SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

A View to Murder

It was a horrific sight. While having a Martini Monday happy hour chat with her friend Ramona, Carol and her friend’s laughter quickly faded to screams.

Ramona’s husband was difficult, to be generous. He was the star football player she swooned over in high school and they married young. But during her medical school training, she slowly realized that his bruised ego would never accept her intellect or success.

“He always tells me what to do. Even when it comes to medicine, he actually thinks he knows more than me. I guess he reached his peak in high school and can’t deal with me eclipsing him,” Ramona confided to Carol.

Over the years, Carol saw their relationship deteriorate through Ramona’s accounts and with her own eyes. Arguments, snide remarks, it was a battle of wills with no winner. Until that day.

Ramona’s husband Jeff came into the room, interrupting Martini Monday.

“Where’s dinner? I work hard and want my dinner when I get home,” he barked.

“Great—make it or buy it. I’m drinking my dinner,” she laughed sarcastically without looking at him.

But Carol saw his eyes turn red with seething pent up rage. He went over the cabinet and grabbed a heavy cast iron pan and slammed down on the table in front of her, shattering her martini glass. Shards of glass flew everywhere and one landed in Carol’s arm. It was a small piece of glass, but it broke the skin as dribbles of blood coursed down to her elbow.

Ramona’s face turned purple.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough of you,” Ramona screamed, picked up the cast iron pan and crashed it on top of his head with all her might, knocking him to the floor.

Carol stood there in shock and horror.

“Oh my god! Is he dead?” she said, panting in terror.

Ramona remained silent with the pan still clutched in her grasp.

“Ramona!” Carol yelled.

Leaning down, Ramona checked his pulse and looked at Carol.

“He’s dead,” she said devoid of emotion.

“Dead? What? Oh. No,” Carol said near hyperventilation, while Ramona pensively stared down at her dead husband.

“Don’t worry, I know what to do,” she said coldly and calmly retrieved her medical bag.

While Carol stared in confused terror, Ramona cut scratches on his arms and leg, tore some of his clothing and bandaged his head.

“Help me get him into bed,” Ramona smiled.

Carol helped her get him into bed, but she was puzzled at the reason. She said he was dead.

“Just forget about this. Now let me patch up your arm,” Ramona grinned at her with wide eyes and squeezed Carol’s hand.

She sat holding her fear while Ramona removed the glass, stopped the bleeding, cleaned and wrapped the wound with steadfast proficiency.

“Thanks. I better go now,” Carol mustered a fake composure and walked out the door. But as soon as she was on the other side, she ran to her car and quickly drove away sobbing and frightened.

She couldn’t report this or Ramona would know. But how could she witness a murder and say nothing?

Two days went by and Carol was a complete wreck. Her emotions on the edge of a precipice, she walked on eggshells waiting to hear something, anything.

She tried to maintain her daily routine and went to her weekly club bridge game. As soon as she entered the room, she heard the buzzing of the busybody bees rumor mill.

“It’s just awful,” one said.

“Can you believe he died,” another remarked.

She walked through the room listening but avoid anyone’s gaze, wondering if Ramona confessed.

When she reached her foursome, they were discussing Jeff.

“Did you hear about Jeff?” Barbara asked the others.

“Just goes to show, you need to let the professionals handle these things,” Margaret said.

Carol was confused, as she was for much of the last 48 hours.

“What do you mean professionals?” Carol asked.

“Oh you didn’t hear? Jeff was trying to trim the tall palm tree in the front of their house and fell off the ladder into a bush below and cracked his head open on a rock. He’s dead,” Janet explained.

“I heard Ramona just thought he had a concussion, but he died in bed of a brain bleed. There was no way to know, even for a doctor.” Barbara added.

Carol’s eyes widened. Everything she saw and knew immediately raced through her head, trying to piece it all together. Ramona made cuts to look like he fell in the bush and then told everyone it was an accident. At first, she admired the cleverness of her scheme. She knew what to do and thought of everything to get away with it. He was always fussing with the landscaping, a lot of men did, so the story was completely believable.

Carol fumbled through the card game and went home. She turned on the TV so the noise would drown out her worry, but she couldn’t help thinking about it. If Ramona got away with it, was she in the clear? If you witness a crime and don’t say anything, does that make you an accomplice? The only thing she did was help her move him.

“I helped her move him!” Carol gasped. “I am an accomplice.”

Days went by with difficulty as her mind’s picture of the attack haunted Carol. She couldn’t sleep or eat as the images kept appearing before her eyes. Then she felt sick and soon found herself in the hospital.

