A FEW SHORT STORIES
by
Kenn Allan
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Kenn Allan
ISBN: 978-1-4523-7473-4
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any for or by any means―electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise―without prior written permission.
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~ TABLE OF CONTENTS ~
LESSONS LOST FROM A BRIGHT BLUE SPIDER
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George Wickersham stepped off the curb and stormed across the busy avenue toward the crowd on the opposite sidewalk. Squealing brakes and angry honks accompanied his progress but were dismissed as nothing more than a secondary nuisance; he was more concerned with the police car and ambulance and the meaning behind their flashing lights and crackling radios.
"An entire city to choose from and somebody probably slipped and fell in front of MY building," he grumbled to himself as he pushed through the crowd's outer fringe. "That's all I need - another lawsuit."
The spectators seemed to melt away as George secured a vantage point where he could evaluate the situation. A paramedic hovered over a crumpled figure on the sidewalk, pressing an oxygen mask tightly against the unfortunate man's face. A small trickle of blood flowed from the man's reddish-brown scalp and formed a sickening halo around his head. Looking on nearby, a young woman on the verge of panic was being questioned by a policeman.
"I didn't see him until it was too late," she moaned. "He just appeared out of nowhere."
George signed with relief over his lack of liability and headed towards the revolving door of his office building. "Should have been looking where he was going," he told himself. "Poor devil probably got what he deserved."
Even for a Sunday morning, the lobby of the Wickersham Building was quieter than usual. There was usually a steady stream of young executives wearing Italian suits and urgent expressions rushing toward the next level in their careers. But today George was alone, accompanied only by the hollow rhythm of his own steps as he crossed the marble floor.
"Very strange." He stabbed the elevator button with a pudgy finger while scanning the lobby. His searching eyes found the crowd, still partially visible beyond the glass and chrome doors. That's where everybody was, he decided. Nothing empties out a building faster than the scene of an accident.
He turned around to give the button another push when the doors of the elevator slid open. Inside stood a young man of diminutive stature dressed in a white and gold braided uniform. He responded to George's suspicious gaze by snapping smartly to attention. "Going up, sir?" he asked.
"Of course I'm going up," George snapped, stepping inside the small cubicle. "Don't you know who I am, young man?"
The operator remained rigid, eyes staring straight ahead. "Why?" he asked innocently. "Don't you know who you are?"
This was too much. Not only did somebody authorize the placement of elevator operators without his approval but they hired this little smart aleck for the job. He was probably somebody's out-of-work nephew. Well, he would soon return this punk to his prior situation. "What's your name?" he demanded.
"Hobbs, sir. Arlen Hobbs."
"Well, Arlen Hobbs," declared George, an evil smile playing across his face. "You're fired. Please leave this elevator at once."
"I'm sorry sir, but that's not possible," replied Arlen unflinchingly.
"Oh?" This bricked George up for a moment. "And why is that?"
"It's a safety issue, sir," the operator replied. "This elevator has not been working properly. It would be unlawful for me to leave you unattended."
"Hmph," George snorted. "And why wasn't I informed of this?"
"You just were, sir."
Realizing this conversation was getting him nowhere, George decided to drop the issue. He would deal with this insolent pup later. "Take me up, then," he ordered. "All the way."
"Very well, sir." Arlen selected a button from among the two rows adorning a brass panel on the wall to his left. The twin doors closed with a dull hiss. "Going up."
George stepped back against the far wall and studied the elevator's other occupant. The young man remained at attention, staring straight ahead. As his eyes roamed along the shiny gold braid and immaculately creased trousers, he suddenly realized he was humming along with the faint strains of music drifting through the tiny room. It was a familiar tune, conjuring childhood memories of church picnics and Sunday suppers. His mind drifted back four decades to a time when a twelve-year-old boy had nothing more to worry about than Monday's homework assignment or how many fireflies he could fit into a mason jar.
Shaking himself back to the present, George cleared his throat and tapped the operator firmly on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he asked. "Do you happen to know the name of the song that's playing? I know I've heard it before, but‒"
"Nearer My God to Thee," came the crisp reply. "And please don't touch me again."
George's jaw dropped. Church music? In an office building? HIS building? Somebody's head was going to roll for this . . .
