Collected Short Stories: Volume III by Barry Rachin - HTML preview

Francine gestured toward the landing strip where, under the collective weight of their flimsy bodies, several workers were dragging a larger drone from the hive. “Eviction notices being served,” Francine noted with a morbid chuckle.

The drone with bulgy, oversized eyes that extended around the side of his head momentarily broke free and dashed back toward the hive entrance, but a quick-footed worker blocked his way. Negotiating the hapless male toward the edge of the ramp, the bees gave him the bum’s rush toppling the drone over the edge and onto the crabgrass below.

“Drones exist for one purpose… to inseminate the queen,” Francine explained. “They’re gluttons and, given the opportunity, would gobble up all the honey stores. Every September, in preparation for the winter, male bees are banished from the hive.” No sooner had she finished saying this, a feisty worker emerged hauling a second, uncooperative male, which she mercilessly booted off the platform.

‘Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature,…

“I want… I want,” Judith stuttered. Her jaw was chewing up the humid, late summer air like a garbage disposal, but no coherent words issued forth.

Francine stared at her uncertainly. “Excuse me?”

“I want what they have.”

“What the bees have?” The older woman was trying to decipher her intent.

“I want you to teach me everything about the bees,” Judith was struggling to organize her fractured thoughts. “I want a hive of my own.”

Francine did not reply immediately. Rather, she sipped leisurely at her lemonade until the glass was empty. “It’s too late in the season to order a fresh package of bees.” A steady stream of newborns was emerging from the darkened, womblike sanctuary of the hive. The babies glistened with a moist sheen, reminiscent of afterbirth. Their head bobbed up and down, while their hairy legs tapped out a delicate pitter-patter, an intricately choreographed dance to nowhere. “Technically,” the older woman continued, “the swarm I captured on your parents’ property is as much yours as mine, so there’s no reason we can’t…”

 

 

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The Way Station

 

 

Jason Devlin called Clarice 'Mrs. Copparelli', by force of habit, even though the middle-aged woman was no longer married and had been alone since she moved into the neighborhood eight years earlier. She wasn’t conspicuously ugly but neither was she particularly pretty. Close-cropped black hair framed a pettishly economical mouth, sharp nose and brown eyes. The skin, far and away her best feature, was olive complected and flawless as a young girl's even though the woman was on the back side of thirty. Clarice could have easily parlayed that silky skin and Mediterranean earthiness into an exotic mystique, but she never bothered to capitalize on her natural assets, scrupulously avoiding makeup and jewelry.

 

As far back as last March when he started doing odd chores for Clarice, Jason sensed that the single woman might seduce him. The seventeen-year-old boy just didn't know when or how or where it would occur or the likely circumstances. Soon, he hoped. She was always considerate toward the boy who mowed her lawn each summer and shoveled away the snow and ice from December straight through to spring. But, on occasion, a hungry look shrouded her dark eyes, an emotional neediness that played itself out in certain furtive movements and guttural inflections.

Clarice was married once but not for long. She had a poodle named Victor, who was arthritic and forgetful. The woman was slavishly indulgent toward the dog with the cherry eye and pointy snout, who wandered about the kitchen with a befuddled expression. Sometimes Victor barked for no apparent reason, and other times the normally docile creature snapped at his mistress as though he hardly recognized the woman.

"What's wrong with Victor?" Jason had stopped by Saturday morning to mow the lawn. The thermometer topped out at ninety degrees by ten-thirty. Once he finished, Clarice invited him in for a cold drink.

The woman swept the dog up in her arms and nuzzled the pooch's forehead with her dusky cheek. "Victor's over ten years old and getting quite senile." She pointed at the far side of the door. "Did you notice how he waits by the hinge not the knob? That's a dead giveaway. The animal is confused and can't remember where the door opens." She kissed the dog and scratched him soothingly behind the ear. With his own family life falling to pieces, Jason wished someone would treat him with a similar measure of unbridled affection.

Clarice brought the dog outside so he could do his business. "Some days Victor forgets to eat," she reported in a matter of fact tone, "and I have to feed him by hand. When the pet went on a hunger strike in late March, Clarice did away with store-bought dog food altogether and prepared her own by hand. Boiled chicken thighs, sweet potato, pasta shells, string beans and diced apples - she tossed it all together in a large bowl, storing individual portions in freezer bags. "What do you hear from your mother?"

