Warren Adler Fall 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

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Early morning telephone calls are usually bad news. I reached across my wife, and grabbed the phone. "Hello."

"Is that you, Mr. Reilly?" a female voice asked.

Suddenly I was wide-awake. "Yes."

"Sorry to call you so early in the morning. But I wanted to catch you before you left for work. I wondered if you'd heard Fred Beagle died."

I sat up. "No. When did he die?"

"Saturday—the service is today at two o'clock."

An image of the caller came into my head. "Is this Denise?"'

"Yes, Fred died in his sleep."

"Good way to go."

"I found him."

"That couldn't have been very pleasant."

"No! It was awful." There was a tremor in her voice as she continued. "He was such a kind old man—I shall miss him."

I tried to stop thinking about Denise's shapely form and concentrate on the matter at hand. "Thanks for letting me know."

I reached across and replaced the receiver. "Who was that?" my wife asked.

"A neighbour, of Fred Beagle's. He died on Saturday."

"That's too bad."

"Yes, his funeral is this afternoon; I'll have to go.

She sat up and stared at me. "Who's Denise?"

"I told you—his neighbour."

"Is she pretty?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"There was something about the way you spoke to her."

So far this year I've attended more funerals than cocktail parties. Not that I mind going to Fred Beagle's memorial; it will be worth it just to see his daughter's reaction now that she's read the will. Harriet was such a happy child; who would have thought she would have grown into such a po-faced heavyhearted woman? Being married to Cecil Duckley doesn't help much either. A lot of flotsam has flowed under the bridge since I sold the Beagles their first house. The events of my last visit with Fred came to mind as I drove to the funeral home that day.

. . .

The sun was already warming the beaches as I entered the causeway to Turtle Island. The island residents had built the narrow gravel lane across the marsh so they could drive out to their cottages without taking to their boats. I chose the left fork and followed a narrow road between pine trees. Daylight was reduced to twilight and the tips of the trees met above my head and kissed gently, like old friends. I counted the house signs until I caught a glimpse of sparkling blue water and then eased my car down a grassy driveway. Then I went looking for Mr.Beagle.
Fred was on the beach sitting at a battered picnic table, with his back to the glaring sun, untangling a can of fishhooks. A half-empty beer bottle sat at his elbow; sunlight bounced off his baldhead like a lighthouse beacon.

He studied me with his brown button-eyes as I approached. Then he grinned and revealed a row of small blunt teeth that reminded me of a cheeky squirrel. I held out my hand. "Hello Fred."

Fred clasped my hand, "Thanks for coming, Peter. Would you like a beer?"

"Sounds good."

Fred flipped open the cooler, extracted a cold one and wiped it on his T-shirt. "I always keep a few extra on hand these days, in case one of the girls pops over."

"Dream on" I said taking a seat and snapping the cap. "Perhaps we should change the name to Fantasy Island?"
Fred smiled and then turned to look toward the adjoining cottage.
I followed the direction of his gaze. "What the hell?" I began, then rubbed my eyes and stared. A naked woman was sauntering towards us picking her way between the stones. "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" I said.

Fred shrugged. "It's Denise: it must be her day off."

I pretended to study the label on my beer bottle label as the woman came closer.
"Morning, Fred," she said, "I didn't know you had company. I'll come back later."

"Hi Denise. No problem; this is Peter Reilly. Would you like a beer?"

The woman patted her flat belly. "No thanks gotta watch my figure." She gave me an easy smile, "Excuse my state of undress, Peter; I'm trying to get an all-over tan."

I thought I recognized the heady smell of Eau de Perfum—one of Victoria's lesser-kept secrets. But, I tried to sound cool. "Hey! What's to excuse? This is your pad; I'm the intruder."

Denise nodded and turned away, setting her long ponytail swinging between her shapely shoulders. I watched her undulating buttocks until she looked back over her shoulder. "Maybe you could pop over later, Fred; I'm having trouble with the barbecue."

"Sure thing, young lady."

