Coming Soon

COMING SOON

Family Plan
A Novel
by
Bob Liter

Many thousands of single mothers face extreme difficulties in raising their children. One of them is Nora Alexander who is trying to raise her nine-year-old daughter, Becky. She faces complications that make her struggle more difficult than most.

FAMILY PLAN is the story of Nora’s battle to raise her daughter while fighting alcohol addiction. She is on the run from her ex, Herman Brink, who seeks custody of Becky, even though he is not her father, to exact revenge on Nora because of the divorce.

Nora and Becky use a false last name to worm their way into renting a room from Henry Dodd who doesn’t realize Nora is his estranged granddaughter. Nora gets a job as a waitress and reluctantly falls under the influence of Lance Arnold who owns a tavern, The Lazy Hour.

He romances her and talks her into becoming a waitress at his tavern. Her ex-husband finds and kidnaps her. She escapes and later is accused of murder when a man dies while trying to rape her during a snowstorm. She finally is exonerated. Custody of Becky becomes a court issue. The judge gives Nora another chance as long as she marries Lance, a recovering alcoholic.

The author, Bob Liter, is also the creator of several romances published by Renaissance E Books, including the best seller, DANNY BOY.

CHAPTER ONE
Of Family Plan


Windshield wipers on Nora Alexander's 12-year-old Geo whipped back and forth as she turned into the driveway of a white bungalow and parked. Her nine-year-old daughter, Becky, stretched and said in a voice heavy with sleep, “Are we there?”
“Yes, kiddo, finally. Now remember. Our last name is Johnson.”
Nora looked in the rearview mirror at her own tired face. She brushed hair back from her forehead and thought, Will this work? It has to.
“Are we going in or not? I gotta pee,” Becky said as she pressed her hands between her legs. Nora nodded and said, “When the rain lets up.”
She fussed with her daughter’s hair until the girl said, “Mama, what good will that do? We’ll get soaked when we get out of the car.”
Nora’s hands went from the girl’s hair to her own. She combed it with her fingers and said, “Maybe this will be better. The rain I mean. We’ll look more pathetic.”
“My name is Becky Johnson,” the girl recited.
Nora hugged the child and said, "You're a real trooper."
"Yeah, a real trooper," Becky repeated.
"Remember the plan now," Nora said and added, “Okay, let’s go.”
They struggled out of the small car and ran hand-in-hand to the cement stoop at the front door.
“Now don’t forget,” Nora said.
Becky nodded.
Nora rapped gently. After a minute or so she rapped harder. The door opened. A man thumbed suspenders over a faded blue shirt, hitched up baggy pants, rubbed bleary eyes, glanced at Becky and Nora and said, “What do you want?”
Nora placed a hand on Becky’s shoulder and said, “I understand you have a room to rent.”
She shook water from her auburn hair. Becky shook her head and wiped water from her face.
“A room to rent? What gave you that idea?”
“Didn’t you advertise in the paper? I threw it away, it got so wet.”
The girl said, “I gotta go potty, Mama.”
“Just pee your pants, Becky. What difference will it make? You’re already soaked.”
Becky stamped her foot. Water splashed onto her short, white socks and dripped into worn canvas shoes. Her eyes flashed disgust as she said, “I won’t.”
The man smiled, stepped back, and opened the door wider.
“You can use the bathroom, young lady. It’s down the hall to the right.”
Becky dashed past him. Nora said, “She’s so impetuous. She’ll drip water all over your house.”
“I’m impetuous too when I have to go. Come in, water won’t hurt this old carpet or anything else in the house. Want some coffee?”
The woman looked directly into his pale blue eyes and said, “That would be heaven.” She followed him into the kitchen.
“Feel better?” He said when Becky joined them. She sat next to Nora and lifted the coffee cup, put it to her lips, and sipped.
Becky handed the cup back to Nora without a word.
“I’m Henry Dodd,” the man said. He extended a callused hand toward Nora.
She took it, returned his firm grip, and said, “I’m Nora Johnson and this is my daughter, Becky.”
"I don't rent rooms," Henry Dodd said.
Nora broke the silence by saying, “I must have the wrong address. We need a place to stay. I’m looking for a job.”
Henry stared.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just thought, that is, you remind me of someone. Hope you find a place to live. And a job,” he added as he stood.
Nora slid her chair back and glanced at the linoleum flooring. It was clean, the red and green pattern still clear and bright under the shine. Water had puddled around her feet.
“Got a mop?” she asked.
Henry nodded, opened the basement door, pulled a mop up from the first step, and swiped up the water. After putting the mop away he stood at the back door and looked out.
“Still raining like hell. You could stay until it stops, if you want.”
“Can I watch television, Mama, can I?”
“Why not,” Henry said. In the living room he handed Becky the remote. She glanced at it and quickly found a cartoon show featuring a large talking dog. Henry returned to the kitchen and offered more coffee.
“Thanks, sorry to bother you,” Nora said.
She checked out the kitchen. It would be heaven to have such a place permanently. The cupboard doors where smudged here and there with dirt and bits of dried food. Stuff that would easily wash off. She wondered what food was inside.
“No bother, just sittin’ around sleeping and watching it rain and glad I wasn’t out in it. Still a little cool to be dancing in the rain. You want a towel?”
Henry stood, walked through the living room, opened a closet door across from the bathroom, and removed a bath towel from a stack. He examined it, looked at the others, kept the one in his hands, and returned to the kitchen.
“It’s kinda lost its fuzz, but it will dry you some,” he said.
“Thanks.” Nora stood and dried her face and arms. She leaned over, shook her hair loose, flipped her hair back and wrapped the towel around it.


