White Lies

Diane used to hate lying, but Karen, her boss, forced her into it. Tell them I’m in a meeting, Karen said when she didn’t want to talk to someone she didn’t like. Tell them I’m working on a sales pitch at home where it’s quiet, she said when she was getting a pedicure. Tell them my calendar is completely booked, she said when she didn’t want to make time for her staff.

So Diane had to lie. And soon it was a habit. White lies made life much simpler.

When Diane went out for an apple martini after work, she told Mark there had been a traffic accident, staying well away from him so he wouldn’t sniff the vodka that sometimes oozed from her pores. When Diane didn’t want to spend an entire Saturday afternoon at a baby shower, cooing over tiny black patent shoes and hats shaped like strawberries, she called to say her mother was throwing up repeatedly and Diane had to drive her to the clinic.

Lying was so much cleaner than being honest. It covered her like a burkha, protecting her entire being from emotional messiness. No one got angry when she lied. Not only was it easier, it was fun. And if she was careful, if the lie was based in truth, there was no chance of getting caught.

Karen yanked open the office door and poked her head into the hallway. I left my cell phone in the conference room after that pricing meeting. Will you go get it?

Diane nodded. I’m returning the projector since I’ll be over that way.

Sure. Fine. Karen ducked back into her office as if she was retreating from an audience with royalty, bobbing her head, keeping her gaze on Diane while she stepped backwards.

It was difficult to escape, even for a trip to the restroom. Karen expected her assistant chained to the desk. She’d repeated that several times when she hired Diane. If I can’t find you, then you’re of no value to me. Your job is to be there when I need you.

Diane lingered in the hallway, watching until Karen’s eyes were glued to her computer display. The projector had been returned when Diane was near the conference room earlier that day. A ready made gap of time created that allowed her to text the hot guy in sales that she could slip away for thirty minutes. Even the mundane act of pulling up his name in her list of contacts made her heart-rate thicken. The pressure of filing expense reports drifted out of her mind as it filled with a single-minded focus on Joe’s brown eyes and hips designed to wear expensive slacks.

As she walked away from her desk, her knees wobbled and her neck was flushed. His office had a window in the door, but when she met him there, he pulled closed a 12-inch-wide set of mini blinds. Sure it made passers-by curious, but it kept Joe and Diane from being caught as he spun her around and slid his hands up her skirt in one fluid motion. She loved wearing skirts since she’d met Joe.

Today, she pushed her lie further than she should have – forty-five minutes to retrieve the cell phone. Her lips were slick and raw and her cheeks had two perfect red circles just beneath the bone. She steadied her breathing, a difficult task as she strode across the cobblestone path between buildings as fast as her heels would allow.

I needed that phone twenty minutes ago. What took you so long?

There was another meeting and they didn’t want me to come in until they’d finished what they were discussing. A very hush-hush product coming, I guess.

Karen stared at her. Is that right. Well you took so long, I called over there. Don’t lie to me. Not ever.

Diane nodded.

You’re flushed. Are you upset that I caught you?

No, said Diane. It was the truth.

Painful Flight

The plane boarded late, but Jake was still cheerful. Once he was buckled in, he stretched his legs out straight and ran his miniature fire truck up and down his thigh. Elaine collapsed next to him, shoved the bag of toys under the seat and looked at her watch. As long as they departed in the next thirty minutes, Jake wouldn’t get overly hungry and would be ready for a distracting snack as they made the ascent. Her hands felt shaky, just thinking about their last flight – JFK to Heathrow, he’d screamed for two hours. She was so tired of this, flying without Ben by her side. It was easy for him to say: he was working for them, traveling for them, she was fortunate she could join him on some of his trips. Let him fly alone with Jake while she entertained clients. Sometimes, she felt like a single mother, with Ben gone 2-3 weeks a month.

