An Idyllic Summer Day

(Copyright 1997, 2012 Dee Fairbanks Simpson - unpublished)
    

She stared off into the road ahead. She was at the crest of a hill with a lush green valley sprawling out in front of her. She clutched the steering wheel and tried to remember how she got there. As she began stepping on the brake and pulling the car off to the side of the road, she thought, “Is this the Berkshires? Is this the valley on route 9 by his parent’s house?” No, there were just gentle rises, it wasn’t the mountains at all. The sun was shining brightly and she guessed that it was about noon.

She stopped the car and let it idle for a few minutes. The tank was full. There were candy bar wrappers, soda cans, papers, her briefcase, and some Clementine peels on the floor. The car looked lived in, not really any different than usual.

She looked off to her right and saw some cows grazing in a field. A bull was slowly meandering towards the herd, and she watched intently as he made his way, waiting to see how the bovine drama would play out.

Her mind gradually became more focused on her surroundings. The radio was playing softly, as if waking from a dream, she recognized the sounds of the Doobie Brothers playing “Taking it to the Streets”. She cringed, she hated the song. Where she was didn’t bother her so much as why her radio was playing such horrifyingly bad music. She reached over and turned the dial.

Suddenly, a memory: She is alone in the car late on a Friday night. She is driving down Storrow Drive. The river is on the right side of the car. She sees the hospital and thinks of Tim, arguing vehemently with him about which side of the river the hospital was on and being wrong. Something about Tim and the airport and Chicago and a train, a departure, a welcome home.

She sat in the car for a few more minutes, trying to piece it all together. She turned off the motor and put the key in battery mode so she could listen to the radio. She changed the station, trying to find some news, weather, sports, any indication of where she was. Just music, most of it bad. Not bad enough to be the south, not good enough to be Boston. Not country, not rock, just something lost, in-between. Oldies but mediocrities. She stopped the dial at Abba’s Dancing Queen and began laughing.

Another memory: Sometime late 1970s. A lovely blonde woman wearing Foster Grants mirrored sunglasses. They are at the seashore standing in tall, waving beach grass, they are wrestling over something in her hand and someone takes a picture. They are laughing, joyous, joyful, Joy. Another name.

She turned the key all the way off, and leaving the key in the ignition, she opened the door and got out of the car. There were no other cars on the road. There was no line down the middle, it was just a long, thin strip of black tar. She looked behind her, and saw that wherever she came from looked much the same as the road ahead. More pastures, more valleys, more sun. It was warm, and she realized her heavy Polartec sweatshirt was inappropriate for the climate.

Another memory: It is winter, there is snow on the ground. She is driving on Memorial Drive with her father. He is telling her she drives like a maniac, she is threatening to leave him in a snow bank. He cannot drive and she is taking him to a hospital for some tests. He is trying to feed her cookies while she is driving and they are both laughing.

She stepped off the road into the grass. There was no fence. The cows were off in the distance and appeared to know better than to stray too close to the road. The sweatshirt did not feel right. It was tight, and the sun was so warm. She took off the sweatshirt and without thinking, took off her t-shirt, bra, jeans, boots and underwear. She let the clothes fall into the grass and began walking though the pasture. She didn’t know why, but she was sure this is what she was supposed to be doing. She walked a little further into the field and lay down in a patch of soft, velvet clover. She stared up at the sky. She felt the sun warming her body, and she watched the clouds form shapes. A marshmallow, a kitty, a clown, a steel girder.

Another memory: She is driving on Storrow Drive, a radio is playing, it is cold, she is thinking of Tim’s eyes when out of nowhere a car, an overpass, a piece of steel pierces her skull.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and convinced herself that was not a memory. She rolled over onto her tummy and looked at the grass. The sweet smell filled her senses and she breathed deeply and snorted.

Tim, Dad, Joy. The names and faces fell into place, and then suddenly began to fall away; a friend, a parent, a sister. Slipping away. She didn’t want to lose them but at the same time, she knew it was inevitable.

She opened her mouth and took a bite of grass. She chewed it for a long time and it was good. She lifted her head and saw the herd off in the distance and with a heave rose up on her four legs. She swatted a fly with her tail and began meandering towards the herd. The sun was still at high noon, and it felt warm and loving on her hide. As she joined the herd, she became aware that she was being watched. She turned her head to see the bull approaching her from behind. She waited for him and mooed softly in anticipation.

