by Frank Zafiro
Throughout the day, everyone at the store said those same words to Bill and pumped his hand happily. The checkers, boxboys, truck drivers, salesmen—everyone, including myself. And he ate it up, too. He was shining with excitement.
He stayed that way for the next six months. Every day, he’d come in and report on his wife’s progress. Mostly, I heard about it in the breakroom. I’d sit quietly, one of about four or five people in there, and I’d listen to Bill as he told someone about the newest development in the pregnancy. How much did I hear about that child before it was ever even born? Almost everything. First kick, every test result, the names they had picked out. The false alarm. I heard it all.
And I loved it, too. Here was a man who was taking a risk, taking on a huge responsibility and reaping the reward. That was something I was too timid to do. I was always afraid of failure or rejection.
Then the baby was born. Bill was so proud. His son, his first child. He raved all the next day, telling everyone all the little details at least ten times. I still remember them. Seven pounds, six ounces. Twenty-one inches long. And a boy, just like Bill wanted.
The only shadow on that day was the difficulty his wife had in the delivery. There were problems, I never knew exactly what kind, but she pulled through and recovered. The doctors told her that she wouldn’t be able to have any more children, but she and Bill didn’t really mind. They had their son.
It went on from there. Every day, Bill had something new to report about his son. First tooth, first step. Jeni’s arduous efforts to potty-train the child and her eventual success. I heard it all. And Bill told it in such a way, all full and smiling, that it was impossible to every weary of hearing such tales, impossible to do anything but share in his joy.
What did I do during that time? What every manager probably dreams of having his employees do. I worked, and I worked hard. I was always on time, because I didn’t have anything else to do. I always did quality work and I never rolled in tired from partying the night before. I would work Friday and Saturday nights because I never went out. I was pretty much the model employee. My parents didn’t complain, either.
In the midst of all that, though, I hardly ever had any real fun. I guess I didn’t mind much, though. Having fun required taking some chances and I couldn’t take chances. What if I tried and failed?
By the time Bill’s son was three, I’d been promoted to checker. My good work and simple time on the job led to the move and it came with a slight wage increase. Not that money was a large concern of mine. I put most of my money into a savings account, saving it for nothing in particular.
I fell into my new role as a checker easily enough. Meeting people was no problem. I was as much a faceless stranger to most of them as they were to me. The regular customers smiled at me and asked a few perfunctory questions and I gave general, pleasing anwers.
When I graduated high school, I went to work full time. My mother wanted me to go to college and my father said I should go into the military and “live life,” but I went for the secure route. No risks. My father later joked I could’ve had a great future in the insurance business but I probably didn’t have the stomach for it.
All the while, Bill’s son kept growing up as I stayed the same. By the time he turned eight and was slugging doubles for his little league team, I was twenty-three and still ringing up the same items I’d been ringing up since he was three.
Oh yes, I kept tabs on the kid. It was hard not to, Bill was so proud. At eight, his little league team went to the championship game and lost, but he hit a double and triple. In 5th grade, he finished with three As and two Bs. At eleven, his pee-wee hockey team went to the state championship game and won, with Bill’s son scoring one of the two goals. And when he grew up, he was going to be a lawyer. And, and, and…
I had been living on my own since I turned nineteen in a little apartment in the middle of a quiet complex. I drove a little box of a car, but it was reliable and got good gas mileage. I went out in a long while, hadn’t had a date in even a longer while. I lived a quiet life.
In fact, my life was so quiet that the only real excitement I got came from the snatches of stories Bill would tell in the breakroom. His son made the football team. His son found an old car and they were fixing it up together. His son was going to the prom.
About that time, my father died. We had a quiet funeral with family members and a couple of friends and then my mother moved to Philadelphia to live with her sister. I brought flowers to his grave once a month. He had been a good man and he lived an honest, quiet life.
Bill was sixteen years a father and I was still checking groceries. Then my break came. Paul left the store and Bill took his job. They offered me Bill’s old spot as produce manager. I accepted. At thirty-two years old, becoming the produce manager at a local grocery store was the biggest thing to happen to me in the last five years.
While Bill’s son no doubt went out on a date with the girl I’d always been afraid to ask out, I went out by myself, had a beer at Roper’s Bar, ate a few pretzels and watched the Mariners beat the Angels 2-0. Then I went home. Dull. But no risk.
At seventeen, Bill’s son decided to become a lawyer. That overjoyed Bill. And when his son graduated fourth in his high school class of three hundred and got accepted by an Ivy League College, the breakroom buzzed. I sold my box of a car and bought a new one just like it.
College. Oh, I learned more about the college Bill’s son attended than if I had actually visited the place myself. Every day, new stories about his son’s college life rolled in.
Do I sound like I’m complaining? I’m not, really. I listened to every shred of what Bill reported. He had a way of relating events that drew in the listener and invited you to share in his joy. Bill was an includer, and I lived excitement through his son and the chances he took.
Bill’s son graduated fourteenth in his class of six hundred and went on to law school. Becoming a lawyer wasn’t easy, Bill told me. And it wasn’t cheap, either. Even with the scholarships his son had won and the part time jobs he worked, Bill was having a tough time paying for the schooling. I remember that conversation well. It was one of the few face-to-face conversations we ever had completely alone, even though we were about the only two long-timers there at the store.
