A Visit From Robin

About every three months, Robin visited Mack. He lived halfway
between Pittsburgh and her home just outside St Louis. It was too far for one day’s drive and not enough for two. Mack was happy to put her up for the night.

Robin was the daughter of Mack’s best friend, Sammy. He died right after Robin graduated from high school. Mack sort of filled in the space.

She showed up about supper time. Mack had a meal prepared and her room ready. He figured ole Sammy would do the same for him if the roles were reversed. However, they weren’t. 

Mack’s wife left him twenty years ago for a used car salesman from Cincinnati. Their marriage didn’t even last as long as the thirty-day guarantee on one of his used cars. She tried on several occasions to ease her way back, but Mack stood firm. He had the locks changed. 

Mack liked having Robin come around. Every three months was fine. If for nothing else, just a female smile seems to lift the dullness from the rooms she walked into. It was a cure for loneliness. And like all medicines, it is best in moderation. 

There was no other female in his life. His nieces lived on the West Coast. His mother had passed. The “old birds,” as he called them, seemed to pop up everywhere. They had been divorced several times or driven at least one, or more, of their husbands to an early grave. 

He had lived alone for a long time. And become very satisfied with his bachelor arrangement—no women, no problems.

Yet, He looked forward to Robin’s visits. He was thirty years older and viewed her as a daughter or niece. That arrangement removed any sort of tension. Two friends talking and enjoying the company with boundaries of decency—perfect.

Mack awaited her visit by tidying the house. He enjoyed it because it had as its purpose pleasing someone besides himself. 

Robin would always say, “Are you sure you didn’t hire someone to come in and clean. This place is mama-clean.”

And that’s exactly what she said when Mack opened the door and she walked in.

After supper, they sat in the living room. They talked as always.

“So how is your company’s branch in Pittsburgh doing?”

“I had to fire the branch manager this time. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was long overdue.”

Mack clicked his cheek. “Hard to keep good help these days.”

“One of those things, he was a good manager for three years, and all of a sudden, who knows? I tried to get to the bottom of it and help him out.”

“You're a caring person, Robin. I’m sure you went above and beyond.”

“I did, and my boss told me not to leave Pittsburgh without a scalp.”

“How long did it take you?”

“I walked into his office at 3:35, and he was starting his car at 3:45. Sometimes it’s good to just rip off the bandaid.”

“Sometimes, that’s the best.”

“What about you, Mack? What have you been up to?”

“You know me, I got plenty to do, and when I get it all done, I start all over again. I have my little projects. I’ve been making ballpoint pins and candlesticks on my lathe. That reminds me, I made a pin for you and a set of candlesticks—walnut.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Mack smiled. It pleased him to see her so gracious for the gift he labored to produce. He thought to himself, ‘That’s the best kind of gift someone can give. Anybody can buy a pin or candlesticks, but making them is a whole other thing.’

“They’re out in the workshop. I’ll get them before you leave.”

They talked for a while. Mack turned his head and looked at the clock on the mantle. “It’s my bedtime.” He yawned.

“This is such a good evening, and I’d really like to talk,” Robins smiled

Mack couldn’t resist the smile. He nodded and pressed his lips. “Sure, I can do that. But mind you, I’m no night owl.”

Robin curled her legs up on the couch and leaned on its arm.

Mack assumed she had some things she wanted to talk to somebody detached from her social and business life. He willingly relaxed into his chair and listened. 

“I had this dream. It keeps coming back. I’m in a house with a large picture window. I look outside, and a forest full of identical trees keeps swaying back and forth. What do you think it means?”

“It’s windy?”

“So it would seem, but there’s no wind. I don’t feel the wind.”

“It’s because you’re inside.”

“Oh, that’s right, but it still has to mean something.”

“Well, I don’t know. Why does it?”

After that, she talked at length about an open jar of strawberry preserves she left in the pantry. It grew mold. “Why do they call them preserves when they don’t preserve?”

