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What A Dame

by Ruthie Alekseeva  
6/08/2024 / Short Stories

Chapter 1

Bump. Bang. Pop. Hiss.

“AIIEEE!”

James spins his head sideways. What was that?!

“Quick! Quick! Quick!” Lon yells, running into his office with Oscar closely behind him. “A car has lost control!”

Running out of his office, standing in the doorway of the bank he works at, James watches as a car runs off the road, launching itself towards a ditch. Spin! Spin! Spin! he thinks, urging the car to steer clear of the ditch and drive back onto the road but then a tall, round tree catches his eye. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” he yells. “Look out for the tree!” Then, crunch, skid, putter, putter, silence - the car stops, the driver having seemingly pressed their foot-brake hard against the floor of the car.   

Slap. Slap. Slap. James’ shoes slap against the hard-packed dirt road, in the direction of the car, with Lon in the lead and Oscar on their tail. Then, all at once, the men are standing over the top of the driver.

“Are you all right, mister? Are you all right?” Lon calls. Then, he gasps.  “Well, I’ll be switched! You’re not a Mister. You’re a dame.”

A woman in a red cloche hat sits a while, her mouth open, her hands still clenched tightly around her now inert steering wheel. “Gracious me!” she finally says. “That could have killed me!” Then, pushing her hat backwards, she feels the skin on her forehead and chin, saying, “But nothing seems broken and nothing is bleeding.” Pulling herself together, the woman draws her shoulders back, then lifts her chin. “How rude! Well, of course, I’m not a fellow. As you can plainly see, I am a woman. Now excuse me while I check my car for damage.”

Wide-eyed, Lon stands back, as the woman swings her car door open.

“Now, let’s see,” she says, speaking quickly. “The fenders aren’t crooked, the headlights haven’t smashed and there’s no smoke rising from the engine. So, perhaps, I’ll still make it to Maple Hills by 8 o’clock after all.”

“Well, hang on there, lady,” Lon says, holding his Homburg hat in his hands. “Take a look at this left-side tyre.”

Glaring at Lon, Dorothy says, “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

Glancing at his companions, as if he’s thinking, Can you believe this?, Lon glares back at her, then places his hands on his hips. “Well, I’ll be switched! Look lady, I’m only trying to help you out.” Then, kicking the front tyre, he says, “ You have a popped tyre on this side, so there’s no way you’re getting anywhere by eight o’clock this morning, let alone Maple Hills.”

The woman sighs, placing her hand against her forehead. “This will never do. If I’m not back in Maple Hills by eight o’clock, who will look after the children?”

Stepping forward, James makes himself known. “Oh, swell, have you got yourself a couple of kiddies, miss? That’s the cat’s pajamas.”

The woman shakes her head, her eyes half closed. “No, no, that’s not it. I’m simply a teacher. I work at the school there, first form. So, I must get out of Spruce here and back to Maple Hills by 8 o’clock this morning or the children won’t have anyone to instruct them today.”

“Don’t worry, miss,” James smiles. “It’s fortunate for you that our bank is having an early-morning staff meeting today. It’s one of our boss’ brilliant ideas, you see. He’s had a few of those lately, except it seems he’s the only one who thinks his ideas are brilliant but, on this occasion, it’s put us in a position where we can help you.”

The woman pouts. “Oh really, well, I don’t see how. I’ve barely known any of you for more than three minutes but already your friend here has insulted me. Fancy thinking that I was a man!”

James chuckles, then holds out his hand for her to shake. “Sorry, miss, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and we have also forgotten to introduce ourselves. That’s not very polite is it? But my name is James. That’s James Corsello, mind you, and this here, is my good old friend, Lon, Lon Albers. Now, I know Lon here may seem to you like a bit of a grump, but that’s only because you haven’t known him for as long as I have. You see, Lon and I have never met a female driver before, and when we realised you weren’t a man, we sure were surprised but we didn’t mean to offend you. In fact, I think female drivers are simply berries. I guess that’s why their calling this decade the roaring 20s.”

“Yeah, berries,” Lon says sarcastically, his eyes still glaring.

The woman frowns at Lon again, but her pout softens when she glances at James. She shakes his outstretched hand. “I’m Dorothy and, even so, you said you could assist me, but how does knowing any of this help?”

“Well, Dot, Lon has a brother who works as a mechanic and because of that, Lon here knows exactly how to change a popped tyre. Isn’t that swell, miss?”

Upon hearing the word ‘Dot,’ Dorothy’s shoulders seem to stiffen, but the corners of her mouth take on a slightly upward curve. “Yes, that will definitely help but please don’t call me Dot. I hate that.”

 Chapter Two

“Nope, no way,” Lon says, his mouth frowning as he shakes his head from side to side.

James leans one arm on the top of his golfclub. Then, placing his other hand on his hip, he raises one eyebrow. “No way?”

“That’s right.” Lon nods. “Never again.”

Looking around as if checking to see if anyone has heard Lon’s statement, James laughs. “Ha! Never again? You’re never having a woman ever again?”

Setting his lips straight, Lon nods again, saying, “Yes, you heard me. I don’t want one and I don’t need one.”

James tips his face groundward, then laughs again. “Well, of course, no one wants one but, at some point, everyone does indeed need one.”

Lon shakes his head, saying, “Well, James, take a long, hard look at me because I have never really ever wanted one and I never will need one ever again.”

James shakes his head, a grin still lighting up his face. “Never has wanted one and never will need one,” he repeats.

“That’s right, I’m the exception, and never, in this lifetime, will you catch me with a woman ever again.”

Becoming more serious, James straightens his smile and looks Lon square in the eyes. Pausing, he says, “Well, Lon, as someone who almost, halfway, had one myself, I think you’re either the exception or else you are simply an exceptional fool. I can’t figure out which one.” Pausing again a moment, he scuffs a pivot of grass with his golf shoe. “Imagine not wanting one!”

Coming up behind the two, wearing an argyle vest, Oscar slings his arm around Lon’s neck, placing him in a headlock while mussing up his hair. “Ha! Ha! I’ll hedge my bet on ‘exceptional fool.’”

Lon snorts. “Go chase yourself, Oscar. You couldn’t possibly have heard our conversation from all the way over there.”

Releasing Lon’s head, Oscar smiles. “You’re right, Lon, I couldn’t hear you really but I’ve known you six years and that’s why I say my money is on you being an exceptional fool.”

Lon straightens his hair. Taking a step backwards, he stares at Oscar, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

“Ha! Ha! Only kidding, Lon,” Oscar says. “Can’t you tell a joke when you hear one? Your head’s as straight as anyone’s I know, but I did think I overheard you saying that you ‘didn’t want one.’ Now what’s that all about?”

Smirking, James nudges Lon in the chest with his elbow. “He doesn’t want a dame!”

Oscar’s brow remains furrowed. “A skirt?”

James nods. “Yes, that’s what we’re calling them these days, aren’t we?”

But Oscar glances at Lon, his face serious. “Well, Lon, you know it’s up to you and all that, but I wouldn’t speak with such firmness about such things if I were you because I agree with James. Everyone needs a woman eventually, and I believe your time will come too.”

Pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin, Lon repeats himself. “Well, not me. I’ve dated enough women to know that most of them barely have even a dish cloth between their ears or at least that’s the way they present themselves to me. Take for instance that Dorothy woman from yesterday. What a pill! We tried to help her, but she acted like we were having her strangled.”

This time, James snorts. “Oh, baloney, Lon. She had almost crashed into a tree. Probably, she was only feeling shaken. Likely, if we met her again, under less extreme circumstances, you would find she was a real tomato.”

“Ha! Ha! That gave me a laugh. My bet, on the other hand, is that if she ever showed up here again, under any circumstances mind you, she’d prove herself an even bigger wet blanket then she did on our first meeting her.” 

