Miss Emma's Diamond
Here's a short story I wrote in response to a challenge over at the_dead_muse. The challenge was to use this quote, and put it into context: "Hold onto something. This is gonna be wicked."
It's just shy of 1800 words, and I hope you all read it and enjoy it. :)
“They say in darkness there is light. It seems they never think to tell you that in light, there is darkness as well. Perhaps they choose to leave it out as a form of sheltering, they wouldn’t want you to fear what you can see. Perhaps it is due to the phrase being used as a positive idea, let’s not be pessimistic. Then there’s my favorite possibility, the one that puts food in my mouth: they just don’t know.” He gave me a nod and a grin. “Soon, it’s what will put food in your mouth, too.”
That’s what he told me my first day on the job.
I don’t want to sound racist, but I believe an effort must be made to give you an idea of who my mentor was. His skin was dark, but not dark like burnt wood. Perhaps one might consider it the same color as a Hershey’s chocolate bar. He was tall. When I say tall, I don’t mean he towered over the rest of us; just me. I’d say he stood a good half foot taller than my 5 and a half. He had scars from scrapes early on in his life, from gang wars, the angry ex-boyfriends seeking revenge for stealing a woman, the angry boyfriends seeking revenge for an affair. He’d done it all. He’d seen it all. He had a stash of treasures stolen by his father, his grandfather and himself when he was younger. Each time I visited, however, it seemed to be getting smaller. He knew how our little piece of the world worked; the dirt, trash and the local white pastor who felt he needed to live a sin in order to write a sermon against it, and he loved writing about the evils of sex. My mentor wore a black beanie. Always. If it was daytime, nighttime, rain or shine, if it was summertime, wintertime or anytime, he would have that beanie on. He also wore a dark blue windbreaker, faded blue jeans and sporting a nifty European moustache. There were days he would flatten it out, then twist it like the crooks in old French films.
My mentor had a grand vision of how the world ought to run. He figured the pastor should dine in hell just as quickly as all the whores he’d figuratively send each Sunday morning. He also felt that big business managers should be stuck in the Catholic runaround called Purgatory. Finally, my mentor believed heavily that senior citizens need someone to listen to their troubles once in awhile, which brings us back to my first day on the job.
“You got the layout?” he asked in his voice. It was a thick voice, but it was fluid and melodic. I often considered it to be like melted caramel to my ears. Strange way of putting it, I know, but I haven’t met anyone who would cross those words once they heard him speak.
I nodded. We were sitting in his car. I can’t recall the exact make and model, but it had a reasonably large back seat. It was orange-the car was.
“C’mon boy,” he laughed a bit, showing his teeth. Some were white, some were off-white, and there was this one that had this brownish gold color in the middle. “Relax. Shake out those nerves. If you don’t make them feel comfortable, they’ll suspect something. Miss Emma is a very untrusting person, if she thinks you’re up to no good, she’ll call the cops…and they aren’t very friendly to people like us.”
I stared at the dashboard.
“All right,” he laughed again and reached for a pair of black work-gloves. “I’ll do the work,” he put his right glove on, “and you do the talking,” and the left. “Shit, I didn’t think I’d have to break you in! Ah…you at least piss in the toilet or do I need to bring a baggie?”
I let out a nervous laugh. He took the small bag from me with a chuckle, and shook his head.
“Just keep her preoccupied, a’right?”
I nodded and he grinned, putting his hand to the door handle.
“Hang on to something. This is gonna be wicked!”
The smell of beef stew caught my attention as we entered Miss Emma’s house. That and dust. Lots of dust. Miss Emma seated us in the living room. The ‘layout’ didn’t really do justice to the size and scope of Miss Emma’s living room, but it did tell me that the hallway on my left led to Miss Emma’s bedroom, and in Miss Emma’s bedroom, inside the second drawer of her dresser, locked in an 18th century gold box, was a chain that used to belong to her great grandmother. The box and chain, both of a gold so pure it it’s a wonder it hadn’t been stolen yet. It’d make any would-be thief drool at just the thought. The mother lode! In addition, and strangely less valuable, the chain once held a small diamond. When I say small, I mean small when compared to objects such as baseballs and soda cans. For being a diamond that used to hang on a chain, it wasn’t so small. It might fit inside the outer of a quarter, but just barely. Whatever happened to Miss Emma’s Diamond, as it had been affectionately called when she inherited it, had been a mystery since it’s disappearance when she was seven. For years her family searched the house, for years they offered reward after reward, and for years, Miss Emma missed her diamond. Now she spent her days sitting across from the couch on an old chair, another heirloom, not really caring if the box or chain mysteriously disappeared, but still keeping a keen eye in case we tried. The ‘layout’ also told me that the only bathroom was next to Miss Emma’s bedroom, and that was the important thing.
