ALL THE MONSTERS IN MY MIND: Short Fiction

Onceupon a time there was an ominous warning in the dawn clouds. Snow was going to comeand ruin many weekend plans. Such was that winter’s pattern with snow everyFriday, slicking roads and cancelling events. It was an annoyance. It was aproblem.

Itwas especially so for the residents of Governor Mifflin Village, enviablyhoused in the cozy wooded environs of suburbia, the roads climbed steeply anddifficulty of access developed after any snow – large or small. GovernorMifflin Village built on the steepest of steep hills, was a well kept groupingof modest Cape Cods spread over several acres up the scenic side. Many peopleavoided such an arrangement, but Giles and Mary Margaret Ivor would not havelived elsewhere. They loved living at the top of the county in their littlehouse, enjoying the high morning air and the far-ranging view from theirpicture window. They willingly accepted the disadvantage of the steep andwinding roads in the worst wintry weather.

Giles Ivor was tall and broad. He took child-like delight indisplaying his strength and stamina. He was not dull. In many ways he was anamazing man. When a child he had been crippled by disease and read a lot. He developeda hunger to know things and stuffed his head with diverse subjects. He knew howto read a person’s future in the ridges of their fingernails; the distance tothe star Beta Centauri and that Judas Iscariot’s father’s name was Simon. Somepeople said he was a know-it-all and showed off too much, but that is just howsome people are.

He worked in an office high in a building in the city ofFormton, but he hated his job and the tiring train rides back and forth eachday. It did not challenge his mind or the body he had built in overcoming hischildhood disease. It certainly did not provide the adventurous life he longedfor. Still he continued to work there. Every day he arose at six o’clock, didall the things most people do upon getting up, and unceremoniously went towork. He drove five miles of back road to the Bayclover station to catch themain line train to the city. From eight-thirty to five he worked at his desk, asimple component in a perfectly straight row of identical gray desks. Atfifteen past five he caught the main line train back to Bayclover and drove thefive miles of back roads to his home on the hill.

His home was pale green, the middle house on the top moststreet of Governor Mifflin Village. The house next door and the one oppositewere new constructions and as yet unsold. Governor Mifflin Village was nearingcompletion and Giles Ivor’s street was the last in the development.

This Friday his house was white like all the others. The mostrecent snow still stuck to everything, enclosing the homes, shrubbery and treesin a glassy crust. When Giles came down from bed, his wife was looking out thewindow at the sky and she knew even more snow was coming.

“Honey,” she whined, “must you go to work today?”

“Certainly. I haven’t missed a day in my life and I’m notstarting now. When I leave that darn office someday I’m taking a perfect recordwith me.” He gulped the last of his coffee.

His wife rubbed her hands together, twiddling her fingertips.“But the roads are already slippery. And it’s suppose to snow again…”

Giles shook his head. “Bad roads are why I best get going ifI don’t wanna miss my train.”

He stood, kissed his wife, and slipped on his coat. He neverwore a hat. He considered himself too hardy for a hat, and besides, he believedwearing a hat made a man prematurely bald.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take it easy.”

He left and his wife listened with a heavy heart to the carstart and leave.

It was another seven hours before new snow started falling,but it came fast and brutally. Soon it was a whirling fury, which quickly recoatedthe plowed roads with a deep sheet and then a playful wind built drifts to defythe county snowplows. Every radio traffic report and several television spotannouncements warned with grave melancholy against driving, grimly remindingthe public to expect the worse; warning people (the broadcaster frantic withemotion) that a fierce blizzard was upon them, the worst blizzard in twodecades, maybe of a lifetime.

When the train pulled into Bayclover that evening there was ablinding rage blowing in greeting. It was obvious to everybody who had driventhat it would be wiser to leave their buried cars in the station lot and findlodging somewhere nearby. This is what most commuters did, those who had notalready stayed behind in the city. But it is not what Giles Ivor did. Hesquinted into the white blur of flakes swirling about his bare head and turnedhis face toward home.

He was approached by a friend, “Where you headed, Giles?”

“Home.”

“Wouldn’t try it. Tell you what. Come up the street to myplace and stay overnight. We got plenty of room.”

“Forget it, Harry. I can make it home okay.”

“Don’t be so stubborn. You’ll get stuck and freeze your earsoff out there.”

“I’m going home. I’m not afraid of any darn snowflakes.”

“Suit yourself, Gilly, but don’t be afraid to knock on mydoor if you change your mind. Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks, but don’t wait up for me. I won’t be turningback.”

Harry waved and trudged down the street with no doubt thathis friend had strength and good wind, but when Giles refused his invitation hehad to wonder about the man’s good sense. Giles’s home, no matter how jolly andwarm, was five miles away, a pleasant drive on a balmy spring day, but probablya death trap in a blizzard. Harry was certain only a madman would attempt thetrip.

Giles Ivor reacted to challenge his usual way. He had bittermemories of being a weakling in a world where the weak suffered. The otherchildren never understood it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t run, couldn’t playrough and tumble games, couldn’t go outside in the snow and sled. They hadtaunted him, threatened him and finally, ignored him altogether. It had beenpainful then and the memory was painful now. But today he could run and playroughly. He had overcome it. A miracle, the doctor said. He had shed thebraces, exercised and grown strong. Disease failed to lick him or claim him. Ithad only held him back for a while. He could go out in the snow if he wanted. Hehad no doubts about his stamina, the results of all his hard workouts. He wouldmake it home.

He almost regained his senses before getting any further thenthe parking lot. He began to see the foolishness of such a trek when alreadyhis ears hurt and his ungloved hands turned numb and red, but seeing thestreets of town newly scraped, although rapidly being reburied, he continued tothe parking lot. The streets of Governor Mifflin Village were always the firstplowed. If his car started, certainly he could drive home.

But he couldn’t.

He was unlucky. Two miles out of town his car bogged down in adrift. His efforts to rock out only forced him deeper until the wheels spunuselessly on the underlying ice.

Giles got out of the car. Driving was hopeless. He would haveto get home on foot. He could still do it if he kept moving. He would cutacross the open fields and shave off distance. There would be no problem. Hehad stamina. He would run.

The snow was deceitful. It made the landscape appear smooth;the open fields appear flat; the ground appear solid, but beneath the crust ofthe first field he crossed were corn stalks, broken and crushed from the lastharvest. Giles had not run far when his toe snagged on a bent stalk and hefell. To protect his ungloved hands he had been running awkwardly with hishands stuffed into his coat pockets, so when he tripped could not get them out orarms up to catch himself. He fell hard onto his chest. Only the padding of theold stalks cushioned the impact and prevented injury, but snow slid down thecoat neck and squeezed up the sleeves. It packed into his left ear. When he gotup he was shivering and his face and hands burned with cold.

He dug the snow from his ear with a little finger he could nolonger feel. His ear tingled sorely to the touch. With a deep breath, he lookedacross the remaining field toward the woods beyond. He knew the way. He hadjogged the route for exercise many times. It cut a mile off the road route. Hewas no Olympic threat, but he had jogged these two miles in under fifteenminutes, granted it had been fair weather, he could see the ground, the corn hadbeen growing and he could run between the stalk rows, but still, he hadstrength and stamina and would be home in another half hour.

He ran, but could not make speed in the deepening snow andthe mushy fodder crushed beneath it. He slowed to a walk. He knew on reachingthe woods the ground would harden and he could run again. Slowing to a walk, hebecame aware of the numbness in his feet. They felt shot through with Novocain.He felt nothing.

Reaching the woods and the harder ground, he began to feelhis feet again. It was a strange sensation; as if rubber bands tightly wrapped themthat vibrated and stung each time the soles touched the ground. His face didn’tsting as much with trees protecting from the wind, but the wet branches dipped low.His energy depleted as he bobbed and weaved around these dark whips.

After the woods were hills. He had to climb most of the way homefrom here. It was a mile now perhaps. The walking was uphill, gradual at first,and a steady incline ending with the steep hill of his own street. His legsached, reminding him of when they had been weak stems held upright by metalbraces. His shoes were soaked and heavy, hard to lift. Accidentally kicking arock sent pain clear up to his teeth.

For the first time, he wondered if he could make it. Thecountryside was dark. He couldn’t even see the snow, only feel it when itlashed the bare flesh of his face. Every tree passed seemed the same treebrushed a moment before and he was aware he could easily become lost in thehills.

Time was lost. He had no sense of it anymore. He stopped andlooked at the phosphorous dial of his watch. He had been on foot nearly anhour. He shouldn’t be far from Governor Mifflin Village, unless he was lost. Ithad to be over the next rise, if he could go that far. It was an effort to getmoving again.

The side stitch began beneath his left ribs and kept himleaning that way, one hand pressed against his waist. He could not walk fast atall against the driving storm. He couldn’t see; yet, he felt he was near thedevelopment. He could hear a dog barking. He followed the sound until itstopped.

He slipped and fell. His face hit the snow. He wasn’t goingto be able to get up. The snow would bury him where he lay. Suddenly Gilescried out, “How old are you?’ How old are you?” He got his arms underneath andpushed. He struggled to his feet and staggered down the side of this hill tothe next. “How old are you?” echoed slightly behind him before being swallowedby the wind.

He saw a wisp of illumination. He clumped forward and couldmake out a lot of lights through the dark. The sight of the development gavehim a second wind, enough to carry him to the door of his house he was sure.

There was road surface beneath him, a street. He went up, upthe big hill, up to the top. His breathing turned to gasping when he fell overthe edge of the stoop. Standing on his knees, he pounded the door of the house.He grew weak and he pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded and received noanswer. Perhaps, he thought wearily, Mary Margaret had gone to stay at Millie’splace.

He was tired. He searched in his coat pockets for his keys.They weren’t there. He patted himself down. Nothing. He must have lost them oneof the times he fell. The back door was probably unlocked. He struggled back tohis feet. Swaying, holding himself upright against the house, he edged aroundthe side. He turned from the building and struck a sign in the yard. He knockedit over and fell atop it. He could see the words ‘For Sale’.

He would never get up this time. He would never stagger thelast few feet from this empty house to his own. He was going to freeze to deathin the side yard next door. What a fool, what a fool. How far was he fromwarmth, from food, from life? He wasn’t even certain he was on the right sideof the street. All the houses looked alike, all the same shape, all white withsnow.

He was so tired.

He began calling for somebody, he wasn’t sure whom. He callednames he hadn’t used since his boyhood, when he had determined to dependentirely upon himself. He didn’t know if he was yelling out loud or simply inhis head.

He rubbed snow on his face and struggled to his heavy feet.His legs seemed stretched, like over-used elastic; they shook and itched. Hebegan running and didn’t know where he was running. He ran toward a target ofblack and white, which grew smaller toward the center and whirled dizzilydownward. He reached out his arms for help and fell forward, falling andfalling. He struck bottom with a bang.

Once upon a time there had been a runner in the storm. Thenfor a few days there had been nothing. People thought he would die. Nobodycould believe he hadn’t with his body temperature so low. But he had stamina.He had a will to live. When he was well enough to sit in bed and talk, thedoctor came and said he was lucky having only lost some toes to frostbite.“Could have been your fingers and your ears,” the doctor said.

When the doctor left, Giles called his wife into the bedroom.He held her hand for many minutes before speaking. For once he was having ahard time expressing himself. He told her he didn’t know how he got home. Hedidn’t think he had. He told her the storm brought back many memories of hischildhood. It brought back all the pain and then erased it. Giles pulled Mary Margaretclose and kissed her. He said he learned something from the storm, but hedidn’t know how to describe it.

But the first thing he did after recovering was buy a hat.

- 30 -

A BEAUTIFUL STAR-FILLED NIGHT

2012-01-12T14:23:00.000-05:00

A BEAUTIFULSTAR-FILLED NIGHT

(From Daily Rhapsody)

Larry Eugene Meredith

The water was cold. She felt pain in her gums drinking it andthe ice cubes bumping her upper-lip was annoying. She set the glass on thenightstand, dipped two fingers and dabbed the chilly drops on her forehead.They slid down the sides of her nose into her eyes. She blinked.

She inchedacross the width of the bed and by stretching both body and one arm was able toraise the window shade. The sky was now a framed picture in the wall. She heldthe pull loop tightly, squeezing until the slicing pain in her side eased andthen she let it go and fell back against her pillow. She was exhausted.

Her pillow was hot. Her short hair twisted and prickled herneck. The room was like an oven. She wished the window were open or even thedoor.

Yellow light shown through the crack at the bottom of theclosed door and voices seeped through from the room beyond. The muffled voices madeit impossible to understand the words. The tone was discernible and by it shecould tell the speaker. Her husband’s voice was controlled, but weary with atouch of anger.

She wished their neighbors would go. They came out ofkindness inquiring to her feelings, but they refused to leave and she foundthat cruel. They had paid their social debt why didn’t that satisfy them?

There was a change in tone. Her husband had stopped talking.Maggie Braum took up the conversation. She was shrill and high-pitched. Maggiewas probably rehashing the facts, making certain she had the story frombeginning to end, memorizing her talking points for tomorrow’s round ofkoffeeklatches. What would Maggie tell?

Tell them about Dr. Lewis,please, she thought. She dragged the sheet halfway over her face. Just tell them about him.

She recognized her name being spoken by her husband, butcouldn’t make out anything else. The voices were moving away. Did that mean they are leaving? Thesounds dwindled across the living room toward the front door. She listenedfocusing all her attention on the sound. Her husband stopped speaking. Therewas a long silence. She listened, biting the sheet. The silence scared her. Shewould scream if it continued.

Then there was a hollow booming voice. This was George Braum.The conversation went on. Why wouldn’tthey leave?

Pain jolted her diaphragm. She smelled blood again for amoment. It clung to her, that dreadful odor and the stain would not wash out.She had attempted to clean herself, but was weak and couldn’t scrub hardenough. The scent was filling the room. She whimpered. Her stomach rolled andshe swallowed.

She turned to the window. The sky was black velvet studdedwith red and sparkling white stars, like an ad she’d seen in a woman’s magazinefor diamond jewelry. How the stars blazed, out of her reach, as had thediamonds in the advertisement. It didn’t matter. She had never wanted brightshining playthings. She wanted other things more substantive than glimmer andtrim, something beyond even the star-filled night.

She suddenly began twisting upon the bed. The sheet wrappedaround her restricted her movement. It clung to her moist skin, binding herwith the terrible aching and the heat. She pressed her fingers on her abdomen,pushing against the rounded flesh, trying to deliver the pain.

It went as unexpectedly as it had come. She held still.George Braun still droned; his voice washed over her like a constant wave.

“Oh, go home,” she said in a subdued shout, “please justleave.”

They did not leave. She rolled on her side discovering theposition uncomfortable. She turned onto her stomach, but this was unbearablypainful. She could only lie on her back.

She stared out the window.

Do the stars go oninfinitely or come to an end? Was there a great brick wall holding spaceimprisoned? She tried to imagine some giant fence bordering the sky withits stars. Things end, she thought, except my neighbor’s visit.

She stiffened. The talking had stopped. She feared turningher gaze from the window; afraid in the slightest movement she would miss thefront door opening. Her rigidity brought pain back into her body, but sheignored it. She heard a snap, a click, a door opening. The voices began again,but this time were brief, goodbyes she supposed, she hoped. The door closedwith a soft thud. She heard the night latch turned.

They were gone.

Her husband was walking through the living room snappinglights off. He entered the bedroom.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You all right?”

She tried a smile and didn’t know if she succeeded. “Ithought they’d never leave.”

“Neither did I,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Shall I turn on the light?”

“Leave it off,” she said, and then , “Ohh!”

“You’re not all right.”

“Yes, I am. Just an ache now and then, that’s all. It’s to beexpected.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I am now that you’re with me.”

“I’m here,” and he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yes. Don’t leave me, please.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know how much I feared you might.”

“Why would I? I love you.”

“Even after this?”

“More than ever.”

“I worry about it,” she said.

He took her hand. “Don’t worry. What did the doctor tellyou?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. It began to ache.

“He didn’t tell me anything either. He simply asked if I hadheard and left. He didn’t look much like a doctor. He looked like a plumber.”

She began to sniffle. “He wouldn’t believe me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called as soon as the pain started. I knew what it was‘cause it was just like the last time. But he wouldn’t believe me. It was allin my head, he told me, and said people don’t have miscarriages in the fifthmonth. He told me to forget it, but call his service tonight if it persisted.

“The second time I called, maybe an hour later, he was angry.He said I was being hysterical and he would have the drugstore deliver somemedicine to ease my anxiety. He refused to come. He said it was gas.

“I knew this doctor was wrong back when he told me I couldeven go horseback riding. Why would he say that to a person whose already losttwo pregnancies? It was happening again, the baby was coming. I knew it and hewouldn’t believe me.

“I just made it into the bathroom…it was just after…justafter I laid him in a pan on the toilet…just after that when the boy from thedrugstore rang the bell. I had to go to the door. There was blood running downmy legs.” She was sobbing.

“The doctor didn’t say go to the hospital or anything when hewas in here?”

“No,” she said, “he didn’t tell me anything.”

She turned her head away to look out at the sky again.

“What are you looking at, Jeannette?”

“The stars. Aren’t they beautiful? I was wondering what wasbeyond space.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think there’s a big brick wall someplace?”

“To hit our heads against?”

“Yes,” she half laughed, “something like that.”

“What’s behind the wall?” he asked.”

“Huh?” She puzzled. “I don’t know if there’s anything beyondthe wall.”

“Then why are we banging our heads against it?” He leanedover and kissed her forehead. “Come on,” he said, “we’re still young. We havelots of time.”

He got up from the bed. She still stared out the window.

“Doctor Lewis did tell me something,” he said.

“What?” She turned to look at him.

“I asked him what should we do with the baby.”

“What did he say?”

“Anything we wanted,” he said. “Then he said, ‘You can tossit out with the garbage for all I care’.”

“My God!”

“I wanted to punch him.”

“Today was so ugly,” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s over,” he said. “Look, it’s a beautifulstar-filled night. The sun will be out tomorrow.”