Neither of us spoke until Denise disappeared from view. I pointed my beer bottle in her direction. "Wow! Is she alone out here?"

Fred smiled, "Actually, there are four of them—they're exotic dancers." He made no effort to hide the smirk on his face as he continued. "They come up here all summer."
"Wow! That sure beats fishing."
That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Fred said reaching for a fresh beer. "Care for another?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

Fred let out a sigh. "Do you believe in heaven, Peter?"

I kept my expression neutral. "I'd like to believe in it, but sometimes it sounds too good to be true."

"Exactly!" Fred stared at me through dreamy eyes. "Have you ever wondered what heaven would be like?"

"Ghosts floating about?"

"Okay. Will we be old or young? What if you're out of your mind; do you think crazy thoughts for the rest eternity?"

I shook my head. "I can see you've given this a lot of thought, Fred."

"Florence and I had a good life together." He paused to fix me with a penetrating stare. "You know, Peter, I loved that woman all my life, and I never strayed far from home. Her name is written all over my heart." He grabbed the left side of his chest for a moment and then placed his hand on the table and opened his fist. "If you flattened my heart with a steel roller until it was as thin as a pancake, and shredded and cross-shredded it, you'd still find Florence's name on every tiny scrap."

"I know you loved her, Fred."

"The hardest thing I ever did, was watch her fight a losing battle with cancer." He brushed angrily at his tears. "That woman fought back with everything she had—and all I could do was watch her wither away. She was like one of those summer roses she loved so much, that start fading in the last days of autumn, dying piece by piece. Her body fell apart like petals in the wind. It's a cruel death, Peter; I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." The old man pulled a scrap of tissue from his pocket and blew his nose, with a loud, trumpeting sound.

I reached across the picnic table and rested my hand on his scrawny wrist. "It must have been terrible for both of you. I wish I knew more adequate words of comfort."

Fred shook off my hand. "You still don't understand what I'm trying to say. What will she be like in heaven? Old and forgetful, and out of her mind? Like she was when she died? In our younger days she used to say to me. 'If I go first, bury my ashes out here in the garden.'"
The cry of a loon drifted across the lake, and he paused, as we both looked toward the open water. It was one of those rare moments that you hope to remember when you're old. A trout leaped clear of the water, and snapped at a dragonfly. Time stood still as the sun's rays flashed on its scales, before it plunged back into the water and was lost from sight.

"What a perfect picture," I whispered.

"All we ever truly own are our memories." Fred said. "I thought my life was over when Flo died, and I was ready to give up the cottage and move into town. But when the girls moved in next door ... " He paused and let a happy smile spread over his weather-beaten face. "It seemed like paradise had come to me."

"It certainly looks like it old man."

Fred lowered the lids of his yellow-rimmed eyes. "Yes, I'm an old man, but age doesn't stop you admiring beauty. My daughter and her husband want me to sell the property and move into an old folks' home. Hand her the cash and turn my face to the wall."

"You're not ready for that, Fred."

"Exactly," he said stretching his arms to embrace the scene. "Living here, I'm surrounded with all my memories. Every flower and bush and tree tells a story. Sometimes at night, I hear Flo's voice whispering to me. Like when we lay side by side as newlyweds, or in later years when we listened to birds calling to each other across the lake."

I felt compelled to cut the old man off. "I guess you're trying to tell me that you've decided against selling your cottage."

"I knew you'd understand, Peter."

"What's to understand? This spot enshrines all your memories; and to top it off, you're surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women." I paused to grin at Fred. "Man! You're already in heaven."

Fred's smile was as wide as it was cunning. "I'm glad you understand. I'll leave instructions in my will for you to sell the cottage when I'm gone."

"Don't worry about it, Fred."

He scratched his unshaven chin. "I wonder if you would do me a small favour?"

I wondered if he was going to ask me to deposit his ashes beside his wife's. "Like what?"
"Leave a for sale sign?"

"What's the point?"

