Murder in Harbor Springs

 

The image of Trixie Dillon, star attraction of the Harbor Springs Water Festival, beckons would-be attendees from 8X10 posters plastered in every bank, grocery store and convenience market in town. The red bikini against suntanned skin leaves little to imagine. She’s tilted back, holding a ski rope with one hand and waving with the other, platinum blond hair secured in a ponytail, lips red and full, slick with color.

Dale stands in front of the Save-A-Lot, staring at Trixie, champion water skier of the Southern Women’s Competition. He can hardly believe someone like her will be performing in dinky, run-down Harbor Springs, an out-of-the-way Tennessee town on the banks of the Cumberland.

Dale runs his finger along the lines of Trixie’s lips. A shiver shoots through his body like electricity. He’s never seen a woman as beautiful as Trixie.

Back home, in the trailer he shares with Stan, his brother, Dale grabs a sketch pad filled with drawings of cats, aliens and girls. He sits outside in a lawn-chair to draw because the window air conditioner stopped running again.

Dale closes his eyes a moment to picture the poster in his mind, then begins the portrait. In his sketch, Trixie stands with hands on hips in a bikini that shows the waves of her rib cage. Her eyes gleam and her lips carry a smile.

  Stan, who is Dale’s legal guardian until he turns 18 next year, comes blasting up the driveway in his old white pick-up truck, country music blaring out the rolled down windows. Dale’s fingers begin to tremble so he stops drawing. Stan walks in the trailer without a word, grabs a beer and returns.  

Stan is tall and muscular from lifting weights. That’s all he does, other than drink beer and watch TV, since getting fired from his job as a Harbor Springs policeman. Dale liked it better when Stan worked all day and partied at night. Dale likes having the trailer to himself after school, no half-drunk Stan there making fun of him or twisting his arm until it hurt. Stan calls Dale stupid, but he’s not stupid. According to Mr. Jackson, his teacher at the school, Dale has “intellectual disability.”  When Dale tried to explain the difference, Stan had let out a loud snort, which is his way of laughing.   

               Stan towers over Dale, peers down at the drawing.

 “Imaginary girlfriend?”  Stan asks. He sits on the trailer steps and lights a Marlboro.

“No,” Dale says, looking down.  

“You getting off on that drawing, little brother?”

“Shut up,” Dale says.

“No girl like that is going to look at you.”

“I know it,” Dale says. “I’d like to meet her, just once.”

“She not real, is she?”

Dale doesn’t answer. He wants Stan to stop talking about Trixie.

“Aw wait,” Stan says. He grabs the notebook and examines the picture. “She’s the poster chick! Look at those knockers!”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Dale says.

Stan takes a long sip of beer then crunches the empty can in his hands. He has an idea. A way to make money. He needs to act now. The water festival is tomorrow. Pretty girl will be gone after that.  

“I’ll find her for you,” Stan says.

“No!” Dale shouts. “Don’t do anything.”

Stan has that creepy look on his face that Dale dreads. Squinty eyes and a smile that goes up on the right side and down on the left.”

“Only two motels in town,” Stan says.

“No!” Dale stands, hands balled into fists at his side.  Stan ignores him, walks inside, then returns with his truck key and three Coors Lights dangling from a plastic stipe looped over his finger.

“Leave her alone!” Dale yells, but Stan is already in the truck.

Dale plops in the lawn chair and whimpers. “This is bad,” Dale thinks. “Really bad.”

                                                                           _________

Trixie slouches against the passenger side in the front seat of Kyle’s mini-van, in cut off blue-jean shorts and a white T-shirt. She leans her head against a sweater balled against the car door and runs through her mind all the reasons she hates Kyle, her ski instructor who is also her high school boyfriend. She’s about to put a stop to that, though.

 Trixie won the Southern ski competition, but didn’t make it to the nationals because Mom’s cancer recurred and she went down fast. Trixie’s plan was to stay home with Dad for the summer, find a waitressing job, and go back to UT Knoxville in the fall. She has two years left to become a physical therapist.  But Kyle had dropped out of college and had other ideas.

“You’re a star,” he said. “Cash in on it.”

