The Sweater Curse Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Four: She didn't mourn. She moved on.

photo by ldyck

(the rock art was still standing after this photo was taken.)

 Chapter Five

In 2002, after I completed the eighth grade, Mother moved us from Manitoba to BC.

Our new home was a gated community. We, the advantaged, were protected behind tall walls. Except for ours, they were all male-led households. The men were doctors, lawyers, corporate executives, and engineers. They were all successful professionals whose occupations allowed them the privilege of minimal family involvement. Domestics minded the mundane so those left at home could indulge. The abandoned wives amused themselves by painting their nails, sunbathing, and engaging in extramarital affairs. The neglected children experimented with fast cars, narcotics, and sex.

I divorced my family and squeezed myself into other households. Sometimes I stayed in a guest bedroom with its colour TV and walk-in closet. Others offered their pool house. I never stayed longer than three weeks. There was no need; I was constantly offered invitations.

“You can do what you want to do. Say what you want to say. Go wherever you want to go. You’re so cool.” My peers admired my independence.

Their mothers took me under their wings. They taught me how to walk in high heels, apply makeup, mix a martini, and seduce a man. “Remember, dear, don’t give in too quickly. Make him fight for it, and he’ll be putty in your hands. Keep him interested by giving him a little taste of what he’ll want more of. Make him drool and dream of you.”

 As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles—like a two-year-old drags a blankie or a Catholic carries rosary beads. This was a tumultuous time, and the local yarn shop became my oasis. I stepped over the threshold and entered a world of directed meditation. I was drawn to shades and hues of every description—lipstick lava, Chinatown apple, gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge. I cradled the skeins in my hands, and their textures—from coarse to fuzzy to silky—seduced me.

Yes, I built my stash, but I didn’t purchase a single pattern. Why would I follow someone else’s rules? I'd rather invent my own.

I knit wool sweaters in the winter, cotton tops in the summer. I used novelty yarn to accent the collar and cuffs of one design and created a Chanel-inspired cardigan. It received compliments each time I wore it. I gained notoriety as a fashionista.

“Your sweaters are so beautiful, dear. I would like you to knit me one,” a middle-aged woman, one of the mothers, requested. She grinned as if she were doing me a favour.

 “Ah, no. I only knit for myself,” I informed her and everyone who inquired.

“Could you teach me to knit?” one of my classmates asked.

“You? If you think you can learn, I’ll teach you.” Using bulky yarn and size ten needles, I cast on twelve stitches. “This is one of the two basic stitch patterns,” I explained.

“Two stitch patterns? Just two?”

“Knit and purl. This is the knit, or garter, stitch. Watch closely.” I worked one row very slowly.

“Ah, that's easy.”

“It is easy. If you learn it and the purl stitch, you’ll be able to make anything you want,” I promised.

I began to knit faster and faster; the yarn flew.

“When can I try?”

“How about now?” I finished the row and handed her the needles.

 “What do I do?”

“Weren’t you watching?” I asked sternly. “Put the needle in your right hand into the loop, wrap the yarn around, and then pull the old stitch off. Not like that. What’s wrong? I thought you said it looked easy.”

“It did look easy when you were doing it, but it’s not easy for me. I can’t seem to… I’m having trouble… This is impossible.”

“Fine, then don’t learn. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 "No, I'll try harder,” she promised, but the yarn was soon a tangled mess.

I had very little patience with ineptitude and soon abandoned her. Still the requests kept coming. Teach me to knit… Teach me to knit… It was nauseating.

Anyway...

After my dad died, my official address remained unchanged. My school and other governing bodies believed I still cohabited with Mother. They didn’t know about our severed relationship. Periodically, I would visit my old residence when I knew she wasn’t there. I didn’t break in. I had a key. An envelope waited for me there on the kitchen table. It held a lump of bills and a note. I rolled the unread note into a joint. It relaxed me to see “Love, Mother” go up in flames as I puffed. I would suck in Mary Jane’s sweet breath and poke it out on Mother’s curtains, walls, and rugs. Just one of the many ways I would let her know I still cared.

During a clandestine visit, Mother and Grandpapa trapped me. It still hurts to think those two were able to outsmart me.

They had a message, which Mother delivered as Grandpapa glared. “We’ve allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but this is where the muddling ends.”

I don’t know what they were worried about. I was going to school at least twice a week. I was late—but there.

“We’re going to talk some sense into you.”

