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  • Writer's pictureWJ King


It’s Mother’s Day across the nation and in over forty countries worldwide. The old hag is forgiven her sins and tossed an egg sandwich in bed before she can get up and dole out her treachery. The mental picture I’ve drawn may not represent a ‘Hallmark Moment’ for you and the greeting cards depicting such, wouldn’t sell as robustly as the conventional. But they would sell. Indeed they would be quite popular where I grew up. My memories are vivid if not warm and fuzzy of my childhood at Angelwish Orphanage.

Life at ‘Anguish’ was markedly different from other children’s experiences, from what I understand. Donna Reed or June Cleaver, chirping dinner was ready would’ve been met with assault, quite possibly rape and a swift kick in the ribs for good measure. When I think of Mother’s Day, I think of Betty Bumstead, the lunch lady who bought me beer when I was twelve, at a considerable mark up of course. A lunch lady didn’t earn much in the fifties, especially at an orphanage with high risk boys. The term was, delinquent back then and the ones who hadn’t been adopted by thirteen years old, may as well have just reported to state prison. She was from England and I loved her accent. I called Betty, Ma sometimes but never during sex and I always felt that was what made me normal, not callin’ the lady I was fuckin’ Ma. Yeah, sex was on the table if you’ll pardon the pun if a fella were to run into a few extra dollars. I cried when they took Ma out of the orphanage in handcuffs, over somethin’ to do with gun running for the KKK. Betty never talked about her connection with the KKK but did tell me one time, not to trust the negroes.

When I turned eighteen, I left the orphanage and toured the country and quite a tour, it was. I met a lot of people but no one to compare with Ma. Women couldn’t explain why they couldn’t be like Betty and that would make me really sad until I would get really angry. I wound up takin’ a trip across the pond to England and loved the way the girl’s talked and everything but nobody just like Betty. Except I thought, maybe Genevieve. Seemed we had a lot in common and she even looked like Betty when she dressed up like a lunch lady, with her hair pulled back. A few months went by and I buried her body near Newcastle upon Tyne, north of London. As luck would have it, my luck that is, the F.B.I. was following me in cooperation with the National Crime Agency (N.C.A.), the United Kingdom’s F.B.I. Long story short, I was tried, found guilty and found my way to Broadmoor Prison Hospital for the criminally insane.

There are many privileges and favors to be had in a psychiatric hospital/prison and like the orphanage I am adept at acquiring them. With the sources of my ‘currency’ for favors, primarily in the United States, Special Agent James O’Malley stays in touch with the authorities over here. I “earn” privileges knowing where the bodies are buried but not metaphorically. I have special meals quite often and the best view from my spacious cell in the whole bloody prison. Now however, I think I’d like internet access, limited of course. I’m nuttier than a bloody fruitcake but still understand reason, shush, not a word to the psychiatrist.

I go through the normal channels and upon written agreement concerning my favors am on the phone with Agent O’Malley. “‘Appy Mother’s Day to your mum Jimmy, listen mate ‘ave you got any of your people in Michigan, ‘ave you ever heard of Ionia? Good, now grab your bloody shovels and off you go then.”


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