Heartless Fainters Everywhere: 13 Stories

By Frederick Barrows

Frederick Barrows brings you 13 stories examining the lives of the downtrodden and discontent, in direct opposition to those who accept what they've been told, playing it safe and rarely challenging the status quo or questioning the mystery and wonder of the world around them.

A widow seeking to find all the pieces of her dead husband; a leper cut off from the rest of the world during a time of plague; a corporate death cult on the verge of total annihilation. These, and other, equally arresting stories (featuring tales involving characters from the novel Hothouse Gods) reveal people living lives on the margins, from outcasts to hustlers, the disenchanted and doomed, confronting Heartless Fainters Everywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Barrows
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989372930

Frederick Barrows

Frederick Barrows has published novels and short stories.His latest novel is Der Filmvorführer ("The Projectionist").

Book preview

Heartless Fainters Everywhere

13 Stories

Frederick Barrows

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Frederick Barrows

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN (Hardcover): 978-0-9893729-0-9

ISBN (Digital Mobi): 978-0-9893729-2-3

ISBN (Digital ePub): 978-0-9893729-3-0

The title Eyes The Shady Night Has Shut comes from A.E. Housman’s poem To an Athlete Dying Young

Cover: Girl on a Stage

Photography & Design: M Styborski

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, actions, or locales is wholly coincidental.

First published September 2013

ARGO013Dx, rev. 2.0 (02/2018)

Table of Contents

Introduction

Dedication

Reassembling Osiris

Golden Buddha Thoroughfare

Przhevalsky’s Horse

Arcadian Wolf Cults

Joyriders

Eyes The Shady Night Has Shut

Red Clay Of Georgia

Kubera’s Gift

Parts Unknown

Indivisible

Caving

Town Of The Ford Of The Hurdles

X Marks The Spot

About the Author

Introduction

The 13 stories collected here cover a period of 20 years. The earliest works (Red Clay Of Georgia and Parts Unknown) contain more nakedly autobiographical elements, whereas the most recently completed story (Indivisible) reflects a larger thematic idea (the inherent mystery of others) explored in the author’s subsequent writings.

Five of the stories (including the aforementioned semi-autobiographical pair) concern the main characters who appear in the novel Hothouse Gods. Some take place years before their appearance in the book (a teenaged Sarah in Joyriders), while others occur mere weeks or days before the novel begins (Golden Buddha Thoroughfare and Eyes the Shady Night Has Shut).

The remainder run the gamut from exploring the crime genre in a decidedly less masculine manner (Reassembling Osiris) to a (dementedly skewed) history of Dublin, Ireland, from pre-historical to modern times (Town Of The Ford Of The Hurdles). The greater goal, obviously, as with all commercial fiction, is to entertain and engage the adventurous reader.

Finally, a note on redundancy. A short story collection under the same title appeared in November 2003. It is no longer in print. Roughly half of the stories in this collection are new, with varying minor to more substantial refinements to the carryovers. Here, then, is the definitive edition of Heartless Fainters Everywhere.

Thank you for the interest, and enjoy.

Frederick Barrows

August 2013.

Dedicated to non-Heartless Fainters everywhere

Reassembling Osiris

DEAD SLEEP.

Myrtle just wants the last word. That’s what this is all about: Getting the final say.

It won’t be easy, though. Not like those black-shawl widows seething over freshly-snipped flowers in immaculately-tended graveyards, thumbing worn rosaries and gradually letting out the rage. No, Myrtle’s got to earn the right to have her final spiel. She’s got to find all the pieces of Murray and put them back together again. Only then can she vent.

I figure it’ll be sun-reddening in its intensity, certifiably apocalyptic, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The journey begins upstate, near Sherburne. Myrtle, looking smart (as always) in her olive cardigan and mauve pleated skirt, trusts the map, even if we did get lost and are stuck in a cheap roadside motel with a creepy clerk who, upon checking us in, asked if Myrtle was my mother. No great leap imagining him outside the window, eerie grin illuminated by the tacky neon. It’s cold out there, three in the morning and no rest for the paranoid.

Myrtle snores contentedly, one lumpy bed over, seemingly liberated by her hunt for Murray’s remains. Myrtle said she could have done it alone but deep down she must be thrilled to have company. That’s why I’m here, for companionship and as a witness, someone to validate her crazy quest, to be there during the all-consuming widow years.

Murray said you made the best coffee, she says, the following morning, during breakfast at a local greasy spoon.

I distractedly straighten a twisted bra strap. That’s what kept him coming back.

I passed by, it was near closing, but I just had to take a gander at his latest crush. He always had a weakness for blondes with strong builds. And you fit the bill, Nancy. She blushes. I figured it’d pass. But, honey, you got under his skin in a way no other passing fancy has.

