Paradise

Fio doesn't remember if she's posted this short-short before, but whatever, enjoy!

Paradise

Heaven was, well, heavenly.  Each day was just as wonderful as the day before.  The sunrise was always a blushing gold, the sunset a drama of orange and black.  The grass was always green and smelled of eternal spring.  George golfed with his spirit guide every day and always won.  His wife never whined and his children were always polite, obedient, and happy. 

            In fact, after a while perfection got somewhat boring.

            “I really didn’t realize heaven would be so much the same all the time,” George finally said to his spirit guide.     

            The being looked at him in surprise. “What made you think this is heaven?”

Glittered as She Walked

When I was in college, I would have given my right arm to be Micki Greene, which would have completely invalidated my purpose because Micki Greene lacked for nothing.

Eighteen-year-olds aren’t old enough to be called beautiful, but Micki was headed that way. Her eyes were blue slate, her short, coiffed hair was silver blonde, and her complexion was glowing. To top it off, there was something fragile and charmingly confused about her, and she had the most adorable way of talking, in excited, almost lisping bursts. Perhaps she cultivated it, but it worked.

She called herself Micki, short for Michaela, a unique name at the time, but  Micki's name was not the only thing that made her stand out. One way or another, we always became aware of her.  I remember how everyone laughed when she sneezed thirty-one times in a row from the upper back side of the auditorium during a particularly boring philosophy lecture.  The teacher called her down, saying she was deliberately disturbing class, but I thought it was just Micki.

At the time, it seemed to be a wonder that this magical creature and I both lived in the oldest women’s residence on campus, but I was there for economy while Micki was there for tradition.  She pledged Pi Phi, wore pearls in her pierced lobes when no one else was wearing earrings, and zoomed around in a powder blue MG sports car—illegally, of course, since only upperclassmen were allowed to have cars, which only added to her legend. Dorm gossip had it that her rich, handsome father regularly appeared to escort her out to dinner, and that she talked about visiting her mother in places like Monaco and Madrid. 

My roommate gave her one look and said she was crazy.

Micki may have acted confused, but she was no dummy.  She was in the liberal arts honors program, although everyone knew she wasn’t destined for Phi Beta Kappa. This was the era when prizes like Micki considered their college time well spent when they left after their sophomore year to marry up-and-coming young lawyers. Strangely enough, I was the one who married early, although, after getting my ears pierced for pearls, I stuck around college long enough to pick up a history degree, magna cum laude.  Somewhere between the laundry and the senior thesis, I have a dim memory of the society section reporting that Micki had married an up-and-coming young lawyer in a lavish ceremony worthy of her. 

My husband, who had gone to high school with Micki, said she was crazy.

Ten years later, my Micki update came from a friend who told me about a woman who had sat down next to her in her children’s swim class and poured out her breaking heart about her cheating and abusive husband, then said the lawyer she'd hired out of Houston would cut his balls off.

My friend’s husband, who’d known Micki’s mild-mannered husband since childhood, said Micki was crazy.

Another decade down the line, I spotted Micki at a high school football game. She entered the bleachers two rows in front of us, and I recognized her immediately even though her silver-blonde bob had become a pewter-blonde braid and her teen-age slenderness had rounded out into womanly curves.  Going with the current fashion, her skirt was romantically ethnic and she had topped her Mexican blouse with a long, trailing scarf. Micki was beautiful now, with that same charming aura of fragile confusion. 

But Mickey was sitting alone because she was divorced, again. I knew this from my friend, who got the lawyer gossip from her husband, and because the year before I had seen newspaper coverage of Micki and her daughter at home in a stylishly gentrified area of the city.   It was hard to tell which was which, of course—and I could tell that the reporter was as as entranced by Micki as I had been. 

