| Happy New Year | Kimberly Thomas |
| Gulf Fishing | Dena Wallis Saulsbury |
| In Class | Ginger Creel |
| Requiem for Emilia | Tammie Wright |
| Roots | Ellyn Clevenger |
| A Poet Without Words | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| The Game is Afoot | Bob Mills |
| A Modern Enjolras | Rachel Hullet |
| Feelings | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| Paint Me | Kimberly Thomas |
| A Glance | Gary W. Whisenant |
| Daydreams | Gary W. Whisenant |
| Human Rabies | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| Absolution | Bob Mills |
| Koosh Ball Diem | J. Aaron Miles |
| Back To You | Kimberly Thomas |
| A Love Story in Fifty-five Words | Ginger Creel |
| The Southern Geese | Bob Mills |
| Goodnight, Sweet Prince | Tammie Wright |
| You | Kimberly Thomas |
| Sunday Morning | Dena Wallis Saulsbury |
| The Butterflies Have Passed | Brandy Burnette |
| Soulmates | Ellyn Clevenger |
| Common Sense | Ellyn Clevenger |
| A Story from the Home | Ginger Creel |
| Untitled | Tammie Wright |
| Interchange | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| Possession of Beauty | J. Aaron Miles |
| Again Trepall | Bob Mills |
| Transgression | Tammie Wright |
| The Sea | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| To Go... | Iva Bimi Ballard |
| Rain outside looks Even darker through Dirty windows. Blinds hide what Little sun shines Through thick leaves. Mustiness from the Girl next to me Fills my nose And it wrinkles from The odor. A bug crawls on The polyurethaned Floor as I lay my head on my Desk and hope I don't drool. |
New York City, July 1899
Footsteps tapped along the hallway, slow and heavy followed by light and quick. The chattering voice that reached his ears, Patrick decided, belonged to the light footsteps. The heavy tread was probably one of the officers on duty. Who they were didn't really interest him until he caught part of the conversation. "as soon as I heard," Lydia was saying. "I've been so worried about him. He just hasn't been himself since he fell down the stairs Sunday afternoon."
The jangle of brass keys and the groan of the metal door swinging open interrupted her. As soon as the sergeant stepped aside, Lydia Jamison rushed into the tiny cell and hugged him fiercely. Sitting next to him on the narrow cot, she noticed his face. "Oh, Edward. Your poor face!"
He winced; pity was not something he wanted to deal with right then. "Edward?" He lifted one eyebrow the best he could. A strange look came over her face. "You don't recognize your own sister?" she asked, carefully stressing "sister." Patrick brushed his dark hair off his face. So that was her game. Pretend to be related in order to mock him later. He wanted no part in that. Still, it might be interesting to play along for a while. "You do look sort of familiar," he said, peering at her face.
Lydia smiled. "Just come on home and we'll get you cleaned up." She tilted his chin to get a better look at his cheek. "That's a really bad cut," she said, wrinkling her brow. He stood, his laugh resembling a snort, and stretched. "Always the 'little mother.'"
She tucked her arm in his. Walking down the corridor, Patrick half-listened to Lydia cooing over him like a mother bird. It was hard to believe they were just letting him walk out like this. "Goodbye, Officer Crawford," she said, waving gaily at the man behind the desk, and then they were outside. She kept up the steady stream of prattle until they were a block or two from the precinct station. There, she dropped onto a stoop.
"That was the hardest thing I've ever done." She fanned herself with one hand.
He leaned against the railing, watching her as she rested. She was different somehow tonight. But how? It was more than just the way she looked, although he had never seen her wear her hair up before. It had something to do with the way she had acted in the station house. Like she really was worried.
Patrick was still puzzling over it when they reached her tenement, a new-looking gray stone building that towered over the others on the corner. Upstairs, she slipped her arm out of his to unlock the door to the Jamison's second floor flat. He waited until she had lit the gas light before entering.
