SANDY THE SAILOR

I have always loved reading mysteries and stories of murders.  As a writer, I wanted to write a short story about a murder.  The following was my first attempt at this type of fiction.  I have to thank my husband, Bryon, who’s an engineer, for the information about electricity, gas, and explosions.

SANDY THE SAILOR

            Carly gently laid a single yellow rose on her sister’s headstone, which read “Jodene Farris, 1981 – 2002”.  Those meager etchings were all Carly could afford to mark the last resting place of her baby sister when she buried her ashes.

            “Oh, Jody.  I’m going to get that son-of-a-bitch that did this to you.  He’s going to know the fires of hell and he won’t know what hit him.  You mark my words, Baby Sister.  Mark my words.”

            Carly slid to her knees in the grass of the cemetery as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.  Jody had been her only family, two young women orphaned in 2000, their parents killed in a car accident.  Carly had tried to look after her sister, but Jody had been so determined to support herself and not be a burden.  The tears continued to slide down Carly’s cheeks as she remembered.

            Her younger sibling had been as alive and zany as they come, always jumping in without gauging the waters.  Carly had misgivings when her little sister decided to work as an exotic dancer, but Jody had been so sure it was the perfect answer.  It was legal in British Columbia.  You worked for an agency that sent you out to the different bars and clubs.  You got paid by the bar, in cash, at the end of the gig, after expenses like music royalties and the agency’s fees were deducted.  You had a dressing room to change in.  You had a bouncer to protect you.  Touching by customers was not allowed.  If you didn’t spend it on booze or drugs, it was a perfect way to make a lot of money.  Many girls did it to pay for university.  Jody seemed to have all the answers before she really knew the questions.  Carly had tried to stop her, but with her own student loan and living expenses to pay, she had been relieved that she didn’t have to support Jody.  Her sister became a stripper, and Carly a junior accountant.

            Things seemed fine for a while, both girls working, sharing an apartment, although they were rarely home at the same time.  One worked weekdays, the other week-ends and nights.  Months went by before Carly realized her sister wasn’t well.  She was skinny, she was pale, and she coughed.  Before she even framed her concern, her sister ambushed her with the fact she had Aids.

            The dying could have been delayed, even though neither one of the girls had the money for life-prolonging drugs, and their having to live on just one salary would have been tough.  But Carly would have been there for Jody and she told her sister that, to no avail.  Fear of an early death kept Jody from hearing.  She cried for days, telling her big sister everything.

Carly persevered and made plans to take care of her sister.  She worked extra days and nights during tax season, to put more money away for them.    She made Jody apply for government funding for medications.  She told Jody they could make it together.  It was working out, until that day she came home from the office to find Jody’s suicide note, followed by a visit from the R.C.M. P. to tell her Jody had stepped off a curb in front of a tractor-trailer and was in critical condition at Royal Columbian Hospital.  And then Jody did die an agonizing death anyhow, taking her last breath two days later with her older sister helplessly watching.

            Carly stood up from the gravesite to look at Grouse Mountain in the distance.  Just as the mountain stood sentinel over Vancouver, Carly stood up and knew she would avenge her sister’s death.

            “He’s going to die tomorrow, Jody.  I’ve been planning this for six months.  And even if I get caught, it’ll still be worth it.  He won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.  I promise you that.”

            On her way home from the cemetery, Carly stopped at London Drugs for a package of hair dye.  She didn’t want to look too much like her blond sister had, in case anyone recognized her.  She chose a burgundy-auburn color and went home to dye her hair, and shave her legs and groin.

After changing her hair color, Carly pulled out her costumes.  Some had been her sister’s, and some she had bought for herself.  All the outfits would tear away and come off as her strip progressed, even the bras and panties.  She would have the length of four songs, twelve to sixteen minutes, to do her set.  She would dance fully clothed for the first song, and would be totally naked by the end of the fourth. 

Carly chose the navy sailor’s costume.  Navy was her favorite color.  The costume was new and came with a white hat and white gloves.  Next she hunted through her professional cosmetics case.  She picked out contact lenses that would turn her blue eyes gray, and she chose body glitter and hair glitter to glimmer under the bar’s stage light.  From the floor of her closet she picked white boots that came up over the knees and had two-inch platform soles and six-inch heals.  The boots would stay on.  Carly liked the idea of standing tall in her boots.

