English Novels and Short Stories

STAVE ONE
MARLEY’S GHOST
MARLEY was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, empathetically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner and even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot-say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance-literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name. there it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge, ‘Scrooge, and sometimes Marley’, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.
External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rains less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “my dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”
But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge.
Once upon a time-of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve-old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside, go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already-it had not been light all day-and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chick and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.
The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open that he might keep his eyes upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.
“A marry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first time intimation he had of his approach.
“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”
He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.
“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”
“I do,” said Scrooge. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”
“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”
Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again; and followed it up with Humbug.”
“Don’t be cross, uncle!” said the nephew.
“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “When I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ‘em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will, “ said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”
“Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.
“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly, “keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”
‘keep it!” repeated Scrooge’s nephew. “But you don’t keep it.”
“Let me leave it alone, then: said Scrooge.
“Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!”
“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,” returned the nephew. “Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come around-apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that- as a good time; a kind forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the years, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were follow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”
The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark forever.
“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Scrooge, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You are quite a powerful speaker, sir,” he headed, turning to his nephew. “I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.”
“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.”
Scrooge said that he would see him-yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.
“But why?” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “Why?”
“Why did you get married?” said Scrooge.
“Because I fell in love.”
“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. “Good afternoon!”
“Nay, Uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?”
“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.
“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”
“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.
“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel. To which I have been a party. But I have made the trail in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So A Merry Christmas, Uncle!”
“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.
“And a happy new year!”
“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.
His nephew left the room without any angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greeting of the season on the clerk, who, clod as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.
“There’s another fellow,” muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: “my clerk, with fifteen shilling a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I’ll retire to Bedlam.”
This lunatic, in letting Scrooge’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge’s office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.
“Scrooge and Marley’s I believe,” said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?”
“Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” Scrooge replied. “He died seven years ago, this very night.”
“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,” said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.
It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word “liberality,” Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.
“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, “ said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”
“Are there no prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
“And the union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”
“They are still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”
“the treadmill and the Poor Law in full vigor, then?” said Scrooge.
“Both very busy, Sir.”
“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”
“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.
“You wish to be anonymous?”
“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you asked me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned-they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”
“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”
“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “They had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides-excuse me-I don’t know that.”
“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.
“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned.
“It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labors with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.
Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriage, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowing sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a lord Mayor’s household should; ad even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shilling on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up tomorrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.
Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had put nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as hat, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of
“God bless you, merry gentleman!
May nothing you dismay!”
Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.
At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.
“If quite convenient, sir.”
“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound?”
The clerk smiled faintly.
“Ant yet,” said Scrooge, “You don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”
The clerk observed that it was only once a year.
“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”
The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s –book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.
Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had a little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including-which is a bold word-the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change-not a knocker, but Marley’s face.
Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned upon its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid color, made lot horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.
As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.
To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hands upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.
He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that help the knocker on, so he said “Pooh, Pooh!” and closed it with a bang.
The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above and every cask in the wine-merchant’s cellar below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.
You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broad wise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge’s dip.
Up scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.
Sitting-room, bed room, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.
Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.
It was very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the last sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet’s rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley’s head on every one.
“Humbug!” said Scrooge; and walked across the room.
After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to reset upon a bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in hunted houses were described as dragging chains.
The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.
“It’s humbug still!” said Scrooge. “I won’t believe it.”
His color changes though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, “I know him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again.

To be continued....

 Novel by Stephanie Bond

Ten years ago


Emory Maxwell tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his SUV, looked over at his longtime friend and fellow soldier, Porter Armstrong, and took a deep breath. “will you marry me?”
Porter considered his words, then scoffed, “man, you can’t just blurt it out like that.”
“why not?”
“Because it’s not romantic, that’s why. You have to say ‘I love you’ and ‘I can’t live without you’ and ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you’, “ crap like that. Try it again.”
Emory frowned. “Well, you don’t have to be such a jackass about it.”
Porter sighed and pushed back the U. S. Army cap that matched his fatigues. “You want Shelly to say yes, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, you idget. That’s why we’re going to sweetness.”
“that’s why you’re going to sweetness,” Porter corrected. “You’re the one who’s jonesing to get married. Me, I’m never settling down. I just want as much home cooking as my mother can make in the few days I’m home on leave.” Then Porter looked apologetic. “Sorry, man, I know you miss your dad. Thanks for the invitation. Will Marcus and Kendall be there?”
