Tom Goss's Blog

(A veterinary film noir parody)

The name’s Spayed, Sam Spayed—with a “y” as in ovariohysterectomy. I’m a vet, only not the military kind, the fee for service kind. I do you a service, you pay me a fee. That’s it. No if ands or buts.

It all started on a Monday morning. Nothing good starts on a Monday morning and that Monday morning was no exception. I came through the front door dripping like a glass of ice water on a muggy day.

“Morning Doll,” I greeted my receptionist. Her name is Dolly and I shortened it with her permission, so nothin’ inappropriate, see? “Mornin’ Doll,” I said, “it’s rainin’ cats and dogs.”

“Any of ‘em have an appointment?” Doll quipped drolly, “cuz we don’t have much goin’ on today. We’ve had more cancellations than Delta Airlines.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you stop teaching swimming in the public schools,” I growled as I walked to the back to hang my dripping coat on a hook in my office. The office has a view of the treatment area, and Molly was out there setting up for the day’s surgery. I stepped out of the office to get a cup of coffee from the break room. “Did our surgery show up Moll (see the Dolly/Doll disclaimer above)?”

“Nope, not yet. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. Moll was always prepared. She was a cracker jack tech—so good she could place an IV catheter in a four-week-old kitten with her eyes closed. She keeps her eyes open most of the time, though. She’s modest that way.

“So, when did they ever teach swimming in the public schools?” Moll asked nonchalantly.

That was another thing I liked about Moll. I’ve had too many techs that were chalant. Those types never lasted with me.

I considered her question. “I don’t think they ever did,” I conceded. “But that only supports my point.”

Moll nodded. “I suppose it does.”

I went back to my office to stare menacingly at the pile of pink slips that had accumulated on my desk. The pink slips were not intimidated. Most of them were phone messages from people wanting to pick my brain without paying for an exam. I spent a lot of time and money making my brain worth picking but given all the cancellations, I resigned myself to being the scheduling secretary for the day.

I was saved from dialing the first number when Doll announced over the intercom: “Dr. Spayed, there is someone here to see you. She says she knows you.”

“I know a lot of people,” I retorted. “That doesn’t narrow it down any.”

“She says it’s important.”

“Of course she does,” I sighed. “Coming.”

I picked up my stethoscope and hung it around my neck so I’d look all doctory and walked up to the lobby. There I beheld one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. The rain had slicked her white hair back, revealing her chocolate brown eyes that looked at me imploringly. The dame holding her wasn’t bad looking either. “Of all the pet hospitals, vaccine clinics and quick fixes in the world, you show up at my place.”

“Hello Sam,” the woman replied in that throaty way she had from long acquaintance with Virginia Slims. “Is this a bad time?”

It’s never a good time when the woman who tore your heart out of your chest and danced the Flamenco on it shows up at your reception desk. “It’s as bad a time as any, Lauren. What do you want?”

“Oh, Sam,” she looked at me with sorrowful reproval. “Don’t be like this.” She had evidently tumbled to my ill-concealed hostility. “Can we talk?” She glanced at Doll. “Somewhere private?”

I gestured to Exam Room One and followed her in. I shut the door as she took a seat and set the cutie down to explore the room. I stood at the door, my arms crossed.

“Now Sam,” she began in a business-like tone, “I know we did not part on the best of terms—”

“—You have a gift for understatement.”

“Be that as it may,” she persevered, “but the truth remains that I need your help.” She looked at me imploringly, her green eyes doing a pretty good imitation of the pup’s brown ones a few minutes ago.

“With what?”

“Her.” She gestured to the little white dog that was now looking up at me, tail wagging.

I picked her up and she nestled right in. “Why? Is she sick?”

“No,” Lauren assured me, “but she is in grave danger.”

The pup was now licking my face. “What kind of danger?” I asked carefully so as to keep the dog’s tongue out of my mouth.

“She’s a prize-winning Maltese,” Lauren explained reluctantly. “Her puppies would be worth thousands a piece. Puppy mills are willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for her, and I have refused. But one is being very persistent. They won’t take no for an answer. I’m afraid they’re going to kidnap her.”

She knew she had me with that. I hate puppy mills.

“So, what do you want me to do? Spay her?”

“Oh God no!” She looked as if I had suggested grinding the dog into sausage. “Nothing that drastic!” She took a moment to compose herself. “All I ask is that you keep her here for a few days, but you can’t tell anyone she’s here. These people are ruthless.”

“Having ruth is a rare quality these days,” I observed. “How many days are we talking’?”

“Three, at the most.”

“I’ll do it. We don’t board as a rule, but for $150 a day, all paid in advance we will.”

Lauren winced but nodded her head.

“What’s this little girl’s name, anyway?” I asked holding her up in the air.

“Falaca,” Lauren replied.

“An unusual name,” I remarked, returning the dog to her.

“She’s an unusual dog.”

Lauren’s credit card went through without a hitch and we set Falaca up in a luxury kennel in isolation. Molly and Dolly agreed to be discreet without asking any questions and in a matter of minutes, I was back glaring at the pile of pink slips.

By days end the pile had been reduced to a scattering and I had persuaded some clients to come pick my brains in person. I was frowning at the day’s pathetic receipts when Molly stuck her head in the office.

“I’ve fed and walked Falaca,” she announced. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“You could move the decimal place on today’s receipts,” I sighed. “Just one place to the right. I’m a reasonable man.”

“I would if I could, Doc. But I can’t.”

“Well, I don’t pay you for your math skills, so you are forgiven. Have a good night Moll.”

“You, too Doc.”

The number wouldn’t change no matter how long I scowled at it, so I decided to call it a day. I stopped in at isolation just to see how our guest was getting along. Lauren had left Falaca’s little bed, and the pup stood up in it, wagging her tail and pleading with those brown eyes of hers. “Okay,” I relented. “But you can’t tell anyone. I have my reputation to consider.”

I took her home of course, and she spent the evening nestled in my lap as I sipped single malt scotch and pondered my life’s choices, among them the takeout I ordered. I placed that in the “bad choices” file. We went to bed, she to her little padded and upholstered tray, me to my Sleep Number queen.

My sleep number that night was zero, as I had just dozed off when the alarm company called to tell me someone had broken into the clinic. I left Falaca dozing in her padded bassinette and drove to the clinic. The police were there, and the officer showed me that the intruder had jimmied the back door lock. We inspected the clinic together and I found nothing missing. We watched the recorded security video. Whoever it was dressed as a ninja and showed a special interest in the kennels.

I thanked the police and shared their consternation over what the intruder was looking for. I was acting, of course, because I knew.

The next morning was still gray, but the clouds kept the cats and dogs to themselves. I got in early, carrying Falaca under my coat as I was now sure the clinic was being watched. I left her fancy padded bed at home so set her up with a thick blanket. “Sorry sweetheart,” I apologized, “but you’re on the lam now and need to make certain sacrifices.” She gave me a doleful look with those brown peepers but wagged her tail in affirmation.

Dolly only displayed a flicker of surprise at seeing me there so early. “What’s the matter Doc? Couldn’t sleep?”

“There was a break in last night. Got me up early.”

“What? What did they take?” Doll looked genuinely concerned.

“Just my faith in my fellow man.”

“They must have been disappointed with that take,” she observed as she sat at her desk.

Her remark stung a little, but she wasn’t wrong. “Call a locksmith, would you? We need all the locks changed.”

“Will do.”

My phone work of the previous day paid off as all the morning’s appointment slots were full. I saw itching dogs, vomiting dogs, dogs with diarrhea and dogs with diarrhea and vomiting. I saw vomiting cats and cats with fleas. I had just sent Molly to lunch and was about to sit down to a meal of delivery pizza from yesterday when Doll’s voice came over the intercom:

“There’s a Mr. Greenstreet here to see you, Dr. Spayed. He says he has a business proposition.”

“Tell him we are very happy with our internet service,” I replied. “And thank him for his time.”

“He says he’s not selling anything. In fact, he wants to buy something.”

“OK,” I sighed, “I’ll be right up.” The pizza would have to be reheated twice.

As I walked up to the front desk, I saw that Mr. Greenstreet was a large man, as wide as he was tall—and he was no dwarf. You could rig a three-masted man o’war with the amount of fabric in his suit.

“Dr. Spayed,” he extended his hand. “I am Sidney Greenstreet. You are very kind to agree to see me.”

He moved with the surprising delicacy that I have observed with other very large people. “Yes, well,” I shook his hand. “Why don’t we step into my office?” I indicated Exam Room One. I followed him in and watched as he took a seat on the stool I used when talking to clients—the chairs for clients evidently unable to accommodate his frame. I took one of those. “What can I do for you, Mr. Greenstreet?”

“I have a delicate matter that I hope you can help with,” he confided. “I am looking for a dog—a special dog.”

“We believe they’re all special,” I replied. “But we’re a pet hospital, not a rescue group.”

