You learn early in life that there is a right way and a wrong way to do things. More often than not, it’s your mother who sets the rules.

Then you leave home and begin to travel down life’s path on your own, only to discover not much has changed. For Mom taught you to . . .

Leave Everything A Little Better Than You Found It

     Not again, Mom, I‘d think every time we visited someone’s home. She’d direct me to put the pillows back in their proper place on the couch when we got ready to leave. If we’d eaten at the dining room table, my “To Do List” included bussing the dishes. I even had to make sure I put the toilet seat down after going to the bathroom.

     In retrospect, this wasn’t a bad thing. It helped me become the man I am today. Believe it or not, the lessons and lists remain a part of my life. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is K.C. Martin. Why the initials, you might ask? They were Mom’s way of keeping me on track. She told me they stood for “Keep Clean.”

     Her strict requirements applied to both our house and those of others, to gardens, cars, restaurants, bowling alleys, and amusement parks and, above all, to me and the words that came out of my mouth. She ruled my world.

     So, what have I become? I’m a clean freak, a perfectionist—a duplicate version of TV’s “Mr. Monk.” I quiver if anything has been left out of place. I’m not the easiest guy to be with, but nobody loses anything when they hang out with me. When we get ready to leave an establishment, I peruse every square inch to ensure nobody in my party has left anything behind.

     This was the existence my mother created for me—the one I’ve wrestled with for over fifty years. It has impacted every aspect of my life, especially my ability to find love. Let me take you on my journey and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

     We need to return to 1983. As a sophomore at St. Lawrence University in Ithaca, New York, I lived on campus in John F. Crowley Hall. One evening, I left the dorm and trudged down the snow-covered sidewalk and made my way to Isadora Blanchet Hall, the major girl’s dormitory on the grounds. I grabbed the handle of the large double glass door entrance to the dorm, opened the door, and walked up to the receptionist sitting behind a huge semicircular marble counter in the lobby. 

     Standing tall, with my shoulders straight, I stated, with perfect diction, “Please let Miss Jennifer Welling know that Mr. K.C. Martin would like her to join him in the lobby. Thank you. And, by the way, the pen for the guest sign-in book has not been put back in its slot.”

     She gave me the weirdest look. Then without responding, turned away and rang Jennifer Welling’s room.

     “Miss Welling will be down momentarily. You may wait by the elevator.”

     “Thank you.”

     As I waited, I straightened two pictures that hung askew on the wall adjacent to the elevator door and pulled the weeds from a large plant in the silver and gold pot to the left of the door. With everything in order, I waited for the door to open.

     When it did, Jennifer pranced through it and smiled. My heart began to flutter. As she neared me, I took her hand in mine, looked her straight in the eye, and asked, “May I straighten your scarf? It’s coming out over the collar of your jacket.” If looks could kill, I would be a dead man next to her feet on the dormitory floor. You might have guessed; Jennifer and I did not make it as a couple. We barely made it through the evening.

     I graduated college with honors. What else would you expect? Mom would not have had it any other way. With a major in English and a propensity for correctness, I got a job as an editor with a publishing company. I almost blew the interview when I told the Personnel Director the apostrophe was missing in the title of an article he had on his desk. He glared at me and blurted, “You better be right, Mr. Martin, because I wrote it.” As always, I was. Mom would have been proud.

     Having secured gainful employment, I was now ready to achieve the major goal on Mom’s, no, my list—finding the woman of my dreams. She had to be perfect in every way. And Mom had to approve of her.

     Things didn’t go well the first couple of times. Sherry and Yvonne objected to my interview questions. It didn’t matter, for their answers wouldn’t have received Mom’s approval anyway. And then Gloria walked into my life. She dressed like a fashion model, spoke perfect English, and knew all the right answers to my questions. She even got through Mom’s inquisition. Shortly thereafter, Gloria became my wife.

     But again, things didn’t go as well as they should have. She left dishes in the sink, food on the table, and clothing on the floor. I pointed out her missteps, at first being quite subtle, but later becoming more direct. I tried with all my might to help her understand what a good wife had to do. I even demonstrated by straightening up after her. This made her furious. She ranted and raved, slurred her speech, and looked very much like a woman in distress. 