“No. Marcus is in Pakistan, something about a terrorist group the U.S. is worried about. And Kendall is in El Salvador overseeing reconstruction after the earthquake earlier this year. I don’t know when I’ll see them again.” Then he frowned. “Hey, don’t change the subject. You’re going to have to say something good to convince Shelby to wake up to your ugly mug for the rest of her life”
Emory puffed out his cheeks in an exhale. “I’m more worried about what her pop is going to say.”
Porter made a rueful noise. “You should be. I heard Mr. Moon is a pretty good shot.”
“That man has never liked me.”
“what do you expect? He wants to keep Shelby in her calico bedroom for the rest of her life, and you’ve got other bedroom plans for his little girl. She’s all he’s got-of course he hates you. I feel sorry for Shelby being in the middle of you two mules.”
Emory hardened his jaw. Sooner or later. Shelby was going to have to choose between him and her daddy.
Porter glanced at his watch. “What time is she expecting you?”
“I didn’t tell her I was coming.”
Porter guffawed. “You’ve been arguing on the phone for months. Now you’re going to just show up with a ring and propose?”
“That’s the plan, “ Emory muttered.
Porter pulled down his cap and slumped in the seat in preparation for a nap. “Wake me up before the fireworks begin.”
Emory frowned in the direction of the man who’d been his best friend since Little League, then pulled his hand across his mouth and turned his attention back to the interstate. Porter was right. He was taking a big chance by not telling Shelby he was coming, especially considering the last time they’d talked, she’d hung up on him. Her father had been yelling for her in the background, which had angered Emory, which in turn had angered Shelby.
One way or another, things would come to a head today.
Emory leaned down to study the leaden sky. There were driving into a storm, or the making of one. But it was summer in the north Georgia mountains-thunderstorms were as commonplace as mosquitoes and lemonade. After so much sand in the Gulf dessert, he wouldn’t mind a little rain, as long as it didn’t slow their progress too much.
His heart beat faster at the thought of seeing Shelby soon. He imagined het sweet face lighting up when he walked into her father’s grocery where she worked, her immediate tears, the many kisses…the private reunion as soon as they could get alone. His body tightened involuntarily. He realized the reason they argued on the phone was because they were both frustrated by their separation. But his overseas deployment was due to end in a month, so he’d be stationed Stateside soon. And he wanted to be with Shelby for the rest of their lives.
His fellow soldiers laughed when he told them he and Shelby had been together since grade school, but it was true. They’d met on the playground in second grade. Bobby Taylor had been teasing Shelby, pulling her blond pigtails. Emory had pushed the bigger boy down, which had earned him a suspension from school and Shelby’s adoration.
The suspension had been worth it.
Their relationship had gone through the ups and downs of chicken pox, Shelby’s crush on the new boy in sixth grade, and his own preoccupation with a dark haired cheerleader their freshman year. But when he and Shelby had been ready to relinquish their virginity at seventeen, neither one would have chosen anybody else for the occasion. Their consummated physical chemistry had cemented their childhood love and they’d never looked in another direction.
It was, he realized, one of the reasons her pop was opposed to their relationship. Mr. Moon said they couldn’t know they loved each other because they’d never spent time with anyone else. But Emory didn’t want someone else. When he lay awake in his bunk on the other side of the world, the only thing, besides his conviction of service, that gave him comfort was knowledge that Shelby Moon was lying awake in her corner bedroom in Sweetness, Georgia thinking about him, too.
They’d shared sad times, too. They’d both lost their mothers to illness while in high school. Going through something so traumatic together created a special bond that outsiders couldn’t understand. But as he drove, Emory mostly replayed in his head the sweeter memories they’d made together-going to football games, swinging out over the swimming hole at Timber Creek, shooting off fireworks in the parking lot of her father’s store-and before he knew it, he was putting on his turn signal to exit the interstate to the climbing state road that would meander and twist and eventually dead end into Sweetness.
At the change in speed, Porter roused from his nap and stretched his arms high in a yawn. “Are we there yet?”
“It won’t be long.” Emory gestured to the sky, where the clouds had taken on a greenish hue. “What do you make for that?”
Porter squinted. “I don’t know-something in the atmosphere---pollen maybe? Looks like we’re in for a good old-fashioned thunderstorm.”
“It’s eerie. Do you think it’s a bad omen?”
“What do you mean?”
Emory shifted in his set. “Like, maybe today isn’t such a good day to propose.”
