June Bug Fantasy

June Bug Fantasy

By L. A. McIntire

Copyright 2013 L. A. McIntire

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781301204021

Cover design by John Low

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and either you did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters found herein to actual persons, living or dead, is interesting—even a little weird—but entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

My love and thanks go to my wife, Nora, for believing in me; to my children, Andrew and Melissa, for encouraging their old man; and to my dear friends, Chad and Suzy, for editing the rough draft. Thus, dear reader, your journey into a humorous and memorable world of life and fantasy now begins. Enjoy.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Roy’s Daydreaming Goes Awry

Chapter 2: Sheila and Jake Try to Help

Chapter 3: More Family Turmoil and Roy’s Abduction

Chapter 4: Seeking Outside Advice

Chapter 5: Roy Encounters a Curious Stranger

Chapter 6: Run-ins with Jenny and the Meddlesome Sprite

Chapter 7: Sheila Adams Comes Clean

Chapter 8: Mom, What’s a Schizo?

Chapter 9: Flower-Shop Revelations

Chapter 10: Coffeecake and Quarreling at Roy’s Folks

Chapter 11: Agnes Wedman’s Timely Confession

Chapter 12: Lady M’s Incredible One-Night Getaway

Chapter 13: Uncovering the Friendly Acquaintance’s Identity

Chapter 14: The Owl’s Strange Tale

Chapter 15: A Wedman Family Soap Opera

Chapter 16: Trouble at Rocky Haven Camp

Chapter 17: The Storm

Chapter 18: Togas or Angel Robes

Chapter 19: The Shadow of an Idea

Chapter 20: Second Chances and Amazing Possibilities

About the Author

Chapter 1 – Roy’s Daydreaming Goes Awry

One Sunday morning Roy Wedman sat in a pew and contemplated Sheila Adams. Any woman might have satisfied his fantasy that bright spring day, yet she alone popped into his mind. He preferred a daydream with the strawberry-blonde to yet another ponderous sermon by Reverend Blackwell—meaning the company of an ethereal goddess to something god-awful. Roy quite enjoyed his mental escape, in fact, until a stolen glance at Sheila and her inscrutable return look jolted him back into reality.

He was—as they say—busted.

Embarrassed and angry, Wedman scolded himself for looking much less daydreaming. He hardly knew anything about Sheila Adams, except for her being a registered nurse and the mother of school-age twins. Moreover, she was married to a social misfit, one Clement Adams, of whom Roy disapproved. The finer details of Sheila’s day-to-day life otherwise escaped his notice and for good reason. Besides exchanging pleasantries at Sunday services and church-related events, he maintained no communication with the woman. The social gulf between them made her a safe diversion, and that was all.

Well, not quite all.

Roy often fantasized about Sheila to be perfectly honest about the matter. He had been doing so for weeks in fact. Whenever his mind wandered, she came to him like a warm savannah breeze. He simply could not keep the woman out of his thoughts. To make matters worse, he suspected her—the real Sheila Adams—of somehow sensing and approving his attention. Such foolishness had no place inside either a church or his mind, of course. Therefore, in quiet desperation, Wedman tried focusing on his own family instead.

He looked down at nine-year-old Ben, napping in the fetal position, with his head on Roy’s lap. The toe-head’s angelic face belied the holy terror to be unleashed upon disturbance. His twin arsenals of over inquisitiveness and perpetual mischief were awesome spectacles to those besieged by him. No defender, adult or child, could long endure. Thus, despite the drool pooling on his pant leg, Wedman chose to let sleeping dogs lie. His son was the lucky one, he begrudgingly reasoned. No guilt-laden sermon prevented his boyish rest; no self-accusation ruined his youthful dreaming. Nevertheless, the little hellion’s tireless imagination most concerned his father, not to mention one other family member.

Within range of Ben’s fully cocked feet sat his archenemy and older sister by six years, Jennifer. Indeed, she seemed perfectly willing to kill the lad, if her parents' fondness for him ever wavered—not that she herself lacked any personal shortcomings, of which her father could readily attest. Somewhere along youth’s way, Jenny had stopped being Daddy's little girl and become a half-person, complete with half-colored hair, half-decent clothing, half-baked ideas (like wanting a gecko tattoo on her butt), and an endless stream of half-lies and half-truths. In short, living with her was less than half-bearable, and her old man was more than half-sick of it. Dealing with a willful, teenage daughter was her mother’s department, he argued. That was however another matter.

Batting cleanup for the home team, Mary Wedman sat reverently to Jenny's left. She would have captivated early Impressionists. The woman epitomized the ideal helpmate to perfection—faithful, steadfast, frugal, and upright—save for one glaring deficiency. For nearly two years, Roy had been enduring her season of budding. Mary humorously coined the phrase to denote her employment as a flower-shop supervisor, an occupation that Roy soon came to resent. In particular, her job surpassed his own in overtime, which caused considerable family hardship, especially for him. Yet his wife remained blind to reason. She was determined to have a career and a home life (such as it existed) as well.

