Monthly Archives: June 2017

Defending Prostitution (or attempting to)

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Aunt Amelia winked. “And Meta? Will you still be joining me for the meeting on Friday night?”

“Of course, Aunt Amelia. I’m looking forward to it.” How could I forget one of the main reasons I came to San Antonio?

“What meeting?” Giovanni asked.

I turned toward Giovanni. “Aunt Amelia is a member of the Women’s Club of San Antonio. There’s a public forum—”

Sadie clamped a hand over my wrist. “Wait. What? I thought …”

“I hear it’s going to be a humdinger,” Giovanni interrupted. “A few of those gals arrived by train last night.”

I patted Sadie’s hand to reassure her. “It’s okay. I’ve already asked for the day off. Miss Fannie gave me permission.”

“No, I mean,” Sadie’s breath hitched. “Her club invited the Women’s Temperance Union. They want to force any place that sells liquor to close down.”

Aunt Amelia leaned forward. “I sincerely doubt they have that power, my dear. Remember, Texas voted a majority against prohibition in ‘87.”

“But they also think alcohol adds to social problems like …” Sadie hesitated and dropped her chin, “prostitution.”

“My organization only wants women to have better opportunities, Sadie, including the right to vote.” Aunt Amelia’s voice remained calm, self-assured.

Sadie shifted her upper torso and shook her head. “But that’s not what the Temperance women want. Why did you invite them?”

“Board decision. Perhaps the Temperance Union can be instrumental in helping us get the right to vote.”

Sadie cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Amelia. But I seem to recall Miss Fannie telling us of a woman named Susan Anthony is pushing for our right to vote yet also attacks prostitution as a social evil.”

“I’m not saying I want to be a part of the Temperance Union,” Aunt Amelia continued, her head tipped back in confidence. “But I would like to hear what they have to say. I can’t minimize their efforts without first listening.”

My heart sank as the seams of new acquaintances unraveled.

“In my case, Amelia, I chose to work at Miss Fannie’s. I chose my profession.”

Mrs. Carver returned and brought in a tray of coffee and scurried back outside to Mr. Davis. I longed to join them for a breath of fresh air.

Aunt Amelia sipped her coffee then returned the cup gently to its saucer. “You were saying?”

“I told you I chose my profession.” Sadie’s tone came out biting and abrasive.

Aunt Amelia caught my eye then turned a Polished focus to Sadie. “Some benighted women don’t have a choice. Many young women are taken unwillingly and sold into white slavery. Their rights have been taken and, in my opinion, that is a horrific injustice.”

Sadie’s face flushed. She closed her eyes and puffed out her bosoms. “But you don’t mind Meta staying at the bordello? Sleeping in my bed?”

“And I will keep Meta safe,” Sadie said.

Sadie’s overprotective and presumptuous emphasis set me on edge. The gathering no longer seemed a good idea.

 

The room settled into an irksome silence. The only thing audible came from Mr. Davis’ cursing in the backyard. “… And you ain’t no goddamn Florence Nightingale neither.”

I kissed Aunt Amelia goodbye and was first out the door.

Standing at the curb, I thought of Miss Reba. I reached into my purse and pulled out the cleanly scrubbed cloth, remembering to return it. Sadie grabbed it from my hands, blew her nose, and flung it onto the dusty street.

 

Daily Word Prompt: Polish

If only…

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… this tree could speak. Yes, this is ONE tree, not a cluster. I imagine it to be between 300 and 500 years old. If it could talk, it would tell me about my great-great grandparents who immigrated to America from Germany in the 1840’s. It would tell me how it watched as my grandfather, and later, my mother, took their first steps. It would fill this mind with my more of my family’s personal stories.

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Meeting Madam Fannie Porter

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unspecifiedI neared the front door and stopped to read the sign. Madam Fannie Porter’s Boarding House. The term Madam did not escape me. Nor did the sparsely dressed and licentious female boarders I spotted through the slightly-parted curtains.

I sat on the curb, too tired to cry.