“Yes, like a golden pendant,” she said. “You know, Frank, Inever wanted jewels. Am I strange? I read these women’s magazines and in themthat is what women want, pretty stones to look at and wear. But I don’t.”

“Honey?”

“So am I strange?” she asked. “I mean about space and thebrick wall?”

“Anybody would feel strange after what happened.”

“Frank, what’s behind the wall?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Let’s try to find out.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s do that someday.”

-30-

ONE MISERABLE NIGHT

2012-01-12T05:19:00.001-05:00

ONE MISERABLE NIGHT

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

Towardthe front the old man’s head bobbled with the swaying of the train. Mort andthe old man were the only passengers in the stuffy coach.

Mort’seyes kept closing. It was useless trying to read. Every time he refocused heskimmed the same sentence again. He gave up and shut the paperback stuffing itinto a jacket pocket. A corner of the cover caught in the cloth and put anothercrease across the book’s battered face.

Mortrested his head upon the prickly seat cover. It pushed his nape hair forwardcreating a crawling bugs sensation He brushed at his neck and watched therolling of the old man’s bald head.

Thebook disappeared from his thoughts. It was a detective story. He had read theplot a dozen times before, although the titles were different and the maincharacters were tougher or gentler, smarter or dumber.

Mortsighed.

Helistened to the clicking train wheels and startled briefly at a coupling’sshrill scrape.

Mortused a sleeve to wipe the greasy steam from the window. It made a stain, but hedidn’t care. He watched a thick drop of water roll languidly down the glass andspread at the bottom along the frame. His face stared back, reflected in theglass. The eyelids drooped. Long loose hairs slipped around the forehead likedusty cobwebs. The crown was thinning. The mouth curved into a frown. Thewrinkles grew deeper. The five o’clock shadow of his beard hid the sag beneaththe chin.

Bang!

Theforward door opened. The trainman stuck his ruddy face into the coach from thedamnably dark area between cars. Stale smoke weaved around his head as itescaped into the frosty night air.

“Bay-cloO-ver,”bawled the trainman, as if calling in a pasture of lethargic cows for milking.“Bay-clover. Allll change!”

Theold man blinked and grunted. Mort watched him prepare to debark. The man moanedsoftly and snorted. The soft flesh of his neck rolled. His cheeks puffed out ashe heaved his body to a standing position. Once standing he shook hisshoulders, scratched his neck and ran a hand over the bare baldhead whilewalking to the door. He snatched up a newspaper and stuffed it under one arm.It rustled slightly. He held onto iron grips by the door with both hands. Hisbody jerked back and forth as the train came to a rough stop. He moved forwarddangerously balanced, easing down the three metal steps to the platform,flipping an index finger along side his head as a goodnight to the trainman. Onaching knees the old man ascended the warped wooden steps.

Itnever varied.

Mortstepped from the train. A drop of cold rain splattered him. He watched the oldman’s laborious climb up the steps and followed. A blue and white taxi waited atthe top and the old man climbed in to be whisked away. Different cabs waiteddiffered nights, some were black with white lettering on the side; others were paintedyellow. That was the only variation in this routine.

Mortwent to the parking lot. Along the way his arm brushed against a hedge soakingthe jacket sleeve. The rain was getting worse. Water dripped through his hair,turning it to string. Streetlights were shadows in the haze.

Heparked his car in the lower lot not the main one. It was farther from thestation, but this made getting in the place during morning rush hour easier.Now it was long past evening rush hour and his car was almost alone in thelots.

Mort walked down the hill beyond thebridge across the rails. He tripped on the irregular lay of the pavementblocks. His eyes, strained from the long day of paper work, squinted to penetratethe fog bouncing his vision back at him. The normal world was lost in the rain,the night a thick gray. The work he left was only half done. The misty whirl ofhalf-thoughts was now – half-thought.

Someyounger people walked ahead, chattering insanely in a strange language, theirEnglish twisted by occupational terms and technological phrases until no longerrecognizable.

God,had it been so many years?

Hecame into the world crying for his needs. He had to learn to domore for himself. Walking and talking and reading and learning, each step orword prodded from him. There had been delights, dancing with a warm body thatsmelled of gardens pressed against his. There were marriage and bedroom odors,moments shot through with color, drained energy and lingering hunger. There wasa long sheet of years, of tiny columns, figures and receiving cards sayingtaxes and deductions. There are nights in frigid rooms. And always the old manahead of him like a living vision.

Mortcrossed the damp macadam road to the nearly empty lower lot. His clothes werewet and uncomfortable. He shivered. He expected to find a flat tire on his car.

Theparking lot glistened with oil and rainwater. He pictured himself kneeling in apuddle, fighting a tire lug, his cold hands painful and dirty with the effort.When he arrived at his battered old Ford, the tires were round and plump.

Mortgot into the car. The motor whined in pain as he twisted the key. It hurtcoming to life. He drove from the space, crossing the spikes at the exit. Thesign warned not to back up. The rain wrapped about him, the headlights crawledbeneath like yellow worms. The town was dark, closed. The traffic lights allblinked amber.

Mortstopped. He shifted into reverse.

- 30 -

OUR WEEKEND TRIP

2012-01-11T13:44:00.002-05:00

OUR WEEKEND TRIP

(From Daily Rhapsody)

Larry Eugene Meredith

with

Stuart R. Meisel

I went to the shore the past weekend with a bunch of buddies.Three of us drove down in Sam’s old Ford. We headed down Friday after work. BigTim sat in the back brooding. He had tried to back out at the last minute, butwe wouldn’t let him. This whole weekend trip was for his benefit. We wanted toget him over the funk since the accident.

His mother and he were driving in the country. His motherliked to get those fresh spring strawberries and vegetables sold by the growersat roadside stands. They had a tailgater. Big Tim kept telling his mom to slowdown and the guy would back off, but she sped up instead. The bozo stayed onher bumper.

Traffic was pretty steady coming the other way and therewasn’t a big enough gap for passing. His mother kept increasing her speed to noavailable. She became uncomfortable, though, and began slowing. The tailgaterpulled by her on the right shoulder. Big Tim looked over and the driver flippedthem the bird and then cut in front. His mother turned sharply left to avoid afender-bender. They went across the other lane, scraped the guardrail andricocheted back to the right. An oncoming SUV broadsided them on the driver’sside.

Big Tim was banged up bad. He was a month in the hospital fromhis injuries. He wasn’t even able to attend his mother’s funeral. Since comingback to work he’s been different, moody and depressed. We thought getting himaway, maybe getting him drunk, would help. We had four fifths of good whiskeyin the trunk.

We didn’t have a lot of luck to start. The rear tire blewhalfway there and Sam, he was driving, didn’t have a spare. There we sat whileSam set off with the busted tire to find a garage to patch it up. He was gonetwo hours so we didn’t get down to the beach until late night.

We parked in the first open lot and set out on foot lookingfor a place to stay. Everyplace gets full damn fast over the weekend. You don’thave a reservation you have to take your chances, and I do mean chances. Man,we walked and walked. I figure if we walked much further we’d be in the nexttown.

Big Tim kept griping, “Why did we drive down without areservation?”

“How the hell were we to know it’d be this bad?”

“Should have known. Damn, you leave late you know everybodywill beat you here. Hot as it is, you know everyone’ll be comin’. Should have turned right around anddriven back. We should have known we’d have to walk this far out to findanything.”

“Hey, what’d’ya want to do? Go back and get the car?”

“Oh hell, we’re here now.”

“So clam up, will ya?”

We were getting to a run down area. It was below theBoardwalk and there wasn’t much street lighting. The place looked like canneryrow. Every building needed paint. You could see that even in the dark. Thisplace was bad enough in shadow you could imagine what it looked like insunlight. The air smelled of fish.

There was a building ahead with a half burned out neon signblinking on and off saying, “To Let”?

“Let’s try here,” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Big Tim.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“It looks like it’ll wash out to sea by morning.”

“Damn, we ain’t gonna find nothin’ better tonight,” Said Sam.It’s a roof anyway.”

Sam went inside to inquire. He was gone for a quarter hour.

“Hell,” said Big Tim, “what’s keeping’ ‘em?”

Sam came out and headed toward us. We picked up the bag withthe whiskey and our duffel and met him part way. We expected him to tell us itwas a no go and there weren’t any rooms.

Instead he said, “Come on,” and we followed him down thesandy street to the place.

“One thing,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Things are kinda full…”

“So?”

“And this way is cheaper, you know.”

“What?” snapped Big Tim.

“What’s cheaper?” I asked. “Did’ja get a room or not?”

“Partly.”

“Partly?” said Big Tim. “What the hell you mean partly?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

“I thought we would be anyway,” I said.

“Not just us.” Said Sam. “We gotta bunk up with other guys.”

“Why?”

“Cause things are filled up. It’s a busy weekend.”

“Oh crap,” said Big Tim, “let’s go someplace else.”

“Ev’ryplace else is filled. It ain’t gonna kill us. They putin some extra cots and gave us a cut rate.”

“They should,” I said.

Big Tim grabbed the duffel and I picked up the bag ofwhiskey. We followed Sam. The desk clerk took our dough and told us the roomnumber.

“Damn! Room 13,” says Big Tim. “Don’t it figure.”

The clerk handed the key to Sam.

“What if these guys don’t let us in?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Said Big Tim, “how they gonna know we belong? Hell, Iwouldn’t open the door to strangers just cause they knock and say, ‘Hey, thisis our room too’.”

“Oh, these people won’t squawk,” said the desk clerk.

“I don’t know, mister,” said Sam. “Maybe you better comealong and introduce us.”

“Oh, very well.”

The clerk comes out from behind the counter and we followedhim up a flight of steps to the second floor. The hallway was narrow and had adead smell. There were papers and dust balls clustered in the corners. Therewas the sound of TVs playing or people screwing behind the closed doors. He ledus all the way to the back of the building. Finally the clerk stopped at adoor. Loud music came through it.

The clerk pointed to an exit sign down the hall. “That takesyou down to the beach,” he said and then he rapped on the door. It opened acrack after a moment. A man peeked out, his head surrounded by smoke.

“Que?” the guy said.

“These are some fellows that will share your room tonight,”said the clerk.

“Sí, hombre, está bien. Cuantos más,mejor. Ven en ella y hágase en casa,” said the man.

“Christ, don’t they speak English?” said Big Tim.

“He said, ‘Yeah, man, it’s fine. More the merrier. Come inand make yourself at home,” said the room clerk.

“An’ jes, hablo Inglés,” said the man. “Y mi nombre es Jesús, don’ take it en vain,” and he laughed.

The clerk gave us a smug smirk, shrugged his shoulders andstuck his hand out. Sam fumbled some cash out of a pocket and tipped him, andhe left. Jesús threw the door wide and we trailed him into adimly lit room cloudy with thick smoke.

“Cripes,” said Big Tim, “awful smellin’ stuff.”

We stood in the room letting our eyes grow use to the dim light.There were several cots along the walls, some occupied. People lay flat uponthem smoking cigarettes.

“Take…ah…which you choose,” said Jesús.Then he sweeps his hand toward a table in the center piled with little bags andother paraphernalia. “Y ayudar…um…help yourself…a lo que…whatever.” He walkedaway and sat down on a cot. “Compartimos aquí,” he said,“um..share here.”

We looked at each other. Sam looked at the bag of whiskey andjerked his head at the table.

I sighed and placed the bag on the table.

“Anything to eat?” said Big Tim to Jesús

Jesús pointed to a door at the rear.“Kitchen,” he said.

“Go on, man,” said Sam. “I’m beat.”Sam went over and flopped on an empty cot.

“Well, I’m hungry,” snapped Big Tim.“Let’s eat,” he said to me.

I shook my head, but he grabbed mysleeve and tugged me toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen Big Tim went aboutmaking a sandwich. “Listen,” he said in a whisper. I had to stick close to hearas he moved about finding ingredients. “I don’t trust these guys.” I noticed hehad brought the duffel with him. “We better stay awake.”

“Hell, I’m bushed. I don’t think Ican.”

“Okay, here’s what. I’ll stay awake.If I get where I start driftin’ off, I’ll wake you to take over.”

I woke with sunlight streaming acrossmy eyes from a window to a room full of snoring. I glanced at the table and oneand a half fifths of our whiskey was drunk. The empty bottle lay on its sideupon the floor.

Sam was up and in his swimsuit.

“Wake Tim up,” he said, “and let’shit the beach.”

Big Tim was asleep sitting up withhis back against the wall.

Sam looked over. “Found him like thatwith his arm draped over the duffel. He didn’t even wake when I pulled it awayto get my suit.”

“Some guard,” I mumbled.

We woke Big Tim and headed out to thebeach. Big Tim shoved all our clothes back in the duffel and carried it along.We went through the back exit and down a narrow stairwell. There was no door atthe bottom of these steps. We came out on sand and surveyed the beach behindthis flophouse.

There was litter, broken glass andold shells strewn about in the sand. No way we were sunbathing here. We walkedup the boardwalk about a mile to where the beach was clean and scattered groupsof people were lounging.

We walked across the sand until Samsaid, “Here.”

Big Tim dropped the duffel and Samdug an old blanket out and spread it. We sat down.

“Great view,” said Sam. He smiled.They were a bevy of young women to our left. They had a net up and some werebatting a volleyball back and forth. None wore very much.

Big Tim didn’t glance at the girls.He sat resting his chin on his knees staring out to sea. I was worried. Whatwas he thinking? I wondered if he was considering swimming out until hecouldn’t swim any further.

Two of the women were running towardthe ocean. Sam stood. “I’m goin’ in,” he said, “you guys comin’?”

I knew what Sam thought. One of thetwo wore a white suit. He was hoping it would go transparent when wet.

“Go ahead,” I said and Sam ran afterhis prey.

“What’s wrong?” I said. “Are you sulking‘cause you fell asleep? Nothing happened.”

He crawled over near me. “Listen,” hesaid. “I saw something.”

What?”

“Muerte a los opresores.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea. But at the accident,when that creep gave me the finger, he had those words tattooed down his arm.”

“So?”

“So when Jesús went to sleep lastnight he pulled off his clothes.”

“And?”

“He got that tattoo on his arm That’shim, that’s the guy killed my mom.”

“Man! What do we do? Go to the police?”

“Hell no. I have a plan.”

He leaned in close and told me. Right after he finished Samreturned.

“You guys missed it. I guessed right. Woo-eee!”

“Sit down,” I said.

The sun had all ready dried him. He picked up his shirt andpulled it on. “Naw,” he said, “I’m gonna walk around and find us a better room.Might be some vacancies this morning.”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“No? You want to go home?”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“You don’t wanna spend another night in that dump, do you?”

“Sit down, Sam,” I said.

Big Tim told Sam what he told me including his plan.

“But what if he wakes up?” said Sam.

“He ain’t gonna freakin’ wake up,” said Big Tim. “I don’tknow what all those guys were snortin’ or sniffin’ or shootin’ last night, butcombined with our whiskey they were out like clams. Nobody’s gonna wake up‘cept us. You in?”

Sam looked about to say no, but he nodded and we left thebeach to have lunch.

Big Tim was right. Nobody stirred, not even Jesús when we yanked the covers off him.

“Oh damn,” whispered Sam, “he’snaked.”

“All the better,” said Big Tim.

We picked Jesús up and staggered downthe back stairs with him. He revived a bit once we were outside, which madethings easier. He began to move his feet and staggered along between Big Timand Sam, but didn’t fully awake. We guided him across the littered beach to thelip of the ocean. It was fairly dark. There was only a quarter moon. Big Timtook Jesus from Sam and walked him into the water. He pulled him further outinto the waves and pushed him under.

Jesús woke at that point andstruggled, but it was too little too late. His arms stopped flailing and BigTim let Jesús loose. The weak neap tide kept pushing the body back and forth asBig Tim and we left the beach.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Sam said.“The current ain’t takin’ him out. They’ll find the body.”

“It don’t matter,” said Big Tim, withall those drugs and alcohol in his blood they’ll conclude he decided to goskinny-dipping and drowned. Case closed.”

“Fine,” said Sam. “Now let’s get the car and get the helloutta here.”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“What’d’ya mean no?” Sam looked at me. “Oh Christ, did youleave the duffel back at that place?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We ain’t leavin’ yet,” said Big Tim.

“What?” said Sam.

“We can’t. It’d look funny, suspicious. We’re gotta be therein the mornin’ like nothing ever happened when those other guys come to. Thenwe’ll brush our teeth, bid them a fond adieu and leave. If anyone ever asks usabout Jesús, which nobody ever will, we’ll say he was there whenwe fell asleep.”

Sam didn’t looked convinced, but thethree of us went back up the stairs to the room.

Sam grabbed Big Tim’s arm at thedoor. “Wait a minute. What if they’re awake?”

“They ain’t gonna be awake. Theydidn’t wake when we took him out and they ain’t gonna be awake when we walkin.” With that Big Tim opened the door.

The other guys were across the roomwith their backs to us and their hands on the wall. There were several peoplein the room wearing vests with FBI and ICE on the back.

“Who the hell are you,” everybodyshouted at once.

A Man pointed a handgun at us. “Upagainst the wall,” he said.

We obeyed. He walked over and stoodbehind us. “Where’s Jesús,” he said.

“Who’s Jesús?” said Big Tim.

“The guy I’ve been chasin’ down for ayear, that’s who,” said the man behind us. “He’s a murderer and a dealer andhow’s about you tellin’ us where he might be.”

“He’s out on the beach dead,” Samblurted. He was crying. “Big Tim drowned him.”

I looked away from Sam and peered atBig Tim. He gave me a smile. We came down to get Big Tim out of his sulk, I guesswe succeeded and that is how our weekend trip ended.

-30-

BEACH BOY

2012-01-10T15:36:00.001-05:00

BEACH BOY

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

A Spanish guitar has six strings. Some people learn to play with ten fingers and a minimum of effort. Mickey was one of those. She was one with the instrument. Her Spanish roll rolled smoothly andshe could play two melodies at the same time. She played that guitar all summer. She slept late and playedlate and in her free time sunbathed half-naked on the beach and sometimes wadedin the shallows with the children.