At first it seemed fun. She enjoyed little girls admiring her crown and asking how it feels to jump ski ramps. But she quickly grew tired of Kyle dragging her to dinky festivals in every sad town that would pay a fee for her presence. She didn’t like staying in cheap motels and giving him oral sex every night. If she refused, Kyle got angry, accused her of thinking she’s better than him, sometimes twisted her arm too hard or threw her against the wall.

She’s been missing Daddy. She resolves to call him tomorrow after the festival. Ask him to drive two hours or whatever it takes from Nashville and pick her up. He’ll be glad she’s leaving Kyle for good.

 At least tomorrow she gets to ski. She loves skimming the water, cutting through the wake and jumping the waves, sun glistening on the lake. It’s like flying, an eagle souring.   

 Usually the festivals are nowhere near water.  Her job is to parade in her bikini, smile and sign autographs, scrawling her fake name on those awful posters. Kyle had re-named her Trixie. Her real name is Patricia, which Kyle said isn’t a star name.

“This is the last festival,” she tells Kyle.

“We got four more booked.”

“I’m not going.”

“You fucking are!  You signed contracts.”

Trixie signs. Her head hurts. She’s going to break up with him tonight.

At the Harbor Springs Motel Kyle tells Trixie to slink down while he checks them in. She knows the drill. Kyle doesn’t want people to see her before the festival. He returns to the truck with a vase of white Chrysanthems.

“A fan left these,” Kyle says.  

An earthy smell fills the car. Trixie turns her eyes away. The flowers remind her of Mother’s funeral, so many white flowers. She wants to go home.

 

                                                            ________________________

On the way to Harbor Springs Motor Inn, Stan makes some stops to purchase a disposable phone and a flower bouquet for a trap. In the parking lot, he checks the glove compartment, retrieves his pistol and loads it. Delivers the flowers to the hotel lobby for Trixie.

Later, Stan watches as Trixie and the skinny man walk into their room. He’s patient, waits in the truck for the sun to go down, and sips his beer.

 Finally, Stan exits the truck and slips a ski mask over his head. He’s only worn it twice. It had been simple to rob those convenience stores a few towns over. Point the pistol, demand the money and run.

He walks toward the room and is about to knock. His plan is to storm the place when they open the door, hold the gun on Trixie, pull the motel phone from the wall, collect their cells and walk Trixie to the truck.

Stan is about to knock when yelling erupts behind the door. The man calls Trixie “dressed up trash.” Trixie says he’s an “asshole.” There is a scuffle, glass shatters.  Footsteps pound the floor, headed to the door. Stan steps away and crouches by a bank of vending machines just as the man walks out and slams the door.  When the mini-van is gone, Stan returns and twists the doorknob. Unlocked.

Trixie, sobbing face-down on her bed, doesn’t hear the door open. Stan lingers just inside and cocks the hammer of the revolver. Trixie looks up and gasps, scrambles to her feet, hands in the hair.

“Don’t shoot,” she says. “Please Kyle. I’ll go to the festivals.” Stan lays the gun on the dresser and runs at her, knocks her against the wall and in one quick motion has turned her around and tied her hands with a cord.

“Please,” Trixie begs.

He blindfolds her with a bandana, wads a sheet of hotel stationary in a ball and stuffs it in her mouth, then puts the gun to her back and walks her to the truck. Inside the cab, he removes the gag and blindfold.

She gasps for air, cries as she talks. “You aren’t Kyle. Who-ever-you-are, please don’t hurt me.” Her lips tremble. Her brown eyes look frightened and glisten with tears.

Stan feels his cock rise, but he isn’t going to touch her. No, there is something more he wants. $100,000 from her family, or Kyle, or the water festival board, for the safe return of Miss Trixie Dillon.

She sobs quietly, her arms and legs trembling, as they drive away. Stan pulls up ten minutes later at the trailer.

“Be nice to the kid until I can figure out who will pay to get you back.”

Trixie swallows hard but doesn’t say a word.  

--------

The man drags her roughly out of the truck and walks her up the trailer steps. Inside, someone sleeps on a sofa in front of a TV blaring a talk show. The audience laughs, and the sound is amplified in the small dark space, lit only by the TV.  The man clicks on a light in the kitchen and sits Trixie in a straight chair, lashes her legs to it with cords. Sweat drips from Trixie’s forehead and nose.  The man is sweating too. Trixie thinks the place smells of urine and sweat. Flies swarm left-over pizza crust. Dirty dishes fill the sink and crushed beer cans litter the counter tops and floor.

