Tag: life

Still Waters

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excerpt

…made and she could not take a chance on hurting them by refusing
their generous offer. It was kind of them to even think of an engagement
gift, but she wished they had decided on something less ostentatious.
Oh well, maybe if it was a small, inexpensive car she wouldn’t
feel so bad about accepting it.
She had not told her parents. She did not want them to feel they had
to give the newly engaged couple a gift. Such a thing had never entered
her mind, and she hoped Cam did not expect it either. And anyway,
her parents certainly could not afford anything as lavish as a car.
Maybe I’m out of my league, Tyne thought. We’re just simple
country people. I shouldn’t be marrying someone like Cam.
This new revelation made her uneasy, taking the edge off the excitement
she felt about returning to the city. She turned to look out
the window onto the bleak winter landscape, but a little girl in the
seat beside her suddenly caught her attention and offered a welcome
diversion for her thoughts. The blond-haired child held up a story
book and asked her a word.
“That says hospital,” Tyne replied, smiling into the innocent face.
Noting the pictures in the book, she asked, “Is your story about a nurse?”
The child beamed. “Yeth. When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurth.”
“Are you? That’s lovely. I’m a nurse, and I work in a hospital like
that one in your picture book.”
The little face turned up, the blue eyes wide and incredulous. “Oh
… oh, you’re a nurth … oh.”
Tyne laughed softly, and could not resist the urge to put her arm
around the little one and hug her. Looking up, she saw the warm
smile of a young woman sitting across from them.
“You’ve made her day, thank you,” the woman said, smiling.
“Are you her mother? Oh then, I’ll trade places with you so that
you can sit with her.”
“No, no,” the mother waved her hand. “She wouldn’t thank me for
that.”
Tyne laughed and turned back to the admiring child. Someday,
would she and Cam have a little girl like this dear one? A girl who
wanted, more than anything, to be a nurth?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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Every couple of days Swanson visited Aunt Peggy’s. He and Bud held
court at the kitchen table. They fell silent if any of us came too close.
Most evenings Burt retreated to a spot on the river and helped
Mark with his knots. A fear of cougars prevented me from joining
them.
One night Swanson and Bud asked to talk with us. They waited
until our cousin was asleep.
– We’re gonna hook up the receiver on Sunday, Bud said.
– What of it? Burt said. We’ve got a TV back home.
– We’ll need assistants.
– Paying top dollar, Bud said. Up to it?
– Why tell us? Burt sparred. We’re students. On vacation.
–We’ve had dozens of applications, Swanson said.He removed his
cowboy hat. There was a wart above one eye looked like a ladybug.
– We don’t know nothing about receivers, I said. We don’t even
know what one looks like.
– You boys ever heard of the Sherpas? Swanson asked. They help
climbers in the Himalayas.
– Think it over, boys, Bud said. It’s a great opportunity.
After Swanson had left, our aunt scouring dishes, Bud leaned into
Burt and said, Jails are full of punks like you.
He slid a fresh toothpick into his cheek, then quickly removed it
again.
– One night changes their whole outlook. Get my meaning?
– I was 14. I didn’t.
Burt wedged one of Bud’s toothpicks between his lips.
– That the reason, Uncle Bud, you walk like a girl?
Pork Chop Hill seemed considerably steeper standing in a pasture at
its base than it did from downtown Coppermine. Its flanks were
dressed in dense old growth, the highest point smothered in cloud.
A hundred people must have turned up to see us off. A photographer
from the Gazette snapped photos; the school band did its best.
Flatulent cows grazed lazily amongst the muddy pickups.
Swanson reiterated our tasks. He and Bud, carrying sensitive…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971

Swamped

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excerpt

Then remembering his encounter with Frankie, he added,
“Oh, and just to remind you about Wheaton, we’ve been picking up
steadily there too, as you might have noticed. That’s the next one, I’m
sure of it. Don’t let it go without getting in.”
“I have my eyes on it, Eteo. Thanks. You’ve always followed
Frankie, I know.”
“Nothing but success with him, John, you know that.”
“Too true there,” John agreed. “I’ll clue in some people I know
to it.”
“Everyone who gets in early will make a good profit if they play
it right. I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in multiple dollars in a year
or so,” Eteo said. “That’s my gut feeling.”
“I’ll remember this, Eteo,” John replied, and with that he excused
himself to walk to the washroom. Eteo headed back to his office, but
before he reached it, Bradley Connors stopped him in the hallway.
“I didn’t see you at the dog and pony yesterday,” Bradley said.
“I had another meeting, but I sent Logan in my place. He has already
briefed me on it,” Eteo lied.
“I saw your son, but your presence would have been appreciated.
I wanted your input on this new company.”
“And as soon as I’ve studied the prospectus, you’ll have it,” Eteo
promised. “By the way, stay tuned to Wheaton, Frankie’s new deal. I
can only see it climbing.”
“I’ve heard that from others as well. Thank you, Eteo,” he said
and strolled off, looking pleased with himself.
Eteo hadn’t been back in his office for more than a minute when
Mario Messini called.
“Want to grab a bite later?” he asked. “My treat.”
“Sure,” Eteo replied. “What time?” Eteo tried to sound nonchalant,
but he was surprised.
“Da Carlo’s, noonish?”
“See you there at noon,” Eteo confirmed, then he added, “Just us
or more?”
“Just us Eteo, like old times,” Mario said and cracked a laugh.
At exactly twelve o’clock Eteo walked into Da Carlo’s. There was
no sign of Mario, so he took a table and ordered a glass of red wine.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Small Change

