As Halloween approaches, we reflect on the strange things that have happened in our lives. Sometimes these are real. At other times, they are just pranks or figments of our imagination.

But how do we know which is witch? You may soon find out in . . .

The Which Of Westwood

“The Story Unfolds”

     She came crashing through the front door, with the energy of a bull running through the streets of Spain. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I felt the pain run into my stomach. I screeched, “Slow down young lady. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?”

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”

     “I’ve just got to go.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now, or you’re not going.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “What did I just say?”

     “I’ll be back by six.”

     She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left—slamming the front door in my face before I could utter another word. I stood there stone-faced, frozen in place.

     That was ten years ago. Melody was fourteen, in the ninth grade—a teenager with a mind of her own. She listened to little I had to say, but somehow received every message I sent.

     She never told me what happened that day and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I didn’t ask. She graduated second in her class at Westwood High, which was an accomplishment cheered by friends and family alike, and was accepted at Bridgemont University, six hundred miles from home.

     During her time at college, we frequently talked on the phone. However, she made excuse after excuse to avoid coming home for a visit and never invited me to see her. This behavior left me wondering if I’d ever see her again. Four years after she left home, she earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and then entered the teaching credential program at the college.

     I thought about what she might do after she completed the program. Then one day in late April, the phone rang. I’ll never forget the date—April 23. When I answered it, I was somewhat surprised to hear Melody’s voice.

     “Hello, Mom.”

     “Melody, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You didn’t return my calls.”

     “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I’ve been very busy.”

     “Busy? Doing what?”

     “Packing.”

     “Where are you going?” Oh, my God! The same question I asked ten years ago.

     “Not going. Coming.”

     “Coming?” I asked, somewhat afraid of the answer I might get.

     “To Westwood,” she said softly.

     “But why?” This was the same discussion we had when she was fourteen.

     “Because I have to.”

     Oh, my! This is going nowhere again. Another open door slammed in my face. Just as I began to feel totally frustrated and confused, words came pouring out of her mouth.

     “Mom, I’ve been offered a teaching position at Westwood High—a dream come true.”

     “That’s wonderful, darling. Tell me more.”

     “I’ll be teaching English. I start the fourth of August, with a two-week orientation. School begins on August 18.”

     “Which grade?” I inquired.

     “Ninth.”

     But that was when it happened, I thought—the answer I’d never received.

     “Well, that’s great, Melody. I’m so happy for you.”

     “Thank you. This is what I’ve always wanted—to teach young people to understand the importance of the English language.”

     “When will I see you?”

     “Soon. The term ends in two weeks and then I have a month internship at a high school near the college. I’ll let you know the exact date, when I find out a little bit more about my schedule.”

     “This is fantastic news. In my wildest dreams, I never believed you’d be coming back.”

     “But I am, Mom. I’m coming home.”

      The wait was killing me. Each day I’d stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring. And then one morning, as I made breakfast, the bell chimed. I reached for it on the counter, pressed, “YES,” and muttered, “Hello.”

     “Hi, Mom,” Melody said cheerfully. “Can you pick me up at the airport next Thursday? My flight arrives at two o’clock.”

     “Yes, certainly. Two o’clock. I’ll be there. What airline?”

     “Southwest, Flight 1236. I’m coming home.”

     Little did I know what the future held for me? In a follow-up email, I agreed to meet Melody outside the terminal housing Southwest. When I arrived, I saw her standing by the curb dressed in a white blouse and black slacks, with a Cheshire cat grin on her face.

     I pulled up to the curb. She opened the passenger side door, tossed her backpack into the back seat, and jumped into the front seat beside me. “Hi, Mom,” she squealed.

     “Hello, Melody. You look great, dear. But where’s the rest of your luggage. You are moving here. This isn’t just a visit?”

     “Oh, no. I’ve shipped the rest of my stuff. It’ll be here Monday. Couldn’t carry it all.”

     “So, tell me about your new job at Westwood High.”

     “Which job?”

     “You have more than one?” I asked in disbelief. “I thought you were going to teach English.”

     “Well, yes and no.”

     “Okay, which is it, yes or no.”

     “I can’t tell you now. When I have all the details ironed out, I’ll talk to you about them.”

     “Why are you being so evasive?”

     “I’m not. Just don’t have enough information to share now. So you’ll have to wait until I do.”

