Notes Toward The Story and other stories

NOTES TOWARD THE STORY

  and other stories

  Corey Mesler

  Copyright © 2013 by Corey Mesler

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

  www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

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  For John Grisham

  “Human nature is pretty shoddy stuff, and we all need forgiveness and redemption and upward of a thousand second chances.”

  –Peter DeVries

  “Keep the story straight and you’ll get involved.”

  –Richard Farina

  Monster

  Prior to the monster taking Effie Sempsh into the woods on August 21st, some things had happened in Effie’s life that require delineating. Effie was a complex woman and, though the temptation to simplify her story is strong, in the end truth must be served and details brought to light.

  Effie and her husband, Robert Sempsh, lived in a neighborhood not far from the airport, not far from the chemical plants, the kind of neighborhood one passes in one’s car and either turns away from or notices with only half one’s attention. Non-descript is perhaps descriptive. Run-down, certainly.

  Robert worked at a bottling plant in nearby Millington. They produced a lesser- known soft drink, something called Flip, a mixture of citrusy extracts and corn syrup. Robert was not a boss. He was a drone on the line and he hated every single day he worked there. We could say more about Robert, but you probably know his type. Perhaps you went to high school with someone like him. Robert drank. Robert was lazy. Robert abused his wife with an acid tongue and an unassailable sense of his own superiority.

  Effie was not happy that she had married Robert. When they were younger he seemed exciting, a sort of poor man’s James Dean. Soon, it became clear, that his anarchic charm was thin like a coating of sweat, and that he was self-centered and mean. Effie contemplated leaving him, of course. But she was afraid. Robert could get violent, though, so far, he had never hit Effie. He’d broken things, thrown bottles, put his fist through a bedroom door, kicked the neighbor’s dog, but he had never hit Effie. Instead he spoke to her as if he hated her. Some part of Robert, some underdeveloped part of Robert, thought that this was how husbands treated wives. Effie never thought so. She thought Robert was unhappy with his life and his unhappiness took the form of mental abuse and coarseness and alcoholism and drug taking.

  Effie’s father used to hit her. He called her whore and tramp because she had sex with boys in cars. Effie’s father was a Baptist preacher.

  Effie’s best friend, Tammy Northern, lived across the street in a house only a modicum nicer than Effie’s. Tammy’s husband had taken off a few years ago, leaving her with an infant daughter, Rebecca, and a house note. He had taken their only car, a Yugo. Yet, Tammy did not lie down and die. Instead she took classes at a vo-tech to become a veterinary assistant. She now made pretty good money, drove a new Volkswagen, and kept herself and Becca in most of what is called the necessities. Tammy’s home was a pretty happy place to visit, it seemed to Effie, and Effie took advantage, escaping her own plight with long lunches at the Northern’s’. Also, Effie loved Becca, little butterball with jet black hair and bush-baby eyes, and often, happily, babysat for her. For this she would not take Tammy’s money.

  Naturally, Effie envied Tammy her life as a single mom and independent operator. Often before falling asleep at night she imagined such a life for herself. What profession would she like to try? Would she like to date numerous eligible bachelors? Would she, eventually, like to also be a mother? This self-interview was like counting sheep for Effie. After a few minutes of interrogation she would slip gently into Morpheus’ tender clench, the god of dreams deferred.

  About the same time the monster was first sighted Robert increased the intensity and frequency of his abuse. A couple times, after cursing and throwing things failed to sate his ire, he raised his fist and wondered in that frozen second what it would feel like to strike Effie’s once -pretty face. Effie stared at that fist and grew more tired and grew more afraid and felt more trapped than ever.

