Shadow Tales

by Shirley Damsgaard

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror, looking every bit the happy bride. “Time to put unhappy thoughts away and celebrate,” she thought, smiling at herself.

  A knock on the door had her turning from the mirror.

  “Emma,” her father’s voice said from the other side of the door. “Are you ready?”

  Picking up her bouquet, she took a quick sniff. “Yes.”

  She opened the door, and taking her father’s arm, walked with him down the stairs, through the house, and onto the patio. Pausing, she saw the smiling faces of their guests watching her, ready to share in their happiness. But best of all, she saw Nick, handsome in his tux, waiting for her at the end of the petal strewn aisle. So lucky, just like Aunt Tildy had been. She believed with her whole heart that their love, hers and Nick’s, would last beyond the grave, too.

  With a smile and a nod to her father, she walked down the aisle toward the man with whom she’d share her life. When she reached the front row she stopped, and bending down, placed a kiss on Aunt Tildy’s cheek.

  “I’ll love you forever,” Emma whispered, and she knew it was true.

  A Time of Promise

  (This story is dedicated to John McConkey)

  From where he sat by the fire, he could see the snow falling softly and silently in the winter night. It was Christmas Eve, and he was alone. The fire danced as it sent out its heat into the cold room, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was the mind-numbing loneliness. It hadn’t always been this way.

  In the past, the house had been filled with the sights and smells of Christmas. Fresh evergreen, roasting turkey, twinkling lights, brightly colored packages, and happiness; but not this year. There was nothing. No tree, no lights, only Mary’s dying plants.

  It had been Mary who hung the evergreen, cooked the turkey, and wrapped the packages. It had been Mary who made the holidays happy. Had he ever thanked her? He couldn’t remember, and now it was too late. She was gone, taken too early by a silent disease. He was left alone with his anger, grief, and regrets. How could he enjoy Christmas now?

  This wasn’t the way their life was supposed to be. What had she said to him the day he retired? “The best is yet to be.” Well, she lied. This wasn’t the best. The best was when their daughter was young and the house was filled with laughter, not the silence that haunted him now. He never knew silence could be so loud. His ears rang from it.

  His daughter had wanted him to spend Christmas with her and her family, but the effort of boarding a plane and flying to a different city was too much for him. And so he sat in the empty room, staring at a fire that gave no warmth, wallowing in his misery, and drinking gin and tonic.

  The crash from the kitchen startled him, making him spill his drink. The next sound had him on his feet.

  “Whoopee, come a six and an ace. The wind blew and the muck flew, and I couldn’t see for a minute or two. Where’s the gin?” A female voice called.

  The glass flew from his hand as he rushed from the room. He stopped short in the doorway. In his kitchen, going through his cupboards, was a woman. She was petite and blond. Her short hair was waved with a spit curl on each side of her face. Around her head, she wore a sequined headband that glittered in the kitchen light. The bright red dress fell loosely from thin straps to just below her knees. Her short, fringed skirt swayed around her legs as she moved. A long strand of fake pearls hung from her neck.

  “What in the hell is going on, and who are you?”

  She turned and looked at him, her bow shaped mouth in a pout.

  “Oh don’t get your drawers in a twist, Ed. I’m here to help you. My name is Dorothy, but my friends call me Dotty. I guess you could say we’re friends, since I’ve been assigned to be your guardian angel.”

  She turned back and began to rummage through the cupboards again.

  “Horsefeathers, don’t you have any gin or hooch? I sure could use a drink. Ah, here it is,” she said as she grabbed the gin bottle.

  “Get out of here, or I’m calling the police.”

  Ed rushed to the telephone.

  “You’re in a real snit, aren’t you, Ed? Listen, I didn’t ask for this assignment, but I have to do it. So whaddya say you and me sit down, have a nice drink, you tell me your problems, and then I’ll fix ‘em for you?”

  Dotty took the bottle and a glass and sat down at the kitchen table. Ed stood with his hand hovering over the telephone.

  “You really expect me to believe you’re an angel?”

