edge of the package, I jumped down from the roof. It’s easier to get down than up. Carrying the battery packet in my mouth, I trotted to the edge of the driveway. The slight skim of snow seemed to have discouraged any cars that might normally be on the road this time of night. Understandable. It was pretty slick. Getting colder by the minute too. I cast one look back at my nice warm house. I could go back whenever I wanted to, have a nibble and a drink and settle down in my favorite office chair for a nap. Off to the right, the deer picked their way across the snowy brown grass, then paused. One of Nelda’s legs hovered, suspended bent over the ground. Her head was up, watching the sky, or the stars, and Gelda and Buck followed her gaze. Then they moved on again, crossing the front yard of Bubba’s house and on down the block.

Renfrew doesn’t have a permanent address, being a raccoon of no fixed abode, as Bubba, the retired police dog next door would say, but he did have a general territory, though it was not his exclusively because there were too many raccoons around. He’d tried living under our house for a while, but said the upstairs neighbors were too noisy.

I didn’t have to look hard for him though. A trail of packing peanuts and the noise led me to a tree near the one where we’d first met a couple of months before. Somebody was singing “Silent Night” with a lot of hissing and buzzing and an overlay of a football broadcast kicking in once in awhile that made the night anything but silent.

His den was a dump of more packing peanuts, torn up cardboard boxes, bubble wrap (ooh, fun to pop with your claws! I wondered if I could sneak a piece out of his stash and take it home to play with), and newspaper. Nestled among the packing stuff were various items that the Critter Channel does not usually mention when talking about raccoon habitat.

Renfrew did not look up. His paw hands were busy turning the noisy shiny white box over and over, looking for a way inside.

I dropped the batteries at his feet with relief. My teeth ached from clutching the plastic. “Here,” I told him. “Merry Christmas. These are for you.”

He could have said thank you. Instead he mumbled to himself—raccoons do a lot of mumbling and grumbling, I’ve learned—and kept fiddling with the box.

This gave me a chance to paw through the opened packages, sort of checking to see if there was one I might want to try on for size. A half-torn label was on the largest one, with an address, a Christmas sticker, and a UPS logo. Suspicion dawned.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked Renfrew.

“Found it,” he said, finally looking up with big masked bright eyes full of innocence and wonder.

“Found it where?” I asked.

“Just laying around,” he said. “There’s all sorts of stuff just laying around right now, Spam. You wouldn’t believe the things people put in these boxes and leave on their porches. I’ve noticed a lot more of them lately, so I brought some back to see if there was anything inside. There’s been food in some of them. Here—” he reached a paw back and picked up a piece of something dense and colorful. “Do cats like fruitcake? Didn’t care for it myself.”

“Renfrew, I hate to tell you this, but they don’t leave those boxes laying around for coons to find. They’re calling you the UPS bandit!”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, dropping the fruitcake and flinging the white box aside in disgust before tearing into another, unopened package.

“You’re taking peoples’ Christmas presents!” I told him.

“They put them outside, Spam. Honest. They didn’t want them.”

“They didn’t put them outside. The delivery guys brought them to the houses and left them outside for people to pick up when they came home. Except you got there first. There’s more of them now because people are ordering Christmas presents delivered.”

I put a claw through the plastic covering the box with a lady doll in a fancy dress inside. “This is some little kid’s dolly.”

He gave it a glance then went back to rooting around among the boxes. “Yes, well, you can’t tell from the outside, can you? A lot of them haven’t had anything shiny or good to eat, but lots have too!” He stuck his paw in a box and held up a sleek silver cell phone. “Look! I have a new phone. It’s all mine.”

I read the label on the torn edge of the box. “No, it’s not. It belongs to this Bert Smashnik guy.” I patted the dolly box. “And this is for—Mrs. Angela Atkins. I bet it’s for her little girl. Her main Christmas present.”

“And your point is?”

I was tempted to extend all of my points and let him see what they were, but didn’t for two reasons. One is that he also has sharp claws and teeth, and is maybe a pound or two heavier than me. The other is that he is my friend and he can be useful. I just had to appeal to his better nature. If only I could find it.

“Renfrew, you don’t even know how to use this stuff!” I told him, patting an iPad still in its package inside its box with the lid ripped off.

“I can feel it and wash it and make it shine!” he said. “And some of it looks like computers, and I can work computers better than you!” He flexed his hand-y paws at me.

