The Recluse Storyteller

by Mark W. Sasse

  Cheevers lifted his head and motioned for Margaret to stop. She dipped her head out of her semi-hypnotic state and gazed lazily around the room as if nothing had transpired.

  “I killed a man,” said Cheevers. “Eleven years ago. His name was Quinn. He was my wife’s lover. I went over to his house to talk with him, but we started arguing and things got out of hand. He pulled a handgun on me. I was able to knock it out of his hands, but before I knew it, I had pushed him through a picture window from the second floor and …,” he paused for a moment remembering the raw thrill and horror of what he had done. “He landed on some patio furniture and cracked his head open on the cement. I was paralyzed. Who would believe me that this was an accident? He was my wife’s lover. I panicked. And then I saw his gun lying on the floor, I figured this would be the best way. Just pull the trigger. Just shoot. Just get it over with. Spare everyone the pain and embarrassment. I didn’t want my little girl to visit me in prison. Just shoot!”

  He paused and took in the stares of disbelief that poured in from around the room. Margaret stood behind him, seemingly ready to finish the story if he would not. Janice, Mr. Tomsey, and Reverend Davies sat stone-faced.

  “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t shoot. So I escaped my freedom when the police came. I was convicted on manslaughter and served four years before I was let out on probation. I only saw my little girl one time after I was arrested. I’ve never seen Meagan again. I moved in here about a year after I was released.”

  “But Michael,” Janice questioned Cheevers. “I remember you living here a good dozen years ago when Margaret and her mom moved.”

  “Yes. My wife, daughter, and I lived in the apartment where I now live. They moved out about two years after I went to prison. When the apartment became vacant, I moved back in. It was the only place where my memories of Meagan lived on.”

  “And you’ve never contacted your wife or tried to find your daughter?”

  “No.”

  He turned slightly and looked back over his shoulder at Margaret, afraid to ask her outright where her story came from. Everyone was thinking the same question.

  “But I’m confused,” asked Mr. Tomsey, clearly the most analytical of the bunch. “What happened in the story? Why did they let him walk?”

  “Yeah, Margaret,” added Cheevers. “What did he have that was so precious to him? That kept him alive in such a situation? Why couldn’t they shoot him?”

  “The envelope,” Margaret surprised everyone with a quick answer.

  “The envelope? What envelope?” asked Tomsey.

  “Wait. The envelope from his room? She told me about this before. Red Hat broke into the bank to get a key out of the safety deposit box. The key opened a hidden drawer in his apartment’s closet. I think that’s what she’s talking about. Margaret, what was in the envelope?” asked Cheevers.

  Margaret went to her desk drawer and removed an unopened envelope. It was dated nearly fifteen months ago. Cheevers curiously took it and read the outside. It had no return address, but it was easy to see who it was addressed to.

  “Mrs. Trumble? This letter is addressed to Mrs. Trumble. Why do you have it, and why did you give it to me?”

  Margaret stood firm, not anxious to reveal anything.

  “It’s postmarked Clarenton.”

  “Clarenton? Who lives in Clarenton?”

  “Margaret’s parents used to live out that way, but I don’t know anyone there anymore,” said Janice.

  “Open it!” declared the reverend.

  “I can’t open it. It’s against the law.”

  “I have a feeling you should open it,” prodded Janice, who was beginning to have a lot of questions about Margaret—at least more than usual.

  “But …” sputtered Cheevers.

  “Come on. We’ve been waiting all night. What’s it say?” said Tomsey, who had been quite taken in by the evening’s theatrics.

  Cheevers sighed once and ripped open the envelope. A single sheet of stationary had been wrapped neatly around a portrait of a young lady. Cheevers immediately marveled at the sight. He could never forget that beautiful face, the slightly puffy cheeks, the dark bangs that cascaded down, the deep brown eyes, and the perfect smile that always melted his heart.

