Oh Hell

Oh Hell

By Patrice Stanton

copyright 2013 Patrice Stanton

Smashwords Edition

Cover design copyright 2013 Patrice Stanton

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form, or by any means -- electronic, mechanical, photocopy, or any other -- without the prior permission of the author (except for short quotes used in reviews). Your support of the author, as well as your respect for her property, is appreciated.

For information e-mail: wholebrainarts@verizon.net.

Scripture quotations and references are taken from the King James Version.

This book is a work of fiction. Persons (fictional, living, or dead), businesses (fictional, public, private, or non-profit), places (actual or fictional), or events (fictional, current, or historical) are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally.

ISBN: 9781301063284

"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil,

as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom

he may devour. . ." 1 Peter 5:8

SPECIAL THANKS

First, to my husband James Lenaburg: if I haven’t told you lately what a saint you are, You’re a saint. You knew I needed a deadline to finally quit pro-crass...I mean to quit chasing the impossible dream of Perfection. Thanks for making me set one.

To NaNoWriMo (nanowrimo.org) whose site (and annual November novel-writing challenge) took me on a blind date in 2011 to The Inklings in Roanoke, Texas: I promptly fell for them and they’ve become indispensable in so many ways.

To the Inklings: not only do you offer a wonderful shot of weekly whole-life encouragement, but your line by line edits and general suggestions (especially Stacey, and, Keith,) have helped make this manuscript so much better. This, of course, confers no responsibility on you for errors, omissions, or superfluous commas herein.

To the writers in other groups, like DFWWW and the KWA, who’ve seen me lurking (in some cases for decades) and listened to me read on rare occasions: thanks for only laughing at the intentionally funny stuff.

DEDICATED to Fathers

First, to mine, Ralph Stanton (11 feb 1920 - 5 feb 2008): sure, a WASP to the core, with all that entails, but smart, curious, resourceful, and creative; a doer not a talker.

Then, to the actual men like Trace, hounded by a legal system where too often a redress of grievances has been rendered improbable for Team XY, particularly in things familial: here’s hoping this helps more women get it.