The creepy man won’t take off his mask or put down the gun.  He takes a beer from the refrigerator, offers her one. She shakes her head “no.” He sits in a chair across the table and gazes, bleary-eyed. Trixie feels his eyes check every part of her body, watches the curve of his lopsided lips as he smiles approval.  Then, his eyes jolt up. Trixie turns to see what has caught his attention.

A hefty teen-ager stands in the doorframe, his mouth wide open and fingers trembling as he pushes a lock of thick black hair off his forehead.

“Told you I’d find her,” Stan says. His words slur.

 “Let her go, Stan,” the boy shouts. “She don’t belong here.” He walks toward Trixie and bends down to loosen the leg cords.

Stan walks over and kicks the kid with his boot heal. The kid rolls in a ball and covers his head. This isn’t the first time he’s been kicked, Trixie thinks. Poor kid. Stan bullies him to go to bed, pushes him out of the kitchen. “I hate you,” the boy cries, then retreats to his room.

Stan turns to Trixie. “Little brother’s touched in the head. But you on the other hand,” Stan says. “I say we figure out the money thing tomorrow.  His face floats close to hers as he attempts to kiss her lips, but Trixie turns her head.

 He slaps her cheek so hard it brings tears to her eyes. He yanks off the leg cords and fast-walks her to his bedroom, the gun at the small of her back. Her legs feel like noodles and her mouth like cotton.  “I’ve made him angry,” Trixie thinks, and panics.

When Stan pushes her on the narrow bed and unbuckles his belt, she thinks briefly of her Daddy and how she may never see him again. She sends a prayer to Jesus to save her. Then, the world goes blank and Trixie blacks out.

The next sound, a loud “pop” coming from the doorway. Smoke fills the room. Stan’s body falls heavily on top of her. The boy stands at the door, pistol shaking in his hand, tears streaming down his cheeks. Stan is shot in the back, slumped over but breathing.

“I’m sorry Stan,” the boy says. “I said don’t go find her. She is perfect. She shouldn’t be here. I’m gonna turn myself in.”

The room is oddly silent for a moment, except for the soft sobs of Trixie and the boy. Stan emits a loud sigh and falls to the floor.

Trixie rushes to the boy, who undoes her hand cord. She hugs him tight.

“You saved my life,” she says. “You won’t go to jail. I’ll tell them everything.”

“I did a bad thing. I have to go to jail,” Dale says. “It’s the rule.”

“Trust me,” Trixie said. “I’m going to tell the newspapers. Let everyone know what happened.

 

  

Dale doesn’t attend the festival the next day. He is taken to jail and charged with murder. But then Trixie arrives and pays bail. Trixie and a tall man drive him to the trailer, which is marked off in yellow police tape that reads “Crime scene. Do Not Enter.”

Dale sighs. He can barely bring himself to look at the trailer. He sees Stan in the front yard, washing his truck, laughing. He wasn’t always mean.

“You can’t sleep here tonight,” Trixie says. “You can stay with us until we find you a place.”

“Are you crazy?” the man asks. “He’s not staying with us.”

“Not you,” Trixie says. “Daddy’s on the way to get me.”

The man is quiet for a while, but Dale knows it’s not a good quiet. It’s the quiet Stan got before going into a rage.

“Get. Out.” The man says it measured and calm but Dale knows he’s seething. “Get. Out. Now.” Trixie and Dale scramble out and the man squeals off.

Dale sneaks past the tape and retrieves his sketch books, a suitcase of personal things and clothes. They sit in the lawn chairs and wait for Trixie’s daddy.

Trixie takes Dale’s big white hand in her small tan one and kisses the top of it. Dale knows he might go to prison, but right now he’s content, sitting here with Trixie, the kindest, most beautiful women he’s ever met.

“You know Kyle’s gonna always track me down,” Trixie says. “He’ll never leave me alone. Try to kill me probably.”

Dale nods. The sun leaves pink streak to the West as it slips down the sky. Trixie and Dale both have troubles ahead, he knows. But this moment is nice.  An abused water-skier and an artistic murderer, happy to sit in the trailer yard, because no one is here to twist their arms, kick their backs or throw them against a wall. The lunatics are gone.  They sit in silence and watch the sunset.             

