The Final Curtain - Dave Lewis
My working life had been spent as an actor and my acting career had supported me well but without fame. I was what is called a “First Person actor”. That means that the roles I held were of the first person killed in the plot. I was the first peasant shot on Bastille Day, the squadron’s first pilot shot down in flames, the first seaman overboard to be eaten by sharks, the first cowboy to be skewered by an Indian arrow, the first mountain climber to slip off an Alp, the first missionary to be served as a cannibal lunch, the first infantryman to be bayonetted and the first Zulu to slow down a cannon ball. There were other variations on that theme but you must get the picture .
The net result of my career was that a lot of people recognized me but didn’t know who I was. They had that image of the frequently dying man in their subconscious but they hadn’t stored a caption for the picture. Unknown and unheralded, I had died more make believe deaths than any other actor.
When I had retired, I moved to the California coast. My house was 300 feet above the Pacific Ocean which was less than a mile away. The house clung to the side of a steep canyon and was accessed by a steep dead-end road but plenty of neighbors shared similar circumstances.
One winter day, I was looking out the front bay window to check the weather. Extremely minute rain drops or a thick fog hung in the air with little moisture making it to the ground. Just then a car pulled up at my neighbor’s house across the street. It was a long, black, Chrysler sedan with a low roof-line, narrow windows and a squared off tail end. All of its windows were tinted such a dark black that the windows were hard to distinguish from the sheet metal - even the windshield and the front windows had the dark tint, an illegal option. Except for a lack of markings the vehicle looked more like a scaled-down hearse than a passenger vehicle.
My neighbor was a retired US Air Force General, a widower for the past 12 years. He had built his house over twenty years ago and he had equipped it with alarm systems, proximity lights and TV cameras that were updated as the technology improved. It was rumored that he still consulted for defense companies and his work was SECRET.
The driver of the black Chrysler got out of his car carrying a large, flat, insulated package that suggested a pizza was being delivered. The driver was dressed in black and wore a black fedora that obscured his face He even wore black gloves. When he reached the door he made an uncomplicated gesture and the door opened. None of the General’s security lights, horns, flasher and sirens paid notice, all was quiet.
I continued to watch this unusual visit because it seemed so unnatural to deliver pizza in such an elaborate, expensive car. The strange behavior of the driver and the unnatural relaxation of the General’s obsessive security seemed odd. Typically the General would not allow entrance to any visitor without a personal inspection at the door.
Within minutes a single gunshot was heard. The sound was loud enough to be heard through the General’s closed door and mine. Several minutes later the black clad visitor left the house, closed the door with the same casual gesture and unhurriedly reentered the long, black Chrysler. As he walked, he folded and refolded the insulated bag he had carried to the house into a tiny package, and put it in his coat pocket. His face, obscured by the hat, was never visible and as the car left its berth in front of the General’s house, I saw that it had no license tag, front or back.
Within 15 minutes an Emergency Medical van and a sheriff’s car pulled up in front of the General’s house. The officers and the EMT personnel tried to enter the house but eventually had to break in the door. The security alarm company was called in to disable the warning sirens and flashing lights. Hours later, after additional police investigators and photographers had joined the entourage, the medical technicians carried out a gurney with what I assumed was the General’s body enshrouded in a bag. The house was swathed in yellow “DO NOT ENTER” tape and everyone left. I was surprised that there were no police inquiries around the neighborhood. I was probably the only observer of the black-clad figure and the black Chrysler.
Later in the day the news sources reported that the General had committed suicide. A note was found and his Air Force issued, Officer’s Model Colt .45 was in his hand. No foul play was suspected.
I called the police and offered the information from my observation but they expressed no interest in investigating further.
Eventually, years later, I ceased to ponder the strange circumstances and the events were just a routine memory until I saw from my front window the same black Chrysler driving up the street. It passed the General’s former house and moved slowly out of my sight going up the hill. The road dead-ended in a mile and I waited for the car to come back down the hill. It returned and unexpectedly pulled up in front of my house.