Emory laughed. “Mark my words, Porter. You’re going to meet a women someday who will bring you to your knees.”
“Never”, Porter said, shaking his head empathetically.
The men parried back and forth with the familiar ease of boys who’d grown up side by side. As the SUV climbed higher and higher, the landscape became more recognizable-and rugged. Here in the mountains, the trees were taller and studier, and black soil gave way to rocky red clay. But a hardy environment produced a hardy crop of people.
They passed a Christmas tree farm and the picturesque covered bridge over Trimble Creek, then at the top of a rise that leveled into a long road ahead of them, a sign announced “Sweetness, Georgia, population 952.”
“Guess the Hay woods had twins,” Porter said with a laugh.
It was a joke because, in truth, the town’s population had been declining for the last couple of decades as new generations had turned away from farming and left to seek careers in outlying areas, especially Atlanta. Every time Emory came back to his hometown, it seemed as if another business or plant had closed its doors and more homes and farms were for sale.
All the reason to get Shelly out of Sweetness, no matter how much they both loved growing up here. After his overseas stint ended, he planned to start college classes part time. Even if he opted not to make the military a career, he didn’t foresee being able to make a living in Sweetness…unless he wanted to work for Shelby’s father at the grocery.
Emory shuddered.
“You okay, man?”
“It’s just coming back here, you know? Mixed feelings.”
“Yeah, I know. I couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but something always pulls me back.”
Emory nodded. He understood completely.
Watching over the town was a tall white water tower in the shape of a vertical capsule, with the greeting, Welcome to Sweetness. Someone had spray painted “I love Pam” in large red letters. Emory smiled-he’d graffitied his own sentiments about Shelby a time or two, as had many boys in town about the object of their affection if they were reckless enough to make that climb. Once a year, the mayor would send up painters to restore the surface to white and re-letter the town’s name. and the process would start all over again.
If they continued driving straight, the road would take them into the center of town, but Emory veered off onto a more narrow road to higher ground, to Clover Ridge where they’d grown up. The ridge was mostly farmland, with an occasional home business here and there-Dottie’s Hair Salon and Mike’s Car Repair. Here the lay of the land was as familiar as his hand…he knew every pothole, every broken fence board, every barking dog.
A few minutes later, he pulled to stop in front of the Armstrong home, and Porter jumped out. After grabbing his duffel from the back seat, Porter grinned through the open window.
“so, let me hear what you came up with for the proposal.”
Porter laughed. “Well, hopefully you’ll think of something when the time comes.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Thanks for the ride, man. Good luck.”
Emory watched his friend bound up the front steps of his home and smiled to himself. Porter was a good man, as were his brothers. He was lucky to have grown up next to them. He didn’t have siblings, so he’d spent as much time at the Armstrong’s place as his own.
When he approached the home he’d grown up in, he slowed for a fond look. His dad had painted the siding and planted a new fruit tree next to the gate. Emory would stop at the older Maxwell’s office in town later to say hello, after a little detour.
He drove further out on the ridge and pulled off onto the side of the road next to the Clover Ridge cemetery. He reached into the backseat for a bouquet of flowers he’d bought when he stopped to get gas, then walked through the arched gate.
Emory made his way through the well-tended graveyard to the Maxwell family plot. His mother’s tombstone read Belinda Maxwell, Beloved wife and Mother. So true.
He removed his hat and placed bouquet of flowers on her grave, remembering her sweet face. He’d often come here to talk to her when he still lived in Sweetness. “I’m home, mom. Just for a few days. But it’s nice to have a break.” He smiled. “The house looks good, Dad is keeping it up. You’d like the color he painted the shutters.” He twisted the hat in his hands. “I came home to ask Shelby to marry me, Mom. Wish me luck. I love you.” He patted her headstone, then put his hat on and walked back to his SUV.
The wind had picked up, was tossing leaves and twigs across the cemetery. Emory held on to his cap and glanced up at the sky, which still looked ominous.
A foreboding sense of trouble settled over Emory, the same feeling he’d gotten once on a field assignment just before an ambush. But he dismissed it as nerves and turned his vehicle toward town and toward Shelby.
One way or another, he’d have his answer soon.

To be continued...

A short story by Shayana Krishnaswamy




They came up to the restaurant and took a table by the wall where he was sure the waiter would not overlook them. She sat on the edge of her seat and would not be calmed.
Oh, it was so horrid, she said, rubbing at her bare arms. I cannot get it out of my mind. It turns over and over in my mind. I cannot be rid of it.