  The monster was first reported in Shelbyville, a town about thirteen13 miles up Highway 69. Three kids, age ten10, twelve12, and twelve12, were camping in the woods near their home and were awakened by a loud rustling and grunting that sounded like a wild boar. They slowly unzipped their tent expecting to come face to face with a bear, or boar, or panther. Instead they saw an erect creature with the feathery head of a cockatoo, the orange body hair of an ape, the shoulders of a linebacker, and a face as hideous as a nightmare. There were tusks protruding from its slobbery mouth, a nose like an anteater’s, and eyes as read as a devil’s. This was how the boys described the monster to the police. And they further reported how the thing stood stock- still when they boys emerged from their tent, caught reaching into the ashy vestiges of their campfire for burnt pieces of hotdog or marshmallow. And, the boys said, the thing seemed frightened of them and scurried off into the woods, running upright like a gorilla, but with the speed of an ocelot.

  “Did you see this story about the creature in Shelbyville?” Tammy asked Effie over morning coffee. “Kids.”

  “Yeah. Probably about as real as Bigfoot and Nessie. Years from now the boys will admit to manufacturing their ogre, just like the Nessie photograph is now known to be a fake.”

  “Probly,” Tammy agreed.

  “Of course our woods are dark and deep. No telling what all could be living up in there,” Effie added, being, as usual, of two minds.

  “Yeah. Maybe a beast like in that Disney cartoon. A scary beast but ultimately sweet,” Tammy said. And then, giggling, added, “And really well- hung you’d have to think.”

  “It would be an upgrade for me,” Effie said, and the two women laughed together, sipping coffee, nibbling scones, and then moving on to other topics of interest.

  A week later another sighting, this time right in Millington, raised the level of consternation, as well as the level of fear. A busboy for Peter and Samuel’s Restaurant, who was working the early morning shift, opened the back door of the restaurant to empty the trash and startled a creature going through their dumpster. The busboy said it was a good eight -feet tall, hairy as an ape, and ugly as a scarecrow. He (it) glared momentarily at the frozen busboy, then turned and ran in the direction of the nearby coppice. He also said the creature was fast. “Like Rajon Rondo.”

  Now everyone was talking about the monster. Tammy shrugged when Effie asked her what she thought. “Can it be real?” Effie asked.

  “Sure. What the hell,” Tammy said, turning a couple pancakes in a small frying pan. “You ever seen a crocodile up close? We’d call that a monster if we had never seen it before.”

  “I guess,” Effie said.

  “You know Bert, Bert Pipkin, lives in the cove?”

  “Um,” Effie said, but Tammy was moving on.

  “Bert teaches at the university. Maybe he doesn’t anymore. He’s a real smart man. He teaches anthropology. I think. Maybe it’s archeology. Or zoology. Anyway. Bert says, folktales often have real- life something or others. Correlations?”

  “Huh,” Effie said.

  “Yeah, Bert says there’s always a little grain of truth in any myth. Like sailors thinking narwhals were mermaids. Or was it unicorns?”

  “I think I’ve seen Bert,” Effie said, now. “He wear suspenders?”

  “Yeah,” Tam
my laughed. “That’s Bert.”

  “I think I talked to him once,” Effie said.

  Effie had indeed once talked to the neighborhood rascal, Bert. The way the old guy looked at her made Effie’s heart go ker-plunk. He was the sort of man who didn’t disguise his baser instincts, yet manageds to, somehow, not seem a masher. Effie was embarrassed the morning she went to the mailbox and Bert was in the street, cursing and pulling at the tangled whipcord of his weed whacker. She was embarrassed because she was wearing a rock band (Whitesnake) Tt-shirt and plum sweatpants. Yet, she thought, why should it matter if this stranger, this eccentric old man with his Godspell suspenders, sees her in sweatpants?

  Bert came over to her.

  “Sorry about my language, Mrs. Sempsh,” Bert said. “Goddamn weed whacker.” And he laughed.

  Effie laughed, too.

  They stood and grinned at each other. It was obvious Bert didn’t care that she was in sweatpants. It was obvious because he couldn’t take his eyes off her bra-less breasts and their neat little nipples showing through her Tt-shirt. Effie was stirred. It had been a long time since Effie had been stirred. And by this inappropriate neighbor, for goodness’ sake. How old must he be, seventy70?