     Then one evening, as we watched TV, to my relief, she blurted, “I’m leaving.” And once again my life was back in order. When I told Mom, she assured me I’d done the right thing.

     The years passed all too swiftly. I sat at my desk at the publishing house and stared out my window at the trees blowing in the fall wind. I straightened my desk so everything was positioned where it should be, exactly two inches apart and facing straight toward me. My thoughts wandered, Mom died two years ago. Her demise saddened me. She had been my mentor. She provided the strength I needed to get me through two marriages.

     The ringing of my phone interrupted my concentration. I picked it up, and my secretary murmured, “Mr. Martin, your wife is here.” I placed it back on the desk and watched as the door opened and Maureen, my third wife, entered. We got married less than a year before my mother died. She and Mom didn’t get along very well.

     Maureen took one look at me sitting at my desk and groaned, “Darling, the part in your hair is crooked, your shirt collar is crumbled, and there is dust on your desk. Please sit up straight.”

     I bowed my head and muttered, “Yes, Mother.”

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You live in a wonderful neighborhood. Everything is peaceful and calm.

Then one evening, the police are called. You have no idea what this is all about, but soon you will find out in . . .

Don’t Dwell On The Past

     It was a quiet Saturday night—that time of the month again. No, it isn’t what you are thinking. It was our monthly neighborhood dominoes game.

     “Jerry, let’s go. We’re going to be late,” Michelle yelled.

     “Okay, I’m coming. Just got one more shoe to put on.”

     “Can’t you ever be on time? It’s always one more minute. Just one more thing you have to do,” she complained.

     “I’m here. So stop your nagging and let’s get going.”

     The night was chilly, so I pulled my coat collar up around my neck, as we walked down the block to Sylvia and Dan’s house where we were playing. The door sign read, “Come in,” so I opened it and we entered.

     Just as I was about settled in at the kitchen table to play, Michael and Ann came through the front door. Michael had a strange look on his face, as he shouted . . .

     “Hey, Jerry, there’s a cop car in front of your house. I think I saw a guy in uniform at your front door.”

     “Did you or did you not see an officer at my door?”

     “I’m pretty sure I did. Maybe you should go check. Want me to come with you?”

     “You’re so observant. You’d be a great asset. But I think I’ll go alone.”

     I grabbed my coat off the bed in the guest room, zipped it up, and trudged back to my house. As I approached, I noticed a uniformed officer exiting the courtyard gate. “Officer, are you looking for me?” I asked.

     “You the owner of the house?”

     “Yeah, my wife and me. What can I do for you?”

     “I left a note on your door. Your backyard neighbor, Tom Wellman, filed a complaint about excessive dog barking in your yard. When I approached the door I could hear a dog barking. You need to quiet him down. Mr. Wellman said this has been going on for hours.”

     “That’s strange. We have two dogs, not one. We’ve only been gone twenty minutes and the dogs didn’t even bark when we left.”

     “Well, I wouldn’t worry much about it. Try keeping them in the house for a while. That should do it. By the way, what kind of dogs do you have?”

     “We have a schnauzer and a schnoodle.”

     “Hey, I have two schnauzers.”

     By this time, the dogs had discovered I was standing on the sidewalk in front of our courtyard. The barking was furious. I stared at the officer. “You know what you told me about keeping the dogs quiet? Standing here isn’t helping.”

     “Can I meet the dogs?” he said with a lilt in his voice.

     “Guess so. Just follow me, but stand back from the door until I introduce them to you.”

     “Sounds good to me.”

     So we entered the house. To my amazement Suzie and Sara took to him immediately. The next thing that happened confused me a bit. The officer, who I thought might arrest me, was rolling around on the floor with my dogs. What a world!

     When I returned to the dominoes game, Michael stared at me and whined, “So, I don’t see any cuffs on you.”

     “No, the cop was a nice guy. He told me to try and keep the girls quiet. Then he ended up playing with them.”

