The Long And Short of It

By Theresa Laws

An eclectic collection of stories from the past, present and future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543925814

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The Long and Short of It: Copyright 2018 by Theresa Laws

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names and places are the product of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54392-580-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54392-581-4

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

INTRODUCTION

PROMISE ME

SMALL TOWN PEOPLE

THE GYPSY GIRL

THE NIGHT LEROY ROLLED HIS COUPE

LEROY AND THE MARTIANS

LEROY GOES TO COURT

ADULT ANGST

PRISONER OF TIME

PURPLE, TURNING SLIGHTLY BLUE

DRAGON IN A PAPER CUP

ANGIE’S SURPRISE

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

NEVER ENDING

CHRISTMAS STORY

SOMETHING STRANGE

ETERNITY

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

TALES IN THE GLEN

PARIS AT DUSK

AT THE VAMPIRE BOWL

TRIBUTE TO A FAVORITE

WHAT IF?

AND THE FEVER CALLED LIVING IS CONQUERED AT LAST

WAR AND WAR AND LITTLE PEACE

OF FAMILIES DIVIDED

AND FORCES UNITED

BETWEEN THE LINES, A MEANING DEEPER

FOR OUR MODERN PEACEKEEPERS

DEDICATION

Working on a story is a solitary endeavor. I require total silence. No crowded coffee shop. No television in the background. Not even any music playing.

That is not to say that inspiration doesn’t come from those things. But when the time comes to work, then is when all needs to be quiet.

But stories don’t happen in a vacuum, and so I want to dedicate these stories to all the people whose conversation I overheard out in the world somewhere. To all the many, many great songs that someone composed and performed. To the people who told me about themselves and whose emotions I borrowed for my own tales. To the pictures that are indeed worth a thousand words.

Some of these stories arose from discussions with fellow story tellers. To them I will be forever grateful for their support, for their encouragement and mostly for their friendship. Thank you, members of Humble Fiction Café.

And last – I must thank my husband, Anthony. Ever since we met he knew I was a little different. I’m sure there were times he thought I would retreat to some cramped and littered attic room and he would never see me again. But, he has been my one man cheering section all along. During times of drought of ideas, he has gently nudged me forward. And he has also known when to not nudge at all, for story tellers can be very temperamental. Thank you. I love you.

INTRODUCTION

Writing is called a craft. There are hundreds of thousands of articles and books on how to improve the craft of writing.

What it boils down to is – just sit down and write. If you practice it long enough, you’ll find your voice and your style and maybe write a good sentence or two.

I have always wanted to be able to call myself a writer. Since I was very young, I’ve had stories in my head. Some just short little vignettes and others fully fleshed out with people, places, plots and problems. I wrote. Then I didn’t. And, then I did again. I was a part time dabbler in the written word.

Then one day I discovered I’m not a writer at all. I’m a STORY TELLER.

So what’s the difference? Those thousands of articles and books are there to teach how to place the words just so. Show how to situate dialogue where it has the most impact. Train how to construct the sentences to build suspense and instruct how to work in the inevitable conflict that makes a story.

What I came to understand from all of this is that great story tellers use all these elements to make their stories come to life. And I wanted mine to do the same.

Writing can be many things, but for me the best books are the ones that tell the tale on my level. Ones that speak my language. Ones that get inside my head. Ones about real people.

Oh, not real, real people. But stories about the real relationships that people have with each other, with the world around them, with their inner selves. I have always thought that people from the past and most likely those from the future were and will be just like we are today. Full of feelings, self doubt, loss, love and anguish.

And so I’ve worked my craft into storytelling, using what I’ve learned through trial and error and lots and lots of reading of other writer’s and storyteller’s work. And plenty of practice.

Now when I work, I don’t sit down to write. I sit down to tell a story.

Here are some of them.

PROMISE ME

There was too much blood. Maddie’s mind took it in, but that wasn’t what made her stop half way across the kitchen, her hand outstretched toward the screen door. It was the expression on Joe’s face. His eyes were fixed, and they focused on hers in a gaze that seemed to show contentment. If the situation hadn’t been desperate, she might have mistaken that look for love and longing. He stood there, just on the other side of the sagging screen, transfixed and unable to move. Behind him, Maddie could see the yard, with its pale, dry grass, the tumble-down fence, and beyond that, the dusty farm road bordering an empty field; the scene she saw every day from her kitchen door. Now her husband stood there, filling up the foreground of that scene, his shirt dripping with blood. Too much blood.

