LOST LOVE - My first short story

I thought this short story of mine, written in the mid-1980's, was lost for good. But then it was found and now I'm presenting this never published tale here at    A LINE A DAY just in time for Valentine's Day 2021.                                     

                                           Lost Love

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

 

 

Charles walked slowly down the street with a look on his face that displayed the sadness filling his heart.  His grey eyes, which seemed to be fighting a losing battle against pent up tears, glanced around in all directions.  He was searching, as fruitless as he knew it was, for the love of his life, a life that would not be worth the effort of maintaining without her by his side.  He had loved her more than anyone or anything, and thought she felt the same way about him.  But when he awoke this morning she was gone, with no explanation and for no reason Charles could think of.  Now he was filled with despair.  The only thing that could lift his spirits would be to find Shirley, and he would go to the ends of the earth to bring her back where she belonged.

     He first met her three years earlier.  Charles had gone out to buy food for his fish, and as he browsed the pet store she caught his attention.  Never had a pair of eyes so captivated him.  Ordinarily shy and reserved, usually slow to take any action unless it was mulled over a thousand times, Charles suddenly felt as impetuous as the guys in those commercials for deodorant who just had to buy flowers for a beautiful woman walking by.  Call it love at first sight if you must, because from that moment on, Charles knew Shirley must be his. 

     The memory of their first encounter triggered many others.  Evenings in front of the television watching Monday night football or their favorite sitcoms; moonlit strolls along the pier; the look on Shirley’s face when he came home from work; the two of them falling asleep side by side after an exhausting day; being awakened by her in the morning with the covers all on her side.  A smile crept onto Charles' face as he thought of the many good times they had shared.  But then he remembered the undeniable fact that she was gone, and his smile disappeared.

     Charles did not have any close relationships other than with Shirley.  Even as a child when life had yet to impose the rules of adulthood, he had been a loner.  Whether this was by his choice or that of others, he was never quite sure.  What he did know for certain was that he and other people simply did not get along.  

     After meeting Shirley, he realized how empty and unfulfilling his life had been.  As a youth, he would go to school and then come straight home.  He never knew his father and his mother paid him minimal attention, even on the rare occasions when she was home.  She was usually off on a date with whichever guy was currently at the head of the line.  After doing his homework, Charles would either watch television or read.  The characters he viewed or read about constituted his social circle.  He rarely had the nerve to talk to girls from school, despite how hard the pangs of puberty pushed him to.  On the few occasions he was able to muster up the necessary courage, nervousness caused him to talk like a blubbering idiot.  The time he attempted to get a date for the prom was a particularly horrifying experience.  There was only one girl he had really spoken to in high school, and the main reason he did was because she lived only a couple of houses away from him. They often left for school at the same time, and she couldn't go for more than ten conscious minutes without talking to someone.  As school was a fifteen minute walk away, she would engage Charles in idle banter about her latest outfit.   

     He was not particularly attracted to Cindy, as she was overweight and over-pimpled.  And he sure as hell didn't want to be surrounded by a bunch of people whom he disliked and vice versa.  But since he did not want to be stigmatized as the guy who couldn't even get a date for the prom, he decided to ask Cindy.

     Charles started off on the wrong foot by accidentally spilling his soda on her blouse.  After that, the right foot never made an appearance. 

     Life after graduation from high school consisted of going to a job where he had to put up with the grinding monotony of an assembly line, then returning home to his television set and his science fiction fantasy books. 

     Shirley was like a breath of fresh air to an inmate in solitaire.  For the first time there was more to come home to than just an empty, loveless room.  Charles began to see that life was not something one had to trudge through reluctantly, but a thing of beauty to be enjoyed and cherished.  And now she was gone.

     He turned right on Sycamore Road in order to walk past the park.  This had been their favorite place.  So many hours had been spent here lounging on a blanket, catching some rays, tossing a Frisbee around, enjoying a nice picnic lunch.   

     Shirley had stormed into his life like a brilliant beam of light, illuminating everything around him.  Then, just as quickly, she abandoned him to darkness.  How could she just leave without any kind of warning?  What had he done wrong?  Charles did not want to revert back to his former way of living, but he couldn't see how to go on without Shirley being there to love him, and be loved by him. 

     They had had a perfect relationship.  She was also always there to lend a sympathetic ear when he felt like the world was collapsing on him.  Charles could tell just by the way Shirley looked at him that she understood, and this alone was reassurance enough. 

     Perhaps she did not need him as much as he did her.  Maybe she had outgrown him.  It may have been that only he gained anything from the relationship, while she was merely biding her time.

     Shirley had given him the greatest gift that could be given to someone.  She had taught him how to love.  But then she took that love away.  Better to have never received it in the first place.  How could she do this to him?  After all they had meant to each other.  Didn't she have any feelings?  Didn't she know how much he cared for her?  Their relationship had not been a one way street, he had given to her as well.  He had given all he had to give.

     His feelings of remorse started to turn into anger.  How dare she walk out on him?  How dare she hurt him more than he had ever been hurt before?  What a bitch!

     Then he spotted what he had feared he would never see again, causing his heart to give a jump.  Could it be?  Was that Shirley about fifty yards ahead?  There was only one way to find out.  Charles started running as fast as he could.  Oblivious to everything around him, he narrowly avoided being hit by a car as he dashed across the street.  He turned the corner and saw the object of his chase casually walking down the street.  "Shirley!" he called out.  She turned around.  It really was her.

     The two of them ran towards each other.  The second they came together, Charles pulled her into his arms and held on tightly, almost afraid to let go.  "I can't believe I found you Shirley." Tears of joy fell from his eyes.  "You don't know how much I missed you."

