Paula Gail Benson is a legislative attorney and former law librarian. Her short stories have been published in the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, Kings River Life, Mystery Times Ten 2013 (Buddhapuss Ink), and A Tall Ship, a Star, and Plunder (Dark Oak Press and Media, released January 20, 2014). She regularly blogs with others about writing mysteries at Writers Who Kill. Learn more about her at her personal blog, Little Sources of Joy, and her website. .
From inside his home office, Al Capone’s voice cried out, “Get away from me, Jimmy. Leave me alone.” Then, after a break, he yelled again, “You got no beef with me, Jimmy. Ain’t my hit that killed you.”
Capone’s bodyguard, Frank Rio, standing in the hallway just outside the door, rolled a golden toothpick back and forth between his lips. The boss had started seeing “Jimmy” while incarcerated in luxury accommodations in Philly’s big house. Frank, in an adjoining unadorned cell, heard Capone screaming nightly.
After verifying no real “Jimmy” existed, Frank figured the illusion was triggered by guilt: Capone took the blame for the Valentine’s Day shootings personal, even though he had an airtight alibi of being in Florida when they happened. Besides, as Capone put it, “the only man who kills like that is Bugs Moran.”
Except, Jimmy Clark, one of the victims, was Bugs Moran’s brother-in-law. And that’s the Jimmy the boss thought he saw.
Hymie Cornish, Capone’s valet, came down the hallway, no doubt to check on his meal ticket. Cornish stopped when he heard Capone scream, “No, Jimmy!”
Frank got it. Cornish was the only other person claiming to have seen Jimmy in the boss’ room, even though the bodyguards found no evidence of an intruder when they searched.
At first, Frank thought Cornish reported seeing Jimmy to get in the boss’ good graces. But watching the valet’s face go slack at hearing Capone yell Jimmy’s name made Frank reconsider.
“Something you need?” Frank asked.
“A lady here to see Mr. Capone. Name’s Mrs. Doody.”
Frank pocketed the toothpick. “That the landlady who fingered the guys in the Purple Gang for the Valentine’s Day killers?” The Purple Gang was tight with the boss.
Cornish frowned. Maybe at the question. Maybe at the toothpick. Finally, he replied, “She is one of the landladies who talked to the police, but I understand both ladies have wavered on their identifications.”
“What’s she want?”
“Do you remember the spaghetti with walnut sauce Mrs. Capone brought Mr. Capone while you were in Philadelphia?”
“Yeah.” Mae Coughlin Capone was one of the few visitors allowed by the Philly prison brass.
“Mrs. Doody baked it special, just for Mr. Capone.”
Frank’s mouth was already missing his pocketed toothpick. “Sounds like she’s begging for forgiveness.”
“Perhaps,” Cornish said. “She’s here with spaghetti today.”
“What if he ain’t seeing nobody?”
“I told her that might be the case. She politely told me she’d wait outside on the steps, speculating that Mr. Capone would have to emerge sometime.”
Frank stared at Cornish, who remained rooted to his spot.
“Wait here,” Frank told him and turned to knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Capone called.
“Just me, boss,” Frank replied.
“Come in.”
Frank did, glad to close the door behind him in Cornish’s face. “You got a visitor, boss.”
“Can’t a man just rest in peace?”
“It’s Mrs. Doody, that landlady who sent you the spaghetti with walnut sauce in Philly.”
Capone leaned his head back against the leather chair. “My favorite meal. What’s she want?”
“Not sure. Cornish says she IDed the Purple Gang to the cops, but later told ‘em she wasn’t sure.”
“About what?”
“The Valentine’s Day killers.”
Capone slammed his fist down on the desk. “Damn it, Frank. I can’t escape the blame. You know it’s not true.”
Frank looked at the shine on the toes of his shoes. “Yeah, boss.”
“So why should I see her?”
Frank shrugged. “She’s got another plate of spaghetti, like what she sent you in Philly.”
Capone toyed with a pen on the desk. “How does a Mick learn to make spaghetti with walnut sauce?”
Frank shrugged. “Maybe she married up.” He didn’t say, like you always say about your wife, boss.
Capone grimaced. “Although that spaghetti was decent-tasting, I can make better.”
“Sure, boss,” Frank replied while thinking, just not while in the can.
As if hearing Frank’s thoughts, Capone said, “Now I’m sprung from the cooler, I can just make my own.”
“She says she’ll wait you out. On the front stoop.”
Again, Capone slapped his hand against his desk blotter. “Jeez, what we do for dames. Tell her she’s got ten minutes.”
“Okay, boss.”
Frank dispatched Cornish to deliver the message. In a few minutes the valet returned with a lady following.
Mrs. Doody wore a clean, faded house dress with a green paisley pattern and a green sash around the waist. Probably what she wore to Mass, which Frank speculated was her major social activity.
“You only got ten minutes,” he told her.
“That’s all I need.”
Her words made Frank want to pat her down for weapons, but he couldn’t justify it if that turned out to be the wrong move. Instead, he followed her inside, once more closing the door in Cornish’s face.
Capone stood as she entered. He could be endearing, if he wanted. Frank had watched the boss charm the pants off the babes who gravitated to his favorite booth in the Green Mill or his table at the Exchequer. Capone always took the choicest tomatoes for tours of the secret tunnels just to get a quickie.
Mrs. Doody wasn’t any kind of sheba to turn Capone into a sheik. Even so, he did owe her for all those plates of spaghetti with walnut sauce.
“I understand you’ve done me a kindness,” Capone told her. “On more than one occasion.”
“You’re kind to consider it so,” she replied.
“How did you learn to make spaghetti and walnut sauce?”
She lowered her head, and Frank noticed a blush in her cheeks.
“From your mother,” she replied. “And, your sister, Maffie, although she prefers a tomato-based sauce.”
Capone laughed. “I taught her how to make both. I always tease her she’ll sell the marinara recipe for a million bucks someday.”
A smile emerged on Mrs. Doody’s face as she raised her head to meet Capone’s gaze. “I wouldn’t doubt it. She’s a savvy lady.”
Maybe Mrs. Doody was, too, Frank thought. Capone didn’t start seeing Jimmy Clark in his cell until after he’d had a few plates full of Mrs. Doody’s spaghetti. Could be something in the meal triggered his visions.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Doody.” Capone gestured to the chair before his desk. “Frank, give her plate to Cornish.”
“Sure, boss.” Frank wasn’t surprised to find Cornish lingering outside the door. Probably had his ear flat against the casing before Frank opened it.