Tom watched her romps in the dying ripple of waves and envied her and thechildren sharing her moment. He would listen to her music into the evening andenvy her even more. He playedguitar. He brought it each evening, but it always lay silent across his lap, a hollow,empty, dumb chin rest. There wereothers with instruments and they sometimes strummed along with Mickey. He didn’t dare. He really only knew thenotes and enough chords to get by on some simple songs. He couldn’t keep up with her playing atall.

He had to admit he did not have a strong ear for music, but he enjoyedattempting to produce it. Even now, while he waited, he sang to himself, firstin a low voice and then in a high falsetto. His soft voice did not carry far enough to annoy anyone. Therumble of the Wild Mouse ride on the pier not too distant drowned it out. His voice tended to get lost in smallwinds anyway. He could have sunglouder if he cared or dared and still not have reached many of the beach crowd. There was a wide empty circle betweenwhere he lay singing and where the family groups sat in cramped clusters of sunburning flesh. The families didn’tpress in upon him because he had come down with a gang of other boys with longhair. There were several groupingsof similar young people on the beach and around each the older bathers left awide stretch of bare white sand. Tom’s friends had left, but still the circledid not close around him. It lefthim quite alone.

Tom’s own long hair was golden and it caught the sunlight reflecting offthe sand. His hair was dry and hung in webs over his broad forehead and bulged inlittle mounds over his ear-tips. The over-abundance of hair made his chin look narrower and emphasizedhis sharp nose. His was a pointedaggressive face, older than his years should have produced. His lips fitted together crookedlyleaving him with an expression of constant puzzlement.

At mid-evening Tom lay on the hot beach waiting for Mickey and herguitar to come down for the night’s activity. He stretched back on a stripedbeach blanket with his head cradled in his large hands; hands, by the way,heavily corded by veins bulging from many hours of practice on the horizontalbar, his high school sport had been gymnastics.

While he relaxed his body grew taunt, the skin having dried out from thesun and the salt. He had beenswimming most of the afternoon and it was very nice to lie on the beach andlisten to others running and splashing. While he enjoyed his comfort two of the other boys returned, drippingfrom the ocean, and squatted down near him talking. The shorter boy, his hair twisted into odd shapes by thewater, was Glenn and he was explaining to the dark boy named Raft about his newmotorcycle, a bike he got cheap from some kid who had upset during a hill-climband lost his nerve about remounting. Glenn was extremely proud of himself for having scored the bike.

Tom did not rejoice with Glenn. He did not like Glenn and bragging was not good form. Tom had become very concerned with goodform lately. He did not lose hiscool like Glenn, who would giggle nervously whenever trouble came. He closed his eyes and wished Mickeywould come or Lilt would get out of the water and come tell his jokes. Lilt knew every good joke there was andhe could tell them without hesitation. Tom liked Lilt the best of the crowd he associated. But Lilt was far out in the oceantrying to catch a wave to ride. There was very little wave in the early evening. The surf would rise with the nighttides after the beach cleared of fat ladies and their children.

Tom raised his head and made out a small blue form far away on thewater, arms making blurry fan-like wings from the side as the surfer tried tokeep his balance, but he had gotten too close to the white water and soon hefell sideways and disappeared.

The evening was hot. Tom watchedwiggling lines of heat rise like thin grass around him. He did not feel like moving when he sawMickey walking through this haze. He let her come to him, watching her. She walked easily, not bothered by the hot sand, for herbare feet were hard on the bottoms. She was sure of herself.

Mickey was golden, too. Each of the young people about Tom was golden. It was part of the look. Mickey glowed brighter than the others, because the sun andsalt had failed to dry of oil her hair. It splashed around her neck and shoulders, rippling like a yellowflag. She took great care ofit.

Her body was muscular and brown as a biscuit. She was truly a beach girl. Her tanned body seemed made of the sand, dusty withfreckles. She wore no makeup andno jewelry except an iron cross around her pipe-smooth neck. They wore the iron cross as a metal ofbelonging, boys and girls; it was this summer’s fad. It banged against the top half of her two-piece swimsuit, avirgin white suit with no markings or trim whatsoever.

Two other girls were with her, dressed very similarly and nearly twinsin every way, but they lacked the freshness that always clunk tenaciously to MIckey,they seemed overcooked and crisp. Their arrival seemed to be a signal, for the bathers were beginning toleave, the sun began to sink closer to the water and more young golden peoplebegan to come across the beach toward the spot Tom had had to himself only tenminutes ago.

Mickey dropped onto her knees beside Tom. “Hi,” her voice light as a raindrop against theheaviness of the sea. She carriedher guitar over her shoulder and she swung it around her head by its neck,coming frighteningly close to Tom’s reclining chest, and fitted it onto herleg. She picked at a string andsquinted into the sunset. “Oh, I hate to see it go down tonight.” She sighed and plunked a sad bassnote. “I hate to see summer end,don’t you?”

He nodded. He hated seeinganything end. Nothing should everend. Wasn’t that what they weretrying to do, prevent finishes. It seemed there were too many finishes to holdback. He moved his eyes away from Mickey and glanced down the flat dark sandthat the water kept haranguing.

A mother was calling a spindly little girl from the surf, but the childrefused to hear and ran up and down in the two inches of water washing herfeet. The mother kept calling thegirl’s name over and over.

Very few people remained on the beach. A magic wind had swept them away. Pigeons flew down andpecked at dropped ice-cream sticks and peanut shells. Tom felt a chill as the breeze changed direction and henoticed the sun was missing. Itwas getting dark over the beach and through the dimness came a plaintivecall. The mother finally got tiredof calling her reluctant child and hauled the screaming girl from the surf byone of her skinny arms, ever so often giving the child a prodding smack on thedamp seat of her frilly bathing suit.

Mickey kissed Tom on the cheek. “You look far away. Thinking about the big surf out west?”

“No, I wasn’t. I don’t know what I was thinking about. Tonight’s bigblast, I guess?”

Actually he had been thinking about his age, not of the coming party. His birthday had passed a week ago andhe was twenty-one years old. Hewas the oldest in his crowd. Glennwas the nearest his age, but still a two whole years younger. Mickey was four years younger with ayear of high school left to her.

Darkness was suddenly around him. He blinked and saw most of his friendshad arrived. Tonight they wouldall come, because this was the last real day of summer. Labor day was nearlyover and on Wednesday most of the kids would be returning to school and thebeach would have to wait until next July.

They tore down a sign warning there was to be no food, no fire, no ball playing,no alcoholic beverages, no nudity allowed on the beach. They broke it into kindling and starteda fire to roast hot dogs over. Thefire blazed and warmed the chill that came with the night. It glowed upon their bare bodies andturned them from gold to shadowy orange. As it consumed the kindling a flame began to grow within the gathering. It moved together. It exploded into aclamor that denied division and yet, refused cohesion. It became chaos by rule and rule bychaos.

Mickey picked away at the vibrating silver strings of her guitar whileGlenn pounded harshly a pair of Japanese bongo drums. A group stood in back ofthem singing, proclaiming in song their freedom from a befuddled adult world,where A-bombs were ridden to church and a hard rain would burn the fields ofmature maryjane.

Another group joined the singing, but with a different song, filled withthe glory of the big wheels of a Harvey-Davidson and death on the dirttracks. These had been singingalong with a traditional radio, but the radio had gotten ahead of them and theysimply refused to catch up, content with their song of black leather boots. The air was full of the sound of painand sex. Dancing began around thefire, the figures flickering with the flames.

Beer mysteriously appeared and the popping of the cans was audible abovethe din of music. People weretalking all at once and Tom calmly watched them. He had not moved from his blanket, shifting position onlywhen he felt cramps in the backs of his legs. He looked at the cold stars above. He couldn’t touch them so he lost interest and watchedcouples disappear into the dark cove under the amusement pier.

When nobody else went into the cove he took an interest in the writhingdancers. But that becamedistasteful to him when Mickey leaned close to his face and shouted, “Do youwanna dance?”

“No.”

She wrinkled her nose at his shortness and turned to Glenn, whoimmediately jumped to his feet and led her away.

Glenn looked down at Tom and said to her, “What’s wrong? Tom, feelin’ his age?”

Tom stared out at the dark ocean. It caught some light from the piers and appeared glassy and unreal. He could hear the waves fallingponderously. Glancing back he sawa clattering gathering of sea gulls, black and white and very plain in the boardwalklights. They were circling and diving and Tom could just see the man feedingthem. The man tossed popcorn puffsinto the air and the greedy gulls snatched them on the fly. It continued for a long time until theman ran out of food and left. Tom watchedthe gulls make a last dive and then they were gone as if they had never beenthere. The ocean rumbled, but there was no more clattering of the gulls.

The dancers formed a circle around Glenn and Mickey and were chanting. Tom could see her through the bodiesand she had unsnapped the strap of her halter and that garment slipped steadilydown exposing the pale skin of her breasts.

Tom watched fascinated, wondering if she would let it go further. The vision held him. Her breasts did not match herbody. They were white against thedark skin. Paler than heremembered when he had seen them earlier in the summer. Her round face swollen by the bad lighting,she didn’t seem like Mickey, but like a stranger.

Tom got up and pushed through the crowd. He tried to reclaim what hefelt was being stolen from him by tug her suit up and snapping the strap,

He did not attempt to make her understand. Nakedness was not shocking tothis crowd. They were toosophisticated to consider anatomy evil and too liberal to scold anyone waitingto be natural. He didn’tunderstand either, except he felt jealous of Glenn seeing her that way. He had to get away from the noise and thecrowd.

Tom picked up his surfboard and dragged it to the sea. It was pitch out there beyond thelights and he dissolved into it, the splashing his hands made in the waterdrifting back to the group on the beach. Tom wanted to be alone, but wasn’t able to escape. His dashing into the ocean started amigration into the water and by the time he rowed far out into the dark the waterwas crowded with surfboards.

He ceased paddling and sat rocking upon the water. He could see thewhole line of lights down the boardwalk, the sparkling neon of the amusementpier and the blinking signs over the tiny shops.

There were dark thick shapes around him. The others sitting astride their boards waiting for the seato rise and give them a ride. Theyhad followed him into the void of night, into the danger that was the oceanafter midnight. One of the black shadowscame close and he recognized Glenn, his stiff blond hair blowing back from hisface.

Tom sank down on his board. He was suddenly tired of seeing blond hair. Glenn’shair had been red when they were little, his own had been black and he knewanyone looking closely would see the dark roots.

The ocean erupted behind him. A tall wave lashed by the wind, rose inwhite-faced fury above the dots on their long boards. It smacked them and theypopped upright on the wood and hitchhiked ahead of the rapids, ridinggloriously toward the invisible beach.

Water sprayed Tom and he relaxed, but his relief was broke by the wavecatching up to him. Another boardshot ahead, missing him by little and then he flipped backward and was rollingunder the water and saw his board break in half, one half chucked upward tostrike another object in the water. Tom took a breath, fought the wave and gotto the object before it sunk.

He pulled Glenn onto the beach. The others ran to him and took Glenn outof his arms. He was tired and fellon the damp sand trying to catch breath that wouldn’t come. Glenn softly moaned as the boys carriedhim from the sea. Tom watched themgo, followed by the girls, except for Mickey who knelt before him, her hair whiskingat her stubby nose and some of it caught in her eyebrows. She looked at him, her hand brushinghis forehead.

“His head was bleeding,” she said.

“My board hit him.” He chokedwith the effort of speaking with seawater in his lungs.

“We’re taking him to his cabin. You comin’ along?”

“Mickey...I lost my job today.”

“It doesn’t matte. This isthe end of the season.”

“I didn’t even report.”

“I gotta go,” she said.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’llstay and guard the fire.”

She left him without a word. Tom watched her disappear across the empty beach after the others. Hegot up and went back to the dying fire. It smelled of ash and the smoke burned his eyes. On his blanket was adiscarded beer can. He kicked itaway into the sand with the other empty cans. Tom lay down on his blanket. It was cold. The night snapped with the breeze. A steady moan came from the ocean as the tide stole away with more sand.

Tom picked up his towel. It was damp and did not warm him when he put itaround his shoulders. He wrapped the blanket about his legs and gazed forlornlyat the fire. He did not look backup at the beach for a long time. He knew it too well. It was dead at this hourand he was the lone mourner. Everybody else had fled to the nightlights and left him. He looked at the fire as it turned moreand more to grey smoke. He did not think about Mickey. That phase was over forhim.

They worked hard at holding back endings but endings could be overwhelming.The ocean ends at the beach. The night ends with the sun. And summer ends... Tomstood, picked up his gritty blanket and folded it into a compact square. There were different seasons. He drapedthe blanket over his arm.

He stood looking at the dead ashes for a while. The fire had burned out.He turned and walked toward the boardwalk. He did not drag his brokensurfboard; he left that for scavengers. At the steps to the boardwalk hethought about the gulls. He wondered where they slept, if they slept. At anyrate, they were gone from the beach until tomorrow at dawn. Tomorrow wasalready today. Even the boardwalkwas closing. They had closed where he had worked. They hadn’t missed him.

Tom turned at the top of the steps. It was September at last. Nobody had big enough hands to stop it. Not even Glenn, whohad huge hands. He looked at thedark beach before leaving for this year and tried to pretend nothing had changed.He walked away from the steps and disappeared down the boardwalk to the north.

- 30 -

CHRISTMAS LAST

2012-01-08T06:39:00.001-05:00

CHRISTMAS LAST

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

It snowed early this winter, dry and powdery. The wind had nodifficulty creating drifts. Few people attempted driving as deep snow maderoads impassable. Those who tried kept getting stuck. I helped push lots of thecars free and shoveled a good many sidewalks. I did it for money. I’m notusually mercenary, but wanted to buy something nice for dad. He gave us, mybrothers and sisters and I, money to buy mom Christmas presents, but she hasgiven us nothing to purchase him a gift.

I ought to tell you mom and dad are separated.

We don’t understand why. I’m speaking for everybody now. Idon’t understand it and I’m the oldest, so I guess the others don’t either. I’mfifteen. (I’m not actually, but I will be next month. I’m close enough to claimthe age, I think.)

None of us had anything to do with the split. Mon just leftone day. She took us with her, but we didn’t go far. We moved into her mother’shome. She says dad can come live with us again when he grows-up. This is one ofthe things I don’t understand. Dad is grown. He’s thirty-eight. Mom neverexplained what she meant. She seldom talks of dad anymore, but sometimes shecries. She never cries in ourpresence. But my brothers and I share the bedroom next to her’s and on certainnights I hear her through the wall. It sounds like stuttering, or hiccoughs,but I know it’s crying. Robert, one of my brothers, has heard it too. Only once,I think. I told him mom talks in her sleep. He laughed and asked if he couldlisten to what she said. I told him that was wrong and he went to sleep. Idoubt he knew she was crying.

Dad sees us every weekend. Mom gets very nervous when hedoes. She behaves as if he was a stranger. We have to dress-up and watch ourmanners. When mom and dad speak to each other it is polite and formal. Once,though, I overheard him ask her to come home, but she told him not until he couldcontrol himself. They separated a year ago.

Dad visited the week before Christmas and gave each of usbooks. He’s a great reader, but he reads hard to understand books, some withfunny titles and others written in Latin. I never heard of most of the authors.Dad had a tiny room at home he calls his study. Mother says it is hissulking-closet. Inside he has shelves of these books. I believe they have to dowith religion. Dad is very religious. When he was young he trained to be apriest, but for some reason he gave it up and then he married mother.

Once I asked why he had stopped trying to be a priest. Hesaid because he lacked the “true spirit”.

He was not committed enough, dad told me, and it would havebeen unfair for him to take the vow.

Mom had giggled at his explanation and said she knew the realreason why he quit the priesthood. Dad looked down at his feet quietly for amoment after she said that, then got up and went into his study. I remember hisface got very red. “Your father is too loving”, was mother’s cryptic comment.

Mom never shared Dad’s religion. He was a Catholic, but shewas, in her words, nothing. She converted to Catholicism when they married. Idon’t believe she liked it. She never attends church. Dad goes to mass often,even during the week and he always said a prayer for us or lit a candle forsomeone.

We children are supposed to be Catholic, but we seldom go toMass. When I was little dad would take me, but my mother grumbled about thedifficulty of getting four, then five, then six children ready, and when Olgacame we stopped going and dad had to go alone. I know it bothered him not tohave us attending, yet he never said anything to mom. He let us stay home.

Dad gave me two books; one titled Speedway Guys andwas about racing. I like auto racing and have a whole shelf of car models. Theother was A Young Man’s Introduction to Sex. Dad said that book wouldtell me something about him and mother. I haven’t read it. I don’t know if Iwill. Mom already told me about sex. She told Robert, Mary and I about what shecalled the facts of life. I don’t think she wanted to tell us. She was stiffduring the telling and she had trouble with the words.

She told me one evening when Robert and I were in the kitchendoing the dishes after Mary ran in crying and scared because she was bleedingbetween the legs. Mom seemed embarrassed as if wishing Robert and I weren’tthere. She sighed.

Then she said, “I guess it’s time you knew the facts of life.”

Mary’s bleeding had some connection to sex,but it sounded icky and I didn’t half pay attention. I do remember sex was onlyafter you married and supposed to be with no one else. Mom appeared relievedwhen she asked if we understood and we nodded our heads, even though we hadn’t.

The day before Christmas Eve I came home with five dollars Ihad earned shoveling and hid it in a sock. I had just put the sock under theothers in my dresser when mom called me. She was going shopping withgrandmother. Robert and Mary were at the movies and she was taking Steven andAmy with her. She wanted me to take care of Olga. I nodded and she wrappedSteven and Anne snug in coats and scarves for the trip. The snow had stoppedfalling, although the wind still blew it through the air.

“If you go out, make sure that Olga is warmly dressed.”

I promised and they left.