The driver got out of the Chrysler and approached my door. He was in the same black garb with a black, wide brimmed fedora and large dark glasses. As I stood behind the door, the lock bolts noisily disengaged and the door swung open; the driver stood in the doorway and then, in a second, entered.
In an instant surge of comprehension, my mind calmed and the anxiety and fear I felt when I saw the car abated.
“Oh, now I see! You are Death.” I said. “I had thought you were the General’s murderer.”
“ I am not a murderer ! ” were the words that I heard or sensed. “The General pulled the trigger himself, it was his desire.”
“ Your death is another contract. I am tasked to review your life for you and prepare you for a transition.” He handed me a large heavy book and instructed, “Open this and see your previous decades. You can speed the narrative by squeezing the edges but there is no going back, no replay. Sit where you will be comfortable and relax.”
I opened the book to find a misty display of moving images and perceived sounds. It was my whole life played for me to re-examine. Some events I had forgotten, some were different than my brain had stored but the story was complete. My parents, my siblings, my teachers, my wives, my children, my bullies, my allies, my friends, and my enemies were all present. Successes, inventions, triumphs, failures, cruelties, compassion, loves, hates, errors and mistakes were all there to re-examine. I replayed the 134 B-Grade movies I had acted in. I had never been in a final act.
The clock showed that it had only taken minutes to scan the many decades. As the display reentered the present, I grew drowsy and fell asleep.
The black clothed stranger took the book from my hands and pressed it flat. He then folded and refolded it till it was the size of a coin and put it in his pocket. With gestures he opened the door and from the outside, re-bolted it. He entered the black Chrysler and drove down the hill toward the ocean. No one else had seen the big black car or its driver.
***
The Ultimate Ride Jean Wong
The tires kept slipping over to the edge of the narrow road, but Sheila knew she couldn’t say anything. He’d drive worse just to show her. She squeezed the sides of her seat. Her foot started pressing on the floor as if she was braking the car even though they were going up the steep mountain side. Where were they? The sun had hidden behind swollen trees— the grim, yellow light made shadows splatter across the road.
The place was deserted. Why couldn’t those damn Wicksteins have the funeral services in town? Hardly knew them—hadn’t seen them in two years. Sheila remembered the time the wife had stared at her loafers like she was wearing work boots.“Norman,” she said. “Think you better put your lights on.”
A low sound came out of his throat. Was that a yes or a no?
After twenty five years Norman never said anything to her anymore.
“I’m cold,” she said out loud to herself.
That was another thing she didn’t like about riding with Norman. Why couldn’t they ever take her station wagon? No, he always had to take his truck—broken radio, doors that wouldn’t lock, and the silence. Every time she thought of something to talk about, he wasn’t interested—the insurance bill, their daughter’s snarky phone call, her in-grown toe nail. At home they had the TV so it didn’t matter.
Had they turned all the lights off? The stove for sure she’d checked. He was always leaving that one light on in the basement. She’d just read someone’s house had caught on fire when they left the closet light on next to some sweaters. What about the pills? Did she remember to bring his? She had hers. She fingered all the eventualities in her pocket.
Sheila chewed down another Tums. Could be her ulcer… stomach flu, maybe the fish she had last night?
The winding road was making her dizzy. It began to level off and she gave a sigh, letting her shoulders sink down. But then the wind whipped up. A strong gust could blow the truck over the side of the mountain. She hoped they wouldn’t have to eat outside. There must be a zillion mosquitoes up here… there might even be bats. She pictured a platter of bland cold cuts and cheese. People were so cheap nowadays— cheap wine, paper plates, plastic forks.Bumping over the pot holes was bothering her bladder. She shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. She’d gone twice before they left home, but some days there was just no telling.
“Norm, I think I have to go.”
Sheila saw him brush his forehead like a fly had just landed. He always did that whenever she spoke to him. She was just an insect crawling around in his life.
“Norm.”
She knew he couldn’t stand her anymore than she could stand him.
“Norm, pull over.”
“Damn it. Shut the hell up. How am I supposed to drive with that mouth of yours?”
