Archive for December, 2009

(A stream of consciousness memory where periods barely exist)

Grape vineyards, apple orchards, and hills blanketed with endless tufts of green filled the rearview mirror as the concrete ribbon of highway poured endlessly in front of me, yanking me away from the dying rust belt town whose smoke stacks laid fallow, whose chain link fences toppled, whose lights dimmed for lack of green to keep them aglow, whose promise of a future laid in waste amongst the feet of the young who tripped in their search for a reason to stay in the warm September air that was saturated with the scent of turning leaves and ripening grapes.  Young, very, and filled with intrepid dreams, of the pipe variety, I rode in the passenger seat of the blue ’76 Buick Electra, hardtop, south south south to the Promised Land in search of what…I didn’t know.

Old tires rolled through flatlands of other places where decrepit towns laid dormant amongst the cornfields plowed by bankrupt farmers who barely had shoes, whose farms would be lost to the banker with the shiny black shoes, who stapled notices on doors of barns emptied by lack.  The felt headliner of the Electra fluttered in the breeze untethered by its decaying adhesive, to be ripped away soon as frustration mounted in the heat of the sultry air.

I held my purring cat as we drove through another place where ranches wound fences for miles, painted in white around hills and fields of green where horses frolicked and Crosses stood tall on hilltops, shouting the message of salvation over the land.

Then on past cotton fields where sharecroppers sat on dusty porches and half naked children ran over sun baked yards of blowing red dirt filled with broken toys amongst the old tires and rusted trucks, their noses dripping in streaks of brown over their sun drenched cheeks that glistened in the frying sun, sharing their world with the cattle who grazed.

Past ice houses on the side of the road where cords dangled needlessly from booths that held no phones, where men and women met for lunch and held  sweaty bottles of beer and sat around whiskey barrel tables on sawdust covered porches, where juke boxes played and the wind blew the dust and the scent of barbeque through the scorching air, and where men with bolted down southern drawls smoked Lucky Strike’s and waved and tipped their Stetsons high above genuine smiles at the passersby whose license plates wore the names of other places.

Past homesteads that stood isolated against the sides of highways that cut through their lives like scissors through ribbons, dividing the land in half in pursuit of progress that pushed its merciless hand through and wound itself recklessly over homes that now sat at the foot of bridges, where no river ran beneath, just another concrete ribbon crisscrossing the first.

The Electra rolled over overpasses that shaded caravans of  rustbelt refugees whose dirty u-hauls held the contents of their lives as they searched in vain for the land of milk and honey with no skills that fit the land on which they stood, soon to return to the land of which they came, as their funds ran dry as a creek bed in July.

Past ethereal oasis’ of homes standing proud, planted like corn in the middle of the prairie, jutting their wooden bones into the air of the Promised Land where the young and the old shared a piece of the world with a name dreamed up by a man whose money built the streets and named them after far flung places, and where swimming pools surrounded by concrete were filled with children escaping the torrid heat of the sun baked prairie light, and where lakes with fountains were carved to hold floodwaters so homes would stay dry when the rains would fall in buckets over the land in spring.

Then on through the complex thicket of the city past glassy buildings that scraped the sky, whose mirrored facades reflected the world around them, with top floors that lent views as far as the eye and imagination could see, and towered above the hodge-podge landscape that sprouted around them like hallucinogenic mushrooms popping up helter-skelter in the sodden fields of the sandy loam.

Past the rows of shotgun houses that felled their paint and were skirted in oleander and palm, where lines of wet wash hung between trees and the glassy buildings were not far behind, where juxtaposition was invented and defined.

Near tamale stands where women soaked and rolled the husks of corn then wrapped them delicately around the mush that filled their centers that men wearing starched jeans and pressed white shirts, cowboy hats and boots with taps on the bottom, would buy by the dozen.

In eyeshot of the refineries whose lights glowed like cities on the delta and who refined oil for the millions of cars that rolled over the roads, the surface smoking beneath their tires, and where miasma billowed out of their stacks filling the sultry air with the smell of money that wafted in clouds over the East End, near the Channel that carried ships full of cargo and all things useful to the others who want endlessly, and where the goods are loaded onto trucks and trains to cross the country to the insatiable. 

Then on to the final miles with the city in the rearview mirror and the marshy water’s edge laid out before me where egrets fished in the bayous and where shrimpers and yacht owners shared the same salty water.

Arriving at the land of hot and cold, floods and droughts, oil and space age, flat and hilly, all worlds, all languages, all cultures, all economic levels, all wrapped up in one wonderful package.  It is a place where the past has expanded before my eyes and the future will shrink accordingly, and it is where I am, and it is good.

Twenty eight years later, I look out the window at the dawn of another misty balmy December day and I remember the vineyards and the orchards and the snow, and the roots of my life that are still tattooed on my mind,and the people, oh how I miss the people, and  I remember the scent of ham and mashed potatoes and gravy and sweet potatoes and corn and fruit salad and rolls and apple pie wafting through the air on Christmas morning and I remember sitting around the Christmas tree of my childhood home and today; I miss it, I miss it a lot.