“There are worse things,” she thought to herself, “than being taken by a bull on an idyllic summer day.”

Stench

(Copyright 1993, 2012 Dee Fairbanks Simpson - from unpublished manuscript "Confessions of a Fat Starving Artist")


That smell. She recognized it, but did not dare open her eyes. She laid in the bed, frozen. I know that smell, she thought. But from where? The paper mills in Erving… in summer. She remembered the smell was so putrid, even with the car windows closed, it was nearly impossible to suppress the gag reflex. The chemicals, the rotting pulp, it would hang stagnant in the air like a fog over the entire town.

No, she thought. It’s not the paper mills, it’s worse. As the stench grew stronger and closer, she shut her eyes tighter as her mind raced furiously. A memory - That truck stop bathroom in Ohio. She had been driving for four hours straight and had to pee so bad that it ached. She had pulled into the truck stop and ran to the rest room. When she opened the restroom door, it hit her. The smell of urine and feces and possibly a dead animal or two. She gasped for air and the smell invaded her mouth. She began to choke as she slammed the door shut and ran back to her car, still gasping for air. She couldn’t relieve herself – she held it till she got to Pennsylvania, and eventually had to burn the clothes she was wearing that day.

Is that what this smell is? No she thought, perhaps…

“Good morning, honey”, his deep sweet voice murmured. She opened her eyes and saw him, suddenly realizing what it was. She turned her head away as he softly slipped his hand up her nightshirt and began stroking her left breast.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, pushing his hand away, “not now – you have morning breath.”

The Tale of Wanda the Wicked

(Copyright 2006, 2012 Dee Fairbanks Simpson)


Once upon a time there lived an old woman with her old husband in an old house in an old, old forest. She peered through gold opera glasses between the curtains to the mulberry bush on the front lawn.

“George?”

“George,” she repeated, not waiting for answer. “What’s on the bush? I think it’s a bluebird, it looks like a bluebird! Can you hear it chirp? It sings like a bluebird! It must be a bluebird.”

George sat motionless in the rocking chair in the corner. Without looking up, he replied, “Can’t be a bluebird. It’s only January and…”

“Yep, it’s a bluebird alrighty,” she interrupted, still looking through the glasses. “My Spring Come Early spell must have worked!” She lowered the glasses and squinted out the window. “My children will be here soon,” she exclaimed, sighing heavily and wiping a tear of joy from her eye.

“No, Wanda Jean,” George said. “It is still only January. It is cold, it is not springtime. Your children are far away. Your spells never work.” His voice trailed off; this was a conversation they had had every winter for 50 years and he knew it was a lost cause.

“We must begin preparations at once,” said Wanda spinning quickly, losing her balance and clutching the back of a wooden ladder back chair to regain it.  “Prepare the feast,” she shouted, to no one in particular.

George, still sitting in the rocker sighed. “What shall I prepare?”

“Oh!” Wanda exclaimed. “We must have bread and stew and sugar cookies! And cider and  wine!” She hobbled to the corner where George sat. She offered her hand to help him up out of the rocker, but instead he pulled her down into the chair onto his lap.

“Not now, you old fool,” she laughed, not meaning it; in 50 years she had never turned down a quick smooch from her beloved.

The next morning, when they awoke, the room was warm, and Wanda thought aloud, “That is odd, the fire is out but it’s not that cold in here...”

“It’s this new bear skin, it is warmer than the old wool blanket.” George said, slowly lifting the bear skin from his body, careful not to expose her tender skin to the anticipated cold. He tucked the blanket back around her and slowly lifted himself off the bed. Something caught his eye out the window; a small flash of blue in the mulberry bush.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered, staring out the window. “It’s a bluebird!”

In his heart, he knew that Wanda the Wicked was just a nickname, but he knew there could be no other earthly explanation; this had to be the result of a witch’s spell; a good witch, but a witch nonetheless. The sun was shining, the snow was melting, and here was a bluebird in the mulberry bush.