After her choice of what to wear came her choice of music and dance moves.  For every song played, the dancers paid royalties to the music companies, same as radio stations did.  She had about ten pre-recorded sets of four songs.  The first song had to be a quick tempo to dance to fully dressed, and the fourth song had to be the slowest tempo to which she’d writhe naked on a blanket on the stage.  She would remove clothing during the two songs in between.  When she’d made her choices, Carly picked up the phone and dialed the agency’s number.

“Hi, Peter.  Sandy here, scheduled to dance at Hunters’ Inn tomorrow.  I’ll just use my Elvis music for all seven sets, so you can tell Hunter how much to deduct for royalties.  And oh yes, I want to book my own room for the day so I can take a nap between sets.  My first set is at noon tomorrow, right?   And then I start my first gig in Japan in a week?  Thanks, Peter.  I’m looking forward to all the money I’ll make doing the circuit in Japan.”

Next, Carly used her real name as she phoned Air Canada and booked a flight to Japan for the day after tomorrow.  The following few hours she spent packing clothes and costumes for Japan and writing out post-dated checks for rent and utilities while she would be away.  Then Carly put her navy costume on and a CD on the stereo.  She would practice her dance moves before the big day. 

Carly left early the next morning for Hunters’ Inn as she wanted to get there before the bar opened.  It was a long drive to the Inn, out in the valley between Mission and Harrison Hot Springs.  She drove east on the freeway to Abbotsford, then across the Fraser River to continue east on the Lougheed Highway.  The further east she drove, the darker the morning sky became.  Heavy rainclouds pushed up against the mountains. They were promising lightning, thunder, and an angry deluge in revenge.

It was 10:55 when Carly pulled into the empty parking lot at Hunters’ Inn.  The first flash of lightning slashed the eastern sky.  The thunder followed her as she entered the door to the tiny Lobby.

She set down her boom box and accessory case while she held her garment bag and handbag.  Her right hand shook slightly as she hit the bell to summon Ross Hunter.  He was the owner, and the manager, and the bartender, and the bouncer, and the all-round prick who co-erced the dancers into sleeping with some of his cronies before they could collect their pay for performing on stage.  Needless to say, the girls were never paid for sex.  Had to keep things legal and above board.  And who cared that his pals spread STDs like manure on a field?  Condoms weren’t even sold at the Inn, much less supplied to the girls.

But Carly cared.  She cared that was how her sister came down with Aids.  She cared it could happen any time to any other girl desperate for her pay.  She cared enough to stop it from ever happening again.  As she recalled Jody telling her everything about the man and his place before she died, Carly felt her resolve hardening.  Her hand stopped shaking.  She stood straighter as Ross Hunter came down a set of stairs to the front counter.

“You’re early.  The first set isn’t until noon.  The other girls aren’t here yet.  Shit, I haven’t even opened the bar yet.”  The big man looked Carly up and down and took a drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ashtray on the counter.

“I know.  But I’m Sandy.  I booked my own room.  Thought I’d come early so I’d have time to paint my nails.  Give me the key and I’ll get out of your way till noon.”

“I guess.  Here.  It’s #208, end of the hall upstairs.  Since you’re first here, you can do the first set.  Twelve sharp.  I’ll be in the bar.  Have to open up now.”

Carly watched him light another cigarette as his six-foot, beer-bellied frame shuffled through the doorway into the bar.  As he went, he started pulling chairs off table-tops and setting them hard on the floor, getting ready to open.  Quickly scanning her surroundings, she noticed a labelled key on the wall behind the counter.  It said “Manager”.  From what Jody had told her, she knew it was the key to Hunter's own suite upstairs.  And she knew it would hang there until the bar closed tonight.

Carly went to her room and painted her taloned fake nails dark blue.  When they dried, she inched on the long white boots.  She donned her costume and checked that everything would come off as expected.  She put her CD in her boombox.  She pulled on her white gloves.  Taking her blanket, her boombox and her own room key, she hurried downstairs, stopping at the front counter.  Nobody in sight.  She set down her stereo and blanket, put her own key in her pocket, grabbed the key marked “Manager” and ran back upstairs.  She hastily opened the door to Hunter’s suite, ducked inside, and shut the door behind her.