Mom never takes Olga with her if she can avoid it. For somereason Olga and grandmother have never gotten along either. Olga once toldgrandmother that she hated her. It was a time Grandmother came to stay with usjust before dad and mom split. Grandmother often came though she never enjoyedher visit. She would sit in the kitchen, on one of the uncomfortable chairs,watching mom cook and gripe about the Pennsylvania humidity or the smallness ofthe house or the inaccessibility of the stores or why mom had allowed Olga tohappen. Little Olga was listening and suddenly jumped off her chair yellingright in grandmother’s face that she hated her. Grandmother was badly upset andOlga got a spanking. Mother seemed different after that, quieter, as if she wasremembering something unpleasant.

Olga isn’t my little sister’s real name. Her given name isAgatha. She received the nickname from mother who said she’s a Little Olga.It’s an ugly name. Dad never liked to hear it, but mom thought it was cute, sowe all called her Little Olga, except for dad who called her Angelique.

Olga is eight and she looks different from the rest of us. Welook like mother. Olga looks like dad. She has his long nose and face. She isthe only one of us with blue eyes and light hair.

Dad gave her a storybook called Portia Porpoise and Olga wentcrazy over it. I guess she’s the only one of us to really like books. She won aprize at grade school for reading and she is always bringing material home fromthe school library. I tell her it will ruin her eyes and she will have to wearglasses like daddy. She replies she doesn’t care; she’ll just borrow his.

After mom left, Little Olga began to pester me to go for awalk. She wanted to watch the snowfall and see the Christmas decorations. I wassick of the snow and being outside in the cold, but I gave in to her. It wasalways impossible for me to refuse Olga anything. I don’t know why. It just is.

Before we left I got my money out of a sock and put it in mypocket. I didn’t want to leave it home. I was afraid Robert would take it,although he isn’t prone to stealing and I doubt he would have found it. I hadtrouble finding it myself.

As we left the house Olga asked what I had put in my pocket.

“Money.’

“What for?”

“It’s to buy dad a Christmas present.’

“Oh.”

We walked without talking. The snow was deep by that time andstill loose. The wind kept blowing puffs up into our faces. The wind whippingthe drifts make it difficult to tell if any more was falling or not. I believedthe storm had stopped because it was getting colder. I figured the temperaturedrop meant the end of the falling, but it could have been because it was lateand getting dark. Even though it was still daylight, it was dark enough severalhouses had already turned on their colored lights.

Olga watched her boots scatter the snow.

“I thought you wanted to come out to see the lights? Theyaren’t down on your toes.”

“Will you share your money with me?”

“No.”

“But I don’t have anything to get daddy a gift with.”

“Ask mom.”

“She won’t give me any.”

We fell silent again. Something was on Olga’s mind, but Icould see she was reluctant to tell me.

“Let’s go someplace,” she said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. You pick a place.”

I didn’t have any idea where to go. I didn’t know where Icould take her that wouldn’t cost my any of my money. We continued walking andshe kept asking where we were going to go. I didn’t know what to tell her.

We came to a large building with stained-glass windows andstatues in the yard. It was the Catholic Church.

“In here,” I said and taking her hand I led her up the frontsteps.

“What’s this place?”

“This is the church dad goes to on Sunday.”

“He never takes us.”

“Mom won’t let him,” I mumbled, I don’t think she heard me.

We entered. It was a large and cold place. The ceiling washigh above our heads and there were figures painted around the border. Beforeus were several rows of pews and down front an alter. To one side was a statueof Mary. No one else was there. Olga and I walked down the center isle and tooka front pew. I didn’t genuflect. It had been a long time since I had attendedservice and I felt awkward doing it.

We just sat in the pew. The room smelled of incense. I wasglad to be out of the wind, even though the church did not seem warm. My cheekswere sore from the blown snow brushing against them. It was comfortable to beout of that wind. I wondered if we should say a short prayer. We didn’t. Wesimply sat.

Olga tugged my sleeve. I leaned toward her. We spoke in ahush, overwhelmed by the great space about us. “What do you want forChristmas,” she whispered.

“Gosh, I don’tknow. Some model cars I guess.”

“You know what I want?”

“No, What?”

“I want to go home with daddy.”

I had nothing to say. I couldn’t even bring myself to look ather. I hadn’t realized how much she missed dad. I should have known, but Inever thought about how any of my sisters and brothers felt. I thought we werehappy living at grandmothers. We had never talked about mom and dad’sseparation with each other.

Olga and I left the church. She seemed sad and I had nothingcheery to tell her. I took her into a store and let her pick out a gift for dadand I bought it with my money. It was a wallet and cost almost my entire fivedollars.

I wrapped it that evening and she gave it to dad when he cameon Christmas Eve. I signed the tag, “From Angelique”. All I gave dad was acard, but he looked at me as if he knew everything. He couldn’t have though.

Olga was happy that night and kissed me goodnight. She neverkissed anybody goodnight.

Christmas is over. I watched the town workers remove the longstrings of colored lights from the town square today. They worked gently, butwith quickness, anxious to get the job done, and they only broke two bulbs. Thesquare looked bare and unfamiliar after they finished. It didn’t seem friendly.

If this were a movie like they always show on televisionaround Christmas, there would probably be a miracle bringing mom and dad backtogether and we would all live in the same home again. They are still livingapart. Mom mumbled something to dad the last time he was down. I overheard partof what she said. It had to do with the gifts being too expensive. I believeshe was talking about the gifts supposedly from Santa Claus since the onlygifts directly from dad were books. She told him he still lacked maturejudgment.

“Ijust wanted to make them happy,” he said and mom walked away and dad said, “Godforgave me”. Olga ran over, kissed him and said, “thank you, daddy”. I heardmom begin to cry. They’ll never go back together, I guess.

- 30 -

PAPIER-MÂCHÉ

2012-01-04T06:37:00.002-05:00

PAPIER-MÂCHÉ

(From Daily Rhapsody)

Larry Eugene Meredith

They had another fight. These were becomingmore frequent and harder to let pass. It was always about the same thing; Donwas the focus. The fights didn’t have to begin with him, but was where theyended. Tonight Billy returned home late from a movie seen alone. She wasn’teven very late. The film lasted longer than usual, but no excuse was acceptableanymore. Her mother had been waiting, tapping her foot, tap-tap-tap, steadilyagainst the floor. She entered and her mother greeted her with what had becomeroutine.

“You’ve been seeing Don again, haven’tyou?”

She hadn’t. She hadn’t seen Don for overthree months. He was in the Army Reserves and called to active duty. She hadnot heard from him since he left. But her mother didn’t know Don was in theservice because she never dared mention his name at home.

Her mother waited for an answer, tappingher foot, her face a frosty sheet. She bit off sharply every word of thequestion, as if they were on a continuous belt her teeth controlled.

“You’re late. You’ve been seeing Don again,haven’t you?”

She shook her head vigorously, her brightdark eyes wide and sparking.

“We’ve asked you to stay away from him.”

“I haven’t seen him.” Her voice was flat,the brief fire of a moment ago already burned out. It was useless to protest.Distrust was a member of the family.

“Why must you always disobey me? Why do youhave to see him?”

She had told her mother many times, but heranswer was never accepted. She said it again.

“I’m going to marry Don.”

The frost melted from her mother’s face,crumbling like snow in the rain. There were tears in the narrowed eyes.

“Don’t say that. You’re much too young tosay that. You have a year of high school yet. You have years before thinking ofmarriage.”

“But I love him, Mother, I know I do. Ilove him. I love him now.”

Her skin tightened on her face and turnedpink and warm. She looked down quickly. Her mother stood very close.

“Please dear, don’t see him anymore. Can’tyou see he’s much too old…”

“I haven’t seen him. I can’t see him. He’sin North Carolina – in the army.” She did not look up. She was ashamed losingcontrol and a little afraid of the quaking in her mother’s voice.

Her mother smiled weakly, her face relaxingand reforming until it assumed its normal pleasant appearance. “Good, now maybeyou’ll get him out of your head. Out of sight, out of mind”

Absencemakes the heart grow fonder, she thought as she turned to leave. Angerwas rising again and she didn’t want it to show.

But her mother would not let her go.“Perhaps you’ll go out with Ned Francis now.”

Billy stopped at the foot of the stairs andlooked back. Her mouth drooped. “Never!”

“Never is a very long time,” said hermother not unkindly. “Ned’s closer to your own age.”

She didn’t want to argue anymore. She ranupstairs to her room and fell, close to tears, across the soft friendliness ofthe bed. She cried into her arms because nothing was the way in had been.

The next morning was overcast and filledwith chilly winds. Billy left home and waited on the corner for the bus,shivering with the cold and saddened by the pale day. Her face took on a glazethat safely hid her feelings. Even so, her eyes felt puffy and she wanted tocry or to talk, but there was no one she could honestly speak with and therewas no private place where she could cry. Each morning her face became a maskas she left for school. She barely had a friend anymore. It was her own fault,she knew, for she made no real effort. She hid behind her mask and after lunch,she would leave school and go to work in a downtown business office for theremainder of the afternoon. It was part of her school’s program for CommercialStudents. Pupils worked part-time at several firms around the city and receivedcredit for it. She made more acquaintances at the office than at her school,but they only knew her superficially. When she arrived they greeted her asBilly. Her father used to call her B-Lilly and somewhere along the way thisshortened to Billy.

They all knew Billy. But very few everheard of Elizabeth Lillian, which was her given name.

The office was as dull as the sky outsideits windows. Billy’s was in the very front, her desk tucked away against apea-green wall, and piled with waiting work. There was really little to herjob, except a continuous monotony, and though usually busy, it was not the typeof work that kept her mind off her mother’s admonitions. Billy filed and keyedat her terminal mechanically, while drifting in mental moroseness. Shedesperately wished for someone to talk with, but the other women were older andlooked upon her coldly. They were too much like her mother to understand. Heronly hope was that a letter from Don would come. She told him to write to thisaddress, not her home.

Billy haunted the drab metal tray wheremail dropped every half-hour. She dashed around the office like a hungry puppy,calling after the mail boys, “Is it here, is it here?” but it never was and shehad to walk back to her desk, faking good humor and laughing along with theteasing of the men and not letting anyone know how badly she needed a lettertoday.

The office grew stuffy in late afternoon.It shrank in size and converged and hovered over the workers. Everyone foundtheir eyelids falling shut and weary faces kept sneaking glances at the wallclock, waiting it out as if they were doing penance. Billy stopped making tripsto the mailbin. She gave up hope of a letter and experienced a brief doubtabout Don. Once her mother told Don she was nothing but a foolish kid and hewould get tired of her and seek older girls. For a moment after the last maildelivery had failed to produce any letter, she wondered if it might be true,but then a montage of memories came into her mind and she reasoned he was toobusy to write.

A mail boy came to her desk, screeching ina dramatic voice for all the office to hear, “Billy, it came, it came!” He waswaving the envelope in the air above his head.

Every person down the row of desks lookedup from their work and smiled. Billy’s mask cracked and she grinned broadly.Her pale round face lit with color. She took the proffered letter and ploppedit down on her desk and looked at it. She did nothing else for a long timeexcept stare at the envelope.

After a while, with a deeply drawn breath,she opened it and shook out the contents. A folded paper fell atop her work anda small photograph fell atop the note. Billy picked up the picture. Don smiledback at her, his uniform hat giving his face a rakish appearance. It was acheap underdeveloped picture from a coin-operated machine and some of his facewas blurred. She could see the light blinded him and his eyes were squintingand this turned his smile into a painful grimace. But it was still Don. She hadan urge to kiss the picture, to kiss away the glower that the light had caused,but she didn’t. She studied it a moment. Don really looked dashing in hisuniform. There was self-assurance in his pose. She couldn’t understand why herparents never saw this quality in him, but they chose to be difficult anddisapproving, as they were becoming with every thing she did anymore. It was asif she were a pet cat that dragged all its captured mice into the dining roomwhen people were eating.

There was no reason for her mother todislike Don. She claimed it was because Billy had not dated anyone nearer herage and because Don was too quiet. Don was not quiet, not with her at least,and she saw no wrong in a quite boy anyway. Too many boys she had known weretoo loud, eager to boast about themselves. And she had dated others, especiallyduring junior high school, some after she started going with Don, but none ofthese had ever gotten through to Elizabeth Lillian. They were always too intentupon Billy. And Billy was just one of the guys. It was Don who recognized thewoman Elizabeth Lillian.

Billy picked up the folded paper and openedit, smoothing the creases along the edge of the desk. She read it. It didn’tsay much. He asked what she had been doing since he left. That was odd, she hadwritten and told him everything, no matter how trivial. Each day she mailedsomething. How could he ask that? There was a mix-up probably and he didn’t gether letters and cards. Snafus were common in the service certainly that is whathappened. She wanted to believe it was a mistake and forgive him for asking,but it still hurt. After all, he was the one who hadn’t been writing. Sheshould be asking him that question. But he was asking her, and although it hadto be a mistake, she felt betrayed.

She picked up the photo and studied it. Therewas something in the corner above his shoulder. Her eyes started to burn andshe felt tears pressing for exit. She held them back and gasped. She knew itwould help to tell another, but there was still no one to talk with around her.She bit her lower lip and told herself she was acting very silly and it didn’tmean a thing. There was nowhere she could escape either. She continued to work,anxious to leave, yet knowing she only had to go home.

At last quitting time came and she left thedesk, putting the letter in her pocket first, and went into the hall and downthe elevator with the crowd to the street.

The early evening was colder than themorning had been. She walked with her coat hunched up to cover her cheeks andher forehead exposed, burning in the wind’s sting. She bumped into peoplewithout seeing them, crossed the streets without watching the changing lights.At the subway entrance was a man selling bouquets of flowers. These lined therailing around the steps, coloring the drab day with misplaced residents ofspring. Billy paused and looked at the puffy blossoms, huddled in wax paper,like multi-colored Nuns. The man, heavy-set, with a bad foot, smoking the stubof a cigar, looked at her.

“Help you, miss?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“Take your pick,” he told her and steppedfrom her view.

Billy selected a circle of blue and white.She paid the man, who wrapped more wax paper around the stems before handingthem to her. She took the flowers and disappeared into the line of people goinginto the subway.

She had to stand precariously dangling froma metal bar, which was almost too high for her reach. But she hardly cared. Shewas thinking about the letter. Maybe her mother was right. She couldn’t believethat not a single one of her letters reached him. And he could have stillwritten earlier than he had. If he had been busy, then how did he find time togo have his picture taken in his uniform? She knew those machines took fourpictures at a time and he had only sent her one. Who had he given the otherthree to? She had never before distrusted him, why was she starting to now? Itwas because of what she saw in the corner of the photo.

She clutched the flowers near to preventtheir crushing by the shifting bodies slammed about in the swaying train. Sheprotected them fervently and at long last came to her station, where shetransferred to a bus. On the bus she got a seat.

Sitting on the seat, jiggled by thevibration of the motor and the ruts in the road, she turned the photo of Donover and wrote in lipstick on the back “To mom, from Elizabeth”. She put thephoto in the flowers.

When she got off the bus, it was raining. Adrizzle started during the ride, but she hadn’t noticed; now it was fallingheavily on her. Her hair flattened out and clung to her round forehead. Dropstrickled off her face onto the top of the flowers she held close to her chest.She protected the flowers as if she were sheltering something deep insideherself.

When she walked into her house she wasquite wet. The water dripped off her coat and her hair hung in dark stringsdown her face. In the brightly lit room her family sat about the table eatingdinner. Anger gripped Billy. It was violent enough to make her shake. Shewalked to the table and simply dropped the flowers in front of her startledmother.

“Here,” her voice was hardly her own, “Ibrought you these.”

“What’sthe matter with you,” asked her father, his mouth muffled by a forkful ofpotatoes from a TV dinner. His eyes didn’t leave his tray.

”Couldn’tsomebody have picked me up?”

Her mother looked at her. “Oh, is itraining?”

“Yes. It’s pouring.”

“We didn’t know,’ said her father, hismouth was empty now.

“You could have least waited dinner.”

“Now, Billy, you know this is bowlingleague night and we always eat early.”

She sighed. “Yes, dad, I know.”

“Get out of that wet coat,” said hermother. She didn’t touch the flowers. The photo had fallen on to the floorunder the table.

“Yes, mother.” Billy turned and walkedtoward the closet.

“You’re a little late, aren’t you?” herfather called after her.

“Yes, a little."

“You’ll have to get something for yourself.We have to be leaving for the alley.”

“I know.”

Billy hung her damp coat on a hanger and thatover the doorknob of the closet to allow it to dry. She trudged up the stairsto her room. She shed her cold clothing and for a brief moment stood naked infront of the mirror. She examined her shape, shrugged helplessly at the fat shehad gained recently, and then she dressed in dry clothes. As she came backdownstairs, her mother and father came into the living room. Their bowlingballs sat beside each other, mama and papa ball. Her father lifted both bags inone hand. He had his car keys in the other.

“How does a ten pin feel getting hit allthe time?” she looked at her father imploringly.

“What?” he asked. He smiled.

“Nothing. I was just muttering to myself.”

His smiled slipped away. “Well, we mustn’tdo that. We must enunciate.”

“You can get yourself dinner, can’t you?”her mother asked. “After all, you’re a young lady now.

“Yes, I know,” she said seriously.

Her parents left the house and Billy wasalone. She went into the kitchen and emptied a can of condensed soup into apan. She had a feeling her mother was right about Don. The house was quiet. Sheturned on the radio over the stove, but it didn’t help. She had known hermother was right for a long time, but she had never admitted it out loudbefore. She wondered if this meant she was growing up. If it did, she wasn’tcertain she liked it very much. She put the soup on the stove and started itcooking, stirring it occasionally with a spoon. In the empty house she couldalmost feel Billy slipping away. Elizabeth Lillian was cooking dinner in thekitchen. She scooped out a bowlful and carried it to the dinning room table.

She picked up the photo from where it hadfallen and looked again at Don’s face. Her eyes drifted to the upper cornerwhere slim fingers gripped his shoulder. The smell of the soup arose and intothe very center of it fell a tear. For a moment the tear was a bubble on topand then it sank, disappearing into the thick red broth.

- 30 -

WALK

2012-01-03T19:54:00.000-05:00

WALK

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

What am I thinking?

