Paperback Trinkets
A Collection of Short Stories
Copyright @ 2011 Sandra Dorsett
Smashwords Edition License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
These are works of fiction. Any similarities to places, establishments, businesses or people, living or dead, are purely coincidental and are a product of the author's imagination.
Cover art and illustrations by Sandra Dorsett
This book is lovingly dedicated to my adorable granddaughters
Heather, Colleen, Nicole and Kaly
Last Call
The dial tone hummed in her ear; a miracle. She thought for sure communications would already be down. She dialed the number quickly. She was trembling. Her heart raced, fearing she wouldn’t get through. But she did; another miracle.
“Hello.”
“Tom!”
“Hi, baby.”
“Oh, my God; I was afraid you’d left, or I’d get your voice mail. Or the lines would be down.” She began to cry.
“Don’t, Sue. Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay. I’m here, baby.”
“It’s not okay. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you love me,” she pleaded.
“You know I do.”
“Say it anyway.”
“I love you, Sue.”
She sobbed. “I love you, too.”
Sue watched as Anna, from payables, ran hysterically from her office and fell to the floor beside the copy machine where she curled into a ball and wept. Ed, from dispatch, tried to calm her, but it was no use.
“How are your people there, Tom?”
“Not good.” He sighed. “Harry kept a revolver in his desk. Nobody knew until he pulled it out ten minutes ago and blew his head off. Sid’s still trying to call 911.”
“God help us.”
“I wish.”
“What? What do you wish, Tom?”
“Oh, nothing, everything.” His voice cracked. “Do you think the boys are okay?”
“Mary’s wonderful. She’ll comfort them.” An excruciating sadness rocked her violently, leaving a lump swollen in her throat. “My babies,” she moaned.
“You’re right,” he said. “Mary loves them almost as much as we do.”
“How long?” she pushed the words out. “How long do you think before the first missile strike?”
He was quiet for long seconds. “Minutes,” he whispered.
“I wish we didn’t know. I really do.” She began to cry again. This time she didn’t apologize. She glanced over to see the receptionist sitting quietly at her desk. She was tenderly stroking her swollen belly. Her baby would’ve been born in another eight weeks. Richard Bradshaw, the CEO, ran past her. He was screaming that he didn’t want to die.
She closed her eyes and thought of her two young boys who would not live past this day. “Say you love me,” she whispered.
“I love you,” he whispered back. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And then the world went white.
******** ********
My Restitution
Lots of people called me a snitch for going states evidence, but it was really only survival. At my parole hearing I promised the good people of Louisiana that I’d never let anyone cook dope in my kitchen again and they released me after eighteen months into my two-to-five at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.
Stacy gave me my first journal. Writing it all down was her idea. Stacy fancies herself my therapist, but Louisiana calls her my Parole Officer.
At first rage spilled onto those pages until I used it all up. Then hope surfaced after I started writing about David, whisked away to a dusty California farm by people who hate me.
It turned out I was good at writing and I entered national contests. My short fiction story: Flower Child raked in three thousand dollars and Allen’s Pet Rock won a critic’s award.
My first novel is tucked away inside a hotbox, waiting for a second edit. I have five unsent birthday cards and one letter for David hidden in there with my manuscript. They are my treasures. An hour does not pass without at least one bittersweet memory of David. The letter I wrote him is tattered now by my constant visits. I always know exactly what time it is in Apple Valley.
When it was not illegal to leave the state I headed west. I left New Orleans at dawn and gassed up and ate lunch in Houston. That was my first stop. It took a whole day to cross Texas. It was full dark by the time I stopped in El Paso for the night. A dripping faucet and thoughts of David kept me awake.
I was back heading west by first light. My excitement took on a life of its own as I traveled along I-10 toward David.
When I slipped over the Texas/New Mexico border the landscape changed dramatically. I stopped at a small trading post where I bought polished rocks for David. The sign above them said they were magic.
A bright August sun moved slowly over me and splattered the horizon with peach and gold. David was somewhere in that sunset. My pulse quickened to think I’d see him soon.