     “Okay, but it better be soon.” I put the car in “Drive” and headed toward the freeway. Twenty-six minutes later, we rolled up to the house. I grabbed Melody’s backpack from the backseat and we went in. A new episode in the life of Melody and Mona Majic had begun.

     Our new relationship seemed similar to the one we had in her teenage years, yet stranger. At times, when she came into the room, an eerie aura surrounded her. She seemed to have a dark side that I couldn’t quite pinpoint—one that emerged from time to time and then disappeared into the recesses of the daughter I wanted her to be. And those were the fun times.

     I decided not to pressure Melody about school and her teaching position. Yet I noticed changes in her. She died her hair jet-black. Not what you’d expect from a beautiful redhead. And her clothing became drab, at first, and then pitch-black—her skirt, blouse, and boots, all alike.

     This troubled me so much I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I sat by the front door on this blustery October day and waited for her to come home from school.

     Just as I was about to drift off into Neverland, she came crashing through the door. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I grimaced and shouted, “Slow down Ms. Teacher. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”      

     “I’ve just got to.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now. You may be an adult, but you still live under my roof.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “That’s what you always say, but you never do,” I lamented.

     “But I will. I promise.”

     “Which excuse will you use next time? The same one or will you be more creative?”

     “Witch . . . one . . . would . . . you . . . like . . . me . . . to . . . use? she asked, drawing her words out in such an eerie fashion, it made me shake. “I’ll . . . be . . . back . . . by . . . six.”

     She didn’t give me a chance to answer. She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left. History had repeated itself and I didn’t know why.

The Witch Of Westwood

“The Story Concludes”

     Melody was never an easy child to deal with. If you didn’t do it her way, she became disgruntled and would stare at you, making you feel quite uneasy. Now a teacher in her third month at Westwood High, she had a habit of avoiding answering any question I’d ask her about work. Although answering questions had always been a hurdle keeping us apart, I never got used to it. It still made me very uneasy and I didn’t think she could be comfortable with the situation either. Living together was at times nightmarish.

     I wanted to prove to her I was a caring parent and that I had an interest in what was happening at school. Yet I didn’t want to be too intrusive. However, I did want a response to my questions. She was an adult now and should understand that what she was doing was unacceptable. I wondered if she was doing this on the job, too, but knew if I asked, she wouldn’t answer.

     Halloween was three days away—a time for kids and others to select a costume fitting for the occasion. However, Melody already had started to dress the part over a month ago. I’d gotten used to her red hair dyed black and the black garments and boots she’d wear to campus everyday. That being said, this was something which I had trouble accepting.

     I had just gotten home from the store, when I heard a crash come from Melody’s room. I raced down the hall, grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. It was locked. ”Melody!” I yelled. “Are you all right?” No response. “Melody, please answer me.”

     That was a foolish request. Why would she respond to me now? She never does. Assuming she was all right, I let go of the doorknob, turned, and began to walk away. And then, the door opened. I spun around and saw something I wished I hadn’t seen—Melody standing straight up like a statue in a ghoulish, mystery museum.

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     I had no idea how to respond. Where was my daughter? Who was this monster?

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     Totally spooked, but knowing I had to say something, I pulled myself together and muttered, “Hi, Melody.”

     “What . . . are . . . you . . . staring . . . at, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm?”

     My tongue was so twisted in my mouth, nothing came out.

     “Answer . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm.”

     The shoe was on the other foot. Only I wanted to answer, but couldn’t. I was breathing so hard I thought I’d have a heart attack. I couldn’t catch my breath.

     “If . . . you’re . . . not . . . going . . . to . . . speak . . . to . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I’m . . . going . . . back . . . into . . . my . . . room.”

     Before I could say anything, she was gone. I heard the door lock. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Who was she? She wasn’t my daughter. At her worst, my daughter was still human. This thing wasn’t. What did this witch do with my daughter? I began to sob uncontrollably.

     The next thing I knew, my alarm clock startled me out of a sound sleep. How I’d gotten into bed was beyond me, but I was there. I hit the alarm “Off” button, rolled out of bed, washed up, dressed, and headed into the kitchen.

     There on the counter was a note. It read, “Dear Mom, I had a lot to do at school today, so I left early. See you about five. Love, Melody.” The note was so normal, I began to feel the experience I thought I’d had was only a terrible dream.