Then there was the car wash cheating her out of 45 seconds, and the attendant couldn’t refund her quarter without the permission of the owner.

Her neighbor’s dog barked all night long. She discovered in the morning that she had failed to turn off the television. Reruns of Lassie aired all night long. 

She called a maintenance company for a dripping faucet. They sent an electrician. Her light switch is repaired, but she lost two nights' sleep from a dripping faucet. She’s suing the maintenance company for the lost sleep. The company agreed not to charge her for the light switch. 

This took half an hour to unpack all the nuances and maneuvering. As did all the other events, not taking a half hour each, but just as mind-mumblingly void and superfluous.  

There had to be dozens of events, maybe thousands, of such ramblings. Combined with sleep desperation, almost leaving Mack in a comatose fetal position. During one of his slumbers, he was awakened by, “What do you think of that?” Drool slid from the side of his mouth. 

Under such circumstances, but for the memory of Robin’s dear father and old loyal friend, Sammy, he would have dashed his hand long ago into a running garbage disposal. And either called 911 or bled out—anything to relieve the torment. ‘She would ride along in the ambulance,’ he thought. ‘I know she would. There’s only one way out. It’s me or her.’

Inside, he gnashed his teeth and growled like a beast. Just before dropping off into a deep sleep, he thought, ‘I do not wish to kill her, but I do wish her dead.’

The piercing glint of the morning’s sun slivered through a crack in the kitchen window blind and cast its ray on Mack’s eyelid. He woke. In his folded hands was a note.

“I’m so glad we had that little chat last night. Dad said you would always be there for me, and he was right. I’ll be back through town in a few months. Love you, Robin.”

Mack smiled and tenderly placed the note on the stand next to his chair. ‘Things always look better in the morning. Thoughts are clear. I should have negotiated a time limit beforehand. Nevertheless, I may consider moving, and not tell anyone.’

Blessed Are The Pure In Heart

Robert took an unsure step. As his worn boot gently touched the floor the boards beneath groaned and screamed as if in pain. The next step was likewise, but with less groaning. Suddenly he found himself in the middle of a dimly lit room. He whirled and stared about as if he were expecting one of the portraits on the walls to greet him. There was enough likeness to convince him with little examination that they were indeed his ancestors. Above him a chandelier, he stepped from beneath it in some imagined fear that it might come crashing down. The sooty fireplace was no more than a reminder of how cold the room was and that no heat had been in the room in some time.

"Are you cold?" said a woman's deep voice from the stairway just beyond the entrance of the room. Robert turned quickly. She stood near the bottom of the steps, gaunt, pale, and sternly morose. The only flesh seen from beneath her black garb was her thin head with sunken cheeks. Her black hair with discernible strands of gray was pulled tightly into a bun. Her look appeared dismissive. Her lip moved as if trying to force a pleasant smile.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

Robert said nothing. His lips were pasted together and his mind was overcome by the total and utter bleakness of the surroundings and the abysmal figure on the steps.

"If you are cold we can start a fire."

Robert slowly moved his head ever so slightly as to indicate 'no'.

"You probably don't remember me," she said slowly descending the last two steps. "You were quite young. I am your father's sister, Agatha."

Robert moistened his lips and mouth in anticipation that a question might come that he may have to answer.

She squinted and held her head as if looking through the better of her eyes slowly advancing into the room. "You look like your father," she smiled. "Now that takes all the mystery out of it. Doesn't it?" Robert stood motionless. As she moved closer she walked around him as if looking at a showhorse. He saw her nod as if approving.

"Not bad," she said. "You have the build of a farm hand and the eyes of a prince." She moved in close to him and looked at his face as if counting each stubble of his beard. "You know, don't you? You belong here."

Robert was not quite certain of how to answer. Again he moistened his lips to prepare to speak.

"That face has stood much weather. You are a man of action." She reached down and lifted his hands and examined them. "A smith would envy such hands. You have probably wondered why you are here."