(Watch this spot and mysite.verizon.net/bobliter/ for the publication date.)

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A LooLoo

Death Sting
A Nick Bancroft mystery
By Bob Liter

"A REAL LOO-LOO!" When Vicki Fowler's body is found covered with bee stings in a Central Illinois pasture the sheriff calls her death an accident. Free-lance reporter and private detective Nick Bancroft doesn't believe it. He learns the victim lived in a home for young unwed mothers who work as waitresses and whores at a local nightclub. Murder suspects include an alcoholic handy man, the man and wife who operate the home, a nightclub operator and his henchman, and a sheriff's deputy. Federal agents on the trail of an international porno ring try to halt Nick's investigation. Nick is beaten and thrown in a ditch. Later he and his earthy lover, Maggie Atley, are dumped in a deep lake with weights tied to their ankles. The Nick Bancroft Mysteries are "power packed ... draw the reader into the story from the opening line and hold the attention to the surprising end. Peopled with fascinating, credible characters," raves Holly Martin in Black Dragon Reviews. Bob Liter's detective novels are full of "twists and turns. A real Loo-Loo!" says Detra Fitch in Huntress Book Reviews.

Available from Renaissance E Books, Fictionwise.com and other Internet ebook stores.

New Novel

{Below is the first chapter of my newest novel. The novel is available at fictionwise.com Search under my name, Bob Liter)