Didn’t matter. Meant Frank could shove the plate into Cornish’s hands and return to the conversation faster. Besides, Frank took pleasure in shutting Cornish out of the boss’ business once again.
Capone sat behind the massive desk. He leaned across the blotter, elbows braced against it and hands clasped, giving Mrs. Doody an earnest stare. “So, how can I help you?”
“Maybe you heard my lodging house is directly across from the garage on North Clark Street.”
Capone leaned back, drawing his arms to his chest. “Don’t know much about Clark Street. Not my territory.”
Mrs. Doody bowed her head again. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. “I lost a couple of tenants in the shooting at the garage on Valentine’s Day.”
Capone flicked an invisible speck from the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s a shame.”
“You’ve done a lot to help people in Chicago, Mr. Capone.”
“I’m a businessman.” He pointed to his chest. “I give what I choose to give. Not because I’m owing anybody, but because I decide they deserve my help.”
Frank saw a shadow shift at the curtain. Capone glanced that way and seemed to notice it, too. Only his face looked like he’d seen more than a shadow.
Mrs. Doody lifted her head and placed her hands on either arm of her chair. “Maffie’s your only surviving sister. You made sure she married well and had a home. I helped your mother to sew her wedding gown and trousseau.”
“Thank you,” Capone stuttered, still watching the curtain.
“My daughter’s not so lucky. I thought she’d found a husband. A doctor who hung around with my tenants.”
Frank couldn’t help himself. “You mean that squirrel Reinhardt Schwinner, who pretended he was a tough guy?”
Mrs. Doody gave Frank a disapproving look. “He was an optician, living with his mother after his first marriage failed.”
Capone had risen from his chair, firmly placing it between him and whatever he saw at the window. “No, Jimmy,” he whispered.
Mrs. Doody ignored Capone, watching Frank. “Mr. Schwinner was going to give my Angelina a ring. Showed it to me before he and my tenants went to meet their fate in the garage.”
“You can’t pin it on me, Jimmy,” the boss said softly. “I was in Florida.”
“I just want Angelina to have a chance. Like Maffie did.”
“Okay,” Capone shouted. Mrs. Doody and Frank turned back to him. Capone focused on whatever had moved by the curtain.
Finally, he blinked. “Okay,” he told them in a normal tone. “You convinced me. We’ll find a husband for Angelina. A homebody, who’ll look after her. Make her happy.”
Mrs. Doody stood. “Mr. Capone, you are a great man.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off, glancing back at the curtain. “Don’t spread that word, you got me?”
“Of course. Just know I’m grateful.”
“Sure, sure. And, enough with the spaghetti and walnut sauce. You don’t owe me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Capone.”
Frank held open the door. “Cornish will see you out.”
She nodded and went into the hallway.
Capone motioned for Frank to shut the door and join him. “I don’t care if you have to match Angelina up with Cornish. Just get it done. Capiche?”
“Yeah, boss.”
Capone glanced again toward the window. “Jimmy, in Frank Rio, you and me got a witness. Now go haunt Bugs for a while.”
Frank didn’t wait to see if Jimmy responded. He left to find out what Mrs. Doody put in the spaghetti. He might need it sometime himself.
Cosway's Confidence
Featured, Winter 2021
In some ways, it was the best time of her life. In other ways, it was the worst.
When Arleen Schuster found the mid-town red brick building with its black awning shading the sidewalk, she knew instinctively she’d found the place she’d been seeking. The wide heart of pine plank floors with their sheen like a thin layer of glass, a temptation for sliding in new soles, and the boxy dark wooden lighted display case, perfect for arranging the delicacies her customers craved, confirmed that in this spot she would transition from personal chef and caterer to restaurateur.
Only . . .
She managed food and beverages far better than entering contracts or purchasing tables and chairs. Or, hiring staff.
For so long Arleen had been a two-person show, with Reedy as her only assistant. Reedy, a tall, leggy, perpetual co-ed with long, straight blonde hair and a humorless expression, could easily have been plucked from the streets of Paris. Despite Reedy’s being all action, few words, and almost no expressed opinions, Arleen never doubted her loyalty. It would be difficult to find others who either shared Arleen’s vision or could protect and amplify her brand.
A large, bearded workman in torn tee and jeans with a roll of orange extension cord looped over his right arm and a tool kit in his left hand came in the entrance, crossing Arleen’s shop to the interior door that led to the unit below. Recently, that space had been leased to a coffee shop/brewery/comedy club called “Dregs.”
He stopped to tell Arleen, “It’ll be a bit loud for a while. We’re building the stage today.” He pointed to a round brass plate in the center of her empty floor. “May have to run a cord up here to finish our work. You’re lucky the landlord installed three prong outlets for you. It’s still the 1960’s downstairs.”
Arleen nodded as he passed, regretting that she agreed to a walk-through rental without asking more questions about neighboring tenants when she signed her lease. Wondering if the evening noise when Dregs opened would prevent her best client, Mrs. Enid Blaine, from bringing her supper club for intimate gatherings at Arleen’s . . .
What?
She hadn’t yet settled on a name. In her head, she had the image of Le Café La Nuit, not the Van Gogh terrace painting, but its model that still operated in Arles, a tourist trap despite bad internet reviews. She knew what she wanted to convey: French chic for American foodies. But, how to say sophisticated, yet fun, nutritious, and excellent for weight loss in a few perfectly selected words?
Mrs. Blaine suggested “Pate, Baguettes, and Cheese, Oh, My,” which Arleen kindly rejected as having more letters than she could afford on the signage. Then, Mrs. Blaine came up with “Double Truffle.” Arleen promised to think about it, without specifying the kind of thought.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Blaine made another request, unfortunately not for food. Would Arleen interview her nephew Ferdy for a job?
As Mrs. Blaine’s personal chef, Arleen heard plenty about Ferdy’s misadventures in life. How he launched out, all good hearted and well meaning, and inevitably mucked things up until he had to move on. Arleen dreaded the interview.
Ferdy arrived timely, strands of his dark hair standing on end as if manipulated by his own aura of static electricity. Elbows close to his sides, he clutched a battered brown backpack over one shoulder and pushed his dark rimmed glasses to the bridge of his nose as he squinted about the room.
Arleen glanced back at Reedy who stood at the cash register. “Take care of sales while we talk?”
Reedy gave a curt nod, her eyes shifting to Ferdy.
“Shall we sit?” Arleen gestured to a built-in side booth with the paperwork for the interview. From below, she heard pounding and felt vibrations.
Ferdy slid into a seat and carefully shrugged off his backpack. “Aunt Enid said that you’re a good person, so I can be perfectly honest with you.”