He decided against lighting a fire and instead lifted the latch on the front door. As he opened the door, warm sun streamed in and filled the room with heat and light. He noticed the green tips of the crocuses popping through the rapidly melting snow.  Wanda heaved herself off the bed and padded softly across the floor to join him.

“Did you remember to record the incantation this time?” he asked, his voice full of obvious wonder and astonishment.

“Yeah,” she said softly and slowly moved to a great stack of papers lying in the heavy oak table. She shuffled the papers for a few moments and finally retrieved her most recent composition:

Incantation for Early Spring, Attempt #50

Bobby Orr and Gordy Howe,

The season’s over, the time is now,

Make winter go, I want spring days,

No more speedy power plays.

Go away, Phil Esposito,

I want it warm as Sausolito,

I want to see butterflies, not snow leopards,

Head back to the locker room now,  Gregg Sheppard.

I’m sick of sleigh bell’s tinkly music,

Hang up your skates right now, Johnny Bucyk.

Win the Stanley cup next year,

Right now I just want Spring to be here.

She re-read the words aloud and smiled to herself proudly.

George looked bewildered. “But you love the Bruins,” he pleaded. “You use your crystal ball to watch them every night! They were going to be contenders this year! Now what?”

She hadn’t thought of this angle at all. “Uh...” she began and voice trailed off. She hobbled over to the crystal ball in the corner. Slowly, gingerly, she rubbed the glass. She couldn’t think of a spell and simply asked it, “Now what?”

Slowly in the glass, visions of her children came into view. From the south, from the far north, from the east and west, they were beginning their annual spring pilgrimage home.

“No! No!” She shouted, “What about my Bruins? Did they win the Stanley cup? What about my Bruins?” She angrily pounded her fist on the crystal ball.

Slowly a scene of Boston appeared in the ball. But instead of the Boston Garden, it was Fenway Park; instead of ice there was green grass cut into a tidy checkerboard pattern; instead of stocky toothless hockey players, there were clean-cut lanky ball players.

“Baseball?” she said in disbelief. “Baseball?” she sighed, on the verge of tears now.

George was unsure of what to say. “Hey, “ he said brightly. “The kids are on the way! We better get going on that feast. No?”

“I don’t care about the kids! What about my Bruins? Forget the feast,” she cried, “I need to write a new spell right now!” She hobbled quickly over to the table and furiously began scribbling:

Incantation to Bring Back Winter #1

Spring is here too soon, I don’t want this.

Go back home, Carleton Fiske.

It’s way too soon, bring back the ice,

Hang up your cleats and go home, Jim Rice!

The bitter cold is what I want,

Come back in 6 months, Louis Tiant.

Stop playing baseball now, Dwight Evans,

Bring the snow forth from the heavens.

Carl Yastremski, don’t round the plate,

It’s wintertime! For Spring, I’ll wait.

As she spoke the words, a cold wind began blowing through the front door. The sky began to go grey and a light snow began falling. As George rushed to shut the front door, she hobbled back over to the corner and once more began rubbing the crystal ball. She saw her children returning to their homes, and said hesitantly, “...and the Bruins?”

And slowly the Boston Garden came into view and she sighed contentedly as the familiar strains of John Keilly’s organ began playing the National Anthem.

Sins of the Mockingbird

(Copyright 2012, Dee Fairbanks Simpson, unpublished short fiction)

Octavius Mimus was born in early autumn when the fall migration was just starting. From the day he was born, the sound of birds outside his nursery filled his ears and calmed his heart. As soon as he could walk, he would go to the window and stare out for hours at the birds fluttering from tree to tree.

As he grew, he learned, seemingly by instinct, the names of the birds. When he was old enough to choose his own bedtime stories, he made his father read to him from Peterson's Field Guide.

"Come on, now Octavius," his father would say. "Wouldn't you rather hear about Peter Rabbit? Or the Wizard of Oz?" And as always, Octavius would cry until his father relented and began reading from the Peterson Guide.

"Cardinal: A red..." and Octavius would finally drop off to sleep dreaming of, seeing, and knowing every bird in the world.

He started keeping a life list as soon as he could write. His parents were not birders, but they frequently spoke of the cardinals and blue jays and mockingbirds that they saw, attempting to relate to their son in the only way they knew how.

"No," Octavius would say. "You are mistaken. There aren't any mockingbirds out there. I just looked."