     Shirley looked at him with those big brown eyes that had drawn Charles to her on the day they met, forever changing his life.  His temporary anger was wiped away by the incredible euphoria now washing over him.  "I'm never going to let you get away again", he said. 

With that, Charles put the leash he had been carrying around Shirley's neck and walked his dog home. 

The Lottery Ticket - A short story

The Lottery TicketBy Roy L. Pickering Jr.
Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Giving up on relationships used to come easily to me. You see, I didn’t believe in wasting time. In most getting-to-know-you type situations I was able to tell within fifteen minutes whether the woman I was kicking it to was worth the effort of further pursuit. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not referring to strictly sexual interest. When it came to that, it only took me about five minutes to determine whether a young lady could be sweet talked into my bedroom. By the time I reached my thirty-fifth birthday, however, one night stands had lost much of their appeal. Call it growing up, or perhaps merely diminished enthusiasm over the idea of exclusively physical encounters. I’d had more than my share of fast and furious hook-ups in the past. Their entertainment value was no longer what it used to be. So I began looking for something more substantial. I felt I was at last ready for a courtship with potential. To accomplish my new goal, I developed a sophisticated screening system. I asked the women I met pointed questions that cut straight to the chase. I bypassed small talk and went directly to investigative communication. Since interviewing people is part of what I do to make a living, making the transition from my professional dealings to my personal life was relatively effortless.

The technique I devised served me well. It alienated women who were cautious about baring their soul so soon, which was okay by me, because I wasn’t interested in the guarded type. I was perfectly willing to open up right away about who I was, what I dreamt of, what I longed for. If a woman didn’t share this in common with me, I didn’t give a rewarding relationship with her much chance. Why start up what was destined to finish? When my forthright manner scared a woman off, I figured it was better to ascertain incompatibility right off the bat than taking the slow scenic route to the same disappointing destination.

Plenty of women weren’t intimidated by my strong approaches. To the contrary, they found my style refreshingly distinctive. I stood out from the pack of wolves drooling over their every move because I expressed sincere interest in matters other than how to get into their jeans. The fact that I was often the lone wolf with concerns other than sex on the brain had the effect of making me more appealing than I ever imagined I could be. Yet although the candidates were plentiful, I would find each of them lacking in some fundamental way and have to continue my search. I was frequently told that I was being too picky. But how can one’s criteria be too exclusionary when it comes to selecting a life partner? I wanted it all because I felt I deserved it all. To see it any other way would have been a disservice to myself.

Beauty lies everywhere, particularly in this sleepless city of super sized dreams that I reside in. So it could only serve as a portion of the equation, of no lesser or greater value than the others. I also sought intelligence, and compassion, and sensuality, and spirituality, and confidence, and independence, and humor, and ambition, and humility, and tenderness. Like I said, I wanted it all. Within fifteen minutes, give or take a few, I was able to calculate how much of these qualities a woman had to offer. Far more often than not, a lovely and pleasant woman would fail to adequately stimulate my interest. This left me with nothing to do but cut the conversation and my losses short. No hard feelings, at least not on my part. Every minute spent with someone I had ruled out of contention was one that could be better utilized by moving on to someone new. I knew the right girl for me was out there. I just had to keep plucking strands of hay from the stack until my needle was unearthed.

“You look at honies the way you look at your lottery tickets,” my best friend Terrell would say every now and again. “How much money have you squandered on the pipe dream of getting rich in one quick strike? Twice a week every week for how long has it been now?”

“Over fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years.” Terrell shook his head, one twist to the left, one to the right, then back to the left again. I had seen the gesture of exasperation from him countless times, most often when somebody on the Knicks had missed a late game jumper. “Do you have any idea how much money that adds up to?”

“Actually yes, I have done the math. Not nearly enough to make me anywhere near wealthy. But it’s a chunk of change I wouldn’t refuse if you offered it to me.”

“You could have been putting that money into a retirement account, or investing it, or putting it into a savings account and earning interest.” Terrell paid his bills by advising people on what to do with their money, so I understood that when it came to delivering such lectures, he couldn’t help himself. “Hell, you could have been putting all of those dollar bills under your mattress and sleeping lopsided but soundly. But to just squander it. What kind of sense does that make?”

“The law of averages will work to my advantage sooner or later,” was the line of logic I typically employed as rebuttal. “I play the same six numbers every time. Eventually they’ll hit. It’s inevitable. I’ve had some pretty close calls. The day I stop playing those numbers is the day they’ll come up.”

“Close calls and two bucks will get you a subway ride around the city, Dale.”

“Well, I do love to travel.”

Terrell would shake his head again, then concede that it was my inalienable right to spend or throw my money away however and wherever I saw fit. “Wasting money is one thing,” he’d conclude. “But throwing away the opportunities you’ve had to be with so many fine women truly boggles the mind.”

“I know who I want,” I would explain for the tenth, or fiftieth, or hundredth time. “It’s just a matter of finding her, whoever she is. And I know I will find her. I just have to be patient, and persistent, and steadfast.”

“And knuckleheaded.”

We would laugh and then move on to other subjects, such as the exploits of our favorite sports teams; workplace accomplishments and frustrations; the latest achievements by Terrell’s ridiculously bright daughter, Briana; the most recent acts of mischief by his precocious son, Stephon; or the latest committee joined by his beautiful activist wife, Anita. Terrell had found what he was looking for in life. My own expedition was still ongoing.

It seems like yesterday, but my world is now scarcely recognizable from what it looked like then, when Terrell and I were sipping after work cocktails at a trendy midtown bar owned by the latest rags to riches rap star who had come to dominate the music charts by rhyming about the women he’d laid and the enemies he had conquered. As usual, I thoroughly scoped the place out to see who most piqued my interest. Fortuitously enough, she was standing directly to my right hand side. I introduced myself. Five minutes of conversation passed in a heartbeat and the intrigue remained. After fifteen minutes I was charmed by all I had learned about Heather and anxious to know more. Three hours later, Terrell long departed by then, Heather told me that since the next day was a workday, it was time for her to head home.