Arleen sat across from him and folded her hands on the table. “Of course.”
“I’ve had difficulty holding down a job, but since I’ve gotten an emotional support animal, my confidence has really improved.”
“That’s wonderful,” Arleen replied, thankful for all the laws and regulations she had been studying. “Of course, as a food service . . .”
“You don’t have to worry about sanitation. Cosway’s very docile and stays in my backpack at all times when we’re away from home. I don’t need to handle her. I only have to look at her to receive all the assurance I need.”
Arleen eyed the backpack, which remained perfectly still. She tried to remember her options. “Isn’t that difficult on Cosway, to stay in your backpack for long periods of time?”
Ferdy smiled. “She’s trained for it. I have documentation.”
“I’m sure, but, if, due to cleanliness standards, we can’t accommodate Cosway, could you work without her?”
Ferdy took a deep breath. “Aunt Enid said I could tell you everything and absolutely trust in your discretion.”
“Yes.”
Arleen heard the boots trudging up the steps before the workman appeared in the doorway from below. “We’re going need your plugs after all.”
“Okay.” Arleen watched as he went over to the plate on the floor, unlatched it, and shouted down, “Throw ‘er up, Charlie.” The end of the orange extension cord shot through the hole. The man caught the end and pulled it across the room to the plug, leaving enough slack so the cord snaked across the floor.
“Shouldn’t be too long,” he assured Arleen before disappearing down the stairs.
Arleen turned back to Ferdy. “Now . . .”
“I call her Cosway after Thomas Jefferson’s Paris friend, Maria Cosway. While Maria’s remembered for her beauty and skill as a painter, she had a hard life. Her husband cheated on her and her daughter died. Yet, she transcended her afflictions.”
Arleen saw she was making no headway. “What kind of animal is Cosway?”
Looking directly into Arleen’s eyes, Ferdy smiled again. “Cosway is a ferret.”
Da Vinci’s “Lady with a Ferret” flashed across Arleen’s conscious before considering what the health department might say.
Ferdy watched her, bright eyed, nose twitching. “Ferrets are actually very clean animals, mine more so than others.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “You see, Cosway is an imaginary emotional support ferret.”
Arleen blinked twice, trying to keep her expression purposely still. She wondered if an owner could take on an imaginary pet’s characteristics. Finally, she broke the silence. “And, you say she’s certified?”
“Yes. I have the letter from my therapist here.” Ferdy pulled his backpack onto the table and opened the main compartment.
Arleen felt her face assaulted by a gust of musk. She turned to sneeze into her elbow.
The front door opened. Mr. Petry, obviously on child care duty, entered with his toddler daughter riding his hip and his four year old son, in cowboy hat, bandana, and brown holster, trailing behind and waving a silver toy pistol. While Mr. Petry focused on picking up the petit fours his wife had ordered for a shower, his son noticed the aroma that still pervaded the air.
“Something stinks.”
“Hey, Bud, watch Sissy while I pay for these,” Mr. Petry said, placing his charge on the floor. She began to crawl, rolling along a plastic car piloted by a smiling mouse.
“I gotta find the rat that stunk up this place,” Bud replied, searching the baseboards with his pistol drawn.
Ferdy unfolded the letter and put it on the table before Arleen. Her eyes watered at the strong odor rising from the paper, making it hard to read. From what she could see, it looked authentic.
Blinking away her tears, she noticed Reedy getting the petit fours as Mr. Petry reached for his wallet and credit card. Bud’s reconnaissance had brought him to the display case where he became distracted by the array of cookies. Meanwhile, Sissy’s car slid across the glossy pine planks, quickly moving beyond her reach. The happy mouse drove straight for the open hatch, disappearing quicker than an unsuspecting fly buzzing too close to a frog’s tongue. Intrepidly, Sissy followed, wedging her arm into the opening as the orange cord wound around her flailing leg.
Her cry drew Mr. Petry’s attention and horror. Bud turned indifferently toward Sissy, then his eyes widened. Arleen sat mired in confusion as she saw it all play out in slow motion. She imagined being shut down before she could open.
In an instant, Ferdy reached Sissy’s side, holding his backpack. “Hey, baby. Don’t cry. We’ll find your car for you. Look, look in here. Can you see Cosway? She doesn’t want you to cry. Look inside my backpack. Don’t you see her pretty eyes?”
His soft voice drew the child’s attention. She looked up into Ferdy’s eyes. Arleen could have sworn his nose twitched again. The baby laughed.
“That’s right,” Ferdy said, gently lifting her arm from the hatch. “See if you can see Cosway in my backpack and we’ll have your mouse back before you know it.”
Arleen watched as Ferdy unwound the cord from around the little girl’s leg. By that time, Mr. Petry had knelt beside him and took Sissy into his arms. As Mr. Petry and Ferdy stood, Sissy reached toward Ferdy’s backpack. The workman appeared in the door holding up the motorized mouse.
“Is anybody looking for this?”
Arleen scooted from the booth, grabbed the toy mouse from the workman’s grasp, reached for Bud’s free hand, and motioned with a head jerk for Reedy to bring the box of petit fours. “Let us help you,” she said, as she shepherded Mr. Petry and his brood to their vehicle.
Once the family drove away, Arleen glanced back through the store window. The workman had exited, leaving Ferdy standing alone, except for his backpack and Cosway.
Turning to Reedy, she asked, “What do you think?”
Reedy shrugged.
Arleen led the way back inside. “I appreciate how you handled that.”
Ferdy smiled. “Cosway gives me confidence.”
“Maybe some of her influence will rub off on me. How would you like to work with us?”
His smile broadened. “Awesome!” Then, he looked perplexed. “Have you decided on a name?”
“I’m still working on that,” Arleen admitted.
“Aunt Enid is always telling people, ‘You have to try Arleen’s cassoulet,’ or ‘I stock my freezer with Arleen’s leek soup.’ Everyone is always asking her, ‘How do I get in touch with Arleen?’ If you named the place after yourself, it would make it easy for Aunt Enid to tell them, and for them to find you.”
“Pretty good advice, boss,” Reedy said.
Arleen glanced from Reedy’s face back to Ferdy’s. “Café Arleen it is.”
She extended her hand to shake Ferdy’s. As he leaned forward to meet her grasp, Arleen saw inside the open backpack. Two small eyes seemed to blink back at her.
Apple's Lure
(Jul/Aug 2014)
My name is Mora Appleton of the Tamsin Tribesmen. Often, I go by Apple. I trained as a mediator at the Planetary Consortium, the first of my species to do so. I represented not only my own hopes, but also those of the Tribesmen.
