SHORT STORY
BY
C S MARSHALL (Me)
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The Appointed Time
Mayor Pratt had a traffic light installed where Cherryvale crosses Haynes. We can brag not only about our six parking meters, but our new “automated transit control system” as well. Jacob Watts used to mayor but he was discovered in Beecham Park fooling around with Francie Cole, a woman of little virtue, from an adjoining county. Not only did his wife, Lucy, kick him out of the house and burn his entire collection of black-velvet art, he lost the next election 1153 to 4. Assuming Mayor Watts voted for himself, there are three people in our community, and they know who they are, who ought to be rightly ashamed.
I only tell you this so you will see the kind of town we have here and the kinds of folks we will and will not abide. We are good and honest people and I assure you the tail to follow is true. You can ask Ruby Yates, next door. She clearly witnessed the whole event by accident as she peered out her guest bedroom window with her son Mook’s binoculars.
It was just after
It was a nice morning. I love summer mornings, especially cool ones, and that one was a dandy. You could hear the sparrows chirping away in the big oak that shades our front yard, all the way from the curb to the steps to the porch. The sun was nudging its way over the horizon. The street makes a little rise where it meets Bluebonnet, so the sun looked like it was sitting smack dabbed in the middle of the road. It’s funny how it does that most days in July.
That was where I first saw him, a silhouette against the rising sun. You could tell he was walking but you could not tell in which direction except that he was growing larger as he walked. He wore a hooded cloak, the kind monks wear, long to the ground, baggy sleeves, heavy and dark. There it was the middle of July and he was wearing this big heavy looking robe, strange, I thought. He walked down the middle of the street at first, and then, angled directly toward me; the sun at his back framing him in an eerie filtered light. Is steps were deliberate and solemn. He walked as a man with a purpose.
He was a good 100 yards away when he stepped over the curb and, plop, right into Hattie Whiddlemire’s geraniums. Right them; I knew he was a stranger. Everyone in town knew how particular Hattie was about her flowers, especially her Orbit Geraniums. Before that fellow took two steps, Miss Hattie was around the side of the house, squawking like a Rhode Island Red, garden hose in hand. I leaned forward to shout a warning to the man, but Hattie had already turned the hose on the man, giving the front of his robe a good soaking.
I could tell he was caught off guard because he went reeling through the purple pansies, back over the geraniums, off the curb and into the street. Hattie was yelling and shaking her fist in the air but the cloaked figure just bent reached down, wiped his hand across the front of his robe, and resumed his path straight toward me. I tried to make out his face, but the hood mostly shaded it. He was too far away. Too far to hear me yell for him to watch out.
Mrs. Treadle was backing her station wagon out of her driveway. Everyone in Winedot knows you have to be careful when you pass Mavis Treadle’s house. She comes barreling out of that driveway with no regard for anyone’s life or limb.
That particular morning, she cut too short and backed right over her mailbox, sending it flying, post and all. The box and post hit the shadowy man across the chins causing him to stagger into the path of Mavis’s bumper sending him head over heals where he landed in a heap next to the curb. It was only then that I noticed he had been carrying something in his hand. It was a pole, about six feet long with a hook-like extension on one end.
The man somehow managed to get to his feet and brush himself off. I caught a quick glimpse of his eyes. They were red and appeared to glow under the shadow of the robe’s hood. This guy was pretty shaken by now. He was turning around in slow circles right there in the street. I guess he was looking for his long stick. Trouble was, he was now standing at the edge of old Phennyus Plum’s property. Any fool knows you don’t go anywhere near that place unless you first make sure that crazy little dog of his is tied up. The cloaked stranger never saw it coming.
The little demon went at the man in a rage, yipping and nipping at the bottom of man’s robe. For such a little thing, that is the meanest dog I ever saw. He was tenacious and fearless, as the stranger found out. The man, I assumed it was a man, was now crawling around on the ground, kicking at the dog and trying to get to his stick. When he did pick up the stick, he popped the mutt a good one with the straight end. His stick looked a little like a reaper’s sickle but it was still to far away to be sure, and besides, the sun was in my eyes.
The man struggled from the gutter to his feet and resumed his trek. He was a sight. Big wet robe with dirt, mud and grass all over it. A lone purple Pansy stuck to the hem on one side. A saucer size hole had been torn out of the backside of the robe and its hood, once pointy, now flopped down to one side.