Sense? Those two wouldn’t know sense, even if it bit them on the ass.

“We’re not going to allow you to waste your life. McNamaras are university graduates. Pillars of society.”

 I’m a Bjarnson, not a McNamara! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Why light a fire? They were already boiling.

“Improve your grades and enroll in university.”

What could I do? I needed Mother’s cash donations. I matriculated, but not into med school. I wasted a few years wandering from program to program seeking fun. I found cute guys and wild parties. Inevitably, I dropped out.

Mother and Grandpapa were ecstatic. She celebrated by moving and not giving me her new address. He stopped leaving curt voicemail messages. In fact, I never heard from him again. I periodically heard about him when I watched the news. Former doctor, now affluent businessman, supported this charity or was honoured and given this award. I was tempted to phone or send a note of congratulations. Yeah, right, just as soon as I stopped buying yarn.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could finally claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...

November 17

The Giller prize winner announced

This year's shortlist...

We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad, published by Scribner Canada

The Tiger and the Cosmonaut by Eddy Boudel Tan, published by Viking Canada

The Paris Express by Emma Donoghue, published by Harper Avenue

The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight, published by Viking Canada

Pick a Colour by Souvankham Thammavongsa, published by Knopf Canada

Learn about the Finalists

November 19

CBC Poetry Prize winner announced

shortlist

Last Sunday (November 9th), my husband took me on Mayne Island's studio tour. A highlight was our visit to Ravendale Farm, where I found this beautiful display of knitting...

photo by ldyck

Who won?...

Aster's Husband Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck

 Chapter four: The meeting of minds; the meeting of hearts. He is in trouble.

photo by ldyck

Chapter five

No email, no text, no voicemail, no note by the phone. Aster would have contacted me if she’d made supper plans. Nothing in her life happens without a plan. So I thought she’d be home by 5.

I seldom cook, but she appreciates it when I do. The potatoes boil. I mash them, add butter and milk. The creamy white potatoes conjure a memory... Aster in a white gown, arm-in-arm with her father, passing row after row of family and friends, heading up the aisle to me. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, overcome by her steady approach.

"I do,” we said and kissed—sealing the promise. We vowed that our love would last, but will it? Can it?

A layer of hamburger meat, a layer of corn, topped with mashed potatoes—I put the casserole dish in the oven.

The timer rings. The shepherd's pie is ready. Aster is late—loudly proclaiming, yet again, that I’m the last thing on her mind. I busy myself setting the table and lighting the candles. If I can make her see... If we go away together, leaving all other concerns behind... Maybe we can once again find what is left of us. My desperate attempt...

There’s a noise at the back door. Aster?

I rush into the kitchen and heat our plated meals in the microwave.

“Oh, Kenneth James, how lovely. Please accept my apologies for my tardiness.”

I guess she noticed the table.

“Don’t worry, just enjoy.” A plate in each hand, I bring them to the table.

“Oh, I so love Sunday R—."

"It's Sheppard's Pie."

"Well, you shouldn't have gone to all that trouble." But she manages to gag it down. At least the meal is from her culture, not mine. It's not like I was asking her to eat "hardfish" or skyr.

I pour the wine, reach for her hand, and lean in close. “Come away with me.”

Her eyes light up. She’s listening.

I show her pictures of the island—sunrises, sunsets, flowers, trees, deer. “Aster, it’s so beautiful there. You’ll see. Let me show it to you.”

She waves the photo of the deer around like it’s evidence of a crime. “Where were you when you captured this image? Kenneth James, you have to use more caution. Your life is fragile.”

“I’m not some dotty old geezer. I know what I’m doing.”

We eat our meal in awkward silence. We haven't been face-to-face for weeks. And when we finally are, this is what happens. No, she isn't dead, but our marriage is.

                                    

photo by ldyck

               

 When old love dies...

                                                    Chapter six

                                                  

The Phone Call 

I was in the kitchen of my ridiculously huge apartment when the phone rang. I'd just

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 5)

 Chapter four: Aster has lost her husband on the ferry? Will she ever find him again? Or is that how she ends up on-- ? (I've said--or written--too much.)

photo by ldyck

Chapter five

Children came running at and almost directly into Aster; thankfully, at the last minute, they veered off. Were they wild? Did no one own them? Clearly, they weren’t being properly supervised. What if they injured themselves? What if they fell down the stairs?