Initially, Murray used the diner for the phone. He was always in the booth, making calls, coming to the counter for change. He was short and dumpy, dressed well enough. He had a worldly air about him, though, something a casual glance wouldn’t convey. He hid his stringy comb-over under vintage hats, nervously rubbed his thick hands and shuffled his wide, flat feet. He had a soft voice, never belligerent or pushy. He knew his Italian opera; knew how to talk to you as an equal, even while being waited on. That was Murray, considerate even when he didn’t have to be.

Myrtle refuses to ask the obvious question, even though I’d tell her. Honestly, I’d tell her in a heartbeat. She has to ask first, though. Otherwise, the answer wouldn’t come out right.

Why’d you stay? Myrtle asks (wrong question). Murray mentioned something about nursing school.

Waiting on the sick and dying or refilling cups of coffee for the walking dead? I absently stir my coffee. It’s all about routine. The routine at the diner got too comfortable. Apartment rent fixed, inflation an ignorable concern. I shake my head. Shoot, Myrtle. It was all too easy.

Everything was easy, until Murray asked if he could stash something at my place.

Never get involved. That’s the first rule for a small town girl heading to the big city. Trust no one. Walk in the gilded light. Murray sure was persuasive, probably because he wasn’t overbearing. If you don’t want to, hey, it’s no problem. I’d understand.

Box wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. Hid it in the closet, underneath quilts Mom had airmailed that first cold winter. Figured if I didn’t peek inside, I wouldn’t be an accessory after the fact.

As if.

Sleep was impossible. Imagined men with guns breaking down the front door, demanding to know where Murray’s package was. End up on a steel slab, all cold and blue, prodded and cut open, extra few pounds callously commented about.

Murray picked up the package after a few days. He apologized for any anxiety it may have caused. Favors make all the difference, he said, people looking out for each other, more precious than gold.

He owed me one.

Turns out I was at the end of a very long line.

BAD DIRECTIONS.

The nosey gas station attendant wipes his hands with a burgundy rag and leans forward. Will there be anything else, ladies?

Actually, dear, there is. Myrtle adjusts her sunglasses and tugs on the ends of her stylish, dark gray driving gloves.

We’ve got too much stuff, but Myrtle insisted, explaining that over-packing was always preferable to getting stuck without something indispensable when you needed it most.

The shovels were crucial, albeit last minute additions. Heading toward the interstate, Myrtle pulled into a hardware store and requested something durable but female friendly.

Ladylike, she probably meant.

Even though Myrtle claims to know exactly where we’re headed, she nonetheless produces Zelko’s map and stabs a fat red X with her index finger.

Is there an old mill nearby?

The attendant pushes back his grease-stained cap and scratches his forehead with blank deliberation. Yes, ma’am, he says. Head down the road about half-a-mile, or so. Come to a dirt road on your left, no sign. Well, there was a sign, but old man Trapp knocked it over about two years back after a real bender. Man never could hold his liquor worth a lick. So, no sign but, you, uh, just take it for a little ways and, heck, can’t miss it.

Thank you… She retracts the map and then lowers her pearl-stemmed granny glasses, examining the embroidered lettering over the right breast pocket of his coveralls. Clement.

Clement smiles wide, silver fillings ringing his upper jaw. No problem, ma’am. Always glad to help.

Well, thanks again.

Say, uh, is that there a treasure map, or somethin’?

No, dear. Myrtle tucks the map away. It’s directions to a delightful picnic spot.

Oh… Clement glances at the brand new shovels tucked in the back. Well, all right, then. Have a nice outing.

Myrtle nods and then points to his mouth. They eventually fall out, you know. Live long enough, you’ll discover nothing lasts.

FIRST DIG.

There’s very little left of the old mill, just some rotted wood and rusted sheet metal.

Arnold said try under the big tree.

Arnie Zelko’s doing thirty to life in Sing-Sing. He and Murray were childhood pals. He calls the map he designed for Myrtle his last good worldly act.

As if someone like that could ever be trusted.

Still, Myrtle swears by the map. Arnie probably regrets coming in second to Murray for her affections. Belated favors from behind bars presently doing him little good.

The big elm tree is dying, some kind of infection. No tree doctor in sight.

Myrtle switches the fancy genuine leather driving gloves for some heavy worker’s corduroy mitts. She then reexamines the map and nods her head. Okay, honey, let’s find him.

Fingers crossed.

An hour of digging around the tree’s base ultimately turns up a single bone.

Myrtle pulls out a pocket edition of Gray’s Anatomy and scans the exquisitely detailed renderings.

I think it’s a tibia, she says, comparing the bone with its artistically-sketched complement.

Ah… I nod. Only two hundred or so pieces to go…

Is that right? I think it is.

I’ll make lunch. Myrtle marches back to the car with the maybe-tibia clenched in a gloved hand.

While she lays out the picnic spread, I dutifully fill in the open trench around the moribund tree.

EXPOSITION OR ELSE.

The Grey Goose Diner is open twenty-three hours a day. Between four and five a.m. the lights are out. There’s no discernible reason why. At least none the standoffish waitress is willing to divulge.

