Night Ride With Sarge

“You can call me John, Frank, or Sarge,” he said.

I was trying to keep up with the tall man in blue as we walked across the parking lot toward the police cars. It was the last part of the Citizen Police Academy offered by our local police department. This was the “ride along”; the event we class members were waiting for.  And I was no different.  All  other lectures with exception of D.U.I. stops and using speed detection equipment had been at the station. 

“Okay, Sarge,” I said.

“We’ll be using this old Crown Vic since my car is in the shop,” he said as we approached the patrol car. “And remember, you will stay in the car at all times.  I don’t care if I’m getting my ass beat, you stay in the car!”

“Got it,” I said,  I did not feel argumentative. 

Once I entered the car, I realized the lack of space in the front. With the space needed for the laptop and other electronics the passenger seating was rather limited. 

“This car doesn’t have a laptop, so I’ll be doing things the old fashioned way,” he said as he lay several printed pages on the platform designed to hold the laptop.

He fired up the Crown Vic and we were on our way. I listened as he explained how the papers on the platform contained a list of what he had to do during his shift. “There’s something I always do at the beginning of each shift before I begin work on the list. We’re going to Bucky’s Quick Stop,” he said.

“We taking a break to get started?” I said with a smile.

“Yes and no,” Sarge retorted without any humor in his voice. 

H“Bucky’s is my local source of information about the community.  I can find out if anything suspicious is going on around there.”

“Pretty smart,” I said.  

There was no response. I had hoped I would see some kind of action. Cops, Adam 12, NYPD Blue, Hill Street Blues and more recently Blue Bloods were my favorite TV shows. 

We drove around while Sarge worked his list. He checked one place for a vagrant and a house where criminal activity was suspected.  And finally we were heading out of town on a busy fourlane street when Sarge said, “Hold on!”

He turned on the blue lights and he executed a u-turn. The tires squealed. I heard the engine gasping for air as the acceleration threw me back in my seat. I always get an adrenaline rush when I’m in a vehicle accelerating. Our quarry was a small red pick-up truck. 

"What’d he do?” I wanted to know.

“He didn’t dim his lights,” Sarge said.

The truck pulled over into the center and stopped. Sarge alighted and approached the vehicle but soon returned to the car. He was holding a driver’s license in his hand. “Do you know how to pronounce this name?” he asked, showing the license to me.

“Can’t help you, Sarge,”  I answered.  I have never been good at pronouncing  Middle Eastern names,

Sarge continued to stare at the driver’s license, then,  with a sigh he went back to the motorist.  Upon his reentering the police car, I asked him if he had given the driver a ticket. He said he had not, but had given him a stern lecture about driving on a restricted driver’s license.  The young man driving the pick-up was violating the restrictions of his license.

The night staggered on. No excitement.

The radio crackled.  Sarge said it was a rookie cop who needed a veteran’s help. A few minutes later we were at another convenience store. There was a young officer, an elderly lady, and a small Indian man in front of the store.

I stayed in the car as Sarge approached the trio.  Within a few minutes the young cop had put the old lady in his police car and the Indian man had disappeared back into the store. As they were leaving the young cop stopped his car beside our car. 

Sarge said to the young officer, “Remember, when you get her home go next door and tell her daughter what happened. She’ll take care of her.”

“What was that all about, Sarge?”  I wanted to know, thinking, did they arrest little old ladies?

As we turned back on the major street, Sarge said, ” Hijab, the store owner, called the police. He couldn’t get the lady to leave.  Even though she had driven there, she said the car wasn’t hers. He offered to call someone for her but she said she didn’t know anybody. So he called us. This happens every now and then with old people.  They shouldn’t be allowed on the road.”

I was not fond of Sarge’s last statement. I’m seventy-six. 

We had a few more traffic stops that night. Not much excitement, and that was good. In retrospect, I would go through the Citizen Police Academy again.

And I'll get my police excitement from television.

_____________________________________________________________

The names have been changed in thi story for obvious reasons.

Hog Killin'

"Hey, look, we're smokin'," I said to my buddies. We were huddled together in the predawn semi-darkness. As we breathed out the water vapor in our breaths condensed forming clouds of water droplets appearing as smoke. The morning air was cold.. It was like this every year at hog killin' time when it first got cold. I asked Daddy why we always waited until it got cold. He said the weather had to be cold or else the hog meat would spoil if the weather was warm. 

"I'll be glad when I'm old enough to make real smoke from a cigarette!" Jimbo, my very best friend said.  We were blood brothers.

"My grandpa says cigarettes make him cough a lot. I don't want to cough like he does, " BT said.