It’s bitter. The gutters are long white streaks of ice. Myteeth hurt with every breath. I tug my coat tighter attempting to block adraft, but air scratches my neck like an animal at the back door hoping to getin. The wind is an icy tongue licking my bare cheeks. It blows out of narrowcross streets. The low hanging clouds spit moisture over the city, old gray mencaught in the violent throes of coughing. Each time drops splatter my face I seethe old men. In shabby clothes, hobos lying on a park benches near the bigbridge across the river, with bad lungs and nowhere to go. They sit and choke theirlives away.

I forget my make-believe hobos and walkthrough the chill, meeting it on more personal grounds, shoving it aside withhunched shoulders, shivering despite my heavy jacket. I am obsessed with thisinvading cold that usurped the pleasant Indian summer. It has dragged last week’shigh temperatures to a record low. The TV weatherman seemed delighted recordswere being broken.

A blazing warm eye afire stops me. The redlight is both tempting and trapping. It holds the conceit of authority. Thelight shouts its command and sits on top of the one that tells you go. Go is acold green, like the day. Stop, stop, stop is shouted from steeple tops andcastle keeps, while hidden in the mists of earth are pale glimmers saying go.The order drones in overbearing insistence, threatening great harm. Stop! Onlythe very brave or very foolish are willing to disobey. The brave and thefoolish are often the same, blinded by fever from consideration of consequence.

A tall man with thin shoulders and a longloose overcoat bursts from the curb into moving traffic. “Hit me,” he issaying, “I dare you. I have the right of way.”

Is it arrogance or rebellion?

There is a Buick speeding toward him. Thedriver’s pale face reflects reality, at first panicked and then in slips anevil smile of hatred for the jaywalker. “You better run, you bastard. You thinkyou have the right of way, but I have two tons of metal.”

The jaywalker steps faster, the Buickpasses.

The light changes and I cross. By now thejaywalker, ignorant or defiant of danger, is halfway down the block. I could nevercatch him, but he pauses and stamps his foot. He lifts it slightly, almost notperceivable, but I see it nonetheless. I watch him whirl upon his heel and dashtoward me. He flashes by angry and disappointed, something left behind he mustretrieve that will cause him to miss his train. If he doesn’t retrieve to workon at home, perhaps tomorrow he will be one of the hobos on the bench.

I walk.

New jobs are hard to come by.

There are tiny stores along here, mereclosets packed together on the street level of a building housing law officesand tax consultants upstairs. I peer in a shop window at neckties, a display ofbroad and knotted nooses. Reflections of workers pass between the neckties andme. The men bound in their own ties, solid hues or broad stripes. Their facesare peaked, empty-eyed and full of ill will. They form a poster in my mind,like those recruitment placards of Uncle Sam, but this one has three executivespointing. “Join us! You too can be a god of America. Yes, you too. You can owna desk with a jangling telephone and stack of papers: invoices, out voices, maybevoices all screaming profit, profit, profit.”

I shake my head.

“You can, too. You can have the power andthe glory and the wealth everlasting.” They stand in a row pointing andsinging, “I got stock options, we got stock options, all gold’s children got stockoptions.” They point long thin fingers in my face, fingertips of bone worn awayby the calculator keys. “Everybody’s talking about Heaven; ain’t gone there.Come on, come on, walk all over in gold tipped shoes.”

It is what I think.

I step away and continue down the street. Ipass a steaming display of candy. I pause; I turn and go through the door. Theroom is warm and smells sweet. On impulse, I buy a two- pound box of chocolates,tuck it under my arm and pay the tiny froth of a saleslady. This leaves me withseven dollars and forty-three cents in pocket. This is all I have until thenext payday whenever that may be. Beside this money, I have my train tickethome. It’s in my wallet. I saw it there when I put my change away. Thesaleslady thanks me for my purchase. Her words hiss and she patters away towait upon a frump of a woman visually drooling over the fudge.

I walk to the park near the bridge acrossthe river. There is a steady stream of car lights across it span. It is rushhour after all. I amble along the benches with no reason to rush. Some old mensit upon one and I set the candy between them. They give me a questioning lookas I walk away.

It is a great suspension bridge, very high,with a pedestrian walkway across. It is windy here. I take the train ticketfrom my wallet and tear it to pieces and they float away on the currents. Andsomebody asks eventually, “What are you thinking?”

And that is what I was.

- 30 -

CORONACH FOR EVE

2012-01-03T19:48:00.003-05:00

CORONACH FOR EVE

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

A letter arrived between two bills and fouradvertisements. Please Forward written just above her name.

Her name was misspelled – Eva Jerdanbanksinstead of Eve Jordanbank.

Still it was a letter and she felt a curiousexcitement. She looked at the envelope, turning it over twice and holding ittoward the light. The return address told her nothing, some distant place.Lillian Neufield was a stranger’s name. She closed the front door and reread theenvelope while crossing the living room. Her dog wobbled across the room andrubbed its muzzle against her calf. It tried to jump up succeeding only itbumping her arm. The ads and bills slipped from her hand. The dog snapped itsteeth at one floating by in the air and bounced it off its nose. The restscattered across a rug already littered with old mail and magazines.

She ignored the attempt for attention andthe dog crept off to a warm corner and pretended sleep. She took the letterinto the kitchen, leaving the rest where they fell. She shoved some newspapersoff a chair, sat down at the table and stared at the return address.

“Lillian Neufield? Lillian Neufield? I don’tknow any Lillian Neufield.”

She gave a little shrug. Her dressing gownslipped off one shoulder and half way down her arm. Her skin was dark andspeckled with brown freckles. She let the gown droop. A safety pin held theyellowed strap of her bra. The metal was rusty and left a streak from slidingback and forth.

She held the envelope to the light again andopened it as if expecting a trick snake would leap out into her face. She tornthe corner, slid her finger in and slowly ripped the flap. She pulled thesheets of paper from the envelope between her index finger and her thumb.Spreading the pages out on the kitchen table she saw one was a form.

But it didn’t look like a come-on foranother pre-approved credit card.

“Now what in the world?” She asked.

The dog heard her speak and came ambling overto see if she was ready for company, but she only stroked its brown ear in anabsent-minded way.

She saw eight words

NAME

all in big bold print

ADDRESS

SPOUSE’S NAME

down the length of paper

OCCUPATION

CHILDREN

each followed by blank lines.

HOBBIES

TRAVELS

AWARDS

She read each word twice.

She tilted herhead and chuckled.

She puzzled overit.

She read theother paper.

“Hello, classmate! It’s time for our reunion once again!!!(Doesn’t time fly?) Your Wilmillar High School Graduating Class is gettingtogether to relive old times. Please fill in the accompanying questionnairewith information about yourself and return. We will be preparing a booklet sowe can know what we’ve all been up to these last few years.”

It stated the time, place and cost of thereunion dinner. It was signed Lillian CLARK Neufield. She laid this sheet downbeside the form.

“My twenty-fifth class reunion?”

She reached over and picked the telephonereceiver from the box on the wall. She had to stretch the tangled cord beforedialing. There was a faint ringing on the other end. It rang ten times. Shecounted. At the eleventh ring she hung up.

By the wall clock it was nearly seveno’clock. When Jeanette called it was usually between seven-thirty and eight onTuesdays. Jeanette’s husband attended some lodge meeting every week and shesometimes called to chat. She’d just have to wait to see if Jeanette calledtonight.

“I wonder if Jeanette got the reunionnotice?” she said to the dog.

They had been best friends all their lives. Jeanettehad married and moved some distance away, but they still talked to each otherby phone regularly. Jeanette was one of the few old friends that did call.

Jeanette was the only old friend that calledregularly.

“Lillian Clark? Now I remember her.Valedictorian.” The dog twitched an ear at the sound of her voice.

She stared at the phone, sipping a cup oflukewarm coffee and chewing on a piece of coffee cake. She bit off tiny crumbsfrom the edge of the cake and took nearly an entire half-hour to eat the smallpiece. It was all she ate for dinner. She did not feel like cooking just forherself. She bought a boxed dinner for her boyfriend at the diner where shewaitressed and took it to him on her way home from work. She took him a mealmost evenings, either from work or sometimes from a nearby McDonalds, taking itto where he cleaned a small office building. Not allowed inside, a securityrule or something, she would meet him in the parking lot and hand the meal outthe car window. He would lean in to kiss her on the cheek and then she would gohome.

They never went out to dinner. They seldomwent out at all. He worked evenings and she worked days, and his weekends wereseldom free.

Sometimes he came to visit on Thursday, ifhe didn’t have to work or he didn’t fall asleep or he didn’t have a headache.She once asked him to telephone every night and he swore that he would, but heforgot his promise and sometimes he would call and often he wouldn’t. She wouldwait in her small dark kitchen and when he didn’t call she would go to bed andcry, and when he did call she would go to bed and not cry. If he called and shewasn’t at home, he would be angry and yell at her and if he did come on thefollowing Thursday he might pout in the corner and not go to bed with her. Sheknew his anger proved he loved her very much, and if his wife would consent togive him a divorce he would marry her.

She kept waiting patiently for when he wouldbe free. He told her he divorce when his children were grown. He had two boysin Junior High School when they first met. The boys were in Senior High when hemade that statement. The boys were away at college now, but his adopteddaughter was only three. He had adopted the girl three years ago. “For the kid’ssake,” he said, but would say nothing else about the child. He never told herwhere she came from or why he felt obligated to adopt her. But he doted on thechild like she was his own.

She smiled at his kindness.

Seven-thirty came and went. Jeanette could callany second. She wanted to ask about the reunion. Was Jeanette going? Did sheremember Lillian? Eve took her plate and placed it in the sink. Even though shehad not made herself a dinner in days there were several dishes in the sink.She sat down at the table and twirled a strand of long brown hair in herfingers.

Eight o’clock arrived. The house was quiet,a bit chilly, damp in the kitchen. The sun had set and she sat in the shadows.The dog, which had fallen asleep, breathed softly against her leg. She waitedfor Jeanette to call and thought about Thursday.

By eight-thirty it had grown dark and sheshifted her feet back and forth. It was Tuesday and Jeanette usually called onTuesday. She picked up the phone, stretched out the cord and tried the numberagain. There was still no answer. Maybe Jeanette went to her father’s for avisit. She dialed the old number from memory.

A tired voice answered.

“Hi, Mr. Harvey,” she said. “Is Jeanettethere?”

Jeanette was not there. Her husband was onvacation. They went to New England for the week.

“Oh. Well, if you should hear from her, tellher Eve Jordanbank called.”

She hung up the phone. The cord re-tangledinto a tight knot. Her fingers twiddled her hair. She stared at the strand andsaw some gray hair against the brown. She decided to wash her head.

She went upstairs, snapped on a light andslipped off her dressing gown. It dropped in a heap by her feet. She removed herunderwear and flung it in the direction of the bed. She paused naked in frontof the mirror. She had always had a good figure. If her face was not quitebeautiful, it wasn’t a bad face. Long and narrow with a slightly hooked nose,but even so, when she smiled seemed pretty enough, despite a couple crookedteeth. She always had boys fawn over her in high school. She wondered what herold dates looked like now. She absently ran her finger down a crease that haddeepened along her cheek. She patted under her chin where the flesh had grownlooser. She stared at her eyes, which were sunken, the flesh beneath puffy andslightly darkened. She was tired was all. Her stomach bulged above the top ofthe bureau. She didn’t notice.

She picked up a tube of shampoo and wentinto the bathroom and turned on the water. As she knelt, leaning over the sideof the tub, the warm flow caressing her long locks, she dreamed of Thursdaynight when Skipper would come and take her to bed. She would cook a dinner.They would eat by candlelight and he would take her to bed. He could never staylate, of course, only a few hours, but she didn’t care as long as he took herto bed and didn’t pout. She knew he would stay longer if it weren’t for hiswife. It wasn’t fair. He loved her more than his wife. He was going to divorcehis wife someday and marry her.

As she bent further, to rinse beneath thesurge, the telephone rang. She turned off the taps and ran through the hallwaywrapping her hair with a towel as she went. The dog came panting up the stairs,plopping its paws carefully on each step. Eve tripped over a floorboard thatwas slightly uneven accidentally kicking the dog’s snout. The dog whined anddrooled.

Eve answered the telephone.

“Hello? Skipper, how’s my deary-dear?”

Oh, he was fine, just fine, but he wouldn’tbe calling her again until the weekend. He was going away for the rest of theweek. His boss was taking him on a fishing trip. Wasn’t that nice of his boss.

Yes, that was nice of him.

They were going off the coast of Maryland ina charter boat. He’d get back Saturday evening. He might call her then. Hemight drop off some fish. She could clean and cook it for the next time hevisited.

She told him of the class reunion. Could hego?

No, he couldn’t go. He did not like the ideaof her going without him. She would flirt with other guys.

No, no, she wouldn’t.

Well, what if he called her that night?

Well, he’d know she wouldn’t be home.

Well, he might want to hear her voice.

Well, she would think about going or not.

Well, he did not want her to go.

Well, why didn’t he tell his wife it wasanother fishing trip and come?

Well, he just couldn’t take her, what wouldpeople say.

Well, why should they say anything?

Well, a guy like him? A janitor and olderand…well, people could be nasty. People would talk about her. People would callher names.

His consideration for her feelings proved heloved her.

She kissed the receiver and he did the same.They hung up.

She stood with her hand atop the phone,shivering, standing naked in the hall, dripping water on the floor andunconsciously stroking her breast.

He wouldn’t be coming Thursday.

She went into the bedroom and finisheddrying her hair. Afterward she walked naked downstairs. She ignored the mailscattered on the floor, but got the reunion form from her kitchen table. Shetook it upstairs and sat at her dresser staring at the questionnaire.

She probably wouldn’t go. She did not wantto miss Skipper’s call if he called and have him be mad. Still, she would liketo see some of those she had gone to school with, see what they were doing now,what they looked like. She would ask Jeanette what she should do.

Go or not, she would send the form back. Shewanted to receive the booklet and find out what had happed to the others.Another thing she knew she was going to do. She was going to send herinformation back late with hope it arrived too late to be printed in thebooklet. She didn’t want to be in the booklet. She couldn’t think of anythingto put down after her name and address and occupation.

Her dog came over and lay by her leg. Shestroked its fur and realized how long she had the dog. She had the dog beforeshe had Skipper. It was an old dog and getting feeble.

At ten o’clock she went to bed, and with noThursday to dream of, she thought if the dog should die she would be all alone.

- 30 -

STATION ON YOUR WAY

2012-01-02T14:54:00.001-05:00

STATION ON YOURWAY

(From Daily Rhapsody)

Larry Eugene Meredith

Bill’s marriage was dead. It was as dead as old Jacob Marley.Sometimes a ghost would come at night to rattle a chain and disturb his sleep,but he was seeing these haunts less as the year went by. Every day was full ofwork and the nights were for sleeping. The bed had plenty of space to stretchout in now, but sometimes it felt like a vast wilderness and he almost missedhis wife. If it weren’t for bowling night he would have grown lonely.

There was the team to think of every Thursday. His wife hadthem join a league and now he was stuck with it. He admitted it was more funthan it used to be and he met Janice there. He barely noticed her at first, butafter all his team had lost a member and she was the replacement. She wasn’t avery good bowler. She was too frail. She couldn’t get enough oomph into herrolls. Bill brooded about it and seldom watched her. His wife had been anexcellent bowler usually beating him. This woman was doing nothing for the teamstanding. He was on the verge of suggesting they drop Janice when she won aturkey.

The lanes gave turkeys as prizes every Thanksgiving to anybowler who rolled three strikes in a row. Wonder of wonders, Janice who seldomthrew a strike got three in a row and won a bird. The problem was the prize hadto be picked up the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Janice had no way of gettingto the lanes that night. But Bill did and that Tuesday he accidently ran into herleaving work and offered to solve her transportation problem.

Bill noticed something about Janice on their way home fromthe bowling alley. Her eyes, tiny as they were, caught every passing light inthe night. It was the most magical thing he ever saw. He kept glancing acrossthe seat at her. The multi-colored twinkles were always in her eyes, especiallythe left. . They could be on the darkest stretch of highway, but her eyes foundenough light to glow. Bill was amazed.

He called her up from work the next day and asked her tolunch. She said yes, much to his surprise. They met in the lobby and went to asteak house two blocks from his office building. He had never been therebefore, didn’t know it existed. They sat in a small booth to the back. Twowaitresses shuffled back and forth behind a counter. Janice picked up an orderpad lying on the table of the booth.

“What would you like, sir?” she asked.

“You have to be your own waitress here, huh?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I’ll have a hamburger with relish, medium, French fries anda vanilla shake.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said and wrote down his order and thenher own.

She laid the sheet on the side of the table. One of the waitressescame over, picked it up.

Thanks, Janice,” said the waitress before she returned to thecounter.

“You’ve been here before,” he said.

“Yes, it’s convenient and cheap. I’ve come quite often sinceI moved back to the city.”

“Oh, when was that?”

“About three months ago,” she said.

“What about before that?” he asked.

“Oh, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded. It sounded as if there had been problems with aman to him. Perhaps she had just come through a divorce. He saw no ring on herfinger.

Bill studied Janice face. Her eyes sparkled, really mostlythe left. They were odd, small and set close together with pale blue irises.

“What’re you looking at?” she asked.

“Your eyes.”

“Why?”

“I like them.”

“Why?”

“They capture the light.”

“That is what eyes do,” she said.

They sat staring at each other until the food arrived. Billnot only studied her eyes, he took time to examine her face. It was narrow withskin that hinted at illness. She was too pale and too thin with skin thatstretched at every bone. Her cheeks were fleshless, the bones clearly etched behindthe skin. Her chin was small. Her lips were narrow with the upper juttingforward more than the lower. Her ears stuck out from her head and her hair waslong and frizzy.

She should be homely,he thought, but isn’t.

Her eyes drew him back. They did not move together.

“You know something?” he said after the waitress placed theirfood before them.

“What?”

“You’re pretty.”

She almost laughed, but took a bite of her sandwich instead.

After eating they took a walk. It was chilly, so they walkedbriskly. The cold brought needed color to her face and the breeze tousled herhair.

