The Way They Thought That Love Should Be

By Ron Roth

With wit and tenderness, the short story collection What They Thought That Love Should Be explores intimate moments in the lives of men and women as they experience loves enigmas, contradictions, and consolations. A woman mourning the death of her husband refuses to part with her husbands remains keeping the urn with his ashes at her side. An art museum curator meets a severely depressed woman and shares with her a new found capacity for affection as they view his museums art collections. A terminally ill man pivots between memories of a long past trek through Europe with his wife and their final journey together as he faces death. Written with grace and empathy, the collections captivating stories embrace the possibilities of love as well as its limits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496960092

Ron Roth

Ron Roth’s fiction and poetry have been published in literary magazines throughout the United States, including the Bellingham Review, South Dakota Review, The Lyric, Great River Review, The Panhandler, and The MacGuffin. His short story, The Glittering Kingdom, was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize by The River Poets Journal. He published and edited the magazine The Four Guys Review and wrote and narrated a popular statewide weekly radio program on the arts for Nebraska Public Radio.

Book preview

The Way They Thought

That Love Should Be

Ron Roth

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© 2015 Ron Roth. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/30/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6010-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6009-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922589

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Norman

The Glittering Kingdom

The Automatic Pilot

The Way They Thought That Love Should Be

Pilgrimage

The Curator

Fugue

For Pat

The bright dream carries me away:

Watching your lips, your hair, your cheek,

I have so many things to say,

         Yet cannot speak.

—Catullus

Norman

He was lifting a glass of the Chateau Meyney to his mouth to wash down a slice of the beef tournedos when it happened.

It wouldn’t go down.

It just sat there, that little morsel, nailed flush against his windpipe—impregnable, immovable, and, Norman thought, in these last moments of his life, utterly inexorable in its task.

His muscles tightened. Breath stopped.

He looked across the dinner table to Ellen, his wife. His eyes bugged out.

Norman? she whispered.

He grabbed the edge of the table and jumped to his feet. The back of his legs banged against the chair, shooting it backwards over the hard wood floor, slamming it into the tea caddie. The Waterford decanter fell to the floor, shattering into crystal shards.

Daddy! his daughter Jennifer screamed standing and pressing her hand over her mouth. Ellen jammed her shin against a table leg as she ran to him.

Grab his arm! she yelled, hoisting him off the floor. She clenched her fists like hard, rope knots. Jennifer supported his weight from the front while she hugged him from behind. He slumped forward like a Raggedy Ann doll. She squeezed hard, but there was no air in his stomach to pop the meat loose.

Her legs buckled. She fell to her knees. Norman collapsed, pinning her down. Trapped by his weight, she began to shake with short, convulsive sobs.

Norman was dead.

She would not be consoled.

She sobbed frequently and unrequitedly throughout her ordeal: at the funeral home, the Rosary at St Cecelia’s, the memorial service.

Peculiar, unexpected things would set her off: the sight of her uncle, his face darkened by chemotherapy treatments; the scent of Norman’s brand of cologne worn by a distant cousin paying his respects.

An attractive brunette with bobbed hair, she was ruddy and healthy-looking with dark brown eyes—deep set and lively. A black knit skirt clung to the ample hips that were unmistakably welcoming to the dozens of men who hugged her in sympathy at the funeral home. When she embraced them she went limp—just for a moment—arousing them with an erotic understanding that was comforting to her. As she held them she felt herself draining away into them, into a safe haven she imagined they had for her.

Then she felt it—his signal. It was faint at first, but it was unmistakable.

It was Norman.

She grabbed Jennifer by the arm and walked quickly out of the chapel. They ran through a maze of halls. High ceilings and green and white striped wallpaper stretched the walls to baroque and sinister heights. They scurried past a sitting room where the men were gathered sipping coffee, murmuring about low interest rates and electric garage doors that weren’t working. They walked until they found themselves at the office of the funeral home director, Mr. Slater.

There, on the right front corner of his desk, rested a glistening stainless steel cylinder shaped like a bullet. From behind his desk Slater looked up from some papers. Ellen stared at the run.

Is this Norman? she asked, her eyes fixed on the cylinder.

Yes, Mrs. Draper, that is Norman, Slater said delicately.

I want Norman, she said gently, stroking Norman’s smooth, seamless surface.

Slater cleared his throat.

Well, Mrs. Draper, we plan to inter his remains yet today, so…

I need Norman, she interrupted, lifting her head and staring at him, her jaw tightening.

Mrs. Draper—Ellen, he sighed.

I have a special place I want to take him, she interrupted.

Ah, he hummed. Well, strictly speaking, the disposition of the remains is at your discretion, and I can see…

You see, Mr. Slater, my daughter and I are not quite ready to part with Norman. I think you can understand.

Slater nodded.

We have a very nice afternoon planned for Norman, don’t we, Jennifer?

Jennifer shook her head slowly, dazed.

Chet Baker, she mumbled.

Chet Baker? Slater repeated.

Yeah. Chet Baker. The jazz trumpeter. He was Dad’s favorite. We’re going to go home and put some Chet Baker on the stereo.

That’s a wonderful idea, sweetheart! Ellen Chirped. We’ll play something mellow, like ‘My Funny Valentine’ and, well, remember.

Supporting Jennifer with her right arm and cradling Norman’s cylinder in the other, Ellen Draper looked the very picture of a modern Pieta.

Like a small chapel radiating off the nave of a cathedral, the den adjoining the living room became a grotto, a shrine to Norman’s memory. A little touch of Lourdes.

The wormwood wall paneling, crisp and glistening with shellac, commemorated his life with photographs and memorabilia. Ellen lovingly mounted each photograph, each in its own special frame: lacy tendrils of ferns carved from cherry wood cascaded like tears around a baby picture of him leaning on his elbows his face pointed upward, eyes popeyed and quizzical.

An oval, pewter frame topped with a bow enshrined his confirmation at twelve: dressed like a grownup with a hat and bow tie, Jennifer thought he looked like a confidence man.

Sleek platinum framed him standing next to his first car: a bright red Ford ’61 Sunliner convertible – the last of its kind, he would muse to Jennifer, who would listen like an inquisitive archaeologist, thoughtfully reflecting on the technology of ancient civilizations.

There was the photo of the lighthouse on Nantucket harbor—the pale suggestion of it in a morning fog just lifting—taken from the ferry as he and Ellen departed for Hyannis on their last vacation together.

Next to that, engraved in Times Roman on a fine linen stock, a toast he had made to Ellen at a dinner party on their 10th anniversary.