The Great American Novel

2006-02-15T16:22:00.000+12:00

One of the worst things a writer can experience is ‘block’. One sits down to compose great literature and finds that the only ideas flowing onto paper are those with absolutely no significance whatever. Grocery lists, schedules, and “Things to Do When I Find the Time” cover the page, but not one letter of it is relevant to one’s grand purpose.

Ingrid had suffered from this sort of block many times before. A great many of her published works had in fact begun as shopping lists. However, it never ceased to irritate her that she seemed to be under the curse of some greater form of life-long block that had never quite managed to clear itself out of her way.

It wasn’t as if she was unable to write at all. In fact, she had stacks of manuscripts piled in the attic. Essays, short stories, novels, even a few biographies. During her years in Florence she’d supplemented her income by writing articles about Italian art and culture for ladies’ magazines, and every article that ever made it into print was enshrined in her filing cabinet. However, nothing she had ever written had managed to communicate precisely what she wanted the world to hear. In consequence, she’d given up getting published decades ago, as soon as her financial situation allowed for it.

One morning shortly after the arrival of the long-lost Alice and her precocious daughter (and after the sooty mess of their “Welcome Home” dinner had been cleared up and dust of a friendlier nature had begun to settle), Ingrid parked herself behind the old Underwood and began to type.

It was nine o’clock on a Saturday, and young Annie happened to be playing with Melchoir out on the verandah. His feline ears were quick to detect the pecking of the Underwood. For reasons known only to himself, Melchoir felt duty bound to be present when his mistress set to work, and made it his business to twine himself round her ankles for the duration.

Having nothing better to do, Annie followed his bushy grey tail up the stairs to Ingrid’s dormer room. She paused shyly at the door, as Melchoir unabashedly nosed his way through and made a bee-line for his accustomed station at Ingrid’s ankles.

Ingrid appeared not to notice, and hammered away undisturbed. Annie, hidden in the shadows of the hall, studied her great-aunt with an expression of wonder and interest.

Annie had never beheld her Aunt ‘at work’, and the picture was an interesting one. Wrapped in her usual kimono of moth-eaten scarlet silk, white hair flying in every direction, Ingrid stared intently at the keys pencil tucked behind one ear, peering through thick, horn-rimmed spectacles that she’d owned since 1955 and wore only when typing. A small Brown Betty rested nearby, an empty teacup beside it. Her appearance reminded Annie of a crazed scarlet owl.

Just then, Melchoir who’d been purring and twining most devotedly decided to press his luck and hop onto Ingrid’s knees.

Apparently she had not been expecting 10 pounds of feline affection to deposit itself into her lap, and leapt back in her chair, sending the teacup that perched precariously at the desk’s edge on a suicide mission to the floor.

Annie began to giggle uncontrollably, and thus blew her cover. Ingrid’s head shot up, and the bewildered way in which she blinked through the horn-rimmed spectacles only added to the hilarity of the moment. While Annie continued to sputter in the hall, Ingrid calmly collected both her composure and the bits of shattered teacup and said “Well don’t just stand out there trying to be civil. You were spying on an old woman- Admit it!”

“You just look so…”

“Ridiculous is the word, though you were no doubt looking for a kinder one. Your grandmother often said so. It can’t be helped. I was never able to work any other way. Come in and sit down. We haven’t had an opportunity of getting properly aquainted yet.”

Annie stepped in, and settled into the dainty chintz covered chair that Ingrid pulled up to the desk for her.

“I’m Anne, and it’s a pleasure to meet you Aunt Ingrid.” She said, gravely extending her small hand. Ingrid accepted it with equal gravity. “I’m your crabby old Aunt Ingrid, and it’s lovely to meet you young Annie. Lovely weather we’ve been having isn’t it? What do you think of California? Does it agree with you?”

“Oh yes. I find it suits me admirably. The lack of humidity is quite refreshing.”

“You’ve got quite a vocabulary for a little girl of your age and generation. Are you fond of reading?”

“Insatiably fond, Aunt Ingrid. The Classics are my especial delight.”

“Delight? Well, well. How interesting. Which of the classics, pray tell.”

“The works of Miss Austen, Miss Alcott and the Miss Bronte’s are great favorites ma’am.”

“Are they indeed?”

“Oh yes. I also have a few contemporary idols. Perhaps you are familiar with the work of a certain Miss Delaney? Authoress of Hildegarde’s Whim?”

Ingrid pulled out the cushion that supported the small of her back and walloped her literary-minded niece with it.

“Impudent little hussy! Surely your mother told you I regard all those novels as absolute rubbish!”

Annie laughed wickedly and nodded.

“Of course she did. That’s why I brought it up. But really Aunt Ingrid, I’ve read the copies my mom has and I think lot’s of people would agree that they were very well written.”

“Yes, I was a stickler for form in those days. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that they are all, without exception, sentimental slush of the first water. It’s what made them so popular. I was writing to make money in those days Annie dear. I always supposed that once I was established I could start publishing important literary monuments. ‘The Great American Novel’ and all that. However, I made the mistake of building a reputation on fluff. I established a base of silly minded female readers, and when I tried to publish more serious works, the editors would have none of it because they knew it wasn’t what my readers wanted.”

“Well when was the last time you tried? You’re still writing aren’t you?”

Ingrid smiled wearily. “Some habits just never die, Annie. I’m all washed up and I know it, but it’s the only hobby I’ve ever had. Needlepoint and knitting simply don’t agree with me. Nor do collecting Beanie Babies, or ceramics or any other occupation deemed acceptable for old folks like me. I garden a bit, and read, and potter around the house, and visit friends. But writing is my standing occupation, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever give it up.”

“What were you writing about just now?”

Ingrid yanked the sheet out of the typewriter and handed it to Annie with an expression that clearly said “Don’t expect much.”

Annie began to read the page in an imposing and authoritative tone.

“Bread, wheat and white. Doughnuts- frosted. Milk. Chocolate Milk. Chocolate. Tea. Broccoli. Strawberries. Pineapple. Eggs. Hose- but you’ve got a hose Aunt Ingrid. I saw it on the porch.”

“It’s an old-person word for panty-hose. I could also say silk stockings. That’s what they were in my day.”

“What was your day?”

“Any time before the present really. Now, young Annie, enough about me. If we talk about me any longer I’ll be forced to start describing my physical ailments and those of my friends, and nobody wants to listen to that. Tell me about you. What do you do with yourself most of the time?”

Annie laughed and replied “Well not much since we got here, besides helping you and mom clean up from the fire. I guess I’ve been reading a lot. And exploring the attic. Your attic is totally awesome Aunt Ingrid. School’s out you know, and all my friends are back home. Mom and I have gone shopping a few times, but she’s so busy looking for work we don’t talk much. It’s only been a week or so since we came though.”

“I was always fond of a good attic myself as a girl.” said Ingrid, making a mental note to invite Imogene and her granddaughter over as soon as she possibly could. “What have you been unearthing up there?”

“Lots of old clothes and photo albums and” Annie stopped suddenly and changed direction. “Just lot’s of old things. It’s really a great place.”

“What were you about to say?”

“Ummm….”

“Out with it. I expect it’s something really terrible. I hope it is. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of walloping a little girl with broomstick.”

“Well there’s lots of stuff you wrote up there. I’ve kind of been reading some of it.”

“Kind of? Tell me child, how does one ‘kind of’ read something?”

Annie looked up to gage her Aunt’s reaction and, finding that Ingrid was utterly unperturbed, relaxed.

“Oh, well I guess I meant that I’ve been reading some of it. It’s all really good, I think. Why didn’t you ever try and get it published?”

Ingrid smiled and shook her head. “No, no. This will never do. We’re talking about me again. Kindly step back under the interrogation lamp where you belong, if you please.”

“Well, I guess I really don’t do much of anything right now. Oh, that reminds me, Mom wanted me to ask you if she thought we could go visit my Grandma today. I haven’t seen her in a long while. She came to visit us a couple times when I was little you know. Before she got sick.”

Ingrid nodded slowly. “Yes, I know. You’ll find her a very different person now. But I don’t see why we can’t go to see her. I visited on Wednesday afternoon, and she seemed to be doing fairly well. Where is your mother?”

“She’s in her room, working on her resume again. She says that every interview she has gives her new ideas about how to improve it.”

“Have either of you had breakfast?”

“I have. Mom usually doesn’t eat breakfast.”

“All right then. Go tell your mother to be ready to leave by eleven. We’ll visit Ellen and go to lunch afterward.”

Annie went, and Ingrid’s eyes followed her with great interest. This little girl was the very image of herself at that age. But she had a way about her that unnerved Ingrid. There was a perpetual shadow behind those brilliant young eyes that often made Annie appear somewhat older and harder than a twelve year old girl should be. However, considering recent events, this was not at all surprising to Ingrid.

Which lead her to another subject that’d been no small source of wonder. In the week and a half since mother and daughter had arrived, not a word had been dropped regarding the reason for their coming. Alice hadn’t said a word about her husband Charlie, though perhaps that was not as strange as Annie’s complete silence on the same subject. For a young girl who has recently lost her father, she didn’t behave as though she mourned him or even remembered him at all.

Ingrid’s desire for enlightenment on these subjects was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain. But she’d promised herself that would NOT sink to the level of unabashed prying, and she meant to see the resolution through to the bitter end. And if she literally died of curiosity while waiting for her nieces to talk, so be it. Her days were numbered anyway.

As the venerable old grandfather clock in the front hall chimed eleven, the three ladies piled into the Packard and set off for Groveland Meadows, the nursing home where Ellen resided. It would be the first time that Alice and Anne had seen Ellen in nearly five years.

2006-01-31T14:38:00.000+12:00

“Anne! Annie, wake up! We’re almost there!” The tall, slender woman in her late forties reached across the cab of the U-Haul van and gently wobbled the shoulder of the curly headed girl in the passenger seat. Anne, who’d been in a deep sleep for the last few hours groggily opened her eyes and stared blankly out the window for a few moments.

“Nice.” She said. Indeed it was. The van was curling its way through the suburbs of southern Orange County. Wealth and prosperity were indelibly stamped upon every object that met the eye. Graceful, manicured palm trees lined the boulevards, surrounded by hedges of pampas grass. California was in full bloom, and everywhere the girl looked she saw bright splashes of color.

“So this is where you grew up?”
“More or less. We moved here in the mid 50’s after Dad died, when I was about fifteen.” Alice stared ahead absently, memories flooding over her as she drove through her old neighborhood.

“He died of a stroke right?”
“Heart problems actually. He was very young, and it was all very sudden. I’m sure I’ve told you all this before Annie.”

“Oh you have. I just like to hear you talk about your family. You didn’t do that much when Dad was- ” The observant girl caught a glimpse of her mother’s hardening profile and decided to change tactics.

“Tell me the part about Aunt Ingrid again.”

Alice sighed and smiled wearily. Over the past several months she must have repeated this story at least a thousand times. But Annie seemed to find it an unending source of entertainment, so her mother obliged. In a sing-song told-it-a hundred-times voice she began:

“When my dad died, he was still a fairly young man. He and mother hadn’t been prepared for it at all. Financially, I mean. We had very little savings, and most of the money Dad made was tied up in his business. We were living in Connecticut. Aunt Ingrid was in Italy then, and when she- ”

“Mo-o-om! You left out the part about what she was doing!”

