Speaking with Strangers

By Jo Anne Valentine Simson

This eclectic collection of short fiction centers on the theme of revelations that can occur during unplanned encounters with those we don't know or don't understand, including ourselves. The poignancy of each story arises from the flash of understanding, sometimes tempered with despair, that may be triggered by such chance interactions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781619846906

Book preview

Speaking with

Strangers

Jo Anne Valentine Simson

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental.

Published by Gatekeeper Press

3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77

Columbus, OH 43123-2839

www.GatekeeperPress.com

Copyright © 2017 by Jo Anne Valentine Simson

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

ISBN: 9781619846913

eISBN: 9781619846906

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942448

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Blue

Body Donation

Black Watch

Event

The Gallery

Holiday Refrain

87th Street Wraith

Who Will Care For The Children?

Years Of Our Lord

Parking In Taegu

Philadelphia Gray

A Lifetime At The Laundromat

Heart’s Desire

Passion And Peace

Such A Marvelous Cat

Gypsy

Acknowledgments

Blue

Blue really is a tight color. No matter what you say. Don’t tell me about the big blue sky and the deep blue sea. Blue makes your lips stiffen when you look at it and try to smile. And if you’re wearing it, you worry about what other people think, even when you believe you’re above all that. To me it’s a deceptive color. It’s supposed to be spiritual and profound. But I think it’s as cold as an ice cream bar on a winter day.

I certainly should ignore any interest I might have in that blue silk-clad body walking in front of the park as I’m sitting here, waiting for the church chimes to strike the end of my lunch hour. I watch her hips working rhythmically, thighs pressing against the dress with each step. If she wore almost any other color, I’d know what to do, how to react. If the dress were red or purple or white or even yellow or black, I’d feel compelled to get up and follow her for a while so I could watch the shape of her hips’ swing and sway against the swishing silk. Then I’d pass her on the sidewalk, coming up quick on the inside, as if I suddenly remembered I was late for something. Just as I got a little ahead of her, I’d turn my head around, catch her eye, and flash a fast fading smile, as though I thought I recognized her and then realized I didn’t. If she smiled back, I’d start a conversation with something like, Oh, I thought you were Susie Hammond.

Susie Hammond is a purely fictitious friend I use for a variety of purposes—like the one just mentioned. Or for introducing into a conversation that’s going nowhere. I talk about her as if she’s someone I play tennis with or someone who agrees with my opinions on politics. And she likes the way I play the saxophone. I’m not sure I remember when Susie Hammond came into my head. She was pretty much already there a couple years ago when I perfected my routine.

She’s one of the best girlfriends I’ve got. Maybe even the best. She almost always agrees with me. She doesn’t hang around when I don’t want her around. She doesn’t make demands. I sometimes even see her in my mind’s eye: average height, slim, light blue eyes, brown hair in a feather cut. She’s not really pretty or ugly. She’s the kind of girl a guy can trust, even though she and I are strictly friends.

And then I’d ask her—the woman in the red or orange or black dress, that is—if she works around here. Then I’d try to get her name and phone number, at least her work number. The routine works. I’ve met some fun chicks with it. Most women who walk slowly like that—showing the shape of their flesh beneath the dress—want to be noticed.

But a woman in blue, that could be a different matter. You can’t tell what she wants or who she is. When you get close, she might withdraw, all the while drawing you to her. She could even box you in, trap you. It’s like women in blue think of themselves as marrying types. They want to make sure your motives are honest before they even go for a walk with you, much less go to bed with you. But usually they don’t walk like this one does. Usually their walk is steadier and less—what should I say—less titillating.

What’s to lose? My lunch hour is nearly over, and I might as well give this one a shot. Even with the royal blue dress and the navy blue pumps and the frowsy brown hair. I follow her a while, long enough to notice that her curvaceous form is on the plump side. Usually, chubby girls don’t wear blue, so this one’s different for that too. I don’t have much time for preliminaries; the church clock is going to chime on me any minute now.

I walk up behind her, pass her on the inside, and then give her my quick smile. She looks up, surprised, and smiles back. I say, I’m sorry; I thought you were Susie Hammond.

Her dark blue eyes get wider and more surprised than before and she says, I AM Susie Hammond. Do I know you?

My chest tightens and my mind goes blank for a second. But I recover real fast and tell her we met at a party a year or two ago.

She says, That’s odd. I’ve only lived here eight months.

I nearly stumble stepping off a curb. It’s a big city. Maybe it was a different Susie Hammond.

Not likely, she says decisively.

Then she asks my name. When I tell her, she says she’s heard about me and has wanted to meet me. I have this queasy feeling. Why am I flirting with a girl in blue?

Body Donation

Beneath the patina of ordered human social life and common decency lies the raw turmoil of individual selfishness, stupidity, and insanity. This is as disturbing to observe as the oozing flesh of a burned or flayed body, or the bones of a corpse. Luckily for most of us, the veneer of skin and the customs of civility usually hide that latter horror.

I’m tired. It’s the Friday evening of what has felt like a very long week—lab every afternoon, often late. In addition, I’ve just finished a review session for students that lasted two hours and was, as always, emotionally draining. I intended to go home early, but somehow the clock had moved on to 5:00 pm by the time I collected myself and was ready to go home. I didn’t feel like battling rush-hour traffic, so I went back to the office and picked up a small project to work on until the traffic cleared—an Examination Policy Memo for freshman medical students.

It’s now about six o’clock. I’m almost finished revising the memo, and I’m thinking about leaving work when the telephone rings. After the secretaries go home for the evening, the departmental phone rings in my office and in the machine shop. I pick up the phone after three rings.

Hello.

Hello. On the line is a woman’s voice.

Anatomy Department.

Yes, hello. Can I talk with the man I was talking to earlier this afternoon?

I don’t know who that was. Could you tell me his name?

I don’t remember his name. You see, my husband’s body is down there, and I want to have it cremated and sent back home. They said it would cost something.

You were probably talking with Brad Laughlin. I’ll see if he’s still around the department.

No, it’s not Mr. Laughlin. I know who he is. No, it was somebody else.

Well, I don’t think I can help you. The secretaries have all left. I’m just working a little late this evening. If you’ll give me your name and phone number, I’ll try to get someone in the body program to call you.

Thank you. My name is Martha, and the phone number is. . . . She recites a number in a monotone.

I’ll give your number to the secretary tomorrow. She’ll have someone call you.

I’m sorry to bother you like this. It’s just that it’s been bothering me so much. I can’t sleep nights. I just don’t know what to do. Do you understand?

I think so.

What would you do? I hate the thought of anybody cutting on him. He was so proud of his body.

Did he will his body to the medical school?

No, when he died, I didn’t know what else to do. So I told them they could have the body. I didn’t have any money then. But I’ve got a little extra now, and I’d like to have his body sent back. Cremated and sent back. Do you understand?

I’m not sure. It must be difficult for you.

It sure has been. I’ve been really upset since he died. I’ve been waking up every night at three o’clock. It’s like he’s haunting me. Did you ever have anything like that happen to you?

Do you mean; did I ever have someone close to me die? A good friend died a little over a year ago.

My husband died in November. Right in my lap. Committed suicide. I just didn’t know what to do. Now I can’t stand the idea of them taking his body out of the freezer and cutting on it, and then putting it back, and then taking it out and cutting on it some more. Do you understand?

I think so. But that’s not really what happens.

It’s not? What do they do?

"Well, first, the body is embalmed. Then, when the anatomy course starts, the cadavers are put out on metal tables for the students, usually four students to a body. Once a cadaver is put out, it’s left