James smiles, then holds up a slip of paper.  “Then, I guess you don’t want this?”

Lon stares at the paper. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s only Dorothy Swinton’s phone number and address.”

“Dorothy Swinton?” Lon says. That sap from the car accident yesterday? How’d you get her address and number?”

James shrugs his shoulders. “I offered to call her to ensure she made it to school safely and on time.”

Lon furrows his brow. “Why would you bother? But, no, you’re right, I certainly do not want Dottie Swinton’s phone number.”

“Come on,” Lon, Oscar chimes in. “I thought she was a real looker. Grey eyes? Brunette hair?” Then, wiggling his shoulders, as if a spasming shiver is running down his spine, Oscar says, “Phawor! You could do a lot worse.”

Lon smiles. “Well, Oscar, if you find her so attractive, maybe you’re the one who should ask her out? You’re not seeing anyone now are you?”

Oscar shakes his head. “No, Elwyn, ended it. She said she was fed up with driving around in my run-down jalopy. She’s now seeing a guy who gets around town in a breezer.” Oscar shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t compete with that.”

“Well, guys,” James says, “Suit yourselves but I think we’re doing a lot more talking than golfing.” Then, hitching up his tweed plus-fours and straightening his ivy cap, James says, “If I’m wanting to get my handicap as low as Bobby Jones’, wishful thinking I know, we’d better get swinging again before another drop of rain downpours.”  

 Chapter Three

Standing behind the counter at the bank he works at, Lon drums his pen up and down on it. “Come on,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’ve done enough work for one day, now I wish to return home, kick my shoes off and enjoy that thrilling Mystery House radio drama their playing on the wireless now.”

James smiles. “Sounds great but I already have plans.”

“Plans? Doing what?”

James opens his mouth but then closes it, pointing towards a young couple who have, seconds ago, walked through the doors of their bank. “Good afternoon,” James says, “how may I help you?”

“I suppose you remember us?” the male customer says. “I am Mr Weston, and this is my wife, Mrs Weston. We called on the phone earlier about opening a savings account here.

“Yes, of course, my boss, Walter, told me I should expect you. Now, did you bring the required documentation?”

“Yes,” Mrs Weston says, opening her leather purse. “I have it right here.”

Taking the papers from Mrs Weston’s outstretched hand, Lon jumps in, checking the validity of the documents.  “Good,” he says, flicking through the papers. “Good, good, good, everything we need is here.” Then, placing the papers on the counter in front of him, Lon picks up his fountain pen. “Now, you do understand that you must deposit fifteen dollars into the savings account each month? If you don’t, you won’t receive any interest.”

Mr Weston nods. “Yes, we understand.”

“And,” Lon continues, “you can only make one withdrawal per month or else you also won’t earn any interest.”

Mrs Weston smiles. “Yes, Walter told us that on the phone also. We understand how the interest is earned.”

“Fine,” James says, taking charge again. “Well, your documentation seems all in order. So, we’ll get this filed away. Then, give it two business days and your new savings account will be up and paying you interest in no time.

The Westons smile. “Thank you, so much,” the husband says.

James smiles back, “Now any last questions before you go?”

Mr Weston shakes his head. “No, that’s all. Thanks for all the work you’ve done.”

“Right,” Lon chips in, “well, you enjoy the rest of your day then.”

Remaining in place until the Weston’s have exited the front doors of the bank, Lon and James pour themselves a cup of coffee in the staff tea room.

“Keep ticking,” Lon says, eyeballing the clock in the break room.

“Ha! Ha!” Oscar says, coming up behind Lon, then grabbing him in another headlock and mussing up his hair. “Two more happy customers, I hope?”

Lon grimaces. “Oscar, you scoundrel, must you do that? And especially at work? You know, we’re not school boys anymore. We’re verging on thirty-six. Supposing Walter sees us?” Then, answering Oscar’s question, Lon says, “Yes, the Westons are always a delight to deal with. If we do our job well, I suspect they’ll become long-term customers.”

Oscar finally releases Lon’s head, “Ha! Ha! Well, anyway, old chaps, a half hour more, then it’s closing time. But once we clock off, how do you and James feel about knocking back a couple of drinks with me at the bar on Bullewhytch Road?”

Lon looks at his watch. “Well, I had planned on a quiet night in, listening to Mystery House on the wireless, but, sure, sounds great but only, mind you, as long as we get back to my place before Mystery House starts. We can all listen to it together.”

“Ahh! Mystery House,” Oscar, says. “Yes, how about last night’s episode, titled, Dagger in the Dark?”

Lon’s eyes gleam, “Yes, yes, I had thought it was Jean Gordon who had stabbed the murder victim.”

Oscar raises his eyebrows. “Jean Gordon? Really? The adopted daughter of Angus Gordon, the stabbing victim? Why did you think that?”

“Because Jean and Angus were a Scottish singing and dancing duo, but Jean wanted to update their languishing act by moving with the times towards jazz and jive, except Angus wouldn’t have a bar of it.”

Oscar grins. “Same here, I also suspected Jean or else that Mrs Elmer Peabody who divorced Angus, leaving him for a successful bank president, because his and Jean’s struggling Scotch dancing act wasn’t paying the bills. But then, I thought it seemed likely that Jean’s fiance, Peter Vale, was involved.

“How so?” Lon says. “What’s his motive?”

Oscar raises his eyebrows again. “His motive? Angus Gordon disapproved of their engagement.”

Lon nods, then says, “Of course, but, no, no, the whole time, it was Gil Lambert, Elmer Peabody’s lawyer, because he knew Angus had left Elmer $10,000 in his Will, the exact amount that Elmer owed Gil when he loaned her money to live off, after her bank-president husband died.”

Oscar rubs his hands together. “Yes, that was a real clincher and how about that tense organ music playing in the background? So suspenseful. Well, okay Lon, you’ve convinced me. We’ll knock back a couple of drinks, then straight back to your place for some Mystery House. It will help take my mind off my break up with Elwyn.” Then, wriggling his shoulders as if a shiver is running down his spine, Oscar says, “Phawor! She was a real doll all right. If only I’d known how to keep her interest.”

Lon squints one eye closed, then tucks his tongue inside his cheek. “Or if only you hadn’t messed up her pretty hair in one of those dreadful headlocks you enjoy winching my head inside of.

“Ha! Ha!” Oscar says, “Amusing but I’d never do a thing like that to a lady.”

Then, furrowing his forehead, Lon says, “Well, I’m no woman but if you don’t stop gripping my head inside your arms, you might end up losing me too.”

Oscar pauses, creasing his brow as if in deep thought. Then, throwing Lon a sly smile he says, “Well, I’ve thought about it but I can’t see myself stopping that.”

 Chapter Four

Pulling up beside her home, Dorothy turns off her car engine. “Home at last,” she thinks, as she sinks her shoulders into the back of her car seat. Then, glancing  at the clouds overhead, “I’m so glad I have arrived back home all in one piece. I’m not ready to live up in the sky yet, and I’m glad I made it to school on time also, and what if I hadn’t? I shudder at the thought. I pride myself on my punctuality and who would have taught my pupils?”

Then, checking one last time for any damage, she swings open her car door, slides out of the seat and inspects the car’s tyres and fenders. “Good, everything appears fine, and it seems that awful Lon Albers has done an all-right job at patching up my busted tyre also, but, even so, I hope I shall never run into him again. Fancy assuming I’m a man.”

Then, walking briskly, she steps up the three wooden stairs that ascend to her home’s front door, thinking, “But if that rabbit hadn’t skittered across the road, and if my car hadn’t run off the laneway because of it, then perhaps I also wouldn’t have met that other pleasant fellow. Now, what did he say his name was? Jim or Jay? No…James. Yes, Mr James Corsello. Now, he seems like a lovely gentleman.”

