Movies

When I was a kid, going to the movies on a wintery Saturday afternoon was almost a requirement. We had double features, two movies for the price of one—a real bargain! The movies were preceded by cartoons and previews and a newsreel. Needless to say, we also had popcorn and what we called pop. I think the entire afternoon of stellar entertainment cost a total of twenty five cents.

The theater in our neighborhood was the Shea’s Seneca –a veritable palace of entertainment. It had gilt mirrors and crystal chandeliers in the foyer which was large enough for a wedding reception. The seats were red plush and the women’s lavatory was furnished with a love seat and gilded mirror. At one time, I decided that the theater was an abandoned palace that was now used as a movie house.

We saw all sorts of movies there—Disney movies, cowboy movies and serials. A movie that stands out is “The House on Haunted Hill.” My Dad decided that I had to accompany my sister Susan to see it, even though I had no desire to see a horror movie. He was afraid that the movie would be too much for my younger sister who, by the way, was far more adventurous than I. The movie terrified me and so I spent the entire time in the women’s lavatory while my sister hooted and hollered like all the other kids at the mayhem on the screen.

 

My husband and I both still enjoy going to the movies. Our first dates were movie dates, and we keep that tradition alive almost forty years later.

The only problem now is that there are so few movies that are geared to a grown-up audience. I scour the reviews, as does my hubby, hoping for a movie that sounds like we might enjoy it.

We’ve seen some bad, mediocre and a few really terrific (or amazing) movies. The problem is that so many movies are made for a much younger demographic—people who are not offended by four letter words, graphic sex scenes and scatological humor.

Like most people, I am not offended by love scenes, or dialogue that fits the situation—even if it is laced with four letter words. But movies now seem to be made by people whose sense of humor hasn’t matured since eighth grade and who seem unable to write dialogue that is genuine without every other word being the f-bomb.

We recently saw three movies that I would describe as movies for grown-ups. One is “Midnight in Paris” and “Larry Crowne” and the other “The King’s Speech.” I don’t pretend to be a movie critic, but I think that all three stories are interesting with believable characters and grown-up situations. “Larry Crowne” and “Midnight in Paris” are both charming stories and “The King’s Speech” is a little slice of history ala Hollywood.

Maybe someday the movie industry will notice that there is a huge underserved segment of the population that yearns for movies for grown-ups.

We can dream, can’t we?

 

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Awesome

Awesome!

“So impressive or overwhelming as to inspire a strong feeling of admiration or fear”—this is the dictionary definition of awesome. Sometime over the last few years, it came into popular usage to describe everything from a Big Mac to the latest vampire movie.

I hated how awesome was misused. I felt (rather smugly) that awesome had been downgraded to a mere expression of happiness—not at all the way the word was intended to be used. I thought that I was very clever when I advised my students to only use awesome if they were describing God or the Grand Canyon. In addition, if they dared to use awesome in their writing, there would be a stern suggestion of all of the more descriptive and appropriate word that could have been used—in red pen, of course.

I personally never used awesome in everyday speech. I would cringe when others did.

I wanted everyone to respect the word awesome and to use it correctly.

When there was an occasion to use awesome, I used it cheerfully, even gleefully. I would always qualify my use of awesome by saying that I used it “in the best sense of the word.” An event or an object had to be fabulous, wonderful and unique for me to use awesome—like a double rainbow or the full moon rising over the ocean. I only used awesome as an adjective—not as an exclamation. I felt that I was leading by example.

Of course, being human, I slipped from time to time. And I would apologize to whomever I was conversing with, explaining my dismay at the overuse of a perfectly good word.

So what word did I use in casual conversation instead of awesome, you ask? I used amazing. I found myself frequently describing common objects as amazing—sometimes I had amazing food, or saw an amazing concert or movie I even knew amazing people. And many people I knew did amazing things. And there were amazing books and book discussion and meetings and lectures—and even some days were–you guessed it—amazing. Sometimes when I was thrilled or excited, I would exclaim, “Amazing!”

Yes, amazing was my awesome. I went around smugly using awesome correctly and using amazing to describe the most mundane things. And I still felt that I was somehow more correct—in fact it was amazing that I could avoid the word awesome.

Lately, I’ve begun to notice something—amazing has entered everyday language—it’s on TV ads, in popular media and is often heard in conversation—just like awesome was a few years ago.

So, now my word of choice has become the new awesome. And worse, somewhere along the way, I started to hear myself describe everything as amazing. I had co-opted a perfectly good word with a very specific meaning and made it virtually meaningless!

