That can't be right, something's missing. Hillary reran the figures.

There were only two outstanding checks; one for the electric, and the other for three bags of rock salt and an ergonomic snow shovel, to replace the one ditz-blitz (June) had backed into.  Hillary looked over the bank statement.  Where were the bills?  She counted: electric, phone/internet, insurances ... no wait, those get paid in late january, so neither home nor auto counted as monthly.  Chet's card.  The only charge had been for Hillary's last dental visit.  She used to pay her own bills, with her own credit cards... another lifetime.  

Something had to be missing.  Club dues?  No wait, except for one - which was like $50 annually - Chet had opted for life memberships, and so not having to bother each year.  And one of the other club dues, was legitimately covered under business expenses.  Since there were no loans - except for a random medical or repair cost - there were no bills.

The balance of her Husband's checking account was correct, and it was fat - and growing toward obese.  How'd that work?  There were two of them, and only his income - her remaining severance pay was, maybe 5k. Didn't matter, the remaining funds were locked away, doing a seven year cd term.  

The dinner deliveries and MerrMaids - the cleaning service - she had covered.  Between the two above, the hair studio, PlanetNail, and alot of outfits, shoes, matching handbags, and a few getaway weekends for them both, her funds had barely made it from one payday to the next.  Looking back, sure had been loads of fun while it lasted.

While she had done most, if not all, her transactions over the net, her Husband chose the old fashioned way - folding money and paper checks - as much as possible.   He detested credit-card come-ons, seeing their so-called deals for what they were.  She wrote out one additional check, careful to record the transaction; their electric fryer had thrown its last hissyfit.  She paper clipped the filled order blank - which she had to make from scratch, since most catalog entities wanted customers to purchase on-line, with credit cards - addressed envelope and unsigned check.

"He who holds the purse strings..."  And boy howdy!  She reached into the back of the middle drawer and pulled out a hair brush, ran it through, then reset the sterling hair-clip.  She was overdue for both a cut and wave; just two more choices off the table.  But she still did have a choice; one that could not be wrested from her, not without her consent.  That choice was:  no giving over to pity-partying/resentment...oh bells no!

Wasn't like she was the only person having problems.

The clock on the monitor read 13:47.  It was time to get dinner started.  And maybe, just maybe, she'd have time to touch up her nails.  Man, she missed the convenience of visiting the studio.  And they had nicer shades than any garish thing you'd see in the drugstore.

Hillary glanced out the breakfast nook window. A few leaves drifted by, as a few more laying on the ground, stirred. Their neighbors,

the Waterfeld's were getting in the car.  The clock read 9:10, they were headed to church, and so wouldn't be back until around 12:30ish.  That's a big fat chunk out of one's weekend...not that it mattered anymore.  Hillary sipped her coffee and moved the now cold scrambled egg around her plate.  Chet had already eaten his three, two english muffins and the four little sausages.  Hillary again glanced outside, glowered at the matronly woman; June was one of those happy-happy, joy-joy people...because she was an idiot. Never even held down a job - that's what she'd heard. Always cleaning something, or serving someone food and beverage - and always looking just everso; sshurrrr, have to cope somehow, when you've no real skills...stupid wench!

"You've barely touched your breakfast, what's up, Hillary?"  Chet's eyes traveled up and down his wife's form.  The little paisley dress she'd bought shortly before the sack, now, more or less just hung upon her bony frame. 

Oh, i don't effing know... wouldn't have anything to do with being stuck in the effing 1950s, would it??? She wanted to respond.  Oh golly gee willikers, I forgot to put on my little pearl effing necklace - ugh!  Instead, she half mumbled, "Not hungry."

"Hillary, I think you should call Dr.Fache's office tomorrow and set..."

"Why?"  Her moody gaze was caught by some family issue going on within the neighbor's sedan.  The usual: the boy grossing out his older sister with something he either had in his hand or said, and one or both parents telling both their kids to can it.  The car, bound for hymn-howl central, turned onto the street.  "Nothin wrong." 

Nothin', except my whole life is ruined, she wanted to add, but didn't.  Wasn't Chet's fault, but it sure didn't make her feel any better, when he had - on several occasions - more less, parroted, "it's the law."  And then, without missing a beat - with lunchpail in hand - mr.noworries would head off to work...hi ho, hi freaking ho...

"Have to go, be back soon," he kissed her on the forehead, and headed out.

Being Sunday, Chet usually had the day off - since most places were closed, so the chance of broken pipes wouldn't be discovered/repaired until the following day.  Today, however, the elms - a senior care facility, had a kitchen issue...and about 150 meals to prepare and clean up after.

As for doctors?  No thanks.  And besides, Hillary could only guess how many sick people would DIE for want of getting an appointment.  Her doctor, Dr.Salhe, just shy of 30, had also gotten sacked.  But atleast she had the option to go back to being a nurse - nursing was an exempt category...for now.

Shortly before one, Hillary put the potroast in the oven, but had forgotten to add enough water to cover the vessel's bottom.  She checked the cookbook's instructions; oven temp was to be 350 for three hours; then it needed to rest about an hour.   Meh, easy enough, any half retarded monkey... She turned on the oven.  

She then reached for a spiral-bound folder - one she'd used, in her past life, when she'd actually had a life - to keep track of meetings, deadlines ... ya know, stuff that mattered.  Now the four tabs, somehow divided into six days.  Monday was dusting, vacuuming, baseboards and such; Tuesday was washing - oh, and ironing, since many synthetics were no longer available...that is, for people reduced to having to manage on one-income.  Prior to the sack, the couple had, twice weekly, contracted out household chores, and about half their meals were delivered.  Wednesday was cleaning both the upstairs bathroom, and the downstairs powder room.  Thursday was more laundry,  changing the bedsheets ... no wait, that was also Monday's too.  Friday was the kitchen counters and appliances, windows/sills.  Saturday, of course was food shopping, from a carefully made list -  this fun little chore also included being reduced to ...ugh ...clipping coupons.  

She checked over the categories to see if she'd forgotten anything.  Of coouurse she had :  the coffee pot and toaster - oh, and the window sills in the dining room.  Freaking brain's gonna frigging atrophy.

Our not so happy housewife was having a less than cheerful day.

Hillary leaned back in her exec chair and stared at the now empty wall space, where her award plaques had hung. These were in the cardboard box,

which now sat upon the exec-sized oak-faced desk.  The box, which had contained ten reams of copier paper, now contained two or three binders, part of a package of teabags, a box of tissues, an opened bag of breath mints, a bag of plastic lunch-gear, lodged at the bottom and out of sight, a tin box which contained stuff for that time of month.  Peeking out the top, was a green plant.  She had two others - one she willed to the receptionist, who being 40, could keep her job ... well, for now.  Who knows!  

The cutoff was 30, but already, her search engine had already linked to several articles describing proposals for the cutoff being raised to 35, if "conditions don't improve."  One such article focused upon russia; hillary passed that one by...russia, prudeland central - ugh!  

The other plant now sat in the breakroom - replacing one which, last week, had been knocked from the counter; what a mess ... guys and football pools.  Slobs - they always left a mess - especially the nuker - and never cleaned up after themselves...is this test hard?

She was being "let go" - in other words, just plain corn-beef "CANNED!"  Not because of inadequate productivity or any personality issues; her employee rating history indicated the opposite.  Hillary had worked hard, put in plenty of extra hours, significantly some without pay.  She had loved her career, and so, monday mornings were never the hissy-fits snarled about on popular media.  Hillary suppressed another snifle.  No, no, and no, she wasn't going to cry - not one single tear.