“You misunderstand me,” Greenstreet waived off my last remark. “I am looking for a particular dog, a very special Maltese that was—well, taken without my consent.”

“Mr. Greenstreet, I ain’t no Ace Ventura. Have you notified the police?”

“Ah,” he said pressing the tips of his fingers together. “The police can be of no help as the question of ownership is legally…ambiguous as they say. But it is my belief that morally and ethically, the situation is clear. The dog belongs to me.”

“That may be, but why come to me?”

“Ah,” he said again. “I come to you because I believe you are acquainted with the person who…absconded with the dog. And I believe she may come to you for help in hiding her.” His manner was avuncular, but the look in his eyes was definitely vuncular. “I believe you know a woman named Lauren Bacall?”

“I don’t think anyone truly knows Miss Bacall,” I replied dryly. “But yes, we have met. Be that as it may, I still don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I am prepared to reward you handsomely for returning the dog to me—if Miss Bacall should appear on your doorstep.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “Oh, how handsomely?”

“One hundred thousand dollars if you deliver the dog to me unharmed.”

“That’s pretty good looking,” I admitted. “But I have an ethical code of my own, Mr. Greenstreet: My relationships with my clients are confidential and I cannot disclose anything to a third party without their consent. What I will do, however, is if—and I mean if—Miss Bacall does come to me with a Maltese, I will do my best to persuade her to…resolve the issue between the two of you. And that I will do gratis, pro bono as it were.” I paused as he struggled to keep the look of disappointment from his face. “Let me ask you then, how will I know this Maltese should she come to me?”

“Her name is Falaca,” Greenstreet replied. “It means ‘delicate woman.’ She is also microchipped,” he added as he reached into a breast pocket and produced a business card. “This is the chip number is on the back. If that number comes up when you scan the dog, she belongs to me.”

Thank you, Mr. Greenstreet,” I said, taking my feet. “You have my word that if and when I see Miss Bacall, I will do my best to persuade her to do the right thing.”

“It’s not what I hoped,” he said smiling as he extended his hand. “But I am grateful for whatever help you can provide.”

We stepped out into the lobby where Dolly announced: “The locksmith is here, Dr. Spayed. He’s at the back door.”

“Thank you, Dolly,” I replied. And then to Greenstreet: “You know it was the strangest thing. Someone broke in here last night—clearly a professional—but didn’t take anything.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Ah,” Greenstreet made a graceful gesture in the air. “Who can untangle the intricacies of the criminal mind?”

“Indeed. Goodbye Mr. Greenstreet.”

I waited until Greenstreet left before scanning Falaca. No chip. This puzzled me. Greenstreet had to know I could scan the pet. Then it dawned on me: This Falaca wasn’t the Falaca he was looking for—or was she? Did Lauren give him that number? I began to think that I wasn’t the only one Lauren was playing.

The next three days passed uneventfully—or at least as uneventfully as days pass in a veterinary hospital. I had smuggled Falaca between my place and the clinic, and it had quickly become a pleasant routine for the both of us. It was on that fourth day that something occurred to me.

“Doll,” I asked. “Did miss Bacall sign our standard release form?”

Doll seemed mildly affronted by the question. “Of course she did.”

“May I see it please?”

Doll opened a file drawer and removed a folder. “You know,” she said opening the folder and handing me a document, “I scan these into the record. You could have just looked at it in Cornerstone.”

I did know that but had forgotten it. “I wanted to see the original,” I lied to save face. I returned the document to her. “Thank you.”

Back in my office I brought up Falaca’s record. It had been four days since Lauren had left Falaca here, and we had agreed on three. I dialed the number listed on the account. Lauren had some explaining to do.

The call went straight to voice mail. I left a message asking her to return the call and that additional charges were accruing. I didn’t say anything about Greenstreet because I really didn’t want her to call back. I noted my call into the record.

Two days later I further covered my caboose by sending her an email, which bounced back to me as an invalid address. I noted that too.

Two days later I left another voice mail, holding my breath until I heard the voice mail prompt. I was getting annoyed with Miss Bacall—not because she wasn’t returning my call, but because she had put me in this situation. Tension was building in me like one of those old wind-up toys. I was getting wound so tight that if the switch were released, I’d probably speed right through a brick wall.

Luckily, my patients and clients kept me distracted enough so that I damaged no masonry, and every evening seemed to bring some lessening of the tension as another day passed with no word from Lauren. Finally, as I had hoped, the 12th day arrived with no word from Miss Bacall.

“Morning Moll,” I greeted her after depositing Falaca in isolation. “Get the surgery room ready. We’re spaying Falaca today.”

True to form, Molly was plussed, but couldn’t help adding: “OK. You’re the doctor.”

Ordinarily, Molly’s implied dubiousness would have me reconsidering my options, but I knew some things she didn’t.

The surgery went textbook and Falaca was soon resting comfortably thanks to warm blankets, carprofen and buprenorphine. That evening, I presented her with the gift of a scaled down Wonder Woman outfit, which was very cute but also covered her incision.

It was another three days before Lauren called to check in on Falaca. “How is the little darling doing?” she asked by way greeting when I picked up the phone.

“The little darling is just swell,” I answered, “but there is a matter of additional expenses.”

“Oh, Sam! You know perfectly well I’m good for it.”

“On the contrary,” I replied drily, “I know perfectly well that you’re not. When can we expect to see you and settle up?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said petulantly. “I wish you wouldn’t be like this.”

“You know damn well that I am because of you,” I shot back. “What time will you be here?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“Good, be on time.” I hung up the phone, only to pick it up again. “May I speak with Mr. Greenstreet please? Yes you may. It’s Dr. Spayed.”

I was placed on a brief hold before Greenstreet picked up the line.

“Why Dr. Spayed, how delightful to hear from you! I take it you have some information on our delicate lady.”

“I do indeed, sir,” I assured him. “Please join me at my office tomorrow at eleven and all will be revealed.”

“You intrigue me Dr. Spayed, truly you do, but can’t you tell me now?”

“No sir, I can’t. If you want to know everything, you’ll have to come to my office.”

“Ah. I see.” From his tone I could gather he didn’t see, but curiosity–or avarice–must have bested him. “I will be there at eleven sharp.”

“Thank you, sir. I look forward to it.” The funny thing was, I really did.

The next morning, I gave Doll instructions to put Miss Bacall or Mr. Greenstreet—whoever arrived first—into Exam Room One before notifying me of their arrival. It was no surprise to me that it was Greenstreet who arrived first, since being on time appeared to be against Lauren’s religion. I’m an atheist myself, but I know time is a limited resource and I have an urge to persecute anyone who wastes mine. That day, however, I was more than compensated.

Bacall showed up her usual 15 minutes late. I shepherded her into the exam and enjoyed the look of dismayed consternation on her face.

“Sidney!” she gasped.

“Miss Bacall.” That vuncular look had returned to his eyes.

“Well, since we all know each other, introductions will be unnecessary,” I announced, gesturing for Lauren to take a seat. Greenstreet had appropriated my stool again, but that was OK as I stood at the door to prevent Lauren’s escape. “I suppose you’re both wondering why I brought you here today. My hope is that we will straighten out the matter of the Maltese called Falaca.

“Mr. Greenstreet, you were quite right in your assumption that Miss Bacall would come to me for help. And Miss Bacall, you were quite right in your fear that Mr. Greenstreet would resort to…let’s call it extralegal methods of acquiring Falaca. But what he didn’t know, and what I figured out, is that the ‘Falaca’ you left with me wasn’t the real Falaca, was she?”

“Sam! I assure you I don’t know what you’re taking about!”

“How did you arrive at such a conclusion Doctor?” Greenstreet asked, his steely look on Miss Bacall.

“If you recall, sir, you gave me a microchip number, which you said would prove that the pet belonged to you. The Maltese that Miss Bacall left in my care does not have a microchip—which is strange considering that she is a ‘prize winning Maltese.’ May I ask, Mr. Greenstreet, how you acquired that number?”

“Why, I scanned it from the dog herself.”

“Just as I thought. The Falaca you left here was a red herring, wasn’t she Miss Bacall?”

“Sam, I-I can’t believe you-you would accuse me of such a thing!”

“Believe it sister. Now, who did you sell the real Falaca to? Some Saudi prince?”

“Sam, I…it was a Russian oligarch actually,” she admitted, eyes downcast.

“Well, I hope you got paid in rubles and not dollars—but I know you’re too smart for that.” I turned to Greenstreet. “So you see sir, you have been pursuing the wrong dog. I have half a mind to send you the locksmith bill, but I said I would get Miss Bacall to talk to you for nothing—I believe pro bono was the expression I used.”

“You did indeed, Doctor,” he said standing, “but I see very little good coming out of this.” He turned to Lauren. “This does not end the matter between us, Miss Bacall. But I do not wish to take up more of the good doctor’s time.” He turned back to me. “If you will excuse me, Doctor. I believe our business is concluded here.”

I moved away from the door to let him pass. “It is indeed sir.”

