The Elizabeth Stories

By Elizabeth Baroody

The Elizabeth Stories serves as a legacy of Alfred Baroodys wife, Elizabeththe authorwho previously published several articles, short stories, and books. This is a collection of ten short stories and two novelettes compiled into one book. These are stories about adventure, action, mystery, and so much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490738109

Elizabeth Baroody

Biography: Elizabeth Irwin Baroody Born: August 2, 1925 Died: July 31, 2008 Married: August 29, 1942, to Alfred F. Baroody Blessed with five children, seven grandchildren, fourteen great-grandchildren Elizabeth was an independent photojournalist from 1970 to her death and has written, sold, and has had published approximately 115 articles, short stories, and one book. The following publications have used her work: Early American Life, Writer’s Digest, the Antique Trader, Numismatic Scrapbook, Marriage and Family, Horse Illustrated, Spinning Wheel Magazine, Country Magazine, Hobbies, AntiqueWeek, Postcard Collector, Cricket Magazine. Under the name of Christy Demaine, she wrote one book, A Matter of Revenge, published by Playboy Press in 1978. It is still available at used bookstores and eBay, online. A second book, Nicole Laurent, was recently self-published and is available through any bookstore or by the Internet through www.nicolelaurent.com Available through e-book is The Search for Scheherazade. It is available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. That Summer at Windermere and Vengeance Is Mine were recently published and are available as noted above.

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Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Baroody aka Christy Demaine.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3809-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3810-9 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 05/29/2014

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Contents

Novelettes

A Night on Rattlesnake Island

A Meeting of the Over Seventy Society (O.S.S.)

Short Stories

An Afternoon at Cedar Grove

My Name is John Patrick

The Pepper Trail

The House on Riberia Street

The Llama Who Came to Lunch

The Rabbit’s Tale

The Times They are A’Changin’

No Place like Home

The Snow Rose

They’re Tearing Down The Old Princess Anne Hotel

Novelettes

A Night on Rattlesnake Island

AS TOLD BY Miguel Del DIA

M y name is Miguel Del Dia. I was born in St. Augustine and have always lived in the same tall, narrow gray house within a short distance of the Lighthouse. I can see the search beam on my ceiling, reflected off my little TV screen. All of my nineteen years I have lived in this house with my father, and mother, who I call Madre and Padre, my two older sisters, Bonnie and Brenda, and one young sister, Teresa. I never had a brother but I have a cousin, Luis Domingo, who is like a little brother to me. He lives in the city with my aunt, and he has a smart sister, who works for The Record. We will never move because Padre can walk to his job at the Alligator Farm and Madre loves this ugly house because we were all born in it, but I am ready to move on. My graduation was last June—where is there a future f or me?

I fix cars part time, give my mother twenty bucks some weeks. My girlfriend, Denice, and me planned to get an apartment but her father made her go to Atlanta to nursing school. My old Mustang won’t make it to Atlanta, so I stopped going after three bad trips. You stand by the road, maybe a flat tire, steam coming out the radiator, nobody stops, nobody cares, know what I mean?

Now the summer is over. It is late September and I still have no future. I need somebody to tell me something, show me a direction, how to make money, see the world. I’d like to see mountains, see the trees change color, feel cold and snow in the winter—always here we have sand, the ocean, and the sun. That is why the snowbirds come to Florida, to run away from the things I wish to experience. One day Madre says to me, Why are you so sad always, sweetheart? and I told her I don’t know where I’m going. My life is killing me. Then she tells me to go see a teacher at my school who made me stay out of trouble, got me a little job selling The Record on the street corners and one time tossed me a sandwich from her own lunch when she thought I looked hungry. A good teacher, Mrs. Trevillian. So I called her and she said come over to the school after classes, maybe four o’clock, Thursday.

It felt funny, strange you know, to go back to the school where all I wanted to do was hurry up and get out but when I stood there across the street, waiting for four o’clock I felt… I saw these kids laughing, hitting each other, and calling out… I felt alone. My school time was past and I had no place to go to.

Mrs. Trevillian was standing by the window. Her heavy dark hair had silver streaks that picked up the sun and when she heard my steps she turned around with that nice smile.

Miguel, it’s good to see you!

Same here.

I’d give you a hug but you know it’s not P.C. anymore, politically correct, but consider yourself hugged.

I could feel her warmth as she squeezed my hands for a moment and motioned me to sit across from her at desks in the front row.

You want to talk?

I wanted to leave. I said nothing.