  “It’s Meagan. It’s a picture of Meagan,” his voice quivered as he stared at the only crown princess of his dreams. He trembled fiercely and wiped his face with his left hand as the letter fell to the floor.

  Janice reached down and picked it up, handing it back to Cheevers, but he refused to take his eyes off his girl.

  “Can you read it to me? Out loud?”

  Janice reached down to take a pair of reading glasses out of her purse.

  Dear Mrs. Trumble,

  Thank you so much for the nice Easter card. We do enjoy hearing from you. I shall never forget how you helped us after the incident. You were a great support. Meagan and I are doing really well. I’ve included a copy of her senior picture. It’s hard to imagine that she is graduating and now needs to make a decision about college. Time sure does fly. I don’t suppose you see Michael around. If you do, I think it best you don’t mention my letters. If you are ever out our way, please look us up. The address is below.

  Cheevers once again sat in tears. Reverend Davies came over to him and placed a hand of compassion and support on his shoulder while Janice looked strangely at Margaret wondering what other marvels have been percolating in her mind for all these years.

  “Margaret. Where did you get this letter?”

  In a rare show of emotion, she smirked mildly.

  “Mrs. Trumble. Folded in a Full Brands ad.”

  Reverend Davies smiled at the irony.

  “But Margaret, how did you know what was in the envelope?”

  Margaret, a bastion of solemnity and mystery, turned and went into the kitchen.

  “Michael. Perhaps you should use this address?” inquired the reverend. “It might bring some healing.”

  Cheevers stood up as Janice handed it to him.

  “I think my healing process starts across the hall. I have to go talk with Mrs. Trumble.”

  As he walked to the door, he turned back towards Margaret, who religiously took small sips of water out of her cup.

  “Thank you, Margaret.”

  “Red Hat” was the only reply he naturally was going to get.

  “Well, I don’t feel like I need to be here anymore,” said Tomsey as he walked himself towards the door shortly after Cheevers left. “Margaret, all I need to know is if you will be able to keep working for us. Will you?”

  “Email.”

  “All right then. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Good evening, everyone.”

  Only two remained.

  Chapter 20

  Into the Presence

  The two of them—Reverend Davies and Janice—sat amidst a maze of confused looks and agitated hearts, trying to make sense of the recluse storyteller. Reverend Davies couldn’t shake the image of the crumpled up church stationary lying on the other side of the desk, so in the silence of the last two members of the Margaret Fan Club, he walked over and picked them up, curiously trying to remember what he had written. Janice said nothing as Margaret replied in kind. As he glanced through them, he noticed a sheet still sitting on the desk with large highlights marked all over the words which still echoed in Margaret’s mind, ‘It’s not her fault.’

  “Margaret. I suppose a lot of my letters were not much comfort. I’m sorry for that. I am. But I noticed this one here that certainly caught your eye. Your mother said to make sure that you knew one thing, ‘It’s not your fault.’”

  “It’s not her fault,” Margaret repeated.

  “Oh, my poor child,” Janice stated immediately, knowing precisely what the phrase referred to.

  Margaret could feel his presence all around. The light was not for you. She closed her eyes and put her forehead up against the picture window. She wanted to turn around but was afraid he wouldn’t be there. />
  * * *

  “The light came faster, speeding, twirling, overwhelming, all-encompassing, all powerful, omnipotent like the wind of a tornado, whirling pine trees as if cones. The light was not all giving, all-loving, or life illuminating like some have described light to be. For it chased the darkness—it chased the shadows where hope and dreams can live in their self-consuming comfort. For light brings death, like a bolt from the sky that precedes destruction, like the flash of a match which burns apart families, like the fire from a gun which brings death and sadness. Janice stood, brave, tall, ready to sacrifice everything for the light. Ready to say goodbye.”

  * * *

  Janice shook her head and walked over to put her arm around Margaret, giving her a half-body hug.

  “Janice, your twin sister.”

