“Lemon Mustang” by P.J. Kaiser

I closed my eyes as I took a long drag on my cigarette.  Although we hadn’t had many customers that morning, the big boss had kept me busy with paperwork and I hadn’t been able to take a break until 10:30am.  I stood just outside the showroom door with Al and Frank.  Each of us had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  The April New Jersey air was cool but a welcome change after a harsh winter.

Al was telling us about some movie he had seen with his wife the night before when a pricey SUV pulled into the lot.  A couple got out and started walking towards us.  The woman was leading the way and she said, “I’d like to see that yellow Mustang convertible.”

Al and Frank started to say something, but I’m the more senior salesman, so I figured I had dibs.  I said, “Hi, my name is Lou.  I’ll help you.  Give me a second to go get the keys.”  At least I got one nice drag on my cigarette, I thought as I crushed it beneath my heel.

I picked up the keys from inside, set my coffee down on my desk and went back out.  I got a bit winded from walking and I could hear it in my own voice as I said, “This car is a beauty.  She just came in a few days ago and I’m sure she won’t be around long.”

The woman slipped into the drivers seat as I unlocked the doors and I could see that she was in love with the car.  This would be an easy sale, especially if they planned on trading in their SUV.

The man said, “Well, my wife mentioned that she’s been admiring this car for awhile, are you sure you just got it in?”

I said, “Oh, well, I’m not certain – maybe I have it confused with another car.  But this one is terrific.  You looking for a second car?”

The woman’s eyes got a faraway look as she gripped the steering wheel.

The man said, “No, we want to trade in our SUV.  It’s too expensive and my wife only drives a few miles each day to work at the hospital.  We want something cheaper.  But it’s a 2007 and it has 50,000 miles on it?  That’s pretty high mileage.  The outside is not in very good shape – has it been in an accident?”

“Not that I know of, sir.  The previous owner took meticulous care of this car.”

The man shook his head, “And you’re asking $28,000 for it?  No, that’s too much for this car.”

“That’s a fair price – have you been looking around at Mustangs?”

“We did some research on the internet.  That price is too high given its poor condition.”  The man walked around to the driver’s side of the car and said, “Jackie, look at the interior of this car!  It’s horrible!”

“Well, we would of course clean up the car before letting you go with it.”

Jackie had started to pay attention to what we were saying and she said, “Can we start it and see how it runs?”

I said, “Of course!  If you want to just slide out, I’ll get ‘er going.”  After Jackie got out, I slid the seat back as far as it would go and I tilted the steering wheel upwards and climbed in.  I put the key in and turned it and heard a click, then nothing.  I tried again.  Nothing.  “I’m very sorry, the battery seems to be run down.  If you give me a few minutes, we’ll give it a jump.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.  I’ll offer you $18,000 for the car.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “$18,000?  You must be joking, sir.  This is a great car …”

“Come on, Jackie.  This car is in awful shape and this guy clearly isn’t willing to negotiate with us.  Let’s go.”  The man took Jackie by the arm and began to direct her back to their SUV.

Jackie stopped and said, “Oh, can’t we just wait and let him get it started -”

“No.  This car is too overpriced.  We’ll keep looking.”

Jackie said to me, “Could I at least have your card and we’ll think about it?”

I slid a hand inside my jacket and pulled out a business card.  “Yes, of course.  You think about it and let me know.  But don’t waste any time, this car won’t be around for long!”

As Jackie and her husband got back in their car, I went back towards the showroom shaking my head.  It was fitting this car was bright yellow because it certainly was a lemon.  It had been on the lot for a month and everybody who looked at it had much the same reaction as this couple.  I decided that I would give it a couple more days and if it still hadn’t sold, I would talk to the big boss about lowering the price.

*****

I opened my eyes and all I could see was glaring light.  There were noises and voices, but none of them registered at first.  I had a vague memory of chest pain and a 9-1-1 call.  As my eyes focused, I still felt a pain in my chest and I could now see tubes and cords and monitors.  Oh God.  I was going to die.  And the worst of it was, who was going to miss me?  An overweight used car salesman.  No wife.  No kids.  Where had my life gone?

A woman dressed in white was leaning over me adjusting a sensor on my chest and I struggled to focus on her face.  She had a very concerned look and she said, “Lou?  Lou?  Can you hear me?”

I squinted as I nodded my head.  I’ve seen her somewhere before – but where … Aha! It was Jackie – the woman who came to the dealership the other day. I tried to sit up but the cords and tubes kept me in place and I gasped, “Don’t buy the Mustang!”

“Sixteen More Quarterly Reports” by P.J. Kaiser

George heard the clicking of the computer keys over – or through – the partition separating the cubicles. Peter was finally starting to work on the quarterly financial statements for his division. With every click on Peter’s keyboard, George cringed slightly. George dreaded the end of the quarter because although the dishonesty was going on all the time, the quarterly financial statements not only put it in writing, but they were distributed much more widely than the monthly statements.