He ordered two beers and asked the waiter to be swift about it. He told her that she would eventually be rid of it, and that she must try to put her mind on other things, but she would not listen. When the beers came, he drank his down right off and ordered another. He ordered a second for her as well, though she’d hardly taken a sip of her own.
How can you be so calm about it? She asked him. It does trouble me that I am so upset and you are so calm. It was such a terrible thing to see.
It was a terrible thing altogether, he said to her. It was terrible, but I am trying to be calm about it and you should try as well. You shouldn’t work yourself up in this way.
How can I help being worked up? I feel entirely spent. I shan’t be able to eat anything at all.
No, he said, no that’s alright. You needn’t eat anything, but you should drink. Drinking will help to soothe your feelings. With these words he drank nearly half of the beer before him and she watched him do it with some fascination. Already he was beginning to feel the effects and it made him a great deal less nervous. Perhaps this wasn’t such a disaster after all. Perhaps he could right it.
He persuaded her to sit back in her chair and to allow him to hold her hand, though she wasn’t very keen on it. She kept trying to take her hand back, but he held it firmly.
You need to be held in order to recover from seeing a thing, he said.
How horrible it was, she lamented, hardly having what he’d said and retrieving her hand for good. I have never before seen so much blood. Have you ever seen so much blood before? And on the street there, just on the street like that. It’s quite startling to think that we were just passing and it happened there on the street in front of us.
Yes, one hardly knows what one will see when one walks the streets at night, he replied. He ordered another beer and again asked her if she would drink hers, but she said that she could not bring herself to drink anything at all. This was not what he had hoped for and he became somewhat moody about it.
The least you can do is drink the beer you have in front of you, he said, sliding it closer to her on the small table. She took it in her hand but did not lift it to her mouth.
Really, I feel awful tonight, she said. I feel quite ill about it. The poor man! I can’t quite bear it. I can’t see how such a thing can happen.
You must know that such thing happen every day. You must read about it in the papers.
Oh, yes, of course I know it happens. It happens all the time, I know. I am not a silly girl who knows nothing of the world. But to see it happen before your eyes, now that is a different thing. That is a different thing altogether. Don’t you feel that it is so?
She looked at him beseechingly, her eyes brimming with tears as she thought it over in her head, and he put his hands to her face, caressing her cheek. She did not draw back, though she did seem startled by the gesture, and he was amazed at his own boldness. The drink had loosened him a great deal more than he realized and he was surprising himself.
Then, just as she was raising her eyes to his once more, he caught a glimpse of some figures in the window of the restaurant and rushed to his feet. She fell back in her chair and regarded him with surprise, the sorrow on her face replaced almost instantly with the kind of alarm that one feels only when a tender moment is all of a sudden wrenched away.
Please, I won’t be a moment, he said, and walked towards the door of the restaurant, leaving her alone at the table as the waiter brought their next round of drinks. She sat with the drinks before her and a bewildered look upon her face.
Outside, they crowded about him and he scolded them for coming.
Keep away from the window! He warned, pulling them towards the pharmacist’s next door. What are you thinking coming here and limbering past the window where you can be plainly seen?
They laughed at him and would not be quiet. They were amused with him and could not be calm, just as the girl could not be calm.
You did not do it! They laughed gleefully. We did just as you asked and you did not do it! She’ll never let you kiss her now. You will be sad tonight, sad and alone!
Don’t be such monkeys, he chastised, looking about him to see if anybody had taken notice. You mustn’t talk about this out in the air. What is the matter with you? I won’t speak of this a moment more.
Oh, yes you will, brother, they said, nearly dancing with the hilarity of it all. We did just as you asked. We brought a very small man, even smaller than you asked. And now you must pay us as you said you would! They were actually dancing now, two of them, dancing on the sidewalk. You must pay us even if you did not do as you said you would.
You came by too fast and did not give me time to think what I should do, he protested. I hadn’t a moment before it was all over. How could I think what to do so quickly? You did me wrong and I will not pay!
Oh yes, you will pay! They chorused, not at all bothered by his words. You will pay us because it was you who did not do as you said. We did it all just as planned. We even brought a smaller man than we discussed to make it easier for you. We did just as you asked, and you will pay.
A smaller man! He was so small I could hardly see him. And the street you picked was so dark, I could hardly see anything, Besides, I did not expect her to scream so.
