Grace: Stories and a Novella

By Dan Burns

“We’re all flawed and confronted daily with sometimes slight but often apparently insurmountable challenges. But if we dig deep, what we unearth from the depths of our souls, if we’re lucky, can allow us to overcome and carry on to live another day with an untortured heart.”

This is the sentiment Dan Burns

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chicago Arts Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780991169474

Book preview

Redemption

At one o’clock in the morning the phone rang, a mind-piercing and disconcerting sound I had not heard in more than two weeks. The few friends I have left prefer to talk in person and don’t call, which is why we’re still friends. The only other calls I receive are from my oldest son, Stephen, who is a good boy but his monthly inquiry to determine if I’m alive isn’t much more than a routine part of his inheritance-management plan. It’s okay. I understand and enjoy hearing his voice.

I was in bed but awake, as sleep does not come easily for me. When it comes, it’s often at an inopportune time, during the day when I’m working or trying to get through a book.

Middle-of-the-night calls are ominous. Whatever my level of consciousness, the first ring stops my heart. But then the adrenaline kicks in and sets my pulse into overdrive. When my boys were still living under the same roof and out for the night, I always expected the worst when we received a call: the dreaded notification from Highway Patrol regarding a steel-crushing accident, or the emergency-room resident needing identification of a corpse. Always the worst. Parental instinct.

I answered the call before the third ring. Hello? I heard static, as though the caller were on a distant planet, followed by silence. Hello?

This is Sergeant Walter Murphy from the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Office over in Bozeman.

When I heard sheriff, I tensed. Then, when I heard Bozeman, I calmed, for no family lived there. My first thought was that the sheriff had stopped one of my fellow patrons from The Lone Star—a local watering hole in Big Timber—for wavering across the yellow center line, an infrequent occurrence since not many patrol cars are out looking for drunks. In Montana, the population is sparse, and the state has limited law-enforcement resources. As a driver, you’re on your own, and the worst that can happen is you run into a ditch or hit a deer. But Sergeant Murphy was calling from Gallatin County, and Big Timber is in Sweetgrass County, so my friends were off the hook.

I’d like to speak with Anson Miller, he said.

I’m Anson Miller.

Sir, I have a young man in lockup who knows you.

Oh?

Yes, sir. He had your name and number in his wallet. He’s had more hooch than he could handle and is sleeping it off in one of my cells.

Drunk—I’ve been there; it happens. Does the young man have a name?

Marcus Miller, he said.

My brain took a second longer than it should have to recognize the name, because Marcus was a relative, my nephew’s son, but I hadn’t seen him since he was a toddler. That was at least fifteen years ago, a lifetime for a man who can’t remember yesterday. Last I heard, my nephew still lived in Chicago, so I wondered what his kid was doing in Montana.

You know him? the sheriff asked.

I do. Did you arrest him?

No, just a citation for drunk and disorderly.

I’ll be right over.

It’s an hour drive to Bozeman, roughly sixty-five miles west on Interstate 90, a four-lane highway that cuts through rolling ranchland and majestic mountain ranges. The trip gave me time to recall the faded fragments of my family history. I haven’t forgotten the members of my family, but life often gets in the way, which I realize is a lame excuse, but it’s the truth. I, like most people, am guilty of getting caught up in the daily, trivial activities that distract me from the personal interactions necessary to cement into memory the names and faces of relatives and friends.

My older brother, Fred, God rest his soul, was a respectable man but died too young—at fifty-three—from an exploded heart. I looked up to him until his final day on this earth. He always told me he’d done the many stupid things in his life so I could learn from his mistakes, and I did. After watching the ass-whooping he received after stealing our father’s car and running it into a telephone pole, I knew I’d politely ask for the car instead. Also, there was the time he, while stoned and forgetful, baked a batch of pot brownies but left the pan to cool in the kitchen and my mother sampled the still-warm and fragrant dessert. The memory of seeing my mother high wasn’t one of my fondest. Naturally, another ass-whooping ensued. After Fred passed, his wife, Margaret, collapsed into a deep depression and died two years later, not from an exploded heart but a broken one. They had a son, my nephew Greg, who had his act together and ran a small plumbing business on the southwest side of Chicago, near Midway Airport. He divorced after a short marriage to a woman who hated him, and he raised his son, Marcus, on his own. I last saw Marcus, his dad, and the dad-hater at Marcus’s third birthday party. That’s what I remembered, which wasn’t much, but it was enough.