     The evening ended and months passed. No more cops were called again. Tom phoned and complained a couple of times, but these calls were neighborly. However, strange things do happen. Tom and his wife Alice got a dog, a beagle, who howled unmercifully, when they left the house to attend the baseball games of the local minor league team. We decided to enjoy the “musical renditions” rather than make an issue of it.

     As the years went by, Tom and I would run into each other on the street while walking our dogs. He now had two. Then one day, about eight years after the original incident, as we bumped into each other, Tom looked at me and muttered, “You know, why don’t you and your wife come over to my house for a backyard dinner on Memorial Day.”

     I looked at him, with a surprised, but warm grin, and stated cordially, “That sounds like a great idea.”

     The dinner went well. His wife, who had health problems, was very nice. And his two dogs, Wilson and Seeker, were quite friendly. Dogs do know when they’re with dog lovers.

     Over the next few months, Tom and Alice and Michelle and I had a few dinner dates at Mimi’s and the Claim Jumper.  Then Tom had hip surgery. When he was able to walk the dogs again, Michelle and I, along with our dogs, went with him and made sure he was steady on his walker, and when he was able to put it aside, that he didn’t fall.

     As he became his strong, physical self again, Michelle developed some health issues that kept her from walking the dogs with me. And, not to my surprise, Tom and I became dog-walking buddies. We walked and talked about everything—personal, political, and outrageous. The neighborhood began to see us as a team, and if one or the other did not appear, the one present was asked by those he met on the street if anything was wrong with his partner.

     We were just two two crazy dog-walking guys enjoying our morning walk. Affectionately, we named ourselves the “R and R” boys, standing for “Retired and Retarded.” Some might have thought the one “R” for retarded should have stood for “Ridiculous” instead, for some of our antics were a bit off-the-wall and included such things as awarding points for the first of our dogs to go poop. We also counted the number of times each pair went poop on a given morning to establish a winner, be it Tom or me, for that day.

     And then there was the poop toss. “Ready Jerry?” Tom would ask.

     “You bet I am,” I’d reply. “Which line do you want to shoot from?”

     “Third line from the trash receptacle works for me,” Tom would gleefully shout.

     With poop bags tightly tied, we each would aim for the trash bin and rejoice in our accomplishments, as we proclaimed how we should be playing for the Cavaliers or the Warriors. This was Tom’s and my world, and we enjoyed it and each other.

     One morning, as we moseyed on down Madden Boulevard, Tom sung, out, “Jerry, my fiftieth wedding anniversary is on August 5. I want you and Michelle to be there. We’re going to have about fifty people—friends and family. My daughter’s putting it all together.”

     “Tom, Michelle and I would be proud to attend,” I responded. “Tell us what time and where and we’ll be there with the dogs,” I laughed.

     “No dogs, but . . .”

     A few weeks passed, and as we walked, Tom looked over at me and commented, “Things have changed.”

     “What things?” I replied, thinking the worst.

     “Alice called our daughter and told her she was not up to a large party. She said she wanted to keep it around twenty—all family.”

     He seemed a bit down. “Don’t worry, I’ll still be your friend even if I’m not invited to the party. And Michelle will understand it has become a family only event.”

     “Huh,” he grumbled. “What do you mean you’re not invited? You’re family.”

     The party at Mimi’s was warm and wonderful. Tom and Alice, indeed, had an extraordinary family and we were a part of it. Marvelous things can happen, if you put the past behind you.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life is complicated. At times, as hard as we try, we are unable to make amends for our transgressions.

Then, when we least expect it, a twist of fate enables us to recapture the past we thought we had lost, as becomes evident in . . .

My Impossible Dream

It did not occur to me you might be standing on the corner that Thursday

     in May.

I walked toward you, unsure of how you would respond to what I had to say.

You stood alone, appearing lost in thought, adrift in your own world, traveling 

     to some distant place.

Your body was rigid, like a statue on the lawn of an estate, poised to

     stand fast and resist any interface.

I had not seen you for over three months, since the gloomy Saturday           

     afternoon you told me to leave.