BT was our newest friend. He had just moved close by. "I ain't seen a hog killin' before," said the smaller boy with the kinky black hair. He was a bit smaller than we were but strong for his size. I recognized the cowboy shirt he had on. I had worn it until I outgrew it. Momma said I should add it to the clothing drive at the church. I didn' t want to give it up. But I did. 

“I can’t wait til breakfast.  We always have brains and eggs!” I said.

“Yum, yum!” added Jimbo.

BT said nothing.

Jimbo said, yawning, " The men do most of the work. We just keep the fires going around the wash pots for  boiling water and cooking lard. We do other stuff they ask us to do too. If we're lucky they'll make us a ball out of the hog's bladder and we can kick it around."

"They make a ball outta the hog's innards?" BT said. 

"They shore do!" Jimbo said. 

Uncle Joe always made us a ball of the hog's bladder when they were cutting up the hog. Momma said Uncle Joe was lazy but he was a lot of fun to be around. He showed me a lot about fishing. He went fishing a lot. 

“Y’all boys keep them fires burning,” Uncle Jack said as he hurried by. He was my mother’s brother and younger than the other men.

“Yessir,” we said together.

We three kept the fires a burning. BT had come with his daddy in this old beat up pulpwood truck. His daddy cut pulpwood for our cousin George and he let Big John, BT's daddy, use the truck off the job. His daddy deserved the name ' cause he sure was big. They called my daddy Big Jack but he was not near as big as Big John. BT, his daddy and momma lived about two miles away. Momma said that BT had a baby brother too. Daddy said they lived in a shotgun shack. I don't know what that is. But I never had seen Big John with no shotgun.  

Daddy and Uncle Luther, my grandpa’s brother, had buried a fifty-five gallon drum half way in the ground at an angle. Boiling water would be put in the drum to soak the hog in. Hot water softened the bristles of hog hair making them easier to pull out. When they finished pulling hair off the hog he would be clean as a pin.  The accident happened when Daddy and Uncle Jack were putting hot water in the drum.   

They were carrying the boiling water in foot tubs. BT had brought this little dog with him. It wasn't much more than a pup but it got in Daddy's path and tripped him up. He lost his footing and spilled that foot tub of boiling water on his left leg. We heard him holler and ran to see what happened. He was laying on the ground, his face clenched in pain. His face was pale. There was blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He had bit his lip. Everybody was gathering around, they had heard him hollar. 

"We've gotta get him to a doctor. Put him in my car!” yelled Uncle Jack.  The tall thin man drove a race car for Stubby's Garage in the Saturday night stock car races at the fairgrounds. He always took off with tires a-spinning and stopped sliding.

"Ole Doc Brown ain't in his office on Saddays," chimed in Uncle Joe. 

Big John said, "I can go git Cindy."

"Why?" asked Uncle Jack.

The grizzled little man, my great uncle Luther, stretched up to his full five feet and two inches and said calmly, "Cindy can talk out the fire"

Uncle Jack's face was turning red.  He said a bad word. And then he said, "You know colored people always lie!"

“John, go get Cindy!” said Uncle Luther.

In a long minute Uncle Luther came face to face with Uncle Jack. He looked up into the younger man's face and said, " Jack, Big John don't lie!"

"BT, go get yo' mammy," Big John yelled. 

And BT was gone. Although it was two miles to his house by the dirt road, it was only bout a half mile through the woods. BT was probably the fastest boy I had ever seen. I saw him catch a young rabbit on the run once. 

The next time we saw him he was carrying a little baby and following his momma out of the woods behind our house. His momma was a kinda small woman with her head tied up in a bright red and yellow kerchief. I recognized the dress she had on, it used to be my momma's. Momma had given to the clothing drive for the poor at the Cedar Rock Baptist Church. Momma said she had worn it for twenty years and she was happy to let somebody else have it. 

Cindy took charge right away and said,” Y’all move Mister Jack to some place where I minister to him in private!”

Momma complained but complied with Cindy's wishes. They moved Daddy into a small building nearby and Cindy closed the door. 

However, young boys, being curious, found a way to see what was going on inside the building. We found a crack in the outside wall aboud an inch wide. We took turns looking inside. Daddy was laying on an old table and Cindy was bending over his leg. Her hand was palm down over the burn and moving away from her face it looked like she was blowing on the burned leg. She was saying something, but it sounded like mumbling to me. BT said, “Them’s words from the Bible.”

All of a sudden Daddy stopped moaning. Then he sat up and got off the table. We ran around to the door in time to see him and Cindy come out. 

