SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SIMPLE THINGS

Sheriff Willamina Keller hesitated, the door open an inch, and listened to a deep, prolonged, most heartfelt and not at all hushed, sigh of genuine and profound masculine relief echoing from within.

She hauled the men's locker room door open and shouted "PLEASURE IS NOT ISSUED BY THIS DEPARTMENT!"

From within, from somewhere out of her line of sight, came the echoing, shouted response by her son: "JAWOHL, FRAU KOMMANDANT!"

"CLOSE YOUR EYES, COMIN' IN!" Willamina yelled, right before she strode into the men's locker room in violation of her own rules.

She saw her son sitting on a wooden bench, hair awry from having been briskly toweled; steam still hung in the air where he'd unashamedly taken a long, hot shower, and her pale eyes swung to the white-enamel washer, read the dial, heard the quiet, industrious hum of the simple, faithful machine.

Linn crossed one leg over the other, rolled his sock, worked it onto his bare foot, then the other foot.  Willamina settled beside him on the bench, laid a cool hand between his shoulder blades.

"I'm proud of you," she said quietly.

Linn uncrossed his legs, planted sock feet on the towel spread out on the floor, turned a little to face his Mama more directly.

"Mama," he said quietly, "that means the world to me!"

Willamina's eyes were soft now, the eyes of a mother, and not the Sheriff that ran her department in a buisinesslike manner.

"The hospital called."

"And?"

"He's going to make it."

Linn threaded his trouser belt through uniform belt loops, nodded.

"Good."

"That was good thinking, using the spare tire like that."

Linn leaned back, thrust both legs into his uniform trousers, stood.

Willamina rose as well, handed him his undershirt.

"I learned that from you, y'know," he said, reached to his left and stopped.

"My vest," he said, blinking. "It's still --"

"You don't have your spare?"

Linn's ears reddened, then he grinned, and Willamina saw the ghost of a little boy she'd raised shining through those pale eyes, and she knew he was about to pull her leg.

Again.

"Would you believe I sold it for beer money?" -- he blinked rapidly, rolled his eyes, set his front teeth together in a cheesy and entirely fake grin: Willamina threw her head back and laughed at the memory that expression brought back, at every whopper he'd ever told her, followed by that same toothy, cheesy, entirely fake grin.

"It's in my locker," Linn said, sat back down beside his Mama.

"By the way," Willamina said quietly, tilting her head a little to the side, "when did I teach you to use the spare tire as a float?"

Linn chuckled quietly, took a deep breath, sighed it out.

"I was still little," he said distantly, eyes seeing a memory well on the other side of the locker room wall. "You were reading an article to Pa about someone drowning and after it was over, a child spoke up and asked why nobody used their spare tire to help him."

Willamina only vaguely -- very vaguely -- remembered the moment, but nodded.

"When I went in after him, he was panicky and he'd have climbed me like a ladder to keep from drowning. Hell, he flipped that spare tire twice tryin' to climb it!"

He looked down at his sock feet, reached for what Willamina recognized as a dry pair of boots: he thrust into one, then the other, a little puff of displaced foot powder emerging from each as he did.

"I'll let you get dressed," Willamina said quietly. "I look forward to reading your After Action report."

"Yes, ma'am."

Willamina saw something in her son's face.

"Is there something else?" she asked quietly as Linn stepped over to his locker, retrieved his spare ballistic vest.

"Yes ma'am there is," he said firmly as he shrugged into the personal armor, snugged it up.

He discreetly turned away to open his trousers to get the crotch panel in place, shrugged into his uniform blouse, turned and buttoned from the top down.

"Mama, it feels sooooo goooood to have warm dry socks on! That water was COLD!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LET ME DO THIS

Shelly Crane yanked her front door open, eyes wide, mouth open, the image of distressed youth.

She looked at a long tall figure in a black suit and Stetson, boots polished and a corsage in hand, and Shelly's face fell about three feet as she remembered ...

... he'd asked her to the square dance two towns over ...

