Life is Short: The Collected Short Fiction of Shawn Inmon

by Shawn Inmon

  “I’m Penelope. Penelope Hathaway, Mr. Kelly,” she said, lifting the lid off the wood-fired stove and rummaging in the ashes with a poker. She fed the fire a bit, first with kindling and then with regular firewood.

  “Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” she asked, opening a door Pete hadn’t noticed before.

  "Of course." A draft of cold air told him that the door led outside. She reappeared a moment later with a covered stock pot.

  “Many of the houses are equipped with electricity, but mine isn’t, so I use a box out back to keep things cold. Since it snows perpetually, that works just fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pete said, “Did you just say it snows perpetually? As in… always?”

  She nodded as she lifted the pot up onto the stove top. "It never stops."

  “But that’s impossible. As cold as it is, these buildings would be buried under snow in just a few days.”

  She had been stirring the pot with a long handled wooden spoon, but paused. “You’re new here, Mr. Kelly, so think back over your day. Is a snowfall that doesn't pile up the most incredible thing that happened to you today?”

  Pete laughed a little bitterly. “No, I guess not. Can you tell me where we are? The mayor seemed a little… evasive about it.”

  “The mayor is evasive about a lot of things. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much more about Christmas Town because I don’t know myself. I’ve been here a very long time, but in many ways, I don’t know more than when I was a new arrival myself.”

  “You say you’ve been here a long time, but how long?”

  She took an earthenware bowl out of a cupboard and set it beside the pan, which was starting to steam. She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me. Did you come here as a child? Have you been here twenty years? Thirty?”

  She sighed. “When I left my other life and arrived here, Harry Truman was still President. This will be my 65th Christmas here, and I was a full-grown woman when I arrived.”

  She was right. The witness's testimony is not credible.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, and my mom raised me to never mention a woman’s age, but that would make you close to a hundred years old, and you look like you can’t be older than…?”

  “We don’t age here. We don’t get sick and we don’t die. It’s paradise.”

  She ladled hot soup into the bowl and set it in front of him. It smelled wonderful, with sausage and potatoes. He spooned a large bite into his mouth and chewed quietly for a few moments, letting her statements contest his known fabric of reality.

  “I don’t believe you,” Pete said softly, trying not to sound accusatory.

  She glanced around, almost like a nervous reflex or superstition. “It’s not so bad here, but it is… limiting. Nothing ever changes.”

  “Mrs. Hathaway, nothing against your town, but I don’t want to be here. I have children. They’ll never know what happened to me. I… I wasn’t a very good father to them. I want to change that, if I get a chance.” Pete’s voice was thick with emotion.

  Penelope turned away and busied herself at the stove, avoiding his eyes.

  “Wait. Is there a way out?”

  She shook her head twice. “It’s late. Please… finish your soup and I’ll show you to your room.”

  There's a reason she avoided the question. Might be that she fears retaliation, or doesn't trust me. Why should she? She just met me. He watched her clean the countertops at the far end of the kitchen. When he was finished, he took his bowl and spoon to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, colder and more distant.

  I pushed her too far, too fast. I should have known better.

  “This way, Mr. Kelly.” Pete followed her along a narrow hallway, past a sitting room with a fireplace, to a set of stairs much like a ladder.

  “Your room is on the right. I’ll put a washbasin in the bathroom for your convenience in the morning. Breakfast is served at six o’clock. Goodnight, Mr. Kelly.” She turned and left him in the hallway, ending the conversation.

  Pete climbed up to the second floor. When he stood up in the hall separating the two upstairs bedrooms, his head almost touched the ceiling, forcing him to stoop a bit. A great and terrible sound blared through the door she had indicated. Sounds like a sawmill. I didn't see one outside. If there is, swing shift is working hard.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches. The noise seemed to double. Mr. Jenkins' snoring was felt as much as heard, like the bass notes at a heavy metal concert. The window allowed in enough dim light for Pete to discern two twin beds, a small night stand, and a four drawer dresser. Pete removed his shoes and wool coat, not bothering to disrobe further, and slipped under the comforter.

