Short Fiction

Issue III | Contents | Fiction

Steve Wilcox

University of Guelph,

Ontario, Canada

           “Can you check again?” I asked. He ignored.

“There is a procedure that would likely cure you, but it’s costly.”

“How costly?” I pried.

“Ten thousand dollars, that’s how costly. And without life insurance,” I’m sure he meant health, “You can’t afford this operation.”

“So, what you’re saying is…?”

“You’ve got one week.”

I paused and reflected on the proclamation, “A business week or a full week?”

That’s when I got thrown out of the office and out onto the street. I straightened my tweed jacket and ran my fingers through my thick blonde hair. It wasn’t that I was trying to get under my physician’s skin. I really wanted to know if he meant five days or seven. I just wanted the blunt and honest truth. Maybe that was asking too much.

 For some reason at that exact moment I felt like ice cream; a strawberry-cheesecake cone would really fill the void at this point. After a short walk I was dealt my second and perhaps most fatal blow of the day: Baskin Robbins was closed. No matter how hard I pulled on those door handles I was still locked out of my recompense.

“First I’m going to die and now this” I screamed through sheer disgust for the reality of the situation. A man walked past me, casting a skeptical look as he pushed the door open and walked into the ice cream parlor. I blinked twice and then regained my composure.

Once inside I approached my server and pointed out what I desired.

“That’ll be two fifty,” he stated, handing the cone across the counter.

I reached into my pocket for change and then something suddenly came to my attention. I cleared my throat then said, “I’m dying.”

His bottom jaw dropped a few inches, “Of course your ice cream is gratis, sir.”

I smiled at my server and vacated the parlor. Maybe things weren’t going to be so bad after all.

As I walked down the street I took healthy bites out of my treat. The day was overcast and gloomy, a pathetic fallacy of my situation. Someone liked clichés.

As I was strolling along I looked across the street to see my father.

“Hey, Dad!” I called out. He waved in recognition and started across the street.

Black. Fast. Crunch. Crumpled. Those words comprised my thoughts in the few seconds it took for the black Mercedes-Benz to run down my father. I ran out onto the street to aid the crippled man.

“Dad, I’m here” I said as I held his crumpled form in my arms.

“Will,” he said in a gruff and aggravated tone, “why does my head hurt so much?”

I shifted my gaze to his forehead. What I saw made my face scrunch up and I pulled back in surprise. Squarely centered on my father’s forehead was the exact imprint of the Mercedes hood ornament.

“Nothing Dad, nothing at all.” There was no need to complicate his pain. I couldn’t think of much else to say except, “Would you like some ice cream?”

“I would love some,” he replied.

 The driver of the car, a man whose name I would later learn to be Mr. Tafe, looked horrified as a man quite mortally wounded lay in front of his automobile eating strawberry cheesecake ice cream with his son.

“I…it…,” Mr. Tafe stammered, “It was…inevitable.”

*  *

I splashed some water on my face in the little bathroom attached to Dad’s hospital room. Though the collision had fatally wounded him machines whined and whizzed keeping his life suspended in a coma. Mom and Sis met me at the hospital. They hadn’t moved from Dad’s bedside since their arrival.

As the water ran down my face I saw a middle aged man starring back at me in the bathroom mirror. A chiseled and stern face was the reflection of my own. Some people would call my looks ruggedly handsome. I call those people helplessly shallow.

After drying my hands I walked back into the main room. Afternoon rays trickled in through the window casting the room in a light and hazy hue. Mom and Sis stood around Dad as he lay peacefully on his bed. Beside him, atop the bedside table, was a beautiful collection of Trifolium repens, otherwise known as clovers. They were a gift from Ms. Routfen, the wife of Mr. Tafe. Each little plant had four leaves. It was a vain gesture of good fortune.

As we stood around the felled man none of us could help our eyes from being drawn to that symbol brandished on his forehead. It stared back at us, like it was watching out for him. It occurred to me as I stood over Dad’s unconscious body that I was the last man in the line of our family. I was the only one who could carry on our family name. The fate of our lineage rested heavily on my shoulders. This disheartening thought dampened my mood and with the air around me every bit as vocal as my family I decided to break the silence,

 “Mom, I’m dying.”

She looked up from Dad and said flatly, “Will, I don’t have time for melodrama. Perhaps your sister can be of some comfort?”

