23 Stories and Five Poems

By Robert A. Parker

The 23 stories and five poems collected here represent the short fiction that Bob Parker has created over four decades. This is an update of his previous volume of 17 stories.
The style of these stories vary. They range from first-person to third-person, from a man’s perspective to a woman’s, from hard-boiled to romantic, and from shallow glitz to heartfelt searching.
The themes range from adolescent love to family love, and from wisdom to defeat. The stories emphasize plot and character, with the early stories having a narrative drive, while the later, mature stories focus on character in a search for depth.
Subject matter includes: an election night, a nervous pianist, a marooned pilot, a fleeing criminal, a scared child, a crooked boxing match, a dying dog, a bean ball, an abortion decision, and the life of a Venetian gondolier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329335653

Book preview

23 Stories and Five Poems

23

STORIES

and

Five Poems

Also by Robert A. Parker

Photography

Images (with Margot Parker)

Images: Spain

Images: Venezuela

Images: Europe

Images: America

Travel

Three Steps to Easter

The Measure of Time

Leaving Home

Venice: A Tender Craft

Literature

Heaven & Earth (plays)

A Literary Cavalcade: I, II, III, IV, V, VI

Art Direction and text: Robert A. Parker

Entire contents copyright ©2013, 2015 by Robert A. Parker.

The author retains the sole copyright

to his contributions to this book.

ISBN: 978-1-329-33565-3

To my family,

and to

all readers

who love to escape

into fiction,

into the world

of the imagination

Foreword

This collection represents short fiction created over four decades. The stories are presented in the order in which they were written. If there is a progression, it is that the early works place an emphasis on story, on narrative, while the later stories begin to emphasize character.

Another difference is that the early stories often reach a conclusive ending, But as I learned that life was more complex, my later stories became much more open-ended.

Wise writers often stress that, to write fiction, authors should write out of personal experience, rather than out of their imagination. Here, the reliance on using experience came as time passed.

Only a couple of these stories, however, were the direct result of an experience, although a few others were inspired by an actual event, which the author then transformed.

The style of these stories, you might note, is quite different. They range from first-person to third-person, from a man’s perspective to a woman’s, from hard-boiled to romantic, from action-filled to introspective, from shallow glitz to heartfelt searching, and from surprise endings to open-ended conclusions. This may suggest an author searching for an ideal style, but it also reflects, I think, my particular preference for authors who do not repeat themselves. Of course, it may also reflect my matching the style of the story to the subject matter.

All stories in the first edition, 17 Stories, were edited in 2002 to establish clarity and continuity. Then each was edited again in 2013 with an eye toward texture and insight. For this edition, 23 Stories, the six additional stories were either edited or rewritten in 2015.

A Tender Craft is out of chronological sequence because it was intended to be a major attempt at serious fiction. When this short novel did not achieve success, I reduced my efforts at fiction and began to concentrate on non-fiction.

Finally, there is a brief set of poems, which clarify that I am not a poet. They seem to have been inspired long ago by romantic awareness of a new vulnerability.

—RAP

Final Returns

—is still one of the closest elections in our state’s history

The Governor motioned his daughter to tone down the radio. He knew it would be close. Too damn close. But he’d had no choice. A wounded war hero, elected governor, can’t walk away because of another wound. A figurative one. His damn heart! Not if he wanted to leave the state better off than he found it six years ago.

He looked around his study. The books. The desk. The sofa. The lamp. The tapestry he’d absconded with when they’d shipped him home from Germany. His entire history was here….He should return more often. He deserved the free time.

And his daughter. Facing him, so petite. How could this beauty have come from his loins? The brains, yes. And the heart. But she looked nothing like her Italian mother.

The flames in the fireplace warmed his back. He stared past her through the dark, cold window. He had come home to get out of the political cold.

To think that after five fruitful years, some hadn’t wanted him to run again. Some in his own party! They were scared. The war was long over, they said. His limp would be a handicap against the Olympic hero running against him. You can’t spend money today, they said, not with the market bottoming out. Not with housing in free fall.