... and she'd gotten so busy with housework she'd completely lost track ...

Linn's eyebrows raised a little and Shelly felt her stomach tighten as he opened his mouth to speak, and she braced for the words she deserved, for the condemnation she'd earned --

"Can I give you a hand?"

Linn stepped across the threshold uninvited, closed the door, ran his arms around Shelly and held her, just held her.

"You look worn out," he murmured into her sweat-damp hair.

She sagged a little, wishing for nothing more than a quick nap.

Linn lifted his head.

"Smells like you're doing laundry," he said quietly. "How much needs done yet?"

 

The Captain came home early.

He'd worked an overtime shift until relief could be found.

He got home to find Linn's Jeep parked out front, the house quiet, and Shelly's purse staged near the door where she kept it.

The Captain heard quiet voices: his Suspicious Father's Imagination wondered how indiscreet his daughter and the Sheriff's son were quietly engaging, so he Cat Footed through the house, careful to not step on the two creaky boards he'd threatened to screw down, and hadn't yet.

Why are they in the laundry? he thought.

Maybe they think no one will hear them?

He heard his daughter laugh quietly, the way her Mama laughed, and the Captain's stomach dropped, his imagination running well ahead of his facts --

He came around the corner to find Linn, in a shirt and necktie, ironing one of his uniform blouses: Shelly was a little to the side, carefully placing another ironed, folded shirt on a short stack of other ironed, folded shirts: she was talking, she was smiling, and it took him a moment for her words to sink in.

"You realize," she was saying, "now I have to iron Daddy's shirts like that from now on!"

"Trust me to cause trouble," Linn replied in a quiet voice, setting the iron on its stand and shifting the uniform blouse on the ironing board to get the next crease just right.

"Who taught you to iron military creases, anyway?" Shelly smiled.

Linn looked over at her and laughed quietly.

"My Mama's a Marine, remember? She taught me how to spit shine my boots too."

The Captain took a careful step back, another: he blinked, momentarily ashamed he'd let his imagination run off like that, then defensively justifying his thoughts -- responsible father, keep his daughter from --

"When's the Captain coming home?" Linn asked gently.

"Whenever they find a relief medic. They're short handed what with the flu going around."

"Let me know if he says anything about the ironing job. I don't want to cause you extra work."

"Oh believe me," Shelly sighed, "he'll notice but he won't say a word.  Mama used to iron his shirts like that."

The Captain closed his eyes and remembered his wife, ironing, a bandanna around her hairdo and a contented smile on her face.

She took such pride in that, he thought.

Shelly came over to the ironing board, tilted her head.

"Show me again how you get that crease so straight."

 

Father, daughter, and boyfriend sat around the kitchen table, an empty ice cream carton in the trash and three bowls pretty well emptied.

The Captain leaned back, satisfied, bowl empty, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and crushed nuts carefully spooned out: he looked at Linn, then his daughter.

"Do you usually iron laundry in a shirt and tie?" he asked quietly, and Linn laughed to hear the smile in the man's voice.
"I'm tryin' to think of a good smart-alecky answer," he admitted, "and the mind just went blank."

"It's my fault, Daddy," Shelly said quietly, folding her hands in her lap like a little girl about to be chastised: "Linn asked me to go to the dance and I got busy and ... forgot."

The Captain was quiet, thoughtful: he blinked as he looked at his empty bowl, nodded.

"I remember your Mom ironing my shirts," he said softly. "She always hummed a little as she did."

"Linn showed me how to iron the military creases Mom used to."

"It looked like Shelly went all White Tornado gettin' the house clean," Linn spoke up. "When I beat on the front door, she looked about wore out."

The Captain reached over, took his daughter's hand in hers.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I don't say it often enough."

Linn stood, gathered the empty bowls, carried them over to the sink.

"Oh, now you're going to make me look bad, doing dishes while I just sit here!" Shelly half-scolded.

Linn turned on the water, just a little, not wanting to splash dishwater on his emerald-green puffy tie.
"I don't often get to be a gentleman," he said quietly. "Let me do this."

