Homework Assignment

Have I told you that I am taking a writing class at the Hudson Valley Writers' Center? This week’s assignment was to take a bit character, someone ancillary to the plot, and write the story from his perspective. In order for this to work, I felt I needed to choose a story that everyone would know. I love O. Henry, so I chose Ransom of Red Chief. Tell me what you think.

Abe slowly drew his hand down his luxurious gray beard in a manner that he imagined made him look ponderously thoughtful. It was an affectation that annoyed the hell out of his wife Martha. “Mother, you ‘bout done in there? C’mon out here and sit a spell. I got news from town.” With her back to him, she rolled her eyes; she was dog-tired and he could be long-winded. She had been putting up beans and standing over a boiling canner for hours had left her limp as a wet noodle. His voice grew louder as he tried to entice her out of the kitchen. His eyes twinkled with glee. He threw out his line with the gem of a lure, “’s’bout that old skin-flint Dorset over in Summit.” After 47 years of living with her, he knew the right bait to use, and just how to set the hook. “His son’s gone missin’--been lost or stolen.”

Martha, unable to withstand a juicy bit of gossip appeared at the screen door wiping her hands on her apron; she let the door slap behind her as she came out on the porch. The duet of tree frogs and crickets pulsed in the hot spring evening. A tiny breeze cooled the beads of sweat on her brow. She eased her old bones into the front porch rocker. “Abe, you know I can’t abide that man. He’s awful pious passin’ the plate on Sunday, but on Monday he’ll take the farm away faster’n greased lightenin’.” She shook her head, huffing through her nose. Folding her hands in her lap, she pushed against the wooden floorboards with her black lace-up shoes setting the chair in motion. But unused to sitting with idle hands, she got back up to fetch a mess of beans to shell for the next day’s canning. Sitting back down, she gently tipped back and forth in the gloaming; her hands going through the familiar motion of splitting the pod with her thumbnail and pushing the beans into a bowl. “Well, do tell then,” she said. “What’s happen'd t'at little hellion?” Now that he had her attention, he reached into the front pocket of his bib overalls for his pipe and tobacco pouch. He zipped open the creased brown leather and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe, packing it tight with his index finger. Scraping a match against the underside of the rocking chair he puffed out the sweet-smelling smoke.

“Well,” he started, “ After I finish’t plowin’ and turned out Sal, I went t' town to pick up some chick'n feed.” Martha nodded. “Yep,” she said “I know. And you fergot to get the scratch.” “Yep, you’re right. Well, I’ll send Linc down to get it tamorra.” Abe pushed on, “Whilst I was at the feed store, I fell to talkin’ with ol’ Sam Sanders. He done tole me that the Dorset boy is missin' - lost or stolen”.

He looked over at Martha to gauge her interest but could not see her face in the gathering dusk. In the pause, Martha mused half to herself, “Lost or stolen, my eye. I betcha he ran off. No doubt that little hooligan wuz throwin’ stones at that poor little cat of Miss Carlisle’s. He knows how much she sets store by it. She probly marched herself t'over there to complain. That boy would get a whoppin’, if he was a son of mine. Old man Dorset is too high ‘n mighty to do it and the mother, poor thang, is too young and frail to handle such a rowdy.” Abe nodded to himself. What she said was true, but how she knew what was going on in Summit, 3 miles away, when she only went to town on Sundays never ceased to amaze him. “Yep, apples don’t fall far from the tree,” he pronounced. They rocked, their chairs creaking in unison.

Abe puffed on his pipe, then continued. “Sam and I went acrost to the post office to see what Bill’d heard. The usuals was there. We wuz all sittin' around chewin' the fat when that young fella came in. Him that rented our buggy. He tipped his hat and asked what the fuss wuz about. I tole him that the leadin' citizen over in Summit, Elder Dorset’s, son had come up missin'. I mentioned it t’him special like, so he’d know to keep an eye out. “What’d he say?” Martha’s disembodied voice queried from next to him. “Nuthin’. He just bought some of that God-awful t’bacca that Bill pretends is so highfalutin’, ast the price of black-eyed peas, posted a letter and left.” “He sent a letter? That’s mighty peculiar.” Who’s it dressed to?” Abe shook his head, “Didn’t see it and Bill twouldn’t say. He did say in a loud voice that the messenger from Summit would pick it up in ‘bout an hour.” “Huh,” Martha grunted. “I still say it’s peculiar. It’s not like that young fella knows anyone here ‘bouts.”