George lived and breathed financial statements and had a sixth sense about them. After reading over Peter’s statements quarter after quarter – eight of them in all – he started to develop an eye tick. Peter managed the finances for the division responsible for the new line of overcoats introduced by the company two years ago and he was hired at the same time the new line was introduced. George had interviewed Peter and found that he was barely qualified, but the boss was determined to hire him, so George didn’t make a stink.

Critics had panned the overcoats and fashion magazines virtually ignored them. George saw the internal news briefs indicating that some stores were discontinuing the line entirely, while others were reducing their orders. The financial statements painted a rosy picture, however. Sales were steadily going up, inventory levels were on target and margins were solid. George had questioned Peter about the statements on several occasions and Peter always had some ready answer. “They’re not doing well on the west coast, but they’re going like gangbusters in the midwest, George!” or “We’ve started some international distribution and they’re selling like hotcakes in Europe.”

George didn’t like the smell of it. He poked and prodded and eventually uncovered the truth. The actual inventory levels didn’t jibe – even remotely – with the statements. The country, and maybe even the world, was littered with these overcoats that would not sell. Peter’s boss’s job – and indeed many jobs in their division – hinged on the success of the line and so he had brought Peter in to doctor the financial statements. There were too many discrepancies for them to be mistakes or oversights. The numbers simply didn’t add up. George didn’t know how the deception had gone undetected by the auditors.

Now, as George sat in his cube and listened to the tapping next door, he knew that the numbers were fiction – fiction of the worst kind. It wasn’t fiction to entertain or educate, but fiction to subvert. George had nearly finished with his own quarterly reports, but now that Peter had started working on his, George stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t focus on his own – nonfiction – statements and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. George glanced at the fluorescent light in his cube wondering if the bulb was making him hot. He put a hand up towards the light and proved what he already knew – the heat was internal rather than external.

George stood up and stretched his legs. Maybe a trip to the restroom and a cup of coffee would help him forget what was going on in the next cube. George moved slowly down the aisle – his eye twitching with each step – into the restroom and then the break room. He eventually came back to his desk, hot coffee in hand. He settled into his chair again and as he sipped his coffee he realized his hands were shaking. He needed to tell somebody about this. This deception was like a pit that he was carrying around in his stomach. When the pit became agitated like today, it rendered George incapable of the simplest task.

George looked over at the phone list and scanned down to the name of his boss – “Alfred Tanner – 88292.” George picked up the phone, stared at the buttons on the phone and nearly began dialing. His thoughts going like a freight train, he eventually laid the phone back down. He continued to stare at the handset, willing it to pick itself up and dial. No matter how he tried to signal it, the handset remained defiantly cradled in its base.

Taking a sticky note and a pen out of his drawer, he began to calculate how many more quarterly reports would be produced before his retirement. He was fifty-six and he would retire in nine more years. Thirty-six more quarterly reports. No, surely he couldn’t survive thirty-six more rounds of this incredible stress. Maybe he could do his reports early each quarter so that he could take the day at the end of each quarter off.

Maybe he could put in for early retirement. He might be able to do that when he turned sixty. That would mean only sixteen more quarterly reports. George smiled slightly, picked up the sticky note with his calculations, folded it and put it in his pocket. He sent a quick message to Alfred Tanner to tell him that he was going home. He slipped into his overcoat, picked up his briefcase and made his way out of the building. George put his finger next to his eye and pressed, in hopes of stopping the twitching.

“Friending the Dead” by P.J. Kaiser

Silence enveloped the house.  The children slept in their beds and Brenda’s husband was already upstairs reading.  The cleaning and laundry were finished and Brenda sat at her computer to check emails one last time before going to bed.  She didn’t bother to turn on the lights.  The glow of the computer screen cast gentle shadows on the desk and Brenda’s face.  Just one email from work appeared in her inbox.  She read it over, typed her reply and pressed “send.”  She opened a new window for Facebook and saw that she had a friend request.  Clicking on it, her breath caught as she stared at the name.  “Veronica Weber.”  She had been thinking about Veronica all day since she had received the news that morning – via Facebook – that Veronica had been killed in a car accident.

Best friends when they were young, Brenda and Veronica lived on the same street.  Then as the girls went into middle school, their interests started to diverge and each made new friends.  The shiny, new friendships rendered the old one uninteresting.  Once the girls were in high school, they barely saw each other.  Except for that time that Brenda inadvertently went out with Veronica’s boyfriend.  Brenda had asked Mark – Veronica’s ex-boyfriend – out, only to discover after their date that he was not her “ex-” but current boyfriend.  Veronica caught wind of their date and confronted Brenda.  Words were exchanged, voices were raised and eventually apologies were offered and accepted.

