Short Stories

50 Years From Now

(For Bryan and Rachel)

Slow rockers creaked on a sun-bathed porch, the orange evening glow of a summer’s curiosity peeking between the low branches like so many window blinds. Chased by the breeze beyond that far row of houses, each with its porch and its toy soldier tree standing guard, the sun said goodnight is its usual slow way. Minutes and angles fell away no less carefully for the routine.

An old set of hands hung between belonging bodies like mismatched socks balled together in a drawer. His, large and strong and telling tales of a lifetime in a silent sign language – ­­a scar here, a wrinkle there, and a long, healthy lifeline reading palms of past fortune. Hers, the delicate compliment with slender fingers wrapped in olive skin with a grace in the stillness as hands resting mid-air between notes pressed from a piano.

Gently they pushed their ten-thousand-mile feet to the porch that has never been anywhere else, matching paces with pendulums measuring minutes from somewhere inside the house behind. Their soft elder eyes guiding lingering automobiles into safe neighbor driveways where small neighbor children ran to tall neighbor fathers. Crescent smiles shone defying fallen faces losing battle with gravity, and free hands rose returning gestures.

The bright burning halo nestled away from view as a child savoring warm sheets on cold mornings. Old sets of hands pressed arms of rocking chairs and old sets of feet shuffled indoors as a hundred thousand waving hands flickered with the wind, hissing, whispering another good night in the happy ever-after. 

Jet Ski Summer

It was the fourth of July and she was bobbing on in the lake on her friend’s uncle’s jet ski waiting for a boat to pass so she could jump its wake. It was hot and her life vest was sticking to her rib cage and she wished she had worn a one-piece. Her bikini was white because in the dressing room it had made her look tanner than she really was, but now it made the sunburn on her thighs look more painful than it really was. Her right knee ached a little because she had inadvertently been squeezing the seat with her knees every time she made a jump and she had a blister on her thumb from the handlebars. But for all of these pains that would give her plenty to complain about on the long car ride home, she was happy. 

The air was hot and the water was cool even though it smelled like fish and moss. Her friend’s grandfather was really funny and treated her like one of his own granddaughters. A couple of her friend’s cousins were too young but kind of cute anyway and she enjoyed watching them constantly compete in their fumbling teenage way for her attention. This probably had something to do with the fact that she was the only girl there to whom they weren’t related, but she didn’t care because it was all just silly fun anyway.

Her uncle would grill chicken and hot dogs that night and she scooped up some of her store bought potato salad with her barbecue Ruffles potato chips, which one of the younger cousins thought was the most amazing idea anyone had ever thought of. She adopted him as her unofficial summer boyfriend for the rest of the week, partially because he was young and cute and wore glasses as a seven-year-old and partially because it made the older cousins embarrass themselves even more in order to win her attention. 

Thankfully, her friend wasn’t the kind of person who expected her, as her guest, to spend every minute together. They were always close by, but it was no big thing if one or the other disappeared for an hour or two. They were the kind of friends who could ride in a car together and listen to a CD from beginning to end without saying a word, breaking the silence only once song one began again to say, “Wanna listen to something else?”

On the night of the fourth, there was a fireworks display above the lake where they had waited in the boat for it to get dark. She drank Big Red from a can because that was all that was left in the cooler on the porch of the cabin, and it turned her lips and teeth red there in the dusk. The little boy with glasses had an even littler sister who now sat in her lap, wrapped in a beach blanket that was covered in cartoon baby sea turtles. She was five or six and still talked like a little kid and told her about how excited she was to start kindergarten that fall. She rocked the little girl side to side in time with the boat and put her cheek on the little girl’s wet hair, which still smelled like kids’ shampoo from her post-dinner bath.

Ten or fifteen minutes after it had gotten completely dark aside from the lights on the docks and cabins surrounding the lake, the first firework burst and a few hundred heads swung over and up and let out a sound. The little girl in her lap pointed as if the glowing red embers could be missed among the stars and she squealed. A breeze blew and the air boomed with shell after shell that painted the sky with sparks like multicolored sprinkles. And she said “Wow” and “Oooh” with every firework for the sake of the girl she was holding, but she realized she meant it, too. It still looked exactly like magic and for a moment she felt like she was five years old and that the cushioned seat of the boat was some big, older sister rocking her in time with the waves.