I watched Greenstreet leave and turned to Bacall. “Our business is not concluded. I believe you owe me $1,800.00.”

“Yes, of course Sam.” She opened her purse. “I’ll write you a check.”

“No you won’t. You’ll arrange an electronic funds transfer from your phone.” I turned and called out into the waiting room. “Doll, would you please bring Miss Bacall her invoice? Oh, and bring along that release form.”

It was but a moment before Doll handed me the papers. I showed Bacall the invoice and she punched the number into her phone and showed me. I took out my phone and confirmed receipt. “Now,” I said, pocketing my phone, “there is the matter of the false Falaca.”

“Let me just take her and we’ll get out of your life,” she replied bitterly.

“Oh, you’ll get out of my life all right, but you’re not taking the dog.” I handed her the release form she had signed. “As you can see, you agreed that if we did not hear from you after 10 days, the pet would be considered abandoned, and we would deal with the pet as we thought best. It was 12 days. The dog is mine now.”

“But Sam, I’m so attached to her! You of all people know of the depth of the human animal bond.”

“I spayed her.”

“Oh.” She seemed deflated. “Well, I-I imagine that you and she have developed a bond of your own. I guess letting you have her is the least I can do for your trouble.” She stood up.

“Goodbye Miss Bacall.”

I watched her leave before going back to isolation. “Let’s see sweetheart,” I addressed the dog. “Since you’re not really Falaca, you need a name. How about Red? You know, for red herring?”

Red cocked her head at me and wagged her tail. I took her out of the kennel and cradled her in my arms. “Here’s lookin’ at you, Red.”

The old man stepped carefully along the seawall. The October dawn was just peeking above the flat eastern horizon. The air snapped at his eyes and his nostrils, and he could just make out the feeble mist of his breath. The lake was remarkably calm, the small waves—rivulets really, caressed the stones on the water’s edge. He picked his way carefully, the jumble of large stones making up the seawall made for an irregular roadbed, and that encouraged patience.

He thought of himself as the old man now. Chronic and acute disease, as well as their treatments, had robbed him of all sense of youthfulness. He could do nothing quickly anymore, not walk, speak, or even think—or so it seemed to him. Every step along the seawall required evaluation, calculation, and careful execution. He had left the house before dawn for precisely that reason.

He had begun fishing again after a decades-long hiatus as the things that lured him away were no longer relevant: the pursuit of women, achievement, and legal tender. He had wooed all the women he would woo, achieved all he would achieve, and had amassed all the legal tender he and Lydia would need and then some. Of the three, he only missed the women. He had married decades ago and had been faithful, but the possibility of other liaisons was a source of entertaining daydreams. Now that he was old, fat, and impotent, such fantasies seemed foolish and, well, humiliating.

He carried two rod and reel combinations, a net, and a tackle box—which made the journey along the seawall more fraught as he had no hands free with which to catch himself if he fell. The fishing poles and net were recent purchases, only the tacklebox remained from his earlier days. He had purchased the box at age 14, from Sears and Roebuck, and had kept it with him all his life since. He would fish again, he told himself, but the truth was that he felt it hard to let go of anything—his youth most recently, but the list also included a faith that everything would turn out all right, resentments at real and perceived personal and professional slights, a rock collection, an incomplete collection of Lincoln head pennies, and a collection of vinyl records that he no longer had a turntable to play on. These he had kept as bulwarks against the ravages of time, but it was he who had been ravaged. Even the tacklebox showed fewer signs of wear and aging than he did.

He reached the end of the wall just as the sun rose to be an orange disc resting on the eastern horizon. He located some relatively level slabs on which to set his gear and sit. He took the lighter of the two rods, baited the attached hook with a piece of nightcrawler, and cast the bait just past the edge of the rocks. He wound in the slack and wedged the rod handle in a crevice in the rocks. Keeping the bright red and yellow float in the corner of his eye, he took the longer, heavier rod and rigged it with a jig and artificial bait. His strategy was to use the lighter rod to catch small fish, which he would use as bait on the larger rod to catch larger fish. In the meantime, though, he would try his luck with the artificial bait.

He had cast and retrieved the artificial bait three times before the float on the smaller rig washed up on the rocks. He wound in the slack and recast the bait a little further out beyond the rocks, reset it in its crevice and resumed casting and retrieving. The sun was now high enough to produce a glare on the water, and he donned his prescription shades in time to see the float disappear under the water. He hastily set the larger rod in another crevice and picked up the light rig. The float reappeared, the disappeared, and the old man jerked the rod back to set the hook. The rod remained arced as the fish struggled and the old man kept tension on the line. It was not long before he lifted the fish up onto the rocks.

It was a yellow perch, about three inches long, just the right size for bait. He removed the hook from the fish’s mouth and secured the creature on a stringer while he changed the rig on the larger pole. That done, he hooked the perch on the new rig and cast it out into the deep. He checked the drag before he set the rod securely into a crevice. He returned his attention to the lighter set up, rebaiting the hook and casting it out beyond the rocks as he did before.

He spent the next 30 minutes catching small perch and rebaiting his hook. Once he had six on the stringer, he reeled in the larger rig to see that his bait had been stolen. He rebaited that hook and cast it back out hoping to re-tempt whatever had taken his bait. He had just settled on a slab of rock to monitor his line when he heard a small squeaky voice ask, “Fish please.”

He looked down the seawall, which was devoid of people. He was just concluding that the water was playing tricks on his ears when he heard the request again: “Fish please.” The voice had a strange quality, as if a dolphin were trying to speak English. He followed the sound to the lake and saw a woman treading water. “Fish please,” she squeaked again. She coughed briefly, shook her head, and then in a husky and yet feminine voice asked: “Do you have any fish you can spare?”

“I uh, only have a few small perch I was going to use for bait,” he answered despite his astonishment. The woman had evidently been in the water for some time as her lips were blue and her skin a blue tinge over a pink under color. “Um, aren’t you cold?”

“Oh, the water stays warm enough well into November,” she replied dismissively. “Now, about those perch.”

“Well, as I said they’re all pretty small. I’m using them to catch something larger. Maybe if you came back, I might have something bigger for you.”

“No, I like small. Let’s see them.”

He found himself lifting the stringer out of the water to show her the fish. “See, they’re really small. There won’t be anything left after you fillet them.”

“Oh, I don’t bother filleting them—it’s such a waste.” She appeared to study to study his catch and then announced, “Yes, three of those will do nicely.”

“Oh, o-okay.” He couldn’t remember actually agreeing to share his catch, but evidently, he had. He picked his way down the rocks to the water’s edge as the woman moved effortlessly through the water to perch on a partially submerged slab. She was evidently topless as he noticed her nipples were the same blue as her lips. He almost asked her if she wasn’t cold again, but remembered her reply the last time. Instead, he handed her one of the perch and noticed that the palms of her hands were ridged, like the soles on a pair of running shoes. As strange as that was, it was not as strange as what she did with the fish: swallowed it whole, and headfirst.

She made short work of the other two, and the old man felt he had to say something. “Don’t you want some rice with that sushi?”

“That would be sashimi,” she replied with an appreciative smile. She reclined back against the rocks, her face toward the rising sun. “Thank you,” she said with eyes closed. “I was very hungry.”

“I never would have guessed,” the old man replied, taking the opportunity to examine her closely. She was strange, but somehow comely and he found himself imagining the two of them embracing—her cold skin against his warm. “What’s your name?” he asked to derail that train of thought.

She opened her eyes with a smile. “You can call me Marina.” Her eyes were a cobalt blue.

“Hi, Marina. My name is John.”

“Will you be here every day, John?”

“Just today and tomorrow, weather permitting. We’re only here for the weekend.”

Marina nodded. “Good to know.” She closed her eyes and faced the sun again. “You don’t mind if I stay and soak up some sun for a while?”

“N-no, not at all.” He picked his way back up the rocks to resume fishing. “Say,” he said as he once again looked at her bare breasts, “do you need any sunscreen? We might have some at the house.”

She chuckled softly, but kept her eyes closed. “No, thank you,” she assured him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay.”

He rigged up another nightcrawler and cast it out beyond the rocks. He had to refill his bait stocks after all. He watched the float, but his mind’s eye was on the woman. To find a naked woman swimming around Lake Huron was unusual at any time, but in October it was downright…he cast about for the right word and came up with “impossible”—although he wasn’t happy with it as evidently it was possible. He remembered what he was doing just in time to see the float reappear and disappear. As before he pulled the rod back and set the hook. Just then, he heard the whine of the drag on his larger rod, something had taken an interest in that perch. He was momentarily paralyzed over which fish to land, but he hastily reeled in the rod and reel he was holding and let his catch flop on the rocks as he set the hook—or tried to on the heavier rig. The tension on the line ceased and when he retrieved the line, he found that he had again been robbed. Luckily, he had replacement bait flopping around his feet.

He had just got both lines back in the water when he stole a glance at Marina and saw her looking at him. “How was your nap?” he asked as he felt the need to say something.