When I arrived at the sheriff’s office around two thirty and entered the lobby, the room was dimly lit and silent. I walked up to the reception counter and saw one of those silly desktop bells and a sign: RING BELL FOR SERVICE. I smacked the bell five times, figuring if I had to annoy someone, I might as well do so with conviction.

A police officer emerged from a room down the hall and approached me. I read the name badge pinned to his chest: Sergeant Murphy. He didn’t ask my name. There was a waist-high swinging gate to the left of the counter, which he unlocked with a key and held open for me. High-tech security in Middle of Nowhere, USA.

You come far? he asked.

Just south of Big Timber, off 298.

Near McLeod?

South a spell from there.

Well, I realize that was a haul, but thanks for coming. The kid could use a friend.

He led me to the rear of the building and down a flight of stairs to three jail cells, iron bars and all. I felt as if I were in an old Western movie or an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. The first two cells were empty. In the third was a man curled up on a flimsy mattress supported by a steel bed frame. He was covered with his leather jacket and sleeping.

Sergeant Murphy unlocked the cell door and swung it open. I thought it was odd that he had locked the door. In his condition, the kid wasn’t a flight risk. Marcus, you have a visitor.

I stepped into the cell. Marcus was lying on his side, the sound of his breathing a whisper. As I said, it was many years ago when I last saw him, four feet in height and one-hundred-and-fifty pounds in weight ago, but I recognized him. He resembled my brother, with the same eyes, nose, and square chin.

I bent over and shook his shoulder. He didn’t respond. I could smell the alcohol emanating from his pores, and I thought of a rising, thick fog on a dew-laden morning.

He tied one on good, Sergeant Murphy said. Spent the evening over at Teasers.

Teasers? What’s that?

It’s a strip club west of here in Three Forks, just off the interstate. The town is small and has a contract with the county for law-enforcement services. I was on duty, received the call, and drove over. I spoke with the manager there, who told me Marcus had arrived early, around seven, and nursed a few beers while watching the show, dropping dollars into G-strings. At nine, he took a table off to the side, had two private dances, and switched to Jack Daniel’s.

How many?

The manager gave me a copy of the register receipt. Five doubles. That’s enough to do some damage. At approximately ten thirty, he crossed his arms, lowered his head, and called it a night. When I arrived, he was sleeping like a baby, not bothering a soul. But the waitress became concerned. I guess it doesn’t say much for the talent if the customers are sleeping. I helped him up and out to the squad car. He slurred a few words and puked in the parking lot.

I nodded. I’d been there, too.

When we arrived at the station, I carried him to this cell, which isn’t much, but at least there’s a bed. I pulled his wallet, checked his driver’s license, and noticed he was from Chicago. Seems he’s out of his element. I found a folded piece of paper with your name and phone number on it. Saw from the area code you were local, same last name, so I figured you might know him.

My nephew’s son. Is he in trouble?

He’ll have a mess of a headache in the morning. If you’re willing to sign him out of here, that’s good enough for me.

We carried Marcus up the stairs and set him in a chair in the lobby so I could sign an unreadable document that allowed his release from a guarded nap. With gentle guidance and maneuvering, we helped him to my car and into the front passenger seat, where he settled in like a bag of dog food. He was out cold, but I worried he might throw up on the way home. I’d driven a friend home a year ago, and he’d thrown up on the dashboard and into the vents. I still smell a trace of sour bile when I turn on the heat.

I thanked the sergeant for taking good care of him. He said he knew of me, had read one of my books, so I thanked him again and got into my car. Marcus was beside me, his head leaning against the window, eyes closed and mind likely numb. I again wondered what the hell he was doing in Montana and why he had my name and number in his wallet. I’m too old for this crap, I thought, but his presence elevated my spirits. That third-birthday celebration was a long time ago, and I remembered it was a swell party, with the family in attendance and a young boy with a cone hat on his head, a full load in his diaper, and cake smeared on his smiling face.