“Stop running,” Aster called after them, but they paid no heed. She’d tried to correct their behaviour and was the only one on the entire deck who had bothered. If something happened— When something happened, it wouldn’t be her fault. Her conscience would be clear. No guilt. That thought only lasted a second. It lasted long enough for Aster to realize that of course, she would feel guilty if or when the children got hurt. When that happened, she knew she would scold herself because she hadn’t done enough. But what could she do? Only hope for the best. She decided to stick her head in the sand like the rest of the passengers.

This deck was much more populated, and Aster was confident that she would find Kenneth James amongst these passengers. And sure enough, she found him on a blue vinyl bench at the front of the ferry, in front of an ocean view. How ever beautiful the view was, it was lost to her husband. His nose was in a book. But when was his nose not in a book? In the early years of their relationship, she’d thought it charming.

She charged up to him. “Kenneth James, why didn’t you—.”

He ignored her and just kept reading.

But others, strangers, looked at her.

Not wanting to create a scene, she abandoned the carefully prepared speech she’d planned to deliver and—.

The part of the bench he’d left for her was torn, and once again she found herself face-to-face with proof of how little he thought of her. Having no choice, she joined her husband, but her bottom didn’t thank her for the predicament she’d been forced to accept. Her gaze drifted from the ocean to the book her husband held in his hands.

Mayne Island and the Outer Gulf Islands: a history by Marie Elliot. Of course, he was reading about that island. He was obsessed with it.

And she? She had grown to hate it for the same reason other wives detest golf or hockey. The island was a rival for his attention.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter six

So she did find him. That's a relief. He was on a bench reading about Mayne Island--an island Aster hates. Her hatred of the island begs the question, why was she on that ferry sailing toward it?

Callie Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck (inspired by the writing life) "With Callie's Help"

 Chapter Four: So the necklace is a vessel in which Calliope, a Greek Muse, communicates with writers. Knowing this, would you wear the necklace?

Callie

photo by ldyck

Chapter Five

Gone was the struggle for the right word, the elusive character voice, the frantic need to keep inspired, to keep motivated. Now, like magic, stories just kept coming—rushing out, like water from a tap—night...

A Stone Heart

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

In Icelandic

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

He Saved Me

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

What's Wrong with Michelle

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

The Way of It

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

A Confession

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

Larry

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

Answering Machine

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night...

Lasting Love

(click the link to listen and read this story)

after night, Callie tells me her stories. I bring them to life on paper, and they become mine.

Aurora abandons sleep to write. What would you do to develop your passion? What would you sacrifice? What would you endure? 

Read Chapter Six

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Is the Reverend Dead? Ch 5 (a mystery inspired by remote island life) by Leanne Dyck

chapter four: Mrs. Hazelton goes with Officer Boyd to the church but they are unable to find Reverend Paulson. 

photo by ldyck

Is the Reverend Dead?

Chapter Five

A few days later the phone rings.

“Case closed,” Officer Boyd declares.

I want to believe him. “Reverend Paulson is alive? Where is he?”

“Home sick.” I’m told.

“Did you speak with the Reverend?”

“A little but he sounded rather weak. So I spoke mostly with a...a...” I hear pages flipping and wait for Officer Boyd to thumb through his notebook. “Ms. Matthews.”

“You phoned Reverend Paulson and spoke with Ms. Matthews? What was she doing at the manse?”

“She wasn’t at a man’s. She was at Reverend Paulson’s. I didn’t ask her what she was doing there. Maybe she was cleaning his house.”

“How do you know it was him unless you saw—.”

Officer Boyd sighs. “Mrs. Hazelton, there is no doubt that it was Reverend Paulson. He’s alive. Now it’s time that you find another way to keep yourself busy. Knit me a scarf.”

“A scarf? But it’s spring moving onto summer.”

“Well, bake me a batch of cookies then. Or better yet make Reverend Paulson some chicken soup.”

That’s the first peck of sense Officer Boyd has uttered. I make the soup and drive to the manse.

Ms. Matthews is outside working in the garden. The minute she sees me, she hurries over and stands on the sidewalk blocking my way—like one of those guards with the tall fur hats outside the Queen’s castle in England. “Why, Mrs. Hazelton, it’s so nice to see you again.” Her words say one thing and her face says another. She waves at my cloth shopping bag. “And what do you have there?”

“It’s a gift for Reverend Paulson.”

