Brutus - Flash Fiction

BRUTUS

            “Harold. Harold!”

            “What? Pearl, I’m right here in the barkerliner.  Not need to be shout’n at me.” Harold turned his head toward where he knew Pearl’s overstuffed chair sat and squinted. 

            “It ain’t that.”

            “Ain’t what?”

            “You’re recliner.  It ain’t what you called it.”

            Harold could detect exasperation in her voice. “Is too.  I’ve been sittn’ in it nigh on fifteen-years.  You’d think I’d know what I’m sitting on.”

            “Well, that may be, but it ain’t that.  It’s something like that, but that ain’t it.”

            Remembering something he heard on television, he felt sure he could clear it up.  “Pearl, it’s tomato or tomato.  Same thing.”  That would certainly settle it.

            “What?  You old coot.  What’s tomatoes got to do with anything?  Anyways, that wasn’t what I’s calling you for.”

            Feeling right proud of himself, Harold was satisfied his logic worked on her. “Alright Dear.  I’m listening.”

“That damn dog of your’n isn’t holdn’ up his end of the deal.”

            “Whatcha talkn’ about?  Sure, he’s done his part.  You said if he ran off that black and white cat you let in, he could stay in.  I’d say he did quite well, the smell is pertin’er all gone.  I stopped gagging a week ago.”

            “Well, that may be.  I ain’t throwed-up for a while now.  But little did I know he was going to eat everything in the house.  I ain’t got a Dollie left. It pulled off the kitchen table cloth and chewed it up.  It knocked over the trash can and commenced to eaten’ the wrappers off the cans.”

            He heard her slap something on the lamp stand.  Reaching over he felt it was her crotchet. “Sure, as hell, don’t know what to tell ya.  Them new Huskies are like that I reckon.  William shoulda warned us about their peculiar eat’n habits when he brought him out here thinkin’ the farm would give him space to run.”  Of all the kids, William was the only one to move half-hour away to Kanas City.  “William said Brutus would help keep the weeds down along the drive. Never heard of a dog doing that before.  Or have I forgotten?  Dang.  No, must be one of them their foreign dogs. Yep, that’s it.  I remember seeing some of our dogs eating grass before, over the years, you know you’d seen em doin’ it too.”

            “That’s fur shur.  I ain’t been able to keep a decent flower bed since he showed up.” Pearl lamented.  “You get that dog out of the house.  Tell William he has to take ‘em back.”

            “Oh, for Pete’s sake.  We ain’t never had a dog that never barked before.  I kinda like that.  Gotta admit, Brutus sounds like a herd of wild horses running up and down the hallway.  I think he needs his nails clipped,” Harold said.

            “He ain’t housebroke.  I’m startn’ to get a bit put out cleaning up his messes. Get em out of here.  I think William’s is coming over today.”

            “Okay.  If you’re feeling so head strong about it. By the way, did I smell fresh baked cookies from yesterday?”

            “In the cookie jar.  That’s something else I had to deal with Brutus.  He just wouldn’t leave me alone while I was trying to shell the walnuts.”

            Harold snapped the recliner closed and instinctively navigated the known path through the living room where the furniture hadn’t been moved for decades.  A gray blur raced by clapping on the floor. “Brutus,” Harold called out, “don’t be running off.  We’re gonna’ go out after I get me a couple cookies."

            Retrieving two cookies from the jar, he stuck one in his mouth dangling between his lips. Turning he pushed the cookie half-way in this mouth and bit.

            Crunch.

            “What the hell, Pearl.  There’s shells in the cookies.”

            “Don’t go blaming me.  You’re the one that brought me that there eight-pound sledge to break’em with.  It was a chore separatin’ out from the meat.”

            “Sweetheart, you were supposed to put the walnuts on the sledge and break then with the little hammer.”

            “Well, I didn’t see no little hammer.  I put a newspaper down on the floor and broke 'em there mak’n two piles. That damn dog kept stick’n it’s nose in my business.”

            Harold kept chewing and spitting shell out in his hand.  “Don’t look to me there’s any walnut meat in these.  It’s all shell.”

            “Well, don’t that just beat all.  That damn dog’s fault.  I must’a scoped up the wrong pile to put in the batter.  Well, you don’t like it don’t eat em.  Or go out on the porch and spit shells in the yard like watermelon.”