I stopped in Phoenix for that second night. Everything became greener as I pulled away from the desert. The horizon swelled and dipped with foothills resembling sleeping giants and tightly closed fists. I ate dinner in a real restaurant that night. It had all the finality of a last meal. Excitement was now masked by dread and fear.
I caught I-15 at San Bernardo and headed north until I found State Highway 16 and drove some miles before the cut-off. And finally, there it was: the mailbox that displayed my former last name.
There was a no trespassing sign, but I pulled into the gravel drive anyway and followed it to a wood fame house in the hilly distance. The day was dry and hot, yet I was chilled to the bone.
Chickens scratched the ground and horses were pastured near a large barn. Somewhere a donkey brayed. A brown furry dog lay curled on the wood porch. David loved animals and it was a comfort to know that he was probably happy here.
Gloria appeared at the door and peeked cautiously at me; I guess visitors are rare in the middle of nowhere. She was exactly as I envisioned her; fifty-something with a shock of tousled hair piled atop her head. Her faded dress and tattered apron softened my opinion of her.
I left the car and as I drew near, Gloria narrowed her eyes until a small measure of recognition seeped into the blue of them. She shushed the barking dog and called my name.
"I came to see David," I said boldly.
Gloria stood firm with a large hand placed at each hip. "That's impossible. You'd better get off my property right now." Later I would use the verb hostile in my journal to describe her attitude.
A million words clamored inside me to make Gloria understand, but when I opened my mouth not one would come forward to defend me.
Gloria burst onto the porch and slammed the screen shut behind her. "You gave David to me gift-wrapped," she yelled, "you with your drugs and your crazy life. I don't know what the heck my son ever saw in you."
I told Gloria I wasn’t like that anymore. I pleaded to see David. I swore I didn’t want to cause trouble. I fought tears with all my might, but I lost that battle miserably.
Gloria’s eyes softened and I saw a bit of compassion bleed into them. "It can't be this way, Stella," She said. "You got to start off slow, open a conversation over the phone; write letters. You can't just show up like this, not after all these years. Don't you know what that would do to David? Don't you care, Stella?" Her deft sensibility hammered all my good intentions to a bloody pulp.
She told me David was on a camping trip in Big Bear and wouldn’t be home for two days. After a bit I realized it was probably just as well. If he’d been home there probably would’ve been a terrible scene and he’d just have one more bad memory of me to stack on top of all the others.
Gloria let me in. She gave me food and something to drink. She showed me pictures and told me stories. David was happy. Gloria didn’t need to tell me that. I could see it in those photos.
I stayed for three hours. And when I left, Gloria sent me away encouraged and filled with hope that in time I could rebuild a relationship with David.
Stacy predicted I’d get my heart broken in California and she wasn’t totally wrong. But I had to go. Stacy doesn’t understand. She’s never been a mother.
******** ********
Rug Burn
I heard my phone begin ringing from the porch. I was laden down with my carry-on and a sack of groceries from the all night market down the road, but I managed to fumble my keys from my pocket and get my door open, toss the bags and catch the phone on the fourth or fifth ring. “Yeah,” I muttered.
“My name’s Jacob Reynolds. Do you remember me?”
After a few seconds the name clicked. “Sure. I remember you, Jacob.”
“Did you get my package?” he asked.
“I’m just in from Spain, actually.”
“It’s a large envelope. Can you check your mail?”
Jacob’s sister and I were high school sweethearts. I hadn’t seen either of them in over a dozen years. But Regina sent me a Christmas card every year.
Two weeks worth of mail formed a mountain on my desk where the cleaning lady had stacked it. I flipped through it all and found Jacob’s envelope at base camp. The word URGENT was stenciled across it in bold black print and underlined three times.
“I have it Jacob.”
“Open it.”
“Look, Jacob. I just got off a twelve hour flight. I’m beat. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“No. Open the envelope now, please.”
Sighing, I slit the package open to find several pages of sloppy longhand and a newspaper article clipped from a small New Jersey rag.