There was a heavy dust-line that bordered Miss Emma’s slender figure as she sat daintily. No doubt, she’d never cleaned the red velvet, or the cracking cherry that surrounded it and Miss Emma had fared only slightly better in her years. Though I never knew how many she had managed, it was clear she was quite old. There were raison-wrinkles in her cheeks, folding skin at her knuckles and the erratic tone to her ancient voice indicated she no longer could control her vocal chords. I thought the poor soul might have a heart-attack the next time she looked in her drawer.
We talked for ten minutes before Miss Emma took to the kitchen. She didn’t walk particularly straight, nor did she walk particularly steady, but we waited. We were hungry. My mentor jumped up to offer help when she attempted to bring us each a dish of stew. One dish of stew was in each palm and one cradled between her arms. We all sat, ate and talked. In her many years, she’d learned how to be quite the cook, and she took this opportunity to tell us about the recipe for this particular stew. Somewhere between the 14th Battalion and Private Greaves, my mentor excused himself for the restroom: this was it.
“Oh, sure dear,” Miss Emma replied, “down the hall…you remember…”
He nodded with a soft smile, showing that odd-colored tooth, then walked cautiously down the hall. I thought it was a bit too cautious, but he was my mentor.
“Young man,” Miss Emma caught my attention. My heart beat fast. I’d been staring at the figure walking down the hallway with such intensity that this Ancient Lady, this Brittle and Frail Ancient Lady was about to call me out. “What did you say your name was?”
I nearly choked. I nearly laughed. I nearly spit the half-chewed piece of potato into Miss Emma’s potpourri which sat square in the middle of a coffee table-at the other end of the room. I nearly vomited the stew I’d already eaten. I nearly fainted.
“My…my name?” No, idiot, your birthday.
“Yes, was it…Mark?” Miss Emma paused for a moment and looked at me crooked. “You look familiar.” My whole body froze. By that, I mean my own capacity for movement had ceased, leaving only the blood rapidly coursing through my veins to propel my body forward and back.
“N-no, my name isn’t Mark. I haven’t seen you before…”
She continued to look at me crooked. I tried to relax. Fail. I tried to feign relaxed. First I took a bite of stew, then I leaned back on the couch. Now it felt like I was sitting on bricks pushed up against an old wooden fence. I sat back up for another bite of stew. Where is he?
“Then what is it?” Miss Emma leaned forward, looking at me through what were suddenly quite pesky, beady brown eyes. How she didn’t need glasses, I never knew because at that moment the sound of a flushing toilet and running sink water was heard. Miss Emma looked down the hallway as my mentor exited the bathroom.
“My daughter just texted me,” he informed as he picked up my dish of stew, then his, “Gotta go see her.” He took the dishes to the kitchen, then returned. Miss Emma looked slightly perturbed. I was starting to feel a fire in my head. Success! His daughter was codeword for success, his son for failure. I’d always wondered if there was some reasoning behind it, but I never got the opportunity to ask. Miss Emma grumbled something inaudible and waved her hand at me before smiling sweetly at my mentor.
“This one is a black sheep,” she offered sincerely. My mentor laughed.
“Thank you for the stew, Miss Emma.”
“Oh, you are quite welcome.” Then Miss Emma whispered something that caused another short burst of laughter from my mentor.
“He couldn’t steal anythin’, boy don’t know how!”
I barely made back to the car, my knees were shaking so badly.
“Boy you almost got us caught.” He glared at me as he revved the engine. Then he laughed. “Mercy sakes, that would have been somethin’.” I gave him the most curious look I could, which in a state of fear and confusion, probably looked like a Pug trying to don the masks of comedy and tragedy. “Good stew, eh?”
I nodded.
“Next time, you leave the prize, I’ll eat the food.”
This sounded acceptable to me at the time.
“Was it difficult to get into her drawer? Was it locked?”
