Posted on by Lydia Ink

Waiting for 3:15

Described as a level-headed girl by her parents, she prided herself to be just that – levelheaded. She whispered the words, more to herself than to the listening universe, “I’m a level head woman.” She shuddered and re griped the doorknob and turned it.

Where did this all start? She fell in love. Yes, possibly, but she walked away and was content to do so. She found men her own age distasteful. So, when he took notice of her, she took notice of him. Tall, large brown eyes, powerful hands, and a gentleness she had only read about in 19th century novels.

She needed the vacation. She worked 60 hours a week for several weeks in a row and her temper wore thin.

“Go on, get out of here, you’ve done enough. We have the client, and you need a break. We have you booked at the Old Inn; on the lakeside.” So, there she sat, looking at the stars come out over Lake Huron and sipping wine; the weeks of stress and overwork ebbing away. The Old Inn on Lake Huron was an exclusive place that her company bought into. Employers work their employees to near distraction and then send them to the Old Inn for a week or two.

“Good Evening.” His voice mellow and his manners nonintrusive, she nodded only in good manners to his greeting, feeling he wanted no more interruption than she.

On the third night, a Tuesday, they found themselves alone in the old restaurant. The walls filled with pictures of Great Lakes shipwrecks, old and recent. They nodded to each other in greeting, took their seats at separate tables and became engrossed in the menu. A young waiter came bounding out from the kitchen, looked at them both and laughed, “at least sit closer, can’t you see I’m run off my feet?”

She laughed and so did he, and his lined face framed by his graying hair looked beautiful; like a captain of a ship laughing at the breeze. They did not eat together, but after their meal he stood and asked if he could recommend a wine and send it to her. “I notice that you sit out upon the veranda after your dinner.”

“Only if you join me.” She surprised herself by her reply.

“I’m honored and look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

And that was it. They spent seven days together. Glorious days. He spoke of poetry and poets, shipwrecks, and the history of the great lakes. She felt an attraction that went beyond love making or hesitation. She touched his hand when silence was nothing more than what they both wanted. He never assumed, and she felt freedom with him because there was rest in their relationship. She could not call it friendship; the attraction was too apparent.

They mutually parted at 3:15 on a Tuesday afternoon. He did not ask her for anything she did not volunteer. No telephone numbers, emails, or social media connections. She wanted to return to her job, to her life. Driving back to Lancing she wondered where he went, what he did and if he thought of her but was content with wondering.

Then the clock on her office wall stopped at 3:15 PM every day. She replaced it and that clock stopped every day at 3:15… every day. She took the clock down and didn’t put up another. Every day she noticed the clock at 3:15 PM. No matter where she was or what she was doing. There were days when she didn’t think of him at all until 3:15 PM.

Three months and fifteen days later, she thought she spotted him across the street from her office building. His back was to her, straight and tall, with silver hair. He was talking to a woman; he turned slightly toward her and appeared to be laughing.

“Hey, did you get a call from Joe, he’s waiting for your report. You okay?”

“Yes, I heard from Joe, I just sent it to him.” Annoyed with the interruption, she turned back to her window and looked down he disappeared.

Her boss called her into his office a few days later. “Listen, I’m just saying you’ve been a little preoccupied. I’m not complaining, your work has been exceptional,”

“Then why the lecture?”

“Because everyone is coming into my office complaining that you’ve been sharp, impatient and downright rude. That’s just not you. You’ve never been nice like a teddy bear, but I had no complaints. Go back to the Old Inn, get some rest and see if you don’t come back in a better mood. I don’t want to lose you; you are important to this company.”

She rose without a word. Threatening her job was not the best way to get through to her. She walked into her office, grabbed her purse, shut out the lights and walked out. That night she sent out her resume to a headhunter, told him she was out of town for a few weeks and to get back to her if anyone was interested. His reply made her relax:  “You’ve got an excellent reputation, I’m sure we can find what you are looking for. Do you want to stay local?

Did she? Maybe if she left the area, the haunting would stop. The word haunting stopped her. Was she being haunted? She grabbed her smart phone to make a phone call: 3:15. Something had changed in the setting to Fiji time.

“Yes, same room, your boss called ahead. Room 315, do you have any luggage?”

“I didn’t have room 315.”

“Let me double check. Yes, a little over three months ago. Yes, room 315, but if you’d like another room, we can see if we can accommodate. I’m afraid it will not be on the lakeside.”

“No. I’ll take it and I can handle my luggage.” The man behind the counter frowned slightly but handed her the old fashion key to her room. She walked the old staircase, broad and ornate on the ground level, but by the third floor the old risers narrowed and creaked. Room 315 was at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door and turned the nob.