What makes a good mediator? Intelligence. Unbiased decision-making. Good listening skills. Ability to interpret meanings behind communications and nuances in behavior.
I considered myself a good negotiator. And, I believe the bureaucracy did, too. Until this case.
“Follow me, Apple,” Mr. Boggess, my Skylarite supervisor, called as he passed my cubicle. I immediately rose and accompanied him down the metallic corridor.
“You’ve been selected to serve in a delicate matter. Fortunately, both you and the parties are humanoid-based with similar economic conceptions, so the process and reasoning are not difficult. The basic facts: two species arrived in lockstep to claim the mineral resources of an uninhabited moon. The Metacucians and the Gillfinns.”
“But, sir,” I called over his shoulder. “I’m automatically disqualified. The Tamsin Tribesmen hunted the Metacucians.”
Mr. Boggess stopped and turned to face me. “In prehistoric times, Apple. You didn’t even know about it until you came here to study. You have to mediate this negotiation. I’m doubly conflicted because the Skylarites uplifted the Metacucians, and I’m married to a Gillfinn.”
“But, . . .”
“No excuses. Since the bulk of our team has been dispatched to resolve the conflict in another quadrant, you and I are the only mediators available. Both parties have agreed to your participation.”
“Could it be a trap, sir? That moon’s been an option for some time. Why now, when our mediation pool is so limited?”
He sighed, tapping his right biped on the floor. “Apple, you’re a good student. The Consortium took a risk on you, but you’ve done your species credit, proving that the Tamsin Tribesmen have progressed beyond their early, uh, consumption habits and are ready for a leadership role. Don’t let your doubts override your training. We each face a time of testing. Yours is now.”
We resumed our journey down the corridor. “Of course,” Mr. Boggess continued. “There is no good remedy. The moon has mineral resources both claimants need, but it hasn’t been sufficiently explored to determine the quantity and where the deposits are located.”
I made a quick assessment. “So, assuming both parties are deserving and with no other claimant, an independent excavator must be chosen to mine and distribute the resources equally.” An easy solution, which each party would protest continuously.
Mr. Boggess pointed toward the banquet hall. “Meet with the emissaries for dinner, then see what you think.”
He knew how much I detested these obligatory meals. The parties spent the occasion positioning themselves to advantage with the mediator.
In my opinion, a wasted endeavor of posturing. For the Tamsin Tribesmen, feasting came at the end of the hunt, signaling a joyous celebration in the community’s accomplishment of acquiring the food to nourish all, ensuring continued survival.
Through the doorway, I observed the waiting claimants. The Metacucians, tall and willowy in appearance, were a species of empaths, renowned as artists and metal workers. Their jewelry and sculptures were considered highly collectable. The Gillfinns, having large upper bodies and stumpy appendages, lived on a water-logged world where they specialized in exotic underwater tourism and exquisite hydroponic gardens.
No sooner did I enter than the one-upsmanship began. The Metacucian emissary, bowing, stood behind a table of fine jewelry crafted on his world. I nodded pleasantly as I looked upon the intricately designed pieces. A pin, in the shape of a truplait, a childhood pet of mine, drew my attention. The Metacucian gave it to me to examine. The clasp swung free and the pin point pricked my skin.
Automatically, I held the injury to my mouth to stop the bleeding.
The Gillfinn grimaced. “Wouldn’t that creature be considered an hors d’oeuvre among the Tribesmen?” he asked.
“Actually not,” I replied handing the pin back to the Metacucian. “Why don’t we choose our places before proceeding through the buffet line?”
I found it disagreeable to start a meeting by sending the parties to their respective corners. With reticence, I glanced back at the pin in the display, not because of its value, but my sentiment. I loved my truplait and remembered our racing across the landscape. Even though the Gillfinn lacked the empathetic capabilities of the Metacucian, he seemed to notice my reluctance in leaving the pin, and no doubt regretted his inability to make a personal connection with me.
Quietly, I went through the buffet line, selecting bits of different dishes I could sample while reopening communication channels. At the carving station, I noticed the pungent aroma of a meat I did not recognize. It enthralled my senses as the server placed a slice on my plate.
After I took my seat, I watched as my utensil cut the meat, not by my effort but seemingly under its own power. So moist, so succulent. I lifted a portion to my mouth. Before the flavor graced my tongue, the scent wrapped through my throat and into my nostrils.
I looked back at the serving. What was this? I had tasted it before, but long ago. I felt my blood pulsing in my torso, my forehead. In my ears, I heard the beating of instruments, the pounding of footfalls. It was the chase that began the hunt. The prey was close. As if I were an empath, I felt its fear, its trepidation, and its panic as it fled seeking safety. But, there was no hope. The truplaits ooted sharply as we hunters surrounded it.
On the table, I saw a glimpse of gold. When had the pin been taken from its display and placed there?
Looking up, my eyes connected with those of the Metacucian emissary. His ancestors had been Tamsin Tribesmen’s prey. My forbearers had filled their feast tables with his species’ flesh, decorating their roasted carcasses with vegetation and fruits. Perhaps even apples. How could I ever forget that bleakness of our ancient history?
The Metacucians survived only due to their empathy and the fact that the Skylarites rescued them, giving them a new world to inhabit. They would have been annihilated if left among the Tamsin Tribesmen.
I could see from the Metacucian’s eyes that he knew my feelings, my thoughts, my ambivalence. Had he in fact created and manipulated my own empathic reaction? I had never had such feelings before.
Had the pin’s clasp been purposely loose to prick my skin so I would lick the wound?
Was that how the spell was cast, the blood memories rekindled? Had the Metacucian emissary purposely introduced the pin and goaded the Gillfinn to make the food reference? Is that how I became convinced the meat tasted of Metacucian?
Still, the taste lingered in my chest, my innards. The ancient ways were part of my blood. I knew my ancestors honored their prey at the feast, celebrating its existence, rejoicing in its sacrifice, believing its consumption made it a part of themselves. What had been eaten so long ago remained part of the Tamsin Tribesmen’s, of my own, essence.
The Metacucian emissary’s eyes met mine. I looked deeply into them. We were one because my ancestors had supped on his. And now, the taste of his flesh overwhelmed me.
No question. I had to withdraw.
“We are so glad you are available for the mediation. You are our choisss . . . choice.” The Metacucian emissary slurred the word before getting the correct pronunciation. “Our only choice.”
I had to appeal to my superior.
But, even as I turned to him, Mr. Boggess shook his head, unconvinced. He whispered, “This negotiation requires that you stretch your skills, but you have the capability. Both sides approve your participation. They trust your judgment.”
