Parade of Fools

By Barry Bonner

This collection of seven stories encompasses a variety of themes, moods, backgrounds, and laughter -provoking incidents. With penetrating wit and insight Mr. Bonner explores the lived of desperate people who are zany, outlandish, somewhat tainted, and can't do anything right- even when their very lives depend on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781496945488

Barry Bonner

Barry Bonner was born and raised in Sandusky, Ohio and now resides in Mad River, California. He is a graduate of Long Ridge Writers Group of Connecticut. THE BRIDES WORE SPURS is his third novel. His four earlier books are also available through AuthorHouse and Google. Presently he is at work on a new novel, A DANGEROUS LADY OF BUMBU, to be published in 2015

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© 2010 Barry Bonner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/6/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4490-7336-7 (sc)’

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4548-8 (eBook)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LITTLE MISS JOKEMEISTER

SUMMER TEMPEST

WAYFARERS ALL

LOVE IS A GRAND PIANO

SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH AUNT MYRA

CARPET GOONS

THE STRANGE ONES

To My Father

And To

My Mother

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LITTLE MISS JOKEMEISTER

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Dear Diary. Today is just as boring as the last five days. I wish my broken arm would hurry up and get well. My third grade class went to the zoo today, all day, plus a free lunch, and I’m home doing nothing. I’ve played all my computer games, listened to all my music CDs and watched cartoons till my eyes crossed. Mommy’s cleaning house and doing laundry. Daddy went to play golf again. Mommy is making me stay out of school for a while because she is scared something might happen to my broken arm which is in a perfectly good cast and perfectly all right. But you can’t tell her that. And daddy agrees with her—like always. So here I am thinking and staring out the window. Some of the kids in my class come over on the weekends but during school week I don’t see any of them. I might as well be on a desert island surrounded by sharks. Mommy told me if I get bored just use my imagination and I won’t be bored. Then she started washing the windows. At first that ticked me off but then I got a really really good idea. Tomorrow is April Fools Day and on April Fools Day you’re supposed to play tricks on people. So I decided what a really really good way to use my imagination. At first I planned on playing a joke on mommy and daddy but they’re always busy and probably wouldn’t like the joke I came up with so I am going to do my joke on three people that have been really really nice to me. And it will be lots of fun. Miss Scoon has always been cheerful and kind ever since I was tiny. Now that I can read good she gives me all her old magazines. She subscribes to all kinds and every two or three weeks I go to her house with my little red wagon and fill it up and come home and stack them beside my bed and read read read. She is what daddy calls a strange pip, whatever that is. My next favorite friend is Mr. Cartmell. I love his bookstore. It’s really really big and has all the books in the world in it. He’s always smiling and giggling. Even though all the books are old and used they’re still good and don’t cost hardly anything. People are always saying they don’t know how he stays in business because his books are so cheap. But he has really really great kids books, and he gives me all the free bookmarkers I want. My third favorite friend—no I mean friends—are the Krumplemans—I think I spelled that right?? They have the bestest bakery in the whole world. When mommy sends me to get fresh bread they always give me a free cupcake with lots of frosting—maple. The Krumplemans are so much fun joking and laughing all the time. I like them a whole bunch. They’re pretty fat and remind me of Humpty Dumpty on a wall. Anyway I know all these favorite friends will really really laugh at my April Fools joke. They might even try and play one on me which is all right because that’s what April Fools is for—fun and laughter. So tomorrow I’m going to get them good. Yours truly Eudora Ann

And so the next day—April Fools’ Day—Eudora Ann began her little odyssey, setting in motion an irreversible course of events of which she never imagined, or would be able to control. Things were about to become very ugly, and very unfunny.

Spring had sprung early; the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, the air warm and invigorating. Daffodils were showing their velvety trumpets; tree limbs were heavy with fat, ready-to-burst buds containing tender delicate leaves of new life and vibrant green colors.

Eudora Ann was also filled with life and energy and the enthusiasm of creating fun and joy. She had composed three tantalizing, humorous notes on her computer—all three were very different and very mischievous, so she thought, because they all rhymed mysteriously. What fun everyone would have. She could hardly wait. The three notes had been printed out neatly from her computer’s printer, and she had folded them carefully and placed

each in a small white envelope so they could be concealed in the deep pocket of her Daffodil-colored jacket.

