Thirst: A Collection of Short Fiction

Thirst: A Collection of Short Fiction

  Linda A. Lavid

  Copyright Linda A. Lavid 2011

  Passion in all its forms is a mental thirst,

  a fever,

  a torturing unrest . . .

  James Allen

  Contents

  The Cabin

  Ode to Serling

  Third Wheel

  DMV

  The Restaurant

  The Other Woman

  Socks

  Jack

  The Cure

  Jealousy

  Dear Dr. Rice

  Teddy Bear

  ~ T h e C a b i n ~

  “There are drivers and there are passengers,” my father says, “and there are the wannabes.” He takes his eyes from the road and glances at me. “Those are the people you got to watch out for.”

  He hasn’t bothered to shave. A patchy gray stubble pokes out along his sagging jawline. Or is he growing a beard?

  “A passenger wanting to be a driver,”he says, “a driver wanting to be a passenger. Doesn’t work.”

  “Hmm,”I manage and focus on the passing scenery. Without snow, late fall in western New

  York is depressing, as if the dim, colorless landscape were lit by a bare hanging lightbulb. A stark forest of leafless trees encroaches upon the highway. The ground cover is littered with decaying leaves and fallen branches. There are no signs of life, redemption.

  He continues. “Just as well your mother didn’t want to come. Drives me crazy, so tensed up, telling me to slow down, watch out for this, watch out for that. I tell her, ‘you drive’, but no, she just wants to make me miserable.”

  I keep quiet. Defending one was used for ammunition later, something like – You know Marge, Christie agreed that you complain too much, especially when I’m driving. Instead I say, “None of this is remotely familiar.”

  “It’s the highway. Built twenty years ago. It’llcut the travel time by half.”

  “You’ve gone back?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “How’d the place look?”

  “Gone through some changes.”

  “Good or bad?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to say.”

  I could ask what he means, but I already suspect – storms rage, moss gathers – end of story.

  My father pushes a lever and the window hums down. A rush of frigid air breaks into the comfy heat, rattling my eardrums.

  He takes a deep breath. “Smell that.”

  Diffusing into the car is a dank odor reminiscent of wet dirt and worms. I button the collar of my coat.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, no, I want you to be comfortable and enjoy the ride.” The window then slides up, cocooning us in quiet.

  We are heading to the cabin. The one my father owned for three years. He had bought it when my brothers were teenagers and I was around twelve, starting my period, trying to figure out how to curl my hair, wear eye shadow. The drive was an hour and a half over asphalt, then gravel, then dirt. The place had been purchased to reel us in, to keep us from growing up, moving on, but by the time we were teenagers, it was too late. We all wanted to stay in the city. We had lives, lives that were put on hold in the ‘boonies’, ‘the dueling banjo backlands’, my brothers would say. Every minute there had been endless. I wonder now if we had electricity.

  My father laughs. “Electricity? Of course. And running water and a propane tank. All the comforts.”

  “But time went on forever,”I say, “as if we were in a blackout.”

  “Problem was you guys didn’t like not having a television.”

  “That must have been the problem – no television.”

  “But there was plenty to do. We had a radio, books. Your mother brought games, cards.”

  A memory comes to mind – how after a couple of hours the playing cards stuck together and couldn’t be shuffled. “Oh, yeah. Blackjack.”And we fall silent.

  I was supposed to be taking my mother Christmas shopping, going to the mall, having lunch, but Thanksgiving dinner took a nasty turn when my brothers, Rob and Dan, related anecdotal stories about the cabin, stories that made my mother laugh and my father head for the bourbon. By the time the pumpkin pie was sliced, my father had gone from blubbering to caustic to blubbering again. ‘Ingrates’ became ‘assholes’, before he started to weep. It was then, as my brothers corralled their wives and kids and slunk into the night, that I promised to join him on this trip, a hopefully brief detour down memory lane.

  Mentally, I begin a Christmas list. My nephews are getting to be a funny age, too old for toys, too young for clothes. I couldn’t go wrong with video games, but I don’t have a clue.

  “So, Dad, what would you like for Christmas?”

  He snorts and checks the rearview mirror. “Don’t get me anything, honey. Just want you to be happy.”

  Oh, brother. My parents never talk about my marital status – single and approaching forty, but there’s always a lingering sub text in their questions, “Should we set another plate?” , “Did you do anything special for your birthday?” Of course, I could mention Jeff and finally put to rest any assumptions of theirs that I might be too picky, too shy, or a lesbian. But the relationship, at this juncture, is tentative – he still has a wife.