Table of Contents

Maps of Paradiso Island and Purgatory can be found at patricestanton.com

Cast of Characters - in order of appearance

1 - A Saturday morning in winter, a toney Paradiso Island brownstone

2 - Saturday, same time, Doublespring, Texas

3 - Saturday, same time, Purgatory

4 - Saturday, early evening, a Quicky Gas-Mart, Texas

5 - Saturday, same time, same place

6 - Saturday early evening, same place

7 - Saturday, same time, a nicer part of Doublespring

8 - Sunday morning, near Hennessey’s trailer park

9 - Sunday, mid-morning, Hennessey’s motorhome

10 - Sunday, back at Grandpa Ted’s cottage

11 - Sunday, after noon, Wolff Gallery, Dallas

12 - Sunday, 9 p.m.-ish, Summer’s brownstone

13 - Sunday, Jeb’s cold-water, multi-roommate loft

14 - Sunday, same time, Purgatory, an office cubicle

15 - Sunday, after the MRE dinner, Jeb’s loft

16 - Sunday, midnight, Linc’s car: Jeb & Hennessey

17 - Monday evening, 7:45 p.m., Trace’s old loft

18 - Monday evening, 8:30 p.m., Trace’s old loft

19 - Monday, same time, Purgatory’s dock

20 - Monday evening 9 p.m.-ish, a Paradiso Hospital

21 - Monday, 11 p.m.-ish, same Hospital

22 - Monday, midnight, same Hospital

23 - Tuesday, very early Dark a.m., Chapel

24 - Tuesday, about the same time

25 - Tuesdaya little later, Hospital Chapel

26 - Tuesday, early Dark a.m., Summer’s room

27 - Tuesday, early Dark a.m., outside Trace’s loft

28 - Tuesday, late afternoon, Trace’s Loft

29 - Tuesday, same time, Summer’s hospital room

30 - Later Tuesday evening, Private surgical Clinic

31 - Tuesday, midnight-ish, outside Trace’s loft building

32 - Wednesday, very early Dark a.m., outside Trace’s loft

33 - Wednesday, a little later, Trace’s loft

34 - Wednesday, a little later, same

35 - Wednesday, past 1 a.m., same

36- Wednesday, 7:15 a.m., next door to Trace’s loft

37 - Wednesday, about 8 a.m., same place

38 - Wednesday, Hennessey’s day off

39 - Wednesday, near midnight, Trace’s loft

40 - Thursday, nearing 1 a.m., to the Fawkes & Hound

41 - Thursday, almost 2 a.m., outside the bar

42 - Thursday, a little earlier, Trace’s loft

43 - Thursday, just 2 a.m., street outside Trace’s loft

44 - Thursday, not quite 2:30 a.m., Trace’s loft

45 - Thursday, late a.m., Summer’s brownstone

46 - Thursday, close of business day, Trace’s loft

47 - Friday, after midday, Press Conference

48 - Friday, same time, the hallway outside

49 - Friday, a little later, Purgatory’s outermost ring

50 - Monday, early dark p.m., Trace’s loft

51 - Monday, later, from Trace’s loft to the bar

52 - Monday, moments later, Purgatory

53 - The following Saturday, early evening, Doublespring, Texas

54 - Saturday, later, Boys’ & Girls’ Ranch, Texas

Afterword - Art imitating Life…and Afterlife?

Discussion Topics

Connect with the Author

Interview

Map Illustrations

Cast of Characters (in order of appearance)

Summer Bean-Pict: 40; gorgeous; Hennessey’s divorcée mom; a real ex-housewife type.

Assistant-to-Summer: recent college grad; GQ-ish.

Hennessey Pict-Bean: 20; ran at 15, from the highlife in the City on the Hudson to a her small-town Texas family.

Rocky: 69; ex-California body-builder & used-to-wannabe an actor; Nana Dru’s husband.

Satan: a.k.a. the Big Boss/the Devil/the CEO of Damnation.

Nil: a.k.a. Demon #6543210; not the sharpest tine on the pitchfork.

Eben & Dex: dead humans; 50-ish and 15; recruited to be Operatives for the Big Boss.

Trace: T. Race (Dunsmore) Pict; almost 70; Hennessey’s father; Trailerpark-Nana’s son.

Mega-Ted: Ted Herbert Dunsmore III; 50-ish; very thin, taut-not-toned, plenty tan; Bible-lite preacher in an L.L.C. megachurch.

(Leonard) James: 60-something; has been mega-T’s driver for years, i.e. has the patience-of-Job.

Nell: Nell Stewart Dunsmore; 40; shotgun wedding to Ted at 15; idolized her older sister, who left Texas for D.C. in the late 1980’s.

Ari: Aristolia Stewart Dunsmore; 15; niece-turned-adopted daughter of mega-Ted and wife, (Nell’s sister (Ari & Jeb’s mother) died under questionable circumstances); moody, wild-child, demanding, and spoiled.

Nana-Dru: Drusilla Dunsmore; 90’s; Hennessey’s Texas (Trailer park-) grandmother; Trace’s and Ted Sr.’s mother.

Linc: Lincoln Douglas Dunsmore; mid-20’s; multi-degreed/witty/charming/GQ-ish; son of Ted and Nell.

Grandpa T/Ted Sr.: Ted Dunsmore Sr.; mid-70’s; older brother of Trace; widowed; retired preacher; took Hennessey under his wing when she landed in Texas.

Jeb: J.E.B. Stewart Dunsmore; mid-20’s; adopted by Ted & Nell with sister Ari. Army vet.

Deli: Det. Lt. Sam Giardelli; near 70; retired cop; old Army buddy of Trace’s with whom he’s been friends for 40+ years.

Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.

The Hound of the Baskervilles, A. Conan Doyle

1 - A Saturday morning in winter, a toney Paradiso Island brownstone

The lithe 40-something blonde squared her tanned shoulders as she paced her home office. She held the phone with a grip that turned her knuckles a sickly pasty white, Well how much longer will you be? Perfectly pedicured feet slapped the original Prohibition Era oak flooring with each step.

Should have gone ahead and put that gorgeous wool carpet in during the renovation. Damn decorators. Wrapped only in a thick, pure white bath sheet she began to feel a chill. Then again, when I sell this monstrosity, I’ll probably get more because of it. First-timers from Manhattan and rubes from elsewhere else seem to love the whole roaring Rat Pack retro mashup. Pffft!

The babbler hadn’t noticed Summer Bean-Pict’s silence or exclamation so she went back to listening. Suddenly she grimaced hard and abruptly pulled the thing away. Covering some part of it, as if that would keep the caller from hearing her, she shouted, Boy! She never could remember the name of her male assistants. They were always quitting on her. Thankfully there’s always another, just as freshly minted, just as eager to live the island life, after slaving for me 9-5 first that is. Well, at the start anyway.

She made a mental note: No tip for the muted masseuse, not even a desultory smile for the slacker-on-duty. Was it Todd or Rod?

She was not used to waiting for anyone – never had been - but now, these last few amazingly-liberated and personally empowered years she’d gone beyond routine abruptness with minimum wagers like sycophantic shop girls and unshaven cabbies. Her rudeness went so far as the lackeys sent by Island royalty and the gatekeepers at some of the finest restaurants. If the spirit moved her.

And it took considerable effort to keep from moving with the spirit-of-the-moment. The one trying, it seemed, to compel her to fling the new, horridly expensive piece of plastic - or whatever her phone-du-jour was made out of - against the nearby wall of windows. As she looked down to the private back gardens she noticed some grimy streaks on a few of the below eye-level eco-friendly glass panes.

She made a mental note: reprimand housekeeper; maybe fire her.

That outdoor space, now a bamboo serenity sanctuary stood waiting, silently, behaving as all things she owned were expected to. But this time, this thing mocked her merely by meeting expectations. Both Summer’s banker and realtor had warned her against the fiscally and legally risky investment. First, in Paradiso Asian just wasn’t in, second, since her neighborhood was by legend at least the birthplace of Uncas, the great sachem of the Mohegans, they worried bamboo plantings flouted local Historic Era preservation ordinances. They didn’t need or want the Native-American anti-development gang on another warpath. Looks like they were right; this isn’t helping. Maybe a kiva…. She put the phone back to her ear as slowly as possible.

Say again, she demanded then mumbled, bad connection or something. She listened, eyes closed, breathing slowly in, slowly out, as her yoga coach instructed.

She snapped the phone shut without so much as a Bye. What would she do for the next ten minutes? This was supposed to be her hour. Why couldn’t they show on time? They didn’t get that stealing her time was stealing her money. That’s robbery. Rob! Robert…that’s it.

Something clattered in the hallway. She’d half-forgotten she’d called the delinquent assistant. Half-forgotten he still lurked somewhere in the house, so when the door to the office burst open it only scared her half to death. The rest of her was happy. Here was a real live somebody she could hurl something at.

About time. Find me a new masseuse, she noticed he held something vaguely familiar, I can’t take any more bad news; that’ll have to wait, she said, turning her back on him and stomping around the portable massage table he’d wrestled with earlier. She gazed out the dirty windows again.

O.K.. I mean, O.K. on the masseuse, but here, you need, I mean… the young man sputtered, dropping a Special Delivery envelope onto her conference table, "I think you’ll want to see this." The 9 by 12 envelope made a slapping sound too, on the thick glass top.

She turned reluctantly. Half a room away wasn’t far enough to keep her from fully recognizing the packet and its unmistakable addendum.