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Bob Liter

CHAPTER ONE

Mayor Ollie Oelwein hoisted his rear onto the last empty stool at the counter in Rosemary’s Delmonico Diner. He turned and mumbled, “Twelve citizens, not countin’ you and me.”
“You going?” Rosemary Allen asked.
“Of course,” the mayor said. “Got to. Look at all these people. No doubt they’s goin’. Best gathering I've seen in Fork for some time.”
“I may run out of doughnuts,” Rosemary said.
“What?” the mayor said. “Can’t hear much above the chatter.”
Rosemary leaned closer and repeated the statement. She pushed slender fingers through long, gleaming auburn hair, moved a strand from her forehead, sighed and glided from behind the counter. She joined in conversations as she refilled coffee cups at the six ancient tables, their scars hidden by checkered red clothes.
The material of her white polyester waitress uniform moved with the flow of her legs and buttocks. Some male eyes focused higher where curves bounced and breathed.
She returned to behind the counter and said, “Everybody’s talking about the snow storm again. Haven’t heard a single rumor this morning about the murder. Kinda strange, people talking in July about a snow storm.”
“Well,” the mayor said, “there’s principles involved here. No sir, Daniel Owens just can’t get away with what he did. You goin' aint ya?”
"No," Rosemary said. "Won't be any business, but I'm not going down there and watch Daniel make a fool of himself."
The mayor chewed the last bite of his third chocolate-covered doughnut, gulped the last drop of coffee, and slid off the stool.
“Serve him right if he makes a fool of himself. Got no business attacking a public official. If he gets away with that, why who knows what’s next?"
He cleared his throat a couple of times and said, "Hey folks, we better git. It’s thirty-five miles to Cleardale, ya know.”
Gregory Lancaster, the garbage collector, who was sitting alone at a corner table, stood and said, “Hell, Ollie, we got two hours yet. Gonna pick up a couple blocks of garbage before I head down.”
“Smells like ya already made some pickups,” Fred Gilmore, the grocery store owner, shouted.
“Don’t often see ya up this early,” Gregory replied.
“Now, now boys, don’t need discord on an important day like this. I’m headed for Cleardale.”
The mayor hitched up his pants, waved like a departing candidate, and went outside. He stood in the morning sunlight on the cracked sidewalk in front of the diner beneath the Coca Cola sign, looked south on Main Street. Dave Martin’s Hick’s Gasoline Station wasn’t open yet. Three store fronts in that direction were boarded up. Weeds grew against the edge of the buildings.
Damned fool, the mayor thought. He could get some business if he’d get off his lazy ass. Probably still in bed with that wife of his. The mayor snickered at the idea.
To the north, Gilmore’s Quick Stop Grocery was open. Fred’s wife swept the front walk like every morning. Glenn’s Hardware Store was closed. Probably wouldn’t open until after he got back from Cleardale, if then. And beyond that, John Turner’s apartment building stood out. Only four apartments, but the building front was brick. It looked out of place, being new and all. Made the rest of the buildings look even older than they were.
Except for Absalom’s Tavern across the street, of course. Nothing could make it look any older than it already did with its faded Griesedieck Beer sign and its eroding stone walls.
Some wanted to publicize the fact that it was the first tavern built in Cleardale County, but Hester DeWitt, president of the historical society, forbid it. Said it made Fork look bad enough by just being there.
“Should be demolished,” she insisted.
She hinted she wouldn’t mind if the sagging building next to the tavern that housed Millie Pruitt’s Knickknack Shop also was torn down.
“Imagine a young woman like that opening a shop right next to that horrid tavern,” she often told her husband.
People thought Turner was nuts, building an apartment building in Fork. But all four of the apartments were rented. Brought three new people into town from Cleardale because of the low rent. Rosemary Allen lived in the fourth.
The mayor could remember when all the stores were open, the town was bustling, sort of. It never had been much, but at least it was more then.
“Is Buford scared because he has to testify?” Lard Herman asked as he came out of the diner picking his teeth.
“Claims he ain’t," the mayor said.
A small crowd formed in front of the diner beside the mayor’s ten-year-old Chrysler. Faded white letters spelled out “loading zone” on the sidewalk.
Lard leaned against the Chrysler as he continued to explore his teeth. The mayor wiped an imaginary smudge from the front fender and announced he was going to pick up Margaret and head for Cleardale.
“Damn fools,” the mayor snorted an hour later as he drove on County Road 24R a few miles short of Cleardale. He leaned back and watched orderly fields of corn and soybeans drift by. The road had once been marked by farm houses and barnyards but now only a few remained. A corporation, Pork Products Incorporated, had bought up much of the land. He wrinkled his nose and was thankful the huge hog farm was nearer Cleardale than Fork. The folks in Cleardale had fought the project for years, but in the end the corporation won. Now it raised thousands of pigs and harvested corn and beans from the rest of the land.
Cars whizzed by. Many of them honked like berserk geese as they passed.
“Now, now, Ollie,” Margaret said. “Don’t let them upset you. You’re the mayor, you must maintain your dignity. Sit up and watch the road.”
She turned the rearview mirror and adjusted her hat.
The parking lot behind Cleardale County Court House, half taken up by spaces reserved for county officials, was full. Ollie swore under his breath so Margaret wouldn’t hear. He backed out of the lot and parked a block away in the first empty street space he found.
He admired the clean sidewalk and the prosperous looking stores as he and Margaret walked back. Gregory Lancaster stood in front of the building smoking a bit of twisted cigar. Margaret walked around him as if he were a separate building.
