Jack Swenson

 

Sisters

Mimi and Nancy are sisters. They are immigrants from Vietnam. They do manicures and massage. They make a living; indeed, they do very well. They have a nice little shop on the Main Street of a suburb south of the Big City. Most but not all of their customers are women. It's the other ones–the men–who give them trouble. The men want their toenails clipped. They pay for the "special massage." The massage is just that–a back rub. Inevitably the men are disappointed; they want more. Sometimes they get angry when they don't get what they want.

Nancy and Mini keep a loaded .357 magnum in a drawer in the back room. If a customer gives them a lot of trouble, they open the drawer and take out the gun. The gun is heavy. The tiny women hold it in both hands. Generally, having a weapon the size of a cannon pointed at him is enough to discourage a troublesome customer. His eyes get big, and he vacates the premises. So far, the girls have never had to fire a round.

They would, though, if push came to shove. They are friendly and peaceful ladies. They pay their taxes; they are kind to small animals. But when they were little more than tots, they crossed the South China Sea in a tiny boat. They helped fend off pirates. They were armed then, too. Mimi shot a man between the eyes when he boarded their boat. Her father killed the others with an automatic weapon.

They are grown women now, but they are little and men are big. Most are bigger and stronger than they are, but not nearly as tough. When a man exits the back room and goes hurriedly out the door, Mimi follows and washes her hands at one of the sinks. She exchanges a glance with her sister. The women smile.

CP

Jack Swenson is an old cowboy who now wrangles words, not herds. He misses the wide open spaces. He does his keyboard punching in a suburban community south of San Francisco. He is married to a lovely woman who is mother to their seven cats.

Jack Swenson

Just Doin' Our Job

Bert takes care of Number One. He's not interested in the birds of the air or the beasts of the field. I'm the one who spots the baby ducks in the parking lot huddled up against the curb. It is just before Christmas, and we have just finished our morning walk.

"Leave 'em," Bert says. He figures the mother duck will find them.

I'm not so sure. I call my wife on the cell phone. She calls the animal shelter, and they tell her some ducks don't make very good mothers. My wife tells me to take them to the shelter.

Bert heads for his truck, and I tell him to come back and help. He does, but he’s not happy about it. I have a paper sack in my truck. I tell him to hold the sack, and I’ll grab the ducks.

When we approach, the babies stir uneasily, but they don't scatter like I thought they would. I kneel down on the asphalt next to the ducklings, and one by one I put them into the bag.

When the truck gets moving, they begin to protest. They aren’t at all happy with this turn of events.

I set the bag of ducks on the counter at the shelter. "What you got there?" a young woman asks. She is a beefy gal with red hair and freckles. She opens the bag and peers inside. "Hey, Patty!" she yells. "Come here and get these ducks!" She tells the other girl to stick them in one of the incubators in the back room.

She thanks us for bringing in the ducks. I stick a twenty dollar bill in the collection jar on our way out. Bert sticks his hands in his pockets. Charity begins at home, as far as he is concerned.

The next day before I leave the house I call to check up on the ducklings. They are doing fine, the gal says. She thanks us again for bringing them in. I tell Bert when I get to the business park. He nods, and the corners of his mouth curl up in what passes for a smile.

CP

Jack Swenson's stories have appeared in or been accepted by Wigleaf, Ghoti, Staccato, Fiction at Work, Boston Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow, and many others. He is a teacher and writer living in California.

Jack Swenson

Stopping for Death

The old veterinarian picked up the phone. "Earl!" he bellowed. "What's up? Aw, I got cancer. How are you?" His wife punched the pillow on his hospital bed and helped him sit up. "Yes, yes, she's here," the doctor said. He covered the speaker on the phone with one of his huge hands and spoke to his wife. "Earl says hi," he said.

Mavis shook her head. Her thoughts were a jumble of self pity and concern. Why does he insist it's no big deal, she wondered?

And now he was back in the hospital, and when she asked the doctors, they just stared at their shoes. Medical people hated to admit that there was nothing more they could do.

When they had first heard the news, she had cried. He patted her hand and said that he would be fine. Alive or dead, he said, he'd be all right.

She sighed. Alive or dead, she'd be okay, too, she supposed. They had lived separate lives. He was never home. The animals came first. He explained it to her: that's what he did. That's who he was. So where was she on his list? Second? Third? After he retired, he was always tearing off to save the world.

She thought half-seriously about having that carved on his tombstone: "He was never home."

At the memorial service, an old medical school friend told the story about the doctor's final moments. He died at home. A client came to see him and brought her dog and cat because she thought he would like that. He did, too. When the dog, a big, old, happy golden retriever, jumped on his bed, Ted smiled and cupped the dog's face with his hands. Then his practiced fingers curled back the dog's lips, and with half-closed eyes, the old vet examined the animal's teeth.

"He was a vet to the end," the friend said. An hour later he was gone. They found him with the cat curled up on the bed at his side.

CP

Jack Swenson is a teacher and writer who lives in sunny California. He writes flash and micro fiction. He also teaches a class at a local senior center and works around the house and yard when he has to.