“Can I get your phone number?” I asked, full of hope that this could lead to something extraordinary.

“Only if I can have yours in return.”

“You have yourself a deal, Heather.”

She gave me her business card, but I didn’t have one of my own handy. I looked through my wallet for a scrap of paper that could be spared. Two lottery tickets turned up. One had been purchased the prior weekend and I already knew it to be a loser, but had neglected to throw it away. The second had been purchased earlier that day. I squinted in the dull neon lighting of the bar to determine which ticket was the worthless one that I could write my phone number on. That’s when my cell phone rang.

“Yep, I’m still here. Yeah, she’s right next to me. Let me call you back in a bit, Terrell. Later, partner.”

I gave the paper I had written my phone number on to Heather. Her cute shy friend Lisa, who had remained in the bar for much longer than she cared to while Heather and I were getting to know each other, was a tad irritable by that point and now had one foot literally out the door.

“Heather, are you coming?”

“I’ll give you a call,” I said.

“Until then, I guess.”

“Until then.” The mirror behind the bar reflected the goofy grin I was unable to wipe from my face. I liked this girl and was curious to see how much more I might come to like her.

There were unfortunate instances when my screening system would fail. On these occasions, a woman who at first seemed to be a perfect match for me would prove herself within a date or two to be anything but. The woman who had visually and intellectually seduced me on first meeting would turn out to be a mirage. In a one-on-one setting over a candle lit dinner, her considerable flaws would come to harsh light and I would realize that I had been duped. Better late than never to discover my mistake, it was easy enough to avoid compounding the error of my initial poor judgment. No point in getting into deeper water when the sensible plan of action was swimming to shore. A kiss on the cheek at the end of such an evening would effectively nip the acquaintance in the bud.

I took Heather out to dinner on a Saturday night, two days after we first met. High expectations had been set. They would not be met. Instead, every twist and turn of our conversation led to disappointment.

“This is a tough menu for me to choose from. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Is that right?” I asked, fully intending to order a rib eye steak, medium rare.

“It isn’t just for humane reasons, though that’s certainly a major factor. I don’t think people are careful enough about what they put into their bodies. Monitoring your cholesterol level is a very serious issue. I won’t even get into mad cow disease, but trust me, it’s only a matter of time before those diseased animals make it into our restaurants and supermarkets.”

“Until they come up with mad broccoli disease, I guess you should be safe.”

My humor changed the subject, not that it succeeded in producing laughter or even a smile, but subsequent topics were not improvements.

“Did you see the stunt pulled by Britney, Beyonce, Pink, and Cher the other day? When will these beautiful young women, and Cher, stop exploiting their bodies for shock value? They’re sending the message to young girls that being intelligent and talented isn’t enough for a woman. The only way they can keep our attention is by showing us what their mothers and plastic surgeons gave them.”

I knew better than to confess that I had been rather entertained by the award show grind session she was referring to. It was clear enough that this would stir up feminist issues for Heather to rant about. No matter what I said, even if I agreed with her ninety nine percent, I strongly suspected that the one percent of dissent would cause me to be branded as a male chauvinist pig.

“I haven’t caught much TV lately,” served for what I thought was a safe reply. “Too many reality TV programs and award shows for my taste. I pretty much watch TV for just news and sports. The Jets let me down this year, but I think my Knicks will go far.”

“I loathe sports. They turn men into zombies transfixed by a bunch of millionaires running around with a ball. If I want to see people sweat on television, I’d much prefer to watch Survivor. Or Fear Factor. Or American Idol. Or any of those shows. I must confess that I find them all very addicting.”

It had become blatantly evident that we were nowhere close to being on the same wavelength. I was amazed that she had managed to give all of the right answers during our first conversation, yet was now giving nothing but wrong ones. Clearly I needed to do some tinkering with my screening process to make it cover a broader range of subject matter. I had eaten a light lunch the day I first met Heather and thought we vibed so well. Perhaps the alcohol later consumed made me less clear headed than I’d thought I was. I promised myself to drink glasses of water in between stiffer beverages in the future.

“My friend Lisa who was with me when we met teases me all the time about my reality TV obsession. But the way I figure, those shows are a pleasant diversion from news about the unnecessary war that our undeserving President forced us into.”

I definitely knew better than to go there. Talking politics on a first date is never a good idea, even if you intend it to also be your last date with the person. Suffice it to say that Heather and I were of differing opinions on the president’s use of military force. My physical attraction to Heather had not subsided. To the contrary, she was even prettier on second sighting. She possessed many other admirable qualities as well. Heather was a wonderful woman for some lucky guy to find. But I would be taking a pass on being that guy. If I had any uncertainty about this, it went away when she informed me that she would be popping outside between dinner and dessert to satisfy her cigarette craving. I was not amused by the hypocrisy of her chiding me for the food I put into my body while she insisted on inhaling tobacco into her own. And very few things were as much of a turn off for me as kissing a woman with cigarette breath. So I hurried the date along to its conclusion, escorted her home, then turned away from her doorway, certain that by design I would never see Heather again.

When I arrived home that night, I fed my cat Charlemagne to whom I now knew Heather would be allergic, sorted through my mail, then turned on my computer and went online. After reading a few emails, sending out a couple, and deleting several that promised to help decrease my debt and increase my girth, I went to the state lottery website to see what the day’s winning numbers were. That’s when my jaw dropped and my life changed.