The doctors told her she was suffering from an infection from the glass wound and put her on a course of antibiotics.

“You need to remember to disinfect wounds like this. I’m glad we caught it. This could have been much worse if left unattended,” the doctor explained.

The doctor’s words “infected wound” rang in Carol’s ears.

She thought Ramona took care of it. Did Ramona do it on purpose to remove any threats to her coverup?

No, Carol thought. Ramona wouldn’t hurt her. This was a justified crime of passion and he pushed her too far. He was a horrible person.

The more she thought, the more paranoid Carol became. Sitting alone in the hospital, she created fanciful and dastardly scenarios pegging Ramona as a criminal mastermind pent on cleansing her trail. She became so harried with pale skin and skyrocketing blood pressure, the doctor ordered some sleeping pills to induce rest.

As she awoke in a groggy state part in and out of consciousness, she saw Ramona standing over her, calmly smiling.

“Everything’s going to be fine. I know just what to do,” Ramona said and Carol slipped back into unconsciousness.

The next morning, Carol was found dead in her hospital bed.

“The infection must have been worse than we thought and caused multi-organ failure. Her diabetes and age were contributing factors. At least she didn’t suffer,” the doctor told the nurse.

Memorial Day from the Heart

I was too young to understand the Vietnam war. I learned about it in school and watched movies about the pain and severity of war from all angles, both during and after. But it was a 30,000 foot view, to quote a pilot friend of mine.

Last year, I helped a friend write a musical play based on his music and memoir of Vietnam. As I read his stories, I empathized with his journey and those of the others he joined. It was my job to extract a story from the stories, to fit into a musical format.

How do you tell a story about war that doesn’t make the audience want to run screaming from the theatre at intermission for relief or drown in a pool of tears? Two playwrights before me couldn’t find a path. But after many discussions, re-reading the memoir and listening to the music on a continual loop, it all came together in my mind. Tell a story about the people… in this case the different men who were thrown together to collectively sleep, eat, fight, laugh, cry, live or die.

The people he served with had unique stories. Some were from poor or rich families, big cities or small towns, high or low intelligence. Answering the call, some signed up and others were drafted. The war affected them all in different ways, during and after. And there were those who didn’t come home, leaving behind wives, children, parents or siblings to find a path forward without them.

The heart of the story is about those individuals the brotherhood immediately created under very extreme conditions. Writing their words was like virtually stepping into their boots, feeling and understanding their thoughts and actions.

Experiencing it performed on stage by young men, who barely knew what the war was, gave a new deep and cathartic understanding of the spirit of lives lived and others unfinished.

As for me, Memorial Day and Veterans Day are forever changed. I no longer see historical conflicts in the pages of a textbook or a documentary. I don’t see the ravages and aftermath shown in some movies about the war. I see the hearts of the individuals who served.

For many who were there, these stories go untold because of the pain of remembrance. But if any are willing to tell, I hope the generations who follow will listen. Not about the skirmishes, the points on the map, political maneuvers or battles, but about the heart and soul of the people who lived it, on behalf of themselves and those who didn’t survive.

On this Memorial Day, I remember the men and women who gave of themselves, despite the reason or rhyme. Their journey deserves reverence and honor, not only for their service, but in dedication to the memory of who they were, heart, soul, mind and body.

