[For a manuscript of any of the works outlined below, please contact me at margaret_mendel123@yahoo.com]

THE BLACK UMBRELLA (A Novel)
Clip (from Preface)
A jagged shadow sliced across a vacant brownstone where Andre crouched under the stairway.

There had been a steady drizzle since midnight. The streets were slick and the trees and buildings near where Andre waited glistened. In the summer even in the rain on the Upper West Side had a strange mix of activity. Broadway, Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues became a carnival in the warm weather with crowds of singles strolling from bar to bar, while, the cross-town blocks were islands of quiet where only an occasional taxi zipped through.

Andre leaned his immense shoulders against the wall of the brownstone, determined to wait as long as it took. His breathing had become quick and excited and his mind raced. Standing so still actually hurt his body. And the narrow niche where he stood under the stairs reminded him of something, something that had happened so long ago he had difficulty determining whether it had been real or a dream.

PATCHES (Short Story Collection)
Intro
Wilma, the main character in PATCHES, was born in the Northwest to Roger and Pearl an unlikely couple. Wilma struggles to make her way within a rocky family ambiance and ends up marrying a man who is self-centered and incapable of caring. Abandoned and pregnant, Wilma makes a solitary life for herself within the fabled San Francisco Hippy culture. Eventually she meets and marries a man who can love her and her son. This is not an "and they lived happily ever after" novel, but a story that takes characters through real life twists and turns.

Clip (from The Recipe)
Socks fallen, dresses flapping, knees grimy with playground dirt, Pearl’s two daughters skipped around the kitchen table, singing.“We’re going to have a picnic at school tomorrow. We’re going to have a picnic at school tomorrow.”

Wilma, her oldest, stopped in front of Pearl and asked, “Can we bring something?”

“No,” Pearl said. “We don’t have food to give away.” She could not remember a time when she had plenty, and did not have to brace against leaner times.

“But, I promised,” Wilma said with a slightly pompous tone that demanded an explanation from her mother. Pearl knew no explanation would be good enough.

“Me, too,” chimed in Jenny, the younger of the two. Jenny was the one who laughed the most easily. She stood in a pose that mimicked her older sister’s critical stance.

“Why not?” Wilma wanted to know.

“Pleeeeasssse,” Jenny said, stretching out the word, long and thin.

“C’on, Momma,” Wilma insisted.

The two little girls took turns begging Pearl to change her mind.

Pearl hated telling her daughters “no” so often. She looked at their faces and her heart felt squeezed. “You can’t go making promises,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you two, you had to ask me first? Didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?” She drove the words into them, as if she were pounding nails into wood.

“But why?” Jenny asked, scratching a mosquito bite on the back of her left leg.

“Because I’ve got nothing here to make, that’s why.” Pearl sighed. “So stop this yammering. Go outside and do your chores.”

Jenny began to cry. Her tears came as quickly as her smile. “Please, make something, or we’ll be the only kids who don’t bring anything.” She rubbed her eyes with dirty little fists. When she took her hands away from her face, a faint black smudge circled one eye.

A tight clamping sensation crawled across Pearl’s forehead. “I’m sorry. We just don’t have anything in the house to spare.” The words took her energy with them, leaving an emptiness inside her too deep to ever be filled. “Now go outside,” Pearl said sternly, “and bring the clothes in off the line, then give the dog fresh water. Go on, get out of here and let me fix dinner.”

Jenny and Wilma stood in front of Pearl, their hands hanging helplessly at their sides. All signs of happiness were gone. Their pleading echoed in Pearl’s head. They didn’t understand. She had no comforting words for them, only excuses.

JUST DESSERTS (A Novel)
Clip
Forgiveness is often confused with forgotten. Time can certainly help to forget, but, those acts that are not forgiven, I’m convinced, lurk somewhere in the brain like a seed waiting for a rainfall. That’s how I’d describe my feelings toward Connie Eisner. She was always in the back of my mind, dormant, waiting until an incident, a smell, a time of year, and then she’d once more loom big in my thoughts.

Connie and I grew up together in the same co-op in the Bronx, and though neither of us had left the old neighborhood I hadn’t seen her in quite a while. Then several weeks ago she’d gone missing. Everyone in our community had a theory about what had happened to her. But for me, at that point a floodgate opened up and a rush of unforgiven acts came pouring out and I couldn’t help but think about this old acquaintance incessantly.

Her disappearance hadn’t upset me. Maybe for a minute or two, when I first learned about her circumstances, I had a twinge of concern. That feeling quickly passed. Thought I felt uncomfortable about what might have happened to her, it wasn’t sadness, but it was an uneasy feeling, like I’d had a wish come true.

[For a manuscript of any of the works outlined above, please contact me at margaret_mendel123@yahoo.com]