“Nah! The hard part was getting’ the damned diamond back into its clasp.”
It's just shy of 1800 words, and I hope you all read it and enjoy it. :)
“They say in darkness there is light. It seems they never think to tell you that in light, there is darkness as well. Perhaps they choose to leave it out as a form of sheltering, they wouldn’t want you to fear what you can see. Perhaps it is due to the phrase being used as a positive idea, let’s not be pessimistic. Then there’s my favorite possibility, the one that puts food in my mouth: they just don’t know.” He gave me a nod and a grin. “Soon, it’s what will put food in your mouth, too.”
That’s what he told me my first day on the job.
I don’t want to sound racist, but I believe an effort must be made to give you an idea of who my mentor was. His skin was dark, but not dark like burnt wood. Perhaps one might consider it the same color as a Hershey’s chocolate bar. He was tall. When I say tall, I don’t mean he towered over the rest of us; just me. I’d say he stood a good half foot taller than my 5 and a half. He had scars from scrapes early on in his life, from gang wars, the angry ex-boyfriends seeking revenge for stealing a woman, the angry boyfriends seeking revenge for an affair. He’d done it all. He’d seen it all. He had a stash of treasures stolen by his father, his grandfather and himself when he was younger. Each time I visited, however, it seemed to be getting smaller. He knew how our little piece of the world worked; the dirt, trash and the local white pastor who felt he needed to live a sin in order to write a sermon against it, and he loved writing about the evils of sex. My mentor wore a black beanie. Always. If it was daytime, nighttime, rain or shine, if it was summertime, wintertime or anytime, he would have that beanie on. He also wore a dark blue windbreaker, faded blue jeans and sporting a nifty European moustache. There were days he would flatten it out, then twist it like the crooks in old French films.
My mentor had a grand vision of how the world ought to run. He figured the pastor should dine in hell just as quickly as all the whores he’d figuratively send each Sunday morning. He also felt that big business managers should be stuck in the Catholic runaround called Purgatory. Finally, my mentor believed heavily that senior citizens need someone to listen to their troubles once in awhile, which brings us back to my first day on the job.
“You got the layout?” he asked in his voice. It was a thick voice, but it was fluid and melodic. I often considered it to be like melted caramel to my ears. Strange way of putting it, I know, but I haven’t met anyone who would cross those words once they heard him speak.
I nodded. We were sitting in his car. I can’t recall the exact make and model, but it had a reasonably large back seat. It was orange-the car was.
“C’mon boy,” he laughed a bit, showing his teeth. Some were white, some were off-white, and there was this one that had this brownish gold color in the middle. “Relax. Shake out those nerves. If you don’t make them feel comfortable, they’ll suspect something. Miss Emma is a very untrusting person, if she thinks you’re up to no good, she’ll call the cops…and they aren’t very friendly to people like us.”
I stared at the dashboard.
“All right,” he laughed again and reached for a pair of black work-gloves. “I’ll do the work,” he put his right glove on, “and you do the talking,” and the left. “Shit, I didn’t think I’d have to break you in! Ah…you at least piss in the toilet or do I need to bring a baggie?”
I let out a nervous laugh. He took the small bag from me with a chuckle, and shook his head.
“Just keep her preoccupied, a’right?”
I nodded and he grinned, putting his hand to the door handle.
“Hang on to something. This is gonna be wicked!”
The smell of beef stew caught my attention as we entered Miss Emma’s house. That and dust. Lots of dust. Miss Emma seated us in the living room. The ‘layout’ didn’t really do justice to the size and scope of Miss Emma’s living room, but it did tell me that the hallway on my left led to Miss Emma’s bedroom, and in Miss Emma’s bedroom, inside the second drawer of her dresser, locked in an 18th century gold box, was a chain that used to belong to her great grandmother. The box and chain, both of a gold so pure it it’s a wonder it hadn’t been stolen yet. It’d make any would-be thief drool at just the thought. The mother lode! In addition, and strangely less valuable, the chain once held a small diamond. When I say small, I mean small when compared to objects such as baseballs and soda cans. For being a diamond that used to hang on a chain, it wasn’t so small. It might fit inside the outer of a quarter, but just barely. Whatever happened to Miss Emma’s Diamond, as it had been affectionately called when she inherited it, had been a mystery since it’s disappearance when she was seven. For years her family searched the house, for years they offered reward after reward, and for years, Miss Emma missed her diamond. Now she spent her days sitting across from the couch on an old chair, another heirloom, not really caring if the box or chain mysteriously disappeared, but still keeping a keen eye in case we tried. The ‘layout’ also told me that the only bathroom was next to Miss Emma’s bedroom, and that was the important thing.