“Okay, Jacob. I opened it.” I hadn’t shaved since Madrid. My face felt like sandpaper and I needed a shower and ten hours of sleep in my own bed.
“My Uncle Rudy sent me that letter, and the clipping. I want you to read them.”
I sighed. “Can’t this wait, Jacob? I’m seeing double.”
“Read that letter,” he said. “I’ll take you maybe twenty minutes. I’ll call back in an hour.”
He hung up before I could say another word. I almost laughed. I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and threw it on the summit, where it teetered and then slid from the mountain like a bad skier and landed at my feet. My Grandmother’s old German clock started bonging off the hours and something cold slithered over my spine.
I collected Jacob’s envelope and went to my favorite chair, sat and let the soft leather fold around me. I pulled my shoes and socks off and wiggled my toes until they stopped aching.
I shook the contents of Jacob’s package into my lap and read the Daily Gazette clipping. A modest older home with gabled shutters was pictured over a caption that read: Retired fireman commits suicide after wife dies. I put the clipping aside and picked up the letter.
“Dear Jacob,” it began. “Before I get started I want to say right off that I never liked that rug. I had a bad feeling about it from the get-go. The rug is old, older than time maybe. It’s oddly shaped for a rug, not a rectangle or a square like most rugs. It’s a green triangle with a hard black design pressed deep in the middle like someone got to drawing a figure eight and couldn’t stop. The rug’s no bigger than the box my work boots came in. Your Aunt Emma bought that rug at a garage sale in July. She paid a quarter for it. It was good for wiping your feet so we kept in on the back porch, and then the funny stuff starting happening. I’d go out to tend the dogs or work on my truck and the rug would be off the porch and halfway down the driveway. Or it’d be slung over the fence like someone gave it a good shake. One time I found the rug on the front porch and our pretty WELCOME mat that cost me twelve bucks was gone. We never did find it.
It went on like that for a while. We’d find the rug here and there and Aunt Emma or me would put it back on the porch. But it never stayed there. Last week I was out back painting a bookshelf when I got this real creepy feeling, like someone was watching me. I looked up and saw the rug lying across the firewood like it was catching some rays. It gave me the willies, Jacob. I asked Emma why she’d put it there and she said she couldn’t recollect doing any such thing. We’re old and forgetful. I found one of Emma’s bras in the veggie crisper once, so I figured it was her moving the rug around. August 13 is when everything changed. Aunt Emma had been feeling poorly all summer. It was a hot one for sure. That day started out fine. It was one of those days when you can feel the fall coming. I planned to char broil us some burgers that night. I patted Emma’s behind and sent her off to the rose garden where we put up a hammock last spring. I told Emma I’d bring her a tall glass of tea.
I got the tea ready and headed out back when I remembered the hamburger. We keep the freezer in the spare bedroom now, so I went to fetch a package of meat. I’m old and slow. I guess it took me near fifteen minutes to go down that hall and fumble with the light switch and then get into the freezer and wrestle with all those white packages until I found one that had ground round scratched on it. I wish I’d taken Emma her tea straight away. She might still be alive if I had. I finally got back to the kitchen and put the meat in the sink to defrost and scooped up Emma’s tea and headed out the back door. I saw right away the rug was gone again. Aunt Emma was in the hammock, but something was wrong. Her legs and arms were flung over like she was getting ready to take one of those girlie pictures. It wasn’t any natural way a woman her age would lay down on anything. I think I called her name. I dropped the tea and ran to her. I knew she was dead before I ever got two feet from her, but I did CPR anyway. All the time I was in there fiddling with those packages of meat my Emma was out in that rose garden dying. I yelled for my neighbors and they came. I called the paramedics and they came, too. Nothing anybody did brought my Emma back to life. Later on, after the hospital and all the doings over at the funeral home, I went back to the hammock and just sat there like a fool. Charlie, my neighbor, said I was in shock. He purely loved Emma’s homemade pickles. There are still a few jars in the pantry. I’d be much obliged if you’d see to it Charlie gets them. Charlie and his little wife, Betty, stayed with me for a while, but I made them go home ‘round suppertime. The doctor says what killed Emma was a heart attack. But I know different. After Charlie and his misses left I sat in Emma’s rose garden on that yellow hammock and watched the day fade out. The frogs and crickets started up and the bugs came. I didn’t want to go inside to see her hairbrush or her knitting or her eyeglass case or the container she kept her dentures in. But I knew I couldn’t stay out in the night air so I figured I’d go in and heat up some of the food the ladies from church sent over, and then let the TV put me to sleep. I started to get up and that’s when I saw it. Jacob, I’ve lived a long time. I’ve been in war and I’ve watched men die. I seen horrible things when I worked for the fire department, but nothing ever scared me as bad as when I looked down and saw that green rug .I heard a humming; like bees in a bottle. Then the humming turned into a kind of voice. It called my name. I thought I might be having a hallucination. I looked around to see if maybe kids were playing somewhere, or if Charlie was calling me from next door.