Standing in the entry by a desk with an old lamp on it, Carly’s eyes searched the suite.  She spotted the kitchenette and the old gas stove Jody had told her about.  Moving straight to the stove, she lifted the empty kettle, put some water in it, and set it back on the stove.  She turned on the burner under the kettle, but didn’t ignite the gas.  Twelve or thirteen hours of a slow leak should do the trick.  When Hunter came in and lit a cigarette, he’d be lighting his way to hell.  In expectation of justice, Carly shivered.

Anxious to leave, she knocked over the lamp on her way back to the door.    She set the lamp back on the desk but didn’t turn on the wall switch by the door to see if it still worked.  With any luck, it wouldn’t matter.  She ran back down the stairs and her gloved hand put the Manager’s key back on the wall just as Hunter’s voice on the loudspeaker in the bar gave the introduction for “Sandy the Sailor”.  Carly picked up her blanket and boombox and made her way to the stage.

After her set, she tented the blanket around herself and picked up her clothes and headed for her own room.  With a cigarette dangling from his mouth and beer on his breath, Hunter blocked the staircase.

“Slow down, little sailor.  You need to know the rules around here.”

“What rules?”

“If you want your money tonight, you have to do me a little favor.”

“What favor?”

“A pal of mine wants some ass.  You’re new around here.  That’s good.  You’ll do.  Get cleaned up after your last set and then come to my suite at the top of the stairs when the bar closes at 1:00.  I’ll introduce you and you can show him a good time.  Then you can have your pay and leave.  Understand?”

Carly pulled her blanket a little closer, hoping for some warmth, as she stared back at Hunter’s icy glare.  “Whatever.  Your suite, you said?”

“Yeah, Sandy.  My suite.”  Hunter blew smoke at her as he moved aside to let her climb the stairs and one fat, hairy hand slapped her on her bottom as she took the first step.

The hours dragged.  Carly performed her own set every two hours.  Three other girls also performed, after her.  Patrons could watch the revelation of flesh for fifty minutes.  Between sets, she sat in her room, staring at a stained wall and remembering her sister.  She could have gone down and had something to eat in the bar, but she had no appetite.  It took resolve and patience, waiting for someone else to die.  Carly had both.

           

After her last set at midnight, she hurried back to her room.  She took a quick shower and packed up all her gear and hauled it out to her car, dropping her room key on the front counter on her way out.  The manager’s key was still on the wall.

           

From her car in the parking lot, she could see through a window to the counter in the lobby.  The bar emptied quickly after closing.  Dancers and drinkers rushed to their vehicles through the pouring rain.  The neon light above the bar went out.

Carly could see Hunter and another man in the lobby.  She watched as Hunter put out his cigarette and led his friend up the stairs.  She knew that if Hunter smelled the gas before he lit another cigarette, her plan wouldn’t work.  He would just turn off the gas.  But she wasn’t going to stick around to find out.  She didn’t need the money.  Just as Carly turned the key in her ignition, there was a loud explosion inside the Inn.  With shaking hands, she put her car in drive and started for home.

           

Driving to the airport in the morning, Carly heard on the radio that an explosion from a gas leak had occurred when the owner of Hunters’ Inn turned on a light switch in his own suite.  Ross Hunter was killed instantly.  His companion suffered burns and lacerations and would have been expected to recover, but by his own admission he also had Aids.  As there were no signs of forced entry, the explosion was deemed to have been accidental.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

EXERCISE FOR THE CHALLENGED

Being the caretaker for an elderly adult can sometimes be very strenuous, especially when your own physical mobility is limited.  It’s like the lame pushing the lame.  The following story was published in Today’s Senior Newsmagazine in July of 2005.  In retrospect, it is funny.

 

 

EXERCISE FOR THE CHALLENGED

            At the table next to ours is a giant game of Chinese checkers, with large fluorescent marbles waiting for gnarled fingers that will move them.  In the corner sits a beach ball, magnified ten times in size, waiting for the sitting circle of seniors who will throw it back and forth.  An armoire houses other games.  There are dominoes and bingo to stimulate memory.  Carpet bowling is for balance and coordination.