            With a big sigh, Harold dropped his hand to his waist and instantly Brutus snagged the cookie, taking off with a clatter down the hallway.  Harold pinned him at the end of the hallway, holding his breath where the lingering smell was the strongest.  Trapped under his arm he carried Brutus out the door and let it snap shut behind him.

            A few minutes later he came back in, stomped down the hall to the bedroom and slammed around awhile.  Finally, he came out and plopped into his barkerliner. 

            “Well?” Pearl asked.

            “Well, what?”

            “What’da do with Brutus?”

            “I stuck him in the old truck.  I’s gonna tak’em down to William’s but I can’t find the keys.”

            “That old truck ain’t run in thirty-years.  What you think’n?”

            “Stop pull’n my leg.  I had it out just a few days ago.  Anyways, that where the dang dog is when William comes over.”

Picture by Elazar Cohen

Waiting - Flash Fiction

picture by Enrique Meseguer

Waiting

By Emmett Hall

Susan stood in the middle of the kitchen after putting the Bundt cake in the lower half of the oven.  “Oven set the temperature to 350 for 50 minutes.” 

“Would that be upper oven or lower oven?”

“Lower.”

“Lower oven set for 350 degrees for 50 minutes.”

She turned her wrist over, and the watch was blank. “Dang, I forgot to set it on the charger,” She told herself as she unstrapped it. She slid a bowl of oranges over to unveil a round charging disk.  Susan dropped the watch on it and the edger of the disk began to pulsate in a pale blue glow.

“Samsung, what time is it?”  Four pleasant voices, one man and three women answered almost in unity.  “Ththe timtimtime isisisis 222424245 ppmpm.”

Rolling her eyes, she almost understood what they had said.  It going to take a little time getting used to the kitchen remodel.  It was still undecided which appliance she should address.  If she asked the brand, she got, what she just got.  She had to condition herself to talk to just one for general queries.  The refrigerator seemed the likely bet.  After all, it would stream music and playbooks, compile shopping lists and give news with video.  The dishwasher was too much of a mouthful to ask anything of all the time, and besides, once she set the myriad of controls on it, she never had to change it. 

The oven was a short sweet call.  Not without its problems though.  She asked it the temperature outside after it was installed a few weeks ago. “The temperature is 375 for 45 minutes,” the oven responded. 

It must have missed the word outside.  “No, Oven I want the temperature outside right now.” 

“Right now, in New Haven is 62 degrees.”  The oven said.

As she had rounded the corner to the rec room, she heard the oven say something else.  By the time she returned it was done talking.  She went on her way.  Forty-five minutes later, a pleasing bonging began.  Susan put her book down and went into the kitchen and opened the oven door and looked at the baked zucchini.  It looked just like it had when she put it in there. What the heck?  On inspection, she found the oven had reset the cooking temperature to 62 degrees.  The provolone cheese hadn’t even melted in the lest. Lesson learned, don’t query the oven for temperatures not related to cooking.

It’s down to the microwave, the toaster or the refrigerator.  The microwave was too many syllables.  The kids keep moving the toaster around knocking out the time making it unreliable.  Back to the refrigerator.  After looking in the manual and punching in codes and a bit of trial and error, Susan finally got it renamed to Fridge.  All she has to do is remember it.

“Fridge.  What time is it?”

“The time right now is 2:55 pm.” 

Susan rinsed and stuffed her cake making utensils into the dishwasher.  The microwave announced.  “Time to go pick up the children in fifteen minutes.”  “Time to go pick…”

“All right, stop.”

“up the children in fifteen minutes.  Time to…

“Microwave, I said stop.”

Bong

Slamming the dishwasher door shut, dishes rattled, Susan paused and took a deep breath.  “Sorry, dishwasher.  It’s not your fault I’m cranky with the microwave.”

The dishwasher was mute.  Maybe she wasn’t forgiven.  She dried her hands on a steel gray dish towel matching the appliances and hung it back on the oven door handle.

“Fridge what is the temperature outside right now, this minute?”

“The temperature in New Haven is a balmy 72 degrees.”

Balmy?  Isn’t that a bit subjective for a refrigerator?  How does the fridge know it’s balmy from my balmy?  She remembered an explanation in the manual.  Something to do with some mathematical formulas, an algorithm having to do with humidity, temperature, wind speed, and dew point to give a declaration of air condition.  Dew point?  What the hell does that have to do with anything?  