 

 

Edited Saturday at 01:08 PM by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ALL I NEEDED WAS AN EXCUSE

Ambassador Marnie Keller struck a fine figure indeed in her floor length gown, her white-bib-ruffled bodice, her matching little hat: she was the very image of decorous femininity, the face of the Confederacy, a skilled negotiator, a driver of hard bargains that made both parties involved feel like they'd just skinned the other guy out of his eye teeth.

Ambassador Marnie Keller was a woman of propriety and of good manners, she was noted to be both a good listener, but also one who actually listened, and listened closely.

Ambassador Marnie Keller gave a surprised -- and delighted -- squeak as both her hands were seized, as men's hands gripped her elbows, as she was boosted off the floor and onto a table, where she was loudly and enthusiastically hailed by men who waved hats and hands and loudly, undeniably, powerfully, voiced their approval that she'd chosen their haven, their establishment, their Silver Jewel Saloon, to visit.

Marnie threw her head back and laughed with honest delight, then she raised gloved hands for silence, which did no good whatsoever: hats, hands and hails all stirred the air with loud and most heartfelt masculine approbation.

Marnie gave up trying to shush the crowd.

She set her sharp little heels a little more apart, she curled her lip, whistled -- sharp, shrill, piercing -- her bladed hand slashed through the air, drove toward the burnished bar and the balding barkeep in an immaculate (read freshly changed for the occasion) apron.

"MISTER BAXTER!" Marnie shouted, her voice edged like a honed blade: men's voice quieted to hear her shouted voice.

Marnie pulled a poke from a hidden pocket, tossed it easily in the air, caught it again -- then she turned, bladed the bartender and heaved the leather poke like a softball -- "CATCH!" -- the barkeep muffed the catch, a fist sized leather sack full of hard coin hit him in the chest -- men's eyes followed the thrown payload, saw the barkeep go over on his back, saw his brogans sling upward toward the ceiling:  laughter, shouted calls of "Get up, ye lazy sod!" or words to that effect, all with the planet's particular accent.

The barkeep managed to make his feet again, picked up the poke, opened it, looked inside, looked at Marnie, shocked.

Marnie whistled again, this time her curled lip's sonic blade sliced deeply enough through the saloon's air to silence the raucous celebration.

"MISTER BAXTER!" Marnie shouted, making no effort to moderate her voice to a properly feminine level: she projected like she projected her voice as a Sheriff's deputy, facing down an angry group who didn't want any part of the law and order she represented.

"MISTER BAXTER!" Marnie shouted again, then added, "DRINKS ON THE HOUSE, ONE TO A CUSTOMER! I'LL HAVE WATER CLEAR AND NOT OVER THIRTY DAYS OLD!"

Ambassador Marnie Keller was known to each of the Thirteen Star Systems, and to each of the inhabited planets.

Ambassador Marnie Keller was known to every stratum of society.

Ambassador Marnie Keller was a woman of business and of commerce.

Ambassador Marnie Keller stood on a round saloon table, hoisted her long stemmed glass of something water clear, turned slowly in salute to every living soul in the saloon.

Men returned the salute in like manner, silence spreading like a clear honey, until Marnie's smile broadened and she declared, "HERE'S TO YOU AND HERE'S TO ME, AND MAY WE NEVER DISAGREE!"

Her smile was absolutely beatific as she added, "BUT IF WE DO, TO HELL WITH YOU, AND HERE'S TO ME!"

Laughter, strong and genuine, then their glasses were lowered.

They drank.

Marnie downed hers in one breath: she tilted the long-stemmed crystal, drank: she lowered the glass.

What happened next is a matter of debate.

You deserve to know what actually happened.

Marnie's eyes watered -- she blinked -- she fanned herself with her free hand, she gave a little cough, and most witnesses who were there, swore a little puff of steam came from her startled-open mouth: she leaned forward, extending her arms -- men thrust glasses into their neighbors' startled hands, reached for the falling Ambassador -- her descent was calculated, controlled, which wasn't bad for having just consumed a significant volume of what Old Pale Eyes, a century before, described as either Liquid Sledgehammer, or Two Hit John -- I hit John, and John hit the floor.

