Harold's Garden: Collection of Short Stories

By Shel Weissman

When Harold is faced with an untimely retirement, his cautious life begins to unravel. His wife demands a chance to create a place for herself, while their peaceful neighborhood is thrust into a perilous struggle between racial groups. Harold retreats to his oasis, the gardens that has been his save haven and salvation since childhood.

Shel Weissman is a writer who is compassionate and honest in revealing the tragedy of his characters, and their moral awakening. He has a unique intuition and subtlety about their character, and often astonished over their ability to take back their lives in the face of overwhelming odds. The collection of stories is poignant, entertaining, and refreshing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456728588

Shel Weissman

Shel Weissman was born in 1942, in a multi-generational family of immigrants. He lives with his family in Northern California since the 1970’s. His life experiences provided an opportunity to form his curiosity, imagination, and storytelling skills. The author’s writings developed from a lively and rewarding childhood and stimulating grown years. His published works include: The House on the Hill The Reunion at Heaven’s Gate Brooklyn Sunset Midnight Train to Trieste Day of Reckoning Harold’s Garden A Resilient Soul

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Dedication

The author dedicates this book to Claire, my muse, life partner, and loving wife .I am deeply indebted to my wife for her inspiration grace ,vigor, and contributions to this book.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Washed Ashore

The Music Store

Stepping Out of the Shadows

The Lookout

An Unexpected Fate

The Catskill Follies

Redemption

Empty Lives

The Eulogy

Harold’s Garden

About the Author

Acknowledgements

The author is gratefully in debt to his daughter, Gisela, for giving generously of her time, skills, and love. A special appreciation goes to his grandchildren, Trevor, Eva, Vanessa, and Anthony for the joy they offer unconditionally and innocently.

To all those who contributed to my journey, and shaped my memories, you are forever in my heart.

Washed Ashore

Mike Fisher took the key from his pocket, and unlocked the large wooden frame door of his small cabin. Once inside he poured coffee into his stained mug, and sat in a frumpy padded Barka lounge. Mike stared out the living room picture window onto a pastoral view of a flowered meadow, with mature pine trees, and a stocked fish pond. As he sipped his coffee the phone rang, Mike reached over, and heard his publishing agent on the other end calling from Boston.

Mike, how are you enjoying life in the backwaters of Massachusetts?

Hi Randy, it’s isolated, so quiet I heard my heart beat. I really appreciate you letting me stay in your cabin, and sort things out.

You’re welcome, man, it’s been a week, and I wanted to see how you are getting along.

If you mean have I written anything, no, just thinking, as a change of pace, I go into town, get some groceries, and stop in the tavern for a beer.

Well, I’ll be up there in about a week, we can spend some time together, maybe I can read a draft of what you’ve got. My other phone is ringing, talk to you later, bye.

Mike washed up, and studied himself in the mirror. His black eyebrows, graying mustache, fraying hair was growing out of control. The hunch of disappointment in his shoulders, the firmness of his fifty year old face, and body was accentuated by the twisted lines of his lips. Fishers’ last book was about his time on the battlefield during the Vietnam War, and the problems he faced as a returning vet from an unpopular war. He lives off his disability checks, unable to hold a job longer than a year. In fact, Mike was unable to hold onto anything that mattered, two wives, a couple of kids, several affairs, and excessive drinking to numb the pain, and get him through the sleepless nights.

Mike had returned to school on the G.I. Bill, and began to write fiction. Over the last few years he published three books that made a small profit. His literary agent, Randall Cummings, also a Vietnam Veteran, encouraged Mike to keep writing. He saw enough raw talent to believe in him, maybe get Mike some TV screenplay work. Lately Mike hit a brick wall; he couldn’t come up with a story concept, and began frequenting the bars in his hometown in Connecticut.