  “Dad, I am happy. Does that mean I can cross you off my list?”

  No response. Clearly a sign I’d be heading to the men’s department to buy something brown. “What’s your shirt size again?”

  The car barrels down the forsaken stretch of highway. “Ask your mother.”

  Amid the desolation, there arise the occasional new builds, full of angles and skylights, tucked neatly into wooded areas flanked by shiny SUVs and satellite dishes. Who’d live there? I assume a large percentage are energy-squandering isolationists with more than their share of disposable income to burn. In reaction, I consider the cabin. Its modest simplicity almost seems beatific.

  “When you went back, did you get to see the inside?” “No, just parked by the road.”

  “Sorry you sold it?”

  “Had no choice.”

  Whether that was a yes or a no, I couldn’t be sure. My recollection was that the ownership of the cabin came to an abrupt halt after both my brothers, one a senior in high school, the other a junior, skipped school, loaded themselves, eight friends (three of whom were sexually compromising young women) along with a keg of beer into a van and drove to the cabin, where, for twelve hours, a party ensued that would have gone unnoticed, except for a bonfire that spread to some adjacent trees threatening to decimate the area’s only redeeming feature – the woods. Subsequent to the event, my father was served with papers, taken to court and fined five thousand dollars, an exorbitant fee at the time. Shortly thereafter, the place went on the market and both brothers got jobs in a nursing home kitchen where they had to wear hairnets. I was thrilled.

  “Why not look for a place now?”

  He fiddles with the rearview mirror. “Wouldn’t be the same.”

  I have no parry, no words of consolation, support. Perhaps chasing the past, then reeling it forward is trickier than one would suspect.

  For the third time that day, I check the signal on my cell. Jeff promised to call. He’s probably en route as well, heading back to Chicago from his in-laws in Cincinnati. Holidays for him and his wife are still spent together for the sake of the generations both above and below. There’s no reason to do otherwise. My commitment to anything long term is likewise uncertain. At least for now.

  From the highway, an exit looms. My father puts on the blinker. “We’re almost there.” We veer to
the right. He’s staring ahead. The corners of his mouth are relaxed in a faint smile.

  Soon we’re maneuvering along a worn country road that curves, rises and falls. Scrubby homes with mismatched windows, peeling paint, hug the road. Rusty Interstate signs and mailboxes that stand on crooked posts roll by. The newfound wealth and mini-estates seen from the thruway have not stretched this far. Signs of life appear. A cat stares out beneath a car without plates; a Shepard-mix, chained to a tree, freezes. The forsaken animal bares his teeth and lunges at us. His eyes bulge as the taut chain yanks hard. The dog yelps in pain, then cowers. God, get me out of here.

  Before long, the car slows. Less than twenty yards ahead is a sign with an arrow. I decipher the faint lettering – Sherwood Lane – and my father makes a left. Immediately, we are facing a steep incline. The Chevy engine revs up, sounding heavy, lumbering. Gravel spits out from beneath the tires. I grab the hand rest. The angle is unsettling, unnatural in a car, prone as if in a dentist’s chair. How could I have forgotten this? Still, one thing is familiar – my ears pop like before.

  The dismal road tightens even more, barely wider than a single drive. “Are you sure there are still houses up here?”

  His judges the sides. A wayward branch scrapes the car. “Of course.”

  Barely perceptible the path splits and a more reasonable incline appears. He navigates a slow, bumpy turn. Within moments, I’m sitting upright but the progress has slowed. My heart is beating hard and I want this to be over. What if we can’t turn around or crash and burn into a ravine? Miraculously, however, there’s a clearing. I lean toward the dashboard.

  “It’s coming,” my father whispers.

  An open area yawns before us. The road widens and there’s order to the otherwise untamed woods. Grass is planted on both sides of the gravel road. To the right, lined-up railroad ties

  prevent a roll down a disappearing embankment. On the left,grass climbs a sloping mound. My glance travels up the hill. There it hovers, staking a solid claim in the wilderness.

  The cabin’s mostly hidden behind a sizable, protruding deck. Propped and leveled by huge posts and crossbeams, the porch extends well beyond the sloping hill. Attempts to hide the underpinnings have begun. Sheets of lattice are tacked on in some spots.

  He turns off the ignition. “This is it. What do you think?”

  “That deck. It’s new, right?”

  “Yeah, wasn’t here last time.”He surveys the area. “Gotta be a great view from up there.” “Hmm.”

  “Maybe I’ll just get out for a minute and stretch my legs.”

  I don’t like the sound of this. “You’re not going up there, are you? Dad, it’s not our property.” “Don’t be silly. Can’t do any harm to take a look.”