Marnie swam through the crowd, smiling now, returned the glass to Mr. Baxter: she turned, gave a deep, formal curtsy, then snatched up her skirts and ran down the hallway between the stage-corner and the bar: the back door opened, closed, and men's voices raised again in general celebration.

 

Marnie bent over the porcelain throne and heaved up the contents of her stomach -- again -- as her son watched with worried eyes.

He pulled a folded washcloth from the stack, wet it and wrung it out, then folded it in half and pressed it into his Mama's palm.

Marnie picked up a water bottle and drank a liter before coming up for air.

John Greenlees Jr. watched as his Mama took advantage of the throne yet again, punishing herself for drinking such a volume of liquid you-should-know-better.

Marnie coughed, spat, coughed again, spoke.

"You don't have to say it," she snarled.

Angela closed the door behind her, looked at John Junior -- John saw surprise in her eyes, and he knew why -- he was in his sock feet and he was still eye to eye with her.

John gave a nod, slipped past her, left the family's spacious bathroom.

"John knew I wasn't ... doing well," Marnie wheezed, her voice husky.

"How did it go?"

"They know how to party," Marnie laughed, then turned, sat, looked up at her sister.

Angela squatted, regarded Marnie with concerned eyes.

"Oh, don't worry," Marnie muttered with a limp-wristed wave: "I Irised back here and slugged down a liter so I'd throw up."

Angela shook her head slowly.

"You and Gammaw," she muttered.

"Yeah," Marnie coughed again.  "Me and Gammaw."

"Did you at least have a good time?"

Marnie looked at her sister and her grin was absolutely unrepentant.

"You're damn right I did," she snarled. "I danced with half a hundred men, I was proposed to at least twenty times, and one dark eyed fellow made an indecent proposition that was tempting!"

"Of course you told him no."

"I'm not that stupid," Marnie snapped.  "I curled my finger under his chin and gave him a come-hither look and then spun away into the crowd."

"You vamp," Angela breathed enviously. "Did he come after you?"

"He was too busy melting in his moccasins!"

Two pale eyed sisters shared an understanding look.

"How long total did you have alcohol on board?"

"Ninety seconds max."

"Not enough to affect you now."

"No."

"But your guts hate you."

"And my throat. Throwing up about tears me apart."

Angela reached for her sister's hand, stood: Marnie allowed Angela to pull her to her feet.

"You were never a party animal in school."

Marnie's eyes were haunted as her gaze drifted to the left, as she looked at something years beyond the far wall.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she almost whispered. "I'm afraid ... Angela, hurt people, hurt people, and I don't ... want ... to become ..."

Angela pulled her sister into a strong embrace, smelled lilac, smelled sunshine, smelled clean air.

 

Dr. John Greenlees listened without interrupting as his son reported his findings.

Dr. John Greenlees laid an approving hand on his son's shoulder and nodded, once.

Dr. John Greenlees knocked discreetly on the bathroom door, opened it a little, a little more, looked in.

Angela drew the door open, tilted her head a little.

"Patient is alert and oriented times three. Symmetrical grip, PERLAA. Respirations, pulse and pressure within normal limits."

Dr. John Greenlees blinked, nodded again, stepped aside to allow Angela's departure.

His wife stood before him, looking as lovely and as composed as she always did.

Dr. John Greenlees' eyes were busy, his face solemn: his hand reached out, her hand settled into his, and he raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles.

"My dear," he asked carefully, "is all well?"

Ambassador Marnie Keller lifted her chin a fraction, smiled that quiet smile he knew so well, and answered in an absolutely normal voice.

"My husband," she said formally, "all is well" -- then her expression became absolutely impish -- "but I'll tell you, Planet Texas throws one hell of a party!"

 

 

Edited 6 hours ago by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103