Domestic Tranquility: You Cannot Conquer Time

 by Stephen Halpert

 

           Getting ready to sit at my desk next to Tasha as she sat at hers, I looked around our apartment. “I just realized that every clock in here shows a different time.”

She looked over at me. “What do you mean?”

          I laughed and opened up my computer. “Just this: it’s quarter to five on the wall in the kitchen, ten of in the living room, the one in the hall says five to. Our swivel hips Elvis in the pantry shows twenty-five of–maybe he needs new batteries. But in the bedroom it’s already ten past, and here on my computer I see it’s three past. Talk about mystical living and alternative time zones!”

          She leaned back in her chair. “So what,” she smiled. “Wouldn’t you say that most time is relative? Plus you forgot to include the dashboard clock in the car; it’s three hours and some minutes ahead, and we can’t reset it.”

          I shook my head. “Do you have any idea how much sleep we’re losing, waking up every morning ten minutes earlier than it really is? Multiply those ten minutes by seven days and you’ve got seventy lost minutes of sleep each week, or,” I began to fiddle with my calculator, “three thousand six hundred and forty minutes a year. No wonder I’m always tired!”

          She ignored my math. “But we’re never late for anything.”

Just then the church clock tolled the hour. “Officially,” I laughed, “It’s now exactly five PM town time.”

Tasha looked out the window. “What’s significant is that there’s still sufficient daylight for us to spend some time outside. Sun time is more important to me than clock time.”

          I shrugged. “Then why bother having clocks or even for that matter, wear a watch?” 

          “You’d be nervous if we didn’t regulate our lives by a clock. You’re always worried about being on time.”

I brought up my email and began discarding spam. “Then I’d be free of daylight savings time. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Then I shook my head, “Sad to say, I’m not that mystical yet. I fear I’d be just a tad too up tight not having any idea what time it is.”

She got up and went into the kitchen. “Speaking of which, what time do you want supper? I have to think ahead about what to have. Besides, time is really just an illusion, a man made invention that replaced the natural rhythms people used to live by.”

“How can you even think something like that?” I deleted my old email. “Western Civilization relies on being on time. And also, for many people time is money!”

Tasha looked out the window again and sighed. Her daylight was beginning to shrivel. “For a long time people lived by the moon and the cycles of nature. The seasons determined what they did and when. They lived very nicely without knowing what time it was. I’ll bet fewer back then had high blood pressure or suffered other ailments of stress.” She opened the refrigerator and began putting items on the counter.

“So let’s just eliminate calendars; forget about significant dates, even birthdays. Return to harvest festivals, and solstice celebrations. Of course we’d continue to age anyway; we just wouldn’t know how old we were.”

She came over to me and laughed. “That might be an improvement. Maybe people would be happier and perhaps more productive if they weren’t controlled by a clock.”

“I remember that line from the poem One Evening by WH Auden, ‘Oh let not time deceive you, you cannot conquer time’.”

“No need to as long as you don’t let it conquer you.” Then she perked up, sniffed, and went back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen to take out the muffins I’m making for supper.”

“How do you know they’re done?” I asked noticing there was no kitchen timer by her computer. “How long have they been baking?”

 “Long enough to be just right,” she smiled. “These cinnamon raisin muffins smell absolutely heavenly and done too.” She took the muffin pan from the oven.

 I looked at the clock; it was just ten past five, whatever that was supposed to mean.

“There,” she said with a smile, setting the fragrant muffins on a rack on the counter. “Timed just right.”

“I’d be willing to try an experiment. We could put away all our clocks for a week and see how life treats us during that time.” I looked at our calendar. “I’m sufficiently detached to experiment with something like that.”

She turned and went back to her computer. “Does time control us or do we control time?”

“I guess we’ll find that out. But how will you feel not knowing when the Red Sox start their game or anything else on TV for that matter.”

“”Well of course the TV has a built in clock. So that could be the royal exception.”

She grinned. “well, wouldn’t that nullify the experiment?”

“I suppose,” but the only way we can try conquering time is by not paying any attention to it. It would be happenstance if you were late for an appointment or left something in the oven for too long and it burnt.”

She laughed. “You’re being silly.” She brought up a website on her computer. It looked like a display of antique clocks.

“Taking a last look at Father Time’s instruments before we jump off the edge?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “I was just considering an anniversary gift for a friend. She has a clock obsession.”

“And we don’t?”

“Not really,” she laughed. “To us time is relative. It is what it is, whatever it happens to be.”

“Good point,” I grinned. “Let’s take time off and go for a walk.”

“Good idea,” she smiled. “I was hoping you’d agree to. That way maybe too we can work up an appetite for supper and,” she smiled at me, “muffins.”

 

Domestic Tranquility: Ants Ahoy

 by Stephen Halpert              

 

They were coming at me from out of the woodwork. Their leader appeared gigantic and waved a mighty warlike club. They moved in on me. Suddenly I understood what might well have flashed through Custer’s mind during his last moments of life at Little Big Horn.

Then I awoke, sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes.

“You were dreaming,” Tasha said. “I could hear you in the kitchen.” Even though it was early she was up and into the day.

“They were ants and they weren’t friendly,” I grimaced.

“Oh dear,” she sympathized. “Now you’re dreaming about them. It’s bad enough when you see them in the kitchen cabinets.”

“Yesterday several were crawling around my computer acting like they owned the place.”

She sighed. “I’ve sprayed vinegar on the counters and around the doors and windows like I always do but this time they didn’t seem to mind it.”

I dressed and joined her for breakfast. “Maybe ants are getting more sophisticated; preferring bottled water with a splash of vinegar to start their day.”  I didn’t have my glasses on but I’d have sworn I saw a blueberry moving across the kitchen counter.

Tasha sipped her tea. I looked at it again just to be sure. “I hate to tell you this, there’s a blueberry on the counter being kidnapped by ants.”

She put down her cup, turned and looked. “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s behind something then. At least that’s what I thought I saw. Maybe I need some down time to come to terms with the idea that I’m living amidst an infestation of ants.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Ants are known to scout around for food this time of year. They don’t bite. Just be friendly and they’ll go away faster.”