Brenda had never sent Veronica a friend request on Facebook, although they had many friends in common.  She was never sure whether Veronica had really forgiven her and she didn’t care to reopen old wounds.  Seeing the name on her screen, however, made her realize that Veronica must have sent her a friend request just before she was killed.  Brenda shut down her computer and slipped into bed, next to her already-sleeping husband.

The next morning, Brenda woke with a haunted feeling.  Her dreams had been filled with images of Veronica.  Veronica – as an adult – trying to do the things they used to do as children.  But doing them alone.  Veronica swimming in a pool, flailing her arms and nobody to help her.  Veronica crashing on her sled and nobody to dig her out of the snow.  Brenda went straight to her computer and accepted the friend request.  She knew it was irrational, but it seemed necessary.

Brenda got breakfast for her kids and husband, she dropped her kids at school and she and her husband parted at the train station to take different trains to their respective offices.  As Brenda walked towards a seat on the train, it lurched forward, throwing Brenda off balance.  She fell and narrowly missed hitting her head on the hard, plastic seat.  A man helped her to her feet and made sure she was not injured before sitting back down.  Brenda sank into her seat.  Her face flushed with embarrassment and with the thought that she could have been seriously hurt.

After collecting herself for a few moments, she pulled her iPhone out of its case, pressing the button and unlocking it before looking at the screen.  Checking first to be sure there were no emails from work, she opened the Facebook app and saw several notifications.  There was a lot of nonsense about “Farmville” and then this:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.  Click to see her answer.”  Thoughts of a hoax entered Brenda’s mind.  She furrowed her brows and considered who would do such a thing. She cautiously tapped the screen and the text read, “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die on a train?’  Veronica answered ‘no.’”

A chill ran through Brenda’s body as she quickly turned off her phone.

The train came to Brenda’s stop and she began the ten-minute walk to her office.  Other walkers enjoyed the spring day, shedding their coats as they walked.  Brenda still felt chilled even as she finished her walk to the office and sank into her chair.  The ring of the phone brought Brenda out of her thoughts and her hectic day began.

In the mid-morning, Brenda got on elevator to go to a meeting in a nearby building.  Before the elevator reached the ground floor, it suddenly stopped and made an alarming dip.  Brenda grabbed the hand rail and pressed the emergency button.  The operator came on the intercom and assured Brenda that everything was fine, but it would be a few minutes until the elevator could move.  She paced back and forth in the elevator for ten minutes until the elevator resumed its slow descent.  She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby.  As she walked to the building next door, she turned on her iPhone and checked Facebook.  She gasped as she saw the message again:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.  Click to see her answer.”  Her breath became shallow as she clicked.  “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die in an elevator?’  Veronica answered ‘no.’”

Brenda quickly turned off the phone and slipped it back into its case.  During the meeting, Brenda’s eyes darted back and forth.  Twice during the meeting, Brenda’s boss asked if she was OK.  Brenda mumbled that she was and she took a few deep breaths to help her focus.

After the meeting was over, her boss touched her arm and said softly, “Maybe you should take an early lunch, Brenda.  Take it easy and I’ll see you back in the office later.”

Brenda nodded and walked out of the building into the sunshine.  Not many people were passing by since it wasn’t yet lunchtime.  Brenda definitely did not feel hungry.  In fact, she started to feel somewhat nauseous.

Brenda turned and began walking in the opposite direction from the office.  If somebody was trying to pull a hoax by posing as Veronica on her Facebook account, it was in unbelievably bad taste.  And what about the strange coincidences about the train and the elevator?  Brenda began to wonder if any of her other friends had been getting messages also.  Walking down the sidewalk, Brenda pulled out her iPhone and touched on the Facebook icon.  Another notification:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.”

Brenda skipped over the notification and went to Veronica’s profile page.  Several of her friends had posted condolence messages on her wall but it didn’t look like there was any activity from her account.  Brenda typed a quick message to one of her friends from school, asking if she had received any messages from Veronica since her death.  Brenda stared at the letters on the screen and realized how absurd it seemed, and she deleted the message.  Her heart was racing and she knew that she should try to sit and calm down.  Across the street was a small cafe where she could buy a newspaper and a cup of tea.

Brenda stepped into the crosswalk and she clicked on the notification.  “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die in a car accident?’  Veronica answered ‘yes.’” She looked up from her phone and her scream caught in her throat as Brenda heard the squeal of the brakes and felt the impact of two tons of steel.

