Nothing To Go On

By Fay Ellen Graetz

Juliette missed her mother's funeral. Her husband is glad she's dead. Their neighbor offers her own version of condolence on a night of sexual tension, secret revelations and too many graves. At times humorous. At times disturbing. In the end: twisted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fay Ellen Graetz
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088090756

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Copyright © 2023 Fay Ellen Graetz. All Rights Reserved.

Illustrations by Kenneth R. Graetz

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.

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

ISBN 979-8-218-15039-6 (paperback)

I was not;

I have been;

I am not;

I do not mind.

Epicurus

Contents

COMING OR GOING

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

REMOTE CONTROL

FACING UP

COMPUNCTION REVISITED

About the Author:

Also by Fay Ellen Graetz:

COMING OR GOING

The sailboat resisted the tug of the salty lines as dockhands guided it onto the canvas slings. Roaring like a strongman, the boatlift hefted Cowardly Lion out of the water and rolled back slowly, away from the muddy Caloosahatchee River. After two months in the Bahamas, dutifully capturing invisible winds and gliding through crystal clear waters, it now traver sed land.

The boatyard’s conveyance lumbered toward an open field where two hundred fellow boats sat motionless, propped up with steel braces. Well inland and equidistant from the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, the mismatched fleet waited out Florida’s summer storms and hurricanes.

As they walked along beside their boat, reality for Avery and Juliette Hawkins was slow to register. The hundred bulky hulls and bare masts stood out of sync with the surrounding countryside. A barbwire fence surrounded the periphery, warding off cattle, horses, and thieves. For Avery, the scene evoked a Salvador Dali landscape: a fleet of ships levitating over a grassy seabed.

You’ll be missed, my friend, Avery said, with a salute to the Lion.

A wiry yardman chocked the braces, like stiffened legs, under each side of the hull. He wiped his sweaty forehead on his shirt sleeve. Hard workin' vessel. Deserves a rest. I think on it as tuckin' her in bed. Out of harm's way.

Avery had mixed feelings about storing his boat on the hard ground. If anything, he said, she’s confused. This place looks like a rest home for forgotten boats. She’s afraid I won’t come back.

Juliette turned abruptly toward her husband. Won’t come back? She studied the expression on his darkly tanned and deeply wrinkled face, the blue of his eyes barely perceivable under the shade of his cap and squint of his gaze. Who? Who won’t come back? Her eyes welled with tears as the lift settled the sailboat into place, like a casket lowered into a grave. "You must come back. Why would you say that? Don’t say that." She scanned the boatyard for reassurance. This was no cemetery. Realizing her outburst was out of sync and irrational, she backed away and walked alone to their awaiting car.

Standing at the kitchen sink, Juliette relished the flow of warm water that rinsed soap suds from the breakfast bowls and spoons. So precious on the boat, fresh water now flowed loudly from the faucet and extravagantly down the drain. She conducted herself with a renewed appreciation for the solidity of home and its simple luxuries: refrigeration, shower, washing machine. After two months of island hopping on their modest sailboat, it felt liberating to walk more than three feet in a straight line. Securely. She’d not been a sailor before meeting Avery, nor did she share his lure of the sea. In fact, she’d occasionally asked why they threw themselves in harm’s way.

Even Avery admitted to a sense of relief over returning home safely. They’d reduced the sails when the skies darkened. Pulled up the dragging anchor before reaching the rocks. Cut through the white caps or rode them into port. That’s adventure for you, Avery often boasted, and well worth the spurts of fear and nausea.

Trust me, it’s for your own good, he’d say. Choose what harms you. Screw societal stress. Life is about physical survival. But secretly, she’d never completely shaken the tentativeness she felt for life on a boat and, being careful not to be obvious about it, the tentativeness of life in general.

Something dark within the white noise of the running water caught her attention. Her body stiffened. She turned off the tap. Her face flushed hot and sweaty. Please, not the baby again. More than once she’d been traumatized by the distant cry of a baby. No, Juliette. You don’t have a baby. Sometimes it was the cry of a bobcat or an osprey, as Avery would assure her. Or a seagull. Or Neptune blowing the sails like a wind instrument. On the boat silence was rare, limited to windless days, occurring in short spurts between the clanks of a halyard or gentle slurps against the hull. Now, through the open window, she saw birds and squirrels flit silently through vines and palm fronds. The surrounding acres of old wide-reaching oak trees and scrub palms dampened the distant rumble of trucks or tractors that traversed the country roads.

There! What did she hear? Or sense?

Since learning of her elderly mother’s death, it troubled her that she hadn’t somehow recognized a sign that she had passed: a diabolical chill or angelic whisper in her ear. Though she dared not use the word aloud, she was haunted by the fact that she missed her own mother’s funeral. What had she now heard? Was it a sign? Or a symptom of mental instability? No, Juliette, your mother is gone, dead and buried. Swallowing back the sourness in her throat, she held her breath and gripped the edge of the sink. There! It was too subtle for the thud of an acorn on the tin roof; too late in the morning for the drip of dew; too early for afternoon thunder. What was it? Did she hear it or feel it? Why am I so finely tuned? Tuned to what?

Hon, did you hear something? she called to her husband, struggling to be casual. A ticking? Or tap?

"I’m going through this mountain of mail. Mostly junk. Hey, from AARP with your name on it! With the age gap of almost a quarter of a century, Avery was allowed to tease Juliette about her youth, especially since she only recently turned forty. On the contrary, the ineffable march of time was no joke to Avery, a bona fide senior citizen. Come in here, I can’t hear you."

Juliette wiped her hands dry and tiptoed on bare feet across the maple-wood floor into the spacious living room. I think I heard something, she whispered. Really. I’m not imagining.

Now, with the hypersensitivity he fostered from anticipating disasters at sea, Avery heard it, too: a scratching, a clawing on woodwork. Together they approach the patio door leading to the wraparound porch. The house had been empty long enough to provide comfort for any number of critters. Was it a raccoon? Opossum? A curious hunter?

A mutt, Avery said. He slid the door open a crack, releasing the tension from the room. Here, boy.

Relaxing her grip on her husband’s forearm, Juliette released a breath of relief. The tick, tick, tick she’d heard, it wasn’t her mother’s fingernails tapping her Bible after all. It was an old dog’s toenails tapping against the wooden porch floor. Ashamed of the conclusion she’d jumped to, she kept it to herself. Look, he’s coming. Hey, pooch.

Don’t let him in the house, hon. He could be … you never know. Squatting down to the dog’s eye level, Avery appreciated the safety of the door between them. Was it rabid? Lost? Injured? Its pinkish-brown gumdrop of a dog’s nose left a smudge where it touched the glass.

Sweetheart, are you lost?

The dog retreated a few steps and turned a full circle, holding its head low in humility or weakness. The color of rust, its fur was equally lackluster, and its underbelly matted and sagging between its short legs. The dog approached with hesitation. There was a faint indentation in