She covered the distance across the kitchen before she could even call out his name. Joe! My God!

The door hinges screamed a dry, rusty sound as she pushed it open. Joe swayed backwards, and the expression in his eyes flickered between the dazed look and one of exhaustion and pain, but he said nothing. Maddie slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her shoulder into his arm pit. For a sickening moment, she felt his full weight and staggered under him. Then, somehow, he managed to regain his footing, and they moved forward through the door and into the kitchen.

Blood fell in slow, wet droplets, splashing onto the linoleum and making bright, uneven, red blooms where the pattern had long since worn away. The screen door banged shut and bounced once, twice before coming to rest. They stumbled through the kitchen and into the tiny front parlor. Maddie’s eyes had to adjust to the dimness, but she guided her husband to the sofa and tried to carefully sit him there. As she eased him down, he let out the first sounds she had heard from him.

I’m sorry.

Maddie began fumbling with his shirt, trying to pull it out of his waistband. Sticky, red blood instantly coated her fingers, and mingled with its coppery scent, was the smell of sweat and dirt. The buttons were impossible to manage with her shaking fingers, so she gripped the shirt and yanked. Every button flew off with a popping sound that was nearly drowned out by Joe’s scream.

Joe! What is it? Oh, God, Honey! What happened to you? Joe’s chest was covered with blood, dried and crusted into the hair, and new, seeping from a hole just below his left shoulder. The edges of the wound were jagged and blackened. She pulled away from him and drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.

Oh, Joe! I’ve got to go get the doctor! Maddie was already in flight for the door, only to be brought up short by Joe’s bloody hand entwined in her skirt.

You can’t. He looked at her with vacant, fading eyes and slowly reached around behind and underneath himself.

Maddie recognized what he had immediately, but it looked somehow strange. He drew out his hunting bag, the one she had made for him out of left over ticking. It was soaked, too. And full of something.

Joe tried to lift the bag, to hand it to her, but his strength was gone. It fell from his hand and landed on the threadbare carpet with hardly a sound. I’m sorry… he whispered again, and then he passed out.

***

She had wanted to keep him from going. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be left alone, and it wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the few farm chores that were left to do; she and little Johnny would be fine alone for two or three days. It was the wear and worry on Joe’s face that had frightened her. And his anger. Not directed at her, never at her, but at the situation, the Depression that wore on and on. And at himself.

Four nights ago, he had pushed himself back from the kitchen table, flinging his fork onto his plate. Cornmeal mush flew and landed in gritty, yellow blobs on the table top.

I can’t eat another bite of this shit. His chair scraped the floor and nearly tipped over as he stood up, grabbed the plate and marched toward the screen door. He had thrown open the door and sailed the plate out into the yard. Maddie heard it shatter and then heard him stomp off the porch. She would have gone after him if the baby hadn’t started to wail at all the commotion. It was just as well; the tension had been thickening for weeks, their relationship strained to the limit with bills and bad luck, no money and no work. And no end in sight.

When Joe finally came back into the house some thirty minutes later, his mood had changed from desperate anger to one of determination. Maddie had seen the firm set of his jaw, his mouth pulled into a straight, hard line, and she had known that whatever he had decided to do, he would.

Joe, honey, she had told him, It’s not just us. It’s like this all over. We’re not the only ones eating mush. Be grateful we’ve got that. We’re the lucky ones.

For a moment Joe’s expression had softened. He had taken her hands, and Maddie remembered the tears in his eyes.

I’m tired of not being able to take care of you and the baby. I’m tired of us not having anything. Maddie, we’ve got nothing left to sell, and even if we did, nobody’s got any money to buy it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to the Thomas place to see if he can hire me on to work the hay, or something. He’s about the only one around who might have work, and I’ve got to get my ass over there if I’m gonna have a chance. Trust me.

The next morning, just three days ago, she had trusted him as she watched him walk away, headed for the main highway to hitchhike his way to the Thomas farm some twenty miles from home. She had trusted that he would come back soon, or send word, and things would be better for a while.

