Life is Short: The Collected Short Fiction of Shawn Inmon

by Shawn Inmon

  Pete walked to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Most seemed related to Christmas, or were collections of short stories that had a Christmas theme. Pete plucked a slim volume, The Other Wise Man by Henry Van Dyke, from the shelf and sat in the den's only other chair.

  Penelope got up and adjusted the kerosene lantern to give him better reading light. For several minutes, the only sounds were pitch pockets popping in the fireplace, the occasional rustle of Pete turning a page and Mr. Jenkins snores, which had become like the roar of the ocean—omnipresent and eventually unheard.

  Sometime later, Pete noted that Penelope's needles had stopped moving. He looked up to find her staring at him, and raised his eyebrows in question, but she neither spoke nor looked away. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to spur her to conversation, but she turned her face silently to the fire.

  Finally, to the fire, she said: “There is a way out, but it is a closing door. Yours is almost closed.”

  It was the moment he’d waited for.

  Pete leaned forward, his book forgotten. “Please, Penelope. Please tell me.”

  “It hasn’t always been like this,” she said. “There was a time that everyone knew the rules when they came. They could stay here for a few days or a few weeks… to rest, to recuperate. Then, if they wanted, they could go home. Most people did, but a few stayed. If you stayed here past your first Christmas, you were here for good. Mayor Fowler was the first to stay. Sergeant Masters was right after her. In the beginning, they still let people come or go as they wished, but by the time I arrived, that had changed.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pete said. “If someone wants to go, how can they stop them?”Penelope smiled, a little bitterly. “There’s only one sure way to leave Christmas Town. There is a lighted Christmas tree in the forest. If you’re standing there at the stroke of midnight on your first Christmas, you’ll go back home. If you’re not...”

  “But I’ve been over almost the entire forest. I’ve certainly never seen a lighted Christmas tree.” Pete snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. That cabin where Masters lives. Every time I go near that place, he’s waiting for me. It must be around there, right?”

  Penelope nodded. “It’s not ‘around there,’ his house is around it. He built his cabin completely around the Christmas tree, so no one can get home.”

  “Did you say ‘the stroke of midnight your first Christmas?’ If you did, that’s less than two hours away! I’ve got to get out there now!”

  “Peter, that’s why I hesitated about whether I should even tell you this. Masters guards his place every night, but on Christmas Eve, he has a whole group of men standing watch. You won’t be able to get within a hundred yards of the tree.”

  A loud rap on the front door sounded once, twice, three times.

  “Oh, no,” Penelope said. “They’re not just guarding the tree any more. They’re doing a gathering.”

  “A what?” Pete said, his voice climbing an octave.

  “A gathering. They’ve talked about it for Christmases now, but I never thought they’d do it. I’m sorry…”

  The front door was thrown open. Sgt. Masters marched in with three more men behind him. None appeared to be armed, but neither was Pete. Masters smiled, an expression far less pleasant than his trademark scowl.

  “Mr. Kelly, you are to come with us.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Wherever I want,” Masters said, and Peter realized hopelessly that he was correct.

  Two of the men took Peter by the arms and half-carried him down the steps of Hathaway House, then down the street toward the town square. Pete looked around and saw half a dozen other people being escorted in the same fashion.

  In a matter of minutes, they were inside a building directly across from City Hall. Masters opened a door that revealed a staircase. At the top of the stairs, another door opened into an area that filled the entire second story, divided into individual jail cells. Aside from a bunk, a sink and a toilet, each cell was completely empty. At the first cell, Masters fished a long skeleton key out of his pocket and opened the door, shoving Pete inside.

  “You won’t be here long. Just until the morning. I’ll be around to let you out then and officially welcome you to Christmas Town as one of our newest citizens. You’ll thank me for this eventually, if not just yet.”

  Masters shut the cell door. As he turned the key, Pete felt his last hope of escape slip through his fingers. He watched and listened as the sergeant locked other prisoners into their cells. They all went quietly, asking only “Why am I being locked up?” or protesting “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  A window at the back of Pete’s cell looked directly across at the clock tower, which indicated 11:45. The glowing red sign still read '1 Day Until Christmas!' In fifteen more minutes he would be stuck there forever, never to see his children, family or friends again. He knew he should be focusing on a way out, but as he sat on his bunk and closed his eyes, all he could see was Allen and Grace’s faces.

  What an idiot I've been.

  Why did I ever think anything was more important than they were?

  His frustration built to a boiling point, then dissipated into sorrow as he watched the final seconds of Christmas Eve tick away.

  At midnight, the clock face opened to reveal the giant face of Santa. Pete heard a roar from a crowd that had gathered. They began to sing Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

  Pete slumped back against his bunk and held his head in his hands.

  Sgt. Masters unlocked the cells one by one the next morning, apologizing to all the detainees. It had been necessary for their own safety, he said. Pete pushed past him, bolted down the stairs and emerged into the fresh air. All the businesses on the town square were closed, but people were still milling about, wishing each other a merry Christmas.

