Because of Fudge

How about some fiction for a change?

I have decided to post old stuff I’ve written every once in a while. I used to be a prolific short story writer. Sadly, I can’t find a lot of the stories I’ve written. I’m sure they’re in a folder somewhere… But in the process of looking at old blog posts dating as far back as 2010 and before, I found this short story. I completely forgot I wrote it. But as I laughed out loud several times, I figured it was probably pretty good, and you all might enjoy it, too.

On the original story, right under the title I had written, “For Kristen, Constance, Katie, Forrest, Lydia, Miles, Elise, Adrianne, Levi, and Benjamin. Love, Aunt Amanda.” These were all the nieces and nephews I had at the time and they were all quite young, still. (I’ve since acquired several more, and the ones I dedicated this story to are all nearly adults. Yikes.) I am sure my inspiration for the character of Abbey was probably drawn from things I saw them do and say throughout the years. You can’t really write good kid characters if you’ve never been around kids.

Incidentally, I wrote this story long before I ever met my husband and his sister, Abigail, the baby of the family. Life is funny.

Anyway, without further ado, here is:

Because of Fudge

Margaret lived in the last house on the end of a short street. There was a clear view of the elementary school playground from her picture window. It was loud during recess time, but Margaret didn’t mind. She often watched the children with a smile on her face as she drank her morning cup of coffee.

Her house was full of things her son and his children sent her from all the places he had been stationed—Hawaii, California, Japan and now Germany. There was the kimono hanging quite uselessly in the closet. Margaret often remarked to herself about how pretty it was, but she never wore it. Hanging over the fireplace was a gigantic hand painted fan with dragons and lotus blooms, which gave her cat quite a start when he first noticed it looming over him. The hissing and spitting did not abate for several hours. The cuckoo clock from Germany had a similar effect, but Margaret could not bear to part with any of these silly objects given in so much love.

The little house at the end of the street saw very few visitors. Margaret’s friends were all growing as old as she, with their aching joints and various health complaints. Like herself, they rarely ventured far from their homes. So, Margaret did her best to keep in touch with all of them through rather brief phone calls in which Margaret and her friends tried to understand exactly what was being said, repeating words and phrases a dozen times and generally getting the wrong idea. Hearing aids were a modern wonder, they all agreed, but helped very little when push came to shove.

And so the days passed quietly for Margaret interrupted only by the mail delivery, the children laughing at the playground, grocery shopping, the shouting from the brood of boisterous children that lived at the house in back of hers, or the nightly call from her son in Germany. 

It was quite a winter for snow. The week before Christmas, the heavens opened and dumped the fluffy white stuff by the foot. It was also the week Margaret learned of Mary Lou’s passing in the newspaper. Margaret did not sit down to cry.

“After all, Mary Lou was old,” Margaret told her son, “Older than me. But not by much, I suppose.”

“You okay, Mom?”

She was alright. That’s what she always told him.

“She was a good friend, you know. We worked together at the factory before I met your father.”

“Yes, I know. You’ve told me a lot about her.”

 “I have?”

 “Umhm.”

 “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I don’t mind. Uh, oh. I better go. The little guy bumped his head, and Amy’s in the shower.”

 “Alright. Give them my love.”

Margaret hung up the phone and sat at the kitchen table, staring at Mary Lou’s obituary, smoothing the wrinkles in the paper.

The next day was Christmas Eve. The snow had not abated, much to Margaret’s unhappiness. She sat in her car, inching carefully down the streets, clenching the steering wheel with both hands. On the seat beside her was a small pamphlet, partially covered by a large black purse. “In Loving Memory of Mary Lou Stevens,” was the inscription underneath a picture of a smiling elderly woman holding a rose. Margaret peered anxiously through the dim light of the evening, but her face relaxed as she turned down her familiar street. She let out a sigh as she pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine.