As the sun set over the still fish pond, Mike reached for a bottle of beer, and returned to the easy chair. He stood the bottle next to his yellow pad, and sharpened pencils. The northern wind whistled outside the cabin window, and Mike threw on a woolen serape he bought in Juarez, Mexico. It reminded him of Clint Eastwood in his favorite movie, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. He replayed the last scene in his mind for the thousandth time. Three men chasing after bank loot buried in a cemetery, began a gun duel, the survivor would get the money. Under the blazing sun, close-ups of the men revealed their character. Eli Wallach as the amoral, Tuco, the Ugly, in his sombrero, Lee Van Cleef angel eyes, the bad, dressed in black, Eastwood, the good as Blondie, in his serape, chomping on a cigarillo. Sweat dripped down their foreheads, shifting eyes, dramatic music in the background, hands poised to draw. The scene represented a truth about men in combat, similar to what Mike experienced in the god forsaken jungles of Southeast Asia, only the bullets were real. Mike sat in the stillness of the night; he glanced at the empty pad, the words hidden beneath his pencil in protest. The wind brought in a heavy rain which pounded the cabin windows. Mike rose, and checked to see if everything was secure. He walked into the kitchen, and looked into the pots on the gas range. He reheated some potatoes, carrots, and broccoli for dinner, and afterwards fell fast asleep.

The following morning Mike had breakfast, and drove his vintage jeep into town. He went directly to the Bluelight Tavern on Route 26, having to travel over some muddy ruts in the road. The tavern was typical for a rural area in this part of the state. It had a collection of mix and match furnishings, a stone fireplace, billiard table, jukebox, dartboard, a small dance floor, and on the wood paneled walls were hunter’s trophies, and gaudy oil paintings of the surrounding area done by local hobby artists. The proprietor was Billie Jaspers; he was a decorated soldier in Desert Storm. He led a swat team of Marines into a small town in Iraq, and saved the soldiers trapped in a downed black hawk helicopter. When Hollywood made a movie about the heroic effort, they hired Billie as a technical consultant. With the money he bought a spacious house overlooking the ocean, and partied until the cows came home. After a couple of years living the playboy life, Billie married and then divorced a former college cheerleader. Billie and his uncle jointly owned the tavern. He was well-suited for the job – friendly, sociable, boisterous, and loved drinking.

Hey Mike ready for a brew?

I was born ready ole buddy.

Here you go, this one’s on the house. How’s the writing coming?

Aw, a little slow, it’ll pick-up soon.

Well, let me know if you need some ideas. I get to know everyone’s secrets, maybe we can collaborate. Just then, three men came bursting into the tavern. They wore hip boots, and slickers, and had ashen looks on their bearded faces.

Hey fellas we can use a hand. A friend of ours has been missing since the heavy rains last night, and we need to form a search party.

Since last night! Why he could be on the other side of the point, out cold after doing some serious drinken, said Billie, with a wide grin.

That’s not like George, besides we found his fishin boat with torn nets, somethin big got away, and took George with it.

Mike joined two other men, and they drove to the coast, and located George’s boat. The men separated, and followed the coastline to a cove near the point. Mike and another volunteer searched above the cove, and found a torn sleeve from a jacket. They walked a little further, and there under the brush was George lying facedown, lifeless, gone. The two horrified men yelled for help.

The search party respectfully surrounded the body. They reasoned George’s boat hit some rocks during the rainstorm, broke apart, and swept him against the jagged rocks. He probably found his way toward the cove, and began climbing above the beach looking for shelter from the storm. One of the men was a volunteer fireman, and he had paramedic training. He examined the body, and noticed severe cuts on his stomach and back.

What do you think happened to him Herb? exclaimed the heavy-set fisherman.

According to the lacerations, he got tossed repeatedly against the rocks and, lost plenty of blood. See these punctures; it looks like shark bites on his leg. George might have fought him off, made his way to the beach, and crawled to the woods looking for shelter. I think the loss of blood, and shock caused hemorrhaging.

Mike sat on the moist ground near the corpse, and pulled his legs close to his chest. George’s death caused him to flashback to Vietnam, when he saw hundreds of bodies floating in the Mekong River, and in the rice paddies sprawled like rag dolls in every direction. A sinking feeling came over him, and his eyes began to tear. George a medium built, bony face, gray haired man was only thirty-six, married, and had two young boys. Mike looked to the fathomless sky with racing clouds, and partial sun. It seemed to him the heavens had parted, and sobbed in their grief.

His friends carried George to their truck, covered him in a blanket, and drove to the town funeral parlor. He was another casualty of the violent sea. Billie and Mike went to break the news to George’s wife. Their weathered house was along a creek, the front yard had an abundance of colorful flowers, and a vegetable garden. George’s wife, Abigail, answered the door, and one look from their sad forlorn faces said it all. Abigail sat on their sheepskin covered sofa, and listened as the men surmised how the accident may have happened.