  “Yeah I know, hard to imagine isn’t it? I suppose you’d be wantin’ some proof,” Dotty said after she knocked back her gin in one gulp and poured another. “Your name is Edward Petersen, you’re 60 years old, retired. Your wife was named Mary, and she died six months ago. You loved Mary very much, and you aren’t handling her death very well. Every night for the past six months, instead of remembering Mary and the good times, you’ve been crawlin’ into the bottom of a gin bottle,” she leaned back. “How’s that, Eddy boy, pretty good, huh? Nobody else knows about your drinking.”

  Ed eyed her cautiously. She looked harmless, but she was obviously crazy. Maybe if he did as she asked, she’d leave. He took a glass out of the cupboard and joined Dotty at the table.

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No? Well, how about this? I also know you’re plannin’ ways to bump yourself off. By the way, the idea involvin’ the gun is not good, Eddy, it leaves a real mess.”

  Ed stared at his glass. She was right. He’d been contemplating suicide—at night when the gin didn’t ease the pain and all he saw were empty years stretching before him.

  “Look, Ed, I’ve been trying to get through to you in subtle ways—a whisper in your ear, a phone call from a friend—but you aren’t pickin’ up. Now I’ve gotta use a more direct approach,” she said, sipping her gin.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Well, it is. Here’s the deal, see. Life goes on, you gotta move ahead. Your wife’s in a better place. There, feel better?”

  Satisfied, Dotty stood up and took one last drink of her gin. “I’m outta here.”

  “Wait a minute, you call that helping? Quoting platitudes and clichés? You’re not a very good guardian angel, are you?” Ed snorted.

  “All right already, no need to get personal, Eddy.” Dotty sat back down, filling her glass with more gin. “Actually, I’m an angel-in-training.”

  “Great, my life is down the toilet, and I get an angel-in-training?” Ed said as he buried his face in his hands.

  “See, Ed, that’s your problem, you think your life is in the toilet. It isn’t. You have a lot going for you, a daughter who loves you and friends who care. You need to think about what you have, not about what you’ve lost.”

  “Forget about Mary?”

  “’Course not. You should never forget about Mary. From what I hear, she was a nice lady and deserves to be missed. But miss her in a good way, not the bad way you’ve been doin’ here,” Dotty reached across the table to pat his hand, but Ed jerked it back.

  “What do you know about missing someone? Were you ever married?” Ed tilted his glass back, letting the gin pour down his tight throat.

  “No, Eddy. I wasn’t married. I never had the chance. I may not know about missin’ somebody, but I know about missin’ just the same.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  Dotty shook her head and smiled. “Life, Eddy, life. Let me tell you, I had me some good times—speakeasies, joints, bath-tub gin, dancing the Charleston, partying all night. The world was my oyster,” Dotty said then frowned, “but it ended too soon.”

  “What happened?”

  “It gives me the heebie-jeebies talking about it, but I suppose if it’ll help you...it was Christmas Eve, 1925. Me and my fella, Benny, we were havin’ a great time at the club. Benny was a real sheik, you know, good-lookin’. Anyway, this dame starts making eyes at him and showin’ off her gams, fluttering her lashes, that kind of
thing. I told her to scram, and when she didn’t, we got in a fight. Benny stepped in.” She gave her head a slight shake, sending sparks of light from her glittered headband across the room. “Then I got mad at him for interferin’. I shouldn’t’ave done it, but I was so upset I couldn’t see straight. I took off in his car. Wrapped it right around a tree, not a block from the club. That was it. No more Benny, no more fun, and no more me.”

  A tear rolled down Dotty’s cheek.

  “I’m sorry for you, Dotty.”

  This time Ed patted her hand.

  Dotty looked at him, her eyes wet with tears, “You see, Ed, it doesn’t have to be that way for you. You still got time, time I never got, to enjoy life.”

  “I don’t know if I want anymore time, Dotty.”

  “Listen, Christmas is a special time of year, always has been. It’s a time of promise. A promise that there’s a new beginnin’ just waitin’ ‘round the corner.”

  “But I don’t see any new beginnings, only endings.”

