Why Grace Has A Scar On Her Forehead

This is a silly story I made up for a girl I know who wanted a good story about the scar on her forehead. This is completely fictitious and un-biographical. Laugh along with me. -Cortney

“Hey Grace, how’d you get that scar?” It had been a dull sort of day and I needed a good story. Grace has a little scar on her forehead and hasn’t everyone always wondered where it came from?

She had her hands full of takeout containers on her way to the garbage. “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s faded quite a lot.”

I waited patiently as she dumped her containers into the garbage and started tying up the bag because it was smelly. “At first it was really bright red and raised and it HURT. I kept forgetting it was there and was always scratching it or bumping it and- oh my.”

On the bottom of the bag was a giant spider. But it was dead. No biggie.

“So why was it bright red in the first place?” I inquired, solicitously returning to the topic at hand.

“Because of the hair dryer.”

“Which hair dryer?”

“The one at the hair salon. Remember that time when I got streaks?”

“The red ones?”

“No, before that. The blonde ones.”

I gazed at Grace’s purple hair and tried to remember. She can’t decide which color she likes best, so it is always changing. Which is kinda cool in an eccentric way.

“I’d forgotten about the sequins, and I think the hair dryer aggravated it.”

“Wait, where did the sequins come from?”

But Grace didn’t hear me right away because she had her head in the refrigerator. She emerged with a container of rice and I repeated the question.

“The sequins? From my tutu. I found it when I was cleaning out the basement.”

This got my attention. That basement is huge. And scary. Especially in the summer when the air conditioning starts up and sounds exactly like a deranged muppet coming after you with a tennis racket. I had to ask. “The basement? Weren’t you scared?”

She finished dumping rice on the kitchen counter and started assembling some other random ingredients. “Well not at first, because I was watching ‘Reading Rainbow’ and had this sudden urge to find all my old books. I know they were down in the basement because Mom keeps trying to sell them at the home school book sale, like, every year; and I always have to rescue them and put them back in the basement. And so LeVar Burton was telling this story about a mouse and a cookie and I have that book and I suddenly just HAD to find it!

“So I was completely absorbed in that. And when I opened the box, there were all the books and also my tutu.”

“You have a tutu?”

She grins sheepishly. “Well, I had one when I was little. I kept it. Wanna see?”

I laughed. “Not if it’s the same tutu that gave you a scar.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the tutu’s fault. I think it was really because of the books.”

I was confused. “But what about the sequins?”

“Oh I think there must’ve been a thread loose, because as soon as I picked up the tutu, the sequins slid right off. I was shocked. And saddened. That was my TUTU… and it died. Very, very sad. I was mourning it right when the air conditioning came on.”

“Ohhhh,” I nodded – it was all starting to come together. “The air conditioner scared you and you slipped on the sequins, fell over the boxes, and banged your head?”

Grace finished laying out the filling for her sushi and rolled it up. “Well yes. But that’s not what caused the scar.”

I waited, knowing it was important to leave a dramatic pause before finishing a story.

“I thought I felt a bug crawling on me and I scratched my forehead trying to get it.”

And the moral of the story is:

When You Wish To Clean Out Your Basement,
Make Sure You Shut Off The Thermostat

Except When it Rains – Part VII

PART VII: When It Rains, It Pours

The next morning broke dark and mysterious.

Bea sat in the candlelight, watching Martha sleep. The cascade of emotions swirling round and round her mind had awoken her over an hour ago, and now she began to think clearly. In thoughts, rather than tugs – tugs had been all she’d managed thus far. Her thoughts were of Prince and of Martha. Two people she dearly loved, and who would lead her in different directions. Toward Prince, away from Martha. Toward Martha, away from Prince – perhaps forever. 

These were wearying thoughts and they put Bea nearly to sleep.

Then there was a song out in the wood. Bea smiled, for she believed she was dreaming. A lovely, deep down dream that danced about her weary mind like fuzzy-headed dandelions. She was dreaming of that beautiful day when she had met Prince. When she had heard his laugh. When she had sung his song. And danced in the rain.