  Dear God. I know you don't hear from me much. Please...can I go to sleep and wake up in the real world?

  Just as first light was coming in through the frosted window pane, he heard Mrs. Hathaway downstairs, moving around the kitchen and preparing for the day. As he swung his legs off the bed and began putting on his shoes, he realized with a start that something was missing. It was the snoring. Across the room, Mr. Jenkins looked at him cheerfully.

  “Hello, young fella,” Mr. Jenkins said. Waking up to find a stranger sharing your bedroom didn’t seem to alarm him. “I hope ma snorin’ didn’t keep you up.”

  Pete wanted to say something sarcastic, thought better, shook his head and finished getting his shoes on.

  “Mrs. Hathaway claims I snore a bit, but she’s got no proof. Ma mouth does feel a bit dry, this morning, though. I best see if she’s got the coffee pot on.”

  Mr. Jenkins looked somewhere in his sixties, with a barrel chest and a mostly bald head with white tufts of hair around the fringe. His movements were those of a much younger man.

  Pete followed him to the stairs/ladder, which Mr. Jenkins descended like a typical staircase, going forward. At the bottom, the old man turned to wink up at Pete. “Fifty years of paintin’ houses, young man. Lived on ladders.” He turned and hurried on to the kitchen.

  In case Mr. Jenkins was the heckling type, Pete let him get out of sight before starting his slow, careful descent. He arrived in the kitchen to see Mrs. Hathaway bustling about, with Mr. Jenkins sitting at the table clutching a steaming mug of coffee. “Good morning,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “I’ll pour you some coffee. Cream and sugar are on the table, and breakfast will be ready in just a moment.”

  “Morning,” Pete mumbled and took a seat next to Mr. Jenkins. The old man was staring into his mug, whistling tunelessly.

  “Mrs. Hathaway? I feel completely lost,” Pete asked.

  “Oh, we never lack for direction in Christmas Town. Someone will be around for you shortly, to take you to the Mayor’s office. They’ll have a job of some sort for you. Everyone works here, one way or the other. What experience do you have?”

  “I’m an attorney. I specialize in contract law.”

  “Well. I’m sure they’ll be able to find something useful for you to do.” She laid a plate full of sausage links, scrambled eggs and a thick hunk of brown bread with butter and jam in front of him.

  I’d need to run five miles to work off all that.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hathaway. It looks wonderful.”

  “Please, call me Penelope.”

  He nodded politely. “Penelope.”

  He dug into the breakfast with abandon, making the imposing heap vanish with surprising ease. I can't remember the last time I started the day off with a meal like that. As he forked the last of the eggs into his mouth, there was a loud rap at the front door.

  “That,” Penelope said, “will be for you.”

  Pete grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and opened the door. There stood a man four or five inches taller than Pete and several ax handles broader across the chest. His face was mostly covered by huge mutton chop sideburns, a moustache and beard, but the ruddy wind burn on his upper cheeks implied plenty of time spent outside. He was d
ressed in a solid blue uniform with a black leather belt running shoulder to hip. A gold badge was imprinted with Christmas Town Police Dept. A nightstick dangled at his waist, but Pete couldn’t imagine who would give him trouble enough that he felt the need to use it. He glared at Pete as if addressing a felon.

  “Peter Kelly?” his voice boomed.

  Pete said, “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Sergeant Masters. Let’s go.”

  Pete was glad he already had his coat in hand. Sergeant Masters looked like he could and would have dragged a hesitant quarry off by the scruff of the neck.

  Masters turned and marched up the street toward the center of town. Pete found his long strides challenging to keep pace with. At one point, when Pete fell behind, Masters turned and cocked one Muppet-bushy eyebrow at him. Pete hurried, and within minutes they reached the town square. The sign in the bell tower now read '25 Days Until Christmas.' They strode into the town hall and straight to the Mayor’s office.

  Sergeant Masters knocked on the door, waited for a “Come in,” and then pushed it gently open.

