Table For Two

By Eliot Parker

Conversation is more than just words being spoken, interpreted, and acted upon by others. Conversation is also the ultimate human interest activity, bringing people into direct contact with people in all of their complexity and vulnerability. The main characters in Parker's ten multi-genre stories set in the heart of Appalachia want to be heard;

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colorful Crow Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781964271064

Eliot Parker

Eliot Parker is the author of four thriller novels. A graduate of Eastern Kentucky University with his M.F.A. in creative writing, Eliot is a recipient of the West Virginia Literary Merit Award, and his novel Fragile Brilliance was a finalist for the Southern Book Prize in Thriller Writing. His novel Code for Murder was bronze winner in genre fiction by America BookFest in 2018, and his most recent novel, A Knife’s Edge, was an honorable mention at the 2019 London Book Festival. He is the host of the podcast program “Now, Appalachia,” heard on the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network. A native of Charleston, West Virginia, Eliot teaches writing at the University of Mississippi and currently resides in Oxford, Mississippi and Chesapeake, Ohio.

Book preview

Table for Two

Eliot Parker

Colorful Crow Publishing

Published by

Colorful Crow Publishing

96 Craig Street Suite112-304 Ellijay, Georgia

http://www.colorfulcrowpublishing.com

©2024 by Eliot Parker 

All rights reserved

Published in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. 

ISBN 978-1-964271-05-7 (PB)  

ISBN 978-1-964271-06-4  (eB)

http://www.eliotparker.com

Colorful Crow is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

Contents

Dedication

1.From the Stars Above

2.Maid of Honor

3.The River

4.Bless Her

5.Table for Two

6.Birthday Boy

7.Lottery

8.Appraisal

9.Underneath

10.Giving

Acknowledgements

To Mr. Cyrus, who encouraged me to keep writing.

From the Stars Above

There was something about him that kept him going. He was a man of conviction.

Tabitha had been jogging in the park and was surprised that on a warm, fall evening, she was the only person jogging on the trails. The surrounding greenery around her became charcoal and the grey path was melting into the night.

His figure was discernable as she ran closer. To avoid scaring him, she slowed her run. As the distance between her and the man grew larger, Tabitha studied him intently. He was tall and courtly, with strands of white in his hair. He walked about with no particular destination in mind.

Tabitha squinted below the low-hanging moon. It had been a typical fall day in Southern Ohio. The dry, sharp, and prickly smell that permeated the air when Tabitha was out on her early morning run had been replaced with the rustling noise of orange maple leaves that floated around the sidewalks. The howling wind snaked between the rough and ragged trunks of the sweet gum trees that lined the park.

She thought about the man for a moment longer. There was something about him that hinted at there being more. He wore a button-down, red plaid shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of brown sneakers. But was that really unique? Maybe it was the face. Tabitha decided to break the silence to learn more. Sir, are you alright? Tabitha locked her gaze dead ahead.

The old man had not heard her, so he kept walking. Tabitha heard the snaps of twigs ahead as his feet were jabbed by leaves and pebbles on the path.

Sir? The park grew ever darker. Tabitha had been taking early evening runs in the park for several years, and she knew that soon the shadows of the trees would blend into the blackness and his silhouette would grow less pronounced. She looked up and caught a glimpse of the moon as a dark cloud drew close, threatening to erase its silver rays. Tabitha felt her heart continue to slam into her chest, despite the lack of running. She had an elderly mother herself at home and knew people their age should not be left alone meandering in the dark. Before Tabitha could call out again, the man stopped walking and slowly turned around.

Lance, said the man. My name is Lance.

Alright, Lance, I’m Tabitha, she said, introducing herself. What, may I ask, are you doing here by yourself?

Lance did not respond, but Tabitha knew he had not heard her question. His sea-blue eyes were rheumy and the corners flecked with dry tears. His eyes pulsed with intensity, but they darted back and forth like he was expecting something to happen at any second.

Tabitha had seen that look before. Her mother often gave the same facial expressions. Though the doctors had not made any diagnosis, she had researched all of her symptoms, including the hesitant steps and difficulty with visuospatial tasks such as going up and down stairs. It was dementia. Could Lance be suffering from the same disease? Tabitha blinked away the thought. She had only watched Lance for several seconds and his indicators could be caused by other conditions. What was considered normal for every individual was always different.

Before Tabitha could say anything else, Lance threw up his arms, then dug a heel into the path and spun around. In another flurry of motion, Lance was scurrying off in the opposite direction from where Tabitha had caught him.

Confused and worried, she went after him, knowing it was the right thing to do. His shadow grew tight and narrow as he turned around a sharp bend in the path, disappearing into a dark maw between the space of two large tree trunks. Tabitha retrieved her iPhone from her pocket and called 911. Lance, wait! she called after him when he had sauntered dangerously away from her line of sight.