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excerpt

“Do you think Nonno and Nonna will let me borrow the… ukelele sometimes?”
“I think so, yes. But you’ll have to ask them.”
When he talks with his grandparents the next morning, Rick can feel that his question has made them sad. Something that doesn’t need to be said passes between them. Then Nonno Arsenio puts his thick, strong arm around Rick’s shoulders.
“We have give you Enrico’s name, caro. He would be glad you want to make music like him. Many years we save it, to keep him here, with us, but now we see, also, why. We don’t know all that time, but it was for you, too, that we save it. Maybe you play for us when you learn. Tomaso can teach you.”
For the rest of the summer, for a few hours almost every day, he sits with his father in the big front room, learning where to put his fingers, the chords, and the keys. In the fall, he takes it back with him to the city.
Year after year, through the long hot summers, cars come in from the city and park on the grass outside the fieldstone gateposts. Guests with smiling faces bring in their roasts and flowers and bottles of wine. There are hugs and handshakes, kisses, chatter and raillery and laughter.
In the shade of the swamp willow that leans from a corner of the guest bungalow, long trellis tables are set up and covered with white cloth. People in shirt sleeves and suit-pants, in summer dresses and bathing suits with pink, sun-warmed faces renew old intimacies, drink pineapple and cream soda punch or red wine spritzers with ice from frosty, sweating pitchers cruised by flies, smoking, exchanging gossipy tidbits, arguing politics or points of law, flirting outrageously, trading friendly insults, sharing stories and the latest jokes. Theresa, large and gregarious, cooks in the outdoor kitchen, or talks to everyone at once as she pours narrow glasses of homemade Strega, asking after the numerous god-children she mid-wifed into the world, making real estate deals; and Arsenio, round faced, red with exertion and sheer enjoyment, picks lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, cicoria, dandelion leaves, cucumbers, and onions for the evening salad.
After the children are in bed, those who will stay overnight say good bye to those who are leaving and everyone moves to the arbour of grape leaves near the peach and cherry trees behind the big house.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

In Turbulent Times

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Caitlin was clutching at straws and she knew it. In her heart of hearts she knew that ten-weeks-old Rowan Hanlon had been left to their care. This conclusion was reinforced within a couple of hours when Michael returned from his walk to the telephone kiosk.
‘The Hanlons’ telephone has been disconnected,’ he announced. ‘It seems that they’ve gone.’
‘And left us with their baby,’ Caitlin added. ‘What are we going to do, Michael?’
‘What can we do? We either adopt and keep him, or put him up for someone else to adopt.’ Michael was feeling nervous and guilty. ‘We always wanted a boy. Maybe we should keep him.’
Caitlin looked at the sleeping baby, and her heart warmed to him in a way it never did to her daughter Nora. ‘I’m fifty-four, Michael. Do I want to start rearing a baby again at my age?’
‘I don’t know, Caitlin. That’s for you to decide.’
A week later Michael came in from the fields for his dinner. The baby was asleep in a large basket in front of the kitchen range, and Caitlin sat in the armchair beside it. Michael crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked. ‘A letter?’
‘This came this morning. It’s addressed to you.’ Caitlin opened all the post that came to the house, no matter to which one of them it was addressed. ‘The envelope is postmarked Baile Átha Cliath, and my first thought was that Flynn Casey had gone back to Dublin. But it’s not a letter; it’s Rowan’s birth certificate.’
‘From Robert and Connie.’
‘But there’s no letter. Just the birth certificate.’ Caitlin looked up at Michael who was standing before her. ‘Michael, you are named as this baby’s father. Look.’ She handed the certificate to her husband. ‘At first I thought, No this can’t be true. Then I remembered that week last May when Connie stayed at the cottage on her own. You were having sex with her then, weren’t you?’
Michael shuffled uneasily, staring at his own name as the father of Rowan Michael.
‘May to February is nine months, Michael.’ Caitlin’s voice was calm and controlled. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Michael at last looked at Caitlin. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly sorry. But ….’
‘But you just couldn’t resist her. Isn’t that it? You just couldn’t resist her.’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Straits and Turns

