Home: Part 36

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

February 1976

 
A month to the day after our first lunch together, Shannon and I moved into a small house her father had inherited a decade before and that had stood empty for nearly as long. Her father, Howard, was the epitome of a gruff former Marine. He'd fought in both Korea and Vietnam, but now he was a plumber, just as his father had been. His mother had willed him the house, and the first thing he'd done was remove every bit of pipe, every faucet, toilet, sink, and bathtub. "He didn't really need to," Shannon said to me once. "He just likes keeping busy."

We didn't tell Howard or Marilynn, Shannon's mother, that we were living together for several months. "Daddy might have a problem with it," Shannon said one afternoon as we were arranging books in the room we'd designated as a den. Shannon was working on her teaching certificate at the time, and she had a desk set up with papers, pencils, and a beige IBM Selectric typewriter.

"Dads usually do," I said.

"Moms, too. Sometimes. What do your parents think?"

I shrugged. "I told my mother. She said she'd tell Dad."

Shannon was arranging her hardcopy collection of Dickens. "What did your mother say?" 

"That she doesn't think we should ruin the surprise."

"Surprise?"

"I think she's counting on our getting married. That's the surprise, I guess. Finding out about each other while we're blissfully married."

She slid Bleak House onto the shelf. "What do you think?"

"About my mother?"

"About us. About moving in here together."

We were sitting on the floor. I didn't have my leg on, but I scooted over to her as gracefully as I could. "I don't like surprises," I said, and I brushed my forefinger along the base of her throat. She shut her eyes and tilted her chin up. "But your dad will find out soon enough. He isn't stupid."

"No, he certainly isn't. I'm hoping he won't go all Marine on you." She laughed.

"I'm a cripple," I said. "He wouldn't hurt me, would he?"

Home: Part 34

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

January 1976

Shannon and I were introduced to each other by Cindy. "You'll like her," my sister said. The two of them had met in church, something I said was not a strong selling point. 

"So, she's a religious fanatic, too?" I asked.

"Stop," Cindy said. We were at a restaurant where Shannon worked as a waitress, sitting across from each other in a small booth. "She's sweet. Shy, like you, too."

"I'm not shy," I said.

"Yes, you are. You can't even talk to yourself without stuttering. And if you don't start dating someone, mom and dad will keep thinking you're some kind of queer."

"That helps."

"There she is." She pointed to a woman walking toward us. Cindy waved and smiled. "Try to be nice."

Shannon smiled at us both. "Hi."

"This is my brother," Cindy said. "The one I told you about. He's missing half a leg, but he's still not bad."

We shook hands. "Nice to finally meet you," Shannon said.

Home: Part 32

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

March 1982

After a winter of steady, persistent rain, spring arrived as sunshine and dry weather. Kathy and I were sitting on the small balcony outside our apartment’s living room. Trees in the woods behind our apartment complex had been budding slowly for several weeks, but on that first day of spring they seemed green and alive.

“I like this so much,” Kathy said. She leaned back in her chair and turned her face to the sun, the first time we’d even seen the sun in three weeks. She undid two buttons on her tan blouse and bared her skin to the sun.

“It’s a nice change, isn’t it?” I asked. I could see that the creek running through the woods was still running high.

“Speaking of change,” Kathy said. “When I was shopping with Holly a couple weeks ago, she said she might be pregnant.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t have kids.”

“That’s what changed, I guess. Something must’ve clicked the right way.” Kathy’s older sister, Holly had been married for nearly a decade. Andrew, her husband, owned a Ford dealership and had done quite well. The two of them lived alone in a large house Andrew surrounded by walnut and almond orchards his parents had planted when they were first married. An arborist and all around environmentalist, Holly managed the orchards for her in-laws.

“I assume she’s happy about it,” I said.

“She’s starting to be, I think. She’s just now far enough along to tell people.”

“That’s good news, then,” I said.

Kathy didn’t say anything, just undid another button so that the tops of her breasts could absorb the sunlight.

Home: Part 25

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

April 1958 

The first time my sister died, we were at home by ourselves. Our parents had gone to the neighbors' to "lighten things up a bit," and Cindy and I were left to the small black-and-white television and two cans of tomato soup my father had picked up at the A&P on his way home from work. The neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson to me and Cindy, had just returned from a vacation to Florida and had stories to share. Mrs. Johnson, like my mother, stayed home all day while her husband sold real estate. They had no children, and I often wondered what Mrs. Johnson did all day in such an empty house. Sometimes I would see her sitting on their back porch. She would sit and smoke, staring into the two maple trees my father had helped them plant years before. She would smile if she saw me. She would raise her cigarette in a type of salute before turning her face away.