It broke my heart, but I could not think of a way to ask you for a reprieve.

Did our relationship have to end this way, or would it have been possible for 

     you to accept my apology?

I had planned to come to you to plead my case, but the timing never           

     seemed right, and I began to believe our parting was meant to be.

However, seeing you again gave me renewed hope that I might have a        

     chance to explain.

But you are not looking in my direction, so how do I approach you without  

     causing further pain?

Should I just turn and leave, walk away again, and live my life without          

     you—alone and distraught?

God, I have made a mess of things and lost the best thing that ever    

     happened to me, I thought.

Engulfed in my own grief, I wallowed in self-pity—believing I probably   

     did not deserve you anyway.

I closed my eyes and prayed for the chance to make right the wrongs of

     my past and to see a brighter day.

Then, without warning, I heard the screeching of brakes, and my body 

     flew through the air.

I felt nothing, but this could not be. To be taken without the opportunity to  

     mend my ways was not fair.

The lights in the tunnel to hell burned bright, as my soul twisted and 

     turned in anguish and dismay.

But hell has no light and darkness prevails to punish the sins of those         

     whose souls are chosen to be taken away.

I drifted in puzzlement, not knowing what to make of the inconsistencies

     of thought that passed through my mind.

I longed for the answer to my question about a love lost, but knew in my      

     heart it was not mine to find.

Heart—heart beating loudly, but how can this be, for my soul exited and

     left my body behind?

Noises—machines, people—what in heaven’s name does this mean?

     For the answer, I pined.

    

I am being touched—softly, with kindness. Is this God coming to rescue

     me from my dying hell?

A voice. I think I hear words, but this is impossible, for I died and from

     the Lord’s grace I fell.

The words are getting louder. “Wallace, can you hear me? My dearest        

     Wallace, please take my hand.”

I reached out and grasped the warm palm of an angel, whose fingers          

     intertwined with mine, moving my wedding band.

Wedding band—but I am not married—and I am dead, so this cannot be.

“Wallace, do not try to speak. It is me, your wife, Laura. Open your 

     eyes and see.”

My eyes flooded with tears when I saw Laura standing over me, as     

     beautiful as the day I noticed her on the corner that Thursday

     in May.

“I thought I had lost you forever, my darling, when that drunken driver’s

     car hit you and came close to taking your life away.

“I could not believe our twenty years of marriage might be stolen by that      

     brute, causing me great strife.

I need you, the man of my dreams, father of our three children, and the 

     love of my life.”

Twenty years, three children? Confused, I could not utter a word, but the    

     warmth in my heart radiated through the smile on my face.

The only woman I ever loved touched my heart and soul, and I did not

     want to be in any other place.

Somehow, at sometime, Laura did accept my apology for what I had

     done, but the answer of how and when may elude me for eternity.

But does it really matter? My life is now complete and, in spite of this lack    

     of clarity, “My Impossible Dream” has become a reality.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

When we focus on our past, we may discover someone who should have played a larger role in our life.

It saddens me when I think about my grandfather—my father’s father. I always wondered what my life would have been like . . .

Had I Met Him Earlier

     I might have had a relationship with him had I taken the time to do so. Instead, I let him languish in his room in front of the TV at my aunt’s house, while I mingled with other members of the family.

     He became the mystery man in my life. The dance instructor turned haberdasher and then recluse in his senior years. I thought of him as the tortured man, the man maligned by my grandmother.

     I never took the time to know the real person inside the old, beaten body. My father’s father was an enigma to me. He did not drive. He did not appear to have an opinion. When he came to the family table, he said little of consequence. And after the meal, he drifted back to his room on the second floor of the house.

     I visited my aunt’s home most weekends. Grandpa Jack was always there, but then he never was. He was an afterthought, like an old relic placed in the corner of the room to be viewed, but never really seen. I could excuse my indifference to him as a child, as it seemed to go both ways. But as I got older, I should have taken time to visit with him, but I did not.

     Then I went away to college in upstate New York, and my father’s father became a distant memory. I did not consider how long he might be in my life, because I never considered him as being there in the first place.