  “I’m Bert Pipkin,” Bert said and put out a thin, strong hand, with gnarly veins. Effie took the hand and found the man’s skin surprisingly soft.

  “Effie Sempsh,” Effie said and then laughed again. He obviously knew her name.

  “Effie,” Bert said. His eyes were tickling her nipples.

  “Okay,” Effie said. “See ya.” And she went back inside her house.

  Later it occurred to her that she had forgotten her mail. She would have to return to the box after Bert went inside. She sat in her living room staring at the TV, which was off. She was stirred. “I’m not dead yet,” she thought.

  The third time the monster made the news was a week after the restaurant sighting. This time he boldly came into someone’s back yard. And this was only a half- mile or so from Effie’s house. The monster had made off with the family’s dog.

  “He’s getting closer,” Tammy said, smiling and stirring her coffee.

  “I know,” Effie said. She was a bit distracted. She had found a rubber in Robert’s pants pocket that morning while doing laundry. Why was Robert carrying rubbers? The answer was obvious.

  “Bert says he’s genuine but he doesn’t like the term monster. Bert said, ‘Be careful who you’re calling a monster. The real monsters might object’.’”

  “Robert is a real monster,” Effie said, matter-of-factly.

  “Another fight?” Tammy asked, her face now all concern.

  “Not yet,” Effie said and she managed a sardonic grin.

  That evening during dinner Effie pulled the rubber out of her pocket and placed it next to Robert’s plate, alongside his knife and fork.

  “What’s that?” Robert said.

  “I think you know what it is, Robert.”

  “You wanna fuck?” he asked. It was the sort of trashy swagger that turned Effie’s stomach. She wanted to spit.

  “Why are you carrying rubbers in your pockets?” she asked, trying to keep her voice composed. Tears were marshalling behind her eyelids.

  Robert looked at her. He picked up the rubber and held the package in the palm of his hand. He looked at it as if it were a small toy. He smiled at Effie and stuck the rubber in his pants pocket. “Bring me dinner,” he said.

  “Robert,” Effie said. “Why are you carrying a goddamn rubber?”

  It was then that Robert hit Effie for the first time. He backhanded her as neatly as a gunslinger pulling a gun. Effie’s nose shot out a bright upsurge of blood. She ran to the bathroom and locked the door. Robert sat still for a moment. Then he stood and got his own food.

  So now it is complete, Effie thought. I have gone from my father’s fist to my husband’s. Some kind of evil circle has completed itself.

  The next morning, after Robert had gone to work, Effie made her solitary way to her friend’s house. She wanted comfort but she didn’t want to talk about her nose, now red with what looked like a black streak through it, as if someone had drawn there with lipstick and an eyebrow pencil.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Tammy screeched. “That bastard!”

  She lead Effie into the house by the elbow as if she suspected that Effie might be wobbly on her pins from being popped on the whiffer. In the kitchen Bert Pipkin sat at Tammy’s table, a cup of coffee in front of him. On one of his suspenders was a button, like a “Your Name Here” badge at a school reunion. The button said, Think Green.

  “What happened, Mrs. Sempsh?” Bert said, his voice warm and caressing.

  “Please call me Effie,” Effie said, sitting down across from him. Bert reached over and touched the back of her hand. The gesture was affectionate, friendly. Bert’s eyes, Effie noticed now, were blue with a light rim of water as if he could cry at any moment. He was still a very attractive man, leonine and assured. Tammy had told Effie that Bert had lived on their street since he was a young newlywed. He had owned that house for most of his life and had watched the neighborhood slowly deteriorate. He retired from the local university five years ago.

  “I tripped over our throw rug,” Effie said to the room.

  Tammy said, “I’ll kill that bastard. I swear I will.”

  “Tammy,” Effie said.

  “Bert, will you kill her slimeball husband for me? I mean it, will you?”

  “Does he hit you often?” Bert said, again in soothing, warm tones.

  “No, no,” Effie said a bit too quickly. “He’s never hit me before. I mean, he has a temper but—”—” And here Effie began to sob quietly. Bert and Tammy watched her for a moment to see if she could collect herself.