Sister Song

Pluck and strum the day away. Anonymous change will make its way to the bottom of my chipboard case. And I’m watching all the while.

A sidewalk sentry.

Visitors come and go with an identical gesture accompanying either instance. Meanwhile, a man who looks like a mugger holds the door for two girls from different pages in the same photo album ­­-- older and younger products of the same equation. Or maybe they look like mirror images, if a mirror can give curly hair to a reflection.

I think my next song will be about sisters. My sister, specifically. She’s always said that she’s got no musical ability, but perhaps being the subject of a song would be an adequate alternative.

Amidst the sounds of strumming songs and pedestrians keeping rhythm on the sidewalk’s surround, I’ve come to the conclusion that appreciating music is a talent in and of itself. Of course everyone likes music on some level; has a song or two that they like or love or temporarily base their lives on. But true talent lies in a person’s ability to take the notes for what they are without filtering them through the pop culture machine.

Do other people like this song? No? Well, then neither do I.

Whatever. Today’s too nice to think such cynical thoughts. Hey, that guy looks like the hit man in that one movie.

Pick and strum, the day becomes something slightly softer than the way today, at first, began. And now for my sister song.

Gee. See. Dee. A simple tune for sure, but it’s the melody that sets it apart. And the words, too, I guess. Lyrics seem to be like an interpreter on the nightly news. A man or a woman appears on screen, speaking in a language you don’t understand. Then, from some unseen place an English-speaking voice is putting their words into a familiar form. All the while you’re wishing the foreign man or woman would shut up so you could better hear the interpreter.

Man, my mind is wandering. What to say about my sister?

I’m remembering, now, the time I ran her over with my bike. Actually, it was a couple times, but it’s the second incident I’m thinking of presently. Now, don’t think that I was an especially mean little boy; I can explain. For my eighth birthday I was given a bicycle. My first. Exciting as it was to pedal ‘round and ‘round the sidewalk of our cul-de-sac, it was even more fun to suddenly engage the brakes by stomping backwards on the pedals. This, done correctly, would result in a terrific black skid mark on the sidewalk in front of our house. The kind of skid a child could be proud of, and could also get in trouble for. 

Several years later, my uncle sent for my birthday a hand-me-down bicycle from one of my older cousins. Larger, and certainly cooler than my previous pint-sized bike, this one had grip brakes on the handlebars rather than in the gears. There were other differences, of course, but this is the only one pertinent to the story.

The sidewalk was narrow and I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike in the street. She was running to get out of the way and I was backpedaling as hard as I could to get the bike to stop.

An aunt later told me that one is supposed to swerve to the right to avoid a collision. Actually, and without knowing that this was the rule, I had done exactly that. However, when two people are traveling in the same direction and both of them swerve to the right, this method is useless. I didn’t tell this to my aunt.

My sister scraped up her knee pretty badly and would positively wail while the bandage was being changed. Aside from a few stern parental looks, I didn’t get in any real trouble because everyone knew it was an accident. Still, when my mom and I were at the grocery store later on, I was told I had to my sister a present. I didn’t want to spend my chore money on a gift, but I didn’t argue too much because I really did feel bad about mowing her down like that. I found the smallest box of chocolates they had and a single silk rose that smelled like perfume. 

I gave my sister her presents, which must have cost around a dollar and a half, the next time she had her bandage changed. I think I’ll never forget the way she was smiling and crying at the same time.

Song’s almost over. Wonder what I’ve been singing about? Nobody’s around to hear it anyway.

I really ought to go visit her. It’s been quite a while. No bad feelings or anything between us, it’s just that my truck’s been up on blocks for close to a year now, and it’s a long, long walk to her house.

Pop. Pop. Pop. This is the way the case closes.