"It'll keep my daughter happy. She'll think the property is up for sale." Seeing the doubtful look in my eyes, he quickly added, "Don't worry, she's afraid of the insects. She only comes up here once a year—on Labour Day. I'll just put it up for the day."

I pummeled my chest to release a bubble of gas as I rose from the picnic table, "I suppose it'll be okay." I walked to the water's edge and stood with my back to the sun, staring at four sun-browned females practicing tai-chi along the beach.
Fred bent down to pick up a baby turtle and placed it on a rock, "Where did you come from, little fellow?"
The turtle pushed a cautious head out of its shell and blinked as Fred continued his one-sided conversation with it "The library lady tells me your ancestors were on this island two hundred and fifty million years ago—even before the Dinosaurs." Fred bent closer to study the yellow-green shell, and the turtle retracted its head. "The question is, my little friend, where did you come from? I haven't seen a real turtle around here for so long, I was beginning to call it Mock Turtle Island."
I watched the turtle creep across the rock and plop back into the shallow water. "Another fantasy come true. "I said and shook Fred's hand, and bid him goodbye.

. . .

I am sure the Beagle's weren't victims of parasitism—but, sometimes I wondered as I watched them struggle to gratify the neediness of their daughter. They reminded me of the unwilling hosts of the cowbird's young, desperately trying to succour this giant creature they had engendered. Perhaps Harriet kept them so busy they didn't notice it while she was growing up.

Whatever the reason, I couldn't see much change in Harriet's disposition when I approached her at the funeral parlour. "I was sorry to hear of your loss."

Harriet's eyes receded into their rolls of fat as she regarded me with obvious distaste. "Daddy has had a full nine innings," She said with a shrug.

Her husband's big belly loomed into view. "We intend to fight it, you know." He said licking each of his lardaceous lips one at a time.

I beamed back in innocence. "Sorry—I don't quite follow."

Harriet spat out her reply. "We're talking about the listing Daddy gave you in his will."

"Oh that!" I said smiling again. "Perhaps we should talk about it at a more suitable time."

Harriet's husband moved closer, jowls quivering. "I don't think you've advertised it once."

"Ah, well; newspaper advertising isn't as good as it's cracked up to be— less than three percent of properties are sold that way."

The hair on Harriet's wart waggled wildly as she replied, "That nice Mr. Sleinstone said he could sell it right away."

"Well he would say that, wouldn't he?" I paused to let my next words sink in. "I guess I'd better give this full-price offer I have to old Slimey," I said, shrugging, "Of course it will cost you twice as much commission, I made an agreement with Fred that I would halve the commission. However, if you feel so strongly about the matter, it's probably the best route to take."

There was a flash of panic in the hurried glance Harriet shared with her husband. Harriet's face had softened like old leather by the time she spoke again. "I don't think that will be necessary. Do you happen to have the offer with you?"

"It's in my car."

"When can we see it?"

"Whenever you feel ready to move on."

"How about right after the service?"

"Fine," I said. "I'll just pay my respects to your father."

Fred's suntanned face seemed out of place, bursting out of a three-piece suit. "I'm sure he's smiling at us," offered a female voice.

"He should be …" I began; then turned to stare at young woman wearing a black velvet business suit. "Denise?"

She smiled.

"Sorry." I whispered, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

I escorted her back to her car and stood talking of happier times, "Fred was like a father to us." Denise said. "He was happy to be there. You filled his days with joy and coloured his dreams—what more could an old man hope for?"

A breeze came out of nowhere and blew a strand of blonde hair across her face. She raised a hand to brush it aside, and the gesture plucked at my heartstrings. I wanted to drop everything and rush home to my wife. Denise looked into my face, "What were you thinking just then?"

"It's going take Fred a while to get used to heaven."

"We're going to miss him too, he looked after all our little jobs."

I opened her car door. "I've found a nice widower to be your new neighbour. He's a retired carpenter."

She smiled at me. "Actually, we could use a good plumber right now."

"Maybe next time," I said closing her car door.