“You can plug stuff in, but you can’t really make them work,” I told him. “Not out here in the woods. You need accounts and passwords and all kinds of stuff Darcy and Maddog and Bubba’s partner have already.”

“I could use the ones at your house,” he said.

“Right. Of course you can. So why do you need to take somebody’s Christmas present? I’ve spent my entire life learning how to use a computer, and there is quite a learning curve. Honestly, I don’t think your—uh—temperament is suited for that kind of dull geeky stuff. I’ll tell you what. If you’ll help me return all these things before morning, I’ll help you make a YouTube video showing how cute you are. You’ll be a star.”

He frowned, grumbled, and looked around at the litter with a very territorial gleam in his eye. “I don’t think so, cat. This is mine. I stole it fair and square.”

There was so much there, and I knew he’d lose interest before tomorrow, by which time it would all probably be ruined.

“Let me take the doll at least,” I said. “She’s not shiny, and you don’t really want her, do you? Some poor little girl is going to be really sad tomorrow, and will probably grow up to hate Santa Claws thanks to this childhood trauma. She may even belong to a family that feeds raccoons now, but will become a hunter because she somehow suspects what became of her Christmas doll.”

He stopped fiddling long enough to growl at me. “What do you care, cat? Why should you care if humans get what they want or not? You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. There are cats and dogs wandering all over town, making nuisances of themselves, whose people abandoned them and moved away.”

“Oh no! Why didn’t you tell me? Is it vampires again? Are there more taking other people like the Vampire Marcel took Darcy?”

“I wish. No, they leave because they want to, and they abandon little Fluffikins or Fido because they want to.”

“Renfrew, you’ve changed. You didn’t used to hate humans.”

“I don’t hate them, but I’ve seen some stuff lately that—well, let’s just say I don’t care if they have a special happy day where they keep all their toys and I don’t, even though they just left them on the porch.”

He was justifying his selfishness by making it all someone else’s fault, just like the bad guys on TV always did. I knew times were hard for humans. I’d heard Darcy on the phone to her friends talking about how tough it had been for people to get gifts, or even food for their families this year. It was on the news too. Some people may think it’s un-catlike to care about that stuff, but I have always prided myself on being a good kitty. If nothing else, it makes me stand out from the crowd.

“You’re just being a Scrooge,” I told him.

He looked up. “What’s that?”

“It’s a mean old man in a story. He keeps seeing these ghosts, see . . .” I couldn’t quite remember the whole thing, or which was the right version because since Halloween I’d seen the same story done about twenty different ways.

“What’s a ghost?”

“Kind of like a vampire only deader, and without a body. They’re very scary.”

“Why if they don’t have bodies? That’s silly, being scared of those. Was the Scrooge scared of them?

“No, but they reminded him of stuff. Like some were—uh—the ghosts of the past. That was—er—animal friends who’d either died or been left behind come back to tell him to stop being such a jerk. Then there were the ghosts of Christmas present. I think those were people who found out coons were stealing the Christmas presents intended for their families. They all had ghostly guns. And then there’s the ghosts of the future, and you don’t even want to know what they did.”

“Well, I don’t know any ghosts. Just one noisy cat who’s mad because he didn’t like his present, and is trying to give it back. You can have something else if you want it. I’ve got lots. I’ll even wash it for you to make it shinier.”

“No thanks. I’m taking the doll, and then I’ll be back and return the rest of the things where you got them,” I told him. That was a lot easier said than done, however.

 ***

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough is the author of 38 fantasy/science fiction books,
24 solo novels including the Nebula-award winning HEALER'S WAR and 16 in
collaboration with Anne McCaffrey, including the two most recent, CATALYST and
CATACOMBS, Tales of the Barque Cats.
Her most recent novel is THE TOUR BUS OF DOOM, set in a town
suspiciously like Port Townsend. It's her third story featuring the heroic Spam the
cat, and is a spoof on the zombie craze. The first book SPAM VS THE VAMPIRE
is the first of the "purranormal" mysteries. Bridging the novels is the novelette,
FATHER CHRISTMAS.

You can buy her book at: http://amzn.com/B007307Q52

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Another Life - by Sandra Hall

                Her elbow popped every time she pushed out of the low chair, and she’d stop to shake it out, then do her slow shuffle to the bathroom, complaining about her knees. Zelda watched her until she turned into the hallway, then went back to her knitting. Stupid fool wouldn’t make it, she never did. Zelda enjoyed watching The Price Is Right as much as anybody else, but Bob Barker wasn’t worth pissing on yourself.
 

