Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to Ashes

A short murder mystery story by

Phil Ruby

I, being an ordinary man with ordinary dreams and liking a simple, peaceful life, am often startled by the occasional unveiling of human nature’s darkest side. It comes without warning from some of the least suspect people. I enjoy writing short stories as a hobby. I usually stay clear of the horror genre, but the story I am about to share has given me nightmares and cause to doubt even the most trustworthy people. It is a true story about something that happened to me and a few of my friends. It has changed me forever. I’m Calvin Waters. Everyone just calls me Cal. In spite of my desire for a life of peace and simple tranquility, my reality has been somewhat chaotic. It seems the longer I seek peace, the harder turmoil seeks me. This event was pretty much the culmination of that pattern.

I met Jay through a mutual friend. Actually, the lady I was dating, Jane, was best friends with the woman, Penny, who was dating Jay. I will leave out last names for the sake of, well, let us say my own safety. The four of us came together one evening to play cards in my lady friend’s townhouse. There was wine, chips and salsa, and lively conversation. Jay was a smiling, friendly and soft spoken man. He was obviously intelligent, as demonstrated by his eloquent use of language and his knowledge of many subjects. We talked about books, music, relationships, technology, and science topics. Jay would often toss something out just to get a reaction.

“Cal,” Jay said, and then paused until he had my full attention, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

That came out of the blue. “I don’t have enough information to believe or disbelieve in that,” I answered in my usual skeptical manner.

“Ah…insufficient data.”

“Yes. Do you believe in reincarnation?” I turned the question around, also in my usual manner.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Jay said, then turned to the girls, one at a time. “How about you, Jane?” he asked.

“Yes. I do,” Jane said smiling. Jane was always smiling, and always accepting of just about any belief. Her philosophy was that all things exist together in a sort of cosmic harmony.

“Penny?” Jay asked.

Penny was a different sort from Jane. She was giddy, excitable, and indecisive. “I never really thought about it much,” Penny said, then broke into a giggle.

“That brings it back to you, Jay,” I said, not about to let him off the hook.

Jay’s answer sort of set the tone for my impression of him from then on. It was dark, shrouded in mystery, and intended to provoke more questions, rather than provide answers. “I believe in the ubiquity of time, space and the physical realm,” he began, “All things past, present and future coexist simultaneously. Therefore there is truly no past.”

I gazed at Jay with a sort of half smile…more of a smirk, really. He picked up on the fact that I knew it was all doubletalk. “Okay,” I said, “So, all that bullshit aside, what do you really believe?” Then I broke into a full grin.

Jay laughed. “I do believe I have been here before. I believe I am here now, and I am here in the future,” he said, “This life is only one of many existences we all experience.”

“There,” I said, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I was satisfied for the moment that I had gotten the answer; then I realized I still did not, really.

I am not a highly educated man, but have learned just enough to know when someone is truly knowledgeable and when someone is full of bull. Jay was not so much full of bull as a little showy in his way of letting us know that he was above average in intelligence. He was not afraid to spread a little manure in getting to his point.

After several evenings of card games, then a few more outings together with the girls, I felt I was beginning to know Jay pretty well. We laughed and enjoyed many things as a foursome. We played pool, darts, drank beer, and many other diversions.

Jay was an entrepreneur of sorts. His main line of work was in IT. He also was teaching business classes in connection with a state funded business development organization. After talking more, I learned that Jay also had a great interest in ceramics. He studied at a University in West Virginia to learn pottery and ceramics. He owned a couple of large kilns in a building near the school. It had been shut down for some time, because of Jay’s other interests. He just did not have time to do everything. I did notice that he seemed so self-involved that he never even asked what I did for a living. That was fine, since my own occupation as a wedding photographer and freelance writer would probably bore him anyway.

One evening at dinner, Jay, Jane, Penny and I were talking about literature, and what books we each liked to read. I have always leaned toward the fantasy and science fiction books. My favorite is Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. Penny was not much of a reader. Jane preferred murder mysteries. Jay talked more about an idea he had for a book that he dreamed of writing himself. He briefly mentioned it at first, only saying that he had an idea for the perfect murder mystery. Jane’s ears perked up as she questioned him incessantly about it. He would not say much.

Finally, the ladies went to the women’s restroom and Jay leaned over to me.

“I will tell you my idea,” he whispered. “I don’t think the girls would like it very much. They may think it’s too morbid.”

