A Sackful of Quarters

By L.M. Favier

A SACKFUL OF QUARTERS is a collection of short stories set throughout the twelve months of the year. Each story is a seasonal account of one particular character's life experience. The glue that holds them all together is that each woman or girl originally perceives herself through familial or societal eyes, and comes to a better understanding of who she really is as a result of the incidents that occur within the story.

January: FRESH SLATE, USED CHALK
This story recounts the liberation of the abused wife of a prominent doctor, and how she leaves him only to discover that she is immediately drawn to an individual who, although outwardly the complete opposite of her husband, has the potential to do her harm. How she deals with the revelation establishes the foundation for a new life filled with promise.

FEBRUARY: ETUDE FOR A WINTER'S AFTERNOON
A fifth grade girl spends the Valentine season learning about unselfish love and class prejudice in this fifties piece set in Chicago neighborhood. The great melting pot is not as advertised. The reflection she sees in the mirror is not necessarily how others view her and she has miles to go before she sleeps.

MARCH: ERIN GO BRAUGH!
A prostitute in a seedy motel considers how she came to such an end. She recalls how she started out with high expectations and remembers her first real love, a mechanic in the town garage. She comes to terms with her past finally resolving the conflicts that caused her fall.

APRIL: GOT THOSE AIN'T WHERE YOU ARE, PARK BENCH BLUES
Once great blues singer, Jonna Knight finds herself past seventy, penniless and at the bottom of the barrel, living homeless on the streets of New York City. After spending the night under a blanket of newspapers on a Central Park bench, she encounters aspiring songstress Mona. The young Jewess joins her after dropping her portfolio, scattering its invaluable contents in the early morning wind.

Mona vents her frustrations, almost oblivious of the old black woman who seems most interested in her diatribe. She's tired of "paying her dues", exhausted from daily rejections from prospective employers more concerned with her obvious ethnicity than her talent, and depressed enough to call it quits and retreat to the comfort of her affluent home. A morning chat with the legendary vocalist teaches her an invaluable lesson and earns her a surprise to boot.

MAY: BLOSSOM TIME FOR MAUDE ROSE
Maude Rose, a spinster who spent the fruitful years of her twenties and thirties traveling the globe with her widower father, enjoys an early summer evening on the porch with her gentleman caller. They sip lemonade. She offers him cookies, shares gossip and makes observations about the flawlessly beautiful but barren apple tree in her front yard. Her caller never speaks, but as Maude Rose rambles on his silence reveals some meaningful insights about herself and others in their small Southern community.

JUNE: GEMINI WITH SCORPIO RISING
Twins, one plain and one fair, come to terms with their individuality in the liberated seventies. They are both dating the same man who is equally attracted to them for different reasons. As the story unfolds, the plain sister falls deeply in love, and her beautiful counterpart learns something about her own emergent sexuality that she is both frightened and eager to share with her twin.

JULY: AN ANATOMY OF THE AMERICAN DREAM GONE ASKEW
A newlywed in June, pregnant in July, and far too soon for a yuppie husband who has their storybook life planned down to the last white picket in the fence that will surround their custom built house. But times have changed, and she's come a long way baby, to where

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 7, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465318480

L.M. Favier

Louise Lambrecht, better known to her characters as L.M. Favier, was born in Chicago, spent a memorable thirty years in the San Gabriel Valley in Southern California. She now resides in South Eastern Wisconsin with her photographer husband of thirty-five years. She has been writing for as long as she can remember, having completed five novels and this most recent collection of short stories, A Sackful of Quarters, which she considers to be her finest work to date and that of which she is most proud. A long time observer of the influence past and present mores have on women of many cultures and stations in our country, she believes that those pressures have molded a diverse, strong population of the feminine gender that has been overlooked for far too lengthy a time by today’s still masculine driven society. When not writing, Louise enjoys spending time with her grown children and grandchildren, swimming, game playing or simply “hanging out” together as a group. Family, she insists, is the backbone of all societies and maintains that without strong familial support and guidance, no country can achieve the lofty goals to which our nation aspires.