How could I explain it was completely the opposite? The Gillfinn discounted me while the Metacucian seethed within my blood, gaining my favor through shame and slow seepage into my senses.
Somehow, I needed to break free of my obligations. But, how?
I looked back at my plate, feeling manipulated and defeated. Gazing up, I saw the Metacucian smile, presumably at my discomfort. He nibbled on a brightly colored vegetable. It was as if his insides became transparent to me and I could watch the morsel descend from his throat to his gullet, merging and becoming one with his being. I wondered if his ancestors had consumed the same, making it part of me.
Was this torture of sympathetic empathy what made my ancestors hate his so much?
My utensil hovered above the vegetable helping on my plate when a passing waiter made an offer.
“Please,” the Gillfinn invited the group. “Partake of the bounty from my world.”
So the Gillfinn had found a way to insert himself into the calculation. I scooped a healthy serving from the waiter’s platter.
The Metacucian frowned at my interest in the offered dish, but the frown eased into a curving smirk as I chewed the Gillfinn’s food. How could the Metacucian know from my carefully controlled face that the Gillfinn’s offering failed to make my blood hum with its tasteless, watery flavor?
“Have we not reached the pinnacle of consumption in this crop?” the Gillfinn asked, oblivious to my dislike for his product. “In it, we have combined all the necessary nutrients to sustain humanoids. And, in it the most desirable taste sensation, requiring no seasoning.”
I lowered the arm I had begun to reach toward the condiment dishes. I couldn’t afford to insult the Gillfinn emissary.
“Certainly, it has the consistency of a watery crop,” the Metacucian noted as he poked at the serving the Gillfinn had heaped on his plate.
The Gillfinn frowned and opened his mouth to speak when Mr. Boggess managed to interrupt with a comment. “Isn’t water the primary component of humanoid body structure, a characteristic we all share?”
It was a thought I found myself considering as I watched the Gillfinn arm extended, gesturing in agreement. Although the Gillfinn’s forehead contained ridges and his neck possessed gill-like slits, his arms extended to palms with webbed fingers. Could it have been in deference to him that the buffet featured no fish dishes?
His sleeve ended in a cornered point above his wrist. Something about the garment’s brocade fabric had a crustacean appearance, as if a hard cloth shell protected the delicate flesh of the arm. What would its texture be like? Beneath the shimmering pseudo-scale skin, would the meat be clean, hearty, and satisfying, particularly if dipped in melted butter?
“How soon can the mediation begin?” the Metacucian asked.
I turned to Mr. Boggess. “Shouldn’t we conclude the meal?”
“Now, Apple, these are reasonable parties," he responded. “I’m sure they will be amenable to your recommendation.” He gestured for me to make it.
I suggested a neutral excavator make equal distribution of the moon’s resources.
“How can we be assured of neutrality when the Metacucians have done business with every excavator in the quadrant?” the Gillfinn asked. His gestures had become increasingly adamant. As his arms flailed before me, more of his flesh was exposed, looking thicker and longer and savory.
Mr. Boggess cut off the Gillfinn’s objections. “Apple, will you weigh in on this?”
“Indeed, I will.”
Grabbing the Gillfinn’s arm, I sunk my teeth into its flesh. The Gillfinn screamed. The Metacucian watched, his face displaying distaste and fleeting despair. I expected that he would be disgusted, but perhaps that emotion wasn’t in him. Or, maybe he would have liked to take his own bite of the Gillfinn.
Then, I knew for certain. Through empathy, the Metacucian sensed I preferred the Gillfinn’s taste.
Much later, in mediation training materials, Mr. Boggess categorized the technique as “the taste tactic.” But, the incident always left a bitter flavor in my mouth.
Our Featured Story and 3rd Place Winner in the 2013 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Award:
Long in the Tooth
(Featured, June 2013)
Paula Gail Benson
I roused to find Tweedledee and Tweedledum hovering over my hospital bed. They weren’t rotund twins, but I thought of them as the Tweeds because they seemed cut from the same cloth, or in their case, the same scrubs. Also, the girl’s reddish hair and the male’s Highland games physique gave them both a Scottish quality.
At least they weren't attempting to bathe me. Last time, they stripped me down, then forgot about me as they argued over whether the groundhog had just predicted a longer winter. Only when I covered my chest with my hands did they realize I was conscious of their efforts.
They had been more careful since, but they were too young and unseasoned to understand my condition. They were vital, alive, moving. I was still, stationary, except for racked breathing and panting from pain. The doctors controlled the pain through drugs that sent me in and out. But, the drugs couldn't stop my mind from observing the gray whiteness that seeped with cold air from the window to skim across the sheets of my hospital bed. Enveloping me like a frigid shroud.
I was ready to move on. I was in so many ways an imposition on the earth, on those who moved around achieving. Yet, we all come to this winter of life eventually--the waiting to pass to another realm.
Above me, the two Tweeds discussed philosophy. Dee asked Dum, “What one thing would you want to know when you reached heaven?”
One thing?
Nothing, I thought. Life was what it was. You simply existed and accepted the consequences.
Dee had a sweet tooth, even though tall and lanky. She kept her shoulder length, straight, strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and wanted to know why everything that tasted good was bad for you.
Taste. If only I still had it. When you reach the end, you lose taste. Food becomes nutrition only, not flavor.
Dum, a short in stature, but wide in girth member of the opposite gender, was a fan of mysteries, historical in particular. A brains-as-well-as-brawn kind of fellow. He wanted to have the great riddles of time revealed, like what happened to Amelia Earhart or whether aliens built the pyramids.
What did the events of the world matter when you were so close to returning to dust?
I dozed listening to their prattle. My mind's vision did not rest. I floated into a region of fluffy clouds, approaching a gigantic harp-shaped gate. Far below, the Tweeds continued to chatter, beyond my hearing.
A white robed angel awaited me. He smiled. Gleaming teeth. Golden hair. Unlined, timeless face. His lips had the curve to fit a brass mouth piece, and his cheeks were made to store air.
“Gabriel?” I asked. He looked more Gabriel than Peter to me.
“So I have been called,” he answered. “You're early.”
“Am I?” For so long, I felt as if I were delayed. I had seen the doctors and medical staff look upon me as a waste of their efforts, a drain from their more viable patients. They kept me because my insurance coverage had not run out. Soon they would move me to another facility, depending on bureaucratic considerations instead of my desires. When a person could no longer act on her own volition, what use did she have in the world?
Gabriel made a slight bow. “I must ask that you wait here until we can handle a few new residents. Before they can proceed, they need answers to some questions that have always plagued them.”
