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Toil and Trouble
by Cindy
Rosmus
It was senior year, back in ‘74, with teens high on Boone’s Farm, one
kid streaking outside the pizza place, and the whole class erupting in applause the Monday
morning after. For me, senior year was being obsessed with
Mr. C., my English teacher. That tall, lean, strange-looking guy with the sideburns and
unibrow. Always in bell-bottoms and tight sweaters, so you saw his cadaverous chest, and
nipples. God, I loved him. “’Bubble, bubble.
. .’” he quoted, stirring an imaginary giant pot.
“’Toil and trouble.” The three witches from Macbeth. “Maggie,” he called
me. Not Margaret, like bitchy Mrs. Meyer, the chemistry
teacher, used to. I hated science. I
knew Claudius poured mercury into Hamlet’s father’s ear and killed him. But
Hamlet was junior English, not science. “Maggie,” Mr. C.
said, “Why do you think Macbeth let his
wife call the shots?” Of all the kids, he asked me. Like I knew
what love was about. Like, instead of a frizzy-haired creep, I was some skinny blonde who
guys dug. “I . . . I . . .”
What could I say? I was just so thrilled that he’d
asked me. Behind me, someone snickered. “You
asking her?” More snickers. The whole class thought it was hysterical that this hot
teacher saw me as a woman. We all knew about him and Mrs.
Meyer. Looks they snuck at each other. How his eyes
were usually glued to her butt. Like he was wondering if she wore panties. But
clearly, he knew. Poems I wrote him, late at night. More, after
that “toil and trouble” day. Scrawled in purple ink in a purple spiral notebook
that I hid under my bed. Real dirty ones, though I knew even less about sex than chemistry.
But I got so hot writing them, they would
make him hot, too. Freshman year, we did Romeo and Juliet.
Love, and turmoil, and death. Above all, death! “’Thus,’” Romeo
said, “With a kiss I die!” I saw Mr. C. as a grown-up Romeo, straddling
my Juliet’s corpse. But I wasn’t dead! Like in West Side Story, it was
all about revenge. Like the snickering bullies in his Macbeth class, who didn’t
want us to be happy! Like Mrs. Meyer, who had failed me, for spite. But
my poems would make him want me. As surreptitiously as Macbeth snuck into
Duncan’s room, I snuck that purple notebook under a pile of term papers on his desk.
As I followed the other kids out of the classroom,
I was soaked with sweat. Are you crazy? Witch #1 asked me. I
almost ran back. What if he fails you? Witch #2 was right behind. Then:
What if you can’t graduate? Witch #3 smirked away. As the bell rang, it tolled
for my sanity. I ran back. But not fast enough.
From behind the door, I peered inside, my
heart pounding. Behind his desk Mr. C. stood, reading my
poems. With Mrs. Meyer right there! He turned to her, murmured something
that I couldn’t hear. That look: Was it embarrassment?
How, he might be thinking, had I never realized
this? He flipped a page. Oh, Maggie! With Witches #1, 2, and 3 right
there. I thought he was going to cry. How he bit
his lip, like he couldn’t take it anymore. He
showed Mrs. Meyer the last poem he’d read. And
they laughed. I don’t remember leaving the building.
Or if he had seen, or called, after me. I don’t remember much. But
later, I recalled how in sophomore year, Mrs. Meyer had poured
mercury on the table . . . And let the lucky kids play in it.
THE GREAT WATCH
by
Cindy Rosmus
At 3 PM,
Cherie walked the streets, wild-eyed.
Like she used to, most nights, when Danny was drinking.
Tol’ja, he’d said, I gave that shit up .
. .
For Lent.
It was Good
Friday. In three days, Lent would be over. But she bet he’d already slipped.
Once again, he
stood her up. But not at her house, or her dad’s pizzeria. This date was at
church.
From 12:30 to 2:30 PM, both
were scheduled for “The Great Watch.”
“
‘During ‘The Great Watch,’ ” Father Shaver had explained, “a church member sits
and guards the Blessed Sacrament so no one comes in and desecrates it.”
Desecrate . . . Who would be that sick?
Moira . . .
Danny’s ex. That redhead biker bitch who
feared nothing. Believed in nothing. Cherie feared he was back with her.
In church, Cherie sat alone with the
veiled crucifix and statues. Blindly, she stared at the altar, where the
Sacrament sat. Where is he? she wondered, about Danny. Is he dead? She fought
back tears.
The old Danny might be drunk, somewhere.
With . . .
Cherie couldn’t even think that name.
But the sober, gentle Danny she’d met
here at St. Mark’s . . .
