Jim Wood: My round robin experience

Gertrude Foster, Merlin Atkins, Ned Chancellor, Rose Lindenhurst, George Pendleton, Marie Divisadero, Claude Archer – and Hank Rydall.

“Okay, characters,” I said to the group, assembled at the 720 York Street studio that Jane had loaned me for the purpose. “Now’s the time to pick which one of you made the cut.”

“Hey, what is this?” Claude Archer, said, grunting and sighing out a stench of beer and cheap cigarettes. “No one tells me whether I made the cut. I tell them I made the cut.”

“I always knew I’d be canned in the end,” Gertrude said, a decrescendo in her voice that started on a high note and ended in the bass clef.

Merlin went next. “Wood, I’m going to get you for this – just mark my words,” he said, and he stood and left the room in two steps.

“God be with you,” George Pendleton added, “for no one may judge another except the Lord, Jim Wood. It is not your place, nor is it mine.”

Marie added her tear-stained regrets, Ned barked out an angry who cares, Rose offered her oh, he really means well anyway – but Hank Rydall remained silent, looking directly at me.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” I said, returning his stare, blue eye for blue eye. “I suspect you know what I’m going to say.”

“How can it be otherwise?” Hank said. “I’m the one you’re keeping, right? You wouldn’t have turned an innocent Midwestern boy into a serial murderer in the middle of Bakersfield, California if you hadn’t intended the story to continue.”

“Damned right,” I added. “You’re the best character of the lot. The rest of you – goodbye!”

Except for Hank, they all filed out, one by one, in search of a writer. But knowing they were in San Francisco, they lifted up their chins. Wasn’t there a writer on every street corner of the City by the Bay? And such good writers, too!

Hank and I huddled for strategy on character development.

Hank Rydall: Tell us exactly how many

Ah, the freedom. Hank drove down the I-5 at a leisurely 75 miles per hour, past the cattle ranches, and viewed the wide open vistas of the San Joaquin Valley. Was there any feeling like this, knowing he was free now, could do anything he wanted, go any place he cared, screw any babe he put his eyes on? Freedom and money, he’d sought them both for years, and now he had them.

He’d have to get new wheels. The ’93 Deville he’d stolen wouldn’t make it to Mexico like he planned – but it did give him speed. Had to watch it, he found himself going up to 85. Back to 75. No matter – he’d go to a used car lot, pay cash for a 2-year old BMW and be on his way. He’d already gotten the fake license and passport from Ricky in Modesto.

What would he do in Mexico? He’d buy a cantina by the beach – work as a bartender, dole out margaritas to undersexed Missouri housewives on vacation who’d love to have a 9-incher screw them on the beach. The Deville’s speedometer edged to 90 …

The sirens came behind him from nowhere – that patch of grass behind the hill, Hank supposed. What to do? He stopped and looked about him. The pig got out of his Charger, started toward him with a John Wayne swagger and reflective Ray-Bans like a grunting top from bad ‘70s porn.

Hank prepared himself. No traffic in either direction.

“License, insurance, registration. How many drinks did you have tonight?”

Hank lifted his left arm and pointed the revolver straight at the officer’s face. Before the officer could react, Hank plugged his face. The pig ricocheted backward onto the highway. Hank threw the gun down on the car’s floor and pulled away.

Ah, the price of freedom. But thank God he was left-handed. Cop would’ve seen the gun in the right hand. Next time – he’d have to watch his speed. One whacked cop was enough.

Gertrude Foster: The bottle

The television came on again but all Gertrude got out of it was snow. She threw the bottle at the monitor. “Horsefeathers! You deal with it, Gundar. I give up.”

“Now, Gertrude, sweetheart” her husband said, that pouty scolding tone coming back into his voice, “you know very well I can’t fiddle with electronica. Reading those pesky user manuals give me a sick headache.”

Gertrude groaned. Gundar was always complaining of a sick headache these days. “Where’d you put your reading glasses?”

He raised his brows and narrowed his eyes. “On the end table, where I always put them.”

“They’re not there,” Gertrude said, hands on hips and wondering why their Friday evening was being wasted on cheap plastic crap from China. “I can’t very well look at the DVD player if I can’t see that damned black-on-black print they put on these damned machines.”

“You’re the one who wants to watch ‘Rashomon’ tonight,” Gundar said, all puffed up. “Not me. I’d have been perfectly happy to play gin rummy.”

“We’ve had the movie from Netflix almost a week. It’s about time. Drats, you lost your reading glasses. Magnifying glass? Flashlight?”

“That’s James’s routine, not mine. Why don’t you call customer service?”

Twenty minutes waiting for someone to pick up the phone, make her go through everything she’d already tried, and come from half way around the world with an incomprehensible accent?

“I’d rather eat my fingernails.”

Marie Divisadero: I'm always afraid that ...