  Tammy sat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “He’s trash, Bert,” Tammy now said. “He’s just trash.”

  The monster was next seen that afternoon, moving along the edge of the wooded area two streets over from Effie’s. He looked like a man in a hurry, a large, hairy man. He glanced toward the small group of people who stood stock -still watching him. No one spoke.

  Then suddenly the monster was gone. He had disappeared into a gap in the woods the way a mouse becomes two-dimensional to squeeze into your house. The sylvan darkness swallowed him, blip.

  Finally someone spoke.

  “Should we go get some hunters or somebody, some guns, and go after that thing?” someone said. It was the beginning of something impure, something precarious. It was the beginning of the contagious idea that their neighborhood, as run-down as it was, was in danger, and no amount of vigilance or level of retaliation would be an overreaction.

  The morning of August 21st was like most mornings at the Sempsh home. A few days ago Robert had apologized for his smack to Effie’s face. He had apologized, as they say, in his way.

  In his way.

  That’s what I am, thought Effie. Just something else he has to move around to gain the things he wants from the world: another drink, food prepared for him, a fresh -faced fuck every once in a while.

  Effie set Robert’s pancakes and sausage in front of him on the morning of August 21st. She put the preserves and syrup within his reach. He barely looked at her. Food arrived for Robert as if pixie-borne.

  Effie’s nose now was the yellow of a dull bug light. “Yellow as a hopeless lover,” Effie’s Aunt Pat used to say.

  “The coffee’s not very hot,” Robert said, after a while. He was reading the paper, the news on August 21st. Effie was leaning against the sink, chewing on a cuticle, staring out across their small yard at the rubbish in the small yard backing up to theirs.

  Effie looked at her husband. There was hot coffee on the stove. Admittedly, she was closer to it. Effie gave a moment’s thought to throwing the coffee in her husband’s face. Instead, she wearily hoisted the pot and topped off Robert’s cup. He didn’t move or say a word. He was reading another art
icle about the monster. This morning’s editorial speculated that he was more akin to the Yeti than to Bigfoot. The distinction was a fine one, it seemed.

  That afternoon, at home alone, Effie found herself staring out her front window. She had been listless all day. She had wandered from room to room like a stink. She was moony and sad.

  Outside she saw Bert Pipkin digging around the base of his mailbox. His thin old back showed a semi-circle of perspiration on his carmine shirt. There was something about that arc of sweat that attracted Effie. She woke up.

  Effie found herself in the bedroom looking frantically through drawers. She had to hurry. Bert could go inside any moment. What Effie chose to put on was a pair of thin running shorts, her briefest panties, and a Tt-shirt with cut-off arms. Before putting the shirt on Effie removed her bra. She willed her nipples to stand at attention. She wanted Bert to see those nipples. Effie had a fine new idea, one that had been brewing for a while. She was going to fuck Bert Pipkin.

  In the bathroom Effie put in her diaphragm. She was wet. She was surprised at how wet she was already. She actually smiled at herself in the mirror. This was something she could do. She was not dead. She could still have sex.

  Leaving the bathroom in a rush she ran into her husband, home unexpectedly. She hit his chest and fell backwards as if she had tripped or been thrown aside. Robert looked at his wife in her short shorts and skimpy Tt-shirt. He studied her for a second. Then he saw the diaphragm case open on the back of the toilet. In her haste Effie had left it there.

  Robert grabbed Effie by the hair. Effie did not scream. Robert slapped her once. Effie took it. She was guilty. She was about to be punished.

  Robert practically dragged his wife into the kitchen. He threw her down into a chair. Then he went to the silverware drawer and began to rummage. He was looking for something but he did not know what. Something heavy, something that would hurt his wife but not kill her. He found a mace-like object made of wood. It had a flanged head. He didn’t know what it was used for but it fit his hand like a weapon.

  He turned toward Effie, who sat in the chair, slump-shouldered and afraid. Tears ran down her cheeks. Effie saw the mallet, the meat tenderizer.