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13…

     Sailing on the summer breeze, a constant cloud of dust hovered above the sun-burnt landscape. Fran laid in the dry grass and studied the house on the hill. Alert blue eyes searched the far-off scene for signs he had returned. A glimpse of his blue shirt. A curl of smoke from his pipe. Any stumbling movement of gray shadow. Confident that he had not yet emerged, she breathed easier. Hands gritted against the dirt slowly relaxed as she remained sprawled in her dusty pink dress upon the bristly turf where she fell.
     From this distance, she spied hand-sewn lacey curtains through the small windows. Floral drapery she had sewn with two swollen fingers and a bruised shoulder. The miniature wreath of violets mounted over the front door greeted a pleasant welcome to strangers. Though, the flowers, known to be a symbol of good fortune, already began withering in the blistering heat. Yet, the slate gray siding offered an invitation of calm and comfort. From this distance, the farmhouse looked quaint and peaceful. And the echo of her grandmother’s turquoise vase shattering on the wooden floor faded from her memory.
     Viewing the structure from this perspective, several pleasing scenarios blossomed in her mind. Here, she easily confused the image with the dollhouse from her childhood. Within those thin timber walls of her youth, the cloth couple lived blissfully. Between the slim partitions, the frayed couple enjoyed love. There, precious things existed: sincere apologies, reassuring hugs and tender kisses.
     A slightly curved mouth accompanied pink-hued cheeks as Fran allowed the deceptive scene to wash over her. Akin to the balmy breeze silkily caressing her skin.
     The barn door opened. Her keen eyes widened. The shadow of a husky man limped across the field toward the house. Fran threw her petite frame downward, stomach and head molded to the hot earth. She watched like a rabbit hidden among dried brush. Muscular farm-worked arms threw open the screen door. Wood and metal slammed to the ground in a flurry of debris. Then he strong-armed the front door open, but the stubborn hinges held. A quick stomp to the willful doorframe revealed his escalated fury before he disappeared into the house.
     She knew the hunt for her had begun. He’d sweep like a raging tornado through the great room and head for the kitchen. From there he’d stumble to the staircase, ascending it one agonizing foot-stomping step at a time. Up all seventeen stairs until he stood on the second landing and had put the fear in her. She cringed, hearing those ominous footsteps ringing in her ears even now.
     As usual, he’d think to find her hiding out in her sewing room. Her fingers diligently working cotton and lace in hopes he valued the expensive fabric over the spatter of her blood. More times than not, the strategy worked. Still, during the past two years, she had to dispose of several ruined reams of precious cloth.
     But this time, the sewing room would be empty of her presence. Then what would he do? Would he look for here there in the sunburned hay field or succumb to another drunken stupor?
     The nearest farm was five miles away. Fran figured she could make it if she had enough time. The Millers were a nice Christian family of eight. She had no doubt they would take her in, at least till she got her head straight. But if Quincy felt so inclined, he could simply tie up horses to the wagon and chase her down. Even if she avoided the roads, this was the prairie. The cruel dry summer left nowhere to hide. And what chance did a spindly housewife have with no supplies in the harsh wilderness.
     No, she would stay. She would continue to engage the charade. At least until the rains saturated the brittle earth and brought thriving greenery back again.
     Quincy appeared in the front entrance again. She could just barely make out the movement of his head scanning back and forth. Instead of crouching to the ground, she climbed to her feet and waved a friendly greeting in a wide, fanning motion with one skinny arm. Fran forced a smile, as broad as she could stretch her lips to reveal the white of her teeth. Next she brought her hand to rest upon her pursed lips. With purposeful animation, she kissed her hand gracefully and flung her arm outward, releasing the kiss to the hot winds to sail in his direction. She thought of sweet honey cakes and refreshing ice tea. She thought of her youth and her mother’s loving embrace. Such cherished memories compelled her eyes to brighten and lightened her aching heart. A trick of the mind that conjured a short-lived facade of genuine happiness. With a racing heart, she waited.
     Quincy hesitated, struggling to absorb the action through his slow, inebriated brain. Finally arms like thick tree limbs waved back wildly. And he displayed a delirious toothy grin. He turned away from her and began meandering back to the barn to attend the horses. Seemingly, with a fresh jovial bounce to his step.
     The tornado had passed. Relief settled in her chest and a small laugh burst from her throat. It might have been soothing tears if she had any more to offer.
     Under the day’s blazing sun, the farmhouse clung to its dollhouse illusion. And Fran knew for now, she was safe.

     Herman Bistecky was a quiet man, very much like his mother. Most felt it was because his father was anything but, so much so that they had to make up for his loud behavior by being demure. His father, Brunner, was a philanderer as much as he was a philanthropist and had a photographic eye that could charm even the Greek goddesses into posing for him. He made good money, though, that allowed his wife to live without a care so she put up with his wandering ways. Brunner, getting up in years, often drank to excess and his mind was not as well honed as it once was. In fact, he would often forget who his own son was and make Herman pose in the oddest outfits. Herman loved his father, though, so he would oblige him and looked on each encounter as an adventure.
     What will he have me be today I wonder, visions of embroidered fabrics and soft, exotic linens running through his mind. Though he loved to read, he often found that he did not need to as he could live out most of his adventures in his father’s studio with his vast array of costumes and props. He had been an Indian, a cruise ship captain, a pirate, a sheik, even the back end of a camel once. Though, admittedly, his father’s antics that day had gotten a little out of hand as the front end of the camel was, in fact, an elephant.
     Today, Herman would not be going on an adventure though. His father still completely smashed from his evening out the night before, Brunner sat quietly staring at his stage, already set. A chair, an ornately carved table, a book and what appeared to be the plumage from a dead ostrich sat in the middle of the room.
     “Father?”
     “Put it on.” Bruner looked up, his eyes still glazed over, smiling wryly as the madness seeped into his eyes. Herman hesitated. “You heard me Cecile. Shut up and put it on.”
     Herman walked over to the chair and picked up what he realized to be a very fanciful hat, possibly from an ostrich, and looked back at his father before letting out a long sigh. Lighting a cigarette, Herman stood calmly between the chair and table, hand resting on the book atop it, appropriately a bible, and silently plotted to kill his father.
     The final straw? His mother’s name was Eunice.

     She lay sleeping, her hair the color of fire lost in a sea of orange chiffon. The day’s events had been exhausting, her emotions overwhelmed. He sat quietly, watching her, her breathing so soft that he would occasionally shift his visage from her face down her form, checking for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was lovely, inside and out, too lovely to have had to deal with her father’s indiscretion and the subsequent chaos that followed. In truth, he was glad that he was dead.
     It was always known that Raphael held no love for Olivette’s father. Growing up side by side, his mother being her family’s cook, he watched as Olivette’s childhood had been obscured by the demon of a man that, as far as he was concerned, had infected her mother.
     At first she had vied for his attentions, fatherly affections that she had every right to, but the futility of reaching out to him made her quiet and withdrawn; something that Raphael had determined long ago to do his best to counter. Her father was the type of monster, not even a man in Raphael’s mind, who preferred treating his wife no better than the broken horse that plowed their fields. Rather than inconvenience himself to show Olivette affection, his own flesh and blood, he would refer to Olivette as “the child” or, in one instance, as part of his “litter” with enough disdain in his voice as though she were a common dog you would throw scraps to in an alley.
     The look that washed over her still burned at Raphael’s heart; he would never forget the pain in her eyes or the sounds of her sobbing into his chest as he held her tight.
     In truth, he was glad that he was dead. He would serve her better as her silent guardian, watching over her as he did now.