He approached with all the dignity anyone could muster, under the circumstances. He could have passed for a staggering drunk by that time. When he go closer,
I clearly saw that he, was indeed, carrying a sickle. He did not look like a field hand. A farm worker would have a heat stroke in that garb.
The faceless stranger reached my front gate, pushed it open and started toward me. Suddenly, he jerked back. The gate had snapped closed, catching his big sleeve on the head of a protruding nail that I had been intending to bend over. He made the mistake of yanking his arm up and the rope ripped all the way up to the elbow.
I am not normally one to laugh at other people’s problems but I will have to admit the whole scene did strike me as funny. The grim visitor pulled up the pieces of his tattered robe so it would not drag the ground and started up the wooden porch steps. You know, I had been meaning to fix that top step too. He stepped right through the old board and lunged forward, banging his shoulder on the porch railing. I will not repeat here what he uttered at that point. Let us just say it suggested both unusual family relationships and some rather difficult, if not impossible, physical maneuvers. I did my best not to laugh but could not hold it back.
He righted himself in front of me and pulled at both sides of the robes collar as though straightening his lapels. You should have seen him, he looked silly standing there with one leg on the stoop and the other buried to the knee in splinters.
“Timothy Flynn, it is your appointed time.” He tried so hard to be dignified.
I lowered my head and covered my mouth with my hand. It was just so dog-goned funny.
“Timothy Flynn, it is your appointed time.” He said again.
“Timothy Flynn? Did you say Timothy Flynn?” I didn’t pause to give him the opportunity to respond.
“Yeah, ole Tim doesn’t live here. He used to, but not any more. He moved.
The hooded man shook his head in frustration. He was no farther than six feet away, and I still couldn’t make out his face, I shaded my eyes with a hand and said, “That’s Timmy’s house down at the end of the street, the green one with light grey trim. You see? It’s the one with rusty old pick-up in the drive.” I pointed to the house on the corner, across the street. The robed man slowly turned and limped away.
“He calls himself Hugh Cadwallader now,” I called after him, “a big burly fellow with curly red hair and bad teeth.” The man never looked back, but did give a weak gesture of acknowledgement with his left hand weaving from side to side, as he shuffled across the street.
I know some folks might consider what I did was wrong, but I never did care much for Hugh, not since elementary school when his used to pick on my and taunt me with his little poem. He would sing to me, “Timmy Flynn, Timmy Flynn, ugly as a rail and twice as thin.”
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Last Month's Story:
The Requiem
By
Stan Marshall
The sun peeked in and out from between high pillows of clouds lending a gauzy hue to the distant trees. Tom Hunt moved closer, trying to catch the words of the minister. He had stood in the back; away from the rest, hoping no one would recognize him. The newspaper photo had been grainy and the lighting dim. Otherwise, he would not have intruded on the Gilliam family’s darkest hour.
“…good husband, loving father and faithful son. This kind and gentle man was chosen by God, on October 12th, to cross the fragile vale into everlasting life.”
Chosen? Yes. By God? No. Tom’s eyes were fixed on the family sitting on the front row of metal folding chairs. The chairs were covered with dark green velvet slipcovers. A young woman in a burgundy dress held a white handkerchief to her eyes while a small boy clung to her side. The wife, no doubt. The boy appeared more frightened than sad. He was crying. It was the sort of crying kids do when they are afraid without knowing why. The sobbing mother patted his back with a gloved hand.
An older woman, dressed entirely in black sat to the little boy’s right. She stared blankly at the pewter colored casket, which was adorned with a small spray of yellow and white roses. Her eyes were red and puffy. Red, puffy, and sad.
Another older woman sat to her right nodding her agreement with the words of the minister. She sat erect with clear expressionless eyes and stern colorless lips. Tom could not help wondering whether she even knew Edwin Gilliam. Perhaps she knew him and never liked him. Tom had no way of knowing, of course, and he did not intend to stay in town long enough to find out.
He felt like an intruder. He was neither a friend of the deceased, nor a relative but he was drawn to the service. Drawn by the gnawing questions that taunted his mind and invaded his dreams.