Yes, they agreed, she did scream an awful lot. But this is not our fault, brother. We did as you asked and you will pay us.
Now there was a warning tone in their voices and he could not get out of it. He did not wish to make them angry, for they had certainly proven themselves no jokers tonight. They were serious men and he had to be serious with them now. He had no choice.
You will pay us now, they said, or we will go inside and tell her everything.
They advanced toward the window and he pulled them back by their collars in alarm.
Stay away from there, you monkeys, you numbskulls! He exclaimed. Of course, I’ll pay you. Though it was dark and I could hardly see and this wasn’t the result I had in mind at all, I will pay you as I said I would. I am an honest man, monkeys.
Oh, yes, an honest man, they teased crowding around him once more. He took out his billfold and their eyes grew wide at all the bills. Then he gave one bill to each other and they thanked him and were calmer. They did not ask for more than their share and he was glad.
What will you do now, Brother? They asked. How is she taking it?
Not well at all, he asked, he said, as he put his billfold away again. I must get back to her. She is very agitated.
Yes, but that is to be expected, they said. Women do get so agitated over trivial things. We tried to be neat about it.
You were hardly neat about it at all, he said, his voice could now that their transaction was done. You made such a mess of it, she’s almost distraught. I hardly asked for that.
Oh no brother, you are mistaken, they said, shaking their heads. You asked for just that. Do him in, is what you said. Make him right and scared and then do him in violently, just as you were passing. That is what we provided. We are always sure never to give more than what is asked.
Yes, I suppose I may have said some such things, he said, straightening his tie. Perhaps I didn’t think of what I was saying. But all has been taken care of thoroughly, am I right? You have taken all the necessary precautions?
You insult us brother? They asked innocently. We are not men to do things halfway. We know our business and we do it straight. All has been taken care of, brother. We do just as we are asked.
Good, he said, quite done with them. Now be off with you, I must go back to her. She is very upset.
He started toward the door to the restaurant and they bid him farewell in a delighted fashion. As he was opening the door, one of them called after him that perhaps next time he should choose a different sort of girl.
Choose a girl who loves a coward, he called, and you will never be sad and alone as you will be this night!
He told them again to be off and they laughed as they went waving their bills at him. When he returned to the table, she was indeed in tears and asked to be taken home. He took his seat and begun to drink.
We can’t she exclaimed, beside herself with distress now. Look at what I have found. There is blood on my dress! Blood, just here. Do you see it? Please I must go home.
He squinted at her dress but could see nothing at all, tough he took the opportunity to put his hand on her leg and leave it there.
Don’t you see? She asked him and he told her he didn’t see it and that he would ask the waiter for a cloth to wipe it away.
But I don’t want a cloth, she said mournfully. I want to go home. Please, take me home. It has been such a terrible night.
Drink and then we will go, he said, but she would have none and he soon gave up on it. He was completely drunk now, but still able to pay the check, and he did so as she waited by the door, anxious to leave.
He wove some as they walked on the street, but insisted that she take his arm all the same. He would walk her home and perhaps she would invite him in. inviting him in was certainly the courteous thing to do, and when she did, he would try what he might, although he was very drunk.
What a horrid night, she said, as they walked. Her home was not as close as she had mentioned and he was a little put out by it, though not much. He would go in and perhaps it would not be as sad as they said.
You know, I do feel bad that we simply ran off, she said. We ought to have done something for the poor man, although I’m quite sure he was killed. He was killed, wasn’t he?
Yes, it’s very sure he was killed, he said, for he knew it to be true.
I do feel bad that we did nothing at all, she went on as they walked. Don’t you feel you ought to have done something? Don’t you think you should have stepped in?
He did not like the turn this conversation was taking, but he felt absolutely incapable of turning it a different way. It had all gone wrong tonight and he’d been at fault in every way. It irritated him to be so at fault. She was such an irritating girl to be reminding him that he was sp at fault. It happened so quickly, he managed to say. I suppose I was simply alarmed.
Yes, but a courageous man would have stepped in, she said.
It hurt him so to hear these words. In his drunken state, he could hardly stand it. These were the words he had so been hoping to avoid. It cut him to the quick to hear them from her. He nearly wept.
They arrived at her door and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and told him that it had been a horrible night once more, before going in. she did not ask him to follow, though he waited a moment or two in expectation, after the door was closed. Then he turned and stumbled back down the stairs to the street and followed his own course home, lamenting the awful shame of being a coward and not being able to impress a girl, even with the help of monkeys.