  He felt numb, exhausted and anti-social, but he knew it was time to start making the best of Christmas Town. He would need to find permanent lodging. He would need to adapt his office to his needs.

  As he walked up the steps and into Hathaway House, Pete had begun to form plans. Whether it was what he wanted was beside the point.

  Penelope was waiting for him just inside the front door, eyes brimming.

  “Oh, Mr. Kelly, I’m so sorry.” She blotted her eyes with her apron. “I didn’t know they were coming last night or I would have warned you sooner…”

  “Penelope,” he said. “It’s nothing to worry about now. It’s past. You did what you could. I appreciate what you tried to do for me.” He wanted to embrace and comfort her, but it felt like too much. The most he could manage was a hand upon her shoulder.

  “Peter, it’s not too late. I know that they believe it is, but there are stories about people who have disappeared from Christmas Town, and I believe them. The longer you’re here, the more stuck you are, but you haven’t been here long at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come with me, into the sitting room, please. I want to try something. You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Not a wink.”

  “Good,” she said. “That will help. Here, sit down in this chair. Let me find what I need…” She left the room for a moment. When she reappeared, she was carrying an angel carousel chime. It was about a foot tall, with a round base that held four candles. Three golden angels, each playing a horn, were balanced delicately on a rotating perch. At the very top, a larger cherub also balanced. As she carried the decoration, two small bells chimed as the angels moved. She sat the carousel down on the table in front of Peter.

  He looked at her, waiting.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” Penelope said. She rose and pulled heavy curtains across the windows, making it nearly dark in the room. “I want you to let go of everything, all your worry, your regrets, your problems, just do your best to let them all go. Then, when your mind is empty, think of the brightest light in your life. Whatever it is in your other life that you want to get back to, fo
cus intently on that thing. I’m going to light these candles, which will make the angels turn. As they turn, they will ring the chimes. Let the chimes enter your heart and mind and become part of you. If you’ll let go and let the chimes work, I believe they will carry you away.”

  Pete’s mouth twitched in skepticism, but the idea of escape was no more incredible than the sheer existence of Christmas Town. He shrugged and gave a half-hearted smile to Penelope.

  “Okay.”

  Penelope reached out and touched his hand gently. “I hope you make it, Peter.” She turned her face away from him, reached into her apron and brought out a small box of wooden matches. She struck one, which flared up to fill the air with a burning-sulfur acridity. She lit the four candles with careful haste and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Pete tried to do as she asked—to clear his mind of all his worries and fears, but they were sticky and held onto the corners of his mind. He shook his head and focused on the little golden angels, which were starting to spin as the heat rose from the candles. As they traced the arc of their circular journey, each one brushed against the bells:

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  Rhythmic and steady, like a tinkling metronome.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  The sound started to become a part of him.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  Everything else began to fade. All the mistakes, the awful decisions, the selfishness of so many of the paths he had taken, everything faded.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  The flame from the candles, the turning angels, the steady striking of the tiny bells, became his entire world.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  Darkness came.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  He was floating.

  *ding* *ding* *ding*

  *beep* *beep* *beep*

  Pete came to with a lurch, feeling like an elevator had stopped suddenly between floors.

  *beep* *beep* *beep*

  He gaped. He was standing in Sea-Tac Airport. People were hustling around him. A skycap's electric cart was moving past him, beeping. He looked down and saw Christmas Town spread out in front of him. He saw the town square with dozens of figurines happily celebrating a village Christmas. He traced a route along the road with his finger until he came to a nondescript building: Hathaway House. Standing in front of the house was a tiny figure in a dark dress and an apron, her arm frozen in a wave of goodbye.

  Four Months Later

  Pete Kelly sat in his small office in Pioneer Square. It wasn’t much—a smallish room with a desk, bookshelves and a small table in the corner, where Allen and Grace sat, absorbed in their own work. Allen was frowning in concentration as he pushed papers around the table and stapled them into various piles. Grace was busy coloring in her SpongeBob Squarepants activity book.

  Pete closed the file in front of him, glanced at the clock on the wall and said, “Whadya think kiddos? Time to head to the game?”

  “Yes!” they cried in unison, abandoning their projects and grabbing their Mariner caps.

  “Can we get peanuts?” Allen asked.

  “And cotton candy?” Grace contributed.

  “We’ll see. If I take you guys home just coming down off a sugar rush, your mom will kill me. Grab your coats. I know it looks warm out, but it might be cold inside the stadium.”

  The office space in Pioneer Square had been a little more expensive than he'd hoped, but he loved going to work there every day. On game days, it was only a ten-minute walk to Safeco Field.

  “C’mon, the hated Red Sox await!”

  He turned the lights off and closed the door. Its window lettering remained mute behind him:

  PETER KELLY, ESQ.

  CONTRACTS

  DEEDS

  GENERAL PRACTICE OF LAW

  Author’s Note for Christmas Town

  In December of 2013, my wife Dawn and I spent the weekend in Seattle, doing all the Christmas things we love to do. We rode the Monorail, took in Trans-Siberian Orchestra in concert and walked around the city looking in all the shop windows. One of our stops was at what used to be called The Center House, at Seattle Center, which was part of the World’s Fair celebration in 1962.