The bleachers were crowded.  Micki waved at her daughter who was, of course, a cheerleader, and picked her way down the row, finally putting her stadium seat down beside an expensive-looking couple who greeted her by name. I caught a thread of their conversation now and then, but after a while Micki's friends seemed to tire of her, and their replies became shorter and shorter, then ceased altogether. At halftime they moved three rows down and across.  

All alone, Micki rocked herself back and forth on her stadium seat, lisping softly to herself as she played with her long, trailing scarf. 

I finally got it. Micki was crazy.

Diet

 Once upon a time there was a slender young woman, a good woman, who was married to the man of her dreams.  Her best friend was fat and unmarried.

"If you lost some weight, your true nature would be revealed, and you would be able to attract a husband as wonderful as mine," the slender young woman said.  "I will help you."

    

So with the encouragement of her friend, the fat woman dieted away one hundred pounds to become a devastating beauty.  She was so devastating, in fact, that she was able to seduce her friend's husband.

"How could you do this to me?" the slender young woman complained to her formerly fat friend.  "I have always been a good friend to you, and I was the one who helped you diet to reveal your true nature."

"Yes," the woman replied, "but my true nature is evil."   

("Diet" is the third and final story in  "The Fat Woman Chronicles. " Enjoy!)

Unbirth

             

  Once upon a time there was a skinny young man who hated his boss because his boss told him what to do.  One dark night, he made up his mind to get even by robbing his boss's house.

The skinny young man was heading for the front door with a pillow case full of loot when the boss's immensely fat wife came home.  He dropped the pillow case and rushed the woman before her eyes could adjust to the light, held a knife to her throat, and forced her toward the bedroom at the back of the house.  

The woman had taken a motherly interest in the skinny young man, which made him hate her almost as much as he hated her husband, so he decided to rape her. She was twice his size, but because he was a man and had a knife, she was at his mercy. 

"I hate you, hate you, hate you!" he chanted, driving himself into her.

"I love you, love you, love you," she replied, accepting his masculine rage within her great, motherly body and pulling him deep, deep, deeper inside herself with his every stroke.   

Until he was no more.

The fat woman lay on the bed for a few minutes, caressed her overstretched belly, then lurched to her feet and walked unsteadily into the front hall to retrieve the pillow case and replace it in the linen closet.

Revelation

The third and last story in Fiorella's "Fat Woman Chronicles."

     Once upon a time there was a slender young woman, a good woman, who was married to the man of her dreams.  Her best friend was fat and unmarried.

     "If you lost some weight, your true nature would be revealed and you would be able to attract a husband as wonderful as mine," the slender young woman said.  "I will help you."    

     So with the encouragement of her friend, the fat woman dieted away one hundred pounds to become a devastating beauty.  She was so devastating, in fact, that she was able to seduce her friend's husband.

     "How could you do this to me?" the slender young woman complained to her formerly fat friend.  "I have always been a good friend to you, and I was the one who helped you diet to reveal your true nature."

     "Yes," the woman replied. "But my true nature is evil."   

Unbirth

            .  

Another one of Fiorella's short stories, the second one in "Fat Woman Chronicles."     

    Once upon a time, there was a skinny young man who hated his boss because the man kept telling him what to do so the skinny young man decided to get even by burglarizing his boss's house when he knew that neither his boss nor his boss's fat wife would be at home.

     But as he was filling a pillow case full of heirloom silver, the boss's wife came through the door. 
     Before the woman knew what was happening, the young man rushed her, held a knife to her throat, and forced her toward the bedroom at the back of the house.  The woman had been kind to the skinny young man, which had made him hate her even more than he hated her husband.  
     He pushed her down on the bed and threw up her skirt.   She was twice his size, but because he was a man and had a knife, she was at his mercy. 
    "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" the skinny young man chanted, driving himself deeper and deeper into the fat woman's body.   

     "I love you, I love you, I love you," the fat woman whispered, and she sucked him into the vast cradle of her maternity.
     Until he was no more.  

   .