"We won't be late," my mother said as she and my father walked out the front door. I noticed that she had put her pearl necklace on.

"Behave," my father said.

"I'll make the soup," Cindy said when they were gone. "And some toast. I'm going to eat in my room. You can watch TV."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"Yes, you are. You just don't know it." She walked into the kitchen while I lay on the carpet beside Tiger and scratched his ears. I removed my leg and tossed it onto the frayed sofa.

"What do they do over there?" I said.

"Parcheesi, or something," Cindy said from the kitchen. "Sometimes they play cards. And they probably drink. I'm making you two pieces of toast. I'm having peanut butter on mine."

"I'm not going to eat," I said.

"Yes, you are."

I was still lying beside Tiger when Cindy carried a bowl of soup and the two pieces of toast into where I was in the living room. She set them on the end table beside the sofa. "I said that I'm not hungry."

"There's your food," she said. "Don't let Tiger get it." She went back to the kitchen and got her own bowl and toast. "I'm going to my room." The smell of peanut butter lingered when she was gone.

I crawled to the sofa, then sat on the cushion nearest the food. Tiger watched, his head tilted as he watched me eat. Cindy's room was down the hall, closest to the bathroom. As I chewed my toast I heard something fall and break. Waiting for something else, I heard nothing more. "Stay," I said to Tiger. I put on my leg and walked toward Cindy's room. I put my ear to her door but could hear nothing. "What was that," I said. "Cindy?"

She was lying half on, half off her canopy bed as though she were in mid-prayer.  The soup bowl had shattered when it hit the floor, and tomato soup was soaking into the rug. The window was open, and I could hear cars as they passed in front of our house. "Hey," I said, but she didn't move. I got closer and looked down at her, at her blue face. I pulled her shoulder, and she slid off the bed so that she was lying on her back with her face toward me. My first thought was to call the Johnsons' house and to talk to my parents. Instead, I reached beneath Cindy's armpits and pulled her upright. I patted her back--softly at first, then hard. Her mouth sagged open, and I stuck my finger deep inside. Whatever was there was thick and soggy. I curled my index finger around it and pulled, removing a large, sticky piece of toast coated with peanut butter. I slapped her back again, and she seemed to belch and cough at the same time. Her eyelids fluttered. When I set her down and leaned her against the bed, she stared up at me as though trying to figure out who I was.

I looked down at her. "I was happy," she said flatly.

I left her room but did not shut the door. I returned to the sofa and found that Tiger had eaten my dinner. I wondered if I should call my parents anyway, let them know what had happened. But I just sat there and listened to Cindy as she rustled about. When she walked into the kitchen and dropped the pieces of soup bowl into the garbage can, she seemed to be fine.  On her way back to her bedroom, she stopped a few paces away from me and seemed to take in her surroundings. Finally, she looked at me. "You finish your dinner?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay." She considered her hands, then lifted her eyes to me again. "There's so much to see," she said, and then she went into her bedroom and shut the door.

Home: 15

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

March 1982

 
"You're up late." Kathy had come out of the bedroom and was now standing behind me as I sat on the couch. I liked the pressure of her hands on my shoulders.
"Not up late--couldn't sleep."
She sat next to me. "Everything okay?"
I nodded. We'd been married for just two months, and she had yet to become used to my chronic insomnia.
"You hungry?"
"Not any more. I had two bowls of ice cream. Now I just feel crappy."
She pointed at the book on my lap. "What are you reading?"
"Kafka."
"That'll cheer you up."
I laughed. "Who wants to be happy when they can't sleep? It's a time to revel in misery."
We sat there, and she leaned into me. "I'm sorry you had to get out of bed," I said. "You didn't have to. You know I can't go far if I try to escape." I raised my half-leg.
"Oh, I've seen you hop," Kathy said. "You're pretty good at pogo-sticking around."
That made me feel good, relaxed. Kathy was relaxed, too, and I could tell by her breathing that she was dozing off. "Kathy."
"What?" she whispered.
"Let's go back to bed."
"Can you sleep now?"
"I think so."
"Okay. I'll race you."
In bed, Kathy was asleep again almost immediately. I lay on my side, facing her, watching as her breasts rose and fell with her breathing.

Time for Endings: Interview #3 (The Final Cut)

It's good to see you again.
I'd bet you say that to everyone.

But I always mean it.
I'm sure you do. What's on your mind this time?

I thought we'd discuss your latest project.
That's it?

We'll see. You know I like to wander.
Fair enough.

It appears that you're finished with the project. Am I right?
I think you are. I always qualify that, though, since I've been known to change my mind.

Why are you ending it? You wrote only five "endings."
Well, how many endings does a person really need? They can't go on forever.