Lydia instructed him to sit at the table while she collected witch hazel, cotton rags, and other things. Looking around as he sat down, Patrick had even more to wonder about. The small apartment was furnished very nicely, surprising for the tenements. Many people didn't bother with any kind of real furniture, much less furnishings. The Jamisons had both.
A patterned rug, softly faded, covered the floor and prints and pictures hung on the walls. A sofa, dinner table and chairs, and a few bookshelves made up most of the furniture in the room, but the lack of furniture wasn't noticeable.
She flipped back a corner of the tablecloth, interrupting his thoughts, and dunked a rag in a bowl of tepid water. "Let me know if I'm hurting you." Carefully she began dabbing at the cuts and bruises on his face.
Patrick sat quietly, eyes closed, moving only when she tilted his head. The occasional splash of water, the creak of the chair as Lydia shifted her weight, the slight rustle of fabric was loud in the stillness of the flat. Any other place and time he would have grown restless and impatient, wanting action. Now, he gave himself up to the moment.
After a minute the caressing of the damp cloth ceased. He opened his eyes to see Lydia struggling with the stopper jammed in the bottle of witch hazel. After taking the slender bottle from her, he deftly yanked the cork out in one swift movement.
She smiled her thanks as he handed it back to her, and picked up a fresh rag. Sprinkling some of the clear liquid on it, she warned, "This might sting a little."
Patrick nodded. Not blinking, he watched her face and hands as she disinfected his cuts. Concentrating on her helped him ignore the pain. It didn't help much, though, when she got to the cut near his jaw. A sharp intake of breath betrayed him.
"Oh! I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." He gripped the chair seat with one hand, knuckles turning white with the effort.
When she was finished, Lydia cleared the table. Setting a kettle of water on the stove to boil, she asked if he was hungry.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, he replied, "Yes."
"Good," she said, laughing, "because I am starving!"
He stood and walked to the window while she busied herself in the kitchen. An old trunk topped with a faded blue cushion created a window seat of sorts. Resting on top was a worn copy of Les Misèrables. He picked it up and idly flipped through until he reached the yellow ribbon marking the pages. It was at the last attack at the barricades and the death of Enjolras, leader of the student revolution.
Patrick stared out of the window, not truly seeing the brick building on the other side of the street. Lydia had mentioned it before, and he had laughed at it, thinking it a grand joke, but now the thought came back to haunt him: Was he truly Enjolras?
Lydia placed a hand on his shoulder. "Supper's ready."
They ate quietly; conversation seemed to have no place at the dinner table. It wasn't until after the dishes had been put away and Lydia curled up on the moss-colored sofa with a cup of tea that conversation felt natural again.
"What happened?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I got in a fight after the rally tonight."
After a long pause, "That's it?" She raised her eyebrows at him over the edge of her teacup.
"He had the audacity to sell The World outside Irving Hall. Somebody had to do something about it."
"And you were the one to do it?"
Patrick said nothing. He hadn't wanted to admit it, even to himself, but it was true. In his opinion, he was the one to take care of the "scabber." A vision of Enjolras facing the National Guard flashed through his mind.
"People are going to talk, you know," he said, abruptly changing the subject.
"About what? The great Patrick Maguire just walking out of jail?" Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth.
"About me being here with you. Alone."
"I know. It's a shame my dear brother Edward would come home for a visit, stay only one night, and leave before his be loved parents returned from an overnight trip. Yes, people will definitely talk. They always do." She stood. "Would you care for more tea?"
"But that's preposterous! No one is going to believe a story like that!"
"You're not still in that cramped little jail cell, are you?" Lydia smiled sweetly at him as she poured more tea. "Obviously somebody thinks you're my brother Edward."
She handed him his now full mug and returned to her seat. Patrick turned his chair so that he could have a better view of her. Sitting next to her on the sofa hadn't occurred to him.
He surprised himself by asking, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you help me?"