Meg turned her body toward the window of 23A, stuffed her ear buds deep inside, hoping to reach her ear canal and scrolled through her iPod to The Doors double live album. With eyes closed, she let Jim Morrison’s scream wash over her brain, her heart, fill her entire body, blending with her own silent scream. Once she arrived in San Francisco, she really didn’t know how she was going to continue her life without Alan. Suddenly, her seat shuddered with a solid kick from behind.

Julia clutched the pages of the Wall Street Journal. She hated flight delays. The sooner this big bird got up in the air, the sooner the attendants would lurch down the aisle with their tiny bottles of vodka for sale. Her fingers trembled and she stilled them by adjusting her glasses. She forced herself to think about dinner at the grill she loved off Union Square instead of the botched presentation to four vice presidents.

Craig bent back the cover of his paperback. The words swam in front of his eyes. He’d known his father was a bastard from the time he was four years old. Why did his eyes keep filling with tears now that the old crank was in the ground, his sneering lips buried forever? Craig stared hard at the words on the page of his thriller, but digested none of them.

The plane was full. Meg hated the press of a bulky arm against her shoulder. She tried to make herself small, pressing the ear buds until her cartilage ached. The concert in her ears blasted through her sinuses, making her feel she was there. The pounding helped press down the tears collecting inside her nasal cavity. Her seat shuddered again. Then a steady beat began, a thumping that jarred her out of the imaginary world where she was twenty again, dancing wildly at a rock-n-roll concert, oblivious to the realization the human heart could be broken. She wrenched around in her seat and glared at the mother of the child behind her. The woman stared back at her, failing to comprehend the withering look.

Hungry, said Jake.

Just a few more minutes. Elaine smiled.

He whimpered. Elaine reached under the seat and tugged at the bag.

Leave the bag under the seat Ma’am. We’re about to taxi.

I’m just…

You’ll have to wait.

As soon as the flight attendant moved down the aisle, Eileen yanked the top of the bag open, fished her hand inside and pulled out a stuffed rabbit. That would last for three minutes, at best.

Lunch. Jake’s whimper was louder, rising over the sound of the air blowing into the cabin. He slid down so the seatbelt was under his armpits and slammed both feet into the seat in front of them.

Julia gripped the edges of the newspaper. She could not tolerate another flight with a screaming brat. Why couldn’t these parents control their children? Hellions.

Elaine pressed her fingers around Jake’s ankles. Don’t kick, honey.

The woman in the seat ahead of Jake turned and glared through the narrow gap between seats. Elaine turned her face to Jake. What was she supposed to do? The plane was late. She tried to plan the trip to adjust his needs to their flight schedule, but she could only do so much.

Now Jake was slamming his feet against the woman’s seat. She rose up on her knees, a single earphone dangling from a thin, white wire. Control your child. I’m trying to rest.

Elaine leaned over and stroked Jake’s hair with a gentleness she didn’t feel. What a bitch. What did she know? She leaned close to Jake. Honey, you have to be quiet. We’re bothering the other passengers.

I’m hungry! Jake screamed. His face was read and his cries swelled to a full-scale bellow. I want Daddy.

So do I, whispered Elaine.

Behind them, Craig coughed and bit down hard on his lip. Daddy.

© 2009 Cathryn Grant

Rain

The wind lashed furiously and rain spattered onto the dusty sill. She bent low, ran her finger along the ledge and turned her hand to look at the damp soot. She rubbed wet hands on her face, already wet. She pressed her face against the screen and let the cold water from the sky mingle with the warm water on her cheeks. The grime remained.

What’s That You Said?

We’re gathered for drinks after work, a pitcher of margaritas, a basket of chips and two plates of nachos – half off because it’s happy hour. A misnomer if I ever heard one. We’re all here trying to saturate our unhappiness in alcohol. The place is noisy, lots of Silicon Valley workers looking for the perfect point of numbness.

She arrives, a subtle smile on her lips, aloof as always. She’s tall and thin, freakishly thin if you look at her wrists where she wears a tangle of chain bracelets. Her hair hangs past her waist, uncombed, and she wears a short skirt and boots.

