Short and Odd: Confounding Stories of Life a Collection of Short Stories

By Susan Obijiski

Twelve stories. Each one short. Each one odd. This book is concocted to intrigue, and otherwise confound the reader with stories that meander from troubled relationships to quirky concepts of revenge, to questions of personal reality and perception.

These small bites of life will entertain and provoke conversation and thought, and will open the door to “what if.”

Enter the world of a gambling cat, consider the recurring appearance of a dead body, explore the irony of revenge, discover the possibilities of a self-decorating house, and meet a washed-up minor league baseball player on a mission of compassion.

“Bonus Room” introduces Martha and Rawley, proud new homeowners struggling to pay the bills who discover that their new home has a mind and a mission of its own.

“Night Runner” tells the story of Rina, who lives a simple life. She likes her job and her friends, and also loves running, especially at night. But the recurring appearance of a body on her favorite trail throws her life into chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Obijiski
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781682356401

Susan Obijiski

Author, Susan Obijiski is the Author of the trilogy, Legacy of Dreams (Dreams of the Many, Dreams of the Few and Dreams of the Exile), and a contributing author for 'Sedona Awakenings'; published by Auricle Books (www.BooksForHealingBodyMindAndSpirit.com). Her novella, Crackle & Wheeze is available in eBook format.A message from the author: "I hope that my books resonate with my readers and give them pause to consider the challenges, fears and demons that sometimes control our lives, and the importance of living with passion and courage, and pursuing the dreams we hold dear.”

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Short and Odd

Confounding Stories of Life

A Collection of Short Stories

By Susan M. Obijiski

Copyright © 2022 Susan M. Obijiski All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means graphic electronic or mechanical including photocopying recording taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Strategic Book Publishing and Rights Co.

USA | Singapore

www.sbpra.net

ISBN: 978-1-68235-640-1

Dedication

For the Original Rocksie

Table of Contents

1 - Pecky Wasn’t Here

2 - Bonus Room

3 - No Good Deed

4 - Hear Me Now!

5 - Lackluster

6 - Going Home

7 - Dream Vacation

8 - The Mittens Method

9 - Night Runner

10 - Kankakee Revisited

11 - What’s the Difference?

12 - The Good Neighbor

Pecky Wasn’t Here

Miranda coasted into the valley, the road unwinding before her, like a cement ribbon. Her eyes were still keen, even after nine hours of driving. If Pecky was here, she would ask him to take over. Not for long, mind you. She was a far better driver. Just long enough for her to rest her eyes. But Pecky wasn’t here. So, she kept on, rubbing at her eyes, and longing for a cool drink. She could turn on the air, but that would eat up her gas and, judging from the look of the valley ahead, there wouldn’t be a gas station for miles.

She reached into the cooler in the passenger seat, dug out the remains of a sandwich, and eyeballed it, then threw it back in, and slammed the lid. Saran-infused, soggy white bread with questionable ham, and flaccid American cheese.

No thanks.

The speedometer read 90 miles per hour. But she wasn’t worried. Out here, in the middle of God-knows-where Iowa, she could see forever, and apparently forever didn’t include a police station.

The plan was simple. Miranda would drive for as long as she could focus, or until she got hungry, whichever came first, though the hunger thing seemed more likely. She would find a place to stop, grab a bite and hopefully some gas, and pull over in a quiet location to rest her eyes.

The truth was, she didn’t need Pecky, after all, although she did miss him a little. OK, she missed him a lot, but so what. Bottom Woods Farm wasn’t just in the rear view. In her mind, it was ancient history, though it had only been nine hours since she kissed it goodbye.

The road flattened for a few miles, and then climbed out of the valley again. When Miranda crested the hill, she saw the remnants of a town, hunkered down against the crushing reality of economic hard times, abandoned by a younger generation who ran for the cities, where life was more interesting, and a job was something more than a pipe dream.

From the top of the hill, she could see the ancient stalls of a gas station, and the apron of a cracked driveway. She let off the accelerator, and coasted downhill toward the nameless town, in hopes of finding food. The gas she got, the food, she did not. An elderly gas jockey in coveralls and a beat up gimme hat pointed listlessly up the hill and advised her to try the next town.