They rode on. Her stomach flopped as the road became steep again. How high can a mountain get? She figured it was over two hours since they left home. She forced herself not to look out the side of the window. There was aspirin in the glove compartment, but nothing for nausea. She felt like throwing up—maybe there was a paper bag or something in the back.
The car gave a sudden lurch, then stopped. Norm sat there, staring straight ahead.
“What are you doing?” she yelled, “You can’t stop in the middle of the road!”
Norm’s head dropped down on the steering wheel.
“Norm, Norm!” she screamed. The motor was running. The car was sliding backward. She jammed the gear into park and turned off the ignition.“Norm!” She lifted his head. His eyes were turned inward, white foam dribbled down his chin onto his shirt.
“Norm! For God’s sakes!” A fine time to act up! She pulled at him with fury and desperation. She reached over grabbing his massive legs onto her side. He felt like a sack of sand with that damn beer belly. She wrapped her arms around his middle and tugged with all her might. He slumped toward her, falling against her shoulders, his shoes curled under him. She pulled ‘till she saw enough of a space on the driver side. She wormed her slight frame out from under him and raced around into the driver’s seat. She sat bolt upright. Her heart was on fire. She didn’t even have her driving glasses. The engine screeched as she turned the key with all her might. She inched slowly forward.
The road began to wind again. She’d have to turn back, but how? There were no driveways or shoulders. My god! Was he dead? Leaving her like this holding the bag. She put on the brights though the sun made a brief appearance through a sudden clearing. The truck seemed to slow down. No, it was just taking forever. And what was the address? Jesus! The truck lurched in sudden jumps as her foot switched from gas to brake. The trees began to thin out. Dead branches and dry brush littered the ground. One match and the whole place could go up in flames.
She spotted a few shacks. Some sort of house behind it? She turned into the driveway, as the sound of gravel hit the wheels. A mongrel chained to a massive hanging tree branch began snarling. Two men working on a car turned as they heard her engine. They were dark. Maybe black? She couldn’t tell. Nowadays even the bank tellers were foreigners. She saw the sagging frame of what must have been a house…maybe a barn.
One of the men with an oil stick in his hand approached. He had a kerchief round his head; his t-shirt was damp from sweat. His blank-hard eyes bore down on her. She let her window open a crack. She saw the other man come around to the other side. “Can I help you?” he said. His voice was raspy. He had wisps of hair down the side of his chin. She smelt the stale scent of cigarette smoke as he spoke. Her eye was caught by an ax buried in a tree stump behind him.
“My husband…” a choked whisper was stuck in her throat.
“Yeah, lady, you look like you got a problem,” he broke into a grotesque grin.
“Well, I don’t think it’s very funny,” she said. The memory came to her now of some man offering her a stick of gum when she was a little girl. The skin of his arm was a mottled dusty brown. With an abrupt yank, her mom had pulled her away. Her knuckles ached from gripping the wheel. She could hardly breathe. Fear cut through her heart.
“No Ma’am,” his eyes narrowed into a fixed stare, “wasn’t trying to tell no joke.”
“It…he…” She needed some air. She felt sick.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” a voice seemed to float in the air.
“A funeral…” she started to say.
Someone coughed. She heard a sharp laugh.
The doors of her car spread open like the wings of an airplane—the two men coming after her. Sheila stepped on the gas, knocking both of them down. She saw one trying to get up, reaching into his pocket. He must have a gun! She jammed the car in reverse, then back into drive and hit him. She heard a scream. She felt the wheels rear up over soft bumps. A cockroach came to mind. One whack and the legs were twitching; another hit would finish him off. She shifted the gear back in reverse, then forward. The truck rocked back and forth over groans and the thud of limbs until it stalled. She thought her heart would surely burst in the sudden stillness.
A slight groan tugged at her side. She looked down at the fluttering eyelids of Norman.
“Norm, Norm! Wake up! Help!”
