The truth of the matter is . . .: January 2021

Saturday, January 30, 2021

Earlier this month, I asked for your assistance in helping me determine the appropriate ending to the story, “Sid And Janis—A Love Story?” On January 11, I posted three possible endings.

After reading the story, I invited you to let me know which one I should use. The choice that received the most “Yes” votes would become the story's ending. Please see the outcome of the vote below and visit the January 11 posting to read the story again to see if you agree with the conclusion. And now, the results . . .

Sid And Janis—A Love Story?

Posted January 11, 2021

The last line of the story before the ending: That night we slept cuddled together—capturing the loving past we’d both forgotten. In the morning, we awoke to the sun coming through the bedroom blinds. Our eyes met and my heart pounded, as I awaited her words of love, . . .

Ending I

but what poured out of her mouth, was not what I’d expected. In a somewhat condescending tone, she questioned, “So what did neighbor Jones do? You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you?” Well, we were back where we started, and divorce was looking better all the time.

Percent of respondents voting “Yes”: 18.75%

Ending II

but not wanting to chance revisiting yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation, I grabbed her, wrapped my arms around her, and kissed her passionately. She was so taken aback, not another word was spoken about what I’d tried to tell her. I never pursued the subject with her again, nor did I ever find out the truth about neighbor Jones’s “casket.”

Percent of respondents voting “Yes”: 68.75%

Ending III

but my world was rocked again by what came pouring out of her mouth. Her uncompromising manner was frightening, as she stated, “You were so right yesterday. You did start the argument, as always. And taking responsibility does not make it all go away. You need help. So, do I call a marriage counselor . . . or do I need a lawyer?”

Percent of respondents voting “Yes”: 12.50%

Alan Lowe, January 30, 2021

Some of you who responded to my offer to select the appropriate ending to the story asked the question, “Was it a casket that Sid saw and what was in it?” I would like to provide the answer in . . .

Sid And Janis—The Love Story Continues

With the casket issue behind them, their marriage was still intact eight years later, in spite of the bickering that took place on an almost daily basis. This evening found Sid in his recliner staring off into space with the TV blaring, while Janis sat in her recliner glaring at him. Neither one said anything to the other until Janis, somewhat annoyed, said . . .

“I told you I didn’t want to watch this awful movie, Sid. However, you had to watch it. But are you really watching it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well then, tell me what it’s about.”

“You were watching it, so you already know. Why should I waste my time telling you?”

“You have no idea what it’s about. Do you, Sid?”

“I’ve got to take a leak, Janis. Watch what you want. I don’t care.”

“What do you care about? Certainly not me.”

“We’ve been married forty years. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Sure, we’re both cowards.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Neither of us has the guts to leave.”

“I’ve had it with you, Janis. I am leaving to go to the john.”

“Don’t get lost. You’ll miss the end of the movie.”

“Just keep it up, Janis. I hope, when we go to heaven, we’ll both have a better life—alone.”

“That would be a blessing, my sweet.”

Well, as fate would have it, Sid passed away in his sleep not quite a year later. Janis, not having anybody to rag on, followed him six months after that. Both of them had decided to be cremated, so they never had to talk about caskets. One can only hope they got separate rooms in heaven.

Now you must be thinking, that with both Sid and Janis in a better place, the casket issue had died with them. However, you’d be wrong. For two months after Janis died, the block they’d lived on for most of their life together shook like an earthquake.

Sirens blasted, rattling the peaceful lives of the street’s residents. Of the forty-three people living there, all but two exited their homes and stood in awe at what was happening. Police cars lined both sides of the street. Cops were everywhere. And a SWAT team made its way to the house where Henry and Melanie Jones resided.

What occurred next was unbelievable. The team, getting no response from the occupants of the home, used a battering ram to bust the door down.

Loud screaming could be heard coming from inside the house. The SWAT team leader commanded, “Everybody down on the ground. Place your hands behind your back.”

Then two people, a man and a woman, in handcuffs were escorted from the house. “Oh my, it’s Melanie and Henry,” Margo Sampson yelled.

As they walked down the driveway, a man, sitting in the backseat of a police car parked by the curb, stuck his head out the window and screamed, “She did it, not him.”

All eyes focused on the car. What they saw was mind-boggling.

The man was Henry Jones. But how could that be?

The confused crowd stared at the car and then at the couple being escorted from the house. “If that’s Henry in the car, who’s the guy with Melanie?” Roger Atwater asked. “He looks an awful lot like Henry. And what did she do?”

The answers to Roger’s questions eluded the neighbors for almost two weeks. After the couple was placed in a patrol car, all the vehicles parked on the street disappeared, including the one with Henry’s look-alike, sitting in the rear seat.