  I’m horrified. Sure it’s an empty building, but there’s something creepy about my father nosing around like some stalker. “Dad, they probably have motion detectors or alarms.”

  “Christie, I’m not going to break in. Come with me.”

  Not wanting to either stay behind or head up the hill, I begin to protest when a disembodied voice calls out, “Looking for someone?”

  The human voice is unnerving. At first I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Then, I see.

  Standing on the slope, half-hidden in the shadow at the far side of the deck, is a stocky, gray-haired man in a flannel shirt.

  I lean toward my father. “We should leave. Tell him we’re lost.”

  “Don’t be silly,”Dad says. He pops open the door, gets out and calls up. “We used to live here. I’m with my daughter to see the place.”

  “Want to take a better look?” The guy waves. “Come on up.” “Sure it’s no bother?”

  The two men’s voices echo, sounding louder than they should. “Hell, no. Good to have company.”

  The place must be doomed. Not only off the beaten path, but a portal, once entered, leaves every soul desperate for stimulation.

  Dad turns. “C’mon Christie. Let’s see the place.”

  My imagination slams into overdrive. Who is this guy? Where’s his car? How many city slickers has he shot and buried?

  “Dad, I don’t think – ”

  “Suit yourself,”he says and turns on his heels.

  My father doesn’t climb the grassy slope but walks toward a timberline where a gravel driveway turns upward. I now recall a circuitous route that travels up and around the cabin, which then merges into the road we just came off of. I re-evaluate the man. On second glance, he appears less sinister. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and Dockers.

  My father climbs the driveway and the man walks down to meet him. They shake hands, then both look appraisingly at the cabin. What the heck, and I get out of the car.

  “Bought the place three years ago,” the man says as we enter through the side.

  The kitchen area is no longer. Gone are the metal cabinets and cracked linoleum floor. I’m standing in a mud room. The walls are knotty pine and the tile floor is ceramic. A blue and white gingham café curtain covers the lone window that, from the upper half, shows the woods behind. Cubbies, like the kind used in Kindergarten classes, line one wall. Some coats and sweaters are hanging inside. Footgear – Rubber Duckies, winter boots, slippers – are neatly paired and resting on a mat.

  My father reaches down to untie his shoes.

  “Don’t bother,”the man says. “Wife’s not here.”

  My father nods knowingly and we cross another threshold. The first uncensored words from my father are, “Holy shit.”

  I’m likewise awed. We are standing in the back of a large room with a finished, vaulted ceiling dotted by recessed lighting. The room is remarkably bright, glowing, actually. Soft beige walls and an open floor plan fill the expanse. A modern, downsized kitchen with stainless steel built-ins fits snugly into a U-shaped corner. Nail-head leather furniture, a couch and two chairs with ottomans are placed strategically around a gas fireplace. Beautiful Navaho-design rugs cover the floor. But all this is secondary to the view.

  At the far side, where the deck has been added, there’s a double bank of sliding glass doors. I’m drawn forward.

  Standing on the precipice but still inside, I look toward a westerly direction. The sun, lowered in the sky, is breaking through some clouds. We are on very high ground. A sea of pine trees spreads out before me. But it’s the sky that’s the most breathtaking. Striations of color – purple, pink, green – consume the vista. Never have I seen such majesty. “What a view,”I say.

  There’s no response. I turn around. The man is pulling down a hidden ladder at the far end. “Has a loft.Threw in a couple of windows. Sleeps four comfortably. Great for the grand-kids.” My father nods but seems distracted. “You’ve done a lot of work.”

  “I’llsay. The place was too confined. Needed to open it up.”

  My father steps toward a door, the only room separate from the great room. “Was this the back bedroom?”

  The man turns the knob and pushes the door open. “Not anymore. Made it into a full bath. Separate shower. Tub’s got some jets.”

  My father glances inside. “A lot of tile work. Must have cost a pretty penny.” “Son-in-law did it. He’s a plumber. Not too expensive. When did you own the place?” “Long time ago, twenty-five years or so. Just a getaway, you know.”

  The word getaway makes me smile. I want to say, “get-as-far-away,” but I don’t. I then think about myself and Jeff. “Do you ever rent it out?”

  The man shakes his head. “Nah. It’s only empty for a couple of weeks in the spring. We go golfing.”

  Ironically, I’m disappointed.

  “Christie, “my father says, “we head back. Your mother’s probably making dinner.”

  The man says, “Bring your wife sometime. Door’s always open.”

  “Thanks for the offer but my wife . . . well, she doesn’t care for the country.” Back in the car, I say, “What a place.”