     Since I work from home as a medical transcriber, I have the freedom to do what I want when I want to. And today, I just wanted to unwind from the harrowing ordeal I’d experienced. So I did a little work and then puttered around the house doing some things I never seemed to have time to do. I carried my cell phone in my pocket so I wouldn’t miss a doctor’s call, if they had a question about something I’d transcribed. I kept it on vibrate.

     As I bent down to pick a piece of paper up off the living room carpet, my vibrating phone made me tingle all over. Not a bad feeling after what I’d been trough. I pressed the “YES” button, and . . .

     “Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I . . . need . . . you.”  Silence. “Come . . . to . . . Westwood . . . nowwwwwwwwww.”

     Before I could say anything, the caller, who I assumed was Melody, hung up. I was trembling so hard, the phone dropped out of my hand onto the carpet. I looked at the time on my watch. It was almost five. That’s when Melody said she’d be home. But if that was her on the phone, she obviously wasn’t coming. And why in the world did she want me to come to Westwood?

     Maybe I should go there. Melody could be in trouble. She’s a new teacher. They don’t know all the rules of the game. I’m her mother. She’s my only child. I could help her.

     I put on my jacket and went to the door. It wouldn’t open. But why? I yelled. “Help me! My door is stuck.” Nobody answered.

     I heard people on the street. I screamed, “Please help me! I need to go to Westwood. My daughter needs me. Still, no response. My phone, resting on the carpet, began to vibrate. It jumped. As it did, I grabbed it and pressed, “YES,” but nothing happened—nobody spoke to me. “I’m here,” I chanted. And then what came out of the phone unnerved me.

     “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . help . . . me.” Silence. 
“They’re . . . making . . . me . . . wear . . . this . . . terrible . . . black . . . costume.” Silence. 
“And . . . my . . . red . . . hair . . . is . . . missing.” Silence. “I’m . . . so . . . scared.” Silence. “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . pleasssssssssse . . . help . . . me.”

     I was rattled beyond belief. I shook so hard I fell over onto the couch. I dropped the phone back on the carpet. It was still on. Out of its speaker came . . . “Mommyyyyyyyyyy.” Silence. “Why . . . don’t . . . you . . . love . . . me . . . anymorrrrrrrrrre?”

     “But I do love you,” I responded emphatically. “I really do.” And then everything went black.

     The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing a man and a woman, dressed in long white coats.

     “My daughter, Melody, is in trouble. She needs my help. Help me,” I pleaded.

     “Calm down,” Mona. “What would you like me to do?” the gentleman in the white coat asked.

     “My phone, my phone. Get my phone. I need to talk to Melody.”

     “Mom, it’s me, Melody. Let me help you sit up.”

     “Oh, Melody, what a nice Halloween costume you have on. It’s much more appropriate than the black one. White suits you better, dear. And your hair is red again. You look so good.”

     “Thank you, Mom.”

     “Are we home or are we at Westwood?”

     “Westwood is your home, Mom.”

     “No, it isn’t. It’s the school where you teach.”

     “No, it’s the care home where I work as a physician assistant (PA).”

     “I don’t understand.”

     “When I was fourteen, Dad left us, Mom. You couldn’t handle it and slipped into your own world. It wasn’t real, but it was yours. Grandma and grandpa found you a good place to live, here, where you could be helped. They took care of me. I graduated high school and then went to college to become certified as a physician assistant.”

     “You’re a doctor?”

     “Not exactly. But I do a lot of the things they do, under a doctor’s supervision.”

     “Why here?”

     “Westwood Sanitarium had an opening for a PA. I applied and they offered me the job.”

     “Why here?”

     “Because you were here . . .”

     “Because I was here?”

     “Yes.”

     “I love you, Melody.”

     “I love you, too, Mom.”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

The holiday season is upon us, and with it comes the pressure to support charitable organizations. But should you?

While giving is worthwhile, how do you ensure you are doing the right thing? This question is raised in . . .

Solicitations

“My Check Is In The Mail”

In my mailbox daily are letters aplenty from charities—money they do solicit.

Requests for help to feed the hungry, support disease research, and save the animals, 
     the words are quite explicit.

However, in some, one must read between the lines, for actual reasons behind the 
     requests really are implicit.

They tug at your heartstrings and prey on your guilt, for a donation they wish to elicit.

These organizations make no secret, your assets they want, including those your heirs 
     will inherit.