“Seats all taken, I suppose,” the mayor said.
“Nope. Not all. They saved a couple in the front row for you and Margaret,” Gregory said.
They entered the one-hundred-year-old limestone building and trudged up wide, worn steps to the second floor. They leaned against the wall at the top to catch their breath before entering a large room where tall windows provided a view of the parking lot. Many of the folding chairs from the stack against the far wall were scattered about the room with bodies parked on them.
The mayor and Margaret made their way to the front and thanked Buford DeWitt who had put a coat on one chair and a camera on another. Buford, a small man with tiny hands and a bit of a mustache, said, “Saved ‘em for ya.”
“Thanks, Buford.”
Buford’s wife, Hester, sitting straight as a rake handle, nodded to the mayor and his wife.
“Damn fools,” Buford whispered, when those behind repeated complaints about Hester’s hat. She removing hat pins and whispered, “What’s there to see, I’d like to know.” She removed the hat and placed it on her lap. The imitation grapes, attached to the left side, tried to escape.
A large desk dominated the front of the room. A wooden chair sat beside it. The conversational buzz quieted as a bald man wearing rimless glasses and a gray pin-stripped suit entered the room. A manila folder was tucked under his arm. He settled onto the chair behind the desk. He squinted at the faces before him. He removed a white cloth from a drawer and dusted the top of the desk. From the same drawer he produced a large gavel and placed it near his right hand. He looked out at the crowd.
“Quiet, quiet.”
A hush settled over the room.
“I’m Judge Homer Hopping. Now if you people don’t be quiet I’ll have you removed. By gum, we’re going to have order. Hear me? Where is Mister Buford?”
Buford DeWitt stood and said, “Here, your honor.”
“Well, you git up here and sit. We’ll hear from you first.”
Buford wiggled in the chair beside the judge.
“You comfortable yet?” the judge asked as he glared at Buford.
“Now I understand, Mister Buford, that you are alleging that this other fellow assaulted you and your wife.”
“My last name is DeWitt. Buford DeWitt. That is correct, your honor.”
Buford looked at his wife. Hester nodded her approval.
“Tell me what this thing is all about,” the judge said.
Buford hemmed a little, hawed a little, and, after getting a stern look from Hester, said, “Well, your honor, he knocked me down. In a snow drift. When I tried to get up he knocked me down again. Then he knocked my wife down. Into the snow drift.”
The judge studied papers from the folder, looked up and said, “Mister, what is it, Owens, Daniel Owens, what about that? Owens, you here?”
Daniel Owens rose from the middle of the crowd and said, “Here.”
Daniel, in his usual denim jeans, jacket and scuffed boots, strode to in front of the judge and said, “I didn’t knock him or Hester down. I shoved ‘em. They just fell into the snow bank. I shoved Buford back down when he tried to get up. Was tired of him swinging at me. Hester socked me with her purse.”
“How tall are you, Mister Owens?”
“About six two I guess,” Daniel said.
“How tall is Mister Buford?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well,” the judge said, “He’s not much more than five feet, I’d guess. As I understand it, this happened in Mister Buford’s driveway. Is that correct?”
“Mister DeWitt’s driveway, yes,” Daniel said.
“What were you doing there?”
“Plowin’ snow into DeWitt’s drive.”
“Why were you doing that?”
Daniel pushed long, dark strands of unruly dark hair from his forehead.
“It’s a long story,” he said.
The judge picked up the gavel by the heavy end, pointed it at Daniel and said, “I don’t care how long it is, I want to know the reason why you were blocking Mister Buford’s drive. That is what you were doing, isn’t it?”
“His last name is DeWitt. He’s one of our councilmen.”
“Fork has councilmen?”
“Yes, three.”
“So?”
Daniel put his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. He pushed his right boot around on the floor as if he were moving dirt.
“We elected ‘em several years ago. Ollie’s the mayor, Buford is the street commissioner, and Gregory collects the garbage.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
Dan scuffed the floor with his right boot again.
“Well, ya see, we had this snow storm last February. Buford rents John Turner’s truck, the one with the plow attachment, and plows our streets. That’s his job. Gets paid fifty dollars when he has to plow. Plows every chance he gets. First time he ever had to work for the money.”
The judge stood, shook his left leg, sat down again, and said, “Get to the point.”
“Buford plows his own street, College Street, first,” Daniel said.
“College Street? Does Fork have a college?”
“Gosh no. That’s just the street’s name.”
“So?”
“Buford plowed his own street first, comes back and clears the plowed snow from his driveway entrance and then goes about the rest of the town plowin’ streets and blockin’ everyone else’s driveway.”
Buford stood from his seat beside the judge and said, “I can explain that, your honor.”
“Explain it,” the judge said.
“No way could I plow all the streets if I’da stopped to clear every driveway. I cleared mine because Hester, well she said I had to because of the historical society meeting.”
“The complaint says you pushed four feet of snow into Mister Buford’s drive. Is that correct, Mister Owens?”
“Correct, your honor,” Buford DeWitt said.
“I was asking Mister Owens”
“Correct, your honor,” Daniel said, mimicking Buford.
“This is dumb. I’ve got several other hearings scheduled this morning. How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Push four feet of snow onto this fellow, Buford’s driveway, what else?”
“I used the same plow he used,” Daniel Owens said.
“Mister, what is it?” The judge shuffled the papers in front of him and added, “Mister Turner’s truck and plow, is that it?”
“Yes, your honor.”
The judge shook his head, glared at Buford DeWitt, then Daniel Owens and said, “You're fined five dollars, Mister Owens. It’s because of nonsense like this that I haven’t played golf in a week."