2-9-17-25-48-53. There they were on my computer screen, the sweetest digits I had ever seen. I’d been playing them twice a week, fifty two weeks per year, for the last fifteen plus years. Now at long last they had hit. Either I was the co-winner, or better yet, the sole winner of sixty-two million dollars! Not capable of caring less about the annoyance of my extremely sound sensitive upstairs neighbor, I shouted for joy. Tears were shed and a victory dance was performed as visions of my future appearance on MTV Cribs, pointing out the best features of my tricked out mansion, went racing through my giddy head.

Eventually I stopped hooting and hollering, and my upstairs neighbor stopped pounding on his floor / my ceiling. I took a deep breath to steady myself, then pulled out my wallet and removed the lottery ticket within it. I gazed lovingly at the six printed numbers that matched those on the computer screen. Would I purchase a Hummer and then a Bentley, or the other way around? The dilemmas of the rich and ecstatic. Then my celebratory mood abruptly ended.

“What the hell?”

The date on my ticket was wrong. It belonged to Wednesday, three days earlier, when another six numbers entirely had been drawn. This ticket was an expired loser. What I needed was the one I had bought on Thursday for the Saturday drawing. I glanced through my wallet again, but there was no sign of another lottery ticket. Slower and closer examination of my wallet and its emptied contents produced nothing but frustration.

I was no stranger to the concept of misplacing useful or valuable items. If given a nickel for every time my remote control went temporarily missing, winning the lottery would not have been necessary to make me a wealthy man. My keys went AWOL at least twice a week. My sunglasses, my watch, and various other paraphernalia often played an annoying game of hide and seek with me as well. Some people would no doubt label me scatterbrained, but I’d read once that such behavior was a sign of genius, and that sounded much better. I had never misplaced a lottery ticket before, but there was a first time for everything. So I prepared to play the role of bloodhound and go rooting through every square inch of my apartment.

“Charlemagne, by any chance have you seen a little piece of paper with numbers on it lying around? You didn’t eat it, did you?”

My overweight feline responded with his patented blank stare before smugly turning his back on me. You’d think that providing food, shelter, and a clean litter box would earn a modicum of gratitude, but you would be wrong. I began my search by turning up sofa cushions, because my sofa had an uncanny ability to swallow whole any possession smaller than a microwave oven. That thought reminded me of another good place to look. I’d once found one my cufflinks in the refrigerator. Its partner was later found ensconced in my bed sheets. My apartment often felt too small and I was planning to look for a larger place when the lease ran out. At moments like this one however, the enormity of space to comb felt overwhelming.

“Come on, Charlie. Just give me a hint and I’ll buy you a bunch of new stuff to scratch and shed on.”

The rotund furball again refused to give me a meow of acknowledgment. I got down on my knees to look beneath the sofa. I found that I needed to do some serious dusting under there. And then it suddenly came to me. My memory brought back the scene with razor sharp detail. I now knew precisely where the ticket was. I had mistakenly written on the back of it and given my fortune away to Heather.

Apparently my evaluation of our date needed to be revised. Turns out we would definitely have to go out again. After all, my luxury cars, gargantuan residence, and the yacht I intended to throw phenomenal celebrity attended parties aboard would not be paying for themselves. I had to get that ticket back. Problem was, I couldn’t just point blank ask for it. Heather was no fool. She would suspect that I had a damn good reason for wanting it, soon discover that she held a winning lottery ticket in her possession, and proceed to cash in my destiny. She probably would not figure out on her own that she was sitting on a gold mine. Only if I foolishly tipped her off. I needed to somehow find where she had put the ticket and secretly return it to its rightful owner. Despite the clear signals I had given towards the end of our first date that she really wasn’t my type, I would now need to convince her that I’d had a change of heart. And so our great love affair unfolded, with no less romantic a start than that of Romeo and Juliet, Rhett and Scarlet, or John and Lorena Bobbitt.

“I can’t believe you never told me that’s why you got involved with Heather,” Terrell would say to me nine months later.

“It wasn’t my proudest hour,” I admitted. “I was considerably paranoid about the whole business. And I didn’t think it would take so long to be done with. I figured we would go out a few times, she’d eventually invite me over to her place, and I would casually manage to get her to reveal where the ticket was. But it turned out to be a lot trickier than that to manage, and to take a whole lot longer than I had imagined.”

“Your tie is crooked, Dale. You don’t want to look like a slob today. Too many eyes will be on you, waiting to see if you chicken out.”

“Not a chance of that. I’d be crazy not to marry that woman. She’s the best thing by far ever to happen to me. And as gorgeous as I know she’ll look in her wedding dress, I’m pretty sure she’ll get most of the attention. I do look damn good in this tux, though. You’re looking rather sharp yourself, Terrell.”

“Thank you. As your best man, I figure it’s my duty to be as least as suave as Superfly.”

“I can’t believe you’re still insisting after all these years that he’s cooler than Shaft.”

“By far. So you aren’t nervous at all, Dale?”

“Just the opposite. I can hardly wait to make it official.”

I was charming as could be on my second date with Heather, while she continued to be equally irritating. The more I learned about her, the less appealing she grew. So it took some effort to convince her that I wanted to pursue a relationship. After awhile it took
considerable effort to convince myself that the prize was worth the hassle of the chase. But I would remind myself of the dollar value of the prize, and that would give me the motivation to soldier on.

It was not my intention to hurt Heather. The last thing I wanted was for her to grow attached to me, knowing that I planned to bail the moment I had obtained what I wanted. I didn’t see myself as some sort of playboy, con artist, or money minded lothario. I simply felt that I deserved to get back my lottery ticket and reap the benefits I’d been contributing towards for a decade and a half. A horrible mistake had placed the ticket out of my possession. I needed to fix that mistake expeditiously so Heather and I could both return to our true destinies. Hers was to be a cigarette smoking vegetarian feminist. Mine was to be filthy rich.

