Grounds

A story I wrote in 2008 that is all about character . . .



Grounds




“Never?” Babs asked Timothy.
Timothy Schneider didn't hesitate. “I would never do anything immoral even if it served a so-called higher purpose.” He used the tone of voice Babs liked to call “Mama's Mantra.”
Well, isn't that sweet, Babs thought wrinkling her chin. Carol Schneider's efforts to install Timothy as “top of the class” and to build his reputation as “Mr. Most Well-Rounded” and “Mr. Most Community Service,” thus guaranteeing him all the scholarships at graduation, were legendary. And about as honest as Fred's “Husband of the Year” routine. Ah, well, Carol would be proud of Timothy's ability to stay on message.
Babs watched as Timothy's classmates shared little smiles and nudges, or rolled their eyes. Too bad her response to Fred had gone beyond eye rolling.
“But who's to define what's moral?” Diana Conroy asked.
Babs smiled. She could always count on Diana. Moving from the lectern to lean against her desk, Babs said, “Let's talk about murder.”
“Not the death penalty again, Mrs. Whedon.” Jenny Grazinski lowered her head to her desk and gently banged it several times against the laminate.
Babs wanted to rub her hands together, gleefully shouting, “But so many people deserve to die.” She wanted to reach across and grab Jenny by the hair and finally, ultimately, slam her head into that desk. She wanted to inform that sniveling Timothy Schneider that some killings were not only justified but long overdue. She wanted to inform the class, the entire school, that she, Babs Whedon, had finally done it; that, by the end of this very day, she would have rid herself of her adulterous husband. She wanted to jump up on her desk and celebrate her ingenuity and Fred's imminent demise. Instead, she looked at the back of Jenny Grazinski's head and said, “This is American Morals and Values Two.”
“But we always discuss the death penalty,” Jenny moaned into her desk.
“The death penalty is often apropos,” Diana said.
“When is killing justified?” Babs asked the class.
Timothy folded his hands and stared ahead. The American Legion Scholarship required he demonstrate great patriotism. The World Peace Foundation scholarship required he demonstrate a passion for world peace.
“Self-defense,” Charlie Goldman mumbled.
“Soldiers,” John Kilkenny added.
Their tones underlined the familiarity of the discussion.
“I've been thinking about this, Mrs. Whedon,” Diana said. “What if you knew someone was going to do something terrible, so you killed him before he could do it?”
“You can't know that,” Timothy said.
Babs thought about Fred's whispered phone calls, the disappearance of his passport from the home safe, his perfume-scented underwear.
“A sixteen-year-old girl who was molested by her father when she was twelve sees him ogling her twelve-year-old sister,” Diana said.
“She doesn't know that he--” Timothy began.
“She knows she was molested by that man, Timothy.”
“Then she should call the police.”
“What if she hears him going into her sister's room?”
“Still, she should--”
“There's no time!” Diana jumped up, fists clenched.
Babs held up her palm between them. Her own thoughts swirled away from the classroom to her discovery just that morning of the missing passport and Fred's calm comment about getting home from work very late tonight because of a meeting. There'd been no time to call anyone. There was no “marriage police” anyway. And what if she had confronted him? He still would have left, and where would she be? What would she have? Regrets?
The silence crept into her consciousness, and she realized that her students were watching her, waiting for her. She smiled at Diana. “Perhaps this discussion is getting too emotionally charged. Let's change direction a bit. Sit down, dear.” Babs moved to her lectern. “We'll discuss various crimes and their appropriate punishments.” She smiled at Jenny. “We'll save homicide for last. Shall we start with an easy one?”
John laughed. “Robbery? Assault?”
Babs shook her head. “Let's start really small. How about lying?”
Oh, Fred had lied to her. He'd stopped for a beer with one of the guys who was going through a divorce, he'd said. He wasn't on the phone, just listening to the radio, he'd said. That business trip to Philadelphia was extended an extra day for department managers; that's why Pete Hoover got home a day earlier. Right. And the guy crying in his beer also spilled perfume on Fred's underwear.
Diana was making a point about white lies versus slander. Better focus.
“Don't forget lies of omission,” Babs said, stealing a glance at the clock. Eleven forty-five. Could the dirty deed be done? Omission. Sorry dear, she thought. I forgot to mention that I added extra sugar and ground peach pits to your coffee this morning. Oops. But then, you forgot to tell me about the woman you've been sleeping with, dear. I guess all's fair.
“Like stealing someone else's ideas, right Mrs. Whedon?” Charlie asked.
The discussion had somehow shifted again. Babs smiled. “You really want Alexander Graham Bell to fess up, huh, Charlie? Well, sorry. He's dead.”
“And you'll never know the truth.” John punched his friend's shoulder.
“It's all moot,” Timothy pronounced. “Bell got there first.”
Babs watched John wink at Charlie and Diana roll her eyes.
“So let's define stealing,” Diana said. “What makes someone a thief?”
Charlie leaned toward her, mischief tugging at the muscles of his face. “And is anything short of homicide grounds for capital punishment?”

