Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  They began speaking to him, and, eventually, he began to speak in return. He was invited to attend church socials, to join in a game of cards or come to a village picnic.

  Toward the end of his life, he stopped wearing the scarf and bandage. The villagers took to carrying extra handkerchiefs with them so that they might have one should Edward need it on a day when swallowing was difficult for him.

  He took his medals out of their box and put them in a case and that case was put on display in the village hall.

  He had many friends in the village that grew to love and respect him.

  When Edward passed away quietly in his sleep, the village closed all of its schools and shops for the day so that everyone could attend his funeral. The day was pleasant but slightly overcast and warm.

  Near his grave, there was found an oddly-shaped candleholder with three candles in it. Attached to it was a note that read: Some Burn Too Brightly For Us To Take.

  As it was placed on the lid of Edward’s coffin, the sun emerged from behind the clouds and the day became as bright as anyone in the village had ever seen.

  There were tears, and later there was the business with Edward’s poor dog, but, for generations to come, there was also a tale to pass along to the children; some of it based on fact, some on supposition, some of it on dreams, but it, like its subject, would be remembered, if not forever, then for long enough.

  It began: His name was Edward Something-or-Other and though everyone in the village recognized him on sight no one really knew much about him, except that he was a large and strong young man who was always willing to do odd jobs for reasonable pay, that he never spoke an ill word against anyone....

  A Little Off the Top

  Introduction by Deena Warner

  By now, you’ve read a few stories about Gary and feel like you know him. He makes a mean omelet. He’s a crazy cat person who chips a tooth every time he leaves the house. He’s a generous teacher and dedicated friend. You’re so wowed by his talent, you’ve saved up a thousand dollars to fly across the country to meet him. Only you can’t wait those five months until convention season rolls around. What will it be like to finally hear him speak and shake his hand?

  You sit in a hotel conference room as he enters through beige double doors. He’s followed by a small group of fans and is naming great books and short stories that have influenced him. You nod in agreement as he moves up the aisle. You’re a life-long reader and know a thing or two about the genre . . . except as soon as he passes, you scribble down the names of each book because you haven't heard of any of them. No way you could. Because you're not as well-read as Gary.

  You watch him read his latest story before a silent crowd. Kudos if you’ve survived as more than a sobbing wreck in the corner. Don’t tell me you still have dry eyes. His story either ripped out your heart and stomped on it a few times or it opened your soul to beauty you’ve never experienced before. Maybe it wracked you with guilt over horrible things you haven’t even done. Maybe it taught you to connect with the simplest creature, a baby or a butterfly.

  You take a deep breath. You sidle up and tell Gary how much you love his work. You ask him to sign your Leisure paperbacks and back issues of Cemetery Dance. You thank him for the thoughtful posts he’s put online and congratulate him on his latest award. He nods graciously, but none of this makes him comfortable. He steers the conversation elsewhere. He wants to know about . . . you.

  Me?

  Yes, you. No matter who you are, Gary honestly wants to get to know you. Many writers spend their time looking up, paying attention to their own heroes or the people above them on the totem pole. Gary looks everywhere. If you have passion as a fan or a craftsperson, he will respect you. He'll lift you up and open doors. Before you know it, he’ll introduce you to his peers and make you believe in yourself.

  That story he read probably shared a lot of qualities with this one: mystical goings-on near the town of Cedar Hill, mutated beings, everyman characters with sadness and flaws. Whether you experience Gary in person or on paper, you’re left with hope. Touched by his empathy and enthusiasm, we all live richer lives.

  A Little Off the Top

  When my grave is broke up again

  Some second guest to entertain …

  And he that digs it spies

  A bracelet of bright hair about the bone

  Will he not at last let me alone?

  —Milton

  Concerns.

  We concern ourselves with a barber and his wife, as well as the barber’s customer and his wife. Do they have names, these four? Yes, they do, but since we will never meet them again after this tale is told there is no reason for us to know what those names are; odds are we’d forget them soon enough, anyway.

  We must also concern ourselves with a very old tree with gnarled roots that grows from soil very few have ever tilled or tread upon. Its branches, bent, twisted, sometimes growing out and around until they become brittle spirals, are draped in places by a fine scintilla that could easily be mistaken for spiders’ webs, only if we moved closer we would note that this grayish matter seems to be breathing. We could dismiss the movement as being caused by the wind, but there is never any wind in this place, so it may be best we just not think about it for the moment. This tree stands—or, rather, stoops, not unlike some mythical hunchback finding sanctuary among the bells—in a field several miles from the outskirts of Cedar Hill. There is, around this hunched and stooped tree, a man-made trench several feet deep from which a fetid, rank odor rises; this, too, is of concern to us, as is the creature that calls this trench home.

  There is also a three-quarters moon, and that is of concern not only to us, but to the nameless four introduced above.

  And so, as the grass of the lawns in town—the grass that is Whitman’s beautiful, uncut hair of graves—ripples with the breeze that drifts through, we watch as the moonlight reveals to us in clearer light those people, places, and things with which we are concerned.