Walking in, she breathed a sigh of relief. The room looked the same, deep blue curtains, a large comfortable bed. The room looked underwater and relaxing. She pushed the door shut and felt at home, waiting for 3:15.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

The Scariest Time of Day

The scariest time of day is just after lunch and on the playground.  It’s better if the clouds are low but when the sun is out, yes that’s the scariest time of day with only a few adult eyes roving the playground who don’t play.  No, they don’t really play.

I know a boy who walks through insults.  No one will play with him, so he plays by himself and doesn’t seem to notice the noise of taunting and teasing.   I watch for him near the swing set when his mother drops him off in the morning.  His mother always has worry marks on her forehead, but the boy kisses her goodbye, anyway.

We met at the beginning of the school year.  He didn’t run about the playground trying to fit into games.  He looked around, his bright blue eyes scanning all the children, laughing, fighting, crying or hiding; surviving.  The sun was high, the entire school exposed and running like ants outside the tunnels of their slave mill.

Turning back to my quiet place, he was there, right next to me, his big blue eyes staring.
“Hello,” he said.  I said nothing.

He told me his name, but I won’t tell you.  He’s my friend now; none wanted him, so I keep him safe, at least on the playground.

“Why are you always at this swing set?” he asked. “There are lots of places to play.”  He reached out his hand; I shied away.  It was broad daylight; I needed to stay in the shadows, so he sat down and played in the grass next to me.

Once a playground assistant came to him and asked what he was doing.  “Looking for a four-leaf clover for the girl who won’t tell me her name.”

“What girl?”

“The girl who can’t come out into the sun because she’s afraid.”

The playground assistant peered into the shadows where I stood and narrowed her eyes at me.  I became suddenly angry at the intrusion.  Adults always come too late and always pretending. The playground assistant shied away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said to me.  “People don’t understand.”

“What does that mean, ‘people don’t understand,’?” I asked.

My friend shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s what my mother says when I’m sad that nobody likes me.”

“I never told my mother nobody liked me,” I said

“Where is your mother now?” he asked.

“Sad.” I said.

My little friend didn’t sympathize.  He gave a little shudder, looked about the loud, clamorous playground.  The worried-looking playground assistant always glancing our way.
“Would you like to come home with me?  You can stay in my room, out of the sun, and play with the toys I have in the closet,” he said.

“Who would take care of you on the playground if I’m in your room?” I asked.

“Does it need looking after?  The playground?”  he asked.

“Sure,” I said.  “Every playground needs looking after, where else would adults go to pretend everything is okay?”

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Attic Dance

The attic, the entire house, was off limits.  

We weren’t 12, hell we were 21 and 22 and we had had a little too much wine and the guys were boring.  All they wanted to do was wade into the river with no clothes on and wade back out, their bodies shivering, appearing more buff as their smooth chests tightened in the cold.  I started dreaming of older men with their lesser egos.  Louise and I were down to our skivvies, but she grabbed her dress–she always wore something that was “easy in and easy out,” and called for me to follow.

I followed her through the dense wooded area that buffered the river to her aunt’s house. Louise’s family had serious money, but she and her mother lived the bohemian lifestyle. I just lived.  She and I moved through the woods while the guys had their backs turned and we heard their cries of dismay discovering we had gone.  Moving quickly, our clothes bundled beneath our arms, the cold heavy air of early October thick and clammy on the turning leaves of aged summer, we doubled our efforts.  Slipping on the wet incline, giggling although my feet smarted from the wild and prickly raspberry branches creeping along the ground and the smell of marijuana cling to my hair, I wondered for a moment why I was following Louise.  

Taunt inside, my skin, my arms and breasts, tingled tightly from thoughts of touch I would not allow because they bore Louise with the game.  I knew she was right–once things got started the fun left, and we were on the ground putting up with men, but the trek up the river bank was no fun either. 

“Hurry,” Louise hissed from just above me, the land sloped sharply up it was hard to see her, the foliage being thick.

“I am, but my feet hurt.”

“Quit whining, Auntie’s house is just up ahead.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed in there.”

“That depends on who is there.”

We plunged out of the woods and onto the green lawn. I had been there a few times with Louise.  In May Justina, Louise’s older sister married Jonathan on the lawn. It was a last-minute ceremony and already the mosquitoes were drifting up from the river; I didn’t stay long.  Louise spends Christmas with her aunt every year so I understood Louise’s banishment wasn’t absolute.  The aunt, she told me, had peculiar ideas about her and her behavior. I read between the lines;  Auntie didn’t trust Louise. 

Louise backed up against the woods and pushed her long black hair out of her face and put on her dress. I followed suit and pulled on my cotton pants and an oversized shirt. Standing beside Louise with my bobbed off blonde hair and droopy clothes I looked the perfect sidekick. No matter what Louise did, she always looked like a movie star, who knew just how to move and just how much cleavage to show.

“Look, no one is there, let’s go,” I said.

I didn’t want to go in, and I didn’t step from the spot from where I had put on my clothes.  Louise just kept walking away from me.  She didn’t even turn to see if I was there.  All I would have to do was walk back into the woods and have my way with two oversexed guys at the river.  Even as I contemplated it, I knew I would follow, but I gave myself another second to feel that edge of rebellion.

The house was immense, new, and not creepy at all..  An understated orangish reddish brick, nondescript windows and a weird greenhouse looking wing that housed a small swimming pool.  The shrubs were boring needing little maintenance — just right for an aging aunt who liked to entertain her other wealthy friends and who had to put up with the black-sheep side of the family.

The door being locked, Louise knocked in a loud insolent manner. Then she peered into what I could only guess was a living room, and then she threw pebbles at the windows that showed off the indoor pool. I stood there and watched dumb but not in wonder; Louise was odd.  She put a rock through one small pane of the back garage door, reached in, scraped her arm on the broken glass and unlocked the door. We both walked, stood there for a good three minutes and said nothing.  She turned and said, “I want to show you something.” We went nowhere in that house but to the attic.

I thought she would glance through the refrigerator or skinny dip in the pool and we would be out of there–but no; we went straight to the back and up the stairs.

“What the hell is this?” I asked Louise, “Is this where the servants live?”

The staircase was narrow, and it wound around like it had only one purpose–to reach the third floor. There were no doors to the second floor, and there was no odd smell or echoing sound as we moved up. I felt my heart pound and struggled to breathe.

“Shut up. Do you think she’d give up any of her money to hire help?” Louise’s voice was a little high pitched, as if she too were finding it hard to breathe. We came to a shut door. It was plain, even cheap looking and as Louise reached to open it, I wanted to say stop and it was on the tip of my tongue but the door seemed to open without her help, it seemed to know Louise was there and it opened of its own accord.

She didn’t toss her hair around in usual bravada, she sort of leaned and looked in. I remembered doing the same the first day of kindergarten. I was five, and afraid.  My mom made me go, so I leaned in while my mom and my teacher talked over my head. I saw several children but one in particular with coal black hair that shown down her back; she was building a wall with cardboard bricks and when she saw me, she gently pushed it down. She smiled, her teeth shiny white and the glow of the fall sun shining in all around her as the meticulous cardboard wall teetered and then tumbled down.

Standing in the stairwell she turned and said, “Welcome to the attic.”

I couldn’t go forward with her standing there and for one wild moment I thought we would turn around–but we didn’t she stepped into the attic and I followed. Wooden beams. Books. Chests and wardrobes. Wardrobes for the love of God. Genuine ones, I could tell, lined the attic. The floor was bare wood with tattered chairs all about, and in the center of the room was a long looking glass. The looking glass had no dust upon it and it stood at such an angle it reflected the different portions of the attic.

“Looks like the old bat keeps the place up–not an ounce of dust anywhere.” Louise’s voice was flat with contempt, but I ignored her.  Wardrobes and book cases edged the large attic. I knew by the crease and smell of the leather that the books were old, perhaps first editions. The chests were leather and wood and looked like they had just come off a 19th century steamship. I could almost hear the clang of a dockyard and the clatter of people moving about with their luggage, home from a lengthy trip abroad. I turned around and saw Louise open a wardrobe. It was ice cold inside, it was as if winter and all its ice blew into the attic.

Louise unzipped the blue plastic lining and took out one of many dresses. The dresses were late 19th or early 20th century; the material dark mauve and black. Louise held one against her and it transformed her from sultry beauty to royalty. She laughed at me. “I knew you’d love it up here. These all belonged to my great grandmother, my mother’s grandmother, my aunt’s mother.” 

Louise danced about, small, little whirls with the dress clasped to her middle and the material floating about. “My aunt hated her mother. She was beautiful and passed none of her beauty along, you see–so my aunt resented her. Some say she even killed her.” Louise said the last with a little lilt to her voice–as if she were a child again and trying to shock me.

“How’d she do it?” I asked moving toward the wardrobe and picking out a dress of my own. A light rose-colored dress with ecru color lace and a low neckline. 

