A Dirty Trick

Yeah, Mother Nature played another dirty trick on us overnight.  We woke up to almost 3" of snow.  Again.  Most of it melted during the day but not as much melted as the other day because it barely got above freezing today and wasn't often sunny.  Ugh.  It's Halloween, for god's sake, it isn't supposed to be in the 30s on Halloween.  Not snowy either.  Double ugh.  See how dark that picture is? That was 8am.  Talk about a slow start to the day.  Triple ugh.


I was washing a sink of dishes this morning after my trainer session and saw something bright out in the snow.  There's still a little bloom on the honeysuckle.  How it survived the snow and freezing cold, I'll never know, but it sure gave me a smile.


I had a good half-hour with T the Trainer this morning.  I complained about being tired today so he prescribed a day off working out tomorrow.  Which works out since I won't have a car  tomorrow because it's in for front brakes and transmission fluid.  Cars.  If it isn't one thing, it's two others.  But I'm glad to get this all done before my trip to Indy and Lexington next week.


I didn't sew, didn't knit today.  I spent the afternoon and trick or treat hours reading my novel manuscript to see where to tuck in all of the scenes I've been writing lately.  I've read almost half of the manuscript and have a couple more scenes to slot in, then I'll send it to my Kindle and read it through again looking for places that need fluffing up or elaboration.


Speaking of trick-or-treaters, I had a grand total of four.  Four!  That's hardly worth filling the candy bowl and turning on the light.  I miss having droves of costumed kids all amped up on sugar and being out ringing doorbells coming to the door.

31 October--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire. 

Both of them drove to their respective homes feeling like they had solved all the problems they had faced, and imagined, since they met the night before.  Each of them felt smug and in control of his fate.

Dimitri took the leeward shore back down the island to his small duplex home.  He felt soothed by the waving palms and lapping waves; he felt more at home on this tiny speck in the Caribbean than ever before, waving to everyone he saw.  He even stopped at the market in the middle of town and bought a fillet of grouper for dinner and a small bouquet for Irina, just as a little surprise.

George, on the other hand, took the windward road home.  He reveled in the power of the waves crashing on the ironshore and shooting in white plumes into the sun drenched morning sky.  He took the curves like a racecar driver, swooping down into the shallow valleys and sailing over the rises, enjoying the lifting feeling in his stomach as he did.  Feeling like he had both feet on the ground for the first time in months, he stopped at a liquor store and splurged on a bottle of champagne to surprise Sonia with.

Both couples lived in the same general area on the island: the Clemments in a two story house by the sea with views of the sunset and a narrow beach just steps from the patio, the Roskovas lived a few blocks inland where the rents were much lower, they had a view of the surrounding houses, but Dimitri was working with their landlord to make a garden around their tiny porch to attract the birds Dimitri loved to watch and give them a little privacy from their neighbors.

Each man arrived home at about the same time, each ready to brag to his respective wife how masterfully he had managed a sensitive meeting and to reassure “the little woman” she had nothing more to fret about.  How wrong they both were.  Each entered his home bearing his returning hero’s gifts, but neither fish and flowers nor champagne had the desired effect on the waiting women.

            How can men be such idiots?  I sent him off with strong words and he comes home like a whipped puppy talking about new friends and swapping retirement stories.  I can’t believe how gullible he has become.  The sun had addled his brain evidently.  How foolish must that English major think we are to be lulled into incautious speech by a smiling face and a slap on the back?  And he comes in carrying a packet of fish, fish for God’s sake, like he’s gotten the Lenin Medal and a handful of drooping flowers and thinks it makes it all better.

I saw the look in their eyes as Billie led them toward us; he like a graying lion and her, an ice fury.  I saw the whiteness of her knuckles as she clutched his arm.  Does she think I was ever fooled by her silly woman act?  I knew all the time how scheming and false she was.

She flits around with her new best friend, Billie, pretending to be an artist and then when she discovers that I am a poet, she shares that she is a poet too.  When I ask her what books she has published she has the gall to blush and say she’s only had a few verses published in women’s magazines.  Women’s magazines!  As if the printing of a few lines of doggerel or some simpering rhyme about love or trees or, God help us, grandchildren counts as real poetry.

I have given up sharing my poems with anyone who asks.  Real connoisseurs of poetry don’t have to ask, they have read my work and understand it.  The few times I allowed flattery to get the better of me and shared my work with women who asked, they would read it and get that confused look on their faces like it is my fault they are too obtuse to understand, hand it back to me and say, very nice.  One or two would pretend to understand the depth of my words and pressing their lips together, hand it back in silence as if they were too moved to speak.  Please.  Good poetry should birth discussion.  I would rather they had told me I was full of shit and flung my words back to me, at least then I would know that I have touched their emotions.

Now, Dimitri sits here at our rented table looking more like an old man than I have ever seen him look, and tells me he is ready to make friends with the English couple.  Has he forgotten the years that he gave to the Soviet Union?  The times that the British stole our secrets, subverted our agents, sent whores to seduce our people into selling the heart of our country for a few rubles?  It is disgraceful to think that just because new lines were drawn on a map that we will all forget what came before and lie down like beaten dogs.  I will not allow my Dimitri to become a lap dog for that conniving Major Clemment.  What could he want from us after all these years?  What secret could Dimitri still be carrying that would earn him the attention of a man like Clemment?  I will be vigilant to make certain that they are never alone again; that the fiend is not able to pry from Dimitri’s lips whatever it is that he seeks.

“Dushka, thank you so much for the lovely fish and the bouquet.”  I kissed him; he expected it.  “Why don’t you see if we have any mail while I put the flowers in a vase?  Maybe we can have a walk before lunch.”

Dimitri had sat and watched emotions play across Irina’s face, happy that she did not say what she was thinking.  His life was easier that way.  It seemed like a long walk to the mailbox.

My car guy, JR, stopped over this evening with his truck and a young, strong helper and loaded up Durwood's broken table saw and never-assembled-in-42-years radial arm saw.  It just isn't worth it to me to advertise these old power tools and endure calls and visits from guys that want something for nothing.  It's easier to just give them away to a good home.  That took the place of my "box of the day" today.
--Barbara