     During my sophomore year at the University of Rochester, my father’s company was purchased and he, my mother, and sister moved to California so he could continue working at the job he knew and loved. Later that year, we all received an invitation to my eldest cousin Suzie’s wedding.

     Having just moved 3,000 miles away, my parents did not have the energy or the money to return to New York for the nuptials. Since I still attended school only 400 miles away, they designated me to represent the family.

     Now at the behest of my father, I had made the decision to transfer to UCLA so I could be near him, my mother, and sister. The wedding could be the last time I would see my grandfather. For after the celebration, I would board a plane for the West Coast.

     At the festivities after the service, my grandfather disappeared into a crowd of guests and I hung with the younger set. When I returned to my aunt’s home that evening, I received a call from my father. Since I was leaving for California the next day, he asked me to speak with my grandfather, something I had never done at length before.

     I climbed the steps to his room and stared at him sitting in his chair looking at the television’s empty screen. “Grandpa, may I talk to you?” I muttered. 

     He motioned to me to sit on the bed next to his chair. Not really knowing this man, I felt a bit uncomfortable. And then he began to speak—about my youth, my passion for bowling, my interest in writing and drawing, my graduating as salutatorian of my high school senior class, and my choice of the University of Rochester to continue my education.

     The man I thought had no idea who I was knew me intimately, but I had never met him before. I had no knowledge of his background, interests, desires. He was a stranger to me. I was meeting him for the first time and this brought tears to my eyes.

     I left the next day for my new life in California and would never see my grandfather again. He died two years later. After his death, one thought has plagued me to this day, Had I met him earlier, how might he have changed my life and me his?

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Marriages can be stormy. Simple things get blown all out of proportion.

At times, we tend to be blind to the obvious. As tensions mount, highly emotional conflicts can lead to . . .

The Parting Of The Ways

     It was a drizzly Friday night in the middle of April. Jake and Melinda sat at the kitchen table after dinner in utter silence. Then Jake let out one of the loudest farts ever heard.

     “Oh, my, what’d you do, Jake?” Melinda asked.

     “Huh, do what?”

     “You don’t know?”

     “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Melinda.”

     “My God! You’ve got to be kidding.”

     “Kidding? About what?”

     “What you just did. You live trapped in your own little world. You can’t see past the end of your nose. There’s a large universe all around you, Jake. And I’m part of it. Don’t you know that?”

     “Yeah, I know that. But what’s your problem?”

     “You. You’re my problem.”

     “What’d I do now to upset you, Melinda?”

     “The least you could’ve done was say, ‘Excuse me.’”

     “For what?”

     “Don’t you know what you did, Jake?

     “Sure, I had a biological explosion. So what? We all have gas from time to time. It’s a normal thing the human body goes through. I can’t believe it upset you so much.”

     “It annoys me because you’re so inconsiderate. You don’t care about my feelings, do you?”

     “You’re getting all bent out of shape over a lousy fart? What’s the big deal?”

     “If it was just the gas, I’d let it drop. But it’s everything, Jake.”

     “Now what’re you talking about? We’ve been married twenty-two years. Some problems are going to arise. It happens in all marriages.”

     “Yes, you’re right. But it’s happening much too much in ours. And you’re not even aware of it.”

     “So, it’s not just the gas?”

     “Jake, you’re unbelievable. The gas is the least of our concerns. There are hundreds of others I could list.”

     “Okay, start listing. I dare you to do it. But remember, I get my turn, too.”

     “Your turn? What do you think this is, some sort of competition?”

     “Well, that’s what you’re making it. Isn’t it, Melinda?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. Silence fell upon the room. They just sat there staring off into space, when the phone rang.

     “Aren’t you going to get that, Jake?”

     “Why can’t you? It’s usually one of your hussy friends.”

     “My what?”

     “You heard me.”

     The phone kept ringing. Both Melinda and Jake remained frozen in their seats. Neither one reached for it. Then it stopped.

     “Well, Jake, are you happy now?”

     “About what?”

     “Somebody called us and you just let it ring. It might’ve been important.”

