Reflection

By Jeff Vrolyks

One type of tragedy mutilates the body. Worse are those that mutilate the mind. How many empty shells of once-normal people might you encounter daily, blind to the ruins behind their prim smiles? If a single moment can scar a mind, can another moment grant redemption?

Reflection follows the paths of two relationships—brother-sister and boyfriend-girlfriend. The former having suffered the life-altering tragedy of rape, and the latter leading up to the same impending tragedy. Will the present be a reflection of the past, or will Howard find redemption by delivering his new friend from tragedy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Vrolyks
• Release date: May 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476419299

Jeff Vrolyks

Jeff Vrolyks lives with his supple wife of 7 years Christy in Simi Valley, California. He is a new writer, in that he recently discovered a passion for writing and hasn't stopped since. He was in the Air Force for a four year stint (cargo aircraft crew-chief), worked in the beer beverage industry, automotive industry, and in the oil fields on drilling rigs. His turn on’s include rain-forest thunderstorms, rainy sunsets at the beach, and glowing reviews from you. His turn off’s include driving in Los Angeles, working-out in an over-crowded gym with fat hairy people in spandex, and receiving scathing reviews from people intolerant of foul language and violence. Find him on Facebook to be kept current on upcoming releases.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Make Yourself Comfortable. Three simple words. Three words addressed to a visiting friend from yesteryear; three words addressed to a patient from a frowning doctor (lab-test results in hand); three words addressed to a Person of Interest before being steamrolled by accusation. Howard felt the three words closest resembled the latter, and profoundly regretted making the appointment. A momentary lapse in judgment, nothing more, nothing less.

Howard eased back into a recumbent position on the burgundy leather couch-thing and stared vacantly at the ceiling, heart racing.

Then a flashback. A high school science project. Got an A on that one; rightfully so, he thought. Changing a rat’s diet from exclusively protein to carbohydrates to fat, and monitoring the consequent results. He couldn’t remember what the hell the results were, but the rat sure was cute. And friendly, didn’t once bite him. Melvin. Melvin the Rat.

What ever happened to Melvin?

Comfortable enough, Howard?

Yeah, fine, he said nervously.

Relax, bud, Phil drawled. We’re neighbors. Don’t think of me as a professional. We’re just two friends who haven’t seen each other in a while, right? Getting caught up, that’s all. Here, I’ll start. My wife’s cousin came over on Saturday. Kathy. She boasted, ‘I cleaned up my life! Quit the booze!’ Naturally we were happy for her. We woke up Sunday morning to find our alcohol cabinet wiped out and Kathy had disappeared. She took with her my private scotch collection. Great weekend, huh? How about you, Howard?

Howard did the same thing he always does over the weekend and didn’t want to hear the damned head-doctor opine about it. In fact, Howard wondered how he got suckered into this. What’s the old adage? Good fences make good neighbors? He needed gooder fences, apparently. Besides, Howard knew what his problem was, he just couldn’t get himself to do anything about it. He wanted to call the whole thing off, but what could he tell the Phil-shrink to ensure a clean break? Whatever he told him, it might cause confrontation—no, it would cause confrontation, and Phil Lieberman would probably shake his head and sigh, tell Howard how disappointed he is. But maybe it would be worth it.

Or maybe this highbrow psychiatrist would take it personally, be offended. And why wouldn’t he? Maybe Dr. Phil (ha!) is on the edge himself, and losing one more patient will push him right over. Maybe. Did he not just say he was screwed over by an in-law just two days ago? Yes, he sure did. By Kathy. Maybe he has a fear of rejection and channels his rejection through anger. Or rage. Maybe he’d blow up in a mad fit of rage and try his damnedest not to punch me, but trying is what it is (it’s just a try) and I really left him no choice to begin with because I couldn’t follow simple fucking instructions. Isn’t that just like Howard? Phil would punch me in the gut and then blame ‘the miserable punching bag’ for the neighborhood not being quite as pleasant as it once was because of assholes like me; assholes like me who quit when the going got tough, and when wasn’t the going tough? Fucking quitters ruining the neighborhood and turning everything to shit like the shitty twin-brother of King Midas who had a shit finger and a beef to pick with the soon-to-be-shit Howard the quitter.

