Life is Short: The Collected Short Fiction of Shawn Inmon

by Shawn Inmon

  Francesca walked through the door, saw him pull away, walked back inside the lodge and closed the door behind her.

  Author’s Note for Bull Lick Lodge

  The first piece of advice authors get is, “Write what you know.” It’s easy to take that to an extreme, of course. Who really wants to read about a fiftyish real estate agent going about his daily life? Right. That’s what I thought. However, I did apply this old axiom to this story. For a number of years, I worked as a mobile deejay, doing weddings, corporate events, family reunions, etc. For one of my gigs, I had to drive down a road exactly like I describe in this story. The deeper into the woods I got, the more I thought that it would be easy for them to kill me and no one would ever find me. Sometimes it’s a curse being born with a writer’s mind.

  By the way, the setup that I described for the deejay is the exact way I got ready for gigs. I would set my equipment up, and if it was a party, I would do a sound check using Paradise City. If it was a fancier gathering, I always used the Overture from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. Both are equally effective, and I think of Mozart as the Guns and Roses of his day.

  Finally, just in case you think the name “Dave Kool” is too much of a coincidence for a mobile deejay, I want to tell you that I lifted it from my own friend, the real Dave Kool, who is indeed a mobile deejay. It was from him that I first heard the line, “I’ve been Kool all my life.” Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

  Christmas Town

  Pete Kelly, a 38-year-old lawyer from Issaquah, Washington, stepped out of the Yellow Cab and into a wet, windy November blast. The forecast had called for snow, but none had fallen. Instead it was the usual slate-skied, low-40s drizzly mist that never turned to actual rain or snow. This weather is exactly why many former Seattleites now called Phoenix or Palm Springs home.

  I will miss much about my city, but not this.

  He turned up his raincoat collar and waited for the cabbie to give him access to the trunk. The firm had paid to relocate him to Boston, but his stray final belongings did not fit into one bag. He would have to schlep them at least as far as curbside check-in. The driver set the bags on the curb, and Pete handed him a twenty and a ten, saying, “Keep the change.”

  Pete looked much like most professionals and businessmen traveling by air. He wore the uniform of business casual: slacks, sport coat, white shirt open at the collar and black wingtips. He didn't know who was going to pick him up at Logan, but it might be a partner. Showing up in Levis and a Pearl Jam t-shirt would make a dubious impression, and that wasn’t a chance he was willing to take.

  While a struggling first-year associate at Schenk, Moriarty & Lauser, Pete had married his college sweetheart. The first years with Joan had been warm and adventuresome; she was fun, daring and flirty, and they had tried everything from scuba to ballroom dancing. As first Allen then Grace had arrived, though, Pete's focus had shifted to the insane hours and embarrassingly butt-kissing quest for the Holy Grail of full partnership. Joan's life had come to be centered on the children. One evening, she had pointed out that they hadn’t had a real conversation about anything other than bills or schedules in a very long time, and questioned whether they even remembered how to make love any more. Pete had realized that she was right, but had responded by burying his head deeper in the quest for promotion and trusting things to work out.

  Pete had been divorced for twenty-two months now.

  The settlement had been amicable enough. They had agreed to shared custody with Joan as the custodial parent. He saw the children most weekends, but not always, and that was about to become 'almost never.' Now he was at Sea-Tac International Airport on the weekend after Thanksgiving, preparing to live on the opposite coast. If everything worked out, he planned to bring them to Boston for their spring vacation, but his added responsibilities at the firm might push that visit back to summer.

  So long as it was during baseball season. Pete and the kids had always bonded over baseball and their love of the sad-sack hometown Mariners. Hating the Red Sox and Yankees and their bloated payrolls was a joyous Kelly family pastime. Allen had told him, “Dad, if I see a picture of you wearing a stinking Red Sox hat, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Pete had promised his son that he would not visit Fenway until they could all do so together, and root the M's on against the despised, snooty, cash-drenched Sox.

