Sleep was still with him when he reached for the door, and he did not check who was outside. When he opened the door, he saw a man holding a bright yellow machine. Harry started to recoil from the expected horror, but the most frightening aspect of the man at the door was his suit, which matched the machine in his hand. The face across the threshold from him as full of color and the eyes were alive and focused. Before Harry could stop his impersonation of Lot’s wife after turning around, the man was in his apartment.
“Hello, Mr. Daniels,” the man said with a booming voice that Harry felt was created for radio or PA announcing. “I have a miracle to show you.”
“Pardon me?” Harry waved his hand at the door as he turned toward his guest. He took in the strong frame, quick movements, and red neck of his guest then followed him into the living room, assuming the door was shut.
“Miracles, sir. At least that’s what you’ll believe when you see how clean this little baby can make your carpet, clothes, sheets, and just about everything else that touches your body in some way.” During the speech, the man had managed to attach a nozzle to the end of the little yellow igloo, activated the noisy engine, and produced a wide, white streak on the carpet in the center of the room. “See what I mean. I bet you thought this place was clean.”
Harry looked around the apartment he considered immaculate just a few moments before. With time on his hands, Harry had started to make a game of cleaning. He challenged himself to keep any speck of dirt or grime from living longer than twelve hours. Now, his entire apartment looked like a filthy mess because of on small streak on his floor. Nevertheless, Harry did not like to throw his money around. “I wish you hadn’t done that. Now I’ll have to spend weeks making sure the new dirt on that area matched the color I worked to hard to achieve throughout my home.”
The salesman looked up from his little yellow master and paused for a second before falling to the floor with a belly laugh that reminded Harry of tales of Santa Claus. “Well, sir, that is something I have never heard before. I’ll be telling that one at the next quarterly meeting.” He stood up, dusted himself off, and began separating the cleaner again. “I’m not one to push, sir. I’ll just let you get back to your day. Thanks for the time.”
“Wait.” Harry felt no guilt over his comment. After all, the salesman seemed genuinely amused. He also had no interest in purchasing a little yellow dirt devourer. However, human company was not something he had for years, and he dared not let it walk out the door until he knew what was happening. “Would you like something to drink? It’s awfully hot out there.”
“Well, don’t mind if I do. I’ll take a tall glass of water if you’ve got it.”
“Of course. Just let me check one thing outside and I’ll get that right to you.” Harry opened his still ajar front door and stepped over to knock on his neighbor’s door. He heard the locks inside switching positions and he steadied himself. The door creaked open, and for a moment, Harry was filled with excitement as he wondered if his affliction was gone. His hope was dashed on the wrinkles, sores, and pale skin that characterized the face before him. He closed his eyes and repressed his urge to cry. “Hi, I live next door. I was just wondering if you heard a bunch of dogs last night?”
“No, sorry.”
“Okay, thanks. Just checking.” Harry turned away before the door was closed and hurried his steps back to safety. Inside, a healthy, ruddy-faced man waited for a drink. “Sorry about that. Let me get that water.”
“Thank you, kindly. This is actually a pretty slow day for me, so it’s nice that I found a way to kill a few minutes.” He took the glass from Harry and then took a long draw from the tumbler, emptying more than half the contents. “That is good water. You got one of those filtration systems?”
Harry shook himself out of the trance induced by the lively man’s motions. “Oh, yeah. It’s in the fridge.”
“Wonderful.” He finished the rest of the water and leaned back on the couch. “So, sir, if you don’t need any help cleaning, what do you need to make your life a little easier?”
“Sorry?”
“Well, I know lots of people in the sales game, and one of them may have just the thing you need.”
The image of his neighbor rushed back to Harry and he swallowed hard. “Not unless you know someone that sells blindness.”
The salesman furrowed his brow and sat forward. “You shouldn’t go around saying things like that, sir. You never know who might be listening.” He raised his finger to the sky and shook it as he spoke. “By the way, the name’s Jefferson, Virgil Jefferson.’” He extended his large hand.
Harry took the hand and endured the tight grip and strong motion. “Nice to meet you, Virgil. My name’s Harry.”
“Well, Harry, like I was saying, you should be careful what you ask for. No matter what your lot in life, there’s always a condition that’s worse than yours. I say, take what the good Lord gave you and do the best you can. Wanting another life just leads to broken hearts and wasted lives.”
Harry knew the man could not know what his life entailed, but he still was not ready to be lectured to by someone whose major concern was clean carpets and rugs. “Look, the problems of my life are something you can’t possibly understand. I can’t imagine my lot in life being worse. I comfortable death would be better than the life I lead.” Harry took several deep breaths. “I think you should go.”
Virgil packed up his gear and placed the empty glass on a coaster. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Harry. I stepped over the line.” He stood and made his way to the door. “You obviously have issues I don’t understand, but I stand by my comments.”
“Wonderful, well if you can make what I have to go through go away, I’ll deal with the consequences, otherwise, I think you should be on your way.”
“Very well. Have a nice day, Harry.”