Where in God’s name did that creepy baby thing come….Then of course she remembered.

Her daughter’s trademark cartoonish smiley-face & crossbones smirked at her, mocked her, chastised her boldly, in fat marker. Scrawled underneath it in the same equally bold lines? REFUSED. A noxious smell still came from the permanent black ink. It snaked towards her, surrounded what little bit of serenity she’d conjured up so far that morning.

Damn it! She threw her phone. In addition to a short fuse, Summer had a decent aim.

Oh, hell! She’d hit her target but only then realized how valuable that refusal might have just made it. The cheaply framed photo was of the cartoon’s presumed artiste - estranged daughter, Hennessey. The hit was angry enough to knock it back, flat onto the shelf the divorce-lawyer insisted Summer keep full of family photos.

The annoyingly accurate sometimes even prescient professional had always said – off the record – that winning in the Court of Law was as much about what appeared to be true, as what was true. So Summer had been advised – off the record - that sure, Paradiso’s financial safe-zone was pretty much impenetrable. But….

If mother wanted to maintain the unique long-distance control of daughter’s trust fund, she had better appear involved in the girl’s life. Only thing was, the photo now on its back was of a teenage Hennessey six years earlier, wearing a grungy t-shirt with the original handmade smiley skull & crossbones. Back then Summer lived in New York City and had made the tedious journey all the way up into the farthest reaches of Connecticut’s boonies. Her reward? The teen posing like she did everything else: sullenly and seemingly immune to gifts of an upper crust lifestyle. Fortunately the beautiful wooded campus of her exclusive New England boarding school smiled charmingly in the background.

The assistant hadn’t moved. Maybe this one really was smarter than the others, she thought.

Damn it all, she said, I know full well she needs some money by now…you’d think…. She noticed the pathetic creature was looking rather wide-eyed. For a moment she’d forgotten about the fate of her phone.

Robert…get me a new phone. Instantly he began digging in a pocket. Presumably for his own. Presumably to make the necessary calls. Better yet, she said, waiting a split second before snapping her fingers at him. Finally he looked up. Better yet, she repeated, hand out, just toss me yours. Summer looked at it. It was a cheaper version of hers. Basically a knockoff and like the one her last assistant had had, so there’d be no learning curve.

She made another mental note: call that Photoshop-artist a friend back in New York was using now. It’s past time I updated with some new happily-divorced and cordially-co-parenting mementos. Monday night, after all the kissing-up to daughter Hennessey and to T. Race Pict, at the 70th birthday party bash she was throwing for him, she’d have plenty of new photos. The candid party shots she’d be paying through the nose for, would certainly show them two at a time, and all three of them in at least a few. Summer would make sure of it.

She turned the phone over to familiarize herself with it. Just get yourself one of those disposables, she said, like the terrorists always buy, but call me first. To give me the number. Because I need you to--

He cut her off. I know, I know…. Simultaneously he backed towards the still open door, …get the ‘H’ out of here…. He looked down at the floor, maybe praying she wouldn’t find something else to throw at him this time.

Stop. And just shut…up, she said, reassessing his intelligence level way down.

No. Now listen. I need you to get your butt on a plane to Dallas…this instant, she reached for the envelope but he was turning away, Wait! He turned back and she held it out to him.

"Your plane, ma’am?"

"Um, no…and how many times do I need to tell you it’s not my plane; I only have use of it. It’s the Women’s Equity Foundation’s plane and anyway, I have no clue whether its over here or over in New York on such short notice. So no, you’ll fly commercial. Coach. There and back. I actually check your expenses, she waited for him to look at her. Got that?" He nodded.