A thick raindrop thumped my hat, the second thudded my skirt. A lightening bolt forced me to stand.

I glanced back at the grand house of ill fame, swallowed the bitter taste of doubt, and inched toward the red doors.

 The iron horse head lifted, I calmed my breath then struck the knocker’s plate, plunk, plunk, plunking it loud enough to be heard over bedlam behind the red door.

The portal to the unknown inched open and revealed a handsome woman, her head held high like a proud Thoroughbred. Her eyes looked stitched with a dark brown thread authority and were the same color as the hair perfectly coiffed on her head. Perhaps in her thirties, she wore a Natty brocaded burgundy gown that cinched her waist and revealed her curves. And her shoes! I had read that Mrs. McKinley had worn such shoes at the President’s inauguration—white satin slippers beaded with color.

“Miss? How can I help you?”

“I … I’m Meta Duecker.” I hated my fear, my uncertainty and lack of confidence. “It seems I have been misled to this address. I was hoping for a glass of water and, directions perhaps?”

“Meta, I’m Madam Fannie Porter. Please come in.”

Daily Word prompt: Natty

Time to separate the sheep from the goats

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Met by only the dark, I’m finally off the train. I walk the fifteen minutes to the house, all the while grateful for the time to stretch my legs. I’m eager to see Mother, Sis and Pooch, but my hands sweat when I think about seeing Dad again. It’s not because he can beat me anymore, I know he can’t. It’s because I’ve promised myself to show him a thing or two from a man’s perspective, this man’s perspective. I want him to know he’s done us wrong over the years and I want him to be accountable for it. It’s time to separate the sheep from the goats.

The house looks the same. I stare at the window, the one I’d escaped from. I see the light shining in the kitchen window. I smooth out the wrinkles in my Uniform as best I can. I take a deep breath and walk into the house.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Daily Word Prompt: Uniform

Sitting in the back of the bus

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I’m sitting with Isaac in the back of the bus as we pass Pease Park, one of my favorites. Daddy said Governor Elisha Pease owned the land for a slave plantation. But Pease believed in the Union’s cause so I must imagine that he treated them with kindness. Pease also owned the area the area now known as Clarksville. Freedman Charles Clark Griffin bought two acres of that land for one-hundred dollars, the land where Elias Ford has his home.

But Shoal Creek, the grass and the oak trees, aren’t what catch my eye. I’d recognize that red Schwinn anywhere. He’s staring at the bus.

“Duck down, Isaac.”

Isaac doesn’t ask why until he scrunches down in the seat, his eyes wide.

“It’s asshole. He must have followed us.”

Ours is the next stop. We don’t get off. Fifteen minutes later, we find ourselves back downtown. The bus’ engine shuts off. I have to pee in a bad way.

The driver stands up, his hands on his hips. “This ain’t no tour bus,” he yells to us.

“Sorry,” I yell back. “I must have fallen asleep. I’ll stay awake this time, I promise.”

“What about you, boy?”

“Must’a dozed off too. I’m headed for Clarksville.”

When more people climb the steps to board, Dick-Driver restarts the engine.

“I think we lost him,” I say. “He won’t find me now.”

“We’re stopping at Clarksville first,” the driver fumes out.

Isaac is the only Negro on the bus.

We pull to a stop. The brakes screech.. “Out,” Dick-Driver says.

When I follow Isaac out the door, the driver shouts at me. “Where you think you’re going?”

Fifteen passengers turn their heads and glare at me.

“Home,” I say.

“Home,” Isaac says as he waits for me to get off the bus.

“What a jerk,” I mumble.

“Shoot, that was nothing. But I don’t mind saying, it feels good to be in Clarksville again. No offense or anything. I enjoyed the movie.”

“None taken. Can I use your outhouse?”

Isaac nods. “Uncle Elias keeps it real clean.”

After the bladder relief, I meet Isaac on the front porch. “I was wondering. Mind if I look at your books. I think that’s another thing we have in common. You know, movies, books, dislike for mannequins.”

