"Mudder! Look what I has!" A tiny blonde boy raced into the dimly lit study.
"Ah! What is it? Can't you see I'm working?" The woman looked up with a furrowed brow, generated by her broken concentration.
"But I found someting!" he said, not yet deterred from his pursuit of her attention.
"Fine. Quickly," she said, impatiently beckoning him forward.
"A hopper!" He said, prying his tiny hands apart to reveal a bright green grasshopper. It immediately leapt from the confines of his hands and onto her mahogany desk. He quickly reached out to recapture it, upsetting a bottle of ornamental ink on her desk. Ink pooled across a pile of papers while the shadow of frustration spread across the woman's face and she gasped in anger.
"Robert! I really need you to keep Eldon out of here! He's just destroyed three months of work!" She called out, bringing an end to the life of the green hopper with a single blow from a literary magazine.
Eldon's father strode calmly into the room. "How about we take a little drive down to the park?" He asked, noticing the tears welling up in Eldon's eyes.
"But…my hopper…" Eldon sobbed as his father shepherded him out of the office. Liz shook her head in frustration. How was she ever going to produce a best-selling book with children under her feet every minute of the day? What she really needed was some space. Time and space…
**********************************
Cheryn gathered the papers from her car and slipped her laptop case over one shoulder. The sound of her car lock alarm echoed through the underground parking at her apartment building as she made her way to the stairwell. Her ascent up the apartment stairs included repeatedly dropping a few pages, retreating several steps to pick them back up, and pressing on to the fifth floor.
The elevator had been inoperable for the past three weeks, and she was beginning to get used to her daily climb. The building manager had offered the freight elevator as a temporary solution to those who couldn't climb the stairs, but she wasn't interested in riding the same elevator that forever seemed to smell of dirty diapers and rotting scraps of food.
As she opened the door to the fifth floor, she nearly dropped the book, and out slid a newspaper clipping with a photograph of a young man graduating from high school as the valedictorian. Cheryn rebalanced her load and quickly scooped up the clipping before she dropped something more.
As she stepped onto the fifth floor she nearly ran face first into Sal, an unemployed computer programmer who passed his days playing online games with his buddies. He had once explained to her how his severance pay kept him from being homeless, but she was only half listening since he had intercepted her racing into apartment for a certain urgent personal matter.
"Cheryn! Hey, I was just thinking about you! You know, I have some buddies coming over tonight to check out the latest version of Halo. They're bringin' some awesome finger food! Anyway, if you want to check it out, you're always welcome to join the fun."
"Oh, thanks for the invite Sal. I have plans already, but if they don't pan out, I'll let you know." She stepped around him and started to fiddle with her apartment keys.
“Hey, let me help you, there,” Sal said, taking the keys from her hand and opening the door for her. He gently rested them on the top of her pile of papers. “Saaay! Eldon Winters! Cool! That even looks like an original newspaper clipping. That’s one smart dude!” Sal gushed enthusiastically.
Eldon Winters? She’d never heard of the man. She opened her mouth to interrogate Sal further, then resisted the urge to ask for more information. Google might take less time and emotional investment. At least she had a name to work with. She shut the door behind her and flipped on the light to her tiny apartment.
The kitchen was tidy minus a blue and white striped dish towel that had slipped to the floor in her haste to wash the syrup off of her hands from shoving a freezer waffle in her mouth as she rushed off to work that morning. The plate and underutilized fork sat next to the 5-second water torture chamber, waiting for their turn to be washed.
The fridge whined like it was suffering from some dull, undiagnosed ailment. Perhaps it had something to do with the leaky faucet. She tossed her keys onto the small round kitchen table and stepped into the living room. There she unloaded her laptop onto the once glamorous teal microfiber loveseat that she found six months ago in the nickel ads. Finally, she spread the papers and book on her battered and chipped coffee table.
“Okay, Mr. Winters,” Cheryn said out loud, slipping her laptop out of its case. “Let’s see if you’re still on the radar.”