“The Literary Inheritance” by P.J. Kaiser

The call from Alice, my mother-in-law, came at 9am on a Saturday.  Steven, my father-in-law, had died.  We left home in a flurry of clothes, suitcases and phone calls.  More emotional than I have ever seen him, my husband talked to his mom on his cell phone for most of the three hour drive while I fought back tears from the driver’s seat.  Our son – eight year old Ben – sat in the back seat and stared out the window.  I had told him that grandpa had died and that we were on our way to visit grandma.  I explained she would need us to stay there for at least a few days.  My flexible writer’s schedule allowed for such deviations from routine, but I knew that my husband’s employer wouldn’t be so easy.

We had just seen my in-laws two weeks prior when they had come to visit us for Easter.  He seemed to be in perfect health, he walked every day with Ben to the park.  Then came this news that he dropped dead from a heart attack.

For the last part of our trip, we rode the ferry from Seattle to Vashon Island.  The three of us momentarily forget the day’s tragedy and enjoy the spectacular views of Puget Sound.  We arrived at Steven and Alice’s house – a red brick home dwarfed by an oversized pine tree in the yard.  The house sat atop a hill and overlooked the water.  Upon arrival, I went about fixing a meal for everybody.  I knew poor Alice hadn’t eaten a bite and it was already mid-afternoon.  As the four of us gathered around the dinner table, Steven’s absence was palpable.  Everybody had assigned seats and his empty chair – in between Alice and John – dominated the table.   I bit my lip and forced myself to eat.  We tried to focus on the mundane.  The appointment to plan the funeral was Sunday morning.  John’s sister, living in San Diego, had been called and her flight would arrive at 8:30pm.

At one moment in a lull in the conversation, Alice looked at me and said, “You haven’t told anybody, have you?”

Taken aback by the question, I said, “No.  I told Ben’s school there had been a death in the family.”

“Johnny, can you call Les and have him come over this afternoon?”

John said, “Sure, Mom.”

I looked expectantly at Alice and my husband thinking that they might explain who Les was, but no explanation was forthcoming, and so I kept on eating my lunch.  After lunch, I took Ben out for a bike ride so that John and his mother could have some privacy.

While roaming the neighborhood streets that wound among the hills in the neighborhood, Ben and I continued our discussion about death and I tried to prepare him the best I could for the events to come.  When we got back to the house, there was a dark Lincoln Town Car in the driveway.  As we went inside, I heard voices coming from the living room.  A man’s voice was saying, “- and we’ll plan for a public reading of the will, of course.  If the funeral is on Tuesday, we can have the reading on Wednesday.”  Was he talking about Steven?  Why would a retired insurance salesman need to have a public reading of his will?  And who was this Les guy?

Holding Ben’s hand, I poked my head into the living room and said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry.  We’re back – just wanted you to know I’ll be upstairs with Ben.”

As I turned my back to leave, Alice said, “No, it’s best you stayed.”  As I turned my head, I saw Les give Alice a glaring look.  “No, it’s high time she knew.  She’s going to find out anyway.  Ben, sweetheart, would you mind going to watch a DVD for awhile?”

I got Ben set up with the upstairs TV with one of his favorite DVD’s and I slowly went into the living room and took a seat next to John.  I reached over and held his hand and he gave my hand a squeeze.

Alice said, “My dear, Les is my husband’s publicist.” I glanced at Les and he partly rose from his seat and reached over to shake my hand.  I gave him a weak, confused smile.  “You see, Steven was a writer.  He was always very secretive about his writing and he used a pen name.  He never wanted anybody to know about his writing, he really didn’t even share it with me.  I got to read his books along with the public after they were published.  We always felt bad keeping it from you, dear, but that’s just the way Steve was.  He wanted it that way.  He didn’t even talk about it with John and his sister.”

I looked at John who had a squeamish, apologetic look on his face and at Les and Alice who wore earnest smiles.  “I see.  Well, that’s wonderful – I mean – I’m glad that he found something that he loved doing.”  I felt uncomfortable that the focus had been put on me.

Alice said, “Steven’s pen name was Christopher Musgrave.”

I gasped and my hand flew up to my mouth. “Oh, my God!” To be a secretive writer was one thing, but to be a New York Times best-selling author, and winner of the National Book Award was quite another.  I could not even attempt to reconcile my mild-mannered father-in-law with Christopher Musgrave, one of my favorite authors.  I could see by their faces, though, this was no joke.

Alice continued, looking straight at me, “I know we should wait until the reading of the will to discuss this, but I know that Steven had always said that if he were to pass away in the middle of a novel, he would want you, dear, to finish it.  He had been working on the notes for his next novel for three months before he died.”

My eyes grew wide, “And he wanted me to finish it?” My face grew red and I glanced at John who was beaming at me.

Alice said, “Yes, dear.  It’s about a writer who gets her big break when she inherits an unfinished manuscript from her father-in-law.”

“Ellen’s Garden” by P.J. Kaiser

Coming through the front door of her two-story suburban home, Ellen dropped her bag next to the door and went straight to the utility room to grab her gardening basket.

