DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Orb, v. 2, issue 1, 1950

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Orb, v. 2, issue 1, 1950

Page 8

8

they married Carl Erickson moved in. Nothing much was changed; Flora Mae did not participate in the usual affairs of a newlywed--the luncheons, the showers, the teas. Carl Erickson, while a friendly chap, was somewhat retiring and made no effort to project his wife into Laurel society. They had no children.
After awhile, everyone got used to the idea of Flora Mae Erickson, and it was no more unusual that the daily arrival and departure of the 4:05 train to Gulfport. Carl Erickson did well with his contracting business, and even had to hire a full-time stenographer in the office, where before he painfully wrote what few letters he had in a flourishing, old-fashioned hand. It was not until much later that Carl began to spend so much of his time at the Elks Club, where he sat until early morning, playing poker and drinking pop-skull liquor--sometimes more than he could comfortably hold.
Seemingly, neither of them ever needed my professional services. So far as I knew, they never consulted any other doctor, either. Flora Mae had always been healthy, and Carl Erickson was of that hard Scandinavian breed that is more than a match for most puny germs, and usually succumbs, late in life, to apoplexy, or heart failure.
There had been no rumors or warnings before word crept around Laurel that Carl Erickson, after seventeen years of married life, had suddenly disappeared. He had left without a word to anyone. His account at the bank showed no sudden withdrawals; there was nothing to explain His stenographer, too, was gone.
It was a strange affair; since there appeared to be nothing criminal about it, the law made no move. Fearful of repercussions, the newspaper said nothing about it. Flora Mae was silent. She never mentioned it to the ladies of the parish- and they, of course, found no way of questioning her about Carl Erickson. After a year or so, they seldom referred to it. There was simply no answer to the enigma.
In the years that followed, less and less was seen of Flora Mae Erickson. The old house, which had needed painting and repairs even before Carl Erickson had left, now began to crumble and sag. Boards were missing from the porch steps and the yard was overgrown with weeds. Each Sunday, Flora Mae would descend the front porch: a thing, tall figure in somewhat dated clothes, a tiny parasol clenched in gloved fingers. She walked stiffly to St. Andrews, nodding briefly at most acquaintances. She sat in her pew through the services, left when they were over, and was not seen until the following Sunday. Ed Tippett delivered groceries to the back door once a week; the order was hung on a hood by the screen door. It was Ed who first mentioned that there was something a little crazy about Flora Mae. He talked mostly to me, because I am a doctor, and because I had known Addison Culpepper.
"Cats, Doc--I'm tellin' you there must be dozens of cats rammin' around in that old house. I bet I deliver ten pounds of cat meat every week. And smell? God--it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained before now. Doc--I think the old gal has gone clear off her rocker."
It wasn't long before the neighbors did start to complain--about the noise, about the smell, about everything connected with cats. Finally, Chief Tom Fackler got fed up with the complaints and decided something would have to be done. He was a little in awe of Flora Mae, and wanted plenty of support when he talked to her. That's how it was that

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8 they married Carl Erickson moved in. Nothing much was changed; Flora Mae did not participate in the usual affairs of a newlywed--the luncheons, the showers, the teas. Carl Erickson, while a friendly chap, was somewhat retiring and made no effort to project his wife into Laurel society. They had no children. After awhile, everyone got used to the idea of Flora Mae Erickson, and it was no more unusual that the daily arrival and departure of the 4:05 train to Gulfport. Carl Erickson did well with his contracting business, and even had to hire a full-time stenographer in the office, where before he painfully wrote what few letters he had in a flourishing, old-fashioned hand. It was not until much later that Carl began to spend so much of his time at the Elks Club, where he sat until early morning, playing poker and drinking pop-skull liquor--sometimes more than he could comfortably hold. Seemingly, neither of them ever needed my professional services. So far as I knew, they never consulted any other doctor, either. Flora Mae had always been healthy, and Carl Erickson was of that hard Scandinavian breed that is more than a match for most puny germs, and usually succumbs, late in life, to apoplexy, or heart failure. There had been no rumors or warnings before word crept around Laurel that Carl Erickson, after seventeen years of married life, had suddenly disappeared. He had left without a word to anyone. His account at the bank showed no sudden withdrawals; there was nothing to explain His stenographer, too, was gone. It was a strange affair; since there appeared to be nothing criminal about it, the law made no move. Fearful of repercussions, the newspaper said nothing about it. Flora Mae was silent. She never mentioned it to the ladies of the parish- and they, of course, found no way of questioning her about Carl Erickson. After a year or so, they seldom referred to it. There was simply no answer to the enigma. In the years that followed, less and less was seen of Flora Mae Erickson. The old house, which had needed painting and repairs even before Carl Erickson had left, now began to crumble and sag. Boards were missing from the porch steps and the yard was overgrown with weeds. Each Sunday, Flora Mae would descend the front porch: a thing, tall figure in somewhat dated clothes, a tiny parasol clenched in gloved fingers. She walked stiffly to St. Andrews, nodding briefly at most acquaintances. She sat in her pew through the services, left when they were over, and was not seen until the following Sunday. Ed Tippett delivered groceries to the back door once a week; the order was hung on a hood by the screen door. It was Ed who first mentioned that there was something a little crazy about Flora Mae. He talked mostly to me, because I am a doctor, and because I had known Addison Culpepper. "Cats, Doc--I'm tellin' you there must be dozens of cats rammin' around in that old house. I bet I deliver ten pounds of cat meat every week. And smell? God--it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained before now. Doc--I think the old gal has gone clear off her rocker." It wasn't long before the neighbors did start to complain--about the noise, about the smell, about everything connected with cats. Finally, Chief Tom Fackler got fed up with the complaints and decided something would have to be done. He was a little in awe of Flora Mae, and wanted plenty of support when he talked to her. That's how it was that