Eudora Ann left her little red wagon at the foot of the stone steps of Annabel Scoon’s house and trudged up the narrow flight to the front door. The doorbell chimed cheerfully, and soon after Miss Scoon appeared. She was a frail, tall stick of a woman, and at first glance resembled the wicked witch in Snow White. But when her thin, dry lips pressed themselves into a crack of a smile you didn’t feel intimidated by her, just relieved she wasn’t going to eat you. But Eudora Ann thought she was a peach of a person and not what her father called her—a strange pip.

After taking a stack of magazines down to her wagon, being careful of her broken arm, cradled in a sling her mother insisted she wear when she went outside, Eudora Ann trudged back up the flight of stone steps and stood waiting for Miss Scoon to reappear with a second batch of magazines. It was then Eudora Ann slipped the small white envelope from her pocket and placed it inside the black metal mail box beside he door. She couldn’t help giggling and putting her hand over her mouth.

After thanking Miss Scoon for the rest of the magazines, she put them in her little red wagon, waved excitedly, and moved on. Miss Scoon waved back, slightly, her pale, dead face looking like a dry avocado.

Continuing in her quest for April Fools’ fun, Eudora Ann parked her little red wagon beside the large display window of Wendell Cartmell’s used bookstore. Wendell, a stocky, energetic man, somewhat overweight, but impeccably dressed in a blue suit, satin vest to match, and hand embroidered silk tie, was busy showing a customer a first edition comic book of Casper the Friendly Ghost, and the last edition of a Hopalong Cassidy comic book—each encased in an airtight, finger-proof cellophane envelope. Wendell and his twelve-year-old customer—who had a fi st full of money burning a hole in his pocket were deep in negotiations on price when Eudora Ann moved silently past them like a short, swift specter. But Wendell’s small, cat eyes caught sight of her none the less.

Morning, Eudora Ann.

Morning, Mr. Cartmell.

Eudora Ann wandered up and down the long, narrow aisles, the shelves of books towering twelve feet above her. Then, making sure Wendell and his hard-sell customer were still engaged on the current price of comic books, she moved unnoticed to the cash register and deftly laid the small white envelope in front of the cash drawer. She quickly proceeded to the front door, opened it, turned and waved. Wendell gave a quick glance and waved back.

The Krumpleman Bakery was busy as usual; the late morning crowd eager for the mouth-watering goodies just out of the ovens. Bread, rolls, cakes, cupcakes, cookies, strudel, and double-thick chocolate brownies were bagged, boxed, paid for, and carted away.

Eudora Ann bided her time, browsing, savoring the aromas of the day, and craftily letting the customers shield her from view. She carefully watched Lily and Ernst Krumpelman smile and laugh and confer with the milling crowd. The Krumplemans’ made their way back and forth along the long glass counters, and at times had trouble scraping past each other. Both were sporting three hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight on elephant-sized legs and puffy feet. They had never been able to resist the products of their own labor. Their favorites were always anything with cream cheese, thick chocolate, or gobs of crunchy peanut butter.

Lily rang up a sale and made a quick waddle to the double-frosted cakes display case to confer with an impatient customer. It was then Eudora Ann made her move. The small white envelope came out of her pocket with all the skill of an experienced pickpocket, and she deftly inserted it into the large back pocket of Ernst Krumpleman’s baggy white pants as he stood smiling and motioning to the assorted fruit-flavored cupcakes lining the display case along the rear wall.

Eudora Ann left the store discreetly, and stood staring through the glass panes of the front door. The joy on her face, and the mischievous glint in her crystal blue eyes were obvious. She could hardly wait to see what would happen. This was going to be great! April Fools’ Day at its best!

Annabel Scoon glanced at her watch, picked up three sealed and stamped envelopes, stalked to the front door of her house, opened

it and placed the letters between the jaws of a wooden clothes pin glued to the lid of her mailbox. She looked up and down the street for the mailman, but he was late again, and it irritated her. She then noticed a piece of white paper ticking out from under the lid of the black box. Opening the lid she removed the unstamped, unaddressed envelope. A puzzled look came to her face as she glanced at the front and back of the envelope.

After seating herself at her writing table in the living room, Annabel took a razor-sharp letter opener and slit the thin white paper open with a flick of her thin, bony wrist. Unfolding the small sheet of paper from inside, she began to read:

Down the hall and up the ladder

I ran to see what was the madder.

Ding-dong, sing-song all were gone

No time to say a prayer.