“I’ll just grab a shawl and go now,” Susan said to the fridge, as though it was listening.  Actually, it was listening she realized, but not queued to respond without being woke up. 

She chuckled at the thought, if only Henry, her husband, could be programmed that way.  Henry already was to a degree.  He even admitted it.  Early in their marriage, she had been talking to him and asked him a question and got no response.

“Henry!  You listening to me?”

“Oh, sorry, dear.  I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

“What.  No one else is here.”

“I didn’t realize that.  Just say my name and that will get my attention.”

How little did she know she’d have a whole collection of Henrys built into her kitchen years later.

Wrapping the light tan shawl over her shoulders, she followed the short path down to the rocky shoreline.  Sitting on a jutting outcrop of stone, Susan relaxed waiting for the school saucer to drop the kids off.

Maybe she can get Sammy or Tiffany to fine tune the kitchen for her after they get their homework done.  Otherwise, she may have to explain to Henry how the dents got in the appliances and how the dents matched the ones on his head for buying all that stuff.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  The school saucer settled on his spindly legs.  

End of Run - Flash Fiction

Art by Vladislav Yerko

End of Run

“I’m going to miss this you know,” Cory said quietly over the chalice he held between them.

“Me too.  It’s been a good run.”  Sandy reached up and caressed the bottom of the chalice and drew in close.

“Careful, don’t knock over the dragonette.  Remember when we did that in the first season?  Critics turned us into a comedy in the press.”  Bending down as to take a drink, Cory reminded her.

“You’re never going to let me live that down,” She cooed. 

 “It was as much my fault as it was yours.  I grabbed you contrary to the script and moved you off the mark.  I am sorry about that.  But it was my first gig, and I was trying too hard.” 

Sandy tossed her head and laughed as the court Joker strode by behind them tapping lightly on a tambourine in rhythm to the original score wafting up from the orchestra pit.

The score began to build as Cory handed the chalice off to the Joker and bent the knee before Sandy and took her hand.   

The audience clapped.

With an exaggerated flourish of the arm to the viewers, he pivoted and knocked over the dragonette.  He grabbed it and tried to stand it back up, but it flopped over twice more. Grinning he let it lie. 

The audience was silent, then when the dragonette toppled the second time, there were chuckles. When the Prince grinned, they howled.

The final curtain dropped.