Robert's eyes gazed for a moment beyond at two portraits on the wall behind her.

She returned his hands to his side and smiled. "One is your grandfather. The short one is an uncle, Silas. Good men," she concluded.

His eyes widened at the sight of his grandfather.

"How you come to be raised elsewhere is a long story - no real fault of your father. It was war and circumstances took you from us. You are now the only living male. I have little inclination, skill, or wit remaining to carry on the family's affairs. It is yours for the taking and your portrait shall hang with the others."

Robert wrinkled his brow.

"I know you have been briefed by my legal representatives, who by the way aren't to be trusted. They probably filled your head with such nonsense as to not make a move unless it passes through their greedy little mitts first. They are quite good, but pay them after the service is performed and only half of what they bill because they have already doubled it. You might feel as though you are not up to the task."

He gazed at her curiously.

"I've checked you out, dear Robert. You were quite bright in your studies although you have only a primary education." She paused. "But I know what you are thinking. How can I manage the entire estate with only a primary education? Well, that is what I'm here for my lad. The men have gotten all the credit while Agatha has pulled all the strings for years. You see my health and vigor are diminishing. That is why I need you. You will also attend to my needs in my lingering years. The most important thing you will need dear lad is something few possess." She pressed her hand against his chest, "But what of the heart dear lad, what of the heart?" She laid her ear against his chest. She listened and smiled. "It beats slow and strong. That's good."

Robert looked down on her, and she looked up at him. "Is it pure," she asked with moist eyes.

"I shall make you a fire," Robert said.

Broken String

 It wasn’t a long drive to the hospital. Kyle could drive it in his sleep; in fact, he had on a couple of occasions. He remembered them as he drove the Interstate toward his exit. Two months ago, he got a call about 1:30 AM. It was the hospital. Nellie was going through a crisis. The nurse sounded as if it were grave. He had given her a goodbye kiss at 9:00 PM. She was smiling and comfortable. The doctor even said she may be able to go home in a day or two. When he got there, the crisis had left as quickly as it came, and Nellie was fine. “I hope that’s all it is this time,” he murmured.

As he turned off the highway, he thought about earlier. She looked in his eyes and smiled contentedly.

“It’s time we face together what we already know,” Nellie said.

“It is not good to lose hope,” Kyle said and clasped her hand resting on her stomach.

Nellie smiled wider. “It’s okay, Kyle. Hope is based on certainties, not on what will never happen.”

“We can hope for a cure,” Kyle said, “that’s possible.”

“There is no cure,” Nellie said. “We know that. Maybe it’s best we hope for—I don’t know, Kyle, tell me what you really hope for?”

“I always hoped that someday I would see you before an audience playing your violin,” Kyle said.

“I was never that good,” Nellie said.

“Yes, you were,” Kyle said. “You knew you were, but you gave up your hope for me and the children.”

“No,” Nellie said, “that’s an easy way out. I really wasn’t that good. I was good here, but I could have never made it beyond here.”

“All I know is that I hated the violin until I heard you play,” Kyle said, “and I loved hearing you practice.”

“No, you didn’t,” Nellie said. “You always closed the door when I practiced.”

“That was to make the sound perfect,” Kyle said.

“Okay,” Nellie said, “if that's so, what did you like hearing me play?”

“Meditation de Thais,” Kyle said.

“A wonderful piece,” Nellie said. "You more than listened."

“No one played it like you,” Kyle said. He released the grasp on Nellie’s hand. He stood and walked over to the closet and removed Nellie’s violin. He handed it to her. “Play it.”

“Sure,” Nellie said, “but my condition will not allow me to play it the way it was written.”

“Not so,” Kyle said. “It was written for you and you only.”

Kyle adjusted the bed for Nellie to sit. She quickly tuned the violin and began to play Meditation de Thais.