At age twenty-six, Bill’s son passed the bar exam and went to work for a corporation downtown. That year I got a raise like every other year—small, but sure. I bought another new box. I also began seeing Leeanne, a checker at the store. She was quite a few years younger than me, but we got along well. It was a convenient relationship. And safe. We saw each other every now and then, keeping each other company and meeting each others needs. She was a good friend, too, especially after my mother died. And she never asked for any commitments.
Later that year, Bill’s son married his college sweetheart. Bill smiled and strutted around, mentioning the prospect of grandchildren in a few years. Maybe sooner. I worked the day of the wedding that more people could go.
At age thirty-two, Bill’s son took six year’s worth of savings and struck out on is own, starting up a firm. It seemed like a large risk, but one he was willing to take. I wouldn’t have. But then, he was Bill’s son and he had always taken the risks I was afraid to.
Unfortunately, this risk fell through and the firm folded less than a year into the venture. Bill was never quite sure of the details. But his son was able to get back on at the company where he’d worked before. And he wasn’t giving up, either, not according to Bill. A little more than a year later, he took the same risk again, this time with different partners, and this time the frim took root and prospered.
I thought about that a lot. If Bill’s son could take a risk that huge, fail and yet risk again, why couldn’t I risk just a small thing?
Maybe I could.
I was lonely, and I was alone. Most people can handle being alone, but loneliness just wears you down. So I started to see Leeanne more often, but we still made no commitments. To
o much risk.
And then it happened. It was like any other work-day, until Bill got a call about one. I was standing nearby, cutting lettuce, when he answered the phone. I remember how he stood stock-still, his jovial hello dying on his lips.
“What? Are you sure?” His voice was a hollow whisper, no remnant of his usual bluff and laughter. “Yes. Okay. I’ll…I’ll be there right away.” And he hung up.
“What is it, Bill?”
He told me. For a long time afterwards, his words haunted me. I always thought it painfully ironic that after hearing tales of his son while sitting on the fringes and living my excitement through him, Bill would tell this news directly to me.
“Ralphie,” as he still called me, even though I was almost fifty, “my son is dead.”
It always seems to rain on funeral days and this one was no exception. I stood on the fringes at first, listening to the pries speak, not hearing his words. Then, slowly, I threaded my way up to Leeanne, who was near the front. I looked into her tear-filled eyes and said nothing. When she took my hand, I held on tightly.
They laid Bill’s son into the ground that day and everyone seemed to cry for Bill. He stood next to his son’s sobbing wife, completely still the entire ceremony. The misting rain, as it collected on his face, was unnerving. His eyes were vacant and unbelieving, his hopes and dreams gone, his pride crushed.
“My son is dead,” I heard him mutter over and over. No one could comfort him. “My son is dead.”
Afterwards, I drove Leanne home and then went home myself. All the while, I was thinking, reflecting, wondering. In a very unique way, I’d been closer to Bill’s son than most of the people at the funeral. He had done what I couldn’t.
He had taken the risks and he had reaped the rewards. He had also paid the price. If he’d been driving a box like mine instead of his sports car, would he have been speeding along like he was when he wrecked?
Yes, he paid the price.
The day after the funeral, I got off work at four-thirty, just like every other day. I stood in the soup aisle, picking out something for my dinner and marveling at how much one can of soup cost. The price was five times as much as when I started working at the store. Things had changed that much.
That night, I sat alone in my chair, the mindless jabber of the television in front of me and I looked around at my safe haven. I looked at it very hard.
You’d think that the death of my…well, is hero too strong a word? The more I think about it, the less I think it is. You’d think that his death would validate all my fears and force me even deeper into my life-long shell. But I began to see that the shell I had built as a protective fortress had become my prison instead. I had to break out of it, but that was risky.
I’m fifty-one now, and memories of Bill’s son still ring in my ears, voice like yesterday even though some are over twenty years old.
Hey, did you hear? My son’s team went to the Championship game.
Hey, did you hear? My son graduated fourth in his class.
Hey, did you hear? My son opened his own law firm.
Hey, did you hear? did you hear? you hear? hear…?
My son is dead.
I sold my box and bought myself a Porsche. When people at the store kidded me about it, I just laughed and told them they were lucky. It could have been a motorcycle.
For almost fifteen years, I’d carried over the maximum number of vacation days and I started using them up. Leanne moved into my apartment, which caused the breakroom to buzz with gossip. A man my age, living with a woman twelve years my junior?
I didn’t care, though. It was a risk, but I took it. Leanne and I had fun together.
Most people note my behavior and they call it a mid-life crisis. I call it living. And it was Bill’s son who showed me that I had the courage to do it.
When my car gets a little older, I’ll trade it in on a Mustang. Or a Corvette. And I’m going to break into that large sum of money I’ve been saving for no reason at all since I was sixteen and I’m going to take Leeane to Hawaii next vacation. Maybe we’ll event get married. Who know?
Sound like a risk? You bet. See, I’m taking them now and I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.