Harry watched the portly man amble down the stairs, taking the closest thing to a flesh and blood friend that Harry had seen in a decade. He watched his enter his light blue boat of a vehicle and pull away from the parking lot and out onto the street.
“Hey. Sorry about earlier, I had just woken up and I was pretty out of it. I hope I wasn’t too rude.”
Harry blinked and started at his neighbor who had come out when he heard the door open again. There was no mistaking the face of the young man who lived next door, but his face was not the same. Small frown lines replaced the wrinkles. A golden, salon tan replaced the pallor. His neighbor, who so recently was the face of death, was now healthy.
“Dude, you okay?”
“Yeah.” Harry shook his head and blinked several times, but the image remained youthful. “Just got a case of the stares.”
“I know how that can be, man. Anyway, I hope I wasn’t too rude or anything.”
“No, not at all.”
“Okay, well, see you later.”
“Sure.” Harry stepped back and shut the door, but the image stayed with him. Two people in the same day. Healthy. One of them looked dead before. Harry knew in his soul that the end of his affliction had finally arrived. He rushed to his closet, grabbed an old pair of shoes that had not been worn in six years, and headed out to the streets.
The air was humid, and Harry sneezed often as the unfiltered air invaded his nose. He followed each sneeze with a giddy laugh.
Cowboy Chic
On a warm Sunday morning, Phil Meager was driving his diesel Dodge adorned with Calvin urinating on the symbols of both the major competitors. He sat tall in the seat, staring down at those relegated to driving sedans. In the seat next to him was a set of Halsey Damask Rose teacups. Phil hated China. He hated floral patterns. He even hated tea. Most of all, he hated that full rose in the middle that represented Jo's favorite pattern.
Jo, a girl named after her father, was Phil's wife for two years. They met when Phil first moved to Dallas after giving up his dream of being a bull rider. Together, they started an interior design company that flourished. Unfortunately, argumen
ts about the elements of style and the acceptable activities of the pool boy drove them apart.
Phil had made it a point to not think about her since their divorce was finalized six years past. During that time he had established his own company and become well known and respected for his sense of western style and stories of rodeo life. Armed with his reputation, and a memorable first impression that radiated from his tight jeans, pointed boots, woven hat, and out of place Hawaiian shirts and pony tail, he became the poster boy of the Cowboy Chic movement in the southwest, and had even appeared on Trading Spaces.
His notoriety allowed him to be selective with his clients. He thought he had found an ideal client when he met Tipsy Callahan. Tipsy, named for her father's condition at the time of conception, seemed perfect. She had lots of money, and little interest in the day to day activities of Phil. The job turned south in a rush, however, when he arrived at the house one morning to see Jo surveying the work in progress.
Everything in him wanted to quit the job, but he fought the urge, as he knew some of the rooms would appear in one of the magazines owned by a friend of Tipsy's father. So, he stayed and fought against the clashing concepts offered by his professionally pumped ex-wife.
That morning, he had lost a large battle. Jo had found the pieces to complete a china set and she felt they had to be part of the decoration. Phil could not imagine the degree of clashing that would arise from rose patterned china on a wagon wheel, but the battle was lost with a soft "ooh" from Tipsy when she saw a picture.
After picking them up, Phil was annoyed and depressed about the dandy passenger in his truck. His depression vanished, though, when he saw a piece he had to have for the bedroom. He swerved to the shoulder and slammed on his breaks just short of a broken wheelbarrow with perfectly grayed wood handles and just the right amount of rust. He leapt from his truck and rubbed his hands over the find.
Seconds later, the wheelbarrow sat in the bed of the truck, and he could see the bedroom coming into a form that he would be proud to show in a magazine and his personal portfolio. Grinning, he stepped into the cab and fastened his seatbelt. His joy quickly turned to elation when he glanced down and saw his sudden stop had sent the china to the floor and turned the dainty cups into shards. Before merging into traffic, he glanced to the sky. "Somebody up there really likes me."
A Different Communion
Father Daniels knelt over the old woman. Her face, so recently distorted and wracked with pain, was now slack and relaxed. He placed his hand on her still warm face and closed her eyes. After crossing himself, he stood and nodded his shared sorrow to the family members who hovered around him. “She will now find her rest with the Lord.”
“Thank you, Father. I’m sorry it was she was, well, difficult.” The man, hunched over from the effects of gravity and a long life, extended his crooked fingers and wrinkled hand.
Father Daniels grasped the man’s hand with both of his. “Many lose their way and cannot see the path back to the Lord. She led a confused life, but the Lord never lost sight of her. He welcomes her now to his bosom with the others who have gone before.” He waited for the hope to return to the tearful eyes and the released his grip.
After navigating the gathering of family and friends, many who thanked him and others who would not meet his eyes, Father Daniels exited the well-maintained Victorian home and made his way down the cobblestone path to his car. As he drove away, thinking about the brief protest of the old woman, he passed a car with a striking driver.
Behind the wheel of the oncoming car, sat a man in dark clothes with a banded collar. If not for the absence of the white tab, Father Daniels would have thought the man to be another priest, though he knew the only other priest in the area was Monsignor Phillips, the old priest at the local parish.