  The Shop.

  There is a barber’s shop on this street, just a few yards down from the church, and like the buildings that set on either side of or across the street from it, there is nothing unique to be noted, save for the traditional red-and-white barber’s pole outside the entrance door—in fact, if it were not for that pole, one could and would easily miss this shop if one had never been here before and were looking for it: this is, more or less, the intention of the owner, who we will formerly meet momentarily.

  The Regulars.

  The regulars of this shop are as nondescript and interchangeable as the buildings along the street; most are blue-collar workers, under- to un-educated, or retirees looking to pass some time in pleasant conversation with men of their own era or mindset who, like themselves, have no need for those fancy so-called “salons” where characterless pop music endlessly drones through hidden overhead speakers, the décor leans toward black and chrome, all the male barbers call themselves “stylists,” and everything smells like the reception area of a high-priced whorehouse—not for these fellows, no thank you. Give them a row of comfortable chairs, a television tuned to a sports event or news channel, the local paper or a national magazine, free coffee and a soda machine that never seems to run out Dr. Pepper, and they’re a content bunch. Ask, and we would find that all of them had, at one time or another, gone looking for this shop and missed it the first couple of times. If it weren’t for that pole out front and off to the side, they’d never have known the place was here. Yes, they’re a content bunch, sometimes even jovial, and when they laugh or smile their ruddy faces let us know that these fellows plan on being around here for a good long while.

  The Barber and His Wife.

  As we first see the Barber, he is napping in the small bedroom he shares with his wife in the 6-room apartment they live in above the shop. It’s a Sunday evening, getting close to eleven p.m., and the Barber is sweating ever so slightly as he shudders and occasionally jerks in his sleep. After a few mome
nts, his wife enters the room carrying a glass filled with some frosty beverage. She sets the drink on the nightstand next to the bed, places two pills next to the glass, sits down next to her husband, and gently reaches out to brush away some of the hair that seems lacquered to his forehead. Her touch stirs him, and the Barber slowly opens his eyes and smiles at her.

  “It’s time for your medicine. I brought you some lemonade,” she says, her hand resting against her husband’s cheek.

  “Oh, good,” says the Barber, turning his face into her hand and kissing the palm as he begins to sit up. “I could use something cold.” He pops the pills into his mouth and reaches for the glass, drinking nearly half the lemonade before setting it down again. “Did you make this just now?”

  She grins. “Fresh batch.”

  “Thank you.” He closes his eyes for a few moments; then his face—a face that was red and anxious—begins to regain its natural color as the tension fades away under the drugs’ quick-release action.

  “Better?” asks his wife.

  He opens his eyes. “Much.”

  He rises from the bed and slips on his shoes. There is no need for him to dress because he purposely fell asleep in his clothes. He goes into the bathroom and washes his hands, then his face. He combs his hair, rinses his mouth with Listerine, and turns to remove his barber’s smock from the hook on the bathroom door. He buttons the smock, checks to make sure his cigarettes are in the pocket, and goes back into the bedroom to see his wife looking at the framed lithograph hanging next to the doorway; nearly sepia-toned, it shows a stern-looking group of people surrounding a man with a harsh expression; he is dressed in a cassock and wearing tri-cornered hat as he holds up a Bible. Next to the man stands a woman in plain long dress whose torso is obviously being crushed by the corset underneath; her hair, mostly covered by the white bonnet she wears, is pulled so tightly back that her face seems on the verge of splitting down the middle. It is a scene so ominous that it’s almost comical. Almost. Until we look over their shoulders and study what’s in the background, a few dozen feet behind the crowd: three gallows poles, each with a dead figure hanging by the neck. All three, we notice upon closer inspection, seem to have been beaten severely and their hair ripped out; except for a few tattered strands caught in the wind, they are bald.

  The barber stands next to his wife and places a hand on her shoulder.

  “Tell me,” she asks him, “why do you insist on not only keeping this thing, but keeping it in our bedroom?”

  The barber smiles and emits a small laugh but there is no joy in either. “Call me sentimental.”

  His wife leans in to him. “Are you ever going to forgive yourself?”

  “Have you followed your own advice?”

  “We’re not talking about my guilt, we’re talking about yours.”

  “Then my answer is, it doesn’t matter. Forgiveness is … a cruel joke. And even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything. It’s not our forgiveness we need.”

  She turns her head and kisses his cheek. “I do love you so much.”

  “And I, you.” He turns toward her and they share a warm, brief kiss.

  Beams from a car’s headlights cut through the window blinds then are quickly extinguished.

  “Your new customer is here, I think.”

  They walk over to the window. The barber opens the blinds just a slit, just enough so he and his wife can see down onto the street. There is a small nondescript blue car parked across from the shop. The glow from the streetlight a few yards away reveals two figures in the vehicle, a man and a woman—but beyond that, the barber and his wife cannot make out anything. But we needn’t stay up in that bedroom with them, we can pass through the blinds and the glass and drift down to the car, through the nearest of its windows, and take an unseen place in the back seat; and that is exactly what we do, leaving the barber and his wife standing in bedroom shadows.

