Free Destiny Calling by Maureen L. Bonatch Page A

air rushed out of my body during the unexpected attack. My face crammed into his soft, white pocket t-shirt smelling of garlic and onions.
    “I’m George, Ruthie’s husband.” He released me, and I stumbled back, greedily inhaling air into my deprived lungs.
    “Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting on you long enough.” He tottered in front of me, his weight shifting side to side on bowed knees in an awkward crab-like walk.
    I followed behind, taking in the organized clutter of their home. George chattered nonstop. I wondered how either of them got a word in with each other, or else perhaps this provided him an opportunity to talk without Ruthie’s non-stop prattle.
    George led me into the living room. I tensed as hundreds of eyes fell upon me. Granted they were mostly glass, porcelain, or painted, but eyes nonetheless. Dolls filled the shelves, corners, and occupied much of the furniture.
    George must’ve sensed my unease. “Don’t mind the girls.” After glancing toward the kitchen, he leaned in toward me. “You see, Ruthie and I couldn’t have children.” He shrugged. “The girls here.” He gestured around the room. “They gave Ruthie something to dress up and take care of, seeing that Stinker wouldn’t let her put clothes on her. Now that I think of it, that’s when Stinker got her new name.”
    “Stinker?”
    He pulled on his mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe she developed that as a defense mechanism against those horrid sweaters Ruthie knits for her.” George shuddered. “Can’t blame her.”
    He took in the question in my expression. “Oh, Stinker’s our cat. You probably met her on the porch. That’s where she’s usually lurking if she’s not in here. The woods make her nervous, so she doesn’t venture too far. Don’t ask how she got the name. It’ll be obvious soon enough.” He glanced back to ensure Ruthie was still in the kitchen. “Don’t tell Ruthie what I said about the sweaters.”
    I realized I’d identified the source of the odor on the porch when I’d frightened who must have been Stinker.
    I sat on the faded, worn couch. The cushion sank in so low I pondered whether I’d be able to get back out as the fabric sealed around my waist. Apparently, Ruthie and George believed in getting their money’s worth out of furniture. The two dolls occupying the corner of the cushion tilted precariously toward me, and I cringed away from their glassy stare and porcelain grasp.
    Ruthie’s voice became louder as she made her way to the living room.
    “George. I said, did you offer Hope iced tea?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she raised her voice a few octaves. “George. How come you ain’t never listening when I’m talking to you?”
    George held on to the armrests as he lowered himself into the recliner covered in a multi-colored afghan. As he leaned forward, the afghan abandoned its perch on the back of the chair and slid partially into the depths of the cushion.
    Tapping on the hearing aid occupying his left ear, he whispered, “That’s ’cause I turn this thing off when I’m tired of listening.” His round cheeks and ginormous mustache rose up as he unsuccessfully attempted to contain his mirth. The sound escaping was comparable to the giggle of a small child. He covered his mouth with a large paw-like hand as his giggling subsided.
    I smiled. If I hadn’t liked George instantly, his giggle would’ve clinched it.
    “What’s that you say, George?” Obviously, Ruthie didn’t have any problems with hearing loss.
    “Nothing, sweetie.” He smirked.
    Ruthie burst into the room, balancing a silver tray baring an assortment of baked goods and a delicate silver teapot. She set it onto the coffee table and nodded to the small china plates. Being a slave to sweets, I didn’t need to be told twice.
    “Since George here didn’t ask you—” She smacked George’s hand, which was making a beeline for the tray. “Guests first.” She gave him a narrowed look, and he