The fun is over, no time to play in clover.

Put some money in a clam if you can’t guess

Who I am.

Annabel’s first reaction was to frown and crumple up the note, and toss it into the wastebasket beside the writing table. But a troubling thought came into her head. She smoothed out the wrinkled paper and read it again—and again—and again. Her eyes widened with surprise and fear. A growing anxiety caused her to start sweating. She looked to a large oil portrait of her father on the far wall. His large bull-like face and round eyes stared down on her with a sinister, accusing gaze. Annabel turned her head quickly to another large oil painting on the opposite wall. It was of her sister, Minerva, frail and bony as Annabel, and looking almost like her. Minerva was posed ramrod straight, and her dark eyes, and hatchet face, seemed to be looking directly at Annabel.

Annabel’s thoughts began to drift unhindered through a foggy void to where she saw her dead father lying beneath the front axle of his Rolls Royce. A millionaire many times over he thought himself smarter than the average mechanic; and besides he saved a few dollars by doing the repair work himself. A dollar here, a dollar

there, always added up—and eventually added up to his accidental death. Annabel had grown tired of waiting for her share of the anticipated inheritance from the old, mean tightwad, so when her foot accidentally hit the car jack that night in the garage—there were no other witnesses—her father’s tragic death stunned and shocked everyone; and tripled Annabel’s bank account.

Annabel shook her head as if awaking from a bad dream. With the note still in her long, shriveled fingers, she walked along the dark hallway towards the kitchen, stopped, looked up at the trap door in the ceiling. A thin cord hung from the front edge, and if you pulled it the door came down and a narrow ladder unfolded clear to the floor, giving you access to the attic. That’s what Annabel and her sister did that day, years ago—climbed up to look for some old photographs in a musty, dusty trunk. On the way back down, poor Minerva accidentally missed her footing at the top of the ladder and dropped straight down to the floor below—breaking her swanlike neck. When Minerva’s share of the fabulous inheritance their father had left was transferred to Annabel—sole family survivor— Annabel ceased grieving and began to feel much better.

But now, as she stared down at the wrinkled note in her hand, her stomach knotted and her thoughts began to growl and hiss at her.

Steady, Annabel, steady, she said softly. Relax. You can think this all out. Lemonade. Yes, some pink lemonade.

In the somber, grayness of the kitchen, Annabel mixed two cans of pink lemonade into a large crystal pitcher of crushed ice, stirred it roughly then added a fi fth of cheap vodka. Once settled at her writing table in the living room, she carefully tilted the pitcher and filled a fat beer stein to the top, leaned back in her chair, sipped and sipped, thought and thought.

Keep thinking, Annabel, she whispered. Someone knows something. Who? How? When?

After she had refilled the beer stein for the third time, her mind was mellow, her thoughts drifting from one side of her brain to the other like puffy clouds. She glanced at the scowling portrait of her father, then to that of her sister. Their accusing eyes were still on her.

Someone has found out something, she said, closing her eyes, trying to find a suspect. How? When? Instantly her eyelids snapped open. Leo Depew, came the harsh answer. Yes, little Leo. But what did he find out? And How?

She drained the beer stein, struggled out of her chair, and with labored steps moved to the large window beside the front door. Her fingers raised the tilted metal slats of the old-fashioned Venetian blind. Her eyes studied the street directly in front of the house. She imagined Leo pulling to the curb in his dirty white van, just like he had weeks ago. She saw the lettering on the side of the van just as clearly: FAST AND FRIENDLY. DEPEW TO YOU. PLUMBING, HEATING, AIR CONDITIONING—AND MORE.

Yes, there he was, the little sawed-off weasel, short and fat and grinning like a beaver. No. He looked more like Hitler with that little moustache of his. Only Hitler wouldn’t have stooped so low as to make his living as an over-priced plumber.

Yes, said Annabel. That day he came to fix the garbage disposal. I had to leave for the dentist; had to leave him in the house alone. Said he’d only be five or ten minutes more then he’d lock the front door on his way out. He must have snooped.

Annabel turned, her eyes narrowing, her gaze slowly searching the rooms before her. He snooped, she said quietly. What a fool I was to leave him here. What did he suspect? What did he discover? I made a mistake somewhere along the line.

After thumbing through her little book of addresses and telephone numbers, she picked up the phone and called Depew Plumbing. She smiled when she heard Leo answer.