Howard discreetly sized him up from the couch: just as scrawny as he remembered. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t trained in martial arts or maybe he was an ex welter-weight boxer: it’s the little guys you have to worry about most. Howard wished more people believed that crap when he was in high school. Maybe he wouldn’t have spent the better part of it staring down the barrel of a trash can.

Avoid confrontation, Howard thought. A measly little hour is oh so measly. Then you can leave on good terms. Invite him over every fourth of July for a barbecue and enjoy the rest of the year Phil-free.

But then what? You know full well he’ll want to book another appointment. What are you going to tell him then? ‘No, I’m sorry, but the one hour with you was enough to realize I never want to do business with you again, even though you aren’t charging me. Free is too expensive for your shitty advice.’ Yeah, that will be pleasant. You’ll be forced to make another appointment. And if you don’t, you may just may learn which martial arts discipline he is most proficient.

I see, Doctor Lieberman said thoughtfully. Tell me, Howard, does your wife Cindy make most of the decisions around the house? I know my wife sure does. She redecorated my office just last month. Didn’t like the colors I had picked out. Does your wife ever make you change something you like, Howard?

Howard replayed the conversation in his head. The last person in the world he wanted to mention was Cindy. But as usual he couldn’t do something as simple as not say something. It was no wonder why Cindy got upset with him: he couldn’t follow simple instructions, even if they were his own.

I don’t think so, Howard replied. She’s not bad, really. She’s not the source of…

Source of… source of your problems? Phil’s unibrow arched into a crap-colored rainbow. Your depression? Did you know a third of the population suffers from clinical depression at one time or another in their lives? Incredible, huh? I know I sure have, but my friend helped me through it. You ever feel depressed? Maybe about your job, or the Red Sox not making it to the playoffs, or maybe from something at home?

I’m an Angels guy, not Red Sox. I don’t have a job. Not for three years now. I sucked at running a company, so I sold it.

Howard never even wanted to take a stab at running Landon Realty. He came to terms with that after the first week of college, suffering through three Business 101 lectures. Stress, expectations, negotiations, presentations, hiring, and the worst part of all, firing. That would never happen. Never. And what good is a leader who can’t fire? His dad sure had been good at it, almost mechanical when it came to firing the dead-weight. Or if he wasn’t, he sure hid it well. Howard had held his nose through the courses and got the degree his father was so proud of. It was now collecting dust, figuratively speaking.

Dwight Landon had hoped his only son would grow out of it, maybe even come to love the business—God knew he was intelligent enough to succeed at it. By the time Dad had come to terms with Howard’s disinterest in the business—sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree—he had advanced pancreatic cancer and hadn’t yet made arrangements for the company to be managed by someone other than Howard; someone more willing, which was basically anyone with a pulse. The plan had always been for Howard to preside over Landon Realty. Dwight never saw this coming until the end. He had a degree in business, for crying out loud! From UCLA!

Dad had become confined to a bed when he found the courage to bring up the sore subject with Howard. As much as Howard loathed the idea of running the business, he loathed the idea of disappointing his father more. So he lied and not only said he looked forward to running Landon Realty, but considered expanding it when the market picked back up. It was a white lie, and Howard suspected his father died knowing as much.

Dwight Landon died a supremely wealthy man. Before Dwight had founded Landon Realty, he’d been an avid and cunning real estate investor. And having a grandfather who was an oil man back in the days of the Great War, Dwight had inherited what his own father hadn’t squandered—Dwight’s father Herman Landon wasn’t blessed with investor’s foresight (but possessed excellent hindsight), and Dwight concluded it must skip a generation. Nobody really knew how much money Dwight Landon was worth until he died, save for his ex wife. They’d been long divorced, and she was kind enough not to rape Dwight’s assets. Not raping his assets could probably be chalked up to the man she fell in love with shortly after the separation was quite wealthy himself, the author of a successful series of travel books and a couple other moderately successful non-fiction books.

Dwight left his vast empire of real estate and swollen bank account to be split evenly between his two kids: Howard, and his sister Melinda. Landon Realty was given to Howard, and Melinda didn’t give a rat’s furry ass one way or the other. Howard’s sister Melinda had a comfortable cocaine habit that, before Dad died, was an itch she could barely scratch; now she had a team of servants scratching places not yet itchy.