Marina smiled. “I didn’t sleep.” She raised her arms above her head as if to stretch and her lower half emerged from the water: the same blue-tinged pink and sporting two enormous tail flukes that slapped as they reentered the water.

“Are you hungry again?” he asked her.

She laughed. “No, but I will be later. Will you be here tonight?”

“No,” he shook his head regretfully. “It gets dark so early and I don’t trust myself on these rocks in the dark.” Then there was the matter of the effects of his evening cocktails, but he didn’t feel the need to mention that.

“What a pity,” Marina replied wistfully.

“You can catch your own fish, can’t you?”

Marina smiled at him kindly. “Yes, but is hard when you are alone. We usually team up. You land people are so clever—with your hooks and your lines you make the fish come to you.”

“Are you all alone then?”

Again, a bemused smile. “Not today.”

He acknowledged her point with a smile and nod. “I mean normally. Are you alone?”

“Oh John,” she shook her head. “What is normal? Have you ever had a normal day in your life?”

“Well, today certainly hasn’t been.”

“Exactly.” She watched her body as she raised her flukes once more and let them slap the water. “What you’re asking me is whether there are others like me. There are, but not around here anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Oh John,” she smiled at him sadly. “That is a long story, and you have fish to catch.”

The drag on his heavier reel was indeed singing and John grabbed the rod and jerked it back to set the hook. It evidently set that time, and he found himself in a test of wills with a very willful fish. The rod arced dramatically as he cranked the reel and the drag whined, but the creature eventually tired and John was able to land it with his net.

Once on land, however, the large catfish exhibited another burst of energy as it thrashed violently around in the net. It was about two feet long and graceful looking and John realized that it represented at least two meals. He left the catfish hooked and in the net while he retrieved his stringer. “You might as well take these,” he announced. “I think I’m calling it a day.”

He looked around and discovered he had been talking to the lake as Marina had gone during his battle with the catfish. He paused a moment, considering whether to release the perch or leave them for Marina. He remembered her disappointment when he said he would not be back that evening. He made sure the stringer was well secured and left the perch in the water. At the very least he would have bait for tomorrow.

The catfish he unhooked, which provoked another round of violent thrashing, but John made sure he kept the net up so his future meal would not escape. It was another painstaking walk back along the sea wall and the catfish chose the most inopportune moments to make additional escape attempts suspended as it was in the net, but John made it back to the beach and the house without losing his balance or his catch.

He found Lydia up and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” John greeted her.

“Oh, good morning,” she turned to face him cup in hand. “How was the—oh my God!” she exclaimed as he held up his catch by the gills. “That’s huge!”

“Gave me quite the fight, I can tell you.” He put the fish in the kitchen sink and rinsed off his hands.

“You’re not going to leave it there?”

“Just until after breakfast. I’ll clean it then.”

“Why don’t you clean it now?” Lydia insisted. She set her coffee down and pulled a large cutting board out of a cabinet. “Take this out to the deck and clean it out there.”

John was taken aback. He hadn’t known Lydia to be squeamish, but then he had never butchered an animal in her presence before. He accepted the cutting board. “I’ll need a bag or something for the carcass.”

She opened drawer and produced a plastic Meyer’s shopping bag. “I’ll make your breakfast while you do it,” she offered. “What would you like?”

“A mozzarella cheese omelet with onions and peppers, whole wheat toast.”

“Bacon?”

“You have to ask?”

Lydia smirked knowingly at that. “Don’t get used to it. We’re on vacation.”

“I will savor every morsel.”

He took the fish, the board and the bag to the table on the deck. The sun was higher and bathed the house in golden light. There was a bit of a chill in the air, but the sunlight made even that delicious.

He retrieved the ancient Rapala filet knife from his tackle box. He had bought it the same day he bought the tacklebox and its leather scabbard was stiff and dry. It was an extravagance at the time, costing $12.00 dollars of the cash he had earned mowing lawns, and represented two days of work. There was something both menacing and elegant in its contours that made it irresistible. It was so sharp that he had inadvertently sheathed it with the blade turned the wrong way and it sliced through the rawhide scabbard effortlessly. Though chagrined by his error, his esteem for the blade only grew three-fold.

He laid the fish out on the board and mentally planned the procedure. Once he was satisfied that he remembered everything, he began by cutting the fish’s spine just behind the head: An act of mercy that also prevented any inconvenient flopping. From there, he cut to the spine skin behind the gills, angled the blade and cut the meat from the bones. He flipped the filet over and slid the knife between the skin and muscle. He repeated the procedure with the other side and was plagued by the notion that this had been easier in the past.

He examined his handy work. He hadn’t made too much of a hash of it, but he did look ruefully at the white meat left with the bones as he bagged that and the skin to be disposed of in the garbage bin at the front of the house.

Lydia glanced at the filets on the cutting board. “Oh! Nice! I guess you’re making dinner?”

“I can,” John replied, knowing better than to ask how his fileting the fish made it mandatory that he cook it.

Lydia was a good cook, and he enjoyed his omelet. “What would you like to do today?” he asked as he brought his dishes to the dishwasher.

“There’s an Octoberfest and art fair in town this week,” she suggested. “We could spend some time there.”

John nodded. “Yes, that could be fun. When do you want to go?”

“It doesn’t open until noon. Why don’t you shower off and get a nap? You were up early this morning.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Several hours later the two were walking arm-in-arm down the blocked main street of the nearby small town. There weren’t exactly throngs in the street, but the event seemed well enough attended. There were the requisite Oompa bands, lederhosen and dirndls, and the cool October air carried the aromas of cooked sausage, beer and pastries.

“Look at all the microbreweries,” Lydia said. “We could start at one side of the street and work our back up the other.”

“Yeah? And who would drive us home?”

Lydia laughed. “You know I wasn’t serious.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John replied. “You can be such a wild thang.”

Lydia laughed again and squeezed his arm. “Good thing I have you to rein me in.”

It was John’s turn to laugh. “Lord help the man that tries to do that!”

“Good answer.” She tugged at his arm. “Let’s look at the art before we get ourselves wasted.”

They paused at each booth. Some featured pottery, some jewelry, but mainly it was paintings. Lydia lingered over the more abstract pieces, while he paused at the more representational artworks. He found himself staring at a rendering of a mermaid perched on rocks above a stormy sea. She was painted with the traditional scaley tale and an eerie, other worldly look.

“Please don’t tell me you like that,” Lydia remarked drily.

“What? Oh, no. I’m just wondering why there’s this ocean imagery when we’re on the shores of a lake.”

Lydia shrugged. “The beach is the beach I guess.”

John didn’t find anything that he had to have, but Lydia supported the arts by purchasing an abstract work of reds and yellows. Then they went back to food stands to support the culinary arts. They did not, as Lydia had facetiously suggested, stop at each place but rather sat in an impromptu beer garden where a redhead in a dirndl served them each a pint of amber Octoberfest beer, sausages with sauerkraut, and large salty soft pretzels.

“Ooof, that was a lot,” John sighed after declining the redhead’s offer of another beer. “I might need another nap.”

“You’re on vacation,” Lydia assured him. “You can do whatever you like—within reason.”

“Yeah,” John thought morosely to himself, “there’s the rub.” Aloud he said, “Why don’t we take home some of these pretzels and a growler of beer? That’ll go great with the catfish.”

“Along with a salad and some broccoli,” Lydia added.

“Didn’t I say that?” John asked innocently. “I was thinking it.”

Lydia chuckled and shook her head. “No, you weren’t. But yes, let’s get the beer and pretzels.”

They did and John did get another nap. He awoke abruptly, looked at his phone and swore: “Shit! I overslept!” He got out of bed and looked around. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no one in particular. “Think Johnny, think.” He looked around the dark room one more time and located a light switch. The LEDs did little to shed light on his situation. “I must be in a hotel room,” he told himself aloud. “So, I must be on the road.” This relieved his anxiety as meetings were often over lunch—but then he realized he didn’t know who he was meeting or where. “OK, “ he told himself, “OK. Maybe if I go down to breakfast I can find out where I am.” He just then realized he was dressed—which he took as a blessing. He found and put on his shoes and stepped out into what he thought would be a hotel hallway.

It wasn’t. To the left of him was a kitchen and to the right a sitting area where Lydia sat reading. Thank God you’re here!” he exclaimed with relief. “I can’t remember who I’m supposed to meet with today.”

Lydia looked up from her book. “Honey, you’re not supposed to meet with anyone today. It’s 6:30 in the evening and you’re supposed to cook a catfish dinner tonight. Do you remember catching the catfish?”

He searched his mind. “Yes, yes, I remember. The fish put up a good fight—a-and there was a mermaid there.”

“No,” Lydia contradicted him patiently. “There was a mermaid in a painting you saw. You caught the fish before that.”

“No, it was a different….” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little confused.”

Lydia stood, walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “I know sweetie. It’s OK.”