‘Hey Rudy, I’m down here, buddy.’ I looked at the rug and that figure eight was kind of rolling around and making a face. It smiled at me and my balls shrived up like marbles.
‘I just wanted to hug her, Rudy. I wanted to hung her and hug her and hug her, like I want to hug you, Rudy.’
The voice was raspy, hideous. It was the voice of a Mario Puzo character after he swallowed down the wrong pipe. The rug slinked along the side of me like a worm on a stick and I just stood there, frozen and about as scared as I’ve ever been in my life.
I jumped up from the hammock, slipped and feel on my butt. My tailbone still aches like a rotten tooth. I lay there helpless as a babe, too scared to call for help. My feet wouldn’t push and my arms wouldn’t pull. I was a fly in a web and that rug was laughing like a loon. The rug started up my pant leg and that’s when my panic broke. I was up and shaking my foot like I stepped into a pile of dog crap. I finally shook the rug off and sprinted to the garden shed like a youngster in short britches. I reached in and grabbed hold of Stephanie, Aunt Emma’s hoe. I turned around to see the rug at my feet again, laughing and grinning, and I raised Stephanie over my head and swung hard, hitting the rug dead center and it started yelping like a kicked pup. I grabbed the rug up while it was still yelping and stuffed it into Simon’s old cat carrier. The rug didn’t like it much and started fussing just like old Simon did when it was time for the vet. Only Simon never made hissing noises like that. I left the cat carrier locked up in the garden shed that night. The next day there was things needing tending, and so I tended them. My Emma had a right proper funeral down at the Lutheran Church. They buried her next to that empty spot that’s waiting for me at the Wethersfield Cemetery.
That was yesterday.
Tomorrow I’m going to take that green rug over to the Tide Water Bridge, where the river runs a pretty decent race to the bay, and I’m going to let it hug me. I think I can hold onto it long enough to climb over the railing and jump. Maybe I can send it back to the hell it came from. Please tend to my dogs, Jacob. A young fellow named Robert Leman will be contacting you directly about the insurance and my will. It’s not a fortune, but I left everything to you. I don’t much cotton to staying here without my Emma, anyhow. I know folks will say I was a suicide. I want you to know that just ain’t so. I’m not off my rocker, neither. I always loved you like a son.
Uncle Rudy.”
The handwriting was bad and smudged in places where Jacob’s uncle might’ve dropped a tear, or whisky, more likely. I put the envelope and its contents aside. I was suddenly wide awake. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea.
The clipping was dated August 18; two days after Rudy buried his wife. The article was a one-paragraph synopsis of the days leading up to Rudy Reynolds’ suicide.
The phone rang as I was pouring my second cup of tea. I let the machine pick it up.
“I know you’re there, Phillip.”
I was bug eyed and punchy from jet lag and caffeine. I knew sleep was definitely out of the question. I picked the phone up. “I’m here, Jacob.”
“You read the letter?”
“Yes.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Phillip. But my uncle wasn’t crazy. You read the article about his suicide?”
“I read it all, Jacob.”