“Oh fine then! Would you care to tell the story instead? ”
Alice’s retort was met with expectant silence. She glared a mock threat at her offspring, and continued.

“Aunt Ingrid was living in Florence. She was studying art history at the Academy, and working on a book she hoped to publish. She was in her forties then. Huh…” grunted Alice, absent mindedly. “Close to my age.”

“Anyway, when she heard about Dad, she packed up everything and left. Mother was her baby sister and they had always been awfully close. Aunt Ingrid didn’t have to ask to know that we were in a pretty difficult position. She arrived in Connecticut a few weeks after Dad’s funeral, and it was decided that as soon as she found a place to live in the States we would move in with her. Her parents- your great-grandparents- were still living in California, making it the most logical choice. Aunt Ingrid bought a house from an old friend, and we joined her a few months later. So, that’s how we came to live with Aunt Ingrid.”

“Ok, now tell me more stories about her. Who was the friend?”

“I’ve told you before- I don’t know who he was. His name was Frank Morris. I think he may have been an old flame of Aunt Ingrid’s. Mother always thought so. But that’s all I know about him. There was something curious about the terms of the sale as well. But Aunt and Mother were always quite tight-lipped about the whole affair.”

“Ok, well tell me another one then- like the time she bought her car.”

“Annie, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You can ask her yourself when we arrive.”

“Ok, ok. Do you think she still drives it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It’d be just like her. I imagine they’d have to pry the keys out of her fingers with a crow-bar. Now, try and comb out your mop so she doesn’t take us for a pair of bums off the street.”

“Is she cranky?” inquired Annie, as she began mining her mother’s purse in search of a comb. Alice grinned at her twelve year old daughter who gazed back with eyes that were carbon copies of those belonging to Ingrid Delaney.

“That depends, child o’ mine. Would you consider yourself a ‘cranky’ person?”

Annie began wrestling the comb through her thick black curls. After a few moments of outer battle and inner reflection she said “Are you saying that Aunt Ingrid and me have similar personalities?”

Alice merely laughed and turned left onto the road leading into Ingrid’s neighborhood. As they approached Ingrid’s street, Alice’s face grew tense and pale. Anne sensed her mother’s nervous excitement, and wished she could stop the crawling sensation in her own stomach.

“Anne, you’ll remember your promise to me, won’t you?”“About Dad?”
“Yes, about your father. There are many things that I want to share with Aunt Ingrid myself. It’s best if you don’t speak about him with her.”

“Did she like it when you married him Mom?”

A long, taut pause ensued.

“No. She didn’t. And I’ll save you the trouble of asking if that’s the reason we’ve never visited her before by saying that you’re right. I haven’t seen Aunt Ingrid since the day I married your father.”

“Mom?”

“Yes Sherlock?”

“You’re really nervous, huh?”

“It’ll be over in a few minutes- look, here’s her street now. Hasn’t changed a- what-the?”

Alice slowed the van to a snail’s pace and carefully navigated onto Berkley Street. There was the gracious old house, the old Packard in the drive. The garden still overflowed with all the same old fashioned wildflowers. However, the fire truck was something of a shock, as were the thick clouds of black smoke that were billowing through the open doors and windows.

Alice sped down the street as quickly as she dared, and brought the van to a screeching halt a few yards from the fire truck. She jumped blindly from the cab, and Annie watched her mother run madly up the driveway to the front walk. A burly firefighter in full garb grabbed her by the arm and asked where she thought she was going.

“My- I… I don’t… My aunt! She lives here! I’m just…!” stammered Alice, attempting to pull away. The firefighter was having a hard time understanding her above the din of the trucks and other men, and had absolutely no intention of letting this crazy woman near the house. An ambulance careened around the corner, sirens blaring and Alice truly began to panic. “AUNT INGRID! WHERE ARE YOU?” she shrieked, her voice piercing the chaos.

Just then Annie observed a wiry, white haired woman coming round the back of the fire truck. She was wearing a bright red house dress, and clutching an enormous grey cat to the bosom of her white ruffled apron. The bottom half of the apron was charred almost beyond recognition. She marched over to the firefighter and whacked him on the arm. Annie rolled down the window, attempting to hear what she was saying.

“That’s my niece you big dolt! Unhand her!” howled the elderly woman. The firefighter grinned and stepped back. It was obviously Aunt Ingrid. She shoved the cat into his hands, and held out her arms to Alice. “Welcome home!” she bellowed, over the all the noise and confusion of the moment. Alice stared a moment, then embraced her aunt, weeping and laughing, and Annie heard her say “You tried to cook for us, didn’t you, old darling?”

2006-01-23T10:06:00.000+12:00

As Imogene roared into the drive, Ingrid could almost hear the sabers rattle. Ingrid had the most childish urge to take to her heels and leg it before Imogene struggled out of her safety belt and launched her initial assault. Instead she calmly perused her wildflower beds, seemingly unaware of her dear friend’s rather explosive greeting.

“Well! Wasn’t that a pretty picture! Here I am trying to get you to help that poor woman see reason and there you are egging them on toward disaster! As I live and breathe Ingrid Delaney, you are enough to try the patience of a saint! A saint! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Imogene, lovely to see you! Won’t you come in? I’ve got some delicious lemon meringue pie on hand.”

“Don’t think pie is going to get you out of this one Ingrid… Is it fresh?”

“As fresh as Marie Callendar’s can make them- I picked it up this morning. You know I’ve never been able to make pies like yours.”

Imogene’s wrath could always be turned away by a soft answer coupled with good food. Especially pie.

“Oh all right. It would be rude to lecture you at your own table though, so before we go in, I demand to know just what that scallywag was doing in Edith Baker’s Cadillac.

“He was getting a ride home. Eddie dropped him off here earlier, and I suspect Crispin was hoping to spend time with Edith and introduce her to his grandchildren. She’s never had any you know.”

Ingrid stooped to pluck a few brightly hued blossoms for the kitchen table, and Imogene stomped her foot impatiently as she demanded to know just why Ingrid had allowed such an undesirable arrangement to occur in the first place.

“Honestly dear, I had nothing to do with it. He showed up this morning while I was hanging pictures in Anne’s room and informed me that Edith was coming to watch us at work on his memoirs.”

‘You’re writing his memoirs?” sneered Imogene in iron souled unbelief.
“Of course not, but he managed to convince Edith that I was.”
“I should hope you disabused her of that notion.”

“It’s really none of my business Imogene. Let’s have some pie, shall we?”
“Oh, that reminds me- I’ve brought you some groceries for when the girls arrive- nothing perishable mind you, but your pantry could certainly use a good stocking up. I imagine you’ll finally have to start cooking a few meals. I also brought you a set of cookbooks.”

She walked back to her car, opened the trunk and pulled out an enormous cardboard box,. It was packed with dry goods, staples, spices, and canned foods of all varieties. Ingrid followed her into the house and through to the kitchen. Imogene, in her late sixties yet still stout and robust, hardly broke a sweat as she heaved the box onto the nearest available counter space and began flinging open the cupboards to discern their contents.

“Shameful!” she pronounced, gazing with censorious eye upon the boxes of Rice-a-Roni, Instant Pudding, Instant Mashed Potatoes, and breakfast cereal. When she came to the cabinet just over the sink she let out something of a shriek.

“Ingrid! What are all these for?” she pointed at the tidy rows of pill bottles that lined the shelves. “Are you very ill?”

Ingrid laughed and explained that they were vitamins and dietary supplements. “I’ve never been much of a cook you know, and I have to get my nutrients somehow. I made something of a study of it years ago. You’d be amazed at what a healthy lifestyle I actually lead. The only difference between me and the next conscientious consumer is that I prefer to dine out rather than prepare my own meals.”

Imogene stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a third arm. “Oh. I see. Well, you know what Julia Childs said about diet foods- the only time one should eat them is when one is waiting for the steaks to cook. Anyone who saw this cabinet would think you were the world’s greatest hypochondriac. But of course you’re in remarkably good health, so I suppose you manage fairly well. How interesting! I never would have taken you for being so health conscious.”

“I never was until Ellen…” Ingrid trailed off and let the sentence hang where it might.

“Of course dear. I understand. And it’s just as well, for now you’re healthy and strong and can look after Alice and her little girl. Now; look at these. You’ll have to cook your own meals some time. Eating every meal out with three people will bankrupt you. It’s time you learnt a thing or two about cooking.”

She returned to the box on the counter and hauled out three large books with energetic colors and designs running rampant on the covers. Ingrid thought the pattern on one was about to crawl off the cover and wrap itself around her wrist. In order to distract herself, she began reading the titles aloud. “Cooking for the Clueless, 20 Minute Meals for Morons and Baking for Boneheads.”

“They are just at your level Ingrid. You shouldn’t have any trouble working meals out from these. They’re all fully illustrated. Nothing could be simpler. Look- Cooking for the Clueless even has lists of what the well dressed kitchen is wearing.” Noticing Ingrid’s look of perplexed wonder she added “In layman’s terms dear, what every kitchen should be stocked with.” She glanced around at the gaping cupboards and grimaced. “I’ve brought most of what’s on the staples list. But I see that it’s only a small beginning. We’ve got to do more grocery shopping before they arrive.”

Ingrid didn’t know whether to feel grateful or insulted. She decided to take the high road and admit to herself that it was true. Her cooking skills were moronic at best. She smiled and thanked Imogene sincerely for all the trouble she was going to.

“I certainly appreciate the help, Imogene. Have a seat and I’ll put things away and serve the pie.”

“Oh no you don’t Ingrid. Goodness, is that all you can think about? You’ve got to put the things away in good order. We’re turning over a new leaf in your life- a kitchen ought to be organized. Now, spices and staples go near the oven where they’ll be in reach- That’s right.”

"What if I don't want to turn over a new leaf? What if I enjoy my negligible cooking skills? Can't you just love me as I am? You're always trying to change me." whined Ingrid, helplessly.
"Stuff and nonsense. That dying possum act doesn't fool me. It never hurt any woman to try and better herself. Now, start putting these away and line them up alphabetically while you're at it."

The next half hour was spent arranging Ingrid’s rather haphazard kitchen into a state of pristine functionality. Ingrid, who loved orderliness, was quite satisfied. “Now that we’ve got everything packed in there properly, I’m almost looking forward to this cooking thing you speak of.”

“How are the girls’ rooms coming on?”

Ingrid sighed. "I don't think I'll ever get the blue room cleared out in time. I've let it go to wrack and ruin for years now. Perhaps you could take a look and help me decide what to do with it all."

Up the stairs the decision maker marched, and Ingrid trudged after her, knowing exactly what her friend would say to the disorderly piles of clutter she’d allowed to amass over time.

The green room was in good shape. Until lately it had been Ingrid’s bedroom, and so had been kept in decent order. Imogene poked her inquisitive nose through that door first, and nodded approvingly. A double bed with a curving headboard upholstered in cream colored fabric occupied one wall. Over the bed hung a large Impressionist water color in shades of green, pink, and lavender. These colors were echoed in the pale green walls, the pink floral coverlet, and the lavender throw pillows.

A delicate cream colored slipper chair nestled in one corner, while a cream painted dresser occupied another. Long curtains of dotted swiss draped the windows. “Very pleasant Ingrid. It hasn’t changed since the fifties, but really it’s still quite nice. This was Alice’s old room, was it not?”