  Pete rolled his bags to curbside check-in, jettisoned them, and headed for the TSA security line. It seemed to stretch to Tukwila, but moved along with the usual undignified efficiency. Gathering his metal items from the tray, he glanced at his watch. Almost ninety minutes before boarding. He wandered into the airport bookstore and browsed the books and magazines for a few minutes, then decided his flight time would be more wisely spent reviewing a complex draft pleading. Best to hit the ground running on Monday. He bought some trail mix and a bottled water, then headed for gate S22. Like half the travelers, he walked while reading e-mail on his phone. Somehow, collisions were rare.

  Halfway down the crowded corridor, the corner of his eye caught something out of place. He looked up from his phone toward an alcove with a strange display. A dim, passing memory recalled a swooping, metallic modern art sculpture in that spot just a few weeks before.

  The display was a diorama: a low, flat, landscape decorated with buildings and lots of red and white. As Pete approached it for a closer look, he saw more detail: a school, town hall, church, and grocery store. Above it hung a gold-lettered red velour sign titling the display: Christmas Town.

  As a boy, Pete had built model hot rods and aircraft. Someone put a lot of thought into this thing, worked really hard. Great fine detail. Proportions are perfect. If this was in a Christmas diorama contest, I'll bet it won a blue ribbon. There were even a few moving parts: several ice skaters gliding endlessly around a pond in the town square, a hot air balloon rising and falling, giving a ride to the same three people over and over. Moving lights created a realistic impression of falling snow.

  With plenty of time before his flight, Pete indulged himself and lingered in front of the model. The decision to take the job in Boston had been the hardest of his life. He had spent all his life in the Puget Sound area. Everyone he cared for was there. His parents still lived in Issaquah and were now in their seventies. They were healthy, but only God knew how long they would be around. Most importantly, moving would forever seal his status as a part-time dad. Joan was already dating someone, and she was too appealing to remain single. There would be a new stepdad one day, who would be spending far more time with Allen and Grace than Pete could. At the same time, this promotion was the fruit of ten years' devoted struggle. Had he declined it, the door would not have reopened. Pete would have settled into middle management purgatory until it was gold-watch-and-cake time.

  Thinking logically, Boston made all kinds of sense. Fresh start. Excellent career move.

  In spite of all that sense, the thought of not seeing Allen and Grace for months at a time made him feel sick. Yesterday's tearful goodbyes came back to him in a wave of melancholy and loss. Damn. I might cry again right here if I don't pull it together.

  Pete looked at Christmas Town. All the little figurines looked so happy, merrily going about their business and radiating holiday good will. Even the horse pulling a cartful of playful kids looked happy to be a captive beast of burden.

  Why wouldn’t they be happy? Life was so simple for them.

  “I wish I was there.”

  Darkness descended upon Pete. He opened his eyes to discover himself in mid-stride. He stumbled, regained his balance, and gaped at his surroundings. He was standing on a cobblestone path along a snow-pillowed stream. A stone bridge just ahead arched over the stream. A couple was walking toward the bridge arm in arm, talking softly. The man wore a strangely cut suit with a top hat, while his companion's dress was tight down to the waist, then flared out broadly and reached to the tops of her black boots. It was snowing, but she carried a closed parasol.

  Pete fe
lt dizzy and put his hand to his head to steady himself.

  Wait. It’s snowing. I’m in Sea-Tac Airport and it’s snowing.

  No. I am not. I am not even in a building. Then where the hell am I? He looked up and saw an overcast sky dropping snowflakes. The crisp air stung his exposed cheeks.

  Okay. I’ll close my eyes and count to three. One. Two. Three.

  He opened his eyes. The couple walking ahead of him was a little farther away.

  All right, then. Possible explanation for moving instantly from an airport to some kind of Dickens festival miles away: I’m crazy. I don’t feel crazy, but how would I know? Or, maybe there was a gas attack by terrorists and I’m really lying beside Christmas Town, unconscious and dreaming, while some horrible poison shuts down my nervous system.

  Hold on. Christmas Town?

