Mrs. Cundieff's Ghost Story

"I was unpacking books upstairs,” she began. “Everything was still in boxes. I was so involved in the project, I distinctly remember, not coming down for lunch. Don was hanging a chandelier in the foyer which required multiple trips to the hardware store.”

I was at the Hotel Fairmont to spend time with my godchild and her mother but Mrs. Cundieff was in a mood.

“At dinner I asked Don how his day was and he said fine except Fanny kept getting out. See, Fanny’s quarters are limited to the old wing of the house. But Don kept coming home to the cat on the storm porch.”

Don, also in the room, mhmmed. “Swears every time he put her back in the master and locked the door. Then he’d get back from the store and she’d be on the porch once more. Swooning. That’s when I knew.” Mrs. Cundieff had been lying down on the bed but she sat up now and crossed her legs. I was sitting on the floor.

“The worst thing I can say about having a ghost in the house is that it’s inconvenient. Plugs coming out of sockets, lamps on that shouldn’t be. I’m just glad she hasn’t discovered the disposal.” “So you think it’s a girl,” I asked, now curious.

“Oh, I know it’s a girl," she answered. "She wears this distinct perfume. A real pungent eau d’toilette that makes your nose burn. Like flowers on fire.”

“Besides, Don swears he saw her once. Says that he was in the kitchen and saw a young and slender thing glide by out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was me at first, because he’s sweet, but I was in the garden.”

I shivered. Don smiled.

“I never felt threatened except for once. Don was out and it was late. I was walking through the dining room and heard an echo from the floorboards. I’d take a step then hear a step, a little softer. I got as far as the kitchen door and said, ‘We need an agreement. You can stay. But you can’t be scary. I won’t stand for scary in my own house.’ And it pretty much stopped, except for once.”

“I was in the shower and I smelled her. Loud and clear over my shampoo. And I shouted over the water, ‘What do you think of my azaleas?’”

What's Your Ghost Story?

Please Turn Off Your Cell in the Waiting Area

My friend has a picture of his wife's C-section on his camera phone.

The Big H.E.B.

In the parking lot outside the twenty-four hour grocery some kids were playing hackeysack in the handicap space.

Next to them was a van with a window unit.

Purse Lips Sink Ships

Her purse was gaping open. Even though the clasp that held it together was magnetised.

Amongst the rubble were two prescription pill bottles, a Coach wallet and a deck of cards, bound together by an elastic hair band. There was hair on the hair band.



What's in your purse?

Pit Stop

On a road trip I needed gas so I pulled over at Buckees. I got in the kolache queue after I had filled up.

Uneventful was the waiting until in walked a couple of teens. He was wearing cargo shorts and tan. She was wearing tennies and a homecoming tee. Her sleeves were rolled up and held in place by her bra straps, which she had pulled outside and over on purpose.

I saw some heads turn, but I was at the front now so I concentrated on my pastries: one apricot, one cream cheese and two pigs-in-a-blanket. Only when the wax bag was in hand did I turn to the registers and notice what everyone else already had.

On the flank of the girl’s bicep, no wait, on the flanks of both biceps, someone had drawn a swastika. In sharpie, swatstikas.

And it was like the whole store was dumbfounded. Staring at how unaware she was. At how she got some turkey jerky and a Big Red and stood in line with her boyfriend. Twisted her hair up with a jaw clip. Left a penny in the Leave-a-Penny.

kolache, originally uploaded by jovid52.

sausage, jalapeno, & cheese kolache, originally uploaded by ashbloem.

What's your bodega/gas station snack?

I'd Rather Be Driving a Golf Ball

My neighbor drives a hearse and I don't think professionally.

Swatches

I needed an accent green for the wainscoting in the bathroom. I had picked Morning Jade and was reading in the outdoor furniture area while it mixed. I didn’t realize an hour had passed until the book’s chapter finished.

Back at the counter the taking so long made sense. A customer was crying. Becca the paint-girl was handing her tissues. A page of House & Garden was between them, its edge jagged from being torn out too quickly.

Becca caught me up. “We started with Delicate Bud and a squirt of orange 8 but that came out coral. Kashmir is a bluer pink but in the end we went with Puff in satin.”

“Which I think,” now holding the paint streak up to the picture, “is a match.” The lady had stopped crying and nodded back. I also nodded.

With that go-ahead Becca mixed two galloons. She thumbprinted the lids, knocked them down and placed the cans in the shopping cart. The lady thanked her and disappeared down the fan blade aisle.

“Her son called her old,” Becca said. “I’d get some of the wider blue tape if you’re gonna use a roller."

westie painting leftovers, originally uploaded by Candylei.

What color is your room?

Weighting for the Man

There is a public scale in the bank downtown.

This Train is Bound for Glory

I live by a train across the tracks in a house I always miss. It is green and the lawn is green and the tree that cuts the lot is green. So the house is hard to make out. Along the sidewalk there is a box garden whose tallest plants are weeds. These I’ve learned to look for, like lighthouses.

The train rolls through every quarter hour. First the gates clang caution and blink orangely. Then the strident Doppler drone in crescendo until it passes too and whimpers down. Then crickets and crickets.

During the day, the traffic drowns the railroad noise. So I can only hear the train at night, when I’m trying to sleep. It bothered me at first because I am a “light sleeper,” but now it makes me feel historical. As if I was in the boonies and the train was the only thing coming or going. My name could be Clementine Belle Farmer and Willa Cather would write about me.

Where do you live?