She fumbled through the snow, clutching her purse and the pamphlet. In her haste to unlock the door, she dropped the pamphlet in the snow and bent slowly and painfully to pick it up. By the time she had shut the door and taken off her coat and gloves, the ink from the picture had run down the pamphlet, blurring Mary Lou’s cheery face. Margaret laid it gently down on the coffee table and began hanging up her coat. There was no message from John on the answering machine.

“Oh, yes. It’s Christmas Eve. They must be with friends,” she murmured.

She sat at the coffee table and opened a worn scrap book. Out of habit, she clicked on the television set, but it did not hold her attention. She grasped a pair of scissors that lay near the scrapbook and cut out Mary Lou’s obituary. She pasted Mary Lou in besides the formerly handsome and dashing Alfred Dunston, graduating class of ‘42. Alfred rested beside Jim Donnelson, who flanked Alice Sutherland whose paste was beginning to crumble. There was an entire page of obituaries, and once Margaret’s work was finished, she sat back in the couch and sighed heavily for looking at them. She smoothed Albert Sevcek’s obituary with a soft hand and bowed her head.

“I thank you for their lives,” she said. “Now help me to keep on without them, or let me come home. It’s too lonely here.”

Margaret sat on the couch, staring blankly at the television screen. She picked up some crocheting, but the work only fell limply to her lap in a few minutes while her reverie continued.

Thump.

Margaret shook her head, and sat up. She listened closely, but heard nothing.

Thump. Thump!

Margaret turned off the TV and pushed herself off the couch.

“Who on earth would be at the back door this time of night?” she muttered.

She cast her eyes around, searching for something, and finally grabbed a rolling pin out of a kitchen drawer. Brandishing the pin above her head, she peeped cautiously through a small window at the top of the back door.

 “Hmmm. Don’t see anything.”

Then there was a loud shuffle and another thump. Margaret opened the door carefully, and looked out. There was nothing but the snowflakes falling softly down.

“Who’s there?” she called.

 “Me!”

Margaret jumped. There, right at her elbow, was a little girl with a very runny nose.

“Goodness gracious! Where did you come from?”

“Over there,” the little thing replied, pointing at the house behind Margaret’s. “I’m Abbey Hutten. Who are you? I think you look nice.”

“But how did you get over the fence?”

“I climbed,” Abbey beamed proudly.

“Goodness. Well, what do you want?”

“Here,” she said, pulling a decorative tin from behind her back and presenting it to Margaret upside down.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, turning it over and distastefully rubbing one hand and then the other on her pant leg. “It’s a little sticky.”

“Uh, huh. It’s fudge,” Abbey announced, sniffing loudly and wiping at her nose with a coat sleeve. “I made it.”

“Oh, that’s very nice,” Margaret said, “but you really shouldn’t…”

She hesitated. Abbey smiled expectantly.

“Well, thank you, dear. That was very kind. Won’t you come in for a while?”

At Margaret’s suggestion, Abbey tramped in and gazed around at all the wonders inside, nearly falling over her own feet three or four times in succession.

“Now you go to the sink and wash your hands a moment,” Margaret instructed. “That’s right, plenty of soap. Now come over here and sit at the table.”

Abbey sat, her legs hanging off the edge of the chair, winter boots dripping dirty water all over the kitchen floor. They smiled at one another for a terribly long time.

“Well?” said Abbey.

“Hmmm?”

“Aren’t you gonna have a piece?”

“Oh, well…I’m not sure that I ought…that is….” Margaret caught sight of Abbey’s crestfallen face. “I suppose I could have one piece before bed.”

Margaret gingerly opened the tin and examined the contents. Nothing looked terribly amiss. She chose the smallest piece and smiled half-heartedly at Abbey. Abbey smiled back and nodded.

“You, ah, did wash your hands before you made these?” Margaret asked, looking at Abbey’s rather damp nose.

“Oh, yes!” Abbey beamed, fairly jumping out of her chair. “My mommy made me wash three times, one time before I started and two times in the middle.”

“Good,” Margaret said, smiling some more.

She stared at the fudge a little longer and then took a small bite. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“This is very good,” she remarked. “And you said you made it?”