He smiled at her uncertainly. “I uh, guess I better make dinner then.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she smiled as she caressed him on the cheek. “Could you get me a glass of white wine?”

“Of course.” Now that he had a mission, he felt surer of himself. He found the wine in the refrigerator and a glass in a cabinet. He poured it and took it over to Lydia who had resumed her seat. “Would you like anything else?”

“Yes, one of those pretzels we got at the Octoberfest today.”

“Pretzels?”

“Yes, they’re in that brown paper bag on the counter,” she pointed. “Pop it the toaster oven for a couple of minutes to warm it up.”

“OK, but won’t that melt the salt?”

Lydia smiled with a delight that seemed unwarranted. “It won’t melt the salt, but it will get steamed into the pretzel. They’re just better warm.”

“As you wish.”

John located the pretzels—which were where Lydia said they were. He searched his memory for how they came to obtain them—Lydia had said something about an Octoberfest–as the toaster oven warmed up an evocative aroma rose from the warming pretzel which stirred elusive memories of an Oompa band and a woman in a dirndl. The timer bell on the oven chimed and he was brought back to an unsettled present.

He placed the warm pretzel on a plate and brought it over to Lydia who appeared to be scrutinizing him carefully.

“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the plate. “Now do you remember what you are going to do?”

“I am going to make catfish,” John replied dutifully.

“Yes, and…?”

“A-and…a vegetable and salad!” He was pleased with himself for remembering.

So was Lydia. “Yes! Broccoli and salad with the catfish. We brought some beer from the festival. You said it would go well with the catfish.”

“Beer? Uh yes, that should go well. But I think I’ll have a little whiskey first if that’s OK.”

“Of course,” Lydia replied, her eyes shining brightly for some reason. “Have whatever you like. You’re on vacation.”

John found the whiskey and a highball glass which he filled with ice. He poured himself a good two fingers and took a sip. In a moment all that was unsettled was settled and he set to work on the dinner.

“Do you remember,” he asked as he set loaded plates on the table, “when I had dinner waiting for you when you got home?”

“Oh my! That was a long time ago! When we were first married.”

“Yes. You were working as a personal assistant to…what’s her name—”

“Reichal, Stephanie Reichal.”

“Yeah, that’s it. And she always kept you late.”

Lydia shrugged. “She worked long hours and as a consequence, so did I.” She stabbed a florette of broccoli with her fork. “I learned a lot from her.”

“So you have said. I hated her.”

“Hated her? Did you ever meet her?”

“You introduced us once at a holiday party. She was perfectly lovely. But she was keeping you away from me.” He chuckled wryly. “I haven’t thought about that for …decades.” He shook his head.

“Why are you thinking about it now, do you suppose?” Lydia asked with a wary look.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head again. “It’s stupid. It’s not as if I think of that every time I cook…I don’t know,” he said again.

“Well, if you want to reminisce, why don’t we reminisce about the times we were happy together?”

John felt briefly nonplussed. “Yes, that time in Bermuda,” he finally blurted.

“That was wonderful, wasn’t it?” Lydia’s eyes became all dreamy. “A house right on the beach.”

“And the sea breeze and the sound of surf blowing straight into our bedroom.”

“Montgomery was such a gracious host—and generous.”

“Oh, indeed,” John agreed. What he remembered, however, was “Monty” being an especially attentive and gracious host to Lydia. He, John, was treated with patronizing condescension.

He was about to say as much when Lydia recalled: “Do you remember when he took you fishing?”

Yes. He did. Monty was very generous with him that day, but it was an ostentatious generosity John thought. They went out on Monty’s huge boat with the owner’s promise that he, John, would catch the biggest fish of his life. And indeed, he did: A five-foot marlin that took John an hour to land.

 Monty offered to have it mounted and sent to him, but John demurred. “Let’s just let him go and let someone else have the thrill of catching him.”

“Spoken like a true sportsman,” Mony had said, patting his shoulder. “But let’s get some photos first.”

Sportsmanship had little to do with it as John already felt a sense of debt to Monty that he had no foreseeable means to repay.

That night, with their bedroom open to the ocean breezes and the sound of surf, John made sure he pleasured Lydia again and again before he took his own. And when he finally did, his thoughts were: “You are mine. You are mine. You are MINE!”

“Whatever happened to Monty?” John asked. “Do you know?”

“He died ten years ago,” Lydia replied solemnly. “He was on his yacht, he had a heart attack. Remember?”

John didn’t remember. “Well, he died as he lived: in style.”

Lydia nodded sadly. “What other good memories do you have?”

“Oh, well, our first house, the one in Brookfield.”

“That was cozy.”

“It was. And it was nice having neighbors so close.”

“We had good neighbors,” Lydia pointed out. “That was what made it nice.”

“Yeah,” he agreed wryly. “Not like Hinsdale.”

“The neighbors were nice enough in Hinsdale,” Lydia countered.

“’Nice enough’ is a nice way of putting it. And they certainly weren’t close.”

“You wanted the huge property.”

“Yes,” John admitted ruefully. “What madness possessed me? It took me a day to mow that property.”

“I thought you liked riding that big tractor around?”

“I did. But in retrospect I could have spent time better—playing with Aidan and Colleen, for example.”

“You were a good dad,” Lydia assured him if somewhat perfunctorily.

“I was an adequate dad,” he countered, “but I got caught up in all the wrong things.”

“You did the best you could at the time,” Lydia countered with some impatience. “We’re supposed to be remembering good times.”

“Yes,” John chuckled sadly. “I’m sorry. I don’t why I feel so morose.” He thought a moment. “Maybe it’s because tomorrow is our last day. It feels like we just got here.”

“We have all day tomorrow,” she pointed out. “Besides, Aiden and Colleen were generous to give us this.”

“Oh, gosh! I wasn’t complaining—or at least I didn’t mean to be,” he admitted. He let a moment pass. “What was the occasion, anyway? Certainly not our anniversary.”

“No, it wasn’t our anniversary,” Lydia smiled sadly. She stood with a sigh. “Why don’t you get to bed,” she suggested as she gathered their plates and flatware. “It’s your last day to fish and I know you’ll want to be up early.” He started to take the plates from her. “No,” she admonished. “I’ll clean up. You get to bed.”

The pre-dawn morning had John once again slowly picking his way along the rocky seawall. When he arrived at the previous day’s seat, he set his gear down and looked for the stringer he had left. The stringer was still there, and he hoped it was Marina who took the perch and not some hungry pike or catfish.

He set up his poles as he had the day before. This time though, he tried casting his lighter line out further beyond the rocks in hopes of catching some perch of a size more suitable to his table and not just Marina’s. As before though, his catch consisted of small fry, and those he saved to his stringer for bait and Marina’s breakfast. A wind was whipping the lake into small breakers, and he had to pay much closer attention to his bobber, both to keep it off the rocks and to distinguish between bobs caused by fish and those caused by breakers.

He was just wondering whether he would see Marina that morning, when her voice called from the lake. “Good morning, John. What’s for breakfast?”

“Good morning. Anything you like as long as it’s perch.”

Marina awarded him with a blue-lipped smile. “That sounds lovely. May I see the offerings?”

John retrieved the stringer and held that morning’s catch.

“Those three will do nicely,” Marina said indicating the bottom three of the six John had caught.

He watched her dispose of the three as she had the previous day. “You were going to tell me why there aren’t more of your people around,” he reminded her once she was finished.

“Oh, am I to sing for my supper?” Marina asked playfully.

“It was breakfast,” John pointed out, “and there are stories of your people’s singing I don’t wish to test the veracity of.”

“Oh John,” she assured him with a laugh. “I would never drown you on the rocks.” She stretched, raising her tail flukes out of the water and letting them gently back down under the waves. “But you want to know what happened to my people,” she added soberly. “All right.

“When we first came to these inland seas, there were no land people here. We explored the rivers, coves and the deep caverns below the waves. Fish were plentiful and we prospered. Then the first land people came. They were simple people—not stupid—just with simple needs and desires, like us. They seemed to know our kind, as they offered to trade with us: adornments made of colored stones and fierce animal teeth for fish we would catch. For the clear, polished stones of the deep lake, they gave us exquisitely carved stone and bone objects: tools, for which we had no use but admired and treasured nonetheless.” Here Marina paused as a gust of wind brought waves big enough to wash over her face. She pushed her wet tresses way from her face and continued:

“Those people gradually drifted away and a new group of land people arrived. Their adornments and tools were more complex and it seemed that they had never seen our people before as they revered and feared us. They made offerings of adornments and fish, and when storms roiled the lake, those offerings increased as if they wished to appease us—as if we caused the storms. They made likenesses of us out of wood and stone, and those clear polished stones we would bring from the deep, they would arrange around those likenesses.