After liquidating the assets and splitting the dough, Melinda moved to Las Vegas with her loser boyfriend Rob. Or maybe it was Bob. Either way, Melinda had enough money for a country club estate, matching Bentleys, and enough left over to snort cocaine like it was the antidote to the poison she’d swallow over the next eighty years. However, turns out she didn’t buy all the bling and fancy cars Howard expected she would; who’d have thought?

Melinda hadn’t yet learned that Howard sold Dad’s company for untold millions, but Howard decided she wouldn’t care. When you have that much money you’re already buying the best cocaine on the market. More money wouldn’t solicit a better high, it would just be thrown in the vault to keep the rest company.

Cindy. The better half. Misses Cindy Rodgers—she felt Misses Cindy Landon didn’t quite roll off the tongue as easily. Howard stumbled upon Cindy rather uniquely. Actually, Cindy stumbled upon Howard, if we’re splitting hairs. Howard was at Barnes and Noble in Santa Monica, looking to add to his Sci-Fi collection. Cindy was engaged in the same hunt for nerd fuel. When Howard pulled a book off the shelf, Cindy approached him, commented favorably upon his selection. A girl like you read Deep Space Nine? Howard mused perplexedly.

After a brief conversation she asked him if he wanted to grab lunch at the sushi bar down the street. Howard hated sushi, but when does a nuance like that ever get in the way of a first date? A first date with a bea-yoo-tiful woman. Howard looked around for a prankster with a video camera and a penchant for YouTube video uploads. When he accepted that there wasn’t one, he choked out a yes and waited for the punch line. There wasn’t one of those, either.

Cindy was incomparably gorgeous and not unknowingly. She resembled one of those mascara models whose photos get airbrushed so the fair masses don’t mistake them for real people. But Cindy was the exception. She was as real as they got. Most guys would call her eye candy; most girls would call her a bitch (and whine it’s not fair!). Somehow her deportment was an amalgam of reserved, coy, flirty, and aggressive, and she pulled it off without a hitch. She conducted her affairs effortlessly, communicated persuasively, and was wrapped in a splendid little package that no man could return; and if they could, weren’t soon to forget. She could have been the poison of many men, but chose to be the poison of just one.

In the Hunk Department, Howard didn’t suffer the delusion that he was anything other than genetically misfortunate. Barbara, his only chickadee before Cindy, was a brief high school conquest, and, like Howard, Barbara sank to the bottom of the gene pool like a lead weight.

Couple a Rottweiler, Pit Bull, or Cindy, with a Chihuahua, Pomeranian, or Howard, and what do you get? Either a dead dog or a dog that gets the shit kicked out of it regularly. Cindy may have been a Pit Bull, but she was groomed as a Toy Poodle. And she was sweeter than apple pie toward Howard, in the beginning. She was affected by his deadpan humor, thought it was cute he wore glasses instead of contacts (on his wedding day he’d be wearing contacts, thank you very much), and indulged his every want and desire, which there weren’t many.

He fell in love with Cindy when their lips first touched, on the evening of their first date. She offered to sleep with him that same night. Howard considered waiting to be far more exciting, to build up the anticipation. In truth, he was scared to death of embarrassing himself, but he kept that one in the vault.

Their relationship progressed rapidly. Howard was confident she’d agree to marry him, having seen what he had. Strewn throughout her apartment were opened catalogues and weekly ads with pictures of diamond rings circled in ink. A subtle hint.

Still, Cindy didn’t want to leave things to chance: while cozied up to him on the couch—a Zales circular winking at Howard from the coffee table—she admitted to being unlike her friends who dated herds of guys and partied like it was forever 1999. No, not Cindy. She was different. She was a simple girl, plain as vanilla, and at twenty-one-years young she was ready to settle down and start a family, to spoil her man to death till death do they part. Her performance was worthy of an Academy Award.

After the most exciting and fulfilling month of Howard’s life, he proposed to Cindy. She was taken aback, shocked, and said yes.

Four weeks later, the woman wore white, the man wore black, handfuls of rice were thrown at them (screw pigeons and their sensitive stomachs), and the rest was history.

Howard, I don’t wish to overstep my boundaries here, neighbor Phil said, undoubtedly preparing to overstep his boundaries in full, but you’re a nice guy; a kind and gentle man. I don’t know Cindy other from a few obligatory waves and congenial words here and there, so it’s far from me to judge her. But have you considered that she may have married you for your money?