Check Yourself

Jennifer’s world was getting too hard to live in. Day after day, the state of life’s problems were too much burden to bear. Lying awake every night staring at the ceiling, her mind raced. When she came to work one day wearing a suit jacket and pajama pants, clutching the coffee pot like a lifeline, a friend offered her a CBD gummy to help her sleep. “Take half at first and then if it doesn’t work after a few hours, take the other half,” her friend Candice said. Jennifer took the small cellophane bag and put it in her purse, forgetting about it. When it was bedtime, she put the gummy bag on her nightstand and prepared for bed. She brushed her teeth and stared at it. She put on her pajamas and stared at it. She turned on late night TV and stared at the gummy bag again. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. There it was, the magical sleeping potion. It all seemed too absurd. “How can this piece of candy put me to sleep?” she chuckled with disbelief and put it down. Three hours later with no indication of tiredness, she changed her mind and picked up the bag. “It seems harmless. After all, it looks like candy. How bad could it be?” Jennifer said. In one gulp, she swallowed the gummy whole and laid down in bed waiting for its effects. Within thirty minutes, she began to feel light, like the weight of her body was gone. Slowly waving her arms around bewildered, she drew figure 8’s in the air with her fingers. “I can move, but I can’t feel anything. Is this supposed to happen?” she wondered in calm amazement. Then she smiled as she began to see objects in front of her. “Oh look, there’s a tree, but it looks like a cartoon. And there’s a purple dragon with big blue eyes and long black eyelashes sitting on the tree. In the sky, there’s a rainbow and a white unicorn with a pink horn riding down it like a slide.” Suddenly Jennifer sat up and shook her head. “Wait, dragons and unicorns aren’t real. Am I dreaming? Or maybe I’m hallucinating. I need to check myself and get my head clear,” she said getting out of bed. Jennifer walked to the kitchen to get some water, but the endless hallway didn’t lead anywhere. Confused, but unannoyed, she curiously put her arms out and waved them in front of her feeling no walls on any side. “I’m not getting anywhere, it’s like an infinite loop,” she said, turned back around and went back into bed, fearing she’d injure herself. She laid down in bed and closed her eyes tight while pulling the covers up to her chin. “I’m just going to lay still and drift off to sleep,” she said. Then she heard the song Dancing Queen and pictured herself floating in the stars wearing elevated platform shoes and a shiny gold jumper with blue-colored glasses on her face. As the music got louder, she shook her head again. “I need to check myself, again,” she said with a puzzled look. She opened her eyes and looked around the room. A hint of daylight was seeping on the side of her blackout curtains, when she saw her phone light up on the night table next to her and picked it up. “Where are you? You didn’t show up at work,” the caller’s voice said. “Candice? What do you mean? What time is it?” Jennifer asked rubbing her eyes. “It’s noon!” Candice shouted. “Noon?” Jennifer said looking at the time on her phone. “I slept for twelve hours. Wow, that gummy really packed a punch. I’ll be there right away.” “Never mind, I’ll tell them you’re sick,” Candice said. “At least you have the other half to sleep again tonight.” “Well…not exactly,” Jennifer said. “No wonder you slept so long,” Candice laughed. “I thought it wasn’t going to do anything. Boy I was wrong. I saw the craziest things. I’ll never call it candy again,” Jennifer said.

Weird, Wild and Wonderful

I love to travel to Key West. It’s an eclectic place that fosters the last bastion of true bohemianism. It’s weird, wild and wonderful.

Every bar looks as though either Jimmy Buffet or a pirate are the proprietors. Dogs sit inside beside their owners on a stool with a bowl of water. They are all open and breezy without any doors, polish or pretense.

They all have unique character and a story to tell. Some have antiques from boats long gone, sharks’ teeth or stuffed fish. Another is decorated wall to wall with dollar bills tacked up at random from patrons over many decades, with their signature.

But true to its laid back reputation, most of the bars are “take them or leave them,” your choice. While looking around, I once moved to a different table after observing cakes of dust built up on the ceiling fan above. It definitely deterred me from eating there, but alcohol kills everything, right?

On a pub crawl, a guide took us to many of the bars in the downtown area and regaled us with tales of murder, mayhem and debauchery, as well as a few ghosts who linger in their old watering-hole haunts.

Many accounts of the drinking prowess of one world famous classic author, Ernest Hemingway, are told in several bars. My favorite is the one where in the middle of the night, the original owner of Captain Tony’s told Papa H, his most loyal customer, that his landlord raised his rent, so he had to move to a new location down the street, now called Sloppy Joes. In a drunken escapade, Tony and Ernest and a few others moved everything in the middle of the night from the one location to the other, to stick it to the landlord. Hemingway took his favorite urinal, so he single-handedly pulled it off the wall to relocate it.

And in these bars, you can take your drink to go, as long as it is not in a glass cup. Was it legal? No, but as I was told by one barkeep.

“We just follow our own path here. We don’t really pay attention to rules.”

That always summed up Key West to me in a nutshell. They march to their own drummer.

Walking down Duvall Street, you can find small shops with the usual tourist trinkets and printed t-shirts, but you can also find any number of artisans and their works for sale. They weren’t in a shiny gallery or shop, the works laid on the pavement, a chair or on anything to prop up and display. The art spoke for itself and need fancy packaging. The artists didn’t care about commerce or bottom line. They just wanted to do their thing and if they got money for it – great.

At any given time, you can see someone in a Superman cape and tights or any other Halloween costume. No special occasion, it’s what they chose to wear that day. And many people don’t even wear shoes, even inside the restaurants, shops and bars.

On one stroll, I saw a man with a lime green and yellow boa constrictor looped around his neck, just hanging there like a long necklace that hit the ground. It was his pet and he was just taking it to do some shopping. No big deal. Nothing odd to see.