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Copyright © 2007 by L.M. Favier.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

JANUARY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

APRIL

MAY

JUNE

JULY

AUGUST

SEPTEMBER

OCTOBER

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

JANUARY

FRESH SLATE, USED CHALK

A lison Chalmers sat at the

desk in the study of her elegant, Elmgrove colonial, and stared out the bay window at the first snowfall of the new year.

Before her, on the blue green blotter that mirrored her wide set eyes, was a Things To Do tablet. It was a gift she had received from the grab bag at her women’s auxiliary Christmas party. It had been placed in the desk drawer, as she had been certain that she would never use it. She despised lists, but her husband Ian disliked waste and had directed her to hang on to it, Just in case.

Unlike her spouse, the small, balletically thin redhead was a dyed in the wool procrastinator. She held staunchly to the theory that the most difficult things in life could be best dealt with tomorrow or more preferably the day after.

Yet there she sat, watching the lawn turn from wheat to white, with her pen poised above the pad, determined to make a stab at shaping her own future.

Moving with a slow but steady sureness, Alison penned the words, New Year’s Resolution. Beneath that heading, she wrote more quickly, but no less deliberately, Ask Ian for a divorce.

She and the handsome, well respected Doctor Chalmers had been married for seventeen years. They had met at a mutual friend’s engagement party. Although the good looking resident was five years her senior, he had been instantly enchanted by her pixie-like beauty and grace. He had pursued her with an amorous vengeance, literally sweeping Alison off her feet and carting her to the courthouse one afternoon after the preschool class she taught was adjourned for the day. Once they had the license, their hurricane romance continued, culminating with Ian spiriting her off on a romantic wedding cruise.

The bride had been completely surprised since he had made all the arrangements in secret, using money from a considerable trust fund to bring family and friends together to witness the fairy tale nuptials at sea.

During the first three years of their marriage, he had been much like the fantasy heroes of fables. Andrew was born on the eve of their second anniversary, and Ian was ecstatic at the arrival of a son. Less than two years later, their idyllic honeymoon castle had been transformed into a hideous dungeon abyss from which Alison could find no escape.

Their boy grew into a muscular teenager who was an honor student and an all conference quarterback for his prep school team. For most of his fifteen years, his mother had witnessed the erosion of whatever scrap of self esteem she had brought to the relationship in the first place; had suffered gross indignities dumbly against the eventuality of losing the only source of pride left her, their only child. In public, Ian was the consummate man; revered healer, faithful husband and attentive father. In private, he was much the same, save when ired past the boiling point. It seems the good doctor was a psychological stamp saver, pasting each imagined or genuine irritant in place until that particular coupon book was full. His unfortunate wife had no way of predicting where or when the redemption would take place, but over the years she had learned that its coming was a cruel and inevitable matter of fact.

An overcooked steak, or the misplacement of his favorite tie might go unmentioned. Any number of such incidents might pass, and then, without warning, the volcano that dwelled within the passive appearing physician would erupt leaving Alison the casualty of an explosion that could go on for hours or end after a moment of rage.

She could not count the times she had supposedly, slipped in the tub, or tripped on the stairs. Even her mother, who was generally out to lunch, had commented on more than one occasion, Ali, I don’t understand how you have become so accident prone. As a child you were always so agile, with hardly a bump or scrape to show for all your years of gymnastics and ballet. Now do look after that nasty bruise, and be sure to put some foundation on it when you go out, or people will think gentle Ian is beating his beloved wife.

Not one of their many acquaintances would have thought the mild-mannered, fair haired, physician capable of hurting a fly let alone abusing his adored spouse. In fact, Ian himself would have been appalled at his own ugly behavior, had he ever been treated to a video of one of his barbaric performances.

Succumbing to the massive pressures associated with my profession. Such phrases were typical of Ian’s oft spoken rationalizations of his actions.