***

The water in the tin dish pan was just a pale crimson now. Maddie had made many trips to the kitchen to pour out the old and refill it with clean, and her arm ached from working the pump over and over. At first it had seemed as though she was literally pouring Joe’s life down the sink, but finally she was making some progress in cleaning him up. The wound in his shoulder was clean through from back to front and still seeping, but she had managed to bind it with one of Johnny’s diapers. After about the fourth or fifth trip for clean water, Joe had roused a little, but not enough to talk. He wasn’t able to tell her anything about being shot, and he wasn’t able to explain the bag of money - still soggy with blood - that now lay at the foot of the sofa.

His jeans and what was left of the shirt had several torn places, and his boots were crusted with mud and leaves. Maddie gently removed her husband’s clothing, slipped a pillow under his head, and carefully covered him with a quilt. Next she brought the bottle of corn whisky from the kitchen and set it close by. Her chest tightened at the thought of actually having to use it for those ‘medicinal purposes’ they kept it for.

The small parlor she and Joe reserved for the occasional guest grew dark quickly. They hardly came into this room, and now Maddie looked around at the shabby furnishings, noticing the worn places on the sofa arms and the scuffed wooden floor broken up by the thinning rug. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains that she usually kept drawn. The sun was setting behind the house and this side was in deep shadow already. The tiny front porch needed paint, and the small yard beyond was just as dry and pale as the rest of the landscape. Out there was a view Maddie had thought she would never tire of: a pasture that rolled gently away from the house and, in the far distance, a grove of trees that extended from the property far enough to be called a forest. Lately she had come to despise that view. It represented a prison she and Joe were locked in with no escape, no other place to go.

Joe stirred, but settled again. Maddie let the curtain fall and turned back to her husband, the person she had trusted, the man who had vowed to do whatever was necessary to take care of his family. She laid a hand on his forehead. It was damp and clammy, but there was no fever. From upstairs, Johnny was beginning to stir. He wasn’t fussing yet, but Maddie could hear him whimpering.

In the kitchen, she poured out the last of the water from the dish pan. It made a pink tinged swirl as it went down the drain. Next, she picked up the oak rocker that had been her mother’s and moved it into the parlor. She tried to remember if it had ever been in that room before, but her memory was fuzzy about that. She liked to sit in it in her sunny kitchen, rocking her baby boy. Now tonight, she would need it in the dark, cramped parlor. Just another sign that all her world had gone wrong. Finally, she lit the oil lamp and set it on the table near the sofa. Joe’s face looked waxy and smooth in the yellow light it cast. When she finally climbed the stairs to the baby’s room, it was nearly dark inside the house, and Johnny was screaming, demanding her attention. At last she settled into the rocker next to her husband, unbuttoned her dress and offered her breast to the baby. He looked up at her and grinned.

***

Morning sun played on the front of the house, making the parlor curtains glow a bright yellow. Maddie went to them, quickly tied them into a loose knot, and raised the window. An early morning breeze with the fragrance of the pasture and trees blew into the room. It was a relief from the heavy, damp feel left from the long night before.

Her neck and back ached from having sat most of the night in the hard rocker, either rocking Johnny or just sitting, keeping vigil over Joe. Sometime around two or so, the oil in the lamp had run low. After that there was only the ticking of the kitchen clock mingled with the steady breathing of Joe and the baby in the darkness. For most of the night, Maddie had added the creaking of the rocking chair to those sounds.

Now, in the daylight, she carefully lifted the quilt to inspect Joe’s bandage. More blood had seeped into it over night, but she was encouraged to see that it wasn’t soaked and dripping like his shirt had been.

Joe, Maddie placed her hand, palm open as wide as she could manage, gently, but firmly on her husband’s chest. Joe, honey. You need to wake up now.

Yes, she thought. Wake up and tell me what you’ve done.

Joe’s eyes fluttered, and when he finally did open them, they were wide with shock.

Maddie pressed down on his chest with her open palm to hold him steady until he could recognize her and realize where he was. Once he was fully awake, she found she couldn’t hold him. He twisted and turned, and tried to get up from the sofa. His breath came fast and harsh as he struggled to sit up, but it proved too much for him, and he flopped back down, already exhausted. Maddie could only step back and wait until he had calmed himself. Joe swallowed hard and looked up at her with pleading eyes. His breath was still ragged when he spoke.

Oh, Maddie! Oh, God, it hurts! He was trying to lift the bandage and wincing.

Don’t, Joe. You’ll get it bleeding again. She knelt down on the floor next to the sofa and placed her hand on the top of his head. What in God’s name happened to you? He put his good right arm around her and pulled her close to