On the count of ten, the curtain parted at the middle, and the cast had gathered center stage and bowed deeply at the waist to the applause of the patrons.  The curtain closed for the last time.

~~~#~~~

Backstage, Sandy reached up and pulled at the hairline of her red hair and whisked it from her head exposing a head of short blond hair pulled tight by a fishnet covering.  That went next. “Whew,” she said as she dropped it on a bench.  She peeled out of her outer garment, folded it in half and set it on the wig. “They can put this drapery back where ever they found it.”

Cory chuckled as he pulled his cape off and dropped it on her, whatever it was.  “At least, I only had to wear my window dressing over my shoulders.  I think I’m going to try for a spot-on Bay Watch.  I tan up rather well.”  He pulled back his cap along with his red hair and dropped the pair on the growing pile. Fingers massaged his cropped black hair. 

“What was that?” Sandy demanded.

Cory shrugged.  “Thought it would be cool to go out the way we came in.  He pulled the little dragon from under his arm and set it next to the clothes on the bench.

Shaking her head, “It was cute.”

“What’s next for you, Cory?  It won’t be Bay Watch.  Never know, though… they might bring it back just for you.”

“I was just kidding.  A little beach time would be nice.  I sent in a tape for the Joker in a new series called Gotham.  They liked it and want me to come out for a trial shoot,” Cory answered.  “How about you?  Anything lined up?”

“Sam took over management of a casino in Reno…” Sandy started and scowled.

“Oh, the Biggest Little City in the World.”

“Yes, if you’ll let me finish.  Sam’s giving me a venue.  I’m going to work up a song and dance,” Sandy said as she bumped elbows with another cast member changing clothes.  “Sorry, Karen.  Didn’t mean to jab you.”

“No problem. You going to the end-of-run party at Trump Tower?  It’s been eight seasons.  Should be a lot of fun.”

“Na, thanks though.  Sam’s picking me up, and we have to head out to Nevada straight away.”

Karen looked at Cory. “You going?”

“You bet.  Cindy is going to meet me there.”

After exchanging civilities with most of the cast as they filed out.  Cory watched Sandy disappear through the side door.  Nothing else to do but go.  Except for that little dragon.  It’ll make a lovely keepsake.

Turning to the bench. All the clothes still sat where they were put.  But no dragon.  He looked behind the bench and under it.  Did someone snitch it already?  He pushed back the costumes to reveal a small pile of ….  Did someone have a dog in here that ran off with the dragon?  He leaned over and sniffed. Yuck.

The prop guy came up and grabbed an armload of the clothes.

“Harry, did you see a dog around here?”  Cory asked.

“No sir, Mr. Jones.  They ain’t allowed you know.”

Cory studied the empty bench but for the moist pile. “No…, couldn’t be.” 

Eighth Day of Christmas - #8 of 12

Eighth Day of Christmas

                At three o’clock in the multi-purpose room, Timmy helped the other carolers put away the chairs they pulled out from under the stage.  They had been practicing since noon. Assistant Reverend Roger directed.

                Timmy was excited.  He had turned twelve and graduated from the little kid Sunday school program to the bigger kid program.  That made him eligible to join the choir and be a caroler for the first time.  And to add to the excitement they were going to drive out and sing to his neighborhood first.   

                Reverend Roger handed each of them vests like the road guards wore around the school only the vests were red and green and trimmed in garland sown next to reflective strips.  Half the carolers had Santa Claus caps to top off the presentation.  After they donned the vests, they took their folders with the sheet music for a dozen carols they had been practicing. 

                Timmy had a folder too and held it up with rest for the uniform appearance they gave but he didn’t need it because he had memorized them all.  They were ready to go.  The setting couldn’t have been better.  A light snow fall fell on the sun warmed streets melting off instantly.  Only the temperature was starting to drop.  Black ice was in the cards and Reverend Roger warned about stepping carefully crossing the streets.

                The carolers piled out of the church van at the top of Timmy’s street.  They formed up in a crescent in front of the first house on the street while Reverend Roger walked up to the door and knocked on the door.

                A woman answered, listened to the Reverend and went back in.  In a minute, she returned with a man and three kids.  She had a cell phone raised.  Reverend stood to one side and gave the count.  They sang Deck the Halls, followed by Silent Night, and three more songs, finishing the set with Wish You a Merry Christmas.

                The troop of carolers worked their way down the street.  Timmy sang for his mom and dad, and Sally from his own front lawn.  Mom had her digital camera out.  There was little doubt in Timmy’s mind that the singers had been well documented with pictures and video.

                Leaving Timmy’s house, they turned the corner and sang their way down the street.  Three houses in a row didn’t answer the door and one told them to go away.  Timmy was puzzled by that and chocked it up to something to talk to dad about later.  Finally, they came to Mrs. Davenport’s home.