The glow of her computer filled the still dim living room, lit only by the glow of the kitchen light fixture. Just as she logged onto a search engine, her cell phone rang. She shuffled through her laptop bag for a moment and then realized that the noise was coming from her jacket pocket. She glanced at the screen to make sure it wasn't Sal and sighed with relief. It was her receptionist-turned-cosmetology-student friend Stacy. “Hey Stacy, what’s up?” Stacy bubbled on for several minutes about the hot new instructor at the school of cosmetology, and then announced the real reason for her call.
“Anyway, we had a contest today to see who could match the new instructor’s hair color the fastest, and guess who won?”
“Hmmm. John? Maggie? Philippe? Oh, no wait, I think I’ve got it! Jazmine!”
“Very funny.” Stacy pouted. Jazmine had accidentally turned Stacy’s hair bright orange the first time Stacy let anyone color her hair. She still wasn’t convinced it was an accident.
“You, of course!” Cheryn finally gave in.
“And as a reward for your correct answer, you will be permitted to accompany me to tonight’s Jazz concert, the grand prize for matching the new instructor’s hair color!” Stacy announced.
“Really? I mean, congrats on your prize and thanks for considering me as your companion.”
“Who else, silly. I only have one condition. You have to wear something snazzy.” Stacy said somberly.
“Snazzy? Have you seen my wardrobe lately?”
“Oh, not Cheryn-snazzy. I mean something Stacy-snazzy. I’ll be over in a few minutes. I’ve got just the thing.”
“Hmmm. I can’t wait.” Cheryn said unenthusiastically as she hung up the phone and resumed her Internet-search posture, leaning back in one corner of the loveseat and kicking one foot onto an empty corner of the coffee table.
She pulled up MSN white pages and searched for Eldon Winters. Up came two possibilities, one with a phone number in the same area code as Bingham Street. This was just too easy. She glanced down at the book. "It's been lovely, but I think we may have found a home for you. She inhaled deeply and dialed the number. A man's voice answered on the other end of the line.
"Mr. Winters?"
"Yes," he said, a little cautiously.
"Hi. My name is Cheryn, and…"
"Is this a telemarketer?" he asked suspiciously.
"No," she replied with a nervous laugh. "I found something that may be important to you. What I mean is, do you know someone named Robert, someone who died many years ago?"
"Yes, Robert was...my father." He said, still cautious about this strange call.
"Well, in that case, I think I may have some writings from your mother."
"Writings from my mother? Is this a joke or some hairbrained scam?"
"Yes, I mean no. This is not a scam. I think these writings may have been thrown away unintentionally. I couldn't find a name, but... I recovered them and wanted to return them to you."
"Writings from my mother, you say?" He asked.
"Yes! And I think they are quite…"
"Unusual? Unique? Quite good?" He interrupted. "Well, I suppose a great many people would agree with you, considering that she spent almost every waking moment of her life writing. How unusual, then? Well, not so very. So how much are you after? What "hidden manuscript" have you unveiled this week? I've had enough of these unpublished manuscript scams, and what better timing than after her burial, right? Well, wouldn't you agree, then?"
"I'm sorry sir, I wasn’t aware…This isn't a manuscript. It’s a journal or, perhaps a…" Cheryn started to say, but was again interrupted.
"Let me tell you this. I read every scrap of garbage that my mother wrote because I was the one who helped her publish it. She refused to type, so I had to read her scrawled out mess and translate it into something legible, so don't try to sell me on some missing manuscript garbage, or now with this new idea of a 'journal.' Really, have some respect for the dead by not putting words into her silenced mouth."
Sharon inhaled deeply. "I assure you, sir, that I am not engaging in any sort of scam. I am merely trying to return something that flew out of the garbage to its rightful owner. It seemed to contain such personal details about her life."
"Well, if you stop by your local big-box bookstore, you may find that her life wasn't so personal after all. In fact, most of it was recorded in her ridiculous books. Why would anyone need more than what she told them since she certainly never practiced any reservations in the past. You go read her books and then tell me if you really found anything new and 'undiscovered.' If you have, then I assure you it would be of little interest to me. Her writing was her whole life. Let her fans consume these "New and undiscovered" writings like they consumed every minute of her day." Sarcasm dripped from his angry words that were thrown at the phone with such force that she could almost feel the phone vibrate with his rage. "You keep what you found. I'm sure you'll get something off at the auction block for them for your time. Good day."
Sharon sat looking at the phone. Maybe he was right. Maybe it really was all written in books, but what books? Who was this mysterious author? She couldn't quite place any author with the last name Winters. He'd mentioned her burial. Perhaps she could find something online in the obituaries. She reached for her computer to search the local paper online, but just then she heard a knock at the door. “Open up, Police!” said the voice on the other side.
“Oh, hold on a sec. I need to stash my bank loot.” She called back as she stood to answer the door. There stood Stacy with a sequin shirt. “No, take me to jail, but PLEASE don’t make me wear that!”
“Stacy-snazzy! You agreed!” Stacy countered, pushing the bejeweled blouse toward Cheryn.
“I’d better not see anyone I know.” She said, taking the blouse and wandering into her bedroom to change.
Stacy pounced onto the couch and picked up Cheryn’s laptop. “Are you randomly picking up dates on the Internet again?” She shouted to Cheryn. “Mr. Eldon Winters. Now why does that sound familiar?”
“This book landed on my car today and Eldon was one of the names in that book..."
"ON your car? A book fell ON your car? Like from heaven?" Stacy called back.
"Nooo, from a garbage truck. Anyway, quite the irate fellow, that Eldon. He thought I was making it up. He said his mom was a writer, but I don’t know any writers with the name Winters, do you?” She called back, opening the door to her bedroom and then jumping back because Stacy was staring back at her with saucer-like eyes.
“Wait, did you say Winters? As in Liz Winters?” Stacy stammered in amazement, forgetting how much Cheryn appreciated her personal space.
“Liz who?” Cheryn asked quizzically.
“Better known as Ella Chamberlain? Best-selling author of anything containing her name alone? Right up there with Grisham, McCullough, King, Crichton, Rowling?” Stacy prattled on.
“Oh my… Ella? Ella Chamberlain? Did she? She just died, right?”
Stacy sat on the arm of the loveseat and snatched up Cheryn’s laptop, tapping in her name. “‘Ms. Ella Chamberlain passed away Tuesday evening from heart failure…’ or this one, ‘Family of Chamberlain refuse to disclose burial location for privacy reasons.’ Or how about, ‘Famed author leaves behind three children.’”
“That last one, is one of the children named Eldon?” Cheryn asked.
“Aye lassie. ‘Family representative Eldon Winters pleads, No flowers.’ “
Cheryn shook her head in amazement. “All of those books, and all about successful business women. Maybe he's right. Maybe it's all in her books after all.”
Stacy cocked her head and closed one eye. “What are you talking about?”
“The book…” Cheryn rushed over to the coffee table. “The book, the journal… of Ella, er Liz. At least I am pretty sure that’s what it is.”
Stacy reached out and picked up a loose page or two. “How did you find this again? This could be worth millions. You’ve got to get it to the family members! What an amazing find with her dead and all. This is invaluable!”
“I told you, it landed on my car today, off of a garbage truck. Only… only her son didn’t want it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He practically said that it should have stayed where I found it. I just don’t get it. He said that everything in here is probably already in her books anyway, so why would he want this?”
“That’s odd. When my grandma died, everyone wanted something to remember her by. My uncles fought over her daily notebooks like they were gold, even though they already knew what was in them.”
“That’s what’s so strange. I just can’t figure out why someone would be so acidic toward someone who just died unless…”
“Unless what?” Stacy queried.
“I don’t know. It’s probably unfair to speculate. Wait, what time is it? We’d better go unless we want to miss out on the concert. We can take a look at this book later. What I need to figure out is if there’s anything new or different in this book than is recorded in her novels. Her son said that he wasn’t interested because he thought he’d already read it through her novels.”
“I’ve read all of her books, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” Stacy said as they headed out for the concert. As they opened the door into the hallway, a pizza delivery guy knocked on Sal’s door.
“Hey Cheryn! Lookin’ good!” he called out as they walked past in all of their glimmering glory.
“Yeah, thanks.” Cheryn said, untouched by the compliment. As the door to the stairwell closed, she mumbled to Stacy, “Thanks a LOT. I’ll heretofore be known as "The Dancing Queen.”
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