  He looked to his right, across the bridge at the skyline of the little town just beyond. It included a church steeple, an official-looking brick building with a clock tower, and a schoolhouse.

  Sure, this makes sense. Either I've shrunk, or the model has enlarged, and I'm now walking around on it. In other words, I am crazy.

  Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation.

  He looked down at his own clothes. His business casual traveling attire had been replaced with a much heavier, baggier wool coat and pants. I can stand here and hope to be rescued, or to wake up. Or I can walk toward town and see if anyone knows what the hell's going on.

  He walked.

  He nearly caught up to the couple ahead of him, hoping to eavesdrop for clues, but he heard just a few stray words. They crossed the bridge and strolled along the path toward town, which eventually widened into a street broad enough for two cars to pass each other—if there had been any cars, which there weren’t.

  As they approached the town, houses came into view on both sides of the road. Light poles casting a glow over the street indicated electricity, but in most windows he saw candles and kerosene lanterns. More people showed up, all dressed like the first couple. Like people auditioning for roles in A Christmas Carol, or some other Victorian drama. The road widened again, leading into a town square surrounded by more substantial buildings.

  A woman’s voice spoke from behind him. “Peter? Peter Kelly? I need a word with you.”

  What the…? The hair on the back of his neck stood up. How could anyone know me here?

  He turned around and saw an older woman, dressed almost entirely in black, hands inside a large fur muff. A mother-of-pearl comb secured her steel-gray hair into a bun. Old but not doddering; Pete recognized bright, intelligent eyes and a straight back. She stepped toward him with purpose.

  “I’m sorry?” Pete said.

  “I need to speak with you. Will you come to my office?”

  “Your...office?” Pete stuttered.

  “Yes, my office,” she said, not unkindly. “I am Minerva Fowler, Mayor of Christmas Town.”

  Pete closed his eyes and waited one beat, then two, hoping to wake up back in SeaTac. Minerva Fowler was still there. Christmas Town. She said that just like I would say “Seattle” or “Bellevue,” as if it weren't just a diorama mounted on plywood.

  “I know you have questions,” Mayor Fowler said. “I’ve done this many times before. Right now, you are either convinced this is a bad dream, from which you expect to awaken, or that perhaps you’ve lost your sanity.”

  Pete nodded and shivered a bit, although he couldn’t have said whether it was from the cold or the unrelenting strangeness of the situation.

  “Well, young man,” she said, touching his arm, “you are not dreaming, and you are not insane. You are simply in Christmas Town. It will all become clear soon enough. Come now, my office is just ahead there, in the Town Hall.”

  She was indicating the brick building he had seen from across the bridge. It stood three stories tall, with a clock tower on top. Beneath the clock, a glowing sign said '26 Days Until Christmas.' He went with her. Within a minute or two, they were ascending the steps. Strangely clear steps, despite the steady snowfall. Inside the building was a broad hallway with offices on both sides. The first door on the left read Christmas Town Clerk. Directly across the hall was a door marked Christmas Town Utilities.

  They passed more offices until they reached a single door at the back of the building that read Christmas Town Mayor. Mayor Fowler took a long skeleton key out of her front pocket, opened the door and gestured Pete in. She flipped a switch beside the door. A light flickered on overhead, accompanied by a dry buzzing sound.

  “We have electrical lights here, Mr. Kelly; we just choose not to use them much of the time. I think everything looks so much prettier when it’s lit by the glow of candles, don’t you?”

  Pete glanced around. There were no pictures of other mayors on the wall, but a large round seal was mounted behind her desk. Its dainty cursive said Christmas Town. In the middle of the seal was a sepia-toned photo of a kind-looking man with a white beard. Pete sat down in a tall wooden chair in front of her desk, folded his hands in his lap and waited.

  The Mayor sat down opposite Pete and sighed. “You’re wondering why you’re here, how you got here, and where, exactly, ‘here’ is, correct, Mr. Kelly? Well, I can’t answer all those questions, but I will do what I can to shed some light. The truth is, none of us know how we got here. We all arrived just like you did, leaving our old lives behind us and finding ourselves unexpectedly here. I was among the first to arrive, many years ago.”