There was a heavy dust-line that bordered Miss Emma’s slender figure as she sat daintily. No doubt, she’d never cleaned the red velvet, or the cracking cherry that surrounded it and Miss Emma had fared only slightly better in her years. Though I never knew how many she had managed, it was clear she was quite old. There were raison-wrinkles in her cheeks, folding skin at her knuckles and the erratic tone to her ancient voice indicated she no longer could control her vocal chords. I thought the poor soul might have a heart-attack the next time she looked in her drawer.
We talked for ten minutes before Miss Emma took to the kitchen. She didn’t walk particularly straight, nor did she walk particularly steady, but we waited. We were hungry. My mentor jumped up to offer help when she attempted to bring us each a dish of stew. One dish of stew was in each palm and one cradled between her arms. We all sat, ate and talked. In her many years, she’d learned how to be quite the cook, and she took this opportunity to tell us about the recipe for this particular stew. Somewhere between the 14th Battalion and Private Greaves, my mentor excused himself for the restroom: this was it.
“Oh, sure dear,” Miss Emma replied, “down the hall…you remember…”
He nodded with a soft smile, showing that odd-colored tooth, then walked cautiously down the hall. I thought it was a bit too cautious, but he was my mentor.
“Young man,” Miss Emma caught my attention. My heart beat fast. I’d been staring at the figure walking down the hallway with such intensity that this Ancient Lady, this Brittle and Frail Ancient Lady was about to call me out. “What did you say your name was?”
I nearly choked. I nearly laughed. I nearly spit the half-chewed piece of potato into Miss Emma’s potpourri which sat square in the middle of a coffee table-at the other end of the room. I nearly vomited the stew I’d already eaten. I nearly fainted.
“My…my name?” No, idiot, your birthday.
“Yes, was it…Mark?” Miss Emma paused for a moment and looked at me crooked. “You look familiar.” My whole body froze. By that, I mean my own capacity for movement had ceased, leaving only the blood rapidly coursing through my veins to propel my body forward and back.
“N-no, my name isn’t Mark. I haven’t seen you before…”
She continued to look at me crooked. I tried to relax. Fail. I tried to feign relaxed. First I took a bite of stew, then I leaned back on the couch. Now it felt like I was sitting on bricks pushed up against an old wooden fence. I sat back up for another bite of stew. Where is he?
“Then what is it?” Miss Emma leaned forward, looking at me through what were suddenly quite pesky, beady brown eyes. How she didn’t need glasses, I never knew because at that moment the sound of a flushing toilet and running sink water was heard. Miss Emma looked down the hallway as my mentor exited the bathroom.
“My daughter just texted me,” he informed as he picked up my dish of stew, then his, “Gotta go see her.” He took the dishes to the kitchen, then returned. Miss Emma looked slightly perturbed. I was starting to feel a fire in my head. Success! His daughter was codeword for success, his son for failure. I’d always wondered if there was some reasoning behind it, but I never got the opportunity to ask. Miss Emma grumbled something inaudible and waved her hand at me before smiling sweetly at my mentor.
“This one is a black sheep,” she offered sincerely. My mentor laughed.
“Thank you for the stew, Miss Emma.”
“Oh, you are quite welcome.” Then Miss Emma whispered something that caused another short burst of laughter from my mentor.
“He couldn’t steal anythin’, boy don’t know how!”
I barely made back to the car, my knees were shaking so badly.
“Boy you almost got us caught.” He glared at me as he revved the engine. Then he laughed. “Mercy sakes, that would have been somethin’.” I gave him the most curious look I could, which in a state of fear and confusion, probably looked like a Pug trying to don the masks of comedy and tragedy. “Good stew, eh?”
I nodded.
“Next time, you leave the prize, I’ll eat the food.”
This sounded acceptable to me at the time.
“Was it difficult to get into her drawer? Was it locked?”
“Nah! The hard part was getting’ the damned diamond back into its clasp.”