How awesome was that!

How amazing that, I too, was guilty of the crime of imprecise language usage. The same crime I accused everyone else of perpetrating.

What’s that awesome and amazing saying?

“Let those who are without sin cast the first stone?”

 I am amazingly guilty, your awesome-ness.

 

 

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A Cab Ride, Part II

Pete looked at Maria’s hand and reluctantly took it.

“How about a cup of coffee, amigo?”Her smile was warm.

Pete shook his head. “We have to get back to the office. The work doesn’t do itself.” Just as I thought, she’s a slacker like all of those young people. They
want everything handed to them. He looked up sheepishly, hoping that his annoyance  didn’t show on his face. What the hell, she’ll probably be my boss someday soon, so better  to not make an enemy, he thought. Folding his umbrella as the rain began to lessen, he said, “I guess one cup of java wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Maria smiled at the word java. Pete sounded like her dad who often called coffee java or Joe.

“Okay, let’s get some Joe,” she said with a smile.
Now this little smart ass is making fun of me, Pete thought angrily. He followed the slight young woman down the unfamiliar street. He reached for his wallet and keys to make sure they were safe. He’d never walk down this street at night and he wasn’t too sure about walking there during the day, either. Just the other night, there was a story on the news about a guy getting mugged and shot in broad daylight. It was probably a neighborhood like this, Pete thought. He cringed as he passed women chatting in Spanish as they carried bags of groceries or pushed babies in strollers. A few kids playing kick ball in the street called out to Maria and she waved and answered them in Spanish.

Soon she pointed to their destination, a small coffee shop on the corner. Pete held back for a moment, wondering if the restaurant would be decorated with cut outs of cactus plants and sombreros.

Wow, he seems really nervous, she thought holding the door for Pete. Maria led him to a booth at the back of the restaurant and as soon as he was settled, she went behind the counter and poured two cups of coffee. Setting one in front of Pete, she slipped into the booth across from him.

Look how nervy she is, thought Pete. Who ever heard of helping yourself to coffee in a restaurant? Is this the way these people do things?
Maria raised her cup in a salute as Pete began to gulp his coffee. He wanted to get out of there as quick as possible. He planned to call another cab from the safety of the restaurant and hoped he’d soon be sitting behind his desk.
An awkward silence hung between Maria and Pete. Finally she said, “This is my dad’s place. Do you like the coffee?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I worked here every weekend and several evenings while I was getting my degree from the university. I’m planning to go back and earn an MBA.”

Pete nodded. “So, are you the first in your family to get a college degree?”

“Oh, no. My dad was a lawyer in Cuba before he came here. But he would have had to take several courses over again and then take the bar exam. He didn’t think that he could do that with a family depending on him. So he and my mom decided to open a coffee shop.”

The restaurant was beginning to fill up. Looking around, Pete was surprised at the clientele. There were nurses and a few doctors, too. He noticed several well dressed women who reminded him of the office receptionist.

“Where do those nurses come from? “

“Oh we get a lot of the staff from the hospital down the street and office workers, too. In the evenings we get some families or even couples on a date!”

Just as he finished his coffee, a man with graying hair appeared.
Maria looked up adoringly. “Papi, this is Pete from the office.”

Maria’s father poured another cup of coffee. “Thanks for helping my daughter learn her way around the office. She talks about you all the time.”

Maria shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Biting her lip, she said, “It makes him happy to think that I am getting along at work.”

Pete finished the coffee and looked  around the bustling restaurant. “So you worked here and went to college? That must have been hard.”

Maria smiled. “It was, but it was worth it. My dad is so proud of me. I want him to know that his sacrifices were worth it.”

Just as Pete was ready to slurp the rest of his coffee, a plate of sopapillas appeared.

“On the house,” Maria’s father said. He presented a plump woman wearing an apron. Maria stood up and kissed the woman on the cheek.

”Mami,” she said, “this is Pete from the office.”

The woman bent down and hugged Pete. “You have been so good to our Maria. Gracias, senor.”

Pete nodded numbly. He reached out and took a pastry from the plate. It was delicious. As he chewed, he watched as
Maria’s parents greeted patrons, making each of them feel at home.

“Great cup of Joe,” he said.

Then he reached his hand out and said, “Truce?”

Maria smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

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Gambling

 

 

When I first started this blog, I intended  to chronicle my journey to publishing at least one of my novels.

It has been a long and difficult trek, to say the least. I think if you could imagine yourself driving a car down a mountain road at 80 mph blindfolded, you would get a taste of what this has been like.