“Poison. That’s what my mother always said. Auntie’s mother was ancient when she died, but I wasn’t around yet. I was born one year after–Mom swears I’m her, I’m back to torment my aunt, that’s why she has nothing to do with me,” said Louise.

I was smaller than Louise by far–and without thought pulled the dress over my head, traipsed over to the mirror and looked in. What I saw was me — a small girl in an oversized dress and just over my shoulder a figure clothed in dark mauve and black, her hair piled high in glorious waves and curls, fit for an evening at the opera or somewhere less cultured but thrilling.  What shocked me wasn’t the transformation, the image of the ghost looking out at me from the mirror, but the look of pale rage upon her face. Her beautiful face was full of hate and loathing. I felt a shudder of cold deep within me; a physical reality of knowledge.  No matter what the mirror was reflecting I was seeing Louise, and she was looking at me as she always did–with a hatred beyond reason–when my back was turned. I whirled around and I saw Louise again, the dress in front of her, her hair down but her face pale. “Please take that off,” she said. I said nothing, but I slid off the dress, keeping my eyes upon her and wondering if I would get out of that attic. I handed it to her, and she glided up and took the dress out of my hand without a word. She replaced both dresses but left the wardrobe open. “The old lady will be back soon–we’ll leave the place as is. She comes up here all the time to poke through her mother’s stuff–this will unnerve her.”

I said nothing; I felt nothing but fear, raw throated fear for myself. I felt no pity for the old lady that would tremble at the fact that someone had broken into her house and danced around in her attic. Louise floated down the steps and out into the garage. She closed the door and walked back toward the woods. She stopped and looked back at me. I had made it halfway, my feet still on the well-manicured lawn. I watched as she swayed with poise and grace toward the small, dense woods which lead to the river. She smiled at me, ducked her head down and disappeared into the foliage.  Turning, I walked the lengthy drive to the road and took the long way home.
Posted on by Lydia Ink

Sleepy

The thought came to me when I saw my neighbor walking his dog. Every day he walked his dog at the same time. The dog was big and black with a square head and a sleek body.  It’s a personal prerogative I know but I prefer if a dog has the audacity to be big-bear like big; teddy bear big.  A dog with a sleek muscular body conveys hunter and me, prey. 

So it came to me to get a Chihuahua.  One of those annoying little beasts that bark constantly.  I thought I’d test the waters first, so I went to an adopt-a-dog kennel and I met a perfect little firecracker named… Sleepy.  I was not deterred by the name because he had tiny feet and pranced about as if plugged into a high voltage outlet. 

I came home with a soft bed, food and a promise to try each other out for three days.  It was hell.  The first thing he did was pee.  No kidding, I set Sleepy down and his little legs quaked, and he dripped pee right where he stood. Divided equally between pity and annoyance, I cleaned the tiny mess up.  The dog, looked up at me with a look of abject sorrow. 

“We’ll try again, big fella.”  I said.  I gave old Sleepy a scratch behind his ears and tried to convey to him he was, in fact, a dog.  Despite his diminutive size, he should act like… well, a dog. 

We moved back into the compact living room of my house and I felt the little guy shake.  It was at this point, I thought maybe this is a terrible idea. I set Sleepy down on the floor.  He kept himself together enough not to pee and started sniffing the air.  Moving to my chair and picking up my notebook, I tried to write a few pages of rhyme that would pay my bills and keep Sleepy in the posh.  

I’m a poet and according to some critics and my publisher I’m not a bad one.  I spent most of my life traveling with my ne’er-do-well-father.  I was in several schools, missed weeks at a time and never fit in.  The one thing my Dad kept me in was notebooks.  At 13 I filled them.  At 15, I had several.  When Dad and I parted ways, I was 18 and enrolled in a community college.  An alcoholic and despondent English composition professor took an interest in me. 

The money wasn’t good, but I was used to fast food wages so when poetry paid out, I thought my life was pretty well perfect. 

Until I bought the small house on this quiet shaded street where my neighbor and his dog walked by like clockwork. The realtor priced the house to sell. I bought it. 

I looked up from my notebook as I heard Sleepy issue out with a deep-throated growl.  The dog was peering down the hallway, his little hind legs shaking like well-played fiddle strings.   “Easy, boy.”  Not knowing what else to say.  Sleepy turned about quickly as if he were chasing his stubby tail and barked, backed up, growled, and then fell over, feet up.

I was mortified.  Had I killed the dog?  I threw down my notebook and crouched down next to the poor mutt.  I rubbed his tummy and felt his heart thumping.  His eyes were shut tight, but then he looked up at me.  His eyes were compassionate but sad.  I picked the dog up and carried him outside to the porch. 