"Because you needed it." The cup rattled on its saucer as she set it down. "Sketch and the others were worried about you. They didn't know what to do, so they asked me for help. Frankly, I didn't know what to do, either, since I didn't know exactly what had happened. But it worked, didn't it?" She smiled wistfully.
"Yeah. It did." He took a deep breath before saying something he wasn't used to saying: "Thanks."
Lydia flushed and studied her hands. "It was nothing."
"No, it wasn't. It was a lot," he said earnestly, leaning towards her. "You said it was the hardest thing you've ever done." He took another deep breath. "It... it... I appreciate it."
Feeling out of place, he closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back. Why couldn't he say what he meant to say? When he opened them again, she was watching him with lowered eyes. Almost shyly, he thought, surprised.
After a strained pause, he asked, "Do you really have a brother?" Amazing how much he didn't know about her despite all the time they'd been around each other.
"Yes." She relaxed against the back of the sofa, making Patrick realize he hadn't been the only one who felt awkward. "And his name really is Edward."
"Why is he away?" He unconsciously leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees.
"He's in the Navy. When all the fighting broke out he got sent to Cuba." Lydia shrugged as if it hadn't been anything to worry about. "We're just glad he wasn't on the Maine."
"You miss him, don't you?"
She nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. Regaining her composure, she asked, "What about you? Any brothers? Sisters?"
Settling back in his chair, he shook his head. "Only child."
"What about family?" She tilted her head, curiosity showing in her eyes.
Patrick slowly fingered the handle on his mug of tea. "My mother died when I was young, and my father went a few years later. I've been living with an uncle ever since, but it's mostly been just me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." It was his turn to shrug nonchalantly. "I'm used to it."
Funny how her pity wasn't such a terrible thing now.
"I don't think I could ever get used to it." She put her feet on the sofa and hugged her knees, resting her chin on them.
There was another quiet pause in the conversation as she studied him. Patrick shifted in his chair slightly. He could almost feel her eyes searching the hidden depths of his soul. It wasn't something he was accustomed to.
They both jumped when the mantle clock chimed midnight.
"I should be going."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're staying here tonight." She stood and headed towards a closed door.
"But..."
"Oh, hush." She entered the room and returned a minute later with a folded nightshirt and several blankets.
"Here. You can change clothes in there," she said, handing him the nightshirt.
She unfolded a blanket and spread it on the sofa.
The room she pointed him to was a blue and white bedroom. He was embarrassed when he realized it must be hers, and he quickly put on the too large nightshirt she had handed him. Having never been in a girl's bedroom before, he did take time to explore before escaping back to the living room.
Dresses and lacy petticoats spilled out of the open wardrobe. Books were scattered across the quilt on the bed and stacked on the bedside table, a china doll sat in a cradle in the corner, and a few postal cards were tacked to the walls. The open trunk at the foot of the bed held male clothing, probably her brother's. A light fragrance lingered in the air.
In his absence, the lights had been dimmed and the sofa had been transformed into a makeshift bed with plenty of pillows and blankets. Lydia, sitting on the end of it, reading, didn't notice him return. He sat next to her and the book fell to the floor.
"You startled me," she said, laughing lightly. She picked up the book off the floor and laid it in her lap, clutching it with both hands.
Patrick ran a hand through his hair, conscious of her closeness, the way she smelled of crab apples, like her room. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
Sounds from the street below faded as they sat still in the dimness, their breathing slow, matching in rhythm, the kerosene lamp casting flickering shadows across everything. Again, Patrick gave himself wholly to the moment without hesitation. He found he was beginning to enjoy peaceful moments, at least those spent with Lydia.
Her hand brushed lightly, almost tentatively, against his. Turning to glance at her, he noticed how close her face was to his. He licked his dry lips. It wouldn't take much to kiss her if he wanted. He slowly leaned in but caught himself at the last second, lips barely away from hers, and pulled back.
The moment he saw the questions in her eyes Patrick regretted not going through with the kiss. Explaining it seemed easier than answering questions he didn't know how to answer.