            A massive aquarium on one wall is meant to soothe the agitated.  Looming over chairs for the visually impaired is a big screen TV, almost an in-house theater.  An organ and microphones stand beside an unlit fireplace, waiting for when hymns will be sung.  Generically identical wheelchairs and walkers are lined up by the entryway for those needing assistance on a daytrip.

            I am having lunch with my mother at her nursing home.  Because she has a guest, the two of us are seated alone at a table in the lounge, giving us our privacy.  All other residents are in their respective dining rooms.

            We are served a meal of Shake-N-Bake chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and parsleyed carrots.  We each have a glass of water, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee.  The food is tasty, the coffee excellent.  The dessert tray is pushed up to us by an aide and we are offered strawberry strudel or fresh orange wedges. My mother, the diabetic, chooses strudel and I, the orange wedges.  She says she has no complaints about the food she is served, but can’t remember what she had for breakfast.

            After lunch it is time for me to leave and I ask if she wants to go back to her room or stay in the lounge for afternoon activities.  She decides she would like to go back to her room and nap.

            We have to form a convoy to get us both back to her room.  In front is my walker with my purse in the basket.  Next is my mother in her wheelchair, holding the handles of my walker.  I am in the rear, pushing all the aforementioned.  The going is difficult as we are on carpeting.  I push mightily to keep us going.  By the time we reach her room I am panting and sweating.  She pushes my walker aside and tries to turn her wheelchair around.  She can’t. The brakes are still on.  Her short-term memory loss is hard work for both of us.  I head for home so I can have my own nap.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

FOR FATHER'S DAY

Since Father’s Day will be on Sunday, I decided to post something about my own father.  I wrote the following piece in 2003, long after he had passed away, but it still encapsulates his legacy to me.

MY FATHER, MY STRENGTH AND SECURITY

            I never fully appreciated the wealth of love and security my father represented in my life until after he died.  Like many only daughters, I think I took him for granted.  His love for me after I was eight years old was never expressed in hugs or kisses or words.  But it was very tangible in other ways.

            My two younger brothers and I grew up not wanting for anything.  We weren’t wealthy, but usually had more than most of our friends.  We had generous allowances for chores we did, and Dad always made sure we could earn more by doing more.  And sometimes he would just give to us because he had money to give.  Looking back, I am amazed at how incredibly generous he was.  When he made his money, it all went to his family.  And he was so proud and happy that he was able to give.

            Dad worked hard all his life until he retired, but I never once heard him complain or indulge in self-pity.  Nor did he condone those sentiments in others.  He would be the first to tell us if we didn’t like something we should get busy to change it.  He was honest and he had integrity.  If he gave his word, he lived up to it.  He set an ideal I still try to emulate.  More than nine years after his death, I am chagrined at how much I didn’t see when he was alive.

            Nor did I see how many times he was there for me.  When I was seriously injured in a car accident, he babysat my son so my husband and my mother could be with me in hospital almost every day over a three-month period.  He also made sure I had the best lawyer to represent me in subsequent civil litigation.  He had helped my husband and me start our own business.  He helped us buy our second house.  He made sure money was available if my children needed anything.

            When my marriage ended and I gained custody of my children, Dad took us in until I could manage to provide a home again.  Through the next ten years of single parenting, Dad would be there to guide my son, to spoil my daughter, to supply the extras for all of us.  And he was always the one I called for home repairs and landscaping needs.  He was growing older and getting tired, but he never said “no”.  He was my source of security.  I would be all right as long as I knew my Dad was nearby.

            In 1992, Dad was diagnosed with cancer and his health deteriorated over the next eighteen months.  He suffered horrendous pain, but he never complained.  He would just quietly ask to be left alone.  Before his death, I asked him to put his financial papers all together in one place, so I would know where to find them.  He labeled and filed everything meticulously.  And then he did more.  He put the house, the car and all the money in my mother’s name.  There would be nothing to probate upon his death.

            We had one conversation where Dad told me he wasn’t afraid of dying, only of not being there to take care of my Mom.  I told him I would do the best I could.

            On December 6th of 1993, Dad’s doctor told him it was time to be hospitalized.  His condition and his pain could no longer be managed at home.  Dad had already said he didn’t want any measures taken to prolong his life.  He asked me to drive him to the hospital.  He had one small bag and wanted nothing else.  I drove him to the door, but he asked me not to come inside with him.  Before he got out of the car, he leaned over and kissed me good-bye.  He had never done that before.  That was Dad’s special farewell to me.