You orta ben able ta stop et Pig’s Wigs. He yanked the hat off his head, revealing a sprig of hair that accented his crown, and a few liver spots. That’s if they’s open.

Miranda paid him in cash, and drove carefully over the cracked pavement and back out onto the empty road. A mile or so outside town, she passed a hard worn pick-up, toting a torn couch, atop which three ragged teenagers perched. One tipped a beer bottle at her as they drove by. She ignored the gesture.

She had taken 229 out of Bottom Woods, and somewhere around Waldo, she quit that for 47. No major thoroughfares for her. She liked the backroads. They were more interesting. If Pecky was here, he would say the backroads provided some cover for her escape. But Pecky wasn’t here, and that was her fault.

The promise of food in the next town was way off base. Pig’s Wigs looked to have been closed for a few years. A hard wind, mixed with some rain had tipped what looked to be the lone tree in town onto the roof of the eatery, and the weather had its way with the rest.

But she was here, and curiosity, and a stiff back got the best of her. Miranda climbed out of the car and lifted her arms over her head, stretching her back, and dropping at the waist to dangle for a moment. She straightened up and shaded her eyes from the unforgiving sun, checking out the sad remains of the café. Then, she trundled over to the broken restaurant window, and peered in.

Would have liked to try the Blue Plate Special, she chuckled.

With no sign of a break on the food front, she climbed back into the dust addled car, and pulled out onto the road. As the afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, Miranda found a bumpy dirt road off to the right of what Iowans laughingly called a highway. She pulled in, picked her way along the rutted tract for a few yards, pulled off onto a soft shoulder, and tilted her seat back for a nap.

She awoke to the shrill scream of a mountain lion, and sat forward so fast she bashed her chest on the steering wheel. For one panicked moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she got her bearings. She rubbed at her chest, and peered into the darkness, cautiously. Nothing, and no one.

Miranda turned the key and drove out onto what passed for a main road, continuing on her way toward the sunny reaches of Nebraska. Her hunger had passed the point of mildly annoying, and she was out of water. She felt vaguely nauseous, and dizzier than she’d like. It was time to admit the problem at hand. She needed food. She could do without a good night’s sleep. She had always been able to drive longer and farther than any other human she knew. But the food thing was troubling.

There was no cell phone signal here, and she had no idea how far it was to Nebraska. She amused herself by picturing a bright neon sign, and the brightly lit parking lot of a roadside diner, waiting for her just across the state line. She could almost see the menu, spiral bound, containing at least a hundred choices, with a scripted message at the top of the page announcing, ‘Breakfast All Day’.

Her mouth started to water, and she decided her daydream was a little too realistic. You better stop, she admonished.

The hours passed and, without knowing or seeing, Miranda found herself in Otoe, Nebraska. The state line was behind her, as was what might have been her first real chance at a warm meal. The sun glinted off the oncoming cars, and she felt a gauzy faint feeling pass over her. Her face flushed, and she gasped for air. She yanked the car off onto the shoulder and heard the sound of an angry horn honking as a truck passed by.

When she woke up, it was night. She tried to trace back to her last memory, but nothing seemed to make sense. She was almost sure she had pulled off the road onto the shoulder, and that the road she was on was more of a main street than a rural side road. Yet, here she was, sitting in her car, looking out into a patch of woods. She opened the door, and snaked her way out of the car, feeling her back seize up on her, as she tried to stand up straight.

The moon floated overhead, casting an eerie shadow on the road, but revealing no buildings, road signs or other vehicles. She stretched and shook off the cobwebs, feeling the hunger gnawing at her gut. Hard as she tried, she could not remember driving to this location.

But here I am, she said aloud. And where exactly is that?

Miranda forced herself to walk twenty paces up the road, being careful not to trip or fall into an unseen chuckhole. She retraced her steps back to the car, got in, fastened her seatbelt and drove onto the road.