     

The Weight of the World

Fiorella took a look at the state of the world and decided it was time to rerun one of her short stories.

Transference

Once upon a time there was a fat woman with a big heart, a woman who carried the weight of the world upon her shoulders.  She went to a doctor for a minor health problem, and he sent her to a psychologist who specialized in eating disorders.

The psychologist was a young, slender woman who also had a big heart.  She worked with the fat woman for several months and finally realized that the fat woman considered herself responsible for the welfare of the whole world, which she maintained by eating and eating and eating. 

The psychologist gradually gained the confidence of the fat woman, then persuaded her to cut back on her food intake.  "Don't worry about anyone except yourself." she said with a smile.  "I will take over your responsibility for the welfare of the whole world." 

That month the fat woman lost ten pounds, and a terrible earthquake devastated Turkey--but earthquakes are always devastating Turkey.

          The fat woman was so proud of losing ten pounds in one month that she cut back even more and soon had lost another ten pounds.  An out-of-season monsoon swamped India and half a million people died, but half a million is hardly a drop in the bucket in India.

         The psychologist cheered the fat woman on as she lost twenty more pounds, then fifty.  The Arab nations wiped each other off the globe with nuclear weapons.

The fat woman was developing a figure now--a waist was almost visible.  The AIDS virus mutated into an airborne form, and people started wearing surgical masks outdoors.  Millions died.

Spurred on by her success, the fat woman dieted with a vengeance.  Mount St. Helen's erupted again and California split off from the mainland.  The New Madrid fault was reactivated.  Riots broke out simultaneously in New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Detroit, Houston, and Los Angeles. 

            "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to lose so much weight at once," the psychologist told her patient as she listened to a broadcaster on her short wave radio speculating as to the nature of the strange blip that was approaching Earth at such a fast rate of speed.

            The former fat woman tossed her head petulantly. "I want to lose weight.  I don't want to worry about anyone but myself.  You said you would be responsible from now on!"  She paid her bill, donned her party pink surgical mask, and almost skipped out of the office, the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders.

            The psychologist watched her patient leave, listened a while longer to the news broadcast, then looked around for something to eat and eat and eat.

                                                           

Happiness

Let's make one thing clear: Fio has been published since she was five, when her art appeared in the Akron Beacon Journal.  Later, she wrote for school publications--her elementary school newspaper, her high school literary booklet, Latin booklets.  She put in a stint as editor of the state Latin publication, had some poetry published, and wrote a doctoral dissertation. She self-pubbed more  little booklets, wrote for the American-Statesman, for her own neighborhood newspaper, and for local magazines.  She had more poetry published, plus a short story.

But she's never had a full-length novel published till now.

WHAT THE HEART WANTS--on Amazon, published by Forever Yours, Hachette Book Group.

One of Fio's Short Shorts

 Only the names were changed, to protect the author.

What Everyone Knows 

I turn right at Joe Bob’s pool hall, left at God’s Lighthouse, and right again at Della’s Quality Wigs, then proceed down the road through the low water crossing and turn right at the dead end.  This puts me in the faculty parking lot of Little Whitetail High School, where I’ll be teaching a dual credit college class this fall. The weather is nasty, but I’m in luck: there’s an empty space in the first row, near the back door to the school.

I ease into the space, half open my door, and turn to gather my necesaries from the seat beside me—purse, umbrella, satchel of books and hand-outs.

What sounds like the voice of God booms from above my half-open door.
 "MA'AM." 
I jerk around, only to have my vision blocked by a large male torso.  The head and shoulders are above my view.

            The voice continues in slow, measured syllables. “Ma’am, you’ve parked in my secretary’s place.  These two spaces are for the principal and the secretary,”

My head bobs like it is on a spring as I look around to check if there is something I missed.  “There isn’t any sign.”

“Everyone knows.”