Leo, she said sweetly. Annabel Scoon here. I have an emergency, I’m afraid. I was just in the basement and smelled a strong odor of gas. There must be something wrong with the furnace. Can you come right away, I’m worried?

Annabel smiled brightly when Leo replied that he’d be right over.

Twenty minutes later, Leo’s van pulled up in front of the house. Annabel was right, he did look like Hitler, only he wore dark green overalls, and a cap that looked like the one Sherlock Holmes always wore. But that was Leo’s trademark—he would always tell people

not to worry what the problem was, he was ‘on the case’. Only he didn’t suspect this was to be his last case.

Leo slid open the wide, side door of the van and took out his heavy metal tool box, then heard Annabel calling to him from the front door of the house.

Oh, Leo, she said with a cheerful wave, could you park around back? I have some company coming, and they’ll need to park right where you are.

No problem, Miss S., you got it, replied Leo.

Yes, said Annabel to herself. And you’re about to get it.

Leo drove his van to the rear of the house, parking beside the garage. Suddenly his cell phone began to play I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover. It was his favorite song. He pulled the phone from his breast pocket.

Leo here.

It was Velma, from the office. Another customer was complaining about the bill they’d just received.

Yeah, yeah, said Leo, vehemently. Just tell Minsky, plumbin’ supplies are goin’ up all the time; every day, every hour. Yeah? Well the next time his toilet backs up he can go swimmin’ across his bathroom through wet toilet paper, and I’ll stay home. No, I ain’t givin’ the old geezer a discount. I don’t care if he’s ninety-two. He screwed me over on this used van I bought from him and now it’s payback time. And get me a bill ready for that old bat Annabel Scoon. Yeah, I’m there now. No, I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s loaded, and I can squeeze her for two hundred easy. Well, keep you fingers crossed it’s somethin’ really serious, and two hundred will just be starters.

Annabel led Leo down the steep stairs to the gloomy, dank basement. The glow from the single, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling made it look like a medieval dungeon—a place where Boris Karloff and Vincent Price would enjoy living.

To the left of the stairs stood a large, outdated gas furnace, which Leo instantly fell in love with. Parts for the old antique would be hard to come by; and he could pad his bill accordingly. He was smiling like a Cheshire cat, but so was Annabel.

What a great furnace, said Leo. Don’t ever take this out of here. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Caste iron lasts forever.

Unlike people, said Annabel.

Leo laughed and pointed his wrench at her. Exactly.

After making a quick inspection, and squirting some soapy water onto two gas line couplings, Leo turned to Annabel, puzzled.

Well, I can’t smell no gas. And don’t see no bubbles.

Bubbles?

If gas was leakin’ it would make bubbles in the soap. You must have smelled somethin’ else down here.

No, I don’t think so, replied Annabel, and thought back to the threatening note from her mail box. You see I did go down the hall, and up the ladder, to see what was the madder, as you put it.

What? said Leo, confused.

Annabel stared at Leo like a cobra ready to strike.

You feel okay, Miss S? You look a little…strange.

The top of the stairs, replied Annabel, pointing. I was up there when I smelled the gas. Follow me.

Lead the way, said Leo, trailing after Annabel like a lamb to the proverbial slaughter. But even if there’s nothin’ wrong I still got to charge you. And weekend calls, like this one, are always triple.

Won’t be a problem, said Annabel, turning at the top of the stairs.

Leo began sniffing the air. Nothin’. Nope. No gas.

Well, said Annabel, coldly, I guess I’ll just have to put the money in the clam. Like you instructed.

Clam? What clam?

The rhyming words of the note were spinning round and round, louder and louder in Annabel’s head. However, I did guess ‘who you am’, didn’t I?

Guess? Just what are you.

I found your little note this morning.

You’re actin’ screwy, Scoon, maybe you.

Leo was cut short as Annabel stiff-armed him, and he went bouncing down the steep stairway. When he reached the concrete floor at the bottom he was quite dead.

Annabel descended slowly, a satisfied smirk on her dry, thin lips. She picked up Leo’s limp wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. She went back up the stairs, turned off the basement light and closed the door gently behind her. However, the air in the basement now had the distinct odor of gas. After Leo had flip-flopped to the bottom of the stairs, the heel of his stubby little shoe had come to rest on a rusty coupling of the furnace’s gas line. It cracked just as easily as Leo’s neck had, and was starting to leak—the pipe—not Leo’s neck.