An hour later, she’s sucked down four glasses of water, insisting she isn’t drinking “these days”. She’s eaten half a plate of nachos so we order more. And she hasn’t said a word. Why does she even bother to show up? She smiles, nods, but says nothing. We talk about the past, when business was booming. We talk about trips for the company, to Hong Kong and Singapore – the beauty of Hong Kong harbor and the drenching humidity. We all wipe our brows at the memory of that heat and order another pitcher.

Mark asks her a direct question, Have you ever been to Hong Kong, Allison?

She grins as if she’s said something clever.

Allison?

She leans forward, turns so she’s looking at me, the side of her head bent toward Mark. What?

Hong Kong! Ever been there?

She widens her grin — it’s almost a grimace, gives an ambiguous nod.

Yes? No?

Her eyes are unfocused.

The fresh pitcher of margaritas arrives. We no longer care whether she’s been to Hong Kong, or anywhere, for that matter.

The Motor Home

The motor home has been parked in front of her apartment complex for three days now. She hasn’t seen anyone enter or leave and if it wasn’t so shiny, two-toned brown and beige, she’d think it was abandoned.

She thinks there’s a law against parking a vehicle in one spot for more than three days, or maybe it’s five days. But what’s she going to do, call the police? The last time she encountered the police, it didn’t go well. They like to give the impression they really care about the average person, but they were intolerant. They refused to listen, just reminded her she couldn’t be putting out so much food for squirrels, the scratching of their nails across the tar and gravel roof was becoming a nuisance.

It shouldn’t bother her, having it sit there. She should be more tolerant, but what were they doing in there? Was someone watching the comings and goings in the ten-unit complex? It’s easy enough to watch each individual, determine patterns, then proceed with a systematic series of  break-ins.

As she walks to the curb she zips her jacket. When the tab nears her throat, she tilts her head back and pulls slowly, to make sure the teeth don’t tear her skin. There’s a scratching sound behind the door. When she stops, the scratching stops. She hurries down the street, turns right at the corner, and then two blocks up to the supermarket.

That night she sits in her living room until the moon rises. No one has gone in or out of the motor home. She doesn’t eat any of the food she purchased. If she takes her eyes off it, she might miss something. At eleven, a dim light comes on in the back of the motor home. In spite of the four cups of coffee she’s swallowed, she drifts to sleep. When she wakes at three, the light is still glowing through the tiny, curtained window.

In the morning, she’s exhausted. With the sun out, she can’t tell if the light is still burning, but she must find out what is going on out there. She doesn’t have anything useful like a crowbar. Her hands shake from the lingering effects of caffeine, but she manages to wrench the meat cleaver out of the wood block on the counter. She rushes down the stairs, up the path and through the gate.

The scratching sound is more persistent than yesterday. She wedges the cleaver into the space where the door meets the side of the motor home. A metal burr on the door handle tears at her skin and blood coats her finger. She pries as hard as she can but the door doesn’t budge. Her blood smears across the recessed handle. Blood pools in the webbing between her fingers.

She leans against the motor home. The scratching is louder. She backs away and sees the branch of the oak tree, rubbing against the roof. Down the street, a patrol car inches its way toward her. She drops the cleaver, crying.

© 2009 Cathryn Grant

Work After Dark

The building is dark except for the lights in her office. The hallways offer a dim glow of safety lights, and the break room blinks into brightness when she passes the motion sensor. She’s on her third cup of coffee now, 10:30pm. The presentation slides should be complete in another hour, once the rest of her teammates, all working from their homes, email her their content.

She heads back down the hall to her office. It seems as if there are others in the building. Perhaps there are, on other floors, or in the north wing, but she can’t hear them, doesn’t see them. The dark offices she passes emit odors and changes in temperature that hint at the presence of human life. It’s just the residue of the daylight hours.