I told Jay that I doubted that Jane would find anything too morbid after hearing about some of the books she had read. Nonetheless, Jay would not tell anyone but me. I am not sure why. I think he felt that I, being a freelance writer, may write his story for him.

As Jay dribbled bits and pieces of his tale to me, I became a little more than intrigued.

“I have a kiln, as I told you,” Jay began. “I have studied many techniques in making ceramics and pottery. One of the techniques I am interested in is called ‘ash glazing’. Have you ever heard of that?

“No, I am afraid I have not,” I answered. “Tell me about it.”

I knew that he would, anyway, so I may as well sound interested.

“When you make ceramics,” he continued, “you start with bisque of the shape you want. You fire it in the kiln, and then add a glaze, and fire it again. The glaze can be a number of things. It can have metal dust, such as copper, or some sort of ash from different kinds of woods included. These added ingredients cause different colorings in the glaze. The color is never the same. It is always unique to each piece. Therefore, each well made piece can be a valuable work. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes,” I said, “So how does this lead to the perfect murder?”

At that time the women were returning from the bathroom. I expected Jay to become quiet, but instead, he continued. He was on a roll and did not want to leave the subject, so he decided to go ahead and include the ladies in the conversation. He turned to Jane, whom he knew was the most interested in such things.

“Jane, I have do have an idea for a perfect murder, and I want your take on it.”

Jane nodded like a school child about to get a candy bar. She grinned from ear to ear, and pleaded, “Yes, tell me about it. I can’t wait.”

As Jay continued on, he dropped hints here and there. He would ask along the way if anyone was onto the plot yet. None of us had a clue until nearly the end of his story. We were all hitting buckets of beer pretty hard, which may have slowed our perception just a little.

“That’s what I wanted to know,” Jay said. “You people are pretty smart. If you didn’t figure it out quickly, then chances are no one else will, either, and it will make a good book.”

As Jay talked of his ideas, he started by talking more about the glazing technique. He told about the kilns: their size and the operating temperatures. He talked of how many pieces of ceramics or pottery you can get into one of his large devices.

“A pottery kiln is heated to a temperature of around 1800 degrees Fahrenheit,” Jay said, “while a crematorium is only heated to around 1200 degrees, at most. When something is burned in a kiln, such as wood, paper, or anything organic, it breaks down to a finer ash, leaving nothing. Even DNA is destroyed.”

The mention of DNA gave me a clue where Jay was going. They always talk about DNA as a clue to a murder on those crime investigation type TV shows. It was not until he began talking about ancient China, and the use of human remains in the ashes, that I really got it. His murder mystery involved disposing of a body by burning it in the kiln, then using the ashes in the pottery and glaze.

Jay’s eyes almost seemed to burn with the fires of the kiln as he spoke of the changing colors of the glaze as the ashes and all the elemental compounds contained in the human body gave a unique look to each piece of ceramics. He spoke of the way the glaze drizzles down the sides of the article leaving burnt reds, oranges, greens, blues and other hues to the color of the vase, plate or other piece. His hands moved as if they were gliding along the surface of a magnificent vase.

Frankly, it was a little eerie. I was beginning to get the feeling that Jay has seen this first hand. I felt that possibly he would rather create the vase than write the book about it, meaning that he could conceivably actually put a human body into his kiln for the sake of the art. I did not know Jay well enough to assume this, nor did I know him well enough to discount it.

The beer and the time caught up with us that evening, and the discussion sort of faded into barely intelligible murmurings. We were all tired, sleepy, and half drunk. It was time to go. It was a very good thing that we were all close to home, and none of us had to drive but a mile or two.

For the next several days, I could not get Jay’s story out of my mind. He had said he was thinking of writing a book about it. I felt a little foolish for considering that Jay might actually commit such a heinous act. I laughed at myself. If he would have done something like that, he would certainly not write a book about it. Knowing a little about Jay told me that he probably intentionally wanted us all to wonder. He loved to keep people guessing, especially about him. It was sort of a way to keep the center of attention on him. This was a mildly annoying, but tolerable characteristic. For the most part, I found Jay fascinating, and entertaining.

One day after work, I came home, made myself a snack of peanut butter and crackers, and sat down at my computer to check my email.

“One from Jane,” I thought, “I’ll read the rest of them, or toss out all the junk emails, then get back to that, so I can focus on hers. Ah! There’s a joke from Dannie!”

