Fudgery

CHAPTER ONE

Glittering Sales Publishing is the name on the window of a corner building at a strip mall in Miami, Florida. Behind its glass door is a small, square space where Irma Gutierrez, clutching a red folder on her lap, sits in front of a dark brown, bureau-style desk, and across from the head publisher, sixty-year-old, Beatrice Campbell, who is staring at her tan blouse. Beatrice buttons its top button. Her shoulder-length, blond wig slides, inching over her forehead. Eighty-nine-dollars and it won’t stay put.

Irma drops her stare to a cellphone on the desk and she bites the inside of her bottom lip. Her ankles are crossed and tucked beneath the chair. She’s rocking her feet, and her white sandals are squeaking.

Mrs. Campbell raises her chin. She brings a finger to a center part-line, where then she slides the wig in place. The publisher smiles at the forty-eight-year-old, brown-eyed, brunette, whose hair is in a tidy bun. You’re a woman with good taste, Irma. That white dress makes those Tiger Lilies pop. I absolutely love that sundress.

Thank you very much.

Somehow, I thought you’d look much older.

Oh?

You have the advance I sent you?

Yes. Irma nods. Four-hundred-dollars.

After I receive your summary of the trip, I’ll deposit the rest into your account.

Sixteen-hundred. Irma stares beyond the woman’s thick eyeglasses, searching her blue eyes for a sign of agreement.

Don’t forget about the fifteen-percent of their total sales. Mrs. Campbell shrugs. Which hasn’t ever amounted to much, but that’s why I’m sending you with them. You’re going to love the hotel.

It’s hundreds of miles from here? Irma points at the floor. From Miami?

It’s just a little south-west, Irma dear. Hundreds… Beatrice shakes a finger at Irma. I like to remind all my authors not to exaggerate an exaggeration. Irma squints, glancing down then up. Mrs. Campbell scoots forward. On the desk and in front of her, she rests one arm on top of the other. That’s a good writing tip. She gives Irma a nod. Remember to share it. It’s on the list in your folder.

Irma opens the red folder and she flips the pages. A to Z Car Rentals, GPS Instructions, The Correct Way to Write.

There you go, that’s it.

Okay, number one… Adjectives, go light on them.

Beatrice clears her throat. Simple and majestic…

Irma smiles softly at Mrs. Campbell. I’m sorry?

…red with a green and a very thick, long, long stem and the petals are covered with off-white, sparkling, large, oblong, spots. Beatrice presents her palms. You forgot the author was talking about a driveway where a body laid. Right?

Uh—

Authors are very sensitive, my dear Irma. Most are crazy, really. You can’t ever tell them they’re technique is wrong, because they will kill you. She smirks. You know what I mean.

Well—

Your job is to address them as a group. That way they’ll suspect you’re talking about the other guy or gal. Beatrice winks. Mention the rules as often as possible. But don’t look those people in the eyes! Irma swallows hard. She nods each time Mrs. Campbell completes a sentence. Keep repeating the fundamentals… All you can do is hope that something will sink in. She shrugs. But, most importantly, I’m counting on you to teach them how to become a big hit on the platform called, Social Media and the People. Show them how you did it.

Images of her page flash in Irma’s mind… The covers of the three books she self-published, and the fourth cover… it was meant for the last book in a romance series, but she didn’t finish writing it.

Mrs. Campbell stares wide-eyed at Irma. Almost two-hundred-thousand followers… Amazing. Irma’s eyes grow wide. Her heart beats rapidly. I want you to teach me too. I can just imagine how many books you’ve sold... I know, it’s none of my business, but I am damn curious. Irma drops her stare to the green indoor/outdoor carpet. It’s something you should brag about, and I’d insist now, but I’ve got to be running. Mrs. Campbell grabs the cellphone.

Irma closes the folder and she stands. The trip, um…

I have to be in Chicago tomorrow. So many appointments, so many authors to meet. Beatrice springs from the chair. Everything you need to know is in the folder. She dashes to Irma’s side. I hate airports. They’re always so crowded and—

Why’s the hotel so far from where the convention’s being held?

Beatrice places a palm on Irma’s back and she guides her to the door. I thought you were a writer.

Irma hugs the paper folder. I am. I was. I—

Where’s your sense of adventure, romance? The Out West Miami hotel was once a very famous museum. Beatrice presses her knuckles to the glass and she pushes the door open.

Irma rushes onto the sidewalk where then she turns around. A museum?