They rocked in silence for a few minutes both lost in thought. “Ya think the boy’s run off?” Abe considered the question. “Mebbe, he is a bit of a pester-pot.” Martha snorted. “Pester-pot. Abraham, you do have a way with words. That child is a terrible, mean-spirited, spiteful hooligan, I don’t care if he is ten. I can’t image what he’ll be like when he grows up.” Abe harrumphed in agreement. “He’s a bad’un, alright." Abe puffed and Martha shelled beans, their quiet sounds blending with the night noises around them. “Town’s folk upset?” Martha prompted, looking for more of the story. “Nah, not from what I seed. Folks seemed glad for the peace and quiet, him being gone an’all. Mark my words; he’ll be back, right as rain. If he’s bin stolen, those bodies that’s done it are in for a licken.” Martha got up, the beans shelled, “Papa, you're probly right, as always. I’m goin’ to bed. You comin’?” “After bit, Mother, after bit.” Abe rocked on, stroking his bead and thinking about how he had been a hellion too, in his youth; having run off more than once. He was sure the Dorset boy was out playing at being an Indian somewhere close by. He’d be back, by hook or by crook.

The one that got away

Azer’s arm ached from steadying the crate on the roof of the car through the open window. He wished he were anywhere but driving down the streets of the city on a hot Sunday afternoon delivering tomatoes with his father. He let go of the steering wheel and reached over to turn down the Mughum music that was blaring from the radio. It was loud and embarrassingly old-fashioned.

Without saying a word, Azer’s father snaked out a gnarled hand and turned the music back to ear-splitting decibels. Azer closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He wished he had not agreed to do this favor for his father.

As the car crawled up the steep street past the Symphony Hall and the Museum, Azer noticed a blonde woman strolling down the sidewalk toward them. She had on blue-tinted sunglasses that flashed in the sun and wore loose white trousers and a pale blue tunic that fell to her knees. On her feet were brown open-toed sandals.

The car veered toward her as Azer stared. His father’s shout startled him and he spun the wheel hard to the left. Azer let go of the crate and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to regain control. Looking into the side mirror past the old man’s arm; he was mortified to see the woman waving her hands.

He slammed on the brakes. He looked in the side mirror again to see the crates that had been tied to the roof scattered on the pavement and tomatoes rolling down the street. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and groaned.

His father flung open the door with a curse, surveyed the damage and started to scream about money lost. Oblivious to his father’s snarls, Azer bent over and started to retrieve the tomatoes.

Some of them were smashed but many of them were only bruised. He scuttled down the hill picking up the fallen fruit. As he approached the last few stray pieces, a pair of brown leather sandals with painted red toes came toward him. Above the sandals white trousers billowed in the hot breeze from the Caspian Sea.

“You missed one.”

A hand held a beautiful red ripe tomato, unblemished during the accident. Too embarrassed to even look up, he took it.

“Tesekkür ederim,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The feet turned and walked away.

Azer finally looked up as the blonde woman turned the corner and slipped into the cool shade of the park. He stumbled back to the car with his arms full. He kept glancing back at the park as he helped his father refill the crates and tie the load again. Finally with the crates secure, he got behind the wheel.

Azer looked in the mirror as they drove away hoping for another glimpse. As they rounded the corner, there it was: just a flash of blue, white and blonde.

The Addiction

Paul pulled up to the ATM, stuck in his card asking for $300. He had held out as long as he could. He needed cash. There was no time to waste. The machine whirred and spit out a receipt that said INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Paul slammed this fist against the front of the machine. He put the card back in and asked for $200. Again, INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Crap. He HAD to get to the meeting place. He racked his brain. Maybe if he went home, he would be able to find some cash under the sofa cushions. He snorted at the idea. That would not be enough. Maybe he could call a friend and borrow some emergency money. He ran through a list of his friends in his head and sighed. He had already borrowed from everyone he knew. He frowned. As a last resort there was always credit. He wondered how close he was to maxing out.

