Dalton Springs Serial

Episode 16-Shady Dealings

“It’s illegal,” Lillian Sparks shrieked behind the steel doors of Purity Soap Factory’s conference room.  Thrusting herself upon her feet, she moved wildly across the gray commercial grade carpeting, flailing her weathered hands.  Emphatically, she attempted to convince the two schemers sitting across from her at the oblong wooden conference table.  “Heaven forbid.  I’m married to the sheriff.  If I get tangled up in this, this….” Lillian fought for the proper words.

            “Hold on, right there,” a lyrically smooth male voice interrupted.  The baritone sound instantly brought silence to the room where glass windows were shrouded with darkening blinds. 

            Biting her tongue, feisty Lillian continued to move, propelled by a surge of adrenaline. 

            The deep voice spoke again.  “Willis will never know.  No one will know.”

            Bashing her fist hard against the table, Lillian quaked.  “People will find out.  And then what?  All three of us will go to jail.  And my husband’s career will be ruined.”

            “What are you talking about, Lillian?” a second, though higher-pitched, masculine voice sounded.  “None of us will go to jail.  Not a one.  And about Willis….he won’t know unless you tell him.”

            “I don’t think you want to do that, Lillian,” the deeper voice threatened.

            “All I want is to get through the end of the year.  Retire early.  Hell, I’ve been at this plant nearly thirty years.  And in all that time, we’ve never had to resort to the tactics you two are proposing.”

           The baritone voice belonged to a big man who pushed himself upward, out of his chair.  Large and intimidating, he walked slowly, deliberately making his way around the long table to the spot petite Lillian Sparks stood.  Though he appeared a horror of a man to some people, Lillian eyed him dead-on, ignoring the glinting of his flashing gold and onyx pinky ring.

            Lillian never allowed herself to be deliberately bushwhacked by this thug of a man who wore Armani suits, Gucci shoes, and his meticulous red hair slicked back with a fine sheen.  Though Lillian was small in stature, she roared dangerous like a lion.

            The huge man and little lady butted hard into each other, until finally, the guilty third party pulled them apart. 

            “Lillian, you’re out-ruled.  We’re going to proceed, as planned.  You can either play along, or we’ll fry your tail.  Your name is implicated in everything here.  Understand?”  It was the higher-pitched man who spoke so candidly.  He appeared nothing like his counterpart.  Instead, his head was shorn of its patchy brown hair and his left eye was concealed by a dark eye patch.  His muscles bulged under the rolled up sleeves of a black shirt.  Red blotches marked his taut white skin. 

            “There’s got to be another way, a legal way,” Lillian argued. 

            “We tried.  Remember?” The second man stepped back to his chair, relieved the tension diminished in the room.  “Damn mayor won’t give us the permit for the additional bubble holding tanks.  If we want to proceed with expanding production, there’s only one course of action.”

            “But draining soap sludge into the abandoned mine isn’t the answer.  I’m telling you,” Lillian argued again, fighting to keep her tone civil.  “We can hire a truck to haul the sludge, as we originally discussed.”

            “That’s cost prohibitive,” the big man interjected.  “For appearance sake only, a truck will come twice a week, at a very visible time to get a token load of bubble sludge.  Other than that, soap residue will be piped directly into a fissure in the old mine.”

            “One more thing,” the bald, patched man added.  “We’re giving you a raise, Lillian.  A nice bonus to help ease your conscience.”

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 15-Proposition

He didn’t mean for it to happen, but when Sophia Jonson stood in the gravel driveway and flashed him a pleasant smile, Jack Hermosa-Tyler instinctively winked. 

            Sophia came closer, flattered by Jack’s friendly gesture.  It wasn’t everyday that this talented artist received such a greeting. 

            Had Jack been subjected to primitive interrogation methods in a bleak room with nothing but a stool and suspended light bulb, he would have categorically denied intentionally flirting with the lovely Ms. Jonson, who just happened to be the nicest, prettiest woman in all of  Hobnar County.  He looked at her face, soft and gentle; her blue eyes, stormy like the sea. And when she smiled at him, he felt as if every ounce of him were melting.

            “Hey,” she said, approaching closer to the white electrical van where Jack stood removing the brown leather tool belt from around his muscular frame.  He had just come from the church.

            “Hi,” Jack replied, twisting to close the van’s back door.  How he managed to drive with a tool belt slung around his waist was hard for Sophia to imagine. 

            “You’re home early.”