I contacted a local publisher about the possibility of having him publish the latest novel. He wants to see a
writing sample, which is standard procedure. I made an excuse (true confession time!) for not sending the sample out the very day I talked to him. Why? Because now I’m scared.

All the “what ifs” are floating around in my head—what if he doesn’t want to handle my book? What if he does?
Am I ready to work as hard as I will need to promote the book? Is it good enough?
Will people pay to read it?

I know that right now I am indulging myself in what my incredibly accomplished sister Rosemary calls the “imposter syndrome”—that somehow I have been fooling everyone and I’m really “not that good.”
Here is the sad saga of my quest for publication.

I have “cold queried” 10 or more agents. I have paid good money to sit across from even more agents and pitch my novel to them. I’ve had some interest in the book—and then received theinevitable, “You’re a talented writer, but…” email.

I’ve queried agents who have not had the courtesy to reply to my email.

One agent told me to my face that my novel couldn’t be very good—it wasn’t long enough. She never read even one sentence that I wrote. She then went on to tell a group of aspiring writers in a workshop I attended that we better not bad mouth her—because she would hunt us down and blackball us in the industry.

I have a mentor, L.C. Hayden, who has encouraged me. She generously tried to open a door for me at her publishing house—then her publisher decided to stop accepting romance/women’s fiction submissions.

Maybe you’re getting the picture.

Writing the novel took months of work and revisions took more months. I brought every chapter of the
novel to my writing critique group and welcomed their suggestions and criticisms (which I value highly). Then, I had the novel critically read by 5 more people—all of whom had suggestions. I had it professionally copy edited
for grammatical errors.
So, if this novel sees the light of day—which I hope and pray it does—it will be the culmination of months of work, unending efforts to “sell” it to the gatekeepers ( agents) and hours of pleading with God to just give me a chance.
Wish me luck as I finally gather the courage to take a chance once more, and bet all my chips that I have a winner!

 

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A Cab Ride

 

 

When they got into the cab, he looked angry. Maria wasn’t sure why—she didn’t mean anything by what she said.After all, the chairman had asked her opinion at the meeting, she didn’t volunteer it.

She watched as the cab zipped through the slick-as-glass city streets. Settling back into the shabby
seat, she began to check her text messages. Drizzle covered the front windshield as the wipers made a steady swishing sound in a futile attempt to clear it.

He’s always annoyed about something, Maria thought. Maybe I’ll get out at the next traffic light and walk.

Pete hugged the door of the cab, avoiding her. She got under his skin: her whiny voice, her insistence on
expressing her opinion whether anyone wanted it or not. And the grandstanding! It was what the guys in high school used to call brown-nosing.

Why can’t women do what God intended them to do? Pete thought. They should Just work for a couple of years as a secretary or a teacher, then get married and take care of kids. It worked for my mother. What makes these young gals so damned ambitious?It would be just my luck to have this—this—woman steal the promotion I’ve worked so hard to get!
He had been a drudge, working overtime, no time for friends or a girl friend. Not that any of the girls he met interested him. They probably are all like this Maria what’s- her-name, he thought. It just galled him to think of this Miss Sanchez or whatever her name was waltzing in and getting the promotion just because she was a woman.

All in the name of what was it again? Affirmative action, diversity or some other bull?
The rain began to make a staccato rhythm on the roof of the cab.

I don’t care, Pete thought, maybe I’ll get out at the next corner and walk.

The windshield wipers were madly trying to keep up with the steady beat of the downpour as the cab pulled up to a red light.

“Let me out, please!” both passengers shouted in unison.

They emerged from the cab and looked up, each startled to see the other standing at the curb.

Maria was quickly becoming drenched, so she opened the fabric shield of her black executive-style umbrella
with a swift flick of her wrist.

With a grim look on his face, Pete extended his black umbrella over his head.

Standing on the same curb, they deliberately avoided any contact, any acknowledgement or any sign that they were even acquainted.

Just then a car raced around the corner, careened through a puddle the size of a small lake and sprayed both of them with a plume of muddy water.

Pete shook his umbrella off, and lowered its protective awning. He glanced sideways at Maria, and saw that she
was doing the same thing.

A smile spread slowly across her face.
She extended her hand and said, “Truce?”