The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors slid open. Beyond was a brightly-lit room, every inch of wall space covered with polished mirrors. The center of the room was a jumbled mass of exercise equipment, providing a somewhat interesting, yet sterile decor.
"Twenty-seventh floor," announced the operator. "All out, please."
George stared dumbly into the room, shot the operator an angry glare, then looked back. "What is this?" he sputtered. "I told you to take me to the top floor!"
Arlen shrugged. "I told you we were having trouble with this elevator," he explained without a tinge of apology in his voice. "Why don't you look around for a few minutes while I try to fix the problem." He nodded towards George’s oversized belly. "It looks like you could use a little exercise," he smirked. "Or maybe you would rather use the stairs?"
The blood rushed hot into George's face. As badly as he wanted to put this young upstart in his place, he refused to provide the satisfaction of a reaction. "Just call me when it's fixed."
"Yessir."
George waited until the doors were fully closed before turning his attention to the room. He didn't even know there was an exercise room in his building. He took a few steps when his own reflection in the mirrored walls caught his eye. There he was, an overweight man in his fifties trying to cover his physical shortcomings with an expensive suit. He tried to suck in his stomach but failed miserably.
"Oh, well," he sighed. "There are more important things in life than looking like Mr. Universe."
A loud clank from somewhere near the center of the room sent a jerk up George's spine. He scanned the room and held his breath, hoping to identify the source of the annoying clatter. There it was again - the unmistakable clank of metal against metal coming from somewhere among the jumble of machines. As he moved closer, he could make out the steady drone of a male voice above the metallic racket.
Barely visible between the steel uprights and sliding black weights of the largest machine, a young man in an oversized sweatsuit was strapped to a long padded table. His reddish hair glistened with sweat as he pumped a weighted lever with one hand and talked into a cell phone held in the other.
"Of course I know today is his birthday, honey," he was saying. "After all, I am his father." His other arm pumped faster. "But I'm really swamped with work." A pause. "Don't try to make me feel guilty, okay? I would be there if I could." Another pause. "Well, just tell him Daddy has to work to pay for his gift. That's how the world works. He'll understand someday." The clanging stopped. "Hello? Hello . . . ?" He dropped the phone to the floor and resumed his furious pumping, this time using both arms in unison.
"Pretty sad, isn't it, sir?"
Startled, George spun around to face the voice. He had been so intent on eavesdropping that he hadn't heard Arlen come up behind him. “Er, yes it is,” he stammered. “Imagine, thinking this is more important than his own son’s birthday.”
“No, not that.“ Arlen looked uncomfortable. “I meant his wife trying to make him feel guilty for trying to better himself.” He nodded in the man’s general direction. “I mean, his wife is going to enjoy being seen with her big, strong husband, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I suppose . . .”
“And his son is going to enjoy showing off the expensive birthday present his dad gave him, right?”
“Probably.”
“So if this guy wants to be here instead of home, knee-deep in a bunch of chattering mothers and screaming kids, what’s the harm? Everybody wins.”
It was George’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “Yes, that makes sense . . . “
“Anyway, the elevator seems to be working now,” said Arlen, looking quite proud of himself. “Shall we go?”
On the way back, George couldn’t help thinking about Joshua. How many of his own son’s birthday parties could he remember? Sadly, not one. He had been too busy building his empire. But hadn’t he provided his family with “the good life?” Hadn’t he put money aside to assure Joshua of a first-rate education? And for what - to send his son to divinity school instead of a good business college? He remembered the pain in Joshua’s voice last spring when he had declined to attend his graduation ceremony. Too busy, he’d told him . . .
“Watch your step, sir,” warned Arlen as they arrived at the elevator’s double doors. “We wouldn’t want you to stumble, would we?”
George resumed his former position at the rear of the cubicle. Arlen's condescending manner bugged him—but then just about everything about him was irritating. He was still glaring at the back of the operator's head and listening to Harry Chapin's "The Cat's in the Cradle" when he felt the elevator slow to a stop. The doors swished open.