911, what’s your emergency? said a woman from the other side of the phone. Tabitha was forced to divide her attention between going after Lance and talking on her phone.

Please send someone to the trail lane at Jackson Lake State Park. I, I mean we, just passed marker 404. A man needs help. Please hurry.

Is he in immediate danger? What’s going on, ma’am? asked the woman with a rote tone of formality.

No, nothing serious. He is old and lost, dawdling around at a time like this … I look after my mom. She has dementia. He’s … it’s… Tabitha had a feeling she could not explain. Something in her gut. I—I think this man, Lance, has dementia, too. But just when Tabitha thought she had caught up with Lance, he had disappeared.

***

I don’t know what you’re talking about! Lisa had tramped her way along the rutted sidewalk in an irritated silence. The concrete path was lean and thin on both sides with pockets of overgrown grass edging onto the surface. Lisa stood in front of her father’s house. The small beige cottage, with its slanted roof and rounded windows jutting out from each side of the front door, felt much smaller than usual. Lisa looked over and noticed moisture caught in the double glazing of glass on the window near the door. It had most likely been trapped there for years. Lisa had been told that if left untreated, the water would bubble up in the sun and evaporate in the cold year after year until the glass fell from the frame.

She reached forward and found the door was unceremoniously locked. Her father had been acting strange the past few weeks. I’m lonely, he’d told her. At my age, all of my friends either don’t know who I am or they’re dead. Lisa rolled her eyes at hearing those words. Her dad was never short of hyperbole, especially when Lisa asked probing questions about how he spent his days.

But over the last month, he’d grown silent and sullen and seemed content to sit in the large recliner in the living room. She had dismissed it as nothing. Lisa knew he didn’t like being bothered or questioned.

There was a way of doing everything with him. His medication, food, mandatory walk—it was all possible only if she was gentle with him. Any other way and Lance would become an uncontrollable child.

She fumbled in the dark light for the key and finally jutted it into the keyhole and pushed back the front door. Lisa stepped into the living room and noticed that it, too, felt much smaller than usual. The air inside seemed distilled and heavy. Lisa waved her hand and something hanging in the space just felt heavy. But she had not expected that he would walk out the door alone. At night.

Lisa had told all of this to Officer Striker when he asked her to explain exactly what was going on and why she decided to come over.

I think it’s a bit irresponsible of you, Ms. Walker, to leave the door unlocked knowing that your father didn’t seem well. It’s basic safety and we encourage all of our citizens to lock their doors, especially when the sun sets and darkness comes.

Lisa dropped her gaze to the floor and chewed the inside of her lip. Striker was right, but none of this made any sense. Lance never liked to go outside after dinner and preferred to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy before going to bed around 8:30. The officer scribbled some more notes in his pad and snapped it shut.

The sound made Lisa look at him again. Officer Striker was a tall, lean man. He had close, cropped brown hair and his pockmarked cheeks and round face made him seem like a young kid. His hooked nose twitched as he took in a breath.

In that moment, he stood glaring at Lisa as if dealing with a miscreant. Unfortunately for her, she had basically blamed the situation on her father being irresponsible and refusing to answer questions about his sudden change in mood and behavior. What else could she have said?

Help me find him, please, Lisa said, in a breathless plea. Look around. I’ll help you get started. Lisa walked back resignedly from the living room into the narrow hallway that connected to the kitchen. Lisa had been at a party for the Jackson League of Women Voters when she’d called 911 and asked for an officer to do a courtesy check on her father. Lisa hadn’t heard from him all day and he didn’t answer the phone. After two hours went by with no response from the police, Lisa went over to the house to investigate. She found Officer Striker standing in the front yard, a flashlight beaming around a ray of white light in quick strokes around the property.

She was fully aware that her green cocktail dress was not a fit for the seriousness of the situation and she knew her not-so-bare back was in full view of the officer’s vision. Lisa wanted to get something to drape across her shoulders as soon as she could.

Where are you, Daddy? She wondered.

***

Office Striker was busy on his phone. From what Lisa could hear standing near the top of the stairs, there was a lead. She was skeptical as to the timing—it was unlikely news that her father had been found or Striker would have said something to her. Lisa had good instincts about people, and she knew Striker was a good cop. He had maintained composure with her during her recounting of the events that led to Lance’s disappearance. Even though he chided her for leaving her father alone, he maintained his composure and the sincerity in his voice let Lisa know he was also concerned about Lance’s whereabouts. They taught cops those skills at the academy, or so she had heard from some of her friends. While brawn was needed, so were brains. Lisa surmised that good cops had to have those characteristics of compassion and concern for others ingrained in their psyche, no matter how much they were taught to demonstrate them at a scene.