She feels compelled to look over her shoulder as she turns the corner to her hallway. Three doors down, the light from her office spreads across the carpet. A quick glance over her shoulder. Then she turns and walks a few steps back to look down the empty corridor between her and the break room. No one is there, but the temperature is suddenly warmer, breath that’s more than just the air coming out of her lips. It’s possible the climate control reset itself.

At her desk, she feels the need to pee, but her hands tremble slightly from the silent trek down the hall. She’s not ready. She wakes her computer from sleep, sets her coffee cup on the desk.

The phone rings and it’s so loud in the enveloping silence that she shudders and nearly falls forward off her chair when the force of her movement sends it wheeling away from the desk.

Hello?

How are you this evening?

A telemarketer? At the office? How did that happen? But she recognizes the false friendly tone and the scripted speaking points.

I’m working.

I know. And we’re here to help.

Who is this?

Do you want to reduce your working hours? An attractive young woman like you shouldn’t be alone in the office half the night. You should be out enjoying yourself. Entrepreneur Industries can help.

I have a job. Thanks.

She reaches forward to replace the handset, but the voice keeps speaking, And such a cruel one that forces you to stay alone in the building after dark.

She glances at the doorway. Why does she have the sensation this man can see her? She knows he can’t. It’s a fluke, a script. The words could apply to any female. I’m not alone.

Oh, come now. Don’t lie to me, it’s so pathetic.

Something flickers in the hallway. She stands and steps closer to the door, unsure of what she saw. The reflection down a long hall and around a corner of the light shutting off in the break room? That’s not possible. Her own eyes playing tricks? Her lashes fluttering?

Why not give me a chance. I’ll tell you how you can work from home for a very small investment. And guarantee essentially the same salary you’re making now.

You don’t know what salary I make, so how can you promise that?

She feels something on her spine, a slight chill. Just a few minutes ago, the air was warmer. The chill and the thought make her shiver multiple times. She should hang up, this is wasting time, there’s work to be done.

Why would you want to work alone in a deserted building?

It’s not deserted.

Have you seen anyone during the past two hours?

The overhead light flickers violently. One of the tubes goes out. She gasps and a little cry escapes from her mouth.

Are you ok, miss?

I’m fine. I need to go now.

Wouldn’t you feel safer if we stayed on the line?

Who is “we”?

Just an expression.

She hangs up the phone, slams her laptop closed and stuffs it into her bag. Now the only thing to do is make her way out of the building and across the lot to her car, parked under a safety light. It’s not far to go, and she’ll be fine. The building is empty.

© 2009 Cathryn Grant

Sitting With The Dead

I wanted to like my grandson’s fiancé, but I really couldn’t. The first time I met her, she rubbed me the wrong way. She wore a dress with thin straps over her creamy white shoulders. Each time she reached for her wine glass, the strap on the left slid down her arm. The side of her breast popped out like the egg white emerges from a crack in a boiling egg – a silken bubble.

After six weeks the girl has him wrapped around her pinky finger, or maybe I should say her ring finger. I love my grandson, he’s good-looking. He’s so smart he graduated from Princeton University with two degrees, but so dumb he doesn’t see this girl is sucking him into her vortex.

I may be an old lady, living all alone with my youth and my secrets buried in hard-packed clay, widowed for more than half my adult life now, but I’m not stupid.

This girl, Clara, is silly and shallow and seductive in a bumbling, obvious way. But it’s more than that, so much more. She shamelessly informed me she dabbles in ungodly activities. Well, mostly just one ungodly activity – she’s a medium. It’s difficult for me to believe that this kind of thing still exists, that anyone would be gullible enough to believe it was possible to communicate with the dead.