“Yes indeed. I thought she might like to have it back, although all of her things are still packed away in the attic. Annie will be just across the hall in Ellen’s room.”

Imogene tromped over to Ellen’s old room and shoved open the door. “Gracious Sakes! I can’t believe you let things pile up so Ingrid! It’s just not like you!”

“Well I do try to spring clean every year and get all the old things I’ve no use for out of the house. But the past few years it’s just been so much easier to throw them in here and hope that if I ignore them along enough they'll go away, or I’ll die and not have to deal with it. Not the most successful plan, as you can see.”

Imogene stepped back and glared at her friend narrowly.“That is a rather morbid statement Ingrid. Are you getting anemic? Never mind… you just leave this mess to me. I’ll take care of it. It’s no wonder you haven’t done much about it. Just gets so intimidating after awhile. Go on in and pick out anything you’d like to keep. It’ll be gone in a few hours. Now, where’s my purse?”

“Downstairs by the box you brought in.”

“Right! Of course! Let’s go down and have some of that pie you can’t stop mentioning. I’ve got to call my boy Billy.”

Wondering at the connection between the two actions, Ingrid followed her back down the stairs and into the kitchen. While Imogene began plumbing the depths of her mammoth handbag, Ingrid served the greatly anticipated pie.

“Here it is. Dratted thing is too small! Just gets lost in shuffle. Now… to turn it on I…”

She fiddled with the buttons on her cellular phone uncertainly for a moment. “These blasted buttons need to be bigger. Someone ought to do something about that. Oh- it’s dialing… hope that’s Billy’s number... Hello? Is this Bill? Billy this is your mother… YOUR MOTHER… YES… I’M CALLING YOU ON MY CELL PHONE!” she thundered. “WHAT? OH. Oh. Sorry dear. You just sounded so far away I thought…”

Ingrid watched bemusedly as Imogene turned her tiny cell phone right side up. “You’re right! You do sound much clearer this way. Now Billy, I have a job for you. Yes, and I want you to do it just as soon as ever you can. Is Miguel working for you today? Good. Put him in charge for a few hours, get Jose and Nate and come over to Ingrid Delaney’s place- you know where she is don’t you? Drive the two pick-ups. Yes, I realize that dear, but it’s your father’s business too you know. He hasn’t really retired yet. With the three of you it should only take an hour at the most. How soon can you be here? Well I’m sure Miguel knows all about that- he’s been in the business just as long as you have. Construction isn’t rocket science dear. The framing will still be there when you get back! Now, no more lip! Get over to Miss Delaney’s ASAP. Yes dear… I love you too.”

She withdrew the phone from her ear and poked at it a few more times before she was certain it was turned off.

“Now, wasn’t that sweet of him? I’ve always been so thankful that he chose to go into construction with his father. It’s a hard life, but a good life. Oh Ingrid, that pie looks scrumptious!”

She settled down across the breakfast nook table, and began to savor the lemon meringue one bite at a time. As they ate, Imogene chatted gaily about Billy and his children, who were the apples of her maternal eye. Bill Burke was a grown man of 48, but his mother still treated him as though he were a child. He was blessed with his father’s patient, forbearing nature however, and never seemed to mind her dictatorial manner. His wife was another story.

“Jackie was over the other day with little William. Why she insists on calling him William instead of Billy or Will is beyond me. Billy was good enough for me with my son. But girls these days just weren’t brought up the way we were is all I can say. Oh well. William is just the cutest little mite you ever did see. Looks just like his father did at that age. Aren’t toddlers just sweet? Jackie is finally allowing him to eat regular food- except it has to be organic. Did you ever hear the like? She didn’t do that with Brian and Kayla. But Billy says she’s got the whole family eating organic foods now. Waste of money if you ask me. Ingrid, if these health folks are to be believed, it’s a miracle any of us lived to adulthood. The way Jackie acts you’d think William was some kind of invalid who needed a special diet. Well, she was Billy’s choice, not mine. Although I will say she’s made him a fine wife. Yes, in spite of all her odd ways, she’s really made Billy happy and so I love her anyway. We don’t see eye to eye on much, but we get along all right after a fashion. I just have to remember to love her as a Christian even if she drives me batty as a daughter in law. Course, it’s a good thing Billy found someone with the gumption to stand up to me. Someone has to do it, I suppose or I’d just run that family like it was my own. Even I can admit that’s not how God intended it.”

They chatted on for about fifteen minutes, until two enormous pick-up trucks conspicuously labeled “Burke Construction” lumbered into the driveway, bearing Billy and two of his employees.

Imogene trundled out to greet and brief them. “Now, take off your boots and come in. You’re going to take everything but the furniture out of the blue room upstairs. Load it into your trucks and take it to the Salvation Army… or put it in a dumpster at one of the sites. I don’t care. It’s just got to go!”

The men set to work with great dispatch, and in spite of having to work in stocking feet, managed to make good time. In 30 minutes or less the room was devoid of all clutter. Ingrid invited them to sit down for some coffee and pie, and they agreed. After a fifteen minute coffee break, Imogene decided that it was time they were all on their way.

“Time is money, you know Billy. Ingrid, it’s been lovely visiting with you, but I really must be going. Oh- there’s your cat… Yes, I think I really must be going.” She repeated nervously, edging toward her handbag. Imogene hated cats, and she had an especially antagonistic relationship with Melchoir. He’d declared a sort of guerilla war on her ankles, and loved to hide behind corners lying in wait for them.

Ingrid grabbed Melchoir by the scruff of his furry grey neck, and scooped him into her arms. She suspected he was up to no good, and after all the help Imogene had been this afternoon it would be too bad to allow Melchoir the pleasure of assassinating her ankles.

“Thank you for all your help Imogene! And you boys too! I could never have done it without you!”

“Oh don’t thank me dear! I know I’m a meddlesome, bossy, cantankerous old woman. You’re sweet to put up with me. Billy and his boys are a wonderful set though. If you must thank someone, thank them.”

They dutifully assured Ingrid that they were only too glad to help, and after goodbyes had been said all round, the trucks rumbled away with Imogene’s Buick close behind.

Ingrid dropped Melchoir and wobbled over to the hammock that was tucked invitingly into a corner of the garden. Though Imogene and her crew had done most of the work, Ingrid was utterly spent. However, preparations for Alice and Anne were nearly complete, and as she swayed gently in the fading evening sunshine a smile of anticipation mixed itself in with her gaping yawns.

2005-12-27T12:08:00.000+12:00

Greta Garbo and John Barrymore

Before we begin this segment, it would only be fair to reference certain items of Crispin's dialogue. I've been making something of a study of old Hollywood, the years between the late twenties and the late thirties. One site that has been of enormous help in researching this is a website maintained by Columbia University's Oral History and Research department. This site contains transcripts of interviews with actors and screenwriters of the period. Well worth taking a look at, should you have the time. It can be found at www.fathom.com.

Edith stepped out of her luxury car looking fabulous for 65 years of age. As a lovely young secretary in the office of an oil tycoon she'd caught the boss' eye and become his wife. Life had been very good to her, but somehow the small town manner she'd learned from the Texas farming community she'd grown up in never left her. She was gracious and simple, and totally unprepared for the many dangers that accompany a wealthy widow-hood.

She made her way slowly up the front walk, admiring the wildflowers that Ingrid permitted to ramble at will all over the yard. Before she could ring the bell, one of the dangers we mentioned earlier flung open the front door, bursting with enthusiastic greetings and solicitous inquiries after her general state of health and well being.

"It's lovely to see you as well Crispin! My, everything is just as I a pictured it would be!"

Edith glowed with happiness and anticipation. She could never thank Crispin St. James enough for this opportunity. "Genius at work" was how he'd phrased it, and Edith was very interested to see how her childhood idol worked its magic. She turned slowly to take in every aspect of the sitting room Crispin had gallantly ushered her into. Old prints, photographs, and paintings littered the walls. The bits of wall that were visible were a creamy yellowish tint that accented the hardwood floors quite nicely. Thick rugs of various designs were plopped at random, Craftsman furniture upholstered in reddish hued patterns clustered about in sociable groups, and bookshelves overflowed with volumes of every description.

"My! What an unusual... well, what is it?" she inquired pointing at a small wooden object that rested atop a pile of books on an end table.

"Oh some sort of heathenish sculpture that Ingrid dragged back from Africa. She was quite the globe-trotter in her day. Got quite a collection of largely useless items from all over the map. Like this one" Crispin said, handing Edith a similarly inexplicable object. "Old English pub game- you take the little ball that's hanging from the post and swing it about to knock over the tiny pins tied to the base. When they're all down, you pull the little knob there at the bottom and it re-sets the pins. I believe she found it in somewhere in Oxford. I say, Ingrid's just putting on her face for the day- would you like a tour of the lower rooms?"

Edith was about to give her willing assent, when the hostess appeared immaculately coiffed and attired in a red house dress with small white polka dots and a string of pearls. June Cleaver would have been impressed.

"Hello Edith, how do you do?" she smiled graciously and offered her guest a chair. If Crispin thought he was running this show, she was out to prove him wrong. She turned to him and said so sweetly that Edith missed the barbs "Is my face on all the way Crispin? It'd be a shame to have it fall off half way through our visit." He laughed rather too jovially and slapped her on the back. "HA HA, that's Ingrid for you! Sharp as a tack that one!"

"Crispin dear, will you fetch our guest some tea? There's a good boy- put it on a tray with cream and sugar. And I'm sure you know where the tea biscuits are kept." Knowing full well that he didn't have a clue and thus would be out of the way for at least quarter of an hour, Ingrid sat down in the chair opposite Edith with an air of dignity and poise, delicately crossing her ankles and arranging her hands neatly in her lap. This silly business had gone on long enough, and she planned to put a stop to it. Now.

"Oh Miss Delaney, may I say what an honor it is to visit with you today? I just adored your work as a child. I never thought I'd have the opportunity of meeting you, much less seeing you at work!"

"It's lovely to have you here Edith. I've been wanting to get better aquainted with the newest member of the Guild. I'm afraid you've grossly over-rated my talents, but I'm so happy to know that you've enjoyed my books. Now, tell me just a bit about yourself. You're originally from Texas?"

Edith loved talking of the happy days spent as a farm girl and later as a wife of an oil tycoon, and was gaily reminiscing over old times when Crispin returned with the tea tray.

"Here you are Edith. Ingrid- here's your favorite cup. Now then, shall we commence the great work? I've brought my notes from last session and I'd love to review them with you Ingrid. See what you think and all that."

He was just pulling the sheaf of notes from his attache case when Ingrid caused him to freeze in his tracks by innocently suggesting that for Edith's benefit they review a bit of the story for him. This suggestion ordinarily wouldn't have had the slightest effect, but Crispin was utterly shocked by the gesture that accompanied it. Ingrid reached behind her chair and pulled out a pencil and a large memo pad.

"Yes, I believe we were just finishing up with your childhood in Iowa. You know, out on the farm with the pigs and chickens. I'll bet Edith didn't know you grew up on a farm as well." She might as well have shrieked "Engarde!"

Crispin smiled broadly and with great bravado. So that was her angle eh? Well, he'd set old Ingrid right back on her ear. Noting Edith's smile of mixed approval and confusion, he answered his foeman's challenge with a cavalier air.

