Guile or Innocence?

“Director, the old coot who used to write those questionable stories croaked during the night.”

“Hmm?” James Glover looked up at his newest hire, caregiver Ronald ‘Big Ron’ Donahue. “I’ll call the doctor. He’ll handle things from here on out.”

“Mr. Glover, here’s the file,” his secretary bustled in. “It’s so sad. He could be a lot of fun.” A touch of pink tissue dotted just under her right eye before she turned to leave.

“Maisie, let the Dr. Stein know, will you?” That said, he opened the folder and gestured for Big Ron to sit opposite him. “Oh, his two previous caregivers, Jovino and Gonzalo – weren’t they the guys I fired before hiring you?”

“That’s right. I’ve been here for nine days, working primarily with our ‘author’ – if you can call him that – and his neighbors Gerald, Sr., Harold – you know, the one who plays the ukulele – Amos, and Throckmorton, who likes to be called Throcky.” Knowingly, he smiled.

The director’s eyes found what he was looking for, the deceased’s contact information, cremation authorization (pre-paid) – “Hmm, he wants his ashes scattered on our shrubbery – and here’s a copy of his fully executed will. This is odd: no relatives, only a friend in the Navy to contact and a New York lawyer. You know anything about that?”

“No, sir. I’ve only been here nine days.”

“Hmm. The will’s brief. He leaves his entire estate to some outfit in Florida called the Stonewall Museum and Archives. Okay, go gather his things, make a list of everything, put them in boxes and see what else can be done to assist the doctor. I’ll notify this lawyer,” he reached for his telephone.

Within an hour, Big Ron was back, some papers in one hand. “What about this?” he asked, handing over the pages. “He printed it out before wiping the computer. I mean, really wiping it, apparently last night.”

“Have you read it?” Director Glover looked hard at Big Ron, who turned red and sat down again.

The director, a frown on his brow, leaned back and read this:

MAMA STEPS IN
Dedicated to the memory of my two departed caregivers,
Jovino de la Cruz and Gonzalo Mendez who understood.
I miss you both.

Betty-Lou Davis, hair askew, was stuffing wet laundry in her dryer when she heard the front screen door thump. “Is that you, honey?”

Like a flute going flat, the tiny dulcet voice dropped, “Yes’m.”

What on earth?

One corner of her mouth blew at a stray tress. She dried hands on her apron and punched the old machine’s start button. It groaned into reluctant life.

There, at the kitchen table, sat adorable Dickie, his head of caramel-brown ringlets rocking back and forth on the backs of sincerely clasped hands. A picture of dejection.

Oh me, his book bag’s dumped stuff all over my clean floor!

Picking up the crusts of his peanut butter and banana sandwich and its crumpled wax paper, one blown-upon tissue, a large pencil stub, and several broken Crayolas, she asked, “Sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She tried to ease the tension in his neck.

Dickie shrugged her hand away and moaned.

“Is my li’l puppy ill?”

The sound he made might have been an uh-huh.

“How ’bout some milk and a cookie?” – her motherly best when times were bad.

Roused from misery, Dickie managed, “Chocolate, please, and a fudge brownie.”

“My, you are feeling badly.” From behind the refrigerator door, she said in her most-sugary voice, “Tell Mama a-l-l-l about it.”

Red-eyed, Dickie looked up, forlorn. “Oh Mama,” he groaned as he took the refreshments, “it was awful.” A brownie halfway in his mouth, he mumbled, glass in hand, “Can I have a straw?”

“We’re out of straws, and I’m running out of patience. Fess up.”

He swallowed and swigged, turned chestnut-size eyes at hers, and began.

“I did everything like I was ’sposed to.”

“The way we practiced?”

“Yes’m.”

The brownie yielded a sprawl of crumbs to Dickie’s robin’s-egg-blue pullover.

How that color flatters his eyes, she blinked.

Betty-Lou held her eager tongue. Her raised brow asked, “So?”

Dickie glugged. Took in a fresh breath. Sighed. Burped. “I went right up to Mr. Crystal, gave him the apple you polished, and hugged him.”

“And?...”

“I snuggled my face right into his zipper like you said. It smelled nice. Only, he pushed me away and said, ‘Now, now, none of that, Dickie. Take your seat.’ Gave me a swat. So I bent over the desk and stuck out my tush and told him he could spank me. I was going to push my pants down but he stopped me and said real sharp-like, ‘Not..now..Dickie. Go..to..your..desk.’ Was that mean or what?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t friendly, was it?”

“Wait, Mama. I gotta drink the rest of my milk. It’s so good.”

“Here’s a napkin. You have a moustache.”

They laughed.

Dickie went on, “Mr. Crystal – you should see him when he leans back and flexes and stretches and his shirt pulls up and you can see his belly button and all the hair and the muscles! Mama, it is just wrong for him to do that and not take advantage of me like he should.”

He pouted.

“You’re right, son. Does he ignore the other boys, too?”