Unlocking her front door, Dorothy dumps her red cloche hat and her handbag on a side table beside the door. Stepping towards the corridor that splits her house in two, she stops then turns back towards the side table. “No, even though I’m tired, I can’t leave my bag and hat untidy like that. Why? Because I’m  also known for my cleanliness.”

Dorothy perches her red cloche hat on a decorative wooden peg beside the door. Then, straightening the handbag she placed on the side table under it, she marches back down the corridor, until she reaches her bedroom. Then, Dorothy changes out of her brown middy coat and straight brown skirt, which finishes inches above her ankles, and into a sunburnt-orange lounge suit. “Although, it’s dusk, it’s too early for a night dress. What if someone calls, then I’m standing there in my night dress, slippers and gown? No, no. That’s rude.”

Then, Dorothy falters. Halting her regimented scrambling, she pauses. Her mouth drooping, she thinks, “Well, come to think of it, nobody ever calls. Never at the door and never on the phone either. And I can’t think why. I mean, I’m punctual, I’m clean, I work hard, and I’m always doing something productive.

Dorothy sighs, then drops onto her bed. “What’s wrong with me?” she says out loud. “It seems there’s someone for everyone. Well, Mama Rose never married, I know, and that looks like it will become my story as well, but, is that really how I want to end up also?”

Dorothy sighs again. “Not one man has ever asked me anywhere. Not ever. Not on a walk. Never for a cup of tea. Not even for a chat while sitting on my father’s front porch, when he was still living, and so I guess that means that James Corsello won’t call me either, even though he said he would, not even to check on my safety. I mean, I know he wasn’t saying he’d call because he likes me, but I can still hope.”

Then, sitting on the bed in the dark, Dorothy’s ears prick. What’s that sound?” Turning her head in the direction of the noise she’s hearing, Dorothey’s mouth becomes round. “I don’t believe it. The phone’s ringing, and I know it’s not Mama Rose, the only person who would call if anyone was going to, because she doesn’t own a telephone.

Now, standing beside her own phone, Dorothy slowly picks up the handset. Holding it against her ear, her eyebrows high on her forehead, in a soft, hesitating voice she says, “Hello?”

“Ah! Good evening Dorothy,” the voice on the other end of the line says, “well at least I assume I’m speaking with Dorothy. I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Dorothy says, her voice still sounding uncertain. “And who is this please?”

“It’s James, Mr James Corsello, the fellow who helped you out with your popped tyre this morning.”

Dorothy smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “I don’t believe it,” she thinks. “He actually called. I didn’t think he would.”

“Well,” James says, “I thought I’d better call to see if your new tyre held up all right.”

“Yes, yes, the new one is fine. Thank you so much for your help today.”

“Ah, That’s swell.” Then, taking a deep breath, James asks, “So, Dorothy, do you think you might be coming back up this way again sometime?”

“Yes, I often visit Mama Rose who lives in Conifer.”

“Conifer? That’s not that far away from where I met you this morning, outside the bank I work at in Spruce. Ah yes, Conifer, it’s a pretty place. Your mother must love living there.”

“Oh no, she’s not my actual mother. You see, she never had any children of her own because she has endometriosis, which her doctor told her can affect your fertility. Also, she never met the right man any way, but all the children in my childhood street, including me, called her Mama Rose because, well, because of how she mothered us. She was always cooking us meals if our mothers were ill and sometimes even when they weren’t and she’d buy us sweets and spoil us with toys and many other things. I loved her so, especially since I lost my own mother after she contracted the Manchurian plague while dining with a visiting relative. Hmm, I can barely remember her now. I was so young when she died but father always said she wore rose perfume. He said it was his favourite memory of her, and sometimes I think that I can remember that too. ”

Dorothy pauses. Oops!” she thinks. “Have I told him too much? I mean, I barely know him.

“That’s berries,” James says. “Well, not the part about your mother. I’m so sorry to hear about that, but Mama Rose? Well, she sounds swell.”

James takes another deep breath, then, hesitating, he says, “Anyway, Dot, next time you’re up this way, please give me a call or pop into the bank even because I’d love to see you again.”

Dorothy’s shoulders stiffen, “I told him, I hate it when people call me Dot.” But despite that irritation, Dorothy’s mouth becomes round again. Then as James clunks the handset on his end of the phone line down, stuttering she says, “Of course. Yes, thank you again, Mr Corsello.”

Dorothy stands in silence, still holding the phone against her ear. He wants to see me again? Well, what does he mean, as in romantically or is this simply how he signs off on all his phone calls?

Then, “Maa, maa, maa,” a mournful bleat interrupts her thoughts. Dorothy gasps. Gruffles, my pet miniature goat. Has Johny forgotten to feed you again? I did ask him to feed you while I visited Mama Rose over the weekend. Well, no pocket-money for Johny this weekend. I mean, I don’t know why his mother doesn’t keep on at him. That’s rude. He’ll grow up irresponsible if she doesn’t watch out. Humph, even worse, he might even turn out like Lon Albers.

Heading out the back door, Dorothy continues her rousing. I must feed Gruffles, His stomach must be gnawing him by now.

Filling a silver bucket with alfalfa pellets, Dorothy strides towards a wire-fence enclosure where a miniature brown goat with black ears and a black puddle-shaped patch of fur on its forehead stands, bleating in a pained high-pitch. ”Oh, Gruffles,” she says, lifting the goat up off the ground and cradling it in her arms. “Johny did neglect to feed you, and he didn’t refill your water bucket either.”

Rubbing the goat’s head, as Gruffles chews through the pellets and laps up her replenished water supply, Dorothy says out loud, “Now, don’t get mad at me, Gruffles. It’s not my fault you didn’t get fed yesterday and then only right now. It was the fault of a mischievous rabbit who ran my father’s old car off the road. If that hadn’t happened, I could have lashed Johny with my tongue yesterday for not feeding and watering you over the weekend but nice Mr Corsello put me back on the road again, albeit with the assistance of that dreadful Lon Albers, but I’m home again now, all in one piece, and you can eat until your heart’s content.”

Dorothy waits a moment, as Gruffles chuffs his way through a quarter of the bucket’s feed, then she draws it quickly away again. “Well, maybe not exactly until your heart’s content. I don’t want you getting fat and bloated. Your feed costs a lot, you know, because if I buy you the cheap stuff, you only play with it. So, that’s enough of these high-end alfalfa pellets for you, for now.”

Then, closing the gate of the goat enclosure behind her, Dorothy returns the silver bucket to its place beside the backdoor, saying, “Now, little Johny, where are you? I have some words to say to you, and also to your mother while I’m at it, and I don’t believe either of you will like them.”

 Chapter Five

The next morning, Dorothy roars off towards Maple Hills Public School. Her car bumps over the dirt-packed road. I’m glad the sun is shining, It’s perfect weather for our excursion, today.

“Good morning boys and girls,” she says, barely smiling at the children, on arrival at her classroom. “I hope you all did your homework last night?”

In complete silence, the children nod their heads, their fingers, with white knuckles, clutching their workbooks. Each child there knows they wouldn’t dare come to Miss Dorothy Swinton’s class not having done their homework.

Casting her eyes towards a small boy, sitting in the centre of the room, Dorothy narrows them. “Including you, Johny?”

Johny, her neighbour’s son, with his mouth turned downwards and his eyes dodging hers, nods, saying in a small voice, “Yes, Miss.”

Dorothy arches her eyebrows. “Is that a polite way of talking, Johny? Did your mother teach you to refer to people without using their names? That’s rude! Now, say it again, ‘Yes Miss what?’”

Johny’s mouth inverts deeper. Correcting himself, he says, “Yes, Miss Swinton.”