            “Yes,” Jack agreed without offering details about the motivation for his hasty departure from the church.  But, had the name Angelina Sparks entered the conversation, Jack would have flinched.

            “It’s good to see you.” 

            Those words of encouragement brought a sparkling smile to Jack’s handsome face.  His dark eyes fixed upon Sophia and for a brief moment he stood speechless, for she had taken his breath away. 

            “Come on, I want to show you something,” Sophia said, pulling at Jack’s muscle-bulging arm.  Her warm hand slipped downward then, finding his fingers, which she securely grasped.

            Her voice brimmed with excitement as she led the talented electrician into her home overlooking wondrous scenic Raven Lake.  It had been only the second time he had crossed her threshold since arriving in Dalton Springs, and he found great pleasure there, in her presence. 

            “This way,” Sophia whispered, enjoying the lingering contact of his calloused hand against hers.  She took him to her most private place, a studio filled with canvas, easels, and paints. 

            Filled with awe, Jack Hermosa-Tyler stared at Sophia’s many oil paintings, and a few lifelike sculptures she had scattered around the room.  “You could open a gallery.”

            Graciously accepting the compliment, Sophia said, “Actually, my work is commissioned in two galleries; one in Minneapolis, the other in Chicago.”

            “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”  Jack continued looking at the paintings, their rich colors and textures. 

            “Listen, I didn’t bring you here for this.  I want to show you something else—something very special.”

            Jack’s curiosity piqued. 

            “Here.”  Sophia removed a white sheet draped over an easel, next to the window.  On the canvas was a portrait of none other than her temporary tenant, Jack Hermosa-Tyler.

            Jack’s jaw dropped, but no words sounded.  For a long moment, his dark eyes drifted between his hostess and the detailed portrait which accentuated a flirting smile. 

            “You like it?” Sophia felt uncomfortable in the heavy silence.

            “Very much,” Jack finally responded, his eyes turning, locking solidly upon her provocative glistening lips.  He stepped closer. 

            “Jack?”

            He moved again, pressing into Sophia.  Breathing deeply, Jack inhaled the intoxicating scent of her.

            “Jack?” Sophia’s voice rose higher, breaking his seeming hypnotic trance. 

            Shuddering, Jack retreated, but not before apologizing, “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s okay.”

            Jack felt awash in relief, yet he couldn’t drive away the burning desire to feel her close to him again.  There could be only one solution.  “Go dancing with me, Sophia.”

            Blushing, Sophia replied, “I can’t dance.  I’m horrible.” 

            “I’ll teach you,” Jack promised, his dark eyes alight with fire.  “There’s a band playing tonight in Brightan.”

            If Jack had been any other man, Sophia would have flatly refused.  Dancing in Brightan?  Ha, what was the world coming to?  But he was Jack Hermosa-Tyler, the skilled electrician whose days were numbered in Dalton Springs.  If she didn’t accept his invitation now, there might not be another chance. 

            “I’ll meet you back here in an hour. We’ll go have dinner, afterwards dance.”  With that, Jack Hermosa-Tyler departed, leaving Sophia Jonson with nothing but a painting of him and a promise.

            

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

             

Episode 14-Drama at the V.F.W.

“Reverend, come quick,” Lloyd Saunders, the lately reliable church bell ringer hollered into the dangerously cluttered church office.  “It’s Gloria, from the Grubby Cauldron.”

            Dropping a typed draft of a sermon focusing upon the sinful nature of temptation onto his mahogany desk, the tall lanky minister rose from his overstuffed black leather chair.  Quickly, he bolted towards the door.  His surprised wide-eyed wife, Denise, remained behind, watching her frocked husband move in haste.  She sat speechless.

            “What is it?”  Rev. Paul Purpose blurted to Lloyd as they rushed past the ornate chapel decorated with the finest stained glass windows north of Minneapolis.  Lloyd had spoken so rapidly that the good minister had trouble understanding.

            “It’s bad.  Real bad,” Lloyd repeated, gritting his big yellow teeth.  He trailed behind the youthful minister.  “Gloria is eating sausages.”

            Abruptly stopping, Rev. Purpose’s dark eyes narrowed as his face wildly contorted.  “She’s eating meat?”

            “By golly, I’d say she’s eating meat.  Sausages stacked as high as Mt. Rushmore on her plate.  And it’s worse.  She’s doused them with maple syrup.”