“I better tell you about me,” he said.

“Tell me what?”

“I was married.”

“Oh,”

“Our marriage is dead. That is, my wife died.”

“What happened?”

“There was a fire. In happened in the early hours of morning.It was over a year ago. She died in bed.”

“How did you escape?” she asked.

“I wasn’t home when it happened. To tell the truth, we wereseparated awaiting a divorce.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Then does it matter to you if a guy was married before?” heasked.

“I don’t know? I just don’t want another like I had.”

You were married?” Justas I expected, he thought. “What happened?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I was justa station on his way.”

They walked in silence. Bill was afraid to say more. I’m going to lose her before I have her,he thought.

“I notice John always beings you to the bowling alley. Areyou and he…?”

“No. We’re just old friends.”

“Well,” he said, “do you think you’d go out with mesometime?”

“Yes,” she said.

Bill took her home Thursday after bowling. They stopped onthe walk to her boarding house. They stood between brooding evergreens thatstood in a line from the highway. The trees were a buffer from the traffic.They could hear a distant buzz, but barely see the car lights. Her one eyeflickered like fireworks despite the darkness of the spot. It must catch some headlights, he thought.

“You have very strange eyes,” he said.

“I do?”

“Yes. Look, there’s no light here at all yet your eye twinkles.You have funny hair, too.”

“It’s frizzy. I can’t do anything with it. It’s always amess.”

“No, it’s nice. I like it.”

He reached over and felt her hair. It was so fine it was likeholding nothing. He could barely feel it.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said. He took his hand away.

“Janice,” he said.

“What?”

He leaned toward her. “May I?”

She closed her eyes and he kissed her.

It was a brush of a kiss, very soft, a mere touching of thelips. It was as gentle as a blossom falling to a river. But when they brokeapart and she said goodnight, Bill decided he was in love.

He slept easier in the wilderness of his bed that night. Itwas now a matter of a few dates to bring her into his new life. He kept callingher from work and taking her to lunch. He couldn’t get enough of her face ofimperfect perfection and he had never known a more mysterious person. Herstrange looks, her secrets all intrigued him.

She aroused him and as they met more often he began tosuspect she was seducing him. He wondered what she would be like in bed. Shewas so fragile in appearance he feared she would break. Yet to him it seemedshe was leading toward sex and one night he dared ask.

“Janice, would you go to bed with me?”

She smiled, almost wickedly. “Of course,” she said.

They went to his place. No one would see them there. It wascertainly more romantic than the boarding house with its thin walls and busyhalls. He led her up the stairs to his bedroom. He removed his jacket and tieon the way, kicked his shoes off at the door.

He was unbuttoning his shirt, but she had removed nothing.She turned her back as he slipped it off. Howdemure, he thought.

Or has she changed hermind?

He sat on the bed and stripped off his socks. “Janice, areyou okay?”

“I have a secret, Bill, and I am nervous about telling you.”

“Really?” he felt a thrill run up his spine.

“It’s a little kooky,” she said. “You may think I’m weird.”

“Kooky, eh? What’d you want to do, tie me up or something?”

She turned around. “Yes.”

Bill was surprised at this turn of events, but he was moreexcited than he could remember being. “With what?”

“You have neckties don’t you?”

“Yes, hanging on a rack behind the closet door.”

She opened the closed and selected several of his ties. “Youfinish undressing and lie back on the bed.”

He did as she said. He lay naked on his back with legs andarms stretched out for tying.

She turned around. “My, oh my,” she said. “I won’t tie that.”

She tied his arms and legs to the bedposts. He was spreadeagle upon the bed.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said and went into the bathroom.

Still demure, hethought, amazing.

She returned still fully dressed, but her head was bald andone eye was missing. There was scar tissue across her skull. He almost gagged.

She held a small can in one hand.

“I almost didn’t escape,” she said. “The dog saved me, yourdog. The dog you left behind to die with me.”

He struggled against the ties, but they wouldn’t loosen.

“There’s no dog here, Bill. You won’t escape.”

She removed a cap from the can.

“Wh-what is that?” he asked.

“A special lubricant,” she said and she poured it over hisprivates. It was cold, but burned slightly.

She went back into the bathroom.

“Is this some kind of acid,” he yelled. He tugged franticallyat the restraints without success.

She came back with her glass eye and frizzy wig in place. Shewas carrying her purse.

“Relax,” she said, “it won’t hurt you…yet.”

She reached in her bag and brought out a pack of matches. Shelit one and tossed it upon his lap. Flames roared immediately to life. She spunon her heel and walked out of the bedroom, out of the house and out of therange of his screams.

-30-

MOST ADMIRED MAN IN ROUNKE'S BAR

2012-01-02T05:51:00.000-05:00

MOSTADMIRED MAN IN ROUNKE’S BAR

(From Daily Rhapsody)

Larry Eugene Meredith

“There’s nothing in my life I haven’t controlled. I have madeeverything conform to my will, “ was Keith’s motto.

It was true.

We sat to drink and talk in a far corner of Rounke’s Bar, aregular after work hangout.

Keith was nottall. He was average looking, although women called him cute. He had a cleanand rugged face, like something you would find carved beneath a waterfall. Hishair was blond and receding. Yet every man would watch him walk away and onewould say, “Man, that Keith!” Every man wants to control his own life, but howfew do?

There was a lot of envying of Keith.

None of us certainly. We had gone through the motions ofeducation taking our cues from our elders. We worked in the institutional gray of corporate officeswhere our skin turned paper-white. We were married to hometown sweethearts ofwhom our parents approved. Women who never fretted over fashion and whosehemlines hadn’t risen higher than their first prom dress. When we made love itwas not with passion, but desperation, strictly done by the book and quick.“Men lead lives of quiet desperation,”¹ said some wise man in someother bar in some other time.

But not Keith, he wasn’t going to the grave with any songunsung. He was a man of action, not of brooding over the insignificantconsequences of an act if it prevented his controlling the situation. Keith wasa doer, our hero. Self-pity did not cripple him as it did us.

While we sniveled excuses to some petty high school teacher,Keith was arguing his own point of view with the principal and when the principalwould not acquiesce; Keith walked out of his office and never went back toschool.

“It was a matter of principle,” he said with a laugh. Hislaugh was loud and free of all care.

There was a girl he fell in love with, but her parentsdisapproved. He was not good enough for their daughter, this high schooldropout, the free man. He was not a Catholic, which to them was the worse sinof all. He was taboo, verboten, forbidden, and he married her.

It wasn’t easy. He had to sneak her away from watchful eyes.There was a bus trip across several states and seclusion in a strange land,while police searched for the missing girl. And later there was the tribunal,the challenge to the legality of the license and the attempt at annulment. Buthe won her in the end, going from town to town, state to state, job to job, dayto day and hand to mouth until the comingling of sperm and egg resulted inconception. The child ended the harassment and brought only the silence offamily banishment.

What a man of determination. The excommunication of his wifecondemning her to the lips of Hell and damnation could not frighten him intosubjugation, as it would us. But he would have none of it when his wifedemanded they raise their child Catholic. Despite her tears, screams and pleadshe would not relinquish to her desires.

He left her. He left her three states behind with theirchild. He left her still barred from returning to her parental home. He neverwent back. He never wrote. He was a man of amazing self-control and strength.He laughed without regret when we would have lost sleep over such a slight to awife or child.

We admired his stand against the boss. He stood to fullheight and called the boss a bastard to his face and marched out to the unheardapplause of our hearts.

Man, that Keith!

“We gather in this far corner of Rounke’s bar to lift a glassto Keith”, one of us said.

Keith died in a brutal car accident. He crashed his smallforeign sports car into a bridge abutment. It took firemen four hours to cuthim from the wreck, and when those hours ended he had no laugh left inside.

We meet at Rounke’s Bar in a wake since that loss “The good die young,”² saidsome wise man in some bar in some other time, I think it was Billy Joel. Weenslaved men, captured by convention and care, continue, but the free man died.

One of us witnessed the crash. He came to our wake, but broodedin the back. “Funny,” he said aftera few rounds had passed “the road was straight and dry. The day was clear andtraffic was light.”

He stood and raised a glass. “Gentlemen,” he said, I give youthe most admired man in Rounke’s Bar. There was nothing in his life he didn’tcontrol.”

We turned away and left our glasses sit.

-30-

FOOTNOTES:

1. Henry David Thoreau

2. Attributed to:

Herodotus (c.445 BC), “Whom the gods love dies young; best go first.”

William Wordsworth in “The Excursion”, “The good diefirst/And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust burn.”

John Barrymore, “The good die young – because they see it’sno use living if you’ve got to be good”

Many others, all before Billy Joel

FAT GAL

2012-01-01T06:33:00.000-05:00

FAT GAL

(From Daily Rhapsody)

LarryEugene Meredith

She fumbled in the gloomy hallway. It waslate and she was coming out of a drunk. Leaning her bulk against the wall she jiggled through keys, whichslipped from her fingers. She sighed. Grasping the doorknob she lowered oneknee to the uncarpeted wood.

The ring hid in some dark shadow eluding hersweeping hand. She stood with a grunt and reclined against the wall catchingsome breath before another attempt to locate her keys. She moved a foot backand forth and heard a jingle against the toe of one shoe. Carefully, shelowered a hand and scooped up the case. One, two, three tries and a key slippedinto the lock. She pushed open the door and entered her apartment.

She was hungry.

The party was over and she had been one ofthe last to leave. In departing she stumbled on the stairs and fell to herknees. She placed a hand on the next step before tumbling forward. The youngcouple ahead stopped to laugh at her antics. She pulled on the banister, but itwas slippery and she slid down another two steps instead of lifting her body.

“I don’t think she’s kidding,” the youngwoman said.

She tried again, but her dress slippedbeneath her knees. The hem ripped. The bodice was soaked with sweat.

The young man looked down and then bent tohelp her.

She had been gay.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course. I’m very well cushioned.Heh-heh-heh.”

They both laughed and after she was on herfeet the young man returned to his girl still chuckling.

She could hear the few remaining gigglingfrom the main room.

She went outside and called for a cab. Thecab did not come for twenty minutes and she waited inside a school bus shelter.She shivered in the cold. There was a wind and there was little to keep thedrafts from her. She watched the wind blow the litter effortlessly down thegutter. She began to sober.

The lights went out in the building she hadleft and a few moments later she heard a final door close, a motor start andcar leave. She was alone. The street was dark. She could no longer see thelitter in the gutter, but she could hear it gliding over the macadam.

There were attacks on several women in thisarea or so she had heard. She looked about for anyone. There was no one.

A vehicle turned onto the street she thoughtit might be the taxi, but it passed. It was a news truck with the early morningeditions. The litter whirled over the curb and tiny pebbles struck the glass ofthe shelter.

It had not been like this in Europe.

She had never left a place alone in Rome orParis during her vacation to Europe. There was always a man willing – wanting –to be her escort. They wanted to take her to bed. She would not let them andthey went away disappointed. They went away disappointed because they wereeager to take her to bed.

No one in the office believed her.

But in Europe men wanted to lay her.

“Can you believe any man wanting fat gal?”said that skinny secretary. That skinny secretary always spoke too loudly. Andthen that new girl, Lilly or Lila or Lilith or whatever the hell her name,said, “Oh, I believe it. A friend told me there are guys who try to make allthe tourists. Then demand money.”

A horn blew, the taxi driver looking for hispassenger. She left the shelter and waved.

Now in her apartment, she was hungry, thedrinks worn off. She snapped on the kitchen light and opened the refrigerator.There was half a banana-cream pie that appealed. She took it out and cut alarge slice.

They didn’t like her at the office. She tooka bite of the pie, a sudden, quick bite. Hmmm! The Cream spread across hertongue. They didn’t like her at the office. She took another bite before shehad swallowed the first. They thought she was lazy because she did not like toget up and down to file or stand at the files and file. Her cheeks swelled withcream as she bit through a sweet banana piece. But they just didn’t know. Theydidn’t feel her discomfort. She couldn’t help herself. It wore her out gettingup and down or standing on her feet for long stretches.

She cut another slice of pie.

But hadn’t the party been fun?

Someone brought a guitar and she borrowedit. After a few drinks she played it. After a few more drinks she sang. She hada nice lilting voice. For a while they listened to her sing folk songs beforesomebody put on some rock records and her audience danced away. She returnedthe guitar, took a stool at the bar and watched the couples dance. All thewhile she drank scotch and soda, scotch and water, scotch on the rocks, scotchon scotch.

She had been gay.

“Hey everybody look at Roger go Roger!” and,“shake it Irma go to it shake it kid!” all giggly and poking anyone nearby inthe ribs with her elbow.

It was fun laughing when others were, untilthe couples dwindled to a few dancing to old songs and others were in darkcorners being oh so quiet doing what they did in the dark, while she titteredinto her scotch on scotch and stared into the vast office with its merry partytrim. The party ended in the early morning hours and she stumbled on the stairsleaving.

She stared at the pie she held. She frownedand her hand hovered in hesitation.

Hadn’t she been the life of the party?Everybody said it wouldn’t be a party without her. Wasn’t she the center ofattention? Monday when they talked about the party, they would talk about her…

falling up the stairs.

She gobbled the pie and dropped the plate inthe sink and went to the bathroom. She was totally sober. She undressed withoutlooking in the mirror and went into the bedroom. She put on her nightgown. Theythought she was lazy at work, but it wouldn’t be a party without her.

“What makes fat gals so jolly?” asked anaccountant.

And she laughed and said, “’Causeunhappiness hasn’t got a chance. It gets lost in all the creases.”

They damn near fell on the floor laughing atthat. The accountant’s girlfriend asked what was so funny. He repeated what shesaid and all three of them broke up. There were tears in her eyes. She saw theaccountant and his girlfriend were still chortling while they danced. She waspure happiness at a party. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

She was so happy with life. Yes, that waswhy she was fat. She tasted all the rich foods and the fine wines. She indulgedherself of life’s pleasures.

She climbed into bed. It creaked. The sheetswere cold. For a moment she lay on her back, but her head sank into her chinsand her great breasts heaved so high they threatened to smother her. She rolledonto her left side, briefly recalling how as a child she always slept on herback. She could feel her heart beating rapidly against the mattress. Shereached over with a grunt and turned off the table lamp.

She was not tired. Her second waking hadcome. The party had been fun. She sighed. The bedroom was dark and she couldsee nothing. She couldn’t even see herself. In the dark she was thin.

- 30 -

TALES OF A DECKET COUNTY CHILD

2011-12-31T05:09:00.000-05:00

Click on the title to read the tale.

Sue!

A Goodbye from Maggie

I’ve crossed your winding path from Modena to Whitford, fromFallowfield to Uwchlan, from Bucktown to Glenlock,

To the stones of a hundred graves bearing names:

The Talbots and the Downings and the Bruners and Townsleysand the Wilsons and Browns.

Families floating like flotsam through my veins.

--Rivercreek Mystery

Larry Eugene Meredith

SUE!

2011-12-31T04:45:00.000-05:00

SUE!

(From Tales of a Decket County Child)

LarryEugene Meredith

Thename is Barble. B-A-R-single-B-L-E. I’m a lawyer, or was, a damn good lawyer.I’m out of the trade now. Retired, you might say early retirement. Beenthinking about skipping down to Florida. Grow citrus along one of those beachlots, lying in a hammock sucking on an orange and getting tan as a berry. Getaway from this cold and damp air forever. What? Oh. My age. Thirty-eight nextmonth. Successful? Yes, was, very. I said I was a damn good lawyer. Only lostone case. Well, I didn’t exactly lose I defaulted. I tossed it out the windowright onto the garbage heap, you might say. It had something to do withtonight. If you want, I’d be glad to tell you the whole sordid affair.

Yousee I spent thirteen years working for one client, our friend over there on thewall. What do you think of that portrait? It doesn’t look half bad above thefireplace. I’m surprised he had it painted. He commissioned some Italian artist;cost him over a thousand bucks and he had to fly the painter here from Rome. Ibet that nearly killed the bastard. He wasn’t quick to let loose of his pursestrings. It’s his vain streak got him to shell out that much for a picture.Sometimes I wonder what was his greatest characteristic: stinginess or vanity.It doesn’t even look like the guy. The artist wasn’t one of those who paintedthings as he saw them. He painted things as you told him he saw them. He putlaugh lines around the eyes. I remember my boss laughing once and once wouldhardly produce laugh lines. Sure, go on over and take a closer look. It’s agood painting otherwise.

Youwant to know how I met my boss? It was rather ironic, an ill wind, as thesaying goes. You might even say I made him what he was and he made me what Iam. Yes, almost precisely thirteen years ago. Hmm, that must have been an omen.

Iwas fresh from law school. I had been valedictorian. I always was smart. Igraduated near the top of every class I was ever in, which made me prettycocky. I passed the Bar feeling I could immediately start my own office. Thisor that firm had taken in my fellow classmates for the most part. I had offers,but I was sure I could do better on my own. Therefore, on that fateful day, Iwas wandering about town answering classified ads: rental ads. I was trying tofind a suitable office location without much success. But it didn’t matterafter I met him. From then on I was in constant employ.

Ihad inspected an office on Walnut Street and was walking back up town when I sawthis man fall. It was a cold wet February. There was a streak of black icerunning across the sidewalk in front of one of the buildings, the result ofwater melting on the roof and running down the rainspout. It was supposed todrain down into the sewers, but the pipe was broken at the base and it had runacross the pavement and froze during the night. It was at the place where that hatboutique is now. Do you know where I mean? Well, back then there was a doctor’soffice located on the lot. I didn’t really think too much about this manfalling, at least not right away until I noticed the M.D. sign hanging by thedoor. The sun was shining and the silver letters were brightly reflecting thelight. That was what attracted me to the sign. Otherwise, I would have nevernoticed it. If that day had been overcast everything might have been different

Isee the sign and I start thinking, doctor, doctors are loaded. My mother wantedme to be a doctor because all doctors are rich. Rich doctors can afford to losea few hundred thousand dollars, and even if they couldn’t, their insurancecompanies could and juries love to lay it on the insurance companies. Don’tknow why. Could have something to do with revenge. A man pays premiums to aninsurance company all his life and maybe never sees a dime returned. You putthat man on a jury and he’ll see to it that somebody gets a return. Of course,you’re not supposed to mention anything about insurance at the trial, but thereare ways, there are ways.