“And how am I supposed to do that. Offer them some organic peanut butter on sesame crackers? I’m sorry but I have a better idea. I’m going to tell the landlord that we’ve got ants. Then it will be taken care of.”

“No!” She exclaimed. “You can’t do that! I don’t want poison in this apartment.”

“Who are you the Joan of Arc of ants? What do you mean?” I feared we had run aground in a situation where her environmental policies far out-greened mine.

“Then I’ll go to the hardware store and buy a box of those Ant Castles. They’ll take a lick of something that for an ant really tastes great and then go home to die. It has no ill effects upon humans. I’m sure of that.”

 But you don’t know that for sure,” she said.  “Poisons have their own way of infiltrating the air. Just look at what happens to some people when they innocently spray those horrid pesticides on their lawns. Besides I don’t care about the ants.” She put some dishes in the sink. “I’m trying to protect us by looking out for our best interests. I don’t want us subjected to the chemicals and poisons released into the air when that stuff is prevalent.”

I finished my tea. “You mean that don’t you?”

“Of course! But please feel perfectly welcome to come up with a solution as long as it doesn’t involve,” she smiled, “murder by poison.”

“I suppose I could take flute lessons, do a Pied Piper and lead them all out of the apartment and across the parking lot.” I grinned. “But taking away one’s weaponry sure puts a crimp in the art of man/ant warfare.”

“I wouldn’t think that way,” she said. “If I were you I’d look more in the direction of conflict resolution.”

I got up and went to my computer. “Oh, you’d prefer to see me sitting on the rug negotiating with them. Perhaps even giving in to some of their demands.”

She grinned. “Something like that. “I wonder if you mashed and sprayed garlic on the counters if that might discourage them.

“You mean we have vampire ants?”

“Well I don’t know what else to suggest and I have to get started on my work for today.  Why don’t you look on the Internet and see if you can find a benign and non toxic substance that could lure them away.”

“I need something more immediate.”

She nodded. “You could always ask St Francis for help.”

“Good idea.” I headed toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

I walked outside through the parking lot, up a grassy slope and stood in a tranquil wooded grove. “St. Francis,” I prayed, “Please convince the ants to leave our apartment. I’d be so very grateful. Thank you.”

When I came back Tasha was at her computer. “I asked for his help like you suggested.”

She nodded. “I didn’t see any in the kitchen while I was making the salmon salad for our lunch.”

“That’s optimistic. What’s really so ironic about all this is that in many cultures people eat ants like candy. I read in the September National Geographic that the Australian Aborigines chew red ants that have a zesty lemony flavor. Perhaps eventually with impending food shortages eating ants and other insects will become au courant.”

“I hope you’re not going to start eating ants,” she said.

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

“Oh I’m not,” she smiled. “It’s just that if you did I don’t know what I’d tell the children.”

 

 

 

Domestic Tranquility: When The Wife’s Away

 by Stephen Halpert

      Tasha walked around the kitchen and looked at me in genuine amazement. “The stove’s as bright and shiny as it was the day I left,” she smiled. “Good for you!”

“Should be,” I replied. “I never used it.”

“What! But I was at the meditation retreat for four days.” She stared at me curiously. She opened the fridge and looked around inside. “I see most of the strawberries are gone.”

     “Yes and the sweet potatoes you cooked too.”

“But you didn’t heat them up on the stove?”

“No just mainlined them straight from the ‘fridge. You must understand that when you’re away for any length of time I get kind of,” I searched for exact word, Neanderthal!”

“What exactly do you mean?

     “An unused pot needs no scrubbing,” I smiled. “Same goes for other cooking utensils as well as excess dishes and silverware.”

“Kind of like from fridge to mouth with no intermediaries?” she asked.

“Exactly!” I grinned proudly. “That way the kitchen always looks like it’s straight out of Good Housekeeping. No muss, no fuss.”

“Many men like to cook.” She said vaguely.

“I’m just not one of them!”

“But you’re so helpful in the kitchen when I cook.”

“That’s different. Then it’s only fair. You’re here and we’re doing something together.”

     She sat down at the kitchen table and stared at me in bewilderment. “You mean you only used one dish?”

“When necessary I used a fork and spoon too,” I felt proud of my accomplishment. “It was like I was on some sort of Zen dietary retreat. Ate the strawberries straight from the tub. Of course I did use the fancy Italian cheese slicer, but only occasionally and reluctantly.”

     “Well that’s something!” 

“Most wives would be thrilled to come home to such a pristine kitchen. Do you have any idea how much time is spent washing pots and pans and cleaning up in here everyday? Not to mention the time it takes to cook.”

“Well yes.” She said hesitantly.

“I hope you appreciate my non-aggression culinary pact. If not used it stays clean and needs no washing.”

     She smiled and shook her head in loving bewilderment. “But whatever did you eat?”

“Believe me, I ate well. A few radishes here and there, spoonfuls of applesauce, and of course the goat cheese even though that meant I had to wash off the slicer.”

“Sliced radishes and goat cheese?”

“You always tell me to eat vegetables. So I made it a special point to.” I felt a little self-conscious. “Plus scallions, sprouts and a few slithers of garlic not to mention pears and oranges. There’s much to be said for an uncooked diet.”

“Just so you wouldn’t have to cook or clean up?”

“Can you think of a better reason? I did finish up some of the candy we had left over from the holidays, and occasionally gobs of organic peanut butter plus some of that delicious blackberry jam we got from Oregon.”

“But you didn’t bother to make any toast because then crumbs might have found their way into the toaster oven?”

“Exactly!” I smiled. “You got it! I love you!”

 She sighed, shook her head and looked up to the heavens. “What I’m trying to understand is were you practicing a discipline or just being lazy?”

     “Maybe a little of both,” I laughed. “I wasn’t really being lazy per se. I could have easily eaten out. But the idea for me was to touch upon the noble savage that dwells within all men but is dulled by socialization.”

      “What are you talking about?”