                The Reverend knocked and Mrs. Davenport appeared immediately.  She went back in and came back out with her coat and put it on.  Timmy and his fellow singers started their set.  Mrs. Davenport grinned and bobbed her head to the voices.  Timmy couldn’t have hardly felt better except for the annoying warbling sirens just a few blocks away. 

                “Please wait a second.”  Mrs. Davenport said.  She went back in the house and returned with the keeper of cookies Timmy had left her a few days ago.  The top row of the sugar cookies was gone.  Prying the top off she offered each of the carolers a cookie.  Timmy didn’t want to take one.  He wanted for her to have them but knew she wanted to share and would feel bad if he didn’t take a cookie.  Reaching in he selected the smallest one in the layer.

                “Thank you, Mrs. Davenport,” Timmy said.  The others echoed his appreciation.

                Mrs. Davenport just shook her head and waved her other hand.  “No, no.  My pleasure.  Your singing is divine.”  On that note, she retreated back into the house. 

                Timmy followed the rest out of the yard and closed the gate.  They headed to the next house that stood on the corner of the main road.  Timmy heard the screeching of metal and the sirens were louder than ever.  He saw blue and red flashes of light on the snow banked by the plow as a car careened around the corner and slid across the street the carolers were walking on. 

                The silver projectile hit the curb broadside and flipped over once, spun and slide on it’s top into the yard on the corner.  Reverend Roger and Mrs. Jamieson were walking side by side as they lead the rest on the sidewalk.  The pair was clipped by the spin of the car and thrown clear across the street.  The police car, and two more hit their brakes hard.  Another police car came down from the direction of Timmy’s home. 

                They skidded to a stop as their studded tires dug into the pavement and as on cue five officers descended on the silver car with guns drawn.  No one came out of the car that was chased into the yard.  One of the officers, pulled a baton and busted out the driver’s window, reached in and grabbed an arm.  In the span of a breath, two more officers helped him to drag the man out the window.  They forced the man’s head into the snow.  The driver thrashed about and the officers told him to lie still or they would taz him.  Then he howled and Timmy heard a crackling sound.

                The carolers dispersed.  Some were tending to Reverend Roger and some to Mrs. Jamieson.  One of the decans shed his jacket and put it under her head.  Two of the officers peeled off from the silver car and helped with the fallen carolers.  Timmy heard more sirens growing louder in the distance.

                Within a minute the paramedics were on the scene. 

                “We’re needing another EMT unit at this location.” 

                Timmy spun to see another policeman that had just pulled up talk into a microphone on his lapel.

                People were pouring out of the houses up the street.  They stood in their yards to gawk.  He turned again and him mom and dad were headed his way.  Timmy looked at Reverend Roger and he was trying to sit up but the paramedic wouldn’t let him.  Mrs. Jamieson just laid there.

                Almost as though it appeared out of nothing, another EMT unit arrived and was loading Mrs. Jamieson, slammed all the doors and left with sirens and lights.  That isn’t good. Timmy remembered what his dad had told him.  Tim looked over at where Reverend Roger had been and the EMT’s were rounding the corner with lights only.  Timmy sighed. 

                “Timmy, you alright?”  mom asked as she came to a sliding stop with her feet flying out from under her.  His dad caught her and righted her.

                “Tim, you okay?”

                “Yeah, I’m fine.”  He looked around at all the activity.  What just happened?

Seven Day of Christmas - #7 of 12 Fiction

Seventh Day of Christmas

            Timmy rode in the front seat of the family Honda. Sally was in the back-seat thumbing through something on her iPhone.  Mom slowed as they turned off the main road to town and kept the speed down even though the road had been plowed and salted.  Their route took them in front of Mrs. Davenport’s house.

            The wreath Timmy left Mrs. Davenport hung from the flimsy screen door.  “The wreath looks nice.” Mom commented. 

            “Did you find anything out about her gas?”  Timmy asked.

            “I hadn’t heard from Pastor Brown.  I’ll call him sometime this afternoon.  Are we all done?”

            “Done?”

            “Christmas shopping.  Did you get everything you wanted to get?”

            “Oh.  Yes.  I’m all finished.  Sally?”  He looked over the seat.  “Sally!”

            “What.”  Sally snapped.

            Mom repeated the question and got a feeble affirmative from Sally.  Timmy shook his head.  He was fine with his old flip-phone and didn’t feel the least bit slighted she had a smartphone that cost hundreds, and his phone was free with service.