Why would someone hesitate? I did not even think to look back at the part of me lingering behind on earth. Only my depleted body would remain, and caretakers would handle the disposal details. “What kind of questions?” I asked.
“Everyone gets to ask questions when they arrive. These new arrivals are curious about why things that taste good are bad for you and waiting to hear from Amelia Earhart how she spent her last days.”
Had Dee and Dum somehow preceded me? Could the world have ended around me? I never considered that my end would be part of the final trumpet call.
I glanced back below me. Dee and Dum struggled with the bedclothes, seeming perplexed by fitted sheets.
Anger filled my mind. Had two equal ignoramuses preceded me into heaven? Was I doomed to spend eternity with ridiculous queries? Did I want that and, if not, what choice did I have?
“What would you would like to know?” Gabriel persisted.
He looked at me kindly. No doubt, he eased many on their journeys. I decided my concerns really didn’t matter. Only the moving forward. Hopefully, to something beyond foolishness.
“Nothing,” I replied.
A wrinkle appeared on his brow.
“Was all of life so clear to you?” he asked.
“It was like swimming in the ocean. You eased, jumped, waded into the water, then you tried to stay afloat. Sometimes the waves grew rough. You learned to cope or were pulled under. Now, I presume, there will be a new place to learn.”
Concern showed in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re not sure if you’re looking forward to learning again. Could that be because you don’t feel your experience in the world below completed? Remember, I said you were early. Do you wonder what you left undone?”
“Such pondering only gets in the way of living. Either you exist or you don't.”
“May I ask you a question?”
He piqued my curiosity. What would an angel ask? I nodded.
“What one thing would you have done differently?”
I didn’t understand this preoccupation with “one thing” that I kept encountering. Dee and Dum ruminated about the “one thing” they would ask upon reaching heaven. Now Gabriel wanted to know what “one thing” I would have done differently.
“Life is made of thousands of moments and decisions . . .” I began.
“One thing,” he said, his voice clear as a bugle at dawn. “What would you have changed?”
I became keenly aware of one sensation in my earthly body. The small baby tooth in the front of my bottom gum throbbed. A Tweed had pried open my lips to suction out the phlegm clogging my throat. The device hit against the baby tooth that had been with me all my long life.
What a thing to consider as I lay dying. Yet, that baby tooth was one aspect of my life that I could have freely chosen to change.
As a child, I refused to have it pulled to avoid facing moments of hurt. Had I precognition of the extent of pain I endured during the last few months, I would have yanked that tooth. But, keeping it had proven to be a way of hanging onto childhood.
In midlife, I sought to have it strengthened by bonding, but that held only at the back of the tooth and kept breaking off in front. The portion of bonding that stayed kept the tooth from wiggling, but caused food particles to stick on either side. To apply the bonding, the baby tooth had to be ground down so by contrast the normal teeth dwarfed it, making it even more noticeably smaller. The bite from the upper teeth could hide it as long as I kept my lips closed or gave only a tight smile. Whenever I loosened up and laughed out loud, the miniature tooth showed prominently and distractingly. As I grew older I noticed the gap it created more frequently, reminding me of the aged and toothless. Shaming me to feel more in concert with them, whether I wanted to or not.
My baby tooth. Always a thorn in my side.
Gabriel sensed my thoughts. “Your baby tooth appears to have been a barometer, making you aware of the world. Did you ever make the world aware of you?”
A silly question, I thought.
Gabriel continued, “You are never truly alive until you share yourself with others in the world.”
Suddenly, I felt myself wrenched back into my hospital room, sputtering around the suctioning device, until one of the Tweeds took it from my mouth.
“Bothering baby tooth,” I struggled to say.
I felt a jerk as the suction fell away.
“She speaks,” Dum exclaimed to Dee. “Hey, look. She does have a baby tooth on her lower gum.”
“You must have brushed against it with the device,” Dee replied.
“It got her talking.” Dum grinned as he leaned in to peer at me. “Glad to hear from you, ma’am. Can you tell us how you kept that tooth?”
So, haltingly, in fits and starts, I told them the story. It took more energy than I had expended in some time, but I completed the task.
When they left, I was alone again in the hospital room. I felt the pain, but I had risen above it. I left the Tweeds with an image. A lesson that even one suffering could still teach. A message about treating the elderly.
A memory of myself.
In the darkness, I realized I had one more story to tell.
The Top Ten . . .
Favorite Wedding Stories
(June 2013)
by Paula Gail Benson
June is often considered the month for weddings. I feel fortunate to have enjoyed many happy wedding stories, either actually or vicariously. Here are my top ten favorites:
10. Watching musicals with weddings. My favorites include Brigadoon, Fiddler on the Roof, Mama Mia,Oklahoma, Sound of Music, and the final scene from the movie Hello Dolly!
9. The Proposal. A gentleman puts a lot of planning into the location where he goes down on one knee. I’ve heard about buying out the seats of a private box in a theatre; making a private visit to the auditorium stage where the couple agreed on their first date and will hold their ceremony; and taking a trip to seaside New Bern, N.C., the setting of many Nicholas Sparks’ novels.
8. The Groom’s Gift to His Bride. In addition to the engagement ring, a groom also may give a personal gift to his bride. One groom, who shared a love of fly fishing with his intended, made his fiancée a fly of different colored threads, each strand representing a stage in his bride’s life.
7. Flowers. In two weddings where I have served as an attendant, the bouquets were artificial, because of the brides and bridesmaids’ allergies. As a wedding gift to attendants, one bride gave a lovely crystal bud vase to hold the bouquet.
6. Attendants. Family and friends are asked to be part of weddings. I’ve seen a very young ring bearer pulled down the aisle in a red wooden wagon. Pets sometimes also are included in the wedding party. As a maid of honor, I worried about following a miniature poodle named Nicole down the aisle, but Nicole was good as gold, and some of the cutest wedding pictures were of her peeking out from under the bride’s gown.
5. Cake. As dessert and a major picture taking opportunity, the wedding cake plays a vital role. At a wedding of two lawyers, the caterer failed to deliver the ordered cake. The bride and groom took lots of pictures offering each other invisible pieces of cake until a substitute dessert arrived. The catering company quickly negotiated a settlement with the couple.
4. Favors for the Guests. At one wedding reception I attended, each guest received a porcelain swan holding a doily filled with Jordan Almonds, symbolizing luck. The couple now has been married more than thirty years. May their good fortune always continue.