"Yes, Iowa farming was such a shock to a lad like me, used to the finer things back in the old country. You see Edith, my branch of the St. James' line emigrated to the colonies and founded a successful farming community. But let's progress a bit to the years I spent in Hollywood. Those were after all the most important. I moved in such glitterings circles then, though a mere speck amongst the brighter stars of that celebrated galaxy." He flashed a triumphant smile at Ingrid that shouted "Ole`!" as clearly as any matador who has successfully dodged an angry bull.

"Drat." thought Ingrid.

She settled back in her chair, carefully biding her time for another chance to aim and fire. Crispin proceeded to ramble about life in Hollywood as it was in the early thirties when he first arrived.

"I came to Hollywood a mere stripling of 15. My boyish good looks landed me several roles as a supporting actor in the comedies that were popular at the time. Those Depression Era movie goers wanted an escape, and Hollywood was only too happy to oblige. Gangster films, light comedy, romance and what have you. I was often told that my style was reminiscent of the young John Barrymore. Barrymore was in decline in those years, starting to forget his lines due to drink and on the way to becoming something of a has been. But he'd made a mold, and I fit into it rather nicely. I'd been in the business for several years when I met Ingrid at one of those grand Tinsel Town soirees that will never be forgot. She was a mere slip of a girl- just twenty years old and already making quite a sensation in the literary world."

Ingrid struck like a coiled viper. "You were 18 and angling for a 'role' as an extra in 1936's San Francisco, I believe. You got it too! Your portrayal of a young waiter in Blackie Norton's saloon was quite exceptional. Too bad it was cut out. Your single line was a showstopper by all accounts. I'm sure nobody could have said "What will it be this evening, Sir?" with greater expression than you Crispin."

Crispin shot Ingrid a defiant glare and coughed. "Er, yes. Of course! The one liner was becoming all-important. With the advent of talking films, studios were suddenly having to hire people who could act with their voices as well as their faces. Fortunately, I was gifted in both facial and vocal expression. A lack of true vocal ability was the ruin of many a great silent film actor. Clara Bow was the IT girl until the public found out she squeaked like a rubber duck when she spoke. And what of poor John Gilbert? "

"Ah yes. I remember that. He was quite a heart-throb amongst ladies everywhere until he started making talkies. That high pitched voice sounded ridiculous with his manly looks. His career was ruined, and most people blamed the talking films. When I came to Hollywood rumor had it that he'd been drinking heavily for some time. He died of a heart attack in '36."

Ingrid sighed sadly. She herself had been in Hollywood during those years trying to break into screen writing. Her first two novels, published when she was very young, had been quite unexpectedly successful and she absolutely loathed them. She had hoped to change the rather maudlin turn her career as a novelist was taking by branching into film. She'd been hired as a writer by one of the larger studios perhaps due more to the sudden demand for dialogue in films than her actual qualifications. In spite of that she managed to work on a few successful scripts. However, the studio wanted comedy, thrillers, or romance and absolutely refused anything thought provoking or profound.

In addition to this, the foundering careers of the silent actors cast a pall of despair over the whole business, and it was not long before Ingrid realized that Hollywood was not the place for her. It was heartbreaking to see the hopeful young starlets especially. They partied all night to maintain some sort of status but had to be in the studio early each morning. They often resorted to controlling their sleeping and waking habits with drugs and alcohol, and many ruined themselves physically before coming close to attaining the kind of fame they hoped for. The women who achieved it did so often at a high cost. Ingrid remained in a state of reverie for some time before returning to the verbal fencing match in which she and Crispin were engaged.

"Then of course there was the formation of the caste system. I had several friends in very high places, and so did Ingrid. This ensured our place in the higher eschelons. However, not everyone was so lucky. Apparently, in the years before talking pictures lowly camera grips rubbed elbows with celebrities, and parties included stars and techincal people of all descriptions. Anyone might turn up. After the talking films came it all changed. By the time Ingrid and I were there, the big stars only associated with each other and a few very wealthy socialites, producers with other producers, the writers with the writers and so on down the line. You were only 'somebody' if you were making a thousand a week."

"What Crispin means to say Edith, is that he became one of the greatest gate-crashers in Hollywood history. Because he actually did resemble the young John Barrymore, the men at the doors all felt they'd seen him somewhere before. He pulled it off so well that he never actually got caught. That's how you met your wife isn't it?"

Crispin ran a finger inside his collar, which suddenly seemed to be getting terribly snug.

"Yes... actually Ingrid. I don't know where you get these silly ideas... gate crashing indeed!" He laughed lightly. "History is all in the eye of the recorder eh what? No, Edith I was actually much sought after because I'd become bosom friends with..." his story petered out as he took notice of the menacing gleam in Ingrid's eye. "Well, it was all so long ago. Time does pass so quickly."

"We were talking of your wife weren't we Crispin? Do continue, as I'm taking copious notes." said Ingrid, flipping the memo pad around to show an entire page covered in her wiry scrawl.

Edith inspected it eagerly, having often wondered what sort of ideas were considered important to an an author. "Why, Ingrid surely you're joking? Mr. St. James never actually cared for pigs himself?"

"Why of course he did! Crispin was an accomplished swineherd until he ran off to better and brighter things. His brother once told me-"

"My WIFE!" screeched Crispin, "Dear yes, my beloved Helene! The California debutante of the year! I happened to be invited to her debut; the lovely cotillion her parents hosted. She was an angel beyond all reckoning that night- her golden curls accented by the white debutante gown! She was just 18, back from her finishing school out East. It was love at first sight- for me anyway. I've never had much luck with beautiful women at first. They often feel strangely disposed to distrust me. But once she realized my true good nature, all was settled. We were divinely happy. I miss her terribly."

As he uttered those last four words, there came across Crispin's face an expression that Ingrid rarely observed in him. It was one of absolute sincerity, devoid of any facade. At that moment he had no pretensions, no delusions of grandeur. He was just a man who missed his wife.

Though Ingrid had often scorned Crispin's original motives in marrying his wealthy wife, it was undeniable that he had truly loved her in the end. He'd been faithful to her throughout their long and largely peaceful marriage, and Helene had inherited so much from her adoring parents that his profligate spending was never much of a bother to them. She had wisely bequeathed everything to her very capable son rather than her spendthrift husband, more as a way of ensuring that Crispin would always have a roof over his head than anything else.

Ingrid had been just on the point of mentioning the interesting fact that Crispin was at the debutante ball as an extra server rather than a guest, but thought better of it.

Edith suddenly reached out a well manicured hand and patted Crispin's corduroy knee. "I know exactly how you feel Crispin. It was just like that for Tex and me. We were just so... happy together." she began to sniff dangerously, and Crispin produced an immaculate monogrammed pocket handkerchief and offered it to her.

"There, there old girl. We widowed spouses must make the best of things. Very hard going at first though, I must say." Edith began to sob quietly into the hankie. Ingrid refilled Edith's teacup and left the room. Crispin was right to believe that Edith was lonely, and Ingrid decided that it was time to throw in the towel and let the two sufferers console one another, if they could.

Though never having been married herself, the brief scene had been a painful reminder of her own loneliness. Ingrid recalled Crispin's earlier reminiscences of Frank Morris. He WOULD bring that up. After pacing the back porch for several minutes she returned to a happier scene.

The two mourning spouses had dried their tears and were gaily sharing hilarious stories of married life.

"Oh, Ingrid darling there you are! I wondered where you'd gone off to! Come on in and listen to us gab! Edith just told a corker about her dear old Tex! Apparently he was a man who enjoyed a flute of champagne with his tacos!"

"Oh Mr. St. James really, I've stayed too long already. I'm afraid I'm something of a distraction to you both. I must be going."

Ingrid assured her that she was welcome to return at any time, and Crispin at first protested her departure, but wound up finageling a ride home. Eddie had apparently dropped him off again, and Edith was more than willing to oblige. They set off together, evidently drawn closer by the afternoon's events.

Ingrid watched them go, and smiled benignly. Perhaps in the end it was all for the best. The aura of hope and good feeling did not last long. As the Cadillac pulled away down the street, Imogene Burke's white Buick shot round the corner, and even at a distance Ingrid knew that Imogene had seen and comprehended, and was not amused. Not even a little.

2005-12-16T10:02:00.000+12:00

“Dear Aunt,

I can’t thank you enough for your warm invitation. The prodigal returns! We accept, and you may very well be in for an extended visit. We’ve decided to settle in CA, and I’ll begin job hunting as soon as we arrive. Thanks for the offer of school information. We’ll look into that when we’re there. I will need information regarding storage facilities.

Thanks for your number- I would use it, but it’s been years since we’ve spoken, and I’d rather wait until we’re face to face. I have so much to tell that I would be tempted to say over the phone. I’d rather relate all the details over a pot of your Earl Grey tea… do you still drink it by the gallon or has your doctor forbidden it? I doubt that, as you’ve always had excellent health. Also my dear “Aged Relative” I know how much you hate talking on the phone, so I won’t put you to any bother!

Annie says that if you’ll refrain from complaining about your health, she’ll avoid whining about the unfairness of life in general. I foresee the beginnings of a great friendship. She is anxious to meet you.

I will keep you updated via snail-mail. As soon as the house sells we’ll be on our way. I hope to have most of the packing finished by that time. I expect to arrive a few weeks after the sale of the house- whenever that happens.

Love from the Prodigal Niece

When Ingrid received the letter, she rushed over to Mabel’s to share the news.

“Ingrid, that’s wonderful news! Isn’t it wonderful news Bill?” Basking in the glow of the California spring, Mabel’s husband Bill was meticulously trimming the Australian Fuchsia shrubs that populated his immaculate lawn. He stopped long enough to wave his shears and congratulate Ingrid with great cordiality. He then invited her to see his Brazilian Plume Plant. “And you’ll have to come out back and take a gander at the Lion’s Tail- never seen the blooms as big as this spring's!” Bill didn't show his garden to everyone. He was in competition with several avid gardeners at the Senior's Guild. Until the big unveiling weekend, in which members of the Guild toured each competitor's garden and voted on who had produced the most spectacular floral display of the year, Bill and the other Guild Gardeners restricted viewing to trusted friends and family members only.

“Ingrid’s busy this afternoon Bill, dear. If she started touring your lovely garden she’d never come away in time! Ingrid, come into the house.” Bill good-naturedly agreed. “You girls go on in and have a nice gab. Mabel, mebbe you could bring me something tall and cold later on!” His brown shorts and black knee-high socks disappeared round an enormous Flannel Tree shrub as he went on with his trimming. Mabel and Ingrid had a long and satisfying talk about the impending arrival of Alice and Anne, and it was determined that this was a most satisfactory state of affairs. “You will of course give them each their own rooms. A twelve year old needs a place of her own.” “Of course. I’ve been sleeping in the green room and working in the dormer room, but there’s no reason I can’t sleep there as well. The other rooms will go to Alice and Anne. I will have to put in a good deal of work to make them presentable though. I've been using the blue room for storage."

Several weeks later, Ingrid received another letter informing her that Alice’s house had sold, and they could be expected to arrive near the end of the following month. Two weeks thereafter Crispin St. James exploded through Ingrid’s front door, bursting with his usual fizz and fury. Finding the dormer room empty, he began a panicked search of the premises, finally discovering his confidante shuffling through knee-deep piles of boxes in the long neglected attic.

“My dear Ingrid!” he puffed “What are you about! It’s not like you to be wandering the house at this time of day!”