Bill’s son is dead.
But I’m alive.
NOTES
Walter’s Night was originally published in the April 2010 edition of Yellow Mama. Cindy Rosmus publishes this “blood and guts” fiction eZine and features some great work there. I was happy to see this story make the cut.
This story was a bit of an homage to “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Only my Walter was considerably more pathetic.
Walking Through is previously unpublished. It was slated to appear in the premiere issue of Lavender Raven, on eZine by Mysterical-E editor, Joe DeMarco. Unfortunately, that magazine never got off the ground, so “Walking Through” stayed unpublished.
Though it isn’t technically a secret, the fact that Matt Westboard is gay doesn’t make a lot of headlines in my River City stories or novels. Mostly, I suppose, because it is just a piece of who he is. Moreover, it has never really been relevant in any of the other stories and I didn’t want to shoehorn his sexuality into a scene somewhere just to get it out there.
Still, I wondered how Matt dealt with this element of his life. Police work is a macho field, and patrol cops (especially nighttime ones) are doubly macho. Much like Katie MacLeod’s early struggles with being a woman in this largely male dominated field, I figured that Matt encountered (or feared) similar issues. That’s probably why he’s kept it quiet. And even in this more enlightened century, I think he’s probably made the right choice.
Prank Call was originally published in the anthology Dreamspell Revenge in 2010. The concept of a how young Anthony ends up in prison and him seeking revenge afterward is one that had been hanging around in my head for some time. The way it developed and eventually played out was a much newer revelation.
The idea of revenge is an age-old one, but always worthy of exploration. My theme in this story, if there is one, is simply how empty a notion revenge really is.
Vancouver Dreams was originally published in the Summer 2005 issue of SN Review and re-published in the Summer 2010 issue of SpokeWrite. This hockey tale explores how close and yet how far our dreams can be.
Stories and Stories is previously unpublished. It is, in a way, a spiritual mate to “Vancouver Dreams” insofar as it explores the same idea. We dream, but life gets in the way of those dreams some time. At least that’s what I was going for with this one. Who knows, though? Maybe there’s a reason it never got published…
Round Trip was originally published in the March 27, 2006 edition of espresso Fiction. Instead of revenge this time, I thought jealousy would be something interesting to look at. Jealousy in a relationship can be exhausting, but I figured that it could also eventually push someone into exactly what he is being accused of. I also went for a little irony, because even though he hadn’t cheated on his jealous wife, he’d lusted.
Party Dress was originally published in the eZine SaucyVox(dot)com in the Jan/Feb 2006 issue. Flashquake ran it again in September 2006. The story was somewhat inspired by a line from a Bruce Springsteen song (“Loose Change”). In the song, as in this story, people get what they need in little pieces that are maybe not even true or real, but a comforting fiction.
Labor in Vain was originally published in the December 2006 issue of Long Story Short. Like so many good eZines out there, this one is now defunct.
In Your Warm and Darkened Grave was originally published in the special preview issue of Crimson Highway in October 2006. It later appeared in the anthology Deadlines, which came out in November 2008. I wrote this story at the height of the Anne Rice-induced vampire craze in the late eighties and early nineties. The idea of a vampire story told from the vantage point of a manservant intrigued me. So did the nature of immortality and how one might crave it while another despises it.
For the Sake of Ar
t was originally published in the anthology Vampire Dreamspell in 2010. I wrote this around the same time as the other vampire stories. Again, I wanted to explore the nature of immortality and how someone who had (at least, at one time) a human mind might cope with the passage of years.
Blood and Bushido is the third and, so far, last vampire story I’ve written. It comes from the same time frame as the other two, but was never published. This one is more of a straightforward action scene. However, some of the same elements appear in this one as the other two, particularly with regard to the nature of relationships between the living and the undead.
A Ride Home is one of the first stories I ever wrote and one of the first that was ever published. It appeared in the October 1991 issue of Starsong, a horror and science fiction magazine that has long passed on. You could call this story horror, I think. You could probably call it a little predictable, too, if the truth be told. But I liked it enough to include here. The way guilt plays out is part of it, but so is the final image at the end of the story.
Forever Love is a poem I wrote for an anthology called My Little Book of the Dead. The short story “No Worse Curse” was also slated for this anthology. The project floundered until I finally pulled the story and this poem. I think the editor may have finally released the anthology, but I couldn’t find it with a Google search recently. I eventually released the “No Worse Curse” as part of the Shae and Laddie section in No Good Deed, so if you’re reading this, you have that story, too. You can see where the two might have some of the same thematic elements. I was going for creepy here, and hopefully got there.
A Soldier’s Valentine is a mock letter I wrote for a Valentine’s Day contest sponsored by Savage Press. It won second place. It also appeared in the Writers Post Journal, another good fiction magazine that is sadly no longer in print.
This is the letter that I referenced in the notes to “Trails of Red” in The Cleaner. The part I didn’t put in there was that I had this phrase of poetry bouncing around in my head for a long while – I want to drink your soul in measured sips – but I didn’t have the rest of the poem. It just wouldn’t come, even though I tried to force it into a variety of different configurations. Eventually, I just used it as a snippet in this mock letter.