“Finally,” Marina sighed, “your people came. People with pale skins, elaborate adornment and elaborate tools. They seemed to fear us without revering us. Hunting us as if we were some kind scourge. They captured and displayed us as if we were some kind of aberration. They bought and sold our carcasses as if we were meat. We withdrew from contact with land people then, and watched in confusion as their desires drove them to foul the water they drank, the air they breathed and the land they lived on. Many of us could not bear it and left these lakes to find unsullied waters in quiet corners of the world.” Marina fell silent.

“What a sad story,” John observed after a few seconds of silence. “Yet, there’s something faintly familiar about it.”

“Is there?” Marina smiled kindly at him. “Only faintly familiar?”

John frowned in consternation. “What do you mean?”

Marina ignored the question. “You haven’t asked why I stayed.”

“Why did you stay?”

“Because you need us. You need us to show you who you really are.”

“Have you? Have you shown me who I really am?”

The same kind smile appeared on her face. “Haven’t I?” She lifted her tail above waves again and let it sink. “You have shown me generosity, kindness and interest. In exchange I have tried to show you who you truly are: not an especially beautiful image, but not an abhorrent one either. Oh look! You have another fish!”

The drag on John’s heavier rig was indeed singing, and once again he found himself engaged in a tug of war with a large fish. This one was a northern pike, just over two feet long and therefore legal to “harvest” in Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ parlance. He was surprised that its sharp teeth hadn’t cut his line as he held it by one gill slit to remove the hook. He fumbled for the stringer and was about to offer Marina the rest of his bait when he saw she was no longer there. He attached the pike to the stringer and tossed the remaining perch into the water. “Go find Marina,” he instructed them. “And tell her I said goodbye.”

That night, after a trip to a local art museum and a grilled pike dinner, he disassembled his rods and packed them in their travel case. As he placed that and his taped-up tackle box into the airline-approved cargo box, he thought ruefully that he would probably never see Marina again. “This was fun,” he said aloud to Lydia, who was also packing her things. “Maybe we could do this again next year—only, you know, for a little longer.”

Lydia froze, as if stricken, and then turned her face away. “Maybe,” she said noncommittally. “We’ll have to see how things go.”

“What things?” John found himself wondering. “But then,” he thought again. “Lydia was always worried about money.”

Lydia was quiet on the way to the airport the next day. John put it down to regret that the weekend was over. He was sad about it too, but it wasn’t like Lydia to pout about such things.

At the airport Lydia, vehemently to John’s ears, vetoed his suggestion that he drop her and the luggage at the terminal while he returned the rental car. She insisted that they not separate, and John couldn’t tell if it was her safety that concerned her or his.

They checked their bags, wended their way through security and settled into the boarding area to wait for their flight. John found a recent Time magazine that someone had left behind and he went through the motions of reading it. Lydia took out her phone and dialed.

“Hi sweetie. Yes, we’re at the airport. No, everything went fine. Yes, I think he had a lovely time. He went fishing—and actually caught fish we ate for dinner. Yes! They were delicious. Oh, he did, of course. What? No…well there were a few…incidents, but nothing horrible. Does he? No, I don’t think he does. We can remind him when we get there. Yes, I do. Yes, I’m sure. We’ll see you soon. It’s not a long flight. Yes. Love you too.”

“Was that Aiden?” John asked.

“Yes, he’s picking us up at the airport.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him. We could take a jitney.”

“No, he and Colleen want to pick us up. We planned it this way.”

“Oh.” John was surprised. “Did I know that?”

“Yes, honey. We talked about it.”

“Oh.” He said again. “Is that what you had to remind me about?”

Lydia drew a deep breath. “No. What we had to remind you of was some…changes we talked about. Do you remember?”

John frowned. “Are you talking about our budget again? I mean, really, we don’t spend—”

“No,” Lydia interjected. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She put her hand to her eyes a moment. “You know,” she said with a wan smile, “it’s best if we talk about it when we get back. You might remember then.”

“Oh, OK.” John felt a vague sense of unease. He had evidently forgotten something important but could not remember what it was.

They boarded the jet, a small plane with seats only three across and seating determined by the need to balance the aircraft. John preferred such regional carriers as the flight involved much less rigamarole than the larger jets: They went up fast and came down fast.

Colleen met them at the gate with warm hugs. “Aiden’s in the cell lot,” she explained. “I’ll call him once we have your luggage.”

The three took the escalators down to baggage claim and watched as the serpentine belt wound its way through the area, displaying luggage from their and other flights. The two women chatted about the street fair and art museum while John watched anxiously for the box containing his fishing gear. Only when that was secured was he relaxed enough to join the conversation, but their suitcases appeared soon after and they were headed out the door to wait for Aiden.

Aiden greeted them with hugs of his own before he stowed their luggage in his trunk. They all climbed into the car, Colleen insisting on sitting in the back with her mother. “So Pops,” Aiden said as they were underway, “Mom tells me you caught some big fish.”

“Yeah, it was fun,” John nodded. “I was sorry you two weren’t with us.”

“Yeah, well,” Colleen said from the back seat, “we couldn’t very well go to Michigan and move—”

“Aren’t we going to Hinsdale?” John interrupted her. “This isn’t the way to Hinsdale.”

“No, Dad, it’s not,” Aiden answered evenly. “You’re not going to Hinsdale. You’re going to the Sheltering Arms retirement community. You sold the house, remember?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Colleen spoke gently from the back seat. “Aiden and I moved you guys while you were in Michigan. We’ve got your places all set up for you.”

“Places?”

“Yes.” Aiden nodded. “You and Mom have separate places.”

“We’ll see each other every day,” Lydia assured him. “We’ll have meals together, go for walks. We’ll just have our own homes.”

“But why?” John asked shaking his head in distress. “I don’t understand.”

“Your memory, Dad.” Aiden told him gently. “You forget things. It’s not safe for you and Mom to be in the same place.”

“There will be people in your place to keep you safe,” Colleen informed him. “So Mom doesn’t have to worry.”

“Can’t they keep us both safe?”

There was a palpable silence as the three pondered the question.

 “No,” Lydia said, her voice nearly breaking. “They can’t. You see sweetie, you are the danger. You literally forget yourself and become unreasonably angry. You sometimes you become almost violent.”

“Oh.” John felt the truth of her statement, even though the facts she alluded to escaped his ken. “I’m so sorry Lydia.” He wiped the tears that had appeared in his eyes.

“I know you can’t help it,” Lydia said through tears of her own. “I just can’t deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” John said his jaw quivering. He drew a calming breath. “So I’m going to the memory unit and Mom is going to assisted living.”

“Yes!” Aiden nodded, “so you do remember!”

“Some,” John nodded.

“Do you remember the pond?” Colleen asked.

“Pond?”

“Yeah, there’s pond you can fish in,” Colleen enthusiastically reported. “There are benches you can sit on while you fish.”

“Are there any fish in that pond?” John asked drily.

“The director says you are the first resident with an interest,” Aiden replied. “So you’ll be finding out.”

“I guess that’s something to look forward to,” John said trying to sound positive.

They pulled into the Sheltering Arms to be greeted by the director. “Welcome, welcome,” the young earnest man repeated as they emerged from the car. “I trust you enjoyed your weekend?”

“We did, thank you,“ Lydia replied.

“Let us help you with your things,” the young man suggested.

“The red suitcase goes to Mom’s place, and the box and the black suitcase goes to Dad’s,” Aiden instructed.

“I want to see the pond,” John announced abruptly.

“The pond? Oh yes, the fisherman,” the director nodded. “It’s on the other side of the memory unit as…you may or…may not recall. You have a view from it from your room.”

“Yes, let’s get settled in our rooms first,” Lydia suggested. “Colleen, you go with your dad and Aiden if you will come with me? Let’s meet in the dining hall in 15 minutes?”

“Sure Mom.”

“C’mon Dad,” Colleen said taking him by the arm. “let’s go see your room.”

The room was on an upper floor and indeed, the pond was visible through the one, permanently closed window. There were benches at opposite ends and a gravel walk that created a perimeter. Cattail rushes grew at some of the edges, and water lily leaves could be seen floating in the middle. He was about to turn away from the window when a small motion at the pond’s edge caught his eye. A pair of cobalt blue eyes peered up at him, and a ridged palm waved in his direction. He smiled and discreetly returned the wave, knowing that Marina would not want attention drawn to herself.

(with many thanks to Jefferson Airplane for the inspiration)

When your truth is found to be lies

And all the smugness within you dies

Don’t you want somebody to blame, don’t you

Need somebody to blame, wouldn’t you

Love somebody to blame, you’ve

Only got yourself to blame

When the people unlike you demand their rights, yes and

Your mind, your mind is so full of fright

Don’t you want somebody to blame, don’t you

Need somebody to blame, wouldn’t you

Love somebody to blame, you’ve

Only got yourself to blame

The gays, you say the gays want to groom the kids

Yeah, but if you if you knew any gays, baby you’d know that’s just another fib

Don’t you want somebody to blame, don’t you

Need somebody to blame, wouldn’t you

Love somebody to blame, you’ve

Only got yourself to blame

Prices are getting more and more insane

But you vote, baby for leaders who keep your wages just the same

Don’t you want somebody to blame, don’t you

Need somebody to blame, wouldn’t you

Love somebody to blame, you’ve

Only got yourself to blame

Many people ask me if recordings of my novels are available. The answer is yes and no. Making audio recordings for Audible, for example, is a time consuming business. My research indicates that for every hour of sound, I can expect to spend three in processing that recording for Audible. I don’t have that kind of time. There are services that will do that for me, but I don’t have that kind of money.

