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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “a Perfect Solitude” cc&d (v262) (the May 2016 issue, v262) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Clouds over the Moon the cc&d Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2015 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Cottage Industry

Bob Strother

    Jackson Delany watched with pride as his sons and their families piled into the two vans parked side by side in his driveway. Robert, the older one, had two kids aged three and five, and his wife Jessica was plump with number three. Stevie had one, a boy going on seven. Stevie’s wife, Katie, worked full time as a geriatric nurse, and they both seemed content with only one child. Jackson didn’t mind either way. He considered himself lucky to have two fine, hard-working boys, and three, soon-to-be-four, grandkids who still found time to spend Sunday lunches and occasional afternoons with him. He’d worried about that after Donna died—she’d always been the family’s rallying point—but he’d been wrong. If the KFC chicken and fixings ultimately resulted in a cholesterol-induced heart attack, he’d still die a happy man.
    He waved goodbye as the vehicles pulled out from his driveway. Then he lumbered back inside the house. Within ten minutes, Jackson had put away the leftovers, cleaned the kitchen, and emptied the trash. It was at that point he noticed the folded twenties left under the pepper shaker.
    “I’ll be damned,” he said, his eyebrows pulling low over his eyes. He wasn’t sure which one it had been. Both boys had tried, at separate intervals earlier that day, to press bills into his hand. Each time, he’d declined. When Donna was alive they’d gotten by fairly well on his modest pension and their combined Social Security. After his wife’s death, it had become harder. He’d managed, though—canned stew and white rice was a hearty enough meal, beans and cornbread, too. But the boys weren’t so easy to convince. They routinely tried to force money on him, money he knew they needed for their own families, especially Robert, with another baby on the way.
    He stuffed the bills into a Mason jar along with money they’d left on other occasions, and put the jar back into the cabinet over the sink. Jackson had racked his brain trying to figure a way to return the money to his kids, but had yet to arrive at an acceptable idea. What he did know was that he had to do something.
    The computer in the den dinged once—an incoming email. It was annoying, that ding every time some piece of frivolous spam found its way into his house, but he hadn’t figured out yet how to remedy it. And when the boys were around, it always seemed to slip his mind. Of course, he’d considered discontinuing his internet access. That would free up some money he could use, but he did love it when the boys, or their wives, or the six-year-old sent him a message. Poppy, they all called him. He could do without a lot but not that.
    The message he found after pulling up his computer chair was for a financial service offering low-interest loans for small businesses. He scrolled down the screen, studying several of the types of business opportunities. A few minutes later, he stumbled across an idea—an idea that just might solve his problem.

.....

    The following Sunday, the family gathered around the dining room table as Jackson told them of his plans. They appeared pleased with his news, of course, and he couldn’t help wondering if it was partly from relief.
    “So, Dad, when do you start the new business?” Robert reached into the big red and white cardboard bucket and retrieved an extra-crunchy chicken leg.
    Jackson smiled like a used car salesman and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Starts tomorrow and I’m looking forward to it.”
    “I’m so happy for you, Poppy,” said Katie. “Working at the nursing home, I see far too many people with idle time on their hands. It’s not good for the soul.”
    The six-year-old asked, “How’d you decide to get into dog-walking, Poppy?”
    Jackson stifled a mild burp and leaned back in his chair. “Why, it’s the perfect business for someone like me. I’ll go out mornings and late afternoons, get plenty of exercise—which is something I need after gobbling all this chicken and mashed potatoes—and, best of all, it’s a low-overhead job. The only expense I have is buying poop bags.”
    “Please, Poppy” said Jessica, eyes wide. “Not at the table.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “Well,” Jackson said, “the point is, I won’t need any extra money now. I appreciate all you’ve done. Your mother would’ve been proud of all of you, looking out for me. But I’m happier when I know you’re taking care of yourselves.”
    “It was never a problem,” Stevie said. “We were glad to help. Anyway, we’re proud of you, too.”
    Jackson knew that part about the money wasn’t quite the truth. It had been a problem—for them and for him, but no more. Not if he could help it. “Enough talk of money,” he said, tipping the KFC bucket in his direction. “Anybody gonna eat that last wing?”

.....

    All businesses had their ups and downs, Jackson thought, especially start-ups. This was just a hiccup, nothing to worry about. From where he sat in the passenger seat of Katie’s car, he watched as she talked to the two officers. Lots of animated hand gestures going on between them, some nods, some head shakes. One of the officers spat on the sidewalk. Ought to be arrested for that, right? Finally the conversation seemed to be over. Katie shook hands with both men, smiling big—Jackson thought of it as her sunrise smile—then glared at him as she approached the car.
    She climbed in, sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Poppy, what got into you? Are you crazy?”
    “Don’t worry, Katie,” Jackson offered. I’ll be more careful next time.”
    “That is not what I mean, and you know it.” She pointed to the sign out front of the hair salon—New Image. “You must never do this again! What if the same two police officers responded? Do you think they’d believe you walked out of the nursing home again and decided to rob another hair salon? How long do you think the dementia argument would work?”
    Jackson pointed at Katie’s uniform and her nameplate with the nursing home logo on it. “Well, it certainly helps that you’re dressed in nursing duds.” He decided not to mention the note he had in his pocket with Katie’s name and the Rest Easy Nursing Home contact information.
    Katie slammed her fist against the steering wheel. “I will not become your accomplice in crime. I could lose my job, go to jail myself. And what would your boys think if you were arrested? What would the grandkids think?” She cranked the car and yanked it away from the curb. “Thank God you didn’t actually have a gun.”
    “I figured a fist in my jacket pocket would work.”
    “Good thing it didn’t,” Katie said.
    “And who knew that little fancy boy with the earrings would grab me like that. I thought they’d be more cowed than the women.”
    “Don’t be a homophobe, Poppy. I’m already really, really upset with you.”
    They rode in silence until Katie turned into Jackson’s driveway. After he got out of the car, she pushed the button that lowered his window and said, “Please, please don’t ever do this again.”
    Jackson looked his daughter-in-law in the eye and placed his hand over his heart. “I promise never to rob another hair salon, but you have to promise to not try and force money on me again. Tell the boys it’s a matter of my needing to feel independent.”
    “I’ll do what I can,” she said, then as she backed away, “Dog walker, my ass.”
    Jackson went inside, sat down in front of his computer, and pulled up the Internet. He hoped Katie would be successful, but it was doubtful the boys would be swayed by her efforts if they thought he was still short of cash. Maybe he really could get a job as a dog walker—plenty of fresh air and sunshine. He scanned the computer screen: small business opportunities, business loans, women-owned businesses...
    Of course, dog walking wouldn’t be so great in the rain, or the cold, or the snow. All that stooping over to scoop up the leavings, his back wasn’t what it used to be. What if he slipped on some ice? Broke a hip? Then where would he be—laid up in some nursing home with a bunch of slack-mouthed zombies like the ones Katie looked after, that’s where. He’d rather be dead. But he’d felt pretty far from dead when he’d barged into that hair salon and yelled, “This is a stickup!” In fact, he’d felt more alive than he had in years. It had been a crazy idea. And he’d promised Katie, too—never again, ever.
    He clicked absently on a link for minority-owned businesses, scrolled through the listings, and chuckled. “Who would have thought,” he murmured, “a town this size would have over forty separate nail salons?” The one he’d seen at the mall employed all Asian women. According to a guy down at the barber shop, they all did. Even so, Jackson bet somebody there would understand simple English, right?

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