They could have atleast held off until the new year; some of the women being "let go" had vaca-pay - which of course, would get double taxed...yep, punish people for getting up each morning and going to work.  Yes, there had been rumors for about the past year - but she didn't pay conspiracy websites any mind.  Yet she had noticed certain changes.

While the Six was losing its socio-political influence, more and more each day, and already, carbon footprints were becoming less heavy and less numerous.  That was a good thing - as if sanity was making its return.  Clothing was no longer cheap; India's government had, several years earlier, had put a stop to the manufacture of viscose.   Hillary looked at the folds of her skirt, thinking, had she known today was her last, she'd of worn that muted orange pencil skirt - the one she'd worn sometime the previous february, and had been told to "go home and change into something appropriate," as if she was a school girl.  She rolled her eyes at that memory - the big guy was such a prude; probably jealous, his wife was a rolypoly.

"..here's to the new boss, same as the old boss..."  A distant memory of visiting her grandparents had surfaced; they had a device called a turntable; upon it, spun vinyl disks, about a foot in diameter.  The Sixers were annoying and resentful, but the Religious Right - seemingly gaining power by the minute - they were getting scary.

Seriously what next?  Burkas?  

Hilary checked her phone.  She had time for a cup of hot tea.  As she turned to enter the break room, she caught a glimpse of cadly.  She so wanted to march right over to his desk, and slap that smirk off his face - after all, what could they do?  Fire her?

It was guys like him who started the trouble, in the first place.  While off-line, he was but a corporate cog - who, before the day was out, would begin moving his stuff into, what was, her corner office.  Anyway, on-line, he was a major socio-political player - had a vlog, with a large following.  On-line - and too often, on work time.  Hillary, barely having been able to suppress her pleasure, had called him on the carpet, several months ago, and given him an average eval.  Neither had she been surprised to read a comment on his site, a day or so later, from someone screen-named "mgtowmartin," or what freaking ever, which sounded nearly identical - except that ma-ma-mmaartin made no mention of being caught using company resources for personal fun and profit.   

Had our hardworking heroine done some further exploration of the links, which had shown up on the it report, hillary probably could have had creepo-cadly's job.  Atleast one of the links sounded ... ew!  Anyway, hillary had been, the usual, busy, and another meeting  had been five minutes away.

Atleast cadly had enough principle to leave Jesus Christ out of his game - unlike several of his churchian toadies, who had the annoying habit of hosting scriptural cherry-picking soirees.  Then again, having read or listened to many of their posts, such were of another religion entirely - either darwinian or just plain hedonistic - so, Christ's Name, apart from the churchians, came up as either an expression of surprise, rage or mockery.  Not that Hillary even professed any religion - but there was something very very wrong using the bible to further agenda that had nothing to do with "furthering the Gospel."

It was guys like cadly, who inadvertently, cancelled roeVwade - talk about shooting oneself in the...foot, and that bullet still was ricocheting all over the place.

Her phone buzzed.  She read her husband's text.   She quickly responded with a "...please, not necessary, box lite, b rite down."  A knock on her door announced, too late!  Chet must have sent the text when he'd stepped out of the elevator.  Security, of course, had also entered the office space; that was only to be expected.  But she could only watch as the two guards riffed through the box she'd so carefully packed.  As one of the mooks reached for the tin, hillary made a grab for it, but was stopped by her Husband's arm encircling her waist.  "Honey, they're only doing their job."  She lunged forward again, but too late.  The tin opened, it's very personal things poured out and landed atop the formerly neat box of items.  The plant lay uprooted, clumps of potting soil lay within and without the box.  The other mook then said something to the effect that all was clear and that they could go.  No apologies, no nothing.

Except for the one mook, who obviously was getting his cookies off at hillary's distress.  One the way out, and likely within earshot, of atleast one other employee, he murmured to Chet some snarky little comment.  Chet - with the box in arm, his other, at his wife's back, guiding her toward the elevator - ignored the pug-faced ignoramus.  

On the way home, both man and wife rode in relative silence.  Hillary just stared ahead, blinking away tears, determined that not a single one fall onto her sky blue silk blouse.  Chet reassuringly touched her hand.  She blinked again, but her nose continued to fill up with yuk; she reached for a tissue from the console and blew.  "Bluuck!" She deposited the used tissue into a small waste container.

Her husband turned right, instead of going straight.  She didn't think anything of it; after all, contractor planet lay just beyond the next red light.    The light was green, and they continued for about 20 miles.  Where were they going?  With gas being...he turned into the parking lot of a rather pricey restaurant.

"Honey?" 

"Haven't had lunch, I'm hungry."

"Chet, i, i don't have a job anymore." Hillary reached for another tissue. 

He turned off the ignition, then touched her hand, caressing her professionally manicured fingers.  "We'll manage," he smiled.

Inside, the waitress/owner of the business -a rather stately looking 50-something woman - stepped to their table to take their order.  Chet ordered seltzer water, and the surfNturf pasta entre.  Hillary chose iced tea and a tossed salad, which included a breadstick.  As the waitress received back the menus, chet also ordered a shrimp croissant to go with his wife's salad.

"Still have to eat." Chet smiled, his eyes met hers, then - as if they could see through the table - focused upon her flat midriff.  

Hillary was perplexed.  She could only conclude the reality of having to "manage" on one income hadn't set in.  Of course, it was her job that went bye-bye - per some stupid exec order, donalds  had signed that morning - not chet's job.  One thing for sure, she wouldn't be voting for that arsehat come november.  As far as food was concerned, her appetite was about 35 miles north east of where they sat.  The food was served, and chet dug into his, like he hadn't a worry in the world.  

On the way home, they passed several campaign billboards.  As Mr.NoWorries chatted into the console with a client, about, of course, the election - one man firm about donalds, the other somewhat partial to rowan.  Oh bells no! hillary's eyes shot open.  rowan went well beyond mere arsehat; he was full fledged disgusting.  She'd seen footage of some kind of state function, where the senator was, as usual, running his mug while wolfing down some kind of pasta.  His poor wife appeared to be embarrassed - and somewhat afraid; there were rumors...   It was then a very disturbing possibility crossed hillary's mind.

Would the 19th go the same direction as her job had gone?

Somebody oughta make him go away! Cadly's mutterings included the usual GDs and JCs

in his wishings ill toward President Donalds.  Of course, without knowing it, cadly's hope, was prayer to ... well, certainly not to the Lord Jesus.  It wasn't enough, last year, donalds' exec order...oh no, because now, ontop of that, the pill had also been made  illegal, to either manufacture or possess.  About the only thing available, were raincoats - only because they - sort of - protected against stds; so, these didn't fall into the category of birth control.  But anyway, cadly didn't care for them - not even the premium ones, made from natural stuff.

He made his way toward the next machine, but had to wait a few moments - some old guy was using it.  Get th' ... off the ... planet, cadly's narrowed eyes caught the right side of the gym's business name - "Planet..."  Tuah, why did he even bother!  Dude had been coming, on and off, for some time, and still was a fat ef.  (Dear Reader, the old fella, was, maybe thirty pounds overweight - he had a beer belly, and later on, would probably stop over at the VFW for one or two.)  