Dannie was a friend of mine who always sent good jokes. He rarely ever sent a personal email. He only forwarded funny stuff, usually with some sexual humor. Dannie was a bit of a pervert, but a harmless one.

After chuckling over the picture of the girl with three boobs, I went on down the list, deleting all the crap email about Viagra, mortgage loans and so called “free” offers, which never are free, and get you on a list so you get even more junk email.

“Hmmm. There’s one from Jay,” I said aloud. It read:

“Hey, Cal,

How’s it going? You know, talking about my idea for the murder mystery the other night got me really interested in completing it. I know you write, and pretty well, from what I have read of your stories. Do you think you are interested in working with me on the book? I think it is a home run. It could be a best seller.

I’m not much of a writer, myself. I can’t stay focused long enough. I’m more of an idea man. Let me know.

Oh, by the way, great fun the other night. The four of us should get together again soon.

Thanks

J.”

I had been pretty sure that he would ask me to write for him. The idea did seem appealing. I don’t read much in the way of murder mysteries, and had never tried to write one before, but this did seem like the makings of a good plot. What if it did go to press, and become a best seller? It would be great to have my name on it. I decided to answer Jay’s email with a simple statement:

“I’m interested, Jay. Let’s talk more about it.”

That was all it took. Jay became obsessed with his story. He bombarded me with emails and phone calls when he had a new idea for something to add. His thoughts were very disorganized and chronologically mixed up. It would take months just to sort them all out and put them in some kind of intelligent order. I learned that we could add “ADD” and “OCD” to his alphabet soup of personality traits. Jay’s entire mood changed then. He became decidedly more serious.

The email from Jane was to ask me to come to her townhouse for another card game with Penny and Jay.

“Cal, please call me when you get this. Penny and I want to have another night of cards on Friday. I have wine, and I’m making that taco dip you like. You can pick up the chips and anything else you want to bring.”

I replied:

“I’ll be there!”

I was ready for something to take my mind off life.

All evening at the card table, Jay talked about his mystery. The girls would divert the conversation to another topic, but Jay would eventually bring it back up.

“Euchre!” Jane shouted. We had won the hand, and I was barely paying attention. Apparently she was.

“So this boy meets a girl,” Jay continued with his thoughts. “Then they go to college together, studying ceramics. The boy develops this ash glaze that everyone thinks is wonderful. It wins him awards, scholarships, the attention of art lovers, etc.”

“Sounds interesting so far,” I said. I kept thinking that the interest and attention this character was receiving was something Jay wanted for himself.

“What no one knows is that he is using the remains of animals, burned in his kiln, to make the ash glaze. That’s what gives it its unique coloring and appeal.” Jay’s eyes lit up as he talked about it.

“Wait till the PETA people get hold of this one,” I quipped. “So, where does the murder come into play?”

“Ah! The girlfriend breaks up with him. It seems he’s been so tied up in his ceramics that he has not been paying much attention to her. She had started to go out with another guy. Late one night, she comes back to his studio where he is working. She has decided that no matter what, she really wants to be with him.

When the girl appears at the door, another figure appears right behind her. She did not know that the other boy she was dating had followed her. There is an argument. The other boy is furious that the girl has gone back to the ceramics boy.”

“It would be easier, maybe, if we give them names,” I said, “So I can follow your story better.”

“Names,” Jay muttered. “I’ll leave that up to you. I don’t really care what their names are. This is about the story. You are the writer…you give them names.”

Jay did not care about names because the story was really about him. That was my conclusion. He continued his rather derailed train of thought:

“The boy had been abused by his father, growing up. He had been burned with cigars many times. He was all messed up in the head because of this, but most of his life it didn’t show. Every time he peeped into the kiln he would imagine his father inside there, burning, screaming for help, then falling into a pile of ashes like the squirrel, or other road kill he used in his ash glaze.”

As Jay talked about being burned with cigars, I remembered seeing a couple of scars on his arm once when he wore a short sleeved shirt, which he did not wear often.

“So let’s get back to the girlfriend,” I said, trying to keep him on track enough to write notes.

“Jay must have been the boy whose father abused him,” I thought to myself.

I looked around to see that the girls were no longer at the table with us. I guess the card game was over. They were in the living room drinking wine and listening to music.