“Hello Cris! Come here and tell me what a child of twelve would hang on her bedroom wall.”

Crispin regarded her cautiously. She was clad in an old pair of overalls, her usually well kept hair was flying madly in every direction. Most disturbing of all, to Crispin at least, was the enormous grin that split her normally austere features from ear to ear.

“Well now Ingrid… just ah… I mean, that is to say… dear girl are you feeling quite well?”

“Never better Cris, never better! I feel no more than sixteen today! Just look at these will you, and tell me what she’d like.”

Crispin quietly accepted the fact that his dear old chum and her marbles had finally parted ways.

“Ingrid, I think you’d better come downstairs and have some tea. I don’t think you’re quite yourself today.”

“Oh! Mad, am I? Well Crispin, this is a unique state of affairs. It’s usually the other way round! Never mind, I’ll put up these lovely old Wallace Nutting prints. Everyone loves Wallace Nutting.”

“Might I inquire as to the nature of this “she”?”

"She? Oh haven't I told you? My imaginary friend Heloise. She began as a character in one of my books, but I've sort of adopted her and now she practically runs the place."

Crispin stared doubtfully. He didn't quite know what to make of all this. Ingrid, in spectacularly good spirits, relented.

"My neice Alice and her 12 year old daughter are coming to stay with me for a spell. I'm fixing up their bedrooms."

"Oh is that all! Marvelous! Simply marvelous to see you- I- WHAT?" the full impact of what Ingrid had told him sunk in at last.

"Did you say "twelve year old daughter" Ingrid?"
"Yes. Annie has just turned twelve."

Crispin paled visibly and sat down on an old trunk to catch his breath. "I hope you realize what burdens children can be. Eddie's eldest is nearing that age. Beastly little fiend of a girl. Nothing but trouble, I can assure you. Are you quite sure this is wise, Ingrid? I wish you'd consulted me before agreeing to have them. I'm sure the mother will be charming, but couldn't the daughter stay some place else?"

Ingrid shoved a small armload of framed prints into his unsuspecting arms and said briskly "Since you don't live with me Crispin, I hardly see what business it is of yours who comes under my roof. Annie is by all accounts a delightful girl. I'm told she's rather like me when I was a girl."
This brought no balm to the tortured soul. Crispin gazed at her reproachfully, and followed her down the attic stairs in mournful silence. They were in the blue room, and Ingrid was trying pictures on different walls when he finally spoke again. "I think you might have considered my position at least. This is my refuge! My sanctum! Ingrid, it's the only child-free home that's open to me at any hour of the day. How can you go about polluting the place with the patter of little feet in this mad-cap fashion?" The sorrow drenched tone of his voice was all that restrained Ingrid from using one of her pithiest retorts.

"Crispin, you're always welcome here. One twelve year old cannot possibly be as much trouble as all Eddie's children combined. You've always enjoyed my company- perhaps she'll be a minature of her old aunt."

"You at twelve? Were you ever really twelve? I should have thought you simply sprang into being at about 40 years of age. I say Ingrid, such a pity you never married. There was that capital young fellow from Boston... what was his name?"

Ingrid ignored this abrupt change of subject, and turned to face the wall once again. Crispin entirely missed the brief flush that sprang into her cheeks at the mention of the capital young fellow from Boston.

"Years ago of course. We all knew he was potty about you."

"Frank."

"Eh?"

"His name was Frank Morris."

"Oh yes? Frank indeed! Yes! You ought to have married him. Would have done wonders for your character. Any way, too late now, what? Whatever happened to the lad?"

"Crispin, should I hang this one over the bed or near the window?"

Crispin sighed and came out of his reverie. "Ah. The bed I should think. Nice spot for it. I say, what are you going to do with all this rubbish?" He gazed about the powder blue room, noting that the bed, dresser, nightstand and dainty white vanity were all covered in books, boxes, and paperwork. An old bicycle reposed in a far corner, while stacks of magazines occupied much of the floor.

"I say Ingrid do you EVER subscribe to anything more interesting than The National Geographic?" he inquired as he kicked at dusty piles of Archeology, Smithsonian, and Literature Today.

"Never Cris. I'm too much of a bore to read the gossip rags. I'm planning to throw most of this mess away. Or donate them. I'd like to burn what I can't give away but that's against zoning regulations. I've allowed things to pile up here shamefully since Ellen moved out. Isn't it time you were leaving? Don't you play shuffle board on Wednesdays?"

"Oh. Right. Thanks old bird, you've just reminded me. Edith should be here any moment. You'd better tidy up and get a pot of tea on."

Ingrid dropped the hammer indignantly and asked him just where he thought he got off inviting practical strangers into her home without so much as a by your leave? And without any proper warning too?

"Well perhaps I ought to have said something, but the bus trip to Catalina has nearly finished me Ingrid. Finished me! That blister Waring had her full and undivided attention for an entire day! She's scarcely spoken to me ever since! I'm a desperate man, Ingrid. Do say you'll help me?"

Clearly, he'd left her with little choice, so she chased him down the stairs yelling at him to get the tea on while she made herself decent.

Approximately ten minutes later, Edith Baker's late model Cadillac purred into the drive way.

2005-12-10T10:09:00.000+12:00

Dear Alice,

Consider this your welcome home. Your old crab of an aunt has had quite enough solitude. It will be wonderful to share this big old house with loved ones. Please come, and be quick about it! I hate waiting.

Tell Anne that I look forward to meeting her, and I hope she won’t find me too much of a bore. I promise faithfully never to moan about my rheumatism above thrice a day. Will you want information about schools in our area, or will you wait till later this summer to decide where to place her? You see, I fully expect to have you two with me several months at least. You may find me something of a tar-baby- once caught you’re stuck and the harder you struggle to break free the stickier I become.

As to your mother… she is as well as may be expected. You must come and see her for yourself.

I’ve enclosed my number and hope you will telephone me soon with your expected date of arrival. I am preparing for an extended stay.

Love from your aged relative,

Ingrid

As Ingrid finished the last sentence she heard the front door burst open in a rather familiar fashion. Melchoir the Evangelical cat sprung up and darted under the nearest armchair. Ingrid found to her dismay that Crispin was upon her, brisk, beaming, and looking as if he’d just stepped out of a department store window display.

“My dear old sock, you look limp as a rag bag! I hope this doesn’t mean you are unwell?”

“Good Morning to you, Crispin. Perhaps if I’d spent 45 minutes parked in front of a mirror like some I could mention I could put on a better show for you. I’m quite well thanks, just tired.”

“Oh! That’s all right then. I say, is there a pot of Earl Grey’s elixir within arms reach? I’m quite done in myself! You’ll never guess what I’ve been up to.”

“I’d rather not guess, thanks. I’m quite tired of your delusional exploits Crispin.”

Crispin merely smiled benignly, and ascertaining that the room bore no evidence of readily available tea said in an almost paternal way, “Poor Ingrid. You are a fright this morning aren’t you? You haven’t had your tea, I can tell! Come into the kitchen and brew us a pot then.”

Ingrid surrendered. She always did.

After the Elixir of Earls had been duly brewed, the two settled into their accustomed positions in the sitting room.

“I must say, I’ve been having a rough few days of it. Edith and I were all set to be seatmates on the bus during the Guild trip to Catalina and do you know what that rotter Fred Waring did?” He paused dramaticly. His expression indicated that he was about to relate an act of high treason. Ingrid placidly sipped her tea, waiting patiently for the coming revelation.

“He spoke with the tour director, and said that I had asked him to ask her to place me at the back of the bus near the toilets because I was incontinent! Said I was too bashful to mention it and volunteered to swap seats with me. The nerve!” fumed the outraged competitor.

Ingrid made no effort to stifle her hoots of laughter. “It’s too funny Cris! You must see the humor in it!” He merely stared at her with such a wounded expression that she couldn’t help but add, “Perhaps if you told the tour director you were packing extra Depends she’d let you have your old seat back.”

“Fat lot of good that would do me!” shrieked Crispin. “You KNOW how the guild grapevine works. Once word like that gets round the ladies see you as feeble, then it’s all over with you! I’m branded for life as Crispin the Incontinent!”

Ingrid made a valiant effort to sober up, but failed utterly. She snorted, snickered, and finally began laughing uncontrollably till the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Ingrid I never imagined you could be so unfeeling! How can you go on cackling in that infernal fashion when the hopes of your oldest chum lie dashed to bally bits all round him? It’s absolutely inhuman! MY life is a blank! All my carefully laid plans scattered like ashes and you sit there howling like a drunken monkey!”

His indignant rebuke only made things worse.

“Ingrid!” he said slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “I’m a broken and a ruined man! If I lose Edith to that dog Waring, I spend the remainder of my days with them!” This last word was spoken in a desperately hoarse whisper.

"I suppose it would be difficult living with Edith and Fred at first, but I'm sure you'd get used to it by and by Cris."

Crispin slapped a hand to his forehead and groaned audibly. " OH, don't be so obtuse Ingrid, I won't have it! You know perfectly well I mean Eddie and his gang of hooligans!"

"Alright then. What's the new strategem?" Ingrid found herself becoming morbidly fascinated with Crispin's romantic tribulations.

"Ah, there! Yes, I've been applying the grey matter, and though it took most of the night I think I'm off to a good start. Here- " he opened a handsome leather attache` case and pulled out a stack of handscribbled paper.

"Notes for the first chapter of my memoirs!" he announced triumphantly. Ingrid shuffled through the first ten pages or so. They were neither coherent, nor legible.

"What do you hope to accomplish by writing your memoirs?"
"Well not many blokes can say that they're collaborating with Ingrid Delaney on their life story, eh what?"
"Not ANY 'blokes' to my recollection Crispin. And I have no immediate plans to collaborate on anyone's life story."
"That's not what you told Edith Baker dear; I distinctly recall you mentioning that you had to leave the Guild Brunch early to work on them."

Ingrid shot Crispin a baleful glare that would have made a more observant man wither like weeds in winter. Fortunately for him, Crispin generally remained sublimely indifferent to the world at large and scarcely batted an eyelash.

"Now Ingrid dear, be a sport will you? Edith simply adores you! She's still got all your books, and when last we spoke was so curious about you! She's simply dying to know you, and you've only got to smile and nod to convince her that you're perfectly brilliant. "

"And you want to impress her by having me write about your life? Or rather your own peculiar version of your life?"

"Precisely! I'd like to have her here for tea to sit in on a work session. Just think of how marvelous it would be for her to watch her idol at work! Zeus at his forge eh?"

"The Kyklopes, actually."
"Come again?"
"Zeus didn't manufacture his own lightening bolts. He outsourced the job to the Elder Kyklopes."
"Oh? Really Ingrid that's not the point! I want to bring Edith here to sit in on one of our brainstorming sessions."

"Have we ever had brainstorming sessions Crispin?"
"There's no time like the present to begin! You'll enjoy my celebrity anecdotes Ingrid. Hot stuff, some of them!"
"I can only imagine."

He took back his sheaf of papers and rummaged briskly through them. "Here! Oh yes, this one's just full of fizz and ginger. All about my friend Clark."

"Clark as in Gable or Kent?"
"Why yes! Clark Gable, the very man!"

Ingrid put down her tea and folded her arms. "Crispin St. James I will NOT write a pack of lies! You were never friends with Clark Gable! You never even met him! I know it and so do you!"