  

 

Reading Between the Lines

Reading Between the Lines

 

     Clay glanced out his office window at the darkening sky, felt the familiar dread, shifting clouds of nausea within. He clicked on the flat screen to confirm the weather.

     “Helen?” he spoke into the intercom that rang his office assistant.

     “No sir this is Becky,the temp. Helen is on maternity.”

     “Becky, the weather’s getting bad. E-mail the staff and tell them to go home, get in their safe spots.

     “Sir?”

     “Spread the word, all right? This is a weather day.”

     A moment later a thin, tall woman with limp brown hair to her shoulders materialized at his door.

     “Come in Becky.” Clay picked manuscript pages off his desk and stuffed them into a leather satchel. He’d printed what he might want to read and edit the rest of the day in case the internet failed.

     “So, we all go home when there is a tornado warning?”

     “Sure do.”

     “With all due respect sir, I’m paid by the hour. I’d rather stay and catch up.”

     “I’d be too worried about you being here. Couldn’t have it on my conscious if we got hit.”

     The girl’s brown eyes grew large, brimming with tears.  Her fingers trembled around the notebook she held in her hands. Clay sighed.

     “Tell you what, pick some manuscripts from the slush pile. Read them at home. Let me know if you find anything decent. We usually don’t, but you never know. I’ll pay you for the hours that way.”

     Becky’s smile brightened. “That’s tremendous sir. Thank you!” She gave a small bow before she turned and left.  Becky sat at her desk with her heart pounding. Her chance to get Greta’s Goal in his hands had presented itself earlier than she expected. It was sitting in that pile, but it was not slush. It just needed someone of his caliber to give it a chance. She could barely contain her excitement as she clicked out the “weather day” e-mail.

  A few moments later the usual office weather day cheer began.

     “Thanks Boss!” Jenna, his chief acquisitions editor yelled from her office. Kathy, the accountant of the small publishing firm, walked by and blew him a kiss. “Heading to my safe spot,” she said.

     He knew they made fun of him for his fear of tornadoes, of icy road conditions, terrorists alerts. But so what? The company employees were his family, all twenty something of them, helping him publish 15-20 books a year and make a little money despite the crap economy.

     He locked the glass front door of the two-story building at noon and headed home. Fat round drops splatted ominously on his window, one Mississippi, two Mississippi… Birds twittered and flew in groups to shelter.  Clay admired birds because he thought they were smarter than people.

     Clay’s safe spot waited warm and ready, the corner of his basement that abutted an interior wall. A recliner sat on a square of old burpee carpet, along with a portable TV and weather radio, a small refrigerator with bottled water and a fifth of Scotch.

     He pulled several rubber-banded manuscripts from the satchel, put on his reading glasses, clicked the TV. Storms were three hours out. He headed up the steps, grabbed chips and a jar of salsa from the kitchen, returned to his chair and settled into reading.

     “Men in Sports and the Animals They Love.” This was Jared’s find. It was trash. Why did he agree to this? He took his red pen and began editing as storms grew closer.

     That first tornado, back in Kindergarten, he had to sit in the hall with his classmates in what teachers called the “turtle position.” When Mrs. Jones tapped his back, he looked up, thrilled to see Mom there to pick him up early. They drove home in a wind that bent tree branches close to the ground, pushed the tall grass sideways. It had frightened Clay, but Mama was smiling.

     “I love a good storm,” she said as raindrops pounded like bullets against the windshield.  Mama had wanted to make pop-corn and sit on the screened in porch to watch the wind. But Clay heard the TV people say over and over to get to a safe spot. And how could she think of pop-corn at a time like this?  He was so adamant she relented. They ate pizza in the garage next to the three steps that lead to the house, listened to the portable radio and waited for Daddy to come home from his law office. Mama kept leaving the safe spot to get a glass of wine, or answer a ringing phone, leaving Clay alone and terrified that the house would blow away any second.

     Mama had always been careless. At the beach, she swam in red flag water while he and his father watched at the edge of sand and water, waiting to jump in and save her if she got caught in the rip-tide, but mostly hoping her swim would end and she would be happy building a sandcastle. She also smoked, when the surgeon general had told the whole world it was hazardous to your health. She did unsafe things. Clay knew at a young age he would always have to protect her.