Fortunately, we won’t be here nearly that long.

It’s near dusk. The temperature’s dropping. We’re just outside Hemlock Glen, unmistakable Heartland territory.

As usual, Myrtle refuses to let me pick up the tab. So far, I’ve spent less than two bucks, and that was on personal indulgences, chewing gun and a plastic hairclip. She can’t keep this up forever. At least, presumably she can’t.

What price obsession?

Myrtle raps the lower portion of the map and nods her head. The skull will be here.

Lean close, decipher upside-down Zelko scrawl.

Mexico?

Chihuahua desert. She taps the large X with a recently polished nail. That’d be the spot Murray’s skull was ditched. Makes sense, if you think about it. Arnie said something about a contract guy who wanted to retire but needed to do one last favor before being free and clear. Not that any of these soulless wretches are ever completely free and clear. Regardless, he was heading south and the skull, being one of the most crucial pieces of evidence, would be the last thing he’d dispose of, out of country, as far away from the scene of the crime as possible.

I blink, too stupidly. We’re going to Mexico?

Bus ticket anytime you want to bail, sweetheart. Myrtle smiles. Too placidly.

She doesn’t mean it, of course, but it’s still a big commitment.

That’s okay… I shrug. I’m sure the diner’s filled my position by now.

Crap jobs are easy to find, she says. Besides, I’m sure you want to help me see this through, being as you were probably the second most important person to Murray at the end.

A week before Murray disappeared, he showed up at my apartment with flowers and takeout Chinese. The balcony door was open and music from a street party below could be heard. Sinatra standards jostled with trite party anthems, like Celebration, and what might have been reggae-infused polka.

Murray said he had big plans, something about a score that would set things right, erase all debts; guarantee a pain free retirement. He didn’t go into detail, but it was obvious some crazy scheme was in the works, a final gambit that would either put him on easy street or well south of it.

Don’t worry, Nancy, he said, I won’t forget about you. Favors never lose their flavor.

He left a few minutes before the ten o’clock news.

He kissed me on the cheek, like a nervous teenager after a promising first date.

In retrospect, it’s obvious that something serious was happening.

Nearly a year later, Hemlock Glen and a sack filled with Murray’s bones. Something big all right, absolutely gigantic and more than a little dangerous.

What’s on your mind? Myrtle takes a protracted sip from her Long Island Iced Tea.

I’m just surprised Murray never talked about his final score, told you what he was doing.

They’re all like that, hoods. Super secretive. But I’m a good listener. Don’t miss much. I knew Murray was in neck deep.

Right, but Arnie contacting you well after the fact still doesn’t make sense. Why would he give you a map? It’s not like he has anything to gain.

Myrtle inserts a straw and pushes the drink toward me. Now, you’re wrong there, missy. Arnie had the most important thing to gain by telling me where to find Murray.

I take a modest sip. And that would be?

My affection.

Get out of town.

Arnie always had a crush on me, from way back. He’d do anything for me. When I went to visit him, I’d go on about not being able to give Murray a proper burial and was there anything he could do to help me find out what happened to him, or where he was.

Played like a fiddle.

Violin, dear heart, she says. A rare Stradivarius…

Hah!

Myrtle distractedly rotates the straw and speaks in a hushed tone. Remain calm. We are being watched.

Huh?

Across the street, silver Eldorado. She tilts her head, ever so slightly. He’s got binoculars. Act natural, like you don’t even know he’s there.

Why even tell me then? I imagine a recent graduate of an advanced lip-reading course trying out his skills in an active, live-fire environment.

No secrets, she says. We’re equal partners in this venture, no matter what.

Myrtle raises her drink. I reach for an empty juice glass and clink affirmatively.

She doesn’t protest when I place the glass over my eye and peer through it, directly at the idling vehicle outside. The man inside seems startled, lowering his spy-goggles and shaking his head, double-take style.

Touché, darling. Myrtle’s buzzing. Too-frickin’-ché.

A DARK AND STORY NACHT.

Flash flood a little past midnight, near Branson. Myrtle determinedly plows ahead, indefatigable.

It’s not safe, I say. Pull over.

Pull over where?

The side of the road. Sub-zero visibility. Just pull over. We’ll wait it out.

Her grumbling is audible, even over the torrent.

Fine.

She coasts to a stop and forcefully shifts into Park.

The slap of the windshield wipers, impotent against the downpour, quickly grows interminable.

Blasted cloudburst! She kills the wipers.

Cloudburst?

She exhales and sits back. What? You never heard the expression?

I shake my head.

Ms. Literary Smarty-pants, too-good-for-romance-novels, is unfamiliar with the proper usage of cloudburst?

Correct.

Murray used to say that. She smiles. Especially during summertime. He’d look out the window on a sweltering day and say how it was hot enough to make a cloud burst.

How many years were you two married?

Almost thirty.

Myrtle