Here. The address is still legible, see? she pointed to the name on the printed label: Ted Dunsmore. Underneath the name was his pretentious sounding street address. Summer assumed it was in the kind of neighborhood any nouveau-riche celebrity, especially a man-of-the-imported-Italian-cloth like Ted, would milk for every drop of cachet it was worth. When dry, he’d find something even riche-er. She looked back over her shoulder at the garden. Maybe she needed all-new digs. Something more modern than this 1899 misshapen monstrosity. Maybe back in New York. Her stomach lurched. If her faux reconciliation party didn’t make the right impression - and it couldn’t without both father and daughter present - she’d not only be nearer bankruptcy, but come off the fool in a room peppered with hired paparazzi. And if only one showed, the other would walk out. Hell no, he or she’d stomp out.

Listen to me, Robert, really listen, because this is important. There’s barely two days left before this shindig and without her it won’t be much of a family photo-op, now will it? She didn’t wait for an answer. I need you to put this in Ted Dunsmore’s hands, personally. No leaving it with the maid; no leaving it with the wife. O.K.?

He nodded.

"Look him up on the Internet so you know what he looks like this week. You hand it to him and him alone, and I don’t care if you have to sit through all five, or however many, of his Saturday church services to do it. O.K.?"

He nodded, took the envelope, and started to leave.

"And tell him to impress upon my daughter that if she doesn’t show, if she refuses me again…she’ll remain a pauper and he can forget about his and my agreement. He’ll know what I mean."

He nodded and waited. The doorbell sounded in the background.

Um, get going? And if that’s the masseuse have her wait in the hall until I shout for her. Thanks. As he left she turned, went to the folding table and hopped up on it.

Summer punched in the number of her realtor. Why not kill two birds with one stone? She made a mental note: find new assistant with massage therapist’s license.

The realtor’s phone rang only once and was picked up. Wow. Now that’s platinum service.

"Bithia? Summer. Listen--

"I know it’s Saturday and I know you’re busy. Why else would you be my agent--

"Phase me out? What the hell--

"I thought you liked all those frequent flyer miles. Platinum status for Platinum Realty you always--

"Full time in…no, don’t say it. Not Texas. Not you, of all--

"O.K. so it’s booming down there, but I need you to--

"Fine. But just a few minutes, that’s all. Promise. You know what I like and you can tell your replacement--

"Associate-in-charge. Great. Just tell her--

"Him. Even better. Tell him I’m putting out feelers. I need to know what I can get for this place and--

"Yeah, yeah. Give the remodel six months and I’ll be in love, you said--

"I know it’s only been four, but hell, I’m not even feeling a tingle, Bith--

"I think you already know where I’d move to. Back to--

"I did say I’d never go back, but I still know people. You for one, and lots of others. Besides, most of my lawyers are there and Mother has a small place--

"Right, right. I forgot. She ended up selling it and lent me the biggest chunk for these damn renovations here, and at the loft. So sue me--

"What do you mean it’s a buyer’s market here in Connecticut but it’s a seller’s in the City? This pint sized Vegas-imitation is, what, only 90 miles east and--

"Oh, so it’s just slow here right now. Meaning with you working for me, rather, your associate, I could have a buyer in a jiffy but I could only afford a studio with room for a Murphy bed in Manhattan, is that about the size of it--

"Yeah, ha ha, square-footage humor. That’s me all right--

"I know, I know, Bithia, of course it’s not your fault--

"Things could change because of what?

"Geez, Bith, guess I missed that news story. Status turned down and not just medical marijuana…

"Appealing the decision. When?

"Maybe soon enough for real estate to turn around--

"Hmm-m-m. Like Amsterdam? Brownies and joints and everything for anybody--

"Well thank God for that. Got to be eighteen at least. Whew. Don’t want the kids getting any ideas they can just take the Tube or the ferry down the Thames or across the sound to Paradiso and get high or--

"Right. I knew that, it’s not technically Connecticut. Not technically the U.S. I had to have a passport practically since I was born to come down here from the country place. It’s sovereign, like an Indian nation--

"Oh, now it’s one of those too?