Finally was cadly's turn.  In the middle of his reps, the gym music (if you want to call it that) was interrupted by sirens, blowhorns, flashing lights and such.  The interstate, which ran by the strip mall, which housed the gym, a nail studio, a tax place, and what was formerly 2nd-hand book store - which now sat with bright orange tape stuck across the door and display windows; a curious person could peek inside, if s/he had the desire, but shoppers, instead chose to give the place, a fire lane berth.  

Anyway, the interstate had enough traffic to begin with, horns began to honk - which, of course, was illegal - and motorists began to shout things.  "S*it!"  Cadly read the message, rolling across the flatscreen bottom.  Traffic was being "redirected to .... due to an incident."  He had things to do, which included a picnic at one place, and later on, a party.  Why not have some parking lot fun, while he still had wheels, he grimmaced.  The little troll was taking him for support;  hearing was scheduled in early november.  So, he had some ten weeks to stew.  

Didn't take a political science degree understand why abortions were no longer a choice.  Back in the mid 20s, a law had passed, stating - in so many words - that the unwed "father-to-be" had also a choice, to not pay child maintenance, for a child he chose not to acknowledge.  Well guess what...!

Yep!  Abortions about tripled.  Many late term, because scheduling an appointment...  Within about two years, the birth rate, which had been about .8, or maybe .9, plummeted down to around.6.  Immigration helped to stabilize things, but many of the women coming across - from mexico, honduras, china and russia were coming for job opportunities - not to get in a family way to some peewee, who only wanted the bedroom fun, but no involvement.  More than a few of these women were "wa-wha-waall."  I.e., been there, done that, no thanks!

Needless to say, not cadly's problem.  The mall's exit lane - leading to the not-to-cluttered highway's northbound - had been closed off.  Why?  Probably, no other reason than sheets and giggles.  With no room to turn, and take the other exit - which took you the back way - he was stuck.  

"We're a nation under judgment." The woman's statement came off so pat. Irene distanced herself

from the group who were looking at some exhibits, placed in the fire hall's community room - just off from where volunteers were cooking and serving hot dogs, burgers, fries and such.  Among the exhibit, was a photo of a tough looking boy, who appeared to work on a ship - and, evidently, denied his childhood ... let alone, decent wages.  Right alongside, a photo of some baron's wife being assisted as she stepped down from an automobile - the couple, decked in their post gilded age finery, were about to embark upon steps, which had apparently led to some kind of afternoon social event.  The whole set up was to engender class division.  

And it worked.  You betcha..!  And for valid reason, fed by, snooty broads who've nuthin better to do, than go around spouting pat phrases at other women...wives, whose husbands don't make 200k...by snooty-tooties, soon to inherit a goodly amount of acreage from a mother or aunt, with one foot on a banana peel, the other...Irene chided herself to calm it the 'ef down (the slims had side effects - one being irritability).  

The next frame was a news photo of a line of girls and women putting out shoes.  Some looked quite young; one of them could have been Irene's grandmother, who had to leave school at thirteen.  Thing was, gram had loved school, loved books.

It was time to leave.  The parade would soon be starting, and she wanted to check out some of the booths before taking her C15 seat - hopefully, this time, there'd be no drunks/weirdos nearby.   This year's labor day theme, was but a variation of last year's - just the same old diversity line - yep, all about acceptance, that is, as long as you accept Six dogma...which changes on a dime, while remaining the same.  

Buncha Christless bunk...pua!  

She crossed the street toward a booth which appeared to be selling handbags, scarves and such.  A new purse would be nice, the one she was carrying was about shot.  As she approached, she'd changed her mind; half the merchandise had either skulls or fangs - so, that killed any further interest in browsing the other half, which probably had an assortment of trolls, or dragons.  

Whadeverhappened to palmtrees, daisies and kitty cats?  

Two booths down featured candles, but it was too hot, and her purse too small.  The next booth sold music cds, but based on the crowd gathered around and within, there probably wasn't much, if anything, she'd be interested in buying.  Atleast back in her day, metal still had melody, and words; words about life, of thoughts, work, love, regret, rebellion, striving...nowadays, mostly anger, outright blame-gaming and twisted lust...very twisted.

When did things turn so ugly?  Pua! Her mind drifted two-thirds a century back; to seventh grade, that horrible gym suit she had to wear - the one during 8th grade wasn't much better...or was it conditioning, to accept, if not submit to - and eventually embrace - unwomanhood?   Precisely that, was the focus of what passed for much of what was termed "music."   Even people her age bought into...

Holy Hannah!   Irene backed away.  A fight broke out, partially within and without.  Cds flew.  One hit some old guy, the corner drawing blood just above his ear.  He then joined in the foray.   A table fell over, sending more cds and - ew! "toys" in every direction.  A larger table was upended, sending more of the same.  But wood hitting concrete goes boom, but not BBOOMM!!!

But it's too early for fireworks...not far from where irene was walking - and walking fast, a streetfight broke out, between two factions, who she thought got along...well, most of the time.  Evidently, not this time.  People, fleeing the area, began to jostle one another.  More fighting, cursing.  

Where were the police?  

Oh this wasn't good.  Unlike earlier there were no police.  Global troops began moving in.  

The saturday prior to labor day weekend, Irene wheeled her grocery cart to where the hot dogs were available.

Holy Hannah!  A pack of four, of the good ones ran about $13.  She looked over the few items she needed to buy.  The bag of six rolls ran about $10; the two cartons of oj about $15, and the total of some five or six other items would run about $50.  So, she'd end up leaving the best end of a $100, and maybe - just maybe - that would fill two bags.  Meanwhile, back at her little three-storey, her frig contained about three or four eggs, half a small jar of mayo, three sticks of butter, oh and and some fruit spread.  Her freezer?  That contained mostly juice cartons of frozen water.  A small loaf of bread, three donuts and a half pound of hamburg about made up the rest.  Her pantry?  Not much within, other than a box of crackers and a few cans of soup or beans.  

In her purse, was a little bag, containing a small bottle of about 20 Slimleys Appetite Suppressants.   The label showed a young person - Irene wasn't sure if the thong-bikini'd individual was female or not.  Didn't matter.  The pills ran about $7 - cheaper than buying food.  A half bottle of them sat on her kitchen counter.  She'd taken three that morning, with her coffee, and a glass of watered down juice.  And then, a fouth before leaving the house.  The recommended dosage was three per 24 hours.  She had left the house, just shortly before 10 am. 

Her vision's corner caught at a cart, loaded with all sorts of things.  Within, was a bag of grapes - they ran around $15ish...maybe next time - a couple packs, around $50ish, of cold cuts, two or three bags, about $20s worth, of tater chips, several packs of hotdogs, a few pounds of burger - hhmm, how much was that, nowadays? - rolls for both - had to run about $30 - a long sleeve of napkins.  

Paper products were doubly insane - but that was because of the footprint tax...and Irene had to side with the gaias on that one.  They were one of the Six-faction - well, af least here of late.  Anyway, had she the extra money, she'd of bought one; throwaways are more convenient, when you don't have a washing machine...died a few years back.  Oh but to swipe a phrase, from a movie she and her late Husband had seen, back around '95, "Life finds a way."  The cart also contained soda - lots of it.  Strange, but over the past decade or so, carbonated beverage prices didn't go completely hop-head, like about every other thing.  Bottled water did - that ran nearly $10, for a 36 pack.  