 “Um, hmmm. Mommy helped.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you in return,” Margaret apologized. “You see I haven’t done much Christmas baking this year.”

“Oh,” Abbey said, eyeing the tin of fudge. “You could offer me a piece of fudge.”

Margaret swallowed hastily, trying to hide her smile.

“Of course. How thoughtless of me. Abbey, would you care for a piece of fudge?”

Abbey reached in the tin and pulled out a handful. She sighed contentedly, leaned back in the chair and munched.

“What’s your name?” Abbey asked.

“I am Margaret.”

“Where are your Christmas presents?”

The ring of chocolate around Abbey’s mouth widened by the second

“I haven’t got any.”

“Why not? Who are you gonna have Christmas with?”

“You see, I’m a widow and my son lives very far away. So, I won’t have Christmas with anyone this year.”

“What’s widow?”

“That means my husband has died.”

“Oooohhhh,” Abbey breathed out slowly. “That’s bad.”

“Yes, well, I do miss him, but I manage.”

“My grandma died last year. I was so sad and I cried. An old man died at church, too. That was sad…”

“Just a minute, dear,” Margaret held up her hand for silence. “I hear something. I hear voices calling.”

They both stopped and listened. A man was yelling outside.

“Aaaaabbbbey!”

Margaret turned and looked at Abbey.

“You did tell your parents you were coming to my house, didn’t you?”

Abbey’s eyes were big and round.

“Oops. I think I forgot.”

Margaret pushed out of her chair as fast as she could and went to the back door. There was a man and several other children with flashlights in the yard at Abbey’s house, calling her name.

“I beg your pardon,” Margaret called over the way, “but if you’re looking for Abbey, she is sitting in my kitchen right now. No need to worry.”

Nevertheless, Abbey’s father was displeased when he jumped over the fence and marched into Margaret’s house. Abbey was sheepish.

“Abigail! What have we told you about leaving the yard without asking permission?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes. “I just forgot.”

“You apologize to the lady for bothering her.”

 “I’m sorry, Miss Margaret,” Abbey blubbered.

 “Now go on home with your brother right now and get ready for bed,” he directed.

 Margaret watched a sorrowful Abbey climb back over the fence.

“I’m very sorry about this, ma’am,” Mr. Hutten apologized.

“Oh, it was no trouble. Truly it wasn’t,” Margaret insisted. “I don’t like to interfere, but she really didn’t mean any harm. She came over here to give me some fudge for Christmas. It’s the only Christmas present I’ve received this year, and I was actually glad of the company. I live alone, you know.”

Mr. Hutten smiled.

“Yes, our Abbey means well, though she can be carried away with her good intentions.”

“Please tell her thank you for me. I don’t mind if she comes again if you don’t.”

“Well, thank you. If I can just get her to ask permission before she takes off, we’ll have it just about settled,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll let you get to bed now. Have a good night and a Merry Christmas.”

Margaret closed the door after him, smiling at the tin of nearly-empty fudge. The smile faded as she made her way back into the living room and saw the open scrap book once again. Suddenly, it was very quiet in the house. Margaret went into her room, changed into her pajamas and laid down in bed. The brightly colored Christmas lights from the house across the road made pretty patterns on her bed spread. Margaret closed her eyes as a tear slipped down her cheek.

Margaret set no alarm for the next morning. There was no need. There was no dinner to prepare for a crowd of happy relatives, and Margaret hadn’t the heart to make Christmas dinner for herself. So she woke when the morning was already old and lay in bed with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Ding, dong!

Margaret sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.

Ding! Dong!

She threw back the covers and put on her robe and slippers. Daring a glance in the mirror, she shuddered at the curls standing on end. She picked up a comb, but threw it down and shuffled to the front door as the doorbell rang again.

There on the step was Mr. Hutten, smiling from one ear to the other.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning to you,” Margaret replied, cocking her head at him.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Oh, no. I was awake.”

“Well, I was talking to my wife the other night, and I mentioned you’d be spending Christmas alone this year. So, we were hoping you’d come to our house and spend it with us. Share our dinner and all…”

Margaret smiled, but could not seem to make any words come out.