Crispin looked up, an expression of saintly forebearance lighting all his features. Ingrid thought it the same sort of look Moses might have bestowed on a wayward Israelite who just wouldn't get with the program.

"Ingrid, I did meet him. I played a minor role in San Franciso, and had several intimate chats with him."

Ingrid fixed him with her most harrowing stare. It was the sort of look that pierces men's souls, and haunts them deep in the night. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth Crispin if you please!" Even he could not fabricate in light of such an expression.

"Oh very well. I was an extra in one of the saloon scenes, and several times between takes he asked if I'd a light for his cigarette. I had one, as it happened. He thanked me politely each time."
"And you're stretching that into an intimate friendship?" queried Ingrid incredulously.
Crispin sighed deeply. Ingrid had always been so puritanical about such things.

"History my dear Ingrid belongs to the survivors, not the prinicipals. I've outlived most of these fellows, and their lives are not copyrighted. Had they outlived me, they would have the same rights of interpretation. All's fair in love and war, dear. I'm not lying. I'm simply exercising the right of a survivor to tell his story as he sees fit." His patient explanation was greeted with stony silence.

"Will you help me?"
"No."
"Well then I suppose that's your loss. But don't forget that you practically told Edith Baker that you would- that you actually were in the act!"
"I'm sure she'll overcome her disappointment, given enough time. After all, she'll have Fred Waring to comfort her all the way to Catalina and back, if not beyond."

"Oooh Ingrid, you ARE heartless!" wailed the afflicted Crispin. He wheedled and cajoled for another half hour or so, failing utterly. He finally left with one last stab at Ingrid's better nature, sighing that he hoped she wouldn't have trouble sleeping at night knowing that she was responsible for the destruction of all his cherished hopes. She assured him that any nocturnal disturbances were highly unlikely, and sent the blighted being on his way.

Melchoir came out of hiding soon after he left and rubbed against her ankles gazing up reproachfully as if to say "Why do you let him come here?"

"I couldn't say Melchoir, I really couldn't say. But you must admit, he's terribly amusing!"

2005-12-06T08:10:00.000+12:00

After being seated in their usual booth across from the tortilla maker, the ladies settled in for their weekly visit. Their friendship spanned decades. Mable and Imogene were significantly younger than Ingrid, but it made little difference. They were all three quite dissimilar in appearance, character, and tastes, but their youthful spirits bonded them more than a commonality of interests ever could.

The young man behind the machine recognized the familiar white headed trio. He waved and smiled, pointing to the pile of freshly baked tortillas that reposed in the basket at the end of the conveyor belt.

"It's so nice to be remembered!" sighed Mable contentedly.
"Indeed. Now, Ingrid no shilly-shallying- out with it! We saw you with Crispin and Edith Baker at the brunch Friday. What's going on?" demanded Imogene, leaning forward eyes all aglow. There was nothing Imogene loved better than a good dish.

Ingrid shifted uncomfortably. As unwilling a participant as she had been, it was still embarassing to recall.

"Crispin decided to join me and invited Edith. I suppose he's-"
"After her. Say no more Ingrid, I knew it! Shall we tell her Mable?"
"Tell me what?"
"Oh not you dear. Imogene is thinking that we should tell Edith about Crispin and his..."
"Leech-like tendencies. What do you think Ingrid?"

Ingrid said she doubted it, sketching Edith's moon-struck reaction to Crispin's wiles in grim detail. Imogene, however, was not to be deterred. She pursed her lips and folded her arms across her ample, brightly polka-dotted bosom. A familiar glint of determination lit her sharp green eyes. "You'll just have to tell her Ingrid."

Ingrid braced herself for the inevitable battle of wills. "I'm sorry to disappoint you Immy dear, but I'd have better luck warning Pearl Harbor that the Japanese are up to no good. Even if I thought it would help matters, I would still refuse."

"Horse-feathers Ingrid! It's a well-known fact that you are Crispin's oldest friend. She'd have to take you seriously. I say you should do it, and the sooner the better." Imogene unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips. Even in a seated position she managed to look imposing. Unfortunately, Ingrid had seen Imogene's war-paint a thousand times before and it had not the slightest effect.

"If you think it's that important dear, I suggest you see to it yourself."

Imogene retorted that such a cold hearted response betrayed a lack of concern for women-kind in general. "We girls have to stick together after all! If we don't look out for each other we're sitting ducks for the men!"

Ingrid would have mentioned that the possibility of them falling prey to unprincipled men at their advanced age was laughable, but Mable prevented her by saying gently "Really Imogene, you know Ingrid hates meddling in other people's affairs. I'm sure we'll think of something. You'd best let her alone." Mable, the very picture of Grandmotherly propriety, was both accustomed and highly adept at her role as buffer between two strong willed friends.

Imogene was sufficiently quelled, though by the persistent spark in her eye Ingrid knew that she hadn't laid down her arms completely. This was by no means the end of it.

By way of proffering the olive branch, Ingrid opened her handbag and produced a letter.
"I brought this along to show you girls. It took me quite by surpise. Do you remember my neice Alice?"

Both comrades nodded grimly. Alice was something of a sore subject. She had been like a daughter to Ingrid until she decided to marry a man whose character was questionable to say the least. That was 15 years ago. Charlie was in the military, and they'd been shuffling from base to base ever since their marriage. Ingrid rarely if ever heard from them. She had been violently opposed to the match, and made sure that Alice knew it. Alice had never forgiven her aunt for being so unfeeling.

"I'm going to read this to you, and I want you to tell me what I ought to do."
"Much good that will do, as you do as you like no matter what your friends say." muttered Imogene under her breath.

Just then Mateo, their favorite waiter appeared to collect their orders, preventing Ingrid from delivering one of her pithy retorts, and saving Mable the effort of cleaning up the aftermath. After he'd left, the ladies set aside their verbal missiles and settled in for the letter.

"Dear Aunt," Ingrid began, "I suppose this is the part where one usually makes all kinds of remarks about how long it's been since last heard from and how sorry one feels about not keeping in touch. However, I'm sure you'd see straight through that garbage as you always do.

I want to come home. Anne and I have had a terrible winter and spring. After 15 years my pride finally allows me to acknowledge the truth of what you told me so long ago. I should never have married the man. This world lost very little when Charles Olsen left it.

I know it will make no difference to mother whether we return to California or not- how is she by the way? But I feel that I can't come back until you give the word.

Annie is 12 years old now. I've told her lots about her Great Aunt Ingrid. She reminds me of you in some ways.

May we come home to you Aunt Ingrid, and start over again?

Alice

By the end of the letter all three women were in tears.

"Oh Ingrid of course you'll let her come!" sobbed Mable. "Oh yes, you wouldn't turn the poor child away! Not after all she's been through!" added Imogene, searching frantically through the depths of her enormous hand bag for tissues. "Why, it's just like a Nicholas Sparks novel!" she choked. Imogene was a devoted follwer of Nicholas Sparks novels.

Ingrid, who'd had a few days to process the letter dabbed her eyes with the corner of her napkin. "Will you please refrain from mentioning that disgrace to great literature?" She couldn't stand those novels, partly because she'd written things somewhat similar to them in her earlier days and was ashamed of it, and partly because she felt that she could do better if only she found the right subject.

That brought her friends to their senses. Mable asked in a far more composed tone whether she had replied to the letter yet.

"I'm still thinking things through. Of course I want them to come. That goes without saying. Alice left such a hole in my life when she went away... but when she deserted us for Charlie, she left more than her home. She abandoned her faith too. She's a very changed woman. I want her back of course, but how will we get on together? What of the child?" Mable and Imogene sighed and nodded. All three were faithful Christian women, though of differing denominations.

"Obviously she is an adult with her own life. Shall I say she's here on trial or take her in with no questions asked? How can I best... well... influence her? And how best to approach the subject of Charlie?"

"Forgiveness is a wonderful first step dear. Remember the prodigal son. It sounds as if she's been broken down enough. Take her in and keep her there as long as you can. She wants to return to her earthly home... perhaps she's also seeking her heavenly one." Mable reached a tiny, plump hand across the table to pat Ingrid's thin, long fingered one. From the tip of her wooly white head on down to her beige Dr. Scholls, Mable was a gentle spirit personified.

Imogene concurred. She placed her massive, bejeweled paw on Ingrid's shoulder and generously offered her assistance in what she supposed to be life's essentials. "Meals, or planning meals, or help with grocery shopping. You've only to say the word! And my granddaughter Kendra is Annie's age- they could be playmates!"

Ingrid thanked her friends from the bottom of her heart. She was very happy to know that Alice wished to return, but it was a sobering thought nonetheless. Being a pessimist by nature, she viewed the reunion with no small amount of trepidation.

Mateo returned with their food, and the ladies collected themselves sufficiently to smile at his pleasantries and start in on their meals.

"Any idea what might have happened to Charlie?" said Imogene, rapidly devouring her sizzling steak fajita.

"Not a single one! All I know is that he's apparently 'left this world'. And good riddance too, say I. No, Mable it's no use gaping at me likea fish out of water. I've heard very little from Alice over the years, but I've heard enough to know that Charlie Olsen was exactly what I thought him. I hope she'll tell me, as the curiousity is absolutely unbearable. One hates to ask such things." replied Ingrid.

"And what about your sister Ellen?" continued Imogene. "Do you think Alice has even written to her?"

"If she had, I'm sure she would have mentioned it. Oh girls, do let's talk about something else!" It saddened Ingrid to think of Ellen.

Just then Mable decided that she must go to the ladies room to powder her nose. Imogene made the most of the opportunity.

"Let's discuss what you're going to tell Edith Baker about Crispin."
"Stuff it, Imogene." said Ingrid elegantly.
"I won't! You're going to talk to that girl and tell her what a leech that man is!"
"Imogene, do you know what I'm doing?"
"Can't imagine, but I know what you will be doing the next time you see Edith!"
"I'm filling my mind with pleasant thoughts of far away places while you babble on, unheeded and unheard."

2005-12-01T03:01:00.000+12:00

*The reader who shares this with their innocent child may want to take warning in this segment. The character Imogene Burke is closely based on my dear, departed Grandmother Lanning. She had many good qualities, but made some hysterically funny comments that I have here recorded which may not be quite suited for children. Also, the reader is kindly requested to suspend reality for purposes of illustrating some of my grandmother's odder quirks. Emeril was not quite so famous in 1995 as he is at present.

Tuesday and Thursday mornings invariably found Ingrid in the swimming pool at Palm Terrace. Though ordinarily she might have found the aquatics instructor excessively irritating, Ingrid and several like-minded cynics found the bouncing blonde girl to be an endless source of amusement, as she clearly believed that old age necessitates senility. They always placed themselves far at the back, obediently manuvering their foam dumbells and giving every appearance of being just what their instructor Kylie understood them to be; a pack of geriatric children. However, had Kylie overheard some of their remarks, she would have been disabused of that notion, perhaps forever.

"Ok friends, let's really push ourselves and go for one more set! Wheee!" she shouted gaily, bouncing up and down in the waist deep water and waving her foam dumbell over her head, presumably in an effort to liven things up.

"Oh goodie!" wheezed Ingrid under her breath. "Perhaps if we're very good girls, we'll get to do another!"

"Who ever said we were her friends anyway? She's being paid to do this." added Mable Graham, one of Ingrid's dearest cronies.