            I took Mom to see him every day as he was fading from this world.  Dad passed away the morning of Christmas Eve, 1993.

            It is only now that I see his lasting legacy.  I see it in my own determination to live with honour and integrity.  I see it in my son and daughter’s eagerness to be self-supporting.  I see it in my Mother’s continued love and generosity to all her family.  His body is no longer with us, but the essence of this remarkable man still blesses his whole family.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

TWO PEAS IN A POD

I have written many stories about life with my husband, Bryon.  Most of them are part of a collection titled “Honey Signed The Waiver”, which is still looking for a publisher.  However, this story was written more recently, and is not part of the original collection.

COPYCAT

Last week Honey and I were both sporting blood soaked bandages on our hands.  My injury happened first.  Sadly, though, sometimes when I do something unusually stupid, Honey will come behind me and do the exact same thing.  I haven’t been able to ascertain whether he does that because he doesn’t believe I could do something so dumb and he has to see for himself, or if he loves me so much he doesn’t want me to feel alone in my misery.

            The first time this phenomenon happened was when I still drove my 1986 Chrysler Le Baron.  It was not a fancy car and at twenty years old, it was starting to feel its age.  It was a dark and rainy Friday night in November when I went shopping at the local Zellers store.  I was looking for ideas for Christmas presents but didn’t buy anything.  When I returned to my car in the parking lot, I got inside and, even though the overhead light was no longer working, automatically slid my key into the ignition.  I had performed this action in the dark many times before, but this time there was a problem.  The key could only be inserted with the correct side facing up, and I had pushed it in upside down.  It was indeed stuck.  It would not come out and it was not going to turn the car on, either.

            This was before I had corrective surgeries on my legs, so I was using a walker and had to pull it out of the car again to go back in the store for help.  Nor did I have my own cell phone at that time.  The kind clerk at the Customer Service desk let me use their phone.  I tried calling Honey at home but he didn’t answer.  The clerk lent me a phone book and I called a locksmith instead.

            “This is after closing hours, so we charge overtime rates, minimum one hour charge of $150.00,” I was told.  I had to agree because I wasn’t going to spend the night in a parking lot.  I thanked the store clerk and went outside to wait in the rain with my walker and my credit card.  It took the locksmith less than two minutes to remove my key from the ignition.  He gave me his business card with my receipt.  He must have known I was married to Honey.

            When I got home, damp and bedraggled and fearing I had blown my shopping budget, I found Honey getting out of the tub from a long soak.  He had been working outside at a sawmill all day and that was his way of getting warm again.

            “Buy any Christmas presents for the kids?” he asked.

            “No, shopping has to wait for my next payday,” I told him, and then explained my misadventure.

            “How could that happen?  The key won’t go in the wrong way!”  He was adamant.

            “But it did.  And it cost me $150.00 plus tax!” I fumed.

            That’s when Honey had to check for himself.  He took his copy of the key to my car, and went outside in the dark and the rain.  He opened the car door and sat in the driver’s seat and deliberately put the key in the ignition upside down.  It was stuck.  It wouldn’t come out and it wouldn’t turn the car on, either.  Without saying a word, I handed him the locksmith’s card.

            The locksmith was nonplussed to see me and my car again when he arrived.  “How could you do that a second time, so soon?” he asked.  I explained that Honey didn’t believe me and tried to demonstrate that I’d been mistaken.  He laughed and told me he could now afford a plane ticket for a Christmas holiday, as I handed him Honey’s credit card.

            The next time Honey tried to replicate my quirky behavior was after I bought an unusual apparatus at a liquidation store.  It purported to be a digitally controlled leg massaging unit that would miraculously massage the whole length of both legs simultaneously.  For the twenty dollar purchase price, I couldn’t resist.  Tormented with leg pains for many, many years from previous injuries sustained in a car accident, the thought of a self-massaging thing-a-ma-jig with a hand held electronic control was irresistible.  Of course I bought it.