“Yeah,” Jay continued, “The girl and her other boyfriend are arguing, and Jay is just standing there wondering why they are even at his studio. The other boy hits the door with his fist and stomps away angry. She says she wants to talk to the ceramics boy and is starting to tell him she wants to rekindle their relationship. Our boy is angry at her, too, and doesn’t give her much of a chance to talk. He screams at her to just go back to sleeping with other guys. They argue, and our boy picks up a piece of his ceramics to throw against the wall in anger. The girl moves just at the wrong moment, and the piece catches her right in the side of the head. She dies instantly.”

“Wow,” I said, “I didn’t see that coming. I thought the other boy would get it.”

“Okay, no, it was the girl.” Jay was on a roll, “So our boy is frantic. He can’t believe what just happened. Without even giving it much thought, in a state of panic, he puts the girl’s body, the bloody ceramic piece, and everything around that may have blood on it into the kiln and turns up the heat. He spends the night in the studio, going from crying to panicking, to falling asleep. He wakes up with a jerk and a feeling of panic again. He is not dealing with it well at all.

But then sometime in the morning, he just becomes numb. He mechanically removes the ashes from the kiln and begins making his glaze, just as though it was a dead dog in there. His face is expressionless. He has no emotion. He is totally numb, and has blocked the whole thing out.”

“There will be an investigation because of the missing girl,” I said.

“Yes,” Jay agreed, “And the other boy will be suspected, because people saw them fighting outside the studio, and saw the other boy stomp away.”

We were interrupted by Penny and Jane coming back into the kitchen, where the card table was now covered with my notes.

“It’s time for you to go now,” Jane said, “I’m tired, and I have to work tomorrow for a while.”

“I’m tired, too,” Penny added. “Let’s go, Jay. You haven’t said two words to me since you started working on that story of yours.”

For the next few weeks, the four of us would get together off and on, but the girls made us promise not to work on the book while we were visiting. That was fine with me. I was getting a little too much of it at once myself. Jay and I would work on the book through emails and phone calls in between our outings. It was clear, however, that there was something different about the relationship between Jay and Penny. Obviously, Jay was not happy that he could not indulge himself in his obsession over the book all the time. There were comments. Penny often dropped hints that there was very little sex, and that Jay didn’t seem interested in her as much anymore.

“He’s been going down to his ceramics studio all the time, getting more ideas for his damn book,” Penny complained. She shot me a glance of disapproval for helping him with it.

Jay would roll his eyes and scowl at Penny every time she made such a remark. I would have given them about a month more before that relationship ended. As it turns out, I was right. I never would have guessed, however, just how it would end.

“I thought you had that studio shut down,” I said.

“I’m doing research,” Jay mumbled, glaring at Penny.

For the next few nights I could barely sleep. When I did fall asleep I would awaken in a cold sweat after having a short dream about Jay. Sometimes the dream would be of him as a child being burned by his father. Other times I would dream of Jay killing someone and shoving them in his kiln. Was this the disturbed man I was beginning to believe he was? Was his story about him? Could he really do such a thing? Maybe he just wanted to get back at his father, so he was playing the scenes out in his book idea. Either way, I was more and more convinced that Jay, as intelligent as he was, was not right in the head.

When Jay did contact me again, he seemed a little down. He called me on the phone one Friday evening, and his voice was weak and almost monotone.

“What’s up, Jay?” I asked, “You seem pretty low tonight.”

“I think Penny’s breaking up with me,” he said sadly.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I am obsessed with this book, and my ceramics. I get that way. I am more than a little OCD,” Jay paused, and I did not have an answer.

After a long pause, I finally broke the silence. “Well, I’m sure you can work it out, Jay. Just take a break and spend some time with her.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Jay agreed. “Let’s play cards tomorrow evening. I’ll talk to Penny about it, and you talk to Jane.”

“Sure,” I said, “…but let’s not talk about the book or anything. That could be a bad idea.”

“All right.” Jay sounded a little more optimistic.

We did get together, and we did play cards. It was light and friendly. Jane seemed a little nervous, but I was not sure why, and I had learned not to ask. She would tell me if and when she felt like it.

After Jay and Penny left, Jane immediately told me what was bothering her. “Penny is breaking up with Jay tonight,” she said.

“He told me she might,” I answered, “but I suggested spending some time with her, like tonight. I thought it may help.”

“It didn’t help,” Jane said emphatically. “There’s more to it than his not spending time with her. She’s freaking about this whole book idea, because it seems to her he is talking about himself. He was abused as a child. The whole fantasy is too much like what Jay’s going through. Frankly, she’s a little afraid of him now.”

