My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  Gideon strolled down to the local pub in hopes of capitalizing on this beautiful day. “Whiskey, neat.” He said as he charmingly winked at the bar tender. With dark rings under her eyes she chuckled at him as she poured the beer. “Here ya are, handsome” she barked, never once reaching to her mouth to remove her cigarette, puffing it all the while. Pulling up a stool he noticed today’s paper on the bar. The bar was nearly empty, someone must have left it. How could this day get any better he thought as he took a swig from his glass and flushed open the paper.

  For the first time in years he felt good; still drunk, but a happy one. The bar was silent and he could read and drink in peace. Gideon finally felt like he was back on top. He ordered a second whiskey as he browsed the paper for something interesting.

  It was on page seven that Gideon's spirits began to fall. The literary section of the paper was normally about upcoming or successful authors. Today it was a eulogy, for Johnny Davis. Apparently Johnny had picked up some of Gideon’s best habits over the last few years, namely drinking and whores. His wife and family left him and the stress of completing a new book had pushed him over the edge. His body was found in his home next to his shotgun and a note in which he confessed to stealing the work of many more than just Gideon. Johnny even stated that the success had made him a terrible husband and father, and that he had pushed his family away, only to continue to live a lie as a successful writer.

  Gideon finished his second whiskey in a single gulp and ordered a third. He crumpled the paper in his hands as he watched the bar tender pour his drink. Johnny Davis was dead. His name had been cleared, again, in Johnny's dying note. The sun was still shinning and all was to be forgiven. Except it wasn’t.

  Sipping his third whiskey quickly, he wanted to avoid the semblance of guilt washing over him. He had wished this very thing upon Johnny and now it was here. Gideon felt no happiness from learning of Johnny’s death. He felt bitter and alone. It was something about the words in Johnny’s note; he was ashamed of himself not as a writer, but as a father and husband, as a person. Gideon had so much hate for Johnny and blamed him for everything that had happened. How many lives had Gideon ruined during his own spiral? How many people had he treated the same way Johnny had treated him? Overwhelmed and lost in these thoughts Gideon did the only thing he ever did anymore, he drank, in excess.

  Later he would stumble to into his apartment after getting kicked out of his third bar. He grabbed onto his kitchen counter for dear life as the world around him spun. Then, in his drunken and dazed confusion he saw the typewriter. Staring at him, beckoning him to put his precious thoughts on to the page. Overflowing with thought and emotion, no time was better than now to write, but the question remained. Should he write? He had opened his soul to that typewriter two nights in a row and in that time a company had fallen and hundreds had lost their jobs. Now a man was dead. Was this the power of the typewriter at work? No. That was ridiculous; just the booze talking. The typewriter wasn't magical or some object of great evil. It was an old and beat up typewriter.

  Yet Gideon found himself still drawn to the typewriter, as if he couldn't resist is peculiar charm. He now understood, it was the typewriter that was pulling him forward these last few days. The desire to write and perhaps something more. The more he told himself there was nothing special about the typewriter the less he believed it himself. The truth was, he wanted to believe the typewriter had mystical powers of its own. If it did, that would mean he could undo all the wrongs he had done.

  At this thought, the world stopped spinning around him and he knew what he had to do. Coming out his drunken state was almost trance like as he made his way to the typewriter. He wasted no time getting to work.

  I’m sorry. I’ve failed you. All of you. My fans, my critics, my friends and most importantly, my family. All I ever wanted was to provide the very best to those I cared about the most. When I was falsely accused of plagiarism, when I lost a story I had spent my life creating I thought I lost a piece of my soul that I would never get back.

  My beautiful Katrina, I blamed your leaving on everyone but myself. I cursed your name and the names of our children. How could you ever love me after I had lost everything? I guess it would have been much easier than putting up with the distant and destructive drunk I became. Now I see you didn’t leave me because of the accusations against me but because I became impossible to love. Obsessed over those who had wronged me I became bitter and filled with hate. I didn’t lose a piece of my soul when I lost the book. I lost a piece of my soul when I pushed you away.

  And for what?

  They were just words, words on a page, which in actuality had no value at all, not to anyone but myself. Sure it was a good story, but I could have always written more words or just forgot about them like anything else.

  If I could undo all the wrongs in my life, that would be the first. I would do everything in my power to not have become the man I am today; to give you the family and lifetime of happiness that you deserve.

  Even now I wonder if you are better off without me; if that lifetime of happiness even includes me. I don’t think it does. I think I’ve caused enough pain in your life, in everyone’s life. Instead of slithering along as I have been its best if I just go away all together. Just know, I loved you more than anything Katrina, I’m sorry it took me so long to see that.

  Gideon looked up from the typewriter, his trance seemingly ended. He saw his bottle from the night before on the desk and poured himself a glass. Slowly sipping his fresh glass of whiskey he leaned back in his chair. Suddenly Gideon lost his balance and the chair flew up from under him. Falling backwards he smashed his head into the floor, his glass shattering on the ground next to him.