Jason flinched inwardly.

Mrs. Devlin walked out on the family around the holidays - run off with a coworker, leaving his father and two sisters to fend for themselves. By Saint Patrick's Day the sisters opted to go live with their mother and new boyfriend. "She calls most weekends," he replied guardedly. "I went to visit last Sunday."

Victor did his business and Clarice removed the debris with a plastic bag. "How did that go?"

"Awkward." Jason cleared his throat. "Her boyfriend's a creep."

The dog was standing listlessly on rickety legs near the back steps. Again, the woman scooped him up. "Well, she's still you mother."

Back inside, Clarice paid him for cutting the lawn, then, without warning, pulled him close, wrapping her brown arms around his waist. "She's still your mother," she repeated. Relaxing her grip, she stepped away. Was the effusive gesture a prelude or nothing more than a display of maternal sympathy? Victor looked back and forth between the two; the muddled mutt clearly couldn't read the emotional cues any better than Jason.

 

* * * * *

 

Saturday afternoon, Jason walked over to Clarice's house. "I need a favor." She stared at him with that stolid, inscrutable expression. "I was running a load of laundry and the hose on our washing machine gave out. I was wondering-"

"Where's your father?" she cut him short.

Jason blushed scarlet. "Gone to spend the weekend with Mona Tapinsley."

"And she is?"

"His new girlfriend," Jason replied humorlessly. "When my mother left, he didn’t waste any time evening the score.” “Mona lives off Commonwealth Avenue in Brighton. You can see the Prudential Building in downtown Boston from the living room window."

He watched Clarice processing the information.

Everyone in Jason's family was living a tragicomic, fractured existence. Victor wandered into the living room and eyeballed them both suspiciously. Were they guests or interlopers? "Get your laundry and we'll run a load." As he turned away, she added, "Have you eaten?"

"Just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My father had to work late and didn't get a chance to do any shopping."

"I've got leftovers from the evening meal... meatloaf and mash potatoes."

"That sure would be nice."

 

Clarice warmed the food before going downstairs to throw the laundry in the machine. An hour later after the clothes had been run through the dryer, she shuffled into the living room with a laundry basket tucked under her arm. Dumping the contents on the sofa, she began folding the boy's undershirts in neat squares and stacking them one on top of the other.

"My mother had a midlife crisis."

"It’s usually hormonal." She smoothed the front of a T-shirt with the palm of her hand, folding the material in thirds.

"From as far back as I can remember, she was always temperamental… hard to get along with."

Finishing with the T-shirts, Clarice placed them on the living room table and began sorting his boxer shorts. "You're not much younger than my mother," Jason added as an afterthought. Clarice face dissolved in a muted, close-lipped smile. "If it’s any consolation, menopause is a few years off yet. I don't intend to flip out or do anything rash."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"What would Victor do,” she answered his question with one of her own, “if I ran off and deserted my four-legged friend?" Finishing with the underwear, she began matching the boy's socks, tucking the mates together. A moment later, Clarice waved a pair of mismatched socks in front of his nose. "Two orphans!"

"I don't want to go home to an empty house," Jason muttered softly.

Clarice consolidated all the fresh-smelling laundry in a heap on the living room table. "And what do you suggest?" She sat down on the sofa, cuddling the dog on her lap.

"Maybe I could sleep here."

"I’ll have to make up the spare bedroom."

"With you," Jason quickly added, "in your bed."

Clarice continued to pet the dog staring vaguely at the pile of laundry on the far side or the room. After a while she rose and fed the dog from her prepackaged homemade stash. She rinsed the water bowl before refilling it with fresh water from the tap. The woman locked the front door and turned off the lights in the kitchen. “Victor’s got cataracts.”

“What?”

“He kept bumping into things and falling down so I took him to the vet. If he was human he’d be tapping his merry way down the street with one of those collapsible, white and red walking sticks. I made an appointment with a veterinary ophthalmologist.”