That thought first entered Howard’s mind during their honeymoon. They had put off making love—even though Cindy offered on multiple occasions—till they were married. Howard psyched himself up for the big day with the bigger evening, and was less nervous than excited about consummating their marriage. He knew Cindy well enough to know she would be gentle and thoughtful with him under the sheets after he confessed his secret: twenty-seven and still a virgin.

It was truly a most romantic atmosphere, in a remote hut stilted six feet above the softly whispering ocean in Bora Bora. There were candles lit, rose petals covering the silk bed-sheet, and a bottle of something old chilled on ice. He was more apprehensive informing her of his virginity than making love to her, but maintained confidence that she’d allay his nerves at once by saying something endearing, comforting.

Howard opened his heart once they undressed and got into bed. She abruptly looked away: a strange reaction, he thought. He caressed her shoulder. Honey?

She shuddered.

He perceived Cindy to be crying. A thought entered his mind: What if she shared his humiliating secret? After all, she was only twenty-one. That would explain a few things. She’s just as scared as me. He felt guilty for bringing it up, but at the same time knew their bond would strengthen from such a commonality. He stroked her back and consoled, Cindy, if you’re like me, don’t be embarrassed. We will—

A snort of air interrupted him, a choked-off chortle, and then came laughter. Startled, he withdrew from her. It was the last thing he expected to hear. His embarrassment prompted him to cover his bare and lanky body with the petal-covered silk sheet.

She subdued her laughter and looked over her shoulder. Sorry, Howard. I don’t know why I laughed. If I was a gambler, my money would’ve been on you being a virgin, so I don’t know why it’s so damned funny.

Howard couldn’t think of a response, so he kept quiet. He faced away from her and drew the cool sheet up to his cheek and wished he’d fall asleep or wake up, anything but live in this moment.

Cindy wanted to make things right. Come on, let’s do this. She shook him by the arm through the sheet. Let’s put a cap on twenty-nine before I’m married to a thirty-year-old virgin. She giggled.

Instead of reminding Cindy that he was only twenty-seven, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

I bet you’ve never seen breasts like these, huh? And they’re real. When he didn’t respond, she frowned. Howard? She leaned over and saw his wet eyes and cheeks. "Are you… crying?" She was genuinely surprised. Christ almighty. Drama in the Bahamas—err, Bora Bora. Please don’t ruin this for me, she whined, I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. She patted his hip and decided, Come on, get up. We’re having sex.

What cycled through his mind before he finally fell asleep hours later, was, You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks? You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks? At least Howard hadn’t been looking forward to this night for twenty-nine years.

What’s Cindy been like, the Doctor-neighbor said, jotting on his Legal pad, since your honeymoon?

The first word that came to Howard’s mind: Consistent. Consistent is better than inconsistent, he supposed, though he lamented that she wasn’t of the premarital consistency.

Cindy moved in with him after the honeymoon, but only after he bought the house that she decided best suited them. At just under six-million-bucks, it was the nicest house Howard had ever stepped foot in. He found rare common ground with his father in his contentment with simple things, living a modest life. But Howard enjoyed the new house more than he could have fathomed: the previous owner had built an observatory on top of the house. He spent most of the dark hours stargazing, having altered his sleeping schedule to accommodate it. Soon he splurged on a Meade LX-200 Legacy telescope (outrageously expensive—or stupid expensive, as Cindy put it). Cindy blew a gasket when she read the bank statement. A debit for greater than seventeen-thousand-dollars had been issued to some store, Meade something, and she had never even heard of the godforsaken place. Maybe it was identity theft. She Googled Meade Instruments Corporation and the address said it all: 27 Hubble, Irvine, California.

Hubble? You son of a bitch! She stomped loudly upstairs to their room, conveying the message in Cindy’s special way, but he was asleep. Wake up! You’ve got some explaining to do!

Bleary-eyed, Howard escorted her to the observatory tower to show her the purchase he was so proud of, smiling as he ascended the spiral staircase leading to it. She followed him, ranting, Learn how to shop, idiot. I checked and there are telescopes for a hundred bucks online. Return it today. I’m not asking, either.

He hoped she’d change her mind when she got a load of it. She had only been in the observatory once previously, during a tour the realtor had given her of the house. All she knew was that Howard pissed away countless hours up there like some kind of geeky freak recluse, and that was just fine by her. Ju-uust fine. She estimated Mrs. Isaac Newton had encouraged her husband’s observatory and must have been one happy bride, married to the village stargazing idiot.