“Anybody mind?” Curly asked, taking a seat at the piano. “Just through the commercials?” No one bothered to answer as usual. Damn fool, Zelda thought shaking her head, didn’t he realize his days of commanding an audience were long gone? Sometimes she thought to take him aside and tell him to just play without asking. Make it a gift like a first kiss. Of course, she’d never do that because Curly got on her nerves worse than Milly pissing on herself because she simply refused to get up before the commercials started.

“Anybody seen Cathy this morning?” LC Roberts asked everyone in general.

“I don’t think she’s getting up anymore,” Teenie Adams volunteered.

“Nonsense,” LC differed. “A little arthritis-“

“It ain’t just a little, LC. Besides that’s not all wrong with that girl. I hear they’re gonna move her on the other side.”

“The other side?” LC gaped at Teenie. Several other residents, including Zelda, grew quiet and still for a moment. The other side was the mental health unit.

“Well, I might have heard wrong, and those cleaning girls don’t always know what they be talking about.”

“Yeah. They always gossiping,” LC agreed and wiped his mouth. “But I think, I’ll shuffle on around before lunch, see how she’s doing.”

“Doubt she even knows who he is,” Curly grumbled and hit a hit note on the piano. He ducked his head down at the glares he received from his fellow residents.

“Zelda, what you got going there?” Patty Jean asked patting at her curly white natural.

“Just a blanket,” Zelda said noticing no one was paying attention to Bob or his beauties at the moment.

“Girl, at your age, I don’t see how you do it.” Patty Jean massaged her own fingers. “My hands are so shaky these days. And don’t even talk about my eyesight.” She moved from her chair to sit beside Zelda on the couch to touch the soft yarn in the blanket.

Zelda quickly pulled it from her slight grasp. “If I hurry, I’ll just get it done before they arrive.”

“Who?”

Zelda looked up at Patty Jean like she was one step away from the other side. “Who you think?”

“You mean the kids?” Patty Jean asked crossing her legs carelessly.

She made Zelda sick always showing off her old dancer’s legs and touch of thigh. Who was she trying to impress anyhow? Most of the men folk could barely hold their pee much less a woman’s attention. Of course Patty Jean was still a show girl at heart and they were different, Zelda supposed. Also Patty Jean wasn’t in her nineties either.

Ninety three years old! Who would’ve thought she’d live so long to outlive all four of her children? People said she was lucky, fortunate even to be walking with the aid of a walker after breaking her back six years ago. She glanced over at the walker just hating the sight of it. Even with it she could not manage to keep up a place of her own, and she couldn’t take living with her crazy granddaughter in law with all her rules. The woman had expected her to just sit in a chair all day watching television. And Danny was too hen pecked to support her when she insisted she could keep up her own bedroom and contribute to the home by sharing light household duties. If she had to feel old and useless, she may as well do it where there were other people like her, who didn’t see her as a burden. At least that’s how she saw it two years ago. Now, all these sick, crazy, old people got on her nerves. She wanted to go home. Sitting in a chair all day watching television wasn’t so bad.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Patty Jean said, adjusting her sweater.

“What?”

“Remember what happened on Thanksgiving.”
 
“Well, this is Christmas, PJ.”

“Last year was Christmas too, and I didn’t see any grandkids.”

“They’d just had a new baby.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that was it.”

Zelda noted the sweet sarcasm but ignored it. “You know, PJ, by New Years I just might be busting out of here.”

“Did Danny tell you that?”

“Nope. I’m telling him.” Zelda appreciated the shocked expression on Patty Jean’s face. “This evening,” she added and tossed her yarn and needled into her knitting bag.

“Don’t you think you ought to wait for his answer before you start announcing stuff like that?”

“PJ, I’ve decided I’m going home. If they don’t want me in theirs, I’ll just have to open mine.”

She walked back down to her private room to pick out a large sewing needle to start on the edging for the baby’s blanket. Then on impulse she went to the closet and chose a red pantsuit. It seemed ages since she last dressed up. She hoped it still fit around the middle.

“That’s lovely, Zelda,” Patty Jean voiced from the doorway.“I always said dark skin like yours was spectacular in red.” She looked down at her own barely brown skin.

“Light skin didn’t exactly hurt your career, did it?”

“I guess not.” Patty Jean lowered her eyes entering the room. “But I was a very good dancer, Zelda.”

“I’m sure you were,” Zelda muttered and laid the pantsuit across the bed.