Might be dead.
She started to get up.
“You need to be serious about this,”
Father Shaver had said, “You can’t leave, no matter what.”
But if Danny’s sick . . . or . . .
Cherie imagined Father’s smile. He was a
realist, a Desert Storm vet. A real badass, he’d been, back then.
He’ll still be dead when your “Watch” is
over.
An hour crept by. Please, God, Cherie
prayed, send Danny. Sweat dripped down her back. During “The Great Watch,”
Father had said church members were welcome to come in and pray or meditate.
Please, Cherie prayed, send . . .
somebody.
When the heavy door opened, she felt a
chill. Jangling jewelry and the clip-CLOP of high-heeled boots told her who had
come in.
As she passed Cherie, Moira smiled
smugly, then strolled to the front of the church.
A blade, she’s got, Danny had warned
Cherie. She’d kill you, to get back at me!
And he wasn’t here to protect her.
In the first pew, Moira turned slowly to
face Cherie.
Like a demon from hell, Moira looked,
with that ghoulish makeup. Hair spiked in all directions. So many earrings and
bangles, she might’ve robbed a gypsy’s grave.
How did she know, Cherie wondered, I was
here?
I loved her once, Danny had told Cherie.
When Moira smiled, Cherie’s chest
tightened.
Did he set me up?
For what felt like hours, Cherie stared
back. By the time Moira got up and strolled out past her, Cherie was a sweaty mess.
God, she thought, wildly, have you forsaken me? She’d lost track of time. Forgot
why she was even here.
Had Moira hypnotized her?
“Cherie?” someone finally whispered. Old
Lynn Baker, the vestry’s junior warden. Her hand on Cherie’s arm felt clawlike.
If he’s back with her, Cherie thought,
suddenly, I’ll kill him.
She smiled.
“Are you all right?” Lynn asked her, as
she rushed out of the church.
As Cherie searched for Danny, that chill
she’d felt in Moira’s presence crept up into her brain.
I’ll kill them both.
An oppressive gloom followed her, like lightning
would strike, in March. On Danny’s block were patches of blackened snow.
For a few moments Cherie stood on his
porch, listening, waiting.
The jingling was muted, might’ve been silverware,
or bells. But to Cherie, it was clanging gypsy bangles.
She burst into the house.
“The Great
Watch” originally appeared in Shotgun Honey on July 15, 2013.
SHIRLEY
TEMPLEVILLE by Cindy Rosmus
What’s weird is, you don’t remember getting here.
And where are you, anyway?
A bar, but not your usual “inside-of-a-workboot” dump. It’s airy
and bright, like the sun had just burst through, after rain. But not dirty, city rain.
This rain smells sweet, like it came down from heaven.
You creep in, peering around. There’s just the bartender and one customer—a
chunky girl, whose face you can’t see. The bartender looks familiar. Arms folded, leaning against the register. An
older guy, maybe fifty-five, with a rust-colored rug and frizzy gray sideburns. And the
silliest grin ever. Harvey,
you realize. As you race towards him, the past blasts back to you: sweltering summer nights,
sneaking drinks at his bar, in pre-casino Atlantic City. His son Artie and you feeling
each other up under the damp, dark boardwalk. Kids, both of you. If Harvey only knew…
You stop short. That was thirty years ago. How could he look the
same? Wait… Your back feels ice-cold. Didn’t
Harvey…isn’t…he… Dead? When he sees you, his smile widens. “Hi, doll!” he says,
just like way back. Last
time you saw Harvey, he was shrunken. Dwarf-like. Torso devoured by cancer, so he hopped
around like a frog. That silly grin ghoulish in that too-big head. You were so scared he’d…touch you. Before
that, you loved his hugs. Now he looked…monstrous. “Harvey?” You’re too shocked to say
more. He’s
still grinning. Like none of it had happened—his illness and agonizing death, Artie’s
mysterious drowning—and he was behind the bar, concocting exciting new drinks while
you and Artie plotted your getaways. The chunky girl is hunched over, sipping
what looks like fruit punch. “I can’t taste the liquor!” she grumbles. That voice… How many times did it warn you, ruin
your fool’s paradise? He used you, it said, then told those fuckers
at the bar. About you on the pool table. You gasp. Becky. But isn’t she . . . A closed casket. ‘Cos she had no face left. Her
new slimeball had blown it off. Only her ear was recognizable, with tiny hoops from top
to bottom…. Somehow
her face is back: cheeky, with that little pug nose. A missing tooth, from doing too much
blow. “Here.”