Following an episode, Alison could count on a gift and a syrupy note of apology, each more lavish than the one before. In the aftermath of a vicious physical and verbal attack, her husband would be contrite and self deprecating, filled with remorse, promising, It will never happen again, Ali. I swear. You know I worship you. Please Alison, forgive me. Give me just one more chance.

And she always did. Year after year went by, with the vivacious young girl who had once held serious aspirations of Olympic competition, transformed into a spiritually exhausted woman in her mid thirties, who just as seriously considered the possibility that she deserved no better than she received.

After all, she told herself, Ian gives me everything I want or need. Surely he is entitled to expect an efficiently run household in return. He should not be kept waiting if he has set an hour aside for us to be together at lunch. And all his suits should be ready when he wants any one of them, not left overdue at the dry cleaners because I forgot to pick it up.

A dutiful daughter, born to loving parents who had never been given to harsh discipline or criticism, Alison had come to the wealthy, demanding Ian Chalmers ill prepared for what marriage to such a perfectionist would bring. As such, she often speculated that either her mother had been a perfect wife, or that she was impossibly inept at pleasing a husband who could go from Prince Charming to Attila the Hun in the course of a single afternoon or evening.

The couple had attended a gala New Year’s Eve extravaganza at the local country club, enjoying the gourmet cuisine, fine champagne and excellent orchestra. All had gone as it should have, until the clock struck twelve.

Alison had just exited the powder room, when the balloons, streamers and confetti began to fly. There was a surreal quality to the ballroom, with a cacophony of horns and whistles playing against the strains of Auld Lang Syne.

A close friend of theirs, attorney James Raymond had caught her in his arms as she tried to thread her way through the rollicking crowd. He stayed her progress, even though it was obvious she was intent on crossing the floor to Ian who stood watching beside the long well oiled mahogany bar that was the club’s prized possession. Raymond had kissed her soundly, but Platonically; she had scolded him in jest and then continued toward her scowling mate.

The annual anthem was coming to an end, as she reached him, receiving a cool response to the warm lips she offered, whispering, Happy New Year darling. It’s 1990.

At his insistence, they left immediately thereafter, and arrived at home just before one. Their son, Andrew was spending the night at a friends, so Ian did not wait, as was his custom, until they were behind closed doors, to begin his unexpected tirade.

"What the hell do you think you were doing with Jim?

You just had to fall all over him, right there in the middle of the floor where everyone could see!"

They had been through many such charades, and Alison knew full well that no excuse could save her, but prayed against the odds that they would not start another New Year as they had so many others.

Ian, darling, I saw you looking right at us. You had to see. I was hurrying to find you, and it was he who stopped me. It was all innocent. The kiss meant nothing, a moment and I was with you where I wanted to be all along. Please let’s don’t…

He hadn’t allowed her to finish, but brought the back of one hand smartly across her left cheek as he nearly wrenched her outstretched arm from its socket with the other.

Liar! Why must you do these things? Don’t I deserve better? You couldn’t even find my gold cufflinks earlier, and then that shameful exhibition with Jim. I won’t stand for it! Do you understand?

Alison had nodded mutely, rubbing her face with her free hand as he brutally shoved her against the wall.

Answer me bitch! I can’t hear you! Rotten whore!

His words stung more than the blows, and as he raised his palm with the intention of delivering another, she bowed her head and covered up. The gesture was useless. He ignored her pleas for mercy, hitting her again and again until she cried out in anguish, Yes! Yes, Ian, I understand. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… 

You never mean any of the idiotic things you do, yet this is necessary. Again and again I try to teach you respect, but you never learn. Mostly I put it down to stupidity, but tonight was beyond tolerating. A man can only stand so much!

The scathing insults continued as he pushed her towards the stairs. Blinded by tears and the pain of the beating, Alison lost her balance and skinned the front of her leg on the third step.

Go! Look at you! What a pitiful, awkward cow! Get upstairs! I can’t stand the sight of you!