“Of course, we are a noisy bunch. It may be a little more hectic than you’re used to. We understand if you’d rather not…”

“No, no, I would love to come!” Margaret blurted. She smiled again, “I would.”

“Very good. Abbey will be excited. I’ll bring the car around and pick you up in, say, a half hour?

“Yes, I’ll just get ready. Thank you.”

Abbey was the first to greet Margaret at the door.

“Miss Margaret! Did you eat all the fudge?”

“No, not all,” Margaret smiled.

“We have a lot more. I love fudge!”

There were four more children, all older than Abbey, and a pretty wife named Julie who looked harried and distracted but pleasant.

“Have a seat Margaret, and make yourself comfortable,” she said, taking a ham out of the oven. “Abbey, go blow your nose and then visit with Miss Margaret.

Margaret sat down on the nearest chair and then jumped up again with a start.

“Oh, my. There’s a plate on the chair.”

“There’s brown stuff on your bottom, Miss Margaret,” Abbey reported.

“So there is,” Margaret noticed.

“Abbey! I told you to put that plate of fudge on the table,” Julie scolded.

“I forgot again.”

“It’s not polite to talk about people’s bottoms,” Abbey’s older sister reproved.

“But there is fudge on her bottom, Mary,” Abbey insisted.

 Margaret shook with laughter as she followed Julie into the kitchen to wash it off.

“Yes, Abbey, we know,” Julie said. “There’s no need to repeat it. Now go blow your nose and wash your hands.”

“Okay,” Abbey shouted and ran to the bathroom. “I got a new coloring book for Christmas, Miss Margaret!”

“With soap,” Mr. Hutten called after her.

“Yes, Daddy!”

It was a very good Christmas dinner and not at all dull. Abbey kept up a constant stream of entertaining conversation and the other children joined in. After dinner and once the dishes were all washed and put away, Margaret and the family gathered near the Christmas tree and sat down together. (Margaret was careful to examine her seat first for brown stuff.) Mr. Hutten read the account of Christ’s birth from the Gospel of Luke and they sang, “Joy to the World.” Abbey sang with all of her heart in a clear, pretty voice which was mostly in tune.

“How nice this all is,” Margaret smiled, once the last notes died away. “I haven’t had such a nice Christmas for several years.”

“Tell me a story, Miss Margaret!” Abbey shouted, jumping up and leaning against the arm of Margaret’s chair.

“What kind of story?”

“How did you get a widow?” Abbey asked.

“Abbey!” Mary rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“That’s too sad of a story for Christmas, dear,” Margaret replied. “But I could tell you how I became a Mrs. That’s a nice story. I became a Mrs. on Christmas Eve, you know.”

“Oooohhh,” Abbey breathed. “What’s a Mrs?”

They all laughed and Margaret began.

“I was nineteen years old in 1943. The war was nearly over, but we didn’t know it then. We hoped, but we didn’t know for sure.”

“What war?” Abbey interrupted.

“World War two, silly,” from Mary.

“What’s that?”

“Just listen, Abbey,” Julie advised.

“Anyway, I worked at a factory with my best friend Mary Lou. We stood at a conveyor belt all day long, tightening screws on airplane parts.”

“Fighter planes!” Abbey’s brother Kyle broke in.

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t recall, exactly. But I got awfully tired of tightening those screws. Well, most of the young men were drafted and serving overseas. So, we women ran the factories mostly. There was one young man who worked at the factory on my line, though. He stood three places down from me and Mary Lou. I wondered why he was there at first until I noticed that he walked with a very bad limp. He was a hard worker though. Sometimes, I could see his face all pinched up with pain after those long days standing in one place, but he didn’t complain. He was shy and I was shy, so we never spoke. After a while, though, I’d catch him leaning a little farther forward than necessary and glancing over at me from time to time. Mary Lou noticed and teased me about it until I blushed.