After three martinis and twenty “God damn that cheating bastard,” Marie smashed the Lalique vase, Waterford bowl, Royal Doulton balloon lady, and Tobacco Leaf serving platter on the kitchen floor.

William deserved no less for his decision to resume his affair with his old flame, Roberta. He knew very well how Marie felt when he and Roberta went out drinking, when his mother invited Roberta to family functions, and when his father brown-nosed him because, like him, he voted Republican.

“I need some freedom,” William had asked just two nights ago, just before they went to bed. “That doesn’t mean I want to get a divorce. I just want to open it up a little, you know what I mean?”

Marie had sat up in bed at this remark. Things had been going so well between them – they’d had great sex twice since the past Sunday. William had never given any indication she was boring him. Marie said no, let’s take our time about this, and William put up the usual arguments you’d expect from a clingy housewife.

Marie was always afraid she’d become the clingy housewife. And she had.

And then this afternoon, William had called, saying he was going out with Roberta, and that it was a sex date. “But we agreed,” William had told him, “we could have occasional flings.”

Marie had said no, Roberta was off the table, but William insisted. “We’ll talk about this when I get home.”

After she was done cleaning up, Marie asked herself, how’d she ever explain the broken collectibles? It’s not like that drunken time when she’d thrown all of William’s old porn away. She couldn’t explain it all away with one of her stock lies.

Rose Lindenhurst: Whenever we say goodbye

I sighed when I came home from the hospital. Visiting Charlie every evening after a day at work was dragging me down, I had to admit. Even Charlie had said something recently. Rose, he said in that nicotine gravel of a voice he had, you got to get you some fun sometime.

But how could I have fun anymore? Without Charlie at home I had too much to do around the house. Tonight, however, I couldn’t deal with it, so I opened the refrigerator door. How beautiful it sat there, that bottle of New Zealand white wine. As shiny as a new car on the showroom floor. And I started to reach for it …

No, I promised him. I promised myself. And remember what happened the last time I drank? I ended up in Hayward without knowing how I got there. I can’t do it … but I need something, some guilty pleasure. So I raided the freezer. Thank God! A little of that French vanilla ice cream left. And some Smuckers caramel sauce. Yum … heat it up in the microwave. I went to the corner table in the kitchen and had my ice cream treat … yum. But not enough. It’s too silent here.

I think I’ll go into the bedroom and masturbate to my Victoria Secret catalogue. The house is too quiet without Charlie here.

Merlin Atkins: An outing

Merlin had been planning ever since Helen had bought the Lexus without asking him. But this November Friday was the night, the weather windy and stormy just as he’d hoped. No one would hear what he planned for her at the Mendocino cabin. None of their friends would be coming up for the weekend, and Helen’s mother would be expecting her in Scottsdale late that night. But she’d never arrive.

Yesterday, he’d gone up there in a Fusion he’d rented on his fake ID and stored his supplies in the pantry. Bought at different stores, of course, so no one would make the connection. A bungee cord, plastic sheeting, a ball of twine, a steel saw, and a large sack. After it was over, after he’d avenged all those credit card bills, he’d take Helen to the plot he’d already unearthed halfway down the coast on the way to Bodega Bay.

The first part went off without a hitch. He surprised Helen at home, sitting in the foyer, waiting for the taxi to come up Pacific Street to their house. He’d take her to the airport, he decided – he wanted to see her off. Thank you, she said – so much nicer than taking a taxi. But don’t bother calling the taxi, he said – no need at this point, let’s just go. So into the car they went, and as soon as she shut the door, he did it. A well-placed chloroform-soaked handkerchief over her face. Helen, unconscious in less than ten seconds. He gave her a morphine injection to make it last.

His wife … how many years now since they got married, twenty-three? Right around this time of year, he could never remember the date. But she always did. And every year, another expensive diamond he’d have to buy for her. Well, there she lay in the back seat of their Range Rover – no one could see her. He drove very carefully up to Mendocino. No need getting pulled over by the California Highway Patrol.

He drove through the neighborhood. The usual traffic for a Friday evening, weekenders still coming up from the city even this late in Fall, even with the horrible weather – cars lined the avenue going up the hill toward their own house. He pulled into the driveway, around the back, and into the garage. He opened the rear door, dragged Helen out – good, unconscious but alive.

Had she gained weight on the drive? She seemed ponderous for such a petite woman as he lifted her over his shoulder, opened the door, and started up the stairs. When he reached the top, he opened the door into the great room.

The lights went on. Forty people stood up and yelled, “Surprise! Happy anniversary!”

George Pendleton: I refuse to ...

George swept the marble floors at St. Bede’s. He used to love Tuesdays. Monsignor Hanson presided over the school those days and he had the day to himself. After morning mass, five or six in the pews, he’d start preparing his homily for Sunday. He’d eat lunch alone in the rectory. Mrs. Biedelmaier always prepared his Tuesday favorite, corned beef and sauerkraut, a staple in the Point Breeze neighborhood of Pittsburgh.

He’d go back to his desk for reflection on his chosen lessons and, before an hour had passed, he’d have the outline of his first draft completed. As a reward, he’d read a book for pleasure and, more likely than not, he’d fall asleep. Fifteen years would have fallen by the wayside when he awoke and he’d go for a walk through Squirrel Hill before returning to the rectory for a light supper and prayer.

These days, he’d lost interest in his homilies, cycling each year through the same lessons, pontificating the same moral platitudes, reprimanding children and adults alike for committing the same sins. The sins never changed, only the people. When he went for his walks these days, he used a cane and dressed warmer than he used to dress. When it went below fifty, he’d have to wear gloves – but even ten years ago, he’d gone outside without a parka at forty-five.

George didn’t see any point to the same routine. His family had all left, one by one. Mary and John had gone to Philadelphila. Margaret had retreated to her life of books in Cleveland. And Isabella – the only one who stayed in Pittsburgh, she lived just five blocks away, married to her Episcopalian husband. That man. Yet George refused to see her. She’d have to make the first move.

Merlin Atkins: When push comes to shove

He had a graceful gait to his walk that late evening along Dupont Circle, passing storefronts abandoned since the strikes of ’59. He hadn’t a care in the world, twenty-three and in love with Billy from New York, the toast of Carnegie Hall since his debut with the performance of Schubert’s Fantasie. Life couldn’t have been better for Merlin Atkins, walking home from the Metro Sunday night after his weekend in Manhattan.

Two men with moles on their cheeks and the stench of urine on their clothes had other plans for him. Across the street, they nodded to each other and moved in on Merlin. The squirrely one shifted behind Merlin and caught up with him, just six feet behind. The beefy one ran ahead and came from the opposite direction. He stood in front of Merlin and flashed a knife in front of his face.

“Gimme what you've got."

Merlin turned to run but the Squirrel assaulted him head on, pulled his arms behind him, and flung him around to face the Beef. The Beef frisked Merlin, tore his blue overcoat, ripped at his pockets, grabbed his wallet.

"Fifteen cents. The poof has no money."

The Squirrel goosed Merlin with his knee. The Beef kicked him in the groin, punched his face with his left, stabbed him in the abdomen with his right. The Squirrel twisted Merlin’s right arm until they heard the elbow snap, slammed his fist into the back of his head. Merlin fell to the ground. The Beef kicked him in his left ribs with all his force. The Squirrel did the same from the other side.

An hour later an ambulance delivered Brian to Bethesda General. Dr. Donahue, the only resident physician on duty that Sunday evening, received the man whose only gruff words were Billy, I want Billy. Merlin gasped for air and coughed up blood from his throat. Dr. Donahue strained to hear what the man had to say.

Claude Archier: I really like ...

Chris could hear noise in the background. Salvaterri’s phone hung on the wall near the kitchen door. Cooks and waiters buzzed about him. Peak hours were approaching when the neighborhood would march in, expecting lasagna and chianti. But Anthony took a break and called Chris at home.

“Anthony, get back to work, they’re going to fire you for talking to me.”

“I just wanted to check on my baby, baby.”

Chris stared into the receiver before answering. “You’re calling for that?”

“What’re you doing, sunshine?”

“I’m making dinner and I have to get back to the stove. I had a rough day with Arthur today.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Princess Arthur?”

“Can’t say on the phone, but she’s hung up over that closet case Claude.”

“What does she see in that cross-eyed geek?”

“There’s only one answer to that question, Anthony. Now back to work!”

She hung up. Of course, Anthony would call Claude a geek – she’d told him about Mill Valley, being left at the hotel and no money to pay for one, when he ran off to Oregon. Now that she worked in the same office downtown as Claude, they had to be civil – but not polite. More than once she’d thrown daggers at him. And now he’d gotten her best friend caught in his web, and he didn’t know any better about the way he operated. Claude Archer was a true operator.

Gertrude Foster: Yet another list

Gertrude kneeled to pray. No words came to her in the walnut-bedecked church she’d known since Father Martin had first started serving at St. Bede’s in 1968. In more than forty years, she’d not once come to the church with a grievance against God. But today she had a long list – and why was God always a man? Perhaps that’s why he made so many mistakes.

Number one, God. You took four babies from me. I had six children and you only let me keep two of them.

Number two, God. You took my husband when I was barely forty. You made me a widow with two young children, living in a big Pittsburgh mansion.

Number three, God. You presented a low-class son-of-a-bitch to my dear sweet Eileen and allowed her to fall in love with him. She committed carnal sin and gave birth to my only grandchild three months after her wedding. And you allowed her to leave the Church.

Number four, God. When the steel industry collapsed, you took our fortune away from us, our security, and you almost took away our home. We had to sell it and now we’re moving to a small three-room apartment in Point Breeze because that’s the only place my son can afford.