It’s the middle of May and probably the last nice-weather day until October, so I guess there’s no better time to make the trek. Wait. Better hold off a minute. The guy who looks like the hit man from that one movie is passing and I don’t want to catch his attention. It’d be a shame to get killed on such a pretty day. 

- - - - - -

The crunching sound of kalichi beneath my shoes lets my sister know I’m coming. The entrance to her neighborhood isn’t so much a gate as it is a section of chain-link fence that’s been removed to allow this gravel road to trickle down from the highway. Weeds creep in from either side in a suspicious way like a child trying to slowly slip a cookie from the jar without getting caught. Little yellow flowers and the dirt I’m kicking up scent the air with summer. I amble on, observing the trees and her neighbors’ landscaping while my sister’s house is still hidden from view. I whistle a little of my sister song while reading last names and addresses on the mailboxes on either side of the street. Almost there.

Mostly shaded by an enormous oak tree that has to be at least a hundred years old, my sister’s house is easily recognized for the daffodils out front and the neatly groomed patch of grass her gardener keeps so well. I’ve never seen this man, but I know my sister’s not one to keep up the yard herself. He must, therefore, really exist. Or maybe her “gardener” is simply a neighbor kid she pays a few dollars a week to mow her lawn. Doesn’t matter; looks nice either way.

She’s sitting on the porch as she almost constantly is, no matter the weather, and smiles widely as I approach. Setting my guitar case down, I take a seat right there in the yard, though it’s hardly big enough to call it that. It’s such a nice day, the last one of the season as I’ve already said, that I want to soak up all of it that I can.

“Good to see you! How are you doin’? Oh, I’m doin’ just fine myself. Sorry it’s been so long since my last visit, but you know my truck’s been busted up for nearly a year now. Anyway, I saw these two sisters today as I was playing out there on the corner and got to thinking about that time I ran over you with my bike when we were kids. Hahaha! Yeah, both times! Haha! No, I’m talking about the second time, remember? When mom made me buy you a present ‘cause it hurt so bad? Yeah, so I started thinkin’ about that and how long it’s been since I’ve seen you and how it’s such a nice day and all, so I decided to come see you.”

The conversation continues much as they normally do. How each other is doing. What we’ve been up to. And, of course, the latest family gossip. Who died, who’s getting married, and how second cousin so-and-so is in prison again. It must have been a longer talk than it seemed because by the time we came back around to remembering our childhood and how I’d run over her with my bike, with me apologizing between guffaws, then apologizing for laughing, the sun was making its way steadily towards the evening. I tell her I’d better shove off, as it’s a long walk home and I’d rather not have to do it in the dark. She asks if I’d like to stay for dinner, and though I would, I know it would only be even darker when we were through. And she says she’d be happy to put me up for the night, but I know she simply hasn’t room for me to stay.

So she waves goodbye, and tells me not to be a stranger. I wave back, tell her I love her and to take care of herself, promising it won’t be so long before my next visit. I continue to look as she turns to go inside, slowly closing the stone-grey door behind her. And though I’ve been reading it all afternoon, I take the time to once again read where her name’s been carefully carved into the door; each letter’s indention painted in with black to help it stand out against the cold background. To the left and a little below is her birthday, carved and painted in the same manner, and beside that is a date I think I’d really like to forget. 

Bye sis.

Gee. See. Dee. My pace and the change in my guitar case keep the beat as I whistle and follow my shadow towards home.

Cardboard Tree

Cardboard was the kind of boy the other parents didn’t notice. He was there, though, top row, left, on risers rising above the Harold J. Walker Elementary School cafetorium stage. Partially obscured by the American flag and viewing the world through his oversized second-hand glasses, Cardboard, along with the rest of Ms. Vandegaurd’s third grade class, was rehearsing a tune for the Christmas play.

A red plaid shirt and brown corduroy pants were as close as he could come to the festive attire mandated by his teacher, so it was the back row for Cardboard. A year older than the other children, he was still almost the shortest in his class. One could just make out his dirty blonde hair and the stage lights reflecting where his eyes ought to be. Lost in a sea of red and green children wearing the Christmas sweaters their grandparents had sent and the black slacks or skirts their moms had ironed the night before.