Grateful to be dismissed, Alison made the long, curving staircase as quickly as possible given her aching shoulder and skinned shin. The shimmering azure gown she had purchased especially for the occasion was torn in several places and her sheer silk stockings were stained with blood from the fall on the stairs.

She had locked herself in the guest room which was always made up. It contained a supply of nightwear and toiletries, put there in anticipation of similar incidents that were all too commonplace.

Crying herself to sleep had become ritual. But on that night, her last thought, before slipping off the crest of a Nembutal, had been one of optimistic resolve. There has got to be another way to live, another kind of life.

They had not spoken since. Ian had spent New Year’s Day with Andy, engrossed in the parade of bowl games that took them from sunrise to sunset, with breaks only to forage for snacks and beverages in the well stocked kitchen plus quick runs to the bathroom during half times.

If they noticed her absence, she was unaware of it.

After treating her injuries, Alison’s morning was spent taking a long, thoughtful walk in the woods behind the house; the afternoon occupied with taking down the artificial tree that graced the living room.

By the time she had finished repacking the brightly spangled ornaments and other fragile decorations that marked the tradition of Christmas in their home, her swollen lip and sprained arm had begun to throb anew. She applied some ice to her mouth, washed down four Tylenol with as many fingers of vodka, and returned to her guest room sanctuary.

At about midnight, when all the college championships in the football world had been decided, she had heard a rap at her door.

Ali, are you still awake?

His voice was tentative, barely audible with its breath of whispery concern. Alison was certain he would not make another scene for she knew he would never consciously alarm their son. Besides, the tempest had passed and he was expecting a calm harbor with her perennial forgiveness.

She had not answered, had felt safe for the moment in withholding absolution, but could sense her heart racing beneath the sheer green cloth of silk pajamas he had brought from the Orient.

Her intuition had proved accurate. Ian had left her in peace and was well on his way to his mid-town office, before she emerged the following day.

Dressed in brown wool slacks and a mint colored cashmere sweater, Mrs. Chalmers had walked the house, going from one room to another, with all the appearance of a sleepwalker. From time to time her eyes would focus on a family picture or some other item of memorabilia and a tear would stain her carefully made up face.

In the kitchen, Alison drank a glass of orange juice and found a note from Andrew informing her of his whereabouts for the day.

Her final stop had been the small room they called the study, where she put ink to paper in an effort to bring some order to a chaotic existence.

Ask Ian for a divorce. She crossed out the sentence, revising it to more clearly state her intention. Tell Ian I am leaving. Alison scrutinized the phrase for several moments, then marked it out as well, settling at last for a single word that said it all. Leave.

Two weeks later, residenced in a small but comfortable suite of rooms at the Pfister Hotel, and feeling somewhat like a displaced person, but with no less resolve than before, Alison found herself watching television in the middle of the day. A half empty glass of diet cola that was badly diluted with melted ice from room service sat on the gilt embossed oak end table beside her.

She took a sip, made a face at the collection of weirdoes assembled by some talk show host with a propensity for blatant sensationalism, and switched off the set.

Walking to the drapery flanked windows, she looked out at the wind swirled flakes flying past and considered the wisdom of her flight from Ian.

She had purposed to leave and had accomplished that at the very least. Taking only the clothes she deemed necessary until all was settled between them, the private savings book which documented deposits made from money she had earned before Andrew’s birth, and one major credit card, Alison had walked out on the wealth and security of seventeen years. She had taken but one swift glance behind her as she had driven away, not daring more should she falter and fail.

Ian had been remarkably civil, replying to the note she had left with but one phone call asking her to reconsider and come home. Since that initial contact, all communication had been through his attorney and hers, Jim Raymond. She rightly surmised that he wanted to avoid a scandal and to that end had decided to let her go without a lengthy, nasty court battle.

On Martin Luther King’s birthday she made arrangements to speak to her son, who seemed to be more sympathetic than she had dreamed possible. Speaking with a sensitivity well beyond his fifteen years, Andrew hugged her first, then said in his most grown up voice, Mom, don’t cry. I’ve known that something was wrong between you and Dad for a long time. It happens. Lots of kids at school have divorced parents. I never really thought it could happen to you guys, but I love you anyway. Dad says he does too, and that maybe you’ll change your mind. Do you think you might?