"Always was one. Never knew that--

"Oh. The zen-bamboo ‘situation’ we paid somebody to overlook--

"Yup. That’s why my dad and granddad always wanted to have their businesses down here, always a way around problems--

"Yeah, it has been more than a few minutes--

"Sell the loft, too? I can’t now--

"Artist districts are always hot? Hm-m-m. Well, you know very well I’ve got this women’s art thing going, the special grants and all, I don’t think I could--

"Alright, I’ll consider it if you think I’m going to need that much--

"No way in hell would I go cheap and have to live back up in the boonies. Not near my mother fulltime. I got out of those woods as fast as I could and I’m not--

"Who?

"UniCalm Pharmaceuticals? Of course I’ve heard of them. Probably earned their stockholders big bonuses after my divv--

Oh, O.K. Thanks. I’ll let you get back to them and their relocation deal was it? Summer didn’t wait for the jet-setting realtor to interrupt this time. "But you promise you’ll get that associate-guy of yours on my case quick?

Thanks, Bith. Bye to…. The woman cut her off. "Uh-h-h, you, too. Geez, I think your parents left the ‘c’ out of your name, girlfrenn…."

Summer snapped the phone closed and hopped down off the massage table. Maybe I should go back on that UniCalm scrip. Just until after the party. Still got a half bottle. She walked silently this time, towards the hallway. The waiting masseuse was turned away, messing with her own phone.

As if to rationalize the decision to self-medicate, the mistress of the house barked her summons towards the woman at the top of her lungs, startling the poor creature and rattling the new light fixture overhead.

2 - Saturday, same time, Doublespring, Texas

Hennessey Pict-Bean’s eyes flew open. Words spoken in a dream or merely from her sleep-deprived brain had awakened her and now echoed through her mind.

…a roving ambassador from the Afterlife…

She rubbed her eyes.

The Afterlife?

The winter sun was well up but the classic motorhome’s dingy old bedroom draperies did an amazing job; she strained to focus on the nearby stretched-canvas. She assumed its tall menacing silhouetted figure had fueled her subconscious pronouncement.

I’ll after-life you, damn it, or I’ll--

She stopped mid-thought, not because she was a religious freak, like the rest of her Texas-family and had said a swear-word, but because she was plain-old superstitious.

She lay on the lumpy bed, fully-clothed, half under, half out of a quilt more ancient than the silver bullet-on-wheels she’d called home. One by one she twisted then bent her fingers to their popping-points, proving she, too, needed de-stressing. And not just from one more fitful night which could be so easily fixed, she was convinced, with the right ambience.

Yup, long ago somebody down here gave me the sure-cure. Said all I needed was some good old white-noise.

At the time the hard-edged 15-year-old runaway had wondered if everything Down South, even getting to sleep, really was racist.

As her current thoughts picked up speed - all without benefit of morning caffeine or sugar - she smiled, remembering those ancient days and her Yankee naiveté. Thought she’d sleep like the proverbial baby once she’d escaped that Up North white noise…the distractions, distinctive smells, and constant sounds of New York. That being free of it would make all the difference. Thought or assumed she’d find true peace running away from her so-called loving home and mother – which in fact were both Mommy-dearest dysfunctional.

She hadn’t. But at least nobody here and now told her to lay off the caffeine or sugar.

Fortunately, what the then-kid now semi-independent-20-year-old young woman had found when she literally got off the bus in Texas was an entirely different animal from the one Summer had conjured - and droned on and on about - for Hennessey’s entire life. Slowly but surely the imaginarily-creepy Texas proved for the most part just a different flavor of Equally-Varied cities-plus-suburbs. With the added bonus of an extended hot-as-Hell season.

Sure, five years later Hennessey still felt different than the Texas portion of her family tree. Primarily because for that five years she’d lived a precariously North-South kind of existence. Lived between her family tree’s proverbial rock and hard-place, otherwise known as her mother’s and father’s nana-branches. She did, therefore, have a soft spot for one northerner: her Yankee Nana, Letty….the woman had funded most of Hennessey adventure, after all. Until recently, that is. The 20-year-old had been released - as agreed upon at the start - from that grandmother’s five-year safety net. Hennessey kept silent but often wondered if her nana knew Summer still hadn’t sent any trust-fund money.