I looked over at the young woman. She had short cropped blonde hair. Her face looked as though she had just sucked on a thousand lemons; all pursed up with squinty eyes.

“Sis, I’m going to die in one week.”

She turned her sour-face in my direction. It was impossible to tell exactly where she was looking for her eyes were always obscured by her puckered expression.

“A business week or a full week?”

“I’m not sure” I replied in all honesty.

“Well, we’re all going to die in a week, Will,” she said in a harsh tone, “For a week is a month is a year is a century. Now please, I must watch to see when Dad expires.”

“What? Why?”

“What? Why” she replied, mocking my earnest tone. “To get my inheritance you twit! Dad left us all money in his will but until he’s dead we can’t claim it!”

Now, don’t get my sister wrong. She loved Dad, we all did. But some of us loved money more. You see, money by nature is a lonely creature searching for companionship. Some feel compelled to bring those creatures together.

 “How much did he leave us?”

“It’s always questions with you, Will!” she said without taking her eyes off Dad. With each breath those machines pushed into him, Sis held her own in anticipation.

“Come on Sis; how much did he leave us?”

 “If you really must know, it’s around ten thousand dollars” she said curtly.

“Why, that’s exactly the amount of money I need for my life-saving procedure!” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Pipe down Will,” Mom chided absently, “everyone needs a life-saving procedure, not just you.”

It would seem that I’ve become a victim of a vicious plot; one that pits my life against my father’s. His death is my only salvation. What cruel and malicious being would craft such a wicked complication? I didn’t have the answer to that question but I did know who was at least partly responsible.

“Curse Tafe and his disregard for life” I said under my breath.

Mom rose from beside Dad’s bed, “I’m going to get some fresh air, it is too repressing in here.” I’m sure she meant depressing.

After Mom left, Sis slowly moved closer to where I was standing. “Will, I need your help” she said in a soft plea, like a dog whimpering for a treat as though it was a matter of life or death. “I have a bank loan due at the end of the week, and without your help I will surely be in dire straights.” She paused for a moment, trying to pull more drama into her melodramatic speech. “Please, Will, help me.”

Her plea was like a vice around my morality, I felt compelled to help her. “Anything I can do,”

“Do you see that?” she said, pointing to the long cord running from the respirator into the outlet in the wall. “That Dad’s life; an electronic current keeping him from a world far better than this and keeping that inheritance out of our pockets. I need that money, Will.” She paused in her speech. I looked down to see glimmering eyes tucked away in the folds of her pursed expression. “All you have to do is pull that cord.”

Before me lies life; an awe-inspiring miracle of vast complexity reduced to the same source which powers my blender at home. I needed that inheritance to save my own life, but was this cure not more deadly than the disease? And who did Sis think she was; asking me to end dear Dad’s life?!

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” I asked, making my offense apparent in my tone.

“Because I’m not you!” she shouted, casting off her composure. She was very much like a dog become rabid; calm and loveable one minute then vicious and terrible the next. “Haven’t you figured it out yet Will?! You’re the only one that can do anything.”

Just then Mom entered the room. Sis, flushed red with anger, stormed out the doorway. Mom seemed not to take notice, keeping up with her usual apparent lack of interest in the lives of others around her. She often reminded me of a cat sleeping with one eye open, peering out into the world; always watching but never seeing. She was passive to life so long as life was passive to her.

“Will, I want you to come here for a second,” she said, beckoning me to sit beside her alongside Dad’s bed. As I obeyed I looked over my father. His expression looked peaceful, the corners of his mouth were slightly curled and his cheeks outlined a smile.

“It looks like he’s in pain, doesn’t it?” she whispered, seemingly to herself.

I looked at Mom and then back at Dad. I took in his long face and big nostrils. Often I likened him to a horse; a strong and determined working man. He was not only supportive but dependable and in this barnyard family he was the only figure keeping the farm alive. But if he was the workhorse, than I was surely the farmer. Dad had always viewed me as a freeloader, cashing in on the success and labors of others. It’s not that I couldn’t live my life on my own but it’s just easier to hitch a ride than it is to walk.