During this time, investigators appeared at the house, but conducted their business discretely. They removed crucial evidence late at night, when the neighbors were asleep. The residents wondered why the police had not questioned any of them.

Then, on Thursday afternoon of the second week, a police van arrived at the Jones’s house. Neighbors peered out their windows, while others stood outside their homes and stared in the direction of the vehicle. An officer got out of the van on the driver’s side. Opening the back doors, two men exited, without handcuffs—the “two Henrys.”

The officer said to them, “You’re free to go. Sorry for the inconvenience.” The men walked up the front walkway, entered the house and closed the door, as the officer got back into the van and left. Perplexed, the neighbors muttered to themselves, “What just happened? And Why? And where is Melanie Jones?” As they were about to disperse, the front door of the house opened, and . . .

A neighbor yelled, “Henry, what the hell’s happening? Who’s the other guy? And where’s Melanie?”

“Henry” faced the group and said, “I’m not Henry. I’m Stanley.”

The crowd was in shock. “Stanley?” they echoed in unison. “Where’s Henry?”

“Henry has had a difficult time the past few weeks, while the police were trying to figure out what’d occurred. He needs to rest.”

“Well, you look like Henry. If you’re not him, who are you?” Roger asked.

“I’m Henry’s twin brother. I haven’t been here in years and had no idea what was going on. When I asked about visiting, I always got an excuse as to why the timing was inappropriate. So I decided to surprise them. And surprise them, I did. At first, Melanie wouldn’t let me in. And when Henry did . . .”

“And when he did, what happened?” Margo queried.

“The strangest thing. There were two caskets in the living room.”

“Caskets?” The crowd shouted. “How’d they get there?”

“Henry built them for Melanie, thinking they were flower boxes, about ten years ago. When he found out what they really were, he tried to get rid of them, but a neighbor saw him putting one in his SUV. After the neighbor left, that night, he dragged it back into the house. When he heard nothing about it from the neighbor or anyone else in the neighborhood, both empty caskets, with blankets over them, were laid to rest on the back patio. Henry thought nothing more about them.”

“So, is that where the story ends?” Margo asked.

“Not quite. Just before I arrived, Henry returned home from a business trip. When he did, he found both caskets sitting in the living room. He also saw Melanie’s mother’s inexpensive, designer knockoff purse on the coffee table. When he asked Melanie where her mother was, she pointed to one of the caskets.

“Dismayed by her gesture, he inquired as to what was in the other one. She opened it and bills flowed out onto the floor.”

“Where did they come from? I thought you implied her mother didn’t have money?” a small woman, standing in the street, questioned.

“But she did. She was very wealthy from her inheritance from her fifth husband. However, she also was quite frugal, but not very careful with her money. She visited many times a year and carried thousands of dollars with her in her purse. Apparently, Melanie had been stealing from her for years and placing the cash in one of the coffins. Since she didn’t know how much she had in her purse, she never noticed the missing cash until this visit, when she found a hundred dollar bill under the coffee table. She confronted Melanie about it and Melanie killed her.”

“Oh, my God!” Margo shrieked.

“After putting the money back in the casket, Melanie instructed Henry to take both caskets to a storage unit she’d rented. He refused. She pulled a gun out from under the couch cushion, but before she could use it, I knocked on the door. She had no alternative. She stashed the weapon and opened the door. When I entered, I saw the two caskets but, otherwise, everything seemed ‘normal.’ Melanie smiled at me and gave me a big hug. Henry, not wanting to get me killed, didn’t say anything, and I didn’t ask any questions.

“However, that night, after we’d gone to bed, Henry snuck out of the house and went to the police station and told them what had happened. And you know the ‘rest of the story.’”

Friday, January 22, 2021

As a college student, I looked forward to winter break. It was a time to go home, relax, and enjoy the holiday season.

What I didn’t look forward to was the uncomfortable, long train ride home and the pressure my friends put on me to go skiing. This becomes clear in . . .

Winter Break

The year was 1963. It was the winter break of my sophomore year at the University of Rochester in upstate New York. My two friends, Eddie and James, and I approached the taxicab driver I’d called, who stood next to his cab outside our dorm.

“We need to go to the train station,” I said to the driver.

“The three of you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He scanned our luggage and inquired, “Where’s the third set of skis?”

“Only two sets. I don’t ski," I responded.

“We’ll see about that," Eddie shouted.

“No way!" I yelled. It’s too dangerous. If I was meant to ski, God would have given me extra large feet.”

We piled into the cab. The driver set the meter, and we took off for the train depot. The drive was uneventful and we arrived at the station thirty-five minutes later.