"Well, you can just give it to me. I'll make sure he gets it." She offers me an artificial smile.

“I’ll give it to him myself.” I try to skirt around her, but she dekes like a skilled hockey player.

“The Reverend is under the weather. He needs his sleep.”

“I want to see him with my own eyes.”

“Mrs. Hazelton, be reasonable. You’re not going to disturb a sick man on a whim.”

A whim? That gets under my bonnet. “I’m worried about him.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hazelton, there’s no reason to be worried.”

“Surely, Ms. Matthews, after what we both witnessed at church, even you can understand why—.”

“He was, he is resting.”

“I’m not moving one inch until I see him.” I plant my feet.

“Fine. You can see him, but not now. He needs his sleep. I’ll call you when he’s awake. You can see him then.”

Witnessing Reverend Paulson’s amazing recovery will be like seeing Lazarus wake from the dead. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Fine, Mrs. Hazelton, you do that.” She can’t wait to see the back of me and so I don’t disappoint her. I leave.

She’ll call me when he’s awake. So maybe he’s not dead. Maybe I did see things. Maybe…

She’ll call me. Sure, when pigs fly. I know what I saw. Reverend Paulson is dead and Ms. Matthews is trying to cover up the murder.

But true to her word, Ms. Matthews does call me a day later, about an hour before lunch. “Reverend Paulson is awake and ready to see you, now. And he wanted to tell you that he really enjoyed the soup. In fact, he’d like more. And some of your delicious blueberry scones.”

I’m floored, delighted, and eager to see him. Phone in hand, I hunt through the fridge, but I don’t find any scones. Arthur must have eaten all of them. “I don’t have any scones.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Reverend Paulson was so looking forward to them.”

“I’ll bake fresh.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble. I know Reverend Paulson will appreciate it.”

“No, it’s no trouble at all. Tell the Reverend that I’ll be there as soon as they come out of the oven.”

So I was wrong. Reverend Paulson isn’t dead. I guess this makes me a fanciful old woman. I’ll take it. As long as the Reverend is alive, I’ll take that and worse.

I buzz around the kitchen—cracking eggs, mixing flour, rinsing blueberries. 30 minutes later I bundle fresh scones into a wicker basket and pour soup into a plastic container.

Thud. That’s the back door. “What’s for lunch?” Arthur wants to know. “I’m starving.”

I pat his tummy and give him a peck on the cheek. “I doubt that.”

“What smells so good? Did you make scones?”

I grab the basket. “Sorry, they’re for Reverend Paulson.”

“But I thought he was—?”

“I guess I was wrong. Isn’t it wonderful?” I kiss Arthur goodbye and head for the door.

“Hmm. My lunch?”

“There’s lettuce, tomato, ham, and bread in the fridge.” It’s good for him to take care of himself. Who knows which one of us will die first?

***

Even though Plumper Island is the smallest Southern Gulf Island, it has a lot of weather pockets. Weather pockets? I think that's what they're called. Someone once explained that they were caused by the island's unique longitude or latitude--or some such. I can't remember.

I leave a thick layer of grey clouds on my side of the island and enter a heavy downpour on the Reverend’s side. I don’t have an umbrella. Before exiting the car, I pull the hood of my rain slicker up over my head. Puddles are everywhere. Soon there are small lakes in my shoes. I slosh up the stairs to the door. Ms. Matthews opens the door, but her body fills the gap. “I’m afraid Reverend Paulson fell asleep waiting for you.” She takes the basket of scones and soup. “I’ll make sure he gets your care package.”

“But I came all this—.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience. Good day, Mrs. Hazelton.”

I’m not leaving without seeing him. Raindrops trickle down my neck. I try the doorknob. It’s not locked. I ease the door open. It doesn’t creak. I slip into the house. Dark pine covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. I sneak down the hall as quiet as a mouse. The living room is sparsely furnished in sharp-cornered chairs and end tables. A clatter of dishes drifts in from the kitchen. That must be where Ms. Matthews is. I have to avoid that room, which would be easier to do if I knew this house. This is the first time. I've been anywhere but Reverend Paulson's study.

What if Ms. Matthews catches me and tries to kill me? How will I defend myself?

I can’t leave. This may be my one and only chance at seeing the Reverend.

I breathe the 23^rd Psalm, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me...”

My journey down the dark hall takes me to another room. Sink, toilet, tub. Next room. The door is open a crack. A large heavy cross hangs over the bed. I put my hand on the door.