3. Tradition. Something old, new, borrowed, and blue. Of course, those categories may overlap. Lately, I’ve seen the blue in: (a) the bride’s shoes dyed to match the attendants’ gowns, and (b) the bride’s nail polish, also reflected in the color of the fountain in the cake topper.
2. Gowns. The dream becomes a reality when the brides and bridesmaids’ gowns are selected. It’s a magical part of the process, and begins early in young girls’ imaginations. At age thirteen, my mother let me try on her wedding dress. Proudly, I modeled it for my uncle, who wrinkled his nose. “Smells like cedar,” he commented. He was right. It had come directly from the cedar chest where it had been stored. Years later, my friend wore her mother’s wedding dress, and her mother, an excellent seamstress, made all our attendants’ gowns. Each outfit consisted of a pale yellow camisole and long skirt, and a sheer jacket, and each item could be modified for use after the wedding.
1. Candid Wedding Photographs. At my parents wedding, the pictures taken by the official photographer could not be developed, but a young man attending the wedding took some candid shots that became the only pictorial record of the event. A year later, the young man married my aunt, who had been my mother’s only attendant.
Nectar of the Gods
(Featured, February 2013)
Paula Gail Benson
Her business required that she develop a discerning palate. A taste that recognized the difference between oak, aromatic, and fruity. Many people longed for the dry reds and whites, the flavors which to her had such empty resonance. Her own preference craved the sweet, tangy, and sublime.
The wine merchants laughed at her, good naturedly of course, and only after she had placed her order for what they always acknowledged were impeccable selections. They called her taste for sweetness a vestige of her Southern heritage.
“All peaches and cream and mint juleps,” one chided as she approached the bar that had been set up just in front of the observation windows of the Rainbow Room.
“Or syrupy sweet tea,” another grimaced with disdain, as if it hurt his mouth to say the words.
You would think they could refrain from teasing at a party where her employer featured their brands for his clientele. But how could they resist? Whoever heard of a wine buyer who detested the more hearty and valuable varieties of the product?
“I notice you don’t hesitate to stock champagnes and dessert wines to complement the taste of dark chocolates,” she observed. “And, you seem perfectly content selling Mogen David to the churches that serve communion wine.”
“Necessities of the business,” one quickly replied. “But, not the prize of the harvest. Not the sought after yield.”
“Who’s to say what is most prized except the man who is thirsty?” she asked in reply.
That was why she declined the offer of wine and asked instead for liquor, not unembellished, but hopelessly sweetened with fruit juices and sugar. Lots of sugar. A Cosmopolitan to start, followed by a Tom Collins and a very delectable Mojito.
Shaking his head, the bartender commented that being raised in the South must mute one’s taste to hard liquor.
Oh, hard liquor has its place in the South, she thought as she accepted her cocktail. Southerners used hard liquor to forget. But, they found that sweetness fueled something else. Remembrance.
“Why is Southern tea so sweet?” she ruminated, sipping her drink. “I’m not so sure sweetness relieves thirst, but it brings joy to one’s taste buds--particularly one whose circumstances have been less than fortunate. Sweet tea, made of sugary syrup from cane grown in southern climes, reminds one that gods feast on nectar because the taste of nectar, following its smell and sight, is the confirmation that the bounteous offerings are indeed the wonder promised.”
“What wonder promised?”
A new voice. She turned to find a bespectacled, curly haired man paying her close attention. Smiling as if he had found a discovery of significance. No, smiling because he wore a clergy collar and was being nice. And he spoke with a lilt of Southern drawl.
She smiled back and offered him a salute with her glass before taking another sip, then saying, “The wonder of renewal. Sweet tea refreshes and cleanses the throat of the dryness, the mucus, the dust or pollution, or the feeling of revulsion for having dealt with what you have just faced. Not to enjoy sweet tea is not to know what is truly good and joyful.”
“Bravo!”
She thought he was about to applaud. He wasn’t as much cute as adorable, a joyous bundle seeking greater joy to enthrall him. She wondered what kindled such enthusiasm.
He said, “How rare to know or find a woman who understands and relishes her own taste.”
She took another sip, wondering how to evaluate his excessive boyish charm. If he had not been wearing the collar, she might imagine he was making fun of her.
His good humor softened a bit. As his boisterous spirits deflated, he seemed less boyish, less curly. An edge of grayness crept about his hair, but it didn’t sour his face or expression.
“Excuse me,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just fascinated by what you were saying.”
“About sweet tea?”
“About sweetness in general and, in particular, about sweet beverages.”
“I imagine you deal with a great deal of sweetness and light in your profession.”
“More the opposite, I’m afraid. Which makes me appreciate sweetness and lightness all the more.”
“And in particular, sweet beverages?”
He smiled. “Yes. When I heard them teasing you, I wanted to meet you.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. “To talk about sweet tea?”
“Well, I was going to begin talking about the South. I attended seminary in Atlanta.”
“By scholarship or choice?”
“What if I say both?”
She sipped before answering. “Money usually shapes my choices.”
“In my business, we like to find the positives in money shaping direction.”
“How did you find the positives in your case?”
“I met my wife in Atlanta.”
She decided his grayness had intensified. “Congratulations.”
“And more. My vocation. I’ve ministered to Southern communities throughout my career. It’s been an interesting time to pastor in the South. A lot of moral and social issues to confront.”
“What brings you here?”
“I’ve been teaching a course on religion in the South at Union Theological Seminary. And, I came here tonight at the invitation of a student. His father is a wine merchant.”
“How nice.” She needed to have her drink replenished, but it was hard to walk away and harder to get the bartender’s attention.
“I appreciate what you said about Southerners using hard liquor to forget and sweet drinks to remember.”
Had she said it aloud? She thought she had only thought it. How strange.
“My wife used to say something similar. She came from a family that remembered the stories of Southern aristocracy lost after the War Between the States.”
“Not the War of Northern Aggression?”
“I believe I did hear it called that once at a family reunion when everyone was pretty well in their cups. Seems there was a connection with Margaret Mitchell’s family. I remember hearing how Gone with the Windgot it wrong.”
“Fascinating.” Her throat was getting dry.
“May I refill your drink?”
She hated to agree, but she needed another, particularly if she were to continue this conversation. “Please.” She smiled weakly and held out the glass.
“Just take a moment.”
Gloom from the misty weather seemed to have overtaken the place. Still, the Rainbow Room had been a good choice for the out-of-towners. Quintessentially New York City. Happy conversations filtered around her despite the atmosphere outside. Being there was more exciting than the view. She was glad. Her employer would be pleased.
“Here you are.” He had brought her another Cosmopolitan, pink, catching the light with a twinkle.