  “A few minutes ago, you called me by my name. How did you know who I was?” Pete asked.

  “I was at home in my cottage, resting from a long day of preparing for the Christmas pageant, when the postman delivered a letter to my house.” She reached in her coat pocket and retrieved an envelope, single piece of antiquated paper. There were four words written on the page: “Peter Kelly,” and, below that, “Hathaway House.”

  “Hathaway House?” Pete asked.

  “That’s where you’ll be staying. Mrs. Hathaway takes in boarders. Eventually, you’ll find your own home, but in the interim, you’ll be staying with her.”

  “Am I in Hell?”

  Mayor Fowler laughed, mirthlessly. “It’s very cold outside, Mr. Kelly. If this were Hell, then many unlikely things would be happening, because we are frozen over. Unfortunately, there’s not much more I can tell you. You’ll have to satisfy yourself with ‘wherever you go, there you are.’ We are all essentially in the same boat, but some of us have been at sea longer than others.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry. I know you have many questions, but I have another meeting I have to attend…”

  “What do you all do here?” Pete blurted.

  “Do? Well, we do whatever we did before. What was your job?”

  “I was an attorney. I was on track to be a partner eventually.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, we don’t have many attorneys here, which should be all the proof you need that this isn’t Hell. There will be plenty of work for you. And now, I really must be off to my meeting. If you’ll walk with me, the Hathaway House is on my way. I’ll drop you off there.”

  A moment later they were back on the street. The snow was still falling softly, but with little sign of fresh accumulation. They walked a few blocks out of the town's center, a direction opposite Pete's entry point. Mayor Fowler stopped in front of one of the larger homes, a wood-sided craftsman two-story home. “That’s the Hathaway House, Mr. Kelly. She might not be expecting you, but she’ll make you welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  Before Pete had a chance to ask anything else, Ms. Minerva Fowler was off, leaving drifts of snow in her wake like a small barge puffing upstream. Pete looked up at the overcast night sky. Snowflakes hit his upturned face and slid off, unmelted. The streets were quiet. I should just bolt for the edge of town, and find a way out of this nuthouse, but I'm tired.

  He looked at Hathaway House. Candles flickered in the kitchen window. White smoke puffed from the chimney. It looks m
uch more inviting than running through the cold, looking for an escape hatch I'm not sure exists.

  He climbed three steps and knocked on the front door. The door opened almost immediately to reveal a woman, pretty, mid-thirties, with blonde hair tucked into a scarf.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you, but the mayor said you might have a room to rent for the night, possibly a little longer.”

  She nodded and opened the door wide enough to allow him into the warmth. Pete stomped snow off his heavy black shoes and went inside.

  “I… I’m embarrassed, but I don’t have any money to pay for a room.”

  “No need to be embarrassed, Mr…?”

  “Kelly. Pete Kelly.”

  “There is no reason to be embarrassed, Mr. Kelly. If the mayor brought you here, then I assume you are a new arrival in Christmas Town?”

  Pete nodded in somber agreement, no matter how ridiculous it sounded for people to say “Christmas Town” with straight faces.

  “Then everything is fine. I have an arrangement with the city to take care of newcomers. Are you hungry? I provide breakfast and dinner every day. It’s well past dinner time, but I have some soup left over.”

  The Grand Slam breakfast he’d had at the Denny’s by the airport seemed far away. His stomach rumbled at the mention of hot food.

  “If it’s not any trouble…”

  “Not at all. Please,” she said, pointing Pete toward a room to the left of the entry hall, “go in and have a seat at the table. I’ll put some water on to boil and make you some tea as well. Then I’ll show you to your room. I’m afraid you’ll be in a double room with Mr. Jenkins. He’s a nice man, but his snoring does get excessive sometimes.”

  The small kitchen opened onto a dining room with a rough wooden table. Pete pulled out a heavy chair and sat down.