The trees gathered closer until, at last, she saw a sign for Seven Sisters Road. She turned off with the intention of finding a safer place to sleep. Her recent nap didn’t seem to have helped the brain fog, and she didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.

Miranda drove for a while on Seven Sisters Road and she was about to pull over, when she spotted a dim light in the distance.

She glanced at the gas gauge, realized it was nearly full, and tried to remember where and when she might have filled the tank. By the time she decided to let it go, she was in the mouth of the driveway, making her way toward a two-story log cabin type structure. The door to the building was lit by coach lamps and the lamps cast a yellowish glow on the dirt path.

On either side of the door, Miranda could see a ragged evergreen hedge, badly in need of a manicure. It sent errant shoots up past the front windows of the building, and its branches grew in every direction. A light, mounted in the grass, shone on a broken wooden sign.

Seven Sisters Inn, she read aloud. All Are Welcome.

Miranda took a moment to assess her surroundings. There was a large, dirt parking lot to the left of the building, and a few overgrown spots next to her car. There were no other cars in the parking lot. Maybe, this was another Pig’s Wigs deal. Maybe not. She decided to give it a try.

She got out of the car and walked up the dirt path. Out of the shadows on her right, she saw a figure approaching. She turned to look, and realized it was Pecky.

It’s about time you got here, he said. His beaky nose tilted up as if he was sniffing her, and then he grinned – that maddening, love-it-but-hate-it grin she had always found so appealing. You been driving since you left me? You must be starving.

Miranda tried to answer, but she couldn’t breathe. Pecky waited patiently until she caught her breath. How are you here?

Oh, he waved the question away with a dismissive hand. That’s not important. You should go in. He bowed at the waist and swung his arm toward the building. Nourishment awaits.

Her brain was awash in questions. How had he come to be here? How was it even possible? But all she could say was, Come with me. This came out more as a croak than a statement.

Pecky stepped back, his face covered now in shadow. You know I can’t, he muttered.

And then he was gone.

Miranda felt her knees go out from under her. She staggered to the building and slammed a palm against the log wall. When she was sure she would not pass out, she gripped the door handle and pulled. The maddening scent of barbecue wafted toward her, and something that smelled vaguely like spaghetti sauce. Her stomach turned over once, reminding her of the mission.

Miranda stepped inside, and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. A large stone fireplace stretched across the back wall. From her spot at the door, she could see a heavy wooden banister, and a staircase leading up to the left.

On her journey here, the weather had been uncomfortably hot and humid, so much so that she had to turn on the air conditioner several times, just to keep from getting swamped. But here in this dimly lit, out-of-the-way restaurant, the fire was blazing, and that seemed inexplicably appropriate. It wasn’t hot in the building, but rather cozily warm, and welcoming.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a Germanic folk costume approached her. She smiled, and the wrinkles on either side of her eyes creased into shadow. Her hair was piled high and festooned with red and green ribbons. She wore knee-high boots and a red apron and she carried a clipboard.

One for dinner?

Miranda stared at her for a moment. She found herself unable to answer. There were no other patrons in the restaurant. Her brain worked at the problem, trying to guess the time. Maybe it was late, and they were about to close. She couldn’t remember seeing the time on the car dash, and she felt a sudden urge to run out and check. But she didn’t.

Yes, she replied.

Right this way, the hostess said. She waved a hand toward a table tucked against the wall to the right.

When Miranda was seated, a waitress appeared, bumping her way out of the double doors to the kitchen. She carried a tray with a single glass of water. Her smile was unnerving. Miranda wished for Pecky, but he wasn’t there.

The waitress placed the water on the table, and Miranda tried to avoid her gaze. From inside the kitchen, she heard the sound of dishes breaking, and a single, male voice laughing loudly.

Would you like to see a menu, the waitress asked, her voice sly and inviting.

Yes. Miranda accepted the thick leather-bound menu. Give me a minute.

Anything to get this person away from her table. Something was off, but Miranda suspected that it was her own situation that made this place and these people seem mildly threatening.