What if I wake him? If he’s sick he needs his sleep. Will he understand why I had to invade his privacy?

“Mrs. Hazelton,” Ms. Matthews whispers. She’s right behind me. I feel her hot, angry breath against the nape of my neck. Will she strangle me? Is she holding a meat cleaver? “What are you doing in here? I don’t recall inviting you in.”

I turn around and face her. There’s no meat cleaver, but the look on her face could kill. “Please, I’ve been so worried.”

She doesn’t escort me out; she pushes the door open.

Quickly, before she changes her mind, I cross the threshold.

She grabs my arm. “Don’t wake him. He needs his rest.”

A strong odour, like ammonia, dominates the room. Blankets are piled high on the bed. I admire again the quilt the guild made for him—invisible stitches combine contrasting and coordinating sunshiny fat quarters to create the Hidden Pinwheel.

From this distance, it’s hard to determine if there’s anything under the pile. I inch closer. A head of white hair rests on the pillow. Is it just a head? Is the body still attached? All I see is the back of his head. Is he breathing? I lean over. Sharp, angular features. “Reverend Paulson?” I whisper.

Two hands on my shoulders, Ms. Matthews pulls me out of the bedroom.

“See. He’s fine.” She tells me in the hall. “Just resting. Now, will you stop your worrying?”

I shrug.

“You wanted to see him. You saw him. That should be the end of things.”

“If I could only make sure he’s br—.”

Ms. Matthews opens the front door and ushers me out. "See you on Sunday." She closes the door and I hear her lock it.

photo by ldyck

Chapter Six

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The Other Side (short fiction) Ch. 5 by Leanne Dyck

 Ch. 4:  Mara works at a complaints department where she apologizes all day. 

And now... The story continues...

photo by ldyck

The Other Side

Chapter five

Arriving home, I was greeted by a loud noise coming from Owen's office. Something was clearly wrong. Bracing myself, I pushed open the door. "Hello?" 

Owen swung back his stick and took a hard slap shot at the cement wall. The ball he was using as a puck bounced over his stick. That's when he noticed me. 

"You seem upset."

"Yeah, upset is a good word. Angry is even better. Go look in the closet."

I looked in the closet, but, "I can't see anything."

"Look down."

I did and... 

"My babies!" I cried. My favourite, most expensive pair of high heels had been attacked. A large hole was drilled into the toe of one shoe and the bow had been torn off the other. "Who could be this cruel?" I cradled them in my arms. 

"You tell me. I went to play hockey this afternoon and came home to that."

I noticed that some of his shoes had been damaged too. "Maybe Becky knows what happened."

"Yeah, maybe Becky knows," He bit into the words. "You can ask her."

Owen waited for me to led us up the stairs. I took several deep breaths before climbing the steps. I was determined to stay calm and not to accuse without proof.

Rusty met me in the living room. Would he growl, snarl, bear his teeth?

"Come, Rusty," Becky called.

We followed Rusty's wagging tail into the kitchen. 

Becky was pouring pineapple juice into a bowl. "I'm making sweet and sour spare ribs. Do you want to join us for supper? You eat way too much pizza. It's loaded with calories and tastes like cardboard. And with your credit card debt, you really can't afford to eat out as much as you do."

It unnerved me to hear how much personal information Becky knew about us--especially about our finances. 

I expected Owen to jump at her supper invitation. He loved Becky's cooking and spare ribs were his favourite meal, but he said, "No, thanks. We have plans."--which was news to me.

Owen left the kitchen, Rusty followed him, and I heard the patio door slid open and closed.

"Oh, it's so cute how much Owen enjoys playing with our puppy," Becky said as she stirred.

"Listen, Becky, I have a mystery that I'm hoping you can help me solve."

"A mystery, eh?" She set the spoon on the counter and turned to face me. "I'll try." She walked over to the fridge and found the spare ribs.

"Owen left for hockey this afternoon--."

"Oh, so that's where he went--in the middle of a workday. I wondered." She unwrapped the ribs and tossed the plastic wrap in the garbage under the sink.

"He came home to quite a mess. A lot of our shoes had been damaged."

She arranged the ribs in a glass cooking dish. "You're so melodramatic. Damaged."

"Could you come downstairs with me? I'd like to show them to you."

"Is that really necessary? Can't you see that I'm very busy?"

"Yes, I can, but...I'd appreciate it."