I glance out of my back window to see where else I might park, but I must not be moving fast enough because the sepulcheral voice addresses me again. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what spots are open.”  What other local dignitaries would I inadvertently offend?  Who else has invisible dubs on choice parking spots?

“They’re all open, ma’am.”

If they're ALL open, why can’t I stay where I am? runs through my mind, but instead I just say “Oh,” close my door, and back out of the parking space.  I end up one row back, in Lord only knows who else’s spot.

A gray-haired woman pulls up next to me, glares at me, and dings my door when she gets out.

When I reclaim my car at the end of the day, I notice, hanging from shiny new metals, are two laminated paper signs designating the principal’s and secretary’s parking places.  Their flap-flap-flapping holds up through several perfunctory autumn storms, but the signs finally blow away in a truly magnificent Thanksgiving gale. The next week they are replaced with metal signs. 

“Those signs are totally unnecessary,” I tell one of the teachers I’ve become friendly with.  “I’m the only one who didn’t know the local customs, and I don’t park in those two spaces any more.  I’m not even parked out back today.  I couldn’t get through the low water crossing so I parked in one of those yellow-striped spaces out front.”

My friend’s eyes bug out in horror. “Out front?  Those spaces are reserved for the coaches!”

"But there weren’t any signs.”  

“Everyone knows.”

Girl in the Swirly Skirt (end)

Finally he got out and raised the hood. Maybe the poor thing had died of old age. A sudden breeze hit him and he shivered.

Reaching into his pocket, he realized his cell phone was still sitting on the kitchen counter in his apartment. There wouldn’t have been anyone to call anyway. It looked like he going to be spending Christmas Eve huddled in his broken-down car in the mall parking lot. He’d never felt so lonely in his life.

A low-slung MX-5 pulled up beside him.
“Need a ride?’

Rem looked up so quickly that he banged his head on the open hood. It was the girl in red again, but this time she was smiling.

“That--that would be great,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his head.

“It’s the least I can do after giving you such a hard time. I’ll just call my mother to tell her what’s going on.” She reached for her cell phone and unlocked the passenger door. “Hop in.”

He crammed himself into the tiny two-seater and buckled the seatbelt.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m taking Remington home so I’ll be a little late for dinner. His car won’t start.”

He stared at the girl. “How did you know my full name?”

She laughed, put the car in gear, and headed out of the lot. “Remington Villalobos: tall, blond, chemical engineering major with a radiant smile. You were on my list.”

“Your list?”

“I’m your third mystery shopper.” She stopped at a light and fixed him with her own radiant smile. “I’m Meredith Montano. The mall hired my mother’s firm to ride herd on cart employees, and she asked me to check you out. I was really stinky and you did a great job. You can have a nice Christmas Eve on that hundred dollar bonus I’m about to give you. What are your plans?”

Rem moved his hands in a gesture of futility. “Nothing, really. I’ll just sit around and watch some TV.”

“You’re going to be alone for Christmas Eve?” Horror was in the angel’s voice.

“Well, yeah.

“Just a minute.” Meredith pulled to the curb and got on her cell phone again.

“Mom? Set another place for dinner.” She winked at Rem. “I’m bringing someone special home to meet the family."

THE END, BUT MAYBE A BEGINNING

Girl in the Swirly Skirt (continued)

“No, no,” she complained. “It has to be orange.”

“Here’s an orange one that has a soccer ball on the front.”

She grimaced. “I don’t like that one. How about the one with the soccer player on it? Do you have that one in orange?”

“No ma’am, I’m sorry. We’re out of the orange shirt in that design. Maybe after Christmas.”

She glared at him. “That would be a little late, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe your brother would like a cap,” he suggested, trying to save the sale. “We have several designs available.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She gave him a contemptuous snort, stuck her cute little nose in the air and walked away, her red skirt swirling around her.

Rem blew out his breath. Nasty customers were part of the job, but pretty girls should act pretty too. What a disappointment. His Christmas angel was a devil from hell.