She was tired. She was hungry. This place was nothing more than a stop along the road. She opened the menu, and stared at the pages, trying to make sense of what she saw. The menu itself consisted of two, thick parchment pages, covered in plastic sleeves, and attached to the leather cover with stitching. The first page of the menu was blank. The second page contained only one item, ‘Prime Rib Au Juice’. Miranda barked a laugh, and covered her mouth quickly, glancing around the restaurant, hoping no one heard her outburst.

The waitress was standing in front of a wait station, writing something on a pad. She seemed oblivious.

Au Juice, Miranda whispered. She chuckled lightly, even as she began to recognize that the situation was more frightening than funny. What kind of restaurant has one thing on the menu? Where is the salad? Where are the desserts and the coffee? And why is the one thing on the menu, Pecky’s favorite? Why does it say, ‘Au Juice’ – a worn, but trusty joke Pecky made whenever he saw this particular entrée on a menu?

I’m dreaming, Miranda concluded. "I’m sleeping at the side of the road. I will wake up, and Pecky will be there, pointing to the map, and telling me I should be glad he got it at the gas station, because he knew there would be no frigging signal out in the middle of East Bum Dock.

She closed the menu and looked up to find the waitress standing next to the table.

I don’t remember hearing her, Miranda thought. And, I would have, because it’s dead quiet in here. There is no one else in the room.

Are you ready to order?

Miranda chanced an upward glance and found the waitress just as unnerving as she had upon her arrival.

I guess I’ll have the Prime Rib, Miranda said. She nearly laughed aloud at that but managed to keep her cool.

Good choice, the waitress replied. As if there was some other choice.

Miranda scanned the restaurant for a rest room sign but saw none. Can you point me to the rest room?

Oh, yes, the waitress said. Follow me.

Miranda got up, a bit unsteadily. The waitress didn’t seem to notice. She followed the woman to the bottom of the stairs, where she was directed to the upper floor.

The second-floor hostess will show you the way, the waitress said.

What?

Right up there. The waitress seemed done with her now, annoyed and ready to move on to the next customer – except there wasn’t one.

Second floor hostess, Miranda repeated, robotically.

She started up the stairs, staring into the dim shadows above. She could see no one. Then she saw a person, standing in the middle of the staircase, just below the floor line. She waved at Miranda as if she was expecting her, and she smiled. Not for the first time that evening, Miranda felt gooseflesh on her arms.

The second-floor hostess was dressed just as her first-floor counterpart had been. Her crisp red apron fell neatly across her print dress. Her boots shined in the dim light. She waved Miranda up the stairs and, as she drew near, Miranda waited for the hostess to climb the last of the stairs to the second floor. But she did not. Instead, she put a hand on Miranda’s arm, and pulled her past. They brushed shoulders on the narrow staircase and Miranda’s eyes came level with the floorboards of the second level.

She was about to finish her climb when the hostess pulled at her arm. Miranda looked down, and the hostess smiled. She nodded up at the second floor.

Do you see them, she asked.

Who? Miranda peered through the banister, across the floorboards at the tables laid out on the second level. Above the rim of one tabletop, she saw a man, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a hat (a bowler, she thought it was called). Across the table from the man, she could see a woman, dressed in a long gown, its sequins sparkling in the dim light of the wooden chandeliers.

Dr. Thatcher, the hostess said. Dr. Thatcher, and his wife, of course.

Yes, Miranda said. I guess. I don’t know who they are.

Well, the hostess replied, shortly, Of course, it’s Dr. Thatcher. Who else would it be?

I don’t…, Miranda ran out of words. Yes, I see them.

Good, the hostess said, agreeably. The rest room is just past their table at the back wall, on the left.

Miranda raised her foot to take the next step, and the hostess pulled her back again. But you must not pass the table without stopping to stay hello to Dr. Thatcher. Do you understand?

What?

You will find him a most welcoming person, and he and his dear wife, Lydia insist on greeting all of our patrons personally.

Uh, OK.

You must promise me to be polite.

OK, sure, Miranda said. By now, she realized exactly how badly she needed to visit the rest room. She would agree to most anything just to get away from this woman.