"Pull away me hearties, we're nearly through!" gasped Imogene Burke, another of their small back row clique.

"Last one through buys lunch at Chevy's!" puffed Ingrid.

"Ok friends, great job! We're ALL DONE!" hollered Kylie. "Time for stretches!"

Everyone dutifully tugged at their right arm with their left hand, alternating arms at Kylie's enthusiastic direction.

"Does she think we're turkeys?" muttered Ingrid, starting Imogene and Mable into a fit of smothered giggles. The common error of substituting 'done' for 'finished' was one of Ingrid's pet peeves.

"Oh Ingrid stop it! You know she tries her best to communicate. Perhaps she feels that she needs to limit her vocabulary so we can understand her better." laughed Imogene.

"Girls, you all did a really fantastic job today! Give yourselves a big hand! Woohoooo!" The soggy sheep dutifully clapped and congratulated one another, and began the arduous task of exiting the pool. Kylie and the lifeguard assisted everyone, making sure that they all made it safely to the locker room. As Ingrid climbed the shallow stairs, Kylie took her elbow.

"Ok Ingrid, I've got you... thaaat's right. One more to go... good job!" she coached. Ingrid always feigned deafness and doddering incompetence around Kylie, just to see how far she'd go. She slowly hobbled over to the locker room, rounding the corner and being sure to be out of sight before straightening up and charging ahead to her usual shower stall at the end of the row, chin held high, spring in her step.

"Yoo-Hooo... Ingrid? Are you in there?" called Mable from the next stall.
"Yes dear."
"Oh good. So it will be Chevy's for lunch?"
"Where else?"
"I hope that nice boy will be there. He usually is on Tuesday's isn't he?"
"Yes, I believe he is. Did Imogene tell you about his..."
"Derriere? Yes, she mentioned it. I was nearly shocked, but I suppose it's not much of a surprise coming from the woman who says she'd like Emeril for a boy-toy."

"And I could have him too, if I were 30 years younger!" yelled Imogene, taking her stall next to Mable's. "The way that man says "BAM" just sends shivers down my spine. And his FOOD. Don't even get me started on his food!"

Ingrid smiled to herself, thinking of the Emeril cookware set that even now reposed on the bed in her guestroom. Imogene had been hankering after a set. It would be the perfect birthday gift.

After completing their toilettes, the ladies piled into Mable's Oldsmobile and headed for the nearest Chevy's Fresh Mex Restraunt. Ingrid adored the freshly made chips and salsa, Mable was addicted to the tortillas that were made as you watched, and Imogene loved the Mexican and Latino waiters. "There's just something so alluring about Latin men, girls!" They all loved the fact that it was not a restraunt frequented by their fellow Senior Citizens. They were often stared at by the younger patrons, and took great pleasure in their confusion.

Chapter the Second

2005-11-30T11:21:00.000+12:00

Lincolns and Cadillacs, along with the occasional vintage luxury car began rolling up to the Palm Terrace country club at precisely 11:15 am, Friday morning. The Orange County Senior’s Guild was a loose federation formed mainly from the more exclusive retirement communities in the area. Anyone over the age of 55 who could afford the membership dues was more than welcome, and thus the Guild was peopled by rich and (in some cases) formerly famous Californians. The faded celebrities had long ago resigned their laurels, and were content with comfortable obscurity, happy enough to rub elbows with the lesser known of Orange County. For without exception they all had at least one cause for common ground- that of advanced age. Together they commiserated through each illness, shook their heads over the sad state of the world in general and how it wasn’t like our day, planned day-trips and cruises, and enjoyed games of bingo, shuffle-board, and bunko.

Ingrid was something of a fixture there, though most everyone had forgotten her small claim to fame. As one of the eldest members, she could remember when most of the others had joined.

She rolled up to the front door, and the valet smiled to see her coming. She still drove her 1949 Packard, though it’d been completely refurbished more than once. It carried many memories, and she’d never seen another car she felt served her purposed as well.

“Good Morning Miss Delaney!”

“Good Morning Michael. Lovely to see you again.”

She entered the banquet hall and was making her way toward her usual corner, when Crispin launched himself into her path and commandeered her elbow.

“There you are my dear! I’ve been positively fretting! Jolly good luck you’ve arrived before Edith. And now, let me look at you…”

“Get off me Crispin, you parasite!” hissed Ingrid cordially. “I will not have any part in your little-”
“Really darling, you might have tried a bit harder. Dressed up a bit more you know. It doesn’t look as if you’re half trying.”
“I’m not trying at all!” she stated, attempting to loosen his surprisingly tight grip.
“T’any rate, I‘ve come prepared. Allow me.” and before she could stop him, Crispin had clapped a small bunch of African violets to the lapel of Ingrid’s blouse.

She yanked her arm free, turning sharply to make her escape and in doing so nearly collided with the lovely Edith Baker.

“Why hello! I don’t believe we‘ve been formally introduced!” said Edith graciously. Crispin took his cue with an alacrity that did him credit. “Edith, this is my friend Miss Ingrid Delaney- you know, the novelist. Ingrid, Mrs. Edith Baker. There, you’ve met. You’ll be great friends I'm sure. And how are you this morning Edith?”
“Just right as rain- what lovely violets! You know, I just adore violets.” she tittered a bit, and Crispin made the most of this small opening.

“Well, how strange you should mention that! Ingrid’s just potty about her vi’s aren’t you dear? Of course you are. Novelists always are you know. I never forget to bring her a bunch when we’re out together. It’s been that way since the old days.” He drew Ingrid’s reluctant hand through his arm and patted it gently. “Well my dear, we’d best find a table. Would you care to join us, young lady?” he put an extra twinkle into the “young lady” and Edith giggled.

“Oh Mr. St. James, you really are a card. Well, if you don’t mind…”
Crispin offered his other arm with the utmost gentility.
“Don’t mention it my dear, don’t mention it. Ingrid’s always starved for company, and being her dearest friend I try to accommodate her every whim, don‘t I Ingrid dear? I tell you, it’s been wonderful having her to look after since my sainted Helene passed on.”

Crispin shone like a morning star all through brunch. He shepherded his two charges to their tables with a masterly air, drawing out their chairs with a charming flourish rarely seen in this day and age. As he seated each lady, he bowed slightly, and practically clicked his heels. When he attempted to place Ingrid’s napkin in her lap, she ungratefully stabbed his hand with a salad fork. Edith seemed oblivious to all but Crispin, and did not notice how unusually silent his companion was.

However, Crispin saw to it that his ‘date’ was never neglected. His solicitude was overwhelming. “How are you enjoying the salad dear? Is the dressing too tart for you? Are you warm enough?Or too cold. Perhaps you feel a draught? Your water glass is nearly empty, shall I call the waiter to fill it?”

He knew Ingrid well enough not to expect a reply, and simply went on to the next topic of conversation. Edith seemed very much impressed, and said as much to Crispin. “Gentlemen like you were rare in our day Mr. St. James. Where on earth did you learn to be so civilized?”

“Well ma’am, I make it a point to keep only the best of company. Ladies like you always have a civilizing effect.” And he managed a courtly bow from a seated position, something he’d practiced endlessly before perfecting.

“Oh come now Mr. St. James. I’ve heard plenty about your relations on the other side of the pond. I’m sure you must have picked up a thing or two over there.”

Ingrid snorted loudly, and Crispin swiveled round, offering a monogrammed hanky and saying “Poor old Ingrid’s got a slight cold, haven’t you dear?” He patted her on the back, and turned to face Edith again pronouncing in his most casual air, “Well, I don’t know what that lot has been telling you about me, but I must confess to being nothing more than the product of my upbringing.” Edith’s eyes widened a bit, as she took this to be confirmation of the lofty rumors that Crispin allowed to circulate so freely.

The conversation drifted on from there, Edith attempting to learn more about Crispin’s “connections”, and Crispin, whose favorite topic was invariably himself, finally left poor Ingrid in peace.

Thankful for a lull in the irritating attentions, Ingrid amused herself by observing the other Orange County Senior’s Guilders present. Fred Waring and Gil Anderson were there, glowering at Crispin from across the room. The entire ladies bridge club had also arrived, and Ingrid longed to join them. However she knew that wherever she went, Crispin was bound to follow. Her attention returned to her dining companions when Edith uttered a small shriek of glee, and said “Oh Mr. St. James, really?!”

Ingrid looked up, wondering what fantastic stretch of reality Crispin had just completed, and found Edith’s attention centered on her. “Oh, Miss Delaney, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were the Miss Ingrid Delaney. The authoress of “Hildegarde’s Whim”! Why I read those books as a girl and loved them so! What an honor to meet you of all people!”

Ingrid absolutely hated to be reminded of her first success. She’d always been morbidly ashamed of it. Fortunately she was spared a reply by the irrepressible Crispin.

“Yes, yes, Ingrid wrote it, and all the sequels. But she’s dashed modest you know, dashed modest. Doesn’t like to be praised, though she takes it well enough. She’s currently working on my memoirs. A collaborative effort of course.”
“Your memoirs Mr. St. James?”
“Yes” echoed Ingrid coldly. “Your memoirs?”
“Yes, I thought I’d leave behind something for my dear grandchildren to remember me by. They’re so bally fond of me, and I of them. I simply dote on the little darlings. Have I shown you their photographs? No? Allow me.” And he produced his billfold, stuffed to the gills with family pictures. He spent some time oohing and ahhing over them with Edith, who had no grandchildren and obviously would have liked some.

When they’d finished he tucked the billfold away and laid the finishing touches on his master plan.

“It’s so wonderful to see a woman of` true maternal feeling Edith. The kiddies have missed their grandmother terribly. Sad really. Ah well. I want to leave them some fond memories, so I’ve commissioned Ingrid here to help me. Being an actor in the 30’s and 40’s was a unique experience, and I’m sure they’ll enjoy reading all about their grandpa’s theatrical escapades. Hollywood was a far different place back then you know.”

To wide-eyed Edith Baker, born and raised in a small Texas farming community, this man had now become an object of great interest and admiration. She was entirely under his spell. Crispin monologed about the good old days, name dropping shamelessly ("Oh, and when Claudette Colbert said that I just..". and "You should have HEARD what Mae West once told me about Greta Garbo!"), until Ingrid decided she’d heard enough.

“Speaking of your memoirs Crispin, they really aren’t going to write themselves. I’d best be going.”

Ingrid rose and bid a cordial farewell to Edith who gabbled on about “Hildegarde’s Whim” for some time before allowing her to leave. Crispin, still in the role of devoted escort parted from Edith with a great show of reluctance, professing himself impatient for their next meeting. She returned the sentiment enthusiastically enough, and seemed very sorry to see him go.

Ingrid set off for the door impatient to be gone before the Entertainment Committee presented their plans for this year's Guild trip to Catalina Island, and was somewhat surprised that Crispin actually followed her.

“Aren‘t you going to call for your car?” she asked, while waiting for the valet to pull round in her beloved Packard.

“Dashed odd you should mention that old bean. I meant to tell you- Eddie dropped me here. Said he didn’t have time to pick me up again. I suppose that means I’ll have to get a ride from you.”

“Thus completing the farce by having Edith see you hand me into my car and drive off into the sunshine. I admit it Cris, you won. But I must say, you’re an awful pest when you're chasing a woman- and I'm not even the one you're after. Why can't you just be happy manipulating your way into unsuspecting widow's fortunes and leave me out of it?"