They document with statistics and provide information as to why your donation they 
     merit.

They make their intentions clear, yet at times the real use of funds is kept secret.

It is hard to know how much of your gift the needy receive, as words in these pleas are 
     hard to interpret.

Sometimes you get the feeling their mission to draw upon your savings might be illicit.

Although supporting the cause, it is hard to avoid thinking it is a scam in which you 
     will become complicit.

Just, honest causes do abound, and through a thorough investigation you can find a 
     favorite, so don’t dispirit.

Giving to the right cause is good for both heart and soul. It helps those in need and 
     pays dividends by lifting the spirit.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes we run away from our past to escape the pain we endured growing up. Yet the scars still remain from this torturous upbringing.

We try to bury both memories and emotions. But what may be best is facing the demons that remain within, as you will see in . . .

Faded Memories

     Crash, boom, a concert of thunder erupted in the gloom of an early, Denver afternoon. Engrossed in reviewing a $6,000,000 funding proposal that had to be mailed to a federal grant agency by five o’clock, the magnitude of the occurrence startled me. I stared out my office window into a myriad of dark, black clouds—eerie, ghostlike forms encroaching upon the horizon.

     These creatures of darkness appeared to be moving toward me. I didn’t understand why, but then life itself remained a mystery to me. I eyed this phenomenon with awe and apprehension, as the room became engulfed by these dark beings.

     Focusing on the clock on the far wall of the office, the time jumped out at me—1:30 p.m. Then, for no apparent reason, the hands on the clock began spinning in a counterclockwise direction. My captors cloaked me in blackness as I disappeared into a world I’d tried to forget. The present became blurry as the faded memories of my past emerged. Twenty-three years disappeared in the blink of an eye. Then, as a fifteen-year-old boy, I entered the front door of a small, red brick house in upstate New York. 

     Shaking the snow from my boots, I ripped off my coat and raced through the living room to the kitchen. “Mom,” I shouted as I entered the kitchen. “I’ve got some great news.”

     Mom, a plump, middle-aged woman, spun around from in front of the stove and scowled, “Roger, can’t you see I’m busy cooking? Now go to your room and get ready for dinner. And don’t dawdle.”

     Dejected, I turned and slipped away toward my room. Entering, I rolled onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “God, why can’t she listen to me? If only she would take the time,” I lamented.

     My eyes surveyed the room. Unattractive, drab green walls framed my otherwise unremarkable sanctuary. On the scuffed hardwood floor lay a rumpled, gold throw rug. An empty bulletin board hung on the wall above a cluttered desk and the wall next to the bed displayed a picture of a sad-faced clown—a reflection of me.

     “I better get moving,” I groused. I don’t want to make Mom more upset. I got up, wiped the tears from my eyes, looked into the mirror at my pimple-covered face, ran my fingers through my hair, and shuffled off to the dining room. 

     “I wish I was dead,” I muttered, as I made my way down the hallway. Tears began to roll from my eyes once again. I rubbed them with my shirtsleeve. 

     Arriving at the dining room, I saw my mother; father, a rather small man; and my eighteen-year-old brother Bill seated at the large oak table. 

     “Roger, get in here already,” my mother snarled. “We’ve been waiting at least five minutes. Can’t you ever be on time? Don’t you care about other people?”

     Frowning and trying hard to hold back the tears, I sat and slumped down in my chair, my head just above the edge of the table. My father grumbled a short prayer and the family began to eat in silence

     A few minutes later, I mustered up the courage to speak. “Mom,” I stammered, “May I be excused?” 

     “No, you may not,” she blurted.

     Dad kept his head down, as if trying to be invisible. I needed his support, but didn’t get it. I never did.

     I sat without saying a word the rest of the meal. Mom chattered away about my brother Bill’s accomplishments and how someday he would become a great success. And her remarks were aimed at me.

     “Your brother’s so handsome. He’s outgoing and quite charming—a boy a mother can be proud of,” her voice resonated in praise. “You should model yourself after your big brother, Roger,” she chortled.

     My stomach churned in agony. I burst away from the table yelling, “I think I’m going to heave.”

     As I disappeared down the hall, I could hear my mother shouting in frustration to my father and Bill, “What the hell is the matter with that boy?”

     Entering my room, I tumbled onto the bed and wept into my pillow. “Why am I me? I must not be normal. Something must be wrong with me,” I cried out in dismay. 