       I smiled, “men are less outwardly civilized when they’re not around women. Then they can fend for themselves especially when it comes to eating and cooking.”

          “That’s fine with me,” she said a touch of bewilderment in her voice.

“I wouldn’t want you to have to feel civilized because of me.”

I smiled. “At least during your absence I passed my challenges with flying colors.”

“Not washing dishes?”

“That and not having to make the bed because I slept elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere?”

“I can attest that we have a living room couch worthy of any houseguest.  Why with a couch that spacious and comfortable we could even if we wanted become an air B&B.  

“You’d put strangers up on our couch?”.

“Just a thought. It proved even more comfortable than I’d have thought.”

“So you slept in the living room the entire time I was away?”

“I felt like a kid too, staying up late watching TV. I even watched three foreign films in your absence.”

“That’s good I won’t feel as though I missed anything.”

“Three directed by Luis Bunuel. Each one picked apart conventional rationality.  With Bunuel logic falls by the wayside.”

“I wonder if he ate out of a can while his wife was away?”

“Are you upset? Please don’t be. I performed superhuman feats regressing into my primal self.”

“Well that’s very brave of you.. I wouldn’t want you to have wasted time bending over a hot stove or making our bed in my absence.” “

What else did you do? Didn’t you ever eat out?””

“I thought I’d be going out to dinner. Mike invited me to join him but then his wife got sick and he couldn’t do it.

 But there’s a Chinese Restaurant right round the corner. You could have gone there.”

“Yes but it poured and besides there was plenty of rice pudding.”

She smiled. “I’ll have to go away more often so you can regress into your primal self that way.”

“Oh no need. I wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. Besides the rice pudding carried me along.”

You ate the same thing every day?”

“Of course,” I smiled. “It was delicious and enabled me not to have to think about cooking.” I hugged her. “But now that you’re back would you like to go out to supper?

She looked in the fridge. “Now that I’m back I’m looking forward to cooking for you.”

Oh cook for us tomorrow instead. You have no idea how much I’ve really missed eating out with you in a restaurant.”

 

 

 

 

 

Domestic Tranquility: Tie One On

by Stephen Halpert

 

I was sitting at the coffee table working on a collage. Tasha breezed in and handed me a fancy clothing catalogue. She pointed. “Do you like this blue cotton dress?” The banner across the page proclaimed “everything on this page 50% off.”

I shrugged. “Something about it looks familiar.”

She looked at the collages spread across the coffee table. Pointing to one she said, “You’ve been working on that for a long time.”

I nodded. “One of these days I’ll figure out how to finish it.” I handed her back the catalogue.

“It’s a real bargain at twelve dollars,” she said.

“No. I’d charge more for it than that.”

She smiled and pointed to the catalogue. “I meant this dress.”

“Oh,” I said. A image from when I was a kid popped into my mind. “That’s the same blue dress I remember from a ‘1940’s magazine ad for a washday detergent. It shows a mom standing with a basket of laundry on her hip, looking victorious.”

She made a face. “Oh well, never mind.  I had thought it looked rather summery and attractive, something I’d wear out to dinner with you when we’re in Maine.” She shook her head.  “But scratch that! I wouldn’t buy anything that reminds you of a woman bringing in her laundry.”

I hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings and for twelve dollars who needs to quibble.  “Good practical blue dress,” I smiled. “Nice to wear out shopping, or when you’re cooking or even when you’re cleaning the stove.”

“That’s all right.” She folded the magazine

“Now I remember! In the ad she looked very happy.  I’m sure if you wore it out to dinner no one in the restaurant would remember that a woman wore that exact dress nearly seventy years ago bringing in her wash.”

She sighed audibly. “Never mind, I have no intention of ever buying anything that reminds you of someone with their laundry.” She looked again at the page. “Yes I suppose one could wear it doing housework. It seems practical and comfortable, even though I had thought of it as a bit glamorous.” She turned to go back to the kitchen.

“Wait, if you want to buy something special for the trip…” I rummaged through my cuttings looking for a picture of a particular sheer dress. “Maybe you could splurge on something diaphanous like what Rita Hayworth wore in Salome when she did that lurid dance.” 

She laughed.  “Yes I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing me in something like that, but somehow I really don’t think that would be suitable for Maine. For one thing it gets cool there at night and I’d be bit chilly.”

“People wear hardly anything anymore.” I tried assuring her. “And Maine has become quite the place to be for skimpy summer attire.”

“Maybe on a Caribbean cruise,” she said with a tone of finality.

I felt like I might need to say something tactful. “You’d look superb in something like that in Maine or for that matter anywhere’s else.”

 She smiled. “It is kind of you to say so. In that case I can see you in a tie, jacket and starched white shirt sitting across from me in someplace posh in York or Camden.”

I laughed. “I hardy ever wear a tie and jacket.”

“Yes I know. But if I wore the sort of dress you have in mind you’d have to. Otherwise you wouldn’t feel comfortable trying to talk the chief of police out of arresting me for indecent exposure.” She leaned over the table and looked at my collage more closely. “That’s coming along nicely.”

I shook my head. “Believe me you’d never get arrested. Not in that dress. But are you hinting that you’d like seeing me in a tie more often?”

She grinned. “Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea “As I remember you never wore one to church, not that any of the other men did either.”

“We’d have to be going to some pretty spiffy events for me to feel comfortable dressed up that way.”

She waved that off. “Just wear one here, around the apartment.”

“You mean tie one on over a polo or tee shirt.”

She smiled. “Doing that might have a profound effect on your creativity.”

 I shook my head and laughed. “Turn me into a stuffed shirt, dry and boring.”

“Not at all! Think what creative changes you’d inspire wearing your good three piece suit.”  She smiled.

I frowned. “I don’t think so.”

She grinned. I could tell she was having fun. “Of course if you dared to do something that different you might single handedly evoke a whole new trend in men’s fashion. And as an artist, too! I can just imagine all the publicity you’d get. This could be the beginning of something new and very big.” 

I shook my head. “You’re not serious.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Of course I am. You could call it the Tie One On School. I’ll take pictures of you wearing a tie, rummaging through mountains of clutter seeking out the perfect image. As you’ve said so many times all it takes for an artist to gain international acclaim is something outrageous, out of the ordinary. And wearing a necktie over a tee shirt might really work.” 

“I suppose.” I nodded, “yes, but how about I forgo the tee shirt and just walk around the house bare-chested like Brando did in Streetcar Named Desire with a tie dangling from around my neck.”

She smiled and shook her head. “He wasn’t bare-chested. Not back in the ’50’s. He wore a torn tee shirt that brought out his animal nature.”

 “Tell you what; at the beach in Maine you wear something skimpy and I’ll go bare-chested with a tie. That would make an incredible fashion statement. Maybe we’d even end up on YouTube. Both our careers would definitely surge.”

“Surge to the bottom of the sea,” she giggled.  “Come sit at the table with me and we’ll have some tea.” She stood and I followed after her. Then I stopped, turned and looked again at the collage I was having such a hard time finishing. In my mind’s eye I saw it swathed in cuttings from neckties. Adding the cloth could give it a whole new perspective.

Tasha poured us each a cup of tea. Then she picked up the catalogue, shook her head and tossed it into the trash.

 

 

Domestic Tranquility: The Great Indoors

 by Stephen Halpert

It was a sunny Saturday morning, sufficiently cool for a walk. I sat at the dining table reading the paper. Tasha joined me. “What a lovely day for a picnic,” she said. She waved at the window where the sun teased at the baby hens and chickens plants we have in pots in the porch..

I showed her the weather section of the paper. “Not such a good idea. It could rain later this afternoon.”

“That’s not for a long time, if it even happens,” she said with a smile. “We could go for a walk by the lake and have a wonderful picnic.” She glanced at the mugs and teapot on the table. “Thanks for making the tea.”

I winced and set down the paper. “A picnic near the lake seems totally life threatening. What about fire ants, or deadly mosquitoes not to even mention the menace of crazed ticks and Lyme disease? It’s happening more and more to innocent people like us who venture outside despite all the warnings.”

She ignored my sensible words. “Such a lovely day.” She said a with a shake of her head.

I served us peanut butter and rye toast. “We could have our picnic right here at this table in our cozy apartment with the slider open and fresh air blasting in at us from the porch.”

“That’s not really the same thing.”

“It could be. Instead of looking at trees and weird patches of buggy crawly damp ground we could look at the wonderful art on our walls, even put on an arty foreign film laced with existential undercurrents. But more to the point, what’s for lunch?”

She peered at me as though I had been infected by some sort of strange malady. “What is it about you and going outside?”

“I go outside all the time,” I said staunchly.  “Daily! Always to the mailbox, plus we take walks up and down the neighborhood hill and even down that little dirt road nearby.” I took a deep breath and for a moment felt like the teacher from a TV program for those who prefer not to exercise unless they absolutely have to.

She looked at me sharply. “I’ll bet if you had your way you’d just as soon never leave this apartment.”

I smiled at her. “What can I say? I love our home! Here we can read, watch movies and do creative projects free from bugs and things that bite; here we can enjoy your incredible cooking and not have to worry about poison ivy or crazed killer wasps.”

She got up from the table. “But I like the outdoors.” She said, ignoring any possible truth to what I had to say.

“Never let me stop you from enjoying it.” I tried to say that as kindly and understandingly as possible for a husband talking to a wife who has these weird urges to climb mountains or take lengthy hikes in woods or around lakes, where almost any sort of calamity could happen.

She went to the refrigerator and opened the door. “Didn’t you enjoy being outside when you were a boy?”

“Of course I did.” I leaned back in my chair remembering the wonderful screened porch at my grandmother’s house at Narragansett Pier. “It’s not being outside that bothers me. It’s all those feral things that inhabit the out of doors that have it in for those of us who trample upon their lairs or nests or other dark places where they lie in wait.”

She sighed. “I’ll bet if there was an enormous yard sale and we didn’t have our car handy, you’d be up for walking over to it. No questions asked!”

“Absolutely! Walking to a neighborhood yard sale is a far cry from venturing into the deep dark depths of the woods, or walking gingerly along some country road where cars kick up dust as they speed past.”

She took some fruit from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “I fear some of our friends might think you’re exhibiting elderly behavior. Have you ever thought of that?” She sliced up the grapes and the peaches and added some cinnamon sugar.

I shook my head. “Just because I prefer the grace and solemnity of the great indoors you feel the need to be critical and to find fault with me.”

“But I want us to go for a walk and enjoy a lovely picnic lunch by the lake.”

“Snakes live near lakes. I still remember boyhood warnings on TV from Marlin Perkins when he hosted Wild Kingdom. “Be careful around lakes,” he would warm “else wild creatures might surface and drag off your child in the blinking of an eye.”

“Then I’ll bring along an extra sandwich just in case a cobra or python emerges from under a rock while we’re there. I made tuna salad and just for you added jalapeno peppers and roasted garlic.”

“Sounds wonderful.” I sipped my tea.

She tipped the fruit into a container and closed it. “Whether or not you come along, I’ll be having lunch by the lake. You are of course invited to join me or to stay home and eat peanut butter ‘til it comes out of your ears.”

I finished my tea, looked at the clock and got up from the table. It was nearly ten thirty. “Ok, let’s go right now. We’ll have an early lunch and be back home before the Northeaster or that hurricane in the mid Atlantic moves in and devastates the region.”

That caused her to pause. “In which case,” she said slowly, ” I’ll be sure to include a hurricane lamp in the picnic basket along with some survival rations just in case we’re forced to live in a tree until it passes.”

“Ok,” I smiled. “Sure, let’s be brave and do it. Then years from now you’ll have something to share with the great grand children when they ask how we survived the devastation by natural elements of those who dared spend too much time outside.” 

She laughed, looked at the paper and kissed me. “I understand exactly how you feel but the Red Sox aren’t playing until tonight and we’ll be home in plenty of time so you won’t miss the first pitch.”

 

  

 

 

 

Domestic Tranquility: Tie One ON

 By Stephen Halpert

 I was sitting on the sofa working on a collage when Tasha breezed into the living room and held an open catalogue under my nose. “Do you like this blue cotton dress?” The banner across the page proclaimed in big letters, “everything 50% off.”

I shrugged. “It looks 40’s retro.”

She looked at the collages spread across my worktable. They were in various states of completion. Pointing to one she said, “You’ve been working on this for a long time.”

“One of these days I’ll get around to figuring out how to finish it.” I handed her back the catalogue.

“It’s a real bargain at twelve dollars,” she said.

“No. I’d charge more for it than that.”

She smiled and pointed to the catalogue. “I meant this dress.”

I really didn’t know what to say. Then a magazine ad from when I was a kid popped into my mind. “It’s the same blue dress I remember from a 1940’s ad selling washday detergent. You must recall it: Mom’s standing with a basket of wash she’s just beginning to hang on the clothesline…”

She frowned at me and shook her head. “Oh well, I had thought it was rather summery and attractive, something I’d wear out to dinner with you when we’re in Maine.” She shook her head.  “But never mind. I wouldn’t buy anything that reminds you of a woman in an add for detergent.”

“She had black hair and blue eyes. In the ad she looked very happy.  I’m sure if you wore it out to dinner no one in the restaurant would remember that a woman wore that exact dress nearly seventy years ago.”

She sighed audibly. “Never mind, I have no intention ever of buying anything that reminds you of someone hanging out their wash.” She looked again at the page. “Yes I suppose one could wear it doing laundry or even housework. It seems practical and comfortable, even though I had thought of it as a bit glamorous.” She turned to go back to the kitchen.

I looked at her. “Wait, if you want to buy something special for the trip…” I rummaged through my cuttings looking for a particular sheer dress I had recently cut out. But I couldn’t find it. “Maybe you could splurge on something diaphanous, the kind of outfit Rita Hayworth wore in Salome when she did the Dance of the Seven Veils.”

She laughed.  “Yes I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing me in something like that, but somehow I really don’t think that would be suitable for Maine. For one thing it gets cool there at night and I’d be bit chilly.”

“People wear hardly anything at all at the beach.” I tried assuring her.

” Maybe on a Caribbean cruise,” she said with a tone of finality.

But I didn’t want to give up. “You’d look superb in something like that in Maine or for that matter anywhere’s else.”

 She smiled. “It is kind of you to say so. In that case I can see you in a tie and jacket sitting with me at a fancy restaurant by the beach.”

I laughed. “I hardy ever wear a tie and jacket.”

“Yes I know. But if I wore the sort of dress you have in mind you’d have to. Otherwise you wouldn’t feel comfortable trying to talk the police out of arresting me for indecent exposure.” She sat down next to me and looked at my collage more closely. “That’s coming along nicely.”

I shook my head. “Believe me that could never happen. Not in that dress. But are you hinting that you’d like seeing me in a tie more often?”

She grinned. “Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“We’d have to be going to some pretty spiffy events for me to feel comfortable dressed up that way.”

She waved that off. “Just wear one here at home, around the apartment.”

“You mean put one on when I’m wearing a polo shirt? Or even a tee shirt?”

“Sure.” She started to laugh.  “Of course if you dared to do something that different you might single handedly evoke a whole new trend in men’s fashion. And as an artist, too! I can just imagine all the publicity you’d get. This could be the beginning of something new and very big.” 

I shook my head. “You’re not serious.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Of course I am. As you’ve said so many times, all it takes for an artist to gain international acclaim is for him to do something outrageously out of the ordinary. And wearing a necktie over a tee shirt might really work.” 

“I suppose.” I grinned. “But how about I forgo the tee shirt and just walk around the house bare-chested with a tie around my neck. Tell you what; when we’re at the beach in Maine you wear something skimpy and I’ll go bare-chested with a tie. That would make an incredible fashion statement. Maybe we’d even end up on YouTube. Both our careers would definitely surge. That I’m sure of.”

“Surge to the bottom of the sea,” she laughed.  “Come sit at the table with me and we’ll have some tea.” She stood up and I followed after her. Then I stopped, turned and looked again at the collage I was having such a hard time finishing. In my mind’s eye I saw it swathed in cuttings from neckties. Adding the cloth gave it a whole new perspective. Excited at the thought I continued over to the dining table.

Tasha was putting on water for tea. She looked at the catalogue again, sighed and tossed it into the recycling.

I sat down at the table. “It’s ok with me if you get it.”

She sighed again. “Forget it. I don’t really need another dress anyway.”

I looked at her and smiled. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll wear a tie to breakfast. Would you like that? After all, these radical new trends have to start slowly.”

  

 

The Hundred Dollar Bill

by Stephen Halpert

We were driving home from the Thai restaurant in Worcester.  It had been raining on and off all day and the road was slick. Tasha was driving more slowly and carefully than she usually did. Ahead on the right she spotted a metal donation box for clothes.

“Oh good,” she said pulling over. “Let’s drop off the two bags of clothes on the floor in the back seat. I’ll be glad to have them out of the car.”

“It could start raining any minute,” I said feeling content and comfortable after eating more than I’m used to. “Let’s wait.”

“It won’t take but a few moments. I’ve been meaning to donate them for the last week.”

I turned, grabbed hold of the bags, swung them over the seat, opened the car door and climbed out. In the distance thunder announced even more rain.

I opened the handle and put in the two bags in the bin. Then as I turned back to the car I had a funny feeling. I paused and looked around. That’s when I made eye contact with Ben Franklin. He appeared crumpled, soiled, and wet.  Reaching down I picked up what was indeed a hundred dollar bill.

I got back in the car. “Look at this.” I smiled.

“That’s a hundred dollar bill,” she said surprised.

“Our luck.” I spread it out on my knee and smoothed away the creases. Thunder rumbled overhead followed another downpour.

“Are you keeping it?” she asked.

Her question surprised me. “I don’t see why not. Here we are in the middle of the highway, no houses or buildings near by.”

“But surely someone must be missing it. Maybe they’ll come back and try to find it.”