We gathered around with the grown ups and looked at Daddy's leg. It looked bad but he said it didn’t hurt. Momma gave him a big hug and took him in the house to bandage his leg. Cindy gave us boys a hard look. I think she knew we had been watching.

The rest of us went about getting ready to kill the hog. BT, Jimbo and I had to get the water boiling again. By the time Daddy came out of the house it was boiling. He went over to Uncle Joe's truck and got the .22 rifle from the gun rack behind the seat and walked toward the hog pen. 

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. Cindy had gone home with her baby. The evening sun was sinking low as Jimbo and I were cooking down the lard. BT was looking for his pup to take him home. Big John was waiting for him in the truck and he was taking home a lot more meat than the usual pig's feet. I left Jimbo with the fire to help BT. We found the little pup behind the barn. The pup snapped at BT and tried to bite him when he tried to pick him up. I saw what was the problem straight away. One of the pups front legs was broken.I guess when Daddy tripped over him his leg got broken.   It was twisted in an awkward way. When BT saw this he held his hand palm down over the pups leg and mumbled some words. I watched as the dog's leg moved back to the normal position without BT even touching it. The little dog stood up on four good legs and wagged his tail. BT abruptly turned around and said to me, "You didn't see that!"

Until now, I've never admitted that I did.

____________________________________________________________

In southern Appalachia and other parts of the rural South there are people with healing skills.  Some stop pain from burns, some can stop bleeding and heal other injuries. Some believe such claims to be true and others explain them away as hypnotism or local hoaxes. Although the story above is fiction, I remember that there was a man in our community who reportedly had such powers.   

The Monster

I’m falling!

I was on the way back to the construction site when I lost my footing.

And now I’m falling!

Sliding! 

Sliding!

I can’t slow down! The grade is too steep. The soil is so soft. It is like powder.  Really, like powder.  There is no way to get a grip or any other kind of traction. So I slide.  My velocity increasing.

Until…Bam! I hit the bottom.

I right myself.  A precautionary shake to remove the dust.

Behind me I hear a noise. Turning toward the noise I observe the dust moving.  There something behind the wall of dust…and it is big. 

In a cloud of dust it comes toward me.  Actually, charged would be a better description of its action.

I have never seen anything like it. It had huge barbed pincers extended from either side of its abbreviated neck. The small eyes seemed to look right through me. In a fleeting moment I realized that I am the victim. Before I can move, my head is held in the pincers as the tongue bores through my skull with a pop.

I feel as though my very being was being removed by some huge vacuum pump.

Darkness is coming quickly as my life is leaving me.

The last thing I remember before I succumb in total darkness is the sound of children singing.

“Doodlebug! Doodlebug! Come out of your hole!”

_____________________________________________

Doodlebug is the familiar name for the lion faced ant. It is quite small and builds a trap for it's victims. The trap is found frequently under houses in the fine soil or dust and is about two inches in diameter and one inch deep.  After building the trap the doodlebug hides at the bottom of the trap awaiting a victim, usually an ant. The ant falls into the conical trap and can't escape. The pincer armed lion ant attack the ant which is smaller and pierces its body and sucks out the inner parts of the insect. Only the exoskeleton is left. 

Letters

Just the other day a friend of mine mentioned that his wife was writing letters. It seems that during confinement she wrote letters to those people she normally saw everyday. I thought that was rather unusual in this day of email and electronic communication.

People just don't write letters anymore. 

"Gimme a ticket for an airplane

Ain't got time for a fast train 

Lonely days are gone

I'm a goin' home

My baby wrote me a letter!" 

The Boxtops

That song was before the days of email and messaging. I know our smartphone beeps and tablet buzzes and maybe a cheery female voice announces, " You've got mail!" from your desktop. But it's not quite the same as ripping open an envelope for a message. 

Letters have been a method of communication for centuries.Half of the Christian Bible's New Testament is made up of the letters of the apostle Paul. And people had communicated in letters hundreds of years before he did.The Egyption papyrus scrolls come to mind.

Many famous letters have survived today. Napoleon's letters to his dear Josephine come to mind. 

"So you thought that I did not love you for yourself! For what, then? Oh Madame, did you really think this? Could such an unworthy feeling have been

conceived by such a pure spirit? I am still astonished at it, but less however than at the feeling which on my awakening brings me back to your feet, without resentment and without willpower. It is certainly impossible to be weaker or further abased. What then is your strange power, incomparable Josephine? One of your thoughts poisons my life, tears my soul apart... but a stronger feeling, a less sensitive mood, takes hold of me, draws me back and rules me again as if I were guilty. I truly feel that if we quarrel I should close my heart... And you mio dolce amor - Have you spared me even two thoughts?!!! I kiss you three times, once on your heart, once on your lips and once on your eyes."