“Let me tell you what the paper didn’t say. My Uncle Rudy was found by his neighbors after he wouldn’t answer the phone or the door. They had to break in through a window and found my uncle in his bed with two pillows duct taped around his head.”
My living room seemed to close in around me and a wild hair was doing donuts on the back of my neck.
“Are you there, Phillip?”
“Yes.”
“A man kills himself with a gun or maybe he takes a nice hot bath and slashes open his wrists. I know my uncle was murdered, Phillip. He was murdered by that rug.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I know you investigate stuff like this; haunted houses and poltergeists, like in that movie.”
Suddenly it came clear. Chalk another one up for Jacob, who’d taped notes to my back and splattered me with vanishing ink and laced my shoes together all through high school. I sighed. “I thought you might’ve grown out of this by now.”
“Grown out of what?”
“Remember the kick me notes? Remember that time you painted my fingernails red after I passed out?”
“You think I’d use my uncle’s death to pull a prank on you?”
“Would you?”
“Get real, Phillip. I need your help, okay. I called the church and they laughed at me. I called the police and the paper and they laughed at me, too. People like you don’t exactly advertise in the phone book. I called Regina because she told me a couple of years ago that you two stay in touch. I don’t know who to turn to. You’re my last hope. I sent my wife and my son to stay with her sister. I even sent the dogs.”
“What are you talking about, Jacob”
“I’m talking about the rug! I put my uncle’s house up for sale. I gave the pickles and my Aunt Emma’s jellies and jams to the neighbor. I kept the dogs and my uncle’s truck. My wife wanted the antiques. We packed everything else up and gave it to all to charity.”
His voice was uniquely strange. It took me only a moment to recognize it. Jacob was scared out of his mind.
“Jacob, what do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to tell you that my wife and I packed up my uncle’s house, everything. That green rug was nowhere. Uncle Rudy’s letter was waiting for me when we came home. I thought he was off his rocker. Then when the antiques came that rug was with the shipment. It’s a green, awful thing. Triangular with the figure eight pressed in the middle just like my Uncle Rudy described it in his letter. That was two weeks ago.”
My living room closed in around me again. I grabbed a notepad and pen and began to take notes. “Where is the rug now?”
“It’s on my front porch. I keep throwing it away, but it always comes back. I sent my family away yesterday. I would’ve gone with them.” His voice lowered to a whisper, “but I think the rug would follow me.”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“I know what I sound like. God, it’s crazy. I think I saw the face today.”
“You’re in Houston, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll catch the first flight in the morning. How’s that? I’ll check this rug out.”
“I’ll be dead in the morning, Phillip.”
“Jacob.”
“I sent that package, and I’m calling you, because I want you to investigate after I die.”
I was writing quickly now, urgently. It didn’t matter if there was a possessed rug or not. Jacob believed there was and sometimes the mind can be the scariest of all haunted places.
He gave me directions from Hobby airport. I took his phone number and he gave me the number where I could reach his wife in Los Angeles.
“I know how my uncle felt. Everyone is going to think I killed myself.”
“Can you stay with a friend tonight?”
“I don’t know how it’ll kill me. My Aunt Emma was old. Nobody raised an eyebrow when she died of a heart attack. My aunt and uncle didn’t have kids. They were everything to each other. It was a no-brainer, him offing himself. Me, who knows, the rug might make it look like an accident.”
“Do you hear yourself, Jacob?”
“I want you to promise me you’ll investigate. I don’t know if the rug will be here. I keep putting it in the trash. I even sent it to a bogus address in Omaha without a return address. It was back two days later. Promise me you’ll investigate.”
“I promise.”
“Good-bye, Phillip. Tell my wife and my boy I love them.”
“I’m leaving for the airport now, Jacob.”
I looked at my watch and did the math. “If I can get a flight out by midnight I’ll be in Houston around five a.m.”
“Remember your promise.”
He hung up before I could say another word. I thought of calling his wife, but decided against it, because really, where would I start? You can’t just call a total stranger and tell her you think her husband has completely lost his mind.