     Ironically Dad died at age 57, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. Mom passed in her sleep of a heart attack at 82. Clay thought of her a lot in his safe spot. Now that he was an adult, he could require people take safety measures. He would do what he could to keep his employees safe, to protect them.

     He doubted Jenny or Kathy were in safe spots. Certainly not Jared. But he gave them the option. No-one would sit in his hallways in the turtle position. What about the temp, Becky? Was she in a safe spot? Something about her told Clay that she was. She seemed afraid of things. Afraid of him even, afraid to tell him she needed to work the hours. He pictured her in a garage somewhere, wrapped in a fleece blanket, reading a manuscript and watching the weather.

     The next morning dawned bright and glistening, a cleansed earth with air the scent of freshly dried laundry. Tree branches the size of human torsos littered yards and drainage ditches, tiny green leaves clung wetly to street signs and car windows. There had been no major damage, although electricity was out South of the city, and shingles on roofs of some houses had seen blown away.

     At the office, Becky arrived thirty minutes before the rest of the employees, as was her job description, to open the building and make coffee.

     “Good Morning Mr. Richter.”

     Her smile made him pause and take a second glance. Her eyes glistened. In the week and a half she’d been here, this was the cheeriest he’d seen her. She usually withdrew, kept quiet and blended in with her blond-wood desk.

     “I see you survived the storm,” Clay said.

     “Sort of.”

     “What happened?”

     “I had roof damage but it’s not a big deal. I found something in the slush pile.”

     She was probably wrong, Clay thought. No one finds anything in the slush pile. She’s not even an editor. Just a temp. Clay turned to go to his office. She followed him and sat down opposite his desk.

     “I know everyone wants to find something in the slush pile, Becky, but no one ever does.” Her face fell. She was so transparent. He hated to disappoint her, though.  It couldn’t be worse than  Sports Men and the Animals They Love.

“I’ll take a look.” Clay said.

     “Thank you! That would be tremendous!” Becky clasped her hands in front of her heart, did that slight bow thing, and left.

     Clay went for coffee and a slice of banana bread someone had brought in this morning, probably Kathy, and returned to the office to start on the manuscript Becky selected.

     “Greta lay awake on the cot at the new shelter, scared of the night sounds. All she wanted was someone to protect her, keep her safe. She snuggled against the warm body of her mother, who could sleep through anything. But Mama couldn’t protect her from so many things. With Mama she would still be hungry, still be embarrassed at school, still be afraid of the ghost that stir around her.  She was completely alone in the world, with no one watching out for her. One foster mother said God would always be there if she turned to him. That would be tremendous to have God watching out, but she didn’t know how to call on God. All she got from the other world were blasts of air that felt like evil ghosts who would do her harm.

     Clay read all two hundred twenty- five pages of the novella, which took the main character from a child to an adult, all the while alone and fearful. The book needed work.  But there was something else. The writing made him think of Becky. Was this her story? It didn’t matter. No one should feel unprotected. Not Greta, not Becky. No one.

     “Becky,” he spoke into the intercom.

     “Yes Mr. Richter.”

     “I think we’ve got something here. Let’s discuss it over lunch if that’s convenient.”

     “That would be tremendous sir!”

     “Today?” Clay asked.

     “Of course.”

     At noon, Clay and Becky walked out the glass front doors and down the street toward Patsy’s Italian Restaurant. It felt natural to walk beside her, to maybe slide his arm around her waist. But that would be too much too soon. She would have to leave the company before they dated. He lightly touched the small of her back with his palm and steered her through the crowded sidewalk.

He would help her perfect this novella, if indeed it was hers. Or he would help edit what she found. Either way, he would keep her safe from storms as best he could. Maybe she could protect him, too. Maybe someday another recliner would accompany his in the safe spot, so neither would be alone or afraid again. Perhaps having someone like her would make all the difference. Maybe, Clay thought.  A heaviness he hadn’t been aware of lifted from his spirit. A light-hearted smile toyed with the corners of his lips.

“So you think the novel is good?” Becky asked?

“Oh yes,” Clay said. “I think we can make it work.”