 

 

 

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Celebrating the Fourth of July

Like most Americans, I love to celebrate the 4th of July. It is the most American of holidays¾
much like Thanksgiving. There is something about seeing the red, white and blue on people, places and things¾including me!
And why shouldn’t we celebrate our freedom and be grateful that we live in the best country on earth?
When we were still  in Buffalo, we had a tradition of having a cook-out on the 4th of July at the beach. Then we would all walk down to the beach to watch an unauthorized fireworks display (which was amazing, because New York State has a ban on the sale or possession of fireworks.) One of the great traditions we loved was the building of huge bonfires on the beach¾some  were several feet tall. They fire pyres were by doused with kerosene and ignited with torches, or more creatively with M-30s¾a large firecracker.
I loved how egalitarian and how crazy this celebration  was. And I even enjoyed the element of danger¾
huge fires and indiscriminate fireworks. Of course, we enjoyed all of this from the safety of a break wall located a hundred yards away from the festivities.
Well, now I live in Florida , near Disney World. And yes, I could go to see fabulous fireworks at Disney, rubbing elbows with thousands of tourists, all of us sweaty and hoping for some relief from the heat and humidity. I am happy to pass up that opportunity .
In the past, my husband and I have gone to see a wonderful fireworks display in the city of Kissimmee. This year, we thought we would try something new. We decided to go to a very upscale community near us. We paid a hefty fee to reserve a front row table at a restaurant with a million dollar view of the fireworks.
The fireworks were spectacular and went on for a full half hour.
What wasn’t spectacular was the  blaring 80’s music on the main stage which was about 200 feet from where we sat  with our friends for an hour and a half waiting for the fireworks. Then we waited an hour and a half for a shuttle bus to take us back to the parking lot where our car was parked.
Next year I hope that I will celebrate another 4th of July back in Western New York, enjoying the cool summer evening with my family. And maybe, just maybe, there will be someone who “imported” fireworks and we can relive some of the best summers of our lives.
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I Was Thinking

“I was thinking about my mother the other day,” Lori said. Rick looked up, rattled his newspaper and stared at her.

“Yes,” he intoned.

“Well, you know that it’s getting harder and harder for her to get up and down the stairs.” Lori hesitated for a moment and then added, “And she’s lonely, too.”

Rick set the newspaper down on the table with a slight thump. “And?”

Lori hated the way that he made her feel sometimes. Like now, for instance. She felt like a child, incapable of an intelligent thought.

She stood up straight and looked him square in the eye. “I want to ask Mom to move in with us. We have the room now that the kids are on their own.” She twisted the dish towel in her hands nervously, waiting for her husband’s reply.

He stirred his coffee deliberately and thought for a moment. Lori’s mother was okay. She hadn’t interfered much over the years. But he knew that his mother -in-law was much more astute than her daughter who tended to take things at face value. Rick bit his upper lip. He and Mariel would have to more discreet. But then again, he thought, Lori would be busy with her mother. They’d go out shopping and to lunch and movies. Things Lori didn’t usually do. It seemed that she had almost no friends and rarely went out. The only social life she had was as his wife, when she entertained important clients or went with him to those boring dinners he was obligated to attend. She  enjoyed those evenings though, and would dress up and gossip excitedly all the way home. And she was a superb hostess—a great cook with a flair for decorating and using clever themes.

When he thought about Lori, it seemed strange  that she had so few friends. When he met her in college, she was bubbly and loved to be around people. In fact, she had drawn him out of his shell, taking him to all sorts of parties and concerts. People were naturally drawn to Lori, like a moth to a flame. She had what they called charisma.

After they married, Lori buried herself in raising their family and eventually she had little to say that was of any consequence—at least to Rick. Maybe that’s why I strayed, he thought.  She was just boring.

And he still had a slim waist and a full head of hair. He found that the Mariels of the world were plentiful and willing.

Lori rinsed the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher with a clank.

Rick smiled slyly and said, “Well, let’s do it! Your Mom’s a great old gal and it would be fun to have another person here.”

Lori was giddy with excitement as she hurried to the den to call Mom. She thought about how surprised Rick would be that her Mom’s belongings were already packed in boxes and cartons. All that remained was for the movers to come.

Lori bit her lip to stop from smiling. What did Rick take her for, she wondered, a babe in the woods? Wouldn’t he be surprised if he knew about the plan she and her mother had devised to deal with his flagrant  affairs? She was amazed at how good her Mom was at using the internet. Wasn’t it shocking that you could find a poison that was virtually untraceable at a web site?

Lori and her Mom couldn’t wait to start cooking and baking all of Rick’s favorites. It would take about a month to do the job.

Lori smiled, thinking about how delighted she would be to have Mom live with her.