"Okay, but I have to finish this first." She took her time to pour the sauce over the ribs. Ran her finger around the bowl and had a taste. "Oh, that's just yummy. Would you like some?" She offered me the bowl.

"Ah, no, thank you."

She rinsed out the bowl, preheated the oven, and put the ribs in the fridge. "Okay, let's go to the scene of the crime." She chuckled.

I led her downstairs and into Owen's office. 

"What a mess. Honestly, men are such slobs," Becky said. "You know I would have thought twice about renting to you had I known he would leave things in such a state."

All I could see was a swept floor and a well-organized desk. "I don't see any--."

"Oh, dear, that doesn't surprise me. You've never been exactly tidy. Now have you? You won't see a mess if it was starring you in the face. And this one is. It's right there. Open your eyes." She placed her hand on a stack of paper that stood like a brick on the desk. "I'll show you how it should look." She opened a drawer. "They should be in here."

"No, Becky."

"Don't 'No, Becky' me. I'm not your child, you know."

"I'm sorry. I just--."

"Don't you have any pride? Don't you want things to look nice?"

"I don't think--."

"That's the problem. You don't think. And you don't care. This isn't your house so you just don't care how it looks. Well, I do." She reached for the stack of papers.

"Those are Owen's papers. I think we should leave them alone or he might--."

"Are you afraid of him? I've been hearing some strange noises and I thought maybe--."

"He'd never--."

"Now, you're interrupting me." Her hands hovered over the stack.

"I just think that if we move things he may have trouble finding them."

"Fine." She threw her hands in the air. "Have it your way then." She headed for the door.

"Becky, please wait." I opened the closet door, picked up my shoes, and cradled them in my arms. Seeing them again made me want to cry. 

"Oh, get over it," she told me. "No one died. They're just shoes."

"Yes, but they were my favourite ones."

"I didn't realize how materialistic you are."

"There was a bow on each toe and... and..."

"Really a bow? How old are you? Whoever did this did you a favour. You can buy more, better shoes. So if that's all, I'll see you at supper."

"Becky, I was hoping that you might be able to help me solve the mys--."

"How am I suppose to know what happened?"

"You were at home when..."

"I was upstairs. I won't come down here uninvited. I don't put my nose where it doesn't belong."

That's when it occurred to me that the hole in my shoe looked like something a tooth would do--a dog tooth. "Hmm...Would...could...did Rusty ever--?"

"You should grow up and take responsibility. Things like this won't happen if you kept the door closed." Her face was so red. At any minute stem would start coming out of her ears.

I'd made her so angry. Would she kick us out? I had to calm her. "You're right. You're right. Of course, you're right."

"Good, I'm glad we both agree that it was your fault. Keep the door closed from now on." She turned to leave and tossed over her shoulder. "Supper will be ready at 6 PM. Please be on time. Tom doesn't like to eat cold food."

"Stay," I heard Owen tell Rusty. He met us at the stairs, passing Becky he reminded her, "I already told you, we have plans."

Becky reached the top of the stairs and looked down at us. "Oh, alright then. Far be it from me to try to do something nice."

Owen closed the door on her words, but Becky just kept talking, "Don't stay out too late. Remember tomorrow's a workday." She sounded like our mother, which was really strange because she was our age. It was so odd that it made me want to laugh, but I didn't. I didn't want Becky to hear me laughing at her. 

Back in the office, Owen was brief and to the point, "So?"

"I think it could have been Rusty," I whispered.

"Of course it was Rusty who damaged our shoes, but it wasn't Rusty's fault. He didn't open the closet door. He'd never have had the opportunity if it wasn't for her.  It was her fault. She destroyed our shoes. What's she going to do about it?"

"Nothing," I whispered. "She said it was our fault because we didn't always close the basement door."

"Close the door. Close the door. I'll show her how to close a door." He swung his office door and it slammed against the door frame. 

"But we have nowhere else to go." I was so worried that I was nearly in tears.

"I'll fix that." Owen stormed out of his office but quickly returned with that day's newspaper. He spread it out on his desk, flipped from page to page until he found the 'for rent' section. "Too small. Bad neighbourhood. Too expensive." He crumpled up the newspaper and threw it across the room. "Hey, I have a good idea," He said in a loud voice. "Why don't we go to the movies."

photo by ldyck

Chapter Six

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Internet finds...

I recently found this interesting list of book conferences, fairs, and festivals