Tension was thick in the room. Ice swirled round and round in gin glasses as their owners rubbed their temples, fidgeted with their ties, crossed and uncrossed their legs. No pairs of eyes were still except for Mr. Green’s, the rest darting back and forth. Miss Scarlet was bobbing her foot to the tempo of the soft jazz that was playing on the radio in the corner of the lounge. Professor Plum pulled a medical text off the shelf and flipped through it. A couple pressed hundred dollar bills fell from the pages. Plum looked cautiously around the room at the other guests before pocketing them. Mrs. Peacock leaned forward on the leather couch and put out the stub of her last cigarette in the ash tray. Mrs. White was inspecting a sterling silverware display, rubbing away a smudge from the glass.

There was a small knock on the door before the butler entered with a new tray of drinks. Colonel Mustard lifted himself to his feet, re-tucking his shirt, and traded his empty glass for one filled to the brim.

“How much longer until dinner, Gladwell?” Mustard inquired. The butler sighed.

“The cook is recording herself preparing the meal on video to send to a chef’s contest in New Jersey, so she’s doing multiple takes. It won’t be for another hour or so, I’m afraid.”

“Why are we here, Gladwell? Whose house is this? We all figured out we’re being blackmailed by the same person who goes by codename “Straight,” but why were we invited here? Who do you work for?” Mustard asked angrily before taking a swig of his drink. Gladwell shook his head.

“The cooks and I were asked to come here by some anonymous person for a fair amount of money. I have four children, sir; I can’t afford to pass that kind of money up. But I do know that whoever is blackmailing you has to have access to government records. Take Green there, for example. He’s a treasurer, blackmailed for embezzling money. Shifty character if you ask me. Very rude to me when he came in. And Scarlet,” Gladwell went on. Mustard leaned in. “Scarlet is a secretary for a government branch… Blackmailed for being less than virtuous, if you know what I mean.”

Both men looked Miss Scarlet up and down, a slit in her bright red dress cutting all the way up to her hip. Mustard gave a low whistle. Gladwell adjusted the drinks on the tray and continued.

“And Peacock there- her husband was a high up government official. He committed suicide half a year ago, giving the misses a fortune. There’s quite a bit of evidence against her proving that it wasn’t a suicide; that’s what she’s getting blackmailed for. She’s quite a character.”

Mustard clucked his tongue. Gladwell nodded in agreement.

“And Plum? A professor studying nuclear science and teaching at a local University. Blackmailed for getting a little too friendly with his students. Nervous fellow, he is. Mrs. White is a maid for the same official Scarlet works for. She’s being blackmailed for using the man’s credit card for her own personal purposes when he gives it to her to run errands, though she’s a very sweet lady. Her pay is almost as low as mine.” Gladwell looked at Mustard. “What about you, Colonel? What’s your story?”

Mustard took another sip of his gin before responding.

“I… may have been, uh… selling military equipment illegally on the black market…” He cleared his throat and tucked his shirt in some more. Gladwell chuckled.

“It’s alright, sir. What’s said in this house stays in this house. I certainly do not have the guts to blackmail any of you myself. Besides, it seems like codename “Straight” has done a thorough enough job of doing so anyway.”

Mrs. Peacock came over, her musty feathered hat bobbing on top of her hair-do. Gladwell nodded and handed her a glass.

“But I see what you mean about Straight having access to government records,” Mustard said. “It seems as if everyone here works for the feds.”

Mrs. Peacock narrowed her eyes and titled her head, the feather hairpiece wobbling dangerously.

“What are you two gentlemen discussing over here?” she asked. Gladwell grunted.

“Just reviewing the facts, is all,” he said. Peacock pursed her lips.

“Perhaps you should go back to the kitchen, butler, to assist the cook. It seems as though dinner may take a while.”

Mustard furrowed his brow, but Gladwell set the tray on the end table and left the lounge silently. The colonel coughed awkwardly.

“So… You’re a widow, eh?”

Mrs. Peacock rolled her eyes.

“I need another cigarette…” she muttered. She left to go get a new pack from her coat, leaving Colonel Mustard standing alone.

Across the room, Mrs. Scarlet downed the remaining liquid in her glass and clapped her hands. She grinned at Mr. Green, who was sitting to her right.

“Don’t you just love this song?” she asked, snapping her fingers to the new jazz piece that came over the radio. Green smiled wryly and shook his head.

“I hate jazz.”

Scarlet raised her eyebrows at him.

“I happen to love it,” she said. “My father was a pianist, my mother a dancer. They used to perform down at the club every Thursday.”

“I don’t care,” Green muttered. Scarlet switched her left leg over her right, facing Green. She rested her chin on her hand and flashed a smile.

“Then what do you care about?”

“Money. Now excuse me.” He got up and left for the restroom, leaving Miss Scarlet feeling self-conscious and passing Mrs. Peacock in the doorway with a newly lit cigarette on her lips.

