Excerpt
Hells bells, Maggie Mae, You bet your sweet patootie I have a one-track mind and proud of it. Guilty as charged. I am a dirty old man, a lecherous fool, Chester winked, one droopy eyelid blinking like a flickering candle. If you persnickety old fuddy-duddies would lighten up, youd hop on board and ride that train all the way to glory! Hey, Sweetheart, maybe it will kill me n the end, but what a way to go!
I declare, Chester, youre a rascal. When I heard Jeff Foxworthys You Might Be a Redneck routine on television, there you were. He wondered why women have so much trouble understanding men, just bring me a beer and get nekkid. Heck, its not rocket science. Granted, some men are beer and pretzels while others prefer champagne and silk; the end result is the same.
All right, old boy, bring it on, Maggie barked. Lets peel that banana once and for all, but only so I wont feel guilty after youre gone!
Chesters face lit up with a silly pumpkin grin, Maggie, darling, youll never regret this. Staggering across the room to the twin bed, he yanked back the covers and wasted no time in taking advantage of his good fortune before Maggie changed her mind.
After a few minutes, Maggie felt the weight of a dead whale collapse upon her. Suddenly his corpulent body deflated and a limp dishrag of dead weight draped across her.
What in heavens name would she say to the attendant? Get him out of here before rigor mortis sets in? Maybe the mortician would have a different place to loop the toe tag, she giggled, visualizing a tent-pole holding up the sheet. Then she scolded herself as hot tears flowed. She would miss old Chester.
Maggie shivered; Chesters ghost would surely boogie on her grave. Pale moonlight wafting through the open window wrapped her in an eerie glow as she watched the gurney disappear down the hall. Squeak, squeak, thump, to the rhythm of a freight train.
Now what to tell her friends, the Sassy Old Broads, at next Thursdays meeting?
~
At exactly eleven-fifteen as specified to Strip-a-GRAM, Graces doorbell rang in a soft Westminster chime. Helium balloons in vibrant purples and pinks filled the living room. The triple-layered chocolate cake -- covered with pink and purple roses on white icing -- rested on a hutch by the small teakwood dining table.
Grace opened the door to a darkly handsome young man dressed in snug-fitting black pants and shirt, complete with a clerical collar. The biggest silver cross theyd ever seen hung around his neck.
Good morning, Ladies. Im the Reverend Randy Graham. And Im sure this lovely young lady is Polly, our birthday girl, he said, handing Polly his black fedora. The girls had provided a photo so his entry would go without a hitch.
Polly let out an ear-piercing squeal. I just knew you would plan something special for my birthday, but a priest? I havent been to church in years. Well, yes, our chapel here sometimes. Not that I dont believe, mind you.
Her friends just smiled, sat back and waited for the action to begin.
Bless you my child, you must confess all your sins to me before I leave, Randy said as he removed the white collar from his neck and tossed it onto her lap.
Grace jumped up and started the CD provided by Strip-a-GRAM. From a selection of hundreds of songs, they had chosen the perfect one, Son of a Preacher Man. Pollys mouth formed a big round O as Randy began performing. Slowly unbuttoning the black shirt, in rhythm to the music, he revealed the hairiest chest she had ever seen.
Then hed look into my eyes Gyrating hips moved to the music as the shirt landed on Pollys head.
Randy danced closer to Polly singing, the only boy who could ever teach her close enough for her to stroke his muscular chest while he slowly removed his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Remaining was a tiny red-hot sequined Speedo.
~
Even though a strong camaraderie existed, failing memories caused a perpetual fear that one of them, someday, somewhere, would blurt out their secret. On the other hand, who would believe them? They would just shake their heads in disbelief, Oh, those merry old widows, fabricating stories again. Bats in the belfry, dont you know! Just seeking attention. Actually, attention was the last thing they wanted.
~
Polly, listen. I hear noises; someone is coming and they have a bright flashlight.
Oh, its you, Miz Polly and Mr. Robert, I believe it is. I heard alligators thrashing and bellowing all the way from the other side of the lake. Its mating season, you know. Thought I oughta check it out. Havent come across any gators, have ya? No? Well, yall be careful now, Mr. Jones, Rest Havens long-time security chief shuffled off into the darkness, grinning and shaking his head. Theres no fool like an old fool. Good golly, Miz Polly, now Ive seen it all. Literally!
~
Maggie spotted something in her peripheral vision. Cautiously approaching the feral-cat like thing sprawled across a peach and teal throw pillow, she doubled over in laughter. Looked suspiciously like the thatch of white hair that had perched atop Austins head last night.
~
Wading out of the water a few hours later, the Sassy Old Broads glanced at the empty place on the beach where they were sure their clothes had been placed. Maybe we drifted a bit, each thought, scanning the beach.
Almost simultaneously, they squealed and pointed to the articles of clothing hanging from a flaming red Poinciana tree, flapping in the island breezes. White granny panties, cotton support bras of various shapes and sizes -- assorted tropical-print shirts and white elastic-waist shorts -- decorated the tree like those little flying pig flags that hang from porches.
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