Jason stared at the beleaguered beast. Only now did he notice the scaly, milky discoloration spreading across both eyes. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Go upstairs. Take your clothes off and get into bed, while I get Victor settled for the night.” Fifteen minutes later, Clarice quietly entered the bedroom. She stripped methodically arranging the blouse and slacks on hangers in the closet. Undoing the clasp on her bra, she let it fall on the floor before sliding under the covers next to the boy. Then she reached out and pulled him on top of her.

 

* * * * *

 

Jason and Clarice had a tacit understanding.

He came to her weekends. She fed him. They took bubble baths together. They never spoke openly about what they were doing. He was going away to college in September - University of Vermont at Burlington, where he would be studying English. Some days the dog forgot to eat and Clarice had to feed him by hand, tearing dark-meat chicken into edible portions and twiddling it under the poodle’s beaky nose until recognition kicked in and he finally began nibbling at the bite-size chunks. It was like priming a pump. Once he remembered how to eat, the dog polished off the contents of the bowl with minimal assistance.

Clarice Copparelli never initiated the lovemaking. Rather, the woman gave herself to him with a hushed exuberance that almost frightened him. She was undemonstrative, said little to nothing afterwards. Once or twice she moaned when she came and that was it.

Clarice had little use for the 'outside world' as she called it. "I'm a misanthrope. I don't especially like people," she said, refusing to elaborate.

"But you like me?"

She cupped his face in her smallish hands. "No, I love you. Victor and Jason are the exceptions to the rule." No matter that she mentioned him last - the dog had medical issues and was in failing health.

Tuesday night after work, Clarice took piano lessons from an elderly gentleman, Mr. Mossberg who lived near the rotary in Foxboro center. Studying a year and a half, she was still in the beginner’s book. Lately, she was learning Chopin's Fantasy Impromptu on her small upright. She fingered the lilting melody in the right hand, the broken arpeggios resonating in the bass. It was nothing more than a stripped down version of the classic melody, but when he left the house on Sunday morning, Jason carried the beginner-book waltz in his heart-of-hearts through the morbidly lonely week until he could sit in the living room again with Victor snuffling near the ottoman while his mistress negotiated the lovely melody.

 

* * * * *

 

In the middle of August, Jason's mother rented a U-Haul and cleared all her belongings from the house. The following week she invited her son to lunch at Papa Gino's. Jason hadn't seen the woman in six weeks. Out in the parking lot, Mrs. Devlin burst into tears, smothering him with sloppy kisses. "I want you should get to know Eddy and his children by his first marriage." She had gained considerable weight. Jason remembered her as one of the prettier mothers on the block, but now her stylish, blonde hair appeared frizzy and unkempt. "So what's new?"

"Nothing, really." Jason didn't think she was interested in hearing about Clarice Copparelli. His mother chattered away distractedly. Nothing she said explained why she needed to reinvent herself after eighteen years as his mother. Worse yet, Jason didn't know what he felt anymore for the middle-aged train-wreck of a woman sitting across the table. A lost soul, she couldn't bear to be alone with her own thoughts for two minutes back to back.

"I got to drive to Burlington next weekend for freshman orientation.”

"School doesn't start for another month yet."

"They show new students around the campus and firm up freshman dorm assignments."

"Your father's taking you?"

"Yeah," he lied. Mr. Devlin had a prior commitment with his 'significant other' so Jason would drive the 495-interstate until he reached the Massachusetts Turnpike veering west toward New York. If he left at dawn, he would reach the college in plenty of time.

 

Number thirty-eight - your food is ready! Jason approached the counter and retrieved the pizza.

"What’re you reading?" His mother gestured at a paperback jutting from his coat pocket. "A White Heron - it's a collection of short stories by Sarah Orne Jewett."

"Never heard of her." Mrs. Devlin teased a slice of pizza from the round pie, sliding it onto a paper plate.

"She doesn't really write conventional stories," he explained, "so much as brief character sketches."

"Who does?" Mrs. Devlin bit into the crust but the cheese was too hot and she had to chew carefully. A double chin had emerged along with a blotchy ripple of sagging flesh under her eyes.

"Sarah Orne Jewett… the lady who wrote the book."

"Pass me the salt, please, Jason." She stretched her hand across the table. "I always get this nutty craving for extra salt when I eat pizza. I know it's plenty salty enough and sodium wrecks havoc with your blood pressure, but I just go wacko with the salt shaker every time."