She saw a damp spot at his crotch. Had he wet himself? She could always count on him to do something disgusting. A sludge of rage churned through her bowels. Had he ever once been there for her? Those early years stabbed at her memory—his massive, moist body flopping and panting on top of her. His sullen meanness. The one time he’d remembered her birthday and told her by now she should be woman enough to satisfy him. The time she’d given birth, after thirty seven hours of labor and the bastard told her it didn’t look like his kid. He’d screwed her in every way. No way was she going to take the rap for having to ride in his truck.
She grabbed at his belt and worked his body back to the driver’s seat. She managed to roughly jerk him into place while she got out from her side. She remembered the line, dead men don’t talk and slammed his head against the wheel again and again.
***
Dark Passage Robyn Makaruk
The glockenspiel sound of the crystal bead curtain
As it was drawn aside
Did not disturb the occupants lying on low sofas
That sweet, familiar aroma floated in the smoky air
Returning him to the times spent in the opium dens of Southeast Asia
Smoking finest quality chandu
Its intoxicating elixir delivering metaphysical qualities
Coursing throughout his whole body.
Or so he thought.
He would not open that door again,
Not fall into the same trap of dependence
That had sent him to a monastery in the mountains
Where monks had cured him with a five-day purging
Using an herbal paste
Followed by hours of vomit
No, never again would he become a 30-per-day pipe smoker.
But the memories of all those wonderful hours spent in euphoria
Were more powerful
And he wanted to open that secret door, and
Return, just one more time
To live in the spectacular dreams and
Fly with the comets and other extra-terrestrials.
A beautiful, young, woman greeted him and guided him to a velvet sofa
“I am Lily and will attend to all your needs".
She took his pipe, stoked it with chandu, and
Lit the oil lamp on the low table
He lay down.
***
More Than a Full Moon Joan Shepherd
After a considerable pause in this unexplained light show, I almost thought the show was over when the circle returned, now moving itself back and forth in a rocking motion.
Maybe I should go back to bed now, I thought. Too late as the light went through the house next door and across my parched, drought-stricken back yard, managing to burn a few weeds. Then it stopped only a few feet from my window.
***
Each year when the autumn breezes send golden leaves blustering into the air and the moonlit nights come early, town residents catch glimpses of a tiny orange-haired woman carrying a large canvas bag through town. She moves so steadily she seems to float down the sidewalks, long skirt trailing behind. Some say they see her shopping at the Safeway, or reading in a dark corner of the library. One gossip insisted she saw her sitting in the balcony of the church on All Saints Day.
All her life Pippie Meriwether lived in a run-down Victorian home at the edge of town where her father’s formaldehyde-smelling taxidermy shop was located before it closed. The customers would drive down a long and winding dirt road lined with rows of thick trees and brush to deliver dead animals and pick up completed trophies.
When Pippie was a small child, these infrequent visitors often saw her tiny face peaking out from behind a large stuffed Grisly Bear. Pippie seemed curious about the carcasses of deer or elk, and, uncommonly intrigued with the sight of lifeless Hawks and other birds of prey. She studied the way her dad would peal the feathers away one by one, store then in a wooden container, then secure them a feather at a time on a bare plaster image. She was delighted when he would place their claws and beaks in fighting positions.
Pippie would sit in the Meriwether’s dark, musty, book-lined library with her mother, who rarely left home, to listen as she read out loud. Pippie’s favorite stories didn’t include Goldie Locks and the Three Bears, but instead, selections from the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. By age five, Pippie developed the exceptional ability to memorize and recite verbatim anything she heard.
When it was time, her tall thin father, wearing black with a fedora on his head, drove her through the woods, down the long, curving road and around the corner to school in his old black Packard. The town’s parents warned their children not to play with the strange girl wearing the long dresses with lace collars. Pippie couldn’t help that she inherited her great-grandmother’s frizzy pumpkin colored hair, her dad’s oversized brown eyes, and her mother’s miniature stature and pointed nose.
Three weeks into first grade, Pippie picked up a dead Raven from the playground, caressed it and packed it in her lunch box and then presented it at show and tell a week later. When she told about the bird, she recited:
”This ominous bird of yore,
This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Croaks, `Nevermore, Nevermore.'”