Thatwas one of the reasons, you see, that we made it big as we did. I know thoseways. I could slide in a hint that insurance was involved. Of course, sometimesthere really wasn’t an insurance company involved, but that didn’t matter. Youlet the jury believe they’re only soaking some big corporation and they giveyou the big punitive damage figure. When there is no insurance it usually ruinsthe defendant.

SoI see this guy take a tumble and I see the M. D. sign and figure maybe we cansue for a few thousand bucks. Ethics was never my strongest subject. I walkedover to the fallen man.

“Don’tget up,” I said.

“Hesmiled at me. “Wasn’t about to.”

“Youhurt?”

“Ithink it’s my back,” he said still smiling. “You a lawyer?”

Iwas a bit surprised he asked that. “Yes, I am.”

“Thenyou better call me an ambulance, son.”

Toget to the point, we sued the doctor and we won the case. The guy didn’t suffermuch of anything except a bruise or two, but he showed up in court with a neckbrace and riding a wheelchair. Thejury awarded us a whole lot of that doctor’s bank account; of which, I gotthirty-three percent.

Doctor’sname was Davies. His practice went down hill after the trial. He faded out ofbusiness eventually. I did my job. What happened to Doc Davies later was noneof my concern.

Theguy I represented hired me at once to handle another suit he was bringing againsthis neighbor for property damage. We won that one as well and he put me onpermanent retainer and became my sole client. We have been a successful teamfor thirteen years.

Thisis how we made our living. He’d sue practically every John Doe with the misfortuneto cross his path and I’d win the case for him. We won them all. I will say itagain, not meaning to be immodest, but I’m a damn good lawyer. We had everykind of civil suit you can think of under our belts in those thirteen years,under our thumbs, too. Let me see, we took the local newspaper for libel andJess Kipper for slander. Kipper was the editor and the paper wrote a storyaccusing us of fraud. We nailed the Sweet Shop because the boss got sick ontheir candy. We even got Officer Kaninski for false arrest after a DUI. I couldtell a hundred stories. We were real go-getters.

Lookat the time. Want to ride out to the funeral with me?

I’mglad you came along. I hate goingto funerals alone. It won’t be much. He was tight with his money. He’s going tohave a thin slab marking the grave instead of a stone. His will stipulated it.I wrote his will. I got most his estate. He didn’t have any family to myknowledge except a brother. They weren’t on speaking terms. He sued his brotheryears back before my time. Broken contract it was. It was some stupid thingthey drew up as kids where his brother promised never to quit working for himto take a better job. They were children at the time. His brother collecteddiscarded pop bottles and the boss sold them.

Thejudge tossed it right out of court. Torn his lawyer a new one too. Accused himof taking advantage of children and filing nuisance suits among other thingssuch as unprofessional behavior. You want to know the upshot to the wholeaffair? When the boss hired me we sued that old lawyer and won back the boss’fee.

ActuallyI shouldn’t be attending his funeral. I should be working on our last case, butI discovered some facts making me doubt I can win this one for him.

Hmmm,see what did I tell you? No tombstone except a tiny little slab. It isn’t evenfancy. He didn’t want anything on it but his name, Stanley Ulysses Eels. Hisname was his biggest vanity. The Ulysses was not a given name; he legally addedit. He was very vain about it.

Itold you I was working on one last case for the boss. Would you care to hearabout it?

Okay,I’ll tell you.

Itwas last Thursday. We had settled a case and were leaving the courthouse. Hedecided to go see this woman. You know why? He was going to sue her for breachof promise. How’s that for a switch? It could have been – should have been –the other way around. He never had any intension of marrying anyone. Why getmarried? He was getting everything he wanted by just making the proposal, ifyou catch my drift? Anyway, she lived in the slummy side of town, in one ofthose broken down apartments by the river. The one she lived in was the worseof the lot. The landlord didn’t do anything other than collect the rent once amonth. You can’t imagine the place. It was a shade away from condemnation andthat was only because the Housing Commission was corrupt. The place was such amess even the rats stayed away.

Ihave no idea how he got involved with the woman.

Wewent directly there. The boss was in a hurry. I don’t think he liked goingthere to begin with; didn’t like being seen there probably. The place is righton the corner and can see it from three blocks away. I don’t know what held itup; will power maybe. You’d think the interior had to be better, but it wasworse. Peeled wallpaper and fallen plaster littered the halls, the doorscreaked and the walls were crumbling. The place smelled of ill health.

Thiswoman lived two flights up. We climbed the stairs, the boss half running andtaking two at a time. He was in a furious rush, as if afraid of being caughtthere, to tell the truth.

Idon’t think there was a light in the building. Those stairs were as dark as abat’s underarm. Frankly, I was a bit fearful. There were no banisters on thesteps. Halfway up the first flight the boss gave a yelp like he stubbed his toeand then he fell down the steps. I tried, but wasn’t quick enough to catch him.What happened, I wondered? He had stepped in a hole rotted through the wood andtripped.

Therewasn’t much anyone could do for him. He landed atop his baldhead and snappedhis neck. I knelt beside him to listened to his last words. I knew what they would be, Sue!Sue!

And I knew I would.

Hesaid something. It was but a croak. I leaned closer to hear, but it was toolow. He looked up at me with a long grin. He tried to speak again, but his jawfell open and he was gone.

Youshould have been at the viewing. Everyone, well, the few who attended anyway,commented on how happy he looked. I knew the boss and you could bet he diedhappy knowing some poor sap was going to be sued. I didn’t think he lookedhappy, though; he looked more like a man laughing at a secret joke.

Icould have let it go, of course. What the hell, he was dead. I figured I owedhim something for leaving me all his dough. I started the suit. First, I wentdowntown and filed in his brother’s name to make it look right. All I had leftto do was find the landlord.

Itwas a cut and dried case. That place was in violation of every building code.The landlord had to be a bloodsucker that milked every drop out of his tenantswhile the roof slowly caves in on them. I was right, too, and that’s why Idon’t want to win this case.

Don’tgive me that odd look. I found the name at the record bureau and the guy wasone of the cheapest around. It would be quite satisfying to nail his hide tothe courthouse wall. I had the boss’s brother suing for every cent the bastardhad, and as stated, it is an open and shut slam-dunk.

Ihave every bit of information needed, including the landlord’s identity, oneStanley Ulysses Eels. Yeah, that’s right. If I win this suit the entire estategoes to his brother instead of me. Ain’t it sad? I’d love to sue the boss. It’d make up for alot of hurt people over those thirteen years.

Instead,I’m leaving Formton. I’ve dropped the suit. I’ve retired. Maybe I’ll see youaround.

- 30 -

RULE OF THUMB

2011-12-30T18:06:00.002-05:00

RULE OF THUMB

(From Tales of a Decket County Child)

LarryEugene Meredith

“Strike three,and now the home lads get a last crack at it down seven to three.”

The radioannouncer kept a tone of optimism in his deep, well-trained voice, but it wasone, two, three and the home lads were out at the old ball game. But this timethe pitcher struck out too.

Jim Welsh was thehurler who took the lost; only it wasn’t his first of the season. He was oneand eight, and he needed help in the one he won. He got bombed every game hepitched and losing pitchers don’t stay in the Majors. When they are Jim Welsh’sage, they don’t stay anywhere.

The game had beena day game in August heat. It was night now, but still hot. Jim sat in theempty bleachers, dressed in civilian clothes and short-sleeve shirt, replaying everyinning. He started many games in his career and won a majority of them, with amultitude of shutouts and complete games. He even had a perfect game to hiscredit. That was once upon a time and you could read about in the yellow scrapof newsprint he kept in his scrapbook. There was talk he might make the Hall ofFame once he retired.

There were a lotof good years behind big Jim Welsh, the six foot four lefty from Whitney Grove,Pennsylvania, a little obscure crossroads in the eastern corner of the state; alot of pitches thrown since he broke in with Philly as a twenty-year old withdark whiskers on his chin. Now he was in his late thirties and his beard camein grayer.

Everything hadbeen on his side until he fell on some wet turf last spring. The full weight ofhis large-framed body smacked down on his magic left arm, twisting andspraining it. He was on the DL before the season began. It was three monthsbefore he tossed his first game of the year, perhaps three too late. Hisfastball didn’t whistle and his curve didn’t break. By the mid-innings he feltstiffness in his elbow.

Jim sat in thestands of the empty stadium hearing old ghosts whisper to him from theirhaunting places under the dugouts. At lot of the great ones passed throughhere: Dean, Feller, Roberts, Spawn, Lemon, Ruth, and him, Big Jim Welsh. He waswashed up now like all those. Dean’s pain and Spawn’s age and Robert’s poor runsupport had all caught up with Jim. He had all a pitcher didn’t need.

What he didn’thave, besides wins, was schooling. He knew no trade. His dad, a high schoolcoach, a frustrated minor leaguer, saw and honed the talent in his son againstall else forgetting even in the best there comes a day when talent fails.

“Jim?”

Teresa, his wife,came out of the shadows. She sat down and he put an arm around her. Shesnuggled against his chest and listened for the ghosts.

“Have any spoketo you?” she asked.

“I don’t thinkthey really speak,” he said.

“Once you did.You use to tell me what they said.”

“I mean I don’tthink they talk. I believe they get in your head.”

“I remember theghosts use to help you.”

They grew silentand listened. He tugged her closer and kissed her atop the head.

“I heard one saythis. ‘Faith and love are the greatest forces in the world. Those two thingscan face every batter the world lines up against them and turn all misfortuneto betterment.’

“You think?” hesaid.

She smiled. Theystood in the stadium and listened for a while longer. He could feel her heartbeating or was it his? Arm in arm they walked across the grass, infield dirtand out the gate.

He never playedupon that field again.

He was inductedinto the hall on the day that stadium was torn down. Hard to say where the oldghosts went after that. Perhaps they were never anywhere except Big Jim’s headto begin with. At any rate, Big Jim and Teresa stood arm and arm often after agame. It never bothered him that the cheers were now usually jeers.

It’s hard tobelieve another forty years went by. Not many people in the newer stadiumsremember Big Jim Welsh on the mound, firing his smoke and sending batters tothe bench with their head cast down.

But a lot of themremember his booming calls behind the plate. He would chuckle about it and sayhis dad would be rolling in his grave knowing his son was an umpire. His dadhated umpires, but without an umpire, you wouldn’t have a game. Besides theelbow never pained and pinched when he called a man out or safe the way it didwhen he wound up and let go from the mound.

Teresa diedbefore him by a couple years. He still walks out on the stadium grounds underthe twinkling stars late after a game. He sits in the bleachers and listens.

And when she askshow he was doing, he’d say, “I’m the happiest man who ever lived by the rule ofthe thumb.”

-30-

LONG EVENING'S PAIN

2011-12-30T15:47:00.000-05:00

LONGEVENING’S PAIN

(From Tales of a Decket County Child)

Larry Eugene Meredith

“Everything is so blue. I love it this way. Even when themoon goes behind a cloud it’s bright. And it’s cold.”

Johanna hopped down the four steps on one foot. She held herskirt high to protect it from the snowy pavement.

December was gray and overcast. Heavy snow fell just afterChristmas and not melted completely. What remained was dingy with road soot, thepure white replaced by a dirty crust. There were lumpy black piles where theplow had bumped it aside. The evening air smelt of winter, watery and snappy,as if you could break off pieces to save. Children had constructed snowfamilies with stick arms and carrot noses in several yards. The snowmen baskedin multi-colored lights on this bone-cold New Year’s Eve.

Norman Sinclair opened the car door for his wife and Johannaslid on to the seat, tucking her skirt about her legs. Norman carefully shutthe door, climbed over a bank of frozen slush behind the car and entered fromthe street. He started the motor, leaving it idle to warm. Johanna shiveredbeside him.

“What’s wrong?”

“The seat’s cold,” she said. “It’s like ice and this dress isthin.”

The engine rumbled comfortably. Norman put the car in gearand eased out of the parking space. The wheels skidded slightly. Normansquinted at the wet streaks that crossed the black surface.

“That’ll all be frozen when we get back,” he said. “The roads’ll be slippery.”

They drove around the corners of the one-way streets to thelong hill leading to the highway.

“Look at that.” Johanna pointed into a yard where a clusterof snowmen stood. “Aren’t they cute?”

“Uh huh.”

“They’re really cute.”

“Say, Jo, what do the kids around here use for eyes?”

“Buttons, stones.”

“When I was a kid we always used coal. Funny…”

“What?”

“Makes me feel old. I bet most of these kids have never evenseen coal.”

“I don’t suppose they have,” she said.

“Everybody had coal furnaces,” he said. Ashes were collected everyTuesday. We had two stoves, a furnace for heating the house and a potbelliedone to heat our water. My granddad cranked the ashes down through grills afterthe coal burnt. It burned blue. I hated it when he put in new coal, couldn’tstand the sound of the shovel scraping on the concrete cellar floor. It made myblood run cold. But it had to be done. Sometimes when you came home, ifeveryone had been gone all day, the fire would be out and it took a long timeto reheat the house. The bedrooms were always chilly.

“Now all you have to do is turn a little disc. You never evenhave to see your heater if you don’t want to. No more horrible scraping onbasement floors. There’s one thing I miss, though, the register in the diningroom. It was a large flat grill set in the floor. Man, standing on that aftercoming in from the cold was wonderful, warm air blowing up your pants legs.”

“We always had oil as far as I can remember. I never even sawany real coal.” She said. “Hey, look at that display.”

Norman drove slowly. It was dusk; traffic was light. Peoplegoing to parties to welcome the New Year hadn’t departed yet. The Sinclairs hadleft early to take the long way. They wanted to see the Christmas displaysbefore these were taken down.

Despite the winding route they arrived at the Yardley’sbefore nine o’clock. Norman parked on a brown spot of ground between the streetand snow buried lawn. He got out of the car and came around to help Johanna upthe walk.

“I think we’re the first ones,” he said. “That’s Joe’s car inthe drive, isn’t it?”

“I think so, she said.

“Well, dear, let’s go.”

Norman took her arm and led her to the door. When he rang thebell there was no sound.

“Guess the bell isn’t working.”

He rapped the wood. Instantly a dog began barking in thegarage, its yaps were sharp and angry. There followed a bang against the garagedoor, and then a dog’s muzzle poked out through a broken windowpane, jawssnapping. Inside the house somebody was running down steps. They heard Joeyelling.

“Shep, shut up before I come in there and whip you.”

Shep continued barking monotonously and scraping its nails onthe inside panels of the door.

Joseph Yardley opened the front door. “Come on in.”

A child was crying in an upstairs rear room, its sobs liketiny machinegun bursts.

“Of fiddle,” yelled Marjorie Yardley from somewhere, “nowthat damn dog woke Seth. Can’t you shut her up?”

Joe opened the connecting door to the garage. “I told you toshut up,” he yelled.

The child squalled louder.

The dog dropped its paws from the garage door and paddedacross the floor. It ceased barking to whine. Joe shut the door. They no longerheard the dog in the house despite its whining continuing for another hour.

Johanna removed the stole she wore around her shoulders. Joestepped toward her, hands out to receive it.

“Let me hang that up for you,” he said.

Norman held up a hand. “Don’t I get a coat check?”

“Hell no! Don’t you trust me?”

“When I claim a checked coat,” said Norman, “I leave a tip.”

Joe reached in his pocket. “In that case let me give you acheck.”

They laughed while Joe hung the stole in the hall closet.

“There, safe for the night,” said Joe as he turned back.“Whoa, where did you think you came tonight? The Rockefellers?”

“Huh?”

“Hey Marj,” Joe called as he circled Johanna.

“What?”

“Hurry down here and see this dress on Madam Sinclair.”

Johanna blushed and put a hand over her face.

Norman laughed. “She had nothing to wear at home. She ranaround all afternoon to find something appropriate.”

“Yes,” said Joanne. We looked everywhere, but everything wassnatched up before Christmas. I guess the stores weren’t restocking yet afterthe holiday. I feel like a real lady in this.” She paraded up and down the hallfor the two men.

Norman winked, “It was really marked-down or forget it.”

Marjorie came down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step asJohanna walked past.

“Oooh,” she sighed. “Oooh, that is beautiful, reallybeautiful.” Marjorie turned toward Joe. “Well, I finally got Seth back tosleep.”

Johanna interrupted. “Oh, Seth’s the new arrival. May I seehim?”

“Yeah, but be real quiet. He’s the most restless of the four.Cry-cry-cry all the time. He’s a mess. Fiddle!”

They tiptoed up the steps. Joe led Norman to the kitchenwhere he had a supply of liquor.

“How come you named him Seth?”

“Because Seth was Adam’s last kid and I hope it works forme,” said Joe as he perused the choices of drink.

“It doesn’t actually say Seth was Adam’s last kid.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Nope.”

“Well, it’s gonna be the Yardley’s last.”

On a cabinet next to the sink were several different bottles,Scotch, vodka, gin and so forth. Joe picked up a black one with no label.

“This is homemade Elderberry Wine,” he said, holding ittoward Norman. “A friend makes it. He gave me three bottles. I’ll tell you thetruth, though; I don’t like the damn stuff, too sweet. It makes me queasy.” Joeset it back behind the others.

He picked up a large metal shaker.

“See this? I bought it today. Tonight we’ll have realcocktails.” He shook the container with a Latin rhythm. He paused. “Ah, that’sright, you don’t drink. Can I get you a soda?”

“What’cha got?”

“Name it.” Joe opened the refrigerator exposing many brandsof soft drink.

“Give me a Pepsi for now.”

“Pepsi, please for the gentleman.” Joe waggled a finger atNorman. “I don’t want to see you mixin’ drinks later.”

“What if I did? It doesn’t bother me in the least.”

Joe opened the soda and handed it to Norman. “Why don’t youdrink like a real adult?”