The hostess let her go, and Miranda climbed the last of the stairs. She stood at the top of the staircase, and looked for the rest room sign. Once she had it in her sights, she started toward the door.

As she passed the first of the tables, she noticed that the spacing was not equal. The doctor’s table was set apart in a bare area, the legs of the table and the chairs resting on a bear skin rug. A velvet rope had been placed around their table, separating them from the rest of the upper dining room. And here, just as in the room below, there were no other customers.

She took a breath, started toward the rest room and, as she passed the velvet rope, her eyes darted toward the right, and she found Dr. Thatcher looking intently at her. She didn’t mean to stop, but she felt her body pull up short. She pasted a smile on her face and turned toward the couple.

Hello, you must be Dr. Thatcher, she said, a bit too loudly.

Yes, yes, I am, he said. He seemed pleased that she had acknowledged him. "And this is my lovely wife, Lydia.

Lydia smiled tightly. She dropped her eyes to her plate, and Miranda noticed that it was empty, as was her husband’s. The delicate dishes gleamed in the dim light; the water goblet glistened with condensation. The woman picked up her glass and took a sip.

And you are? Dr. Thatcher looked at her expectantly.

Um, Miranda stumbled now. She was supposed to be traveling anonymously. She had worked hard to stay on the back roads, worked hard to avoid conversations with people, and now this man was asking who she was. Anne, she blurted. My name is Anne.

Ah. For one heart-pounding moment, Miranda thought Dr. Thatcher would jump from his chair, and point an accusatory finger. He would tell her that he knew she was lying. He would say he knew exactly what she did back in Ohio. But the moment passed, and Thatcher just smiled. Nice to meet you, Anne. I am so pleased you stopped to say hello. You know, people are in such a hurry these days, don’t you think?

Yes, Miranda stammered. A big hurry. She glanced at the door to the rest room, wondering if she had been polite long enough, wondering if she could get away.

Of course, your dinner is waiting downstairs, Lydia said. She seemed to want to dismiss Miranda straight away, and that was just fine with this weary traveler.

Miranda excused herself. It was so very nice to meet you, she said, hoping the lie did not show in her eyes. I’ll leave you to your dinner. Miranda nearly burst out laughing at that one. She had all she could do to get to the rest room without cackling like a hyena. She locked the door and sat on the toilet, nearly losing her mind at the thought that her own meal might be imaginary too. She clapped her hands over her mouth, to muffle her laughter.

When she was finished, she stood at the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A single light curved over the scuffed mirror, and Miranda had to lean in to see her face clearly. She looked as tired as she was, and she had a long way to go. If only Pecky was here. He would drive for a little while at least, and she could stretch out in the back seat. But Pecky wasn’t here.

She splashed some lukewarm water on her face, and dabbed it dry with a scratchy paper towel. Then, she straightened her spine, and put her hand on the door, mentally preparing herself for the Dr. Thatcher gauntlet.

When she came back into the room, she saw that the table was empty. The velvet ropes were gone, and the table was set for the next customer, if there ever was one. Miranda stood under the chandelier, staring at the dining room, trying to wrap her head around the situation.

She took a few hesitant steps toward the staircase and seemed to regain her footing. She paused at the top of the stairs, looking for the second-floor hostess, but she too had vanished. At the bottom of the stairs, Miranda paused to consider the empty restaurant. The kitchen was quiet now, and the waitress and first floor hostess had disappeared. She crossed to her table, sat down and pulled her chair close, examining the medium rare prime rib on the plate. She poked at it with a fork and took a sip of water.

Her first instinct was to get up and walk out, but her stomach betrayed her. Faced with a warm, fragrant slab of meat, her instinct was no match for her hunger. The meat was plated without vegetables, bread or any garnish, but it was food, and that was more than good. She swiped a steak knife from the neighboring table and dug in, stopping occasionally to take a sip of water. The restaurant might be strange, the staff more than weird, but the meat was cooked to perfection, and it was only now that she realized how hungry she had been.

She finished her meal, without seeing a waitress or a hostess, or hearing a single sound from the kitchen. When she was finished, she gulped the rest of her water, sat back in her chair and waited for the check. The minutes passed, and the fire crackled, never losing its blaze, or seeming to need minding.