Again my neighbor was walking his dog, the big black sleek dog that put everyone at a distance.  The little Chihuahua shot out of my arms and straight for the big black dog.  My neighbor’s dog stood his ground.  Sleepy barked and growled and snapped, dodging about like a boxer. 

I picked up Sleepy and apologized. 

“No worries,” said my bohemian looking neighbor, “you need a killer like that living in that house.”

“Oh?”

“Nobody has lasted as long as you have.”

“I will admit that it’s a bit spooky.”  As we talked Sleepy kept up a low growl.

“Neighborhood kids used to dare each other to stand on the porch for a solid minute.  Would swear some lady would look out through the curtains at them.”

“Wow, kids don’t change much.”  I felt a little weak-kneed as the reality of my situation seemed to be proved.  “Did something happen in there?”

“Yeah, I murdered my wife in there and her dog.  The dog gave a good fight,” here my neighbor looked at the big black dog in front of him, “but I prevailed. But now he walks me all over the damn place.” My neighbor walked down the deep-shadowed sidewalk and faded from sight.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Mercy McGowen

Scared shitless was one of my father’s favorite statements.  He had every right to be frightened on more than one occasion as he was a Chicago fire fighter.  He was a small man, but unlike short men he didn’t have a mean streak.  Dad was easygoing, kind to strangers, and though he wasn’t over the top enthusiastic about me, he never shouted and rarely hit me.

I was small too and with mouse brown hair and a less than stellar complexion; I wasn’t the crowd favorite.   The crowd favorite was Mercy McGowen.  Mercy was George McGowen’s third child.  All of his daughters (three girls, five boys, all good Catholics unlike me) were beautiful, but there was something about Mercy.  I dreamed that she would one day become a nun and leave the rest of us plain girls alone. 

My Dad was a widower.  I never knew my mother as she died in childbirth; my birth. I regret not knowing her, but from the picture I have she seemed a nervous, bony type of woman who may have died of nervous prostration.  Married to a firefighter, pregnant, living in Chicago, none of it seemed conducive to the wide-eyed and stiff portrait I have of her as a young girl.

Shall I say God spared her?  No, God and I have an agreement, I don’t blame Him for things such as my mother’s death; He shows me some compassion when I have no patience with those around me.

It was one of those nights when the firefighters were all about my Dad’s table and the talk was loud, so loud I couldn’t really make out what they were saying and my head ached.  There was no point in trying to pick up around the men of Station 45, I just went upstairs, closed the door to my garret bedroom and tried to sleep. 

That’s when Mercy tapped on my window. 

Did I mention that I had the garret bedroom?  That would be the third floor.  That fact did not escape me as I peered out my dormer window and saw the beautiful face of Mercy McGowen tapping at my window.  We weren’t even friends.   Perhaps that is why she chose my window. 

I sat up in bed and watched her.  Her gigantic violet eyes were looking into the room, but I can’t think she was seeing anything.  She tapped.  Tapped again and then smiled in on me.  It was then I heard my father’s far away voice downstairs and with the roaring laughter of the men around his table.  “Scared me shitless, I thought I was a goner.”

Then there was a loud pounding at our front door.  The shouting downstairs dropped to a rumble, then a mumble, and then a shuffling silence.  The face at my garret window looked frightfully pale. She seemed to glance around, stuck her tongue out at me and was gone. 

I was transfixed in my cot.  Where did she go? More importantly how did she stand outside my window?  A quick thudding up the stairs interrupted my frozen state.

“Beatrice?”

“I’m here.”

“Beatrice! Child, where are you?”

“Here”  I tried to stay calm because Dad had a turn for the melodramatic.

“Child, the neighbor just stated you were standing outside your window!”

“No, I’ve been in bed.”

“Then what the hell?  It was Miss Crenshaw, the old Calvinist, so I know she wasn’t drunk.”

“Perhaps her age is catching up.”  I’ve heard women say that in Church.

My Dad looked puzzled and then walked to my window.  He tugged at the sash, but I latched it before going to bed.  He peered outside and shrugged. 

“Why wasn’t Mr. McGowen here this evening?”

“Eh?  What?  McGowen?  Ah, that girl of his Mercy; she’s poorly.”

I’ll regret my next words for as long as I live.  I finally discovered why my father kept me at arm’s length.

“I expect she is dead,” I said

“Nonsense Beatrice, stop that!  That’s why you have no friends, child.  Women shouldn’t talk like that.”  He returned to his friends, and the laughter resumed.

Mercy McGowen’s funeral was a solemn occasion, and my life commenced.