Fifty Flying Ducks

By Shirley Bush

In Fifty Flying Ducks, the reader journeys with the protagonist, a whimsical nurse from Tulsa, Oklahoma, as she struggles to grow as a friend, as a lover, and as a human being. Through the help of her best friend, her priest, and an opinionated Chihuahua, the main character transforms into someone ready to love and to be loved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shirley Bush
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476053660

Shirley Bush

Shirley J. Bush is a registered nurse and holds a Master's Degree in Public Health. She is widowed and has one adult son. Currently, she lives near Mammoth Cave National Park.

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Fifty Flying Ducks

By Shirley J. Bush

Copyright 2012 Shirley J. Bush

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter One: Low Places

Chapter Two: Friends

Chapter Three: Piled Higher and Deeper

Chapter Four: Cowboys and Indians

Chapter Five: Consequences

Chapter Six: Harshness and Hymnals

Chapter Seven: Loose. Ends.

Chapter Eight: Purging

Chapter Nine: Dreams

Chapter Ten: Don’t Know Much About History

Chapter Eleven: Forces of Nature

Chapter Twelve: Happy Campers

Chapter Thirteen: Unfulfilled Potentials

Chapter Fourteen: Redemption

Chapter Fifteen: God

Chapter Sixteen: Under Construction

Chapter Seventeen: Some People Never Learn

Chapter Eighteen: Conversion Factors

About the Author

Chapter One: Low Places

What the hell do you want? Not exactly my best opening line, but it was as much as I could muster for the skinny bitch sidling up to the bar stool next to me. She had a real name; however, I’d been calling her that so long that I honestly couldn’t remember what God-fearing people called her. Besides, skinny bitch seemed to describe her completely.

My day had already been bad enough without having to watch this skank straddle the Naugahyde® on my right as I imagined she straddled my soon-to-be former lover, husband, soul-mate. Funny—that’s what I called him as I kicked his sorry (Levi®-jean covered) ass out of my house, with my ten-year-old penny loafers (which coincidently looked none the worse for the wear). Sole mate was more like it.

I could hardly wait to see what the bleached-blonde bimbo had to say or how it could possibly impact me. Nevertheless, she had my curiosity piqued, at least a little until I looked down in my one-more-for-the-road beer and saw something that resembled the wad of gum I had peeled off my loafer last week. Great. Just great. By that time, the clatter of the bar—beer mugs and beer bellies—had inundated my last give-a-crap brain cell and I could tell she had about two seconds before I became completely incapable of an English conversation.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning . . . if I could remember where that was, I would. At least I remembered when this mess started, and that was as good a place as any. It was March 4th and an absolutely beautiful Sunday morning. I was getting ready for my excursion that afternoon to the fairgrounds. This literally wasn’t my first rodeo, but it was the best. The PRCA ProRodeo was at the Tulsa State Fair, and I had one of the best seats in the house. The horses were so close that I got sprayed with dirt every time they galloped around the arena. I loved to watch Kanin Asay and L.J. Jenkins on Xtreme bulls on cable, but my heart lay with the basics—roping and riding. Oklahoma was in the Prairie Circuit, which to my way of thinking was the best. I had been to one event in the Texas circuit, as well. But, things really were bigger in Texas and, mostly, I felt lost during the entire two-day experience. Best to stick with what you know my momma always said. Then again, Mom had been married three times. Best to stick with your own advice, I always wanted to say in reply.

Once the show was over, I headed home and relived each tense moment of the evening. I was still concerned for the newcomer who had been brutally kicked and gored by a wild bull named Buckwheat. He had been rushed to Saint Francis hospital on South Yale—at least he would receive excellent care. Was he married? Did he have kids? Would he survive? As I considered his fate, my mind wandered to the television report I had seen on the news earlier today. The war raged on in the Middle East; five U.S. soldiers had been killed on this very day in Afghanistan. I hadn’t once contemplated their situation. Now, that was all I could think about. Did they leave widows and orphaned children behind? Did they receive proper care at the field hospitals where they were taken? Had I cared any the less because I hadn’t seen them in action—hadn’t witnessed the pain on their faces as they lay grimacing in the dirt? Suddenly, the rodeo didn’t seem so important. I felt ashamed that I had cared so much for someone who was trying to entertain me and had cared so little for those who died trying to defend me. I promised myself that I would get more involved in the war effort. That night my prayers were all for the military men and women who quietly serve, who are compensated little, and who do it day after day un-witnessed by the masses they protect, Thank you, boys (and girls). I will sleep a little easier tonight. May God’s peace and protection be with you, all.

When I have these little epiphanies, I feel wiser . . . and fifty years older. No wonder my grandparents looked so ancient. How many sudden insights had they had over the course of their lifespans? Maybe it isn’t what we don’t know that kills us. It’s what we do that makes us all too willing to lie down and die. I needed to sleep; I was starting to get depressed. I really needed my husband tonight, but he had to work overtime as usual. So, I said goodnight to Her Majesty, the Chihuahua nestled at the foot of the bed, and curled up under my favorite quilt—a Jacob’s ladder hand-stitched by my mother.

The next morning, I noticed a distinct chill in the air. It was wetter and heavier than it had been for a while. Will always said you could tell if it were going to snow by the way the air smelled. It was definitely too late in the spring for snow, but something was blowing in, and I wasn’t at all sure it was good. I was right. The knock came from out of town. Through the peephole, I saw Paul (Will’s older brother), and I immediately looked down to check out his luggage. One or two small suitcases meant a decent-to-good visit. A large bag almost certainly meant trouble. He was standing there with two large pieces of Samsonite—an ominous sign. Either he was planning on an extended visit, or planned to stay, period. Either way, my anxiety level ratcheted up a notch. Paul was an English professor at a small community college back east, and his younger brother resented him immensely. Will used some sort of a distorted yard stick to measure the two that permanently left himself lacking—no matter how successful he had become. Each time Bro came for a visit, Little Bro brooded. Surely enough, when Will stepped into the house, the temperature in the house dropped twenty degrees.

Like a good wife, I made a pot of chili and busied myself with household chores, essentially avoiding the cold front that had settled in my living room. I actually liked Paul, not that I could ever admit that to my husband. He was a nice guy. His wife was a nurse, and they seemed to have a good marriage. Their one son, Jeremiah, was a gem. Last I heard, he planned to teach like his father. I couldn’t remember if it was math or science. It didn’t matter. Will would eventually hate him, too. As soon as Jeremiah added the title Assistant Professor to his name, I would not be allowed to mention him again. Already, I had seen his uncle yank out the proverbial yard stick when I bragged on Jeremiah last fall to Will’s mother. Pity. I really liked that boy.

Paul went to bed early (I wonder why?). The next day, he decided to surprise Will at the office and take him out to lunch. Several hours later, he returned and packed his bags. Right before he walked out, he turned, stared at me a minute like he had something to say, and softly uttered, I’m sorry. Then, he left. At the time, I thought he and Will had simply had a bad argument, and he was sorry he couldn’t stay. I later discovered he was sorry that I had to. He really was a nice man.

For the next few nights, I had the old Will back. He was home each day by 5:30 p.m. He was attentive, and I could tell he was really trying to be there, in the moment. But, I wasn’t used to this much attention. It was a little unnerving. Don’t get me wrong, on some level it was heavenly. I finally had someone to talk to, besides the dog. And, the sex was phenomenal. Unfortunately, I had been down this road with him before. My loving husband was like a gas stove; he was either 100% on and smoldering hot, or completely off and bone-chillingly cold. More than once I had backed my frozen cheeks up to him and noticed the flame had been extinguished. I couldn’t depend on his fire. So, I warmed my hands in his afterglow and plugged in the electric blanket. Spring didn’t officially begin until March 20th which is, ironically, the day all hell broke loose.