  The New Customer and His Wife.

  The woman is quite pretty, though her features are, at the moment, fixed into a mask of quiet, tightly-coiled fear. She turns off the car and looks at her husband. He is far too thin and is shaking and sweating. His face has a gray pallor and there are dark circles under his eyes, making them look as if they might collapse back inside his skull should he be jostled even the slightest. He wears a wool cap over his head, but we can see a few strands of brownish hair—that are more like cobwebs—protruding from the left side and back. He crosses his arms over his stomach and leans forward, dry heaving.

  “Christ,” he manages to say. “What the hell was that thing I had to eat?”

  His wife reaches over and takes hold of one of his near-skeletal hands. “Some kind of root.”

  “Did she tell you why I had to eat the fucking thing? I can still taste it. Awful. God, it’s awful.”

  “No, she didn’t tell me. Maybe her husband can answer that.”

  The man turns his head and looks at the shop. “Are we crazy, hon?”

  “Probably, but you said at this point you’d try anything. And if there’s a chance that it’ll work, then I ….” Her voice cracks on the last few words but if she is about to cry, she holds back.

  Her husband squeezes her hand and kisses her on the cheek. “Can’t be any worse than some of those quacks we’ve already seen. And at least I’ll be well-groomed. More or less.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”

  “Didn’t that woman tell you that I have to be alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then just leave. Go home. I’ll call you when it’s … it’s finished.”

  “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “I do. And I love you, too. So very much.”

  They embrace for a few moments.

  “You’re hurting me,” says the man.

  His wife releases him. “Sorry. I just … I just can’t stand the idea of you … I mean—”

  “You think I’m all goo-goo-gah-gah over the idea? I’m not ready yet to pay the fine and go home, but we’re kind of getting down to the wire here.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The man kisses her once more and then opens the car door. “God, I hope he doesn’t, like, break out any leeches or something like that.” He fumbles the metal arm crutches from the back, slips his hands into the wrist cuffs, and clasps the grips; slowly, painfully, he pulls himself up to stand. He makes his way around the back of the car, not looking at his wife as she reaches across to the close the passenger door. He does not see her watch him stumble his way up the shop’s front stairs, does not see how her face fills with concern and a combination of deep love and respect that more resembles awe. After a moment she turns away, starts the engine, and drives away.

  The man stands at the shop’s front door and presses the buzzer. After a moment, the lights come on inside and someone unseen works the locks. The door opens and the man looks into the face of the barber. The barber asks the man for his name, the man gives it, and the barber steps aside to allow him entrance. We slip in behind him just as the barber closes and locks the door.

  “Please, have a seat,” says the barber, pointing to the only chair in the shop. “Just let me finish getting everything ready.”

  The man almost makes it to the chair before another wave of intestinal pain causes his legs to nearly buckle. He lets go of one of the crutches and manages to grab hold of the back of the chair; releasing the other crutch, he does not so much sit in the chair as he does crawl up the cushions, twist, and collapse.

  From his place by the sink and mirror, the barber watches this, but neither says a word nor offers the man any assistance. The barber opens an old wooden case made of highly-polished wood and begins removing his tools from their resting place within the dark satin pillows within: a straight razor, a silver comb, and, of course, his scissors. All three gleam in the light; looking over at the man in the chair, the barber picks up only the scissors. Placing them on the tray stand next to the chair, the barber then un
furls the grey apron that he ties around the man’s neck—though not tightly, not tightly at all—and adjusts so that his new customer’s clothes will be protected.

  “Would you mind removing your cap?” asks the barber.

  The man does so, revealing a scalp almost totally devoid of hair, excepting the few long, sad strands we saw earlier. Though his scalp—it has the same grey pallor as his face—looks moist, it is, we see as we look closer under the lights, only moist in a few places; the other areas are not only severely dry but have patches of red blisters, some of them so wide they could be mistaken for birthmarks.

  “The, uh … the chemo has been kind of hard on me.”

  The barber nods as he pours some gold-colored liquid from a bottle onto his hands. “I can see that.” He places his fingers on the man’s head and begins massaging the scalp.

  “Is this part of the process?” asks the man.

  The barber pauses. “Remember—you get three questions tonight, and three questions only. Do you really want that to be one of them?”

  The man shrugs. “I guess not.”

  The barber resumes the scalp massage. The man in the chair begins to relax.

  “Man, that feels nice.”

  “I’m glad,” says the barber. He finishes the massage, washes his hands once again, and picks up the scissors. “Shall we, then?”

  The man in the chair takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and releases it slowly. “Yeah, please.” Then, as the barber gently takes a strand of his hair into his hand: “Do you mind if I say I’m scared shitless right now? Or would that count as one of my three questions?”

  “Actually, that’s two questions—and no, those I will not count. It’s only specific questions about the process that are limited.”