I frowned. “Are you suggesting I put it back outside where I found it?”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Knowing you I’m sure you wouldn’t want to.”

More thunder and lightening punctuated the night.

“Let’s get home before the road floats away.”

Reluctantly she started the car and continued driving back to Grafton.

“It just don’t feel right,” she began. “Obviously someone is out a hundred dollars.”

“No doubt. But maybe you could think of it as kismet, or as an act of divine Providence, maybe even payback for your being so nice as to donate two bags of clothes you no longer want.”

“If you say so.” As torrents of rain challenged the windshield wipers, she drove even slower.

Nothing was said for a while. Then she spoke up again. “Are you going to keep it?”

I sighed. “I wish my finding it didn’t bother you. After all if you hadn’t wanted to stop and donate your clothes this wouldn’t have happened. So thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“Who else would I thank? If it hadn’t been for you.”

“You could thank God.”

“I don’t think God has anything to do with this. After all, it was your idea we stop.”

The rain finally slowed down. We stopped for a light and proceeded down the hill toward our apartment. It was early and I noticed that the supermarket was still open.

“Need anything?”

“I could use a bag of potatoes and some onions.”

“Sounds good. Pull up close to the door in case we get another cloudburst.”

“Are you going to use it?”

“Use what?”

“The hundred dollar bill.”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“What will you do with it then?”

I looked over at her. “I have no idea. Call it a gift. Now that you mention it maybe I’ll splurge on some lottery tickets.”

“But that’s gambling.”

“Is my finding this really bothering you? I guess we could drive back to the donation receptacle and I’ll crumble Ben up and toss him out the window.”

“No that’s not bothering me but I do fell sorry for whoever lost it. You wouldn’t like losing a hundred dollars. Supposing that was all the money you had for food.”

“Wait in the car. I’ll run in and get your potatoes and onions.”

“I’ll come in with you. I like picking out my own potatoes.”

“You don’t like my taste in potatoes?”

She smiled. “Oh it’s not that. I’m sure you’ve a good eye for onions and potatoes. But when I’m doing the cooking, I like to pick out the ones I want.”

“Sure.”

“And you can hang onto Ben. I’ll use my credit card.  Let him burn a hole in your pocket.”

“I’d rather use him to pay for the spuds and onions.”

“If you say so.”

We parked, grabbed the double umbrella from the back seat, unfolded it and went inside.

The market was practically empty. Outside thunder rumbled and rain began falling hard against the rooftop. Tasha pushed the wagon, picked up the potatoes, onions, and then organic grapes, mangos and a bag of apples.

Easy come easy go I thought as I handed Ben over to the clerk. He ran up the total, bagged our purchases and handed me an assortment of bills; several twenties, a flurry of tens, a five, some one’s and pocket change.

Another clap of thunder rolled as we started for the door.

“Aren’t you going to buy lottery tickets?”

“I thought you might not approve.”

“Don’t be silly. Let’s see them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

I bought half a dozen five dollar Patriots scratch tickets. “You too,” I said.

“I’ve never done that. I’m not usually lucky with things like that.”

“Oh go for it. I’m sure Ben would be ok with it and cheer you on.”

We stood at the counter. After a few moments Tasha pointed to a scratch ticket that had flowers and butterflies.”

“Want two or three?”

“No,” she smiled. “One’s just fine.”

“If you say so.” I paid for them, gathered the tickets and we started for home.

We put away the groceries. Tasha put on water for tea and feeling like anticipatory children we began scratching the tickets.

The Patriots may have won last year’s super bowl but tonight Brady, Gronk and the team came up empty. “Oh well, easy come easy go,” I said masking my disappointment.

Then she laughed. “Look at that,” she exclaimed. “A hundred dollars. How fortuitous.” She smiled. “Thank you Ben and most especially thanks to the flowers and butterflies.”

I laughed. “You deserve it. After all they were your clothes you were giving away.”

“Where are you going?” she asked me.

“Into the bedroom. I want to see if I have anything in the closet to donate.”

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

Domestic Tranquility: The Fifty Dollar Bill

 by Stephen Halpert

 I had just finished dressing when I saw it on Tasha’s bureau. I couldn’t resist picking it up. I grinned and held it out to her. “Is this for me, a springtime offering perhaps?”

She was headed toward the kitchen. She turned in my direction. Momentarily, she seemed confused. Then she saw what I was holding. “No! It isn’t. I didn’t. It’s intended for my wallet.” She put out her hand.

“Then it’s not for me?”

It was early and we hadn’t had breakfast. She didn’t seem quite awake as yet. She frowned. “Was I supposed to reimburse you for something?”

“No.” I smiled. “Only if you want. After all it’s spring and we’ve gone a week without rain.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you need a present just because it’s not raining any longer?”

I sighed. Admittedly it felt nice holding the money, and a part of me didn’t want to give it up. “Not really, but when President Grant winked at me my heart did a little pitter patter and for a moment I thought maybe you’d consulted with Mother Nature and she’d given it to you to give to me.” Reluctantly I handed it to her.

She took it and held it. “I hope you’re not disappointed? I didn’t mean to deceive you.”

“Not really! By this time I’m used to the harsh realities of life. But had you encountered a frivolous feral white beast with floppy ears, an emissary perhaps from a magical realm, who handed that to you to do something nice with…one wearing a checkered vest, perhaps and a top hat?”

She grinned. “I’d have fainted, or worse worried that one of the neighbors had gone bonkers.”

I laughed. “Wouldn’t it be nice if occasionally those realms were open to us; that we could put a dab of fairy dust on our tongues and be transported to a world of primordial wonder: hobbits dancing with elves and fairies at the foot of the Big Rock Candy Mountain?” I followed her into the kitchen.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, “however, I don’t know if hobbits got on all that well with elves, at least some of them.”

“Unless they’re Buddhists hobbits.”

“What difference would that make?”

“Don’t Buddhists get along with everyone? Not that I’d ever heard that the Buddha had any sort of connection with the magical realm or hobbits.”

She took tea from the cupboard. “Which Buddha? There were many.”