     “I just let it ring? You could’ve answered it. The phone is as close to you as it is to me. Besides, if it were that important, they would’ve left a message. Right, Melinda?”

     “How should I know? If you’d answered it, we wouldn’t have to sit here guessing.”

     “There you go again. I’m always the one who’s wrong. I fart too much. I don’t answer the phone when it rings. I . . . I . . . I cause all the problems.”

     “So what am I supposed to say? You’re right. Yes, you’re right.”

     “I’m what? You’re off your rocker, Melinda. I’m out of here.”

     “Yup, that’s what you always do—run away. You don’t confront the issues. Don’t try to solve the problems. Just disappear into your fantasy world.”

     “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

     “You do that. Maybe I’ll get some peace for once.”

     Their paths didn’t cross the rest of the evening. Yet the anger over what appeared to be an irreparable situation boiled within them.

     With the guest room shutters not completely closed, the early morning sun lit up the room waking Jake. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs. He looked around and wondered why he’d slept in the guest room. He seemed to have buried last evening’s confrontation with Melinda deep within the recesses of his mind. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eight o’clock jumped out at him. Saturday morning, don’t have to go to work today, he thought.

     He dragged his lethargic body out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, where he heard noises. “Ah,” he muttered, “Melinda must be getting breakfast ready.” His stomach growling, he thought to himself, I’m starving. He pictured the table set with rolls and bread in a basket, bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling on the stove, and a pot of coffee brewing in a way that made his mouth water.

     He ambled into the kitchen. Melinda sat at the table tapping a spoon and sipping a cup of coffee left over from yesterday, while reading the newspaper. The table was vacant—no food in sight. The stovetop resembled an empty parking lot—no pots or pans in evidence. He looked at Melinda and grunted, “When’s breakfast?”

     She pointed to the refrigerator without looking up at him and groaned, “That’s where the food is. Take what you want.”

     “You mean you’re not going to make it?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. She kept her head buried in the paper.

     “Why the hell are you avoiding me, Melinda? What’d I do?”

     “Nothing. And therein lies the problem. You never do anything around here. So, now I’m on strike.”

     “On strike? What in God’s name does that mean?”

     “New house rules. If you want something, get it yourself. If you need something done, do it yourself. Maybe then your teensy weensy mind will grasp the importance of my role in your life.”

     “You’re impossible, Melinda. You’re behaving like an imperial dictator. I don’t know how I ever loved you.”

     “You don’t know how you ever loved me. That’s a laugh. I must’ve had my eyes closed when I consented to marry you. You’re an ignorant jerk, who cares only about yourself.”

     “I’ve had it, Melinda. This isn’t going anywhere. Each time we try to speak to one another, you drive another nail further into our coffin of “dead love.” When that last nail is banged in, we’ll dig a hole in the backyard and bury it.”

     Melinda grit her teeth. She wanted to avoid saying anything more she might regret, if there was anything left. Jake paced in front of her, trying to avoid making eye contact. Two creatures lost in a battle that couldn’t be won. Was it time for the parting of the Ways?

     For three days Melinda and Jake stayed as far away from one another as two people, living under the same roof, could. And then, early Wednesday morning their paths crossed in the hallway. Melinda looked Jake in the eye and . . .

     “I’ve had it with you Mr. Ways. You’ve ruined my life.”

     Then she reached under her bathrobe and pulled out a Beretta Nano and pointed it at Jake and fired twice, hitting him in the chest and left arm. As he collapsed, he pulled a Glock 22 from the right pocket of his robe and, with his last dying breath, fired one shot, which hit Melinda directly in the heart. She screamed and fell to the floor with a thud.

    

And now, the question I need your help in answering. I am considering three possible endings to the story. Please review them below and let me know, at slolowe@icloud.com, which one of the three would provide the best ending. Thank you in advance for your help.

Ending I

     Then, from the end of the corridor, a tall, balding man yelled, “cut.” He trudged down the hallway, as Jake and Melinda stood up and straightened their costumes. “That was good, folks. But we’ll do one more take of the last scene of The Parting of the Ways before calling it a wrap.”