Peeking from behind the rickety cardboard display of plastic bowls, spoons and other picnic things, an inky sleeve of Six proclaimed to any eyes - who had the misfortune to look upon - you MUST accept.  Then a flip-flopped lower leg stepped forward, revealing ... yep, more ink.  But not only that.  But a pair of short cut offs, riding up the woman's inner thighs.  A somewhat careworn child then darted in front, his or her fingers pointing to something.  "Mommy, can we get..."  The kid's request was met with ... well, a snarl.

I.e., move along, nothing to see here.

Still, left the old woman feeling rather sad.  Seeing all this time after time, the woman was probably receiving government assistance - tax dollars at work, including those paid by the old woman.  That bit of reality wasn't what brought on the sadness - and moreso, quiet rage, having for...well, decades really, been on slow simmer.  After all, someone had to provide - that 's what civilized ... yep, once again, it was quite obvious, that some certain pee-freaking-wee hadn't stepped up.  What was the 30-ish woman supposed to have done?  Gone and had a vac job?? 

"Gone."  That was the magic word.   Irene wheeled her few items toward the checkout queue - the furling frayed hems of her skirts jostled some random items which sat, out of place, upon a lower display rack.  The line was long - two of the checkout kiosks were out of order.  At least #5, which had been  down last week, had been fixed.  

"...ef no!" a base voice snickered, "not my place, did'er in the parking lot."  He added some other comments about "them" being all the same, good for a "pump and dump."

Maggot.

"...ghostin like that," cautioned the co-maggot, coming from the cad's phone, "dude, ah dunno..."

"...no worries," he reassured his buddy, "child-free route." cadly snickered at his own wit.

Gross.  

Having seen and heard enough ugliness for the day, irene simply wanted to get home.  

Ugh! June grimmaced, what's he mad about this time? She parked the tray of coffee

things on the kitchen counter - with alittle too much force, rattling the cups in their respective saucers.  The yelling was coming from, none other than, the flatscreen.  The russian premier was back home...hopefully, for good, June pursed her lips.  Somewhere, not too far from washington, a human trafficking ring had been discovered.  Okay, she asked herself, how is the us justice system's dealing with the criminals, any of moscow's business?  Hhhmmph, the knob-nosed self-righteous old b*tard...  Like there were no crooks under his watch?  Really...!  

As if things couldn't get any worse.  

Trade agreements between the two nations would probably come to a screeching halt.  No probably about that.  Boy, he was mad, and his crew didn't look happy either.  Mental pictures of want-ads being taken off-line, of buildings...of americans - and russians - suddenly finding themselves out of work, repos of newly acquired vehicles, evictions on the horizon...

A reporter, standing outside Liberty Hospital, somewhere in Pennsylvania, was interviewing a newly released patient, a young russian immigrant, who had responded to an ad for computer programmers.  Nope, the ad was misleading.  Very misleading.  The young man had ended up "working" in some sleazy...as a...  ugh! 

Things were becoming very worse.  A related story flashed onscreen.  This one, showed footage of three young women, one with a blanket wrapped around her, being liberated from another sleazy place.  The girls - another who appeared to be, maybe 18 - had also responded to a very misleading want ad.  

The premier's "Treat her right, or I'll kill you!" remark, was no longer funny.

The screen then showed a map of eurasia.  Russia's states and territories extended beyond her 1950s days.  The nation was officially capitalist; its central government encouraged its young citizens to acquire marketable skills, buy homes, be financially solvent, get married, have babies.  But communism wasn't letting go - not without a fight; its tactics, over the decades, having changed from that of mere economics to...

Our overly tasked housewife hadn't time to reflect upon the things she'd just heard the political economist say.  The screen switched to someone else.  

Ah, news, designed, specifically, to confuse.  Hmmph!

Somewhere, in Colorado, outside some high-end looking office park, some suit, was speaking to a female reporter.  His tone toward her was courteous enough, but condenscending - is the psych exam hard?  June couldn't help but to be noticing more of such.  Then another interview, outside a hardware center.  A barrel-chested man, with a flat-top hair-cut, had just parked a few sacks of portland in the back of his pickup - like they were dollar store camp chairs.  "No s*it, they're hollerin!"  Hhmm, June wondered, was "They," knob-nose and crew, or was "They," this particular man - and his flunkies, studying to pass terrorist-cell 101?  She didn't know what "incel" stood for, but it brought to mind, wirey 20-somethings, running around in camo khakis, totting ak47s, collecting copper tubing, paraffin, powder - while jamming to siege-metal.  

Meanwhile, back at the Waterfeld's three story house, Molly, having returned from visiting a girlfriend, greeted her Grandma.

Ms.Botox gave the girl a cold kiss on the cheek, but other than that, the teen might as well have not even been there.  The four adults and the two teens (well, for Robert, come winter, would be his 13th) were currently seated around the dining room table, enjoying the lovely dinner June had prepared.  Of course, Dora didn't lift a finger.  Oh wait, the old witchiepoo did raise an index talon, two or three times, requesting a refill of either iced tea, coffee, or whatever beverage.  

Ward senior shook his head at his wife's solipsism; her habitual dismissal of other people was getting old.  He had not forgotten a certain scene, which had gone down, just a few days previous.  He'd arrived home early from work.  Same old, same old, he came through their large foyer, stepped into his office, then headed down the corridor to the kitchen - for he hadn't had any breakfast nor lunch.  Though the couple would be having dinner at the country club, Ward senior needed something to tie him over.  Carlotta, a young woman, who was working summers to help pay for college, was polishing the refrigerator.   Just when he was about to ask her if she'd throw together a quick sandwich, he noticed the red mark upon the girl's left jaw.   His appetite had gone right out the window; he departed from the kitchen area, and went looking throughout the 9k square foot residence for his wife. 

Having found her, in her office suite, just a little down the other hallway, he entered, and announced that they needed to talk.  She, barely looking away from her screen, spoke dismissively, that she had some paperwork, in relation to a recent video conference.  The two had then exchanged some terse words.  "Dora, I have a good mind to turn..."  She arose from her exec chair, and countered, eyeball to eyeball, "Ward Waterfeld, you wouldn't dare."

"Oh, wouldn't I?"  Pokerfaced, he had left her domain.

While the adults were talking politics, Molly arose, reached into the frig for a soda, but changed her mind.  If she was, later on,  going to eat a gob...she then noticed the plate, peeking from beneath a tea-towel, upon the drying rack.  Darn.  Oh well, wasn't the first time she'd take the trouble to make something, only to not even get to enjoy so much as a crumb.  She, instead, wanting to remain close - her mother would shortly be needing help with the dishes - headed upstairs to text Tami,  another one of her girlfriends.

"He'll get things done!"  Ward senior rubbed his full belly, which, over the years, had begun to blanket over his slender frame.  While the two men didn't always agree on things, Ward junior was with his father, on whom to vote as the nation's next president.  The russian premier was a force, and unfortunately Donalds... "Good night!" the old man added, "Donalds looked like a student about to be whipped by his head master."  The old man laughed, poking his son in his, still mostly flat, waistline; he had also attended boarding school.  Junior didn't find his father's latest remark, or the poke, all that amusing - while the man had, for the most part, enjoyed his school years, there were times.... Some people are just ... evil.  

June silently fumed.  Though both Wards were right - especially concerning the Six-factions...oh what were their acronyms...this week?   Anyway, their needing to be taken to task in a "Premier" ... well, it stopped their even snarling weirdo nonsense, over there. Still, June didn't like Senator Rowan; not one bit - no way, no how!  She was going to vote for Donalds - and that's all there was to it!

Father and son both arose from the table, taking their coffee into the den.  June arose and began clearing the table, who was then joined by her daughter's assistance.  Dora had stepped into the livingroom.  From her large purse, she pulled out one of those corporate intrigue novels.    Pictured on the front cover, was some suit.  In the corner, part of some gal's ankle and stiletto heels.  Yeah, yeah, tease sells.  

June had seen it while grocery shopping; and had picked it up from the display, because a friend had told her about some of the characters.  She was going to buy it, until she read the middle paragraph.  In short, the volume was, eh, a bit racey - and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ward Waterfeld, Jr. cared to read those sorts of books - much less, expose that kind of stuff to their children.  Which, needless to say, wasn't always easy to find modern literature, which wasn't ... well, too defiling.

The day had been an especially long one, but such wasn't too unusual

for Mrs. Rowan.  Finally, she would be able to eat something.  The day had started out with a charity function - to which the Rowan's had arrived in the nick of time.  Traffic issues.  So, stopping for breakfast, had been tabled.  Next on tap, had been a campaign function, with a reception following.  But before she'd the opportunity to give her robust teutonic frame alittle something from the table - atleast one or two of the little sandwiches - the news people were on her like saran wrap.  

A family-focus piece.  The Rowan's forth son had been awarded, by the same prestegous university her brother, a prince of ... a minor European nation.  Martha just stood there, being pelted with questions, as her Husband proudly grinned - as if he was the center of attention.  Through it all, she was only able to steal a quick glance at one of the heaping plates.  

Just one little sandwich, that's all, just one!

The interview, finally over, her husband's fleshy paw, nudged - no, more like pushed - her from the hall, to their next stop, where another meeting was to take place.  And there, another reception table, had beckoned.  But that meeting, being of a lesser priority, the couple wasn't staying to enjoy any of the refreshments.

With buffet plate in one hand, Martha reached for one of the hot-plate spoons.  Small red potatoes a sauce of onion and various herbs.  Another hot-plate contained a lovely mix of snow-peas and almonds, which had been baked in a sauce containing...well, Martha wasn't sure, but it looked appetizing.  Her husband's focus was upon the beef being cut at the entree line's end.  He "nudged" his wife to move it along.  The Senator's plate was already filled with chicken, sausage, a big scoop of mashed potatoes, peas, two rolls, and something else.  

Oh my, Martha smiled upon seeing a plate of little turnovers containing shrimp and some sort of cheese.  She placed two of these alongside the mix of broccoli and mushroom.  Oh my goodness, there sat a tray of ... she reached for one.  As she reached for the second small morsel, her husband's lips whispered in her ear - something related to a nearby plate of wrapped sausages - while his paw, innapropriately, brushed up against her.

Martha bit her lip.  A nearby snicker meant the comment had been overheard.  Jerk!  Sometimes, just once, she'd like to just turn around and smack him a good one - and one for dufus too.  But Earl Rowan was the sort to smack back - harder.  So, that wasn't going to happen again, anytime soon.

At the beautifully set table, Earl dug into his heaping plate.  As the plate servings shrank, being relocated into stomachs, the conversations grew.  Earl was in his glory, boasting  - sometumes, with his mouth half full... ugh - the accomplishments of "My" sons; as if, he made it all happen on his own.  As for the couple's two daughters...well, Dear Reader, we know that drill:  their sole purpose in life, being to marry and crank out grandbabies.  Like the three, two from one son, and the youngest from another, wasn't enough, for now?

Earl's cell buzzed, he retrieved it from his suit-coat pocket.  The senator arose, "Gentlemen - and ladies - please excuse me for a moment."  Earl didn't read the text as he made his way from the room.  He simply deleted it.  The nerve, that "that" would even think...give a girl a few roses, and the little tramp gets ideas.  He took an available seat in the convention center's lobby, where he sent a brief text to Abigail - his HR point of contact; the effective date being Tuesday morning, the day after the labor day holiday.

The Waterfeld's two houseguests had arrived: Ward Senior and ... ugh, witchiepoo, her mother-in-law.

Wifely duties...ugh!  June could barely stand that cold-eyed woman.  She gathered, the feeling was mutual.  Dora, though not outright, made it clear enough, that she was of one class, while her daughter-in-law was from another.  The inenudos, over the years, they just hurt.  But what really griped June's griddle up one side and down the other was, how the old bat took little time for either Robert or Molly.  Fortunately, both kids, more less, let it ride.  Their Grandma Shafley filled that void with stories about the farm, and apple pie.   June had to be honest, the woman intimidated her to the core.  If mom was in June's shoes... she would console herself, mom wouldn't put up with the mind-gaming, "no way, no how!"

June reached into the refrigerator for a plate of about eight gobs, which her daughter had made during the previous evening - there had been twelve, but Robert ...  She turned toward the den, but didn't quite make it, before the "oooollll" monster had spotted the incoming treat bombs.  Between the two Wards, maybe Dora, Molly and herself might each get to enjoy one.  Maybe.

After brewing another pot, and reloading the silver tray, June returned with the plate.  There were two gobs left.  Just then Robert passed, and latched onto them both.  "Thanks Mom!"  He took off.  She stood there dumbfounded.  What would she offer Dora?

"Oh do sit down." Dora gently placed her cup upon the saucer.  "I would have declined anyway."  Dora smoothed the silk folds of her blouse, then added, "they put on pounds."  The woman's steeley gaze lit upon June's waist - which had, over the years, thickened just a few inches.  Hurt feelings again, even though Ward had never implicated - let alone said - anything.  Oh sure, he wouldn't be pleased with a blubber-ball, but she knew, that he knew his wife well enough to know the care she took to remain attractive to him.  

Needless to say, the botox-buffed old woman launched into a litany of her preferences, her accomplishments, her associations with the who's who, her career.  Gaagg!  June glanced at her crochet basket, but didn't go for it.  Witchiepoo, during her last invasion, had made a snide remark about a cousin of hers, who "confused keeping house and knitting sweaters with actually doing something."  June didn't know the woman, only that she was the wife of Senator Rowan?  Or whatever the jerk's name was.  Christian Right Wing...my.big.bee-stung.toe!  Ugh, the condescending old flatulence was putting it out to...whomever was his current temp.  June's heart went out to the geezer's wife. 

Half her foot was swollen.  Not so much for it having stepped, some hours earlier, into the backyard, but because of the purely simple commonsense FACT that any sore foot needs at least some inactivity.  It was going to be a long weekend.

At the little bistro, on the corner, in town, Ward and June, were still getting reacquainted. Okay, so that dad-n-son gig had only been four days,

oh, just chalk it down...marrieds being marrieds... still a few of 'em around.  Thank. You.  LORD! Anyway, the couple's conversation meandered it's way here and there.  The Labor Day festivities were to kick off the following morning.  First, the vintage car parade - that would be around 11; last year's homecoming king and queen would be riding in the back of Roy's 1967 Pontiac Lemans.  Some twittering activity, was going on about that.  The king, a good looking young man, had either played quarter or running back for the school's team.  Ward didn't let on to the fact, that he didn't really know - much less had played - football, or basketball.  

Ward's sport had been - throughout his adult years - hitting the gym...well, atleast when the books, ever beckoning, would leave him alone for an hour or so, here and there, allowing him to atleast try to work out atleast some of the nerdiness.  Never really happened.  But just as well.  June liked him - alot, evidently.  He liked June.  After all these years...still, very much.

Anyway, the school's homecoming queen was... You guessed it, one of the cheerleaders.  A pretty girl, with long jet black hair.  The girl's mom owned the tax-account/notary place; her father wasn't around and hadn't been, for about the past four or five years.  Had to have been tough going for the kid, and probably still was.  Her daddy's remains lay in a big box, in the veterans' grave yard.  Story was, he had been one among many, who had not been killed by ammo.  The man had, instead, frozen to death, upon distant stepps.  

All in all, last year's choice yet remained a sore spot among a few of the town's more prominent citizens.  One topic leading to another, June leaned forward across the table to share a townie-tidbit - nothing serious, the woman wasn't a gossip.   Had her husband needed to repeat any of the two or three sentences, he wouldn't have had a clue.  His attention was focused ... well, elsewhere.

Wherever their attentions were, the couple's eyes - as well as the that of the waitress, and the two or three other customers - became fixated upon the flatscreen.  The Russian Premier didn't appear at all happy.  And neither did President Donalds - yikes, the pres looked ... concerned.  Concerned, that he'd be seeing an oral surgeon - in about three minutes.  In perfect english, the red-faced premier, within the 18" inches, bellowed,"WHAT THE *CK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"  

But what could our president say?  Sorry??  Problem was, even the most sincerest apology could not bring back the two russian kids - one aged nine, and the other around five or six - who had been adopted by a couple, who had lived ... well, actually, not too far from the bistro.   Abuse.  Not a smack on the bottom for getting caught sneaking cookies before dinnertime.  There were no cookies, nor was there dinner either.  Bad, really bad.

The afternoon that mother and daughter had left the cutting table, making their way to the register,

they passed an old woman, whose eyes lit upon exactly the fabric she was looking for - and the bolt looked as if there was, at the very least, eight yards.  Lucky day...well, pretty much so.  The store did not have the reddish quartz buttons she wanted - needed a dozen - so she settled for the whitish ones.  Perhaps a drive to the big-box?  But that wasn't happening, bigs confused her - and so did driving any more than absolutely necessary.  Besides, there wasn't a whole lot of time.    This project wasn't like the last - where a pucker, here or there, would go unseen.  Checking her list, against the items in her cart, she had four spools of blood red thread.  As for the hem binding, there was no dark red, so she chose ten yards of white 3/4 inch cotton lace.  

The table attendant glowered, just a bit, at her upcoming customer.  The old woman cared not to take it personally - the clerk likely had a full shift, after her shift.  Oh probably, for starters:  run over to the daycare - and run quickly, lest she be charged an extra bundle - then over to the macarches for calorie-loaded burgers, fries and sodas - a recipe for a messy car, made messier.  

And yeah, Mrs. Andstone had a point - and alot of them - on her website - which, by the way, had, for some years, been creating ... a hornet's nest - especially among the Six faction, and absolutely, among their handlers.  Anyway, Mrs. A's experience with single motherhood, probably did not extend beyond some three to four days per year.  And Mrs. A. - per the Lord's blessings - didn't have to muck it out, in all sorts of weather, to the daycare, and to the workplace.  So yeah, the overly-thick clerk was so, because...well newsflash: healthy eating requires time - another little luxury, the poor woman, obviously didn't have.

Hmmph, the old woman pondered on, while waiting - she was now second in queue.  What was the cares-worn clerk supposed to have done?  'Oover'd 'em out??   

Sheesh, it wasn't like Mom had anything to do with it. Molly watched the news footage, while mopping a corner of the livingroom.

It was saturday, and while they both - Molly moreso - had enjoyed their mother and daughter weekend, but it didn't take a genius to figure, mom missed dad - bigtime!  Neither did it take a current-events whiz to figure out what was causing the protesters to be more hyena-ish as usual.   Molly rolled her eyes at the can't-please-no-how--no-way crowd - Gram Schlafly's way of describing people who wanted everything their own way - and nuts to anyone else.

The trade agreement between the us and russia spelled, not only JOBS!!!  But jobs that paid sustainable wages, for both americans and russians.  And ESPECIALLY farmers.  Russia needed wheat, and would need more - especially since, there were already more Russians.  The ban had - sometime during, or just after the war - gone into effect.  As for protests?  Probably not, for the most part.

From what Molly had been able to determine - though separating real news from fake...goodluckwiththat; the United Russian States, was still, in a way, soviet - over there, you either conform to certain standards, or - at best - end up very embarrassed.  Oh what was the name of that punker group?  Molly had been midway in  10th grade, when, before millions of viewers, the five members - none of whom had chosen to be identified as either male or female...  Anyway, five rear ends likely had difficulty sitting down for several days.  

Yep, our too-outspoken teenage heroine had a good chuckle, watching the footage.  Come the next day, during current-events class ... that was serious.   The mere act of raising her hand, to give a response to the teacher's question ...  "ba-but, it's their nation, we can't just..."  Long story short, not only did several classmates make the remainder of the year, uh, sometimes less than pleasant, but a few teachers as well.  But she'd gotten through okay - much thanks to her kid brother.  Robert had taught her how to keep from getting beat up.  

"Whoa, WHOA, what th' *CK??"  the mop handle slid to the floor.  

"Molly Elizabeth Waterfeld, I heard that!" June's voice called from the family's home office.

"MOM!  They just upturned a car, and some guy was in it."  Molly continued watching the screen.  The police, even with the recent staffing upramps, weren't quite enough to stay the rioters.  The mobs - these, not in New York, or Washington, but in the normally quiet Harristown; their state's capitol.  "And why the labor and industry building?  They're about JOBS!  What the hey?"

"Some people are just beyond reason."  June passed from the livingroom into the kitchen.  "Would you like some coffee too?"

What?  Molly eyes became saucers.  It was like ww freaking 3 was kicking off...coffee??

A few moments later, her mom returned, sitting two mugs on the coffee table.  "Surely,

you didn't expect this all to pass, without pushback."  Both women sat on the sofa, sipping their beverage.

"Well, not so...sheesh, miss the news for...what?  not even two days...  Both women had been busy cutting fabric, and making clothing.   "oh my God!"

A bomb had exploded, sending limbs...  The screen went blank, but not quick enough for viewers to see bits of gore spattered upon the camera lense.

For a moment, both women sat dazed and dumbfounded.  June wearing some of her coffee, the cup lay upon the rug, the handle peeking from beneath the coffee table.  "Mom, that was just a stunt.  Right?"  Molly then bolted for the little powder room, which sat between the kitchen and the back foyer.

Molly glowered at the two middleaged women, snickering a few tables over.

While kids had their own lingo, so did grownups.  She took a nibble from her boss.  When Molly was in 9th grade, it was called a sub - but that term took on connotations, which had nothing to do with a mother and daughter splitting a large sandwich.  Even though the change was...what?  Two years?  Still, when kids said meatball sub, that meant going down to the square for food.  Boys were lucky, they could eat an entire footlong, and not gain an ounce.  Molly still had ten pounds to offload before school started - which was just over a week away.  Meanwhile, the dessert kiosk beckoned, but Molly kept her eyes from wandering in that direction. 

The flatscreen on the wall, near where the snickerers were seated, was concluding the forecast.  In short: rain, and more rain.

"Bummer!" Molly stirred unsweetened iced tea, then continued, "thad' el trash the guys' weekend."

June pursed her lips, but let her daughter's contractions slide.  "No worries, sweetie, your father and brother will have a good time anyway."