Be Neat

Housekeeping 101
By Bob Liter

His dark eyes glistened with concentration as he washed asparagus spears. One bare arm, rippling with muscles, stretched to retrieve a pan from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Tight jeans outlined the length of his legs. His chest filled his short-sleeved shirt. Sweat beaded on his brow. He flipped a towel from a wall rack and wiped his tanned face. He folded it carefully and put it back. As he turned toward me I put my hands on the table and pretended to be looking at them.

“May I get you another drink, Jan?” he asked.

“No thanks, not yet.” I displayed my half-filled glass of white wine.
I never imagined, when Roger Taylor invited me to dinner, that he would cook it himself in his Good Housekeeping apartment. My name is Jan Cooper. I’m the receptionist at Finch-Taylor Insurance Agency. Roger is the younger part of Finch-Taylor.

He placed a sauce pan on the stove, melted two tablespoons of butter in it, added a bit of salt, two tablespoons of flour and stirred.

“It’s important to get the ingredients mixed well,” he said, “but I’m sure you know that.”
I nodded. He measured out two cups of milk, poured it into the mixture slowly, stirring all the while. He added a cup of shredded cheddar cheese and stirred until he was satisfied.

“The sauce is the thing,” he said as he layered the asparagus and the sauce in a gleaming baking dish.

“Hope you like asparagus.”

“I love asparagus,” I said with my fingers crossed. I still clung to the idea that a lie didn’t count if you crossed your fingers.

“I saw you in My Fair Lady.”

“Really.That was two months ago?”

I was surprised. The local Theater Guild had staged the play and I had a small part. We see each other every day at work and this was the first he had mentioned it.

“You a member of the guild?”

“No, maybe I should support it. I just heard you were going to be in the play.”

What to say? Should I ask him if he thought I was star material? Did he enjoy it?
Before I could decide he said, “I thought your round face, you cute figure, I thought it was just right for that racing scene. The big floppy hat and the way you paraded around the stage was something I’ll remember.”

“Thank you,” I managed. My round face. Cherubic, my mother called it.

The evening was pleasant enough. We listened to some classy jazz, talked some about work and drank wine. I was nervous about that. Scared I might spill some on the light blue cushioned chair I was sitting in.

After we ate we washed and dried the dishes. He put them away carefully, checked each cupboard before he closed the door.

He drove me home and kissed me at the side of his car when I refused his offer to see me to the door. My building was nice enough, all brick and glass, the hallways were clean, even the elevator was kept neat. I opened the door to my apartment, Number 310, and stumbled over a plastic sack that I should have picked up after I dropped it a couple of days before. I stooped, picked it up, gathered up the newspaper pages on the floor and couch and piled them on the kitchen table beside the breakfast dishes.

The next morning, before I went to work, I picked up the sweater hanging on the kitchen chair, the pair of shoes in the corner and the blouse I planned to wash two days before. I’d do the dirty dishes that night when I got home from work, maybe. The wadded up editor page of the local newspaper was still in the sink where I’d thrown it after reading that the mayor was right when he insisted we didn’t need any more street sweepers. He should drive down my street and see all the leaves.

Three days later, on a Friday after he had been out of the office most of the time, Roger asked me on a picnic. He followed me outside where October skies leaked rain drops on my head.

He must have read my mind. “Supposed to be sunny tomorrow,” he said.

“I haven’t been on a picnic for years,” I said. “I’d love to.”

