a short story

The Faith in Dreams

Faith in dreams, like the beliefs of small and ancient religions, is often lost with the simple passage of time. Mere time. Simply forgotten. A figment of a midnight dream at midday. Too vague to grasp. We all remember the faith we once had in our fathers, or mothers, for instance. Or the absence of such an absolute trust, perhaps. But what of those other beliefs, and their failure or strength, which were so instrumental to our being and to what we would become?

There were many such smaller religions in my past–a thousand convictions which I once held dear–all of them long since lost. The sure knowledge that summer would come and school would end. That Bill, the bus driver would always be there on the colder days or wait a moment longer. That Mel, the Good Humor man would let me the extra nickel needed for the orange-cream popsicle. That the profound chill and still-hollow of a winter night would soon be transformed into the lush dark of mosquitoes and crickets and tree frogs. All of those faiths were set aside when my first full time jobs showed little interest in the seasons and getting to work in time depended on the IRT. More

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She met him in the garden

He had simply wandered in off the street after seeing the roses there in full bloom and finding the iron gate in the high brick wall unlocked. He had a camera in one hand, and when she first saw him he was putting his nose into the center of a ‘Queen’s Medallion,’ her own variety, with his eyes closed as he inhaled.

Too young, was her first thought. Tall enough, was her second. His right hand, gripping the camera as if he had been ready to snap a picture before being overcome by the scent of the rose, poised motionless in the air at one side. His left hand–ringless, she noted immediately–was open in the air just inches from the bloom, fingers spread as if in surprise. More

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Seeley’s Surfside

The hanging road sign for Denton Real Estate offered a constant chirping against an intermittent wind. It was a small and familiar voice to Burk as he approached Seeley’s Surfside Diner. The murmur of tires on passing cars was dampened by the new snow. With the hood of his parka pulled tight against the cold, most other sounds were obliterated by the rub of fabric against his ears and he had to keep an eye out for the car lights through breath-fogged glasses as he made his way from his apartment.

The blaze of neon from Seeley’s was not comforting against the black and white of snow and night ahead. It never was. Even on a hot evening in the summer it was joyless. Tonight, it cut through the falling snow more pink than red. Burk had thought before that it was an odd thing, how the color in the sign seemed to change depending on the weather. He had mentioned it once to Pat, but the observation was shrugged at. Ignored.

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She Knows Her Onions

So this is what I know. At least what I’ve heard. The part that I think is true.

Florrie was the first guy to get a hook on Zim. This was something of a surprise, because Florrie was the last guy you’d a thought needed the help.

You know Florenz Patterson. Sure you do. But you probably know him better by the name of Gunther Grab or Forrest Fern. You’ve probably read some of his ‘Ready Evans’ stories in Black Mask. He wrote under a lot of names. There were issues of Wild West that he wrote almost single-handedly using five different monikers. Not many of the New York guys have ever been on a horse or much else west of the Poconos. Hell, Clarence Mulford even writes his ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ stories from up in Fryeburg, Maine, for Christ sake! And they are all good at making the best use of what little experience they know.

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That Little Old Lady and Me

She brought me down with a two by four across the back of the knees. My head hit the doorjamb as I fell. Hard headed or not, I think I was a little dazed.

I was lying then on a black and white tile floor in the half dark of that vestibule and looking up at the mouth of a model 17, 9mm Glock semi-automatic, when I first heard that voice.

“What’da’ya’want?”

This is a single word, in common use, but has problematic spelling. When I write stories now I often just resort to familiar forms, like ‘What do you want?’ Rather than be accused of stereotyping or pandering. I was actually thinking about this while I was lying there only half conscious. I had spent the morning at my one room apartment over in Cambridge, writing and dealing with the grammatics—that’s my word for dramatic speech patterns–when Connie McGuire showed up and asked me to do him a favor. That meant he was going to screw with my regular schedule and put me on a job right away. He’s been doing that less lately so I didn’t complain. Just part of the job description. Besides, he’s short on cash because of the economy and I’m on salary anyway, so it doesn’t cost him extra to dump on me. I ran through a few more ‘grammatics’ in my head on the way over to the South End. I had to decide the way to go with the piece I was working on. It made a difference.

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She was surprised

She was surprised to see him there.

More than that, she was surprised that she actually recognized him. He had changed. Physically, enough to be a different man. And as she entered the church and suddenly found his eyes looking back, she was just as certain it was Keith as she was that he had not actually changed from the man he had been. How was that? A look of the eye? The way he held his head as he looked back at her?