She shouted as she walked, “Hi, John!  Hi, Barbie!  I’m going out to do some gardening!  I’ll be back inside in a little while!”

Ellen’s husband John and her 13-year-old daughter Barbie stood in the kitchen and Ellen breezed past them to the back door.

John shouted after her, “How was your trip to the mall?  Did you get everything you need?”

“No – long story.  I’ll have to go back tomorrow.  See ya!” The door drifted closed behind Ellen as her hand wound tightly around the handle of her gardening basket; her knuckles turning white.  She strode across the deck, down the steps and across the grass to the far side of the lawn.

It had been two weeks since she had tended her roses and each time she looked out the back window, she felt a pang of guilt and swore that she would get out to take care of them soon.  Now she knew that her anger over the incident at the mall would prevent her from doing anything else and she saw it as a perfect time to tend her roses.

Her heart still racing and head still pounding, she pulled the pruning shears from her basket and began her work.  The events of the morning kept playing in her mind.  She knew that the coupon had not expired.  She should have known that the clerk was inept by the long line that had queued up at the register before Ellen chose her items and took her place in line.  The customers around her grew increasingly irate as one customer after another had some sort of issue with their sale.  The clerk had rung it up incorrectly.  The item was missing the correct bar coding.  They had to go back and exchange a size.  The delays were interminable and all Ellen wanted to do was buy her baby gifts and go back home.

By the time Ellen got to the head of the line, her hands were shaking she was so angry.  She had tossed her items onto the counter and held out the coupons for the clerk so that she wouldn’t make a mistake in ringing them up.  The clerk had to put on her bifocals to read the fine print on the coupon and finally determined that the coupon was not valid.  “What?” Ellen spat the words at her.  “I just received this in the mail three days ago – of course it’s still valid!  I want to see your manager.”  Ellen’s eyes bored into the clerk and the other customers groaned, knowing that their long wait had just been extended.

The other customers complained and ridiculed Ellen while they all waited for the manager to appear.  Some customers gave up and put their items back on the racks but most stayed in the queue and increased their complaints.  The manager finally came and, after inspecting Ellen’s coupon, made the determination that it was in fact invalid.  The jeers from the other customers and the anger at the clerk and her manager, topped by the frustration at not receiving the discount she had been counting on were all too much for Ellen.  She burst into tears and she remembered muttering something about never shopping at the store again and she quickly walked away, leaving the beautiful baby outfits she had chosen with such care lying on the counter.

She immediately went to the restroom to try to compose herself.  She stopped crying quickly but the anger still coursed through her body, leaving her gasping for breath with a throbbing headache.  She went back to her car and left the mall.  On the drive home, a car pulled out in front of her and her anger boiled over again and she had to pull over for a few moments to allow her hands to stop shaking enough to drive again.

Her heart was racing again as she replayed these scenes in her mind.  She heard the back door open and close and her head shot around to see her daughter coming out of the door.  “Mom?  Are you OK?” Barbie walked down the deck stairs and across the lawn.

“Yes, of course.  I’m OK.  I just had a run-in with a clerk at the mall over a coupon.”  Ellen looked down at her roses so that Barbie couldn’t see her face which she knew must be flushed with emotion.

“What happened?” Barbie chose a grassy spot a few feet away and sat down in the sunshine.

“Oh, it’s nothing.  I mixed up my coupons and took an old coupon with me by accident.  Have you noticed how lush these rose blooms are this year?”

“Yes, they’re beautiful.  Have you gotten rid of all the aphids finally?”

“Yes.  It took awhile, but I think the treatment finally worked.  And just think – we’ll get to enjoy these fantastic blooms again in the fall!”

Barbie sat up and peered at the blooms.  “I know you’ve told me the about this, but I forget why it blooms twice -”

Seizing the opportunity to talk about her roses, Ellen said, “These rose bushes belonged to my great grandmother.  They are a special variety of roses called ‘Autumn Damask’ and they bloom twice each year – once in the spring and once in the fall.   It’s one of the only old European roses to bloom more than once during the year.  The scent is strong and hasn’t been diluted by years of breeding.  My great grandmother originally bought eight rose bushes when she was newly married and her husband – my great grandfather – was just starting his medical practice.  They had no money and she had to scrimp and save for a year to be able to buy the bushes that she planted along the front of their tiny house.  Over the years, they grew and have been passed down through each generation of our family.  These three bushes are the only ones that remain.  Now look, these weeds will never give up!”  Ellen leaned forward and grasped a bundle of weed stems and pulled them out by their roots.  “I hate these weeds!  I’ve tried everything to get rid of them – treated mulch and weed killers.  They just keep coming back.”  Her heart began to pound again in anger as she looked down at the weeds.

Several of the thick green weeds had wound themselves around the bases of the rose bushes and Ellen tried to disentangle them.  Barbie said, “Your rose bushes keep having all these problems regardless of how much you love them.”