I spent half a week’s salary on a pair of designer blue jeans, new loafers, and a sweatshirt that advertised the Saint Louis Cardinals. I thought about that on the way home. Why did I buy that sweatshirt? I don’t like baseball. Did he? I had no idea. Just another dumb thing I did. Like the baseball cap I wore to the picnic. It was one my brother left behind.
It did keep the rain out of my eyes. The “sunny tomorrow” prediction turned out to be as wrong as the whole date. We got soaked, the sandwiches were soggy and my feet hurt. We had walked to the edge of a lake, about two blocks from the car, when the sky dropped its load on us.

He drove to my building and pouted when I refused to let him come it. With unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink and clothes from the day before strewn on the living room couch and floor there was no way he was going to get inside.

The next day, or maybe it was two days later, I scrubbed the kitchen floor, emptied the garbage, ran the vacuum on the living room carpet, hung up my clean clothes and put the dirty stuff in a hamper I had to go out and buy, and waited.

He was in and out of the office frequently, nodded at me most of the time when he passed my desk, but didn’t stop and talk like before. And he didn’t ask me out on a date. I was seriously thinking of inviting him to eat with me at a nearby restaurant -- my turn to treat I would say -- but abandoned the idea. I could see no future for me and Mister Clean, even if he was the hunkiest guy I’d ever seen, and I was ready to be domesticated.
A week later he stopped at my desk and said, “Jan, I’m, well that is, you see I enjoyed that night when I cooked supper for you so much, could I do it again?

“Do you know how to make something besides that asparagus thing?” I asked, as if that made any difference.

“Sure, how about vegetable soup?”

I laughed. This guy would be fixing something more fancy than vegetable soup, wouldn’t he?”

I hesitated for just a moment and said, “Yeah, I guess.Why not?”

We closed up the office that night and he escorted me to his black, shiny new BMW. I enjoyed the comfort of the passenger seat so much I didn’t notice he was going away from his apartment to another part of town. He parked behind Excel Arms, a large, tall building with parking space for maybe fifty cars, each space marked with a name.
“Why are we here?” I asked. Was he trying to pull something, like my leg?

“I live here,’ he said. “Got a nice view of Bradley Park.”

Three people, a woman wearing glasses and an upturned nose, a man carrying a briefcase and a teenager with earphones glued to his head, joined us in the elevator. We were the first to get off, on the fourth floor, and I followed him to apartment, Four Zero Nine. The gold letters on the door were spelled out.

“But I thought . . .”

“Oh, you mean the other apartment. That’s my mother’s. She was visiting my sister. Let me use it but made me promise not to make a mess. She’s a clean freak.”

We entered a large living room. He ducked behind a three-cushion couch and came up with a sweatshirt, a pair of smelly socks and one running shoe. He tossed them into the bedroom off to the side and closed the door.

“Come look at the view,” he said.

I followed him into the kitchen and noted several dirty dishes in the sink. We stood beyond a blond kitchen table littered with magazines, his arm around my shoulder. The park stretched out before us. Multicolored leaves carpeted the ground. The surface of a small lake glistened in the twilight. I leaned against him, content to stand there forever.

“I’ll bet you are hungry. I know I am. Can you wait until I get something delivered? Pizza maybe?”

“Pizza? I came here expecting a kitchen demonstration. Like on television. Like last time.”

“Were you impressed? I practiced on that recipe for a week. I don’t know how to cook anything else.”

“Pizza will be fine,” I said.

While we waited for the pizza I talked him into drying while I washed the dirty dishes. Someone

had to teach him not to be a slob.