I thought about him sometimes on my day off. You see, he wasn’t what most people would call handsome, but he had a good face and good eyes.  And good faces and good eyes are hard to come by even in handsome men. I found out his name was Albert Sevcek. I began to look forward to seeing him every day, even though we never spoke. Sometimes I even smiled at him when he looked at me.

Then something quite nice happened two weeks before Christmas. It was the end of the day and Mary Lou and I were walking out of the plant, stretching our sore backs and talking about what we wanted to do that evening. I was quite engrossed in the conversation and didn’t notice that Albert was walking towards the time clock as we were but from the opposite direction. Mary Lou says he was staring down at the floor, looking pretty tired. So he didn’t notice me either. Well, we arrived at the clock at the same time, even lifted our cards at the same time, and before Mary Lou could warn me, we had a terrific crash.

We stuttered and stammered apologies and then stared at each other. Mary Lou smiled.

‘Well, Marge, I think I’ll be going now. See you tomorrow,’ she said, and deserted me.  I had not the presence of mind to respond.

‘Could I walk you home, Miss?’ Albert finally asked.

I nodded.

We walked home together every day after that and we talked about many things. My parents thought he was a fine fellow because he really was. I knew him exactly ten days before he asked me to marry him.

‘We’re very good friends, aren’t we Marge?’ he asked.

We were walking home again two days before Christmas Eve.

‘Yes, we are.’

‘I would like for us to be very good friends always.’

‘So would I.’

‘It’s hard for people to be friends when they are far away from each other,’ he said after a long pause.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘I think the best friends always stay close by each other, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Marge,’ he said, stopping and turning to me, ‘I would like you to be with me always so we can be the best kind of friends.’

He swallowed hard and then continued on, ‘Marge, would you marry me?’

I was already smiling because I knew what he was going to say.

‘I think that would be nice,’ I nodded.

There was no need to plan a big wedding. There was no money to plan with, anyway. So we went to the minister with my parents and Mary Lou and a friend of Albert’s and said, ‘I do.’ He was a good husband to me. I do miss him.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Mary sighed.

The whole family was smiling. Margaret’s eyes were quite misty as she looked around at all of them.

“It’s so good to share these things with you,” she said. “I haven’t told this story for a long time. It’s good to remember.”

They wiled away the afternoon until dusk, talking and playing games. Margaret stood up. It was nearly time for John to call from Germany, and she did not want to miss him.

“Come again any time you like,” Mr. Hutten said and Julie nodded in agreement. He lowered his voice, “You’d be doing us a favor, actually. I lost my mom last year. She used to live just down the road. The kids miss her so much, especially Abbey. I think that’s why she climbed your fence last night. So please come again.”

Abbey ran to Margaret and threw her arms around her.

“Goodbye, Miss Margaret! You want some more fudge to take home?”

To Margaret, it was a lovely thing to sit at her kitchen table with the blind open as she talked to John, seeing the lights from the Hutten home and the shadowy figures that moved in front of the windows. Her own house seemed so much brighter because of it.

That particular Christmas day was the beginning of a new friendship that lasted many years. Abbey and the other children clambered over the fence so often in the next weeks and months, that Mr. Hutten installed a gate at Margaret’s urging. The kimono in the closet became Abbey’s play thing. Wrapped up in it, she often sat by the cuckoo clock, waiting with bated breath for the little bird to burst out of its door.

“Thank you for friends,” Margaret often prayed throughout the years as Abbey and the other children grew up. At other Christmases with the Huttens and with her son when he moved back to the states, she often told of the Christmas that was so dreary and then turned to joy. And it all happened, as Abbey like to say, because of fudge.

Housekeeping

Well, I hope you enjoyed that. If you did, please share it with a friend with an encouragement to subscribe here on Substack! After all of you kind people helped me out with sharing last week, I got three new subscribers! Thanks a million.

The next chapter of The Pursuit of Elizabeth Millhouse will go out as usual on Wednesday morning at 7:00. Please consider upgrading from free to paid subscription to support me in my republishing endeavors!

That’s all for now. Until next time, folks…