“The big Buddha, you know, Sid, Sid Arthur.”

She smiled. “If you need fifty dollars for anything I’ll be glad to give it to you. Just let me know.”

“Never mind,” I filled the kettle and put it on the stove. “Then it’s different. That way it’s intended for household living expenses like groceries, gas for the car, or even some art supplies. That’s totally different from being given a present of fifty dollars which is then mine for whatever I’d want it for without any justifications whatsoever.”

She began cutting up a mango. “Is there something specific you want? A book you’d like to pick up? Or maybe something you saw at Mallmart?”

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I assured her. “There’s nothing at all I need or for that matter even want right now.”

“Then why would you like me to give you fifty dollars?” She frowned. “I don’t understand. Maybe it’s early in the morning but I seem to be missing something here.”

I put out the cups for tea. “I’m sure every husband we know would appreciate being given fifty dollars by his wife and told it was a special gift from Mother Nature, the Easter Bunny or even for that matter J.R.Tolkein.”

She rummaged in the fridge, took out strawberries, cut them up and added them to the sliced mango.

 “No doubt! But I’m sure every wife we know would appreciate that very same consideration from her husband.”

I looked at her. “Do you need fifty dollars? Is there something you’d especially like?”

” I can’t think of anything this minute but I know it always comes in handy. Not that fifty dollars buys what it once did.” She took a spoon and tasted the combination of freshly sliced mango and strawberries. “Delicious,” she smiled. “A special spring breakfast in honor of the sun finally shining.

“Oh I know.” I frowned. “Once fifty dollars could pretty much could cover a weekend at the Cape. Now it barely pays for a new pair of jeans or a designer tee shirt.” 

She nodded. ” Once I could feed my family for two weeks on that, but no more.”

 “It’s always nice being given money unexpectedly, especially if it comes from a white rabbit on his way to a tea party or even from a gigantic Pooka like the one in Harvey, that old Jimmy Stewart movie.” I sighed.

“When you were young did the tooth fairy leave you money?”

“Yes, but not much,” I lamented. “But at least at this time of year my mother usually bought me new clothes.” 

“I only got new clothes when I’d outgrown the old ones or wore them out—I used to climb trees and get pitch on my pants,” she smiled reminiscently. “Is that what you’d like to do with fifty dollars? Buy some new clothes?”

“Not really. But a trip to the moon on gossamer wings would be fun.”

“Well if there’s anything you need…”

“Oh I know,” I smiled. “How about we give each other fifty dollars for a present?”

“You’re suggesting we take a hundred dollars out of the bank for nothing in particular. That sounds pretty impractical to me.”

“Yes, but we don’t always have to be practical. Do we?”

She looked at me quizzically. “Probably not. Well, I have a better idea. How about we split this money and I’ll give you half. That way you can buy something impractical and I’ll spend mine the way I want.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Murder

  by Stephen Halpert

      Affectionately Dedicated To The Memory Of Robert B. Parker

 I picked Susan up at Logan and we got onto the Pike west to Grafton. Last night I had told her about Bob’s sudden death. She insisted on leaving her psychologists convention in Miami and flying back to Boston.

The calling hours were at his home on Brigham Hill Road from 2 to 8. We had time to stop for lunch.

She looked ravishing. Her chocolate cashmere jumpsuit outlined her sleek trim figure. Her streaked blond hair was perfect and her makeup gave the impression she hadn’t used any.

Susan studied the menu at the Inn. “Bob never ate right,” she said. “And all that booze was even in his writing. And he’d always gloat over some artery clogging recipe he’d found.” She sipped her water. “You’d best be careful too. At your age eating poorly is best replaced by having fun doing something other than eating.”

I decided on the grilled tuna and seaweed salad.

We sat by the window at The Inn across from one of the three churches facing to the town Common. The cute waitress with a blond pageboy recited the luncheon specials. Susan chose the Cobb salad. She looked around the Inn’s rustic interior. “Tell me everything.”

“This morning’s paper said he died at his desk. His wife found him when she came got home. Massive coronary.”

My mind went back to the night before. Hawk had called. “Boss is gone,” he said. “Right in the middle of a new chapter about us; bummer!”

I was in my office overlooking Berkeley and Boylston. “Just like that? Nothing funny?”

“How should I know,” Hawk said. “You is the private eye. I’m just your faithful Afro American companion.”

The waitress came over with our plates. I asked her if she had known Bob.

“Everyone in town knew him,” she said wistfully. Then she grinned. “Especially the ladies. He liked to teach them about gourmet cooking.”

“Anyone in particular,” I said.

“Everyone in particular.” Then she looked blank and beat a hasty retreat.

“The plot thickens.” I tasted the tuna.

“What plot? From everything you’ve said it sounds like his heart just gave out. Happens every day.” Susan noticed another couple taking a nearby table. “Hello there Sonny,” she waved.

“Dr. Silverman!” The hefty brunette smiled. “I’m so sorry we have to run into each other this way. I’d like you meet my friend Jesse Stone, Chief of Police of Paradise, MA.”

Susan smiled at Sonny. “Just like you said, he does look a lot like Clint Eastwood.”

Jesse seemed to enjoy the compliment. “And you must be Dr. Susan Silverman, the celebrated Cambridge shrink. Even in her sleep Sonny talks about you.”

“If I ever dared to call her a shrink …,” I said quietly.

“And you’re Spencer.” Her eyes lit up. “I’m Sonny Randall. My father always speaks well of you.”

“Is he enjoying his retirement from the Boston PD?”

“He’ll never completely retire.” Sonny said. “Now he’s a weapons consultant. He couldn’t stand being alone at home 24/7 with mom.”

The blond waitress appeared at their table. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”

“Ice tea,” Stone said with a sigh. He looked across at Sonny.”

“Same,” she smiled.

“Here for calling hours?” Susan said.

They nodded.

“This whole thing is blowing my mind,” Sonny said. “Just the other day we talked and Bob told me he was planning a European vacation with his wife over Christmas. Apparently she’s been on the go and they hadn’t had much quality time together.”