I couldn't help noticing that the final two pieces involve beds. Was that intentional?
Do you want it to be intentional?

I have no preference. I just thought it was an interesting prop.
Prop? Why a prop? It's more of a location. You ever experienced insomnia?

As a rule, no. Why?
If you ever do, the experts will tell you that the only things you should do is bed is sleep and have sex. Everything else should be done someplace else.

That makes sense, I suppose.
No, it doesn't. We can't dismiss how much time we spend in bed--not just for sleeping and sex, but for so much else. Most of us are born in a bed, and perhaps most of us will die in one, if we're lucky. Beds are great places for conversations. We generally feel safe there, and it's a fine place to ponder what we need to do on any particular day. And depending on when we're in bed, we can feel safe and protected, or we can be quite vulnerable.

I see. So, do you think using the bed as a location in two different stories was intentional?
You're often annoyingly persistent.

It's my job. It's what I do.
Then I'd say that, no, it was not intentional. I probably didn't even realize it until you brought it up.

You don't read them when you're done?
Generally, no. That's why you might find typos.

In "Ending #2" you have a family that seems to be in some kind of trouble. What prompted that story?
Nothing prompted it. I just typed the first line, and the rest took care of itself. These pieces are not long enough to require any planning.

The family--or the parents, at least--appear nervous about returning to their home.
They are.

Why?
I don't know. I wrote only the ending, not the rest of the story.

I think readers might need a bit more information, some background.
I told you before that I don't have any readers.

And the father in that one. He and his children have witnessed their cabin--or a cabin--burning. Yet you never say why it burned, or why the son has only one shoe.
No, I don't. You're more than welcome to fill in the rest of the story on your own. You've got an imagination, so you should write your own version of the story. Have some fun with it.

Also, I didn't find much happiness in any of the stories.
I think one of them has some happiness--the fourth one if I remember correctly.

Readers...
...which I don't have.

...might be put off by the sense of bleakness in the works.
Perhaps all of the happiness takes place before the endings. Besides, life isn't always peaches and cream, is it?

No. But I think if people are unhappy in their own lives, or even in parts of their lives, they're not going to want to read something that takes them even further down.
I'm not trying to take anyone anywhere. These are works of fiction. You know that, right? It's all pretend. The works are not about me or my experiences; they're just a bunch of words strung loosely together, and they have no meaning beyond what they are.

I think I understand what you're saying. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, or to tell anyone.
Ummm... No. But you realize that you and I are just pretend, too, right?

So, this is fiction, as well?
Damned right it is.

Ending #5

In which we find the fifth (and probably final) installment of an ending for something that has not been written.

David says that he is comfortable, that this is a good way for things to end. "I was glad we got to go to London," he says as though we'd been there yesterday and not several months ago right before things turned bad. "Could you move the vase off of the windowsill?"

Annie, our older sister, had sent the flowers--a bouquet of bright blooms that she hoped would add some light to the room. I lift the vase and set it beside the picture of Mom and Dad. "You need anything to eat or drink?" I ask.

"Not now," he says. He struggles to get his arm untangled from the IV. He doesn't want me to help with such things, but we both know that in a few days he won't be able to do it alone. "Is Terri coming by today?"

Terri is the head hospice nurse. "Yeah. In a little while. It's still early." He trusts Terri more than he trusts anyone else, even me. I can't blame him for that. Terri is a short, thin brunette, characteristics my brother has always sought in women. I'm usually here all night while Terri and her crew take over in the morning until I can return about lunchtime. Someone called in sick this morning, though, so I'm covering for a few hours until Terri can get here.

"I've lived a good life, you know," he says. "I'm happy with how things turned out, overall." He laughs. "Well, not with this part, but everything before this."

I sit down again and stay silent. I'm never sure of when I should talk. Terri told me that I should let David guide how each day goes. Sometimes we nap at the same time, and when we do I remember how we had to share a bed for awhile when we were kids.

"One thing I would change," David says, "is not eating enough bagels."

"Bagels?" I ask. I'm sometimes not sure of it's him or the morphine drip talking.

"Yeah. Bagels. I always liked bagels. But when I was married to Cindy, she wouldn't buy them because she was so anti-carb, as though bread was the worst thing a person could eat. I let her win that fight because at the time I thought letting her win was important."

"You can eat bagels any time you want to, David."

"Like I said, I'm happy with how things turned out. I mean, I'd rather die with small regrets--like bagels--than die thinking I'd missed something major."

"That makes sense," I say, and I start mentally counting my regrets. Maybe that's what he wants me to do.