Number five, God. You made my only son different and because of this, he will never marry. He’ll probably have an unhappy life because his nature goes against what you taught. And yet I know in my heart he feels this way only because that’s how you made him to be.

I still believe in you, God, and I know you never made me any promises. I just want you to know that, even if I still believe in you, I’m keeping a close eye on you.

Marie Divisadero: I can never forget it

Pearl Buck had a house just across the street from her. I'm so jealous I could spit. Spit on Carlos, I mean, for being too poor to move away from Girard Avenue. After nearly ten years of marriage, we're still living in my parents' house. True, we did have our own apartment until Carlos lost his job back, but that was seven years ago. He tells me every time I ask, he's saving enough money for us to buy a house, but it hasn't happened. When it does, I doubt it'll be to Rittenhouse Square, my favorite neighborhood in Philadelphia – the square, fountains, forty foot oak trees, and lots of birds trilling in the park. Mothers and babies, too, like my “best friend,” who walks with her little monsters around the perimeter every afternoon.

Last night I was reading "The Good Earth" in bed, Carlos snoring beside me. Goodness, I wish he'd wear clothes to bed. We're not teenagers anymore. And instead of every day, we do it maybe once a week now – who knows how long that’ll last? Having the two boys will do that. But there he is, sawing away, naked as the day he was born, his hairy chest and legs rubbing up against my arms. Yeah, it still feels good. He still does it for me, but must I be distracted when I'm trying to read Pearl Buck? It's enough that the boys take up all my time. Always a hard life.

I nodded off last night to the strangest of dreams -- he returned to me, my erstwhile lover, told me his wife had run off with her mother to become a Chinese missionary. He said, Marie, let's elope while we still have the chance, case she comes home. We'll live in San Francisco, Las Vegas, maybe even Pocatello, Idaho. Always wanted to live in Pocatello, he says in my dream. And all of a sudden, we’re running through a waterfall. But then I wake up and I've got this post-nasal drip running down the back of my throat. Damn. Always a hard life.

Ned Chancellor: Lime green

I hate St. Patrick’s Day. Those damned, drinking Irish – have to have a holiday all to themselves, and we don’t even live in Ireland. We live in Pittsburgh. I mean, really … do the Polish, French, Italians, or Greeks have a special holiday where they were some stupid color no one likes? Who wants to wear a lime green shirt when they don’t have to?

“Ned,” Mrs. Naughton said, “you’re a million miles away. Get back to work. The book isn’t going to publish itself.”

And I hate Mrs. Naughton. She’s just so, so, so superior. So what if I day-dream a little bit now and then? My stupid job as an editor doesn’t take all my time, you know. She can just take her post-menopausal sneer and go jump in a –

“And get that stupid expression off your face. I’m not going to jump in a lake.”

Rose Lindenhurst: A simple thing

Rose pitter-patted across the hardwood of their foyer. Harry had always done the handiwork around the house, but today she’d have to install the new mailbox. After thirty-two years, the old one had finally rusted off its hinges. Rose had driven to the nearest ACE Hardware – somewhere on the edges of Dubuque, near the railroad station where all the Chicagoans disembarked to visit their grandmothers.

She’d asked the man carefully, do I have all the screws, the anchors, the drill bits, and the instructions to install the new mailbox? The man said, it seems simple enough, don’t it? And Rose had giggled and told him, I’ve never done anything like this, that’s what Harry always did. So she’d paid and prayed, paid for all the stuff at that store near Dubuque, and prayed she’d get it right. After all, he’d said, it seems simple enough, so it sure must be.

When she opened the door, she got a blast of cold wind in the face – mercy, how this winter was hanging on. February, Iowa had warmed up to a toasty forty-five degrees – thank goodness, the ground was soft that week. But here they were, late March, and all back to snow cover – everywhere. Go figure, Rose said aloud.

But she ignored the weather. She wasn’t ever one of those who complained about cold air – she rather enjoyed being the Spartan while all the men complained about freezing their testicles. Testicles. Rose hated the word, sounded too much like tentacles and she wouldn’t want to crawl into bed with anyone having tentacles.

She took the tape measure, made her markings at fourteen inches apart, made sure the line was straight, and then put her drill bit in the drill. Fell onto the ground a few times, but she picked it up – and drilled her first hole. Easy enough, then her second – also easy enough. Then she aligned the mailbox, just to make sure it’d fit. The holes in the box lined up with the holes in the wall, good – easy enough, she supposed, just like that ACE man had said.

And then she took her anchors and the hammer. She put an anchor in the first hole, but wait a second – it went in way too easily, and slid all the way back. Huh? The hole was too large? Dagnabbit … she’d used a ½ inch drill bit. The teeny plastic package said ¼, not ½. She never had been very good at math – but then again, that was Harry’s domain. He always did the taxes, but he couldn’t very do them from six feet under. She’d have to do them, too.