"Here we are, sir," Arlen said. "Floor thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight?" blustered the frustrated executive. "How many times do I have to tell you . . . ? "
George's words trailed off as a strange scene outside the elevator distracted him. A woman who appeared to be the floor receptionist was sitting against the gilded wall opposite the elevator. Neatly organized on plush purple carpet around her feet were a computer keyboard and monitor, multi-line telephone, fax machine, pens, pencils, writing pads, and other necessary instruments of her profession. She was clearly upset and arguing with a man wearing an expensive Italian suit standing just beyond the circle of equipment. With his reddish hair and husky build, the man looked suspiciously like the person George had just encountered in the weight room.
"But I need a desk," the woman choked, almost in tears. "Why can't you understand that?"
The red-headed man shrugged. "You have everything here you could possibly want," he said, waving his arm to encompass the circle of office equipment. "In fact, you have more than any other woman in your position."
"Yes, and thank you, but I still need a desk."
The man glanced impatiently at his wristwatch. "I really don't have time to discuss this with you, so let's just get to the point, shall we?" he snapped. "Tell me again why you are so unhappy with your job?"
"Oh, but I'm not unhappy," cried the receptionist. "In fact, I love my job."
"What is it, then?" he probed. "Aren't these machines good enough for you?"
"Yes, they are fine," replied the woman tearfully. "But I cannot do my job properly without something to put them on."
"Ah, so you want something more, do you? Don't you think that's a little selfish?"
The woman shook her head vigorously. "I would be happy with just a pencil and a steno pad," she explained. "When I accepted this job, it never occurred to me that my basic requirements wouldn’t be met."
The man took another peek at his wristwatch. "Well, we'll have to discuss this later, I'm afraid," he stated. "I have a room full of people waiting for me upstairs and I'm already late." The woman muttered something unintelligible as he turned away. "Do you have something else to say?" he inquired, not bothering to face her directly.
"Just-just I may not be here when you get back."
"Your choice," he snapped. "Honestly, I don't know what more you expect."
George barely avoided being squeezed between the elevator doors as they swished shut. "Open them at once," he shouted at Arlen, who was leaning casually against the wall wearing an expression of mild amusement. "I can't believe anyone working for me would treat another employee like that!"
"I agree," replied Arlen. "Who does she think she is—his wife or something?"
"I was referring to the man, you idiot."
Arlen shrugged. "Looked to me like he gave her everything she could ever want or use. I don't understand what she is complaining about."
"She needs a desk." George was approaching total exasperation. "How can that poor woman possibly feel good about herself or do her job without the basic—"
George's thoughts were interrupted as "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" filtered in over the elevator's speakers. That was the song Maggie was listening to that day he came home early and discovered her face down on the leather couch, weeping. They had fought earlier that day; Maggie insisted she needed more of George's attention and he touted his responsibility to provide for his family. What was that Maggie had said? Something about being happy in a log cabin as long as it was with him? Those final days of their marriage seemed so long ago.
So immersed in his memories, George hadn't realized the elevator had resumed its upward trek until it came to an abrupt stop. The twin doors slid open once again.
"Fiftieth floor," droned Arlen. "All out. Please."
George refrained from mentioning they were still a few floors short of his final destination. Something was going on around here—something strange— and he was determined to get to get to the bottom of it.
The floor outside the elevator was by far the strangest he had encountered so far. Instead of walls, enormous windows of stained glass encircled the huge room, giving it more the look of a church than a place to conduct business. Rows of wooden benches added to the holy impression, each one filled with neatly-dressed men apparently waiting for something to happen. The mouth of a raging furnace blazed at the far end of the room, its doors flung open to reveal tongues of flame licking every inch of the white-hot interior. But despite this, the room was strangely cold.
"This must be the basement," George decided. "That idiot Arlen must have pushed the wrong button." He squinted around the room. No, if this was the basement, how was light coming through the windows?
A stocky figure draped in a green robe entered the room from a hidden door to one side of the blazing furnace. The glowing metal bathed him in an unearthly light, making his reddish hair flicker and pulse like a flaming halo.
"Welcome, all ye partakers of the power," he addressed the crowd in voice overflowing with authority. The room erupted in rhythmic applause. "Only those who feed the power may possess the power," he continued. "Who among you is willing to sacrifice to the god of the eternal quest?"
A young man in his early twenties stood in the front row. "I am!"
"Approach the furnace," the robed figure invited with a wave of his arm. "And what be your sacrifice?"
"I give thee the most precious of sacrifices," the young man replied proudly. "There is but one thing that is more limited than all others. It is this I give to you."