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So, Mike went to the little shack, his kingdom for the next hour,
his isolation for the next hour, and after he fired up the burner and
shovelled some good shovelfuls of sand into the cylinder to let it dry,
a process that would take about ten minutes or so. While waiting for
the ten-minute process, Mike sat on his stool and tried to compose
his thoughts about what he could write for the next ten minutes, a
paragraph perhaps of his novel, which he had been trying to write
since his arrival in this huge country called Canada. Endless subject,
his book, which referred to his experiences in the new lands, what
he has lived up to now and other things that he imagined, images he
usually wrote on a piece of paper out of the roll they used to wipe their
hands, yet that didn’t stop him, since he usually re-writes everything
daily, using an old typewriter a friend of his gave him for free. An old
manual machine, yet good enough for the use he had for it, after all, a
free typewriter was always a good thing since it didn’t cost Mike any
money, which was very small and counted twice before being spent.
He started writing, in Hellenic, of course, still the only language
he could master in this country.
“Both of us were born close to different seas, mine was the blue Mediterranean
and yours the grey Pacific Ocean, yet we bleed the same red blood; we
feel the same inexplicable brotherhood, and we also feel the same grief in front
of sickness and disease. We haven’t walked the same paths, and we have never
worn the same shoes, yet we both follow the same ascent to the mountain top.
I, searching for the land with the asphodels where the blessed ones exist while
you search for your tear and its meaning before the orphan and the destitute,
Yes, we create the same footprints through the dark passages searching for the
song of the wind and for the shaking off the eagle’s wings before he commences
his soaring up in the sky, Yes, the same heartbeat guides us both when we hug
the old man and we love the same torch that lights the dark pathway before the
wind extinguishes it and we both feel the same nostalgia for beloved persons…

https://draft2digital.com/book/4250839#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866
who float in the absence of sorrow…”

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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“Here, we can hear God’s voice in the tree tops, in the rippling waters, in the cry
of the loon. Until you can lower yourself to our level and treat us as equals, there’ll
be very little dialogue.”
Father Finten fled to walk alone in the woods. Now Ailan came to find him there.
He had heard the conversation with Keallach and decided this was the best opportunity
to confirm what Keallach had already said about the relationship between priest
and Brothers.
“I have been wanting to talk to you, man to man, not as penitent to confessor,
for a very long time, ever since we first came to these shores. You are a hard man to
talk to. I do not want your judgments and I do not need your approval. I want your
trust and your love. You call me Brother but what does that really mean to you? Am
I like your own flesh and blood, or are you just being a distant father? Because you
are older than I, does not mean I should call you Father. Show me real love, and I’ll
gladly do so.”
Now Finten felt totally lost. He was unable to speak the thoughts that raced
through his mind. Ready to explode with grief and outrage, he turned and walked
quickly until he was deep in the forest. He needed time to think.
Finten did not return for the evening meal, not for prayers or bed, but stayed
away all night. Trusting that their priest would come back when he’d had time to
think these conversations over, the Brothers decided to overlook his absence. When
Finten did return to camp after three days, he did not say anything about what had
happened. The Brothers respected his silence, waiting to see if there’d be a difference
in their relationship with him, and life went on as before.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Prairie Roots

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…after chores and supper, for a few hours of fun. When
the moon illuminated the snow on crisp, clear nights we would
run and play and wrestle on the snow banks, or in the straw piles
created by the threshing crew. After getting our fill of the night
air it would be time to thaw out with hot chocolate and finish the
evening off with a game of cards. And then the walk home to be
in by ten o’clock and to bed.
This too was an experience in the winter. After our second
house was built our bedroom was the attic itself, unheated except
for whatever warmth found its way up the narrow stairway. So
the first one in warmed up the bed and resisted sharing the heat
with whoever was to share that bed.We slept in pairs, compatibility
being established by various methods including by dictates
from the parents—when all else failed. And it failed often. Scraps
broke out on minimum provocation and disagreements could last
an hour, a day or weeks.
Piling into a cold bed with a brother who was after your hide was
risky business. You were as likely as not welcomed by a smelly fart
which stopped you from getting your face under the covers to take
advantage of body heat. Instead it was necessary to tuck the feather
tick tightly under the chin to prevent any vapours from escaping
upward, at the same time to gently lift the edge of the tick with a
foot to provide an outlet for the smell. And no touching or bedlam
would break loose and one or the other would be downstairs pleading
his case in long johns before the court of last resort, mother, to
be specific.Mother’s justice was gentle enough and, by comparison
with Pop’s justice, downright benevolent. Pop would resolve our
disagreements by following a policy of no-fault resolution or, to put
it more accurately, all fault resolution whereby we were all equally
guilty and therefore all received equal punishment. It worked. We
usually went to mother to be the mediator. At least with her we
were given a chance to develop our case.
There were many things one could not do in our attic bedroom.
One could not take a glass of water up to the bedside; it froze by
morning.One could not kick off the covers; one froze by morning.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562900

