MAGPIE
MAGPIE
a Novel
M.A. Reyes
ROTOR Publishing, a Division of ROTOR Consulting, LLC.
Kindle Edition
Magpie Copyright © by Megan A. Reyes
ISBN 978-0692381441
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN 978-0692381441
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Cover Illustration © 2014 by Clyde Steadman
Graphic Art by Faith Rumfelt
Editing by Priscilla Bohl and Alexa Poteet
Poetry by Robert S. Warshow
Formatting by
Wild Seas Formatting
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The Magpie
I walked one day
In the Garden of Wasted Things,
And there I found
The bitter ghosts of all that had been spent unwisely,
Or lost through brutal circumstance.
I found the childhood
That some labourer’s child had never known;
I found the youth that some young man had squandered;
There I found some poet’s genius
That had gone unrecognised.
I saw the ghosts of idle words,
And small talk,
That men had used to waste away the hours.
I saw the hopes that had been smothered,
And all the dreams
That never had come true,
And Laughter that had died for lack of bread.
I met with all the lives that had been misdirected,
And spoke with dreary shades
Of loves that might have been,
And songs that never had been sung.
I met with all these ghosts,
And many more;
And each of them
Sat silently in the shadows,
Brooding over quirks of mad Creation,
And puppets’ dreams.
Robert S. Warshow
BOOK 1
Spring
CHAPTER 1
April’s Dribble
I
despise April Fools’ Day. Even as a child, I hated the idea of playing tricks on people. My friends and family had grown accustomed to my “sensitive nature,” a label my mother slapped across my forehead when I was in first grade. Eventually, I learned to stay away from mean people, saving my mother the embarrassment of admitting her eldest was a crybaby. By the time I reached adulthood, I’d come to know the source of humankind’s dark side: Fear, a fundamental emotion that drives ghastly behaviors and prompts oblivious conspirators to revel in the suffering of others. In the end, all of my brouhaha kept me at arm’s length from the people I loved most, including my sister.
Hunting for the phone buzzing on my nightstand, I finally answered, “Hello?”
“Is your refrigerator running?” A familiar voice asked on the other end.
I squinted at the clock and barely made out the time. “Katie, it’s five-o’clock in the morning, what gives?”
Even when I was angry, I’d never used my baby sister’s given name, Katherine; she’d always been Katie to me, and everyone around her. I often wished for a formal name. People inevitably expected more than “Maggie.”
“Oh come on, Maggie, it’s a classic! What would April Fools be if not for my annual wake-up call?”
Ordinarily, I cherished Katie’s playfulness, but not today. Her crack-of-dawn prank calls were an April 1
st
farce I’d endured since we left home; before then, she’d invent other, equally annoying ways to rouse me for her amusement.
“Katie, I’ve got a helluva day ahead of me. Please just leave it alone.” I didn’t want the call to drag on. Chances were things would escalate, as had been the pattern lately. I had far too much on my mind to spend time tiptoeing around Katie’s feelings.
“What a drag, Mags. Just trying to make you laugh, which you haven’t done lately, by the way.”
Katie was like a puppy—not a purebred, but a sweet mutt, capturing the attention of anyone within petting range. Simply put, Katie managed to keep an innocent outlook on life and people adored her for it.
“I know, I know. It’s just the worst day possible, okay? How about dinner later this week?” I had to put a stop to the conversation, and a dinner offer usually worked, especially when I picked up the check, which I did often.
With detachment, Katie said, “Sure, sounds fun. Well, hope whatever it is you’re worried about today goes okay for you. Talk later.”
I disconnected the call before I could hear the click of her indifference to my situation.
***
My
situation
. What was it, exactly? Arranging the noise in my head, I dissected my life and jotted two words on a notepad,
Personal
then
Professional
Straining to expand the two categories, I realized I needed coffee to delve further into my fragmented life. I grabbed the notepad, stepped into my slippers and cozied into my favorite red robe—the one Jack gave me the Christmas before he died. The sky was turning my favorite shade of peach, and I stared out the bedroom window yearning for the longer, warmer days of summer.
“Oh for Pete’s sake, Cody,” I said, tripping over the chocolate Lab we adopted almost ten years before.
I made my way to the kitchen to make a pot of
Café Pajaro
, an organic fair-trade blend that had become a favorite since cancer beat Jack at a final game of life. The strong coffee gave me the oomph I needed to get through those tortuous days; the particular brand provided interesting coffee talk, distracting concerned friends and family from my anguish,
Wow, this is great coffee, Mags. What is it?
It’s from Trader Joes, a Fair Trade
blend that helps sustain Central America’s economy and environment. It guarantees farmers a minimum price, and links farmers directly with importers, creating long-term sustainability...
Very cool! Do you have any cream?
Strangely, I couldn’t imagine drinking any other kind; the brightly colored image on the cardboard canister soothed me like a child’s favorite blanket.
Catching my balance, I scratched my old dog’s head, “Cody, you’re going to kill me, you know that?” Oblivious to the message but responding to my gentle tone, he wagged his way into the kitchen. “Coffee first, then food, buddy.”