Hank Rydall: She pulled it out

Hank dodged the bullet that flew by. Al-mar Kedebbar had a dead aim, but he hadn’t counted on Hank’s precision timing. But Hank knew pluck would get him justso far and that luck would run out. So where’d he stash the time machine in this furnace of a rat hole?

He darted into the narrow alleyway and ran down the flume. It opened up into the marketplace and he ran into a women’s scarf stand. He heard these cackling voices in French – you’d think he’d landed in a Parisian sewing circle rather than in Algiers.

So what if he’d accidentally boinked Mrs. Kedebbar? So what if she’d winked at him and pulled out his wee-wee? Did that give Al-mar the right to shoot at him, even if he was the village’s grand poobah? He ran through the market to the other side – and yes, there it was, the room where he’d stashed the time machine.

He ran in the entrance, but tripped over a vase and landed, head first, in a pile of manure. The time machine stood in the corner behind a bamboo fence. Hank dashed for it – but before he reached it, he felt the arrow coming from behind him, he knew Al-mar had found him, he prayed the end would come quickly –

He woke up in his bedroom at Aunt Emily's Presidio estate, lathered in a sweat, his bed sheets soaking. His fever had broken.

Merlin Atkins: In the last hour

“Merlin Atkins, you get your sorry ass down here at once.”

His Algebra teacher, the Humpty Dumpty-looking Mr. Everett, had finally found it. The caricature showing him tottering on the edge of a purple wall.

“I didn’t do it, Mr. Everett. I promise!”

“If that’s so, who else in our Algebra class is capable of such artwork?”

Merlin looked around. Libby Larson could barely sign her name. “Perhaps Libby did it.”

Libby stuck out her tongue and narrowed her mean little eyes. “In your dreams, butthead.”

“Nice try, Master Aardvark. I shall write up a note for your aunt and send you to detention for three days. Now get back to your seat at once.”

Mr. Everett returned to the lesson of the day. “Class, can someone tell me the definition of a perfect square?”

He couldn’t resist it. He absolutely had to answer the question. There was no way, during the 1.5 seconds of silence that enveloped the shy room, Merlin wasn’t going to answer the question. It would mean an extra week of detention. But it would be worth it.

“Mr. Everett is a perfect square.”

Ned Chancellor: I don't want

Okay, so who would it be tonight? The Fukimoto’s running of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s with Jeffrey, or dinner at L’Auberge with Cindy? Ned checked his peter meter and tonight it was pointing toward Cindy.

L’Auberge it would be. So he fired up Mama’s Eldorado (she wouldn’t let him take the Bentley, that witch) and headed to Nob Hill. Cindy tweaked his heartstrings with her black strapless and her bow-tie up-do. She was lovely in that Connecticut way of hers. And dinner at L’Auberge – beef bourgignon with haricot verts, and for dessert –

“You traitor!” came the assault from the other side of the room. Jeffrey stormed over to them, hands on both hips like a washing machine spin cycle. “You gave up Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard for … for this …”

Cindy gave a round O, as if to say, “Is this man for real?” but Jeffrey continued.

“… for this … why, she’s a lovely reincarnation of Audrey! Where ever did you get that dress? And your up-do … did Felix do that this morning? It has his signature all over it!”

Meat-wise, Ned didn’t want the roosters – he preferred the hens this evening.

Claude Archer: Together

“The good Lord’s tryin’ to tell you somethin’,” the preacher baritoned to the cowed parishioners. Claude rolled his eyes. More fire and brimstone, he supposed.

“You live your life like Sister Monica, you’re goin’ to suffer for it. The lesson of Sodom and Gomorroh …”

He droned on but Claude couldn’t listen any longer. He just wanted to report back to Molly what Mona’s funeral had been like. Besides the hell-breathing preacher, it was rather pretty here in Mobile, this spring day back in ’40. And Molly’s family … well, they treated him real nice when he told them he came as one of Mona’s friends from the city. They didn’t care if he was the only white folk at the funeral.

But Claude didn’t know what to tell Molly when he got back to Aunt Emily’s. From the looks of it, Mona led a pretty colorful existence. How would he tell Molly about the row upon row of weeping male lovers at the funeral?

Gertrude Foster: I saved it

Gertrude sighed, thinking back on her marriage of so many years ago.

After everyone left from the Stupid Bowl party that Alexander and Trudy had hosted that afternoon, Trudy plopped herself on their ‘70s velour sofa and sighed like a mule. Gosh, she wished Alexander would let her get rid of this tacky relic. No one kept these L-shaped sofas any longer.

She could hear Alexander tapping away on his keyboard in the den nearby. These days all he did was sit in front of that damned computer of his, surfing the web for God knew only what, usually in his underwear and a baseball cap. Sometimes he didn’t have underwear at all, but then he always wore a t-shirt. He saved his naked time for when they had sex. Which was every Saturday afternoon at 4:30, an hour before she had a cosmo and he had a Michelob. Their weekly treat, sex and cocktails.