Nine months later I stand beside the woman I love, our friends and families looking on. I’ve just been asked if I wish to take her as my wife. Of course I do, and so I say as much. The past several months leading up to this moment have been a chaotic blur, but now all is calm, and right, and good. Fate has blessed me. I glance over towards my best man and best friend. Terrell’s smile beams back at me. We’ve been through a great deal together, being friends since junior high school. A lot of good times have transpired in the intervening years. This one ranks right up there at the top. There’s no more denying it, even if we wanted to. We’re all grown up now. We’re grown men with a couple of amazing women by our sides.

I clasp hands with my brand new bride as we head down the church aisle together.

“I love you so much,” she whispers into my ear as the camera flashes dance about us.

“I love you too, Lisa.”

It’s funny how life works out sometimes. If Terrell’s phone call had not distracted me while I was trying to make out in dim lighting which piece of paper to write my phone number on, I never would have given Heather the wrong lottery ticket. Without doing that, I would not have bothered to see her beyond our first date. After two months of trying somewhat comically to get the ticket back without revealing my objective, I finally gave up and simply asked her if she still had it. When she requested the reason for my query, I admitted that it was a winner and offered to split the money with her. But unfortunately, there was nothing to split. Heather had copied my phone number into her address book on the night we first met, after which she discarded of the ticket. I had considered that she might have done this, so although I was disappointed, it wasn’t especially difficult to accept that I would not become a millionaire. It was actually relief that I felt, because at least there was no longer reason to continue with my masquerade. I did not wish to date Heather any longer, and I told her so. I said that I wished her well, but my heart wasn’t in our relationship because it had been claimed by someone else. Then came my next big confession. While pretending to be Heather’s boyfriend, I had fallen hard for her best friend Lisa.

I didn’t get my mansion, or yacht, or fleet of luxury cars. No fifteen minutes of fame on MTV. Instead, I found a woman to spend the rest of my life with. Not a bad tradeoff. Lisa and I are very happy. Our wedding was a beautiful affair. Regrettably, her friend Heather was unable to attend. I think she’s trying to avoid me. It isn’t that she was devastated by our break up, or by finding out why I had been dating her to begin with. It turns out that she left New York a couple months ago and promptly bought a huge house in California. A wealthy relative passed away and left a substantial amount of money behind as Heather’s inheritance. That’s what she claimed anyway. I suspect otherwise, but I’m not complaining. The way I see it, Heather found her winning lottery ticket, and I found mine.

SHORT STORY XV

In honor of Halloween I've decided to post a story of love from beyond the grave for the fifteenth installment of Short Story Sunday. Enjoy!

HAUNTED

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

Michael gazed across the Hudson River towards New Jersey. He was treated to the sight of a seagull pirouetting just above the reach of waves that followed a ferry like a puppy at its master’s feet. Watching boats pass by his vantage point on the Upper West Side of Manhattan was Prozac to Michael’s soul. From here, all hurlyburly was put on hold. He came to this basin when he wanted to clear out the clutter in his mind, to banish matters of distraction so he could render decisions that would determine the direction of his life.

Not long ago, he would observe the rolling surface of this water on a regular basis as he contemplated the state of his marriage. He knew that Elisha was a good fit for him. There was no need to question her devotion, nor reason to doubt that he was far better off with her than without. When he looked into his wife’s piercing green eyes, he felt certain that she understood him more clearly than he comprehended the workings of his own mind, the longings of his own troubled heart. Yet with deep regret, Michael had concluded that he did not love Elisha. He could not, for he was incapable of loving more than one woman at a time, and his loyalty was pledged to another.

His life was supposed to have been spent with Isabelle. It was she who had answered wishes made upon stars and dandelions. But one tragic night, Michael’s fate had been re-written. Alone when she should not have been, taking a route best avoided at such a late hour, Michael’s first wife was confronted by a gun barrel placed to her temple and a demand for her belongings, to which she complied. When a nervous finger accidentally pulled the gun’s trigger, all for Michael was lost.

Time came to a standstill at the moment of the police officer’s pronouncement. Though seasons continued to change, historic events unfolded along with the commonplace, and people grew older if not wiser, for Michael, the sand had become trapped in the center of the hourglass.

Three years later, he met Elisha at a Super Bowl party. Both of them being equally uninterested in the game’s outcome, they fell into easy conversation. Neither exerted much effort trying to impress the other, or in feigning the characteristic buoyancy of singles on the prowl. Instead they spoke naturally of matters of consequence and mutual interest. When told a week later that she was interested in him, and prodded by busy body friends to act on this, Michael decided no harm would be done by giving her a call. So he arranged to have his first date since the passing of Isabelle. He treated Elisha to dinner and a Woody Allen movie. Not agreeing with friends who had promised it would just like riding a bike, naturally taken up regardless of how long an absence, Michael expected for there to be awkward moments as the two of them fumbled their way from intrigued strangers to passionate co-conspirators. But within half an hour it was as if they were an old couple, beyond sexual tension, too world weary for desperate optimism. Their relationship moved along from day one with minimal exertion. Michael and Elisha fit neatly into each other’s lives, allowing one another’s lonely spots to fill in with unquestioned silence. A year to the day they met, they were wed.

Michael truly wanted to be happy with Elisha, or at least a reasonable simulation, and thought for a while that this just might be possible. He had done, at least by appearances, what people are supposed to do, what concerned loved ones had urged him to do. He had let the past go and moved on. But once the honeymoon ended and they settled into their new home together, reality sunk in. Isabelle’s side of the bed could be filled by another, her title of Mrs. Michael Beechman could be passed on, but no one could hope to take her place. The trappings of supposed marital bliss served mostly as potent reminders of what had once been, of who he had once loved, of who he loved still.

