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Authors: Cathie Pelletier
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balloons into the air with shouts of âGive me a P , give me an O , give me an R , give me a T,â Cynthia had remained with her feet flat on the gymnasium floor, trying desperately to come to amicable terms with the stiff red cheerleading panties.
âA lovely, lovely picture,â said Thelma, and smiled. Junior flinched.
âListen,â he said to Cynthia. âWhy donât you go get your sister and weâll all go out to a nice little dinner? That way your mother wonât have to cook. What do you say?â Junior was graspingâsurrounded by the children, he would be temporarily safe. How far had Thelma gone in uncovering his deceit? Had she hired a detective? A lawyer? God, he hated lawyers. Smug sons of bitches. They almost never smelled of formaldehyde. But no, there was her Polaroid camera sitting on the table in the entryway where sheâd obviously left it, hastily, on her way in with the spoils. Her purse sprawled in a nearby chair. Sheâd done the act herself, no doubt. Yes, her car had been in the garage when heâd come home for lunch, and now it was parked haphazardly near the curb in front of the house, threatening to tip over. She must have nearly broken her neck driving there and back. It saddened him that she seemed in such a great rush to catch him red-handed. What had happened to honor, and trust, and emotions like that? Couldnât she at least have given him the benefit of the doubt? He was suddenly angry at her lack of faith in him. He glared out at the little yellow Corvair, Thelmaâs accomplice. Her right-hand man. Her sidekick deputy.
âI never should have bought her that car,â Junior thought. âShe keeps this shit up and sheâs losing it.â But how the hell had she pursued him in that canary-yellow thing without his seeing her? He imagined her following him, her mind somewhere in the ozone as she sneaked from stoplight to lilac bush to stoplight, all the way from the funeral home to the Ocean Edge Motel. How downright disgusting of her! No! Of course. Now he had it. She had followed Monique. Men were too damn smart to be followed in bright yellow cars by their wives. Especially if they were on their way to a rendezvous. But one woman following another, well, that was a different story. Thelma could have followed Monique in the Queen Mary, in the Goodyear blimp, and gotten away with it. Monique rarely thought to look up or even ahead sometimes. She was too busy with inspecting herself in the car mirror, fluffing her hair, smoothing her lipstick, checking for food particles in her teeth. Heâd seen her do this a thousand times, had followed her to the Ocean Edge Motel so often he knew every detail. Thelma could have maneuvered the Hindenburg up behind Moniqueâs old Buick and no one would have been the wiser for it. There now. The intrigue was over. The next part would be planning the defense. He hadnât lost the battle yet. Not by a long shot. Thelma would have to start getting up a whole lot earlier in the morning if she was gonna play detective with Junior Ivy, vice president of the Ivy Funeral Home.
âWell, what do you say, girls?â Junior asked. âIs it a night to eat out or what? Whereâs Randy?â The more children he had around him, the better.
âOh, thatâs another thing!â Thelma said, and then smiled. âRandyâs in jail.â
OLD LEAVES AT MATTAGASHâS FINEST MOTEL: THE PROPRIETOR SEES PINK
âIf Albert Pinkham had owned the only inn in Bethlehem, he would have charged Jesus for a hot plate.â
âKevin Craft, after making a down payment on his honeymoon motel bill, 1964
Albert Pinkham finished sweeping the crinkly leaves of autumn off the cement sidewalk that encircled the Albert Pinkham Motel. He would need to repaint the doors to rooms 1 and 2, which faced the road. Rooms 3 and 4, hidden from view, could wait another year. By the time guests saw the
âA lovely, lovely picture,â said Thelma, and smiled. Junior flinched.
âListen,â he said to Cynthia. âWhy donât you go get your sister and weâll all go out to a nice little dinner? That way your mother wonât have to cook. What do you say?â Junior was graspingâsurrounded by the children, he would be temporarily safe. How far had Thelma gone in uncovering his deceit? Had she hired a detective? A lawyer? God, he hated lawyers. Smug sons of bitches. They almost never smelled of formaldehyde. But no, there was her Polaroid camera sitting on the table in the entryway where sheâd obviously left it, hastily, on her way in with the spoils. Her purse sprawled in a nearby chair. Sheâd done the act herself, no doubt. Yes, her car had been in the garage when heâd come home for lunch, and now it was parked haphazardly near the curb in front of the house, threatening to tip over. She must have nearly broken her neck driving there and back. It saddened him that she seemed in such a great rush to catch him red-handed. What had happened to honor, and trust, and emotions like that? Couldnât she at least have given him the benefit of the doubt? He was suddenly angry at her lack of faith in him. He glared out at the little yellow Corvair, Thelmaâs accomplice. Her right-hand man. Her sidekick deputy.
âI never should have bought her that car,â Junior thought. âShe keeps this shit up and sheâs losing it.â But how the hell had she pursued him in that canary-yellow thing without his seeing her? He imagined her following him, her mind somewhere in the ozone as she sneaked from stoplight to lilac bush to stoplight, all the way from the funeral home to the Ocean Edge Motel. How downright disgusting of her! No! Of course. Now he had it. She had followed Monique. Men were too damn smart to be followed in bright yellow cars by their wives. Especially if they were on their way to a rendezvous. But one woman following another, well, that was a different story. Thelma could have followed Monique in the Queen Mary, in the Goodyear blimp, and gotten away with it. Monique rarely thought to look up or even ahead sometimes. She was too busy with inspecting herself in the car mirror, fluffing her hair, smoothing her lipstick, checking for food particles in her teeth. Heâd seen her do this a thousand times, had followed her to the Ocean Edge Motel so often he knew every detail. Thelma could have maneuvered the Hindenburg up behind Moniqueâs old Buick and no one would have been the wiser for it. There now. The intrigue was over. The next part would be planning the defense. He hadnât lost the battle yet. Not by a long shot. Thelma would have to start getting up a whole lot earlier in the morning if she was gonna play detective with Junior Ivy, vice president of the Ivy Funeral Home.
âWell, what do you say, girls?â Junior asked. âIs it a night to eat out or what? Whereâs Randy?â The more children he had around him, the better.
âOh, thatâs another thing!â Thelma said, and then smiled. âRandyâs in jail.â
OLD LEAVES AT MATTAGASHâS FINEST MOTEL: THE PROPRIETOR SEES PINK
âIf Albert Pinkham had owned the only inn in Bethlehem, he would have charged Jesus for a hot plate.â
âKevin Craft, after making a down payment on his honeymoon motel bill, 1964
Albert Pinkham finished sweeping the crinkly leaves of autumn off the cement sidewalk that encircled the Albert Pinkham Motel. He would need to repaint the doors to rooms 1 and 2, which faced the road. Rooms 3 and 4, hidden from view, could wait another year. By the time guests saw the
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