Or maybe the letters of Abigail Adams to her husband, John, the second president of the United States. 

“ I long to hear that have declared an independency. And, by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the husbands.”

Winston Churchill, aged 16, writes home to his mother, Lady Randolph Churchill, from Harrow, in November 1890, requesting a visit from his nanny, Elizabeth Ann Everest.

"Darling Mummy, I am getting on all right and am learning lots each day. One line to tell you I am well, happy tho' very tired... Please send Everest down, because she can help me in some work. I now send you my youthful love and remain your loving son..."

The letters of military men writing home are some of the most telling of the true story of war of loneliness of homesickness.I can testify to this. Here is such al letter from a soldier in Vietnam, 1st Lt. Dean Allen, to his wife.

There are many times while I am out in the field that I really feel the need to talk to you. Not so much about us but what I have on my mind. Being a good platoon leader is a lonely job. It got so dark I had to stop last night. …

Writing like that doesn’t really do that much good because you aren’t here to answer me or discuss something. I guess it helps a little though because you are the only one I would say these things to. Maybe sometime I’ll even try to tell you how scared I have been or am now. … Sometimes I really wonder how I’ll make it. My luck is running way to good right now. I just hope it lasts.

Don’t worry about what I have said, these are just things I think about sometimes. I am so healthy I can’t get a day out of the field and you know I’m to damn mean to die. …

Sorry I haven’t written more but the weather is against me. You can’t write out here when it rains hour after hour.

I love you with all my heart.

All my love always, 

Dean

 As a sailor during the Vietnam War I can truly attest to the benefit of letters from home. On the aircraft carriers I served on the most popular plane was the COD, the mail plane. When it landed aboard ship, the crew of almost 1000

would find out almost instantly. Soon those magic words, "mail call", echoed throughout the ship. Each recipient would grab his letter and find a quiet spot to discover and devour its contents. 

Things have changed with the advent of electronic media. We can instantly send messages with our smartphones, tablets and desktop computers.  No one writes letters anymore. Except maybe octogenarians. And they even write in cursive. Another skill that has fallen by the wayside. In today's electronic media proper grammar and usage are usually non-existant. Initially due to the restrictions of some electronic media, common phrases were abbreviated. The most common was LOL for "laugh out loud". Followed closely by BTW for "by the way". There are over 100 common abbreviations used on Twitter.

Could it be there no longer will there be collections of grandmothers of family letters or other collectors of communications on paper? 

How do we preserve generations of personal communiques? It is all electronic. We could save all of our emails and Tweets on our electronic devices.  But, who would do that? And storage would soon be full.  However, I am sure Google and other telecommunication giants will keep them all in their vast server banks forever!

Perhaps one day in the distant future a teenager may discover a vintage recording of  "The Letter"  and speculate with youthful curiosity of exactly what a letter was.

The E-Union

Recenty, I received an e-mail from a friend of mine concerning posting his photo on the internet to show support of students who aren't being allowed to participate in graduation ceremonies. His message pronpted me to write this story. Enjoy. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

"Do you want to play this crazy  game?", he asked. Tom  Roundtree looked up from his tablet and toward the other end of the sofa where his wife sat.  

“Oh, I don’t know.  It is your high school graduation class,” she said. 

“I’m not sure I even like the idea,” Tom said.

“It’s not such a bad idea.  Your old classmates are showing support for the current graduation class who won’t be having a graduation ceremony due to the pandemic. They just want you to post a graduation photo of yourself on facebook. Maybe you will get some warm fuzzies!”

“But I have had hardly any contact with these people since I came to the east coast years ago. When they started the Friends of Clairmont High facebook page, I contacted some of them briefly. I joined their facebook group, and I'm not really that big on social media. It didn’t take long for me to find that I had nothing in common with  my old classmates.  I mean we were polar opposites politically!”, Tom said getting up from the sofa. He walked to the huge window and looked out at the sea. The tide was coming in and the waves were high. 

Sandi Roundtree joined her husband peering at the Atlantic and put her arm around his waist pulling him to her.  Looking up at him she said, “It’s just for the kids, and you are not super busy,” she added sheepishly.

She was indeed correct in that last part. Since the pandemic, he no longer had a job to go to each day. The College of Charleston, where he was the History Department head, had cancelled all classes. He had three graduate students he was advising and that was all.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said in resignation.