David has drifted off. He seems relaxed, and I walk to his side and wipe the moisture from the corners of his mouth. He looks so young, now--not my older brother, not someone who has suffered so much in the last year. I turn the lights off and shut the window blind most of the way so that only a bit of light shines through. Annie's flowers stay bright. I sit down again and listen to David's breathing, and I watch the regular drops of fluid that leave the IV bag and slide down the clear plastic tube.

In the notebook that Terri and I keep on the table beside the chair, I jot notes about how David was last night--if he ate anything, how he seems to be feeling. I know that things will get worse soon, that at some point David won't even know we're here. I hear mockingbirds in the trees outside. In the kitchen, ice cubes fall into the tray. I consider how things have gone these last 65 years, and I realize that, overall, and except for this, I'm happy with how things have turned out.

Ending #4

In which we find the fourth installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I looked outside and saw that the rain had ended. The hotel room was still dark, and Sherrie was lying on the bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to her chin. The garbage truck that I'd heard earlier had just left the parking lot, the flashing orange light on its roof reflected in puddles. "It's going to be a good day," I said as I sat on the foot of the bed. "The rain has stopped."

Sherrie pushed against my back with her foot. "You say every day is going to be good."

"I'm an optimist," I told her.

"Since when?" I liked how her voice sounded in the morning: soft, a little raspy.

"Since I met you," I said. And I meant that, too. When we left Paducah, just before we crossed the river into Illinois, I realized that things had changed and were going to be different. It was a good realization.

"You're sappy, sometimes," Sherrie said. "Come back to bed."

I wanted to get on the road early. We were almost to St. Louis, and I didn't want our momentum to stop. "Only for a little while," I said. 

Under the covers, I lay on my back as Sherrie pushed up against me and rested her forearm on my chest. I felt protected, loved. "I'm going to drive into Missouri," she said. 

"Then I get Kansas," I said. "You can have all of Missouri."

She giggled. "This is exciting, isn't it?"

"It is," I said. 

We were quiet for awhile. Daylight had begun moving around the side of the window's drapes. I could tell from her breathing that Sherrie had drifted off. I shut my eyes and thought that maybe she had the right idea. Everything that had happened in Paducah had been left behind when we'd packed the car and driven out of town. So, I lay there and caressed Sherrie's forearm, letting my eyes shut to the morning, letting Sherrie hold me like that.

Ending #3

In which we find the third installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


When the movie ended, I sat in my seat for awhile longer and watched the credits fade in and out of view. The old couple that had been sitting a few rows in closer to the middle of the theater helped each other stand in a way that made me think they'd once been dancers. There was a certain grace between them. The man in the wheelchair wheeled smiled and nodded at me as he passed. 

I knew that the weather outside was cold; snow had been falling all day, and the wind was forecast to pick up throughout the night. When the credits were over, I sat alone in the middle seat in the middle row. The lights came on and a young man entered the theater with a broom and dustpan. He seemed surprised to see me. "I've got to clean up," he said. I smiled and nodded in the same way the man in the wheelchair had done to me. When I didn't move, he shrugged and started sweeping up the empty popcorn boxes and soda cups.

"Have you seen this movie?" I asked. 

He didn't stop working. "Nope. I just clean."

"You should watch it," I say.

"No time."

I didn't push it. I knew how time worked. "Can I just sit here through the next showing?" I asked. I knew it was a rude question, that I was putting him in a tough spot. He might have been sixteen. Scrawny and a little awkward in the way most kids are at that age.

He kept working. "I don't think so, Mister. Besides, it doesn't start again for another hour. You don't want to sit here for that long, do you?"

I did, actually. I didn't feel like going out into the cold, and I didn't want to drive home to where Ines was. We'd had a rough year, and now everything was at a point where balance was important. The scales could tip either way based on what we heard from the doctor in the next few days. 

"What's your name?" I asked the kid.

"Alan."

"I'm going to leave in a couple of minutes, okay, Alan? I won't get in your way, and I'll be out of here before you know it."

"Okay. That's fine. I'll clean the other rows first, and I'll get to yours last. When I get there, though, you have to leave. We have rules about people being in here."

"That's fine, Alan. That's fine. I won't get you into trouble. My wife and I usually come here together, but tonight she stayed home."

"Yeah," Alan said.

He was getting closer. The theater was small and I knew I didn't have much time left. When he got to the row in front of me, he stopped. "There's nothing to clean in this row, Mister."

"You need to clean my row, right?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

I stood. "That's okay, Alan. I'm leaving. Have a good night, okay? Thanks for letting me stay."

As I walked through the lobby, I avoided looking at anyone. I just wanted to get it over with, to be outside in the snow and wind.  As I drove out of the parking lot, I told myself to drive slowly so that I'd get home in one piece. Ines and I had some things to discuss as we waited.