And in Trailer-Park Nana’s branch, here in Texas, there was the whole Bible Belted rich-family poor-family thing to deal with. Hennessey offered an interesting diversion on occasion. Tried her best not to be bothered, but still cringed when they or others noticed her up-north or back east accent; still scowled when they chided her east-coast urban fashion sense. But then, certain of them would proclaim it was no surprise, since half of her was descended from a self-centered multi-generational Yankee bloodline. When they thought she couldn’t hear they’d call her a poor dear who’d been thoroughly Manhattan-nized, perhaps even tainted by more than a few trips to her hippie father’s neighborhood, whether in The City or the east coast’s very own sin-city, Paradise.

Didn’t even call it by its real name, Paradiso. Probably never heard of Dante, or didn’t know there were languages other than English and Spanish. Besides, I pretty much left my snobbery in the first trashcan I found once I escaped the drones-in-training back in that War park. Changed out of that God awful preppy straightjacket and skirt and I still hate oxford cloth. And plaid. And pleats.

So what if Summer spoke of Hennessey’s whereabouts in Texas with contempt - albeit rarely, to mega kiss up Ted. He’d tell his wife, Hennessey’s Aunt Nell. She’d tell her; thought the girl should know the truth. Even the harsh family kind of truth. That when the woman did mention the Lone-star State, or anywhere else south of, say, NYC’s Battery Park, it grudgingly became a distasteful, embarrassingly untouchable, geographical nether region called, Down There.

Well, I find even thinking of that woman as Mother distasteful and embarrassing, she thought. Aunt Nell’s been more of a real mother to me in the last five years than Summer has in the last fifteen.

Besides, now that Hennessey was an outsider, practically an ex-Yankee, that sort of attitude seemed beyond snooty. Though New Yorkers - and Paradiseans to a lesser extent - would likely deny that to the death. It was unwittingly provincial of them to feel so high and mighty for being ensconced high up in glass or chrome walled castles, seemingly protected by their cold, murky river-moats. But Hennessey could see how it served a more practical purpose for Summer. Avoiding Texas. meant one more divorce-related T-word purged from her vocabulary, along with Hennessey’s Dad’s name, the equally contemptible T, Trace.

The young woman eased up from the bed. It wasn’t much of a stretch, literally, to reach the painting. So she touched its surface. Like ripping off a band aid versus touching it gingerly, she went for the full reality: swished her fingers back and forth in wide s shapes.

The surface of Hennessey’s latest canvas communicated just as clearly as any bound volume of Braille would have to Helen Keller. All uppercase letters. It screamed, What a hellacious mess you’ve made.

So much for the wasted late-night hours.

Damn it all to… she began aloud, again stopping herself.

Not going there; I’m not going there…she chastised herself silently. Oo-oo-o.

She was getting a stress-relieving idea and it wasn’t good. It starred Xacto® knives and a slashed painting, phone calls and a cancelled solo show; she looked away from the millions or billions of broken permanent acrylic-on-permanent acrylic bubbles quickly. Looked over at the pricey oversized color copies she’d had made of the comic-panels she’d sent to her agent the day before.

Except for troubling aspects in the overall story concept, it was a job she was entirely proud of. Deftly finished and, she believed, a palette which successfully conveyed the mood requested by the creative duo. Rather than a threesome, she just knew they were a twosome: a writer and penciler/inker. Simply from the enclosed minimal background on the main character. The latter had sent a facsimile of his (from the generic vengeance-theme she presumed it was a guy) first brainstorm rough; claimed it’d been on a piece of waste paper.

And that was what continued to upset Hennessey.