Annabel felt quite content now, and quite confident that everything was returning to normal. She fixed herself another pitcher of pink lemonade and vodka. She felt in a festive mood and gave a short giggle as she sat comfortably on the living room sofa, her feet propped up on the glass coffee table, her large beer stein cradled in both hands. Her eyes peered to the left to the portrait of her father.

Well, daddy, dearest, that was a close one, she said with a sigh. Her head turned to the portrait of her sister. Minerva, you would have been proud of me. I gave him a good stiff-arm, like when we used to play volley ball at school. I really didn’t know I could still do that.

Annabel began sipping her drink and thinking, and planning.

I suppose I shouldn’t wait too long to call the paramedics; report that little Leo has had and unfortunate accident. No. First I should empty his tool box on the cellar stairs. Yes, he would have had that with him when he stumbled, poor thing.

She took a sip of her drink and grinned. I don’t know why people say old folks’ minds begin to falter with age. I’m just as alert as when daddy and sister had their accidents. Annabel sat sipping, growing more and more satisfied with how things had turned out. But things weren’t over with just yet. If Annabel had made that call to the paramedics when she had thought of it, the basement wouldn’t have had time to fill with gas.

It was quite a sight as Annabel’s house ascended skyward, as if trying to achieve orbit around the moon. There was a large fireball accompanying it. The Daily Times Bugle devoted an entire front page to reporting the tragic story. The Fire Marshall, after his investigation, put the accident squarely on Leo Depew’s shoulders. It was just plain carelessness. Now two innocent people were no

more. A wonderful, gentle woman, who had lived in the community all her life, was suddenly, and violently, taken from all who loved her. Her work at the abused animal shelter, and as a candy striper at the hospital, will not be forgotten. This was a wonderful, unselfish human being. Why does God let things like this happen?

Leo, however, didn’t get as good a write-up. They even spelled his name wrong. Besides, everyone in town thought the little, flannel-mouthed idiot got what he deserved. His wife and children were devastated when they received word of his fiery demise. They sat stunned, unable to function. But when Leo’s large life insurance policy paid off, the family pulled themselves together, and took a three months’ vacation in the Bahamas to pull themselves together.

Dear Diary. Bad news. Miss Scoon bought the farm. That’s the way daddy put it. Mommy scolded him. He had also called Miss Scoon a fried pip now. The newspaper said there’s nothing but a big hole where her house used to be. They found Mr. Depew’s van upside down in the backyard. I was hoping to have a good laugh with Miss Scoon over my funny April Fools note. I’m sure she would have appreciated the humor of it. She seemed like such a really really nice person. Sadly Eudora Ann

Around two o’clock, the same day, when Annabel Scoon took her flight into space, Wendell Cartmell had heard a faint boom, but gave it no thought. It had been a slow day, but he didn’t mind as he sat there on a high stool at the far end of the cash register counter. These lulls in business gave him time to come up with ideas for his next movie script. He had become very rich in the porno industry, and no one in the entire town had ever suspected he had a sleazy, secretive life. You had to be very clever, very secretive, to pull that off. He was extremely pleased with himself and his life—until he strolled past the cash register, and, for the first time, saw the small white envelope. Wendell picked it up. It was blank on both sides. He opened it, took out the sharply creased note paper and began to read.

Who was that woman dressed in leather?

And two little Indians without a feather?

What naughty boys they were.

Of that I am sure.

Sent to bed without a shred, their hair

Awfully red.

If you can guess who sent this mail I won’t

Be a tattle tale.

It didn’t take long for Wendell’s sleazy pea brain to panic, he knew exactly what the threatening rhyme meant. Only three months ago he had written and produced one of his bestselling porno flicks. Yes, the woman all dressed in leather—he knew immediately what that was about. It was the Indian maiden, Poke-My-Hontus, wearing a sexy red leather breech clout; at least for the first few minutes of the film. Swinging a long bowstring above her head she began whipping two studly Indian braves, who were clad only in cheap looking war bonnets. The inside of the teepee was all hot and steamy, like a Swedish sauna, but it wasn’t from the campfire.

Wendell leaped to the telephone, beads of perspiration covering his face. His clammy, fat fingers clutched the receiver hard as he punched in Grover Bing’s number. Soon as Bing answered, Wendell spoke in a harsh whisper, telling him to get over to the store—"Right