"Wa..."  Molly glanced at the map, now fading from the screen.  "Doing what?"

"Getting wet and muddy."  June stretched her lips, then added, "the retreat is about indoor activities as well, a conference."

Oh brother, good luck with that!  Molly suppressed the jibe - Robert sitting quietly...for more than fifteen minutes??  Yeah, right!

It was as if June had read her daughter's mind.  "Robert will learn things."

"Things?"

The conversation was preempted, from a news announcement, coming from the screen.  Upon the screen, two men - one in a some 20k business suit, the other in a uniform, with metals about everywhere - were shaking hands.  The guy in the military gear, was significantly shorter than President Donald's.  Yes, the trade agreement had been met, but their mannerisms screamed for want of boxing gloves.  

Who would win?  Molly pondered.  While President Donald's stood 6'2" and appeared to be a bit more than able to hold his own, the Russian Premier looked like he could fold the President like a dollar store camp chair.   The scene then faded to a more recent one, but not before the two snikerers took to cursing - bad!  Without so much as even ONE commercial break, the screen showed a wedding, which had taken place...last tuesday.  Or had it been wednesday?  Whatever...the cathedral - which, back in soviet days had been a meeting hall, had been restored to being a place where people gathered to sing hymns, and to hear Bible sermons.  

The cursings became a bit louder. 

"Please!"  A grandmother whispered, while holding her hands against her youngster's ears.  The old woman's plea was not taken too kindly.  Shaken, she placed bills on the table - alongside the two unfinished lunches - she quietly, but quickly, escorted her grandbaby out the door.  

Molly glowered.  The old woman didn't appear to have money left over to spend on lunches, that couldn't be enjoyed.  Molly wanted to go over and just pop the loud one.  Her mother's eyes - a bit cowered - calmly said, "Sweetie, just let it pass."  Her mom knew things that Molly didn't, so she stayed.  Mean could be dealt with.  But vicious??  That, you gave a wide berth...if at all possible.

As June began reaching for her purse, her hand stayed, her attention upon the screen.  "Oh my goodness!"  The bride's dress was both simple and lovely.  That was becoming a trend, a return to a time when wedding dresses weren't just packed away, post-ceremony.  New brides were wearing them to dinner parties and such, even as long as two years after the wedding.  

Not everyone welcomed this economy.  Certainly not the two hyenas, who were currently nipping at each other, over ... oh, probably the lunch check.

The camera then focused upon the Premier, who had accompanied his granddaughter down the long aisle, to where the President's grandson awaited.  The look on the groom's face, took on an expression of concern, when his grand father-in-law spoke something into the guy's ear.  It was then, June smiling, - ear to ear - blurted out a russian phrase.  Best translated as:  "Treat her right, or I'll kill you."  She then giggled like a school girl.

The two hyenas were not amused.

S*it!  Molly gulped.  "Mom, we'd better go."

 

The old man backed into a space, located not far from the sign-tower. The van door creaked a bit as he opened it. He made

a mental note to spray it down...the WD was...somewhere in the back.  That was another thing on his list; with the challenges of old age, he didn't need clutter to muck up his mobility, any more than getting around already was.  He ambled over toward a vendor's tent, which had been erected, in the middle of the parking lot - just a bit aways from the bank and the neighboring auto parts franchise. 

A few minutes later, a little sky-blue toyota, slowly slid into a row of nearby spaces.  A young girl was behind the wheel; in the passenger seat sat a middle-aged woman.  

While the old man's vision wasn't the greatest, doggoneit, that woman was a beauty.  Here and there around town, he'd see Mrs.Waterfeld either buying groceries, going into the bank, and such.  Always, her obviously long hair gathered up, and her buxom figure beautifully draped in dresses and skirts.  

He made his way to the tent.  Hmmph, the fireworks were more like glorified sparklers - and not quite that glorified.  Dernit, he muttered to himself, something about guys cain't be havin no fun.

Molly pulled the key from the ignition, as her mother extended her hand to receive the chain, her eyes spotted the old van.  Her beautifully manicured hand began to shake. "Ca-can we pa-park someplaceelse?"

"Sure Mom."  Molly caressed her mother's hand.  Molly looked around in all directions.  Oh brother, the lot was about jammed, vehicles - oblivious to something called, uhm, traffic lane markers (hello?) - people driving or walking about every which way they chose.  If it weren't for the green grass and flowered bushes, you'd think it was about ten days before Christmas. But just as well to park down the strip; her mother said something about needing to buy a few more ink cartridges - PlanetFabric didn't sell those.

Oh, wwow, that smelled good. Banana walnut bread. From the kitchen Ward heard the sound of glass meeting cooling racks. Gurgles from the coffee pot

made the kitchen melody, a duo.  No wait, the rattle of plates, cutlery and cups, a chorus.  Joining in, was the soft click of high heels.  June removed her apron, hung it on the refrig door handle, picked up a tray and entered Ward's office.  She set down the tray and stirred some creamer into his coffee.  With tray in hand, as she turned to leave, he asked her if she had a few moments.   She took a seat upon a leather padded chair across from the his executive.  She then arose to get her cup, which was sitting on the kitchen counter.  

He took a key and unlocked a drawer and pulled out his daughter's spiral bound notebook.  "Have you read any of this."

His wife's jaw dropped a bit.  "No.  Of course not."

"NO?"

June took another sip from her cup and placed it back on its saucer.  She then met his gaze.  "Dear, that would be prying."

"Molly is sixteen" Ward responded "You're supposed to pry!"  He handed her the notebook.

She opened the volume, turned a few pages.  "What beautiful penmanship!"  June lovingly turned a few more pages.

Somebody just shoot me, Ward rolled his eyes.  Sometimes the lady's ditsyness just amazed him.  

Near the middle, was inserted a business card - Decker and Dee's, a little coffeeshop across the street from the law office.  June turned to the marked page.  "Like the Nation of Gilead, the United States of Socialist Republic was also a theocracy.  While the former professed to worship the Holy Trinity, the later made Lennin their god.  Whenever the State dictates who, and who not, is God, it's always a salvation-by-works religion.  Always."

The following several pages contained about a dozen quotes from the framers of the United States Constitution - many whom June was clueless.  During her US history class, sometimes just staying awake was enough ... between milking cows at 5am, stacking firewood, lugging feed bags, shooting coyotes...

"Ward, our Molly is so smart."  June beemed.

Not wanting his response to be taken the wrong way, Ward paused, before blurting his, "too smart!"  But moreso, neither did he want to create more worry than needed.  But, at the same time, to just go on, as if it was still the 2010s - when high schoolers could raise their hands and ask questions, and respectfully voice disagreement...Those days were gone.

Along with several individuals.  

They never did find the sister of one of his colleagues.  Shortly after that youngish widow had self-published "The Smith's."  He'd gone through a ream of paper, and about three cartridges; the volume, in a binder, was safely hidden upon a shelf, in the long cabinet, located to his right.  Needless to say, her novel - which she had made freely available...and never mind, she could have used the money...anyway, her site, unsurprisingly, was no longer available.

What was wrong with people? The heels of June sandals clicked as she paced the kitchen floor.

She glanced at the range.  The steak and potatoes were, by this time, about room temperature.  As probably the soup, which sat upon the dining room in a tureen.   She had already placed a cloth over the crystal salad bowl.  The ice, which had chilled a bottle of concord grape juice was nearly melted.  And her children were restless - moreso Robert, who would have been more than fine with a hotdog; the boy had planned a BugOut business meeting - which, of course had to be cancelled.  