Apparently not finding the answers she needed, Lydia looked at her hands. Abruptly she stood and moved towards her room, taking the lamp with her.
He started to panic. She was going to bed angry and would never speak to him again. She was going to hate him forever. She was going to have him locked up again or sent to the Island. A hundred ideas of what she was going to do flashed in his brain during the brief amount of time it took her to reach her room. The only thing he knew was that he had to say something to her, do something to make things right again.
"Lydia." His voice cracked, and he was surprised at how nervous he sounded.
She turned in the doorway, the light from the lamp highlighting her slender throat and the curve of her cheek.
What to say? Possibilities jumbled together in his head until even the simplest sentence would take effort to say without it sounding like gibberish. Patrick licked his lips again.
Best to say something easy, natural.
"Goodnight."
She smiled and shut the bedroom door behind her.
He breathed shakily, lay back against the pillows, and pulled a quilt over his body. Who ever knew that could be so hard? "Enjolras wouldn't have had a problem, and you are Enjolras, aren't you?" a small voice in the back of his mind asked.
"Of course I am," he mentally replied, trying to ignore his doubts. To prove it to himself he ran through the list of common traits.
Enjolras. The barricade. Killing an innocent bystander couldn't go unpunished, and Enjolras handled it himself.
Patrick. New Irving Hall. The crowd of newsboys leaving the rally, the lone boy selling The Evening World outside. It couldn't go unpunished and no one else was doing anything about it.
Enjolras. Family-an only son, and rich.
Patrick. Family-just an uncle who went gallivanting around the world leaving Patrick to fend for himself. An only child because the baby that would have been a little sister died at birth, shortly before his mother. Rich, yes, although he kept it a secret.
Enjolras. Hated women, simple as that.
Patrick. Hated females. No, that wasn't right. Disliked females. Only slightly better. Lady V, Daisy, Joan of Arc, Newspaper Annie, and Lydia weren't that bad, and there were a few others who didn't bother him that much. Maybe if he tried again...
Patrick. Liked a handful of girls. That still wasn't completely true. As he just discovered, he liked Lydia more than just a little.
He rolled over, burying his head in the pillows. Was this how Lydia saw him? A cold statue, human only in appearance? He hoped not. After all, she did rescue him from a night in jail. He didn't believe she would do that, and give him a place to sleep, if she thought of him that way.
Patrick turned over again. What did she think of him? Obviously she didn't hate him. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. With his limited experience with females, figuring them out was not something he was very good at doing. From the way she worried over him, Lydia at least liked him as a friend. He would never admit that he had enjoyed her fussing over him.
He also would never admit to the guys that he enjoyed spending time with her. They would tease him unmercifully about "turning soft" and that would be the end of his reputation. But who cared about that when Lydia could be your sweetheart? Suddenly, being the "marble lover of liberty" wasn't as important any more.
He couldn't hide being sweet on Lydia from Sketch, he knew, since the two were good friends. No matter how Sketch found out about it, he would never let Patrick live it down. The same thing applied if he saw her on the sly. Eventually someone would discover it.
Which was worse: to admit he was in love with Lydia now, or to hide it and have it discovered later? Either way, the others would pick on him because of it. Or, he could be Enjolras and pretend he was never in love with her at all. That would be even worse than hiding it. She'd be hurt, which was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.
Mind made up, Patrick smiled at the ceiling.
No more Enjolras. Just Patrick Maguire, in love.
|
Paint me in peach and green, no California sunset or mermaid-tail, but rotting bird-pecked peach, and the color of dying seaweed bedding Oceana's polluted bottom; Paint me in blue and yellow, no sapphire eyes or burning sun, but spurned-heart blue, and the yellow of cirrhosis skin; Or paint me in pink and orange, not in azalea or ambrosial tangerine, but a whore's blush surrounding lipstick of fire; Or paint me in red and purple, not roadside clover or O'Keefe iris, but the crimson of a sliced vein, and cadaver-lip purple. NO! Just paint me in angelic perfection show me a beautiful spectre in which to roll my mind; a honey-sweet caramel vision, cloaking the apple flesh, Eve's rotted legacy. |
"I guess you're wanting to know how I ended up here at the pistachio farm. That's what my Buddy always called the nut house up here in Whitfield. I didn't used to be crazy, at least no more than anybody else. I guess my trouble is I got caught. I wish Buddy was here now. He'd back me up. Well, maybe it's a good thing he's not. After all, I was married to the man for 40 years. He might be the first one to tell you I was crazy. Now, I want to tell my story without you young folks interrupting. If you got any questions, save 'em for the end.