"A White Heron… it's considered her most famous short story." Jason watched his mother eat. "The tale has been anthologized in quite a few publications."

"I love the food here. It's so much tastier that Pizza Hut or that other Italian chain down on Armistice Boulevard." His mother slid out from the booth. "We're going to need more napkins. Can I get you anything… another drink?"

"No, I'm fine.

 

* * * * *

 

Wednesday night, Jason went downstairs in the basement with his father. The stocky man had removed the mulching blade from the Toro, self-propel lawnmower and was securing it between the jaws of a metal vise. "How come you don't use the bench grinder?"

The man shrugged and ran a thumb and forefinger over a bristly moustache. "The metal gets too hot with a stone. This way I can proceed at my own speed." He reached for a flat file. One side of the tool was a rough-textured wood rasp, the other sported a finer, cross-hatched surface. Mr. Devlin ran the file over the dull blade. "How did the meeting with your mother go?"

"Good, I guess."

After a couple of tentative strokes, the man changed angles and began sharpening in earnest. A silvery sheen emerged where the cutting surface was previously scarred with nicks and burrs. "Is she happy?"

Jason hesitated. "No, I don't think so." When there was no reply, he added. "You can only accomplish just so much with a hand file."

"The goal is not to make the tool razor sharp like a chisel or planer blade." His father ran a thumb over the blade and, satisfied with the results, flipped it end-over-end in the vise. He reached for the file a second time. "As long as it cuts rather than rips the grass, that's all that matters."

Mr. Devlin finished securing the blade and stood up. “I've seen water-cooled machines called wet grinders that can reshape and sharpen almost any cutting tool you own. They get the job done without the risks of overheating and blueing tool steel, and you can’t burn up the metal with a wet grinder, because its slow speed and constant water bath keep the tool cool.” He pulled the file down at a diagonal. “There are no flying sparks or superfine grinding-wheel dust to worry about either.”

Jason watched the metal filings accumulate in a grayish mound directly below the vise as his father put the finishing touches on the restored surface. "I'm reading this swell book,… A White Heron."

"A White Heron," his father repeated absently. He was reattaching the sharpened blade to the bottom of the lawnmower with a ratchet and half-inch socket.

"The woman who wrote the book was a teenager in the eighteen sixties during the Civil War."

"Imagine that!" The blade was not seating properly on the undercarriage. Mr. Devlin removed the heavy metal bushing and brushed some dirt from the threads.

"Sarah Jewett’s father was an obstetrician, and the author used to bunk school and travel around rural Maine with him on house calls when she was a little girl."

"Hand me that terrycloth towel," his father brought him up short, "so I can get a decent grip on this blade without cutting my hand when I tighten the nut."

 

* * * * *

 

One night shortly after they had gone to bed, Jason thumped Clarice lightly between the shoulder blades. “Yes, what is it?” Wakened from a sound sleep, she sounded grouchy.

"A sheriff visited the house earlier today. My mother had my old man served with divorce papers.” He spoke in a plodding manner. “As upset as I am about the divorce, that’s not what really bothers me. It’s the sordidness,... the way my mother’s gone whacko, a caricature of her former self, and now my dad hooked up with some gay divorcé.” Jason blew the air out of his lungs making a snorting sound. “It's like some trashy soap opera.”

“Your point?”

“My folks screw up their pathetic lives and then, in the process of fixing what’s broke, make thing ten times worse.”

She kissed her fingertips then placed them over his mouth. “It’s late. Go back to sleep.”

“What about us?” Jason pressed. “What are we doing?”

After a brief pause, she said, "Think of me as a way station... a place to rest and lick your wounds before moving on.”

A place to rest and lick your wounds before moving on. Was that how she understood their relationship? Jason was stung by the woman’s callousness. “I like it best here with you and Victor.”

“A way station,” Clarice repeated what she said a moment earlier. “You’re leaving for college in a few short weeks. Victor needs surgical implants to correct his vision. Everything changes. That’s just the way it is.”

The room fell silent. Jason fluffed his pillow and lay back down. "We read this short story by Sarah Orne Jewett in English class last fall… no more than a handful of pages.”

"Never heard of her."