The horrified teacher asked for the child to be removed from her class. From that time on Pippie's records were stamped “not normal.” When she stopped attending school the authorities weren't concerned.
There was some talk about the Meriwether family when her dad’s taxidermy shop closed, but soon other news occupied conversations. Since no one ever saw her mother, her disappearance never even crossed their minds.
Years passed. No one drove down the dirt road. The Victorian home became dilapidated. Few people noticed tiny Pippie Meriwether, dressed in drab clothing, walking around town always carrying a large canvas bag. Fewer people noticed and no one mentioned the absence of stray cats.
Once the librarian remarked, “That peculiar little carrot-haired woman always visits on Wednesdays and checks out six books, no more, no less. Three are
about anatomy, two are about travel and one is a popular romance. Don’t you find that strange?”
Every year on Halloween teenagers dared each other to venture down the winding forest road to knock on “the little witch’s” door. Sometimes the brave ones threw rotten eggs or fruit at the dingy, decaying, broken-down house.
On that one, fateful Halloween night, not so many years ago, a full moon cast deep shadows from the rocks and trees leading up the craggy, twisting road to the Meriwether home. As Willie Cravens and two of his buddies neared the house only one light shown in the downstairs window.
“You go first,” said Harry Green to Willie.
“No, I’ll carry and throw the tomatoes since I’m the best thrower.”
“Yeah! You’re so brave,” added Bubba Parker.
The trio tiptoed up the front walk avoiding brambles and loose rocks.
“BOO!”
“Damn it Willie. You do that again and I’m out of here.”
“Shhhh! She’s gonna hear us,” whispered Bubba.
“Hey man. Look. The front door is open.” Willie peaked inside the dark house.
“Now what’re we gonna do?” Harry stood back, eyes wide and hands trembling.
“I say let’s go in.” Willie took the lead. The other two boys followed him in the squeaky front door.
One lamp, shaped like a parrot, cast a faint red glow in the entry hall . The boys tiptoed through an ornate archway into the adjoining parlor.
“Oh my God.” Bubba tripped and fell down. “It’s a bear. I thought it was real for a minute, but it’s stuffed.”
“Oh, geez. Look at this place.” Harry screeched as the threesome gazed around the dimly lit room. “What’s that smell?”
“Yikes!” Bubba jumped as something slid against his leg.
“It’s only a cat.” Willie set the bag of tomatoes on the floor.
“It’s only a gillion cats,” said Harry surrounded by meowing creatures.
“Caw, Caw.”
“What’s that?” Harry gasped.
“Oh man! Shit and damn! Look at this room.” Bubba led them into to a book-lined library, cats following, hissing and yowling. “It’s filled with birds.”
The sound of cats crying and birds squawking was deafening. “Yiiiiii! Freaky!” Willie shrieked. “The cats are going crazy.”
Harry yelled over the jarring clamor. “Ohhhh, shit and damn, too. This whole house is full of dead animals.”
In panic, the boys rushed out the front door, running down the road like Olympic sprinters. Willie’s parents heard their shrieks before they saw the out of breath, wide-eyed, frightened boys.
“I’m telling you, mom, that place is bizarre!” Willie panted.
“Mrs. Cravens, there are animals all over, some are dead.” Harry was almost in tears.
“It smelled like a barnyard or something worse!” Bubba collapsed on to the floor.
“Boys, boys! I’m so ashamed of you. That poor little woman! She never bothers a soul. You boys will apologize and do it right now,” said Willie’s mom.
“But mom, I don’t ever want to go there again.”
The three boys followed Willie’s parents down the moonlit road. The old house’s yard was full of cats slithering here and there. Birdcalls greeted them at the still-opened front door. The raunchy odor was overpowering. After a short wait with no response, Mr. Cravens ushered his family through the vaulted entry hall and into the creepy structure. There was no sign of Pippie Meriwether, but there was plenty to see on that frightful night the Cravens entered the old Victorian in the woods.