It began like any other day. I started my wake-up routine which involves slow deliberate muscle contractions and relaxations. It is part of an orchestrated symphony that starts at my toes and works its way up to my arms and hands which stretch triumphantly at the crescendo. It sounds pretty, but it feels better. I had the day off, so I decided to do laundry and then run to Barnes & Noble for the latest Sookie Stackhouse novel by Charlaine Harris. I never made it to the bookstore. As I was sorting the laundry, I had a bottle of Resolve® in one hand and one of his white, button-down Oxford shirts in the other. Honestly, he elevates ring around the collar to an art form. After I sprayed about half of the shirt, I noticed the unmistakable crimson impression of a female’s bottom lip. I stopped, staring at it, afraid to move as if it were some snake waiting for me to flinch so it could sink its fangs into my flesh. There had to be a logical explanation. So, I lay the shirt down and sprayed it from a distance. Then, I picked up the next one. The smudge was small but clearly identifiable. I went over the next three shirts with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing. The pants were a different story. Bastard. He wasn’t even a smart cheat. There was a receipt for a bouquet of yellow daisies. He definitely did not have me in mind when he laid down the $40. First of all, the only place he bought me flowers was at Albertson’s or Wal-Mart—Too expensive to buy them at a florist, he’d say. And secondly, he knew I didn’t like yellow or daisies. Fortunately, I knew him. I made a beeline for the computer. Will had a dry sense of humor and loved hidden meanings and double entendres. I surfed the Internet for the meanings behind flowers. Daisies denote innocence, while yellow implies being a secret admirer or hopelessly in love. NIGYSOB! (an acronym his friend told him means Now I got you, you son of a bitch!) The demon spawn would have to wait to escape Hades, however. I was nothing if I wasn’t smart.

I actually believed that, right up until the moment I realized I might have overestimated my mental prowess by a good thirty or forty IQ points. Have you ever just hung your head, shook it back and forth a couple of times, and wondered, How the hell did I end up here? That’s exactly what I was doing the a couple of days later as I literally stood knee deep in a field of mud with one shoe on and one shoe forever lost to the clay gods—offered up in sacrifice for stupid people who willingly walk into a field of mud. This was one of those moments when you just had to ask Seriously, how do I get dressed in the morning? I mean, this great city that I so vehemently adored had actually given me a license to drive a car. Really? Maybe I should take out an ad in the Tulsa World warning anyone who dared share the Broken Arrow Expressway that an imbecile also had driving privileges and that they might want to consider public transit until I was forced to surrender my little plastic piece of normality.

Now, there’s an idea—normal. I always thought it was over-rated. I was beginning to think that maybe that’s just something crazy people tell themselves. I don’t think I started out stupid, but it seems to have crept up on me and covered me—like what would happen to a sissy boy who had just walked into a paint ball gallery with four of his good-ole-boy, gun-toting friends. Funny how you could always see it coming when it wasn’t aimed at you, I guess Nancy and I didn’t stand a chance.

So, here I was . . . sinking. Frustrated and worn out from struggling to get un-stuck. I had been fighting long enough that exhaustion had set in; you know what I mean, it’s that place you get to when you’re convinced you’re going to die. At first, you’re afraid no one will ever find your decomposing remains. Then, you hope they never do, because they’ll be scratching their heads for months wondering, How the hell did she end up here? Indeed.

But, at this point, I had temporarily stopped asking that question and had moved on to more pressing matters. Had the red clay sunk so deeply into my legs that it had begun to stain my bones? If I did get out, would my feet look like they had received a spa treatment; and, if they did would this become a trend for women with husbands who made too much money? What if the dirt dried overnight—would I be stuck here forever like some jacked-up totem pole carved by a rookie artist who made the mistake of starting at the top instead of the bottom? No wonder I left the television on at home all the time. Obviously, I am a sick, demented woman who, left alone in an empty field with no humans around for miles, stuck in the mud, would rather concoct elaborate schemes about malformed totem poles and trophy wives than devise an escape plan. I needed help—which was the first thought I had this morning when I had woken up—but for an entirely different reason.

That morning, I had felt like Sherlock Holmes. Carefully, I planned every detail of my day. I was going to catch that cheating bastard one way or the other. First, I would call my best friend, Shelia, and make her my sleuthing accomplice for the day. It is true, misery does love company. The part they don’t say is that the company doesn’t necessarily love being partnered with misery. So, I considered whether or not I needed to involve her. After all, she had a birthday party planned for her granddaughter tomorrow and lots of last-minute wrinkles to iron out. It wouldn’t be fair making her attend my pity party today—on the positive side, she’d know all the guests. Okay, maybe my plan wasn’t so perfect after all. One by one, I mentally went down my list of friends and systematically eliminated all three of them as potential spy buddies. The Chihuahua at the foot of the bed had started crying like a premenopausal woman who just broke the heel of her favorite pair of pumps. That dog was a drama Queen. Every time she needed to void, she turned on the water works. Now, before you get all misty for her and think I cruelly make her wait to do her business be aware that I take her for a walk five to six times a day. This is just her quirky way to get my attention. So, I got out of bed, threw on some comfortable pants under my sleep shirt and headed out the door with man’s best friend. As things turned out, I should have used the moniker Inspector Clouseau.