  “Mayor Fowler, ma’am, I’ve brought him like you asked.” Pete looked at the Sergeant in surprise. The boisterous, intimidating man's size and voice seemed to shrink by half in the mayoral presence.

  “Thank you, John, that will be all,” Mayor Fowler said. “Good morning, Mr. Kelly, I trust you found everything in order at Mrs. Hathaway’s?” She did not wait for a response. “I am exceptionally busy today, so our time is short. I have arranged an office for you in the Newell building, not far from here. Here,” she said, scribbling quickly on a notepad, “is the address. You’ll find everything you need there, I believe. I don’t have a secretary to assign you, but I doubt you’ll be so busy as to need one, at least at first. Word will get around, though, and clients will find you. Now, if you don’t have any questions…” She stood and waved vaguely toward the door. Pete didn’t budge.

  “Look. I don’t belong here…”

  “But you do,” the mayor interrupted. “The proof is irrefutable. You’re here.”

  “I think I’m here because of a mistake, though. I had made a decision that was stressing me out. I saw this peaceful little village display in the airport, and I made a stupid wish. I’d like to take it back.” He raised his voice: “I wish I was back in the airport!” He closed his eyes, held them shut for five seconds, then opened them again. The mayor dropped her chin and raised her eyebrows, a combination that made her look more formidable than ever.

  “This is nonsense, Mr. Kelly. If you are here, you belong here. That’s all there is to it. In any case, who would ever want to leave a place where it is always Christmas time?”

  Pete could see he was getting nowhere, but he asked one more question anyway. “Just tell me this. Is there a way out of here? A way to get back home?”

  Her eyes flickered briefly. “No," she said. "Once you’re here, you’re here. That’s it. Now please, don’t make me call Sgt. Masters in to escort you to your new office.”

  Pete turned on his heel and left the Mayor’s office without another word.

  She was lying. There is a way home.

  Outside Christmas Town Hall, it was snowing at the same rate it had since he had arrived. Still no increase in accumulated depth. The town square bustled with people. Pete stopped a young boy and asked where the Newell building was located. The kid looked at him like it was a dumb question, but pointed Pete in the right direction.

  The Newell building was solid if not imposing. Two stories, natural wood, with a covered porch that stretched across the front. Orange shutters contrasted with the earth-toned siding. Pete walked up the two steps, stomped the snow off, and examined the doorknob. There was no lock. The only lock he had seen in Christmas Town so far had been on Mayor Fowler's door.

  He opened the door and stepped into a small entryway with four glass-inserted doors, one per corner. The second door from the right read:

  PETER KELLY, ESQ.

  CONTRACTS

  DEEDS

  GENERAL PRACTICE OF LAW

  Pete opened the door to a small office equipped with a desk, blotter, In and Out baskets, a rolling desk chair and two straight-backed chairs for clients. No computer, no lawyer’s bookcase, no telephone. How the heck do I even know what the law is here?

  Pete plopped into the rolling chair and leaned back, testing the give.

  The door swung open. A man dressed in a dark suit and holding a bowler hat said, “Mr. Kelly? I was told you were open now. I am Mr. Duane Reeves. Can you help me with a contract to buy a piece of my neighbor’s property?”

  Pete arose hesitantly and shook his hand. "Peter Kelly, Mr. Reeves. Please have a seat."

  Despite the disorientation of the situation, long-ingrained habits took over and he opened the right-hand desk drawer. It contained blank contracts, neatly filed and labeled. He pulled one out of the file marked “Bargain and Sale Contracts” and went to work.

  By the time darkness had fallen, he had helped six other people with various legal issues. In his previous life, he would have delegated them to a paralegal or assistant. For the first time in a decade, he felt as though he had actually helped people.

  By the time he got to Hathaway House, dinner was being served.

  “Hello, Peter. That seat is for you,” Penelope said, putting a large bowl in front of an empty seat beside Mr. Jenkins. The bowl of soup looked suspiciously like last night's fare. No matter; it was hot and filling, with chunks of potatoes and sausage swimming in a creamy broth.

  When he had finished his soup and bread, Pete carried his bowl and spoon to the cutting board. “So, what do people do in the evenings here?”