Nearby, Plum moved farther down the bookshelf, reaching for another thick medical journal, most likely seeking more hidden money. As he touched the spine of the book, he bumped into Mrs. White, who was trying to clean a white porcelain bowl.

“Oh, uh, pardon me, ma’am,” he said, suddenly flustered.

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m just trying to get rid of this smudge! I bet this hasn’t been cleaned in years!” Plum looked around.

“Um… Right…” Mr. Plum went to the other side of the room.

A few seconds later, Mr. Green sauntered in the room and stood by a copper statue.

“You look like you need a drink,” Mustard said, striding over with a glass in his hand.

Suddenly a loud scream sounded from down the hall.

“You know it,” Green said, taking the glass from Mustard. All six guests rushed into the billiard room, where the scream had come.

The cook was standing in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth.

“I was coming to get some rum from the bar for the tiramisu when I saw him!” She pointed to the billiard table. The guests leaned forward to see Gladwell with a noose around his neck, lying on the table, strangled to death. Mrs. White and Scarlet gasped, Mrs. Peacock’s hat bobbed precariously.

Mustard raised his voice, “Alright! Everyone in the library! Including the cook!”

The guests looked back and forth at each other. The murderer had to be one of them. They all made their way into the library, the dark curtains drawn, the orange lamps glowing. Oil paintings hung on the wall, the eyes of the subjects staring at each person accusingly.

“Why would someone murder the butler?!” Mrs. White wailed, covering her mouth with her handkerchief.

“What does that matter?” Mr. Plum exclaimed. “All that matters is that we find out who it was! Because I do not want to be alone in this house with them! The doors are locked, Gladwell had the key. There’s no way out!”

A nervous titter rippled between the guests. It was true; they were all stuck here with a murderer.

“I remember the last conversation I had with him,” Mustard said, shaking his head. “He was saying how whoever was blackmailing us had to have access to governments records that contained dirt on all of us. Who else would murder Gladwell but the blackmailer? He was the only other person who knew the dirt on the rest of us. Sure, he said he didn’t have the guts to blackmail, but that may not have been true. That posed as competition to the blackmailer- a threat.”

“It had to have happened in the last five minutes,” Scarlet said. “Gladwell had just left the room after he dropped off the drinks. Who wasn’t in everyone’s sight in the last five minutes?”

Scarlet looked at Mr. Green. Mr. Green looked at Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock looked at the cook. The cook looked frightened.

“It couldn’t have been me! I was recording myself for that contest! I have proof!” the cook yelled. She pulled out a camcorder from her apron and hit play. The date and time was clear in the corner of the screen as she chopped vegetables. Everyone looked at Mrs. Peacock.

“I went to get a cigarette! I wasn’t gone all that long!” she trilled.

They turned to Mr. Green.

“Well I didn’t do it,” he said flatly.

They turned to each other.

“Besides the cook, not very convincing arguments,” Mustard muttered.

“Wait!” cried Mrs. White. They all turned to her small figure. “The rope! That was the rope from those dirty curtains in the hall! I remember- it was frayed. Bugged the heck out of me. It was rubbed with cedar oil.”

“I see where you’re going with this!” Plum said excitedly. Everyone turned to him. He paused. “Um… Actually, maybe not.”

Mrs. White gave an exasperated sigh.

“The murderer is whosever’s hands smell like cedar! They had to have tied and handled the rope!”

Scarlet and the cook clapped their hands happily.

They all turned to the suspects.

“Stick out your hands!” Mustard boomed.

Mrs. Peacock pursed her lips and jabbed her hands out. Mr. Green calmly put down his gin and held out his hands. The guests leaned forward and smelled their hands.

“YOU!” they yelled.

“Told you I didn’t do it,” Green said, stepping off to the side.

“It was Mrs. Peacock! In the billiard room! With the rope!”

Mrs. Peacock stomped her foot.

“Gladwell spoiled everything!” she shouted. “He got nosy, and had to ask everyone about their lives. Why did you tell him what you were being blackmailed for? You stupid people. He’s poor! Why wouldn’t he blackmail you, too? I couldn’t allow that. That information was mine.”

“But why?” Scarlet asked. Peacock sighed.

“My husband didn’t leave me a thing. After all that! Nothing! Except- the access to his office. He had all his records in there. Well, what a perfect opportunity! I found the most scandalous cases- you five- and earned the fortune I deserved.”

“I’m poor because of you!” Plum shouted. “Look what you did to me! I do not want to be locked in a house with a murderer like you!”

Suddenly, he reached for Colonel Mustard. He pulled the revolver out of the holster that was strapped to Mustard’s waist and aimed it at Mrs. Peacock. Every guest jumped for him, trying to grab the gun. They were all struggling to pull the weapon out of Mr. Plum’s hand when it went off.

A loud bang echoed through the whole house, making the china and other heirlooms quiver. Mrs. Peacock lay dead on the Oriental rug, a bullet in her heart.

They all looked at their own doing. In the library. With the revolver.