Howard opened the hatch from the stairs and jaunted up the last couple steps. Cindy was impressed, while at the same time uninterested with what Howard showed her. He droned on about how powerful the Legacy 200 was, spat out some of the tech features like it fucking mattered, boasted what amazing things he could find with it (I bet you’ll find a divorce with it pretty soon) and how living in the Hollywood Hills afforded them the absence of city light, which made a world of difference. He scarcely had a second to squeeze in a breath between sentences. She nodded during his spiel and in a sudden moment of clarity, Cindy realized this investment might not have been a bad investment after all. One might say it was a fantastic investment. Howard was horny for the damned telescope and she judged the hundred-dollar-job wouldn’t rouse him like this overpriced piece of shit was doing.

She allowed him to keep it, so long as he spent most of his time using it, to get their money’s worth. She actually said her money’s worth, but it was a slip of the tongue.

Cindy decided to buy Howard a twenty-eighth-birthday present two months early. His observatory was the proud recipient of a mini refrigerator, stand, futon, and a chest to stow clothes and sundries in, and it doubled as a coffee table. He loved her for it. She encouraged his new sleep schedule and made him a pot of coffee, delivering a thermos before she went to bed. Howard was officially a night owl, not retiring till the sun broke the Hollywood horizon. He felt bad spending so little time with his new wife, and offered to take her out during the afternoon or evening. But she was devoted to his new hobby and wouldn’t hear of it: he needed to be rested for the long nights in the observatory. Howard may have been slow to understand some things, but he wasn’t oblivious of Cindy’s contentment in her solitude.

When she casually mentioned that she was enrolling in a dance class, he was happy for her. Maybe that’s just what she needed, to get out of the house and be a young woman, enjoy herself a little. She loved the class so much that she enrolled in a dramatic theater class. One day I’ll star in a play, she vowed. You just wait and see.

During one of his long lonely nights behind the glorious LX-200, Howard daydreamed about how fun having a son would be. To teach him astronomy, take him to Angels baseball games, kick his little butt at Playstation 3, and palaver over Star Reach Alpha novels. Maybe junior would prefer Mystery to Science Fiction, but that would be okay, Howard could expand his horizons. Heck, even a daughter would be good. A daughter would be great. Daddy’s little girl, she’d be. Loneliness probably wasn’t the best reason for procreation, but he was approaching thirty and not growing any younger. He broached the topic with Cindy.

Hell no, she barked. Are you retarded? I’m twenty-two, way to young to be stuck with a sticky-fingered brat. With my luck it would be just like you, too: wear a safety helmet and lick the windows of the short bus. Maybe when I’m thirty, or thirty-five, but don’t count on it. Why don’t you get a dog, they’re easier to look after. Or spend more time with Justin. You used to play Dungeons and Dragons with him—what ever happened with that?

Got married, moved to Chicago. Howard did the math in his head. He’d be somewhere between fifty-five and sixty when his first child graduated high school. If she decided to grace him with a sticky-fingered helmet-wearing brat. A depressing thought, but it was what it was, and he couldn’t force her to have a baby.

Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Lieberman said in the present. Forgive me for asking you a deeply personal question. How was your sex life during this time?

It wasn’t bad, Howard replied in earnest. Pretty good, I’d say.

A few times a week? More?

"A few times a week? Sex a few times a week?"

Howard didn’t perceive Phil-shrink to be joking, and he didn’t look like a sexual deviant, which left him to wonder: what exactly is normal? Maybe it’s best not to know the answer to that. He didn’t need help feeling like a misfit. And besides, if their sex life was abnormal, wouldn’t that mean Cindy was abnormal as well? Cindy was anything but abnormal.

They had sex on his birthday, Valentine’s Day, and on their anniversary—assuming she wasn’t ill, ovulating, or on her period. He supposed if they added sex to her birthday it might help his argument for being sexually active, or sexually normal, or whatever the hell Phil was jotting down on his notepad. But Cindy’s birthday was her special day, not his. He couldn’t argue with her on that.

By the time they had been married for three years, Cindy was spending most of her time with her new best friend from dramatic theater class, Elizabeth. She was from Romania. Or maybe it was the Czech Republic. Her voice always conjured an image of a high-end bottle of perfume and chocolate-covered strawberries. Howard imagined the two girls probably turned a hell of a lot of heads walking down Sunset Boulevard, maybe even caused a few fender benders. The dazzling duo traveled first class to Venice, Paris, London, and everywhere with a rich culture of art. They attended a variety of shows and events, each more expensive than the last.

