Scandal

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-158-5

Scandal
at the Willamina Quilt Show
Copyright © 2013
by Patricia L. Brookshire

Cover design
Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter
invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is
investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of
$250,000.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

John Lloyd Port,
With whom I share the keys, meals, and my life.

My thanks to these people who have helped me on this Scandalous journey:

Aunt Nellie Brookshire for your encouragement.
Deanna Rogers for giving me the title.
Fran Whited for helping me with your quilting expertise.
Deb Smith, for bringing The Quilter's Catalog to my notice and sharing it.
Sean Connor, without your help the fire couldn't have been put out.
JanniLou Creations Quilt Store in Philomath, and the wonderful women who accepted Jan and
Lou's Quilt Challenge to make Sophie's quilt from my novel,
Threads
.
Quilter's Cove in Newport, Judy Muller for helping with the fabric for the completion of the
Scandal quilt.

With no-bounds gratitude I thank these women of my Oregon Coast Writers Focus Group
who listened to every word: Marge Arvanitis, Kelli Brugh, Sunshine Keck, Mariah Matthews,
Karleene Morrow. Your critiques continue to sharpen my writing and my mind.
To Writer's On The Edge of Newport, Oregon, for laughing in the right places.
To Rose Reed of LazerQuick in Newport, for your expertise and support.
To my excellent editor, Jude B. Glad. Thanks for your work, and to Uncial Press for bringing me
into the e-publishing world.
To Greg and Bonnie Chaney for waiting twenty years for me to finish their wedding
quilt.

My gratitude to my children Greg Chaney and Jennifer Chaney Connor is boundless. Thanks
for believing in me and urging me on!

It was awful! Bugs moving everywhere, hissing. Frantically, with the other people in front
of the cages, I was jumping this way and that, screaming and hopping about as the dang things
flipped off the toes of my shoes. We never meant this to happen. But when our Exotic Bugs Exhibit
of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches started coming at us in a skittery flood, we couldn't stop and
examine plans gone awry.

Sixteen-year-old Connor knew his roaches. His exhibit won First Place in its category.

I'm not a bug person, though I admire spider webs. It's kind of a crafty thing for a bug to do,
weaving. But cockroaches don't do anything clever that I know of.

Those hissing bugs are humongous, some about the size of my cat's paw, the width of a
silver dollar. They aren't like ladybugs, pretty and with poetry attached. I don't want any big ol' bug
touching me. Eeuu. When one lands on my ankle and skittles up my pants leg, I jump with the
crowd. I scream. I flick my leg. It falls out. And yes, I stomp it.

Right then a big broom would've been handy. Or a vacuum.

Connor, his father Dave, and I were only a few feet away from the display, pleased with the
number of people who crowded around the cages, until a man bumped into one of them, sending it
smashing to the floor. I'd turned at the
CRASH
and saw the cage door fly open, throwing
cockroaches onto the bare tops of nearby sandaled feet. A woman's scream pierced the room and
the crowd recoiled. From the middle of the mass a man shouted, "Jumping Cockroaches!"

"Hissing Cockroaches, you fool!" shouted Connor, but the damage was done. The crowd, as
they say, went wild. The cage emptied. Roaches bounced and crunched. People leaped. The air was
blue with swearing as they scrambled, bruising each other's hips, toes.

Dave's voice boomed. "Calm down, everybody! The bugs won't hurt you!" But the crowd
careened through the aisles, knocking exhibits awry as they passed.

"Dammit! Don't step on 'em!" Connor's shout overrode all, rising to a screech, "Don't
squash them!" His frustrated, "Dammit all!" and then, "Shit!" rang through the disaster.

People slammed against each other, the mass of them folding and opening like an
accordion as we swept down the long hall towards the closed doors at the far end.

Just inside these doors sat the U-shaped Oregon Authors table, which now served as the
catchment area for our crazed, bug-fleeing crowd. Authors and buyers, mouths agape and eyes
wide, stared. They recoiled
en masse
.

Leading us was a skinny and frantic woman wearing a fringed poncho. I saw her try to veer
as she careened toward the center table that was laden with edible goodies. Instead, as if propelled
by the wind of fear, she flew--until gravity prevailed.

She landed face down on the table. Arms outstretched she slid, sending home grown
tomatoes, shelled filberts, Concord grapes, and slices of juicy, red watermelon in all directions.

Her slide ended in front of one of the authors who'd not run, but raised his camera.

I saw the flash but not the photographer. I'd been watching a flustered author wipe at her
books with a soggy paper napkin, heard her moan to the man next to her, "So, who's going to fix
this?"

He shook his head and popped a loose filbert into his mouth. "Not my problem."

What a mess!

I was happy. Most of the bugs were dead.

In the early afternoon I'd never dreamed that I'd be glad to see Connor's display thus, dead
on the floor. It had started normally for a fair day, being day three of the eleven day-long Oregon
State Fair, held in Salem, the state capitol. My young cousin had worked hard at putting together his
display. What it is about these bugs that captures his interest I don't understand. But when they
move slowly in their cages I am drawn to the color of their backs, a Halloweenie orange and
black.

Earlier I'd heard a viewer remark, "I bet they'd shine up nice if hit with a bit of cleaner." I'd
saved it to suggest to Connor that he should persuade his older sisters to do the job. I was sure
they'd like to do that for their baby brother.