Three customers later, it was time to leave. He locked up, tucked his hat in his pocket, and walked out of the mall into the Christmas Eve darkness.
The weather was a little brisk, but his old Chevy was parked close enough to the door that he didn’t need a jacket. He unlocked the door and slid in, turned the key, lost the engine, then tried again.

And again.

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW

Girl in the Swirly Skirt (continued)

Rem took a few minutes to straighten his stock in preparation for closing. Suddenly, there she was, right in front of him, the girl in the swirly skirt. He waited a couple of minutes, then approached her with a friendly smile. “Looking for something special for tomorrow?”

She didn’t even glance at him. So much for his fatal charm.

“I need a T-shirt for my thirteen-year-old brother,” the girl said, pulling an orange shirt out from the bottom of a pile Rem had just straightened. She glared at the shirt, sneered, then stuffed it back into the wrong display. “Don’t you have, like, anything decent here?”

“Uh, what size does your brother wear?”

“Medium, of course! He’s just thirteen!” she answered, her dark eyes flashing. “Don’t they give you people any training at all?”

Rem told himself to stay calm and professional. Maybe Angel had had a bad day. “What are his interests—sports, computer games, skateboarding?”

The girl looked at him like he was crazy. “What does that matter?”

“Because then I might be able to find something that would work for you.”

She rolled her eyes upward as though trying to locate patience. “He’s into soccer. He lives and breathes soccer.”

“Let’s see what we have.” He walked the girl around to the other side of the cart and presented a shirt for her inspection.

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW


TO BE CONTINUED

The Girl in the Swirly Skirt

There she was again, his Christmas angel, the same girl he’d seen yesterday and the day before. A real hottie--slender but curvy, with a cloud of shoulder-length dark hair. Today she was wearing a red dress with a skirt that swirled around her like dancing flame.

Rem watched the girl’s progress down the center of the mall. Probably doing some last minute shopping before an evening of holiday partying.

His own Christmas Eve was going to be spent alone. This was his first year in grad school, his family lived half a continent away, and he hadn’t socialized much. In the long run, he knew the straight A’s were worth it, but right now all he could think of was the pretty girl in the swirly skirt.

He checked his watch. Another half hour and his temp job selling t-shirts would be history. Some of the other carts had already closed, but he was keeping Treasure Chest open till the last minute. The mall management sent mystery shoppers around who could write him up for leaving early.

Rem touched the two gold buttons pinned to the rim of his Santa hat. The third button, the one that would have given him a bonus, had eluded him. One never knew who the mystery shoppers were, but Rem was pretty sure his third one had been the guy who lectured him yesterday about the wages paid to garment workers.

“Garment salesmen aren’t paid much either!” he’d finally told the man, who’d stormed off in a huff.

CONTINUED TOMORROW


.”

Valentine's Gift

Wesley wasn't quite as tall as she was, but he was the fourth cutest guy in the seventh grade, and he was her boyfriend. He walked her to her classes and he text messaged her all the time and he had promised her a special gift for Valentine's Day.

Lily liked being walked to classes and answering his texts, but she was not at all sure about Valentine's Day. After all, Wes had promised her something for Christmas and for her birthday, then not come through. Each time he had told her that he would get her something really nice for the next holiday.

"It doesn't matter," she'd told him, but it did. It embarrassed her. She wished he'd just shut up. She hadn't pressed him but her friends had. It wasn't as if she needed anything, but it would have been nice to have one of those heart necklaces like Amber’s last boyfriend gave her, or a balloon bouquet, like Justin gave Megan before she moved to Michigan.

So now Wes was talking about a gift for Valentine's, and Lily was preparing to hang loose and act as though she didn't care when he didn't produce.

"If only he'd just quit mentioning it," she had told Justin during English. “My friends are laughing at him.”

She and Justin had been talking quite a bit lately because he was still glum about Megan moving.