As the song drew nearer, it occurred to Bea that she was not yet asleep. And without a thought she stood, left the room, left the cottage, and went to the wood. And as the sky broke into a chorus of rumbling thunders and the rain dropped heavy morsels of wet on her shoulders, Bea stood. Listening. Waiting. Watching.

He did appear, of course. Just as he had that day. And they danced. They sang a little. When Prince took her hand and sank to his knee, they cried. And without a thought, Bea gave him the first answer that sprang out of her heart.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Of course I’ll marry you. Only I hope we needn’t move very far away.”

Because Bea hadn’t heard the news yet that Prince had been released from his post since his term of service had only just been finished. She didn’t know these things because Prince had never been able to tell her what he was doing out there in the wood all this time. It was a secret. Bea knew only that Prince’s work compelled him to travel quite often to sometimes remote locations.

But the truth came out now, and Bea cried a little more, as she fully realized that she wouldn’t have to choose between her husband and her sister after all. And it was very exciting. As they went to check on Martha, they talked in smiles and laughter, as young lovers often do. And Bea had her hand in Prince’s pocket. And as she drew it out, she discovered there a brief note that had been intended for her.

“Oh, blast, I knew I had forgotten something!” Prince took the note with the sudden realization that he’d meant to leave it on the door yesterday so Bea would know he’d gone. And he’d forgotten it.

“Sorry,” he grinned ruefully. “If not for my stupidity, you might’ve avoided all this.” But something else had got Bea’s attention. “That’s my grandfather’s handwriting.” For you’ll remember the complete lack of writing implements at his post, and so Prince had been forced to jot the note on back of an old recipe card he’d found in the kitchen. As Bea analyzed the card, it became apparent that in the well-known though faded hand was written a very old, very popular, very original recipe. For cherry currant wine.

So the story ends. Martha made a full and speedy recovery and cheerfully applied herself to the task of getting to know her new brother. Walter and his brother James eventually returned to Town where they established a new kind of dancing school, which takes place out of doors either rain or shine. Bea and Prince married and built another cottage on the edge of Wylles Wood. And the two sisters, having been left destitute by the loss of one famous recipe, quickly found themselves the sole beneficiaries in the sale of another.

And how came the recipe for grandfather’s famous cherry currant wine to reside in the kitchen at Prince’s outpost? Well perhaps that will be another story.

As for myself, you may have guessed by now that I had my own wee part to play in this story. It’s no secret that I watched Bea and Martha grow up; aye and saw their children and grandchildren grown too. And if you happen to spot a couple of twins in their nineties running around these woods, I beg you remember the difficulty they caused me one weary night in 1915.

Or 1914. The mind grows a bit dim in my latter years.

© Cortney Matz, 2009

Except When It Rains – Part VI

And now, a very long-overdue installment. We’re nearly home!  
-Cortney

PART VI: What Happened Next

Bea sprang to her feet. The weary doctor merely lifted his hand in protest.

“Now, now, she’ll be all right. Just a concussion, and a mild one at that. You’ll want to keep her quiet and comfortable for the next few days.”

Bea was visibly relieved, but good doctor Dunkirk seemed even more tense. “Now, er, Miss Bea,” and he turned a little aside, speaking in a low voice. Wyllesdale is a small town you see, and they look after their own. And here is Bea, with two strange men in her sitting room and an ailing sister next door. He was understandably concerned.

“I don’t want to seem untoward…” the rest he merely indicated with a few well-placed eye movements. And of course Bea understood, responding with equal gravity and care. “Don’t you worry, doctor. I’m in no better hands than with him.” She turned to look at Prince and caught a glimpse of Walter too. “I mean them.”

The doctor’s suspicion wasn’t thrown off so casually, so he elected to sit awhile as Bea left to see about Martha. And the depth and weight of the uncomfortable silence in that room was, I assure you, profound.

Martha was awake when Bea came in, and even though it had been only ninety-four minutes since they last spoke, they now had ever so many things to say to each other. They went on at a breakneck pace (it’s just as well there were no gentlemen present – they would’ve been run clean over) until at last Martha took thought of how she happened to be home when her last memory of conscious thought was in the wood.