  Janice turned back to Reverend Davies.

  “She was killed at night by a drunk driver just days before her father died,” Janice explained to Reverend Davies. “Her mother named her after me.”

  “I remember that well. I tried to visit Taylor after her death, but he wouldn’t see me. I guess he couldn’t handle losing someone so close to him.”

  Janice grimaced slightly towards the reverend as if she wanted him to be careful what he said. Taylor Pritcher had committed suicide three days after his daughter Janice’s tragic death, and the family had tried its best over the years to hide that fact.

  “He was very depressed. He had been for years—ever since Vietnam.”

  Janice led Margaret back over to the couch where her expressionless face mirrored the empty feeling inside. It was as if she had given everything she had and left nothing for herself. They both clearly saw Margaret’s fragile state, which had quickly deteriorated over the last couple of weeks. Reverend Davies thought that perhaps his version of her father’s life might help.

  “Margaret, let me tell you my story,” started the reverend as he walked over to the picture window and looked down below. He couldn’t help but see the grandfather looking up at him, raging in pain, and crying out for help. But there was nothing he could do. “Your father was in my platoon in ‘Nam. We were old friends dating back to high school. We went through basic training together and stuck with each other right into those humid, mosquito-infested rice fields and jungles of Vietnam. I don’t know why I am telling you this. I feel like you already know it.”

  “I don’t know it,” interjected Janice quickly.

  Reverend Davies shook his head.

  “It was a massacre that changed his life. He stood on the ridge and opened fire on what he thought were VC, but they were innocent women, children, and elderly. Hell incarnated. He stood there clasping his weapon, barrel indented right into his neck like this,” he showed them by boring into his skin with his knuckle. “His eyes were tense and desolate. He wanted to end his life right there. I remember, more than anything else, his finger. His right pointer-finger on the trigger, twitching up and down. I could see the intense desire to quickly end it all, but the finger twitched lightly and couldn’t complete the deal. I calmly approached him, talking, just talking to him, telling him everything was all right, and asking him to put the rifle down. When I got close enough to him, I kicked the rifle and tackled him to the ground. He fought me and cursed and screamed and cried in my arms.”

  The reverend’s captured image from the past let loose its last stronghold as the cars in the street once again became visible. He turned back towards the pair, one enthralled, the other detached.

  “Night was quickly approaching, and I did what any friend would do to shield his buddy from the hellish torrents of war—I covered it up. I planted some VC clothing at the scene. I got Taylor out of there as quickly as possible. By the next morning, the whole hillside of the village was swarming with patrols, documenting evidence of the massacre, so they could use it as propaganda against the communists. The whole incident white-washed. Taylor hated me for it. He wanted to pay the price; he wanted justice; he wanted blood for blood, and it tortured him the rest of his life right up until he—”

  Janice quickly motioned for him not to say the word for Margaret’s sake since she never knew what really happened to her father, and Janice didn’t want to upset her already brittle mind.

  “He shot himself,” Margaret blurted out point-blank, like a naked shot from a pistol in the middle of the night. It startled them. It awakened them. She opened her eyes wide, looked straight at the adjacent wall and started once again narrating.

  “She walked into his room and saw his rifle butt against the ground with the barrel pointing right at his head. He stared into the small dark hole that could bring him relief with one quick flick of his finger. He wanted to make the pain go away. He glanced sideways at his little girl. ‘Margaret, be brave. Be brave.’ The light flared, creating a new darkness. Life would never be the same.”

  Janice put her hands over her mouth in shock. Reverend Davies quickly walked over to Janice, wondering if Margaret meant what he thought she meant.

  “You were there. You saw it.”

  All the stories, all the tortured looks, the hermit reactions, the detachment, the heartache finally made sense. Brought to life by an indelible image—a great crack of fire. It was a price too heavy to pay for just one mind.

  “He couldn’t let it go. Margaret, I’m so sorry. But it isn’t your fault.”