  In the weeks to come the stack of newspaper outside Gideon's apartment became excessive. When no one answered the door the landlord entered the apartment to find the shards of glass on the ground next to the broken chair. The pages Gideon wrote still in the typewriter. The police investigation turned up nothing and after a while Katrina and her family received all that remained of Gideon’s fortune, although she never forgave him.

  As for Gideon, he was never to be seen again after that Saturday. All that remained of him were just words he left behind.

  The Luck of Walter Dimsdale

  The story of

  Walter, Riverboat Gambler

  William Melkle

  I've been Purser on the Delta Lady for nigh on four years now, good times in the main, but last night's activities have decided me—I have had enough of this river. Or maybe it has had enough of me?

  It had been a normal run up until yesterday—cargo and passengers came and went, people won on the tables, people lost on the tables, and the river stayed quiet and real friendly. Nobody got fever, any fights that broke out were not fatal and we were making good time, heading for St. Louis with a happy crew and a full complement of passengers.

  Sunday night was coming up—my only night off—and we were making our last stop for wood before I could finish my shift. I was counting cords in and making sure the lads on the wharf got all that was due to them—no more and no less. It was as I looked up after tallying a load that I saw her—a well-dressed, well to do lady on the quay, being accosted rather roughly by three surly dockhands. It wasn't my job to sort out fights—Curly Jim was more your man for that, but I didn't have time to call for help, so I leapt in swinging and shouting. Luckily that proved enough to see them off, for if they had not been craven cowards they would have easily done for me there and then. I realized as they fled that I knew one of then—John Cribb, a deckhand—and resolved to bring him to Curly Jim's attention at the earliest opportunity.

  The lady herself was most grateful for my intervention and thanked me profusely, although I heard little of what she said, for she had the most captivating eyes—green, with flecks of gold that shone like jewels in the moonlight. I do remember that she told me that luck would be with me that night, and that she gave me a soft kiss on the chee
k that smelled of honey and wild flowers.

  More wood arrived to be taken aboard, and once more I had to tally and divvy out the money. The next time I looked up, the quay was empty, and the Delta Lady was getting ready to depart. I looked for the woman on the passenger decks when I boarded, just to get one more look in those eyes, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Eventually I gave up searching and went to get ready for my night off. I changed out of my Purser's suit into a clean shirt, evening jacket and trousers, and made my way to the ballroom and the gambling tables.

  Most of the money in the steamboat business comes from carrying cargo, but it's the gambling and ballrooms that have caught the public imagination—and the Delta Lady's room was one of the finest and most opulent on the river. That same finery and opulence meant it had also become one of the top boats to be seen on for the aspiring social climber—and tonight was no exception. The room was full and lively—you could smell the money from twenty paces.

  This had become a Sunday ritual—straight after shift I'd have a beer and play a few hands of poker, never winning much, but never losing more than I could afford to either. I always took care to avoid the high risk, high rollers who might have a month's wages off me in the blink of an eye.

  I knew things were going to be different as soon as I sat at the table. The room was noisy; the roulette wheels clattered, folks jostled at the long mahogany bar, and the chandeliers tinkled and swayed as the boat rolled with the swell in the river. But all of that seemed far away to me, dim and distant as if behind a solid door. All my focus was on the cards and the players around the table. The next hour passed in a dream—I knew when to fold or raise, I knew who was bluffing—and I had no care as to what the growing pile of chips in front of me represented. All I was interested in was the deal and turn of the cards.

  When the moment passed, several dozen hands later, I had all the chips, and the other players were looking at me with a mixture of bemusement—and not a little anger.

  Joe Finney took it worst—he wasn't used to losing big, and judging by the pile of chips, I'd taken over a hundred dollars from each of them. He stood and got out his pistol.

  "I ain't about to get rooked by no cheating Purser, Dimsdale," he said. "There aught to be a law agin' crew playing anyway. I want my money back."

  I raised my hands.

  "Weren't no cheating here, Joe. I won this fair and square, and I intend to keep it."

  He raised the pistol until I was looking straight down the barrel.

  "I'll count to three," he said.

  He got as far as reaching two. The Delta Lady hit a log and rolled hard to the left. Finney tried too hard to compensate, went right and kept going. He lost his balance, his gun hand jerked and a shot rang out—I heard the bullet whistle past my left ear even as old Joe's head hit the edge of the table knocking him out cold.

  Discretion being the better part of valor, I collected my chips and went to cash in. Not being stupid, I had Jeannie put my winnings aside in the safe with the wages box—I'd just be asking for trouble carrying that much cash around—especially if old Joe were to wake up angry.

  The momentary sensation caused by the gunplay was quickly forgotten in the room as they went back to the serious business of throwing their money away. I went to the bar—I fully intended to leave the tables alone, having surmised that I'd ridden my luck more than enough for one night. I'd just knocked back a shot of redeye when I looked up into the long mirror behind the bar.

  My green-eyed lady stood behind me, smiling.

  I turned—there was no one there—but the calm quiet spot was back, and this time it was over the Blackjack table. I went over and played a dozen rounds, winning every one, and went back to deposit another hundred bucks with Jeannie and the safe.