            Had it been any other person in the community wolfing down a mountain of sausages, Paul Purpose would have discarded the information as ridiculous, inconsequential.  But Gloria, an avowed vegetarian?

            “She must be flipping out,” Lloyd opined, rushing again to keep up to the minister who suddenly lunged forward, breaking into a run. “Flipping out at the V.F.W.’s annual pancake feed.”

(V.F.W. stands for Veterans of Foreign War.  A local clubhouse straddles the boundaries of Dalton Springs and neighboring Brightan, on the north end of Raven Lake, in Hobnar County.  Each year, the V.F.W. members host a pancake feed, with sausages served on the side.)

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 13-Added Distress

It took all the energy I had to flee the hospital and run the entire way home.  Once inside, I made certain to bolt the door lock to ensure privacy.  I’m so riddled with emotion I could explode. 

          The doctors said all along my ‘problem’ is emotional.  Serving in Grenada, Panama (during the roundup of Gen. Noriega), Gulf War, Somalia, and finally Kosovo was too much for me, according to them.  But stress of combat didn’t cause me to stop talking.  It was the ‘other thing’ which I can’t write down that triggered my muteness. 

          I’ve fought to speak since my military discharge, without success.  But today, something more frightening is happening.  Something I’m ashamed to admit to anyone, including Gloria, my only real friend in Dalton Springs.  I was able to blurt my first spoken words in several years, but only cursing came.  Even now, I’m swearing like a drunken sailor.  One foul word after another….which can only mean….

          I hope I don’t have Tourette’s Syndrome.

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 12-Mystery Deepens

“Luther, come back,” Willis Sparks hollered, chasing Luther down one of Hobnar Regional Hospital’s long sterile corridors.  Though the sheriff was a well-trained lawman, he couldn’t outrun spry Luther, who appeared distressed.

         Halting and out of breath, the sheriff watched as Luther escaped through the emergency room exit, into the chilly late afternoon air.  Willis had thought about following the mute with his car, but reconsidered, realizing that Luther might need time alone.  The shock of seeing the young man, who claimed Luther as his father, in the hospital bed must have been too much for Luther to endure.  And yet, the mystery of the naked pilot and the secret events of Luther’s past life was something Willis was finding near intolerable to bear. 

        For goodness sake, Willis was a sheriff, accustomed to unraveling mysteries, learning the truth.  In a place like Dalton Springs, where a lawman's business was to intimately know the townsfolk's lives, gossip provided a valuable venue for knowing past indiscretions.  The fact that he had known Luther for years, yet without possessing an inkling of this illegitimate son, who emerged from a plane crash site near the landfill, pushed Willis's curiosity to the limit.

        Miraculously, Luther had managed to hide his bombshell of a secret for years.  But now, the community rumor mill churned, hard at work, with Luther as its target.

 

        "Gossip rages around town like a vicious plague," Rev. Paul Purpose ruefully remarked, adjusting church hymnals in the dark wooden front pew.  Then he sat, allowing himself to pause while his meddling attentive wife, Denise, listened.

        She'd heard the talk whispered amongst the proud citizens of Dalton Springs; in the cafe, the grocery and hardware stores, even at the soap factory where Denise had delivered flowers to spunky Lillian Sparks for her birthday.  Everywhere tongues wagged, fanning the flames of speculation.  Though the residents had many virtues, keeping secrets wasn't one of them.

        "Nobody knows who the mother is," Denise announced, as if her preacher husband stood in ignorance on the matter, which he did.

        "But they're sure Luther is the father?"  Paul Purpose contemplatively played with his luxurious brown hair then, twisting his locks with his thick masculine fingers.  Somehow, it was difficult to imagine Luther as a father, simply because he had never expressed an interest in a woman for as long as the good reverend could remember.

        "The naked pilot had Luther's picture.  Not only does he claim that Luther is his father, but he looks like him, as well," Denise persuasively pronounced as if attempting to convince a jury.

        "But who and where is the mother?"  Paul countered, wildly flipping his fingers through his hair.  Had he agitated Denise's fine blond hair with equal force, he would have snarled it in a tangled mess.

        Knowing of Paul's hair fetish and his proclivity to wander, Denise scooted out of her husband's reach, watching anxiously.  In a stern voice, she warned, "Keep your hands to yourself."

        Stiffening in his seat, he rested his hands, bringing them away from his scalp.  Then he repeated, "Who is the mother?"

        "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Paul.  No one knows, not even the naked pilot."

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.