  My father shrugs. His excitement has waned.

&n
bsp; “And that view. How could I have forgotten something like that?”

  My father revs up the car. “They tore down all the trees in front. Place is nothing more than a glorified suburb.”

  “What?”

  “All fancy, smantcy.”

  There’s no point in arguing. I pull the seatbelt across and click it on. The strap presses on my cell. Before we head back, I make sure it’s still working then place it on my lap. By the time we reach the thruway, my eyes are feeling dry and heavy.

  At four-thirty we pull up to the house. Not only has the winter darkness seeped into the afternoon hours, but the home blends in too easily with the surrounding shadows. Neither the kitchen nor living room lights are on. The home looks as if the residents are out, perhaps gone on a vacation.

  Dad swerves onto the driveway. “Your mother must still be shopping with Aunt Pat.” “Maybe they went to dinner.”

  But once inside, a light is shining from beneath my parent’s bedroom door. “Mom?”

  A weak voice answers. “I’m in here.”

  Dad throws his keys on the table and heads to the bathroom.

  I knock lightly.

  “Come in,”my mother says.

  Still dressed, she’s lying on top of the made bed with an afghan draped over her. “Taking a nap?”

  “Yes.”

  But she’s lying. Crumpled tissues are piled on the bed stand. Her eyes are bloodshot. “How was the trip?” she asks.

  “Mom, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “But your eyes are swollen. Have you been crying?”

  She puts her finger to her mouth, then nods toward the open doorway. “Where’s your father?” she whispers.

  “In the bathroom. Why?”

  She leans forward. “Close the door.”

  None of this is unusual behavior. Whenever I’m around, my parents take the opportunity to gossip about each other. I shouldn’t appease her, but I do.

  After shutting the door, I return to the bed and sit on the edge. “So what’s up?” “What was it like?” she asks.

  “What was what like?”

  “The cabin.”

  “Oh. You wouldn’t have believed it. The place is gorgeous. Totally redone on the inside.” She rears back, looking horrified. “You went inside?”

  “The owner was there. Gave us a tour.”

  “And how was your father?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Didn’t seem impressed.”

  She has a spurt of energy and sits taller. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Here’s this absolutely great place and he was totally nonplused.” I shake my head. “Seemed like he missed the old place.”

  My mother’s face freezes. Suddenly, her eyes well up and she’s reaching for another tissue. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just emotional.”

  “Doesn’t seem like nothing – ”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  My mother grabs my wrist. “I can’t see him like this.”

  At the door I peek out. “Mom’s not feeling well.”

  He stretches his neck, trying to look inside.

  “I think she could use some soup. Would you mind?”

  “Right, I’ll run down to Chin’s and get some wonton.”

  “Great idea.”

  Back on the bed, I say. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  She slams her fist on the mattress. “That damn cabin.”

  “Mom, what’s with you and the cabin?”

  She gives me a hard look. “You don’t know? Your brothers never told you?” “Told me what?”

  Her voice is remarkably forceful. “About your father’s love nest.” “Excuse me?”

  Her face crumbles. “Oh, Christie. He used to go there with Mrs. Lambert, the woman who lived next door.”

  Lambert. Lambert. Yes, she had two young children. A redhead. “Mom, you sure?”

  “Your brothers found them. They had skipped school and saw them together with their own eyes. Through the window in the back bedroom.”

  The floor suddenly seems to slant. The story can’t be believed. But then . . .

  “The fire wasn’t accidental, Christie. Your brothers were so upset with your father, they tried to burn the place down.”

  I jump from the bed. “WHAT?”

  “Christie, please don’t be upset. I just – ” “Everyone knows about this except me?”

  She reaches out. “Honey, you’re not the only one. Your father doesn’t either.”

  “Mom, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Oh, Christie, he doesn’t know that I know or that the boys know.”

  “You two never talked about it?”

  She looks small and scared. “God no. I couldn’t,not ever.”

  I return to the bed and put my arms around her. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  She’s trembling. The bones in her back feel brittle. If I squeeze too hard, they might break. “Everything’s fine,”I say. “Besides, that was years ago.” Sniffling, she pulls away. “Itwas his idea to run out for the soup.” I’m confused. “Yes.”

  “Then he must still care. At least a little bit.”

  Suddenly my cell rings. I pull it from my pocket and glance at the read out – Jeff. The incessant, intrusive ring is called dancing raindrops.

  “Honey, aren’t you going to get that?”

  With each cloying tone the pull to answer it weakens. I turn off the power. “It’s not important.”