Lisa was desperate to get out of her formal clothes into something more comfortable. She found some older clothes that she’d left in the guest room during her overnight stay on Christmas Eve. Lisa had taken the time the phone call had given her to change into a dark green sweater and blue jeans with square-toed black boots. She walked downstairs and stalked into the kitchen, starting some coffee for Officer Striker and herself. She was worried about her father but was determined to not let them know about his failing mind.

Lance had been using the same old coffee pot for years. It was small and could only brew a couple of cups at a time, but all it needed was the coffee grounds and water to start percolating. Lisa pulled back the rubber lid to the coffee container and removed the plastic scoop. She held the full scoop in her hands, trying to make the tremors stop. It was no use. She dropped the scooper onto the counter and black granules scattered across the faded linoleum counter. She cursed silently to herself, but a voice inside of her head emerged.

Lisa Walker? Hi, yes, this is Dr. Givens’ office. We have the test results for your father. Dr. Givens believes it to be dementia...

It had only been three months since that phone call, yet the voice of the doctor’s assistant was fresh in her ears. Lisa had dismissed it there and then, not wanting to accept that her father would have to live a lesser life. If only she had had the courage to reconcile back then, she would have taken even better care of her father than she had. This would not have happened.

Lisa swallowed and looked back down the hallway into the living room. Striker had ended his phone call. She needed to tell the officer that she knew why Lance had left the house. It was his dementia.

Ms. Walker? Striker called out.

Yes? Lisa came out of the kitchen and stood in the small hallway, awaiting his response.

Detective Patty Gibson is the responding detective that handles missing persons cases for the sheriff’s department. I called her. When I told her the circumstances, she said she knows you.

Lisa felt something in her stomach sour. Patty is coming? Here? Shit.

Striker nodded slowly. He refused Lisa’s offer of coffee from the kitchen. Lisa stared at the round glass pot and watched as the machine hissed and rocked to the side. A small stream of light brown liquid trickled out of the base of the machine and fell into the glass bottom.

Lisa and Striker said nothing to each other for several minutes. A knock at the door broke the silence.

Striker pulled back the door and Detective Patty Gibson walked in. Ms. Walker? Patty blew out a long breath as she entered the house. A gust of wind, tepid and close, followed her inside.

Dressed in a dark pantsuit, Lisa noticed Patty’s gun and shield clipped to her belt. Patty was long and lean with tanned skin and short cut brown hair. Lisa ignored the brewing coffee and sucked in a breath. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth for a moment before walking into the living room.

Nice to see you again, Lisa, Patty said, holding out a hand. Lisa stared at it for a moment and then locked eyes with the detective. She had freckles lining the bridge of her nose and running underneath her eyes. The detective smelled like a mix of lilacs and stale air.

Thanks for coming, she mumbled, looking away. Striker stepped back and crossed his arms. Lisa was surprised at how the universe seemed intent on laying the blame for her father’s disappearance on her.

Patty Gibson, she thought. Of all the cops that could have shown up, it just had to be her.

Been a long time, Miss Walker, Detective Gibson said.

Detective, Lisa mustered. This would not end well.

Imagine my surprise when Officer Striker called me about a runaway dad. Her eyes cut between him and Lisa. And a senior citizen whose daughter I had previously met.

No. No. No! Lisa’s temper sparked. Anger stirred within her. He. Does. Not. Have. Dementia.

Striker furrowed his brow. Gibson cocked her head to the side and stared at Lisa for a moment. Miss Walker.

Lisa. Please.

"Lisa. The doctors at Holzer Medical Center made a diagnosis. After we found your father and he was being checked out, it was determined by a team of physicians and a neurologist that his mental state was deteriorating rapidly. It’s difficult to argue with a professional opinion."

Striker stood surprisingly quiet. If he found Lisa’s trouble amusing, he didn’t show it. But Lisa knew Gibson must have told him about what had happened the last time. That was why Striker’s phone call with Gibson took so long.

Lisa let a moment pass while she tamped down her irritation. Yes. I know that all of that, Detective. My father has disappeared before, too, and now it’s happened again.

Patty Gibson had been the responding detective the last time. And she was back again.

They were wrong, though. It was not just dementia. It was heartache.

***

After collecting a picture of her father again and recounting the information Striker had noted earlier, Gibson and Striker left the house, and said they would put out an APB on her father as well as notify the local homeless shelters and hospitals in the area to be on the lookout for him.

Lisa was out on the road now, driving away in search of her lost father. Night had completely fallen over Jackson and a blackness, thick as velvet, engulfed the road in front of her. The earlier warmth of the autumn day was gone. Lisa made a sharp left turn in her Ford Focus, bypassing the Shady Springs neighborhood and angling the car onto McCarty Road.

Without her awareness, the car moved over the pavement, headlights on full beam. Lisa had finally allowed herself to admit that her father’s disappearance was, again, her fault.