Still, no one came.

Eventually, Miranda got up and walked to the kitchen. She was growing impatient now. She wanted to get on the road, and she was done with the strangeness. Her brain was too tired to attend to the warning signs. She just wanted to leave.

She stood outside the doors to the kitchen and called, but no one came. After a minute, she pushed open the double doors, and entered the kitchen. It was hot in here, steam rising from deep sinks, used frying pans sitting on the stove. A single paddle fan twirled over the slop sink. The exhaust fan sparkled in the light, unused and quiet.

Hello, Miranda tried to call, but her voice caught in her throat. Now, she was scared, though she couldn’t say why. No one was threatening her. Not like in Bottom Woods.

She stepped into the kitchen and walked around the center island. Miranda half expected to see someone hunkered down behind the stove, but there was no one. The back door was open, and Miranda stole a glance outside. A single light illuminated the back lot, a scuffed dirt affair with a few parking spaces, and an overflowing dumpster. She stuck her head out the door and looked left and right. Nothing.

She was on her way back into the dining room when she heard the screams. She never understood the term ‘blood curdling’ – not until she heard this sound. The blood seemed to freeze in her veins, sludgy, and heart stopping. She pulled up short, twirled in a circle, ran toward the door, stopped again, and froze. She was trying to figure out the origin of the screams, but she couldn’t tell. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time.

Miranda broke and ran, flinging open the front door, and flying toward her car. She thought she saw Pecky out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t stop. It was her imagination, she knew it, and she couldn’t let that stop her now.

The screaming continued, and now she thought the sound was coming from the woods, on the other side of the dirt lot. She jumped in her car, locked the doors, and started the engine, kicking up dirt and gravel as she gunned the car backwards out of the parking space.

Miranda was up the lane, and at the end of the driveway now, and yet the sound seemed to follow her. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but her fingers were clenched on the steering wheel. She turned left. She didn’t know why. The car seemed to have a mind of its own. All she knew was that she had to get away. She drove no more than a quarter of a mile, and the headlights flickered. She flipped the switch on the lights, and they flared once, and then went out. The horn barked, a single blaring tone, and then the car stalled.

Miranda grabbed for her phone, and found what she feared. There was no signal. She looked up at the road, as it climbed into the close-hemmed woods.

Calm down, she said. Her voice in the quiet of the car startled her, and her heart skipped into action. The doors are locked. The car was in the middle of the road but if someone came along, she would just get out of the car, and flag a ride. It wasn’t a perfect solution. It wouldn’t help her keep her pledge of anonymity, but she had no choice.

She sat back in her seat and forced herself to relax her muscles. She was fine. She was safe.

How was dinner?

Miranda’s neck creaked in complaint, as she turned toward the passenger seat. She knew what she would see, before she saw it. Pecky was there, sitting in the passenger seat, smiling that crazy smile. He twiddled his fingers at her in a silly wave and sat back to close his eyes.

What are you doing here?

Thought I would keep you company, he said. He sounded miffed, and Miranda couldn’t say she blamed him. You got something else to do?

No, she whispered. Her throat was dry. She could barely get the words out. The car, she said, lamely. It doesn’t work.

Seven Sisters Road, Pecky said. That’s all he said, and that made her mad. What on earth did that mean? She remembered passing the sign for the road before she got to the restaurant. So what? You don’t know what that means?

She shook her head. No. Her brain was no longer functioning.

Well, there’s the story, anyway, he laughed. He seemed to find that funny, though she couldn’t say way. They say it happened a long time ago.

What happened? She meant to stop there, but she had to point out the frustrating consistency. You know I hate it when you are vague. Just say it.

Much to her surprise, Pecky acquiesced. It was a terrible tragedy, he explained. It happened over a century ago. He turned to her and spread his hands wide. There was this man who lived somewhere around here. He lived with his seven sisters.

Hence, Seven Sisters Road, she said, sarcastically.

Pecky chuckled. "Yeah. Anyway, one night,