He nodded. What her boy said next embarrassed him, “He likes girls. He plays with them.”

Maternal steam built pressure.

“That’s unwarranted, inexcusable, unforgivable, and…and a violation of The Paedo County Board of Education’s Good Teacher’s Code,” she fumed.

His mom was about to go into action, Dickie knew the signs.

“Go pee and wash your hands and face in that order.”

“Yes’m.”

* * *

Cell phone in her hand, Betty-Lou Davis trooped next door, past the cement dinosaur, six-foot slide, jungle gym, and two abandoned, although still inflated, bouncing balls of Day-Glo chartreuse and orange. In her wake, wee Dickie Davis all a-twit.

“You there, Mis-ter Crys-tal,” Dickie’s mom called to the teacher, “I want a word with you.”

Handsome as young Brad Pitt, he removed his hand from under Jeanie Marshall’s polar bear print frock, patted her red plaits as he kissed her goodbye, sniffed his fingers, and stood, smiling broadly, “Why Mrs. Davis, I haven’t seen you since registration day.” A hanky dried his hand.

“Seeing as how that was yesterday, it’s good of you to remember.”

Sarcastic bitch.

“What’s this I hear about you neglecting my son?” Impatient, she plunged on, voice rising, “And the other boys? Listen to me, abusing little girls is beyond the pale. Their parts are private. That’s why they’re tucked inside. Boys’ parts are outside where they belong – for easy public access. Do you know anything at all about running a kindergarten? Girls need dolls to play with. They’ll go off in a corner and not bother the others. They do not need to be played with. Boys need attention. Why do you think we mothers pay your salary? See..right..there.” She indicated her boy.

Dickie struck a sexy pose, hands in his pockets, weight on one leg. Smirky gamin look. Hot to trot. Or something.

“Show Mr. Crystal your mouth. Not a pucker. Open it. He doesn’t need to see your teeth. Honestly, you’re provoking me! That’s better.”

She smacked Mr. Crystal’s muscular arm, “See how round he can make it? You know what’d fit right in there and rest on that sweet, pink tongue, don’t you, ’stead of those big peppermint canes he’s been sucking on?” She hit him again. “He’ll get cavities.”

“Drop your drawers, honeypot. Show Mr. Crystal here how small you are…No, not your fanny. We already know he’s turned that down. Your tallywhacker.”

Mr. Crystal was stiff as a plank, not where it counted. Betty-Lou found out by feeling him. Cold sweat broke on his brow. He felt…well, he wasn’t quite sure…but it scared him.

“That cute little thing and what’s underneath it – how do you expect them to grow without stimulation? You should be diddling Dickie’s parts if you care about him properly. What are you – a pervert?

At that cruel word, otherwise stalwart Chris Crystal paled and passed out.

Her eyes on his slumped form, disgust on her face, Betty-Lou called 9-1-1. “They’re on the way, Dickie. Pull your pants up and go back home. I’ll deal with this.”

“Yes’m.”

Thinking how deprived her poor son was, she watched his retreat. With regret for the moment, she touched in another number and waited for her call to be answered.

“Hello. Is that you Mr. Joshua? Still here, living on your houseboat? …Good. Good. Remember how last year you told us at the P.T.A. that if we needed a substitute teacher at the kindergarten, you’d be glad to fill in?...Yes, that’s right. And how you would do it for free – as a concerned visitor here?...Yes indeedy. Great. I’ll meet you at the door with the key tomorrow morning at eight…Of course, he will be with me. Dickie’s a year older and really hopeful…Sure, bring your folding cot and anything else you think you’ll need to make things go, you know, smoothly. Fine. You’re the answer to our prayers. Bye-bye.”

To the emergency team, she said, “Cart him off and don’t bring him back. He’s fired.”

They left with Chris Crystal on their stretcher. Betty-Lou called after them, “You might tell the police that one of the boys caught him doing the no-no with one of our baby girls. He’s a damn queer.”

Dusting off her hands, Betty-Lou Davis locked up and walked next door, happy.

Dickie’s going to be chafing at the bit.

* * *

Director Glover laughed out loud and plunked back into upright position. “That’s hilarious. Wicked I guess – outrageously so, but better written than those others and even funnier. Innocence on the teacher’s part, guile on the Mom’s. A hoot. Make sure it’s tucked into one of the boxes.” He hesitated, cleared his throat, handed back the story, and said, “Hmm… and have Maisie photocopy two of it, one for me and…hmm… one for you.”

Ablaze with embarrassment, Big Ron fled to the outer office as the home’s director lifted his telephone to seek information about contacting an ensign on a supercarrier – the U.S.S. Forrestal – if he even was still in the Navy. While doing so, Glover wondered what the connection was.

I wrote this to kid my friend, actual Ensign J.R., who patiently proofs my efforts at word-smithery. It should not be taken to represent his views on anything, especially the little tale's theme.