 

    

    

    

     “

    

 

Crosswords and Croissants

Crosswords and Croissants

               Conrad wanted to linger at Coffee House, finish his cross-word puzzle like most days.  Coffee House was warm and more interesting than puttering around his own home. There was a satisfaction about waking in the morning with purpose, taking his cane and New York Times and walking three blocks, fresh air and exercise, to a place where he could order black coffee and an oatmeal cookie. He’d nod hello to the barista’s and the college kids, who were usually slouched quietly on the couch or plugged into laptops.

             He liked the dark wood walls and his window table at Coffee house, liked the way morning sun lit the interior, illuminating tiny dust particles and the grain on the hardwood floor. Coffee House, with its ground-bean smell, the hiss of the steamer and soft chatter of customers had become part of Conrad’s routine since Helen died. He’d gotten to know some staff, including the manager, Belinda. Conrad   thought of Belinda as a friend, although he couldn’t tell you anything personal about her. But she didn’t know much personal about him either.  If business was slow, Belinda might sit with him. She had a quick mind for crosswords. If it were raining when he was leaving, she’d offer a lift in her Subaru.

            But today is Wednesday. The Knit Wits will run him out by 9:00. There are 12 of them, mostly big women with huge thighs, large coats and scarves, multiple purses and bags of yarn. They’ve been infiltrating on Wednesdays for the past few months with their shrill laughter and loud chit-chat about nothing, and their incessant knitting.  Click, click, click, yak, yak, yak about nothing that would improve your brain, or your knowledge of the world, like crosswords and civil conversation could offer.  The Knit Wits didn’t belong in an esteemed place like Coffee House. What was Belinda thinking, giving them a standing   reservation?

            “They mean well,” Belinda had said. “You’ll get used to them.  Besides, Conrad, Coffee House needs the money and those ladies go through a lot of chocolate chip croissants.”

            “It’s hard to concentrate with a pack of laughing hyenas.”

            “Be nice Conrad,” Belinda said. “They like you.”

            Conrad blushed, and stood to retrieve his overcoat and cane. But he was too late. They came trouping in like a gaggle of geese, honking and holding open the door so the cold swept in.  Conrad stood aside to let the clamoring goose train through.

            A red-head Knit Wit turned toward him and placed her knitted-gloved hand on the sleeve of his overcoat.

            “There you are!  We’d wondered where you’d gone.  Look Marcella, he’s alive after all.”

            “He sure is,” Marcella said. “And looking dapper.”  She was the only skinny one of the bunch, all skin and bones.  Marcella raised her painted eye-brows. “I’m gonna knit you something, honey.” Then Marcella took her thumb and forefinger and playfully pinched his cheek, jostling the skin back and forth. Conrad froze, glanced at the pinch then at the woman’s face, her cracked cherry red lipstick upturned in a smile, her too-rosy powder-caked cheeks beaming at him.

            “Don’t. Touch. Me,” Conrad hissed. 

            Marcella slowly brought her hand down.

            “Well, forgive me for being friendly,” she said. “Geez.”

             “Geez,” Conrad thought. “A slang word used by knit wits with no command of the English language?”

             The Knit Wits would have been around Helen’s age. But Helen was nothing like these gaudy women. She had been quiet and demure. She, like Conrad, would never have pinched a stranger on the face. They kept their hands to themselves.

            Life with Helen had been graceful and reserved, the way they liked it. They’d met at Auburn, married after he’d secured a job as an electric company engineer, and moved to Chattanooga, to the same 1920s cabana where Conrad still lives. While Conrad worked, Helen grew vegetables in the back yard, sketched drawings and painted portraits in the upstairs portico. They turned the room into her studio when they realized babies would not be forthcoming. They never discussed adoption or fertility testing.  

            They spent their money traveling to Africa and Australia, the Mediterranean and the British Isles. Helen’s favorite trips were simply to Florida. She loved to walk along the beach. They’d traveled and been healthy up until eight months ago. Conrad found her in the portico. She’d fallen forward onto a fresh painting on the aisle, smears of purple, blue and yellow on her face and housecoat, on the hardwood floor. He’d called 911 but it was too late.