Kyle listened and imagined Nellie playing with an orchestra—his hope. The music wafted through the hospital floor like a sweet healing balm. Nurses and patients gathered just outside the room. They breathed love, longing, and hope. For a few brief moments, everyone was someplace where pain, sickness, death, and tears were no more.

Nellie came to the end and handed the bow and violin back to Kyle. “Someday a string will be broken.”

“I know,” Kyle said. “I know.”

“What then do you hope for?” Nellie said.

“Music that can be played on three strings,” Kyle said.

Kyle set the violin beside the bedside stand.

“I’m tired,” Nellie said, “and it’s best you get home and make sure Thomas and Toni are in bed. Give them a goodnight kiss for me and tell them their Mamma loves ‘em.”

Kyle sat the bed back down and leaned over for three kisses. He walked to the door and turned around. Nellie’s eyes were heavy. She waved and gave an air kiss.

That was five hours ago.

Kyle parked the car and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. “Fifth floor,” he thought. “That’s the floor everyone seems to die on. If you’re on the fifth floor, that’s it.”

Kyle hesitated as the door opened to the fifth floor. “I wish the last six months were a dream,” he thought. He walked toward the room. As he neared it, a nurse walked out. “Mr. Franks,” she said and rested her hand in his, “Mrs. Franks has passed.”

Kyle pressed his lips and held back the emotions, but tears appeared as if seeping through the skin.

“Would you like somebody with you?” She said.

“No,” Kyle said.

The nurse moved aside. Kyle took a step. “Oh, Mr. Franks,” she said, “that was a beautiful piece Nellie played tonight. It made the night go better for us all.”

“I’ll tell her,” Kyle said.

“I already did,” she said, “but it will be better coming from you.”

Kyle walked slowly into the room and moved around the curtain shielding Nellie’s bed from the doorway.

Kyle sat on the chair next to the bed. It was strange, he thought, because his first impulse was to smile. “That’s the way she would want it,” he said to himself.

Kyle bent over and grabbed the violin and bow. He placed it beside her. He smiled again as he noticed a broken string.

Lance Merriweather, Frontier Coiffeur

The swinging doors of the Lone Star Saloon burst open and everyone inside turned—terrified as though they expected stampeding cattle. There he stood in a shaft of light, dressed in a pink sequined vest, tight lavender stretch jeans with silver pinstripes, white cowboy boots with golden speckles, and a mauve ten-gallon hat topped with a peacock feather.

Rattlesnake McClain's puffy eyes and fat cheeks squinted in disbelief. He stood up from the poker table, tossing it aside like it was made of matchsticks. He pulled a sweat-soaked range hat tight on his head and hiked his soil-stiffened jeans high on his bulging belly. He adjusted his holster parallel with his arm to be ready for a fast draw.

"Who, or should I say, what are you?" Rattlesnake said with a gravelly voice and wiping drool from his chin.

"I am Lance Merriweather. I am the new hairdresser in this town."

Rattlesnake heaved a full belly laugh. Everyone joined in. Rattlesnake took a match from his pocket, struck it across his barbed face, and lit a cigar. "I wanna be enjoyin’ a good cigar when I shoot ya."

Lance placed both hands on his hips, cocked his head, sashayed over to Rattlesnake and grabbed his hand. "Not with those fingernails. You're a nibbler. I can tell by how rough and uneven they are, and the cuticles are filthy. "Don't you know that most diseases are transmitted by dirty nails?"

"Huh?" Rattlesnake said.

"And your hair—when's the last time it's been washed?" Lance said, removing Rattlesnake's hat and fluffing his hair.

"Huh?" Rattlesnake said. "I don't know. Hey, Sagebrush," he yelled to an old cowboy at the bar, "When did it rain last?"

"The night you shot Josh Dalton, or was it Wagonwheel Clangston?" Sagebrush said, pawing at his whiskers.

Rattlesnake scratched his head and said, "Well, either way, it's been at least three and a half months."

"What!" exclaimed Lance. "Don't you know the damage that can be done to your roots? And that odor—smells like you slept with a canine."