Paul pulled into the empty lot of the fire station to check his bags. Maybe he had some unspent cash stashed from the last visit. His rummaged through all of the bags in the trunk. His stuff was there. Perhaps he hadn’t needed all of it. But it had been such a steal. As he was kicking the tires in frustration a cop car pulled in.

“Everything all right here?”

Paul nodded and quickly got back in the car and pulled away. The last thing he needed was a ticket. He drove to the park to see what was around. He scanned the area. Nothing. He sat in the parking lot with his head sunk on the steering wheel.

Well, that was it. He was finished. He wasn’t going to make it this time. He wanted it so bad he could taste it. Why did these things always happen before payday? He sat up and took several deep breaths. OK. Stay calm. Think clearly. How much would it actually cost?

Paul slowly got out his cell phone to talk to his fiancée. To beg her one last time.

“Honey, do you have any cash I can have?”

There was silence on the phone.

“Please tell me you are not going up there”, she replied.

He considered lying. The hesitation was enough. She hung up on him. He hit redial.

“What.”

“I promise after this time, I won’t do it again.”

“You promised last time.”

“I know, but I mean it this time.”

“You meant it last time.”

“ I know, but honey, it is a Red-footed Falcon. It doesn’t even live on this continent. It is a once in a lifetime thing.” He knew he was groveling. He didn’t care.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone.

Was she weakening? He took a chance. “I love you.”

Again the sigh. “OK. But this the last time you chase after a bird.”

Paul hung up, turned the car around and headed home singing “On the Road Again.”

Orange Aid

JoJo opened his eyes a slit at the tapping on the window. He saw only a shadow on the pane and closed his eyes again. He was feeling much worse this time. It was so unfair. He was young and strong, so why me? He wondered. The tapping came again. He turned his head away ignoring it. At the doctor last week, she said to think about sharks.” Well, like that was going to help!

It was the C word. Cancer. It was bad. He hadn’t known. Not one to go to doctors, he hadn’t really thought about it. His sister was a nurse and when he finally told her he had a little something going on, she threw a fit. The process had started. The chemo had started.

He was feeling much weaker. In fact, he was exhausted. The last round of chemo almost killed him. His mouth had sores, food tasted and smelled strange. His hair was all but gone, even his beard was thin. The doctor wanted him to try and visualize the chemo attacking and eating the cancer cells. But he wasn’t much of a fish person. He didn’t even like sharks. Jaws still freaked him out. The whole idea of eating put him off.

Again the tap on the window, more incessant this time. JoJo opened his eyes and saw his brother Dave’s finger on the outside of the bottom pane. Tap. Tap. Point. Tap. Tap. Tap. Point. JoJo followed the pointing finger with his eyes. There in the big spruce next to the patio was a Red Tailed Hawk. Dave knew he loved birds. JoJo could see the hawk from where he lay. Big. Fierce. Powerful. Free. It thrilled and depressed him. Would he ever be able to get outside again? As he lay there contemplating his future, he saw a flash of color. He turned his head slowly and painfully to the left. There it was again! He squinted. What was that? He carefully lifted the binoculars off the covers.

A large black crow flew past with five bright orange orioles chasing and dive bombing it.
They didn’t like the crow. They didn’t want it anywhere near their territory. In all of the years of birdwatching, he had never seen orioles chasing a crow. He had seen lots of other small birds chase crows…but orioles?

He watched for a long time as the orioles chased and harassed the crow. It flew this way and that, banking and twisting. The bright orange flashes against the black were seared on his eyelids as when he closed his eyes. The cancer loomed black and ominous; the chemo bright orange. He visualized all those bright orioles harassing the black thing that was cancer. This might work. His mom poked her head around the door with a tray. He smiled. Maybe he could eat a little jello. Orange jello.