            She’d left the world as quietly as she had lived. Now Conrad missed her terribly, but carried on.  He maintained the garden, watered the house plants.  Funeral attendees had mostly been couples they knew from the electric company, a few friends they played rook with once a month from the Episcopal Church they sometimes attended and the neighbors on either side of them, young people who had moved in years ago. Who had been Helen’s close friends?   She had sometimes gone to lunch or shopping with Diana, who owned the art shop. But had they been real friends?  Helen didn’t have a group of girlfriends. Their friends were mostly couples. Conrad had been her best friend and she his. They were all each other needed.

            They quietly read books and papers, planned trips and sipped elegant bottles of Pinot Noir with their dinners.  They laughed quietly at plays and shows on TV. They had their interior lives. There were never wild outbursts, fights or angry words between them.  Neither of them could imagine hurting the other, raising a voice much less a hand in anger. They could not imagine infringing too much on each other. Helen claimed the portico, Conrad the study. It was a good marriage.

            Delicate Helen would never have carried on with the crass Knit Wits, pinching strangers and vying for attention, laughing too loud. She would never have ordered a chocolate chip croissant!  Conrad wished she were here now, so he could tell her these events and see her smile. But she wasn’t here. Instead he was surrounded by Knit Wits.

            “Look honey.” The red-head tugged at his sleeve. “Marcella said she’d knit something for you.  I think he’s hard of hearing Marcella.  What’s your favorite color hon? Gray is distinguished. You’d look good in gray.”

            “It’s….I don’t have a favorite color.” Conrad, blushing, angled his way past the other ladies and out the door. All colors were equal in Conrad’s mind. Grey meant grey, nothing more.

            At home, Conrad clicked on the television to a Western, made a round through the channels then turned the thing off. He poked in the refrigerator for something to eat and settled on a boiled egg with salt. He wandered downstairs, and then inched up toward the portico. He hadn’t been here since Helen died.

            Paint splotched the floor. The aisle remained on its side like a dead body. Against the walls stood canvases of smiling children dancing together in a ring. He flipped through and found a self-portrait of Helen that gave him pause. He hadn’t   noticed in real life, or in her paintings, the sadness in her brown eyes. But here, in this canvas, Helen was on the verge of crying. He envisioned a second painting, her head in her hands with tears spilling through. She had captured in art the brink, the time right before the tears would have splashed down. Conrad traced her neck with his forefinger, outlined her shoulder.

            “What was it darling? Why do you look so sad? You should have told me Helen and we talk it out. Was I the cause?” Conrad suspected suddenly that he was. “Forgive me, Helen, whatever it was.”

            The next portrait was of Conrad. Helen had shown it to him before.  She had painted it from a picture they had taken at the church years ago. Conrad, tall and slim, in his suit and dark glasses, grey hair cut close to his scalp. He displayed a handsome face, sharp nose, a bit of an upturned smile.  The portrait was a straight-forward rendering of his physical self. He couldn’t’ detect an underlying emotion like in Helen’s portrait, which is what art should do, show you something underneath the obvious, something previously unseen. 

            He drug the portraits downstairs and leaned them against the kitchen cabinets, then sat at the Formica table where he and Helen had eaten all these years, and stared at the images. They made him incredibly sad.

            Something had been missing from this handsome couple’s life, the emotionless man and the sad woman.  The more he stared, the more Conrad understood. They had held back. They had love, but had been so careful with each other, so proper; they had missed the big emotions, the sheer out-and-out joy of living.  Conrad and Helen had lived life from a distance, examining feeling through art and structure. They had treated life like the African Safari, stood back and watched the wild world from a distance. Their travels had been the most exciting part of their lives, but the travels had been controlled, everything planned and paid for in advance. They had lived their lives that way too, like one big superficial cruise.

            Conrad settled into his robe and stumbled around the house the rest of the day, contemplating. How had he gotten so old? When had he begun to be annoyed with outbursts, become so picky? How had he let Helen down?  He was surely to blame for the sadness in her eyes, being her only friend.

             When he’d settled into bed and turned out the light, Conrad felt Helen’s presence. He was not a man who believed in ghosts, but a faint scent of her lotion, the Pinot Noir they drank, her sad eyes in the portrait, brought her to him. Not her image, but her soul.

            If I’d only noticed earlier darling, we could have talked about it, rather than turned out backs to each other in bed.  Were you lonely with me? I would have changed Helen, for you. I would have done anything for you. Forgive me Helen, if I let you down.”  