Lily grew more and more tense as Valentine's Day approached. Wes was acting oddly too, not text messaging her as much. He had to spend all of his time studying, he said, but she didn’t believe him. Then, two days before Valentine's, he walked out of English with Amber, completely ignoring Lily. She felt like a boulder had hit her in the chest. Heat rushed up to her head and her ears completely stopped up. Was this for real?

Thinking fast, she hissed at her neighbor. "Justin, walk with me to my next class."

He understood the situation in a glance and grabbed his books to comply--like a medieval knight rescuing a lady in distress, Lily told her girlfriends. He walked her to all of her classes that day, then the next, and gave her a rose and a heart necklace on Valentine’s. Megan was history.

Later she heard that Wesley had told Amber the reason he didn’t give her a Valentine’s gift was that he was saving up to get her a really nice gift for her birthday.

THE SPORTSMAN

Against my usual wont, I dropped by Koehler's Drugstore on Twenty-fifth Street.

The store was a small stucco building, old, overstocked, and underserviced. The few times I had been in the store, Mr. Koehler had looked at me as though I was a spy who had slipped through the Confederate lines. He would probably have barred the door if he had known I was the Yankee girl who supported integrated schools and equal opportunity employment, the one who had been involved in a battle-to-the-death debate with his son in our high school American history class. In the early sixties, those were radical concepts in Waco, where old ways died hard.

But changes were in the air. I had grown up with the the idea that one's agemates, no matter if they were in the nursery or teetering on the edge of the grave, were all referred to as either "boy" or "girl." But Black Pride and the Women's Movement were insisting that we all, black and white, were grown-ups, "men" and "women."

The change was necessary because "boy" was a term used not just for agemates, but also for any black man, no matter his age. In fact, "uncle" was the most respectful term of address a black man would ever hear in Waco, and that was when he was old, crippled, and harmless.

I was moving methodically up and down the rows of the drug store looking for nail polish remover while Mr.Koehler, his pasty-faced sales clerk, and the delivery "boy," a broad-shouldered black man, lounged at the pharmacist's counter, authoritatively discussing the Baylor Bears' chances of making it to the Cotton Bowl that year. Becoming more and more irritated, I kept shooting narrow-eyed glances at the three idling sportsmen.

Suddenly the heavy glass door swung open and a wave of eyeball-baking Texas summer heat burst in along with a sweaty stranger rattling a city map. He spotted the three men huddled together at the back of the store and lumbered toward them like a substitute with a message from the coach.

I had a straight-shot, fifty-yard-line view of the whole scene down the center aisle.

Focusing on the black man, the stranger barked "Hey, boy, where's Fulkes Ave at?

The three sportsmen stared at the intruder. His greeting hung in the air like a forward pass with no down-field receiver.

The delivery man looked startled for only a moment. Then black came into his eyes and his broad shoulders sagged. It was common knowledge that colored people knew where every street in town was, just as naturally as they ate watermelon and kept good rhythm.

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to answer, but Randy Koehler was quicker. "Three streets to the north and turn left, sir," he cut in, flashing a quick professional smile.

"Thanks, buddy," the stranger said, a little confused by the unexpected interception, but gamely shifting his attention to the white man. With another whoosh of the automatic door, the traveler departed.

The sportsmen turned to each other and resumed their conversation.

I waited respectfully until they finished to be rung up.

Tarantula in the House

Oh sh#t, oh sh#t! They've spotted me! And I was staying so still, hoping they'd think I was just a dark shadow in the corner.

The short one is shrieking and running for the fly swatter, but the tall one yells at her to open the patio door. She veers from her path toward the kitchen to fling open the sliding door, then heads toward the fly swatter again. As she grabs that instrument of evil off its hook, the tall one quickly scoops me up in a curled magazine and hurries to the open door. I scoot up and down his arm briefly in thanks and leap to life and freedom in the great outdoors.

I'm grateful to the tall man for saving my life-- and very happy that it is in his house all my babies will grow up.