Geez, I’m having nightmares about the dude, she grabbed the copy they’d supplied. The pencil sketch that had supposedly started it all.

Same stupid hat; check. Her nana called it a fedora, but Hennessey now knew the Indy-hat was pretty much a hero-trope.

Same stupid coat; check. Well, at least in the panels he got it right. Made it sufficiently longer in ink than in the first pencil sketch. So the coat, too, fit the hero-trope. She looked at the character’s original sketchy hand. It held an iconic lighter; open, eternally burning. The inked panels only had the guy flipping it back and forth.

Same…. She stopped. Remembered something from when she was a little girl. A distinctive metallic flicking open and snapping closed. Flicking open and… They all do that, she said, recollecting how Trace used to fidget with a similar lighter.

Said it helped him think. Yeah, think about how to betray his family next, probably.

She shook her head.

The panels she’d done weren’t exactly violent, but she was certain the following story pages would get that way. And if the dude was going to burn his victims, like the name on the cover implied? She shivered. In a way, these are pre-violent. Like a hate thought-crime.

The people the comic’s vigilante/supposed-hero investigated and watched and labeled criminals? They were both women - in her panels anyways. One supposedly killed a boyfriend; the other, her own kids.

Have I turned into a Minority Report wacko or just a traitor…to my own gender? I mean, cutting up a painting would be more stupid than bad, but working for a Vigilante-justice rag? Against people that should be presumed innocent until proven guilty?

Now she was thinking that it had been a bad idea for sure.

What if it gave some certifiable loony-tune the idea he could…

A quote popped into her mind; she reluctantly smiled, relaxed a bit: Ideas can’t kill; acting upon ideas is what can kill.

Trace hadn’t used those exact words, not to her as a kid of course, but he’d taught her the basic concept of Free Speech. In the first, and only, five years he’d been around. Her face went blank just as quickly; mouth then went hard; teeth clenched. She should vow never to speak to him again…but…he was the one who’d made the trust-fund possible. And she still might get some of it.

Someday, if Summer…

Sure, sometimes her mother’d been certifiable. As in witch. But, her father? He was just a typical man. Love ‘em, get ‘em pregnant, and leave ‘em.

Hennessey’d read a headline somewhere about her playboy of a father; he was about to make - and probably break - a third family.

She stood, grabbed the long narrow rectangle of embarrassingly-glazed stretched canvas. She glared at the final cartoony Un-super Hero for her solo series,

Maybe if I stand the thing up when I put the next layer…

Without thinking, she flipped it around; whacked her newest wind chime hanging directly overhead.

It’s gentle sound was all wrong. Like all the others before it. None had the soothing quality she’d been looking for, a sound she’d swear she could remember from the womb if that was possible. But an ethereal happy childhood was the last thing she needed to be channeling at the moment.

Dropping the painting flat onto the bed allowed her to reach up and grab this latest aggravation - at its most vulnerable point and with a crushing strength. She’d anticipated its silence alone would be insufficient. So with a swift wrenching motion Hennessey had the offending object in-hand, then with an aim she realized would’ve even made her estranged mother proud she’d flung the thing all the way to the front. The mangled midair melody was muffled as it skidded to a halt and lay mute on the carpeted console between the motorhome’s twin bucket seats.

Ne-e-ext, she thought, opening herself to possibilities greater than merely toss-the-wind chime.

The phone in her pocket rang. She limited herself to merely rolling her eyes. Such things were too expensive to throw.

Great.

Third time that morning.

Should have left the thing on mute, she thought and tried to ignore it until it finally went to voicemail. Probably another stupid political survey. Like I’d vote.

A knock sounded at the side door. The young woman started.

Damn it, she swore quietly, mad at her inattentiveness. She prided herself on knowing precisely when to duck into either the tiny shower or the equally-tiny toilet area to avoid unwanted visitors. Like the one she spotted through the kitchen mini-blinds. Rocky. Three or so years before the now 69-year-old