“What for? It doesn’t do a thing to me. I don’t care for thetaste and can’t see acquiring one. If it doesn’t affect me…”

“You lyin’ bastard. I’ll bet you’ve never even tasted booze.”

“Sure I have.”

“When?”

“When I graduated high school and that’s when I saw how stupidit was.”

“Big hangover?”

“No. I told you, it doesn’t affect me. I simply learned itwas to my advantage to stay sober.”

Joseph made himself a Seven ‘n’ Seven. He didn’t use thefancy shaker. “Bull,” he said.

“No, really. Look, I met this girl in school and I thought itwas love…”

“So you took her out and got her drunk.”

“Is that what you’d do?”

“That’s how I got Marjorie.”

“No, I found out she didn’t share my feelings.”

“Then you went out and got soused.”

“What happened was my best friend was going with her bestfriend. This girl gave a party and invited them, but they had notransportation. My friend didn’t drive and his date lived way out in thecountry. I had a car, so I got invited too, see?”

“Uh huh.”

“I took them to the party. I was the only guy there without adate. For a while the whole thing was a drag. Everybody sat around staring attheir feet until her mother served gin highballs to us…”
“Her mother?”

“Yeah, led’s just say weren’t your typical Decket Countyfolk. Anyway, suddenly the party took off. People started talking, dancing, andas the evening passed so did more gin and other stuff. Finally after a couplehours one guy was sitting in a corner pie-eyed and another was walking aroundsaying, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ over and over. And the guy this girl chooseinstead of me, that was best of all. He spent the rest of the night by thetoilet throwing up before he passed out. It was great. She was up and down thestairs, moaning about the poor guy. Meanwhile, my friend and I gathered all thegirls in a circle and played spin the bottle.”

“Yeah, but how much did you drink? One gin highball ain’tmuch.”

“I had two highballs, a Screwdriver, a straight vodka andsome brandy. I hadn’t eaten a thing that day and it was my first time drinking.I’m telling you, it doesn’t do anything to me. And…and this is good. The guyshe jilted me for, bragged all evening about how much he could drink, and therehe was out flat. They put him in her bedroom to sleep it off and some of thegirls changed clothes in that room and he never stirred. I’d have awakened byradar or something.”

“You don’t know what you’re missin’, Norm. You oughta try itagain. Maybe this time you’d get a buzz.”

I don’t want to get a buzz if I end up like that guy.”

“You say you didn’t feel a thing after all that booze? Nowthat part sounds like the truth.” Joe downed the rest of his drink and set theempty glass on the sink.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The women returned from seeing the baby.

“Fix me a drink,” said Marjorie.

Joe wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you go getting drunk.”

“I’m not goin’ get drunk, for fiddle sake. Fix me a drink.”

Joe began pouring. “You want anything, Joanna?”

“No, thank you.”

“Plenty of soda.”

“Nothing, thanks. Not yet.”

Joe handed Marjorie her drink. “Why don’t we go into theliving room where it’s more comfortable. No reason to be standing here in thekitchen.”

They walked through the dining room pass a table covered withfood. There was meat, cheese, potato chips and several spreads, also peanutsand cashews and after-dinner mints.

“We will feast tonight,” said Joe, jutting a thumb toward thetable.

Norman picked up a paper horn from a place setting and blewit. “Hats and noise makers?”

Joe put on one of the hats. “It wouldn’t be New Year’s Evewithout hats and noisemakers, now would it? Or without food and drink,” heplucked an olive from a nearby dish. “Yes sir, we eat tonight.”

Joanna looked at the greasy ham, the supermarket brand potatochips and globs of homemade dip. She wondered if she’d eat at all.

There was a knocking at the front door. Joe announced, “Thewolves are at the door.”

With the arrival of Joan and Paul Wolff the eveningbrightened considerably. The three couples sat and exchanged jokes. The hoursmoved swiftly and before anyone realized it was almost midnight.

“What time is it?” asked somebody.

“I’ve got eight to midnight,” said Joanna.

Joe stood up. “Hey, where the hell is everybody else. Twoother couples were supposed to come.”

“While you’re on your feet,” said Marjorie, “turn the TV toTimes Square.”

He turned it on and asked if anyone wanted another drink.Marjorie did, but no one else wanted anything. Like Johanna and Norman, Joandidn’t drink and Paul limited himself to two, which he drank already.

Joe muttered to himself as he went to the kitchen. He spent alot on the liquor and hardly any of it was drunk. The food in the dining roomwas barely touched either. He poured a drink of his own and then a weaker onefor his wife. He drank his in the kitchen. He stared at a bottle of expensivewhiskey hid behind the others. He had bought it as a gift for one of hisguests, Lon Parks, his boss from one of the three jobs he held, but Lon Parkshadn’t showed yet. It was nearly midnight and only half his guests had come.

He took Marjorie’s drink to her. The television camera pannedthe New York crowd looking up toward the ball that would descend at midnight.He passed out the horns, and then he returned to the kitchen and came back witha tray of champagne. He forced a glass on everyone.

“I don’t care,” he said, “you gotta toast in the New Year.”

The ball was coming down. They prepared to blow their hornswhen there was a knocking. Joe hurried to the door and opened it. Three peopleentered, a tall squared-faced man and a tall woman and another man with a redbeard.

People on the TV were making noise. Marjorie kept yelling,“Happy New Year” and the others tooted the paper horns, while Joe tried tointroduce the new arrivals over it all.

The woman was chattering away about some inn they had justleft.

“This is Lon Parks and his wife, Millie,” shouted Joe.

“You should see this place,” said Millie. They served Arabianfood, stuffed grape leaves…”

“It was Greek, I believe,” said Lon.

Joe was looking at the red-bearded man. “I don’t know this…”

“You can call him Shag,” said Lon. “Right, Shag?”

“Yeah,” said Shag.

“Have seats,” said Joe with a sweep of his arm.

“New guy,” Said Lon, “just hired him. Decided to take him outtonight. Get to know him.”

Joe took a sip of champagne and squinted at Shag over therim.

“”You really should try to visit that inn sometimes,” saidMillie.

“I work for Lon on weekends,” said Joe.

“We do yard work,” said Lon.

“In December?” said Joanna.

Lon only grunted.

“Lon is really a writer,” said Millie.

Joanna spoke, “So is Norman.”

“Published?” asked Millie.

“No.”

“Oh, neither is Lon.”

“Where has he tried?” asked Joanna.

“You know,” said Millie, “Rogue, Stag, those kind ofmagazines.”

“Oh,” said Johanna.

Joe was holding up his glass of champagne, “Hey, it’s NewYear’s, you know.”

“When we were in Denmark,” said Millie, “ Lon tried to starta magazine, but the officials wouldn’t allow him.”

Joanna waved off Joe’s attempt to shove a glass in her hand.“You were in Denmark?”

“Oh yes, right after I got out of college. I went to SarahLawrence and Lon…

The Chicago school of hard knocks,” said Lon.

“We went over for a while, said Millie. “Then we lived in NewYork, in the Village.”

“It’s a shame how commercial the Village has gotten,” saidJoanna.

Everybody fell silent. Joe brought drinks to the newarrivals. Marjorie sat in her chair with her head down and Joan and Paul lookedbored.

“I’m an artist,” said Millie, “I paint.”

“I studied art once,” said Norman.

Paul and Joan stood. “Hate to break this up,” said Paul, “butyou’ll have to excuse us.”

“Yes,” put in Joan, “we have a babysitter and we really mustget her home soon.”

They wished all a Happy New Year and left.

Lon began to speak about child raising and held the floor forthe next twenty minutes, declining to let anyone else make a comment. Normanand Joanna escaped to the kitchen where they found Shag helping himself to theElderberry Wine. Soon after Millie joined them, then Joseph. Lon continued hislecture, directing it at Marjorie, who stared with drooping eyelids at the wallbehind him.

Millie sat down on a stool by the sink.

“So you had Arabian food?” asked Joanna.

“Oh yes, it’s wonderful.”

“Did you have goat?”

“What?”

“Did you eat any goat?” Joanna repeated.

Suddenly Millie leaned forward and threw-up. Everybody jumpedaway.

“We better get out of here,” Norman whispered to Joanna. Theyleft the kitchen.

Joe got some rags and cleaned up the floor.

Lon stopped his speech as Norman and Joanna came back intothe living room. “What happened?” he asked.

“Millie got sick,” said Norman.

“I better get her home,” said Lon.

He went to the kitchen and a few minutes later the three ofthem left with Shag still grasping the wine bottle. Joseph finished wiping upand returned to the living room. He sat down on the couch with a sigh.

“Maybe we best go to,” said Norman.

Joe waved a hand in the air. “No, stick around awhile.”

Marjorie was crying. “It didn’t seem like New Year’s Eve.Nobody even knew when midnight came.”

“Hardly anybody drank anything, except Shag-what’s-his-faceand he didn’t do that much damage. All he drank was that awful wine. Lon forgotthe bottle of whiskey I got him.”

Joe got up, “Anybody want anything?”

“I’ll have a Coke,” said Joanna.

“Anyone else? No?”

Joe got the Coke and set it down next to Joanna, but when helet go of the glass the table wobbled and cola spilled on her dress.

“That’s gonna stain,” said Marjorie.

“I’m sorry, Joanna.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Joe. Forget it.”

“What a night,” said Joe.

They talked about how terrible the party had been. Joseph andMarjorie did most of the talking, getting the bitterness out of their systems.Norman and Joanna listened politely.

There was a knock on the front door.

“What time is it?” asked Joseph.

“Four fifteen,” said Joanna.

“Who could that be?” asked Joe. “Not Bart, I hope. He went tothe door. “Bart. Helen. Come in.”

“Hiya Joe, old man,” said Bart. “Little late, but we gothere. Don’t feel so good thought.”

“Take him to the kitchen,” said Marjorie.

A frowzy couple weaved through the living room. Bart waved tothose in the room. They went into the kitchen. Joseph got a bucket and followedthem. The vomiting could be heard in the living room.

“That’s the Fowlers,” whispered Marjorie. “Why did they haveto come now? It’s so late. And Bart’s really drunk.”

“Hey, Marj,” Bart yelled. “Where’s my little Marjorie?”

“He’ll wake the children,” said Marjorie.

“Marj, we better be going,” said Joanna.

“I don’t blame you. It was a miserable night. I think it wasthe longest New Year’s I ever spent, a real pain.”

“It was fine. It wasn’t your fault,” said Joanna.

Norman and Joanna said goodbye and slipped out. They drovethrough the dark morning over the slippery, icy roads.

“It’s a New Year,” said Norman.

“What a start.”

“How long has it been since you built a snowman?”

“Years.”

“When we get home let’s build one, even if we don’t have anycoal for eyes.

-30-

NIGHT OF THE TRAUMA

2011-12-30T06:22:00.000-05:00

NIGHT OFTHE TRAUMA

(From Tales of a Decket County Child)

Larry Eugene Meredith

There was no harvest moon that cool October night, only alone blue star. A thick mist floated from the creek around Wilmillar. The fogcrept up Harmony Hill and settled around a broken house. Jud Kunkle lived therein uninterrupted solitude. His communication with the small town below his hillconsisted of handwritten letters. He mailed one every two weeks to his grocerand each letter contained one word, “Usual”. It had been this way for years.

It was the regular Tuesday for the letter to arrive in MisterPabaccio’s mailbox. The order was all ready prepared and sitting in bags on acounter. But today the letter didn’t arrive. Mister Pabaccio checked his boxtwice. He bent over and peered in and ran his hand to the back the second time.He even looked about the ground to see if it had fallen. Jud Kunkle’s groceryorder wasn’t there.

Mister Pabaccio had a thick long moustache that hung over hislips. It made him look like a disgruntled walrus anytime he frowned. His son foundthe walrus leaning on the cash register when he reported to work. MisterPabaccio was brooding and staring at the waiting order.

“What’s wrong?” asked the boy.

“Is it the wrong day of the week?

“Its Tuesday.”

“But got no letter. Do you think Jud simply forgot?”

“Does it matter?”

“Perhaps he hastaken his business elsewhere.”

The boy snorted. “More likely the letter just got delayed inthe post office.”

“You are right. He would never switch if for no other reasonhe would have to teach a new grocer his long order. Should I wait or send it?”

The boy glanced at the waiting packages.

“It’s always the same and it’s ready,” he said.

“Yes, true.Maybe Kunkle is growing absent minded, eh? He an old man. Okay, Antony, we showMister Kunkle that Pabaccio’s is on the ball. Ah ha, he has forgotten to order,but I show him Pabaccio’s has not forgot. You deliver it like always.”

Antony trudged up the dusty road pulling his wagon. Heshivered in the dry cold of mid-fall and kicked an occasional pebble along. Ittook a half hour to arrive at the Ash tree in Kunkle’s backyard. He always leftthe groceries cradled between two giant roots. He unloaded quickly. He pausedafter finishing to look at the gloomy house and then he left. He whistled as hetrotted back knowing tomorrow he would have his tip money.

But he did not receive his tip the next day. There was noenvelope containing Kunkle’s payment in Mister Pabaccio fat mailbox. When Antonycame into the store he found again the brooding walrus.

Mister Pabaccio slammed a fist on the counter. “By Caesar’sghost, my son, he may forget to order, but he no forget to pay. If he sends nopayment by tomorrow, we go collect.”

The next day it was necessary for Mister Pabaccio to send hisson to collect. The boy was nervous. People he passed saw him shaking andinquired if he felt ill. He would shake his head and go about his father’s business.

He was afraid of meeting the man nobody had seen for moreyears than Antony had existed. He pictured a gnarled monster with-yellow-blueskin, shallow eyes and a purple tongue. But he could not let his father down. Asuccessful grocer must be firm about his credit and Pabaccio was such a grocerand his son would follow in his footsteps, even against monsters.

Antony took a deep breath and held it when he came to thehouse. He stood up straight and knocked on the front door, which shook evenunder his light rapping. It shook, but did not open. No one rattled the knob orpeeked from behind a curtained window.

The boy knew Jud Kunkle was old perhaps he was also deaf. Hewandered around to the back and knocked there on the chance the man was closerto that door. The result was the same. Antony turned to leave the back porchand saw something brown behind the Ash Tree. He walked over and discovered thegrocery sacks where he had left them two days earlier.

When the boy explained all this to his father that afternoonMac Pemberry and Steve Martowel were in the store playing checkers. Martowellistened and puffed his pipe and Pemberry listened and stroked his red beard.Pabaccio excused his son and shrugged in bewilderment.

“This never happened before,” he said. “What do you make itto be?”

“Waal, said Martowel and returned to his pipe puffing.

“Ya don’t s’pose,” hissed Pemberry, “that the ol’ coot died?”

“Died?” Pabaccio said with surprise, then concern. Kunkle hadbeen his best patron and one who paid promptly in the past.

“Waal,” said Martowel and puffed some more deep in thought.

“He’s pretty well up in years, I reckon,” said Pemberry,“right well up in years.”

“What should we do?” asked Pabaccio.

“Waal,” said Martowel as was his habit.

“Wait, I reckon,” said Pemberry.

They waited, but not in silence.

By Friday night the whole town was wondering. They made betsin the taprooms. People greeted each other with the question, “Is there someway of knowin’.” They would answer, “There ain’t.” There were no lights in theKunkle place. Unfortunately this proved nothing. There hadn’t been lights on inthat house for years. The people whipped themselves into a frenzy of fear andcuriosity. People expressed their opinions over and over.

“If Jud Kunkle is dead we can’t let him lay up thereunburied.”

“It’s unchristian.”

“He got to be buried, it’s only proper.”

Kunkle was such a weird buzzard that nobody had the nerve togo up the hill and check the house.

They took it as a sign when that night the moon hid fromsight and a cold blue star appeared in the black sky. The whole town turnedout, some carrying torches and some lanterns to light the way. They paraded upHarmony Hill. No one spoke. This was stern business and a solemn duty they wereabout to perform. They were going to go and bring back Jud Kunkle’s body.

It was bone chilling that evening, but it was more than thesweeping wind bringing shivers to the crowd. It was the mist seeping from thecreek, the dreadful dark house standing above the fog and the mystery of thehermit that gave them palpitating hearts and cold feet.

Pabaccio, Pemberry and Martowel led the way to the front doorand together they threw their weight against it. The hinges were weak from rustand the wood of the jam rotted. The door splintered and the three men fell in apile atop the splinters. The crowd pressed forward. Antony squeezed betweenknees and hips and stepped over his fallen father and the other two men.

The torches and lanterns shown into the musty foyer and thepeople stared into the dingy corridor. There was a hush deeper than the fog.Eyes opened wide and jaws dropped. Standing tall and firm at the bottom of astairway was Jud Kunkle. He was dressed in a Hawaiian sports shirt and bluesailor pants. His face was a rich tan, his hair thick and a brilliant white. Helooked the healthiest person there.

The people backed up. Some ran down the hill, but most simplymoved into the yard and waited. Pabaccio, Pemberry and Martowel, lying in anentangled mess upon the splintered door, cringed. Antony stood firm.

A man outside moved up beside a woman still standing on the porch.She was too afraid to stay, yet too curious to leave.

“What is it?” the man asked her.

“It’s him,” said the woman. “His ghost bold as brass,terrible, terrible.”

Inside Antony stared at Kunkle and Kunkle looked down uponPabaccio, Pemberry and Martowel.

“Gentlemen?” he said in a baritone voice.

“Are you a ghost?” said Antony.

“What? No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Pabaccio was getting to his feet. “You mean you no morto?Dead?”

“Whatever made you think I was dead?”

“Your grocery order didn’t come,” said Pabaccio weakly.

“I didn’t order because I was away these two weeks. I went toFlorida, toured the state, saw alligators. I’ve been saving my pension foryears to do it, skimping on every luxury, lights, heat. I haven’t left thishouse in all that time because my pension is very small. I was determined tosee Florida before I died. Now I’ve done it and guess I can live out a normallife, if that is possible around here.”

Pemberry was up and so was Martowel.

“Waal,” said Martowel and fished in his pocket for his pipe.

-30-