  I saw the green eyes again half an hour later—roulette this time, and another lucky streak. And now folks were beginning to notice, and place their bets down alongside mine. We had a long winning run against the house—I myself was another five hundred up—and that's when the Captain was called.

  "What's all this, Walter—you intending to bet yourself out of a job?"

  Andrews and I went way back—even before this particular boat I'd worked under him as a junior clerk and assistant purser up and down the river. He was a fair man—until it came to his profit. Then nothing got in the way—not even me.

  "Just enjoying my night off, Cap'n," I said.

  He growled.

  "Then go and enjoy it up top. You're done here."

  It wasn't a request, and I did indeed value my job more than the money I'd just stashed away in the safe. I went to the bar, got myself a beer, and went up to watch the moon on the water.

  This was also part of my ritual, just not usually enforced by Captain's order. I loved the river at night—the moonlight spilling across the surface, every ripple different and new, the soft thudding of the paddles and the red sparks, like angry fireflies, that streamed out from the smokestacks in a trail behind us. When I finished the beer and turned away from the view, the green-eyed lady was standing behind me.

  "Duck," she said.

  I blinked, and instead of the lady, I saw only Joe Finney, aiming an iron crowbar at the side of my head. Her warning gave me time to see it coming. I did as she asked and ducked, and Joe was once again sent off balance. The weight of the iron carried him around and away from me—and set him up perfectly so that I could give him a hefty kick in the pants. I sent him sprawling in a heap across the deck.

  Curly Jim—ever watchful for trouble, was on Finney before he could get up, and dragged him off below. I was left alone again. There was no sign of the lady.

  By now I was starting to get more than a little spooked. I did a tour of the whole boat, engine rooms and all. I even checked the passenger cabins—a skeleton key is one of the purser's perks of the job—but there was no sign of the green-eyed lady. Worse than that, I couldn't find anyone else that had even seen her, although John Cribb—the laborer I'd seen attack her earlier—was most evasive. I couldn't spend much time quizzing him though, for he was on stoker duty feeding the boilers, and the heat drove me quickly back on deck for some cool respite.

  Had I imagined her? I could not believe so, and I certainly did not imagine the bundles of cash I had deposited with Jeannie in the safe. But she wasn't on the boat, and all I could do was hope that the rest of the evening was going to be quieter—I'd already had enough excitement to last me a month.

  I made my way down to the dining room at the rear and ordered up some chicken and greens. The simple act of eating did much to calm my nerves, but my wellbeing did not last. I bit down on the last piece of wing, and looked up to see her sitting opposite me, green eyes smiling.

  "Careful you don't choke," she said, just as I felt the chicken bone break and a sliver of jagged bone threaten to go down my gullet. I managed to stop it just in time and put the remains of the wing carefully down on my plate. When I looked up again, there was nobody else at the table.

  That was it for me. I resolved to take myself to my cabin, lock the door, and make some inroads into the bottle of rye I had stashed in the drawer. I didn't make it that far.

  I was climbing the stairs down out of the dining room when we hit something in the river—and we hit it hard. The whole boat shook and lurched, and I heard screaming from the ballroom and a crash as a chandelier fell from the ceiling onto the gaming tables. We listed at a sharp angle, lurched again, and somewhere wood split with a crack like gunfire.

  "Fire!" someone shouted, and then everything was running and chaos. The Captain and Curly Jim were doing their best to get passengers away from the fire and off the back of the boat into the water. A conflagration raged beneath the ballroom, flames eating though the decks as if they were little more than paper.

  I saw three men trying to climb up from below and instinctively went to their aid, dragging the first two up and away just as the fire snapped at their heels. The third took my hand, and I looked int
o Jim Cribb's fear-filled face.

  "It wasn't my fault," he said as I dragged him up on deck. "It was an accident!"

  "I guess this just isn't your lucky night," a soft voice said behind us. I knew who it was before I turned and stared into those perfect green eyes.

  "Keep her away from me," Cribb wailed, and tried to put me between him and the lady. "It's all her fault."

  "Nonsense," she said. "I merely gave luck a push in the right direction—or the wrong one in your case. It was your decision to attack me on the quay, remember? Free will—I can't go against it—I can't push my luck. And neither can you."

  Flames lapped at our back. I felt the heat at the nape of my neck. The boat was going to collapse around us at any moment.

  "You can leave, Walter," she said, the gold in her eyes taking on a red tinge as they reflected the growing flames. "It's your lucky night, after all."

  I shook my head.

  "This man is my responsibility," I said. "He might be a thief and a coward—but I can't let him burn."

  She smiled.

  "What makes you think you have a choice? But if that's the way you want it…"

  The deck bucked beneath us—something below had collapsed under the onslaught of the fire. I almost lost my footing, and when I looked up again the lady was gone.

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "I neither know nor care," Cribb said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  We dove over the starboard railing just as the whole forward deck collapsed and a shower of sparks and debris rose high into the sky. I hit the water hard, floundered and swallowed more river than I would have liked before kicking for the surface.