“What time is it?”

“Not time for your uncle to be home if that’s what you’re asking. Besides, I won’t stay long. I have to get back to Olive’s.”

Isaac ushers me inside. Of course, I see no TV or radio.

“A hurry to get back to the mannequins?” he says.

“Yep. Can you imagine if Gladys and Fritz only have Olvie to talk to?”

Isaac snickers and points to the books. The one open next to his sleeping pallet has no writing on the outside. “Your journal?”

“Private, if you don’t mind. Now it’s my turn.” Isaac heads out the front door.

The bright green cover is the first of his books to grab my attention. The Negro Motorist Green-Book was about how to avoid problems when travelling. I dig further—The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes, Jack London’s The Call of the Wild, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Harriet, the Moses of Her People by Sarah Bradford.

The last book is called Black Like Me written by John Howard Griffin. Something about this book jars a Distant memory. Is it on our bookshelf at home? I open the front cover and see that it’s a library book. I pull the yellow card from its pocket. Checked out on July 31 by Sylvia Peterson. The day she disappeared.

Excerpt from my WIP, working title Olvie and Chicken Coop, set in 1963.

 

Daily word prompt: Distant

Bed Robbers

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Last night, alone in Sadie’s bedroom, I had slipped a chair beneath the doorknob to prevent intruders from stumbling in while I slept. Even so, I tossed and turned worrying about Sadie meeting Clayton.

Although too early for breakfast, I hurried to dress and entered the kitchen to hear the soothing melody of Miss Reba humming Coming for to Carry Me Home while stirring diced potatoes in the fry pan.

“Mornin’, honeypot. You’s up early.”

Like always, the woman had eyes in the back of her head. About to tell her I couldn’t sleep, Miss Fannie sauntered out of her bedroom and into the kitchen wearing her familiar lavender peignoir. “Had a doozy, last night.”

“’Nuther bed robber?” Miss Reba said without turning.

“Bed robber?” I asked.

Miss Fannie filled her coffee cup and joined me at the table. “A nightmare, Meta, and yes, it was a doozy. I dreamed me and Sadie were both stuck in the shining closet. Neither of us could breathe, but it was Sadie who turned blue. Her hands were bound together, but she lifted them to her throat trying to speak. I tried to reach for her, help her, but my arms were frozen to my sides.”

Miss Reba chopped off a chunk of butter with a loud thud with her knife. “A sighting? Teeth chatter?”

Miss Fannie shooed an Imaginary fly from her face.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

Daily word Prompt: Imaginary

Easy money

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Cono Dennis, my dad

Shortly after arriving in San Antone, I went to town and bought some switchblades, knucks, and other crap that I thought I could sell for a profit to those little green-behind-the-ear boys who were still thinking about sucking on their mothers’ tits. I went into our classroom and when the instructor wasn’t around, I sold everything I’d bought and for a good profit too. I even told those boys that if they needed help knowing how to use those weapons just to let me know and I’d teach them, for a little fee of course.

About a day later, some fella came in and said, “Dennis, the lieutenant wants to see you.” I walk in and salute, and he says, “Soldier, what were you doing selling those knives and and knuckles?”

I had to think real quick-like so I said, “Sir, I didn’t want ’em anymore, didn’t need ’em anymore. I just wanted to get rid of them.”

He sized me up better than I could’ve done myself, smiled, and said, “I don’t want to ever see you in here again.”

“No sir,” I said, and I haven’t seen him since. But it didn’t stop me from still wanting to do something extra on the other side of the army air force paycheck. Before long, another opportunity invited itself over. I was made responsible for mashing the Brass cans that bombardier and pilot wings come in I looked in them before I started mashing them, and I’ll be damned if there still weren’t wings stuck to the bottom of some of those cans.

I looked in every one of those cans with the eye of a person who had starved before, who had tasted hunger, but had learned to keep it as a memory pinched between cheek and gum like chewing tobacco. I plucked those pins out and shined them up real good with a blitz cloth until they looked brand new. I took them to class and, again, when the instructor wasn’t around I asked, “Who wants to be a bombardier? A pilot?”