“What if we get caught?” Janelle asked. “I can't go to jail, Fred. You know I can't be locked up.”
“Relax, Janelle. We've worked this all through. Besides, I'm the one who's taking all the risk.” Fred examined himself in the mirror. Babs would have loved this suit on him, loved the mustache, too.
“But I'm the one with the master key.”
Fred sighed. He sat beside her on the bed and took her hands into his own. She had delicate hands, smooth and young. Not like Bab's hands, rough with age spots. He focused on Janelle's drawn eyebrows, the pink lip caught by her tiny white teeth. “Let's review it again. I arrive at the bank and sign in as Gary Blake.”
She nodded. “You've come before with Mrs. Blake, so why should I question you?”
“Right. You let me into the vault, use the master key to open the box.”
“And you've got the Blake key.”
“Which Harriet Blake was happy to hide while her sister's son watched.” He also knew where Babs hid her key, and he'd considered taking that one, too. But the jewelry in Bab's box had belonged to her mother, or he'd given it to her for some silly occasion, and it was just too sentimental for him to take from her. He shook his head and fisted his hands.
“How could anyone forget that her nephew had died a decade ago?”
Fred shrugged. “Benefits of senility. Now, you step outside and chat up old man Fielding. Remember to talk about that Alaskan cruise again.” Fred frowned. “And you're sure the guard won't bother me?”
“I told you, he's window dressing.”
“Good. Okay, so I empty Harriet's box into my briefcase and buzz for you to return. You lock everything up and I stroll out of First Federal with a cool million.”
She nodded. “I work another hour, and then remind Mr. Fielding that I'm leaving early to get ready for my big vacation.”
“You pick me up at the hotel, and we drive south. By the time Harriet decides to look in her box, we'll have flown out of Costa Rica to parts unknown as two entirely different people.” Fred pictured himself in the south of France drinking wine and gazing out at the Mediterranean. Babs had always wanted to see the Mediterranean. Fred swallowed.
Janelle hugged herself, smiling softly. “With a million dollars.” She looked out the window at the blinking hotel sign and her smile faded. “I must confess that I'll miss this town. Wouldn't I just love to show off my furs and diamonds to those rich bitches always coming into the bank and shoving their rings in my face? Crash a few of their parties. Better yet, throw bigger ones of my own.”
Fred grabbed both her arms. “Don't even think about it. We can never return here. People might start putting two and the two of us together. Besides, we couldn't be together here.”
Janelle stood up, pulling away from his grasp. “I better get going. I can't be late. Fielding really resents long lunches; he might not let me leave early”
“Okay, see you in an hour.” Fred followed her to the door. He leaned down and kissed her. He stood in the doorway as she hurried along the sidewalk of the hotel. He called out to her just as she reached her car. “Love you, Babs.”