The cabby unloaded our baggage and placed it on the curb. “Thirty dollars,” he stated.

We each gave him ten dollars. Thinking we should tip him. I grabbed a wadded up five dollar bill from my pocket and gave it to him. He unfolded it, stared at it for a second, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

We tugged our luggage through the station doors and followed the signs to Platform Four. The sign read, “New York City.”

Standing on the platform, we awaited the arrival of the train. We said nothing to each other. We just stood and stared at the “million” other students waiting to board. Just as I was about to go crazy from the wait, the train pulled into the station.

It was then I wished I had a life insurance policy. I thought for sure I was going to be crushed to death trying to get on. But we made it and, amazingly, the three of us were able to squeeze into one wide, but uncomfortable seat.

Now, our luggage was another story, especially the skis. We pushed our things under the seats and into the luggage racks, wherever we could find space in the train car. The conductor had us place the skis in the very back of the car, standing tall, behind a large trunk. I wondered how we’d get to them, as the crowd got off the train.

The ride was so exciting, I wanted to scream, but we were packed in so tight, I couldn’t get up enough breath to do so. We didn’t say much to each other. We just stared out the window at the snowdrifts or slept for the almost eight-hour trip.

As we approached the New York City station, James breathed a huge sigh of relief that almost knocked Eddie and me out of our seats. We managed to gather up our luggage, including the skis, and exited the car. As we did, James looked at me and said, in a somewhat facetious manner, "See you on the slopes.”

“Not on your life,” I groaned.

Our parents were waiting on the platform. We waved good-bye to each other and left to enjoy our two-week vacation.

The two weeks passed faster than I’d wished. I had no contact with Eddie and James. My parents drove me to the station, parked in the loading zone, and helped unload my luggage. We hugged and said good-bye.

I threw my small duffle bag over my shoulder and dragged my suitcase into the station and headed toward Platform Eight. I kept looking around for Eddie and James, but they were nowhere in sight. Then, I looked at my watch and realized if I didn’t hurry, I was going to miss the train.

Running, I got to the fourth car just as the doors were starting to close. Reaching in, they reopened. As I entered, what I saw blew me away. There, in the two front seats, were James and Eddie, each with a leg in a cast resting on his suitcase in front of him. Seeing me enter, they turned away, trying to avoid me, but they couldn’t. With a wide grin on my face, I sung out, “Wonderful winter ‘break’ you had. Glad I didn’t go skiing with you.”

Tuesday, January 19, 2021

He grew up in a neighborhood composed of Italians and Jews. He had little interaction with people of color.

Then something happened that changed his world. He found himself involved in . . .

A Case Of Black

“Oh, hell! I’m running late for school again,” he screamed. “Where’s my essay on segregation? I thought I left it on the kitchen table last night.”

“It’s right where you put it, Tony,” Mom said, in a sarcastic manner.

“Okay, okay. I found it.”

He grabbed the glass of OJ she left on the table for him and glanced at the first sentence of his essay. He slurped the juice and read aloud from his paper at the same time.

“The year is 1962. Segregation and racial tension are not confined to the South, although many of us in the North live our lives isolated from these issues. My knowledge on the subject doesn’t come from experience, but from my U.S. History class and newspaper and television coverage.

“I’m a high school senior who will graduate from Emerson High School in less than two months, on Friday, June 18. Emerson is an all-white public high school on Long Island, twenty miles from New York City. As a student at the school, in a middle class suburb, I’ve been insulated from the tension associated with integration efforts taking place in other towns and cities throughout the country. My only experience with black America occurred a year ago when I competed in a track meet against Benfield High School—the one integrated high school in our school district.”

“Tony, get a move on,” Dad yelled, interrupting his discourse. “You’re going to be late for school.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He jammed his essay into his school folder, gathered up his books, and hurried out to the car. “Tony Lombardi will make history today with his great exposé on racial tension and segregation,” he chanted as he ran. He jumped into the family’s ’58 Chevy Impala and slammed the door. Dad stepped on the gas pedal and they took off.

He looked out the window as they drove the three miles to Emerson. The day was sunny and warm. Everything seemed to sparkle. Dad stopped the car at the curb at the front of the school. Tony grabbed his books and school folder, opened the door, and hopped out.

“Bye, Dad. See you tonight.”

“Have a great day, Tony.”

He shut the car door and headed toward the school’s main entrance. As he plodded along the walkway, a bright light blinded him. “What the . . .” he muttered.

His eyes followed the reflection. They focused on the silver handle of a black attaché case that cast a radiant glow. The brilliance framed the back of the man who clutched the handle of the case, as if to squeeze the life from it.