####

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The Girls Next Door

The Girls Next Door
By Bob Liter
I came home to an empty house the day I got back from my freshman year at State College. Dad was driving a load of cattle feed across Kansas and Mother was working at Crestwood Community Bank downtown. I’d have stopped there, but it was nearly four o’clock and she’d soon be home.
I glanced apprehensively at the house to the east where Mandy Anders lives. I hoped she wouldn’t come running out to pester me. I did look forward to seeing her again. But that could wait. I hoped she wouldn’t still be making me feel like a worm with those big brown eyes because I didn’t take her to the high school prom the spring before? I was a senior, of course, and she was only a junior. Who wants to go to a prom with his sister? She’s not really my sister, but she might as well have been the way she tagged after me.
I glanced at the house to the west where Beth Ann Crosley lives. She was voted queen of our high school class. She had always been a queen as far as I was concerned.
She let me do her homework, wash her red convertible and any other chores she was above doing, but she wouldn’t go to the prom with me. She went with Gary Showalter, the star quarterback, the lead in two school plays and a guy with muscles, dark hair and a smile for everyone, even me. I hated him then, but realized later that he was a nice guy.
I thought of all this as I stepped out of my tired Honda and stretched. Was Beth Ann still dating Gary? I sighed, popped the back end of the Honda, and gathered my dirty clothes. In the house I shoved them into the washing machine and plopped down on the living room couch. I was asleep when Mom got home. She hugged me, scolded me for not sorting my clothes before I put them in the washer, and praised me for not failing any of my college courses.
Dinner appeared on the kitchen table while I washed up. We ate and talked. Home cooking. It was great. Dad called at seven and told us he’d complete his run the next day and be home after that. I went to bed and slept until ten the next morning.
I took my time getting up, enjoyed a slow, hot shower and put on clean jeans, a T-shirt that smelled of fresh, and sandals. I made the bed, proving I’d learned something at college.
In the kitchen I lingered over coffee and read Mom’s note that said, “Ron, if you have time please mow the grass. Your father will be tired when he gets home.”
And so I was directing the mower toward Mandy’s house when Beth Ann tapped on my shoulder, hugged me when I turned off the machine, and gave me a smile warmer than any I remembered from her in the past. She’d never hugged me before.
“Welcome home.. Great to see you.”
“Beth Ann. Great to see you. How’s Gary?”
“Gary who? Showalter? That scum. I have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with him. He married Flossie Cramer not long after you left for college. Let’s talk about something, someone else. She’s already pregnant. How did you like college? You didn’t flunk did you? Want to come over to my house. We could listen to some records or something. Nobody’s home.”
I leaned against the mower. How I had hoped in the past that Beth Ann would pay attention to me like she did Gary. And now?. I surprised myself when I said, “Maybe tomorrow. I need to finish mowing the yard.”
Beth Ann’s eyes widened. She seemed to be as surprised as I was when I turned down a change to be with her. She stuck her nose in the air, turned and walked back to her house. I watched her hips sway and smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand.
Was I out of my mind? Before I had time to answer myself I heard a door slam and then Mandy’s voice.
“Hi, big man on campus,” she shouted.
She skipped across the grass. This was Mandy? She was wearing blue jeans as usual but they were pressed and fit her legs like a second skin. Her chest filled out the white blouse in a rounded way I didn’t remember. And her hair. Each strand was as independent as ever but shorter with colorful highlights. It still was sandy, but there were dark strands here and there. Her eyes sparkled. That hadn’t changed. But her lips seemed fuller, more inviting. The little girl who had followed me around, the girl who pouted only last year because I wouldn’t take her to a high school dance, had become a knockout.
Hello, Mandy,” I said with wonder in my voice.
She smiled. No, she did more than that. She grinned like her ship had come in or something. We talked about college and how she would be going to one in the next state come fall. I forgot about Beth Ann, lost all desire to date her. It was Mandy. She skipped on to her family’s mailbox on the curb, gathered catalogs and letters, waved to me and disappeared into her house.
I waited an hour before I knocked on her front door. She opened it eventually and stood with a cell phone against her ear.
“Okay, Robbie, I’ll see you tonight,” she said and snapped the phone shut.
offered me lemonade. We sat on the patio in back. She had changed to shorts and a T-shirt that clung gratefully to her bosom. I talked around it for awhile but finally had to ask, “Who’s Robbie?”
“He’s my fiancé,” she cooed.
“Aren’t you, I mean I always thought of you as so young. Too young to be engaged.”
“I’m only a year younger than you, Mister College Man.”
Later, as I sat in the kitchen waiting for Mom to get home and fix supper I realized I felt good about Mandy’s obvious happiness, and that I didn’t like Beth Ann. I got out the high school yearbook and decided to call Charlene Chatsworth. She wasn’t home.
###

Bob Liter is the author of print and Internet short stories as well as eight novels published by Renaissance E Books. He may be reached at bobliter@verizon.net