  “Aw, you’re all wet,” she said with a wave of her hand. “In every endin’, there’s a beginnin’. Maybe not the one you want, but still some kinda beginnin’. You could see it if you looked. Why, look at me. Who’d a thought a dumb Dora like me would wind up an angel? Now there’s a beginnin’ for ya, Eddy boy.”

  “You’re an angel-in-training, remember,” Ed smiled.

  “Yeah, but I’m workin’ on it.” Dotty smiled back. “You could work at it, too. Believe in the promise and find a new beginnin’ for yourself.”

  “I don’t know,” Ed shook his head.

  “Will you think about it?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m awful sleepy now, Dotty,” Ed said as he laid his head on the table.

  “Oh, and Ed, one more thing before I go. Next time when you hear a whisper in your ear, listen. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure thing, Dotty,” Ed’s eyes drifted shut.

  *

  From where he lay on the couch, he could see the sun rising above the horizon. His head felt like a brick, and his neck was cramped from another night on the sofa. On the floor beside him lay an empty bottle of gin. No wonder the sun hurt his eyes. Shielding his eyes, he stumbled from the couch to shut the drapes.

  Outside the window, the new fallen snow glistened in the early morning light. It hung on the dark green pines in thick white clumps. The whole world looked fresh and clean to Ed’s tired eyes. It was a brand new world just waiting to start.

  “A time of promise,” said the whisper in his ear.

  Was that the faint odor of gin he smelled? The memory of the night before crashed through his hazy brain. Nah, couldn’t be. There’s no such thing as angels, even on Christmas. Maybe he just needed to lay off the booze for a while.

  The ringing phone jarred Ed back to reality. He made his way to the phone, past the empty bottle.

  “Hello.”

  “Dad, Merry Christmas.”

  “Julie, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. We sure miss you. I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about coming for a visit?”

  Ed looked around the sad, empty room as he thought of his answer. Thoughts of Dotty crowded into his mind. What was it she said about a promise of a new beginning? Suddenly, his eyes fell on Mary’s Christmas cactus. Yesterday it had been dying, now it was covered with bright coral blossoms.

  “Yes, I’ve changed my mind, Julie. I’ll be on the first flight out. Can’t wait to see you and the kids. Oh and Julie, I love you.”

  The End

  (but then again, maybe not)

  Little Boy Lost

  One more mile, just one more mile was my mantra. The gravel crunched under my feet while I walked down the road. Hot sunshine beat on my back. My arms moved in rhythm with my heart. Sweat ran down my back in tiny rivulets and made my shirt stick. Clouds of tiny gnats swarmed above my head, but I ignored them. Work off the stress, just keep moving. Don’t think about Justin, don’t think about the school, and don’t think about psychologists. Almost past the cemetery, I heard a voice calling me.

  “Hey, Lady. Lady, c'mere.”

  A small boy about Justin’s age hung on the gate of the cemetery, swinging back and forth.

  “Hey,” I yelled, “you shouldn’t be playing on that gate. You'll break it."

  He grinned and shrugged. "So?"

  "And why aren’t you in school?” I said, walking closer.

  His impish grin changed, and crossing his eyes, he stuck out his tongue.

  My anger spurted. That's it. I'd had enough of cheeky little boys recently. I veered off the road and sprinted toward the gate.

  When he saw me coming, he scrambled off the gate and ran. He was getting away. I ran harder. Almost to the gate, I heard his laughter drift through the air as he disappeared among the pine trees and into the cemetery. At the gate, my tired legs gave out. Gasping, unsteady after my short burst of speed, I grabbed it. The only sound left now was my wheezing and the wind whispering in the pines.

  I stood, trying to catch my breath, when I noticed something lying in the grass. An old, worn, and dirty wooden ball. The wood had been rubbed almost clean of its red paint, leaving bare spots. Probably belonged to the boy.

  Picking the ball up, I rolled it around in my hands thinking about the boy. So disrespectful, he really did deserve to lose it. Maybe it would teach him a lesson. Maybe next time, he wouldn't stick his tongue out at strangers. I slipped the ball in my pocket and headed for home.