He stared at the large, dark left hand of this statuesque figure. He didn’t see a ring. Must be single, he thought. A simple gold watch rested on the man’s wrist. It wouldn’t have caught his attention had his eyes not been drawn to the handle of the case.

The stranger pressed his left arm, the one holding the case, close to his massive frame. His size made Tony think he might have been a football player. He wore a brown and tan striped, light cotton sport coat, quite appropriate for the warm spring day. His neck seemed to disappear within the collar of the jacket, causing Tony to focus on the back of his head. His hair, close cropped and jet-black, appeared dull in comparison to the aura surrounding him.

Tony watched the majestic stranger, as he marched with military precision toward the main entrance of the school. He lifted his right hand and pulled the handle of the large glass door toward him. Tony, with his books tucked under his arm and his school folder in hand, followed him into the building.

“Hey, Tony,” Mike Clark shouted from the other side of the hallway.

“Not now,” Tony responded. “I’m in a hurry.”

As the man disappeared down the corridor, Tony picked up his pace so not to lose him. His precise manner piqued Tony’s curiosity. He had seen his back and a bit of his left side, but not his face. He wondered what the man looked like. Who is this person and what is he doing here? he thought.

As he caught up to this imposing gentleman, he could see him walking toward a classroom at the end of the corridor. His movements appeared to become a bit strained as he proceeded with some trepidation. He opened the classroom door and entered.

Tony followed behind him and, to his amazement, realized he was in his first period English classroom. Not wanting to appear conspicuous, he went straight from the door to his desk in the third row and sat down. The man now stood in front of the teacher’s desk, facing toward the blackboard.

As Tony settled into his chair and awaited the arrival of the rest of the class, his eyes focused on the black case the imposing figure placed to his right on the large, blonde wood desk in front of him. The man lifted the top of the case and removed a white writing tablet from it. The contrast was quite striking—the bright, white tablet and the jet-black case. The man still had his back to Tony. Tony longed to see his face.

Boisterous seniors, Tony’s fellow students, entered the classroom and filed through the rows of desks to their seats. His close friend Barry paused at his desk. “What are you staring at?” he asked.

“The guy at the front of the room,” Tony replied.

Barry turned to look. The other students, now seated, eyed the man, too. A hush permeated the classroom. The eerie silence lasted but a moment, as the clang of the bell indicated the start of the school day.

Tony opened his notebook and wrote the date, April 24,1962, at the top of the page. Then his eyes moved from the book and became fixed on the large figure poised in front of the room. The man turned toward the class and smiled. His face was bright and reflected a sense of enthusiasm. He now seemed relaxed and projected a warm demeanor, as he spoke.

“Your teacher, Mr. Robbins, is ill today. I’m Mr. Jackson, your substitute. Mr. Robbins’s lesson plan for the day centers on the essays he assigned you to write. He asked me to have you read them aloud to the class. While I agree with this approach, I’m going to change his strategy a bit. As such, please give your essays to me at this time. Then I will pass them out so each of you gets someone else’s paper. After you have read the paper you were given to the class, we will discuss its contents and I will ask you to identify which classmate wrote the particular essay read.”

Nobody uttered a sound in response to Mr. Jackson’s statement or raised a hand to question him about the process outlined. Captivated by his words and energy, the students’ eyes focused on him in anticipation of an activity they all found quite appealing.

However, before the exercise could begin, Tony became distracted. Sunlight streaming through the classroom window fell upon the open black case’s silver handle reproducing the radiance he’d witnessed earlier. But then this luminescence, which surrounded the case, traveled to the students’ white, smiling faces, producing a glow so bright, the contrast of colors in the room disappeared. The black figure, poised in front of the classroom, blended into the white group he faced, as he distributed the essays to the class.

Later, after the exercise, as Mr. Jackson dismissed the class, the students smiled and chatted as they exited the classroom. Their unmistakable enthusiasm flowed through the corridors of the school. The following year, as school opened in the fall, a new group of students marched down the corridor and entered “Mr. Jackson’s first period English class,” and nobody thought, Who is this person and what is he doing here?

Monday, January 11, 2021

Communication in marriage might not be as easy as we would like it to be. We can have a hard time getting our point across.

At times, we say things we may regret. This becomes obvious in . . .

Sid And Janis—A Love Story?

It was a beautiful morning. Birds singing in the fresh fall air made my heart dance. The sun warmed my back, as I strolled through our wonderful neighborhood. I knew everybody and, for the most part, we all got along.