 

 

 

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On Being a Night Owl

I am a night owl. It is in my genes¾I inherited this tendency from my parents. It was not uncommon for Mom and Dad to be up drinking coffee at all hours of the night into the early morning. So from when I was quite young, it seemed normal to me for adults to be still awake at midnight or later. In fact, my parents were such notorious night owls that my cousin would often stop by for a cup of coffee on his way home from hanging out with college friends. He knew that  the coffee pot would be on  even at one o’clock in the morning.

When I was in grade school. I went to bed at a normal hour of the night. As I got older, my bedtime became later and later.

Now, my bedtime is the same day as I wake up. Not too long ago, It occurred to me that most people probably go to bed the day before the rise the next day¾I don’t.

Even when I was still working and had to be up by  5:45 in the morning, my bedtime was around 1 am.

Yes, I was tired the next day¾and often had to take a nap when I got home from school.

Being a night owl seems to be my fate. I would love to go to bed at a much earlier time. I have even tried to reform myself with little result. If I go to bed earlier, I find myself lying awake until my “falling asleep” time comes. And yes, I am still tired the next day. Sometimes I convince myself to get out of bed by promising myself a nap later in the day.

The lateness of my bedtime has become harder to hide, thanks to computer technology that time stamps my emails and blog posts. I used to feel embarrassed by the lateness of the hour when I finally called it a night. But a curious thing has happened. Other night owls have come forth and admitted their nocturnal habits. It is like we are a secret society without the handshake and funny hats. A few have even suggested that we meet as we while away the early hours of the morning.

So, why do I stay up so late? I am sure that  I have a night owl gene. But I also feel that I am much more creative as night turns into early morning. I think that I also crave some alone time-¾
an hour or two  that are mine alone: To read, watch what I like on TV and do crossword puzzles.

My only problem with being a night owl ( other than finding  the first few hours after dawn painfully early) is that there is a sanctity that is bestowed on the early riser. They are considered somehow to be superior to those of us who cuddle up with our pillows until mid morning. The early morning is often described as tranquil and magical.

Well, I am here to testify that the early morning ¾very early morning ( like one or two a.m.) is lovely too. The air is soft  and the night sky is studded with stars. The quiet of the night is peaceful . There are birds that sing in the soft velvet of the very early morning and some flowers even bloom only at night.

I remember one time the next door neighbor of our childhood home said to my Mom, “Joanne , you should have been up this morning!”

My Mom answered, “Why, what happened?”

“Nothing,” said the neighbor.

“Then why should I get up to see nothing happen?” Mom retorted.

Well said , Mom. You were indeed a wise woman!

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Facebook and Me

Facebook conjures up a lot of images in many people’s minds¾everything from a place where unsuspecting young people sabotage their careers by posting  pictures of a big night partying or a vehicle for cyber bulling , or where those who lack discipline fritter away hours playing games like Farmville.
Personally, I never thought that I would subscribe to Facebook¾after all, I didn’t need it. I never had a My Space account. I had no desire to check on what my students were saying about me-¾or about each other. And I believed all the hype about the dangers of My Space and its successor, Facebook.
Until an 80+ year old friend relocated to Long Island. The first  email I received from her informed me that she had posted  pictures of her new apartment on Facebook.
So, I ended up with a Facebook account. And now I am hooked.
I love Facebook because my family, like so many others, is scattered all over the United States: a sister, my daughter and cousins  live in California, a brother in New Jersey, another one in Poughkeepsie, another one  spends time in both Chicago and Buffalo and another sister and brother  are in Buffalo, and another  sister is in Tampa.  In addition, there are many nieces and nephews who are all over¾including one traveling in Viet Nam.
Many of my family members are on Facebook. It is such fun to see their photos and read their posts!
I feel like I am really connected to them in a very authentic way. Our Facebook relationships are much more natural than a phone call or email. Pictures, jokes, serious posts, poems, music videos, reminders of special events and even invitations and expressions of love and admiration have been posted on Facebook. We have posted tributes to our late parents and shared cherished memories of them on FB. And we can banter back and forth¾which is a lot of fun.
My nephew posts pictures and videos of his adorable baby¾and even though I haven’t  met the baby yet , I delight in his sweet smile and charming antics¾thanks to Facebook.
Several friends are on FB as well. Even though I don’t have opportunities to see them often, we still keep in touch. We have even planned lunch dates on FB.
Back in the  1980’s, we hosted a girl from Northern Ireland  in a program that was designed to give children who had known only conflict and war a respite. This girl is now grown and she, too, is on Facebook. I have seen photos of her kids and husband¾across the sea from Northern Ireland.
An unexpected benefit of being on Facebook was the opportunity to reconnect with several cousins.
We were a close family growing up, but distance and the busyness of life came between us. Facebook has brought us back together through photos, posts and messages. One cousin was even inspired to plan a reunion as a result of being back in touch!
We have become a family again, thanks to Facebook.
As you can see, I am a fan of Facebook. Needless to say, you have to use common sense on any social networking website. Facebook is by no exception. It is by no means perfect.
But being on Facebook had enhanced my life in ways I could never have imagined when I first created an account to see my friend’s pictures three years ago. To me, the payoff has been worth it.
As they used to tell Mikey on the TV commercials years ago…“Try it¾you’ll like it!”
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The Rest of the Story–Sophie