I am, however, recording myself reading from my novels on YouTube. So far I have Menace in the Goldilocks Zone recorded and am in the midst of getting Throwback Book 1 recorded. If you’re interested, follow this link to the Fedora Fiction Press YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnHTeHBq4u2uuzhugEtt4NA.

Thanks!

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

At your mother’s kiss do not cringe

and dream not of grown-up deeds.

Nestle in her warm embrace,

And savor fleeting treasures such as these.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Consider not the gift itself,

Or of its future use.

Treasure instead the giver, who with papers bright in hue,

Wrapped his heart’s treasure and bequeathed it to you.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Forget your schedule, your obligations when she compliments your hat.

Savor her downcast eyes as she demurs—

Or her flirty posing as she complies—

at your invitation to try it for herself.

Learn her name, ask her major,

Think not of future dinners or even

Another encounter.

Focus on her eyes, her smile

Say her name at the slightest excuse

And leave the hat as you leave her.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Accept her proffered mouth

And let her clutch your hair.

Think not where it will lead

For the destination is here:

In the softness of her lips,

The aroma of her cologne,

And the gentle incursions of her tongue.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Sit with companions around a table

Raise a glass, break some bread.

But banish all thoughts of the future from your head.

Embrace the teasing, laugh at the wiles,

And love your friends with your eyes and smiles.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Forget reservations and menu choices

When gifted with her nakedness.

Let her undress you and lead you to the bed.

You wanted wine and calamari?

Her lips, her breasts and tender caresses will leave you better fed.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

Throw that ball,

Cuddle that doll,

The lawn, the leaves and work can wait.

Never forget that childhood has an expiration date.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

The past is but a memory

The future but a fantasy

The now is the only reality.

Wrap my corpse in a linen shroud,

And drop it in a bare hole in the hungry ground.

On my bones plant a tree,

Fill it in, walk away, and think no more of me.

I have always been interested in what is now called paleoanthropology, even before I ever heard the word. Once I had grasped the concept of evolution, I was fascinated as to when how H. sapiens sapiens became sapient. I had long imagined it as some kind of switch. One day an ancient hominid was born that could see the past as past, the present as present, and the future as future. This person would have been the first to link concepts together and create new things. As I learned more, I understood it was probably a much more gradual process.

And yet, as it turns out, it may have happened exactly like that about 70,000 years ago with what paleoanthropologists call the cognitive revolution. Evidently, humans had been stuck in a kind of intellectual rut for about 120,000 years: making the same stone tools, hunting the same animals, and making the same kind of art. Then, shazam! New tools, evidence of new social organizations and new art. The current thinking is that there was a mutation that led to a revolution in cognitive processing (hence the name) and H. sapiens doubled down on their sapiensness.

Now, I’m just a simple urban veterinarian, but I’m a bit skeptical about this cognitive revolution. New archeological finds are continuously challenging our current understanding of the past. The best example is the changes to the “out of Africa” theory. Originally, the theory postulated a single migration from the cradle of humanity, now it appears there were several. Even the date of the emergence of H. sapiens gets pushed back with yet another astonishing archeological discovery. I wouldn’t be surprised if the date of the “cognitive revolution” gets pushed back until—well shoot—it was there the whole 200,000 years of H. sapiens existence.

None of that makes any difference when I take off my dilletante scientist hat (Thank you! I made it myself) and don my fiction writer’s hat (also self-made). Fiction, or storytelling, takes place in a specific time and place and it if I’m going to write about the pre-prehistory of people, it doesn’t matter exactly when they became cognitive. (Yes, I’m thinking about writing about people in that time, this is a blog about writing fiction after all.) What fascinates me is that even you one accepts the 70,000 years ago date, why did it take another 60,000 years for people to start civilizations?

There is a current of intellectual thought that asks the same question. A possible answer is that it didn’t. It’s just that we haven’t found the evidence of those civilizations yet. In their book The Dawn of Everything, Davids Graeber and Wengrow cite evidence of hitherto unknown civilizations in North America. Their concerns are more about sociology than paleoarcheology, but they raise the question of what came before. This question fascinates me: What did the first human civilizations look like?

As a fiction writer, I would have to imagine a kind of nonspecific era that predates the prehistory we know: a period of time more than 14,000 years ago, prior to a climatic event known as the younger Dryas. The younger Dryas (I guess there is a Dryas the elder, but I don’t know) was period where the northern hemisphere got very cool and dry very fast and the southern hemisphere got moist and warm at the same rate. Some climatologists suggest that the big chill took mere decades to take place and then lasted approximately 1,300 years. The subsequent warming is thought to have taken another mere 50 years, causing catastrophic ice melts and sudden rising of sea levels. Some, mostly unreliable, investigators propose that the rapid rise and catastrophic change in climate caused a collapse of any relatively advanced civilization. The problem that archeologists have with this idea is there is very scant evidence for such civilizations.

The nice thing about writing fiction, though, is that you can make shit up. It helps if you have some basis in reality that you extrapolate from, but it’s not necessary if you create a credible fantasy. Any novel I write set in such a pre-prehistoric time would likely be a satire on contemporary civilization, so I guarantee I will take full advantage of my poetic license—which reminds me: I thinks that’s coming up for renewal. I hope they haven’t raised the fee again.

Readers interested in novels I have already written are invited to visit Amazon.com/author/tomgoss. Thanks for reading.

I saw werewolf with a sushi menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of the CWE in the snow
He was looking for the place called The Drunken Fish
For to get a big platter of Fried Cheesesteak Roll

Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo
Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo

You hear him howling around your kitchen door
You better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of St. Louis again

Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo
Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo, huh

He’s the hairy handed clown who ran amok in Dogtown
Lately he’s been overheard in Benton Park
You better stay away from him, he’ll rip your lungs out Jim
Huh, I’d like to meet his tailor

Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo
Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Ah-hoo

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the mayor
Doin’ the werewolves of St. Louis
I saw Lon Chaney Jr. walking with the mayor, uh
Doin’ the werewolves of St. Louis
I saw a werewolf drinkin’ a piña colada at the Sidney Street Cafe
His hair was perfect

Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis
Hey draw blood
Ah-hoo, werewolves of St. Louis

–with abject apologies to Warren Zevon

“Ah woooo…..” (off in the distance)

Frahkensteen: “Werewolf!”

Eyegore (pointing): “There wolf. There castle.”

Frahkensteen: “Why are you talking like that?”

Eyegore: “I dunno. I thought you wanted to.”

Frahnkensteen: “No.”

Eyegore (shrugging): “OK. I’m easy.”

I’ve had werewolves on my mind recently, probably because I am writing a novel about a werewolf, but it could be a coincidence. One can never be sure. At any rate, I got interested in werewolves after I finished writing The Fiend in His Own Form, which in case you don’t know (and if you don’t, I don’t want to know), is a novel about a vampire. I thought, “What do you after writing a novel about a vampire? Write a werewolf novel, of course!” (It remains to be seen whether I will go for the trifecta and write one about a mummy. Life is so uncertain.)

Werewolves are interesting to me as, unlike vampires, they are seldom depicted as being at all conflicted. The current versions have some unlucky bastard being bitten by a lycanthrope and descending into an uncontrollable blood lust every 28 days or so. Things usually end badly for the poor bastard, as his rampages are ended with a well placed silver projectile.

T’was not always so in werewolf lore. While the notion of a wolfman, or bearman or even boarman have examples in many cultures worldwide, the western tradition of these creatures come to us from Germanic and Scandinavian sources. In these stories, the transformations are not tied to the phases of the moon and are wholly voluntary. They are usually achieved by donning some charmed article, such as a wolf skin or a magic belt. Once transformed, the individuals in question carry out acts as wolves—in a kind of disguise really. Some, indeed commit bloody and murderous acts and use the transformation to escape the consequences of those acts. Others, interestingly, use the “disguise” to come to the aid of others in a way they could not in their “true” forms. In all cases, the werewolves in question are fully conscious of their acts and recall them when resuming human form.

In short, the original werewolf myths are about individual responsibility and the use or abuse of power. The tales illustrate the sad reality that there are some individuals who will become monsters when all societal restraints are removed, and some who will be become guardians and agents of justice. The transformation is a test of the true nature of the individual.

Those are my thoughts as I write this novel.

This collection is the result of a suggestion my then teenaged daughter made when she was embarrassed and exasperated by some of my more long-winded Facebook posts. Facebook, she insisted, was not the medium for such essays. She suggested I start a blog, which was a more appropriate setting and wouldn’t appear on her newsfeed. So, I did.