It’s a good thing my dad was rich, Howard muttered exasperatedly when he perused their bank statement. It was the last time he’d mutter around Cindy. When she overheard him, she waspishly countered, If you weren’t such a fucking loser, maybe you’d be more like your father and earn money. That was the last bank statement Howard ever saw.

Cindy sure loved her trips. Upon returning she’d float around the house—sometimes uttering the few foreign words she had picked up—and it always came to the same thing: I can’t wait to go back to Italy!—or France, or Spain, etcetera. She deflated quickly in ‘boring-ass Hollywood,’ the ‘culture-free Hollywood.’ After moping around the house for a few days, she’d call Elizabeth and her travel agent, respectively.

One unusual morning, Cindy woke Howard on his observatory futon, having just returned from somewhere in Europe, probably someplace absurdly expensive. Howard immediately suspected that something was wrong: she never came up to his observatory. But nothing was wrong, she assured him. She just arrived from LAX and wanted to see her husband for the first time in four days. Aww, isn’t Cindy just as sweet as nectar? At least. She asked him to show her his favorite planet or star in the microscope-thingy, but he regretted that in was daylight and the Legacy 200 wouldn’t work. She didn’t seem to mind and began kissing him. While he was trying to remember if he forgot his anniversary or Valentine’s Day, she was shedding her clothes, then moved on to his. He said he didn’t have a condom. That’s okay, she thought, I can’t get pregnant twice. She said don’t worry about it. And he didn’t.

Following that bizarre occasion, things returned to normal. Howard hinted that they should do that more often. She called him a pervert. Fair enough.

A few weeks later Cindy flew to Virginia to visit her brother Christopher for a few days. Howard didn’t mind. Having the house to himself assured there would be peace and quiet and absolutely no shouting unless he put Cindy on speakerphone. He enjoyed being able to sleep in their bed (their, ha!) without Cindy accusing Howard of making the sheets smell funny. He always remembered to wash the bedding before she returned, so it was safe. He felt like a jerk for deceiving Cindy, but he never claimed to be a saint.

It was Grocery Store Friday and Howard had the place to himself. Howard often had Grocery Store Fridays to himself—Cindy scheduled her trips Friday through Monday (had classes Tuesdays and Thursdays). Sometimes he’d drive his Ford Explorer on the back roads to enjoy the scenery a little before making his way to the market; today he did just that, with the sunroof open he soaked up some rays and resplendent vistas, smiled the entire trip.

Back at home, after putting the groceries away, he made a bologna sandwich, his first one in years—he felt like a dork being excited over a friggin’ bologna sandwich—and decided to finish off his paperback novel before nightfall. He remembered the Angels were playing the Yankees on TNT that very moment, and felt the excitement of being a kid on a teachers’-conference minimum-day at school.

Isn’t it funny how memory works? Howard hadn’t thought about it since he was a kid, but after the first bite of his savory sandwich he recalled sitting at the kitchen table, no older than eleven or twelve, with his sister Melinda. She must have been seven or eight, and cuter than a hamster’s nose. They’d scarf down bologna sandwiches that Mom prepared for them at least five days a week. Mom would make one for her and Dad too, and usually ate them while Mom cleaned Dad’s clock at Chess.

Why did our family fall apart? We were such a happy family, weren’t we? Melinda was a happy child, I’m sure of it, though Howard’s memory was a little hazy on some things. He remembered playing Lite Brite with her on that God-awful poop-brown shag carpet. And Care Bears. My Lord, how she loved Care Bears! Howard would get suckered into playing with those, too, but only because she was a persistent little booger. And damned if she didn’t have outstanding manners for a kid no taller than a miniature golf club; a kid who still had trouble saying Howard (or Howie, for that matter).

"Pleeease, ‘Ouwie? I’ll play Trans’permers with you if you play Care Bears with me. Pleeease? I’ll even let you be Sunshine Bear, ‘Ouwie."

But her eyes said, "Pleeease don’t pick Sunshine Bear, ‘Ouwie. I swear I’ll say your name right as soon as I’m a little bit taller."

Melinda could be quite the scoundrel, too. Howard