The Packard rolled up, and Crispin flung open the passenger door with a grand flourish.

"Because old girl, where's the fun if I've nobody to share it with? Besides, the only thing better than meddling in your love life is using you to further my own."

"Crispin, you know very well that I have not had a love life in decades! And I have never discussed any portion of it with you!"

Her incorrigible escort carefully pulled away from the entrance, waving madly to Edith who was just leaving as well.

"Well my dear, someday you will have, and I hope that since I have been so open in my affairs, you will extend me the same courtesy."

Ingrid sighed and decided, not for the first time, that Crispin was quite seniel at last.

"You're delusional Crispin St. James. You ought to have your vitamin levels checked."

2005-11-30T11:19:00.000+12:00

Ingrid sighed. She knew this was coming. She’d known ever since Edith’s first visit to the Wednesday afternoon Bingo game at the Guild. Crispin was desperate to be independent of his son again. Edith Baker, recently widowed and in her early 60’s, wealthy, and extremely well preserved was just the escape route Crispin sought.

“Cris, I’m quite sure that I won’t be taking part in any plan of yours. You’ll have to get on without me.”

“Oh but you’d enjoy it so! It’ll be a jolly good lark for you. How’d you fancy attending the next Senior’s Brunch with me as your very own escort?”

“I’d rather stay home and eat tacks.” said the ungrateful Ingrid.
“Oh come now! Be a sport. You know I’m one of the most sought after gentlemen there.”

Yet again, Ingrid was forced to admit that he was right. Like herself, Crispin retained a near perfect state of health. After a knee replacement four years ago, he’d been as spry on the dance floor as ever he had been in his youth. He’d also stayed remarkably fit for his age, and possessed an undeniably distinguished appearance. Additionally, his professed links to the nobility ensured that he was quite the favorite amongst the ladies of the Orange County Senior’s Guild.

“You’d be the envy of every unattached woman there Ingrid! Think of it won’t you?” he said in his most wheedlesome tones.

“I assume that your plan is to make Edith see how desirable you are by allowing her to observe the way you treat me?”

“Precisely! Women are all alike! They never see any value in a chap until another woman takes an interest. Suddenly a boring old bloke becomes an alluring man of mystery. It can’t fail.”

“No Crispin. I won’t do it, so there’s no use pestering me. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“But there’s no woman alive so heartless as you, old brick. Any other woman would be too susceptible to my charms, thus landing me in something of a pickle.”

Ingrid decided that she’d had enough. “Crispin, that’s donkey twaddle, and you know it. Drink your tea and leave.”

“Oh tosh. If you won’t do it, I suppose I’ll have to exercise the little grey cells and find some other way. You needn’t be so waspish.” Crispin muttered, stirring uncomfortably in his chair. It was only just eleven, and he wasn’t nearly ready to return to the family dwelling.

Not long afterward he did leave, having discovered that Ingrid was in a more than usually dour frame of mind. Ingrid shut the front door after him, thankful to see him gone at last. Old, she undeniably was. She was almost entirely alone in the world. But heartless? No. That she had never been. Life, she reflected, would have been far less difficult had she been so.

“He’s perfectly intolerable, but he’s nearly all that’s left.” She observed to her latest cat, Melchoir. “It’s absurd I know, but I really think I’d be quite lonely without him, irritating as he is.” She returned to her dormer room, determined to work out at least part of the short story she’d recently begun. Melchoir followed, and made himself an agreeable nuisance by climbing into her lap, purring, nudging, and insisting on being loved. “You’re not much of a Presbyterian, are you?” He began purring sonorously, and Ingrid decided he must be a Baptist or Pentecostal of sorts. He was far too demonstrative to be one of God’s Frozen Chosen.

Before she returned to her work, she had decided that nothing would keep her from attending the Senior's Brunch on Friday. Though she had no intention of aiding Crispin in his suit, she always found his romantic endeavors to be immensely entertaining.

2005-11-26T09:09:00.000+12:00

Peering through the dotted swiss curtains, Ingrid discerned Mr. Crispin St. James toddling up the front walk. Crispin and she had been aquainted for years, having met at a soiree in Hollywood back in 1935. At twenty years of age Ingrid had just published her first and foremost work, and was becoming something of a celebrity. Crispin was a b-movie actor, known for his mediocre imitation of John Barrymore.

Ingrid groaned a deep and lingering groan. Crispin had always been something of thorn in her flesh. While in their youth they had never been close, but now in their twilight years Ingrid found that he, like herself,was one of the last of the 'old crowd' left. They were forced by reason of years into a friendship which Crispin viewed as initimate.

Before she could reach the door, Crispin had gaily flung himself through it.

"Hello old egg! Delightful morning, just thought I'd pop by. Good heavens! Still wearing that old thing? Really dear girl, this is 1995! You ought to have thrown that in the rag bag long ago! Ah!" he cried, spying the tea pot. "The beverage of Earls! Do give a fellow a spot of liquid refreshment, there's a good lass!"

"Good Morning Cris. Come down to the kitchen and I'll brew a fresh pot." And Ingrid resigned herself to a wasted morning.

Crispin had never become famous. He had never aquired anything but debt, and his sole contribution to humanity came in the form of a kind hearted and highly motivated son. After his mother Helene had passed away Edward, by now a many millioned software executive, had taken his aging parent in, housing him in a small guest cottage. The gated community was not more than 25 minutes from Ingrid's home, and Crispin was forever 'just popping by".

"Oh Ingrid, you don't know how I suffer! Those young hellions are driving my distracted!" he wailed, flicking at a piece of lint that had the audacity to attach itself to his immaculate tweed jacket. Ingrid wordlessly handed him a fresh cup of tea. "Oh thank you love." he said graciously, and settled himself into a wingbacked chair. "Did I tell you what they did last week? No? Well,"

And he launched into another litany of woe and mistreatment. His son had married a much younger woman, and they had three children aged 11, 5, and 3. For whatever reason they had decided that they preferred their grandfather's company to anything else, and spent many an hour gaily romping through his cottage. Their parents thought it was adorable, and since Crispin enjoyed free room and board, he was obliged to lay aside his abhorrence of children and tolerate their company as best he could. However, he now spent the vast majority of each day away from home.

"And then they upset the aquarium! The whole thing! Fish, rocks, and water everywhere! Eddie laughed! Thought it was a good joke! Good JOKE! I'll tell you what, that's not how children were brought up to behave in our day! I told him so myself and he told me not to be such an old fossil. Me! An old fossil! Well! It was a mercy that his mother and I raised him differently. He'd never have made his way in life without a proper upbringing." He fumed and fussed for another quarter of an hour, until his wounded feelings had been given full vent.

Then, he asked how Ingrid was getting on, and promptly answered the question for her.

"Much the same as always I should expect. Still plotting a new work. Still hoping the inspiration for the great American novel will strike, eh old girl? I thought as much. " He nodded sagely and stopped chatting long enough to take a sip of his well cooled tea. He spoke with a faintly British accent, something he'd aquired years ago in the B-movie days while playing butlers, valets, and aristocrats. It was a total farce, as was his profession of being distantly related to some branch of the English aristocracy. Ingrid knew full well that he'd run away from a pig farm in Iowa at the tender age of 15.

She would have given anything to be able to contradict his last presumptious comment, but alas it was only too true. She had never really stopped writing, and now an incurable desire to write something truly great had taken an unrelenting hold on her. Unfortunately, she was forced to admit that the results were to literature what Crispin was to acting. Third rate at best.

"You know me too well Cris. And you visit too often."
"It's such a comfort to know that the sun will always rise and Ingrid will always scribble. But really dear thing, it would be something of a pleasure to hear that you'd spent a week doing anything else. Why don't you get yourself a hobby? Or a beau?"
"At my age! Don't be ridiculous! I'm perfectly content without a man cluttering the place morning, noon, and night. I didn't need one at twenty, and I've certainly not developed a need for one at 80." Ingrid replied.
"What do you mean at your age! You're only two years older than myself! We're in our prime, dear girl, in our prime!"

Crispin was 78, and by no means considered himself 'through'.

"Speaking of, you'll never guess what I've got planned for Friday." He leaned forward in his best imitation of a conspiritorial air.

"Astound me dear fellow" drawled Ingrid in a flawless imitation of Crispin's accent, which escaped his notice entirely.

"I've got my eye on Edith from the Senior's Guild."
"Is that all?"
"No! I've heard that Fred Waring is courting her as well."
"She's the youngest and most attractive of us. I shouldn't be surpised if Gil Anderson was also in the running Cris. She's far too young for you. I shouldn't think you stood a chance" said Ingrid in her most encouraging form.

"Well I like that! Common fellows like Fred and Gil can't claim connections to the great British family of-" his boast was cut short by the unmerciful Ingrid.
"You can't either Cris."
"Well, you're the only one who knows anything about that." Sniffed the would-be aristocrat.
"Edith is newly widowed; perhaps she's not even ready to consider a new relationship- have any of you octogenarian suitors considered that?"

"Oh yes, we needn't worry about that." said Crispin, placidly smoothing the crease in his corduroys. "I've reason to believe she's lonely, and so being is extremely susceptible to romance. I'm quite convinced she has no intention of living the remainder of her days alone with her poodle and her millions."

"Well I'm relieved to hear that her personality is the main attraction to you. As always."
"Why Ingrid!" gasped Crispin. " I'm shocked! My sainted Helene was a very wealthy woman, but you needn't assume that was why I married her. We were blissfully happy together!"

"I suppose that's why she left everything to Eddie. She knew you were too disinterested in money to appreciate it."
"I won't hear another word about it! Not another word! How can you be so... so..."
"Honest?"
He stared slackjawed for a moment, recalling not for the first time that Ingrid had always been entirely too cheeky for her own good. But, realizing that he hadn't a leg to stand on, he let it pass.

"T'any rate, I've got a new and formiddable plan, and I'm quite sure that you'll enjoy your part in it!"

Chapter the First

2005-11-24T08:14:00.000+12:00

Ingrid hated a mess. More than mess, she hated a spotless house. She preferred a happy medium; just enough clutter spread about the tidy California Bunglaow she called home to provide some useful diversion for the quieter hours of her senior citizen's life. She'd never adjusted to growing older, and therefore had never learned to interest herself in needlepoint, knitting, painting by number, golf, or gardening. She never married, and thus no grandchildren existed to occupy her autumnal years.

She was an authoress of sorts, and had gained both fame and fortune early in her career for "Hildegard's Whim" a rather brooding gothic melodrama. The women of the 1930's and 40's appreciated her work and for 10 years a strong fan base sustained her career by purchasing sequels and other short stories. However, it wasn't long before modern dimestore romance writers eclipsed her. Because Ingrid refused to write anything she'd be ashamed to read to her cat (she was quite convinced that her cat was a staunch Presbyterian) her publisher soon dropped her, and she was left with a small fortune which she had the good sense to invest.

At 80 years of age she was reasonably comfortable and utterly unknown. Aside from occasional stiffness in her joints, she enjoyed perfect health and as a result had little in common with friends of her youth who were forever telephoning to bemoan their latest set of ailments.

We come upon our heroine in a relaxed attitude, comfortably ensconced in the window seat of her second floor dormer room, wrapped in a bright red kimono that was given her by F. Scott Fitzgerald back in the glory days. She is sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey and is about to be disagreeably interrupted.