     Calming down a bit, I grumbled, “I’m not Bill. He’s the success—the scholar, the athlete, the socialite. Me, I’m the failure. I have no friends. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know what will become of me.”

     Confused and frustrated, the emotional toll of the evening took everything out of me. Still in my street clothes, I clutched my pillow and fell into a deep, but restless, sleep.

     The night passed and the next day came, soon giving way to another day and yet another night. Days turned into months and months into years. Now twenty-two, I sat in silence on my bed in a room only somewhat changed by the passage of time, the green paint on the walls a bit more faded, the floor more scuffed.

     My face, showing traces of my former severe skin problem, reflected bitter disappointment. The struggles of the years left their scars, but the anguish of the present was even harder to accept.

     I gazed at the parchment lying next to me on the bed. I focused on the bold, black written words. They came alive and danced before me—HAVE CONFERRED UPON ROGER MEYER THE DEGREE OF BACHELOR OF ARTS WITH A MAJOR IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION—causing the pain within me to worsen. I turned the certificate on its face. I looked up at the sad-faced clown now hanging somewhat askew above the bed. I knew how he felt.

     Wicked thoughts and nightmarish dreams of evil things happening to my parents and brother raced through my mind. They could’ve come to my graduation this morning and still attended Bill’s master’s degree ceremony, which didn’t start until four in the afternoon.

     Their absence felt like daggers sticking into my heart. “I know I’m not much, but I did accomplish something,” I cried. “Don’t they care? No, they don’t give a damn. But I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.”

     I pictured an article appearing in tomorrow’s paper. It read, “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Meyer and their oldest son, Bill, found bludgeoned to death in their home. Their younger son, Roger, who had left the house at 8:00 p.m. and returned home two hours later to find the front door wide open, called 9-1-1. No clues to the killer’s identity have been found.”

     Dismissing these dark feelings, I rolled off the bed and stood in front of the mirror, now yellowed by the passage of time. I peered into the glass to see my future. Many faces stared back at me—a funny-faced clown, a well-respected banker, a certified public accountant working for a major corporation, a tax lawyer who saved businesses from failing, and a beloved politician. 

     Having little confidence in my abilities, degree or no degree, I felt I’d never be able to succeed in these arenas. I leaned back against the wall and began to sob.

     From behind the tears flowing down my face, I groaned, “I can’t stay here.” I knew what I had to do—a packed bag, a short note of explanation, a closed door, and a new life. They won’t care if I leave. I’ll change—find a job and become a success. They’ll be sorry they pushed me out. I’ll show them what I can do. And I will be back.

     A burst of sunlight shot through my office window. Stunned, my eyes perused my plush, beautifully appointed executive office. No more dark clouds surrounded me. In the present again, with past memories now somewhat faded, I let out a sigh of relief.

     But then something strange happened. My brother, Bill, decked out in the entirety of his master’s degree trappings, with a bright halo above his graduation cap, stood in front of my large executive desk. He looked me straight in the eye and stated, “Roger, you are a success—a prominent businessman, a leader in a major company, and a champion of causes to help the less fortunate. You are every bit the man I am. You will make Mom and Dad proud. It is time.”

     The image of Bill faded as fast as it had appeared. I looked at the clock—the time, 1:35 p.m. It felt as if my mind had wandered for hours, but it had been just a matter of minutes. 

     Trying to put the thoughts of my youth behind me, I returned to work on the funding proposal. I completed it and placed it in my “Out Box,” so it would be mailed. As I cleared my desk, my mind again reflected on the past. My heart raced. I muttered to myself, “It is time.” 

     I pushed the intercom and spoke to one of my assistants in the outer office. As the conversation concluded, I said, “Let me know when you have reached the travel agency and made my reservations.”

     About twenty minutes later, a voice echoed through the intercom, “Mr. Meyer, Mr. Landis from the travel agency called to confirm your reservations to the East Coast.”

     The intercom went silent, but through the closed office door, I could hear the two assistants talking. One purred, “Mr. Meyer is such a nice guy. He’s sort of cute with that full black beard. I wonder why he’s still single?”

     The other scoffed, “He works too hard, spends at least sixteen hours a day here. Got no time for women. He’s in love with the job. But he would be a catch.”