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897920

In Turbulent Times

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‘So there you have it, Michael. A rather sad or maybe a tragic story. I’ve had lovers myself, but nothing serious. And I’ve always insisted on Durex. I was caught once before and I was determined not to get caught again. I thought I was safe with you. I wanted sex with a man without a condom for a change. You don’t mind me saying that, do you?’ She smiled. ‘You let me down, but I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault. I’m actually enjoying being pregnant again.’ She squeezed his hand and reclined again in the armchair.
‘You’ve had a baby then?’
‘When I was sixteen. Much too young to be a mother. So I gave it up for adoption.’
‘So no children with Robert.’
‘No, and none likely. The father of my first baby was an eighteen-year-old boy. He’s a fisherman in Lisnaglass now. Married and has four sons.’ Connie looked at Michael again. ‘Poor Michael. I think you would have liked to have had four sons yourself.’
‘I’d have been happy with one,’ Michael said, then paused in silent reflection of the fickle trickery of nature. He took his first drink, then, returning Connie’s look, he asked, ‘What will Robert say or do when he finds out you’re pregnant?’
‘Probably nothing. I am nothing to Robert now. The sad thing is that I love him. I truly love him.’ Her voice faltered, and she let her head fall back on the chair again, her eyes closed. ‘But I think it’s only a matter of time before there’s talk of divorce.’
‘Did Frank and Kathleen have any children?’
‘A son. Five years old now. Little Bobbie. Robert is very fond of him. Spoils him really.’
‘Will you tell Robert that I am the father of your baby?’ The question secretly thrilled Michael. He was going to be a father. He was not a sterile mule after all. He was a whole man. Able to father children. And Nora. The chances were that Nora really was his daughter. Not Padraig’s. Praise be to God, he thought. What a happy, happy day. He drank with a greater feeling of elation than he had ever experienced. He felt like getting drunk, but his glass was empty and he wasn’t bold enough to ask for a refill.
‘No, I won’t tell Robert that you are the father of my baby,’ Connie was saying. ‘No need to. He thinks you’re sterile, remember. There’s a man I see in Belfast. Robert will think the baby is his, and I won’t tell him otherwise. Least said, soonest mended, Michael. Don’t worry. He won’t be challenging…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Fury of the Wind

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…housewives and excited children. After checking off the names of
volunteers who manned each booth, he moved on to the next. Few
of the women had time for more than a glance and a nod in his
direction, but preparations appeared to be progressing well.
As he approached the bake sale table, an annual endeavour of the
Anglican Church ladies group, he spotted his wife working at the
table with Mrs. Carson and Mrs. McKinnon. But before he could
greet them he heard his name called. Will turned to see Mrs. Draper,
a director’s wife, hurrying towards him.
“Oh, Mr. Andrews,” she said breathlessly, “I’ve been looking all
over for you. Janet Peterson was supposed to be helping me with
the preserves booth but her husband just told me she’s sick and
won’t be here.” Beads of perspiration from her forehead were sliding
down each side of her moon-shaped face. “I can’t handle it on
my own, there’s so much coming in, and that judge from Bradshaw
doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“All right,” Will said, “you go back to the booth and I’ll send
someone over.”
Muriel Draper extracted a crumpled handkerchief from the
puffed sleeve of her cotton dress. She mopped her face, muttering
as she turned away, “And it’s already so hot. I don’t know how we’ll
survive in this building all day.”
Will thought if Mrs. Draper calmed down she wouldn’t feel the
heat so much. As he turned back to the bake table, he wondered
idly how poor Charlie Draper could stand his wife’s whining day
after day.
“Molly,” he said, after nodding briefly to his wife’s companions,
“will you go over to the preserves section and help Mrs. Draper?
Her partner isn’t coming and she’s snowed under. You know how
excited she gets.”
Molly gave him a sour look. “Really, Will, can’t you find someone
else? You know I’m needed at this table to help with pricing and
sales.”
“I’ll find someone else to come here then,” Will said firmly, “but
there’s no one else who knows how to arrange exhibits like you
do.”
Mrs. Andrews, not in the least mollified by his compliment,
shrugged her shoulders irritably, picked up her purse from under…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530