It's Always Something

“So you’ve been writing letters, young Lupe, you pixie-sized imp.”

I should probably explain that I had no intention of wounding the child. There is no better quality in the 12-and-under class than this little mischief-maker and, being my god-niece, she's one of the few inmates of the Village that I look forward to seeing on those occasions that I’m prevented from staying away.

“I write my mom once a week when she’s traveling,” said the Lupe.

“That’s not the kind of letter I’m talking about and you know it,” I said, adding emphasis on the last few words. I know her tactics, you see, and I wasn’t about to let her wiggle away from the intended subject. “I’m talking about the letter that’s been floating around with all the hallmarks of one of your magical spells.”

“Runes, you mean?”

“Not runes! Let’s not continue with attempted diversions, please. This is a serious overturn of the natural order that you’ve instigated and it must stop it now!”

“Why,” she asked.

“Because if it doesn't stop soon, the village curse will awaken and slither from the muck at the bottom of Lake Jordan to come make my life a living hell.”

“Jordan Lake,” she said.

I decided to appeal to her finer nature, if any, and so I said, “Lupe, please! I need your help. Will you rally round or not?“

“What curse?” she asked.

“Oh, why do you insist on making this so difficult? You know the curse. The aunt’s curse. Every time I visit this lunatic asylum, I suffer the effects of one of Fate’s practical jokes. The place becomes unfit for human consumption, especially this human.”

“But I live for those times,” she said, with a bright smile spreading across her face. “Nothing fun ever happens in the Village unless you’re here. Even Vickie Mason says that it’s the worst assignment in North Carolina for a blue bottle who wants to advance through the ranks. She has nothing to do.”

I raised a hand to quiet the little urchin. “Just one minute, young Lupe. Let’s stay on topic from now on but just for the nonce, explain to me what Vickie Mason has to do with this. And before you answer, let me assure you that we are going to get right back to that love letter. I’m too familiar with your tactics of diversion and obfuscation to fall for any of your tricks and, yes, I recognize that blue bottle remark as a diversion. Now—about Mason. What’s the story?”

“What does obfuscation mean?”

“Deliberately causing confusion. What about Mason?”

“She’s the new head of security.”

“Head of security?” I said. “What security?”

She laughed at the question. A full-throated, head-thrown-back laugh. “I know. Stupid right?” She shook the topknot and then continued, ”Uncle Gus decided the Village should have a security force to make the visitors feel safe. All the off-duty guides work as security guards and Vickie is the Chief.”

“But nothing here needs guarding. What’s the old boy thinking? Has he finally lost it?”

“The don’t guard. What they really do is answer visitor questions, give directions, run errands, that kind of thing. Mobile phone service sucks in the Village and the girl guides deliver messages for people.”

“But why would Vickie leave the county sheriff’s office and take a job like that?”

“Well, she says she took the job to have a better crack at pinching you.”

I marveled. I admit this took me by surprise and yet I was certain—the butterflies in the gut were certain—that the young geezer had hit the nail squarely on the head. Wham! Bam! Mason planed to set a trap for yours truly.

“You see, Lupe,” I said, “this is just the kind of thing I’m talking about when I speak of the curse. Mason simply can’t accept that I’m an innocent man. She has a vendetta against me. It goes all the way back to high school and that unfortunate incident involving underwear and flagpoles. No one should have to endure the level of persecution that’s directed toward me by that rural scourge.”

“Innocent? asked the shrimp. “Did you say innocent?”

“Innocent is what I said,” I said.

“But you burned down the girl guides dormitory.”

“Oh, my sainted aunt!” I said. “Are people still talking about that? Isn’t there a statute of limitations around here?”

“It only happened last Christmas,” she said.

“Exactly!” I said. “And I’ve explained at least a thousand times that it was not my fault. I had no other choice. You would have done the same if you had been at the scene, knowing that Mason and the rest of the sheriff’s deputies were going to arrive any minute. There was no time to phone Two Men and a Truck. I had to burn the place down to hide the evidence.”