I wasn’t lonely; at least I didn’t think I was. I missed the commotion of family—plain and simple. Memories had become haphazardly arranged like scraps of fabric I’d collected over the years, stowed in opaque plastic boxes crammed into the closet of my rarely used sewing room. I wanted to hear my son’s clumsy steps first thing in the morning; sense my husband’s gentle breath on my neck as we woke in unison; and laugh at our carefree conversations over breakfast. More than anything, I wanted to feel the love between us, even if it meant just one more time. As I had for seven years, I tucked those memories away, straining to close the closet doors to my mind.
“So, Cody, here’s the deal, buddy. I forgot to get your food yesterday. My bad. So, I can make you eggs and throw in some yogurt, sound alright by you?” He approved, his tail told me so.
Scrambling a couple of eggs brought me back to ruminations about my dual existence. I wondered if most people spent as much time dwelling on their lives as I did. Coffee in hand, I sat at the breakfast bar and began to elaborate,
Personal
House
Grandkids
Vacation!
New car?
New man? Yeah, right…
I pondered my personal life for a moment, then went on to the other column,
Professional
Asshole boss
New project – ugh!
Staff reorg
Raise??
New job – start looking?
Before I could give my life anymore thought, the phone buzzed with a text,
Today, 5:47 AM
KATIE: You mad?
MAGS: No, just busy
KATIE: Just trying to cheer u up!
MAGS: I know its ok
KATIE: What r u doing?
MAGS: Katie pls
KATIE: Ok, just don’t be mad
MAGS: I’m not, really
KATIE: K
MAGS: K
KATIE: Latr
“Cody, why don’t you chew up my phone like other dogs do, huh buddy?” I put my cell phone down and scratched Cody’s neck.
I loved my brown dog and dreaded the day he’d be gone. Though worn, Cody was the thread that tied me to Jack and Michael. I understood why Carrie, Michael’s wife and the mother of my grandchildren, moved back to California. Her parents were there and the painful memories of Michael weren’t.
They died on the same day; Jack from cancer and Michael from a bullet. Jack was in my arms and Michael was eight thousand miles away in Afghanistan. Along side four of his brothers…but not me. I wanted to hold my son as I had with his father, but the only thing left to hold onto were memories, and an eight by ten photograph from his Navy SEAL graduation.
I got up for a second cup of coffee, pouring the heavenly brown liquid into my favorite green mug Jack picked up in Wyoming—a beefy hunk of unbreakable ceramic that holds two cups, not one. Before sitting back down, I stopped at the backdoor window and stared at the barren yard, longing for the first signs of spring. Gardening had become an indispensible escape from all the discord; soul-crushing squatters that refused to vacate my body. Shaking off painful memories, I heard the buzz of a text—the third one and it wasn’t even 7:00 AM.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Katie!” I said aloud, and looked at the screen,
Today, 6:23 AM
TOM: Hey gorgeous
MAGS: Oh hi
TOM: Whoa! What’s with the mood
MAGS: Bad start - How r u?
TOM: Horny
MAGS: Not me
TOM: Can I call?
MAGS: Maybe latr
Tom, Match Date #1, was the first guy I’d met on-line since my friends convinced me to start dating. He was an attractive, well-educated and opinionated banker. Still, his on-line profile stood out from the rest, and I was instantly attracted. I found it clever, light hearted and sexy,
Maybe it’s just me, but describing myself in 2000 characters is not my idea of fun. I’d rather be doing something useful, like lying on the couch watching Golf Channel. Apparently, though, this is a critical procedure in meeting new ladies, so here goes, I’ll be gentle; I think I’m generally considered by everyone who knows me to be a decent, intelligent, all-around good guy. I have heard I’m handsome, funny, focused, laid-back, distinguished, good lover (I could swear I’ve heard that one, may be wishful thinking), generous, and fun. I’m better looking than my photos indicate. (No, really, I am. Really. I swear. Maybe.) I do tend to be intense in some activities. My humor can be wicked at times. Physically, I’m lean with an athletic build, so petite/slender women work better for me, and they ride better on the back of the Suzuki. (KIDDING, lighten up!) Just a regular guy. No issues, warrants, skeletons, or weird stuff…
We had a few dates, and I was pleased that he picked up the tab on each. I offered, of course; I never understood the “guy always pays” rule. Still, something bothered me about Tom. He was, as he described, a thin, toned guy. Handsome as hell. I was, as truthfully described in my own profile, “curvy” with “a few extra pounds.” I also disclosed that, while, “I am active and enjoy outdoor activities,” I’m not “athletic and toned.” Tom’s desire for petite, toned women made me wonder if his interest in me was a flesh fetish some men discover in middle age. I never found out, because during date three, Tom casually asked if I’d like to go back to his place to get to know each other better.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no prude, and like sex as much (or more) than the next fifty-something gal. But sex on the third date? Our first date was simple: coffee at a local coffee joint near his office. (I was playing it safe.) The second one involved lunch halfway between our respective offices. (Not near either of our homes, not yet). Date #3, dinner at a trendy sushi bar. (Closer to his home than mine.) I didn’t go by any hard rules, but a general sense about a guy gave me comfort, knowing his last name even better. Unless, of course, it was a one-night stand, in which case I didn’t want to know anything about him.