Years of pent-up creativity must have caused her seismic change. No other explanation sufficed in Roy’s view. Even worse, he had no one to blame for his reversal of fortune but himself. He had failed to heed his wife’s telltale rumblings of discontent much less to address them. Now, he was paying the price for his negligence, namely the total disruption of household order. To his church brothers (if they knew), he seemed pitiable; to his secular chums, pathetic. What good could they say of one who had lost his spiritual leadership or, more importantly, his manhood? He had dug his own grave, all right. Moreover, his clever spouse was shoveling the dirt on top of him.

Mary delighted in poetic summaries, Roy mused. Each one colorfully expressed a milestone in her life. He recalled their first meeting at a neo-discotheque in Denver. The witty brunette portrayed herself as the last flower child, come to die in this rhythmic quake of social decadence. Fortunately, their nine-month courtship and resultant marriage dispelled her flippant death wish. His wife’s subsequent pronouncements met similar fates. While she was wandering in a valley of uncertainty, he surprised her (and himself) with a beautiful baby girl. Five years later, she began a journey to everywhere in search of more, which abruptly ended with the birth of their hyperactive son. Yet, to date, he had found no tangible solution for her season-of-budding thing and doubted he ever would. The woman’s latest view of herself seemed as impregnable as it was unfathomable . . .

With growing apprehension, Jenny eyed her brother's feet and leaned toward her mother. Mom, she said quietly, if that little creep kicks me, I swear I’ll break his legs.

Jennifer! Mary Wedman scolded in a whisper. Watch your mouth!

I don't care. If he so much as touches me, he'll be a cripple for the rest of his life.

Honey, why can't you try to get along with Ben? You are fortunate that God gave you a brother.

Her mother had missed the point, an oversight that Jenny quickly rectified. Correction, Mommy dearest, you and Dad gave ‘it’ to me. I was not consulted beforehand remember? Had you bothered, you would have learned that I wanted neither a brother nor a sister. But no, you two did your biological thing, and I got stuck with the consequence, a genetic mutant.

Mary's dark-brown eyes narrowed. That's quite enough, young lady. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss your personal problems. So knock it off.

Then when and where was, Jenny wanted to say but did not. She recognized the line of demarcation between a safe argument and a week's grounding. Her mother’s ominous tone was a familiar warning. Instead, the perceptive daughter fell silent and glanced at her father. His appearance stunned her. A moment later, she risked nudging her clueless, hypersensitive, maternal parent with an elbow.

Mom.

What now, Jenny?

Dad's got that dreamy look again.

Mary Wedman sighed. I know. He tuned out five minutes into the sermon.

What's the matter with him?

I’m not sure, said her mother, who was still trying to decipher Reverend Blackwell’s wandering message. It may have something to do with his last birthday.

Her response failed to satisfy Jenny’s curiosity. He had a birthday. Everybody has birthdays. What's the big deal?

That got her mother’s attention. Mary stopped listening to the minister and looked at her. Your father is in his mid-forties, now, Jenny. That is a big deal to him.

Jenny rolled her eyes and shook her head. So, Dad's old. It doesn't mean he's dead. He'll probably live to be sixty.

Jake Somerset, himself a senior citizen, turned and scowled from the pew in front of them. The venerable presbyter had overheard Jenny’s remark.

S-sorry, Mary said as he turned away.

Once more, in a whisper, she scolded her daughter, Keep your voice down!

I was just trying to make a point, Mother.

Well you needn’t make it to the whole church! Anyway, your father is not old. He's middle-aged. Midlife, Jenny, do you know what that is?

I think so, said the teen, having little to go on except personal observation. It's like when grownups’ bodies start to break down and people try to convince themselves that they are still young—but they aren’t, right?

Mary looked at her and sighed. Midlife involves more than physical adjustments, Honey. There are also questions that need answers.

What questions, Mom? asked Jenny, ever the family skeptic. She had long suspected that the Eighties had permanently impaired her mother's thinking. The hypothesis helped to explain their personality differences despite the two’s strong physical resemblance. (Ben favored his father except for hair color. Roy’s hair was black with flecks of gray.)

Well, Mary said, I mean questions like who a person is, what he has accomplished and not accomplished, and how he’s going to live or at least try to live for the time remaining him. Get my drift?

Jenny nodded. You mean Dad is like a kid with an empty cereal box, who’s deciding which cereal to choose next.

Sort of, her mother said with a smile. To me, your father is more like a worker ant that starts behaving like a June bug.

Dad thinks he's a bug?

No, Sweetie, I mean that your father has temporarily lost his life’s direction. So, he’ll mope and flit about for a spell until he finds it again. That is how midlife works. Most days the experience is tolerable. Yet, at times, it can be quite maddening.

Jenny again glanced at her father. She envied him his blue eyes but, just then, wished more to know where they were staring. He still has that dreamy look, Mom.

I know, Jenny. I know.