What happened to those days?

* * *

And they lived happily ever after is a bullshit cliché, for the sentiment is unrealistic in life and I don’t believe it in fairy tales, either. I just think ever after is a long time, and we shouldn’t delude ourselves.

That’s what popped into my mind as I sat at the kitchen table later that morning while having my coffee and reading the details of what didn’t happen in town as reported in the Big Timber Pioneer. An explanation for why a stranger sleeping in my guest room might generate such a thought eluded me.

My life these days is quiet and uncomplicated, and I suppose one could say that I’m a creature of habit. Almost every day, after devouring coffee and the newspaper, I journey over to my desk in the living room, ten steps away, and sit down to pound out a short story or poem on my old Remington typewriter. I went retro a year ago, tired of my distracting and always-connected computer, and purchased the glorious artifact at an antique shop in town, to get back in touch with why I started writing in the first place. I’d thought a hundred bucks for a big paperweight was expensive, but the shop owner had guaranteed the typewriter and could order me replacement ribbons whenever I needed them. There’s something about tapping keys, feeling a lettered hammer strike a crisp sheet of paper, and hearing a ringing bell as I come to the end of a line that provides a sense of accomplishment. Also, there’s no auto-correction feature. If I make a mistake, it’s there forever, unless I use an eraser pencil or Wite-Out, which I don’t. Having only one shot forces me to think before I write. Too often, people have it backward and act before they think, speak before they think, and I have no desire to be a member of that crowd.

I write for a few hours in the morning, eat lunch, then grab my fly rod and walk to the riverbank to wet a fly in the hope of enticing a trout. The river is the reason I bought the house and moved to Montana two years ago. I was going through a tough time, drinking more than usual and smoking again, and had considered the possibility that I might benefit from seeing a therapist. Instead, I committed myself to the serenity and guidance of the Boulder River. The river and the fish she nurtures are all I need to keep my life in check.

When I return from fishing and a long, relaxing walk along the riverbank, I read, have dinner, enjoy a glass of vodka and a cigarette, and read more until I go to bed, by nine o’clock at the latest. Life in Montana winds down long before then, and I still don’t have a television—an unwanted distraction—to keep me awake any later. On Saturday nights, I’ll drive into town to have dinner, followed by a visit to The Lone Star to have a few drinks with my friends.

That’s my routine, which works for me, and I will not deviate unless extenuating circumstances force me to reconsider.

But there I was, sitting at the kitchen table, with a stranger in my house, contemplating what the day might offer. I kept looking over at my desk, wrought with indecision, considering whether I should walk over and get to work or do something else. In the past, when I broke routine, trouble found me and attacked, causing me to lapse into a lengthy depression or go off on a bender. So I grabbed my coffee cup and returned to my desk.

I had finished a short story the day before and had nothing new planned, so I tried a word-association exercise to get the old peanut working and the creative juices flowing. I put a sheet of paper into the typewriter, stared at the menacing blankness a moment, and typed the first words that came to mind: MARCUS. Teaser. Brother. Sergeant. Phone call. Routine. Family. Whiskey. Off course. Lost. BARBARA. Alone.

My fingers stopped. I glanced over at the closed guest-room door. Back at the typewriter. Back at the door. The exercise was a bust. Distracted and unable to think or write, I made breakfast. I cubed a few red potatoes and fried them with onions and butter in a cast-iron skillet then scrambled eggs and fried bacon and used the leftover grease to cook a small rainbow trout I’d pulled from the river the day before. I covered the warm platter with sheets of paper towel, refilled my coffee, and sat down to wait. To pass the time, I attempted to read a book of poems by Montana legend Jim Harrison, but I kept reading the same line from his poem Junk Pile over and over: Sometimes the past flips over and determines what we are today. I’ve always found Harrison to be relatable, likely because we grew up in the same generation and have similar passions. His words resonated with me; maybe he was onto something.

Over the next hour, I thought about Harrison, his books that had left an impression on me, and his recent passing. Reports claimed he died of heart failure at his home in Arizona, alone and sprawled on the floor. Months earlier, he had