            The driveway was navigable with several inches of snow on it.  Timmy remembered his promise to dad.  “Mom, pull all the way up to the garage so I can salt the drive.”  She pulled the nose of the Accord right to the garage door, parked it and popped the trunk. 

            Timmy jumped out and pulled the new wreath from the trunk and took it around to the front door.  He hung it on the left side of the double entry doors.  The side that rarely gets used.  The deep green looked good against the bright white doors. He had expected to catch hell for taking the other one, but all dad said was it was nice, and they would get another one.

            Grabbing the last double handful of plastic bags filled with packages he forced the trunk lid down with his elbow leaving a clean streak on the black finish where he wiped the gray road haze off.  It soiled his jacket, but he didn’t care.  Inside the house, he set them with the others on the floor by the kitchen table.

            Mom answered the doorbell.  Who could it be?  All their friends knocked on the mudroom door located on the back side of the house.

            After some muffled speech, mom yelled, “Timmy, are you in the house?”

            Timmy was just about to exit the mudroom and turned back.  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

            A squat, stocky man stood at the threshold when Timmy came up next to his mom.

            “Tim, I’m Burt’s dad.  I’ve been looking for him and wondered if you’ve seen him?”

            That was a shocker.  Why would Tim’s dad think Burt would ever come over to his house.  Unless it was to knock him down again.  Timmy had lots to say about Burt.  He said, “No.  I haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”

            Burt’s dad nodded. “Okay, thought I’d give you a try.  Burt said you were friends.”

            Mom asked, “How long has he been gone?”

            “Since early this morning. It’s unusual for him not to show up for lunch.  Anyway, thanks.”  He turned and left.

#

            The salting didn’t take long.  Timmy thought about why Burt’s dad said he was a friend of Burt’s.  That was a dubious place of honor he couldn’t see himself in, even by Burt’s admission. No, Burt was probably off somewhere breaking something or worst and would turn up whenever he felt like it.

            Timmy was just coming up on Mrs. Davenport’s gate as the Gasman was coming out. “Did you turn her gas back on?”

            The guy looked at him, “Merry Christmas.  Yep, just got a reactivation order.  I lit all her pilot lights too.”

            “Thanks, that’s super.”  He traded places with the gasman and closed the gate.  Timmy was skirting the side of her house and saw the padlock was gone.  When he came to the back door all the wood he had cut was gone.

That couldn’t be right.  The pile was nearly as tall as he stood and twice as long.  Mrs. Davenport wouldn’t have, couldn’t have taken all that inside.  I don’t think she would.  He knocked on the door.

            It opened, and Mrs. Davenport peeked out.  She was wearing a ty-dyed skirt with a yellow top covered by a plain tan sweater.  “Yes.  Oh, hi Timmy.”

            “Mrs. Davenport, did you take all the wood that was stacked by the back door in the house?”

            “Oh, so you’re the one that put all that there.  No, I just took in some last night.”

            “Okay, thanks.”

            Mrs. Davenport shut the door.

            From the stoop to her back door, Timmy scanned the backyard.  He wondered if in times past Mrs. Davenport and her family took wood from the greenbelt that ran behind her house.  There was a depression leading around her shed to the green belt.  Timmy could tell the snow was fresher, less packed in a trail than the snow around it.

            He trudged through it and came to the edge of the green belt.  There was a depression of ten-feet before the woods rose again on the other side.  A small creek ran down the middle.  Forming a snowball, Timmy threw it into an evergreen tree along the edge of the belt.  Snow cascaded to the ground.

            “Help…”

            Timmy whipped his head back to the greenbelt.  Did he hear something?

            “Help.”  It was a little louder this time.

            Inching closer to the edge, Timmy peered over.  Below the wood he split was scattered all over the bottom by the creek.  Off to his right, it looked like a blue ski-jacket.  Then the jacket moved.  Moving along the edge, Timmy came to where the edge of the bank was caved it.  He leaned over.  “You okay?”

            “Help, I’m stuck.”

            It was Burt’s voice.  Leaning out to hear better, he felt the ground give and pitched him over the side face first.  It was steep, but he managed to twist and rolled down the hill coming to rest next to Burt.  He sat up and shook.  Dirt and snow flew off his pants and jacket.

            Timmy stood and extended his hand to Burt.  “Come on we can jump the creek and get out down at the overpass.”

            Burt was pale, his lips blue.  He was past shivering.  “I can’t.  My leg’s caught and I can’t feel it anymore.”

            Timmy tried pulling the tangle of limbs apart so Burt could get his leg out, but they wouldn’t budge.  “Your leg broke through the ice and is in the water.  How long you been here?”