Ellen looked sideways at Barbie who was staring calmly at the rose bushes and gently nodding her head.  Thinking it a very strange thing for a girl to say, Ellen simply said, “Yes, I suppose so.”

After a few moments, Barbie said, “And those weeds keep growing regardless of how much you are angry at them.”

Ellen looked at her hand which held a handful of weeds.  “Yes, that’s true.”

“It seems that these plants are going to either live or die all on their own and they don’t really care whether you love them or hate them.”

“Yes, but if I didn’t love these rose bushes, then I would just let the weeds take over, wouldn’t I?  It’s my action that saves the bushes.”

Barbie said, “Maybe, but are you sure that they would die?  Maybe the roses and the weeds would find a way to live together.”

Ellen gazed at the delicate pink blossoms, each one made up of countless silken pink petals.  She inhaled the soft scent of the flowers and as she inhaled, she realized that maybe the sense of responsibility that she felt for them was misplaced.  And maybe her anger at the weeds was also misplaced.  Perhaps she should just let the roses be and enjoy them without feeling such guilt about their care.

*****

In the following weeks, the roses continued to bloom and Ellen continued to weed and prune them.  But some of the weeds got ahead of her and began to grow alongside the roses, sending their own delicate shoots towards the sky.  Before long, several varieties of wildflowers had scattered themselves among the delicate pink blossoms and a symphony of colors unfolded.  White, yellow, and orange wildflower blossoms against a background of dark green leaves and stems in combination with the roses made for a very inviting garden.

“A flower falls, even though we love it; and a weed grows, even though we do not love it” – Dogen

Just when you thought you’d seen the last of my turtle dove stories, I give you one final installment. The stories are unrelated, but in case you are an aficionado of turtle doves, you can check out these stories:  “The Attack of the Turtle Dove” (#fridayflash), “The Turtle Dove” (part of Jim Wisneski’s “12 days of Christmas” project), and “In Search of the Turtle Dove” (#fridayflash).

“Merry Christmas, Baby” by P.J. Kaiser

“Yo!  Get off that, Ted!  Let somebody else have a turn!”

“Buzz off, Stan.”

“C’mon, you’re already fat enough to last you for the whole freakin’ winter.  Step aside!”

“Yeah?  And who’s going to make me – you?” Ted stopped eating for a moment and glared at Stan, knowing he posed no threat.  Ted resumed eating.

Stan kept his distance and sat on the adjacent fencepost but the moment that the turtle dove next to Ted finished eating, Stan swooped in to take his place at the bird feeder.  Ted’s and Stan’s beaks clicked against the metal rim of the bird feeder.  The other ten or fifteen turtle doves rustled their wings impatiently while waiting their turns.

Stan said, “So, that was some snow we got last night, huh, Ted?”

“Yeah, no kidding.  It took me a half hour to dig out my nest this morning.”

“Listen, I was only kidding about that fat joke.”

“I know, Stan – nothing personal.  A bird’s gotta eat, and I’m better at it than most.”

Stan and Ted looked like a bird version of Laurel and Hardy.  Ted’s rotund body nearly hid his legs from view and as he dipped his head to eat, his plump bottom bobbed up.  Stan kept turning his small frame to fend off attacks on his position.  Eventually, another dove came at him with his beak and Stan had to relinquish his spot.  Ted continued to eat his fill and occasionally turned and flashed a broad wing at an incoming bird to maintain his position.

A dog barked and in an instant all the birds vanished into the skies and then circled back to land in the limbs of an adjacent tree.  Ted and another plump bird landed on adjacent branches.  Ted said, “See, Gertie?  Didn’t I tell you I’d take you somewhere special for Christmas Eve dinner?”

Gertie said, “This place is terrific.”

“Are you getting enough to eat?  Those smaller doves try to wrestle their way in there -”

Gertie said, “Oh, sure, Ted.  Don’t worry about me.  Size is on my side, too, you know.”

As if on a silent command, all the doves simultaneously took flight and returned to their positions in and around the bird feeder.  Ted and Gertie didn’t have the speed of some of the smaller doves, so they had to stay back a few moments and then muscle their way back to their positions on opposite sides of the feeder.

From the top of the fence, Stan said in a stage whisper, “Hey, Ted, did you see that hot little number that I was talking to up in the tree?  I need to get the 4-1-1 on her …”

Over his shoulder, Ted said, “Stan, you’re a perv.  She’s young enough to be your hatchling!  Just find some nice little dove to settle down with.”

“Well, just because we’re turtle doves, doesn’t mean that we can all find true love like you,” Stan looked down and pecked at some pieces of birdseed that had been left behind by other birds.  “What did you get the missus for Christmas?”