What Jimmy Neville Was Like

Somewhere along the line, it became stylish to beat up Jimmy Neville. I think it was Darrell Coates who started it all, but Jimmy deserved it. Everyone knew what Jimmy Neville was like.

There was just something irritating about Jimmy--the way he laughed, the way he talked, the way he looked at you. Yeah, he could make people mad just by looking at them so he deserved whatever he got.

Jimmy tried to fight back at first, but then just gave up and took it. I mean, even Jimmy knew he deserved it. And it's not like anybody was gonna kill him or anything.

His mother whined to the principal, but Mr. Embry told her it would be better to let Jimmy fight his own battles himself.

Darrell was really good at playing jokes on Jimmy, like writing "FAG" all over his locker and telling everyone Jimmy was molesting his little sister, which was funny because Jimmy was an only child. We all played jokes on Jimmy. He deserved it.

Jimmy had a girlfriend for a couple of weeks. We were pretty sure he wasn't banging her so Darrell and a couple of his buddies took her out to the park one evening and showed her what real men were like. Her family moved out of town right afterwards. Served them right for letting her hanging out with Jimmy.

Yeah, Jimmy Neville was just plain irritating, like a dog you take out in the backyard and shoot because you're so tired of seeing him around.

Except Darrell took Jimmy out in the woods.

At one time or another, almost everyone in school came out to see Jimmy. He had never been so popular. I thought it was pretty funny, the bugs crawling all over Jimmy's face and everything and him not even moving. Finally, when he began to stink, someone--probably one of the girls--called the cops.

Darrell was arrested, but he'll never be convicted. After all, everyone knows what Jimmy Neville was like.

Glittered As She Walked

I would have given my right arm to be Micki Greene, which would have completely invalidated my purpose because Micki Greene lacked for nothing.

Eighteen-year-olds aren't mature enough to be called beautiful, but Mickey was headed that way. Her eyes were blue slate, her short, coiffed hair riotously blonde, and her complexion clear. She had the most adorable way of talking, in excited, almost lisping bursts that absolutely entranced me. There was something vulnerable and charmingly confused about Mickey. Pehaps she cultivated it, but it worked.

It was the first time I had encountered an actual person named Michaela, although nowadays, of course, the name is fairly common. But her name was not the only thing that made Micki unique. One way or another, she could always make everyone aware of her. I remember how we all laughed when Micki sneezed thirty-one times in a row from the upper back side of the auditorium during a particularly boring philosophy lecture. The teacher called her down, saying she was deliberately disturbing class, but we knew it was just Micki.

It was a wonder that this magical creature and I both lived in Cranfill, the oldest women's residence on campus, but I was there for economy while Micki was there for tradition. Her family was prominent and her father was rich. She wore pearls in her pierced lobes when no one else was even wearing earrings. She pledged Pi Phi and zoomed around in a powder blue MG sports car--illegally, of course, since only upperclasmen were allowed to have automobiles, which only added to the legend. Her handsome father regularly appeared to escort her and her roommate to dinner, and she talked casually of visiting her mother in places like Monaco and Madrid.

Micki may have acted confused, but she was no dummy. She was in the liberal arts honors program, although everyone knew she wasn't destined for Phi Beta Kappa. This was the era when prizes like Micki considered their college time well spent when they left after their sophomore year to marry up-and-coming young lawyers.

I think I ran into Micki on campus once more after our Cranfill stint, and she was as gracious and charming as ever, almost remembering my name.

Oddly enough, I was the one who married following my sophomore year, although, after getting my ears pierced for pearls, I did stick around long enough to pick up a history degree, magna cum laude, thank you very much. Somewhere between the laundry and the senior thesis, I have a dim memeory of reading in the newspaper society section that Micki had married an up-and-coming young lawyer in a lavish ceremony worthy of her.

My husband, who had gone to high school with her, said she was crazy.