            “I don’t know, long time.”

            “You throw all Mrs. Davenport’s wood down here?  Did you know that’s all she had for heat?”  Timmy was mad.  For two-cents, he would leave Burt right where he is.

            “I didn’t know that,” Burt croaked.  “I saw you splitting it and wanted to bust your chops.  I’m sorry.”

            “Okay.”  Timmy pulled his phone out and flipped it open.  No signal, not one bar. He looked at Burt.  “I’m going have to climb up higher to get a signal.”  He jumped the creek and climbed half-way up the other side.  Two bars.

            Holding down the #2 button, the phone started ringing.  “Dad, It’s Timmy.  I’m with Burt.  He’s hurt.  We need help.”  He listened.  “Yes, behind Mrs. Davenport’s house.  We fell in the creek. Burt’s going to need paramedics.”  He listened again.  “Yeah, I’ll stay with him.  Better hurry.”

            A few minutes later, Timmy heard sirens. 

            Timmy pulled a card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Burt.  “I was going to give this to someone else, but I think you deserve it now.”

            Burt opened it and read:

Merry Seventh day of Christmas

Your neighbor

               

Sixth Day of Christmas - #6 of 12

Sixth Day of Christmas

            The snow continued to pile up.  The path Timmy made to Mrs. Davenport had filled in overnight and through the day.  He hadn’t been able to check on her all day.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t have, but he was at George’s most the day playing Call of Duty on the PS4.

            Crossing the street from George’s, he saw the driveway.  It was heavy with snow when he went over to George’s.  Oh man, dad shoveled it. 

            Timmy found dad in the TV room, kicked back in his recliner.  The news was on the television.  “Dad.  I was going to clear the driveway.”

            “No problem.  I didn’t want to wait on you in case we needed to get out to go somewhere.  Tomorrow, maybe.”

            Timmy still felt bad.  He had done the driveway and hadn’t checked on Mrs. Davenport.  He sat on the sofa.

            “Take your coat off if you’re staying in.”

            “I’m going back out in a minute.  Did you know Mrs. Davenport’s gas meter is off and has a padlock on it?”

            The recliner snapped shut, and his dad leaned forward on his elbows.  “No, I didn’t know that.  How did you learn of it?”

            “I saw it when I was there yesterday.”

            “I’ll check on it.”  Leaning back, he shouted over the chair.  “Ann, do you still have the number to Pastor Brown?”

#

            Timmy stood in front of Mrs. Davenport.  The walkway was covered in snow.  No footprints were in it.  He brushed snow side to side as he made his way up to the porch.  After pulling open the screen door, he placed a wreath between it and the front door.  Set the card on the wreath and knocked.

            On hearing Mrs. Davenport’s recliner close, he took off and was around the mailbox as he heard the door open.  He felt he was on a roll now.  The card he pinned read:

Merry Sixth Day of Christmas

Your neighbor

            Shedding his outdoor gear in the mudroom, Timmy heard his mom call out.

            “Frank, do you know what happened to our wreath?”

Fifth Day of Christmas - 5 of 12 Fiction

Fifth Day of Christmas

            Timmy pulled an arm out of the covers and recoiled.  He couldn’t get it back under fast enough.  The double-paned window was lightly hazed over on the inside.  That meant only one thing.  The temperature dropped last night, dropped a lot.  Steeling himself to the inevitable, he swung one leg out of bed then the other.  Waiting a bit to acclimate to the room, he sat up pulling the covers up with him.  In only his briefs, he dashed over to the hook on his bedroom door to retrieve his robe he decided it was time to don pajamas for bed time like mom told him to do several days ago.

            Back from the bathroom and wrapped in his robe, Timmy rubbed the back of his hand on the window.  It was a deep gray out with snow falling in dime size flakes that danced in the air, teasing the ground before lighting.   The snow drifted up the side of the garage almost reaching the eve.  A second later he heard the muted sound of a snow blower.  Dad must be doing the driveway.  He rushed to get dressed.

            Attired to do battle with the elements, Timmy found dad on the third row in the drive way.  “Can I do that!,”  Timmy yelled.

            The blower throttled down to an idle, then stopped.  “What’s that?”

            “Can I do that?” 

            “I’ll finish the drive.  You can do the walk when I’m done.”

            “Okay.  Can I take it down to Mrs. Davenports?  She’s supposed to be home today.”

            “Sure.  Just check the gas before you head over there.”

            The snow plow had been down the road.  Black speckled snow was pushed up cover the curbs.  Timmy fetched a shovel from the garage and began to clear the ridge across the front of the driveway.  The whole snow clearing effort looked for not as the driveway turned white behind his dad’s efforts.  He learned that even with the blower when it snowed this hard it was the only way to get ahead of the weather.