As I scanned Dad’s face for expression I once again found my eyes drawn to the emblem imprinted on his forehead. Even though Mr. Tafe had been the cause of this ordeal he left an interesting token of his condolence. The word ‘Mercedes’ meant mercy. The emblem branded on his forehead seemed like nothing but a plea for forgiveness. But at the same time it was arrogant, leaving a corporate symbol that represented wealth and power. It made the accident seem like a simple business transaction between Tafe and some unseen employer.

“He’s dying, Will. Deep down he’s dying, from the inside out.”

“So am I, Mom” I replied.

Slowly she swiveled her head to face me. I think I’ve awakened the cat from her nap.

“What did you say?” Her voice was icy smooth; it beguiled the ferocious emotion that flared in her eyes.

“I’m dying Mom.” I didn’t know whether to shy away or to stand my ground. Felines are unpredictable, one minute their claws are sheathed and the next they are lashing out for your flesh.

“This man is in pain,” her face shook as she spoke. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Your Dad is in a world of pain and all you can do is plea for your own selfish life?! You should be ashamed of yourself,” she cast her eyes away from mine, hiding her shame of me. “You owe it to your Dad to end his pain, Will. You and you alone can spare him this torment that you’re more deserving of than him.”

I can’t help but feel like I’m the last leaf on an autumn tree fighting against the wind, clinging to my last thread of determination that is the bare branch. The wind twists and turns my very being, shaking my resolve, pushing and pulling me in directions I know not if I want to go. What I do know, though, is once that attachment is broken I will forever become a slave to the wind.

“And why don’t you end his pain, Mom?”

She shook her head. Each sway reinforced the disappointment she felt towards me, her son. Then suddenly she lashed out, her hand moved with cat-like speed and equal precision. I felt my face begin to burn. I could tell by the burgundy on her nails that she had drawn blood.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Will. You know that you’re the only one that can take action.”

The wind began to blow harder; its force ravaged my very being. How long before the cold and dead winter settles on me? Can I last an entire season; the last leaf on the tree? Has a leaf ever lasted so long?

I needed answers.

Before I dashed out of the room I said, “I loathe you Mom!” I meant love. 

* * *

“Do come in, Will” said the woman as she beckoned me inside the massive mansion. Her countenance was comforting in the oddest sense. Long winter days spent in the cold were remedied by a seat beside the fire; this woman replicated that warmth. She had said four syllables and already I was in love with her. It wasn’t Hollywood love. It was the plain and uncomplicated kind.

“Mr. Tafe will be down shortly,” she said, leading me into what appeared to be a lounge. The room was brightly lit by an enormous stone fireplace. Facing the fireplace was a large red leather sofa. It was all too inviting as Ms. Routfen sat down and beckoned me to sit beside her. As I sunk into the plush leather I let my body sink into pure comfort. With the warmth of the fire dancing across my face and the sweet-musky smell of burning wood fluttering into my nostrils I felt all too relaxed.

 “I know why you’re here, Will.” Her voice was as soft as silk and it lightly tickled my ears as her words drifted into my brain. “I feel terrible about your father.”

“I know; it’s quite unfortunate,” I said, turning to fully face my host.

The middle-aged woman laughed harmoniously at my reply. As she did I took in all of her features; the only true word to describe her was soft. Her eyes. Her face. Her hair. They were all soft. It was almost like a hue had settled around her and the fire beside us seemed paled by her natural radiance.

“I wouldn’t call it un-fortunate,” she said. “Will, what happened was not part of some master plan, its not some higher force trying to punish you. It’s simply a string of events that led to this outcome.”

“But why? Why am I in this bind? What is so special about me that I am centered in this wicked tale?”

“It’s simple Will, it’s because…”

“Silence your vile tongue, woman!” shouted a voice that echoed off the walls. I looked around and found the source on the top of a flight of stairs that led into the lounge. Mr. Tafe was making his way down the steps clad in a royal purple housecoat. Of course he also had a corncob pipe in his hand. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs he motioned for me to get up.

“This woman is not to be trusted,” said Mr. Tafe as he put his hand over my shoulder and lead me out the back of the room. “She knows nothing but lies.”

“Oh, you old fool,” called out Ms. Routfen. “You’ll regret this.” Suddenly her voice wasn’t as silky smooth; it was harsh and it cut like a whip through the air.