Ten years later, my next bit of information about Micki came from a friend telling me about a total stanger, a woman named Micki, who had sat next to her during thir children's swim class and poured out her breaking heart about her cheating and abusive husband. Micki told my friend she had hired a lawyer out of Houstion who would cut her husband's balls off.

My friend's husband, who had known Micki's mild-mannered spouse since childhood, said Micki was crazy.

Ten years further down the line, when my oldest was in high school, I saw Micki again, at a high school football game. Her daughter was a cheerleader and my son warmed the bench. Micki entered the bleachers two rows ahead of my husband and me, and I recognized her immediately. Her short silver-blonde bob was now a long pewter-blonde braid, and her slender teen-age shape had rounded out into womanly curves. She was beautiful now, with that same charming aura of fragilty and confusion. Going with the current fashion, her skirt was romantically ethnic and she had topped her embroidered Mexican blouse with a long, trailing scarf.

Micki didn't have anyone to sit with at the game because by then she was divorced from her second husband too. I knew this from my friend, who passed on all the lawyer gossip, and because the year before I had seen a newspaper feature on Micki and her daughter--hard to tell which was which, of course--and Micki's house in a stylishly gentrified area of the city. The photographer and writer were ovbviously as entranced by Micki as I had been.

She picked her way down the row and finally set her stadium seat down beside some people she knew, expensive people with whom she could make references to old friends and old times. I caught a thread of their conversation now and then, but the couple seemes to tire of her and their replies became shorter and shorter. Finally they ceased altogether. At halftime the couple moved three rows down and across.

Micki, all alone, rocked herself back and forth on her stadium seat, lisping softly to herself as she played with her long, trailing scarf.

Micki was crazy.

Once Upon A Time (5)

“Oh well. I guess I’ll have to go barefoot,” Cindy said, holding the remaining sandal by its strap. “If anyone locates the stupid thing, just give it to my brother and he’ll send it to me.”

The sliding glass door opened and two teenagers whirlwinds burst into the yard. “Aunt Cindy!”

She turned to Jack. “It’s been nice meeting you, Jack. I wish—“

“Aunt Cindy, look at the favor I got, a real live goldfish!”

The two girls danced around her, crowding out Jack. He backed off a little and watched her examine the girls’ treasures, then herd them gently but firmly toward the hedge. She waved him a quick good-bye just as she disappeared into the ligustrum.

Jack stood there for a few minutes, then walked slowly to the patio and sat down again, feeling very lonely.

Bozo lumbered back across the yard with something sparkly in his mouth, dropped his treasure at Jack’s feet, and looked up at him expectantly.

“Good dog,” Jack said, picking up Cindy’s missing sandal. “In fact, a better dog than you know.”

He cradled the sparkly flip flop in his hands and smiled. He was no Prince Charming, but Cinderella hadn’t seen the last of him.

The End

Once Upon A Time (4)

“It must have been hard for you.”

Jack shrugged. “It was a lot easier than staying together.”

Cindy looked into the darkness as if into the past. “I’m a widow, no children. My husband was killed by a drunk driver three years ago. Jeff was a highway patrolman.”

“That’s tough.”

“Life is tough.”

She was easy to talk to, Jack thought. He’s like to get to know her better. It was a shame she was leaving tomorrow, when he’d just met her.

There was a sudden commotion in the house, and Jack knew the party was over. Bozo awoke with a sneezing snort, nosed around a little, and trotted off into the far corner of the yard.

Cindy reached down for her sandals. “I guess I’d better go get the girls.”

Jack nodded, still under the spell of the darkness. How could he make time stand still?

“Do you see my other flip flop anywhere?” Cindy knelt in front of the chaise lounge and felt around in the grass.

Jack went down on his haunches beside her but couldn’t see anything. He stood up and moved the lounger, but the sparkly sandal was nowhere in sight.

CONTINUED TOMORROW