Whenever she asked him what he was looking at, he always gave excruciating detail: “stuff.” That’s all, nothing like the news, politics, movies, cars, just “stuff.” She wondered what he was looking at as she sat there, inspecting her finger nails. She’d have to go in for a manicure this week – she was due for another round of “Jungle Red.” But then she noticed the keys in the bowl with the large M on the ring.

They’d be Belinda’s keys. She picked them up and yelled out toward Alexander, “Honey, I think Belinda forgot –“ and then she noticed those two odd keys. Funny, they were just like their own keys to their cottage in Half Moon Bay. She looked closer – yes, they were the exact same keys. Same black octagon with a gold fleur de lys icon in the middle. What was Belinda doing with their keys?

She walked ever so quietly into the den. Alexander sat there, sure enough, in his underwear and that stupid baseball cap. And then she saw – Internet porn. That slut.

Hank Rydall: An animal

Okay, Hank. It’s 6 a.m. at the condo. This morning you’ll take your shower – first thing, no delay, no putzing around he house, no coffee in the coffee maker, no emptying the dishwasher, no cleaning out the birdcage, no de-pooping the litterbox, no walking the dog, no daily write, no checking in with your work e-mail … just a shower, first thing in the morning. Hank, it’ll wake you up – he tells himself.

Hank gets out of bed and heads into the living room, doesn’t bother to put anything on since first thing he’ll do is a shower. Woops, Hank tells himself, I forgot to fold that load of towels last night. So he opens the dryer door, folds the towels and puts them away. Last one, the kitchen hand towel. And those clean dishes in the drain pan – got to put them away, one at a time. Might as well empty the dishes at the same time. Don’t forget to put the doggy bowl down for Trouble – who stands their wagging his tail.

“All right, Trouble, I’ll feed you. But first, Daddy’s got to clean the birdcage and litter box.”

Twenty minutes later, the pets are cleaned up and fed. Trouble ate it right up, now he wants to go outside. “But not until I empty the wastebaskets and the garbage.”

You know, Hank says aloud, I might as well eat breakfast before I shower. I can brush my teeth in the shower. And you know what, use your time wisely, Hank, so eat breakfast in front of the laptop. And do that daily write, and check your work e-mail.

An hour later, all that done. So finally Hank can head into the shower. What’s that smell? Forgot to put the garbage outside the condo door, will throw it down the shute when I walk Trouble, Hank says. Outside he goes with the garbage.

Sarah walks by with her shih tsu, looks down, and raises her Republican eyebrows. Woops, Hank tells himself, forgot to put anything on. “Excuse me, Sarah. So sorry …”

“That’s all right, Hank. I’ve seen it before. Many times,” she says, a shrug in her voice. “And by the way, I’d try a different hair dye.”

Marie Divisadero: Just what the doctor ordered

Marie stopped dead in her tracks, feeling the rough marble stones under her soft shoes. Just what the doctor had ordered for her, this journey to Firenze.

“Aloysius, honey,” Marie said. “Look at this painting.”

Aloysius continued to stride forward. “This way, Marie, to the Piazza della Republica. Lunch will be served at the hotel. We don’t want to be late.”

Let him have his promenade, she’d admire the painting in the Duomo – so delicate, a faded red rose and its translucent green leaves, like an angelic cherub about to claim its wings and fly to Heaven. But Marie looked closer, the pinkish red petals about to fall off, the dark brown leaves surrounding the petals signaling the flower’s demise. Not an angelic cherub at all – rather, a wispy soprano long past her prime.

She turned to look at the marble fresco of the Madonna and child, and thought about the baby she wanted to have, a little girl, when Aloysius finished at the Politecnico di Torino and he returned to her in Philadelphia – a whirlwind, these four weeks in la bella Firenze. She’d go back in two days. Four months, he told her, and he’d be returning to their home town.

Claude Archer: ... Is dead

You never know when you pick up a 1937 issue of Harper’s Bazaar, what it’s gonna make you think of. Claude picked it up and saw that article, “Queen Victoria Is Dead,” and thought, Oh boy, an article about the longest-reigning queen in world history – at least until September 10, 2015 when Queen Elizabeth II surpasses the mark. Every lover of history in the world is going to celebrate that day along with the Queen.

But no, the article has almost nothing to do with Queen Victoria. It’s all about that wussy receding-chinned pussy-whipped David, also known as King Edward VIII also known as the Duke of Windsor who quit after less than a year on the throne, all because he couldn’t give up that twice-divorced Wallis. What was it about that slut that attracted him, Claude often thought, God only knew. The Duchess of Windsor didn’t measure up. But Victoria Regina – and Elizabeth II – God love them. And Diana too, never forget Diana.