Money! He knew the value of money. He’d never had any growing up. And he’d been the right man after the war. You had to spend then. It meant jobs, income. Well, it’s the same now. No, worse. People have lost heart. Jobs are disappearing….

How could he abandon them now? He’d made a promise six years ago….

His daughter was curled up on the sofa. Like the kitten she reminded him of. The radio murmured. She was watching him, eyes twinkling.

Did you get all that grey hair from nights like this?

You were too young the first time. That was easy.

Not that young. I remember.

He winked in reply. And where will I be in six more years, he wondered. Retired, he hoped. From politics, at least. The economy booming again. Or would he be six feet under? Having abandoned his family, his state house team, his party….

Was it worth it…?

It was the old Jack Benny joke. Your money or your life....But he was no longer thinking.

He’d made his choice. Except, no one knew. Well, no one except Doc.

But how long could he keep it quiet?

The other problem was that there was no glamour in roads and bridges. And it was the quickest path to new jobs. But he didn’t have the silver tongue to sell it. Nor the money to pay for it. And more and more, his people, who once led revolutions, think less and less long term. But his program wasn’t about taxes taking money out of their pockets, it was about jobs putting money into their pockets.

A door flew open, and a confusion of voices rushed in past the figure silhouetted in the doorway, a shorter, younger version of the Governor.

Hey, Pop, city returns beginning to come in.

The Governor never could figure out why the capital was so slow. Not enough money, probably. He felt like striding into the adjoining room, but could only limp. Yet he had to be upbeat. How many times had he changed his expression as he went back and forth between these two rooms?

Nothing had changed. Serious faces. Loud voices. No smiles. Telephones jangling. Teletypes clacking. A silent television screen with numbers. The returns were in dribs and drabs. It was frustrating.

Mike turned away from a telephone. His campaign manager. Still short, now bald, heavy-set. "Close, Guv. Still close. But they’re afraid of new taxes. Like I told you.’

I remember, Mike. And you remember why it’s in there.

Well, your opponent sure doesn’t think so. And he’s from the capital, where more will feel it.

I know. And I remember it was the capital that handed me the last election.

‘You can’t count on this 30,000 upstate lead. Not this time."

The Governor stared at the television screen. It was forty, I thought.

Yeah, until the first capital precincts came in. Mike laid a comforting hand on the Governor’s shoulder. Don’t get me wrong. You haven’t lost the race. Far from it. But the capital is key.

Mike moved to a teletype machine. Look at these statewide figures? See how much you’re behind the party? And the senator’s vote. In front by fifty, and plenty of it from the capital. He looked the Governor straight in the eye.

I get the message.

Look here, Pop.

He stared over his son’s left shoulder. How about this, Mike? Carried the ninth precinct by plenty.

The manager leaned over. Yeh, he grunted, by half of what it was last time.

The Governor grinned. You’re always on the dark side,. I’m going back to my study. There’s more optimism there. And less noise.

A phone rang. The manager picked it up. And a daughter….No, Senator, nothing to worry ab—

The Governor clicked the door shut. Would he really sneak through? Would it be worth it? How long must he tell this lie…?

His daughter saluted him from the sofa. No news, sire?

He shook his head. She would take a loss hard.  But…losing him?

I brought you some coffee and sandwiches, dear.

His wife. Holding a tray. He hadn’t seen her. When had that last happened? He smiled. Walked over. Sorry…my mind…

I know, dear.

No, you don’t.

Her grey hair was ahead of his. Was he going to add any more? He didn’t want to add any more to that porcelain perfection.

Thanks….It’ll be a long night.

She glanced at her yawning daughter. I know I promised, dear, but…

But it’s late. I should be in bed….I’m fifteen!

The Governor interrupted. Oh, let her say. It may be the last time…

"It will be the last time. You agreed. You know what the doctor said. I want you here back home. To enjoy your family for a change…."

No…you don’t know what Doc said. That’s my cross. And it’s heavy.

Cheer up, my dear. I remember your first race. How we stayed up late. How it was close until the capital came it. It will again….Now, let me find Junior.

The Governor grabbed a sandwich as she left. It was true, what she said. But this time was different. The state was different, and he was different.