I’m sorry Abigail for your loss, and the boy’s loss of their father. If there’s anything we can do just say the word.

Thank you for coming. I guess I’ll need to prepare for his funeral.

As they talked, Mike walked around the living room, and studied photographs of George on fishing trips with his sons, an old photo of the couple together on the deck of a cruise ship, and a composite of a recent family camping trip. Abigail looked at Mike as he stared at the pictures.

I haven’t met you.

Oh, sorry, I’m Mike Fisher, I’ve been staying at Randall Cummings cabin just up the road.

Yes, the writer, Randy mentioned you when he was up recently. Mr. Fisher could I impose on you, I’m not much for writing, so I would be grateful if you could write a little eulogy for George. You could interview me, and some of the guys, and maybe look through our albums to get better acquainted with George.

"I would be honored to write about him. I can return and collect more information. Mike noticed how calmly Abigail took the news, but then thought it might not have hit her yet. The alarm began ringing at six in the morning. It sounded weak but it woke Mike, he got dressed in the dark, and ran quickly down the path to his jeep. He was pleasantly surprised to get a call at night from Abigail; she invited him over for breakfast. Mike ate with the boys; Abigail had laid out several family photo albums, and newspaper clippings, so he could examine them while she took the children to school. In the early morning light, Abigail looked younger, her long blonde hair was swept back, and she wore bangs covering her forehead. If she made little effort, Mike thought she could be an attractive woman. He poured over the albums, mostly pictures of George, and the boys, probably taken by his wife. The newspaper clippings were stories of George as a high school football player, their wedding announcement, and the time George rescued a middle-aged man from drowning in the ocean.

A car roared up the driveway, Abigail tossed her keys into a dish by the door, poured coffee for the two of them, and sat across from Mike.

How are the funeral arrangements coming along?

Alright, George didn’t leave any instructions, so it’s going to be a straightforward service. Are you getting a picture of George, and our family?

Kinda. I’d like more personal anecdotes, something unique, about him.

That’s hard to say, you know when he came back from Desert Storm, he became really quiet, like he left part of himself in Iraq.

How about when you first started dating, what was he like?

George could be sweet and playful; he was a good father to the boys. Mike continued to sort through the photos hoping to find pictures that Abigail could use to stimulate her memory. It seemed to him she was not telling the complete story, she was more interested in painting a good picture of George then being truthful, maybe that was to be expected.

The brilliant sun stiffened across the cocktail table, creating a natural spotlight. Abigail excused herself to get an early start on dinner for the boys, while Mike rummaged through George’s letters he sent her from Iraq. There were several correspondences from the hospital in Germany where George spent a couple of months recuperating from surgery on his leg. The content was more personal, passionate, romantic, yet guarded.

In the evening, the sunset had nearly burned out, but there was enough light. Mike returned to the tavern, drank a beer with Billie.

I’m working on the eulogy for the funeral, Abigail gave me some background, but it’s not coming together.

Abigail is a good woman, beautiful person, a great mother. Maybe I can be of some help. Billie escorted Mike to a table in the corner of the bar, and began telling him about George’s troubles.

I’m gonna tell you something that you can’t repeat, but it will help you understand George and Abigail’s situation.

You have my word, I’ll be diplomatic.

"After George came home, he started drinking heavily, it scared Abigail. There were nights when George beat her, and the way he described it, raped his wife. When we needed a larger American presence to deny Iraq weapons of mass destruction, George got it in his head he wanted to wipe out the terrorists. He fell hook line and sinker over the President’s bullshit about jump starting the Middle East peace process by standing against the radical Arabs. After basic training he shipped out, and became part of the ground forces that moved through the desert to keep the highways open. A roadside bomb hit his jeep, and blew George out of the vehicle. When he regained consciousness, he couldn’t move his left leg. His buddy was sitting beside him one moment, and the next instance he was blown to smithereens. The explosion nearly wiped George out.

George was transported to a veteran’s hospital in Germany, and the surgeon removed shrapnel from his damaged leg. When he left the combat zone, he felt like he had abandoned his colleagues, and part of him remained in the desert. The war was over in a blink of an eye, but it scarred George forever.

How did this affect Abigail, and their relationship?

"Well, while he was in the hospital, George took