To the best of his ability, Michael kept these feelings hidden from Elisha. He wanted to spare her from undeserved pain, for she already harbored more than a fair share from a tortured past of her own. He earnestly desired to fulfill the duties of a steadfast husband. Elisha was not to blame for the memories that held him captive, nor was there anything she could do to release him.

Doctor Sylvan came recommended by Michael’s sister. Without telling Elisha, he began to meet with the psychiatrist once a week. This went on for three futile months. Analysis could only explain, but not change the simple facts. He had fallen completely in love with Isabelle and could not figure a way to climb back out. Michael was not in denial that she was gone. He just did not want her to be. One impossible thing was all he asked for. He wanted Isabelle in his arms again, wanted his life as it had once been, wanted his destiny to be put back on course.

Laura Mesalina’s services came to Michael’s attention from a woman he worked with. Strong skepticism was his initial reaction to the thought of visiting a medium. Hocus pocus was well and good for entertainment, but no matter how cleverly a magician deceived people, no illusion could hold up to the scrutiny of common sense. The notion of ghosts made for spooky bedtime stories, but in real life, the people one came across were made of flesh and still pumping blood. Death was a permanent exit, with no long distance calls to those who had left. Michael considered psychics to be the equivalent of card sharks, kept in business by the pathetically gullible. Those lost souls were paying for fantasy. Nothing wrong with that. But it would be more economical to laminate the messages found in fortune cookies.

“It was an amazing experience,” Barbara proclaimed in one of her morning visits to Michael’s office for gossip and chit chat. “I know you think this sort of thing is silly, but I’m telling you, Laura definitely channeled the spirit of my mother. There is no way she could have known some of the things she said. My mother was in that room. She spoke to me, I spoke to her. It was real. As real as we are to each other right now. Laura has a gift. A very special, wonderful gift.”

Michael handed her his handkerchief, for Barbara’s eyes had begun to tear up at the recollection. She was a bit of flake, no doubt about that. This was not the first strange tale to have come from her lips. Barbara was one of those people in constant search of fantastical reasons for ordinary events. Since she was a sweet woman who doted on him, Michael accepted her eccentricities without ridicule.

“I’m sure it seemed quite real to you.”

“It didn’t seem real. It was real.”

Michael smiled and hoped his expression did not appear patronizing. He then excused himself and put the conversation out of mind. Or so he thought. But an idea had been planted in his brain, and in spite of his resistance, it took root and started to grow. Desperation caused one to ignore the laws of logic. One month later, he had his first session with Laura.

“Do you remember the day we first met?”

“Of course I do,” Michael answered, having decided to play along for a little while that the psychic’s body was temporarily in possession of his wife’s spirit, pretending that it was indeed Isabelle who spoke to him. He knew his patience for this game would be short. He had come primarily to rule post mortem communication out as a possibility.

“I returned Taylor to you.”

Michael did not bother to hide his surprise. Had this woman researched him after the appointment to see her had been made? Had she spoken to his friends and family members in the past few days? How else could she have known that he had lost his dog; that he had plastered the neighborhood with signs offering a reward for his safe return; and that just when he had about lost hope, Michael came home to a message on his answering machine that a woman had found Taylor?

“I could tell you would be a nice guy from the posters you put up. Something about your words stuck out.”

“They stuck out because you had my dog,” said Michael, feeling a bit foolish that he was still speaking to a charlatan as if she were his dead wife, but getting caught up in the bizarre scene unfolding.

Laura ignored his sarcasm, just as the real Isabelle had always done.

“When I spoke to you on the phone, you seemed really sweet. Especially when you told me who Taylor was named after.”

“Well I couldn’t call him Stevie Wonder,” Michael said. “My turtle already had that name. So James Taylor it was.”

“I was hoping you would be single, and cute.”

“All I wanted was my dog back. Until you opened the door. Then everything changed.”

“I had a good feeling about you before we ever met. It was just a crazy hunch, but sometimes crazy hunches are right.”

“I got my dog back,” Michael said, tenderness overcoming him, marking each of his words. “And I met a girl.”

“You met your future wife.”

“Sure did.”

“I bet you wouldn’t have worn that dreadful shirt if you knew who you were about to meet.”

Michael now knew for certain that Laura was for real. It was none other than Isabelle who sat across the table from him, somehow drawn from the realm of the dead into this woman’s body. Like his deceased wife, Laura had shoulder length chestnut brown hair. The two women also possessed similarly shaped mouths. This was the first thing Michael had noticed about Laura, and was now what his eyes focussed exclusively on.

“Of course I would have,” he said. “That’s my lucky shirt.”

“It didn’t make a very favorable first impression. I thought I would have my work cut out for me. Fortunately, the rest of your wardrobe wasn’t nearly as sorry looking.”

“I think it’s a fine looking shirt, but that’s beside the point. Luck doesn’t need to look good. It just has to work.”

“I was the one feeling lucky after I opened my door. I knew immediately that you were the guy I had been waiting for my whole life.” “I knew you were the girl I was supposed to fall in love with,” Michael said. “Plus I got my dog back. I didn’t even blame Taylor for running away once I saw who he had run to.”

“You never wear that shirt anymore, so why don’t you throw it out?”

“I wouldn’t do that any sooner than I would get rid of Taylor.”

“I know, Cuddlekins.” Michael had not been referred to by the silly nickname Isabelle had given him since the morning of her death. He forced the lump that had formed down his throat.

“I miss you so much,” he said.

“I know that too.”

Regular sessions with Laura were penned into Michael’s itinerary. What initially seemed unnaturally strange joined habits like his morning coffee and bagel and his evening jog. It was the closest possible thing to having Isabelle back. As the subsequent months went by, the distinction between these simulated resurrections and the actuality of such an event grew dimmer. Once a week he stared at a mouth shaped nearly identical to the one he had kissed countless times, recalling indelibly stamped memories with the spirit of the woman they were made with. It seemed to Michael that he had everything he could think to ask for, and then some.