The waitress brought their iced teas and they ordered.

“Wives require lots of time.” Stone said.

“Look,” Susan said. “There’s Hawk.”

Hawk, trim and muscular and Rita Flores, tall, curvy and attractive took a table near ours. Rita smiled cordially at Susan. “Hi Spencer. This must be your main squeeze.”

 Susan smiled. “And you must be  that lady lawyer downtown Spencer speaks so well of.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rita grinned. “Considering…”

The blond waitress reappeared. “Can I bring you something to drink?”

Hawk, wearing a black turtleneck and jeans looked up. “Imported French Champagne. Tragedy calls for something more bubbly than soda pop.”

“I’ll check with the bartender,” she said and scurried off.

I introduced Rita and Hawk to Sonny R and Jesse.”

“How are you, Chief Stone?” Rita gave him an imperceptible wink and Sonny wondered how well acquainted they might be. 

Jesse nodded and gazed around the rustic dining room. “I’d have thought Bob would have lived in Boston or even Manhattan. I can’t quite picture him out here in the country.”

“We’re not too far from Taft where he lectured on the art of detective fiction,” I said.

“Or even up on the North Shore near Paradise,” Sunny said. “I wonder if there’s any night life around here? Or do people watch PBS and lights out by ten?”

“Night life’s easy to find,” Jesse said. “All it takes usually is booze and two people drinking it.”

“We don’t know anything about Bob’s private life.” I said.

Rita frowned and examined her manicure. “You mean our Mr. Monogamy lead a double life? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“I wouldn’t make any assumptions,” Susan said. “Just because he hardly ever let any of his characters fool around. Or the next thing you know one of us might start suggesting foul play.”

(To be continued)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

Domestic Tranquility A Cup of Tea

 by Stephen Halpert

                            

It was wonderful having Tasha back home after her weekend meditation retreat with her daughter in upstate New York.  She was in the bedroom unpacking when she asked, “Did you happen to see the box of imported bitter lemon lozenges I bought before I left? I left them on my desk. They were a special birthday gift for a dear friend.”

I frowned. “I’ll have to replace them.”

“They’re expensive and somewhat hard to find. The apothecary in Cambridge doesn’t always stock them.”

“I’ll call the first thing Monday. I’m sorry but at least they went to a good cause.”

 “I’m surprised. You don’t even like bitter lemon.”

I nodded and helped her fit her carryon bag into the closet. “I thought they’d do the trick but they only made matters  worse.”

She looked at me. “Made what worse?”

“The tea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I had thought they would add flavor to the flat tasting pot of tea I made for myself. Whoever said that to boil water was easy didn’t know much about cooking.”

” I just hope I can get another tin.”   

“Especially when it didn’t work. The entire pot changed from overly tepid to varnish-like bitter.”

” What did you expect?”

“The same effect as putting a slice of lemon in a cup of tea. It picks it up without messing up the taste.”

She sighed. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“I finally managed to get the water to boil. It took a while but I was watching the pot and that no doubt made it take longer.” She turned and I followed her into the kitchen. “Once it finally boiled I added two level teaspoons of tea to the kettle just like you do.”

“I’ve never put the tea into the kettle. I always use a tea pot.”

“I know that but it looked so clean I didn’t want to muddy it up and have to wash it. I went straight to the source. But my plan didn’t work.” I took two cups from the cupboard. Surprisingly, the kettle was already boiling.

“I can’t imagine what it must have tasted like.”

“One could cultivate the taste and eliminate the need for a tea pot.  It did have a sort of tannic flavor.”

“That’s why I use a teapot with a tea basket inside.”

Was she trying to tell me something? “But campers always boil their tea in a big pot over a crackling fire.” She looked at me and shook her head.

“I was desperate. I had a kettle of tasteless tea. I added some oregano and red cayenne pepper.  But it remained totally undrinkable. I turned off the stove and paced around the apartment trying to figure out what to do. Then on your desk I saw the bright yellow tin of lozenges. They were all stuck together inside and before I even knew what I was doing I had emptied the entire tin into the kettle.”

“Oh,” she sighed.

“Then it tasted like bitter dishwater.  I hope they weren’t too expensive.”

“They were.” She sighed. “But I know you’ll call, make the order and pay for them.” 

She opened the refrigerator door, looked in, and frowned. She took out the remaining rice pudding and spooned up two bowls. “Well at least this is still okay. You don’t seem to have eaten much. Weren’t you hungry?”

“Late at night I’d lie awake in bed and think of nothing but food. But then it would be too late to eat anything. Instead I’d think about what I’d have for breakfast. But nothing seemed as appealing as your sliced fruit or the way you fix my burrito.”

“You just wrap it in foil and put it in the toaster oven.”

I nodded. “That’s exactly what I did. But when you do it they taste like they come from a bistro on the beach in Acapulco. Mine tasted like it didn’t like the idea of being my breakfast one bit. It was limp and still cold in the middle. It had shrunk into the foil and looked like some sort of corpse.”

“Oh dear, that’s terrible. You couldn’t have left it in long enough.”

“I  have a horrible feeling you think I’m inept in the kitchen.”

She smiled but said nothing.

“I certainly did! I checked it after twenty-five minutes and the end was crisp and just right. Then I slid on a slice of cheese, reset the timer for five minutes. Just like you do.”

“I wonder what could have gone wrong?”

“It could be that the apartment is haunted by someone who feels that the kitchen is no place for a man. Or maybe the toaster oven is on its last legs and resented my intrusion. But that burrito had a definite attitude.”

“It sounds that way.” She put the bowls on the table. “Perhaps the temperature wasn’t set correctly. But never mind, it doesn’t matter now.”

We sat down together. ‘For the first time in many a day the rice pudding tastes like it’s supposed to.”  

“Maybe I should go away more often,” she chuckled. “That way you might lose a few pounds.”

Was she suggesting I was putting on weight? “It is odd that what you cook tastes better when you’re here to eat it with me. There’s something magical between you and what you’re cooking.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.” She smiled  got up and kissed me. . “Magical,” she smiled. It’s certtainly good to be home.”