“You don’t like us very much, do you?” Zelda raised a brow. “Old people, I mean.”

“I don’t belong here, PJ.”

“All right, I hear you. Just don’t expect your grandkids to really care. They don’t have time for a cranky, old, crippled woman.”

“Maybe that’s how it is in your family.”

“Zelda, you are old just like the rest of us. You’re used up as far as young people are concerned, and you need to accept that.”

“Now, that’s where you are wrong.” Zelda grabbed her walker and went to her chest of drawers. She took out some papers and envelopes then shoved them at Patty Jean.

“What is this stuff?”

“Titles and deeds, my dear. I still own my house and car, and I have plenty left in my savings!” The look of astonishment on Patty Jean’s face was priceless. “I have it figured out. All I need is someone to come in two, maybe three times a week to cook and clean. I can have my groceries delivered-“

“Oh Zelda,” Patty Jean sighed. “Don’t you know?”
 
“Know what?”

“This property isn’t yours anymore. The state has a lien on it. You can’t possibly pay all that you owe back.”

“Are you nuts?” Zelda snatched her papers back. “The state can’t take a person’s property. Anyway, Danny is paying my bills.”

“Right.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When was the last time you looked at your bank statements? Do you even know how much it costs to live in a place like this?”

“Danny is an accountant, he told me not to worry about money because he was taking care of my needs.”

“I’m sure he is, dear, but with your money. That’s how it is done. Didn’t you know that?”

“You’re talking nonsense!”

“Ask him then. Call him right now.”

“Just because your family-“

“All right, Zelda.” Patty Jean gave up. “Maybe I am wrong. For your sake, I hope I am,” she added before leaving the room.

“You are wrong.” Zelda slowly lowered herself on the bed and looked at her shoes. White Keds that she wore with everything. “You are wrong,” she repeated stubbornly. “My family loves me.”

~*~

Danny would eat just about anything. His wife sat sideways in her chair as if trying to disassociate herself from the supper table. Maybe the meatloaf was a crumbled up mess, but it tasted all right, Zelda thought. And what did her granddaughter in law think was wrong with a glass of tea or a cup of coffee? Why did she even bother to come visit if everything was so yucky?

“Clarissa, would you like a stick of gum? I got double mint.”

“Oh no, ma’am. I don’t chew gum. It is a disgusting habit.”

“I have some fruit in my room.”

“Miss Zelda, I don’t want your fruit.”

“I guess eating is a disgusting habit too.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Zelda said and refrained from commenting on Clarissa’s skin and bone figure. Why she wore belts all the time made no sense as it made her seem even more shapeless.“So young man,” Zelda said, hoping to bring Danny’s head up from his plate.“Don’t you get fed at home?”

“Of course, he gets fed.” Clarissa turned around on her. “How do you think he stays so fat?” She gave him a long look filled with disgust.

“Uh, Grandmama.” Danny wiped his greasy thick lips then stared at his plate.

“Just tell her, Danny.” Clarissa crossed her arms and let out a tired breath of air.

“Tell me what?” Zelda went into her bosom and pulled out her checkbook and passbook. She stared at Danny who was still studying on his plate. She pushed the books next to his hands. “Tell me what, Danny?”

“Uh…”

“Miss Zelda-“

“I’m talking to my grand boy. But if you want to tell me why I don’t have a nickel in the bank, go ahead.” She turned to Clarissa.“Explain it to me.”

“You gave us power of attorney. We paid your bills, Miss Zelda.”

“Do I still own my home?”

“Your home?” Clarissa looked at Danny. “What is she talking about?”

“I’m talking about the home I left to live with y’all. Danny, you said I shouldn’t live alone.”

“Oh, Miss Zelda!”

“But I want to go home!”

“Grandmama, we sold the house.”

“How much do I have left from that?”

“Well, you see,” He swallowed hard then picked up his wife’s untouched glass of tea and chugged it.

“You telling me you blew my money and sold my house. And I don’t have anything to my name?”

“Grandmama, you’re all right. This place is one of the best in the state.”

“But you spent all my money?”

“No.”

“Then why is the bank telling me my accounts are closed?”

“I- We just thought all monies should be in one place.”

“One place?”

“In our name,” Clarissa proudly informed her. “We write all the checks to take care of you.”

“Danny!” Zelda felt her heart beating much too fast in her ancient chest. They’d taken all her money and was waiting for her to die. It was much worse than Patty Jean tried to tell her. “Danny!”