Although, my husband, who is deadly afraid of snakes, would disagree as he made sure to conveniently jockey position to switch with me, so when we passed the snake, I was the one walking next to it.

Of course, there are the typical tourist spots for fun in the sun, boating and fishing, like most tropical places. But in Key West, there are also old buildings and architecture to see, some cared for, some not. But again, it’s non conformist and noncommercial, although most houses cost a cool million to own. And you can see Hemingway’s house, a random lighthouse with eighty-eight steps to the top and a museum where they unearthed treasure from a Spanish galleon beneath the sea.

Any number of walk-up outdoor counters serve conch fritters, gator and even shark. No four-star restaurants, just wrapped in a paper cone to taste on the go – sometimes with a frosty adult beverage in tow.

Like the bartender said, Key West is a place that made its own rules.

Each time I go, it seems different, weirder and more wonderful. But now that’s starting to change. There are less artisans on the main drag, less interesting costumed people on the street and with the Hard Rock restaurant and bar, corporate commercialism is starting to seep in. Although part of that restaurant is located in an old and somewhat haunted building, so there’s that.

Even Jimmy Buffet, the personification of an easy breezy beach lifestyle, has gone corporate with his Margaritaville bar and restaurant spilling over into a “hospitality company” with resorts and hotels. I guess nothing stays uncommercialized forever.

I still believe the essence of Key West lives, but I just hope it stays that way. We need weird, wild and wonderful places just to ensure that bohemia and a lifestyle of “just go with it” never dies.

Mothers and Children

I’ve been a mother for over thirty years now and a daughter for nearly twice that. On Mother’s Day, I found myself contemplating the juxtaposition of being a child and a mother.

When you were a child, you often do things your mother doesn’t like or makes it challenging for her to be your mother.

And as a mother, your child does things that leave you hoping their child does the same to them—just like your mother probably said about you. It’s a cycle.

I often write about how difficult growing up is, but for a mother, growing a child up is even more difficult. As a child you have to go through many trials and tribulations, some of which are beyond your control, but for most of which, you are in the driver’s seat.

However, as a parent, from birth through and past adulthood, a mother is a mere passenger in their child’s journey. Sometimes you can give directions. At times you’re told to shut up. And mostly you just have to let them drive. And if anyone has ever tried to teach their child how to drive, this fact is painfully evident.

Children, whether youth or adult need to learn and make mistakes on their own. You hope the lessons are not too severe, but you must accept the truthful fact that you not in control. You must sit back and hope that everything you’ve taught them and everything they learned by your actions and deeds permeates not only their lives, but what they do and say.

And if you’re blessed once again, your child will make you a grandmother, which is equally enjoyable and terrifying. You can be frightened for them, since they’re in charge of another life and must learn from the same experiences you did. At the same time, you get to sit back watch and wish they suffer some of the minor bumps and equally hope the ride is smooth for them. Other than the joy of grandchildren, though, the best reward is when they turn to you and say you were right.

Cycle complete.

Walk Like a Man

Author’s note: This was a writer’s prompt about identity.

The alarm clock rang and I hit it without looking. It fell to the floor with a loud bang, so I must have slammed it harder today. I hope it’s not broken.

As I was already awake, I decided to get up and start my day. Before putting my glasses on and still in a half sleepy daze, I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. That usually wakes me up.

I soaped up my scrunchie loofa with cucumber melon body wash and started washing. But as the hot water woke me up, I knew something wasn’t right. I looked down and screamed. My body had completely changed. I pinched myself once, then harder a few times to see if I was dreaming. I wasn’t.

Still wet and soapy, I quickly ran to get my glasses. I looked down again with 20/20 vision and screamed. I felt like me, but I didn’t look like me anymore. I was in the body of a man.

I dried off with a towel and grabbed my phone.

“Siri, what happens when you wake up in the body of a man?” I asked frantically.

“I found the following articles on the web,” Siri said. “Body changes when you sleep and the science of sleep.”

This was useless, but what did I really expect? It occurred to me I rely on that phone too much for answers.

Then I saw the time. I was going to be late for work. But how can I go to work like this? How can I go anywhere like this?

I phoned my boss to call in sick.

“Hi, this is Pat,” I said.

“Who’s this? Pat? It doesn’t sound like you,” she said.

I heard my voice aloud. It was much deeper, like a man.

“Uh, yes, I woke up with a terrible cold and can’t come in today,” I said.

“Ok, feel better,” she said and hung up.

Do I call a doctor? And tell them what; that I used to be a woman? No, that won’t work.