Perhaps Johny will think twice now before disremembering to feed my little pet goat, she thinks. But out loud, Dorothy says, “Good. Now, in complete silence and I mean complete silence, hand your workbooks to the child beside you, until they reach the person sitting on the end of each row. I’ll walk up the side of the classroom and collect them. Then, we’ll recite our two times multiplication tables.”

“Twice zero is zero,” the children chant as they pass their books to the child sitting adjacent to themselves. “Twice one is one. Twice two is four. Twice three is six.”

“Well done,” Dorothy says, as the children finish their last times table. “Now, that we’ve done our multiplication tables, we can go on our outdoor school excursion. I hope you’ve all looked forward to it.”

“I know I have,” a little girl pipes up, her face beaming. “I love nature study.”

The corners of Dorothy’s mouth stiffly arc upwards, as if attempting a smile, but then, they don’t quite make it, as if realising that although she had said she hoped they were looking forward to it, really, once again, Dorothy expects complete silence. Ignoring the little girl’s remark, Dorothy says, “Now, come here all of you, and take a gardening trowel. You’re to share them, mind you, one trowel between four children, so find a group of four. There shouldn’t be anyone left over.”

Then, after ensuring that each child has found a group and that each group has a trowel, Dorothy hands the captain of each group a glass jar, a rubber-band and some breathable cheesecloth. “As we walk through the town, in complete silence mind you, you’re to use the trowel to dig up any insects we might see along the way. Don’t pick up anything dangerous, mind you. No wasps, no bees, and no spiders. And remember you shouldn’t put every bug you might find in the jar because some bugs eat each other. So, no ladybugs in the same jar as an elephant beetle. That’s cruel. The ladybeetle will go berserk with fright. Then, once you’ve caught it, place the cheesecloth over the mouth of the jar and secure it with the rubber-band. That will stop the bugs from flying off. Then, when we get back to class, you will identify the insects you’ve found, writing down everything you remember learning about them this term, with the group captain reporting your findings to the rest of the class.”

Next, Dorothy walks in front of her class through Maple town, the children following her in two dead-straight lines and still in complete silence. “Now children, keep a sharp look out. Has anyone found anything yet?”

“Yes, I have,” the little girl who expressed excitement about the upcoming excursion says, digging her fingers into the soft soil they walk on and wriggling her fingers in its cool, muddy clay as two shiny pink earthworms writhe with fright, then squirm quickly away.

Next, a brown-banded cockroach dashes over the muddy clods of soil she has freshly turned over. Dorothy scrunches her nose up, but says, “Well done but try catching them before they scamper away.”

Johny, who crouches beside the girl, digs his trowel deeper, pulling up the root system of a plant which results in his throwing two small wolf spiders, the size of popped popcorn, into sight. They scurry between his fingers, bear hug each other, then burrow back under the soil.

“Careful!” Dorothy yelps, clamping her hand on his shoulder, as he falls back onto his haunches. Pausing, Dorothy looks around at the children. ”On second thoughts, mud on your fingers feels grand but we should have brought gardening gloves. That’s safer. Now, don’t pick up those spiders, Johny, or that baby Spadefoot toad over there jumping past your left elbow. I’m sorry children, but that’s the end of this excursion. About face, we’re going home.”

 Chapter Six

Now, standing at the counter of the bar on Bullewhytch Road, Lon orders a stiff, hard drink. “Hey bartender, mix me up an aviation cocktail, won’t you?”

The bartender nods, turns his back, mixes, stirs and shakes, then spins back around, offering Lon a purple-coloured refreshment in a high-ball glass.

“My goodness!” Oscar says, coming up behind him. “What do you call that?”

Lon smiles, holding the drink up high, so Oscar can take a closer look at it. “It’s an aviation cocktail, old fella. Looks ghastly don’t you think? But ladies love its purple hue and as it sounds like you’re on the lookout, I suggest you get one too. It’s a women magnet and a great conversation starter.”

“Applesauce!” Oscar says. “I’m not drinking a purple drink for anyone, not even a dame.”

Lon shrugs his shoulders. “Suit yourself, they taste sour, I know, but there’s a drop of cherry in it also. You see, that sweetens it.”

Oscar grimaces. “Yuck! Cherry flavoured? I’d rather take my chances on a gin fizz.” The bartender nods, turns his back, mixes, stirs and shakes, then turning back around, hands Oscar a clear-coloured drink, cloudy towards the bottom, with cubes of ice and a long, green wedge of lime floating in it. Oscar grins, holding the glass up, as if toasting the bartender. “Ha! Ha! Wow! That’s what I call service.” Oscar swallows a gulp of his drink, then looks sideways at Lon. Shooting him a sly grin, he says, “I thought you were off skirts?”

Lon also swills a swig of his drink. “I am.”

Oscar smiles wider, his eyes narrowing. “Then, why the purple-coloured-women-magnet-conversation-starting drink?”

Lon shrugs. “Well, it’s not for a woman, that’s for sure. The acidity of the drink clears out my sinuses, you see. They’re playing up again today. That’s all.”

Oscar nudges Lon in the chest with his elbow. “Ha! Ha!, Sure, sure.” Oscar drinks another mouthful of his gin fizz, then says, “Do you know what I overheard Walter saying in his office today?”

Lon raises his eyebrows. “Walter, our boss? No, what did you overhear him saying?”

“I heard him say that he believes that singleness after a certain age is a sign of immaturity and constitutes dubiosity about whether an employee is fit for working at the bank.”

“What?” Lon says, his eyebrows shooting even higher up his forehead, almost toppling his Homburg hat off his head. “Well, I’ll be switched. That’s ridiculous! Is this another one of his ‘brilliant’ ideas? Why, he’s single himself.”

Oscar nods, then raises and drops down one shoulder. “You’re right, he is still single. Well, widowed, anyway. So, perhaps you might have to rethink about looking out for a woman of your own after all?”

Lon pauses, then says, “Okay, you’re right. The purple drink is for attracting a woman. I also heard Walter talking. You, me, James, we’re all still on our own and pushing our mid-thirties. He’s not happy about that, a sign of immaturity he said, and I’d say, your propensity for putting my head into a headlock doesn’t help.”

“Where is James, by the way?”

“Beats me. He said he had plans but kept awfully quiet about them.”

“Ha! Ha!” Oscar says, raising his glass in the air, but not adding anything more to the conversation.

Lon glances around the bar. “Well, I guess we should get talking. Let’s see, there’s a leggy redhead over there and a cool blonde by that stained-glass window. Who’s your pick?”

“Nah, nah,” Oscar says, shaking his finger at Lon. “Not them.”  Then, using only his head, he points in the direction of the jazz band playing up on stage. “Now, Phawor!” Oscar says, while wiggling his shoulders as if a spasming shiver is running down his spine, “look at that dame over there in the black sequined flapper dress. Boy! She’s a looker! I’d cover her in ice and place her on a pedestal if I was ever so lucky as to have her accept an invitation from me.”

Lon raises his eyebrows. “Cover her in ice?”

Oscar nods. “Yes, that’s the new lingo for diamonds.”

Lon looks at the woman singing on stage, watching as she snaps her fingers to the bubbly music playing behind her. Lon smirks. “No way, go chase yourself, Oscar, you’ve got Buckley’s chance with her.”

Oscar’s laughing eyes grow serious. “Really, Lon? You think so?”

Lon chuckles, then nods. “I really do, Oscar, she would definitely have an admirer and I’d say he most certainly drives around in a breezer.”

“Ahh,” Oscar says, “those pesky breezers. That’s why Elwyn left me. My poor old jalopy can’t compete with them.” Oscar hardens his face, but then smiles, holding his now empty glass up in the air. “Ha! Ha! Oh, well.”

Lon empties the last drop of his aviation cocktail into his mouth, then bolsters his shoulders. “Okay,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Oscar, “guess I’d better make my way over to that cool blonde by the stained-glass window and introduce myself. “Bartender,” he says, waving the bartender over with two fingers, “I’ll have another aviation cocktail, please.” Then, winking at Oscar, he says, “but this time it’s for the ladies.”