“Don’t you have any black pants, Cardboard?” Ms. Vandegaurd had asked in the days leading up to the production.

“No ma’am.”

“Maybe an older brother you could borrow a pair from?” Ms. Vandeguard was having a mild panic attack at the thought of a less-than-perfect backdrop the play she had co-written herself.

“No ma’am.”

“Well, okay,” she was talking to herself, “you don’t have any speaking parts, so if we put you on the back row, no one will notice.”

With that settled, she gently pushed Cardboard towards the stage, and he climbed, with some difficulty, past the first and second row kids to his place in the back. Cardboard was the kind of boy the other kids didn’t notice. He gave a sidelong glance towards the abyss behind him. Three feet down to destruction should he lose his footing.

Several weeks of diligent practice later, it was evening and the cafeteria looked much different than it had earlier in the day. Lunch tables had been replaced with rows of plastic chairs filled with parents sitting, Cardboard guessed happily, where their respective children sat each day. A grandfatherly man with a kind face was sitting in Cardboard’s approximate place, and applauded merrily as Ms. Vandegaurd began playing “Jingle Bells” on the piano.

“Jingle Bells! Jingle Bells!” he shouted, off-key, along with his appropriately-trimmed classmates.

After forgetting his line in last year’s play, Cardboard didn’t have a speaking part this evening. But he gave it his all, singing at the top of his lungs as not to be drowned out by the throng of eager performers. The others shouted, too, while parents smiled, grandparents pointed out their grandchildren on stage, and the Christmas tree in the back of the room glowed quietly. Colorfully.

The oft-rehearsed songs became new again when heard through the audience’s ears, and the ill-fitting costumes and poorly-delivered punch lines became funny for the first time amongst the parents’ proud amusement. Cardboard felt happy as he shifted his weight on the risers, careful not to fall into the abyss.

Soft, loving faces were almost gazing in his direction, glowing from the lights on the stage. Full-hearted families were grabbing hold of every note Cardboard sang to them, and he sang all the louder. He even closed his eyes for a moment like the pros did on TV. He was putting on quite a show.

Oh! The best part was coming up. At Ms. Vandegaurd’s signal, the third graders dove for the fake plastic candle lying between his or her Sunday shoes and switched it on in a hurry. One kid’s batteries had gone dead from playing with it during weeks of rehearsals. When the girl beside him wouldn’t trade her glowing candle for his cold one, he cast it to the ground in a huff, folded his arms and refused to sing. Meanwhile, the rest of the class started in on a solemn rendition of “Silent Night.”

Cardboard gazed in wonder at the yellow-orange flame. Lost. He looked out into the crowd, most of whom were singing along as his teacher had encouraged. His eyes moved from one mom to the next trying to imagine the taste of her Christmas cookies. He imagined Christmas-morning games of catch with the football he had just received from the various fathers of the room. He imagined himself from family to family in visions born to the plastic candle’s light.

- - - - - -

Three by three his classmates left, suspended by mittened hands between proud parents. Kids climbed into back seats while front seats gushed and congratulated – overstating the skill with which lines were delivered or lyrics were sung. Red and green and black sedans pulled calmly, happily from the parking lot on the way to warm homes, milk and cookies, bedtime stories and forehead kisses.

Cardboard leaned against a narrow tree that grew in front of Harold J. Walker Elementary School while the lights from inside melded shadows stretched thin into the street. A Cardboard tree. Exaggerated motions matched his as he marched slowly in place.

“Look how far I can step!” he thought to himself with an oblivious smile that bared his teeth to the cold December night.

“Beep!” honked the horn of the van that had just run him over, and his corduroy pants swished along the vinyl seat of the second row. He rested his ear on his arm on the seatback in front of him.

Cafeteria windows glowed yellow-orange with visions of recent memory until they melted into nighttime. The nearly-empty St. Jude's Home for Children van creaked and moaned on its way through the darkness, while “Jingle Bells” played thinly over the radio.