“Why it’s too romantic to be believed!” Bea responded, beginning now to think of how perfect an end to the story it was. “I was besotted with fear and completely useless, and who would at that precise moment arrive…”

So Bea told Martha the whole story of her rescue, which I won’t bother repeating since you will have just read it (and if you haven’t read it yet, it’s the bit just before this entitled ‘Walter Comes Through’). She had her intended effect, taking Martha through all shades of emotion from disbelief to incredulity to surprise to admiration. Bea was and is a gripping raconteur.

Meanwhile, Walter had got over his self-inflicted social faux pas and was just working up the courage to try again. He didn’t understand how anyone could sit here in such languid silence, when there was so much excitement going on. Prince was cool as ice, draped across the sofa with only a furrowed brow to show any hint of anxiety. Dr. Dunkirk on the other hand, sat in an attitude of high alert, his fingers making a tent of observation, his eyes purposefully positioned on either Prince or Walter at any given moment.

“What do you do in fair weather?”

Almost before he knew it, the words were out of Walter’s mouth. He remained by the fire, poking it again when it needn’t be poked, and staring at Prince with a look of poorly feigned indifference that came off as wildly interested sleepyness. It was a mercy that no one had thought to light any candles.

But Walter’s words did have their intended effect, and Prince stirred a bit in his place. “Fair weather?” he repeated. And Walter explained that he’d been given to understand that Bea and Prince’s arrangement was kept on rainy days only. Naturally, one is curious what Prince would do with the fine ones.

He seemed reluctant to answer immediately, so Walter continued, intending to chat him up a bit and make things more comfortable. “I have a few theories, you know,” he said, going back to the fire which was becoming in real need of more wood. “A fisherman perhaps, or a- a gardener. Of course when you work outdoors there are all sorts of jobs that could be spoiled by rain.”

Prince surprised him with a smile. A smile that grew to a low kind of gurgling laugh. It was a beautiful laugh. “It’s too bad, you know,” said Prince. “I had good news for Bea, and was just on my way to share it when all this…” he gestured toward the adjoining room, but the other men knew what he meant. Prince looked at Walter. “I suppose I can talk about it now with no danger, as my post is being shut down. I’m a lookout for His Majesty’s Navy. I’ve been stationed about three miles from here, out in the middle of the wood in a hermit’s cabin for over a year. I stumbled on this cottage my second day out – well, that’s how I met Bea.”

“Let me guess, it was raining,” this was the first thing the doctor had said since his wee conference with Bea, and the others jumped a little. Out came Prince’s low gurgling laugh. “I was bored. Contrary to what you may think, there’s an alarmingly tiny amount of enemy vessels that make their way to this side of the continent. The Navy figured that out and shut down the post. Suits me just fine, my time is up anyway.”

Walter had ever so many other questions for Prince, but just then Bea came out and wearily thanked them all for their help. Taking their cue from her sagging eyelids, the men rose and excused themselves for the night – the doctor to home and hearth after many an hour of doctoring, the lads Prince and Walter back to the Morrisons’, the hospitality of which Walter had extended to Prince considering he was so far from home. Prince may well have later wished he’d made the long walk home rather than suffer Walter’s catalog of questions and surmises for what remained of the long night up until the candle went out and Walter had talked himself to sleep.

© Cortney Matz, 2009

Except When It Rains – Part III

PART III – Martha Gets a Surprise

The agreeable weather lingered for some days after. Bea endured them as patiently as she could – for as you’ll remember, she had developed a measure of perseverance in patience over time – but in truth she was somewhat disposed to brood. She longed for a dark, moody day. Perhaps some lightning.

But the sky would be clear as crystal, showcasing a brightly burning sun as though it were something to be proud of. Headstrong, fickle weather. Really, you would think you might at least depend upon the seasons.