“I can’t tell – it’s a surprise.”  Ted felt like he needed to take a little break from eating and digest for a few minutes, so with a flip of his wings, he hopped over next to Stan on the fence, displacing a clump of snow that softly fell to the ground.

“Oh, brother.  Probably more Dove bars, right?  You’re going to have to break your addiction before spring, otherwise they’ll melt all over your nest!”

“No, not Dove bars, stupid.  Anyway, I can’t say.  You’ll just have to be surprised like Gertie.  What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I might go check out the game.  The Hawks are playing the Ravens tomorrow afternoon at 1pm.  Hey, maybe I should ask that girl to go with me?”

“I’m telling you, she’s too young for you.  I’m sure she’s still in flight school.  She’ll be home with her parents.”

A scuffle ensued at the feeder as doves jostled for position and one of the small doves on the losing end flew up next to Stan and Ted on the fence. “Those guys can be so mean sometimes!  Can’t a girl just get a little bit of food?”

Ted said, “It’s OK, sweetheart, just be patient and eventually those guys will have their fill and then you can get some dinner.”

Stan bumped Ted with his wing and gestured at the girl with his head, indicating she was the girl he had been talking about.

Ted said, “My name is Ted and this is my pal Stan.  Have you met?”

She said softly, “Um, yes, my name is Stacy.  I think we were talking in the tree, right? I was just starting to say how I just graduated from flight school and I’m getting a nest of my own next week.”

Stan and Ted exchanged glances.  Stan said, “Wow, that’s terrific – congratulations!”

Ted said, “Yes, that’s great.  Hey, Stan was just saying he is going tomorrow to the Hawks vs. Ravens game – maybe you’d like to join him?”

Stacy said shyly, “Sure, that’d be fun.  My parents usually serve the Christmas grass shoots in the morning, so I’m free in the afternoon.”

“Grass shoots?” asked Stan, “Where do your parents find grass shoots this time of year?”

“Oh, they know some doves.”

Gertie flew over, joined the group and said, “Ted, are you ready to go?  I’m worried about our hatchlings.  We should get back home.”

“Sure, sweetheart.  Bye now – you kids have fun tomorrow!” Ted and Gertie took off as Stan and Stacy shouted, “Merry Christmas” after them.

Ted and Gertie flew side by side and as they got to the corner near their nest, Ted said, “Gertie, I just want to see something down here …” Ted veered off to the left and Gertie followed.

“What?  What are you looking for, Ted?”

After a few moments, Ted landed on a tree branch in the city park, just above the fountain.  In the summertime, Gertie and Ted enjoyed circling the fountain and playing tag with the hatchlings trying to dodge the water droplets.  Gertie said, “Why are we here, Ted?  The fountain isn’t operating today -” Gertie stopped short as she heard a “peep, peep” that sounded just like one of her hatchlings.  “What …?”

Ted said, “Look there, Gertie.”  Ted gestured with his wing.  There, nestled against the trunk of the tree, supported by two sturdy branches was a spacious nest holding Ted and Gertie’s six hatchlings, under the watchful eye of Gertie’s friend Sara.

“Oh, Ted!  A new nest!  How wonderful!  And Sara, you knew about this all along!  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ted swore me to secrecy, dear!  OK, I’ll be going now.  I can see you two lovebirds want to be alone.  Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Sara!”  Gertie shouted as Sara flew away.  “Ted, this is fabulous!  The nest is so big and how on earth did you get this spot?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy.  There was already a nest here.  I had to – uh – convince them to relocate and then I added on to their nest.”

Ted and Gertie perched on the side of their new nest and nuzzled with their hatchlings.  Gertie looked up at Ted who beamed at her and said, “Merry Christmas, baby.”

As we enter the Christmas season, I present to you the third of three unrelated stories with a turtle dove theme (unless I think of some more …). The first is my #fridayflash contribution from last week- “The Attack of the Turtle Dove” – and the second one is part of Jim Wisneski’s “12 Days of Christmas” project – “The Turtle Dove.”

“In Search of the Turtle Dove” by P.J. Kaiser

The darkness still enveloped my bedroom when I heard my dad shouting, “It’s time, Andrew!  Get your butt out of bed!”  I blinked a few times and leapt out of bed into my clothes that I had draped across the chair the night before: denim overalls and long-sleeved t-shirt.  I took my small notepad and miniature binoculars and slid them into the large front pocket of my overalls, carefully snapping the closure so that they wouldn’t slip out.

Downstairs, my mother had already prepared eggs and bacon and hot coffee for me, my dad and my two older brothers, Bill and Carl.  I had never drunk coffee before, but I knew it was a hunting day ritual and so I chugged it as I wolfed down my eggs and bacon.  Everybody was quiet and focused on preparing themselves for the task at hand, except my mother.  She ran on endlessly about how it was supposed to rain later that morning and how Decembers in Florida were always unpredictable.  You’d think that eventually she would realize that everybody was too focused on eating and nobody was listening to her.