Kate did not hesitate in her step, though it felt as if she had. The organ music kept the order to it all. Her daughter, Carey, followed, holding John’s arm. Kate wanted desperately to turn and see Keith’s eyes as he looked at Carey. And just as suddenly as that, Kate was angry because he had done it again, as he had done before. As he had always done in her thoughts since. He had intruded. He had put himself in a place he did not belong. After twenty-three years.

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Ghosts

I don’t believe in ghosts. Any more than I believe in a tree, or a rock. What the heck does a tree care what I believe in. Why does it matter what you call a stone, unless you’re a geologist or something. I just try to live with things–as is. ‘Take them the way they are, and work on your own self,’ like Daddy said. Like you have to take Uncle Bob. It’s not going to change anything about Uncle Bob if I object to it. He’ll just get more ornery and give Mama a harder time. He’ll just ignore me, same as a rock would. You can’t argue with a stone, and Uncle Bob thinks anybody still under the age of sixteen is as dumb as a rock anyway, so what’s the use.

I’ve been watching this one ghost for a week now. He thinks I don’t see him, if he thinks about me at all. He moves up and down the stairs like he’s carrying something but I can’t see his arms. Maybe he doesn’t have any arms. But he looks busy, like he’s getting something done.

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Out of time

“I’ve slept with James Joyce many times. More often with Yeats, of course. He was always more willing and ready, as was I. But, my only true fancy, when I was young, was my George.”

Helen said this, politely lifting her cigarette up above her head so that the smoke would rise to the high ceilings and not bother those who had gathered closely around, giving everyone captured by her husky voice the odd impression of the Statue of Liberty on a break. Perhaps the appearance was more the dress. The gowns she favored were embroidered silk and often hung from one shoulder. It was a cream colored silk that night.

At 77, Helen still had very nice shoulders and showed them off like a coquette, and often expressed herself with a slouch, or a shrug. She was always thin. I’ve seen photographs. She might have been all of five feet tall, but no more. A waif. And she knew very well what she was saying. This was 1965, after all, and the sexual revolution had hardly begun. We were a middle class lot, mostly from the suburbs of New York. She liked the effect on our faces.

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“The places that have known him, they are lost…”

1955

A tar blister, black and shiny, bloomed from the wooden crevice of a joint in the short bridge, close to Aran’s right foot. The glister of sun on the tar caught his eye. Aran shifted his sneaker away. His grandmother would not want the tar in the house.

The bridge, lengths of wood as thick as railroad ties and darkened with creosote, joined the rusted bones of an iron trestle that crossed the wider gully of the creek more than the creek itself–spanning the red gouge and the dark run of clear water, and a lush verge of vine and brush between a corn field and a pasture.

He whispered, “Aw, shoot!” his voice muffled by the dense quiet and his breath smothered by the sun. Everything had changed. Nothing ever stayed the same long enough.

Elbows planted on top of the warmed metal of the side rail, Aran stood in partial collapse at the middle of the bridge, his palms clasped to each cheek as he stared down into the gully and studied the ruin of his plan. A single large rock, black at the center like an eye, stared back at him from the sand. More

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The Forgotten Order of Things (from BENEDICTIONS, an unpublished novel)

This is what I remember.

But someone else could say, “I know that place, and you’ve got the names all wrong.”

I’d have to tell them that they’re mistaken. In any case, I don’t remember them being there.

They might answer, “The doorway was on the left. That woman was a blonde.”

I’d have to remind them that they were standing at a different angle, and the lighting was not as good.

This all happened before mobsters replaced cowboys at the movies, and long before government Indians and stock market brokers took over the business of gambling. I was a nobody then, the same as I am now, only then I was a nobody with promise. The unsecured credit of my youth opened doors which have since been securely locked. Reflecting on that time now, I am aware of the forgotten order of things. We all tend to place remembered matters in a sequence of importance determined by the lives we are presently living, and too easily forget the value we once held so dear. We judge our past selves by the logic of the present, as if we might have foreseen the unfolding of things we could not possibly have known.

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Look…The story told.

Look. I’ll tell you the story. But you have to appreciate the situation first.

You know, I used to say it all the time. People aren’t any better than they have to be. And let’s get this much straight. It’s still true. With most people.

The golden rule was stolen a long time ago and melted down to make pinky rings for crud who like to use other people for sport.

Crud comes in all flavors.

Every guy who gets soft on a gal wants to think she’s better than he is—wants her to be the true thing. But women are no better than men. They have a little less muscle, so they make up for it in other ways.

Your mother was not a saint. She married your father. Isn’t that proof enough? If she hadn’t married him, that would have made her smarter, not better.

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