“Improving your status is not cheating.” Timothy straightened his shirt, tugging at the hem and adjusting the collar.
“Stepping on other people to get there is,” John insisted.
“People only get stepped on when they permit it.”
“Your mama teach you that?”
Babs stood up. “Okay, guys. That's enough. The bell's about to ring anyway.”
She watched them pack up their books and prepare for their next classes. Was there any truth to that? Did she let Fred step on her? Permit him to cheat on her?
She followed her students out as they rushed to their next classes. This was her planning period. She could sit quietly in her room without any distractions. She could plan her next lesson, plan what she was going to do for the rest of her life without Fred, or plan her next murder.
Babs shivered.
“You okay, Mrs. Whedon?”
She focused on the young man standing before her. “Oh, hello, Nathan.” She smiled. She liked Nathan. He had grown up right next door to her and Fred. He'd always been helpful with chores, often shoveling snow from their walks before they even got out of bed. She realized with a start that she'd need this boy now more than ever. “Just lost in thought,” she said. As he walked away, she remembered something and called to him. “You and Timothy Schneider are related, aren't you?”
He nodded. “First cousins.”
“I remember he spent most of his summers at your house. What happened?”
Nathan shrugged. “We grew up, I guess. Have different interests.” He frowned. “Sad thing, though. Our moms? They're sisters, but they don't talk much either anymore.”
Babs smiled weakly. “People change.”
Nathan shrugged again. “Mom sure has lots of stories about all the things they did together as kids, though. They were brats!” The bell rang, and, with a little wave, he hurried away.
Babs returned to her room. She and Fred used to do some crazy things, too. Like skinny dipping out at that cold pond on the McLeod farm. Or sitting on the roof to look at stars.
She sighed. Maybe Fred was looking for someone willing to skinny dip and climb slanted roofs. She had settled into a life of walks down country roads and watching old black and white films. Nothing exciting about that. Perhaps Fred needed to change the status quo. Had she settled back for the lazy life while someone else beat her to the prize? Maybe Timothy was right. The other students just let him do all the work and win all the prizes. Maybe Babs had allowed this woman to sweep her husband off his feet.
Babs sat in her chair, tapping a pencil on her desk as she stared out the window. Perhaps she should have been angry with this woman who so callously disregarded Babs' feelings. Perhaps she should have figured out a way to kill her instead of killing Fred.
Babs leaned back and closed her eyes. How far was her mind willing to go? What else could she justify? What more could she permit herself to do? My god, she was willing to kill her husband. Her Fred. How was she going to live with the knowledge that she caused his death? And this morning she'd been thinking only about what it all meant to her own status quo.
Perhaps she should offer some pointers to Carol and Timothy Schneider. Only, they might not like her conclusion.
She'd improved her status but cheated herself.

“Want some coffee?” Fred asked. “My darling wife made me coffee this morning. Said it sounded like I was going to have a long day, and she wanted to do something special for me.” His tone was mocking, but Janelle had not forgotten that he'd called her Babs this morning.
She narrowed her eyes at the traffic ahead. “What made you rent a Jeep?”
Fred shrugged. “Something Fred Whedon wouldn't do.”
She smiled, nodded. “But Gary Blake would.”
“Precisely.” He laughed. “So you want some coffee?”
“Not yet. I was thinking we'd find a nice, quiet rest stop. Celebrate our success.”
“Couldn't have been smoother. Hey, I should remove this fake mustache, huh?”
“Why don't you keep it on until we cross the border?”
“You like it? Well, maybe I'll grow one of my own when we get to Europe.” He pulled down the sun visor and examined himself in the mirror attached to it.
Miles passed with only the drone of the tires on the road. Janelle grew anxious to find a secluded rest stop.
“What are you thinking about?” Fred asked.
Janelle thought quickly. What did he expect her to say? She couldn't tell him what she had really been thinking. “Oh, Parisian coffee shops, fashion shows, castles, and silk linens.”
Fred stared out at the highway ahead, pursing his lips. “What about quiet walks along country roads, watching old films curled up under blankets?”
The laughter burst out of her. “I'm thinking speedboats and spas. Parties with movie stars – live ones, please.”
Fred sighed. He began tapping his lips with his fist.
“There's a rest stop,” Janelle said. She steered the Jeep up the ramp, smiling as they entered the empty parking lot.
“There's a picnic table under those trees,” Fred said pointing.
“Perfect.” Janelle parked and then grabbed her purse from the back seat. She led the way to the table.
Fred placed the coffee thermos on the table and lowered himself onto the bench. He was frowning. “Ever find yourself in a place where you're wondering if it's too late to change your--” He stopped, his wide eyes focused on the gun in Janelle's hand.
She wanted to laugh, to tell him he was pathetic and just walk away, but she couldn't do that now. “Recognize this beauty? Mr. Blake's Smith and Wesson. You're not the only one who could pull a con on that old lady.”
“But Janelle, there's no need. In fact, I was just thinking--”
She wasn't interested in his babbling. She'd thought everything through, too, and now she would at least give him the courtesy of explaining it to him. “I was just doing my job. You were the con man. Who would suspect me? I'm a victim, too. So, I'm going on that Alaskan cruise. Oh, yes, I booked it as you suggested. And when I return, I'll lay low for a year, but then I'll sell a few manuscripts. You didn't know I was a writer? Of course not. I use a pen name and I'll never tell anyone what it is. Keeps their discussions of my work authentic, you know? But I am suddenly very successful, very rich, and very ready to live the life of one. What rich woman doesn't want a witty writer at her party?”
“But you don't know the first thing about writers, how they live and work.”
“What's to know? I'll lock myself in my mansion for a few days, and then come out spending money.”
Fred nodded. “Okay. Go for it. I won't tell anyone. I just want to go home. I've been thinking about Babs, and I realize--”
“Can't take any chances, Fred. You understand.”
She pulled on the trigger three times and then kicked dead leaves around the body. As she turned to leave, she spotted the thermos. What the hell, she thought. Fred always claimed that Babs made great coffee. It would be a welcome treat on the long drive back to dump the Jeep and get her own car to head for the airport. She could always dump the thermos along the way.
Janelle climbed into the Jeep and returned to the highway. She took a long drink from the thermos. The coffee was exceptionally sweet.