Though curious, Father Daniels had many tasks to attend to that day and he decided against further observation of the intriguing figure. It was a short drive from the tree-lined homes up on the hill to the church offices at the bottom and due to the slope it required more breaking than acceleration. On most days, Father Daniels enjoyed the easy ride back, but the brief objection to the delivery of Last Rites stuck with him.
When he arrived at the church, Monsignor Phillips was waiting for him outside. Despite his advanced age, the Monsignor was at least eighty though he refused to give his real age when queried, he was a tall, strong man who radiated vigor. He appearance made it seem that he could force salvation into any small crack that appeared in the sinner’s refusal.
Seeing the stern priest outside reminded Father Daniels of his arrival in Martburgh just a few months before. Father Daniels had requested a small parish, and the advancing age of the Monsignor, and the supposed approaching retirement, made that the ideal location for Daniels to begin his life away from the scholastic life. The day Father Daniels arrived, Phillips stood outside the church, holding a bucket and a toolbox.
A recent flood had left many area buildings and home is disrepair, and Father Daniels was put to work immediately rebuilding homes. It was very unlike the life he had lived while at seminary and then with further studies, but it was exactly what he needed to become one with the community. Daniels always cherished that early experience, and the gruff Monsignor who brought him into his new life so effectively.
That day, the Monsignor seemed tough, but benevolent, like an old teacher one appreciates only later. However, as Father Daniels exited his car and approached the Monsignor, he saw none of the kindness he recalled.
“Father Daniels, may I ask where you were today?” Phillips’ arms were crossed over his chest and the tall man stared down his nose at Father Daniels who, though six feet tall, was dwarfed by the older priest.
“I was administering Last Rites to Ann Holcomb. Her husband called and asked if I was available.” Daniels stared up at the Monsignor, not frightened but confused at the strange questions and temperament.
“I see. And why didn’t you consult me before making such a trip?”
Father Daniels stood silent for several seconds. “Father, I must admit I am a bit confused by the question. Though she had fallen away, she was a baptized member of the Church and was in periculo mortis. I could not in good conscience ignore the request to absolve a Christian in danger of death.”
“Father Daniels, are you aware that she was guilty of the sin of schism and had been excommunicated?”
Father Daniels shook his head in confusion. “I knew that she had not been at mass, and it was apparent from the gathering that she may have been attending another church, but as I said, she was in danger of death. I assure you, all was done in compliance with Church doctrine. Had she not been in danger of death, I would have had no authority, but no one baptized into the Church need suffer on their death bed with no hope of absolution.”
Phillips took in a deep breath and turned back toward the building. “Come with me, Father. It is time I shared something with you.”
Father Daniels followed the Monsignor into his office, and sat in a comfortable leather chair. He looked across a large desk at the aged priest, and took note of the anger that lied buried behind a face that had hidden darker thoughts for years. A priest could not afford to express some emotions to the parishioners, and the Monsignor had been a priest a long time.
Daniels noticed the anger’s continued presence as the older priest recalled a story about his first assistant more ten years before. “When Ben Howard arrived, he was eager to begin work. He immersed himself in the community and worked hard every day trying to bring people to Christ. He worked harder than any man I have ever known, but he was flawed.”
“Flawed?”
“Yes. From the moment he arrived, there was something strange about him. He was charismatic, but in a way that made me uneasy in his presence. I was disappointed, but not surprised, when he revealed his true colors.”
Monsignor Phillips recalled a visit from Father Howard late one day. Father Howard was certain that a man whose confession he hear
d would commit a heinous act against a young woman. He wanted to warn the woman in danger, but it would violate the sanctity of the confessional. After hours of consultation, they decided that they could warn the woman in general terms to be careful, but that Father Howard could not divulge what was told to him.
Despite their efforts, the woman was raped. Father Daniels had heard other stories of the danger of the confidentiality of the confessional, but he also knew that the confidence of the sinner that his sins would be shared with no one was the only way for confession to work. Sinners needed to confess before God, and the confessor served only to bring them together, not to sit in mortal judgment of the sinner.
Father Daniels knew that he would have difficulty with the situation, just as Father Howard had. Phillips continued his story, and Father Daniels developed even more sympathy for the conflict ridden Father Howard. After the rape, the young woman, barely eighteen, became pregnant. There was little doubt who the father was, though the attacker had not been caught, and due to fear and shame, the woman had not sought out the police after the attack.
The series of events proved too much for Father Howard. He went to Monsignor Phillips and told him that he would be going to the police to inform them of what he knew. Monsignor Phillips cautioned the priest to resist the sinful urge. Violation of the sanctity of the confession was a sin punishable by latae sententiae excommunication. Monsignor Phillips would not be able to absolve him of the automatic penalty, as a sin so grave could only be forgiven by the Holy See.
The Monsignor’s warnings fell on disillusioned, deaf ears and Father Howard informed the police. The man was caught and many in the community felt that Father Howard was a hero. He had stepped out of the bonds of tradition to do what he thought was right. The Monsignor did not feel that way. Father Howard was stripped of his duties and not allowed to participate in mass.
Mayhem: A Collection of Stories Page 7