 “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a wad,” she said, using one of Aunt Maggie’s trademark quips. “May Day Festival is only a few days away. Everyone is busy getting ready for it. Mason won’t have time to mess with you. And then barely able to contain the laughter, "She’s got to plan security.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said. “I hope so because Gwyn called me down here to do a little something for her and I don’t want any distractions.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “You’re going to have to devote all your attention to that little job,” she said, and she said it with a sort of solemness that caused the temperature in the room to rise.

“Oh, you know about the favor then? I hope it’s not another one of those harebrained schemes that only she can devise. I have enough black marks on my record resulting from the last favor she asked.”

"Why don't you just say no when she asks?"

"It's complicated," I said. "We have history."

"Oh," she said, "you mean it's like blackmail."

"Isn't it?" I said and I meant every word.

“Don’t worry,” said Lupe. “It’s not a big deal. You can do it standing on your head.”

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “What is it she wants anyway?”

“She wants you to slip into Alan’s room at the Inn and steal a ring.”

I'm Listening, Seattle

"Life comes hard and fast, Ms Wonder," I said as I entered the salle de bains. A dozen or so cats brushed past my legs on their way out but I maintained my composure and was not distracted. 

My mind was troubled with serious thoughts and I was focused like a laser pointer. The appearance of two or three strange cats held little interest for me, in much the same way that I was little interested in just where the hell Napoleon found that sleigh he used to escape Moscow.

"Inn of The Three Sisters" 

"Are you concerned about my driving to the cat hospital in the remnants of the Great Flood?" she said. She referred to the blustery winds and torrential rains that had recently rolled up their sleeves and begun throwing their weight about south Durham.

"No, no," I said. "Not the storm. I care not a whit for the storm. The storm is like the idle wind, which I respect not." 

That's what I said although I doubt I would say it again if the opportunity arose. I have a habit of quoting Shakespeare when I don't have anything better to say. It doesn't always get the job done but it could be worse.

"Not concerned about the storm? We have high winds and possibly flash flooding all day," she said.

I held up a hand. "I didn't come for a weather report," I said. "I have pressing matters that require your fish-fueled, size 10 brain."

"I'm listening," she said and for some reason, I thought of Seattle and morning rush hour in the 80's. I don't know why. Just a whim I suppose.

"Well, it's the Village of course," I said. "I thought I could forget that hell hole until the solstice rolls around, but," and I emphasized that last word to set her up for the punchline, which was, "it's gone and reared its ugly head again."

"You mean Pittsboro?" she said.

"Please, Wonder Thing, let's be perfectly clear," I said, "Pittsboro is quality. Pittsboro is full of special little treats, like unique shops and even uniquer events. No, it isn't Pittsboro that concerns me, it's what lies near there on the shores of Deep River--it's Cyrstal Cove village, for god's sake, and it's hovering again."

"Hovering?" she said.

"Hovering is what I said," I said, "and it's beckoning."

She put an arm around my shoulder. I should say she tried to put an arm around my shoulder but I'm a good deal taller and so she rather draped an arm from my shoulder.  Still, it was enough. I felt better immediately.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," she said. "I'm sure you're imagining something far worse than the future actually holds. Remember, the universe has your back."

And before you ask me, yes, it's what she said. I wouldn't mislead you, ever. You've stuck by me through thick and whatnot. She actually said the universe has your back.  I felt worse immediately.

"You wouldn't worry?" I said.

"Not at all," she said.

"Just one of those things, you think it to be?"

"Precisely."

"Then what the hell are those dozen text messages on my phone, all sent by denizens of the village, and most of them from inmates of the Three Sisters Inn?"

I thought that would get her attention and it did. She raised an eyebrow and I raised one back at her. She raised a second eyebrow. It seemed to be catching.

"Well," she said and I waited to hear what would come next.  But it was a bust. She said nothing and I realized that her finely tuned brain had finally come unglued. The Genome was now adrift on an angry sea and the blustery gale outside the window was nothing compared to what waited at the end of those text messages.

"Fraiser!" I exclaimed.

"What?" she said.

"Fraiser," I said. "It's what I was thinking about when thoughts of Seattle popped into my head."

 I couldn't actually see her as I turned and walked out the door but I have a feeling that she was watching me leave and shaking her head.