I remember Dad telling me a long time ago that if a girl sees something shiny, she’d just have to go over and touch it. So I knew it really didn’t matter if they wanted to be a pilot or bombardier. What mattered to those boys was going out for a little R & R, because if girls got sight of those shiny pins those boys would be happy for a whole night and maybe more. Now that I think on it, I should have sold them for more than a dollar a piece.

I also knew that a unit of boys were about to be shipped over to Japan. I bought all the fake diamond rings I could find at the five-and-dime store, went back to the barracks and told those boys the same thing. Today, thanks to me, I bet there’s a lot of gals over in the Pacific wearing fake rings on their fingers.

No more onion soup for this man. The money in my pocket is finally mine. Pulling out my wallet I count twenty dollars and change. Nobody’s stealing this money from me.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Daily Word Prompt: Brassy

Yes, You Can!

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I received the printed children’s book I wrote from Mixbook and I’m so happy with it. Mixbook.com does a great job with the printing and they make it easy to create. And, I have a blast finding the art work. Best thing? My granddaughter loves it! 🙂

Here’s the front cover and the first two pages:

 

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The last page:

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On to the next one!

That rare gift of laughter

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One Thanksgiving when we lived in the Tourist Court, we had enough food for Mother to make a real meal, but it was Pooch who landed on Plymouth Rock. We didn’t have money to buy a turkey, but somehow Mother got hold of an old hen to cook. She baked it for most of the morning, even making cornbread dressing to go with it, which, for her, was like pulling a cart full of lead. She set the food on the kitchen table to let it cool while we went to the drug store to get Dad his medicine. Seeing as how it was Thanksgiving, the drug store was closed and Dad had to rely on his refrigerated liquid medicine to make it through the day.

When we got back home, Dad opened the door and what we saw made my mother want to spit cactus needles. There on our kitchen table laid scattered bones where our chicken used to be and only half of what used to be a whole pan of dressing.

We looked around the corner into the bedroom. Lying on Mother and Dad’s bed, head on a pillow and wearing a smile that stretched from Rotan to Sweetwater, was Pooch. We were the three bears coming home to find out that our porridge had been eaten, but this time, not by a little blonde-haired girl but a Curbstone Setter with an eyepatch.

Pooch’s smile disappeared when he caught sight of Mother spitting fire from her eyeballs, and coming at him with a big broom in her hand. Once those straw bristles touched his butt, he was out the door lickety split.

We ate the leftover dressing and the pinto beans, which had been safe from the theiveing on top of the stove. Mother’s teeth were so clenched with madness, I’m still not sure how she got anything into her mouth. Dad, on the other hand, was trying not to laugh, and he looked like he was enjoying every bite of the scant Portions.

“Ain’t it surprisin’ how full we can get without eatin’ meat?” Dad says stuffing more beans into his mouth, his eyes pushed into a squint by his smiling cheeks.

“It ain’t funny, Wayne,” Mother says.

We all stayed quiet for a bit so Dad could concentrate on keeping his food in and his laugh from coming out. Then he mumbled out loud, “Guess we’re not saving any leftovers for Pooch.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to stick my head under the table and hold my breath to try to keep my own laugh from spewing across the table.

Dad leaned back in his chair, pushed his plate away, patted his belly, and said, “I ate so much I think I got a little pooch.” That’s all it took. My sides started to split right along with Dad’s. Delma giggled, and Mother, although she tried to hide it, was starting a grin all her own.

Pooch didn’t show up until later that night, when everything was calm again and the chicken and dressing had settled nicely in his belly.

Even though we had beans, cornbread, and dressing for Thanksgiving, it was Pooch who really celebrated the feast of the pilgrims. And, I think because of that, Pooch had given us a rare gift around the supper table: laughter.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper (for those who have enjoyed these excerpts, remember you can order the novel on Amazon. 

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Daily word prompt:Portion