  “In a few weeks, we’ll have the Christmas parade, and that night we’ll have the concert in the town square. Everyone seems to enjoy that.”

  “But what about every other night? What does everyone do?”

  “Do?” Penelope said. “We do our chores and maybe sit around the fire a bit. Some people like to read. I crochet. Mr. Jenkins whittles toys for the children. I suppose that’s not a very exciting life to you, is it?”

  “I don’t think that’s a very exciting life for anyone, is it?”

  Pete put on his coat and hat and went outside. It was still snowing. It didn't take long for snow to go from beautiful to tiresome, did it? Pete looked down the road to the right; it was a path yet unexplored, so he decided to see what lay that direction.

  Initially, there were houses mixed with small businesses; a printing press, a quilting store. Soon the buildings grew sparser, and the road declined to a footpath leading into the woods. Pete kept moving, still hoping to find a mundane solution to a situation that had skipped improbability and plunged over the cliff of the seemingly impossible.

  The woods were just as Christmas-perfect as the rest of the town. Snow rested heavily on pine boughs that drooped toward the ground and piled into drifts worthy of a painter’s attention. Pete pushed on.

  After what felt like a mile or more into the woods, the path ended in the front yard of a surprisingly large cabin. Through the windows Pete could see candles and the flame of a fireplace. Leaning casually against the door frame was Sgt. Masters, his bulk filling the opening nicely.

  “Going somewhere, Mr. Kelly?” He spoke quietly, but in a voice that carried across the still night air.

  “Just for a walk, Sergeant. Is there a law against that?”

  “No, no law against it. I just don’t want to see you wasting your time. Why would you want to leave Christmas Town? Do you hate Christmas?”

  “No, of course not,” Pete said. “I have a life to live away from here. I have children, friends. A job…”

  “I advise you to put those things out of your mind now. They’re gone to you. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll start to fit in here. Why don’t you go back to Mrs. Hathaway’s now?“

  Pete wasn’t going to win that argument, so he pushed his anger at being dismissed down inside, tu
rned and walked back to town. By the time he reached Hathaway House, his despair was as dark as the inside of the house. When he walked in, he felt through his boots the deep reverberations of Mr. Jenkins’ snoring. He sighed and climbed the ladder to his room, wondering if he would ever get a decent night’s sleep again.

  On his third night in Christmas Town, Pete set out again after dinner. This time, when the path narrowed into the woods, he made a hard right and broke a trail through the drifting snow, plunging into the darkness.

  I wish I had a damn flashlight.

  That thought faded into irrelevance almost immediately, though, when he walked head on into an impenetrable wall that was as black as the surrounding darkness, bloodying his nose and knocking him to one knee. His hand flew to his injured nose.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  He reached out tentatively toward whatever he had run into and found it immediately: smooth and solid as a prison wall. He ran his hand sideways along the surface for five feet, ten, and it never changed.

  He put his back against the wall, slid down and cried. All the crushing losses of the last few days let loose in a stream of tears and bitter curses. He sat there alone and miserable. Finally, with his butt turning numb from the freezing ground, he stood, brushed himself off and trudged back to Hathaway House.

  Over the next few weeks, life settled into a routine for Pete: an early breakfast, a full day of law practice, then dinner and a long walk before bed. He’d let his goatee expand to a full beard, and found that it kept out some of the cold on his reconnaissance walks around the village. He found no obvious way out. No matter which direction he walked, eventually he came to the wall that rose up into the darkness.

  He had tried to earn Penelope’s trust, hoping to coax some information from her, but that puzzle had thwarted him so far. The week before Christmas, Pete had helped her best friend, Mrs. Benson, settle a dispute with a neighbor that had dragged on for a number of Christmases. That seemed to earn him at least a little more warmth.

  On Christmas Eve, instead of going for another fruitless walk after dinner, Pete chose to sit in the small parlor where Penelope crocheted each night. A fire crackled in the fireplace. The landlady sat in her rocking chair, hands moving steadily, seeming to focus on her work.