Back on the sofa he picked up the tablet and was about to turn it off when he noticed he had an email message. It was from Michael Pendergrass.  Pendergrass had been the class president.  He had never left the small California town, preferring instead to return after graduation from Stanford to manage the family's sprawling peach orchards. 

“H-m-m…” thought Tom.  At least this was a personal message, not like that form email he had received  before.

“Dinner’s ready, Sweetie!”  Sandi called out.

He joined her on the deck  and poured the pinot she had opened.   Since they had started following a plant-based diet, Sandi had constantly surprised him with interesting and tasty meals. The change in diet had been good for both of them. Each had lost weight and felt better. 

After dinner he relaxed on the deck.The breeze off the Atlantic was soft and salty. Invigorating. The beach was deserted. He watched a pelican dive into the water and was almost envious of the creature and the simplicity of its life. Was homo sapiens really the superior species?

Later that evening he answered Mike's email. He would play the silly game. Maybe Sandi was right. It was for a good cause. 

He found himself alone after breakfast. Sandi had gone grocery shopping. Tom enjoyed what he always referred to as a continental breakfast of toasted english muffin with orange marmalade. He felt he was keeping the Victorian empire intact by enjoying a cup of black Ugandan coffee with the muffin. Today he would post his photo on the Friends of Clairmont High School  facebook page. He had a bit of angst about posting his picture. Tom had no idea why.  In that old trunk in the attic he found the correct school yearbook with the photo he needed. Once back downstairs it was simply a matter of scanning it into his computer. Thankfully, he did not have a problem. Sandi was much better at this kind of thing than he was. It was rather easy to upload the picture. He thought to himself it was no surprise kids were so good at this sort of thing. 

The temptation to look at the photos of his old classmates was too great. Sandi found him with his nose deep in the Clairmont High School yearbook. After helping Sandi bring in the groceries. He was back at his desk and looking at the yearbook. Not everyone had posted their photo. Of course he realized that some of his classmates would have died. Some had been killed in military service. There was a special place on the facebook  page for those killed in service to their country. Additional comments from some were like biographical sketches for what had happened to them since high school.  There weren't many surprises to Tom. Most of those classmates voted "most likely to succeed" had lived up to the predictions.  Tom had not been included in that group. However, he had been successful.

Thomas Edward Roundtree had been sent by his parents to The Citadel, the military college of South Carolina. His parents had concluded that he needed to attend a school with a strong tradition of discipline.  Perhaps it was the best thing for him. Upon graduation he had been a naval officer for four years before going to grad school at Columbia and then Yale for his doctorate in History of Western Civilization. His years at the Citadel left him with a special place in his heart for the Carolina Lowcountry. When the opportunity to join the College of Charleston staff presented itself he was quick to take advantage of that opportunity.  But not without a divorce. His wife of some ten years simply refused to move to the lowcountry.  Returning to Charleston he had also met and married Sandi. Sandi was recovering from an abusive relationship which had ended in divorce. They accepted each other as they were and never talked of each other's past. 

A few years ago they had found this beach house affordable and had fit right into the beach lifestyle. He enjoyed his work and his schedule had  only a few lectures and allowed time for research. His second book would be published in the fall. The historical novel had become his genre of choice. Life was good.   But somehow this graduation photo was causing him undue stress. Maybe he should just adopt Sandi's attitude. Just go with the flow. However, the next day when he checked the Friends of Clairmont High facebook page his attitude would change.  

There were several new postings of old classmates' photos, including one he would never have expected. In the "Gone But Not Forgotten" section of the page was a photo of Phyllis Southerland. Phyllis had died in a tragic automobile accident following the Senior Prom  a few days before graduation. He decided to contact Mike about it. After all Mike was the administrator of the page and would approve what was posted on the Friends Page. He opened the email application on his tablet  and began typing.

He got up from his recliner, lay the tablet down, and as he started toward the kitchen to get a Negra Modelo he heard the tablet beep. The beep signaled an incoming email message. Picking up the tablet he saw that Mike had responded to his message.

Tom felt his muscles tense. And he was sure his face turned red. At least Sandi said his face blushed when he got angry. As he thought of how she found his rare displays of anger amusing he began to relax. But Pendergrass's condescending tone really irritated him.  Old Mikey still knew how to push his buttons. 

He checked the facebook page again, just to be sure. Yes, her picture was still there. He grabbed a Negra Modelo from the fridge and went into his home small office. When he had something weighing heavy on his mind, he always sought refuge there. Why was this  bothering him, he asked himself. The accident that killed Phyllis was a long time ago. Why should it bother him now? So what if someone put her picture on the internet. What if Mike was right and no one else could see the picture but him? How could that happen?  He was no internet guru, but it did not sound logical to him.He did not sleep well that night.