Ending II

     And so, the final nail entered the coffin, ensuring the “parting of the Ways” from a world neither of them knew how to handle. But in the hereafter, would they again reunite? A frightening possibility, one ponders.

Ending III

     She lay sprawled on the ground for a few minutes, until she was sure Jake wasn’t moving. Then she got up and checked his pulse. Removing her cell phone from her robe pocket, she punched in a phone number. “Vivian, he’s gone—dead as a doornail. That bulletproof vest you lent me worked like a charm. The Ways have now parted.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Friendship is something we all value. We try to be there for our friends and help them out when needed.

However, sometimes, the advice we provide may be wrong. This could be the case in . . .

She

     Early Monday morning, the doorbell rang. I had finished breakfast and busied myself straightening up the kitchen. I glanced at the clock. Not quite nine. Who could it be at this hour? I thought. I hustled to the front door and swung it open. Cindy appeared in the doorway, with a frown on her face.

     “What’s wrong?” I asked.

     She stared at me. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her hands shook and her breathing became labored. I closed the front door and reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

     “Cindy, you’re scaring me. Please say something.”

     She stood there without saying a word. But I could see her chest heaving as she attempted to speak. She started to gasp, as the words came pouring out of her mouth. “Irene, Frank left me. He’s gone. Disappeared. Didn’t leave a message.”

     “How long has he been gone?”

     Wheezing, she sputtered, “Two days.”

     “Two days? Just two days?”

     “But he’s never done that before. He’s always told me when he’s going to be away. I’m beside myself. I thought we had a strong relationship. Could he be dating someone else? Irene, I don’t know what to do.”

     “Take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself.”

     “Okay, I’ll try. I’m sorry for my outburst. But he means so much to me.”

     “Cindy, I know you care about him. He seemed like a nice guy when we met him at the Sunset Senior Singles dance at the clubhouse in April. But that was just eight weeks ago. I didn’t know you guys had agreed not to date others.”

     “Well, no. We never discussed it.”

     “And you don’t live together. Maybe he’s been busy.”

     “But he would have called. Wouldn’t he?”

     “How should I know? I only saw the man that one time. I think you may be overreacting.”

     “I don’t know. We have such a great time when we’re together. We seem to have so much in common. He’s close to my age. In the past, the only guys who have shown an interest in me have been over eighty.”

     “You don’t know that he’s left you. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

     “But maybe he’s found someone else,” Cindy whimpered.

     “In two days? Cindy, Frank, you, and I are all in our early seventies. We don’t move that fast.”

     “But he’s a man. In our senior community, he’s in demand. He can have any woman he wants.”

     “Yeah, that might be true. But men take forever just trying to decide what they want for dinner. How could two days be long enough for him to find and make a decision about another woman? So don’t get so upset about this. He’ll call.”

     Cindy seemed to relax a bit. I caught a hint of a smile on her face. She turned to leave. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she looked back at me.

     “I feel like such an idiot,” she murmured. I’ve been so lonely since Jack died. It’s been a hard two years. I need someone in my life and I thought Frank was the one.”

     “He might be, Cindy. But you can’t rush into a serious relationship. Take your time.”

     She threw her arms around me and hugged me so tight, I had trouble catching my breath. Then she turned away, opened the front door, and left.

     Two days passed. That afternoon, Donna and I went to our Mystery Novel meeting up at the clubhouse. Eleven women and one man, Gordon, attended the session. He seemed to be trying to make points with the ladies by monopolizing the conversation. I thought Zelda was about to throw something at him to shut him up. She had a rolled up wad of paper in her hand and had begun to move it into a throwing position when our group leader, Maryann, adjourned the meeting.

     I looked at Donna. “Typical man—a know-it-all who wants to be in control,” I quipped.

     “Yeah, but he’s good looking. I wouldn’t mind if he controlled me.“

     “You’re nuts,” I replied.

     As we exited the room, Donna changed the subject. “So, what’s the latest scoop on Cindy and her man? Has he contacted her?”

     “I don’t know. I haven’t heard a word from her since she left my house on Monday.”