No Place Like Home

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You probably know the feeling I mean. My first thought, as I lay there underneath the blanket, was that if fingers are ankling up the leg, then the hand doing the walking belongs to the ghost that resides on the third floor of the Inn of the Three Sisters in the Genome ancestral home in Pittsboro. 

If you're not familiar with Pittsboro, it's the village that lies beside the Haw River south of Chapel Hill and is not to be confused with Saxapahaw, which also lies beside the Haw River. Easy to tell them apart; they're spelled differently.

But I've jumped the rails again. The topic is the ghost that's tickling my thigh. To face this ghost, as you may recall from an earlier post, requires a steel resolve if that's the term. But resolve isn't always abundant and it's been in short supply in recent days. I took a moment to breathe deeply and to muster the will.

Be still, I said to Princess Amy, who you probably know as that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells sitting on her throne in the middle of my brain. She's fond of stamping her foot and yelling, Off with their heads! or alternatively, Run for your life! I believe Napoleon had the same temperament.

As I lay in bed, taking my moment, I happened to remember an old saw I heard somewhere--it may belong to Ms. Wonder. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Well, you know how we Genomes are; men of action! I took that tide at the flood and threw back the duvet ready to claim the pot of gold or whatever it was the man had in mind.

Well, imagine my surprise, to discover not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, walking up my leg and I was not in Pittsboro but back home in Durham! And Durham is a good place to be. All's well that ends well and all that.

Now, I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds have been singing out of tune and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in her chips and retiring to Miami. 

But today is different, which isn't surprising because nothing is permanent, as the man said.  Was it the Buddha or Shakespeare? I get them confused. But surely it was one of the other. They seem to be responsible for everything that's worth repeating. Have you noticed?

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that life comes hard and fast and that the prudent person is ready for anything. How to be ready he never said exactly but I gathered that it required acceptance rather than resistance.

Though things came that close to falling apart over the last few days, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin that is my limbic system without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though spring were just around the corner. It's a positive frame of mind and it's contagious. I share that positive outlook today and it's due in no small part to paying attention to those birds. Master Wen might say it's due to simply paying attention--period.

Whatever the cause of my new attitude. I'm not questioning it. I'm just happy that knotted sheets didn't enter into it. I must give Ms Wonder credit for helping to clean my mental windows so that I could see more clearly. That's all I'm going to say about it for now.

I will say that it's good to be home again. There's no place like it.

The Morrigan OR the Morgan Sisters?

Morning came pouring into the grounds of Chatsford Hall from across the coastal plain and I knew that if the day was going to be anything like the one before, the sun would soon be popping up and throwing his weight around. I prefer to sleep in, of course, who wouldn't, but that option was taken off the table long ago.

With five cats in the house and a sainted mom living in the east end of this county seat of the Genomes,  it will come as no surprise that I rise with the larks and snails. If you've been paying attention to this personal review, then you know all about the larks, snails, and whatnot. If you're a stranger to these parts, then you should direct your questions or objections to the poet Browning. 

As I say, morning arrived and I slipped from beneath the duvet and moved toward the sound of rushing water. Billowing mists enveloped me as I moved onto the tiles of the salle de bains making it impossible to see anything within, other than an occasional bit of leafy jungle.

"Ms Wonder," I called and immediately felt what must have been a half-dozen cats brush my legs on their way out the door. No answer from Wonder though. I moved cautiously forward, brushing the foliage aside, and tried as best I could to follow the roar of the falls, for I knew that Wonder would be found there, submerged in the waters of the plunge basin, deep in morning meditation.

"Wonder," I called again. A little louder this time and I heard the unmistakable sound of a body rising from the depths, like Venus emerging from the sea, and a musical voice replied,

"What?"

'Musical' may be a little too kind. A little bit musical perhaps. But it was an answer and that's all I needed to correct course and in no more than half an hour, I was poolside.

"Thank goodness," I said breathing a deep sigh of relief, "I've found you."

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

Needless to say, for I'm sure you too noticed the lack of concern in her voice, I was astounded. I mean, here I was risking limb, if not life, traversing this lost world of the master bath to find her, and what do I get? The cool, distant motif, that's what I get, and I don't mind telling you, I didn't like it.