“Has he ever gotten violent with her,” I asked. I was getting shaky. The adrenalin was coursing through me. I was having the same feelings and doubts about Jay.

“He has never even spoken harshly to her,” Jane said. “Even when they argue, he’s always calm and never raises his voice. He has never touched her in any way but lovingly.”

“So….” I was confused.

“So he’s a little too controlled,” Jane said. “It’s like he doesn’t have any real emotions. Like the character in his book…kind of mechanical.”

“Well, I have seen emotion,” I disagreed, “…but only when he’s talking about the book.” My own words reinforced her thoughts, in a way.

Neither Jane nor I heard from Penny or Jay for a week. We both began to worry about how the breakup went. It was unusual for Penny not to call Jane for more than a day or two. I had come to expect Jay’s calls and emails about the book. There had been no communication since the card night.

“Jay said that he had re-opened the pottery studio where he had been making ceramics before,” Jane said, “He said it was for research. I ignored it, because we had agreed not to talk about the book.”

“I know,” I said, thinking deeply.

I’m sure that both Jane and I were thinking along the same lines. Could Jay have been so upset over the breakup that he would do something to Penny? I wouldn’t say it, and neither would she. It was an unspoken communication between us.

That Friday evening, Jane called me in a frantic voice, saying, “Come over here, please, Cal! Something’s happened!”

“What is it?” I probed.

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Please hurry!” and she hung up the phone.

When I arrived at Jane’s townhouse, she opened the door before I got up the steps and motioned me inside. She began to tell me about a phone call she had just gotten from Penny.

“I was glad to see her number pop up. I was so worried about her!” Jane began, “She started to say something, then I heard a crash, like something heavy broke. She screamed! Then the connection was lost!”

“That doesn’t sound good at all,” I said, already turning to go back out. “I’m going to see what’s going on!

“Where are you going? Where would you look?” Jane asked hysterically now.

Jay’s got a pottery studio near the school. I’m going to find it. There may be something there to see.

“I’ll go with you!” Jane started to follow.

“Absolutely not!” I shouted, scaring Jane a bit. I realized how I’d sounded and softened my voice, “Too dangerous. You stay by your phone in case I need you to call 911.” Jane didn’t argue, and I left.

 I found Jay’s studio from the bits and pieces of information he had given me about its location. I arrived at the back door, where he had said he usually went in, just after dark. There was a light on inside. There was a little smoke coming from the flu above what I assumed was a kiln. I got out of my car and approached the door, which had a little peep window in it. It was a little smoky and dingy, but I could see a little. I kept moving my head around to see more of the room.

On the floor was a pair of women’s pumps. That’s shoes, to most guys. I happened to know because Jane and Penny were always talking about shoes. I looked up on a small work bench and saw what looked like the handle of a purse. Just past the handle, there were a couple of small, sparkling things.

“They must be earrings,” I thought to myself.

I looked back at the shoes, then my eyes were drawn to some pieces of something scattered over the floor at the end of the kiln. They looked like pieces of some sort of pottery. Then I saw the thing that truly horrified me. Just under the end of the kiln, almost too dark to make it out, was a white rag. It had dark stains on it.

“Blood!” I almost screamed, but stifled the urge so it just came out as a coarse whisper. “He’s done it! What do I do now?” I was frantic, and shaking. “I have to do something.”

I tried the door handle. It turned. I slowly opened the door, and peeked around the edge of it to view the entire room. My mind was racing back through the events of the previous months, then the phone call from Penny to Jane, the scream, now this! My suspicions were confirmed. I wondered if he’d done this before. “Of course he has!” I thought.

There was no one in the room as I crept forward. I had to find out. Could I see into the kiln, or was it sealed off? As I moved closer, I could see a tiny hole with some thick glass in it. The hole was just big enough to peer through if you get just the right angle. I leaned toward it.

“What are you doing?” Jay had silently appeared at a door on the other side of the room.

I knew the look on my face clued him as to what I was thinking. All I could say was, “Blood. The broken pottery….Penny’s purse and shoes….and earrings.”

Jay got a quizzical look on his face and tilted his head to one side. He looked as though he was surprised that I figured it out. “It’s just like a scene from the book, isn’t it?” he said calmly and in the emotionless tone that had become more and more noticeable lately. I just stared at him in horror.

Jay spoke again, “You don’t think….you do! You think I killed Penny and put her in the kiln?” He laughed out loud; it was the first laughter I had heard from him in months.

“Didn’t you?” I confronted him.