Then—as they say—it happened.

Your wife and daughter are staring at you, Roy, Honey, said Sheila Adams, startling Roy Wedman by doing so.

He could not believe his eyes. Somehow, Sheila sat beside him and beside her husband across the aisle. Only the woman sitting next to Clement Adams looked refined and well mannered, while the gal sidling up to Roy appeared anything but. His Sheila wore western attire, an ivory-colored outfit accentuated with white hat, boots, fringe, and rhinestones. What most drew his attention was her shirt, seductively unbuttoned at the top.

You scared the devil out of me! he snapped at her.

I doubt that, Roy, Honey, she said with a mischievous grin. You're a very naughty boy.

What do you think you are doing?

Why, whatever do you mean?

You know very well what I mean. This is a church, not a rodeo. Just look at you! You're dressed like a barrel racer! His exasperation level was registering four-point-six on a five-scale. Don't you realize people come here to be spiritually moved?

Sheila squeezed his arm and smiled. Well now, speaking of moves, wasn't that you coming on to me a few minutes ago?

Sshh! People will hear you!

The cowgirl shook her head. That's not how it works, Sugar. Only you can hear me, and only you can see me. Get it?

Then stop annoying me, he said while anxiously glancing about him. Your childish behavior will make me do something stupid and draw everyone's attention.

Her smirk, however, foretold another pat answer. Nope again, in case you failed to notice, you haven't moved a muscle since my arrival, except in your head—although I suppose one could if he were frightened. But that's usually not how it works either.

Not how what works? Roy asked with mounting irritation. Daydream or no, she was getting on his nerves. The phantom cowgirl behaved as if she were running his mind’s show, not him.

The male stupor, she said in a matter-of-fact tone, that mental-escape pod a guy climbs into when life becomes either too boring or too uncomfortable. You men like to hide there when you think we women are not noticing. But, of course, we always are.

He gave her a withering stare. There’s no such thing as ‘the male stupor.’ You're making that up.

I'm not doing any such thing. You know it's true.

Oh, yeah, give me one example.

Sheila looked about the sanctuary then back at him. Very well, take the husband who waits in the women's section while his wife tries on dresses. In no time flat he's off to la-la land.

Give me a break. So, the guy daydreams. Everybody does it.

We are not talking about everybody, Mr. Wedman, Honey—just men. And we're not talking about common daydreaming, either. The male stupor is altogether another thing.

Roy remained unconvinced. In fact, she had turned him off. He tried to imagine her in an acceptable dress but failed to lock in the image. After several attempts, he gave up and reluctantly resumed the argument. You will have to do better than that, lady.

Sheila tipped back her hat and forced a smile. Oh, I see. You prefer specifics to generalities. Then kindly allow me to share a few personal illustrations.

Please do. He was determined to put the opinionated whatever-she-was in her place. No possible premise lay beyond his ability to refute.

Very well, let's begin with a visit to your in-laws. Now there's a fun experience to be had. Would you not agree?

Except for that one. Okay, I admit lapsing sometimes when I am around them. But who wouldn’t? They are all so loony.

I see. And how do you pass the time with your son?

What time, Roy thought to himself. The boy was addicted to snooping, tormenting his sister, and playing video games—the more gruesome the better. There seemed no way to break through to him. Let’s leave Ben out of this. That’s not a fair example.

Painful subject, huh? she probed while pressing home her advantage. It must be hard relating to a kid like him . . . easier to withdraw, I imagine.

Sheila, I said—

All right, there is no need to get upset. I was just making an observation.

You've made it. Move on to someone else.

Sheila looked at Ben’s estranged sister. Okay then, suppose you are having a discussion with your daughter. How do you react when she expresses her point of view?

No doubt remained about it. The clever cowgirl had him in her sights. If Roy hoped to outwit her, he would have to be more evasive. That is not a fair example, either. Some people just have mind-numbing effects upon others. It’s no big deal.

Your daughter numbs your mind?

Oh, most definitely, she is quite good at it.

Sounds like a classic case of the male stupor to me, Roy, Honey.

No, it doesn’t! So much for evasiveness, his only hope lay in trying for a draw. Look. The girl has no sense of reality, okay. Talking to her makes me a little crazy, that's all.

And your wife?

What about my wife? asked Roy, fidgeting like a felon on the hot seat.

Talking to her makes you a little crazy, too, doesn’t it—especially, say, when the topic concerns her work?

The flower shop seemed all that Mary talked about of late. She had become a stuck record on the subject—the shop, the shop, the shop. Indeed, Roy wondered if she thought of anything else for more than five minutes at a time.

This is incredible.

What's incredible?

He shook his head in disbelief. I have just lost an argument with my own fantasy.

You don't know that.

Huh? What don't I know?

You don't know whether I am just a fantasy, Sheila said while looking intently at him. In fact, you have been confused about me for quite a while, now. Haven't you, Roy, Honey?

Roy squirmed with discomfort. Even by his