I sat there in someone else’s body for several minutes absolutely blank as to what to do. I decided I needed some brain food and time to think, so I grabbed my baggy sweats and my bra. But then, I threw the bra back on the bed. No, won’t need that, which is nice. Honestly, I hate wearing it every day. It pinches everywhere and makes my back scratch.

When I got up, I walked funny and nearly fell down. I guess the weight distribution is a little different. More bottom heavy, less top heavy.

I wobbled to the kitchen table, made some cereal and poured coffee from my automatic Keurig maker. At least one thing was the same.

I sipped the coffee and guzzled the cereal like never before. I must have been hungry.

How did this happen? And why? How do I get back to myself? Nothing came to mind. I popped open my laptop, but just sat there looking at the blank Google search. What would I even search for? Turning into man syndrome on Web MD?

Now I started to panic. What if I’m stuck this way? I wanted to cry. Do men cry? Can they cry?

I wondered what would be different if I had to stay a man? What would I get and what would I give up?

I‘d spend less money on clothes, make-up, jewelry and shoes. And it would take much less time to get ready. That means more sleep. That’s good.

I’d make more money for the same job. I think they’d have to give me a raise for being a man, right? I couldn’t get pregnant. Oh, but I could get someone else pregnant. Forget that, I don’t even want to think about how that would work now.

And no one would treat me like a dizzy blonde girl anymore. They’d actually listen to what I have to say. Well, maybe. After all, since I’m still young, I don’t know if anyone would listen anyway. But it would be interesting.

I’m obviously stronger, just look at the poor alarm clock. Would I be better at sports? And maybe I could open jars easier.

But then again, I’d have to buy my own drinks at bars now and pay for dates. That sucks. Oh and men have to be the breadwinner, right? Well, I never thought I’d be a stay-at-home mom. I like my career. Wait, I wouldn’t even be a mom, would I?

Could I still watch Hallmark and Lifetime and read romance novels? Is that allowed?

What about dating? Do I still like guys? Can I like guys if I’m in a man’s body? Well, with politics today, I need to check the news on that one to make sure.

What would life be like as a woman trapped in a man’s body? I always felt comfortable in my own skin. I was raised to be proud of being a woman and not to compromise myself for anything or anyone.

I guess I could get used to it, but I don’t think I’d ever like it. My natural instincts would always be off. I don’t know if I could feel right. And life would be so much more complicated.

Then I felt tears rolling down my face. At least I can cry. That’s something.

When I went to get some tissues, I turned on the TV to put off thinking about this anymore.

I took the remote and started scrolling through the channels.

Oh, no; I’m obsessed with the remote control already. This is not a good sign. Am I’m going to completely lose my identity?

Flipping through the channels, I noticed they’re all either Hallmark or Lifetime. That can’t be. Oh, here’s a different one. The unicorns and flying horses’ channel? That’s not right.

I know. Last night I rented an old movie on the cable remote. It would be in my history.

Wait a minute! Victor Victoria was the last thing I saw before I went to bed. Maybe this is some kind of life imitating art thing. Maybe the Twilight Zone was real and the TV whammied me. Or what if it’s some kind of virus? I’ve heard of hormone changing therapy, is that contagious?

“Siri, look up hormone changing therapy,” I said.

“Pat, it’s time to wake up,” Siri said.

“Ok Siri,” I said and sat up quickly. I sounded like me. High-pitched and squeaky. Then I looked down. Everything was in the right place. Whew! It was a dream after all. No, it was a nightmare.

Thank God. After all that, I’m glad just to be me.

The Duel with Alexa

Technology can be both blessing and beast. There are so many new things to learn, it can be intimidating. But I choose to think each technological improvement helps our lives. Where would be without the internet or cell phones? They have made life easier. And so began my duel with an electronic minx called Alexa.

It came with our home, so at first, I ignored it. The technician set it up so it would lock and unlock the front door on command. Big deal. I keep the door locked all the time, anyway. I was unimpressed.

My neighbors used it to play music. They liked it, but I have a jukebox with my favorite tunes. So, didn’t need it. Another neighbor wired his whole house to do anything electronic by mere voice. That was impressive, but to me too many things could go wrong; then your smart house would turn into a dumb nonfunctional house, leaving you trapped and sitting in the dark. No thanks.

But one feature caught my attention. It’s such a simple thing, but Alexa can keep your shopping list for you. So, when you use the last of something, you just tell her to add it to the shopping list and when you’re ready to shop, you can have it on your phone and use it at the store. Easy, right? In concept yes, but in practice?