She shoves her drink toward you. “Tell me there’s no booze in there.” “There’s not,”
Harvey says. “What?” “It’s
not allowed,” Harvey says. “There’s no liquor in any of these bottles.” A dirty trick, you think. Instead of
sloe gin or peach schnapps, there’s Kool-Aid. Worse, colored water. Like on a movie
set. Your favorite bartender and drinking buddy in this class-act bar with no booze! A barfly’s worst nightmare. “Well, that sucks!”
Becky says. As you sink down onto the stool, it dawns on you. Where
you really are. But
with no sneering devil. It’s not even hot. Very comfortable in here, with that sweet,
after-rain smell. There’s just no booze. “Welcome to Shirley Templeville.” Harvey
winks. Like
Margaritaville, but with no Margaritas. Jimmy Buffet, you think foolishly, where
are you? Outside,
someone’s coming. When Harvey turns his back, you tell Becky, “I’ve got
to get out of here!” “Get a real drink, somewhere.” Same old Becky. When the new guest comes in,
you have to look twice. It’s Artie. Teenaged Artie. Long, blond curls in
that 70s do. Wire-framed glasses, like you wore yourself, back then. Cut-off jeans shorts
and no shirt. Even dead, you’re hot for his hairless chest. Last time you saw him, was under that
boardwalk. The sky so black, the sea-smell surrounding you. After your juvenile gropings,
you both ran nude into the ocean. Way out. You wouldn’t believe that he couldn’t
swim…. You laughed at him. Days later, they dragged him
out, like a blond, bloated fish. His glasses still down there, somewhere. Maybe a mermaid
found them…. These same glasses Artie’s cleaning, now, as Harvey
lectures him. The one-sided heart-to-heart, like the old days. When Harvey looks your way,
Artie’s supposed to roll his eyes. But he doesn’t. Instead, he eyes you with hate. Like it’s your
fault he’s here, getting lectured. Your fault he’s dead. I am, too! you want to scream. But if you start screaming,
you might not stop. “How’d
you get here?” Becky asks, but you have no clue. Then, “Still with that asshole?” Which one? Not this drowned teen, who still
eyes you like you’re the scum of the earth…or wherever you are. He knows what
happened. Why you’re here… You wouldn’t stop laughing. You were his first…and last.
He wasn’t sure how to please you. It was so new to him…Finding the right spot
on a girl. But…“It tickles!” you said. So you’d stop laughing, he raced into
the sea…. Again,
you see that anguished face. Baby tears on fifteen-year-old cheeks. Him scrambling to his
feet before he changed his mind. He was determined to do it. You made him
do it! Thanks to you… He
drowned himself. You
gasp. Now
Artie is swollen, seaweed stuck to wet, gray skin. Like when they found him. The stench
of stagnant water makes you reel. “Dad,” he says, in this waterlogged voice,
“Give Pam a drink.” “No, I got this round.” Becky’s voice sounds strange,
too. But
Harvey is gone. “I’ll
make it a double,” comes from beneath the bar. Then that too-big face. His dwarf’s leer makes
you scream. “You killed my son,” he says. “And that killed me.” You scream till you’re
hoarse. Till there’s no breath left. Becky’s facial cavity is inches from
you. Just bloody muscle, brain matter, part of one eye. And that totally pierced ear. “Why’d
you tell Butchie where I was?” she gurgles. “So you could have him?”
As she grips your wrist, you pee your pants. Even dead, you have pants to pee. “Thanks
to you …” He
blew her face off. Outside,
the sky has darkened, like a hellish storm is brewing. An act of God, just for you. For
the lives you ruined… Suddenly, you remember. “She’s with this guy!” you
told the last stupid husband. “Puerto Rican, chunky. Mofongo, they call him.”
Lightning flashed, but nothing could stop you. Hurrying down that storm-darkened street.
“Sucking face. At this bar, Scratch’s, at City Line.” He didn’t believe you. He loved his
wife, poor guy! But you kept at him. ‘Cos you wanted him. Thunder cracked. “Meet me there,” you said. “In ten
minutes.” You
never made it. Lightning
struck your phone. From
beneath the bar comes a rotted hand, clutching your drink: blood-red punch, with wormy
things wiggling in it. And a cocktail cherry. Giggling, the dwarf drops in an extra
cherry. “‘Cos I like you.” “Be glad somebody does,” Becky says. THE END “Shirley Templeville”
first appeared in Black Petals Issue #53, Autumn, 2010.
Cindy
Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of
Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like
Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her
noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in places like Shotgun Honey,
Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey
Review, Under the Bleachers, Punk Noir, The Yard, and
Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama
and has published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a
Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
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