Beaver At His Parents' [Episode 3]

By Norman Crane

Every life has a history. Everyone has a home page. Sometimes, to go forward, you have to hit the "back" button. Beaver At His Parents' is a comedy-drama series about Charlie, a lawyer who loses everything and returns to his home town to start over.

Episode 3: "Filosofem"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norman Crane
• Release date: Jan 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310575457

Norman Crane

I live in Canada. I write books. I'm a historian, a cinephile and a coffee drinker.

Book preview

BEAVER AT HIS PARENTS’: EPISODE 3

Filosofem

by Norman Crane

Published by Norman Crane at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Norman Crane

About the Author, i.e. me

I live in Canada. I write books. I’m also a historian, a wise guy and a cinephile. When I’m not writing, I’m probably reading or trying to cook. Philip Dick, Haruki Murakami and Graham Greene are some of my favourite authors. I enjoy fiction that makes me curious because curiosity makes me creative. I peer under mossy rocks, knock on hollow trees and believe in hidden passageways—not because I have proof of their existence, but because imagining them is itself the reward. I like non-fiction for the same reason. I also like computers, text editors and mechanical keyboards.

For more info and links to my writing, please visit my website: normancrane.ca

Filosofem

Dahlia bids me inside. I step into the living room as Aspen, flashing a smile not at me but my black eye, closes the front door, shutting out the outside world. You’ve been shutting a lot of doors on me, I say.

At least you’re on the proper side of one this time, she replies.

Dahlia tries smoothing the wrinkles out of her robe with her hands. So how do you two know each other? I imagine lesbians must do a lot of fingering.

Don’t blush, Aspen says. Do tell.

I smooth my own clothes, which are unwrinkled because I just ironed them, a habit best ascribed to a lawyer’s vanity. I had business with Ms. Loomis’ father, I say.

God, Charlie. If you’re going to be formal and awkward, I swear…

It seems Charlie’s parents had a disagreement with the municipal planners over a deck they’d built in their backyard, and Charlie, being the good son he is, was trying to straighten it out for them. She takes extra pleasure in straighten.

Dahlia hands me a cup of tea.

I drink.

And? she asks.

I lower the cup and wipe my lips. The tea tastes bitter. And everything is now in order.

It was all a misunderstanding, Aspen adds.

The way Dahlia’s eyes bounce between us, I feel like I’ve been pulled inadvertently into a Mexican standoff. Or maybe a love triangle. The question in both situations is the same: who’s in control? I try my best to be, reaching into my pocket to pull out the USB stick on which I’ve saved a bdrip of The King of Comedy. I hold it out to Dahlia. In exchange for tea. She hesitates before taking it. It’s the movie I told you about, I say. The one that’s a comedy without being especially funny.

Thanks.

I start to ask a question. How long have you two been–

Fucking? Aspen finishes it.

Dahlia coughs.

Together, I say.

For several years, Dahlia says. It’s a vague answer, and I can see the question makes her uncomfortable.

Aspen says, On and off.

Dahlia again: But more on than off.

I don’t pursue the topic, thinking instead about Kirk Loomis Jr. waiting for Dahlia in his pickup truck outside the 24-hour grocery store; and Kirk Loomis Jr. in Benson’s General Hardware, the store his father bought for him, ready to raise fists to defend his claim to a woman he wrongfully believes is his; and Kirk Loomis Jr. trembling in the dark, with his hands cupped, receiving his father’s gold watch like Christians receive Communion. God the father, God the son, but where is God the holy spirit?

Dahlia gently touches the side of my face with her fingertips.

I wince despite not feeling much pain; her fingertips pull back. I’ve not been touched like that since Rosie, and it’s the memory, more than the light pressure of flesh on gelatinous flesh, that hurts.

How’d you get that shiner? Dahlia asks.

I open my mouth to lie–

But the sudden ringing of a distant phone saves me from committing a sin, and I grin. Maybe God the holy spirit exists after all.

Excuse me, Dahlia says and disappears into her bedroom. Their bedroom: hers and Aspen’s.

I hear the manhandling of sheets, comforters and pillows.

On the floor under my skirt, Aspen shouts.

The manhandling stops. Followed by the ringing. Then the bedroom door becomes yet another closed door in my life. Faintly, I hear Dahlia’s voice but not the words she speaks. "I know how you got that shiner," Aspen says to me.

I walked into a cupboard, I say.

You met my brother.

And your father, briefly.

In which case, I’d say you’re lucky to have walked away with only one black eye.

Looking at her face, Yet you have none, I say.

She shrugs before lowering herself to the sofa. Sitting is a position of submission. Standing, I loom over her. How illusory such concepts are. I’m just a girl in the world, she says.

I replay the timeline of my confrontation with Kirk Loomis Jr. in my head. I went to the municipal office, then I went to see Aspen. Kirk Loomis Sr. was in Cuba, though I should make that conditional on an adverb: supposedly. I lack direct evidence unless you count his last night’s clothes. I also met Dahlia, but I don’t remember saying anything to her about my parents’ deck. Why’d you tell me the signature on the letter was forged? I ask Aspen.

The letter?

I can’t tell the difference between Aspen being genuine and Aspen playing. From the town to my parents. The one I showed you from the steps of your father’s house. You said your brother forged the signature on it.

"Oh, that letter," she says.

I wait for her to say more, a wait she seems to enjoy. In the silence, I hear Dahlia still talking on the phone.

Finally, Aspen says simply, I recognize his forgeries.

"And why’d you