So, I chose to embrace Alexa, for this at least. I’m not a technophobe. I actually consider myself a little above the average of the curve regarding technology, but with Alexa, I had a bit of a fencing match.

At first, I just kept saying “Add butter to the shopping list, add orange juice to the shopping list, etc.”

I hadn’t tackled the app, yet, but I figured I would have her repeat the list and I would record it on my phone as a text to myself. Good idea, right?

“What is on the shopping list?” I asked.

Silence.

My crime? I forgot to address her as Alexa each time. Lesson learned. Point Alexa.

“Alexa, add bran to shopping list,” I said.

“Ok I added bread to your shopping list,” she said.

“No, I said bran, not bread,” I countered. Silence.

Don’t speak so fast and annunciate. Lesson learned. But at least she repeated it back, so I know I was further than before. Another point Alexa and one point for me.

For a while, things were going well, we were communicating. So, I decided to level up. Since I purchased different things from different stores, I wanted to add shopping lists for each store.

“Alexa, add vitamins to Target shopping list,” I said.

“Adding vitamins to shopping list,” she repeated.

“No, not just shopping list, Target shopping list,” I said.

Oops, I forgot to say Alexa again. Point Alexa.

It took a little while longer, but eventually I figured out that I had to create the different shopping lists first, then add to them. Lesson learned. A point for me.

With that tackled, we were humming again. But there was one more mountain to climb. The Alexa app.

I downloaded the app and remarkably, there were all my lists with all the items I dictated. Yeah! I got this one on the first try. Another point for me. Right? Not so fast.

When I went to the store and opened the app, the items were gone. Now I was left at the store to rely only on my memory and yes, I forgot a few things.

Thwarted again, but undeterred, when I returned home, I looked at the app to figure out the problem. I even enlisted a YouTube tutorial to help. It turns out it was user error. It automatically checked the boxes of each item and I accidentally deleted them all. I won’t to do that again.

Luckily, perseverance paid off and Alexa and I developed a mutually beneficial relationship for the shopping list. I’ll call this one a draw.

And now I get to watch my husband going through the same fencing match with Alexa. Will I help him? Nope. Teach a man to fish, right? He has to learn the hard way. And after all, it’s a fun amusement for me.

Now I hear stories that Alexa is listening and recording conversations and watching and recording movements. I don’t about that, but just in case, I covered Alexa with a picture, so at least she can’t watch.

Sixth Stage

Eve sat alone looking around her empty house. It was deafeningly quiet. In the year since her husband died, it had been a whirlwind of must dos. She went through every stage they say and busily performed all the never-ending diligence tasks to punctuate the paperwork end of someone’s life. Now she confronted the last stage—to live her life again.

Starting over in new surroundings without the echos and ghostly reminders of her past life, Eve moved into an adult community with facilities and planned activities.

“Mom, you have to put yourself out there. There’s a lot of things to do here,” her daughter Carrie said, reading the club newsletter.

“I just don’t know what to do. I’ve never done anything before,” Eve sighed.

That wasn’t the exact truth. When Eve was younger, she was very active with volleyball, golf and tennis clubs and had many “parents of her kids’ friends.” But her social life revolved around her kids and family-type events.

And since the kids were long out of the house and a broken-down body made most of her former past-times impossible or obsolete. She was struggling with ideas to get started.

“It’s like the first day in a new school. I don’t know anyone and have forgotten how to make friends,” Eve said frustrated and defeated.

“The best thing to do is just show up for something, try anything. Friends will follow, but you have to try,” Carrie said and left the newsletter with Eve.

“Just try…” Eve said mimicking Carrie’s words as they lay like a weight on her chest. “It’s easy to say.”

Eve put the newsletter on her kitchen counter and stared at it for a few days, taunting every time she passed it. She picked it up and then put it down a thousand times, exasperated at the challenge of creating a new life.

Since she was eighteen years old, she did everything for and with her husband and family. Now, sixty years later, it was a mountain she never wanted to climb. She really believed she would go first.

Her family’s words rang in her head like church bells chiming the new hour. Find a hobby, join a club, just pick one thing.

“Just one thing,” Eve said and picked up the newsletter.

There were a lot of activities. Movie nights, crafts, cards, everything at her fingertips, but nothing to get her to cross the threshold into her next act.

“I need to be brave and just pull up my big-girl panties and just go there,” she said flinging the newsletter to the ground.

She got in her car and drove to the clubhouse holding her breath but determined to try. Walking around she passed the fitness room and noticed a few people on exercise machines. Not a match. She peaked into the arts room and watched some ladies pouring paint from dixie cups onto canvasses.