  Janice comforted her the best she could, but there was something still itching inside the reverend’s mind. He remembered the downward spiral that Taylor had been experiencing for years—never allowing anyone outside his family to get close—often accusing the reverend himself for bringing the tormented, fractured dreams upon him.

  “Do you remember the time that Taylor disappeared for about six months?” the reverend asked.

  “Oh, I remember it well. It devastated my sister. That must have been about fifteen years ago,” replied Janice, who thought back to many painful conversations she had with Margaret’s mother.

  “Did you ever find out what he was doing?”

  “No. Not that I was ever aware. He took off without a word many times. It was frightening and difficult for Margaret’s mother.”

  “Well, after hearing Margaret’s story, I made some calls, and it just so happened that he had contacted an old sergeant buddy of ours, who clearly remembered Taylor calling him and talking about visiting Vietnam, and that Taylor was particularly interested in some of the places we used to track though. Our sergeant has a mind like a steel trap. He even created a diorama of every inch he walked through ‘Nam. Taylor went back to visit the site of the massacre. I’m sure of it. So you see, Margaret. Your father was a very tortured soul. Tortured by the haunting images, and he could never get over it. Your sister’s death must have really pushed him over the edge.”

  Margaret stood up at once and walked over to her desk, opened the center drawer, and reached way in the back for a small white envelope. She slipped from it a black and white newspaper clipping with a photograph and handed it to Janice, who gazed at it while Reverend Davies came over to share. It was a wedding photo of a young couple—an Asian male and a white American bride. Reverend Davies zoomed in closer, trying to understand its significance while Janice read the caption:

  On May 25, Quan Long Nguyen of Vietnam married Nicki Anne LeFever of Harper’s Hill in a ceremony performed by Reverend Harold J. Davies at the Falls Town Community Church.

  “I remember this. It was quite a while back, and …” He paused in deep reflection trying to piece it all together. “This man, Quan, said that his friend recommended our church for the wedding and asked if I would perform the ceremony. Margaret, I don’t understand.”

  “He visited me four years after my father’s death,” Margaret spliced together words in a rare lucid moment outside of a story.

  They both cocked their heads in her direction and tilted in a manner signifying an unsettled issue on their hearts.

  “He came to thank me,” said Margaret in a confused tone. “Fath
er had sent him to college.”

  Reverend Davies grabbed the article from Janice’s hand and scanned down through the nuptial descriptions. There it was. It stated:

  Quan Long had come to America four years earlier through a special scholarship fund established to bring healing to the Vietnam War era through granting tuition costs for Vietnamese students whose families had been scarred by the war. Quan lost his entire family, except his father, to a tragic massacre back in 1972.

  “Oh my,” said Janice. “That’s what he did with the money.”

  “What money?” the reverend inquired quickly.

  “Taylor had wiped out their retirement accounts without my sister even knowing it. She found out just days before Janice’s tragic death.” She paused. “She told him they were through and that he couldn’t be trusted anymore. Then Janice died, and he killed himself a few days later. Oh my …”

  She turned quickly towards Margaret who had walked over to the picture window to watch the cars whiz by with such purpose and drive.

  “He was repaying his debt, at any cost,” realized the reverend. “But he never knew the end of the story. Quan must have come and told you the rest of the story. The blessing from the curse.”

  The realization of buried hope sits strangely upon certain people. Some only hear part of the story, for others, whose shoulders are broader or whose paths are less fortunate, have to bear it all. Margaret perhaps would never outlive her stories, which precariously sat upon her chest, weighing her down with such force that she had no other reality but their truth and their light.

  “The light came for me. For me. But she took it. Sweet Janice took it.”

  “Margaret, it’s not your fault.”

  “Papa loved Janice. Janice was good. Janice, no! Janice, no!”

  “Margaret.”

  “Papa, no!” she yelled and then calmed quickly to a whisper. “Be brave. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.”