He was living, or at least reliving, a wonderful existence in this room of alternate reality. But the rest of his time was spent in another world, with a woman who was legally acknowledged as his wife. The two situations could not mesh indefinitely. Guilt over his spiritual infidelity began to set in.

Isabelle was no longer relegated to private reflection in quiet moments. She was now the other woman. Or was Isabelle in the forefront while Elisha remained in shadow? Had reality been pushed to the background of his life in favor of an affair with an apparition? Michael didn’t know what to think, but knew something would have to be done to make sense out of the chaos.

He needed to choose between yesterday and tomorrow. Between the dead and the living. Between his one true love and his one true chance. Between remembering and hoping. Should he embrace a fate of sweet sorrow, or that of sorrowful sweetness?

His heart leaned in one direction while rational thought guided him the opposite way. He needed the wisdom of someone who would understand his dilemma and advise him without prejudice.

“So what do you think, Isabelle? Should I stop coming to see you and give my marriage a chance? Or should I leave Elisha, now that I know where to find you? If you want me to end my marriage, I will. But if you think I should give life with her a chance, just say the word, knowing this would mean me staying away from you. I will go by whatever decision you make. I will do whatever you want. Just tell me.”

No response came in the minute to follow. Finally, the silence was broken.

“She’s gone, Michael. She needs to think it over. Come back next week same time as usual, and she’ll have an answer for you.”

“Okay. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Michael’s eyes were not met, so his gaze fell onto Laura’s mouth as she spoke.

“Your time is up. I have another client waiting. I’ll see you next week.”

“Bye, Laura.”

“Take care, Michael.”

Three days later, he came home and found his wife sitting on the sill of their living room window. Michael did not ask her why she had been crying. This was not due to his being a callous man, but rather, one who easily adjusted to routine. The sight of Elisha in tears was not uncommon, for the measure of her grief was beyond containment. Twenty two years ago, after six years of torment, her accusations had finally been believed. Her mother found all the evidence she required and was forced to acknowledge the unthinkable. Shortly thereafter, Elisha’s step-father was arrested for his deplorable acts.

Michael walked over to his wife and rubbed her shoulders.

“Did I ever tell you why I was so adamant that this was the apartment we should make a home of?”

“You liked the moldings,” Elisha answered. “And the height of the ceiling.”

“You sat down right where you’re sitting now, the sunlight was framing you the same way it is today, and I knew I wanted to view that perfect picture as much as possible.”

To a stranger, it would not have seemed that Elisha’s expression changed quite into a smile. But Michael had mentally cataloged her many subtle looks and knew she was pleased.

“You forgot to mention that we got a good deal because of your business deal with the owner.”

“I’m trying to be charming here. Cut a guy some slack.”

“I’ve always been a sucker for smooth talkers,” Elisha said, placing her hand for a second on Michael’s cheek.

“So, you want to try the new Vietnamese restaurant that opened around the corner for dinner tonight?”

“You’ve read my mind. I suppose then you already know about the decision I made today.”

Michael sat back. Elisha was far more adept at reading his thoughts than the other way around. Nevertheless, he sensed correctly that she was about to reveal something of greater importance than her choice of new drapes for the bedroom. Since first meeting her, Michael had never ceased to marvel at Elisha’s habit of dramatically reacting to mundane events, and conversely, describing the extraordinary in a banal manner.

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“I guess my mind reading is reserved for culinary matters. You’ll have to tell me.”

“It’s time I claim myself back from him.”

Michael took hold of his wife’s hands. He knew she had traveled a long road to reach this point.

“If I don’t,” she said, “it hardly matters that he was caught and punished, or that he found religion in prison, or that he’s dead now, so changed or not, there’s nothing he can do to me anymore. I’ve never stopped feeling used and degraded. And there’s no use continuing to blame him. I’m the only person who can do anything about it. So that’s what I’m going to try to do, with your help. I don’t want to be that terrified thirteen year old girl anymore.”

Michael sat back quietly as his wife spoke. He had wondered for a long time if she would ever be able to say these things. Now that the moment had arrived, he wasn’t sure how to feel. Certainly he was happy that she was allowing her wounds to heal. But their lives would undoubtedly change on account of this, and Michael had not adequately prepared himself for a different sort of existence with her.

“I want a baby,” Elisha said. “I want a family. I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Michael’s question was a reasonable one, given the circumstances. He and Elisha had been man and wife for twenty three months, but their marriage was not yet consummated. Elisha had never willingly given herself to a man. The period of hell that ushered her from childhood to shattered woman had closed her mind and heart to the possibility of lovemaking. Their marriage had therefore been arranged with the condition that Elisha would be unwilling and unable to accommodate carnal needs. This arrangement had worked out fine for both of them. Michael had been celibate since Isabelle’s death, and the urges of his flesh had remained subordinate to the quality of his grief. He and Elisha had been content to cuddle together like lost orphans nursing the wounds of their pasts. While setting up this tepid life, it scarcely occurred to Michael that one of them might eventually want more from the other than a shoulder to cry on.

Elisha ran a hand through her husband’s hair. Their relationship was not conventional, perhaps a little more complicated than the norm, but this in no way subtracted from the authenticity of her love. Her mind was made up to act upon this. There was however, an important issue to be addressed, a question that she had to ask.

“How about you? Are you ready?”

Four days later, Michael stepped through the doorway of Laura Messalina’s mystical chamber. Melodic chimes announced his entrance. As was his habit, he took a moment to adjust his vision to the room’s dim lighting. The duration of his pause was longer than usual, filled with innumerable thoughts. This would either be the final time he communicated with Isabelle, or else the passing of the verdict that his marriage must be sacrificed.