            Conrad arrived at Coffee House earlier than usual the next morning. Belinda was flipping the “closed” sign in the window to “open.”

            “Morning Conrad,” she said. “Hey I’m sorry you got trapped in the midst of the knitters yesterday.”

            “It’s all right.” He took off his overcoat and hooked his cane against the back of his chair. “Wait. I think I’ll change tables today if you don’t mind.”

            “Not at all,” Belinda said. “Hey while it’s quiet I want to talk to you. Be right back.”

            Belinda returned with his usual black coffee and oatmeal cookie.   She slid into the bench across from Conrad, wearing her black barista apron that said “Coffee House” in cursive white letters.

            “The knitters are making   you something. I couldn’t help over-hear.  I wanted to warn you.”

            “It’s all right,” Conrad said. “Belinda, am I boring?”

            “No. Not to me. Anyway, the knitters were discussing what color. They want to cheer you up. They thought you looked sad.”

            “My wife died. I have been sad.”

            “I know. But somehow you need to get back into life.”

            Conrad put his face in his hands and felt himself in the place Helen had been, the brink of tears.

            “Hey you okay Conrad?” Belinda walked to his side and patted his shoulder.  The pats felt good, warm.

            “Hey its okay, Conrad, If you want to cry.”

            Conrad looked at this friend. He would not cry, but knew now that he might. He had gotten to the brink, the place Helen had been. The place you realize with sadness there is something more.

            “Helen and I never cried. We never really laughed. We just, we watched everything. We were polite.”

            “Polite is good, Conrad. You’re a good man. You’re just going through something. Look all this is on the house today, all right? ”

             “No,” Conrad straightened.  “I have money. It’s all I’ve got now. I apologize for becoming overly emotional. It’s not like me. “

            “I know it’s not like you, but trust me you aren’t overly emotional.”

            The door chime dinged and at Knit Wit walked in, just one, all by herself. Marcella.

            “Hello,” she called, then saw Conrad and wheeled back toward the door.

            “What can I get you Marcella?  You’re not usually here without the group.”

            “Well,” Marcella clutched a plastic Hobby Lobby bag in her left hand, her knitted purse in the right. “We were afraid the gentleman,” she nods toward Conrad, “wouldn’t be here Wednesday since he seems to be avoiding us, so I am dropping this off for the group.  I didn’t know he’d be here today. We were planning for you to give it to him dear.”

            “Good luck you came in this morning Marcella. Have a seat.” Belinda indicated the bench across from Conrad.

            “Are you sure?” Marcella’s eyes dart toward Conrad.

            “I’d be pleased,” Conrad said. Marcella eased into the bench.

            “Belinda,” Conrad called. “Can you bring a chocolate chip croissant?”

            Belinda smiled at Conrad.

            “I’m trying to branch out,” Conrad said to Marcella. “Trying to find more joy in life. I’ve never had a chocolate chip croissant. I much prefer oatmeal, or a regular muffin.”

            “Oh you’re going to find joy in that croissant, then, if it’s your first one. You’ll be addicted.”

            “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Conrad Smith, electrical engineer, retired. Live down the road by myself. Just lost my wife.”

            “Well Conrad Smith, it’s nice to formally meet you. The Knit Wits, who you seem not to like, are my friends. Isn’t that a funny name? We aren’t stupid. We knit.”

            “I know.”

            “The group voted I should knit your scarf. “

            Conrad un-wrapped the tissue paper that had been secured with scotch tape to reveal a cherry red scarf with black and red fringe on both ends.

            “We wanted something bright. Some of the girls said blue, because you seemed gloomy but they let me chose. I think red will draw you out.”

            Helen would never have bought him a red scarf, too much calling attention to one’s self. His last gift from Helen has been a fine Lacrosse writing pen, which he uses every day. Conrad wrapped the scarf around his neck and smiled at Marcella.

            “I like it,” Conrad said. “It matches your lipstick.”

             Marcella hooted.  A small, snort of a laugh escaped Conrad’s lips. It was a start.

            “Everything okay?” Belinda called from the kitchen.

            “Yes,” Conrad called back. “We’re going to need more Chocolate Chip Croissants."