Ending #2

In which we find the second installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


They walked down the middle of the dirt road and occasionally looked over their shoulders to see if smoke was still rising where the trees ended at the small clearing. Billy, nine years old, wore one shoe. His sister Beth didn't wear any. "Dad, how long will it burn?" Billy asked. The boy ended his question, as usual, with no upward inflection.

Andy loved his son but sometimes wished he wouldn't ask the same question more than once. "Till the wood's gone, I guess." Beth was different: She would ask a question, parse the answer, then move on. 

"And you called Mom, right?" Billy asked. 

"I did," Andy said. "She'll be waiting for us. Keep walking, okay? We don't want to keep her waiting." He looked at his children's feet and wished he'd been able to grab enough shoes for them. But when he'd realized things had gotten out of control, he simply shoved them out of the front door. They'd stood on the front lawn and watched everything burn, each of them sobbing at one point or another. It was a sick feeling, watching the cabin burn. 

"Mom's gonna be mad," Beth said.

"Yeah, she is," Andy said. "But not at you two. At me. At the whole idea of the cabin, really." As soon as the three of them had gotten outside, Andy knew he'd have to make the phone call. Irene had not believed him at first. "The cabin what?" she'd said. But he heard a bit of fear in her voice after she got things straight in her mind.

Billy had skipped far ahead until he seemed small and carefree in the dust he was kicking up. Andy wondered if his son's bare foot was sore. Irene might be as mad about the lack of shoes as anything else. Beth seemed to walk as though nothing at all was missing from her feet.

When they reached the 7-Eleven where Irene was already waiting, the children ran to her and hugged her waist. Andy could see her wipe tears from her cheekbones. He kissed her mouth when he got to her, and he thought it was the most passionate kiss they'd shared in a long time. Maybe fear makes that happen, he thought.

Irene looked around the parking lot. "We can't stay here."

"I know," Andy said. "We'll have to drive to the house."

"No. It's not safe there."

Andy shrugged. The kids had gone into the 7-Eleven to get a snack. "We have to. We'll have to risk it. We'll wait for awhile, for nighttime. Then we'll drive the long way. We'll be okay, Irene. I promise."

"You've promised lots of things, Andy. Now look at us. What about the kids?"

"The kids will be fine. We'll all be fine. Things are different now. I can feel it."

"You can feel it, Andy?"

"Yeah. They probably aren't even looking for us now."

Irene told Billy and Beth to get into the car when they came out with pretzels and Sprite. "We'll wait until dark, then. I'll drop you off at the park near the house, and you'll walk home to make sure nobody is there."

Andy pressed his chest into her back. He wrapped his arms around her belly and nuzzled her neck. He was still remembering the kiss. "We'll be okay."

Then they got into the car and waited for night to fall.

Ending #1

In which we find the first installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I sat alone and watched the band end its night on stage. The bar itself was nearly empty now, the smart drinkers and the dedicated hook-up artists long since gone. I'd stopped in tonight with the intent of having a drink for each song the band played, but I'd lost my momentum before early, and then the songs got longer and I stopped caring as much or counting at all. My left ear, the one that had been turned toward the stage, was nearly deaf. In my other ear were sounds of the waitresses cleaning up and the bartenders restocking the glasses and bottles.

The walk home was going to be long and cold, neither of which bothered me. I persuaded the waitress who'd been helping me all night to bring me another Scotch, and I gave her my last five dollars on top of whatever the drink cost. She seemed grateful, but her eyes were tired and I knew she, too, just wanted to go home. I considered asking her to walk with me, but I sober enough to see that she was too blonde and too young--and probably too smart--to give me the time of day.

I watched the band tear down the equipment and pack things away. The bartender flashed the lights to let everyone know he was shutting things down, so I finished the Scotch and struggled to get my arms into the sleeves of my heavy Carhartt jacket. I was a bit off-balance when I stood. Outside, the heavy touch of cold December made my eyes water. A Buick Skylark was stuck in a snowdrift near the road, and a group of people giggled and laughed as they tried to get it free. I was happy that they saw no misery in the inconvenience.

Walking the path that ran along the river between the bar and my mobile home, I wondered what Becky was doing right then. The last time we'd talked she'd said something about Ensenada, that it might be a good, safe place to ride out the next few months. She was probably right about that. Or, at least she was right about finding a place to ride things out until the dust settled. If she were still around I'd quibble with her thought that Ensenada was "safe," however. I'm not sure that anyplace is safe after what had happened between us.

But I wanted to think that Becky was okay no matter where she was. "I'd like to be able to tell people this story someday," she'd said. "My kids, maybe. If I have kids, I'd like them to hear the story." I'd told her that would be nice, but as I walked along that river and listened to the ice crackle,  I thought that maybe some stories shouldn't be told.