He wanted to talk to Mrs. Gilliam. He wanted her to know how sorry he was and how badly he felt. He knew it would be impossible, or at least, improper and perhaps cruel. The burden was his. He had no right to share it with a grieving family. The nightmare was unbearable. He closed his eyes to sleep and the dream would creep in. The music would begin, softly at first, then louder and louder. Dr. Vamanyan called it para-audia psychosis. Tom found no solace in the psychologist’s diagnosis or his prognosis. The doctor said it should go away in time but Tom wondered if the dream was only the beginning of his punishment. He didn’t know if he had the right to rid himself of the nightmare.
Tom wished he had missed that shuttle and, sometimes, he wished he could go back and chose all over again. He could not go back of course. He had made his choice and now he must live with it.
He had never so much as laid eyes on Edwin until last Friday. Only four days? It seemed a lifetime. Four days, three hours and ten minutes ago, Tom Hunt chose to let Edwin Gilliam die.
Tom walked back to the waiting taxi and slid into the back seat. The driver asked something but Tom was not listening. He stared out the window at the procession. One by one, each guest filed by the family. Some paused to say a word or two before passing from the shade awning to their parked cars.
A few more silent moments passed before Tom asked the driver to take him to the airport. Tom hadn’t slept more than three or four hour in four days. His head was heavy on his neck. He let it lean back and rest on the top of the seat. Something else was playing on the cabby’s radio, but inside of Tom’s head, the same old tune pounded its notes over and over. “Dum dum dee-dum, dum dee-dum dee-dum dee-dum” and the dream began.
******
It was a nice day in Chicago as Chicago days go. The mild wind carried only a hint of colder days to come and the sky was crystal clear. Maggie Hyatt emerged from Lowe’s Pottery Barn and walked the two blocks to Rosedale Park. Tom Hunt switched off his rental car’s engine and followed on foot, careful to hang far enough back to escape her notice.
Maggie had a fresh look about her today. She looked younger than Tom remembered. Her soft blonde hair bounced with each brisk step. She wore dark green slacks and a long white fuzzy sweater with a high loose collar. He could see the flash of white teeth as she smiled and waved to a young dark skinned woman waiting across the street.
Tom crossed the street in mid block and strode nonchalantly across the grass to a spot just past where a hotdog vender had set up his cart. Tom stood with the vendor between him and Maggie obscuring him from her view. She sat on a bench with the other woman and they were smiling and talking. Maggie had a nice smile, he thought, a kind and gentle smile. The darker woman took two bottles of soda from a small paper bag and offered one to Maggie. They ate their lunches, talked and laughed as Tom watched. Too soon the hour was up. They tossed their leftovers into a wire trash basket and headed off in separate directions. Tom moved behind a nearby tree until Maggie was safely down the street. He could never adequately explain his presence and any effort to do so would no doubt distress her. He did not want to involve her in his quest but he could not entirely dismiss her from it.
Tom Hunt left his spot behind the tree and spoke to the vendor. “Nice enough day, isn’t it?”
“Nice enough.” The vendor replied.
Tom bought a dog and Coke and sat on a nearby bench. He ate half the hot dog and tossed the rest on the ground. A gruff voice from behind him gave him a fright.
“You know, we have a strict litter law here in the park.”
He turned to see a uniformed policeman over his shoulder. His first reaction was to retrieve the remnants but a large white and tan Collie beat him to it. He turned back to see the policeman laughing. The tall uniformed man said, “It looks like your accomplice there ate the evidence.”
Tom laughed with the cop. He hadn’t laughed in a while. It felt good, even for a little while. When the dog’s owner arrived, he was panting as much as the dog was. This too struck Tom as funny, funnier than it should have. He returned to his car, still smiling. The sun through the windshield felt warm against his face. He thought about what he had accomplished by seeing Edwin’s family and by seeing Maggie again. Not much.
He sat in the car for more than an hour, thinking, trying to sort it all out. On one hand, after seeing Maggie again, he was glad he had chosen to let her live, but, on the other, sad that he had chosen to let Edwin die. He thought back to early Friday morning and the bridge.
He had almost missed the airport shuttle van. He had slept through the wake-up call from the front desk. The hotel’s staff was more attentive than most and had sent someone to knock on the door when he did not answer the phone. Had he missed the shuttle, he would not now be tormented by the questions. The questions and the funeral dirge with the nightmare that always accompanied them. “Did you make the right choice? Did Maggie deserve to live? Did Edwin deserve to die?”
Edwin Gilliam was in route from home to Denver for a machine tools convention. According to the newspaper, he was looking forward to seeing all of the latest innovations. Maggie was returning home to Chicago from a visit with her sister in New York.