The girl actually conducts séances, for a fee. What kind of fool parts with money to talk with a dead relative? Let the dead stay dead. The minute she announced at the dinner table that she held these sessions for grief-stricken prey, I snuck away from the table. I went to the basement and pulled Volume S of the encyclopedia off the shelf. I don’t use the encyclopedias much any more, they’ve been in a dank corner below ground since Charlie passed – nearly thirty years now. I discovered that séance comes from the French word for sitting. This girl sits with the dead, or so she claims. She talks to them. They talk to her.

It might be real, or it might all be mumbo-jumbo. Either way, my grandson has a thick skull. When I mentioned he might be rushing in, he laughed. I got bolder and suggested he didn’t know her as well as he thought. He said, Grandma, we know each other inside and out. I didn’t like the sound of that. Do you want lonely people knocking on your door at all hours? Do you want the lunatic fringe in your living room? He laughed harder and said he’d already had plenty of encounters with the lunatic fringe.

I sit at my kitchen table, drinking hot water with lemon. There must be a way to persuade him to find another girl, a way to pry open his eyes and make him see. A girl who believes in séances will not be a good addition to what’s left of our tiny family. I don’t want that girl in my house. I don’t want to look into her eyes, watch her wink at me over her glass of Zinfandel. There must be something I can do before he makes a terrible mistake.

I grab the flashlight and head down the wooden stairs to the basement. The steps are a bit wobbly, the whole staircase shudders with each touch of my foot. I shove the flashlight into my apron pocket so I can hold securely onto both railings.

Cobwebs hang between the bookcases and the concrete wall. I brush them away. Goose bumps run down my arms because I wouldn’t see a spider if it leapt at me in this dark space. I hope the cobwebs are abandoned.

The toe of my boot is scuffed. I scrape it on the part of the clay floor where the earth is loose and uneven. I hope the shelves of encyclopedias over his skull are enough to keep Charlie’s mind occupied, to keep his thoughts from wandering to the way his life ended. I hope he doesn’t have any ideas about sitting down and chatting with Clara.

© 2009 Cathryn Grant

Too Close

The line was only five people deep. She was the fourth. It was feeding in an organized manner to the two open pharmacy windows.

She appreciated this about her pharmacy. There was never confusion about whose turn it was, because they had a thick chain stretched across the space and a small opening so that a single line formed and the next person waiting was always helped first.

Today, each patron required detailed help with insurance coverage questions, but that was okay. She could be patient, because the line was so orderly. There was only one problem. The man behind her was too close.

Did she imagine she felt his breath on her shoulder, or was it real? There was a slight sensation of heat, a touch of dampness as if the breath came from deep in his lungs. She inched forward. The others in the line were well-spaced and she didn’t like moving too close to the woman leaning all her seemingly ninety pounds on a cane.

Why did he have to stand so close? Even if that wasn’t really his breath, if it was just the air conditioner spewing moist air in a thin stream, she was sure she could hear him breathing. In, a pause, and a mucous-laden exhalation. She could ask for space. Would that be rude? She shouldn’t have to ask. He should know he was too close.

It wasn’t only his breath that was audible. There was the sound of his white athletic shoe squeaking on the linoleum and she was sure that his teeth clicked once or twice. It was possible she heard his eyelids blink every seven seconds.

Move back. Don’t breathe. Move, god damn it. Her skin had the crawly sensation she got when she was crushed in the center of hundreds of people watching a movie that was longer than necessary. The desire to scream, to punch someone, anything to give her muscles some activity, something to do with all that blood pumping into them.

She clenched her teeth.

His shoulder brushed the side of her arm. His voice was low, his breath smelled of oranges and sour milk. “It was selfish to cut in front of me. But I’ll let it go.”

She turned. “I didn’t.”

“You did. But I can see you are one of those women who only notices herself.”

She inched forward, frantic to escape  him. She bumped the elderly woman’s cane. She remained half out of the line and kept her head turned, facing the pharmacy window.