“Looks kind of interesting, but arts were never my thing,” she puckered her face and moved down the hall to the dance studio.

Eve admired those who could still dance. As a teen, she loved to be bop until she dropped at sock hops, but bad knees made that reboot beyond possibility.

After she walked past the dance studio, she was still hearing music. Curiously, she looked around with no luck. Finally, she asked someone where the music was coming from.

“Oh, that’s the choir,” a man said. “They practice in the community room.”

The choir? Those words resounded in her mind like heavenly horns announcing a king.

Eve was excited for the first time in forever. Music was a long-forgotten friend from a bygone era. As a child, she sang in church and school choirs. She became quite good and even ranked number one in a state competition as a soprano soloist. It was a youthful dream to become an opera singer, but marriage, kids and everything that goes with it became her reality.

She loved her family and had no regrets, but always wondered about the path not taken.

As she got closer the music became louder and her heart beat a little faster as her eyes and ears widened.

“Maybe this is what they mean when they say unfinished business,” Eve thought. “But I haven’t sung in years, I couldn’t just pick it up. Could I?”

Reaching the room, she shyly stood on the other side of the door listening to the melodious tones of the choral music. She closed her eyes to experience the sound and let the music wash over her. She let out a deep breath and smiled, recognizing one song from church and unconsciously sang along.

“You sing beautifully. Would you like to come in?” a women interrupted her haze and startled her.

Eve nodded as they lady showed her in and offered her a seat.

She sat down and looked around nervously. After a few minutes, she found herself singing. It was like muscle memory; she just did it without thinking. It was natural.

As the rehearsal came to an end, she felt herself smiling.

“I hope you come back. You have a very nice voice,” said the lady sitting next to her.

“Thank you. I will.” Eve happily walked to her car. She was home.

The Case of the Deadly Dreams

Night 1

There he was laying on the kitchen floor. Next to him was the cast iron frying pan. But what happened? Who could have done this? I was sleeping; did I hear something?

Barefooted, I ran toward the front door in my nightgown. It was still locked. Confused, I scurried around the house looking for an open window or unlock door. Everything was secure.

But how did the killer get in? And why?

Everyone loved him. Well, his friends did at least. He was the life of the party.

As for me, I wasn’t sure. Did I still love him?

It was a complicated question. To me, he was really two people. I remember the dreamy man I fell in love with. The man who swept me off my feet. The father of my children. Him, I loved.

But the man who questions my every word, ridicules my every idea and makes me feel less than. Well, him, I could do without.

Can I do without? I guess now, I must.

I hear something. It is the police?

No, it’s the alarm. Now I’m awake and he’s next to me. It was just a dream.

Night 2

There he was laying on the family room floor. Next to him was a knife. It looked like his prized hunting knife.

What happened? Who could have done this?

Dressed only in my robe and slippers, I ran into his den. The sheath for the hunting knife was empty. Yes, it was definitely his knife. I felt an unexpected chill and spun around the room. The window was open slightly.

That’s how the killer got in. But who would kill him?

Suddenly I remembered the fight he had with his business partner the other day. I heard them loudly arguing about the accounts but didn’t hear any specifics. Could his partner have killed him over money?

Then I saw a suitcase in the corner of my eye. I opened it. It was filled with money. Oh no, did he steal money from his company? There was a plane ticket in the sleeve. Was he going to escape and leave me destitute?

I heard a sound. Is that the killer? Oh no, is he still here? Did I see too much?

Terrified, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“It’s time for breakfast. I’m hungry,” he said.

I sighed. It was just a dream.

Day 3

There he was laying in bed. Still. No snoring. No snorting. Not a sound.

I noticed he still had his clothes on. He does that sometimes, either too drunk or tired to change, so he just staggers up the stairs and falls into bed.

Next to him I saw some pills laying on the nightstand and scattered on the floor.

Could he have overdosed? Would he do himself in?

No, it must have been an accident. These days he’s taking so many pills and with his eyesight going, maybe he made a mistake?

I looked down at the pills. They looked like his heart medication. Maybe he forgot to take them? The doctor warned him not to miss even one pill or he could have a heart attack. His health had been declining. His last checkup was not great. The doctor told him to turn his lifestyle around immediately. No booze. No sweets. No fatty foods, but he refused. He was a ticking timebomb.

I decided to clean up the pill mess and got dressed.

Climbing down the stairs, I noticed a half empty bottle of bourbon, empty glass and some empty candy wrappers on the table in front of the TV. He stayed up late watching a movie last night after I went to bed. When he drank, he often got the munchies.