The air was crisp this morning at a cool sixty-six degrees. And while there was a city ordinance stating that all dogs must be on a leash in public, Miss High-and-Mighty refused to be collared. Actually, I kind of respected that about her. So, we walked, half-ran at times, and dawdled our way through the Broken Arrow neighborhood until she found the one spot that apparently no other dog in the world had ever defiled, and she relieved herself. I’ll have to say this for her, she was persistent. Then, it hit me. I would take her along with me on my day of detecting. Like me, she had a vested interest in discovering who had been stealing Mr. Right one night at a time. That damn dog loved Will, and I never understood the connection. I watered her, fed her, walked her, bathed her; hell, I even painted her damn toenails. But, the minute he came home and sat down, she jumped in his lap and stayed there until he put her down about an hour later; even then, she usually whimpered for a good five minutes. There were times when I was actually jealous of her—at least he rubbed her belly. Nevertheless, he broke her heart nightly, yet she repeated the same routine day after day. Wasn’t it Einstein who said doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result was the definition of insanity? The dog and I had a lot in common.

Anyway, the plan was simple, I would go about my daily chores and wait for the inevitable phone call that would come this afternoon. After Prince Charming phoned to tell me about some new crisis that was going to keep him at the office until the wee hours of the morning, I would swing by his work and wait. I had spent the day gathering the essentials: chocolate, chips, doggie treats, and lots of water for me and my four-legged Dr. Watson. When the call came, we would be ready—if only we could pee in a bottle.

Around 4:00 p.m., my cell phone started playing George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers Bad to the Bone. It was the ringtone I assigned to his cell phone after I suspected something was afoot.

Hello, I said and grimaced like I had just downed a jar of pickle juice.

I don’t think I’ll be able to come home tonight, honey. We have a client coming in from California. Leland wants to wine and dine him, and I’ll have to work on his presentation for tomorrow after we drop him off at the hotel.

Okay, I said, as I wondered if she were with him right now. Then, I added, I love you. Because if she were, I wanted her to hear him say I love you, too. And, he did. I couldn’t help but imagine his making a gagging imitation as he mouthed these words. Right then and there, I vowed never again to make fun of another person to whom I was speaking on Mr. Bell’s impersonal communication device.

Showtime, Your Highness. That’s what I called the mongrel that was now the other half of this crime-fighting duo. (Adultery is still a crime, isn’t it?) Regardless, she jumped off the couch and darted toward the door as if she knew what I was talking about, and away we went on our perverted adventure. There are times when I am thankful I drive a Prius. That jewel gets 50 mpg. On a good day, I can eke out fifty-five. However, a Prius is still uncommon enough to be noticeable, and today, I needed to be invisible. I also would have to be extra careful to stay far enough away that my canine partner didn’t notice him as he slipped into his car and slithered away for his secret tryst. If she saw him, the jig would be up—she would draw his attention with her high-pitched yipping and my black Prius would be uncloaked. Thank God for Will’s binoculars.

Around 5:00 p.m., he exited the building and got into his 2010 Snakeskin Green ACR—Special Edition Dodge Viper (honestly, that’s its name). He had talked about this car so much that I could quote specs on it all day. (Unlike me, he liked to be noticed.) With its 8.4 liter 10 cylinder engine, his pride and joy gets a whopping 13 mpg in the city and 22 on the highway. I swear that’s why he insisted I buy the Prius last year. Even he had something resembling an environmental conscience. The Prius was his way of balancing things in the universe. Funny, he owned a Snakeskin Viper—as if one reference to a serpent wasn’t enough. At this moment, I remembered a favorite saying from a friend who upon seeing a muscle car always mutters, Sorry about your penis. While it made me smile, I knew it wasn’t the truth—his penis was just fine. This car matched his ego; however, even it seemed a little small in comparison. And, I knew that would save me. Anyone who drives a Viper doesn’t notice anyone else. They’re too busy trying to get noticed, themselves. As I suspected, he exited the parking lot and never glanced in my direction.

You’re probably wondering how I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my husband is cheating. To quote my favorite detective from 221B Baker Street, London, When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. At first, I believed the innocent explanations. Jean was distraught at work today. She was crying and I hugged her. Some of her lipstick must have rubbed off, or "I’m really tired—can