Those little cacti in the window you brought me. See how they thrive? Two years old and little ones popping up?

I inspected the cactus plants in silence.

Speak to me, Miguel.

I don’t know what to say except I got no good job. I want to go away.

To college or trade school? Your grades were good, Miguel. And you had so much potential. This attitude is not like you she hesitated looking at me.

I don’t know what to do.

You’re a whiz at fixing cars. Remember I had that oil leak on my old Datsun?

Piece of cake.

Well, nobody else could fix it.

She picked up a sketchpad and began to draw. I saw my hair, long, dark and curly, straight eyebrows, and thin face.

Is that little mustache going or coming, Miguel? Shall I put it in?

She made me smile. Put it in.

As the pencil scratched across the pad she looked up and squinted at me, sort of talking to herself and to me.

A person has to decide what makes them happy, and when you find something that makes you feel good about yourself that’s what life is about. Finding your place and doing it well.

That’s not easy when you don’t know where your place is. I live with my parents, for Christ sake—s’cuse me—my girlfriend, Denice, went to Atlanta. She quit writing me!

All the girls were crazy about you, Miguel.

Only I wanted Denice.

How about going into one of the services?

No uniforms for me.

She turned the sketch around. It was exactly like me. My eyes looked sad.

Would you like to have this?

My mother would like it.

She carefully rolled it and put a rubber band around it, handed it to me.

What was the happiest day you can remember? A special Christmas? A birthday? Baseball? You played very well as I remember. She hesitated. I can see I’m not helping you, Miguel. I’m sorry.

I put the sketch in my jacket and stood up to go.

Thanks for seeing me.

Come back anytime. Let me know how things work out. I mean it, Miguel.

Sure.

I went back to the Mustang and sat there a long time. I saw Mrs. Trevillian watching from the window. She waved. I pretended not to see, turned the key and drove away fast, as if I had somewhere to go.

Madre was making spaghetti the way we all liked it. Meat and pasta and sauce together in a great big baking pan, put in the oven until bubbly and covered with cheese. Italian bread split and filled with butter and garlic salt. Wine for everybody. Lots of ice in my little sisters glass or she would start giggling. The old gray house smelled good.

How it goes with the teacher? Madre asked, throwing plates around the table.

Good. She sent you something.

I unrolled the sketch and held it up.

Madre crossed herself and began to cry.

The hand of God made this picture! She shouted. It is you! My Miguel!

The hand of Mrs. Trevillian, Madre.

He guided her hand. Such a likeness! We need a beautiful frame for this. The face of an angel, my only son.

I’m going to my room.

She was smoothing the paper and looking at it like I was a movie star or a millionaire ball player. Somebody. In my heart, I knew I was nobody.

Up in my room, in the attic, I lay on the bed and tried to listen to the radio, tried to sleep, but my head kept going round and round. As I tried to make some sense out of what Mrs. Trevillian was trying to say to me. The message seemed simple when I sorted it out. Try to remember what made me happy and maybe I’d be happy again.

Christmas? The year I got a bike. It wasn’t even new, but Padre painted it about six coats so it looked pretty good. I rode it on the beach till the tires rotted. One birthday we all drove up to Jacksonville. The girls at McDonald’s sang a birthday song and gave me a cupcake with a candle. It was embarrassing. I was fourteen that year. Nobody I knew from school saw me, thank you, Mary, Mother of God. Denice, my girlfriend. Our first time. Like the sky exploded. She said we’d always be together. Liar. Liar.

There was a noise downstairs. My father was home. He always entered his castle with a big noise, doors slams, big voice rings in the stair well.

Alligator Man is home. Come on, kiddoes. Let’s eat or she’ll throw it out.

Alligator Man, my father. He swept the paths, cleaned, and tended the birds, cut up the chunks of meat. Day after day among the long slimy creatures in the pits, in the cages, in the pools. What did he think of his life behind fences, among the reptiles, under the trees? But he had Madre, us kids, his house.

Everybody was looking at my picture propped up on the piano. My sisters gagged, said it was an ape, something from outer space. My father said I should have smiled, shown my good white teeth, but it was a good likeness. Madre wanted to go to the mall to get a frame. We all went in and drank wine and ate spaghetti.

My cousin, Luis, called and wanted to go to Movie Works, he would pay for both of us, but I said, No, maybe next week. I went back up to my room and watched TV. The search beam from the Lighthouse traveled across the ceiling. I was used to it. About 11 o’clock the smell of the little candles my mother lit every night in