I still have to pack. Mrs. Campbell slides the phone in a pocket of her tan slacks. She pulls a set of keys out from the other. When the population here grew and all the main roads went to and from everywhere but near there, they renovated.

Into a hotel?

My dear, people come from all over the world just to stay in their exclusive, luxury suites. Beatrice fumbles with the keys at the deadbolt. We’ve made all the arrangements. They have fine dining and views that over-look groves… She locks the door, turns and swoops her palms in front of Irma’s nose. …with thousands of beautiful orange trees.

Irma takes a step back. Wonderful.

Of course it is. She raises an electronic key. High-pitch beeps sound-off.

Fudge! Irma hops, turning toward two vehicles which are parked facing the building.

Fudge? Beatrice giggles and she marches passed Irma. Use big-girl words, dear. She steps off the curb and rushes between a silver Taurus and a red mini-van. No one wants to get fudged to death. Irma frowns. Mrs. Campbell pulls the van door open. That’s on the list too. Study it. I’m counting on you.

Irma grits her teeth and smiles. The van backs out of the space and behind the Ford where it pauses then pulls forward.

The newly hired publicist takes a step when from her right eye, she catches a glimpse of a dark object falling toward her head. Her eyes slam shut and she darts forward. Brick smacks against cement. Irma spins around. A red brick, broken in half, lies on the sidewalk in front of the silver car. Irma sidesteps off the curb and alongside the Taurus. At its rear bumper, she squints into the sun, peering at the roof. A cloud of dust settles on a sand-colored, flat surface next to an air conditioning unit that is four-feet-high and eight-feet-long. Is someone up there? A gust of wind sweeps a thin layer of dirt across the length of the grey unit and onto the roof where it then settles. A car, followed by a motorcycle enter the parking lot at Irma’s left. They pass behind her. People are rushing to and from stores. Irma’s nostrils flare, she charges forward, jogs to the end of the building, rounds the corner and then she sprints to her white Jeep.

FUDGERY

Vonda Norwood

CHAPTER TWO

Later that afternoon, inside a private medical center, Irma power walks, smiling and waving at many familiar faces as she passes nurse stations.

***

After an elevator ride to the fourth floor, she steps out and pretends not to notice male nurses, who are reading medical charts near every entrance and exit. This floor is temporary host to one patient and a team of psychologists and physical therapists, who specialize in trauma concerning a Green Beret who retains classified information.

Irma trots around the last corner. In a room at the end and to the right, lies her husband, Colonel Donovan Gutierrez. Four months ago, he was injured when a suicide bomber exploded a truck at a checkpoint outside a military base in Afghanistan. On a raised bed, between two small dressers, Don is facing a blank television screen and he is staring at the ceiling.

A young woman places a chair beside his bed. She leans down and presses a green seat. Cloth covered and cushiony, Mr. Gutierrez.

Don keeps his hazel eyes locked on white panels. First, you tell me it’s ninety-eight degrees, then you think I’m going to let you cook my wife’s ass.

The woman stands tall. I have removed the leather chair, Mr. Gutierrez.

I can’t walk, but my vision is perfect.

Yes it is. The nurse reaches behind her and she adjusts the white hair-tie around her short, brown hair.

Irma’s lost twenty-pounds since the army tried to stick me at a desk.

You will walk again, Mr. Gutierrez. She heads to the open doorway. All you have to do is cooperate with the people who want to help you.

Cooperate with people who don’t know any better than to offer a skinny woman a fake leather chair on a hot day?

Irma charges into the room. Sara… Ooh, the white pants suit.

Sara smiles. It’s how we know it’s Wednesday. The women giggle and embrace for a quick hug. I love your Tiger Lilies, Irma.

Thank you.

Donovan Gutierrez bellows, No one here addresses me as Captain.

Enjoy your visit. Sara rushes through the exit.

Thank you. Irma marches forward. She passes a small, elevated table at the foot of Don’s bed. On the wall near the window, she pulls a cord and beige curtains open, revealing tinted glass with a view of a small rose garden on the roof, one floor below. Across the street and above the Miami Family Diner, a digital sign flashes the time, date and temperature. The pinks are losing their petals, but the yellows are in complete bloom. Irma heads to the table where from she lifts a remote and aims it at the television. She presses the power button then the mute button. Those flowers are so lovely. Finding a local news channel, she brings the remote to her husband, placing it leaning against his left thigh and on top of his thumb.

She makes her way around the foot of his bed. "You had them turn the thermostat