The blue ribbon reflected Connor's talent at showcasing the critters. His printed sign,
Have A Cockroach For a Pet!
, makes people grin and shake their heads.

I'd been thrilled when cousin Dave had asked me to help with this odd project. I had free
time and enjoyed spending it with him, both of us hanging at the edge of our forties. My oldest
cousin, Dave's father, Sam, was enlisted to help us with the daily sprucing of the cages, removing
dead bugs and refreshing the exhibit with lively ones. In fact, Sam didn't help much, choosing
instead to examine the baby chicken cage where he could flirt with their keeper, a pretty young
woman.

He's a spry eight-seven. His eyes are not so bright with blue as when I'd met him nearly
thirty years ago, and he takes his cane along for long walks, "In case I meet someone who should
need it." His back is still straight, and he's a heck of a cook, especially with comfort foods, putting
together a great homemade macaroni and cheese.

"I watch my energy. Need to save it for the ladies," he said, when Connor urged him to take
a bug cage and clean it.

Yes. Well. Hmm.

When the bugs escaped and people went nuts, I was amazed how nimble Cousin Sam
became. Flattening himself against the wall, he'd avoided the whole craziness.

To our rescue rode the roving man-and-woman-clean-up crew on their flashy bicycles, the
man honking the bulb of his bike horn. Dressed as clowns, with white faces and painted smiles, they
assessed the situation. His bike towed a maintenance cart stocked with brooms and dust pans.

Carnival music blared from the bike. The man turned off the music. Shaking her head, then
her finger at us, the woman got off her bike to bow to the applause. They were the perfect touch for
our event. The man reached for a small push broom, looked again at the carnage, exchanged it for
the largest one. The woman looked at the floor, turned down her mouth in an exaggerated frown at
the bug litter, and took another large broom. They went to work.

When our blood pressures and breathing returned to normal, Dave, Connor and I grabbed
tools and joined the clowns in mopping up. Connor kept making "Ooh, ooh," sounds.

Cousin Sam strode onto the scene to direct our brooms to little bodies that we'd missed. So
helpful.

An hour later, the clowns stashed their tools back onto the cart, brushed their hands
together, and jumped back on their bicycles. Honking their horns in farewell, they took away the
bodies.

After a final check of the locks on the cages, we retired to the Exhibitors RV Area where
Sam's Toyota Sunrader camper was parked for the duration of the fair. Gathered in what Connor
calls, "Grandpa's trailer," we drank coffee and pop while eating Sam's stash of chips and salsa. We
filled the place.

I finally looked at my white tennies, "Ugh, bug juice!" I wondered if bleach would take out
the stains. I flicked the tiny remains of an orange and black body off my tan khakis.

"Sorry, Cousin Annie," Connor said.

I related the bug shining idea, which made Connor scowl until I suggested his sisters do the
job.

"Teeny tiny brushes," he said, with wide-eyed teen innocence and a gamin smile. Affected,
but effective. We all smiled with him, picturing his achievement-oriented sisters working on the
bugs.

Sam balanced salsa on a good sized, lime, tortilla chip, and then tipped the whole thing into
his mouth. "Hey, Connor! Ease up. T'wasn't serious after all, just an accident."

"Easy for you to say, old man." Dave was teasingly disrespectful of his dad, who responded
by lifting an eyebrow at him.

Sam licked extra salsa from his upper lip. "I bet you can get some more of those roaches
right here at the fair. At one of these food stands probably." He cackled. "Probably smear some of
this salsa on the counter here, tonight, while we're sleeping and get yourself some more for the
showing tomorrow."

"Oh, Grandpa, they're not those kinda roaches." He finished off his can of pop, and
belched.

We all glared at him, which he ignored.

"For cripes sake, nobody got hurt. Except my Hisser guys. It's gonna take a couple days to
get new ones. Tomorrow's Monday. We can get some from the critter store, here in town. Right,
Dad?"

"Sure kid. Though I do like Gramp's idea of getting 'em for free."

"Whatever," mumbled Connor. Obviously the humor escaped him.

"Sleep for me. Connor, how about you and Dave taking the overhead? I'll bunk down here."
I'd planned to go home to Gladstone but one more day here would be all right. I was too tired to
drive and not on a time schedule.

We performed small-camper magic, folding the dining table out of the way, pulling out the
seats to make a bed, couch cushions forming our mattress. Sam had his sleeping bag. From the tiny
closet I pulled out stored sheets and blankets. Pillows for us both and we were okay.

A last trip to the RV Center's public bathhouse and I tucked myself into bed. Certainly not
motel glitz, but all of us being snugged in here together comforted me. It had been over a year since
I'd been to Cannon Beach where Dave, Teri and the kids lived with Sam in the old family cabin that
they had remodeled into a comfortable home. Tonight was a treat to see and be with my relatives,
young and old.

"Hey, Sam," I said into the dark camper, "Wanta come home with me for the week?" I live
by the Clackamas River, in the house Roger and I built. But it is often too quiet. I like the noise of
company.

My year-old black and white cat, Prince Charming, loves company too. He would be glad to
see me home and to have somebody else to play with. Sam is a good animal man. His visiting me
would give Dave's family some alone time, and respite for Sam too.

"Sounds good to me. Got an old friend in a care home up there, if you'd have time to take
me for a visit. Sure would love to see her. It's one of those assisted living places. Never get me in one
of 'em, but then I'm lucky to have family."