  Inside the Center House, we saw a massive Christmas village, much as I describe it in this story, right down to the ice skaters and the balloon rides. You never know when inspiration will strike, but for me, it was as I peered at all the little frozen figurines. I couldn’t help but think, “What would it be like to live in a little village like that?” Being me, I couldn’t help but add, “And what if it was kind of creepy?”

  The Short Goodbye

  The pneumatic door slid open with a quiet whoosh. The couple walked in slowly, then stopped on the rubber mat just inside the door to get their bearings. He was tall and stately, wearing a brown herringbone overcoat, purchased when Jimmy Carter was President. A Homberg hat covered his thinning silver hair. She was short and thin, leaning on his crooked arm for support. The rouge on her cheeks served to highlight how pale her complexion was.

  He stood stock still, looking straight ahead. She cast her eyes left, right, then spotted what she was looking for—a wide desk with a sign above it that read, “Admissions.” She tugged his arm slightly and he moved forward.

  The heavy-set woman behind the desk stared at her computer screen. “Can I help you?” She did not look up.

  The older woman cleared her throat. “I’m Mrs. Simpson, Ada Simpson. I am not feeling well today. I think it would be best if I saw a doctor.”

  The receptionist glanced at her—a split second triage—then pushed a clipboard toward them. Fill this out, then bring it back to me. The wait’s not too bad today. We should be able to get to you before lunch.”

  Mrs. Simpson glanced at the clock above the desk. 9:15. She smiled at the side of the receptionist’s face and motioned her husband toward two empty chairs toward the back.

  He sat down and stared in the direction of the television that was playing The Weather Channel. A graphic showed white snowflakes falling against a light blue background. She placed the clipboard on her lap and began to fill out the requested information. Her handwriting sprawled like a spider had dipped its behind in ink and crawled across the page.

  She labored for fifteen minutes, referring to her wallet several times to retrieve information she couldn’t remember. She had almost finished filling in the blanks when she quietly said, “Oh,” and fell forward. She made no effort to catch herself. Her head clipped the steel bar on the back of the chair in front of her and she crumpled to the floor. A small dot of blood formed beneath her.

  A woman two seats over screamed in surprise. People who had been sitting mired in their own misery moments before, scrambled away. The heavy woman behind the desk pushed a button on a microphone and said, “Gurney to ER Waiting Room. Stat.” Mr. Simpson continued to stare toward the television. The woman who had screamed knelt beside Mrs. Simpson, but did not touch her.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?”

  A moment later, a man and woman dressed in scrubs, pushing a gurney, banged through the double doors that led into the ER waiting room. The woman in green scrubs knelt, glanced at the head wound, then put her fingers lightly against Mrs. Simpson’s wrist. She nodded at the man, said, “Let’s get her up.”

  They lowered the gurney, then picked Mrs. Simpson up and arranged her on it. The female nurse looked at Mr. Simpson. “Are you her husband?”

  Mr. Simpson did not answer.

  The woman shrugged, raised the gurney, and pushed Mrs. Simpson back through the double doors and into one of the curtained areas off the main hallway.

  Mrs. Simpson’s eyes fluttered, but did not open. The nurse, whose nametag read, “Tilly,” wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Mrs. Simpson’s arm, inflated, then deflated it, jotted a number down onto an otherwise blank chart. She placed a thermometer strip across her forehead, then wrote that reading down. She hooked the chart on the end of
the bed and saw watery blue eyes staring back at her.

  “Did I fall?”

  “Yes. You banged your head. We’re moving you for some tests.”

  “Tests? I’m just feeling a little low this morning. I’m sure it’s just a virus. I just want the doctor to write me a prescription for an antibiotic.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Albert?”

  “Is that your husband in the waiting room?” She prodded the area around the wound, which had raised into a robin’s egg on her forehead.

  “Yes.”

  “I asked him if he was your husband, but he didn’t answer me.”

  “Neither of us is having a very good day. Can you bring him in to me?”

  “Yes, but first, I’ve got to draw some blood.”

  “Why do you need my blood? I’ve just got a virus or the flu. I feel achy and my stomach is upset.”

  “Have you thrown up?”

  “No, I just feel nauseous.”

  “Are you feeling a tightness in your chest?”

  A flicker of fear in Mrs. Simpson’s eyes. She shook her head. “No. I woke up early this morning with a stiff neck, but I’m sure I just slept wrong. Even sleeping in your own bed is dangerous when you’re eighty-six years old.”

  Tilly made another note on the chart, said, “I’ll go and get your husband and bring him in, but I’ll be moving you soon. What is his name again?”

  “Simpson. Albert Simpson.”

  Tilly closed the curtains, giving Mrs. Simpson as much privacy as was possible in the hustle and bustle of the ER triage rooms.

  Four minutes later, she returned, leading Mr. Simpson by the elbow. He smiled when he saw his wife. “The television says it’s going to snow today.”

  Tilly noticed the blankness of his expression, led him to the plastic chair beside the bed.

  “Snow would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he asked.