“Look, it’s a misunderstanding,” he said. His hand reached for a drawer as he spoke.

“He’s reaching for a gun!” I thought, “Maybe it’s a knife. He’s going to kill me too.” The fight or flight response took over my entire body. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large vase. As I reached for it, a morbid thought crossed my mind. “Is that glaze on it made from human remains?”

I swung the vase hard, lunging toward him as it struck the side of his head, which bounced off it and lay over to the side. I could hear his neck breaking as his head moved. I had both crushed his skull in and broken his neck with one blow. Jay hit the floor like a ton of firebricks.

I stood there in shock at what had just happened. So many thoughts raced through my mind almost simultaneously. “He killed Penny. Now I’ve killed him. He was going to kill me, too. Poor Penny! What will I tell Jane?” Too many thoughts whirled around in my head. I felt dizzy, nauseous, shaky, and scared at once.

“Oh my God!” a voice screamed behind me. “What have you done?!”

I turned around. It was Penny. “How? What? You are alive!”

“Of course I am!” Penny screamed at me, “What have you done?!” She ran over and fell on her knees by Jay’s side, shaking him. “Wake up!” she screamed. “Jay! Wake up!”

I looked over the whole scene, trying to figure out what just happened, and why. Penny was barefoot. She had another towel in her hand, with blood on it. I looked at her left foot, which seemed to have blood on it, too. There was a cut on her foot. I looked up at Jay. He had something in his right hand. Was it the gun he was reaching for in the drawer?

What Jay had in his hand was an adhesive bandage.

In the courtroom, the horrible truth unfolded as I told my story, Penny told hers, Jane spoke about each of us and our association, and Jay – Jay was dead.

During the time Jay and Penny went missing, they had had an argument as Penny had told him she had decided to break up. Jay eventually admitted that he was spending too much thought and time on his book idea. He was obsessive, and he realized this bout obsession was going to cause him to lose the perfect person for him. They made up. The two of them had gone away for a weekend, to a secluded spot in the mountains where there was no phone service, cellular or otherwise. As they returned, Jay had told Penny he had a surprise for her. He took her to the pottery studio, where he fired up the kiln and was preparing to place in it a beautiful vase he had made for her, for the glazing. It was just a normal glaze. There were no human remains involved. She leaned toward him to get a closer look as he moved the item. At the same time she was dialing her cell phone to tell Jane the news about the makeup, the trip, and the beautiful vase, when she leaned too close, and caught his arm. The vase fell and broke. Pieces shattered, one hitting her on the foot, causing it to bleed. She screamed. She didn’t think the connection had been made yet, so she ended the call. Penny ran to the bathroom to clean up her foot, and Jay had followed her just as I was “breaking” into his studio. Penny had kicked off her shoes. She had already put down her purse and removed her earrings and laid them beside the purse. I was trying to peek inside the kiln just at the moment Jay came out to find her a bandage. He kept them in the drawer because accidents were often happening in the studio, leaving little cuts and scrapes.

There had been no murder…yet. Now I have killed Jay.

I began this story by saying that I am often startled by the occasional unveiling of human nature’s darkest side. That side of human nature is full of paranoia, mistrust, and violence. It is the side that surfaced in me, the night I killed a man simply because I let my own imagination run wild. That night changed me forever.

Penny hasn’t contacted Jane now for four years. She seems to have vanished without a trace. Me? I spent those four years in prison for manslaughter. The judge believed my story, that I was convinced I was stopping a murder, and not committing a premeditated one. I bought the pottery studio soon after that, out of a sense of guilt, I suppose.I studied all Jay’s books that were lying around the studio and learned to make some nice pieces. They all have the most beautiful glaze on them…ash glaze. They sell like crazy. You might say I’m making a killing in the business.

End

The Vegetable Soup

By Phil Ruby

As a young boy growing up in the nineteen fifties and sixties in rural West Virginia, I often overheard the conversations that women of that time and place had. My mother, aunts, and other women in the community talked about their houses, clothes, household hints, and whichever female member of the community was not present at the time, especially. They also talked about food. They shared recipes, although often leaving out a special secret ingredient or two to make sure no one else got it quite right.

One would say, “Would you please give me your recipe for that broccoli casserole of yours? I just love that!”

“Of course, sweetie!” the other would reply.

After the recipe was attempted, the first woman would come back and proclaim, “I tried that recipe. I followed your instructions to the letter, but mine just didn't turn out the same! I guess you just have the touch. What is your secret?” The woman who shared the recipe would just smile and shrug her shoulders.