Oscar raises his glass again, while winking back at Lon. “Ahh, the conversation starter. Of course. Of course. Show me how that works.”

But before Lon can wend his way over to the window, the door of the bar in Bullewhytch Road pops open, causing Lon to freeze, his mouth gaping open, while  Oscar chokes on his drink.

“Well, I’ll be switched,” Lon finally says. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Oscar, mopping his bowtie with a hanky, made wet by choking on his drink, nods. “Yes, I believe so because it seems as though it’s not only you and I who have overheard Walters ‘memo.’ It looks like our old friend, James Corsello, has also decided to take up the boss’s advice and pull himself together.”

“But look who he’s with,” Lon says, pointing across the room in Jame’s direction with his eyes wide open.

“It’s that lady from the car accident,” Oscar says.

Pausing, they look at each other, then burst out laughing.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Oscar roars, slapping his thigh with his hand while Lon echoes Oscar’s laughter with a “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

But then, Lon’s laughter evaporates. Turning towards Oscar, a smile playing around his lips, he says, “Hey, Oscar, follow my lead. Let’s have a bit of fun.”

 Chapter Seven

Dorothy steps through the door of The Chilli Pepper Club, on Bullewhytch Road, her eyes shining. I feel like I’m walking on the moon and I’m sure my eyes haven’t looked away from James Corsello’s handsome face this whole evening. Her cheeks warming, Dorothy thinks. I wonder if he’s noticed.

James glances down at Dorothy. “So, this is the music club I was telling you about, he says. “What do you think?”

Unable to drag her eyes away from his face, without looking at her surroundings, Dorothy, her eyes glowing says, “It’s amazing!”

James dips his head down low, edging his ear up towards her mouth. “Sorry, what was that? The music in here could wake the dead.”

Noticing the loud music for the first time, stiffly, the corners of Dorothy’s mouth curve slightly upwards as she tries again. “I love it! I used to play, you know. The soprano saxophone that is. It doesn’t have a curve in it, mind you, not like the alto. It’s simply straight up and down. Except...,” Dorothy lowers her eyes as they moisten, “I haven’t played it since my father died a couple years ago now. In fact, I think I’ve lost it somewhere between here and Conifer while moving to Maple Hills.”

Noting her dampened eyes, James squeezes her arm comfortingly, shooting a flutter of adrenaline through her body. “Swell. I’m glad you like it. Now, what will you have and don’t worry about the price tag because I’m paying. So, pick a drink. Pick any drink.”

Dorothy opens her mouth but before she can reply, James interrupts her. “Uh oh,” he says, “it seems like we have company, Lon and Oscar, my work colleagues, and from the looks of things, we can’t avoid them either because it seems they’ve spotted us also. I’m sorry about this. I thought they would have left by now. They had said they wanted to listen to Mystery House tonight.”

“Well, I’ll be switched,” Lon says as he approaches the pair, “if it isn’t my old chum James Corsello and what’s this? It seems you have a lady friend with you. Now let’s see, what’s her name? Hmm, now if I remember rightly, last week, I heard you talk of a Helene. Oh boy, you said she was a real looker! Then we had a Charlize? No…I mean a Charlotte the week before that. Ah, yes, what a tomato! And I think I even recall meeting a Constance here but you’re not Constance are you?” Then, Lon takes a close look at Dorothy’s face. “Well, I’ll be switched,” he says. “Why, I think we’ve met before.” Looking up at the ceiling, Lon places one index finger on his chin. “Hmm,” he says, “Lottie? Um…no…aha! I remember now.”

Dorothy’s shoulders stiffen. Don’t say it. Don’t say it, she thinks.

Lon smirks. “Ah! why your name is Dottie.”

“Ha! Ha!” Oscar says, raising his glass in the air as if he’s completely oblivious of Lon’s smirk or Dorothy’s newly stony demeanour. “That’s it, you’re Dottie, the female driver who ran her jalopy off the road outside our bank in Spruce. Lovely meeting you again, miss, but please excuse me, there’s a captivating skirt that I am simply dying to speak to.”

As Oscar exits the group huddle, Lon smirks again. “So, Dot, how’s the car going? Hope the tyre I patched up for you held up okay?”

Dorothy, her eyes glaring, her lips a thin line, nods. “Yes, I made it all the way to school and then home again in the afternoon, thank you, but, Mr Albers, last time we met I believe I told you that I don’t enjoy it when people shorten my name down to Dot. I mean, who wants to get referred to as a small round spot, a speck on a slip of paper or an unsightly mark on a spoiled piece of clothing? I mean, I’m sure you wouldn’t like it, would you?”

Lon tilts his head to one side, his face growing serious. “Hmm, well I’ll be switched. I never thought about it like that, but yes, I see your point.” Lon smirks. “Get it?” he says. “Point? Dot?”

James shoots Lon a look, while all the while Dorothy’s mouth remains a flat line.

“But anyway,” Lon continues. “Blimey! A female driver? Who would ever have thought. But I hope that’s not the reason you ran your car off the road now. Well, anyway, blimey! A female driver.”

For a while, Lon carries on his belittling soliloquy referring to Dorothy as Dorothy but, gradually, his banter disintegrates, reverting back to calling Dorothy Dot and sometimes even Dottie.

Dorothy clasps her hands together, clenching her fingers tight. Stay calm, she thinks to herself. You don’t want James seeing you mad. But then, Lon’s ranting becomes all a little too much for Dorothy and scrunching her mouth sideways, she lets loose. “Now, look here, Lon,” she says, shoving her index finger in his face. “I’ve told you once and now again twice, that no one has my permission to shorten my name down to Dot or even Dottie and as for your crack about my driving, well, no, my femininity has nothing to do with my car popping a tyre and then running off the road. If you must know, a rabid rabbit bounded across my path and, as I happen to love animals, I swerved, almost landing in a ditch.”

Turning on her heel, Dorothy glares at James. “Nice friend,” she says before walking towards a sign that says: Powder Room.

James, throwing Lon a blazing stare, follows Dorothy. “Now, come on Dorothy, don’t be like that. I don’t want to take you home just yet.” Then, James, takes her hand in his, stroking it with his fingers. “Come on, Dorothy,” he says, soothingly. “Lon’s not a bad guy. In fact, I’ve never seen him act like this before. Usually, he’s the bee’s knees and a real gentleman, and as I’ve told you before, I love female drivers. I think their berries.”

Drying her eyes with a hanky, Dorothy’s mouth flattens again into a steely straight line. “James, when I’ve finished freshening up, we’re leaving.” Then, placing one hand on the powder room door, Dorothy pushes it ajar, but, pausing before she goes in, she looks back at James saying, “Oh, and James, from now on, I don’t want you or anyone else calling me Dot, Dottie or even Dorothy. I discussed it with Mama Rose before I came out tonight. In fact, we’ve discussed it for a while now, and I’m changing my name.  From now on, you may call me Joy and no other name.”

James scratches his head. “Joy? Now come on, Dorothy, think this over.” But before he can say anymore, two women appear. The shortest one smiles. “Excuse me,” she says. “We must use the powder room.” So, apologising, James steps sideways and out of their way.

 Chapter Eight

Returning to where Lon stands, James shoots him another glare. “Now, why’d you have to carry on like that for?”

Lon squints his eyes. “What do you mean?

James presses Lon’s shoulder with his fingers. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve worked Dorothy up into a terrible mess. Now, she wants to leave early and you even have her thinking about changing her name from Dorothy to Joy.”

Lon guffaws. “Joy? She’s changing her name to Joy?” But then, Lon ducks his head down and motions for James to do the same.

“What’s the matter?” James says.