Elisha’s decision to remove the chastity belt binding their marriage had been no less surprising to Michael than his subsequent yearning to comply with her wishes. When she leaned forward to kiss him, he anticipated blankness. But what he found was passion. The kiss instilled uncertainty and even a degree of fear into him. It unearthed desire, which could only compromise his ability to reason at this most critical juncture. Yet he did not wish for the kiss to stop.

Michael did stop, however. He had to. He told Elisha that he needed time to get used to the idea of legitimizing their wedding vows. Her change of agenda had certainly not been made swiftly. Still, it came too suddenly. Especially since he was just days away from finding out what Isabelle wanted. His marriage might soon be over. It seemed ludicrous to begin a love affair with his wife now.

“Hello, Laura. Well, this is it. Time to find out what Isabelle has to say.”

Michael sat down across the small, round table from Laura and tapped his fingers on the elaborately embroidered silk cloth that covered it.

“I’m prepared to do whatever she asks of me.”

Laura took hold of his fingers to still them.

“Sorry. Guess I’m a little nervous.”

Laura’s eyes issued understanding and compassion. Michael had looked into them for many hours, yet felt as if this was his first time seeing her. She was not merely the vessel through which Isabelle reached out to him. She was a kind and wise and beautiful woman who knew more about him than practically any living soul.

“Laura, does it seem nuts what I’m willing to do? I want to know what you think. I suppose it’s in your best interest if Isabelle asks me to keep coming back.”

“If I was to give you advice, I would never let money influence what I said.”

“Of course not.”

“But I’m not going to give you advice. I can’t.”

“Why not? Would that break some code of your profession?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just … It’s just that I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“How so?”

Laura withdrew a piece of paper from her purse and slid it across the table. Michael looked down and saw that it was a check. A check made out to him for fifteen hundred dollars.

“What’s this for?”

“That’s how much money I owe you. That’s the amount I’ve cheated you out of.”

Michael could do nothing but stammer that he did not understand what this was about.

“Fifteen hundred dollars covers how much you’ve paid for the last ten sessions. It isn’t right that I accepted payment for them, because I’ve been deceiving you.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. You’re a fake? How could that be? No phony could have known the things you knew.”

“I’m not a fake, Michael. I’m only reimbursing you for the last ten sessions. We’ve met far more often than that.”

“I’m lost here. You were really channeling my wife’s spirit at first? For months and months everything was legit? Then you decided to stop doing it, but pretended you still were in order to keep getting paid? Is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s not quite that sordid.”

Michael had come to this room with the weight of the world already on his mind. Now on top of this, Laura had it spinning in circles.

“Then what the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“I didn’t decide to stop channeling Isabelle. The choice of when and if a spirit wants to speak through me always belongs to them.”

Michael took a deep breath to help steady himself. “Yes, I understand.”

“Isabelle came voluntarily for a long time. Longer than most. She knew how deeply you were hurting, how badly you missed her. She wanted to help.”

Laura put a strand of hair into her mouth for a couple of seconds. This was not a habit that Isabelle ever practiced. Michael had spent a great deal of time studying Laura’s way of speaking and gesturing. Picking out which characteristics were reflections of Isabelle and which were Laura’s own had become a reflex.

“Continue,” he said.

“Then one day she told me something. It was a message I was supposed to pass on to you the next time we met. But I didn’t. I didn’t tell you that Isabelle would not be coming back anymore. She felt you were growing too dependant on these sessions. She wanted you to walk amongst the living again. She wanted you to seek happiness. Isabelle believes you can have a good life with Elisha if you would only give your marriage a chance to be real. The answers you expected to receive from Isabelle today have already been provided. But I’ve been keeping them to myself.”

Michael allowed the information to settle in. He felt almost as if he had lost Isabelle for a second time. And in a way, it was even worse this time around. She was now leaving him by choice. He put his hurt and disappointment aside to deal with later, on his own. For the present, he would focus on his anger at Laura’s deception.

“For God’s sake, why? Are you that greedy?”

“I knew you would only continue to come if you thought Isabelle was still showing up. That’s why I started pretending. I already knew so much about her, and about you, and about your relationship. It wasn’t very difficult. And it was necessary. You see, to answer your question, I suppose I am greedy. Only, my greed had nothing to do with money.”

“Then why have you been doing this?” Michael asked.

“Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

An hour later, Michael looked across the Hudson River towards New Jersey. The setting of the day’s sun was nearing completion and he took in the routine miracle of beauty. While he watched a sailboat pass by on route to safe harbor, he did not reflect on what had been told to him in the past few days, but rather, on what he had figured out for himself. Something he learned the moment he last crossed Laura’s threshold, as if entering a chamber of essential truth. This knowledge had been lurking beneath his awareness for some time, waiting for a signal to announce itself. Without benefit of spiritual guidance or any variety of hocus pocus, Michael suddenly understood the bent of his heart.

“Goodbye, Isabelle.”

His words were caught by the same breeze that was carrying the sailboat along. Michael felt confident that they too would reach their destination, and was not perturbed that he would receive no reply. He scratched his dog behind the ears. Then he opened the case clasped in his hand and examined the necklace it held. Two weeks remained before he was to give it as a wedding anniversary gift. Michael put the necklace back into the pocket of his blazer and next examined the pocket watch that he wore. The heirloom had been passed down through three generations of first born sons in his family. One day, if ordained by destiny, it would be handed over to a fourth. For now, it merely informed Michael of the hour, from which he deduced that Elisha had probably just been dropped off by a taxi in front of their apartment building. She would be patiently waiting for him.

“Come on, Taylor. It’s time to go home now. It’s time to go home.”

x x x x x x

Artwork provided by Erin Rogers Pickering

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