“Grandmama, calm down.”

She looked across the cafeteria and found Patty Jean. As if sensing her distress Patty Jean rushed over to take her hands. “Zelda? Is it your angina?”

“Oh PJ!”

“Angina?” Clarissa frowned and rose from her seat.“What’s that? A heart attack?”

“Call the nurse!” Patty Jean shouted and eased Zelda back down in her chair. “Now, just calm down.”

“Grandmama, you all right?” Danny asked, his eyes big as saucers. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

“How do I know?” Patty Jean snapped. “As if you care anyway,” she mumbled, rubbing Zelda’s cold hands inside her own.

“I beg your pardon?” Clarissa crossed the table to glare at Patty Jean. “Old lady, how dare you talk to my husband like that?”

“PJ, help me out of here!” It was too much to take. All the hard years of work and sacrifice amounted to nothing. Tears poured from her eyes, soaking the front of her blouse.

“It’ll be all right, dear.” Patty Jean put a supportive arm around her waist and began leading her away from her family.

Someone thought to offer them a wheelchair, and Zelda sank down into it and covered her face. For the first time in her long life she felt old, weak and frail. Uncontrollable sobs overtook her body causing her shoulders to heave. She called on her departed husband,” Oh Percy! Save me!”

~*~

“Percy,” she muttered one last time then pulled the door closed against her stiff back. “Have mercy.” She didn’t look at the boy waiting on her to make a move. She looked at her Keds then put one foot in front of the other, making her way down the hallway. In front of the elevator she crossed her arms and waited for the boy to find his key to unlock the elevator.

“Now, where is that thing?” He lightly dropped Zelda’s big suitcase to the thin worn carpet to search his pockets. “Oh, here it is!”He looked at her, giving her a big grin which she didn’t feel like returning.“Ma’am, we gonna get you in your new place-“

“It ain’t new,” she snapped. Her back and hips were killing her. Like a fool, one of the aides had taken her walker ahead with her other personal effects. “And it ain’t my place!”

“Ma’am, I-“

“Boy, just open that damn thing before I die!” Beads of sweat covered her upper lip. “Or do you want me to go down the stairs?”

“Aw, Miss Zelda. Why you acting evil?” He unlocked the elevator, then gave her his biggest grin again. “Sharing a room isn’t so bad.” He gripped the suitcase and pulled it on its raggedy wheels to rest against the back wall.“Want to hold my arm?” He offered her his elbow.

“No, I-” But vanity wasn’t going to help her aching back and hips. And being mean to a kid that was trying to be nice and helpful wasn’t going to get her to her easy chair any quicker. “Thank you,” she said taking hold of his arm. The support of his body did wonders. “Thank you,” she softly repeated and followed him inside the elevator.

~*~

If Patty Jean didn’t cut it out, she was going to scream. What good did yoga do an old body? Every morning she was stretching and bending before Zelda stopped snoring. That was one of the reasons she always preferred a private room. If no one heard you snoring, no one could complain. But Patty Jean never complained. She was one of those eye rollers that also sucked their teeth instead.

“What you working on now?” Patty Jean arched her back and held it. “That’s not another blanket?”

“Nope. Just a shawl. Just about finished.”

“You sure do work fast. Didn’t you start that Monday morning?”

“Like to keep myself busy.”

“Me too.” Patty Jean balanced on one foot and closed her eyes. “That’s why I read books.”

“You mean, you like to escape the real world.” If she wasn’t reading, she was meditating.

“So what happened with that grandson of yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Patty Jean opened her eyes and stared at Zelda like she had suddenly changed colors. “You aren’t letting him off the hook? It’s bad enough you can’t keep a private room. That boy can’t just go through your money and leave you a ward of the state. What about all that stuff he said about taking care of you?”

“Seems he was lying. Didn’t want his wife to know they were bankrupt. He used my money to keep his household running. All the good it did his dumb ass.”

“What you mean?” Patty Jean went to sit in the other easy chair across from Zelda. She admired the handiwork on the shawl.

“She filed for divorce.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Can’t say I’m sorry for him either.”

“I suppose he thought he could take care of things better than how they turned out. Poor boy is nothing like his daddy or granddaddy. I guess the men in our day were different.”

“I think they had to be.”

“Yeah.” Zelda rose up shaking out the shawl. “What do you think of this thing?”

“It’s lovely. Purple is always a good color.”

“I used the last of my good yarn on this.”