The Girls Next Door

The Girls Next Door
By Bob Liter
I came home to an empty house the day I got back from my freshman year at State College. Dad was driving a load of cattle feed across Kansas and Mother was working at Crestwood Community Bank downtown. I’d have stopped there, but it was nearly four o’clock and she’d soon be home.
I glanced apprehensively at the house to the east where Mandy Anders lives. I hoped she wouldn’t come running out to pester me. I did look forward to seeing her again. But that could wait. I hoped she wouldn’t still be making me feel like a worm with those big brown eyes because I didn’t take her to the high school prom the spring before? I was a senior, of course, and she was only a junior. Who wants to go to a prom with his sister? She’s not really my sister, but she might as well have been the way she tagged after me.
I glanced at the house to the west where Beth Ann Crosley lives. She was voted queen of our high school class. She had always been a queen as far as I was concerned.
She let me do her homework, wash her red convertible and any other chores she was above doing, but she wouldn’t go to the prom with me. She went with Gary Showalter, the star quarterback, the lead in two school plays and a guy with muscles, dark hair and a smile for everyone, even me. I hated him then, but realized later that he was a nice guy.
I thought of all this as I stepped out of my tired Honda and stretched. Was Beth Ann still dating Gary? I sighed, popped the back end of the Honda, and gathered my dirty clothes. In the house I shoved them into the washing machine and plopped down on the living room couch. I was asleep when Mom got home. She hugged me, scolded me for not sorting my clothes before I put them in the washer, and praised me for not failing any of my college courses.
Dinner appeared on the kitchen table while I washed up. We ate and talked. Home cooking. It was great. Dad called at seven and told us he’d complete his run the next day and be home after that. I went to bed and slept until ten the next morning.
I took my time getting up, enjoyed a slow, hot shower and put on clean jeans, a T-shirt that smelled of fresh, and sandals. I made the bed, proving I’d learned something at college.
In the kitchen I lingered over coffee and read Mom’s note that said, “Ron, if you have time please mow the grass. Your father will be tired when he gets home.”
And so I was directing the mower toward Mandy’s house when Beth Ann tapped on my shoulder, hugged me when I turned off the machine, and gave me a smile warmer than any I remembered from her in the past. She’d never hugged me before.
“Welcome home.. Great to see you.”
“Beth Ann. Great to see you. How’s Gary?”
“Gary who? Showalter? That scum. I have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with him. He married Flossie Cramer not long after you left for college. Let’s talk about something, someone else. She’s already pregnant. How did you like college? You didn’t flunk did you? Want to come over to my house. We could listen to some records or something. Nobody’s home.”
I leaned against the mower. How I had hoped in the past that Beth Ann would pay attention to me like she did Gary. And now?. I surprised myself when I said, “Maybe tomorrow. I need to finish mowing the yard.”
Beth Ann’s eyes widened. She seemed to be as surprised as I was when I turned down a change to be with her. She stuck her nose in the air, turned and walked back to her house. I watched her hips sway and smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand.
Was I out of my mind? Before I had time to answer myself I heard a door slam and then Mandy’s voice.
“Hi, big man on campus,” she shouted.
She skipped across the grass. This was Mandy? She was wearing blue jeans as usual but they were pressed and fit her legs like a second skin. Her chest filled out the white blouse in a rounded way I didn’t remember. And her hair. Each strand was as independent as ever but shorter with colorful highlights. It still was sandy, but there were dark strands here and there. Her eyes sparkled. That hadn’t changed. But her lips seemed fuller, more inviting. The little girl who had followed me around, the girl who pouted only last year because I wouldn’t take her to a high school dance, had become a knockout.
Hello, Mandy,” I said with wonder in my voice.
She smiled. No, she did more than that. She grinned like her ship had come in or something. We talked about college and how she would be going to one in the next state come fall. I forgot about Beth Ann, lost all desire to date her. It was Mandy. She skipped on to her family’s mailbox on the curb, gathered catalogs and letters, waved to me and disappeared into her house.
I waited an hour before I knocked on her front door. She opened it eventually and stood with a cell phone against her ear.
“Okay, Robbie, I’ll see you tonight,” she said and snapped the phone shut.
offered me lemonade. We sat on the patio in back. She had changed to shorts and a T-shirt that clung gratefully to her bosom. I talked around it for awhile but finally had to ask, “Who’s Robbie?”
“He’s my fiancé,” she cooed.
“Aren’t you, I mean I always thought of you as so young. Too young to be engaged.”
“I’m only a year younger than you, Mister College Man.”
Later, as I sat in the kitchen waiting for Mom to get home and fix supper I realized I felt good about Mandy’s obvious happiness, and that I didn’t like Beth Ann. I got out the high school yearbook and decided to call Charlene Chatsworth. She wasn’t home.
###