Again?

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. Prompt for this month: anything to do with global warming.

Along with several short story collections and books of poetry, Cathy has published two novels: WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel. She has also written two volumes of grief poetry in memory of her son Matthew that she hopes might help other grieving parents: MY HEART IS BROKEN and BROKEN HEARTS CAN’T ALWAYS BE FIXED.

 

Cathy continues with her Melvin saga. A few more episodes before she draws the curtain.

 

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Again? 

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

The night of June 29, Marie and I attended a work function. A boring work thingie. Alexander J. Tupper’s surprise birthday, given by his sweet wife, Maggy-May Gamble. Yep, that was her full name. Her maiden name. She was one of those women who didn’t want to be overshadowed by her husband, so she kept her own name. Not sure if doing so helped her. She never amounted to much. Birthed six or seven kids. Never worked. But they appeared to be happy, so more power to her (and Tupper), right?

Marie didn’t want to go. She hated these work functions and always found any excuse to get out of them. This time, however, instead of using William, who was spending the night at Freddy’s, as an excuse, it was Covid.

“Too many people in the same house,” she said. “Covid’s still around, you know.”

“It’s pretty well gone, Marie. How often lately have you heard that someone’s sick with Covid? Or died? Or in the hospital, even?”

“They don’t report stats anymore. They want it out of our minds—we want it out of our minds. And I don’t mean you and me, but everyone. Everyone wants to move on.”

I convinced her she had to go. It was required. My job depended on it. Besides, we’d already had Covid—twice. No way we’d get it a third time.

Marie offered to be the sober driver, so apparently not much fun was to be enjoyed by her.

Who has fun sober?

The party was all right. Tupper was his usual raunchy self—raunchier than me—but since he was my boss, I had to grin and bear it, as they say.

Marie drank two glasses of white wine.

“I’m fine, Melvin. You don’t have to give me that look.”

“Was no look, Marie. If you’re fine, I’m fine.”

We were both fine.

We left the party at nine on the dot. Marie wanted to get home to Dragon’s Den. Or was it Shark Tank? Whatever, it came on at ten, and it’s a thirty-eight-minute drive.

We were barely out of the Tuppers’ door when she admitted she had enjoyed herself. “I made two new women friends.”

Ya, right, I thought. You’ll never see them again until the next office “do.”

“Mel, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Ahead. Well, more to the right.”

I looked. Smoke. What the hell? The two forest fires in Nova Scotia were finally extinguished though I heard firefighters were still looking for those elusive hotspots and, of course, housing needed to be provided for the two hundred or so households that lost their homes. But all that seemed to have gone the way of Covid: in the news for a time until they weren’t.

I scanned the area. Sure looked like smoke. And coming our way.

Now, I’m not a guy that gets scared or anything, but the world’s becoming a scary place. And global warming (I like to call it “global warNing”) is rampant. Even I know that. If only the world would wake up and see the signs. All these naysayers don’t help.

“I think we should take a different route home, Marie. It looks like another forest fire.”

“But if we go the other way, it’ll take an extra thirty minutes. I’ll miss the beginning of Shark Tank. Or is it Dragon Dentonight?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. I just don’t want to be stuck smack dab in the middle of a forest fire. Go the other way.” I hated ordering her around, but it had to be done.

She sighed. She knew that tone of mine.

We got home safely. No sign of smoke in our neighbourhood. Despite not having a second egress, we were safe. With the lake behind us and my kayaks, we’d be able to escape to the Atlantic Ocean if wildfires ever came down our street and blocked our only exit. Marie wouldn’t be pleased. Would only bring back memories of how her—our—two sweet girls perished, but...

The next day, Friday, we both woke up sick. Sick as poor old Puddles probably was when he was separated from us. “They” always say: “sick as a dog.”

And we were: sick as dogs!

We had two remaining Covid test kits. I convinced Marie to test herself. Yep, double blue line.

“No sense in me sticking that damn stick into my nose, Marie. If you have Covid, I have Covid.”

“I won’t say I ‘told you so.’ Too many people in one house. But I DID tell you that!”

I had to agree with her. Had to be one hundred people crammed into the Tupper’s home. What had Maggy-May been thinking? And would anyone have noticed our absence had we been no-shows?

“It’s all about global warming, Mel. Covid. Wild fires. Famines...”

“I don’t think Covid has anything to do with global warming, Marie. Just the way of life. Population out of control, etc., etc.”

She gave me one of her looks as if I were stupid.

I called into work to explain my absence. Janine, the receptionist, informed me I was the thirteenth employee to call in. “Glad I had a previous engagement,” she said. “I sure don't want Covid.”

On Sunday night, I called Tim White, one of my co-workers. Janine hadn’t been exaggerating as she was wont to do. Tim and his wife were sick, too. Super sick! In fact, he’d called Tupper that afternoon, and he’d shut down the office for the week. Tupper and Maggy-May were sick, as well. Had they not been, the office would’ve remained open and Tyrant Tupper would’ve expected everyone at their desks, sick or not.

Global WarNing is a great thing when it shuts down work. Too bad Marie and I were in bed the entire week—and not in bed for a fun reason, either.

Nope, sicker than dogs.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/