Seven for Reflection

By Betty Mermelstein

These seven short stories delve into relationships, whether they are familial, with friends, or with strangers. They ask the reader to reflect upon each relationship and hopefully relate to one or more as having had a similar experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Betty Mermelstein
• Release date: Dec 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311249135

Betty Mermelstein

Betty has been interested in writing since she was a child and has published a variety of material, including poetry, ebooks, humorous personal narratives, nonfiction articles, and a children's play. She has been a ballroom dancer for many years, doing performances and competitions with her instructor. Living in Arizona with her husband, Alan, Betty is a retired elementary and junior high teacher, and loves spending time with her sons' families.

Book preview

Seven for Reflection

Short stories

by

Betty Mermelstein

Seven for Reflection

By Betty Mermelstein

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Betty Mermelstein

Exectations – copyright 2001

DyingWish – copyright 2003

The Reunion – copyright 2000

Close to Sainthood – copyright 2001

The Risings – copyright 2011

Self Retro – copyright 1998

The Choices of Spring – copyright 1995

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Expectations

Dying Wish

The Reunion

Close to Sainthood

The Risings

Self Retro

The Choices of Spring

Expectations

The boat split the waves. Cutting through the grayness of the choppy water, the bow parted the swells, throwing curls of foam to either side. The morning was chilly with gusty winds, but the warm sun gave a promise of a calmer afternoon on the lake.

The family in the boat faced forward, allowing the wind to slap at their faces, their windbreakers ballooning behind their backs. They looked northward toward their destination that was beyond the treed shorelines of the camping islands that dotted the middle of the lake. They made this run three times a week, bringing homemade bread, jam, and soft leather moccasins to sell at the gift store five miles up from their house on the southern end.

The father looked over at his son next to him on the front bench of the boat. He was pleased that the boy looked so happy. His son wore a slight smile that he knew was not forced by the wind, but by a contentment with being on the water.

A bit nippy today, he joked with his son while his hands kept steady on the wheel. The nine-year old boy smiled even more and just nodded while he kept his gaze ahead. His mother looked up from straightening the milk crates of bread loaves that had shifted in the stern.

It’s downright galelike! she yelled over the motor, reaching to tuck in a flapping towel that covered pairs of mocassins.

Brandon, hand me that seat cushion to put on top of this towel! his mother yelled again.

Brandon reached behind him to grab the flotation cushion resting on the bench that faced the stern. He tossed it next to his mother. Brandon then faced front again and watched the landscape speed toward him. On the right, Gull Rock was approaching. The usual flock of gulls covered the tiny rock island that seemed to float on the water. A few birds took to the air in seemingly scheduled turns to suspend on the wind briefly before diving down toward the rock again. Those resting on the stony surface bristled with the chilly air.

The boy craned his neck to see further up the lake. Gull Rock meant The Shadows were next. The area was so named because of the deep shadows cast by the giant maples that towered over the narrow quarter mile passageway on that side of the lake. There was never time to explore the area during their morning runs, but Brandon and his parents had often taken weekend days to motor through the calmer waters there. He would stretch out from the boat to touch the spongy shore grass that grew at the edge of the deep drop-off.

As The Shadows passed, the boy brought his head around to the left to accept another burst of wind to his face. Squatter’s Island was approaching quickly. Recessed among the brush was a solitary cabin fashioned of oak by a lone squatter some one hundred years ago. Brandon often imagined what the man looked like and how he had survived, maybe trapping small wildlife that inhabited the island or building his own canoe to venture over to the main shore.

The boat made its way past the northern point of Squatter’s Island. With this, the boy stood up and grasped the frame of the windshield. He turned to portside now and peered intently at the row of houses on the western shore.

He’s comin’ up, commented his father.

I think I can almost see him, Brandon answered, and he shifted his weight back and forth several times on his legs.

Brandon peered anxiously toward a spot on the shore that he knew well. It was part of all that was familiar to him: Gull Rock, The Shadows, the marina gift shop which was their destination, the steady power of their boat, and the approaching camp. It wasn’t really a campsite in the sense of the word that made one think of tents and fire pits. All the homes on the shores were called camps, the word being left over from the time before the actual houses were built and when the landowners truly did camp out on the land for their vacations.

The camp that was enlarging on the left shore was a simple two-story home. The clapboards were painted brown: the window and door trim a forest green. It sat close to the water, so there wasn’t much of a front yard: dirt and scrubby grass at best. Bushes were in need of a trim and a parade of buckets, tools, lawn chairs, and fishing poles made a path down to the single dock. But what made it so inviting to the family in the boat was the balcony that faced the lake from the second story.