We had met them at the local bowling alley. They seemed like nice enough people. Maybe a little odd, but not too much, just enough to call eccentric. They were a mother and son, Doris and Benny. Well, Benny was really Benny Jr. but no one seemed to know where Big Benny was. He just kind of disappeared off the face of the earth.
Anyways, we bowled on the same league with those two. I guess it wasn't really a league, just a bunch of people getting together and throwing gutter balls. Still, they seemed pretty nice, and when they invited us over to eat, we went.
We arrived around 7:30, a little later than we usually eat, but we both had a snack to tide us over 'til supper. As we were walking up to the door, I could smell the fried chicken and mashed potatoes, green beans and cornbread. I could tell Buddy was just as hungry as me because I could hear his stomach growling clear on the other side of the porch. I told him he best shut that thing up or he would make us look uncivilized. We didn't want to show our new friends how uncouth we were just yet.
Our lovely hostess Doris met us at the front door with a nice tall pitcher of iced tea, no lemon. It was a hot summer night in the Mississippi Delta so that big pitcher sure looked inviting. She said that Benny was just putting the finishing touches on supper so why didn't we set a spell and chew the fat. That was just fine with Buddy and me. These folks were new in town and we didn't know much about them, just that neither one of them could knock down a pin.
We sat there with Doris in the glow of the bug light reminiscing about the way things used to be in the south. I don't know if reminiscing is the right word because we sure had our share of hardships back in them days. And for the most part, we were all pretty glad about the way things were going so far.
Turns out, they come from up North somewheres, one of the Dakotas, I think. Buddy told me they sounded funny, but I hadn't really noticed. I'm a little more classy than Buddy. Even then, he was still kind of a hillbilly. So Doris and Benny moved here about four months ago, just after Big Benny disappeared. I thought it was kind of soon to up and move without telling nobody, especially when they don't even know what happened to the man. I imagine him stumbling around in the cold calling out, "Doris? Benny? Come let me in the house," and somebody opening what used to be his front door and greeting him with a double barrel shotgun. Poor fellow. Probably don't even know what happened hisself.
So Benny used to drive the short school bus, but seeing as Dade County already had a short school bus driver, Benny was out of a job. Doris was working as a cashier at the IGA downtown, and bringing in enough money I guess. I don't think folks around these parts need a whole lot of money, just enough to get by. That's all I used to hear from my Buddy. I told him one time that I wanted a genuine fox fur stole for Christmas one year and do you know what that crazy fool did, God rest his soul? He went out and shot the danged ole thing hisself. I didn't want to make him feel bad for being so uncivilized.
Folks cain't help the way theys raised, so I wore the dad-blasted thing anyway, bullet holes and all. I finally had to bury the thing because I left a trail of fox fur everwhere I went. And at the time I was working produce at the A&P, and I guess some customers complained about it being a health hazard or something. Sweet Buddy. He sure did try to keep me up with the latest fashions, but there weren't no getting the hillbilly out of him. He sure was a good man.
So me and Buddy got to be friends with these folks. We played cards together, we ate supper at each other's house, we bowled together, we attended Bible study together, we did purt near everthing together. We were inseparable.