She took a sip and felt revived.
“Nectar of the gods, would you say?” He asked so pleasantly. Not as if he found the image sacrilegious.
“Quite refreshing.”
“Like ambrosia. My wife taught the classics. We often talked about mythology.”
“Modern and ancient?”
“Yes. We met because I needed a Greek tutor.”
“She’s not with you tonight?”
“I wish she could be here. I’ll never forget a night, long ago, during the first year of our marriage. I was finishing seminary and she was supporting us on her teaching salary. A parishioner at the church where I was working had invited us to a very nice multiple course dinner with a variety of fine wines complementing each course. I had never tasted wines of that quality. It occurred to me, since each tasted better than the next, that this must be how the guests at the Canaan wedding feast felt when they tasted the water turned to wine.”
“Fine wine can be a unique tasting experience.”
He nodded. “That’s exactly what it was for me. Something that enhanced and intensified the flavors of the food. Not cleansing, really, as much as a sweet beverage, but sustaining.”
“Obviously your host was a connoisseur or had the services of an excellent steward.”
“He was a man who loved life and enjoyed sharing his bounty with others. He began life growing up and working on his family’s farm. Eventually, he acquired a string of restaurants. You would recognize his name if I mentioned it, but he remained a humble man throughout his life. He always paid for the church wine, and made provisions to continue to do so after his death, as long as his donation could remain anonymous.”
“And, what did he supply for the church’s wine?”
“Mogen David, of course,” he replied with a smile and a tip of his glass toward her. “Light, fruity, and inoffensive to all palates.”
She tipped her glass back in his direction, thinking she had found a way to end the exchange with a toast, “To your parishioner, whose love of wine provided a blessing to others.”
“Yes.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers. His eyes seemed to lose their focus, as if he had sunk into a memory he was reluctant to share.
She needed to circulate among the guests, but it seemed callous to leave him, dazed, standing in the middle of the floor with the party swirling around him. Her Southern sensibility prevailed.
“Like me, you’ve chosen hard liquor,” she observed. “I have a feeling it’s not sweet enough to enhance remembrance, so I intrude upon your thoughts to ask what you might be trying to forget.”
His eyes met hers. “Such a gentle manner. You remind me why I miss the South. You never asked me why my wife wasn’t with me.”
“When you didn’t volunteer, I assumed it was not my business.”
“She died a year ago after a long battle with cancer.”
Her glass felt heavy. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s at peace. But, I miss her. I made a sermon of our experience with the dinner of many wondrous wines. I used it to illustrate how amazing the wine Jesus made from water must have tasted. Tepid rain water collected from barrels to wash the guests’ feet. That is what He used for His first miracle.”
“A fine sermon.”
“The only one I gave that she ever criticized.”
“Why?” She suspected he was scolded about revealing the benefactor of the church wine.
“Because Jesus’ mother asked for the wine and it came from water meant to refresh. My wife contended while the men might prefer the stronger flavors to stimulate their over-indulged palates, the women would look for something lighter and more satisfying, that offered the surprise of sweet fulfillment, the nectar of the gods.” He swirled the contents of his glass and downed them. “I have the feeling she was right.”
Again, not sure how to respond, she tried hospitality. “May I get you a refill?”
“I’m drinking iced tea. Unsweetened. A Northern staple, but without the ingredients of hard liquor to aid in forgetting.”
She had misjudged him. Taking his glass, she said, “Then, we both must switch to something else, to honor your wife.”
Placing the glasses on a tray, she turned to the bartender. “Break out the Marco Negro Moscato, the one with some fizz.”
“I can’t believe you’re drinking wine at an event,” the bartender replied as he searched for her selection.
“Different occasions compel different beverages. Just hand me the bottle with those glasses.”
She turned back to the minister and served the drink. Raising her glass, she said, “Nectar of the gods.”
He smiled and sipped. “Now, I know how the wine tasted at the Canaan wedding feast.
The Top Ten . . .
Favorite Romantic Musicals
(February 2013)
by Paula Gail Benson
During February, when Valentine’s Day encourages us to draw closer to family, friends, and dear ones, what better activity to enjoy together than watching a musical show? Particularly one where love triumphs and makes all things right with the world. Here are my recommendations:
10. The Sound of Music, music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II, and book by Howard Lindsay and Russell Crouse. A story everyone knows and loves. With all the come-as-your-favorite-character and sing-a-long versions, it’s like group karaoke.
9. 1776, music and lyrics by Sherman Edwards and book by Peter Stone. Yes, it’s about American independence, but it also tells the love stories of our founding fathers and mothers. Who would have thought that stodgy John Adams could “burn” for Abigail with the same zeal as the dashing Tom Jefferson felt for Martha?
8. My Fair Lady,music by Frederick Lowe and book and lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner. The classic story of opposites attracting. I witnessed a community theatre version with a kindergarten class serving as riders on stick horses for the Ascot race. As he took his bow, one young player fell nimbly into the arms of his father, content and fast asleep.
7. The Music Man, music and lyrics by Meredith Wilson. A homage to fast talking con men, small town values, and plucky librarians. An incredibly copasetic mix.
6. Legally Blonde, music and lyrics by Laurence O’Keefe and Nell Benjamin and book by Heather Hach, based on the novel by Amanda Brown and the film of the same name. Girl loses all, only to win by being her best self. Go Elle!
5. A Little Night Music, music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and book by Hugh Wheeler. Based on Ingmar Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night, it’s like a Scandinavian version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. All things end right. And, if not, “Send in the Clowns.”
4. La Cage aux Folles, music and lyrics by Jerry Herman and book by Harvey Fierstein. This charming story of family values in an unconventional household was the first musical I saw on Broadway, and still holds a special place in my heart. The “Best of Times” is now.
3. I Do! I Do!,music by Harvey Schmidt and lyrics and book by Tom Jones. A two-person show, based on Jan de Hartog’s The Fourposter, it takes you through the life of a marriage, from the time the couple moves into their house until they depart for retirement. “My Cup Runneth Over with Love.”
2. Bye Bye Birdie,music by Charles Strouse, lyrics by Lee Adams, and book by Michael Stewart. I played Mrs. McAfee in my high school version, my first significant role. Tell younger viewers to look up Ed Sullivan on Wikipedia.
1. Hello, Dolly!,music and lyrics by Jerry Herman and book by Michael Stewart. Dolly Levi has an answer for everything, including her own life. Our community theatre version depended upon rented costumes from New York. I’llnever forget finding the tag “Worn by Margaret Hamilton” (actress who portrayed the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz) sewn in the collar of my chorus outfit.