Lon squints. “I think I saw Walter across the room. I don’t want him mingling with us after work. I’ve had enough of his ‘brilliant ideas’ and anyway I like keeping relationships with my work superiors separate from my friendships.”

James, who had crouched down low also, following Lon’s instructions, straightens himself back up again. “What are you talking about? I thought Walter was a prohibitionist.”

Lon nods but remains bent low. “He is but he hasn’t worked out how to keep off the liquor himself. I think that’s why he has become a prohibitionist.”

Momentarily forgetting that he’s angry with Lon, James slaps his thigh with his hand. Wheezing with laughter, James wipes tears from his eyes. “A prohibitionist with a drinking problem? That’s a good one.” Then, noticing, that Dorothy has left the powder room and is now walking back towards the pair, James tries flattening his smile but doesn’t succeed.

“Now,” Lon says, also straightening himself back up but facing James and not the powder room, “about this business of Dorothy changing her name to Joy. Well, isn’t that a misnomer if ever I heard one? I mean she’s so stern. In fact, she’s the least joyless person I’ve ever known. If she’s thinking of changing her name, well, why doesn’t she consider changing it to Bernice?”

Coming up from behind James, with two women in tow, Oscar says, “Bernice? Now, what’s this all about? Who’s Bernice? Is she that blond girl you were going to talk to?”

Ignoring his presence, Lon says to James, “Yeah, change it to Bernice, then everyone could call her Bernie; Sternie Bernie.”

As Lon is finishing his sentence, Dorothy walks in on their conversation. Pressing her lips tightly together, she looks at Lon, then looks at Oscar and, lastly, looks over at James. Noting his wide smile, spread all over his face, and the tears which still stream down his cheeks, Dorothy glares at him. “Sternie Bernie?” she says at last. “Well, James, if that’s really what you think of me, perhaps I should call this night over.” Then, her chin wobbling and her eyes misting, she turns to leave.

Within a split second, James’ smile disappears. “Dorothy! I mean, Joy! I mean, Dorothy! I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at Walter, my boss, and don’t mind Lon because he’s drinking. I’m sure his rude behaviour is simply due to that.”

Dorothy pauses. “Drinking?” Then, glancing around the room, she stares at the band, next at the bar and then at the stained-glass window on the wall opposite her, noticing for the first time, that The Chilli Pepper Club is secretively located in the basement of the building she and James entered earlier that night and so, the stained-glass window isn’t real, but merely glued on.

Staring at Lon’s purple drink, Dorothy draws her shoulders up high. Then, pointing at his Beveridge, she says, “That’s a cocktail, and this is a bar. I only noticed it right now. I guess I was so infatuated with James, I didn’t take a close look at my surroundings.” Then, Dorothy faces James, her eyebrows crossed. “You said this was a music club. How could you bring me to a bar? Not only is this a bar, it’s a speakeasy, which is an illegal bar. It’s illegal because it’s now against the law to make, sell or even ship alcohol around the country.  Speakeasies are often owned by gangsters like Baby Face Nelson and Al Capone, and they attract hoboes, prostitutes, gang wars and even murderers. The owners bribe police and government officials to keep quiet about their illegal sale of alcohol and that’s why, although this bar is illegal, the band’s still playing at full volume. They know no one is coming to arrest them but, covering all bases, some bars still have a secret knock or a password as added security to avoid raids.” Thinking a moment, Dorothy continues. “Thinking back, you thumped a coded knock on the door when we arrived. It didn’t occur to me because I was so strung out by my feelings for you but now, I remember. You did two slow knocks and then three quick ones and when a panel in the door slid open, you winked at me, saying to the person inside, ‘She’s a doll,’ but you weren’t complimenting me, were you? Instead, you were simply uttering a secret password.”

Now, staring at the tall, round bar table in front of them, which Lon has placed his drink on, Dorothy pulls a lever, on the underside of the table’s surface, that she has suddenly spied. In the blink of an eye, Lon’s purple-coloured drink, falls through a flap in the wooden table, which slides open when Dorothy pushes the lever and then slams shut when she releases pressure on it, disappearing down the seemingly hollow centre of the bar table’s stand. Dorothy gasps. “I’ve heard about these,” she says.

Looking in all directions, Dorothy freaks out, babbling as if Al Capone and his gangster buddies are lurking somewhere in the shadows of the underground room. “I don’t feel safe here. This is illegal. I’m leaving.” James attempts to follow her, but during a moment of coherency, Dorothy faces him, this time sticking her finger in his face. “And don’t you follow me either, James Corsello,” she says. “You’re the one who brought me here. That’s rude!”

“But Dorothy,” James says, his voice sounding lame. “I think you’re swell and a real tomato and I think women drivers are simply berries.”

Her eye flashing, Dorothy pauses one more time before leaving. “And you know what else is rude? All this slang you people keep using. I mean, swell, jalopy, skirt, blimey, guys, bee’s knees, tomato and even berries? What does it all mean? How’s anyone supposed to know what anyone is talking about anymore these days?”

Chapter Nine

James tips his face towards the floor, then slumps his shoulders. “Aw, Lon, why’d you have to do that?” Then, gripping Lon’s upper arm, James tugs him towards the door of the bar in the basement. “Come on, I think you’ve had far too many of those violet-coloured cocktails. Now, let me take you home before you cause any one else any more trouble.”

But Lon slips his arm out from Jame’s grasp. “James, I haven’t had too much to drink. In fact, I’ve only had one aviation cocktail this whole evening. Then, pointing at the blond lady still sitting over by the stained-glass window, Lon says, “The other one, that Dorothy disposed of, was for that woman sitting over there.”

Morose, James doesn’t look. Instead, he raises his eyebrows. “You’ve only had one drink tonight? Well, Lon, how do you explain your behaviour?”

Lon furrows his brow. “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”

Looking Lon full in the face for the first time since Dorothy left, James nods his head. “Yes, Lon, I fancied her and now you’ve spoilt it. Where will I ever meet another girl like her again? I didn’t even get to kiss her.”

The furrow in Lon’s brow deepens. Glancing over at Oscar, the two stare at each other, their mouths ajar. “You can’t be serious,” Lon finally says. “Like I said, she’s so stern. Did you see her when she smiled tonight or should I say when she attempted a smile. Only the corners of her lips curved upwards and only slightly and with great stiffness. The whole time, I felt like I was watching the tinman, you know, from that book called The Wizard of Oz.”

Oscar nods his head slowly. Omitting his characteristic Ha! Ha! he says, “It’s like she needs a squeeze of oil in each cheek to help her complete the effort.”

Lon nods also. “Yes, and then she’d rub those corners of her mouth with one index finger on each side, as if the struggle was causing them to ache and as if she hasn’t smiled in an extremely long time.”

“Well, for all you know,” James says, “maybe she hasn’t smiled in a long time and that’s how you treated her and I don’t know how you could describe her as stern. This whole evening, she behaved so tender and sweet towards me, and, Lon, I never noticed her smile because the whole night, the only thing I ever saw was her eyes and how they shone in the moonlight as we walked along the pavement beside the lamppost-lined stream before we came to The Chilli Pepper Club.”

“James,” Lon says, placing one hand on each of James’ shoulders. “You’re talking nonsense. You always see the best in people. That’s a wonderful trait but it has landed you in trouble over the years.”

“Yes,” Oscar agrees, “remember that customer who handed you a fake cheque at the bank? You didn’t notice it because you believe the best of people. And what was all that nonsense Dorothy was saying about using 1920s slang. I mean, I didn’t hear her saying thee or thou or even speaking like Charles Dickens, as she seems to think we still should. Times are changing. By the way,” Oscar says winking at Lon, then pointing at the two women standing beside him, “this is Dellouise Rutherford, the jazz singer from up on stage, and it turns out she has a beautiful younger sister, named Delia.”