One day, Buddy and me went over to their house to eat supper. We got there a little early this time, and I guess Doris wasn't quite ready for us yet, but she welcomed us in as usual. She hurried around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to get everthing ready for us. She was always the perfect hostess, and her dinner parties were always like something out of Southern Living. Maybe not Southern Living seeing as she was a Yankee and all. But we always enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. So while Doris was running around, I excused myself to the powder room. I just made my way back there like I had done a hundred times before. Nothing seemed unusual.
Their powder room was small, but very finely decorated. One thing about those Yankees is that they sure can decorate. Seeing as they lived in an old house, all the fixtures were old as well. The tub sat up on legs and probably weighed about two tons. The commode had a pull chain to flush it, and still had the wooden seat. The sink sat up off the floor and didn't have any cabinets underneath, so Doris and me had sewed a lovely skirt to hide the plumbing. She had picked out a real pretty flower print that we made matching curtains out of too. I could reach the curtain from the commode and was examining our handiwork when I noticed something strange sticking out from under the curtain. I try to stay out of peoples business as much as possible, but sometimes you're forced into their business, so I looked. Boy do I regret looking under that curtain.
My knees turned into jelly, my stomach did a couple of somersaults, and ever hair on my poor old body stood on end. I tried to compose myself, and tried to tell myself that there had to be a good explanation for what was under that sink. I thought maybe if I told myself enough, then I would believe it, but that didn't work. I tried putting everthing back just as I found it, but to this day I think I must've left something out of place.
I went back into the living room and tried to act as natural as possible. I told Doris, Benny, and my dear sweet Buddy that I wasn't feeling well and thought I'd better go on home and lie down. I pleaded with Buddy to come with me, but he was being stubborn as usual and said he wanted to stay and eat. I said, 'Buddy, I NEED you to come on home with me,' but that crazy ole fool wouldn't do it. We only lived two blocks from Doris and Benny, so me and Buddy had just walked over there that night. I wished to the dear Lord that we had taken the car because I didn't think my jelly legs would carry me that far on the way back.
As soon as I got outside, I took off running. If you've never seen a 60-year old woman running like the devil hisself is chasing her, that sure must be a sight to behold. Just before I got out of sight of their house, I stopped and looked back. That last minute was the last time I ever saw my Buddy alive.
Through the front window, the light was shining just so, and Buddy's eyes were on me. He was staring a hole through me. Just then, his eyes got real big and a look of sheer terror took over his face like I had never seen before. Benny stood in front of him and put his hand over Buddy's mouth, I guess to keep him from screaming, and poor ole Buddy looked helpless, like a deer stunned in the headlights of a car headed straight for it. I didn't know whether to keep running or turn around and go back for Buddy. I knew I wouldn't be much help because I'm so petite, I still wear a size 5, you know. And I'm not the tallest thing in the world either. So I decided to keep running. Then out of nowhere, Doris' craggy old hand came up and was holding the bloody scalpel that I saw there under the sink. It glistened in the dim light just as pretty as you please. You never would have guessed that was the same dirty scalpel that led to Big Benny's disappearance as well. I think that must've been his skull there under the sink too, but I can't be for sure, seeing as I never so much as saw a picture of him. I guess you can't tell much from a skull as to what the person looked like anyway.
So after I saw that scalpel, I guess I must've fainted or something. I don't remember too much after that. The next thing I remember, I was lying in Doris' living room on the floor, with no one around. I couldn't see too well, and my head was hurting pretty bad. I guess I must've whacked it good when I fainted there in the street. I stood up and had to hold myself up on the wall because my legs still didn't want to work right. I sneaked through the house whispering Buddy's name. I was hoping he could hear me and would call out to me, but he never did.
I got back to the bedroom and there on the quilt that I made for Doris was dear sweet Buddy. He was hacked all to pieces, but through all the blood I could tell that the look of fear on his face was frozen there, like he was a photograph of hisself taken just a few moments ago. Poor ole Buddy. I always told him that his stubbornness would be the death of him. I wish he was here so I could tell him that I was right again.