     “Everything must be fine then. I wish I had a man in my life. You know, tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe about thirty-five, with bulging muscles.”

     “Keep dreaming, lady. The only way that’s going to happen is to cut a seventy year old in half.”

     “All right. If you’ll hold him down, I’ll do the cutting.”

     We both giggled like teenage girls at a slumber party. As we approached the lodge’s main entrance, I gulped and squealed, “Oh, my God, look at that.”

     “At what?” Donna queried.

     “Over there.” I pointed to a crowd—one man surrounded by four women.

     “So?”

     “The man is Frank. Cindy’s Frank. I guess Cindy was right to be concerned about his not calling. What a creep. What a son of a . . .”

     “Control yourself, girl.”

     “What am I going to tell Cindy? How am I going to break the news to her? This will destroy her.”

     “Shouldn’t you find out what’s going on before thinking the worst?”

     “Well, isn’t it obvious? He’s a womanizer. A creep. A son of a . . .”

     “Not that again. Let’s walk over and say hello and see how he reacts. Do a little detective work.”

     “But I’m no Angela Lansbury on Murder She Wrote. I’ll make a fool of myself.”

     “Do you want to help Cindy, or don’t you, Irene?”

     “Okay, but how should I do this? Or maybe I shouldn’t. There could be a legitimate reason for him being with the women—like working together on a project or something. I wish I could see their faces. I know those who are the real man chasers in the singles group.”

     “Then you’re going to have to march yourself right up to that gathering, get the women to turn around, and snap a picture with your iPhone. Then you’ll have the evidence you’ll need to prove to Cindy what a heel Frank is.” 

     “But he knows me. Why don’t you do it, Donna?”

     “Me? This isn’t my problem. It’s yours.”

     I stood there confused. If I do it, it could be the most awkward thing I’ve ever done in my life. And if I don’t, I could be letting down a very good friend, who needs my help and support. Oh my, what do I do?

     At that moment, Donna nudged me, interrupting my concentration. “Irene, you better look at what’s happening now.”

     I lifted my head and stared at Frank passionately kissing one of the women, while the others cheered. It was awful. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had failed my friend. “That woman, who is she?” I groaned.

     What happened devastated me. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and spun around. In total shock, I found myself staring into Cindy’s bright eyes, illuminated by her smiling face.

     “Hi Irene, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

     “Cindy, I need to tell you something, but you better sit down first.”

     “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m so happy, I can handle anything you have to say.”

     “I don’t think so. Not this.”

     “Come on, Irene. Let’s get it over with. Just give it to me straight.”

     “Yeah, Irene, tell her already,” Donna implored.

     “Oh, hello, Donna,” Cindy said in a cheery voice.

     “Hi, Cindy. Now tell her, Irene.”

     “I hate to do this to you, Cindy,” I muttered.

     I placed my hands on her shoulders and pointed her in the direction of the group of four women and one man. “Look at the woman in the middle of the group. She’s the one,” I voiced with emphasis.

     “She’s the one what?” Cindy asked, somewhat bewildered.

     “Try to hold yourself together, my friend. She’s the one who just kissed Frank in a very passionate way.”

     Cindy burst out laughing. “But that’s not Frank.”

     “What?” I gasped.

     “That’s his identical twin brother, Floyd. And the “she” you’re talking about is his wife. That’s why Frank disappeared from my life for two days. Floyd and Margie eloped to Reno and Frank went with them . . . as their best man. He didn’t tell me because they left at midnight on Friday, the night I last saw him. He called me Monday afternoon when they returned from Reno.

     “Well, when you found out what happened, why didn’t you tell me?”

     “I tried to. But when I called Monday, after I spoke to Frank, to let you know I’d made a big deal out of nothing, you weren’t home. So I attempted to leave a message, but your answering machine said, ‘Memory full.’ Then I got caught up in the whole marriage celebration thing and didn’t get back to you. I’m sorry. Oh, by the way, will you be my maid of honor at my wedding?”

     “Will it take place before or after I wring your neck for what you put me through?”

     “Before, I hope,” she chanted.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.