Would he really mind if he lost? What did she want more? Him beside her. It was obvious. She’d had Doc look at him more than usual. She was worried.

Did it show?

He sipped his coffee, waiting for the drone of the radio to change. He didn’t like running behind the party. That wouldn’t help with the new taxes. How could he get them to think long term?

The radio droned on.

Suddenly, he was aware of his wife sitting on the arm of his chair. Had he fallen asleep? Her arm was around his shoulders.

This is what both his girls wanted. Peace. Quiet.

It would be nice—if it were possible.

He almost wished it was.

The radio droned its reporting, analyzing, forecasting, and reporting again. Precinct by precinct.

The door burst open. His son strode across the room. He held out paper from the teletype machine. Here it is, Pop. Final. The last two precincts did it.

The Governor grabbed the paper. Grabbed his future. He felt his daughter behind him.

This is it, he thought. He read it.

And smiled.

—1948, rewritten, 2015

The Concert

Bill Grant stood at his open hotel window, staring at the warm city twinkling below in the rain. From the glistening street rose the horns of supper-time traffic. He ran his fingers up and down an imaginary keyboard on the sill. In only a few hours, he was due on stage at Carnegie Hall, and he was trying his best to find a reason to cancel his performance.

He had been a pretty good pianist once, but that was long ago. His appearance tonight would fail the standards he had long set for himself. Why couldn’t Terry see that? And especially Wally? He imagined the eyes in the audience following his every move. It used to be their ears they used. He ran his tongue over his lips as a moist breeze swirled the delicate curtains about him.

A light hand plucked at his shirtsleeve, and a soft warmth leaned against him. Isn’t it about time you took your shower?

No, he snapped. And that’s what I’m telling Wally. He slid his arm around d his wife’s waist, grateful for the warmth. I mean it, let’s grab the next train out of here.

She pulled away, and sat down. There you go again. What’s wrong, Bill? You’ve been saying that all day.

He shrugged. It kept eluding him. The faint drone of traffic climbed skyward, penetrating the silent hotel room. This was his big chance, after all these months of hard work. He knew that. But…

His wife watched him from one of the twin beds. Waiting. He felt her eyes.

He needed to shave, he realized. He wiped at the dark stubble, from high cheekbones down hollow cheeks to a narrow chin. If he didn’t love her so much, he would have fled to Boston alone.

He’d have told her he wasn’t going to play again—ever.

But he owed her something. Something he couldn’t define.

She crossed silken legs and rested an elbow on her knee, cupping her chin in her hand. Furrows marred her forehead, and loose brunette hair tumbled toward her heart. His own heart stirred.

You played at Carnegie before the accident, she said. You were nervous then, too. But you were also anxious to play. What’s so different now? You haven’t lost your touch. Her blue eyes probed his. Or don’t you want to play any more?

His fingers tapped the bedpost. Was it more than coincidence that they were long and slender, allowing him to stretch them across the keyboard?

It’s not the same. I’ve lost my touch. I can feel it. Two years is too long. You know that’s true. I was almost killed when the tire blew.

Two ideas fought inside him. He couldn’t betray her, and he couldn’t betray himself.

Don’t. The bedsprings creaked as she flung herself against him. "Please, Bill...

His long, slender fingers clutched at her. He felt her warmth.

Just remember, I’ll still love you…whatever happens.

I know. And I know that I owe you. Next to you, what means the most to me is my music. But they told me I would never play again. Remember? And I’d never have come back, even this far, if it wasn’t for you.

She snuggled closer.

But you did come back. Despite it all. And tonight you can prove you belong here. Again…You owe that to yourself, you know. Not to me.

I’ll never get back to where I was. You know it.

He fingered her hair. How can I face an audience knowing they’re concentrating on me instead of on the music? That I’m just the latest freak.

His wife arched back, her eyes just below his. Don’t say that! Show them. You’re still a great pianist.

You sound like a preacher, he said. How can I, when I’m not? I’ve changed.

No, that’s where you’re mistaken. Her eyes burned into his. Oh, how can I convince you? They may never give you another chance….