Martha herself wouldn’t have minded a shower or two, being eager to tag along on her sister’s next foul-weather visit. Until the day Mr. Randolph came, she had no idea of Bea’s affections being fixed on anyone, let alone this Prince character. Frankly, Martha had always considered him to be a made-up person. Whenever Bea spoke of him it seemed like a blend of all the personalities they both admired – a little of their father, some of Mr. Winthrop their neighbor, and some of the town butcher. Martha had humored her little sister as a matter of helping one another get through the process of grieving and starting fresh. But now.

It was Sunday morning and the girls were getting ready to attend church – the only activity Bea could be prevailed upon to manage regardless of what it was doing outside. Try as Martha did to engage her sister in conversation, Bea was taciturn and withdrawn – not altogether unusual given the circumstances, but today Martha found it irksome.

“And did you notice that Mr. Winthrop got the fence mended for us? Such a thoughtful man he is. Pays attention to everything.”

Martha left lots of pauses for Bea to murmur in agreement, and when again there was no response, she resolved to give up trying to draw the girl out. But even that was irksome. Usually Martha’s silent rows with Bea would occasion her a trip to the garden or a sweep of the kitchen – some activity to settle her mind – but now was hardly the time. They were but a breath away from leaving the house, just putting on their wraps, and so there was nothing for Martha to do but take it out on her hat. It was a foolish hat; it felt loose and floppy, and wouldn’t sit right, and she savagely pinned it again and again until the poor thing looked like it had got in a fight with a flying squirrel.

Church was dull. Bea was bored. Martha was grim. The preacher was verbose. Walter seemed to be the only alert person in the room, and as soon as the last Amen was said, he was on his feet to meet the girls.

On seeing him, Martha turned a bit green with embarrassment, but I don’t think anybody noticed, least of all Walter. He was full of excitement to introduce his brother, Mr. James Randolph. And of course they were already acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. No sooner had the introductions been made, the hands shook, the charming and obliging words of welcome spoken, than Walter invited the sisters to join them for dinner.

Bea and Martha stole a glance at each other, communicating in an instant with that secret language that sisters sometimes possess. With her look, Martha plainly said, “Oh, yes, let’s. Please, Bea.” And in her eyes, Bea responded, “Martha, I’d rather not.”

But when they returned their faces to Walter and company, Bea surprised Martha by agreeing to come round that evening, thanking them very charmingly for the invitation.

The dinner was a great success, being all the things Bea and Martha liked most and afforded least. They had only been to dine with the Morrisons once before, and had fasted all afternoon in anticipation of it.

After dinner the girls were obliged to take a tour of the house, as the Randolph brothers had become attached to the rooms and were eager to display the knowledge of them they’d been acquiring during the long rainy days of late. Littlefield was a grand house, with a grand history, and it made Martha feel grand to be shown round it so. Even Bea seemed to be cooperating, paying compliments to various furnishings and asking intelligent questions. Martha began to allow herself a tiny hope that perhaps her heart was softening toward Walter after all.

The elder Mr. Randolph, on the other hand, seemed very attentive to Martha in particular – a fact that did not escape the notice of Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, who exchanged a few silent communications of their own. Martha was a sweet, capable, and very attractive young girl of twenty. And James Randolph had a good heart, stable income and a mind to marry soon. There seemed to be much to wriggle one’s eyebrows over.

Walter was showing Bea the detail on a certain grand painting hanging in the particularly grand room they were touring at the time when he noticed something of the above for himself.

“Miss Bea,” he says, “have you noticed the way my brother and your sister have been talking so earnestly?”

Bea actually hadn’t noticed at all, but felt foolish admitting it. So she nodded. “It’s nice they’re getting along.”

When Walter looked back at Bea, her conscience tickled her a mite. It’s as though she suddenly remembered that just a few days before she’d had an indication of interest from the boy, and that she’d refused him.

“Mr. Randolph, I hope you will forgive me for my… behavior the other day. I was surprised, you see, and-”

But this wasn’t what Walter wanted to hear and he put out his hand to stop her. He knew she’d meant no disrespect, and that she was sorry things hadn’t worked out between them. He knew she wanted to be friends. What he was really interested in was what on earth she was doing with herself on those rainy days.

But there seemed to be no polite way of phrasing the question.

© Cortney Matz, 2008