He was only five years old, but his parents already knew not to correct him where birds were concerned. "No," his mother sighed, "I must be mistaken."

By the time he was ten, his life list was close to a hundred, and his life in general revolved around birds. In an effort to get him to socialize more, his parents took him to his first Audubon meeting. The people at the meeting smiled when little Octavius announced that he had a life list of 98 species. "98? Wow," said an old lady in a condescending tone. "That's an awful lot of birds for such a little boy."

The condescending tone was lost on Octavius, as he proudly handed her his list. Through the propped open door, he heard an bird call outside, and he absently called out, "Screech owl". The old lady raised an eyebrow at the fact that he identified the owl correctly only by his call. After looking over the list, she handed it back to Octavius, and said sweetly, "Well, it's a very impressive list, but you forgot to write down mockingbird!"

Octavius was crestfallen and ashamed. In his ten years he had never seen a mockingbird. He knew that all of the guidebooks said mockingbirds are common in his home state of Florida. He knew they lived in every state in the union. He knew, deep down, that his mother and father were right when they said they saw them in the yard. But some how, inexplicably, he had never, not once, ever seen a mocking bird.

"Yeah." He lied to the old lady, "I forgot to write it down. I'll add it when I get home. I don't... have a pencil." He quickly snatched his list back and ran to the snack table to bury his shame in cookies and punch.

After that first Audubon meeting, he quickly gained a reputation and began birding with the grown ups. He was asked to participate in field trips and bird counts and he even tried his hand at some competitive birding, keeping species count totals by day, month and year. But, his secret shame continued. Even when birding with groups, he still did not see a mockingbird.

On one Christmas count, he was determined that he would never leave his teammates; he would HAVE to see a mockingbird. The count started at 6:00 a.m. Finally at 4:00 p.m., he could not stand it any longer and had to leave his team momentarily to visit a bush. He was not gone longer than 3 minutes, but when he returned, he was devastated to see the damning checkmark on the page. "Hey," his teammate exclaimed, "We finally got a mocker, funny that's the only one we've seen all day, no one would ever believe us if we came back without that!"

Octavius wanted to cry, but again, hid his secret shame. "Yeah, wouldn't that have been unusual," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Eventually, he turned 17, got his license, and began serious competitive birding. After three tries, he broke his first "Big Day" record, with 135 species seen in one day in the month of October. He proudly submitted the record to the American Birding Association's national Big Day editor. A few weeks later, he received a letter.

Dear Mr. Mimus,

There appears to be an omission in your record. Can you please verify that you saw a mockingbird? Thank you for your time.

ABA Big Day Editor

He did not know what to do. He was painfully honest, and would not lie for the sake of the record. He ignored the letter and let the record drop. He would rather not have the record than admit he had not seen a mockingbird.

He eventually worked out big days to a science. Using maps, plot points, graphs and charts, he learned where all the birds in Florida were (except, of course, the mockingbird) and over the next few years managed to break the Big Day record for all 12 months. But he could not bring himself to be questioned about the mockingbird. "The numbers are the important thing," he told himself. So, he erased one species from each record bid and replaced it with "Mockingbird." He still felt a twinge of guilt, but just could not face being questioned again.

By the time he was 30, in addition to every Big Day record, he held all of the Big Month and the Big Year records as well. He was very well known for his birding prowess; all of the local birding festivals sought his expertise, and he even began leading his own tours. But still, his dark secret pained him deep down inside. For every record, he still omitted one bird and replaced it with "Mockingbird"

Eventually, he found a girl who loved birds, and more importantly loved him. They married and spent 40 years birding together. They had a successful bird guiding business together, and they led tours first in the United States, then worldwide. Shortly after his 72nd birthday, he had his 4000th life bird in Costa Rica. But alas, still no mocking bird.

On their 45th wedding anniversary, he seemed sad and withdrawn. His wife sat beside him on their porch swing, overlooking their birdfeeders in the back yard.

"I have something to confess..." he started hesitating.

"What is it" she asked? She noticed a tear running down his cheek.

"I... I..." he stammered. "I've never seen a mockingbird..." by now he was crying outright" "All of my records are LIES!"