"She lived in the late eighteen hundreds." He recounted everything he previously told his parents about the obscure author. “A little girl goes to live with her grandmother on a farm. She meets a young ornithologist seeking to find a rare bird that has been spotted in the area."

"Where does the story take place?"

"On the coast of Maine."

With a nod, Clarice indicated that he should continue the narrative. "The man offers a large sum of money to anyone who can lead him to the heron's nest so he can shoot the bird and add it to his collection."

Clarice brushed a strand of black hair out of her eyes. "Well, does he get the bird or not?"

"No. The girl climbs the tallest tree in the forest so she can view the entire countryside. She finds the heron just where she was sure it would be but, even though the girl and her grandmother are desperately poor, refuses to share the information with the hunter and he goes away empty-handed."

"Such a beautiful story!"

"You're my white heron," the boy said. He placed a hand on her thigh and felt the hips reflexively rock backwards. "My refuge."

“And I’m a middle-age woman who needs her rest.” The orneriness in her raspy voice was undercut by far too much tenderness to do any lasting damage as Clarice pushed his hand away and shifted on her side.

 

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Supermarket Sadhu

 

 

 

Foot traffic was brisk at the ShopRite Supermarket Saturday afternoon straight through until seven-thirty when the relentless flow dribbled away to a handful of stragglers most of whom made a beeline for the twelve-items-or-less, express register. “Sometimes in India, after a man marries and raises his family, he puts his worldly affairs aside to become a wandering mystic.” Returning from break, seventeen year-old Fanny Jackson blurted the unsolicited musings all in a jumbled heap then, by way of clarification, added, “I’ve been reading up on eastern religion.”

Fanny was working the cash register at aisle three with Bert Weiner bagging groceries. A retiree who lived off social security, Bert worked part time at the supermarket. The widower owned an olive cape with white shutters off Hathaway Street just a half mile down from Fanny’s house. Sometimes when their schedules coincided, Fanny and Bert carpooled.

“Yeah, I heard something of the sort.” Bert rubbed a hairy earlobe. “I was never big on all that mystical malarkey.”

“You’re Jewish,” Fanny said. “What do your people say about heaven and hell?”

“Not much.” The older man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose rather loudly. When he was done he surveyed the end result before crumpling the cloth in his liver-spotted fist and putting it away. “Main thing is you gotta take care of business in the here and now. The next world – the one with all the celestial mumbo jumbo and enraptured souls – takes care of itself.”

To be sure, no self-respecting Sadhu would be caught dead bagging groceries in a backwater town like Brandenberg. Paper or plastic – such inanity did nothing to facilitate one’s spiritual unfolding. Fanny had seen a potpourri of colorful pictures accompanying a National Geographic article featuring the wandering mendicants of Bombay and Calcutta – religious zealots who made pilgrimages to the various holy sites.

Sadhu or sanyasi – those were the terms the magazine used to describe the holy men. Some resorted to extreme measures like sleeping on beds of nails, taking lengthy vows of silence, bathing in icy streams or standing motionless on one leg for prolong periods to rid themselves of material cravings and merge with the divine essence. Others smoked hashish and cannabis – not that Fanny was about to share that miscellany with straight-laced Bert Weiner. They painted their faces with outlandishly garish designs, let their hair grow down to their waists or roamed about buck naked!

Many had led sedate, conventional lives before turning to the spiritual path. They held jobs, joined civic organizations, paid taxes and participated in local government. Only after their own children were grown did they turn their backs on the material world. And yet, not all Sadhus were straight shooters. Wallowing in debt, rotten marriages or dead-end jobs, some older men took on the yellow mantle of the religious zealot as a pretext for deserting their wives and family obligations.

The outside lights blazed, flooding the parking lot in a mellow, amber glow. “You’re graduating in June?” Bert Weiner asked shifting gears.

“Yes, this is my senior year.”

“Heard yet from any colleges?” Mr. Weiner was leaning against the checkout counter. He wore a pink, ShopRite Supermarket smock plus a nametag with a happy face that looked a bit silly on such a slight man.

“No. Not yet.”

“How’d you do on your SAT’s?”

“Twenty-one fifty,” Fanny replied.

“You don’t say!” He shook his head up and down appraisingly. “That should get you into most Ivy League colleges.”

“So I’ve heard.” Though she had e