     Hearing these remarks, my heart began to pump faster and my spirit became empowered. Their conversation ended as soon as they heard me move toward my office door. I emerged, gave the senior assistant instructions on the mailing of the proposal, told her I would see her in four days, turned, and left through the outer office door.

     Peering over my shoulder, I could see both assistants watching me. I thought to myself, I’m thirty-eight-year-old Roger Meyer—dressed in a neat, gray pinstripe suit and black tie, with hair graying at the temples and a full black beard. I’m a success. I felt like jumping up and clicking my heels. Instead, I looked straight ahead and whispered, “I’m going home.”

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

My parents told me, it’s all about family. Without them you’re alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.

Siblings need to be there for one another. However, sometimes their apparent support could end up being your worst nightmare, as becomes evident in . . .

Where Would I Be Without You?

     I sat on the couch in Liv’s great room staring off into space and waited for her to make the pronouncement that would change our lives. “What’s taking you so long? You told me to be here at seven and you’d share some great secret with me. So I got here ten minutes early and all you’ve done is mess around in the kitchen. I think you’re avoiding the issue.”    

     “No, I’m not. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

     ‘I hope so, Liv. But the last time you asked me to do that, I thought we were going to end up in jail.”

     “Well, yeah, but you have to admit I was very convincing when that cop stopped us for speeding,” Em.

     “Sure, you told him I was having a miscarriage. Fortunately he didn’t check the tomato juice you’d spilled on the floor of the car the day before.”

     “It did look like blood, sis. Didn’t it?”

     “Yes. But then he escorted us to the hospital. I thought our goose was cooked.”

     “I guess a call about a robbery in progress trumps a pregnancy gone awry.”

     “Just be glad he didn’t look closely at me. For God’s sake, I’m fifty years old. He would have called our bluff.”

     “No, he wouldn’t have. And you don’t look a day over forty-nine, old lady.”

     “Okay, we got away with it that night. But if it ever happens again, I’m not so sure we will.”

     “Believe me, I’ve thought this through. Dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t.’”

     “I guess I’ve got to. You’re the English teacher—Ms. Olivia Thatcher, Master of Arts in English. And from Stanford, to boot.”

     “You’ve got that right. So, are you ready to listen to the plan?”

     “Plan? We are going to get arrested. Aren’t we?”

     “Not if you follow my directions exactly as I outline them.”

     “Haven’t I always? You’re my younger, but bossier sister. You’ve never let me disagree with anything you’ve said. When we were kids, if I if I tried, you’d tell mom and dad I was picking on you. I could never figure out why they always believed you and not me.”

     “Isn’t it obvious. I was littler and brighter. And oh, so adorable.”

     “You’re pushing this a bit further than I can handle. So what’s your plan, Liv?”

     “All right. You know we both want to retire early, say about fifty-five—maybe sooner.”

     “Yeah. So, I’ve been putting my money in an IRA. I’ve had my Nissan Altima for twelve years. I saved a lot of money by not buying a new car. I took in a renter two years ago. I’m on track.”

     “You never were one to think big, were you? Keep going in that direction and you won’t be able to retire until you’re a hundred and ten.”

     “What’re you talking about? I’ve got it covered. No, I’m not going to be rich, but I’ll be fine.”

     “That’s what they all say until the bills start rolling in. Then you’ll be standing on the corner with a tin can in your hand.”

     “No I won’t. You have a better idea?”

     “Yup.”

     “Okay, I’m waiting. Roll it out.”

     ”Close your eyes.”

     “Why?”

     “Because I said so.”

     “This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m going back in time, little sis. You’re the boss of me again.”

     “Are they closed?”

     “Yes. Now what?”

     Liv placed something in my hand. It was heavy and felt like . . . “Oh no,” I screamed.

     “Quiet, Em. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

     “I don’t believe you’re considering doing something like this. We’ll definitely end up in prison . . . or worse . . . DEAD!”

     “Calm down and let me explain my plan.”

     “No, Liv. This is getting ridiculous. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m going to open my eyes.”

     “Noooooooo,” Liv screeched, so loud it made my head ache. So I sat there dumbfounded, with my eyes closed. 
     “What now?” I mumbled.

     “Give it back to me. You’re obviously not ready to take the next step to an early and secure retirement.”

     She pulled it from my hand. “Can I open my eyes now?” I asked.

     “Might as well. There’s nothing to see.”

     “Liv, I don’t know how you could think about doing something like that.”