Mr. Tafe seemed to ignore the threat as he led me out of the room through massive glass doors. He guided me down a hallway which was decorated in the oddest sense. One could not rest his eyes without laying them upon a painting of Mr. Tafe. Everywhere I looked I saw the man striking poses of grandeur. Each painting was set in a different era, from the biblical times to feudal England. It was if the man celebrated his personal glory every century.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if this hallway was big enough for the three of us, the third being my host’s ego, we exited through a back door. I now stood atop a massive set of sandstone stairs. At least forty steps elevated us above the garden that flourished below. At the base of the staircase was a near completed statue of what appeared to a giant phallus.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Mr. Tafe followed my gaze, “Ah, I see you’ve noted my tower. Quite remarkable isn’t it? Just look at the size of it. It’s my most wonderful creation. Ms. Routfen thinks I spend more time working on it than I do spending time with her. But what does she know?”

The well-featured man drew a leather pouch from within his robe and began packing his pipe. As he did so a little creature caught my attention. At the top step an ant was trying to move a pebble. It was like Atlas trying to move the world. The pebble was almost twice the size of the insect. But with the utmost determination the ant and the stone slowly made their way across the sandstone step.

After Mr. Tafe had lit his pipe and let out a few billows of smoke he turned to face me.

“My God, what happened to your face?” he cried incredulously. Almost instinctually I ran my fingers across the cuts on my face. “What are those, cat scratches?”

 “You might say that” I replied.

“Well, anyway, I know why you’re here Will. Answers. You want answers. And I have them for you.” His voice seemed old and aged as he spoke but he didn’t look a day over thirty. “You have little less than six days to live, and you want to know whether your father’s life is worth your own; is that it?”

“That’s exactly it.”

“And you want to know why everyone turns to you; why you’re the only one that can take action.”

I can feel my anticipation boiling over. It was as if I was about to finally complete a great quest. For life is all about one thing: answers. Aren’t we all looking for answers?

“First things first; you have no choice when it comes to whether your father lives or dies. There is a force in all of our lives, an unseen hand guiding us through this journey. It follows a plan and maintains a rhythm. What becomes of you and your father has already been decided. There is no such thing as chance or fortune, only a set path that we all blindly follow. Like a trail covered with snow, we ignorantly follow the concealed path.

“The reason everyone turns to you for action is because you are uncovering that path. Think of your future as freshly fallen snow. You’re forging through the unknown, revealing that hidden path. Others are fearful of becoming lost and so they follow in your footprints. It is as plain and as simple as that.”

I was frozen in confusion. The analogy was complicated, like a puzzle where all the pieces fit but what the hell was the picture they formed? I could only decipher the most simplistic meaning from his words: I was the only person that acted, not simply reacted. But what was the reason behind all of this? What was this master plan and why could I not see where the path led? My mind had quickly turned from eagerly curious to painfully confused.

“Do you and Ms. Routfen often argue?” I asked, wishing to ease the brain tension I was experiencing.

“We have slightly different views,” said Mr. Tafe somewhat distantly. I watched as his gaze slowly shifted to the statue at the base of the stairs. “Let me show you the sheer marvel of this structure, Will.” As he said this he took a step downwards. At that exact moment little Atlas moved his world right into the shadow of Mr. Tafe’s shoe. He slipped on the tiny stone and tumbled, awkwardly, down the dozens of stairs. He carried with him so much momentum that when he reached the bottom he careened into the statue, fracturing its base. I watched with incredulous eyes as the giant phallus toppled over and crushed its owner.

 Quickly I dashed down the stairs. “Mr. Tafe, are you okay?” I said trying to lift the enormous stone pride. It was too heavy, and too large.

“Curse that woman!” shouted the man trapped in an ego nightmare. It was obvious that he was horribly wounded. “I’ll be alright, Will. This isn’t the first time this has happened.” His words sounded labored and dull. “Perhaps you should head home.”

I did just that. As I walked up the stairs I noticed out of the corner of my eye the curtains sway in a window that overlooked the courtyard. In a fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of the beautifully wicked side of Ms. Routfen.

As I left the bizarre home my head was brimming with enticing enigmas that needed careful analysis before I could breach the dilemma that awaited me at the hospital.

*  *

I arrived at the hospital riding on the cusp of the first snowfall of the season. It had been five days since I left Mr. Tafe in those unfortunate circumstances. I could procrastinate no longer. When I walked into Dad’s room neither Mom nor Sis was anywhere to be found. I walked over to the window, not wanting my gaze to fall upon the half-machine half-man that my father had become.

Dad’s hospital room was several stories off the ground floor. It faced out onto the courtyard, giving a spectacular view of various trees and a small stream that meandered around them. It was quite ironic that they would give such a marvelous view to such an incapacitated patient.

The sun had just settled below the horizon when I arrived and now the moon, mildly luminous, was piercing through the paper-thin clouds at the other end of the sky. Snowflakes danced and glistened in the faint evening glow. The flakes seemed to cling to everything, lightly dusting the trees like icing sugar on a cake. Everything seemed frozen in perpetual glimmer. I watched as some of the flakes sashayed downward until they reached the stream where they vanished, becoming one with the current.

As I devoured the marvel before me I noticed a maple tree amongst the other evergreens. It was both bare and beautiful for the light coat of winter paint softened its naked body. Then I saw it: the most beautiful thing in the world. It was inspirational beyond capacity; a work of art that surpassed the skill of any artist. It was the simplicity of the natural and the complexity of nature. Now I knew beyond a doubt what I had to do.

Grasping the small cord in my hand I yearned to end the buzzing and beeping of the pseudo-organs. With every fiber of my will I pulled the cord from the socket; I pulled the life from the support. Then all I felt was numbness. My skin tingled lightly but otherwise I was frozen. My eyes were fixed on the cord in my hand.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Run. I could have run at hearing Dad’s voice. It was so dark in the little room that I was anonymous. But I didn’t. I just stammered.

“I…I…” I was scared.

“Were you trying to kill me?” asked Dad as he raised himself up in the bed.

The words came out like water bursting from a damn, “I needed the inheritance to save myself from death and I thought you were nearly dead anyway and I…”

“Inheritance? Didn’t Sis tell you?”

While my body was frozen in shock my mind was beginning to thaw.

“Tell me what?”

“You’re not in the will, Will” His tone was serious and yet his words seemed to be howling in laughter. I was not in the will?!

“What are you talking about?” Almost without realizing it I let the cord fall to the floor.

“You were my least favorite, Will. You had so much potential and all you’ve done is waste it. So, my decision to cut you out of the will is one that is supposed to help you.”

I could feel it coming on. My face grew warm; my palms sweaty.

“If I simply gave you this money it would just be another handout. But if you work for it, truly work for it, your life will be richer than you can ever imagine.”

“Dad,” I pleaded, more for his sake than my own, “Don’t do this to me.” I walked over beside his bed. He looked up at me with fresh life in his eyes. “I need that money for a life saving procedure. I’ve got less than a day until I expire.”

“Well, what are you doing wasting your time in here? You are free, Will. Force life to go in your direction.”

That was it. Right then and there I couldn’t take any more. I grabbed the pillow from behind Dad’s head and held it firmly against his face. He struggled, limbs shot wildly in all directions. I began sweating heavily, feeling the rush that followed an impulsive act. After a vigorous struggle Dad finally became lax.

Quickly I put the pillow back under his head and smoothed his disheveled hair. Frantically I shoved the plug back into the wall and the machines resumed their buzzing and beeping. In all likelihood the doctors would believe Dad had died in his sleep of natural causes.

But what would happen to me? I had just killed my own father. My morals. My values. My dignity. All gone on an impulse. With grim determination I walked over to the window and slid it open. It was barley large enough for me to fit through but I was not getting out of that room any other way.

When I landed it was on my back. I could feel bones snap. Snow lightly dusted my face, frosting me just like the trees. I was paralyzed, unable to move. I could see the moon hanging above me. It made a silhouette of the maple tree under which I had landed. I could see it twitching in the light breeze; the last leaf on the tree. As it was torn free the weight of Dad’s final words hit me harder then the ground on which I had just crashed. You are free-Will. Suddenly the picture formed by the puzzle became clear.

The doctor’s proclamation had been right. It had been exactly one week. The fall consummated my death. The life saving procedure could have easily been wings. But there were no wings for me now, no flying above the clouds. Mr. Tafe had been correct as well, I certainly forged the first tracks in the fresh snow but it was not the imprint I had pictured earlier in the week.

As my crumpled form collected the winter dust I watched a figure dance through the flakes. It drifted lightly through the air, landing across my face and obscuring my last glimpse of the world of possibilities I left behind.