I started to make his breakfast and set the table to eat. Every day he insisted on three poached eggs, bacon, sausage and toast with orange juice. While waiting for the eggs, I checked my phone and sent out a text to my friend to confirm our lunch appointment and returned a few emails for work.

Everything was ready, so I called for him to come down. I heard nothing.

I went upstairs to wake him, but he wouldn’t rouse. I checked his pulse. He was dead.

Now… I’ll call the police. I’m prepared. I have something to tell them.

A Miracle in Lighthouse Cove

I sit outside my church wondering if I should go in. I hear the melodic sounds of the congregation singing Christmas hymns. It sounds much better from here than inside. Together, they combine to create a singular chorus of joy and community. But from my pew, all I hear is offbeat, out of tune shrill from certain people in high and low tones drowning out the beautiful notes.

When the preacher begins the sermon, I barely hear bits and pieces of words. He’s a nice man, but he doesn’t exactly project to the last pew. You have to get to church early to get a good seat. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s his intention all along. Pretty clever.

As the door creaks open a bit, I listen. I think he’s telling the tale of the miracle birth of Christ. Lighthouse Cove could use a miracle like that right now.

My town is a simple sea town on the isle of Northhampton Virginia. We’re not even a dot on a map, but our lighthouse is very important. It lies at the entrance to the cove that leads up to Delaware and Maryland, along the Chesapeake Bay. Ships don’t stop in our small village, but they heed the lighthouse to find safe passage up the waterway. Without it’s continual beacon, they could lose their bearings and easily perish on the rocky land and miss the smooth secure bay waters.

For the last week, extra shifts of two men with binoculars were scheduled, searching the seas for one of our own, the Pearl.

She was a typical whitefish and halibut trawler run by a small crew of local men and boys. They went out to catch Winter Flounder for our annual town Christmas celebration. It’s my favorite time of year. The whole town gets together and celebrates with music and dancing. The feast of fish and vegetables with hot apple cider and the most marvelous cakes and pies anyone has ever eaten is legendary. But not this year.

The trawler didn’t return. For days, the men on the lighthouse have been watching and the women and children in the town have been worrying and waiting. They’ve been holding candlelight vigils on the waterfront after praying in the church every night for their loved ones to come home safely. They even decorated the church with anchor-shaped garland to honor the men who work in the sea to feed everyone.

As the head watchman’s daughter, I’ve had to act as the town crier more often than not. I sound a bell when the ships come in to alert the townspeople. And when any good or bad news regarding a ship is needed, my pa sends me into town to make an announcement. I don’t enjoy the job, but it’s my duty.

I dread telling these people the news. Pa and the others found some planks on the coastline. One was marked “The Pearl.” He told me to inform the others. I just don’t know how to say it. Should I burst in and blurt it out or wait until after the service?

I opt for waiting. I don’t want them to fret any longer, but a few more minutes of hope is better than despair. I won’t rob them of that.

The preacher ended and I hear the short proclamation hymn followed by the final prayer. It’s time. I put this off long enough. I open the door slowly, trying not to make a sound, but I see a young boy caught me. He was playing with a toy while everyone was praying.

“She’s here!” he yelled and everyone else turned around, staring at me in sheer silence. Looking into their worried eyes, I tried to speak, but at first, no words came out.

“They found some planks washed up on the shoreline,” I said softly. “And one said…”

Just as I was about to finish, a loud humming sound came in the distance and distracted everyone. The entire congregation gazed at the large oak doors of the chapel, perplexed by the distant noise.

As it grew louder, it was clearer. It sounded like a group of men singing a sea ditty. I was shocked at the insensitivity and impertinence to disturb a solemn occasion with a silly shanty. I walked toward the door with the intention of hushing the men, when the big wooden doors flew open.

The congregation gasped in a chorus with their eyes widened. It was my pa and the other watchmen with several other men covered in black clothing. It was the crew of the Pearl! They made it.

The mass of people ran to individual men hugging them as the organ mistress played a happy Christmas tune. I was very happy to see the men alive and well, but I was puzzled.

I waded through the sea of gleeful smiles and tears and found my pa. “What happened?” I asked.

“It’s the darndest thing. They got lost in the fog and crashed on some rocks further north, but they nursed the boat back, even with a good chunk of her gone,” he told. “It took a while to find their way back, but they said the lighthouse shined their way.”

My heart warmed peering at the joy all around me. I was happy that I waited so long to speak. I don’t know what made me waver, but I was glad. I guess it was another miracle for Lighthouse Cove.