by Tim Greaton
Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel
(a 2500-word short story)
From “Maine’s Other Author” TM
Tim Greaton
ALSO BY TIM GREATON
From Focus House Publishing
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Heroes With Fangs
2011
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Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel
From “Maine’s Other Author” TM
TIM GREATON
Copyright 2011 by Tim Greaton.
This is a work of fiction. The names and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to living or dead individuals is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, including digital or audio sampling, internet display or download, or any other form of digital or physical display or transfer, excepting only brief excerpts for use in a literary review, without expressed written permission from the author.
Published by Focus House Publishing
Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel, a short story
Cover graphics by Wizards Prism Art & Media
Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel
(a 2500-word short story)
From “Maine’s Other Author” TM
Tim Greaton
Focus House Publishing
Wilton, Maine
Dustin Jeckle & Mr. Hydel
Dustin rubbed his throbbing thigh and stared out at the busy city of Portland, Maine. He tried adjusting the aluminum brace that ended just above his knee, but the threaded set-screw had stripped several weeks before so it would no longer stay tight. You never realized how much you depended on insurance until you no longer had any. He didn’t even want to guess what a new brace would cost.
“You okay, sweetie?” his mother asked. She had been working in the kitchen ever since returning from her job at the diner several blocks away. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”
“Just like you told me your leg didn’t hurt,” she said, her voice suddenly directly behind and above him.
He pulled his hands away from his thigh.
“It’s just a little stiff,” he said.
“So how’s the book coming along?” she asked.
“Good,” Dustin lied. The truth was he hadn’t written more than a chapter in the past month, and as far as he was concerned the entire story was junk. Who would care about a fictitious Maine politician taking bribes? Hell, they all did it in real life and it hardly even made the news anymore. No, his pipedream of becoming a novelist was about as realistic as his becoming a marathon runner since the accident. He just hated that he was dragging his mother down along with his sinking dream.
He forced himself to his feet, gritted his teeth and limped into the kitchen.
“I know you use your crutches when I’m not home,” his mother said, following him. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”
Dustin breathed in the smell of fried Spam and eggs, something she must have picked up on the way home. He glanced down at the stack of half-opened mail on the counter and wondered how much further he had driven his mother into debt this month. Already, the cable had been shut off.
“One of my regulars is a doctor,” his mother said as he settled onto one of the kitchen chairs.
He swooned from sudden pain when his brace caught on the leg of the table. Fortunately, his mother was stirring the contents of the frying pan and didn’t see his agonized expression. She did hear his gasp, however.
“You okay?” she asked again.
Dustin exhaled and nodded.
“I’m hunky dory,” he said. “Just hunky dory.”
“Well, that doctor said he thinks a chiropractor might be able to help with your circulation problems. He thinks we should contact someone—”
“I’m not letting you spend any more money on me, mom. It’s bad enough that you have to feed me.”
“You’re my son,” she said. “Of course I’m going to help.”
“Mom, stop! Please just stop!” Dustin rubbed his eyes. “You’ve been sacrificing for me ever since the day I was born and drove dad away.”
“You did not drive your father away. He would have left whether you had been born or not.”
Dustin shook his head.
“You’ve done enough, mom. You raised me. You put me through school. Then…the accident.”
She placed her spatula on the counter and hugged him from behind.
“You’re doing great.”
“No I’m not. I screwed it all up. Everything!”
His mother grabbed his chin and turned it to look directly into his eyes. Though her face had aged, her piercing blue eyes still held the strength of hope.
“You listen to me, Dustin Jeckle. You did not screw anything up. You’re gonna write your book and make me proud. You hear me? You’re gonna make me proud.”
Dustin buried his face in his hands. Without his mother, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go on.
They ate in silence. Dustin kissed his mother on the cheek just before she waddled off to bed. He couldn’t help noticing her stooped posture and slow gait. Though only in her late-fifties, she looked at least ten years older.
Because of me.
Wishing his crutches were nearby, he struggled to his feet and dragged his bad leg back to the front windows in the living room. Directly across from their building was an office complex filled with a bank, stockbrokers and several attorney firms. Oddly, though the rest of the building was dark, the office directly across from him was fully lit. Someone, a man maybe, leaned against the window and seemed to be pounding on the glass. Dustin grabbed his binoculars off from the end table and focused on the scene unfolding across the street. The attorney—he guessed that’s what he was—was dressed in a suit jacket and tie. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Dustin scanned the rest of his office. There was no one else there.
What was wrong with him, he wondered. What would drive a man to such emotional turmoil?
The man turned, staggered toward his desk and swiped his arm across the surface. Pencils, pens, folders and a phone flew across the room. He took one last look out the window, his ice blue eyes locking with Dustin’s own, then upended his desk and stormed out of the office. When the light went off, Dustin grabbed his laptop and began to write.
The next day, Dustin tried to see into the office across the street but the sunlight reflecting off the mirror-like glass made it impossible to see anything. Impatiently, he waited for the sun to go down. He spent the time wondering how he had let it all slip away: Susan, his law degree, everything.
When his mother got home from work, she tried to pry him away from the window but he refused to budge. Finally, she brought in the hamburger and fries she’d purchased at the diner. It was cold in the Styrofoam box, but he ate without tasting as he stared at the third floor office across the street. Finally, he could see again. The young attorney was there. His desk and belongings had returned to normal, but he looked tense as he spoke on the phone.
“Do you need anything else, sweetie?” his mother asked.
“Besides a life?” he said.
“Don’t you talk like that. You’re doing good. You got through school. Got your law degree.”
He pounded his forehead with both palms.
“Listen to yourself, mom. You don’t believe that. I blew it, and you know it.”
“Wait till your book is done,” his mother told him, kissing him on the back of the head. “Then we’ll see who blew it.”
Dustin brushed away a tear as his mother crept to her bedroom. She worked too hard.
Because I’m a screw up.
He lifted his binoculars and turned his attention to the window across the street. The young attorney seemed to be in a heated argument on the phone with someone. He got to his feet and gestured with his free hand as he paced back and force. Suddenly, he screamed something into the phone then hurled the cordless receiver at the nearest wall. It exploded into pieces too small for Dustin to see.
The man stormed from his office, shutting off his light as he left.
Dustin lowered his binoculars and remembered his own last tumultuous year at the law firm of Hewitt and Fournier. He’d been with them for almost ten years and felt certain he was on his way to a full partnership—when Susan went crazy. It started with random late-night calls to the office, begging him to come home. He remembered being so buried in work that he just couldn’t break himself away. How did she think he had bought her the beautiful ocean-side condo or the Mercedes SL, not to mention the three closetsful of clothes and shoes? Those things didn’t come for free, and neither did a full partnership.
Dustin ignored the pain in his leg and wrote as fast as his fingers would type. The sun was just coming up when he slipped from his window chair and slid onto the couch. He closed his eyes and fell