Fate had placed Tom Hunt in that particular shuttle van at that particular time. Tom was on the last leg of a two-week sales trip. He did not need to be at LaGuardia until eight but he was almost panicky about missing appointments. He always took an earlier plane in case there was a delay. He prided himself on his “no excuses” approach to work.
He realized immediately a tire had blown. He remembered distinctly the crash through the bridge’s guardrail but, strangely, he did not remember crashing into the water. He did remember the water. It was cold, bone jarring cold. He also couldn’t remember how he had gotten out of the van. He found himself bobbing up and down in the river trying to get his bearings. Tom was an excellent swimmer but the cold water was sapping his strength and causing every muscle in his body to ache. He looked for the shortest distance to land. It was then he heard Edwin’s cry, somewhere out to his right. The nearest bank was behind him. He had to decide whether to swim to the shore and be certain to save himself or to risk swimming farther out to try to save the drowning man.
“Help me, help me. Somebody, please.”
Tom kicked off his shoes. He thought he had heard somewhere it was the thing to do in these situations. He had decided to swim out to the man when he heard another cry off to his left. “Please, Please. Help me.”
He paddled his body around to face the newest cry. He could see it was a woman. Her dress formed a perfect circle around her for a moment before she went under. With the cries of the man still in his ears, he lunged forward and swam toward the woman. He raised his head as far as he could as he swam trying to catch a glimpse of her or her white dress. She re-emerged waving her arms franticly in the air. Tom kicked harder, ignoring the growing pain in his legs. He reached the woman as she submerged again. He dove down to her and pushed her to the surface. Tom gasped for air as he re-surfaced and latched onto the woman from the back. The young man’s cries had ceased. Tom strained to hear, but, nothing.
The woman offered no resistance although they say that drowning people often do. She tried to kick her feet as Tom had yelled for her to do. His own limbs were weakening more by the moment. Her assistance likely saved both their lives.
Tom looked back to the river once he had pulled Maggie onto the muddy bank. She coughed and spat but Tom thought she would be all right. He scanned the river for the young man but did not see him. He ran two hundred yards or more along the rivers edge before collapsing on the ground. “There is a man out there,” he told an older man in a rain slicker. “We have to find him.” Tom tried to stand but his legs were limp. He pushed the man toward the river but it was much too late.
Edwin Gilliam’s body was found four miles down stream tangled in some brush on the edge of the water. Maggie and Tom were treated for hypothermia at St. Joseph’s Hospital and released.
Tom was left with doubts and question. Haunted by the same nightmare every night since the accident. He would here the dirge in the distance black. A small boat would appear from the fog. It would carry a black casket and be rowed by two faceless men in yellow slickers. The dirge would grow louder and a procession of small boats would appear, all lined up in a long single file.
The two men would dump the casket overboard and the procession would disappear. Tom would pear down into the dark water and watch the small white bubbles rise to the surface. Suddenly a hideous figure would emerge from the water and hover above him. It’s long fang like teeth and huge hawkish talons would reach out toward Tom. He would then wake, sweaty, chilled and shaken, remnants of the funeral dirge ringing in his ears. Each time was the same.
Tom hoped seeing Maggie and seeing Edwin’s family would bring an end to the nightmares. He did not know how or if it would help, but he hoped. Over and over he reasoned with himself. Saying, “It was only natural to try to save the woman instead of the man. It was, after all, ‘Women and children first’ wasn’t it? Women were the weaker sex, right? Men should protect the women. Shouldn’t they?”
Tom found no answers to truly satisfy him. For every answer he found a dozen more questions would arise. Who is to say that a woman’s life is worth more than a man’s life is worth? Who makes those rules? And, who was Tom Hunt to choose that Maggie Hyatt should live and Edwin Gilliam should die?
Weeks and month passed. Winter came and went and came again. The nightmares became less frequent and the dirge became fainter. Hopefully, for Tom’s sake, time really does heal all wounds. As it stands, Tom’s life has changed, some parts for better and some parts for worse. Tom started a college fund for Brian Gilliam, Edwin’s son. He isn’t sure how he will get the money to the Gilliams but he has a few years before he must worry about that.
Now, Tom mostly works, reads and watches television. He doesn’t travel anymore. He doesn’t go out much but he has started going to church more, and each night, he hopes Maggie Hyatt cherishes each and every breath she takes.
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