The next day he tried to determine how Phyllis's picture was only visible to him. By noon he had given up his quest. Over lunch he asked Sandi if the Robertson boy was home next door. She said that the entire family had been in the northeast when  the "stay inside" order came from the governor. Cale Robertson was twelve years old and in Tom's mind a computer genius. But he wasn't available. Actually, Sandi was much better at computer problems than he was, but he didn't want her involved in this problem. He would have to call what he called the "A Team", his nephew Lewis. Lewis worked in cybersecurity for the FBI. The boy even had an advanced degree in state of the art encryption methods.   Although Tom referred to him as a boy, Lewis was in his mid thirties. In many ways he was like the son Tom never had. After dinner and  catching up on the news via the internet he called Lewis. His nephew answered on the first ring.

"Hello, Lewis, it's Uncle Tom. How've you been?"

"This is a surprise. Good to hear from you."

"Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Anything," he replied

"I don't know exactly how to ask. "

"Something technical?"

"Yes,” I said.  “,Can you determine who posted a picture on a facebook page that only I can see?"

"Let me see if I understand this. Someone posted a picture on a facebook page and only you can see it?"

"That's right. I contacted the page's administrator and he said he couldn't see the picture. Also, he acted as though he thought I was nuts. I would like to know who posted the picture, too."

"I can do that,” Lewis responded.   “Just give me the web address of that page and I'll get on it the first chance I get. I'm pretty busy now, give me a couple of days."

"Thanks, Lewis."

H-m-m thought Tom this was all he could do now. Nothing eventful happened the next day but he had been sleeping fitfully. Nightmares were haunting him; crazy things best not discussed with anyone. He checked the facebook page several times the next day. More classmates added their photos to the page and Phyllis Southerland's photo remained. He queried one other classmate via email and they said Phyllis's photo did not appear on their facebook feed either. 

Like he had promised, Lewis called two days after their initial conversation. 

"Uncle Tom, 

I worked on your problem. It was really strange. Like you said, the photo was only visible to you. It took  a little investigating but I did find where the photo came from. It came from your house."

"What?" 

" I'm just telling you that is what I found. That photo was posted from a computer in your house."

"Okay, thanks Lewis. I appreciate what you've done. Say, "Hey" , to your dad when you see him."

"Will do, Uncle Tom!"

There were two laptops, two tablets, two smartphones and a PC in the house capable of posting the picture on the web. He spent the rest of the day checking all the files on his and found no image of Phyllis Southerland on any device. He would not look at Sandi's. She did not care to share her electronic devices, and that was okay. He did have a tendency to offer unsolicited advice and that brought forth the ire of his significant other. No, he would not check her machines. Today might be a good day to visit the local coffee shop. Walk or drive? Drive. 

He slipped his feet into well-worn boat shoes and went down the stairs to the garage.    The silver gray Porshe 911 even looked good in the semi-darkness. It was his pride and joy. There was a set of new floor mats on the workbench in front of the car. FedEx had delivered them the day before, and he had not had a chance to install them.  

There was something next to them that caught his eye. It was a small tin of Rat-B-Gone. He had not seen any of it since they had a mouse problem a few years earlier. Actually, they had solved the mouse problem with the purchase of Rosie, the Norwegeon Forest cat. At almost twenty pounds, the mice trembled at the sound of her footsteps.   

Since he was a teenager he had dreamed of a Porsche 911. And now it was in his garage. It would be good to get out of the house for a bit. He would love to take the Porsche on the mountain roads of western North Carolina but that would have to wait. Lowcountry roads were lacking challenges for driving performance sports cars. His was the last of the German sports cars with the air-cooled engines. It was almost like an extension of himself as he accelerated through the gears. 

He turned around at the grocery store on Folly Road and returned to the island and stopped at the Pot-O-Brew coffee shop on the way back to the beach house. It was the only place on the beach to get a fresh brewed cup of Ugandan coffee. The place had rather eclectic decor; a mixture of beach culture and the African plains.  Bud, the owner, was rather talkative and was up to date on the current beach gossip. 

"Hey, Tom! Long time, no see," called the paunchy proprietor as Tom entered the coffee shop. 

"Well, you know this virus thing has been keeping us a bit on edge. I think we're getting used to it now," the professor answered. 

"I'll have your usual in a few minutes," Bud responded. 

Tom took a table near the window where he could observe the street traffic. It was early in the spring and the onslaught of tourists was still a few weeks off.  But with the pandemic, who knew when they would be back.