Lon winks back at Oscar, thinking, Hmm, perhaps Delia will do as a replacement for that cool blond over by the window who, I now see, is leaving and with another man. Lon throws Delia a cheery smile. “Good evening, Delia,” he says. “You should have seen the drink I held in my hand just now, right up until I placed it on this table here.” Raising his eyebrows in the air, Lon says, “It was purple, you know.”

James sighs. Then, not noticing the girls and without smiling, he says, “Well, guys, that’s it for me for tonight. I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow morning, that is if I can drag myself in.”

Lon and Oscar gawk at James as he leaves, while Dellouise and Delia stare at the floor, their cheeks pink, looking uncomfortable, having seen everything that transpired that night from the Sternie-Bernie remark Lon made to Dorothy storming out and then James’ despondent departure.

 Chapter Ten

Back outside, standing on Bullewhytch Road, Dorothy’s eyes cloud with water before releasing a deluge of tear drops. Thank goodness no one walking past has noticed my tears. They can’t see them because the rain, which sent James and I inside the Chilli Pepper Club in the first place, is still cascading.

Then, back in Conifer, sliding out of the taxi she has caught home, Dorothy opens the gate of Mama Rose’s house and walks up the pathway that leads to the front door. As she pulls out the key Mama Rose gave her earlier that evening, for in case she arrived back after Mama Rose had gone to bed, Dorothy thinks, I’m so stupid. How could I have thought that someone like James could ever care for someone like me, a grown woman who, before tonight, had never gone on a date before because no one had ever asked.

Then, inserting the key into the lock of Mama Rose’s front door, she enters the house, flinging her red cloche hat and handbag on the floor. Although usually impeccably tidy, tonight, I don’t care.

Mama Rose pops through the kitchen doorway and into the house’s entrance hall her mouth smiling wide and her eyes gleaming. “So? How did it go?” Then, noticing Dorothy’s wet eyes, hair and clothes and her downturned mouth, Mama Rose’s smile fades also. “Oh,” she says, her eyes looking worried, “did something awful happen tonight? Should we talk about it?

Dorothy sniffs, then shakes her head. Without saying a word, she walks towards the back door and although the rain has only stopped momentarily and the night sky still appears foggy, she steps through Mama Rose’s backyard, searching, in the dark, for the leafy-green walnut tree she left Gruffles tied up under right before she left for her date with James. Then, kneeling in the mud, cradling the miniature goat in her arms, hugging him tight as a fresh set of tears soaks her eyes, mournfully, Dorothy says, “Gruffles, it was awful. Everyone laughed at me. Sternie Bernie, indeed.”  Furrowing her face in his dewy brown fur, she stays that way a while. I’m so glad I brought you with me to Mama Rose’s house this weekend because I’m sure Johny would have forgotten to feed you again but I’m glad it’s me who’s suffering this time and not you.

In the morning, Dorothy stays in her nightdress for much longer than normal and doesn’t comb her tangled hair. Around lunch time, she finally speaks. “Mama Rose,” Dorothy says, “I met one of James’ friends last night, and he said that my desire to change my name from Dorothy to Joy was a misnomer if ever he had heard one.” Lowering her voice, mimicking Lon’s baritone speech, Dorothy says, “He also said, ‘She’s so stern and the least joyless person I’ve ever known. If she’s thinking of changing her name, why doesn’t she consider changing it to Bernie, Sternie Bernie.’” Looking at Mama Rose, Dorothy says, “Can you believe that, Mama Rose? He thinks I’m stern.”

Mama Rose smiles but her eyes avoid Dorothy’s. Finally, Mama Rose says, ”I’m so sorry, Joy, that you had to experience something like that on your first night out with a man.”

Dorothy stares at Mama Rose, inspecting her face. Then, her mouth drops open. “Mama Rose! You agree with him. You think I’m stern also.”

Biting her lower lip, Mama Rose doesn’t answer.

Rising, still not caring how she looks and still wearing her slippers, Dorothy puts her brown middy coat over her night dress and her red cloche hat over her knotted hair. Stepping outside, she walks down the quiet street Mama Rose lives on, not meeting anyone. Mama Rose thinks I’m stern also, she rouses. And after everything I do for her. I mean, I’ve stayed over almost every weekend all this time, since transferring to Maple Hills, because I know that with her endometriosis and the migraines she regularly endures, she finds doing the yard work on her own incredibly difficult, plus she’s sixty-three now.

But then, Dorothy reflects on her life since leaving Conifer, remembering the day she first met Lon and how upset she had felt when he had assumed she was a man and not a woman. She remembers how annoyed she felt when James had called her Dot and how severely she had slashed Johny and his mother after he had forgotten to feed her pet goat while visiting Mama Rose. I guess, he’s only eight. Oh dear, I’ve been so hard on him and expected too much from him. Perhaps, I should ask Aldyth instead. After all, she’s fifteen.

Musing further, Dorothy remembers how she had treated the nature-study excursion she’d taken her class on as if it were a cross-country military march rather than as something the school children should enjoy and how she had gone off at James and his friends for using the new 1920s lingo. Hmm, maybe Lon and Mama Rose are right. Perhaps, I am stern. Well, at least I now know what’s wrong with me and why, up until recently, no man has ever asked me anywhere, not ever. Not on a walk. Never for a cup of tea and not even for a chat while sitting on my father’s front porch, when he was still living.

Dorothy stops walking, then places her hands on her hips, saying, “So, what am I going to do about that? Then, back at Mama Roses’, Dorothy says, “Mama Rose, I’m so sorry I stormed off on you like that. I went for a walk and I reflected on everything that has happened in the last few weeks, and I think you’re right and Lon is also. I am a stern person, but I don’t mean to be. You see, I’ve found it hard growing up without a mother, although you did step in and did an amazing job at almost completely filling that gap in my heart. And then, father died also, from that terrible wheeze. I felt completely lost and alone, but then, I had to move away from you and Conifer, transferring to Maple Hills, which I know really isn’t that far. And then there’s school, where the principal and the children’s parents demand that teachers keep their students behaviour under complete control but because the government has now banned child labour and made schooling compulsory for all children aged between five and fourteen, the classrooms are jampacked and the recent influx of immigrant European children, with their poor English-speaking abilities, also hasn’t helped with the overcrowding issue either and its flow-on effect on the children’s poor behaviour. But the government has also outlawed corporal punishment, and, instead, we must use ‘moral persuasion’ and ‘maternal instincts’ to elicit good behaviour. But, Mama Rose, if I smile and express affection towards the children, will the students still respect me? Will it produce the orderly behaviour their principal, parents and I desire? I have no idea.”

Mama Rose smiles. “Don’t worry, Joy, I’m not mad about you walking out on me but I do think some softer speech and behaviour wouldn’t go astray. Try something new, like I told you last spring, perhaps by reading that Bible I gave you, years ago now, and instead of casting your cares onto yourself; your work; that silly goat, Gruffles; and even on me, although I’m still more than happy to keep hearing them, cast all your cares onto God. Afterall, he’s the only one, really, who can do anything about them.”

 Chapter Eleven

Knock. Knock. Knock. James Corsello knocks loudly on the white-painted door before him, then waits. I shouldn’t have come to work today or, for that matter, yesterday either but Walter expects reliability from his bank employees. So, here I am. Momentarily, the white door opens a crack, as if the occupant on the other side can only handle a slither of sunlight from entering into the darkened house.  Wishing he was at home with a pillow over his head, James says, “Good morning, I’m from the bank.”

“Oh,” the voice inside the darkened house replies, “well, we don’t want anything, thank you, and I’m not feeling well, as I told you, so please don’t persist.”

As the door starts to close, James speaks more insistently. “No, sorry, mam, please don’t close the door yet.  It’s urgent. My boss, Walter, has sent me around here because he believes you may have encountered a clever scam artist.”