Valley Voices -Character Dialect

Elizabeth George wrote in her book Write Away, "Sometimes speech patterns and idioms are broad. Sometimes they are obvious. If you're writing about characters from a region of the country known for its vernacular, this will be particularly true." (p.114)

I like to write stories with local color.
I live in a region that has a very unique accent and vocabulary.

Several years ago (2003), I won second place in a contest sponsored by a local newspaper The Wilkes-Barre Times Leader and a local publisher, Prestige Publishing & Marketing.

Here it is.

VALLEY VOICES by Lisa Cobb Sabatini

Oh, my darling, you so tempt me,
With visions of worlds far away,
But let me try to tell you
Why in this valley I'll stay.
Where else can my cuzzents gather
At a place known as Ack-a-mee
To pick up a coupla-two-tree
Snacks for my little party?
Where else is a huddy-a-callit
An item I just can not see?
And yahz are the people around me
Waitin' to watch da' tee-vee?
And where else will people understand me
When I say Beer Garden? Hayna? Corpse House?
Where else can I go to a pitnik
For some fun at the local Hose House?
Ah, here in the valley are places
Of wonder you never seen!
There's Plimmit, Rude Aid-ee, and Scran'un,
Nanny Coke's spose'ta be keen.
When I need a break from da' valley
I can always go downa' shore
Where 'Lannick City awaits me
To help make even more poor!
Hey, this valley has so much to offer
Like Piggies and Pass-tuh Fuh-ghoul
Whicha eat with a spoon, yuh idjit!
Now, move over and make me some room.
You can get an edge-acation
At Wilkes, or Kings, or Da U.
There are lotsa choices in life
In the end, its all upta you.
I seen where some people are sayin'
This valley ain't got much to show
But if they'd just get offa' their dew-pas
They'd find more than jes Haytch-Bee-O.
We got street parties for any old reason
Like Donegal, Arts, and Ta-may-das,
And you can always find at dem pitnicks
Those pancakes made outta' pa-tay-das.
We got atha-leets for Friday-night football,
And dance halls to stop upta see,
Rest-rahnts that make the best sangwiches,
There's just no better place to be!
Now, I know what you're thinking onnacounta I'm smart
'cuz I gazinata school now and then,
How do I know that them places don't compare
Bein' dat I never been?
Well, I gone down south near the wadder,
With fill-em in my cam'ra, ya see.
I took pit-chers that I got developed
Nex-door where I drink my cah-fee.
And I'm just a hunnert percent certain
That pretty as them places appear,
They can't hold a candle to nothin'
We already gots right here!
So, let's get an order from da store,
Like hoddogs, hambers, and melk.
We'll stop by to look at them Dover-Men dogs
To see if we can get-em to yelp.
Then, we'll call all our friends to ask them
"Jeet jet?" And they'll answer, "no, ju?"
We'll have a party so's you can ask 'em
If they hadda move what they'd do.
I betch'a they think the way I does
'Bout moving and udder such tings.
There ain't no place like this one
Where ev're Valley Voice sings!


I really do love it here!