"Here you are," Bud said,  as he set the steaming cup of coffee in front of Tom. " Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," Tom said as the rotund  middle-aged man slid himself into the chair opposite.

"How's business?"

"Look around. You're the only one here. But I'm sure things will pick up later. Besides, it takes a while for a business to get established," said the proud owner of the Pot-O-Brew. 

"I'm sure you're right , Bud"

"Your wife stopped by the other day. It was good to see her. Boy, it had been quite a few years since I had seen her."

"I didn't know you knew, Sandi." I said.

"Oh, yes, we went to high school together. She was Sandra then," said the barista.

"I didn't realize she was a local girl. She certainly doesn't have an accent like you,” I said.

"She wasn't. Her father was in the Air Force and was transferred to the Air Force Base here. She just went to high school here." 

" Were you a military man too?" Tom asked.

"Yep, I retired as a chief petty officer,  CT chief.   Lots of retirees around here."

" My cup's empty, and I need to get along home. See you later, Bud, or should I say Spooky?" Tom said as he was getting up from the table. The "Spooky" comment was in reference to Bud's speciality in the Navy. 

It was a leisurely drive home. Once home he confined himself to his office. Although the college was closed there were a few projects he was responsible for. Some graduate students needed his help. 

At dinner he mentioned to Sandi that he had stopped by the coffee shop while out on his drive. 

"How is Bud? Is business getting better? When I stopped by I was his only customer. You know we were high school classmates?  Seems like that was eons ago," Sandi said. 

"You probably mentioned it, and I simply forgot," Tom said, not wanting to pursue the subject further. But why had she never mentioned it? 

He did not sleep well that night. Bad dreams. Nightmares, actually. Mangled blurry images. An automobile accident. He was there as an observer. He awoke as the automobile impaled itself on a tree so close to him he felt splinters from the tree. Three in the morning found him in front of his laptop.  The Friends of Clairmont High page had a new post. Not a photo but a newspaper article. The article was from the San Xavier Gazette. The headline stated: Popular Clairmont High Coed Killed in Automobile Accident. And in a smaller headline: Boyfriend Held for Questioning. Yes, they had questioned him, and he was exonerated when a Mexican sophomore was arrested for tampering with the brakes on her car. He had gone to prison for his crime.

Why would anyone post this on the page? 

He threw himself into some work from the college to get his mind off things. It worked for a while, but the newspaper article was haunting. It had taken almost forty years to get that night's events behind him. So much of that night was a blur. He had learned to live with that. He did not need to be reminded of that night at this point in his life. Why?  Why?  Why? He seemed to be drawn to this facebook page like a moth to a flame. It seemed that he was looking at it once an hour. The most recent post was a very recent newspaper article stating that the young Mexican  imprisoned for the crime had been released due to newly released DNA evidence. Should he seek a therapist? Probably not. He had an aversion to therapists. 

Lewis had said that the posts were coming from his house, but that was impossible. Sometimes the electronic devices seem to do what they want to without human intervention. That could have happened. Right?

He had seen little of Sandi in the last few days except at meals. She operated her own consulting business from her home office. She was even busier than usual during the pandemic. 

It was the third day after Phyllis's photo appeared on the facebook page. He left the house in mid-morning for a walk on the beach. The salt air and the noisy gulls seemed to clear his head. He determined that what he really needed was a cup of Ugandan coffee. The shop was empty again. He hoped business would improve for  Pot-O-Brew, because he would hate to see the beach lose it's only coffee house. The shop was empty, but Bud seemed to be in fine spirits. 

"Welcome back, Tom!  Your usual, I presume?" the pudgy proprietor said. 

"How about adding a toasted English muffin and orange marmalade to that, Bud."

"Will do!"

 A few minutes later Bud put the food and coffee in front of Tom."Need some company?"

"Sure, sit down," Tom said and added, " So you and Sandi were high school classmates?"

"Yes we were. I only knew her. I didn't know her older sister though."

"She had a sister?" Tom became very attentive.

"Yeah, her sister was here for a year."

"Why?", I asked.

"Well, you see. They had only been here a year when their mom and dad got divorced. The father got transferred to the west coast coast. Each parent received custody of a daughter. Sandra stayed with her mother. "

"The dad and a daughter moved to California, huh?"

"I reckon. The west coast for sure!"

"Do you remember her name, the girl that went with her father?"

"I think it was Francis or something like that," Bud said looking over his shoulder, "Gotta go, Tom, a customer just came in."