The person on the inside of the darkened house hesitates, then swings the door wide open. Shielding her eyes with both hands, blocking the blinding sunlight from entering them, an older woman, wearing sunglasses, says, “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

“Good morning mam, I’m Mr James Corsello, I’m from the bank in Spruce, only one suburb over. Look, here’s my ID,” James says, holding it up for her to see.

“James Corsello,” the woman says, reading the name slowly. The woman pauses, then says, “I think I’ve heard that name before. Then, she gasps. “Could it really be?”

James nods, saying, “Yes, mam, it’s me,” but, inside his head, he thinks, What is this old woman on?

Then, a gradual grin spreads across the woman’s face. “Well, Mr Corsello, I have a splitting migraine, but I have a friend here, well, really she’s like a daughter, who could answer any questions that you might have.”

“That’s swell, could you send her to the door or, if it’s more convenient for her, may I come in?”

“No, no,” the woman says still smiling that peculiar smile. “She’s in the backyard, down near the walnut tree. I don’t own a dog or anything, so don’t worry, you won’t get bitten.”

James thanks the strange older woman, then makes his way over to the side gate of the house. Then, opening the gate, he thinks, Now, what the heck does a walnut tree look like. But James doesn’t need to know, because straight away, he spots a brown-haired woman wearing a red cloche hat, a brown middy coat and a straight-up-and-down ankle-length brown skirt. Blimey! She’s cradling a goat in her arms. Then, as he approaches the woman, she turns around, revealing her identity. James stops, immobilised, his mouth wide open.

“James!” the woman says, her face turning white. “What are you doing here?”

“Dorothy? I mean, Joy. I mean…Dorothy? Well, I could ask you the same question. I mean, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Dorothy says, her face turning from ghost-white to bright red. “I have every right to be here. This is Mama Rose’s house. She’s like a mother to me.”

James opens the folder he has been carrying under his arm, saying, “It says here, Miss Roslyn Fetterman.” James pauses, then scratches his head. “Well, of course,” he says slowly, “Roslyn, Rose, Mama Rose. Well, it sounds like you’re not the only woman around here who changes her name from time to time. Well, kind of, anyway.”

Her face still red, Dorothy stares at the folder James holds in his hand. Then, squinting her eyes, she says, “What is that? And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing here. How did you find me?”

“I’m here on business. My boss sent me here. It’s another one of Walter’s ‘brilliant’ ideas. You see, a con artist is preying on older women in this area, and he’s worried Roslyn Fetterman, I mean Mama Rose, I mean Roslyn Fetterman might be one of them. He goes by the name of Stanley Flear and sometimes Arthur Turner but his real name is Oliver Frank. He’s selling encyclopedias door-to-door but he’s not genuine. Don’t ever give him access to your bank account.”

“Well,” Dorothy says, “I’m sure Mama Rose wouldn’t have. You see, she never buys anything from door-to-door salesmen.”

“Oh, well, it’s only because we don’t have her phone number in our records, so that’s why my boss sent me here in person.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have her phone number, would you? I mean, she doesn’t own a telephone.”

“Ah,” James says. “That explains it then. Well, I’m sorry, we didn’t realise.”

Then, standing with his arms crossed, James stares at the sky, while Dorothy stares at the ground. Standing in awkward silence for a moment, James takes a deep breath, breaking the dead air by saying, “So, Joy, I thought you’d be at school today. I mean, it is Wednesday.”

Dorothy avoids his eyes. “Well, normally I would be, but I’ve had a cold the last couple of days. You see, I’m fine now but I got drenched in the rain.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Drenched? It hasn’t rained since the last time we saw each other, the night of The Chilli Pepper Club.”

“Yes,” Dorothy says, sputtering. “Well, I didn’t want Gruffles here, my pet goat, spending all night in the downpour, so I fetched him in from this walnut tree, moving him over to that run down barn over there. Then, instead of Gruffles becoming drenched, I ended up wet myself.”

“Oh,” James says, but Dorothy’s sputtering and the way her face flames from bright red into absolute crimson leads him to believe that there’s more to that story. “Well,” he says, tipping his Ivy hat at Dorothy, “I guess I’d better get back to work then.” James turns on his heel but before he makes it back to the side gate, he turns back around again. “Joy! I’ve been calling you all weekend. I even considered turning up on your doorstep in Maple. I didn’t realise that you’ve been here all this time. But, Joy, that night at The Chilli Pepper Club? I really wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at Walter, my boss. I think you’re swell and a real tomato…I mean, I think you’re brilliant and lovely and absolutely wonderful. You see, I’ve never met a woman like you. I mean you drive, you teach a class, you play the saxophone, you look after Mama Rose, and, well, heck, I mean, well…” James fumbles for a word to replace the word ‘heck’ without using a slang word but fails. “Well,” he finally says, “you’re even cuddling a pet goat. I mean, who else in Conifer, Spruce or even Maple Hills for that matter, owns a pet goat?”

Her eyes shining like they did down by the lamppost-lined stream in Spruce, Dorothy crouches, placing Gruffles back onto the ground. “It’s okay, James,” she says, straightening back up again and taking his hand. “You can say ‘heck.’ Lon’s right. I am too stern, but I don’t want to be like that anymore.” Then, slipping a small, red New Testament out from her skirt pocket and holding it up for him to see, she says, “I’m learning new things. In fact, I’ve even learned a little slang.” Her cheeks turning pink, Dorothy looks at the ground, then stares into James’ eyes. “You know, James,” she says, “I think you’re pretty swell also and a real tomato.”

James chuckles.

Her eyes growing timid again, Dorothy says, “What?”

“Nothing,” he says but Dorothy keeps staring. “A tomato is an attractive woman, James says. “I was kind of hoping I came across as a bit more masculine than that.”

“Oh, you do,” Dorothy says, holding his hand tighter.

James smiles. “Then, I think perhaps the word you’re searching for is sheikh.”

“Sheikh,” Dorothy says, saying the word slowly.

James nods, still smiling.

Encircling James with her arms, Dorothy says, “Then, James Corsello, I think you’re a real sheikh.”

James laughs once again, then kissing her mouth he says, “Aw, Joy, that’s swell.”

 

These things I have spoken to you,
that My joy may remain in you,
and that your joy may be full.
John 15:11

And do not be drunk with wine,
in which is dissipation;
but be filled with the Spirit,
Ephesians 5:18

Gospel Invitation
Have you ever told a lie, stolen, or used God’s name as a swear word? Have you ever lusted, which Jesus said is the same as adultery; or hated, which the Bible says is the same as murder? If so, in God’s eyes you are a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterous, murderer at heart! In other words, you are a big sinner!

The Bible says if you sin, even just once, you can’t go to Heaven and that there is nothing you can do to earn His forgiveness. No good works, not even praying, fasting, giving money to charity, wearing special clothes or doing special stretches and breathing can erase your sins. But, there is good news! God loves you and has made a way for you to be forgiven through faith and grace!
Imagine a man is in court. He has been found guilty of murder, but the judge just forgives him and lets him go. Would that be okay? No! The judge would be corrupt and would have to be judged himself. God is not corrupt. So, this is not how God forgives us.

Now, imagine YOU are in court. You have been found guilty of serious crimes. The judge says your penalty is to pay a fine of $25,000. You don’t have the money so he sends you to jail instead. Then, someone you don’t know pays the $25,000 for you. Would you still need to go to jail? No! The fine has been paid, so in God’s court you are forgiven and freed. This is how God forgives us.
In real life, though, the penalty for sin is not money. In real life, the penalty for sin is death. 2000 years ago, Jesus died on the cross in your place paying your death penalty. Now, if you trust Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross is enough to cover your sin and repent (turn from sin), you can be forgiven and receive eternal life.

Find out more at www.livingwaters.com

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