I called my blog “Musings of an Old White Guy” because that didn’t commit me to a specific topic and because it admitted to my privileged perspective. My postings have been admittedly erratic and mostly about politics, but I wander into such topics as language and culture as well. The blog has attracted a following numbered in the ones despite my effort to promote it in social media. Comments have been few and limited to those social media sites. I will say that the one that got the most passionate—if negative—response was “Where in the World is Trudy Valentine?” I was taken to task for my condescending language and my lack of faith in Valentine’s motivations for running for the U.S. Senate. That was, indeed, one of my more unfiltered tirades.

In contrast, “Howl 2022” elicited several positive comments despite the angry tone.

Those posts aside, I have tried to inject humor into my rants, some more sarcastic than others, so to make them entertaining. There is at least one that was written strictly for humor, “Lessons from the Garden,” but in most cases humor was the medium and not the message.

The posts are presented here in chronological order with an index to some names and topics that come up. My advice to the reader is DO NOT read them in sequence. Rather, I suggest that the reader peruse the table of contents and choose a title that intrigues or infuriates them in that moment. My hope is that these essays will be a source of historical “man on the street” perspective as well as entertainment.—Tom Goss, St. Louis, MO April 23, 2023

The collection is titled I Am Silently Correcting Your Grammar and is available in e-book and paper format at https://www.amazon.com/Silently-Correcting-Your-Grammar-Century-ebook/dp/B0C73GJS4D?ref_=ast_author_dp

About two years ago I got this idea for an alternate reality novel. I was inspired by a visit to Fort Sumter in Charleston SC. The ranger/guide there made a point of telling us that Sumter was built as one of a series of forts hastily constructed along coastal waterways during the War of 1812. The newborn U.S. had no navy to counter the erstwhile superpower of Great Britain, so threw up these forts as a way of discouraging the British Navy from sailing up American waterways. These forts were so hastily constructed that the bricks used were fired before they could dry, and many retained the handprints of the enslaved people who made them.

And they do. To me, such artifacts are eloquent testimony to the fact that the very bones of our republic were constructed with slave labor—a very distressing and unsettling thought. It set me wondering about the psychology of those at the time—both white and Black—and it occurred to me that the distance of time allows us in this present a certain condescension and therefore emotional distance. Yet, the heritage of this fact is still with us, not only in the resurgence of white supremacy, but in the very structure of our laws and social system. Yet many white people feel that racism is behind us but as many Black people will tell you it is not.

So, I began thinking of how I, as a writer, could lay bare the bones of racism in our society—or at least contribute to that effort. I conceived of a novel that asked the question: “What if the institution of slavery persisted in the American South?” I instantly recognized the danger of such a novel becoming a white supremacist fantasy, so I determined to research the subject by reading as many primary sources written by formerly enslaved people as I could. I also read up on the justifications for slavery (white supremacy pure and simple), as well as first hand accounts of people travelling through the antebellum South to get a sense of the world view of people in that time and place. I also read more contemporary works such as Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man and the Autobiography of Malcom X.

As I read, a second danger occurred to me: that I ran the risk of writing yet another white savior story.  The very bare outline that I had sketched out in my head had a character from the North, which in this universe, did not sanction slavery but did not sanction Black people either. Any Black person escaping from the South to the North would be shipped off to Liberia. This character inherits a plantation in the South and is confronted not only by Black people but the realities of slavery. He comes to recognize their humanity and works to provide a more dignified existence for his slaves and those in general.

Talk about a white supremacist fantasy! Apparently, this alternate reality of mine does not include leaders like Frederick Douglas, Harriet Tubman, Martin Luther King Jr. or Malcom X. The poor Black slaves are just sitting around for some white guy to feel sorry for them and liberate them. In short, the more I read and thought about the subject, the more intrigued but also afraid I became. I want to do this right.

I am currently considering writing this novel with the main character being an arrogant white doofus who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone but doesn’t really have clue. His newly acquired “possessions” then use that cluelessness to their own advantage and liberate themselves. But even with that major revision a question nags at me: Is this story mine to tell? Or, perhaps better put, is this a story for me to tell?

I am very aware that my lifetime membership in the group known as white, heterosexual males can be seen as a disqualifier. Members of this group have been telling the stories for hundreds of years and we need to step aside and left others take the floor. I am very sympathetic to this argument and agree that efforts must be made to give room to other voices, but does that mean that we still white male voices completely? I would hope not. As for me taking room from a nonwhite, nonhetero person, I have self- published seven works of fiction and if they sell, they sell by the ones. I hardly take up any space on the stage of public discourse as it is.

Yet, I quail at the prospect of writing this novel—in part because I have only written one novel with an antihero and he was pure evil with no nuance. This character would require more complexity, and whenever I think about how that would be written, I yawn and decide to take a nap. I also shrink from the task because I don’t want to make a bad situation worse, or at least do something well meaning but clumsy. Yet, creativity is about challenging yourself and stretching your abilities. I just can’t seem to make up my mind.

Addendum

I first published this essay in my other blog, “Musings of an Old White Guy.” The only response came from an acquaintance who “wouldn’t touch [the idea] with a 12-foot pole,” nonetheless suggested I “Roddenberry it”—a clever turn of phrase, but such an approach would undercut my goal of making the issue of systemic racism immediate and painfully obvious. Setting the story in an alien or futuristic milieu would create the emotional distance I was trying to avoid. The phrase also implicitly admits that my idea has been treated that way before.

In the end, I have reluctantly relinquished the project, toting up my research as more of my continuing education. I have come to the conclusion that there are stories that are, indeed, not mine to tell and may be beyond my feeble talents. Is this self-censorship? Yes, but of the right kind. As a veterinarian I don’t take on cases or procedures for which I have not completed the appropriate training. As a writer, I need to recognize my creative and intellectual limitations. I simply could not do this subject justice. Instead I will return to another novel that I have already started and some of whose early chapters have been published in this space. While I think I will rework the plot and other elements of that novel, the themes and subject matter are very familiar to me. The creative challenge, as always, will be imagining what those themes would mean to characters who are not me.

This is a first for me, a humbling first. I had always believed that with enough empathy, imagination and research I could write about anything—and I suppose I could, but probably not always well. Is this the insight of a mature writer, or the despondency and despair of an ignored writer? I can’t honestly say.

What are your thoughts? Constructive comments are welcome. Please leave your responses in the comments section. Thank you–TG

The best description of this novel can be found in its forward, otherwise known as The Reader Advisory:

In case it is not readily apparent, readers are advised that this novel is not only a fantasy, it is also a joke, a joke comprised of other jokes. The title is a joke, the chapter titles are jokes, some of the character’s names are jokes, even the illustrations are jokes. The effect the author intends here is one devoid of any serious treatment of any serious themes. Readers with the sensitivity, creativity, and intellect to detect any such treatment are to be commended for their imagination as no such content was intended by the author. However, such readers are asked–nay, implored–to keep such ideas to themselves.

Astute readers may catch an oblique allusion to Mark Twain’s introduction to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in that paragraph, and while I can only aspire to his accomplishments, our two tales are only similar in that they both deal in a “hero’s journey.” My hero, however, is an embittered and angry middle-aged never-was who only discovers his identity and powers through the intervention of angels. The premise of the story is that the myths of gods and goddesses have a basis in fact, and that such deities are still among us, but demons prevent them from realizing their full potential. Restored to his powers as a deity, our hero, one Larry Trotter by name, is enlisted in a campaign to overthrow the demons and restore all deities to their proper roles in human history. This he reluctantly agrees to while dealing with the consequences of his failed professional and personal lives. He eventually learns that not everything is what it first appears to be, and only then can he bring his journey to a successful conclusion.

My original intent with this novel was to write a roman a clef where I would scathingly satirize the hypocrisy, ineptitude and lack of integrity of some of my former employers. There remain some elements of that in the novel, but I lacked the genuine contempt for those people to put any effort into viciously lampooning them. It also seemed that my characters wanted to be in a different story, and I am inclined to listen to my own creations. In abandoning that idea, I fully embraced absurdity as a schwer motif as it were and played as many situations for laughs as I could. I stole shamelessly from Groucho Marx, Mel Brooks, Chuck Jones, Abbott and Costello and yes, J.K. Rowling–unleashing shotgun blast after shotgun blasts of jokes as if I were a literary version of the Zucker brothers.

Finally, it occurred to me as I finished my most recent novel, that The Rewards of Virtue and The Fiend in His Own Form are the two sides of the coin that I see as expressing my view of humanity: absurdly optimistic on one side, bitterly disappointed on the other. Both are absurd fantasies whose absurdities pale when they are compared to the realities that inspired them.

E-book (Kindle) copies of The Rewards of Virtue can be acquired for 99 cents at amazon.com/author/tomgoss. Paperback copies can be acquired at the same source and run about $12.00.

As always, thanks for reading.