FINDING MIRANDA
by Iris Chacon
Copyright 2014, 2017 Delia L. Stewart
Please note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1 – The Ritual
Seventy-five-year-old Martha Cleary relaxed in her front porch rocker by dawn’s misty glow with her coffee at her side, her binoculars hanging from her neck, and her small-caliber rifle in her lap.
Wide, shady verandas were the norm in the tiny community of Minokee. The rustic frame houses crouching beneath the live oak trees were nearly as old as the trees themselves. No one had air conditioning in Minokee. With their Old Florida architectural design—all wide-opening windows and deep, dark porches—the quirky ancient cottages were cool even when it was hot enough to literally fry okra on the sidewalk downtown. If Minokee had a sidewalk. Or a downtown.
Next door—and only a few yards away from Martha Cleary’s rocking chair—a screen door creaked open and whapped shut. Bernice Funderberg doddered toward her own rocker, blue hair in curlers, pink fuzzy slippers complementing her floral housedress.
“Yer late,” Martha said.
“Yeah, when ya hit seventy ever’thing ya gotta do in the bathroom takes a durn sight longer than it yoosta,” groused Bernice. “Did I miss ‘em?”
“Nah, not yit.” Martha lifted her binoculars and peered off down the narrow asphalt road to where it curved into the thick palmetto scrub a half-mile away. A jungle of vines, palmettos, young pines, and broad, moss-draped oaks pressed close alongside the road. Nothing was visible through the tangle of flora and shadow. “They ain’t made the turn yit. Prolly got a late start—like you.”
“But not fer the same reason, I’ll betcha!” Bernice said with a chuckle.
“Bernice, poop jokes is the lowest form of humor. I am appalled at your unladylike references to bodily functions at this hour of the mor Get outta there, you sorry varmint!” Martha raised, cocked, and fired her rifle in one smooth, practiced motion. Bushes rustled in the garden bordering her porch.
“Git ‘im?” said Bernice, unruffled by the sudden violence. It’s just another dawning in semi-quiet little Minokee.
“I didn’t wanna hurt ‘im, jest wanted ‘im outta my summer squashes.” Martha set her rifle aside and shook a fist at the bushes. “Find yerself another meal ticket, Bugsy! I don’t do all this yard work fer my health, y’know!”
Bernice snorted. “Yes, ya do, ya old biddy. Say, ain’t that them?” She pointed toward the far curve of the road.
Martha hoisted her binocs, focused, smiled, and nodded. “Yep. Here they come.”
“Shucks,” whined Bernice. “Looks like a shirt day.”
“Hush up, ya shameless cougar!” said Martha.
Across the narrow street, first one and then another screen door whined as other house-coated, coffee-carrying ladies emerged and took their seats in porch chairs. The new arrivals waved, and Bernice and Martha waved back, smiling.
“Jest in time,” Martha said.
In the distance a man and dog loped toward the cottages, gliding along the leaf-shadowed, warm asphalt, with a soft whhp-whhp-whhp as the man’s running shoes met the pavement. He wore faded jogging shorts that showed off well-muscled thighs. A tee shirt stretched across his wide chest and tightly hugged his impressive biceps. His pale beard was trimmed close to his face, which was shaded by the bill of his Marlins baseball cap. He wore sunglasses. His donkey-sized dog wore a bandanna.
The ladies in the porch chairs sighed and sipped their coffee, all eyes devouring the oncoming duo. As he drew nearer, without slowing his pace, the man angled his face with its hidden eyes right and left and acknowledged each lady with a wave. A mellifluous bass voice rumbled from behind his pectorals, “Mornin’ Miz Martha, Miz Wyneen, Miz Bernice, Miz Charlotte.”
“Mornin’ Shep, mornin’ Dave,” each lady called in turn. They did not wave back.
The running shoes whhp-whhp-whhpped past the ladies and on down the tree-arched road. The porch ladies rose from their chairs and turned to watch the eye-candy-in-a-ball cap move away from them. When Shep and Dave rounded the next corner, out of sight, all four ladies gathered their coffee cups, binoculars, and (in at least one case) weapons. With contented sighs, Martha, Wyneen, Bernice, and Charlotte went back into their respective homes. Even with a shirt, today had been a good day.