After the elderly woman was helped it was her turn. She rushed to the window as if it as a sprinting contest. “Prescription for Alderman. Jill.” She opened her purse and reached inside to grap her wallet. Her hand touched something soft and damp. She yanked her fingers away and opened her purse wide. On top of her wallet was a slice of orange, soft and nearly liquid, covered with black fur and smelling fermented.

Paradise

Hi all,

Apologies for the mass-produced postcard, but time is tight here in paradise.

Our island shack is the one you see on the flip side between the two coconut palms. I’ve never seen water so blue and the air carries the scent of blossoms that can only thrive in this moist air.

There’s a great wireless connection, believe it or not, and cell phone access if we stand right next to the bed, away from the ceiling fan.
As soon as Bob finishes his concall, we’re going snorkeling. We’d hoped to take scuba classes but I got pulled into an early morning email battle with my boss and two VPs and we missed the class.

We can’t believe how the email piles up when we’re out of the office, but we’ve vowed that for the rest of the week we’re only responding to the most urgent and letting the filters do the rest.

The sand is as soft as 400 thread count sheets and so warm, but it does leave a fine dust over the cell phones. We keep them near us on the beach because even though there’s no voice reception, text messages still get through.

Bob and I are so grateful for the chance to visit paradise. We’ll post our pics as soon as we get them uploaded to the laptop.

Gotta run, I just received a tweet – need to sign in to a webinar.

Note: This is the result of an exercise from a SHEWRITES Flash & Micro Fiction Postcard Shorts exercise.

The Perfect Yard

Number 491 never mowed the lawn. The neighbors grumbled about it, especially the retired gentleman who lived at 495 Charleston Avenue. His  yard was neatly trimmed by the family with a gardening service living at 497. The guy in 494 had a contentious relationship with the gardeners. They parked their large truck near the curb. The truck annoyed him because the alarm was too sensitive and every motorcycle and muffler-free truck that passed by set off the alarm. He grumbled about residential streets and zoning laws and police enforcement. A few months later, the truck was no longer parked on Charleston.

After several years, the British couple living in 491 tore out the lawn, circled the plot with a brown, rough wood picket fence and filled the yard with poppies and Mexican Sage, a few large boulders and various drought-resistant shrubs.

It was reminiscent of an English garden — very fitting. The surrounding neighbors were pleased.

The folks at 493 planted clusters of banana trees at the corner of the yard. No one liked them. The trees grew to enormous heights, their broad leaves flapped over the sidewalk in the summer, then turned brown and rotted in the winter frost. The San Francisco bay area is no place for banana trees. They looked jungle-like, dense, not in keeping with a suburban street like Charleston.

The gentleman in 495 insisted the frost would kill them. Every year he reminded 493 of this fact. The frost damaged them, but they sprouted back with furled leaves rising from the base; he reminded them again – frost’ll kill them. The neighbors across the street, 494, sometimes crossed over to comment that the banana trees were quite large, multiplying like weeds, really unbelievable.

The couple in 494 had two square patches of lawn, a few nicely placed gardenias and a Japanese maple. Very tidy. They also had a camellia shrub and a thick hedge, while the gentleman at 495 surrounded his trimmed lawn with a few rose bushes contained in a brick enclosed strip. Under his tree was a circle of pansies and cyclamen.

One summer 497 and 499 dug up their yards. The widow in 499 replaced her front yard with a covering of wood chips. No shrubs, no tree. Her husband had passed away in January and the covering suited her.

In 497, two generations of gardeners and their crew stripped the yard. They leveled the dirt and put down a layer of rock. It sat for a few days. Everyone was curious. How would the yard be transformed by the skilled men of this family business?

On a Saturday they rolled out the new lawn. It sparkled, it was bright green. It couldn’t be true … was it? Why the sparkle, was it damp? Why that brilliant green? The neighbors squinted. Could it be artificial? A sign was planted in the yard advertising the family business. No one talked about the new yard, they simply walked past and surreptitiously stooped to stroke the blades. Fake grass. A high grade, certainly, but fake. There was nothing left to say.