Monday through Saturday, dinner at 6pm, washed hands and clean clothes, required.  The second Waterfeld house rule.  The first rule, of course, was: be ready for church nlt 9am, and 5:30 pm.  Dinner at 2.  Needless to say, Robert was less than overjoyed to have the day so segmented.

Molly was hungry too, but she held off from eating anything to tie her over; she wanted to lose 15 pounds in time for school.  Atleast keeping it off would be easier this year - since, per a recent announcement, the vending machines were gone, and the cafeteria would no longer serve any dessert items.  In addition, both breakfast pastries and sugary cereals would also not be available.  

A bit after 7, was announced by the hum of a certain cadillac pulling into the drive, followed by the creak of the door leading from the kitchen to the garage.  Ward set his briefcase upon a little table just inside the back foyer.  The story was written all over his face.  Waterfeld rule number 3:  sometimes dinner has to wait, because - in the real-world - not everyone pulls their weight.  

Ward kissed his wife on her forehead.  The family sat down.  Ward gave the blessing.  The dishes were, of course, first passed to Ward - whose income made it possible to have things like, steak, beautiful china, a ten room house, warm clothing, beautiful dresses... then Robert, Molly and June.  Robert glanced out the window, the daylight was fading - the boy's important agenda thwarted...because of some as*hat, at Dad's office ...

Both parents cast a sympathetic eye toward their son.  The boy was twelve, old enough to run and play after dark.  But Ward's and June's childhood ... different times, very different.  The family conversed about this and that.  But one thing neither parent wanted to think about - let alone mention, in front of their children, or anyone else's, was a certain newsarticle.

The kid had been found - in a ditch.  An empty brown bottle was upon his/her person - and this blogger cares not to go into detail. He/she was still alive, barely, when the EMT's transported him/her, but the youngster died enroute.   The person's birth gender was not disclosed, pending family notification, but the youth's age was estimated to be between 12 and 14.  

While June was describing some archeological find, somewhere in...where was that place again?  Well, that was Waterfeld rule #4:  no electronic media at the table.  Ward's phone, buzzed from within his case.  He glanced over, but whomever was calling could wait a half hour or so.  Ward had no issue, if he ended up in his office until ten or eleven o'clock - that came with the territory - but the dinner hour?  That was family time.

Ward's eye caught the front cover of a certain paperback.  Upon it was a woman, wearing a shapeless dark red dress, upon her head was a white bonnet, which hid her face.  Peeking beneath the paperback was a spiral bound steno-pad, beneath that was Molly's pocketbook.  Molly flinched, upon recalling having parked the book to read Kelly's text - the next hour or so, the two teens texted each other about ... teen stuff.  The book forgotten.  The evidence was clear enough.  Her father's direct eye contact spelled one word:  Busted. 

Ba-uug  OUT!  "Daddy, may I be excused?"  With a nod of his father's approval, Robert was gone!  Ward arose from the table, walked over to retrieve his cell.  He then stepped into his office.  "Help!" Molly whispered as she and her mother cleared the table and began rinsing the dishes and vessels.  Needless to say, June was somewhat ill at ease, since, it was also clear enough, she was an accomplice.

An hour or so later:

"But Daddy, it's on the summer reading list."

"Molly, bring it to me."

"FINE!"  The teen stomped from the livingroom, stomped through the kitchen, and into the back foyer.  She had so wanted to add that she'd already read it twice, but her blunder of having left it sit, now had involved another person.  Her mother.  Molly handed the book to her father.  Steely eyed, she then spoke.  "Father, if I may be excused, I so much want to go and read REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM!!!"  The girl turned and bounded up the steps, then slammed shut her bedroom door.

He calmly turned to ascend the steps, but his wife stepped in front of him.  "Ward, please!"  His wife's moist eyes, met his steeley gaze.  He whispered something in her ear, as he gently nudged her aside.  

A van, with a broken wiper on the passanger side, was parked near the sign tower - which identified both a

a big-box and a liquor barn.  Outside of which, were posted several want ads.  The driver and his four or five passengers were down on their luck.  The passenger-side wiper-blade had split right after the last blizzard - which came down late February. 

A bumblebee landed upon the torn rubber, and then flew off.  Perhaps the little creature wanted to distance itself from the foulness going on inside.  The little bug found a better hangout - a picnic table, upon which a soda can and a half eaten portion of catsupy fries laying in a bed of various other food containers.  It buzzed around the soda can, but found a beverage more to its liking -  none other than a partially consumed tumbler of Grandma Evan's Sweet Tea.  The beverage was expensive - $6.99 for a 12-ounce serving - and probably had been purchased from the StellaDeer kiosk, located just inside the big-box; was one of the few containing, atleast some, real sugar.  The bumblebee, after partaking the banquet, landed upon a dandelion, one which grew not far from the parked three-seater.

"Gimmee a hit a that," a passenger - sitting in the middle seat, between two other, larger passengers - grabbed for the little brown bottle, which was being passed over him/her.  The mook, sitting to his/her right belched into his/her face a "say please."  He and the other guy then laughed.  Left mook then pointed to the back, where seat #3 had been taken out and replaced with a grimy piece of frayed, threadbare carpet.  

Meanwhile, the couple up front were shot gunning each other, while passing a bottle of cheap bourbon.  The girl cranked up the cd player, to drown out the noise coming from the back.  Teather's new cd was crushing.  She began jerking and making noises of her own.  Her boyfriend's motions were not in kind.  His heel pinched her finger as he began climbing over the seat.

"What th...?"

"Shut it ...!"  The third scornful word isn't fit for this post, neither is his description of a certain natural process, which our Lord of Lords has ordained for women.

Outside, the little bee had, evidently, more than enough.  It flew off - not caring to stick around for act two, where the almost empty little bottle is thrown to the back of the van.  Needful to say, there was barely a sip left, for the individual who had put up with ... all that.  

The four hours nearly up, the driver turned on the engine, in pursuit of another spot - and one more profitable.  After all, they lolligagged long enough, and needed to score.  

"Aawww," the girl sneered, "wudjalookit who just pulled up."  She took a swig of bourbon, and handed it back to her boyfriend, who about finished it off. Meanwhile, inside her bag, laying at the bottom, was a small bottle of the "good" stuff, but that was to pre-party,  before the party later on.  And she wasn't sharing with any of those people either.  The girl glowered.  A beam of sunlight caught "Mmrss-sez Cleevrrr"s engagement ring.  The mid-thirtyish woman's long nails were painted a bright pink.  The girl continued glowering, polish probably cost a bundle.  She muttered something about rich people.

"Rock-n-roll!"  She ordered her boyfriend, the driver of her van.  He pulled forward, barely missing a truck, into the space, already occupied by June's little  green datsun.  Her plastic hood was too little for the van's super-duper metal grille.  Her headlights popped like bubble-gum, the hood crinkled like an off-brand soda can.  "BOOF!" The hood folded more, steam and liquid poured from the radiator, oil oozed from a crack in the engine block.

"MOLLY, NO!"  June screamed, but too late.  Molly was already out of the car, with baseball bat in hand.  From within the van, eyes became saucers, jaws dropped.  The van backed up, crashing into two vehicles parked in the next row, and denting a third.  The creeps hightailed out of there, barely missing two teens - one staring into his phone, the other fixated on a top-heavy, boyishly slender clownhead.