     “Like what? You have no idea what I was planning to do. You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

     “So explain.”

     “Maybe later. You want a drink?”      

     “A drink? You think that’ll calm me down. No, I better be going. I have an early meeting at work in the morning. . . . You know, I shouldn’t be curious about this scheme of yours, but I am. Let me know when you’d like to get together again to talk about it. And next time, I’m going to keep my eyes wide open.”

     “Well, we’ll see about that. But I will give you a call.”

     I wasn’t sure what Liv was planning, but I knew it couldn’t be good. She had other ideas about how to make a quick fortune in the past—none of them illegal, but some of them close, and none of them panned out.

     A week passed and I hadn’t heard from Liv, so I decided to give her a call. The phone rang and rang. I was about to hang up when . . .

     “Hi, Em. I was in the shower. So I’m clean and smell good. Used a new body lotion called ‘Men Attract.’ The ad says it’ll make them salivate.”

     “I think I’ve heard enough, Liv.”

     “Hey, I was going to call you after I got dressed. Wanted to set up a follow-up meeting to discuss the plan that will put our lives on the fast track to retirement. Think dollar signs, sis.”

     “I’m a banker, for heaven’s sake. I always think dollar signs.”

     “Well, money manager, do you think you can make some of that cash come our way? Let it drift off into the sunset of our future?”

     “If I’m hearing what I think I am, I’m not going to help you rob my bank.”

     “If not yours, then maybe somebody else’s?”

     “You are crazy. If this is your bright idea, I want no part of it. Forget the meeting, Liv.”

     “Oh, Em, I’m just kidding. Robbing a bank ain’t my style. Come over after dinner tonight. I’d offer to feed you, but I have work to do on my presentation.”

     “Presentation? What’re you talking about?”

     “You’ll see.”

     And with that, she hung up. Having lost my appetite over all this craziness, I ate a small snack, put myself together, and headed off in my twelve-year-old companion to Liv’s. Not knowing what to expect, my anxiety level heightened.

     It was starting to get dark on this fall evening, but when I arrived, Liv’s porch light wasn’t on and I couldn’t see any light coming from the front windows. This unnerved me. Closing my eyes was one thing, but meeting in the dark was a bit more than I could tolerate.

     I rang the bell, but Liv didn’t come to the door. I reached for the handle. But before I could grasp it, someone grabbed my arm and stuck a hard object into the middle of my back. My heart began to pound uncontrollably.

     “I don’t have any money on me—nothing else of value—not even my credit card. I don’t want to die,” I whimpered.

     The mysterious being pushed the weapon harder into my back and shoved me through the now open front door into the pitch-black entry hall. Then I heard someone else approach. This person took hold of my arm and pulled me into Liv’s dimly lit bedroom. “What, what do you want?” I stammered.

     “Shut up and do what I tell you,” a male voice grumbled.

     I didn’t say another word. But in the dim light, I could see Liv on the bed—bound and gagged. I started to shake. What the hell did these creatures want?

     Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like the gun I’d thought Liv had placed in my hands last week sticking out from under a towel on the dresser. I didn’t know if I could get to it, but I knew I had to try. I had no other choice.

     The guy who stuck the weapon into my back entered the room and began whispering into my other captor’s ear. Realizing they’d taken their eyes off of me, I moved cautiously toward the dresser. The two now had their backs to me and seemed to be arguing. Seeing my chance for freedom, I grabbed the “gun” off the dresser and stuck it into the large pocket in my pants.

     One of the guys must’ve heard me and turned toward me. “What are you up to?” he grumbled.

     “Nothing,” I whined.

     He turned back to his accomplice. My mission clear, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the gun, pointed it at the two thugs and yelled, “Get your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

     To my surprise, they laughed uproariously and stared past me to the bed. What I saw made me want to puke and fire the gun at the same time. For Liv was sitting up giggling out of control.

     “Got you again, big sis. And now, I’m finally going to show you what will make our early retirement a reality.”

     “A gun!” I shouted in dismay.

     “Just read the inscription before you jump to conclusions,” Liv chanted.

     And so I did . . . “Miracle Fire Starter and Handy Welder.”

     Five year’s later Liv and I sat on the balcony of our home in the Caribbean, with drinks in hand, enjoying our retirement from the profits made from the sale of her invention. And I no longer had to ponder the question, “Where would I be without you?”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.