Walking toward the Joneses’ house, I spied something rather strange happening. Henry Jones rolled a large wooden box, which looked like a casket, on a dolly down his driveway to his Buick SUV, parked with its rear hatch open. Seeing me approach, he rushed to push the box up a makeshift ramp into the back of the vehicle. Slamming the hatch down, he turned and ran into the house.

I didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he rolling a casket down his driveway? Why did he appear so upset to see me? Should I call the police? No, not right now, I thought. But I do have to tell Janis.

I looked around. Seeing nobody else on the block, I started running. I raced down the street and bolted through the front door of my house. “Janis, Janis,” I shouted. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the kitchen, Sid,” she replied, somewhat annoyed.

As I entered the room, she sat at the kitchen table with a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake on the plate in front of her and her fork on the floor next to her foot. She looked at me, as if I’d done something wrong. “Your shouting scared me, Sid. What do you want?”

“You should’ve seen what just happened,” I gasped.

“All right, what happened?”

“That neighbor of ours, you know, the guy named Jones. What he did was unbelievable,” I said, panting.

“Well, what did he do?” she asked.

I stood there with a blank expression on my face.

“Are you going to share it with me or what, Sid?” she demanded.

“Uh, let me catch my breath. I sprinted all the way down the block to tell you the news.”

“If it’s that important, Sid, out with it already,” she screamed, in a high-pitched voice. “If I have to wait a minute more, I’m going to blow a fuse.”

I had trouble handling her impatience. I never seemed to do things on her time schedule. “Okay, okay,” I yelled, in frustration.

“Don’t raise your voice to me, mister,” she screeched. “I’m your wife.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the woman of my dreams, my ‘Mrs. Wonderful.’”

“Just keep it up, Sid,” she said, in a harsh voice. “You’re trying my patience and I’m not going to take much more of this crap from you.”

This was my life with Janis, always confrontational. I pulled myself together, collected my thoughts, and tried to tell her what I’d witnessed. However, by this time, she appeared to be at her wits end with me. I wondered what was going on in her mind. She had a glare in her eyes. She seemed so uptight. I wished I knew what to say to help her relax.

Using caution, I muttered, “Uh, uh, . . .”

However, before I could get the words out of my mouth, she turned my world upside down.

“Youuuuu. You’re driving me crazy,” she roared.

I began to shake. I needed to get out of there. I headed toward the hallway in an effort to remove myself from what I perceived to be the direct line of fire. But . . . I didn’t move fast enough.

Janis bellowed, “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not leaving before telling me what happened. That’s what you came in here to do and you’re going to do it—now! Sid.”

So we were back where we started, like every discussion we’d had in the past. I had something to say, important facts to convey, but Janis always turned things upside down causing complete chaos.

“Janis, I’ve had it with you!” I shrieked, overwhelmed by her harassment. “I’m not going to let you treat me like this any longer. I want a divorce.”

“Huh? Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.

I could see the pain on her face. She sat there and stared at me in disbelief. She appeared to be at a loss for words—something not characteristic of Janis. I didn’t like seeing her hurting. After all, she had been my wife for thirty-two years and divorce had to be the last resort.

“Janis,” I murmured. “I do love you. I don’t want a future without you.”

She looked at me and breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t want you to leave me either. I need you,” she said, in a soft voice.

I thought about beginning our conversation about neighbor Jones again, but caught my tongue before uttering a word. No, this would not be the best time, I concluded.

Instead, I said, “I’m sorry for starting the argument.” But I thought, I hadn’t started it. However, this had worked in the past to get our life back on track. So why not try it now?

She responded, “Thank you for admitting you were wrong. I appreciate that you’re taking responsibility.”

I almost choked on her words. She’d been wrong, not me. However, instead of saying anything I might regret, I whispered, “Let’s just move on with our lives. I don’t want to argue anymore.”

With a broad smile on her face and joy in her voice she said, “I’ve got some things to do. Then I’ll make us a nice dinner. Let’s eat around six.”

Dinner was delicious. Janis outdid herself. The pork chops, baked potatoes, and applesauce tasted great.

“Did you enjoy the dinner,” Janis murmured. “I tried to make everything the way you like it.”

“Yes, you did, . . . and I loved it.”

“And me, too?”

“Yes, you, too.”

That night we slept cuddled together—capturing the loving past we’d both forgotten. In the morning, we awoke to the sun coming through the bedroom blinds. Our eyes met and my heart pounded, as I awaited her words of love, . . .

And now, a question I need your help in answering. I am considering three possible endings to the story. Please read them below and let me know, at slolowe@icloud.com, which one of the three would be the best ending. The choice that receives the most “Yes” votes will become the story's ending. Thank you in advance for your help.

Ending 1

Ending 2

Ending 3