Jacob was right; Regina and I had kept in touch over the years; Christmas and birthday cards, mostly. I was no more comfortable calling Regina than I was calling Jacob’s wife.
I was lucky and caught a non-stop flight to Houston that night at eleven. I slept on the plane and was awakened by the gentle nudging of a pretty flight attendant after we landed.
As I left the airport a savage wave of humid air greeted me. I flagged a cabbie and gave him Jacob’s address.
“That’s a hefty fare, mister. You sure you don’t want to rent a car instead?”
“I don’t have time to find my way to Katy. You want the money or not?”
The cabbie flipped his meter and invited me in. It was just dawning over Houston. Cool air swept around me from the cab’s AC vents and I laid my head back and dozed.
“You got business in Katy, mister?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather dispense with the chit-chat.”
The driver’s name was Charlie Rutherford. He shrugged and left me alone for the long drive.
The sun was a yellow flame low in the sky when the cab pulled up to a large brick house, which was beautifully landscaped with evergreens and perennials. The thick lawn was perfectly manicured and as green as a fresh Christmas tree. I gave the cabbie a twenty dollar tip and let him go.
I rang the bell for five minutes. I tried the door. I called Jacob on my cell phone. I could hear the phone ringing in the house from the porch. Everything was too quiet. The hair on my neck did a hula.
I walked around the side of the house and peeked through the window of the double garage and my breath caught in my throat. The car was still running and white smoke was everywhere.
I yanked at the garage door, but it was locked from inside. Deadly exhaust rose eerily at my feet. I pounded on the garage and called Jacob’s name.
A neighbor appeared from next door. She wore a blue terry bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and had large pink rollers in her hair. “What’s wrong?” she called.
I pounded on the glass windows of the garage. “Call 911,” I yelled at the woman. Immediately she ran away, screaming.
A trellis of jasmine arched the gate to the back yard. I reached over and undid the latch and ran to the door of the detached garage. It was locked too. The top of the door was glass. I picked up a landscaping stone about the size of a toaster and broke the window. A cloud of putrid smoke attacked me, stinging my eyes, invading my lungs. I pulled a hanky from my back pocket and protected myself the best I could.
The garage was a blur as I made my way to the car. The door was locked. I used the stone once, twice, three times before the driver’s side window finally smashed into a trillion pieces.
I managed to unlock the car door without cutting myself, turned the car off and then pulled Jacob’s limp body out. I slung him over my shoulder and carried him to the back yard where I carefully laid him on soft, thick grass. I heard the sirens coming.
The paramedics took Jacob’s vitals. They did CPR. But it was no use. They placed Jacob on a stretcher, covered him up and took him away. Curious neighbors gathered to watch. The lady with the curlers cried in her husband’s arms.
The days proceeding Jacob’s death are foggy in my mind. I remember things out of sequence. I remember calling Regina and June, Jacob’s wife. I remember the funeral. I remember looking for the mysterious green rug.
It seemed the wrong time to tell June about my phone conversation with her husband, or to ask her about the rug. It was not on the porch, in the garage, the car or in any of the rooms I searched.
The most disturbing thing was the coroner’s report. There were signs of a struggle.
The house was in shambles and there was bruising on Jacob’s wrists and ankles. My blood went cold when I heard about the rug burns on his face and neck.
A police detective asked me to stick around, so I took a room at the Hyatt and charged it to my expense account.
Jacob’s death was not listed as suicide. A police investigation began and was ensuing when I left Houston a week after Jacob’s funeral.
I was questioned quite extensively. I may even have been a suspect. I’m quite sure I would’ve been detained if I hadn’t been somewhere over the Rockies when Jacob was getting killed. Even so, the cops were curious about my showing up at that precise time. And they weren’t the only ones. I can’t remember the reason I gave. I think I told everyone; the cops, Jane and even Regina a different story. I don’t suppose it matters much now.
I called my office from the airport. I had a new assignment in Florida. My secretary didn’t elaborate, except to say it involved ancient Indian burial grounds.