It came even closer now and Brandon spied the lone figure upstairs.

There he is! he shouted as he began to wave wildly.

His father slowed the boat slightly, giving the constant drone of the motor a chance to change its pitch.

Right on schedule as always, the father stated.

Brandon’s mother had been sitting on the bench behind Brandon. She now turned her head around to gaze at the western shore. Shielding her eyes with her palm and squinting for a better look, she nodded in agreement.

The man on the balcony was in full view now. He was bent from the waist, one leg cocked behind the other. Leaning over the railing, he held a coffee cup in one hand, from which he took several gulps as he watched the boat stream toward the front of his camp. His pose seemed relaxed. He could see the swinging arm of the boy in the boat, as he did every morning that they passed, and as they came closer, he switched his cup to his left hand and raised his right. His hand went back and forth slowly in a wide arc, responding to the boy’s wild wave.

The parents raised their arms in greeting also, as always, and he could see the smiles on their faces. The boat had reached the point in line with the end of his dock. It continued to split the gray waves. Then the father’s hand slipped quickly down to control the wheel when the boat made a sudden lurch, causing its wake to churn and relax completely as the motor became silent. The boat rocked back and forth like a dizzied toddler. It took only a second of disbelief before the father left the wheel and went back to the stern. He bent to open the engine compartment door and motioned for his wife to help him. She braced the door with her arms so he could get a full view of the engine.

Brandon came back to stand near his parents, peering into the engine pit while his father went about checking the oil level and testing the fuel line, etc. He looked back at the man on the balcony, nearly in a perfect line with them now, though the boat had drifted slightly past the camp. The man looked at them, fixed in his position over the railing, making no movements at all.

Ah, we must have sucked in something in the fuel line, the father said, closing the compartment door and giving it an extra shove of frustration with his foot. We’re too far from a marina at this point on the lake to have them come and tow us, and we ought to call the shop to tell them we’ll be late.

Let’s see if our friend at the house will come and take us in, Brandon’s mother said pointing to the shore.

That’s what I was thinking, her husband replied.

Brandon’s eyes brightened. Yeah! We could go to his house and wait to get the boat fixed! He started waving wildly again to the man.

They all started signaling then in their own particular way. They weren’t but fifty feet from the dock and the man had been watching their dilemma. He must have known their movements were signs for aid, yet he maintained his position at the rail as if he were only witnessing a gull swooping down for its morning meal.

Finally, as if his thought were to go in to fix his breakfast, he turned away from the railing and entered the sliding door to his house. The family lowered their arms and stared, unsure of their position in this unexpected scenario, left alone bobbing with the waves. Then they saw the man return outside from the downstairs doorway and make his way down his littered path to the dock.

I knew he’d come get us! Brandon said to his parents, and he started to jump up and down in the boat.

Hey, we’ve got enough rocking, Brandon’s father exclaimed, then he shrugged to his wife. I guess he’s going to help us after all.

They heard his foot step onto the aluminum floor of the rowboat that was tied up at his dock. The man teetered while placing one knee on the stern bench to reach over to start the outboard motor. After two tugs at the starter, the motor’s loud drone reverberated across the lake. He unlooped the rope from a stake nailed to the dock and maneuvered away toward the three figures staring at each movement he made.

As the man approached them, Brandon started a tentative wave and smiled, squinting in the sun that now peered through the gray clouds. His parents both smiled, too, but the man came alongside their boat with no response.

Brandon’s arm lowered and he stared at the man, taking in each section of his face. Unshaven cheeks and chin sat under a thin line of lips and a broad nose. His eyes looked angry, though Brandon couldn’t tell if it was their blackness or their brows that lay close to his eyes that made him look that way.

I knew you’d come to help us, Brandon began quietly.

Thank you for coming out, his father went on. We need to phone the marina at Windy Point. We’ve got some deliveries in our boat for them. It would take longer to have them come down here and tow us up.

The man reached up to hold onto the side of the speedboat. His hand was rough and dark, and it squeaked on the slippery fiberglass as it moved with each wave.

Come on, then, he nearly ordered, motioning with jittery fingers on his other hand.

The father stopped talking then, and glanced at his wife. Lifting her hand, he helped lower her into the rowboat. She stepped onto the middle seat, but her foot slipped down onto