After finishing, we pulled on our bright orange vests specially purchased for this day.  I had witnessed the morning procession to the hunt for so many years and it seemed strange to be participating in it at last.  My eighteenth birthday was just two months prior, just barely before the cutoff date for this year’s mourning dove hunting licenses.  My dad had taught us all to shoot from before we were old enough to drive and so he knew that today we would be bagging enough doves to fill our freezer to last until summer.  We had rehearsed the hunt so many times and then one by one my brothers became old enough to join my dad and his buddies in the yearly hunt.  It was just one day – the very first day of the season.  My dad always maintained that the rest of the season was for the losers who couldn’t get enough on the first day.

The four of us stomped out of the house in our leather boots just as two pickup trucks pulled into our driveway and their four occupants climbed out.  My dad has been going hunting every year with this same bunch of guys for as long as I could remember.  The size of our hunting group helped relieve the pressure on me to actually shoot any doves.

“So, Andy! This is your big chance!  Show us what you’ve got!” My dad’s friend Rex came over and slapped me on the back so hard that it knocked my glasses a bit ajar.

I pushed the glasses up against my nose with my finger.  “Yep.  Should be exciting!”

My brother Bill said, “Yeah, Andy – I bagged seven doves my first year out – do you think you’ll get that many?”

“I am not as good a shot as you are, Bill.”

They all patted me on the back or punched my arms and I was pleased that I was – at least physically – joining in the yearly ritual.  We all set off towards the field with our shotguns held vertically or leaning against our shoulders.  After twenty minutes of hiking, we reached the field.  During the summer, it gave us beans and potatoes and on this one day in the winter, it yielded fresh dove meat.

Dad gave all of us our final instructions.  As the youngest, I was going to be doing more hiking than shooting – dad designed it that way.  I set off through the tall grass for the far end of the field and waved to the others as some of them trailed behind me and others stayed on the near side of the field.  From that point on, all morning, we would be communicating only via gunshots.  It took me another fifteen minutes to reach my spot at the end of the field and I heard the first wave of doves fly overhead.  I put the shotgun up to my shoulder and fired, smirking to myself.  As though I had any chance on earth of shooting a dove.  They were among the fastest birds around and you only have a split second to aim and pull the trigger, being sure that no other hunters were in your line of fire.  With my thick glasses, I was lucky to not shoot anybody, much less actually aim for a dove.

After firing my pointless shot, I laid my shotgun down on the ground, pointing the barrel away from the other hunters and away from where I was preparing to sit down.  I opened the flap on the front of my overalls and pulled out my binoculars, notepad and pen.  I checked my notes and the description of my real objective for the day – the Ringed Turtle Dove, native to Africa and Asia.  It would be lighter than the brownish mourning doves – almost white.  I was eight years old when I saw Franz the Magician first pull a dove from his hat. The beautiful white doves haunted my dreams.  Over the years I researched it and found out that Magicians – and other pet owners – all over the country had released so many of these doves – the Ringed Turtle Dove – into the wild that they had begun to reproduce.  In the late 1900’s, a few hundred were living in the wild.  But then they cross-bred with the Eurasian Collared Dove and their populations dwindled.  It had been several years since any Ringed Turtle Doves had been sighted in the wild.

I was convinced, however, that there must still be some out there – I could picture them so vividly in my mind’s eye.  I persuaded the local Audubon Society chapter to continue listing them in their yearly counts in case anybody spotted them.  I knew that I would see one on that day if there were any still around since my dad and his buddies would be kicking up many dozens, possibly hundreds of birds throughout the morning.

The next wave of doves flew past just as I was getting settled.  I leaned back and kept an eye on the sky and as each subsequent wave of doves flew by in the midst of shotgun fire, I used the binoculars to scan the birds.  Every once in awhile, I would stand and put my shotgun to my shoulder and get a shot off just to be sure that my fellow hunters knew that I was still out here and trying to participate.

The three hours crawled by.  I had searched and scanned countless doves and I hadn’t seen any with coloring light enough to be a Ringed Turtle Dove.  Maybe they had gone extinct after all.

At the end of the three hours, I tucked my binoculars, notepad and pen back in my pocket and began trudging back towards the house.  After a few minutes of hiking, I saw my brother Bill up ahead.  “Hey, Bill!  Did you get any?”

“Yeah, of course, Andy!  I got a whole bag full!  How about you?”

“No, I didn’t get any.  No beginner’s luck for me.”

Bill grinned at me as we started walking along together and then he stopped for a moment and loosened the closure on his bag.  He pulled two dead mourning doves from the bag and handed them to me.  I gladly took them and slipped them into my own burlap bag.  Bill said, “I wouldn’t want dad to see us coming home empty-handed.”