            I took it out of the box and unfolded all the parts and read the instructions.  This I did one day when Honey was at work and not likely to disturb me.  First I dressed myself in the leg-length wraps that reminded me of motorcycle chaps.  These fastened with heavy duty Velcro tape, much like the cuff of a machine that takes your blood pressure.  Next, I sat in my recliner with my legs up in front of me.  I plugged the cord into the power bar beside my chair.  Looking forward to twenty minutes of uninterrupted massage, I pressed the start button.  Slowly the cuffs inflated and started squeezing my legs.  Hard.  And then harder still.  Just like a blood pressure cuff wrapped too tight, the pain was excruciating.

After a couple of minutes the leg wraps deflated and I thought I should try getting out of the contraption.  As I looked at the control and saw there was no off switch, the cuffs started inflating again.  Once turned on, the cycle would go for twenty minutes.  I was sitting on top of the Velcro closures, so I couldn’t undo them without standing up, which I couldn’t do fast enough between inflations.  And I couldn’t reach the power bar to unplug the thing unless I first put my recliner in the upright sitting position, which I couldn’t do with my legs in balloons.  I was stuck and in pain for twenty minutes.

As they say, patience is a virtue.  After twenty minutes the control beeped, the legs deflated and I was able to free myself.  I collected all the parts and carefully bundled them back into the box along with the instructions.  I wasn’t able to return it to the liquidation store as all sales were final, but I thought I would send it to the local thrift store and hopefully somebody smaller and thinner could get some use out of it.  I put it beside the front door so I would remember to take it with me and drop it off the next time I went out.

Before that happened, though, Honey came home and saw it.

“What’s this?” he asked.  I told him what it was supposed to do, and what my actual experience had been like.  “Oh, yeah?” he said.  “I could use something like that after a hard day working on a strapping machine.”

I tried dissuading him, to no avail.  After supper he retreated to his own recliner, carrying the boxed torture machine.  I watched him read the instructions and then strap himself into the leg wraps.

“You might want to leave some room for inflation and not wrap yourself up so tight,” I suggested, but Honey wasn’t listening.  He was used to making sure strapping machines he worked on would wrap huge loads of lumber as tight as possible, so he instinctively did the same with the Velcro fasteners.

“Honey, you really don’t want to do this.  You’ll be sorry.”  But he was deaf to my warning.  He plugged in the cord, sat in his recliner with his legs up, and pressed the start button.  As the cuffs slowly inflated, he said, “This could work.”

When the cuffs just kept inflating and started squeezing his legs, hard, he clenched his hands and tried not to grimace.  I just watched.  When the cuffs deflated the first time, he looked relieved, but then fearful when they started inflating again right away.  “How do you turn this thing off?” he asked.

“You don’t.  It goes for twenty minutes whether you want it to or not.”

“Well, just unplug it for me then,” he said.

“I can’t.  You plugged it in behind your chair, where I can’t reach because your chair is extended with you in it.”  I really thought Honey deserved twenty minutes of non-stop leg massage for not believing me in the first place.  After that experience, Honey took the apparatus to the thrift store himself.

This last time that Honey copied my behavior, he was just trying to be helpful.  I was in the process of preparing a sweet and sour chicken dish for the slow cooker, and I had to open a can of pineapple.  The one I had bought had a lid with a pull-back tab on it, like a beer can.  Only the pineapple can was made of much heavier metal than a lightweight aluminum beer can.  As I pulled the tab, I managed a three-quarter inch long, deep cut, on my thumb.  Leaving the can only partially opened, I grabbed some paper towelling to staunch the blood flow, and raced by Honey and up the stairs in search of my first aid kit.

Honey didn’t follow me to help, even though he has his first aid certificate he got at work.  He doesn’t think it applies at home, though.  I assumed he was going to pour himself another cup of coffee and go back to reading the newspaper.  But there on the counter was my abandoned can of pineapple just begging for his attention.  Since he’s the man of the house called on to open stubborn jars, I guess he thought the half-opened can would be a cinch.  By the time I came downstairs, Honey was sporting blood-soaked towelling of his own.  However, the lid of the can was nowhere to be seen.  For that I was grateful to the dear man.

So you see, I still don’t know what Honey’s reasoning is sometimes.  Maybe it’s his way of showing the world we are definitely an undefinable couple, sometimes too difficult to explain.

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By Lisa A. Hatton