She sat in silence for a moment. He was clearly upset, yet deep down, she could not believe what he was saying. She laughed nervously. "You're joking... you're not joking." After a few minutes of uneasy silence, she said, "Wait... I saw a mockingbird nest in the county park just yesterday, right in the pine behind the fountain. I know the babies haven't fledged yet, let's go over right now, and I'll show them to you."

He sighed. "No, it's pointless. They won't be there, they never are. A snake or cat has gotten them by now. Trust me, I've stalked, I've pished, I've called, I've played owl tapes, I even set up a surveillance video system once. I will never EVER see one!" She gently took his hand.

"Come on now," she said. "They will still be there, it can't hurt to drive over to the park. It's a lovely day anyway, and even if we don't see one, we can look at other birds."

He slowly rose from the porch swing, and they made their way back into the house to get the car keys. The phone rang as they were heading towards the front door. He reached for the phone.

"Hello?" an excited voice rang out. "This is Billy, down the street! Mr. Mimus, I just saw a birds nest and there were little baby birds in it and I know you love birds cause you showed me some one day and they are really really neat and they are in the county park in a tree right behind the fountain, and you really should go look at it!" The young voice expelled everything without taking a breath.

Octavius laughed. "Actually, young Billy, we were just heading to the county park this minute to look at a nest."

He said goodbye to Billy, and as Octavius hung up the phone he looked at his wife and chuckled. "Well," he said, "Apparently they haven't fledged yet, Billy just saw them. Let's go!" And grabbing his wife's hand they headed out the door.

They drove to the county park, and were making the left turn into the entrance. Neither Octavius nor his wife ever saw the out of control 18-wheeler with the bad brakes.

***

Octavius found himself standing before St. Peter. "Where..." and he looked around.

"Hello Mr. Mimus," said St. Peter. "Did you enjoy your years as a human?'

"Uh... yes, very much, thank you. Are you St. Peter?"

St. Peter nodded. "Yes," he said absently, looking over a sheet of paper. "It says here that you led an exemplary life. Did lots for conservation, taught many children to love and respect birds and nature... but... uh-oh... we've got a few lies here. Lots of lies actually..."

Ocatavius looked at the ground, or clouds as it were. "About the mockingbirds... it was my greatest shame... I just couldn't face it..."

St. Peter smiled. "You don't remember, do you?"

Octavius looked at St. Peter. "Remember? Remember what?"

St. Peter waved his hand and a videotape and VCR appeared. "We always keep surveillance tapes up here. Critters have such short memories." He pressed the Play button on the VCR, and the surveillance tape began to run. Octavius watched the following:

The tape began with St. Peter looking down in bemusement. "Surely," he said, "there must be a mistake. Before him, awaiting judgment, was a small mockingbird. St. Peter picked up a piece of paper titled, "Sins of Mr. Mockingbird", which he began to read. His bemusement began to sour as he read. Finally, lowering the paper, he looked down at the bird.

"It says here, Mr. Mockingbird," he began, "That you had a habit of smashing other birds eggs? How do you defend yourself?"

The mockingbird looked up at St. Peter, squinted his eyes, and, putting his wings on his hips, looked as defiant as he could muster. "I don't defend myself. I just felt like breaking some eggs."

St. Peter shook his head. "Well," he began, "Many birds will take other birds eggs to eat or feed to their young. Were you hungry?"

"Nope" said the mockingbird plainly, "I just liked smashing eggs."

"Hmm.." St. Peter began again. "Well, sometimes birds kick other bird's eggs out and replace them with their own, for the other bird to raise. It's an instinctual thing that we put into some birds. Did you replace the eggs with your own?"

The mockingbird let out a bored sigh. "Are you not listening to me? I just ENJOYED smashing eggs!"

"But..." St. Peter stammered. "I've never had to punish a bird before... are you sure there wasn't a better reason?"

The mockingbird ran his wing over the top of his head. "You are really getting on my nerves now. For Pete's sake, get on with your little 'punishment' thing."

St. Peter stared at the bird for a moment. "I punish you to go back to earth to life a lifetime as a human.

The bird laughed. "A human? A long life span, drive a car, oh yeah, that's some big punishment! I thought you were gonna make me be a dung beetle or something!"

St. Peter smiled at the mockingbird. "I hereby sentence you to be a birder."