"I slept with my dog," Rattlesnake said. "Are they anything alike?"

"You are such a hoot," Lance said, slapping Rattlesnake on the back.

"I've had enough of this sissy talk," Rattlesnake said reaching for his gun. "I'm going to plug you."

"You just wait uno momento mon ami," Lance said. "See that picture of General Custer hanging on the wall. He has terrific hair, don't you agree?"

"Well, if I say yes, does that mean anything?" Rattlesnake said."

"The point is, how would you like to have hair like that?" Rattlesnake chortled and continued, "Why sure, who wouldn't? I always wanted blonde hair."

"Tisk, tisk silly boy," Lance said. "Blonde hair would not coordinate with those eyes. Just give me two hours, and all the ladies over in Dodge City will be forgetting about Bat Masterson and waiting in line for you. I will make you a legend." Lance snapped his finger at Sagebrush. "Get my bags off my horse and let me go to work."

Sagebrush brought two carpet bags full of hairstyling paraphernalia into the saloon. Lance removed his hat, and his long, wavy blond hair cascaded down to his shoulders like a waterfall. Lance unpacked the carpet bags, spread the contents on a table, and went to work on Rattlesnake. The entire saloon watched with amazement as Lance clipped, curled, washed, rinsed, combed, and brushed.

After two hours, Lance handed a mirror to Rattlesnake and proudly asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"It looks terrific!" Rattlesnake said as he fondled his locks of glistening black hair hanging like clusters of grapes.

"Now let's do something about that terrible stubble." Lance pulled a shining straight razor from his hip pocket.

"That had better be sharp," Rattlesnake said.

"It's sharp alright," said Lance. He picked up a card from the table - an ace of diamonds. He ran the razor over the face of the card, and the diamond came off the card and floated onto the table. "Sharp enough for you?"

"Be careful," Rattlesnake grumbled. "I got very sensitive skin."

Lance lathered Rattlesnake's face and asked, "What do you do for a living?"

"Oh, a little this and little that," Rattlesnake said. "Bank robbing, cattle rustlin‘, blackmail, train robbing, stagecoach holdups, state representative, sheriff, undertaker, and ah, ah, oh that's right, preach every other Sunday."

Lance held Rattlesnake's chin back, stretching the skin tight. He slid the razor up his neck, stopping at the Adam’s apple. "Don't swallow hard, Rattlesnake," Lance said. "I'm liable to slit your throat. Now, what were you saying about bank robbing? Two weeks ago, you robbed all the savings in the bank at Dry Gulch, and that was all the people there had. I'm going to return it. Where is it?"

"It's in my, my saddle bags," Rattlesnake said cautiously. "Sagebrush, go get this guy my saddle bags."

Sagebrush retrieved the saddle bags and tossed them to Lance. Lance gathered his styling equipment and sashayed to the door with Rattlesnake's saddle bags.

"Grab him!" bellowed Rattlesnake, "and let me fill him full of lead."

Several of Rattlesnake's men grabbed hold of Lance.

"Remove those sullied hands from me, you vermin," Lance said, slapping them away. "You won't shoot."

"How can you be so sure?" Rattlesnake said.

"Next Thursday I have a 10:30, and if you want that curl to hold, you'll let me go."

"Let him go," ordered Rattlesnake reluctantly.

Lance flicked his hand at a picture hanging over the bar. "When I return, I want that disgusting picture of that beer-bellied barroom Betsy removed and a Monet in its place."

Lance walked out of the saloon, leaped on his horse, and raced out of town with a billowing cloud of dust behind them.

Everyone in the bar stood out on the sidewalk, gaping at the spectacle.

"Who was that guy?" one man said.

A stranger leaning against a hitching post said, "Why, that was the Lance Merriweather, The Frontier Coiffeur."

Lance and his horse stopped at the edge of town, and he called back to Rattlesnake, "Use a high protein conditioner between visits—away!"