Every Halloween the town’s people share the story. They tell about Pippie Meriwether; about the dozens of cats that lived in every room; about the three owls, one hawk, six ravens and two eagles that lived in the library; about the multitudes of posed, stuffed trophies, mostly cats, found in every dark corner both downstairs and upstairs.
But …… most of all, the tales are about the majestically mounted taxidermist still wearing his black suit, fedora on his head. He was standing beside his statue-like wife. She was beautifully preserved, sitting in a library chair with a copy of “The Raven” in her lap.
The authorities never located Pippie Meriwether for questioning about the strange discoveries. She was last seen driving an old black Packard heading northeast on the highway, orange hair blowing in the wind, disappearing into the night.
However, when the autumn breezes send golden leaves blustering into the air and the moonlit nights come early, it’s a well-known fact that Pippie Meriwether wanders. And, on every Halloween she floats down the winding road, through the woods to her old home to reminisce.
Just ask anyone in town.
***
Two A's Lucille Hamilton
In November the fog would roll in so thick you wouldn't know there was a river down there, at the bottom of the cliffs. The house was old, made of stone and big enough for the big families of that time. Although there were five children to split the property, only two were interested. The others wanted to move out into the nearby city. So the house went to Alice and Agnes. Alice was the elder by six years, and while this made for edginess between them in their younger years, this seemed to disappear over time.
They decided to share the house, dividing up the chores as well as the space. Agnes, who loved to cook and garden, took up weaving baskets, using the reeds from the river directly below the house. Alice, on the other hand, had always wanted to have sheep so she would be able to card and dye their wool into yarn for weaving. The two laughed, saying that maybe later they might open up a B&B.
In a few years, Alice met Arthur and, after a honeymoon of sorts, he became a member of the household with the three getting along well. Also, he helped relieve Alice of the rounding up of the sheep, freeing her to have more time
for her weaving for which she was becoming well known.
The days seemed to fall into a peaceful routine, Agnes out under the cliffs selecting reeds, Alice with her weaving and sheep, and Arthur helping Alice with her growing herd.
One night, Agnes broke an antique platter that was part of Alice's inheritance. It didn't seem important at the time, but it was. It opened up the whole festering inheritance issue: the “You got the painting you knew I always wanted and what's more you've taken it into your side of the house so I never see it anymore," sort of thing. It got so out of hand that they would sit at opposite ends of the table, passing food when requested, but never speaking. The situation got utterly out of hand. Things they had shared began to disappear into one or the other's part of the house. After some initial attempts to question these disappearances, nothing more was said. The level of resentment became hatred to the degree it was almost palpable.
It was after such a day in late November, that Alice, upstairs with the beginnings of a cold, asked Agnes if she would mind going with Arthur to help get the sheep into their pen. Agnes nodded her reply and put on her dark winter coat and shoes, before going out with Arthur into the foggy night.
Alice made herself a nice, warm rum toddy and retired with a good book. It got late and later, and no signs of the two. Towards midnight, Alice heard something at the door and opened it to Arthur, but no Agnes. "Oh, good dog!” she said, "good dog!”, welcoming the sheep dog in from the dark and petting the huge animal. "Oh Arthur, you're such a good herder, such a good, good herder.”
Alice finished her toddy, folded her book and went to sleep, Arthur at her bedside. She phoned the police the next day to notify them that Agnes was missing.
Agnes was found two days later, dead among her beloved reeds. As there was no suggestion of a crime having been committed it never occurred to the police to think Arthur might have given Agnes a good shove off the cliff as wherever would a dog have gotten such an idea?
The following spring, having hired some help, Alice opened the house as a B&B, changing Agnes' old side into an exclusive apartment with a superb view of, and convenient to, a famous international city. The Tourist Bureau, on inspection, apologized for giving her only a double “A” rating, explaining that the third “A” could not be given as the B&B was not actually in the city.
Alice, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier. She chose to think the two “A”s stood simply for Alice and Arthur.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment