Exceptional An old man is forced to deal with his future The Storm on Mallard Lake by jackiesmuse

Category:  General Fiction   Posted:  August 19, 2006      Views: 235

JACKIESMUSE  IN PRINT   ABOUT JACKIESMUSE  Jackiesmuse is a published writer, playwright, and composer. She co-wrote, designed and edited a history book, which is used as a supplemental text in colleges and universities. Jackie represented the United States in Sydney, Australia, where she sang her original songs in concert at the Sydney Domain. Her songs have won recognition in song competitions, and have received radio air play. Jackie's music is also used in video presentations, and can be found in libraries throughout the USA. Her stage plays have won recognition, and have been produced across the USA. Her one act play, Gray Lady's Angel Baby was chosen by the Dramatists Guild of America for a June, 2009 staged reading. TickTock, was chosen by the Guild for a June, 2008 staged reading. Her short play,'Freedom's Last Breath', was also chosen by the Guild for a June, 2007 staged reading. Jackie's play, 'One Flew into the Cuckoo's Nest', has won contest recognition. Her ten-minute play,'Brother Can You Spare Me?' was used by a high school for its state drama competitions in 2005 and 2006, as was her short play, 'The Nest', which was entered in 2007. She directed her short play, 'Gray Lady's Angel Baby' in a university setting (ASU West) in 2001, and was chosen (Fall, 2007-Phoenix College production) as musical director for the Readers Theatre play, "Memorial" by Charles Laborde. Jackie's non-fiction has been published in various publications. Her short story, 'Time Traveling in Pink Chenille' was chosen for inclusion in a national magazine. One of Jackie's musical dramas (Rocket City!) has enjoyed productions in Illinois, Texas and Arizona, and is under consideration for a Broadway staged reading in the near future. Other books by jackiesmuse coming soon... She has won several contests. The contest submission The Beldons, Alone Again was the first place winner in the contest Flash Fiction. Madam Kuro was the first place winner in the contest Strong Character. Freedom's Last Breath was the first place winner in the contest Strong Character. Portfolio | Become A Fan "Is anyone out there?" Laramie could hear someone moving through the woods; from the safety of the porch, he shined the flashlight toward the hazy pine tree silhouettes lining the north edge of Hallaran Cabins Resort. "Ellie, is that you?" No, she wouldn't cut through the woods. Slowly, the old man made his way down the cabin steps toward the sounds, the yellow bug light guiding his way. "Show yourself!" Shadows moved across the yard. Squinting, he tried to distinguish shapes, his night-blindness playing havoc with his vision. Suddenly feeling outnumbered, he yelled in the direction of the cabin, "CHARLIE SETTLEMEYER, GET YOUR BUTT OUT HERE. BRING YOUR SHOTGUN." His heart hammering, he backed up the steps. He shined the flashlight at the noises. "I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it!" he bluffed, never having fired a gun in all of his seventy-one years. Sounds like there's at least three of 'em! "SON, GET YOUR SKINNY BACKSIDE OUT HERE."  Grabbing the porch railing for support, he backed toward the door. "Show yourselves now, or I'll blow your miserable heads off!" As if on cue, a big, black Persian cat ambled out of the shadows, up the cabin steps, and into the yellow halo of the porch light. "For Pete's sake! You scared me half to death, and I'm already half dead. Ha!" Laramie ran his hand across the errant cat's matted coat. "You were makin' more noise than a band of banditos!" He shined the light into the darkness. "Are you sure you're alone, boy?" The resort's longtime mascot had disappeared into the woods weeks earlier; Laramie Settlemeyer figured he would never see his old friend again. Blackie meowed, and then licked his master's hand, putting the man at ease. "You've gotta be starved. Let's get you some chow, old boy." He turned off the flashlight and retrieved the Wisconsin Gazette from the dense bushes that hugged the porch, as he made his way to the door. "Only place I didn't think to look this morning." Laramie pushed open the screen door and threw the rubber-banded missile on the knotty pine bench just inside the door; Blackie scooted through the cabin's entryway, happy to be home. ... The cat lapped milk from a saucer in the corner of the kitchen while his master rummaged through the cabinets. "Only bluffin' about Charlie, 'though I'm sure I didn't fool you," he said as he placed a can of tuna on the counter. "You know my kid would never dream of showin' up when I really needed him." He opened the utensil drawer while the cat licked the bowl clean. "I was prayin' Ellie might stop by tonight with some good news about the council vote. That doesn't mean I'm not happy to see you, old boy. I most certainly am. Ha!" Ellie Schabas, the councilwoman for the resort's district, was passionately opposed to the new interstate; and Laramie became the poster child for her cause. "Mr. Settlemeyer is a good example of what the 101 has done to the businesses off old Route 30," she said at September's heated council meeting as she gently massaged the old man's tense shoulders. "Please tell the good gentlemen how many cabins at your resort are presently occupied by paying customers." "Not a one!" Laramie said in the biggest voice he could muster as he pulled his shoulders back. "I live in Cabin One, if that counts." "Lacking sufficient funds to heat it, he had to board up his home of forty-five years; the home where his son was born; the home where his dear wife, Gwyneth, took her last breath." "Closed up tighter than a drum." "Just to make ends meet!" Ellie added. "I had to hock most of my stuff," Laramie said as he got to his feet. "It's been a real pain in the butt! No TV. Sold it. No radio. Sold it to old man Withers. Ten bucks is all I got for it!"  No one stopped him, so the poster child continued. "No hot water. Can't afford the gas bill. I smell like a mountain goat. Couldn't get a date if I tried."  He glanced over at Ellie and winked. "You can take your seat, Mr. Settlemeyer. I think we've made our point." "I'm just gettin' started." The old man stood up a little straighter and looked the council members in the eyes. "I can't even afford a dang haircut. I look like a left-over hippie in this gol-darned ponytail!" Using up the last of his breath, he added, "And, Ma Bell is about to shut off my telephone!" "An exit ramp at Mallard Lake Road is the only equitable solution for the businesses located along that route," Ellie said as she eased the breathless, out-of-control poster child back into his chair. "I am trusting that you will vote with your conscience at next month's board meeting!" The final vote coincidentally fell on Laramie's seventy-first birthday, a prophetic happenstance that made him hopeful about the outcome.  "I thought for sure Ellie'd stop by, or at least call," he said, can opener in hand. "It's been over twenty-four hours since they voted." He glanced at the rolled-up newspaper on the bench, then at the cat. "Should I ruin my day?" Having finished his milk, Blackie looked over at the tuna can on the counter. "Oh, you just want me for my fish." Laramie picked up the can, and then squatted down to pet the cat with his other hand. "You know, boy, I've got a bit of a crush on that little gal, whatever the vote." Blackie meowed. "No, I'm not kidding myself. A sweet young thing like her wouldn't want a shriveled up old coot like me!" The cat rubbed up against his master's pant leg as he eyed the tuna. "I hear you," Laramie said as he struggled to a standing position as he leaned on the counter. "Can't fault an old man for dreamin'." Noticing the bottle of Johnny Walker on the counter, Laramie put aside the task at hand, filled a jelly glass to the brim, and raised it. "I'd like to propose a toast to you, Blackie. Welcome home!" He tossed it back and poured another. "And, to the birthday boy." he toasted, downing that one, too. "Blackie, you and me could paint the town, if only we could get there. Ha!"  One year earlier, when Laramie's night vision had become an issue, his only child had driven out from Chicago and put the Land Rover up on blocks in the resort's storage shed; and then had driven off with the vehicle's key and title, grounding the impaired man. "You sneaky little weasel!" Laramie called after Charlie's black Mercedes as it disappeared down Mallard Lake Road. "I can still kick your butt!" Not three months later, as pigeon droppings and dust accumulated on the Rover's once pristine red surface, his son had paid another surprise visit to the beleaguered man. "Ever think about callin' first?" Laramie said as he stood at the screen door, Johnny Walker bottle hidden behind his back. "Nah, you'd rather sneak up on a helpless old man!" Arms folded, Charlie answered with a question. "Is it true?" "It's a free dang country. I can do what I want!" "Is it true, Dad?" "Old man Withers and that big, fat mouth of his!" Laramie hid the Johnny Walker bottle under the entry bench, opened the screen door, and continued. "Come on in, as long as you drove all the way from the city." Charlie glanced at the bottle hidden under the bench as he entered the sparsely-furnished cabin. "Did you sell everything?" "Did you have to bribe him, or did he sing like a canary?" "What possessed you to sell the television and the radio? Those were gifts." Laramie called his son's gifts conscience soothers. Charlie never brought his children to visit their only living grandfather. "Pop a squat, kid," he said as he motioned to the rocker. "Best seat in the house." Only seat in the house. Ha!  "Thanks, no. It was a long drive," his son said as he nosed around the room.  "How are Emily and little Charlie? They must be getting big." "Emily just turned seven, and Charlie Jr. will be nine next month." "Any new pictures?" The most recent pictures Laramie had were of the children as toddlers. "Not with me." Charlie doodled in the dust on the window ledge as he looked out at the lake. "Dad?" "Yeah, let's just cut to the chase, why don't we?" "You can't possibly know what's going on in the world without a TV or a radio!" "The reception out here stinks!" Laramie countered as he followed behind his son. "But, thanks to you and your overwhelmin' generosity, I have a daily paper, and keep up with current events just fine, thank you. And, what else is on your mind?" "The furniture. Why did you sell that -- bad reception?" "Ha! Good one." "Well?" "Well, Your Honorless, a few months back someone stole the key and title to my faithful Land Rover -- a highly-desirable vehicle that would have brought in a mighty good buck had I been able to sell it!" "Not if you and Johnny had wrapped it around a goddamn tree one night," Charlie said as he stopped and turned abruptly. Laramie put on his brakes, just missing a collision. "You don't need to take the Lord's name in vain, young man!" he said as he faced off against the taller man, wishing he had a breath mint. "Do you need money? Is that what this is about?" "No!" "Then why did you sell Mom's furniture?" "It was mine, too!" "You closed up the house. Why?" "It is in my name, in case that little factoid slipped outta your pea brain!" "Living in this dingy cabin like a homeless hippy. Mom's rolling over in her grave!" "She was cremated." "You know exactly what I mean, Dad! Don't get cute with me! I'll write you a check if you need money!" "I'm rollin' in dough!" "Then you're certifiable!" "You just try to lock me up somewhere. I dare you, sonny boy!" The harsh words continued flying until Charlie slammed out the screen door and peeled out of the driveway in his fancy black car, leaving his father in his dust, once again. And, that was the last Laramie had seen of his son. ... Blackie's dinner was once again delayed as the old man settled into his rocking chair, drink in hand. Laramie glanced out at the inky clouds suddenly rolling across Mallard Lake. "Looks like we're in for one helluva thunder-boomer. If we had some hatches I'd batten 'em down." He took a long drink and then sang himself to sleep as the storm moved in, "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Nobody knows but Jesus..." The storm built as the cabin's occupants snoozed, the old man's drink tipped over in his lap. Lightning struck nearby, startling both cat and man from their respective naps; the jelly glass bounced across the braided rug in front of the rocker. "What a waste of good scotch whisky." Laramie leaned over to pick up his glass. "I smell like Timberline Tavern. I must've painted the town in my dreams. I hope I had fun. Ha!" The power went out, and then came back on. "Sure we wish we had a radio so we could find out what's up with this weather." He pressed his handkerchief into the wet wool, blotting up the scotch. "Maybe I should've hung on to the Zenith. Ten bucks! Withers stole it from me-the blabbermouth cheapskate! Guess I could call him, since he's got a radio. Ha! " Sometimes Charlie made good sense, not that his father would admit it to his face. He was a successful lawyer; and after all, he had been raised by Gwyneth and Laramie Settlemeyer -- well, mostly by Gwyneth, if truth be known. The father had been too busy running the resort to spend much time with his only child. He knew he couldn't fool Charlie for too much longer, now that the real estate taxes were coming due. His savings account was down to less than fifty dollars, and the only things left to sell (other than the whole kit and caboodle ) were his rocker, seven fishing boats, and the meager contents of the fourteen cabins. He did have three cases of Johnny Walker Scotch Whiskey stashed in the bedroom closet (and three bottles in the cabinet above the Kelvinator), but that was for consumption. His financial future hinged on either hand-outs from his son, or the exit ramp -- that tiny little piece of blacktop that could give him his life back, free and clear. What had been could be again he was thinking just as the power went out. ... A half hour later, Laramie, the flashlight in his damp lap, woke to Blackie leaning on his chest as he licked his master's stubbly cheek. "We're both gonna nap our lives away if we're not careful, old boy." He turned off the flashlight, gave the cat a pat and deposited him gently on the floor. "Well, at least the power's back on. If we had a boob tube, we could watch it. Ha!" "I know what you want," he said, as he gave a nudge with his slipper-socked foot. Blackie looked up at the old man and meowed. Laramie picked up the stack of unopened mail. "Let me sort through this first, while the power's still on. Then I'll get your tuna. Cross my heart." He positioned his readers on the end of his nose. "Could be a check for a million bucks in here!" He sorted through the bills and junk mail; the last thing in the pile was a pink envelope. The name on the return address was Lolly Windsor, his son's mother-in-law; Laramie hadn't seen Lolly since Charlie and Ruth's wedding. What does she want? He tore open the envelope; inside was a flowery birthday card with a letter tucked inside. He unfolded the pink scented parchment paper and started reading aloud.  Dearest Laramie, "Did you hear that Blackie? She called me dearest. She wasn't too hard on the eyes-well, ten years ago, anyway." Blackie, having distanced himself from Laramie's foot, was now curled up near the cabin door.  I know it's been a while, so I thought I'd drop you a line. Charlie Jr. and little Emily are getting so big; but I'm sure you have the latest photos. Don't be too sure, Lolly. Charlie told me about your eyes. I have been having the same problem, and haven't driven in three years. Your precious 'Ruthie' drives you everywhere.  I know that Charlie's great grandfather built the resort after emigrating from Ireland, but now that the interstate has bypassed it... "Wake up, Blackie. You gotta hear the punch line!" I'm glad you are being sensible, and at least considering Charlie's suggestion. Selling it to the developer would be the wisest thing you could do. "Bingo!"  Well, I just want you to know that Charlie has a room all ready for you, down the hall from mine. How cozy! Take care, and I hope to see you fairly soon.  Love, Lolly Love, Lolly-my butt! Laramie crumpled up the letter and threw it in the wastebasket just as the phone rang. "Way too much excitement for one day, I'd say. Ha!" He put the handset to his ear. "It's your dime." ... "Charlie? My son?"... "I didn't recognize your voice."... "Very busy, actually."... "Oh, this and that." He winked at the yawning cat. "And, you? Busy I'm sure." ... "Yep, it's stormin' like a banshee here."... "Yep."... "Yesterday. Seventy one."... "Oh, I'm sure it's on the way, knowin' your Ruthie. Prob'ly with pictures of the kids." Hint, hint. "Got a card from Lolly." ..."Your mother-in-law?" ... "I'm fine. Why?" ... "I am not slurring my words!"... "What in the hell does that mean?"..." Haven't had a damn thing to drink in over a week, except water, maybe. Or is that on the forbidden beverage list, too?"... "Cut to the chase. It's way past my bedtime." Laramie waited. "Oh, goddamn it to hell-spit it out already!" ... "I'll take the Lord's name in vain if I want to."... "Over my dead body!" ... "That car title is still in my name." ... "What bills?"... "Like old man Withers knows anything about my business." ... "I don't need your damn money." Laramie knew the resort was the next topic up for discussion. "I don't want to talk about it!"... "I don't care how much they're offerin', damn it!"... "I am not an alcoholic. Where in the hell did that come from?"... "You're tryin' to throw me off topic. I know you and your sneaky ways, Mr. Lawyer!"... "Stop trying to trip me up!" He jumped up from the rocker, scotch bottle in hand. "My Grandpa Hallaran built this resort with his own hands!" ... "There is no upkeep!" ... "It's an investment in your future. You are gonna inherit it!" ... "IT IS NOT WORTHLESS." Laramie slammed back the rest of the scotch, and threw the empty bottle at the knotty pine wall, just missing the cat. Not if I sell it to the developers, it isn't. Right, sonny boy?  Unable to catch his breath, he sat back down. "It's what your mother would have wanted. Last thing we ever discussed, keeping the resort in the family," he lied as he crossed his fingers. "So, we're not sellin' it, or the Land Rover!" Laramie rocked, regaining his composure while Charlie ranted. ... "Well, my dear boy, it sounds to me like there's nothing left to discuss," he said in a surprisingly controlled voice. "I have to feed Blackie now. Have a good day, son!"..."Yes, the cat came back!" He cradled the handset, and headed for the kitchen. Blackie hurried over to his master as he opened the can of tuna and placed it next to the empty milk saucer. Laramie gently stroked his friend's head while Blackie devoured the fish. "I guess you're my only real friend, my dear old cat. The least I can do is keep your tummy full." He left Blackie to his meal and grabbed another bottle of Johnny Walker from the cabinet.  "I am not an alcoholic!" He twisted the top, breaking the seal, as he glanced down at the cat. "Am I, Blackie?" The cat kept his head buried in the tuna can. Laramie looked out the window at the lake. Gale-force winds were whipping it into a frenzy. Through his failing retinas, Laramie could only make out vague shapes of the rental boats tied up at the pier being tossed about like toy boats in a Jacuzzi. "Maybe Ellie can give us a head's up?" He walked over to the phone as he perched his readers on his nose. "I hate to call her, under the circumstances, but it's gettin' pretty ugly out there." He pressed the 'talk' button over and over, waiting for a dial tone as he paced and swigged. "Dead as a doornail, compliments of Ma Bell or Mother Nature," he said, as he finally gave up. The metal garbage can from Cabin Two flew past the window, and crashed into the porch railing. "Holy mackerel!" Blackie looked up from his meal in the direction of the noise. "That wind gets any stronger, we'll be on our way to Oz!  And, I'm fresh out of ruby slippers." He sat down on the entry bench, placing the bottle next to him, and traded out his slipper socks for the red wool stockings and hiking boots he kept near the door.  Blackie gobbled up the last of the tuna, and then ran his fishy tongue over his graying whiskers as he walked over to the bench. Laramie pulled the rubber band from the Gazette and unrolled it. "I guess curiosity just got the better of this old cat." The headline caught his eye: COUNCILWOMAN DIES IN FIERY CRASH. The picture under the headline jumped out from the page. Ellie Schabas smiled back at him with her perfect white teeth. The newspaper fell from the old man's hands and fluttered to the floor. He pulled his yellow slicker from the peg above the bench, jammed his arms into the sleeves, and pulled up the slicker hood. He memorized the room, grabbed the open bottle of Johnny Walker and headed numbly into the stormy night; Blackie scooted out the screen door just before it slammed shut. The wind slashed the slicker hood from Laramie's head as he instinctively wandered in the direction of the pier, swigging scotch from the bottle. The tire swing his father made for him when he was a boy had been torn from the tree -- the ancient rope finally giving way. Bareheaded, he made his way down the grassy incline, slipping and sliding as he stumbled forward. He heard a loud 'crack' nearby; the smell of ozone filled the air. Thunder rattled the pier just as Laramie's boots hit the wooden deck, his left foot crashing through the rotting slats. While he twisted and thrashed like a grizzly bear stuck in a trap, the bottle slipped from his hand, rolling off the pier into the churning black water. His foot finally breaking free, he limped off the pier, choking on the sideways rain as sleet pelted his cheeks raw, and plastered his long gray hair against his face. His every fiber strained under the weight of his sodden boots and clothing as he staggered along the shore. The shivering man turned toward the warmth and safety of the cabin, only to find the old knotty pine structure had been obliterated by the lightning strike. He looked toward the crest of the hill and saw the hazy silhouette of the Settlemeyer home and fell to his knees, overcome by emotion that the house had been spared. He collapsed against the bow of one of the boats that had been tossed up onto the shore by the storm. "Pick a boat Larry, any boat. Just remember, seven is a really lucky number, my boy," Grandpa Hallaran would say as he checked the bobbers. Laramie would always jump into Boat Seven. Grandpa would hand him the poles and bait bucket, climb in, shove off, and row them out to the middle of Mallard Lake, smooth as glass, and blue as a robin's egg. The two fishermen would return home a few hours later-their stringers weighted down with bluegills, crappies and walleyes-every single time. He touched the number plate on the bow of the skewed boat and smiled. Boat Seven!  He squeezed under the lucky boat with his last ounce of strength, finding partial shelter from the wind and biting rain as he fought for one breath, lightning and thunder exploding all around him. In the safety of his cocoon, Laramie drifted off. He dreamt of his childhood on Mallard Lake, and the first time he had dog-paddled out to the raft moored off shore, his dad cheering him on. Suddenly he was a teenager, kissing Gwyneth at the high school dance at Barton's Cove. Then, he was holding his newborn son, Charles -the screaming, red-faced little bundle of energy that had brought him so much joy. Not a minute later, he was pushing Charles on the tire swing; and, then, with three fishing poles in the back of Boat Seven, he was rowing his grandchildren to Mallard Lake's best fishing spot.  Next, Ellie came into his mind's eye. She was carrying a bouquet of helium-filled birthday balloons and a cake with seventy one lighted candles blazing away ... A warm, raspy lick on his stubbly cheek broke Laramie's reverie. He opened his eyes and saw Blackie; then shifting his position, made room for the water-logged feline. "Sounds like the worst of it is over." Laramie undid his slicker and Blackie curled up against his warm chest. "We made it through, old boy. Ha!" The bedraggled cat licked Laramie's cheek again. "How would you feel about becomin' a city kitty?" He gently tapped Blackie on the tip of his nose. "I just wanted to run that by you, in case the council voted us down." Laramie tried to take a deep breath, but settled for a shallow one. "And, if they didn't, I owe it to Ellie's mem'ry to give Hallaran Cabins Resort another go." Blackie meowed. "I'll put an ad in the Gazette for a caretaker. He can drive the Land Rover. I'll hit Charlie up for some workin' capital, and maybe some free labor on the weekends from the whole fam-damly. Get this place back on its feet. Ha!" Laramie, alive for the first time in a long time, breathlessly continued his honey-do list in the safety of his shelter. "Gotta get the boats upright and back in the water. The Rover needs a bath, and the swing needs a new rope, for starters." Blackie climbed out from the safety of the slicker and licked his master's cheek again. "I love you, too," he said to the damp cat. "Remind me to call Allstate. I hope I mailed that last insurance payment. Oh, and don't forget to remind me to get a couple cases of Star-Kist." Blackie's ears perked up as scarlet tanagers and cuckoos began their morning songs in the distance. He scooted out from under the overturned boat, and disappeared over the grassy knoll toward the bird songs. Knees creaking, Laramie crawled out into the clear October morning: this virgin day dawning fresh and new, the grassy knoll as green as Grandpa Hallaran's Ireland, the sky as clear as the first promise. He looked out across Mallard Lake glistening in the sunlight, smooth as glass and blue as a robin's egg -- and he smiled. Recognized Share your own writing! - Information on our membership for writers. Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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