He posed his question with the look of a trusting eight year old in his young man’s eyes. For an instant she wanted to give in, if only to put a smile on his unhappy countenance. But deep down inside, Alison sensed that to do so would only make matters worse.

The woman lacked no courage, could have gone back, could have survived what she had endured for so long and more. But inevitably Andrew would discover the ugly truth and that she could never bear. With all that in mind, she answered as truthfully and with as much tact as she could muster.

Tears of emotion welled up and her mouth felt like flannel as she started to talk. Holding Andy’s hands in hers, as much for strength as a gesture of affection, Alison began, Andy, love of my life, you know I would do anything for you. And it is very important to both your father and me that you understand that none of this has anything to do with you or what we feel for you. Someday you’ll be married and I pray that you will find a love that will last forever. But unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out that way.

Alison took a deep breath and went on, Your Dad and I, well, there are things, some private things that have gone wrong with us. We have both been very unhappy for some time, and even though we have tried our hardest, we just haven’t been able to fix those things, and… 

Having pushed herself to the limit, Alison broke down and wept. Her son made an honest attempt at wiping the wet marks from her face, but succeeded only in smudging damp mascara with shaking fingers unaccustomed to such tender tasks.

It’s all right, Mom, really. Please, you don’t have to explain. I know.

You know?, she asked, not believing he could and still respect her.

I’m not a little kid. I can’t say I understand. I wish I did, but one thing I do know is that it’s right for you to be away from him. You know he’s always been so great with me, but I’ve heard things, seen things too. I love you, Mom. It’s o.k., it’s all going to work out. So don’t be sad. O.K.?

Alison kissed him, so thankful that her liberation had not come at the expense of an estrangement from her son.

Jim Raymond handled all the messy details, provided a ready shoulder to cry on, and Andy’s mother greeted the 1991 new year with a joy that had been missing for nearly half her life.

Despite the happiness that came with the absence of fear, she did have some misgivings about what the future would hold for a woman with her limited qualifications. Her associate’s degree in Early Childhood Education, gained at a two year community college was virtually useless in a tight job market. With no clerical or secretarial skills, and not wanting to return to the low wage preschool classroom, Alison decided to go back to school.

The financial settlement from an ever frugal Ian had not been all she had hoped for, but there was enough for food, books and tuition, so long as she held a part time job to make ends meet. A one bedroom condo was hers as recompense for giving up her share of the family home. But even without rent to pay, Alison’s budget was a mere shadow of the spending money she had taken for granted as Ian’s wife.

Given her failed marriage and the reasons behind it, the new Ali Chalmers planned to pursue a degree in psychology. She hoped to become a counselor for other battered women, and in the process put some of her own personal demons to a permanent and final rest.

It was with such a mind set that she began her second semester at the university. And it was there, in Intro to Psychology 1B, that she met him; fellow student and mystery man, Paul Niehold.

Powerfully built, with a head of close cropped black curls, he slouched in the farthest seat from the front, regarding the proceedings with the detached air of a brooding Heathcliff anticipating a storm on a wind swept moor.

The sight of him intrigued her. So much so that she spent several idle hours inventing a mystique to fit his shadowy persona.

Their instructor was the gifted and popular, Professor Brent Standish, who did not need to teach as he maintained a successful practice, outside the college, which provided the lion’s share of his income. Dedicated to educating older students and those younger ones who had to work by day, he taught evening classes with a zeal uncommon to the general night school college offerings.

A commanding presence at the podium, tall, thin and well postured; sporting thick brown shoulder length hair and a full beard which made him look older than his thirty years, Brent mesmerized his pupils with eagle sharp eyes and an impressive grasp of his subject.

He was the kind of teacher who encouraged student participation in the learning process and although usually reticent among strangers, Alison felt inspired to join in the lively discussions that