It was undeniable to Claude, women had a power over men. But too bad Queen Alexandra had been forgotten. Victoria had been fabulous in her imperious way, and Elizabeth II kept the monarchy dignified, despite her children’s best efforts. But Queen Alexandra! She was the Diana of the Edwardian era, the one who was smart enough to not divorce Edward VII and to outlive him. Edward VII was a lousy king, but she was a great queen.

Ned Chancellor: At this moment

My family scattered around the house after church on Sunday morning. No one really had anything to do. Mom and Gail were watching TV. Dad was upstairs at his desk. Jack and I were in the kitchen when Jack rifled through Mom’s wallet and grabbed four quarters. He stacked them on the edge of his elbow.

“Jack, you’re not allowed to play quarters!”

“Yes, I am!”

“No, you’re not. Mom outlawed the game. I’m going to tell on you.”

“Oh, yeah? Ned, how are you going to prove it?”

I looked at Jack on one side of the kitchen. I saw Mom’s opened purse on the desk. It was closer to the door than Jack was. No need to plan it … I darted for the purse like Wile Coyote for the Road Runner. I ran out of the kitchen into the dining room – almost went right through the basement door, Jack in hot pursuit six feet behind me – passed the dining room table, went around the stereophonic system, then into the living room right past the stone fireplace. Then I felt a tug on the back of my shirt. Jack caught up with me and then it all went fuzzy.

I woke up crying in the bathroom, saw blood everywhere on my hands, on my face, and I had a terrible headache. I was sitting on the toilet and everyone stood around me, looking at my head.

Mom held a white – no, a red – towel on my head. “Looks like a deep cut in the head. He’ll have to get stitches. Jack, how in the hell did this happen?”

“Well, Ned was running around the house. He shouldn’t have been!”

“Allen, let’s get Ned to the hospital. This needs to be stitched up right away or he’ll bleed to death. I’ll get to the bottom of this when we get home.”

Mom got to the bottom of it, all right. She always got to the bottom of everything. Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Columbo, Jack Friday – they had nothing on Mom. For his punishment, Jack had to play a game of Twister with me after we got home from the hospital.

Merlin Atkins: Cleaning up

His mother’s beloved Royal Doultons. Gone and crashed to the floor. How long had she been collecting those blue-green, white, yellow-red figurines of Victorian women in petticoats and parisoles? Did that go back to her mother, the Anna Merlin she’d never known? Had she collected them and Grandfather gave them to her when she married Dad? Yes, that’s right – her father had packed them himself in her trunk when she left the house on Park Avenue and come to Philadelphia.

Merlin gasped. “I’m sorry, Mother, I’m so sorry!”

A mask came over his mother’s face. Everyone was having a hard time adjusting to Merlin since the fire. After the inquest, they’d walked home, silent except for Dad’s coughing. His mother had held Merlin’s hand all the way. And now he’d bumped into the cabinet and the Royal Doultons had fallen and smashed.

“It’s quite all right, son. Don’t give it a second’s thought. Go run outside and play.”

A second’s thought. As if those figurines should occupy more than a second of time in anyone’s head. Merlin went outside to play hopscotch alone.

Hank Rydall: If everything goes well

He remembered Courtney, and if only – if only all had gone well with her, that day in the motel.

Without letting go of her left hand, Hank had turned his lips to kiss her right fingers, a wet and needy kiss. He’d felt the smooth, spongy texture of her tongue and it electrified him.

He mustn’t go any further, Hank had told himself. He knew from the girls in Akron that once he passed a certain point, kissing a woman as intriguing as Courtney Feather, he’d be unable to stop himself. But this kiss with this girl! Unlike any other he’d ever experienced with a woman, it seemed divine providence intervened to bring their bodies together. He felt the stirring of passion in his pants. It felt so good, rubbing back and forth against his shorts, the head poking out from his boxers, feeling the smooth cotton of his chinos as he grew to a full arousal.

He began to thrust his body toward hers. For the first time, he knew she wanted him, just as he wanted her. Her eyes, her mouth, her tongue all told him, I want this. He felt the friction of his erection, a protrusion that now stood straight up between his legs, demanding release.

He buried his lips into hers, his tongue deep inside, kissing her in a way he never thought possible. It felt exactly right. He broke free and breathed hard. He read it in her eyes. Now, Hank.

Hank went over and locked the office door, feeling the bobbing pleasure between his legs with every step. He came back, grabbed her by the waist, and led her to the first vacant room. He dimmed the lights.

Marie Divisadero: Crouched down

Marie slithered out of her brother’s house onto the slick street. She knew, she’d never forget the last two hours: Sean’s final gasps for air, sure one would be the last, but surprised when he gasped another morsel of air, twenty seconds later. Then the third, thirty seconds later came, a pitch higher and a tad shorter. Each one, a little higher and a little shorter. And then, a total silence that reminded Marie that it had been raining all day long, this cold day near the end of March 1965. Boston had never looked so dismal to Marie, not in her twenty-eight years.