Such was the case of the infamous Mabel’s Vegetable Soup. It showed up at all sorts of events such as church suppers, family reunions, pie socials and any time someone passed away and food was brought in to the grieving family’s home. Mabel rarely went any place where people gathered to eat without her big pot of vegetable soup in tow.

Now, you noticed I called the soup “infamous”. There’s a story behind that, of course.  Mabel was an older lady in the community in the fifties, and even though people were kind and cordial to her, not many really liked her. The only reason for that I could discern was that she was what was called a busybody. She was into everyone’s business, and made no apologies for it. She didn’t talk much, nor spread gossip a great deal, but she just had to know what everyone was doing. Without trying to be mean, she would, however, eventually tell someone else everything she found out, and they, in turn, would often turn it into malicious gossip. Mabel was simply nosy, and the other women wished she would just mind her own business. Their own tendency to spread rumors and talk out of school was considered more respectable, somehow. I think the main difference was that Mabel didn’t have much of a life of her own so that the other women could retaliate by spying on her. She mostly stayed home, eavesdropped on the eight-party telephone line that most of us shared, and cooked her soup.

The thing that put the bite into the soup was the fact that all the menfolk loved it. They drooled over it as Mabel came through the door, wherever they were. As soon as the pot hit the stove, one of the men would open the lid and get a big whiff of its aroma. Soon bowls and spoons were coming out and men were lining up to get to the dipper that would serve the amazing precursor to the main course of the meal. Mabel would just stand off to the side with a slight grin, hands folded behind her back, rocking back and forth a bit, obviously enjoying the attention her soup was commanding. The other ladies would shoot glances at each other, knowing that they had never prepared any dish that came close to that kind of response from their men. Eventually, one of them would walk over to Mabel, look her right in the eyes and say, “Mabel, when are you going to share your recipe for that soup?”

In a drawn out, easy tone, still rocking from heel to toe, Mabel would smile and answer just as she always did, “Aw, honey, it ain’t nothin’ special. It’s just vegetable soup,” and she would offer no more. This made the other woman all the more furious with her, my mother included.

Not long after my twelfth birthday in early March, I was reading a comic book in our living room one day and overheard my mother talking on the phone in a worried voice. “How bad is it?” she asked the person on the other end, “I do hope she’s all right.”

I eventually learned that Mabel had come down with a fever. Her daughter had come in from Florida, and was tending to Mabel’s needs. I was hurried to get dressed in a clean, button up shirt, comb my hair, and climb into the car. My mother grabbed the fresh biscuits she had just made for supper, and wrapped them up to take along. We rushed the two miles down the road to Mabel’s house, where several other cars were parked in the front yard, and two more ladies from the community were walking up the road toward the same location. I asked my mother as we pulled in near the house, 

“Why is everyone gathering around? She’s not dead yet, is she?”

“Don’t you dare talk like that!” mother barked at me, “We’re just concerned,” she added, now taking a softer tone.

It didn’t take long for me to understand what was really going on. As the ladies visited, talked, and asked if there was anything they could do, I would see one of them open a cabinet. Soon after, another would casually walk by the secretary, slip open the lid, and peek inside. Then another would slide a drawer open. One of them eventually got a little too brazen and Mabel, though ill, was still able to see well enough.

“What are you doing, there?” Mabel asked.

“I’m just trying to find the thermometer,” the lady replied, “Do you think we should take your temperature again?

“The thermometer is right here on the night stand beside me,” Mabel said in a low, gruff voice, 

“Never mind. I know what  you all are up to,” she said, “You’re all snooping around trying to find my soup recipe!”

The faces of the ladies in the house ranged from flushed embarrassment to astonishment.

“Well, come on in here, all of you,” Mabel growled, “Some of you are no doubt hoping I don’t die before you get it out of me, and others are hoping I will die so you can search the house proper! Well, save your energy. It’s not written down anywhere. It’s in my head.”

The women all took a small step forward, leaning closer, assuming she was about to share the great secret of her soup that made men salivate and always return for seconds. They were disappointed.

“I want you all to get out of here and leave me alone so I can rest and heal. It’s just a little fever,” she barked, “I’ll be fine in a couple of days, but not if you all keep stomping around cackling like hens and looking through all my things!”

The women, one by one, put on a fake smile and told Mabel they hoped she got better soon, and asked once more the obligatory question, “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you, dear?” 