On his way back home, he thought about what he had to do. One thing for sure he had to talk with Sandi about the situation. He had tried to avoid facing the fact that the photos and newspaper clippings had come from her computer. But why? Did she hold him responsible for her sister's death? Only she could answer those questions. How should he go about asking her? He couldn't just blurt out, "Are you trying to drive me crazy posting to facebook?" That would hardly be his style. No, he was the calm reserved type. But what about the rat poison? People had been murdered with that.  He was so preoccupied that he hardly noticed the people on the beach on his walk home. Leaving his shoes at the door he padded barefoot into the living area. Sandi met him with a surprising hug and a light kiss on the cheek.

Dinner was great; his favorite vegan meatloaf with drunken mushrooms. Green beans sauteed with almonds and garlic as a side dish. Sandi had made some Navajo fry bread too. They had a bit of coconut ice cream with chocolate sauce for desert.  A nice cabernet sauvignon aided the digestion as per the Biblical verse. As the sun set they had their coffee as the evening tide went out. 

"Sandi," he  said hesitantly, "There's something I have to talk to you about!"

"Okay," she said as she folded her legs under her and settled into the sofa.

He looked at her, the woman he loved, waiting patiently on the sofa.

"It can wait. Maybe some other time."

"You can talk to me anytime." Sthe got up from the sofa and opened the door to the downstairs garage. "I want to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I forgot something when I was shopping yesterday."

"Don't forget your mask!" Tom said.

"I have one in the car. I'll be back in a bit!" Authorities had recommended that everyone wear a protective mask when in public during the pandemic.

He felt he should have followed through and talked to her about his suspicions. He noticed that she had left her tablet on the coffee table. It could verify some of his suspicions. Luckily he did not need a password to open her files. He navigated quickly to her stored photographs.  Sure enough Phyllis Southerland's  photo was there. He quickly found the newspaper articles he had seen posted on facebook as well. He attempted to look at her facebook page but realized he did not have her facebook password. After turning off the tablet and replacing it on the coffee table, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double shot of scotch. It was a special bottle.  The one he had bought at the distillery in Oban when they went there shortly after they were married. He gulped about half of the drink before returning to the sofa.  What to do? How do you confront the wife that is trying to kill you? Maybe not confront, just pack a bag and leave. He didn’t get a chance to ponder very long before Sandi came back. She placed some items in the kitchen pantry then joined him on the sofa.

“You said you wanted to tell me something?” she asked.

“Yes...yes I do.  I just don’t know how to start,” Tom said hesitantly.

“You used to always tell me ”’When in doubt, blurt it out!’”

“Sandi, I think you are trying to either kill me or drive me insane! Let me tell you how I know.  I found out from Lewis that the photo of Phyllis and the newspaper items on the facebook page came from this house. Yes, I was interrogated by the police after Phyllis’s fatal accident, but that was because someone told them we had a fight at the dance.  That was true.  I’m sure things would have worked out the next day. But she had driven away with tires spinning and all that. I loved that girl.  While you were gone I checked your tablet and sure enough I found both of them there. And then there was the rat poison in the garage.  People use it to kill people. I think there was some in my coffee tonight!”

“Oh, you poor dear!” she said as she arose from the sofa and approached him.

He moved away. 

“The coffee tasted different because it was not your prized Ugandan but another African coffee. Due to this pandemic the supplier could not get your special coffee. I okayed a substitute. How the pictures and things got on the facebook page, I have no idea. I have never seen the page. myself.  I wish I had told you that Phyllis was my sister but it was so long ago, I didn’t think it mattered.  About the rat poison, I found it under the kitchen sink and decided to get rid of it, after all we have Rosie.  I was taking it to the trash when I got a business call on my cell. I had to go back to my office and left it on the bench.  Phyllis was my sister and I loved her. Her picture and the newspaper articles were just keepsakes, like something someone would keep in a scrapbook. I would never hurt you, Tom.  I love you!  You’re the man I chose to spend my life with.  Who told you Phyllis was my sister?”

“Bud, down at the coffee shop.”

“I should have known. Did he tell you  about what a big crush he had on me in high school? Probably not.  I went out with him a couple of times but that was all. But he continued to call and write me notes. I tried to get him to stop, but he was incorrigible.  It was almost to the point of harassment. I was at my breaking point when we graduated and he went into the Navy. He wrote me letters but I just trashed them. He made a career out of the Navy I guess, and I never saw him again until he opened the coffee shop here. He seemed to have lost all interest in me and that was fine with me.  But, I’ll bet he is somehow involved in this."

He allowed her to melt into his arms as he said, “No doubt about it. Once a Spook, always  Spook!”

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