Time for Endings: Interview #2

It's good to see you again.
Why?

It just is.
Okay. I'll accept that.

When we left off last time, we were talking about why you write.
I've decided not to answer that. It's an unanswerable question.

I don't agree.
It doesn't matter.

Okay. I'll accept that.
Nobody likes a smartass.

Let's move on, then. What do you hope to accomplish with this project?
I believe that I told you before that I have no expectations. I also have no hope.

Perhaps you're simply trying to find a way to be creative.
That could very well be. I like that answer.

And if you don't have any readers, why even write?
That sounds suspiciously similar to asking why I write. You're clever!

But don't you want readers?
[sighs] I suppose I do. At some level, anyway. But when I go fishing, I don't have to catch a fish to be happy. Sometimes standing in the river is enough.

But catching a fish feels good, right?
It does. But the older I get, the more I identify with the fish. All they want to do is live, eat, procreate, and die in perfect water. That seems like a perfect way to live one's life.

I have to say that you seem especially morose this evening.
Morose? No. I like to describe myself as a practical realist.

Maybe that's why you're focusing on endings--they seem more real than beginnings.
So, it's an age-thing?

Could be. As we get older, we see fewer beginnings. Or, we've seen enough to...
...make us happy?

I was going to say "make us understand that how we end is as important as how we begin."
Where do you come up with this drivel?

You're mood is contagious.
You're wrong about my mood. Perhaps your the one who is feeling morose. And I don't like how this is going, by the way. I don't need therapy.

Do you think that's what this is?
You sound like a therapist. You don't have much time left; ask me relevant questions.

Okay. Do you like to write?
Mostly, yes. Mostly I feel as though I have no choice, however.

Like you're driven to write?
You could say... Oh! Wait! You circled right back to the question about why I write, didn't you! You're good!

Have you ever thought that you might have readers at some point, and that those readers will want to know your motivation?
I've thought no such thing.

Let's get back to your project. How would readers know they're reading fiction?
I'll tell them.

You'll tell them?
Yes. 

Oh--I remember you wrote something about that in your introduction to the project. You'll use "end" or something like that.
Yes. Somewhere at the start or the end of the piece.

So, it'll be obvious.
Yes.

What if the readers don't get the hint?
Frankly, in the end, what does it matter?

What Happened Here?

My father coughs and opens his eyes. “How do you want to remember me?” he asks. He has a tube in vein in his neck, a tube in his nose. These are just the tubes I can see. Others are hidden by the bed sheet. The last few strands of what he once called his Donny Osmond hair fall over his forehead, and I move them away from his eyes.

“How do I want to remember you?” 

“Yeah. Do you want to remember the jerk, or the days when I was a decent man?”

“Dad,” I say. But I can tell from his breathing that he has drifted off.

Later, at home, my wife Cindy asks how things went at the hospital. “He seemed to be comfortable,” I told her. She hugs me, and pressure of her hands on my back feels nice.

We sit down for supper, and Cindy hands me a plate. “Could he talk?”

“A little,” I tell her. I compare the hot roast beef on my plate to the sandwich I’d had at the hospital cafeteria that afternoon, when I’d left my father’s room when my father’s bed and dressings were being changed. “He asked me how I want to remember him.”

“I think that’s sweet,” Cindy says. 

“I didn’t know how to answer.” The kitchen and the food are warm.

“Did he want an answer?” Cindy passes the salt for my green beans.

“He fell asleep before I could say anything,” I tell her. “He was still sleeping when Phil showed up.” Phil is my older brother.

“How nice of him to visit,” Cindy says.

“He’s been pretty good, Cindy.”

“And he makes sure that everyone knows he’s going out of his way to go see his own father,” Cindy says.

“Well,” I say. Phil has never been reliable, but has been trying lately—trying to stay sober, trying to do what he can. My family story is that our men cannot hold their liquor. My father and I learned that early in life, but Phil seems to be more like our grandfathers and uncles, men who drank and didn’t care. They are legendary for how effectively and efficiently they abused anyone who crossed them. Phil and I got lucky in one way because by the time we got to junior high our father had gone sober. Some of our cousins, though, didn’t fare as well.

“When are you going back?” Cindy asks.

“Tomorrow, I think. After work. Phil told me that he’d go again in the morning.”

“You sure he’ll be there?”

“I have to be sure, don’t I? Don’t beat Phil up too much. He’s trying.” I know that Cindy never really liked Phil, and there are good reasons for that. Still, there were a lot of times when I could count on him when I couldn’t count on my father.

“So, what did you tell him?” Cindy asks.

“Phil?”

“Your father. How would you answer?”

“I don’t know,” I told her.

At work the morning Susan, my boss, calls me into her office. “How are you doing with all of this, with your father?”