I hurry into the pantry. My heart is beating so fast that I can barely breathe.
Twenty years of being careful , of working menial jobs, and watching my back screwed up in a minute.
Was that really Lee?
There’s a  commotion  as Lee pushes her way into the pantry. Next I hear my boss Tomas cajoling her into leaving the restricted area.  Finally he resorts to threatening to call security.
In the end, she agrees to leave¾after she threatens to make a formal complaint.
I gulp. Like so many of the ship’s staff, Tomas works inhuman hours to make the passengers happy. The majority of his paycheck goes to his family in his native Philippines.
“What’s this all about, Rita?”
“How would I know?”
“That woman seems to want to see you badly. How do you know her? And why is she calling you Sophie?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“You’re still on probation. I can have you fired like that.“ Tomas snaps his fingers.
What will happen now?
“I’m assigning you to work in the dishwashing galley,” he snaps.
Dishwashing is an unpleasant job, sweaty, smelly and physically demanding. The people who work there are like lepers. They sit by themselves in the crew dining room, and they never join in when the crew has a karaoke party.
I clear plates and hoist garbage cans, and at the end of my shift, I skulk back to my cabin, stinking of sweat and soured milk. The waste I see, plates loaded with food, desserts with a bite from them, full glasses of milk and juice left to spoil, is sickening. Every day in the  hot and humid dishwashing galley, I pray that we will soon dock overnight on the island. I can’t wait for my shore leave.

***********

Sitting back on my lounge chair, I open my romance novel. I’ve given up looking for  Sophie.
We’re in port until tomorrow. Most of the other passengers have disembarked, but Ted and I have a couples’ massage scheduled. I’m treating myself to a facial and a manicure. The prices are outrageous¾but what the hell¾we deserve it.
As I settle in, a skinny woman with a head wrap scurries out from the door that  swallowed Sophie. Grabbing my bag, I hurry to the disembarkation deck just in time to see the woman  get into a rattle-trap van. Hailing  the nearest cab, I demand that he follow the van.
After a half hour the van stops in front of a candy colored  block house. I slouch down in the back seat watching as my sister hugs a young man  who rushes to greet her.
The young man turns toward me and I  stifle a gasp.
There is no mistaking the slope of his shoulders and the firm jaw. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
He looks to be about twenty–the same age as my darling Katie.
And he is almost a clone of Ted at the same age.
I hiss at the driver to step on it. But like a typical Islander, he is dozing as the meter ticks away.
The young man spots the cab and approaches, followed by Sophie.
I inch the  window down and stare at my sister,
“How could you, Sophie? How could you seduce my husband?”
Sophie places her hand on her mouth.
“Maybe you’d like to ask Ted about that.”
“You must be kidding!”
“ Lee, maybe you don’t remember this–but I was only 18 when you got married. I never had a boy friend¾remember? I was the smart one, and you were the beautiful one.“
“Ted forced himself on me.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I scream at  the driver and we  speed away spewing dust everywhere.
************
Ted and I are having breakfast on our veranda.
“You’re quiet today,”  he says.
I nod.
“So, what did you do on the island yesterday? You missed our massage–too bad, because it was awesome! Did you buy more jewelry?”
I butter another croissant. I can barely look at  him.
There is a knock on the door and I answer it. An officer is standing there. He leaves after expressing his condolences to me, the only sibling of Sophie Manley, who signed on as Rita Rivera a month earlier. Sophie was killed in an  accident while visiting her family on the island.
I am numb with grief as the ship pulls out of port. I toss my breakfast is the trash  uneaten.
***************
And in the dishwashing galley, Sophie is disgusted as still another person wastes another plate of food.

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