Mrs. Wilkerson came up to her, put her hands out onto his chest with a frenzied question in them. Mr. Sarnoff mouthed wordless questions he refused to hear in his approach. Little Ethel from across the street, she came out, her saucer eyes popping out of her head. Joey Levy came. They came thirty seconds apart, then twenty seconds apart, then fifteen, then ten. More and more people, as the news of death spread in the community, they all surrounded Marie with their condolences, their ears, their questions, their shock, their popeyed expressions, these people who didn’t listen to her say, I need to be alone, I don’t love you, I loved my brother and now he’s dead. Go talk to my mother, she’s inside the house. Let me be.

But they kept multiplying, these friends and neighbors, until Summit Avenue resembled a street party. Marie felt her chest tighten, her heart rate accelerate, her breath speed up, her stomach churn. She opened his mouth to scream and nothing came out, nothing except the bitter taste of mourning.

Gertrude Foster: Being alone

The musty parish rectory creaks in the rain. I sweep the floors and I remember Kathleen. I am grateful for the sound of rain on the slate roof, I am thankful for the creaking sound of ancient floor boards beneath my unsteady feet, I am blessed by the pitter-pat of rodents coming from the attic. The noises soothe me, they comfort me.

When mass is over and the priest went to his quarters for the night, I walk down the narrow, groaning staircase to the rectory. The workday is over, the secretaries have gone home, the nuns have gone back to St. Aloysius. I look around at the rooms I’ve cleanred for nearly forty years. By myself, Gertrude Foster, the maid of St. Martin’s.

Alone in those rooms, I remember Kathleen Gallagher with her dark brown hair, her saucer brown eyes. I remember when she came to me first and I remember when she left me last. We would sit, side by side – a plain, freckled girl with a receding chin, and the beautiful young girl, not yet eighteen, the world hers for the asking – and she’d ask me about her deepest fears.

She’d take my advice, she’d ignore my advice, but she’d always smile those saucer brown eyes at me. When she visited me, her company would ease the silence of the unending hours at the rectory. I would remember her silky soprano, the vibrato of her gentle laugh, the long brown hair that bounced when she turned her head. And then she’d be gone.

Not long after that, Kathleen got married and moved to Lancaster. I went back to my routine. Work in the rectory, then upstairs to sleep on my own thin mattress. Thankful for the creaking noises of the rectory, the rain on the roof, the rodents in the attic.

Rose Lindenhurst: It hurts

“Louise,” Rose said, hesitating while she looked her room-mate, so comfortable in her peach-fabricked chair with the lilac print, knitting a shawl for her granddaughter Savannah, “Charles didn’t just die of a heart attack.”

Louise shook her head and chuckled. “Well, what do you mean, honey? People don’t die from more than one thing.”

“It isn’t that,” Rose said, stretching her vowels and separating her words. “It’s how he had the heart attack –“

“Oh, I know that, silly,” Louise said, cross-stitching the green threads for Savannah’s shawl into the blue ones, “he was working the plow on the farm. You told me that story a hundred times –“ and Louise sighed.

“No, that’s not what he was doing,” Rose said, looking down. “We were, we were –“

Louise looked up. Rose pursed her lips and looked down. Louise always said she looked like a mannequin when she did that, but Rose didn’t care right now.

“Well, spit it out, honey! What were you, were you …”

“We were making love,” Rose blurted out. “We were doing the nasty nasty. All right, now you know.”

“Well, you didn’t need to shout, my dear,” Louise said, and went back to her knitting. “At least Charles went out with a smile on his face.”

Hank Rydall: Something really strange

Hank drove the '73 Caprice by the Comfort Inn in Las Cruces and slammed on the brakes. He absolutely had to stop. It was 5 in the afternoon and he had exactly 30 minutes to get in front of the TV. No ifs, ands, or buts -- and damn the police on his tail, maybe stopping at a Comfort Inn would throw them off the trail. Yes, he knew -- he knew they knew, and they knew he knew. Las Cruces was only 40 miles from safety - he could head there after 10, and it'd be dark. That margarita in Acapulco, maybe it could be strawberry ... he didn't know. All he knew, he had to know who'd win.

He backed up and pulled into the parking lot, headed into the lobby. A chicken-necked lady with a black bouffant sat at the desk sucking on her lips. "Room? For an hour or the night?"

"For the night, please ma'am," Hank said, putting weight on his vowels. The Midwest always made people comfortable, he'd discovered ever since crossing the state line into Utah last time. This time he was heading east -- but not for long. Ah, that Acapulco margarita ...

He'd made the chicken-necked lady smile and twist her head, so she gave him the key without so much as a by-the-way. He headed to the room and went straight for the TV, turned it on to ABC. There stood Billy Crystal, making jokes about Maggie Smith and Will Smith, Gosford Park and Ali -- ha ha. Hank wanted to know who'd win. This year he was betting on Sissy Spacek and Tom Wilkinson. They were fabulous in "In the Bedroom."