"Well?" she said after a few seconds of silence on my part.

"Is there a problem," I said. "Is there a problem! I'll tell you what the problem is."

"Do," she said.

"I am," I said. 

"You?", she said, "You're the problem?"

I ignored the jab and got to the point.

"The problem is that the sewer-harpy sisters are back and they're stronger than ever! That is the problem. And I could use some help, Wonder."

"Oh," she said, "Princess Amy again."

"No, not Princess Amy," I said. "This is far beyond Amy's range. This is an attack of the most sinister forces. This is Celtic!"

It may be helpful to pause here again to provide a dime-store explanation of that Princess Amy crack. My personal amygdala, that little almond-shaped cluster of cells in the middle of the brain, is somewhat lacking in sangfroid. Is that the word I'm looking for? If it means self-control or maintaining one's cool when under stress, then that's the word. 

It sometimes seems that I have a spoiled little brat living in my head, or a spoiled little princess, or the red queen from the other side of Alice's looking glass. I refer to her as Princess Amygdala or usually, Princess Amy.

After describing the forces of evil that confronted me, Ms Wonder responded with one of her false starts. It's a habit she has that is completely unlike her usual self, but there it is and one must accept it and move through it to avoid a total wipeout.

"Oh, right," she said, "the sewer sisters. What is it you call them? The Morgan sisters."

"Not the Morgan sisters!" I yelled. "The Morgan sisters were Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt and Thelma, Viscountess Furness. They were Swiss-born socialites of the previous century. Or, come to think of it, you may refer to Melanie and Michele, the singing violinists. But, no! The Morgan sisters are not germane. They are a diversion and need not concern us here."

I paused because I'd temporarily lost my place in the dialogue. I looked at her. She looked at me. We looked at each other and it was beginning to feel like a big day of quiet observation.

"The Morrigan," I said. "The three sisters in one goddess. That's who I'm dealing with--Badb, Macha, and Nemain. 

"All right," she said, "Let me sit up to hear you properly." And she did so. "Now, tell me exactly what's happened. I'll be it involves delivery vans crashing into garbage cans and fireworks exploding in the sewer."

"I immediately felt better. She's sometimes slow to get involved, but once she does, the odds return to favor the Genome. This Ms Wonder, I'm sure you remember, eats a lot of fish, and that oils the machinery of her powerful intellect. No one can compare to her once the wheels and cogs begin spinning. I told her the full story.

"I see," she said, "after listening attentively to the salient details. "Yes, I see the dilemma." Lupe is coming here this morning expecting you to deliver her to Pittsboro. You don't want to go within 10 miles of the Cove for fear you will become entangled in one of Gwyn's schemes. Yet, you don't want to disappoint Lupe, who is one of the Cove's finest."

I waited quietly to see what would come next.

"I think I have the solution," she said.

"I knew you would, Wonder. It's just like the man said, you move in mysterious ways your wonders to perform. Don't hold back. What do you propose?"

"To do the right thing for Lupe and yet protect yourself from any snares that Gwyn may lay for you, it would be advisable to text Gwyn that you are unavoidably occupied and that a good and trusted friend will deliver Lupe to the Blue Dot Cafe in Pittsboro. That way Lupe gets home and you avoid meeting with Gwyn."

I gave her a look and I meant it to sting and to sting smartly. Find a friend in the next 15 minutes who could drive an 11-year-old Lupe to Pittsboro from Durham! That's a stinker of an idea if I've ever heard one, and I told her so.

"Oh, you don't actually need to find someone else," she said. "Simply go in disguise."

I pondered this idea. Disguise? Would it work? It seemed dubious at best but before I'd completed pondering, Ms Wonder spoke again and all things became clear.

"If you remember, we spoke only yesterday of your shaving off that beard and mustache."

That's all she had to say. It was as though I walked on clouds. Of course, everyone in Pittsboro had become used to my horsehair sofa persona. If I walked into the Blue Dot clean-shaven, not a soul would recognize me. It was a perfect plan.