“Pretty well. I’m headed back to the hospital after work.”

“You can leave early if you need to.”

Years earlier, when Susan was going through a divorce and Cindy and I were having a rough time, we’d gone to the brink of an affair. One day we were in her office, and we decided that we couldn’t go any further. We stepped back from that brink and felt good about it afterward. Susan had let her hair grow out since then, and now was letting it go gray as if challenging the aging process to take its best shot. I liked her confidence.

“Phil should be there now,” I tell her.

“Okay,” Susan says. “I just thought I’d check in with you. I know this is hard. How’s your wife?” Susan had never been able to say “Cindy,” even when their paths crossed.

“She’s fine,” I say. “Helping me get through this.”

Traffic is heavy on the way to the hospital after I leave work, and the fifteen-minute drive turns into thirty. I walk through the lobby and take the elevator to the third floor. I sign in at the counter and get a visitor’s badge. I don’t recognize the young man—maybe a nurse—behind the counter. Over the last few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to the same faces, mostly young women.

The man checks to see whom I’m visiting. “Oh,” he says, looking at me.

I can’t tell if he wants to say anything more, so I walk to my father’s room. Phil’s there, sitting in the vinyl chair that is set too close to the ground. Something’s different in the room.

“Stan,” Phil says, and he stands up and hugs me. He has always been taller.

When Phil lets go, I look at the bed. My father’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is opened slightly. The tubes are gone from his face. “Dad?” I say.

“It happened before I got here today,” Phil says. “Just a little while ago. I told the nurses you were on your way, so they said they’d be back in just a bit.”

“What happened, Phil? What happened here?” I edge by Phil and get closer to the bed so I can touch my father’s face. It is barely warm.

“Look, Stan…”

“Phil? What happened?”

“He did it himself. Pulled the tubes out right before I got here.”

What? Why didn’t somebody stop him?”

Phil points to the sign above the bed. “DNR. You knew about that. And the advance directive. Nobody was supposed to stop him.” Phil had inherited my father’s hair, and he used both hands to pull it away from his face.

I sit in one chair, and Phil sits in the other. I want to cry, but I can’t.

“He was always tough,” Phil says. “I couldn’t do that—take those tubes out of myself.” He sighs. “I wished he’d talked to me, you know? Every day I’ve been here for the past week, he hasn’t said a word.”

I can’t think of a thing to say to Phil. I slide back in the chair and stare at the bed and think about my father’s last question.

Phil sighs again. “He was tough when we were kids, too. Remember the time when we were kids, before junior high, when he chased us out of the house and told us never to come back? He was drunk and pissed.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.

“What? How can you not remember that? It was winter, and we were running away. Dad had a baseball bat, or something, and Mom was yelling at him from the front door. We didn’t even have boots on, and my feet were freezing in the snow. You were bawling and wouldn’t stop.”

I look at my father’s body, at its diminished form. I look at Phil, at how unkempt his hair is. “I have to say that I don’t remember anything like that,” I tell him.

Phil looks at me and seems like he wants to ask me a question.

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#19)

The week had been long; he'd been despondent and silent again. Maybe it was the humid weather. When he finally emerged from the basement, he was dressed in nothing but skivvies, and he had the hunting knife. I found him in the kitchen just sitting in a folding chair and holding the knife. "Brian," I said. He whispered: "Dare me." I grabbed my cellphone and called 911 from the damp front lawn. They didn't even let him put pants on, and he looked thin and sad when they came outside. "I'm not suicidal," he called. They took him away anyway. 

----

The wet grass felt good on my bare feet. The neighbors were watching, and if my hands had been free I would've waved. I told everyone that I wasn't going to kill myself. "I'm just despondent," I said to the woman who took my knife and put the handcuffs on me. "We're all despondent, sometimes," she said, but I think she was confusing despondence with despair. I've felt deep despair before, and I do know the difference. Despair is when everything--everything-- seems black and cold. This time, I just needed to be alone. The knife was only a prop.

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#18)

They were young. Wait awhile, I thought, and then you'll see what love is really like: going to bed each night glad you didn't kill your spouse and calling that happily married. I thought about them the entire ride home, how they laughed so unselfconsciously. Maybe we were like that before the world became fast and digital. When I parked the car, I realized I'd forgotten the pasta shells. I sighed and headed back to the store. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, and I thought I'd buy a good bottle of wine for dinner, something she likes.

-----

I watched him leave the driveway. He had the top down even though snow was forecast. Some days he forgets where he is going, but he always finds his way home. Young people seem to bother him--their noise and energy. Maybe he's frightened of them; I don't know. Some nights I rub my palm against his shoulders, feeling familiar warmth there. When he is restless I leave for the sofa but always return to bed before he awakes. He's sometimes surprised to see me then. "I dreamed you were gone," he says. "I know," I tell him. "I know."