Eventually, the cars all left the yard and we returned home.

Easter Sunday was a few weeks later, and I was wishing I could be out in the bright, warm Spring sunshine playing instead of getting ready for church. My suit did not fit me well, as I had undergone a growth spurt since our last occasion to dress up. The sleeves and pant legs were about an inch too short to look right, not to mention feel right. My main concern was to get it on, get past the service and get back home to take it off again. We all piled into the car, my parents, my sister, and I. The church was only a little more than two miles away, just past Mabel’s house. My mother glared at the house as we went by and pulled into the parking lot of the church.

As usual on Easter Sunday, the lot was packed, and every pew was full. They even had to bring out some folding chairs to put along the back wall to accommodate the people who came to church only twice a year, unless there was a wedding or funeral. Lilies were placed around the room, and a couple of sheets were hung from a clothesline across the back of the pulpit area to serve as a makeshift curtain for the Easter play that the youngest children were to share with us. We sang the usual Easter songs, “Up From the Grave He Arose” being a favorite of most of the congregation. They seemed to enjoy sitting through the verses and popping up out of their pews like jack-in-the-box clowns for the chorus. The men would always glance at each other and laugh like it was the funniest thing they’d ever done. I laughed, too...at them.

After the singing, the play, and the seemingly never-ending sermon, I was more than ready to head back home, but right after the dismissal prayer, the announcement came. “We can now adjourn to the dining hall where we’ll have our Easter dinner!

“What?!” I thought to myself, “I wasn’t told about this!”

I followed my dad to the car where he popped the trunk lid and retrieved a covered dish. It was my mom’s delicious baked steak and onion gravy. He told me to grab another dish which contained her lemon meringue pie. Well, I was all ready to get home and play, but my second favorite activity was eating, so it was all good!

All the men were standing around talking about the weather, cars, baseball, politics and other important matters, while the women were all talking at once about who knows what?  Suddenly the room got quiet as the door opened and there stood Mabel, her large pot firmly grasped in both hands, and a sheet of paper tucked under her arm. She walked across the room to the food tables, set the pot down, then put the paper, face down, beside it. Then she moved the pot directly over the paper, covering all but the corners. She opened the lid, placed the soup ladle into the mysterious but delicious culinary favorite, and stepped back to the side of the room, smiling and rocking back and forth, heel  to toe, just as she had always done. As the men lined up with their bowls and spoons, and comments of anticipation welled up among them, the ladies began to chatter once more. A brief blessing was said by the pastor, and the feast began.

One by one, the ladies walked by Mabel and expressed their delight that she was feeling better.  Then they would glance at the soup pot, and the corners of the paper underneath, wondering if they should ask. No one did.

Mystery Solved?

As the dinner  and all the desserts were done with, Mabel lifted her empty soup pot and left the paper on the table as she strode out the door without saying a word. My mother rushed over to pick it up, calling out to the now closed door, “You forgot your…” Of course she had waited till it was too late to catch Mabel before doing so. As my mother slowly turned the paper over and laid it down on the table, high-heeled footsteps tapped across the tiles toward it. There it was. It was as if heaven had opened up, a light shone down, angels sang, and the recipe for the simultaneously loved and hated vegetable soup was right there before their eyes.

A few weeks later a pie social was held at the old one-room schoolhouse that was then only used for community functions that could not be held at the church. The reason they could not be held at the church was that there would often be “gambling” going on. The raffles, the cakewalk, the door prizes, etc. were all considered gambling, according to the church bylaws, and such activities were forbidden in the Lord’s House.

Other foods besides pie were always brought in, and of course Mabel and her soup pot were there. As I stood along the wall, my attention divided between the food and the tall, blonde haired girl who had just moved to our community, and as the men clamored over the pot of ambrosia, I overheard one of the ladies talking to Mabel as she stood, hands clasped behind her back, smiling and rocking heel to toe.

“You know, Mabel,” she said, “I tried that soup recipe. I followed your instructions to the letter, but mine just didn’t turn out the same! I guess you just have the touch. What is your secret?!

Mabel, still smiling, and in her slow, drawn out, easy tone, just said, “Aw, honey, it ain’t nothin’ special. It’s just vegetable soup.”

In her sly way, Mabel had always told them her secret, right from the start, but they didn’t catch it, and she had failed to add it to the recipe she left on the table at Easter dinner. “Aw, honey…”