It was a perfect plan and I had no time to spare. Lupe would be here in 10 minutes and we would need to move quickly if we wished to avoid being stuck in traffic with all the professors and students of the University of North Carolina. It was with me the work of an instant to race to the shaving kit and set about the whiskers.

The Return of Lupe

In a previous episode...

The text message I received was from my Great Aunt Maggie, the Supreme Mother of the Genome clan. She instructed me to ferry my god-niece Lupe from the old metrop of Durham, where she attends the School of Science and Math, to Shady Grove Village, my ancestral home and the domain of my mother's family.

Well, we can't allow aunts to order us around like they're our mothers. We'd never hear the last of it. One day it would be this and another day--well, I'm sure you get my meaning and, if I know anything about you after all the years, you agree with me in toto.

I responded to her text by saying that my calendar was full and that I couldn't get away just now. I promised to get back to her in a few days. She then replied with a great deal of claptrap about an aunt's curse that included many variations of, If you know what's good for you. 

As I considered my next move, I received a text from Lupe, the 11-year-old geezer mentioned in Aunt Maggie's text. Her text read, On my way up. Don't make me wait!!! Did I mention that she's 11?

The very next moment, my doorbell tootled, and when I opened the door, there on the threshold, was a half-pint version of the maximum recommended adult dose of young Twee. 

She wore spider-crushing combat boots in a sort of silvery-black color with red socks. A plaid shirt in red and black was tied around denim shorts and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.  A wide-brimmed black hat with a red band was pushed back from her face. It was a big morning for red and black.

"Don't make me wait?" I said in a light rebuff.

"I know how you can be," she said as she walked into the room.

"How I can be..." I said with more than a little topspin. "Is this the beginning of a beautiful conversation?"

"Ha!" she said. "You big jamoke!" She gave me a punch in the arm and asked, "How are you?" She threw her arms around my waist, and my mood was instantly elevated. She has that power with me. You see, this Lucy Lupe Mankiller and I go way back. Well, we go back 11 years.

"Jamoke?" I said. "I'm not familiar with the term."

She ignored the remark. Her attention seemed to have been arrested if that's the word. She was scrutinizing my face. She stepped back to get a better view.

"What happened to your caterpillar?"

"Oh, that little thing," I said. "I shaved it this morning. I thought it was time for a new look. You don't see many upper lips these days or chins for that matter. Adds a bit of the debonair to your old God-uncle, don't you think?"

"No," she said.

"No? That's disappointing. I was hoping for your approval. Why don't you like it?"

"Well," she said, "you don't have an upper lip."

"Oh, that does hurt," I said. "It may be thin, Miss Mankiller, but it's there. And we may still be looking for my chin, but I do have an upper lip, and right now, I'm struggling to keep it stiff."

She let that one slide and changed the subject. "I'm happy that you're going to the village with me."

"Don't get your hopes up, I don't plan to be there for long."

"How long will you be staying then? You'll be there through the Solstice?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "The last thing I want is to get stuck playing the part of the Fool in the Winter Festival."

"Too bad," she said. "Nothing exciting ever happens in the village," she said and then added the footnote, "unless you're there, of course. You have a special knack for adding interest."

"I know why you say that with that silly grin, young Lupe," I said. "And for the millionth time, it was not my fault."

"Burning down the outdoor guides' dormitory?" she said. "How's that not your fault?"

"I've explained repeatedly," I said, "that I had no choice in the matter. I was forced to make a decision on the spur of the moment. Do you know how difficult it can be to choose one course of action over another in a flash? I did my best. I considered this and that, and the best course of action seemed to be burn the place down to hide the evidence."

"Hmmm," she said with a meditative nod. She seemed to be assessing the logic behind my reasoning. Or should I say, the reasoning behind my logic? I'm never sure which way it should go. Leave a comment below with your suggestions.

"Stick with that story if it suits you," she said. Then, with a big grin, she added, "You're like the snake that slithered into Eden and caused all the trouble for Adam and Eve, aren't you? I can't wait to see what you do for an encore."

"Oh? I don't know," I said in a meditative state of my own, "so you think slithered is the right verb do you?"