Somebody knocked on the door then, or maybe they rang the bell, I can't remember. I didn't know whether to answer it or not because the situation I was in looked pretty incriminating. Well, I didn't have to think about it too long, because in came the police. They said they got a call that there was some killing going on there. I couldn't remember calling, but I couldn't remember a lot of things, so I didn't think too much of that. They asked me what I knew about it because I guess I seemed pretty calm, especially for just finding my husband dead. I showed them where Buddy was, and then they searched the rest of the house. Do you know what they found in the other bedroom? Why it was Doris and Benny there. Just as dead as a doornail. They were hacked all to pieces too. The officers said they would have to take me downtown to ask me some questions, so I went. When we got there, I told them the same story I told you now. Some other officers were down at the house now, seeing as it was a crime scene and all.
I guess they were looking for a murder weapon or something. Well they found it! And do you know that they tried to say that it had my fingerprints all over it? Well I knew that was malarkey because I never touched that scalpel, but they swore that those fingerprints were mine.
So I was charged with three murders. I didn't really know what was going on because I knew that I hadn't done anything wrong, and I just figured that they would find out what really happened and let me go. But seeing as there were no witnesses and the murder weapon had my fingerprints all over it, I guess the state had a pretty good case against me.
I was all in the news. All over the country too. "Sixty-year-old woman commits triple murder." It was in all the papers. Nobody could understand how a petite little thing like me could do such a thing. Well, I didn't. How's that for an explanation. I didn't do it. Nobody would believe me either. The jury of my peers, if that's what you want to call them, there wasn't a friend of mine up there, found me guilty. I guess the judge felt kind of sorry for me. He said that I wouldn't last a day in prison, and as I was obviously crazy anyway, then why didn't they just stick me up here in the state hospital. And this is where I've been ever since. I guess it's just as well. I've got no family of my own left. Me and Buddy never had any children of our own, so I don't know who would take care of me anyway. And I'm getting old enough now that I need somebody there with me all the time. Me and Buddy was going to take care of each other. But Doris and Benny fixed that. I still can't figure out why they would do such a thing. We were friends. But then friends don't kill your husband, so I guess we weren't as close as I thought.
Well, I'm getting pretty tired now. It's about time for my nap. You kids run along now. I hope I've been some help, and I want a copy of that article when it comes out in the school paper. You let me know if you need to know anything else, y'hear? It's been a pleasure talking with you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my room to lie down."
Mrs. Ol'd'Cutt left the room, and an orderly entered. The old lady had answered a lot of questions for the young reporter, but she had left a lot unanswered as well.
"Excuse me, sir? Could I ask you a few questions about Mrs. Ol'd'Cutt?"
"Certainly," the orderly replied.
"Well, she swears that she didn't kill her husband, or Doris and Benny. But why would she be prosecuted if she hadn't? It seems that the state would need more evidence. That they would have to prove her guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt."
"The old lady's still telling that story, huh? Well, she's crazier than an outhouse rat. She's got paranoid schizophrenia or multiple personalities or something. Everbody said she was crazy long before she killed anybody. Police found her sitting with the bodies trying to serve 'em tea. All three of 'em just as dead as a railroad tie, and her just carrying on like they was having an intelligent conversation. You know that whole story she told you? They say she's been telling herself that for so long that she started believing it. She didn't kill nobody out of meanness. She killed 'em because she was crazy. She loved her Buddy, and don't want to believe that she had anything to do with him being gone now. That's why she keeps telling everbody that story. Only thing is, now she tells it as truth."
"Do you think it's better to let her keep believing her version, or should someone tell her the real truth?"
"Well, I'm no doctor, but the way I see it, let the old lady believe what she wants to believe. She ain't hurting nobody by telling her version. And they got her medicated so that she ain't gonna hurt nobody again. If it gets her through the day, then I don't see no harm in it. After all, she ain't got too many days left anyways, and she knows it. She keeps talking about going to see her sweet Buddy. I just hope Buddy is as forgiving as the rest of us have been. It's easier to forgive somebody when they're crazy. And nobody knew that better than Buddy."