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#17)

The student left a bag on his desk at the end of class. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said. She was 19, three decades his junior. He looked inside: a small coffee cup and some expensive chocolates. He remembered how he had been in love with his third-grade teacher, and he wondered if this were the same thing. "Wait!" he called, and she came back into the room. "You're not supposed to give me gifts," he said, "even small things." She didn't seem fazed, and she left again. He stared at the bag and wondered if he should tell the dean.

_____

She saw it the next morning before he'd gotten out of bed: the cup and the chocolate. She was happy; the cup had "Happy Valentine's Day!" painted on it, and she was glad that he'd remembered. They'd been married long enough that their gifts to each other were small, but meaningful. When he came into the room, she hugged him. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dear!" she said happily. She raised the cup so sunlight reflected off the paint. He wasn't thinking clearly and didn't know what to say. "It's not much," he said. She smiled. "No, it's beautiful! You're so thoughtful!"

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#16)

Marvin sits to my left. Recently divorced from his wife of 28 years, he is often distracted and sometimes weeps silently early in the morning when he thinks nobody is there. Beth, to my right, has a son in preschool; she occasionally leaves work early because he bites. She, too, is distracted. Charles is our manager; his distraction is his own boss, Michael, who sells himself as a corporate visionary but who cannot articulate those visions to subordinates. My distractions? sunrise through tinted windows, the soft feathers of a bird that fell from its nest near the building's entrance today.

_____

I clean the breakroom and the cubicles. I am careful not to disturb anyone's personal belongings. Some people keep their cubicles clean, and others surround themselves with family photos and their children's artwork. I know when people's lives change: photos appear or vanish, for example. I've seen births, graduations, weddings, divorces, and vacations. I complete my tasks by 5 in the morning. When there are layoffs, people and their belongings simply vanish, but when they quit, belongings disappear slowly. Sometimes as I drive to the office, I imagine these people are my children, and I want to love them all.

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#15)

I looked at Lizette. Her head was on the small pillow raised against the window; irregular lines of hair rested on her neck. The bus was behind schedule, and I wondered if Lizette was sleeping or just watching headlights breaking through falling snow. "Lizette," I said. "Liz." She didn't move. I touched her hair, and it was as soft as any snow. I was reading Stranger in a Strange Land, trying to decide if it was good literature. I once told Liz that I'd always felt like a stranger, but she would have none of it. "We're all strangers, Rick."

-----

The bus was nearly empty. We had the two seats behind the driver. Rick had wanted to fly, but I'd said there'd be romance in a long bus ride. I knew we'd grown apart, and I thought the ride might rekindle something. It's an old story--young lovers fall heavily for each other, then one of them perceives a change. Maybe I was prolonging things, though, and maybe he knew it. When he touched my hair near Omaha, his finger brushed my neck. I couldn't tell him how it felt--we had to reach South Bend for that to happen.

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#4)

It started when I realized that I'm old. Once while watching TV, I glanced across the room to the framed photographs of our grown children. The more the show went on, the more I looked at those photographs. Finally I started crying. Not loud, just some tears that started somewhere deep. One day I walked through the park and saw mothers and kids. The kids were laughing. I should've been happy, but instead I had to sit down and cry. I wish this would stop. I've always been the strong one in the family, so this can't go on.

----

We've been through a lot in our marriage. Not once, though, did she complain. She said she knew that she could always rely on me to be strong. Even when Toby, our son, said he'd had enough of us both, she didn't complain. I told her he would be okay and would come back some day, and he'd realize that we'd all changed for the better.  We even separated for a time, but she called me and said she couldn't stay away. That was after Toby left. Through everything, I've been as strong as anyone could be. She seems happy.

Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#14)

His skin was thin, translucent, like ancient parchment under which blue ink was imprinted. When he sat next to me; sunlight through the window made the blue ink beneath his cheek even brighter. As two large women forced their heavy bags into the overhead bins, he seemed amused. Nobody was between us. Later, he declined snacks and beverages, but when the flight attendant brought my ginger ale, he smiled and passed the cup to me, and I felt how cold his hands were. He never spoke. When he slept, his eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he was savoring each breath.

_____

I was used to people staring. I know how I look--fragile, as though something isn't quite right. And things aren't quite right: that nagging pain in my side had quickly turned bad. I knew that the woman sitting in the window seat sensed something. I'd seen her in the airport, how her toenails were painted so beautifully. I'd come to notice such things more over the last ten months of the approximate year they'd given me. I wanted to tell her how wonderful they looked, and to thank her for not pulling away when she felt my cold hands.