Loud raps sounded on the door. As his wife’s heels clacked across the room, Bill turned again to the blinking lights outside. He banged the window shut, cutting off the world outside. If only…the entire world.

Come in, Wally, Terry said.

Bill whirled.

The short, paunchy manager, red-faced with anger, faced Bill. Except for yellow envelopes jabbed into its side pocket, his pin-striped suit was immaculate. He stared from the pianist to his wife.

Is he off his high horse yet, Terry?

Bill crossed the few steps and stood above his manager. Look, Wally, don’t you start again. I told you I’m not going to play, and I’m not.

Why? Are you scared?

Bill’s looked away, then faced his friend. He hated this needling.

Of course not. But it’ll be fifteen minutes of spectacle. With them staring and saying how wonderful it was. How wonderful that I had come back. They’ll ignore my music.

His wife grabbed his left arm with both hands. No, they won’t. Because you’ll make them forget. They’ll just hear the music.

The music? With every eye on me?

Wally sighed. Listen, Bill, I didn’t tell you, but that first rehearsal of yours? It wasn’t just a rehearsal. They just weren’t sure. They had to be shown.

And you showed them, Bill. Terry’s blue eyes were shining. He had to look away.

Wally nodded. New York’s tough. But look, others believe.

He pulled out a fistful of telegrams from his bulging pocket. From orchestras all across the country. From Pittsburgh, Houston, Cincinnati, Seattle. Even one from London. They all remember you. Here, look. Not one of them thinks you don’t deserve another chance.

Bill opened one telegram, then another. He moistened his lips, thinking.

His manager tapped the other envelopes on his shirtfront.

And if that doesn’t convince you, think what it would mean to…. No…forget me. You can’t toy with Carnegie Hall!

How would it help you if I blew it?

You won’t. Wally smiled. I know you’re on edge. Anybody would be.  But you’ve played there. You know what it’s like. He tossed the telegrams on a bed. I’m going over there now, and make sure they’re ready. Read some more to him, Terry.

I wish I had your confidence, Bill thought. He sat on the blue bedspread and fingered the envelopes. Listlessly, he opened one.

His wife opened another. Minneapolis. It wants you there.

She perched beside him, her knee warm against his. How do you expect to be successful, if you don’t have faith in yourself? Don’t you know we all believe in you? She lay back, looked up, braced on her elbow. You know you’ve never done anything else in your whole life. She paused. How would you support your…family?

He drew up one leg and twisted to face her. How could I forget? Her small waist still gave no hint of their child. His eyes climbed up to the curving white blouse, the red lips, the blue eyes, the long, glistening hair. How could I…?

He leaned over, kissing those red lips. I don’t mean to be selfish. He plunged again into her eyes. It’s just…I don’t want… He smiled. She always won. If I try, it’s for both of you.

She smiled. Her tongue sprang out to lick the tip of his nose. She pulled him down for another kiss. You’ll be surprised by how easy it is. Come on, now. We haven’t time to waste.

He stretched, then rose to lay out his tuxedo. When his wife flashed past him, naked, he wanted to enfold that warmth, that sweetness. His eyes watered in the happiness of their love. Of her support. She was priceless.

She is what had inspired him, her eyes on him at that recital so many years ago. In every orchestral interlude, he now searched for her in a box, or in the wings. It spurred him on.

But the long list of hotel rooms that followed had been worth it. And she was the reason. The climax had come in his debut at Carnegie Hall with another one movement concerto.

Initially, the wild demands for an encore had caught him off guard, but then he bowed to the audience and announced hoarsely:

I should like to dedicate this to my wife, Terry. Her favorite, Clair de Lune.

The faint hiss of the shower ceased. When Terry returned, swathed in a fluffy white robe, he rushed into the steamy bathroom.

Slowly, the water began washing away all doubt. He felt the peace inside him.

He wanted so much to repeat the past. But it would never again be like that first summer together, when they had traveled on the Continent. Wally had arranged a few concerts that were even more shots of adrenaline. It was like discovering…not a musical heritage, but himself.

And they had seen everything they wanted, except the grand finale, a concert at the Acropolis.

The train