            Timmy plowed a twenty-four-inch path down the middle of the sidewalk all the way to Mrs. Davenport’s house.  He opened the gate and jockeyed the machine until it lined up with the front door and engaged the rotors.  Snow flew across the yard until he reached the porch.  As he turned the blower around, he noticed the hardball size hole in the smaller window to the left of the front door.  He climbed the porch and looked at the break.  Shards ran up into the aluminum frame and he could see glass on the floor through the hole.  On the floor by the glass lay a fist size rock. 

            Burt did it.  Timmy was sure of it.  He jumped off the porch and immediately his feet flew out from under him.  Arching his back as he landed on the bottom step, he took the fall across the shoulders lessening the impact.  Rolling over he picked himself up and headed for home as fast as he felt safe to go.

            The car was gone. Oh no, dad went somewhere.  He flew through the mudroom and found dad in the kitchen.  “Dad, I thought you were gone.”

            “Nah, Mom took Sally to dance.  You need something?

            “Someone threw a rock through Mrs. Davenport’s window.  Can we do something?”

            “Of course, we can.  Let me suit up.”

            “What you going to do?”  Timmy ask as his dad measured the bottom pane of the window. 

            I’ve got some quarter-inch plywood in the garage.  We’ll cut a piece big enough to cover the aluminum and use a few nails to wedge it in place.  That will keep the elements out until the glass can be replaced.”  He stood up.  “That’s it.  Get the blower and put it away.”

            Timmy’s heart sank.  “Dad.  It was right here in front of the porch.”   There was number of large boot prints surrounded where Timmy had left the blower.  He could see where the blower had been dragged over the ridge of dirty snow left by the plow.  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

            Dad looked up and down the street.  “Come on.”  He didn’t say anything else on the walk home.

            When they reached the back door.  “Tim, go out in the garage and see if you can find that quarter-inch plywood.  It’s a half sheet, I think.  I’m going to call the police.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

            The police arrived at Mrs. Davenport’s just as Timmy and his dad finished mounting the plywood over the window.  The officer parked a couple lengths up the street and came down the trail Timmy had made with the blower.  An inch of new snow already covered the walk.

            “You Frank Dorset?”  The officer asked.

            “Yes.  Thanks for coming out.”

            “Could you show me some I.D.?”

            “Sure.”  Dad loosened his coat and dug in his back pocket and produced a card and handed it to the policeman.”

            The officer read off the information into the microphone clipped to his jacket pocket.  He handed the card back.  “Is this your house?”

            “Oh no.  My son.  Timmy,” he pointed, “ran the blower down here to clear Mrs. Davenport’s walk.  When he saw the broken window, he ran home to tell me.  It was stolen sometime between then and when we got back here.  Couldn’t been twenty minutes.”

            “I see.”  He jotted in his small notebook.  “Timmy, did you break the window?”

            What, why would he thing that?  Timmy was dumfounded. “Uh, uh….”

            “Timmy didn’t break the window.  He found it that way.  We just finished covering it.”

            The policeman took the details, make and model of the blower and promised to get back to them. 

            Timmy and his dad walked home.  “Why did he think I broke the window, Dad?”

            “He didn’t think you did. He was fishing. Don’t worry about it.”  Dad handed him the hammer and left-over nails.  “Put these away when we get home and come in for lunch.”

            After lunch, Timmy headed down to Mrs. Davenport.  She wasn’t home yet.  He walked around the side of her house to check the other windows and noticed the gas meter was turned off with a padlock on the valve.  That meant no gas.  His house’s furnace ran on gas, did her furnace?  Moving on, he didn’t find anymore broken windows. 

            There was a large pile of wood rounds that looked dumped in the backyard next to a piece of stump two-feet across.  An axe was stuck in it.  Timmy realized this was where the wood was split for the fireplace.  There were only a few split logs by the back door.  Mrs. Davenport would need more to stay warm.

            The snow had let up.  Timmy wiggled the axe free and stood a round on the stump and it with the axe.  The blade stuck in the wood and he beat the round back on the stump until the wood split.  The two halves split easier.  Timmy looked at his wrist watch, it was one o’clock.

            At one-twenty, he pulled off his stocking cap and unzipped his jacket.  The cold air rushed in and around his sweater.  It felt good.

            Three o’clock, Timmy gathered and stacked the wood by the back door.  He pulled a card out of his pocket and wedged it in the top log.  Timmy retrieved his stocking cap, and zipped up his coat and went around the corner of the house.  When he closed the gate and took a few steps up the sidewalk he saw an ambulance turn on to the street. 

            Mrs. Davenport was almost home.