  When I walked in the door, the light on the answering machine was winking. I shuddered and hit play.

  “Mrs. Reed, this is Mrs. Fairchild, the school principal. We’ve had another problem with Justin. I need you to come into the office as soon as possible.”

  Oh god, what had he done now? Scratching? Hitting? Or stealing again?

  *

  The school’s halls were filled with children, happy children. My son was not one of them. He sat in the office, his eyes downcast.

  “Justin, what happened?”

  “Mom, I didn’t do it, I swear. They don’t like me and they just want to get me in trouble.”

  "That's what you said last time."

  I looked up to see Mrs. Fairchild, towering over us.

  “Would you step into my office, Mrs. Reed. Justin.”

  We followed Mrs. Fairchild and assumed the now familiar positions. She sat behind her desk with Justin and me in chairs facing her. The room was silent except for the ticking of the old schoolhouse clock behind her desk. I waited, dreading what Mrs. Fairchild was about to tell me.

  “Mrs. Reed, I’ll get right to the point. A paperweight belonging to Justin’s teacher disappeared from her desk. It was found in Justin’s locker. Given his past history, his locker was the first place we looked.”

  Her words fell like stones in the quiet room. No one said anything, while the sound of the clock counted off the seconds. Justin sat with his head down and his fingers plucked at his shirt. His hair had fallen across his forehead, but I resisted the urge to brush it back. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  “Justin, why did you take it?” I asked, as the tears began to seep from beneath his downcast lashes. “Justin, I want an explanation.”

  Without warning, Justin's face scrunched in anger. He jumped to his feet and turned toward me. “I already told you, I didn’t do it." His voice drowned out the sound of the clock. "I told you they hate me, and I hate them. I hate this school, I hate Mrs.—”.

  “That’s enough Justin,” Mrs. Fairchild interrupted in a calm insistent voice. “We do not tolerate that kind of behavior in this office.”

  Her words acted like a bucket of cold water. Justin slumped down on his chair and stared at the floor.

  “If you didn’t do it, who did?” Mrs. Fairchild asked.

  “The boy did it.” Justin’s face was a sullen mask.

  “What boy?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “I’m sorry Justin, but that's not good enough. I know
it's been difficult for you, adjusting to a new school, making new friends. However, that's not an excuse for bad behavior. You leave me no choice but to give you an in-school suspension.”

  Justin’s head came up with a jerk. His eyes narrowed and he glared at Mrs. Fairchild. Another tirade was building, but Mrs. Fairchild’s gaze never wavered. Justin's stare dropped to his lap and fingers plucked his shirt again. While I watched Justin, my failure as a mother hung on my shoulders like a mantle. The boy in the cemetery was forgotten.

  *

  “You never believe me,” Justin said, slinging his backpack to kitchen floor with a thump.

  My stomach tightened. Stay calm. Remember what Dr. Martin said. I'm the mother. I'm in charge. Don't play into Justin's anger.

  I sighed. “Come on. What am I supposed to believe? They found it in your locker.” My hands gripped the chair, turning my knuckles white.

  “You’re my mother. You’re supposed to stick up for me. Dad would.”

  The old "Dad-treats-me-better-than-you card." Justin's favorite ploy to manipulate me.

  "Your dad isn’t here, and that isn’t the point. Stealing is wrong, and you have to face the consequences.”

  Justin's face turned red, and the veins in his neck stood out. “How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t do it!” His voice ricocheted off the kitchen walls.

  I winced and tried to keep my voice low against the rising tide of Justin's rage. “Honey, Dr. Martin talked to you about this—”

  “I hate Dr. Martin. I hate you. I wish I were dead.”

  My hand had almost reached his face before I stopped. Oh, god, I'd come close to slapping him. I let my shaking hand fall to my side while Justin stood glaring at me. His face was white, and his thin little body trembled. A scared, lost little boy. Weariness washed over me. How were we going to get through this? How did he ever become so lost?

  "Justin, listen—"

  "Leave me alone." He whirled and ran from the room, his feet pounding up the stairs. A few seconds later the door to his room slammed shut.