“You will be the envy of every woman in this joint.”

“Oh, this isn’t for me, PJ. It’s a gift. For you.”

“Me?” She touched the fabric like it was precious.

“You always be talking about how pretty and nice everything is.” And she was always saying how drafty it was in the common rooms. “Don’t you want it?” Zelda shoved it at her.“I know I’m not the easiest person to share a living space with. And I know you offered to let me stay with you because you felt sorry for me.”

“Oh Zelda, that isn’t true. “

“I didn’t want to belong here, PJ. I didn’t want to be pitiful.”

“Oh girl, being old don’t make you pitiful. Not when you have friends.” Patty Jean tried on the shawl then strutted up to the dresser mirror to admire her own reflection. “Now, what are you going to wear?”

“Me? I’m already dressed.”

“I mean to the dance tonight.”

“Dance?”

“Wear that green dress with the dropped waistline. I heard Basil say you looked cute in it last year.”

“Basil?” He was in his late seventies and boasted that he wasn’t on heart medication. He popped Viagra like they were aspirin. “That sex maniac?”

“He’s not a maniac. Why you always labeling people?”

“What’s a man that young looking at a crippled up old lady like me for?”

“Maybe because you are one of the few women he hasn’t gotten alone behind closed doors yet.”

“Girl, I only had one man in my bed my whole life.”

“But I thought you said you lost your Percy thirty six years ago.”

“Sometimes it feels like it happened just yesterday.”She shuffled over to sit on her full sized bed. Patty Jean didn’t complain about it taking up extra space either. “One thing about being old, you know it won’t be much longer.”

“What won’t be, Zelda?”

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Leaving this world, PJ. Aren’t you getting tired?”

“I’m old, Zelda. But I’m not ready to leave from anywhere. Look, your grand boy let you down big time, but you have to move on. And it’s very doubtful you’ll meet anyone half as good as your husband, but that don’t mean you can’t enjoy the people around you. In the time you have left you don’t need to be alone.”

“I’m not like you. People don’t like me.”

“That’s because you act all cranky and grouchy. You can be a real drag when you want to be, lady. Do you think this is how your Percy wanted you to end up? Old and tired, dying alone? Come on, Zelda. Put on that green dress,” Patty Jean urged gently then quietly left their room.

“Percy,” Zelda muttered and felt like crying. She lay back on the bed, covering her face and let the tears flow. What was so wrong with only wanting to see him again? Nothing in this world was bright anymore. There were no more songs to sing either. What was left? Just going through the motions of a living woman? Sure, she could do that. Pretend to enjoy her last days just to please others. “Oh God.”

“Zelda.”

She’d heard the voice before but couldn’t believe it was real. Yet, today, she had to believe it. Wanted to with all her heart. Her heart that was now thudding away in her chest, so hard that she wasn’t able to rise.

“Percy, I-” Iwant to be with you, she wanted to say, but her mouth no longer worked. Her body felt light and spent. Darling, where are you? So dark, I can’t see you! Percy!

“Zelda, take my hand.”

“Oh!” She was able to reach out her hands and flay them about searching in the darkness. “Oh!”She felt herself being swiftly pulled from the bed to her feet. Nothing hurt. Her back was straight and her hips felt strong. “Percy!” He was there! So handsome and tall, and strong! She spun around to look at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Relieved, she smiled and her appearance. They were as they were the day they separated.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“You keep hold of my hand all the way across the light. You can’t let go. Understand?”

“I’ll never let go. Oh Percy, you came back! And- and we’ll be together?”

“Always. Is that what you want?”

“Yes!”

“Then don’t you let go,” he said grasping and squeezing her hand, then kissed her fingers before kissing her lips.

“And this isn’t another dream?” It couldn’t be. God wasn’t that cruel, not even to someone as ornery as she. No. She was really feeling his mouth on hers and she was holding him in her arms.

~*~

“Zelda!” Patty Jean shook her body and then slapped her a few times, even though she knew the moment she returned to their room that Zelda was gone. Just like that. She’d only been gone ten minutes at the most. But it didn’t take long. Looked like a heart attack. She left Zelda alone on the bed and walked out into the hallway to get an aide’s attention. The aide ran to get the duty nurse. Inside the room she sat in the easy chair and began to sob. “Oh, Zelda. You poor old lady.”

                                                                          End

***

About the Author: Sandra Hall is a self-published author of four novels and has recently begun to write short stories. She lives in Caruthersville, Missouri.