"And what is this precious thing, say ye disciples?" asked the man at the furnace. "Is it money?"
"No!" shouted the crowd.
"Ye are not offering me your wife and children, are ye?"
The crowd laughed with mechanical precision.
"What, then?"
“Time!” came the enthusiastic response. “The most precious sacrifice is time!”
The figure in the green robe spread his arms wide, nodding vigorously. “You have learned well, O seekers of the power,” he beamed. “Only our minutes and seconds are numbered, all else is as fleeting as a dot com offering on the stock exchange. Grant me the sacrifice of your time, and I will bestow all things of value upon ye.”
The young man standing before the furnace fell to his knees. “Accept my sacrifice, O flames of power. From this day forward, my time belongs to you. I will forsake those who make demands upon what I no longer own, and place all my earthly faith in the promises born of success.”
“Hail, success,” roared the crowd. Then, as if by some silent command, they leapt to their feet and began singing in unison:
“Up the ladder , we ascend,
Rung by rung until the end,
Corner office waits for thee,
When you climb to victory!”
Giant sheets of flame belched out of the furnace, totally enveloping the young man still on his knees. A throaty rumble caused the floor to tremble as the flames continued upward and began lapping at the ceiling. Flaming chunks of insulated tile began falling on the frenzied crowd, punctuated by the occasional pop of an exploding fluorescent light.
George was paralyzed, totally transfixed by the spectacle evolving before him. He barely noticed the hand on his shoulder pulling him towards the safety of the elevator.
“This room won’t last long,” Arlen shouted to be heard above the chaos. “Let’s go! Now!”
Reluctantly, George allowed himself to be pulled into the waiting elevator. With a swish, the twin doors hid the sights and sounds of that terrible room. The lights flickered briefly then went out completely. Simultaneously, the red glow of emergency lighting and a voice singing “We Are the Champions” filled the car’s interior.
“W-what...?” George stammered, not quite having regained his composure. “That couldn’t have been real,” he finally blurted. “Could it?”
Arlen ignored the question. “I think we’ve sustained some damage,“ he stated. “Looks like we’re not going to make it much past the fifty-second floor.” The elevator lurched to a stop. “Now I’m sure of it,” he added wryly. “Better stand back.”
There was no way George could have prepared himself for what waited behind the doors on the fifty-second floor. The fire from the furnace two floors below had burned through concrete and steel creating a huge gaping hole stretching nearly wall to wall. From deep within the jagged edges of the orifice, a vortex of flame swirled madly, splashing the melted steel and twisted cables with a blazing luminance. Encircling the room was a single row of executives, each clutching a briefcase and staring hungrily into the hellish opening.
But the true horror was yet to be discovered. Suspended from a cable torn from somewhere in the upper darkness swung the familiar man with reddish hair. Even in this flickering light the terror could be seen etched on his face as he clutched his swaying lifeline and stared down into the flaming abyss. His cries for help went unanswered by the men who surrounded him, even though any one of them was close enough to throw a line and guarantee his salvation. Showing no concern for his predicament, they began to sing:
“One man’s rise is one man’s fall,
There’s the clue to have it all,
Climb the ladder, rung by rung,
On success your faith is hung.”
With one final scream, the man in the middle of the room lost his grip and slid into the flames below. The elevator doors closed slowly, like theater curtains after the final act.
Once again, George was speechless. He tapped Arlen on the shoulder and pointed at the ceiling. The elevator operator understood the silent gesture and punched the highest button on the brass panel. The elevator shuddered, began to move, then stopped. The doors slid open to reveal a brick wall.
“We appear to be stuck between floors this time,” Arlen remarked.
George reached out and touched the wall with trembling fingers. “So, what do we do now?”
“There’s not much we can do at this point,” Arlen replied, squinting through the red lighting toward the emergency hatch in the ceiling. “Y’know, a man’s life is kinda like this elevator…”
“What on earth are you talking about?” snapped George, unable to see anything funny about their situation.
“He strives to reach higher and higher, making a few stops along the way. Some stops are planned, others are completely unexpected. At each floor he must decide whether to get off or keep going higher. He lives his life in a box suspended by a thin cable that could snap at any moment.”
“Oh, that’s deep,” George sneered. “What are you, some kind of a philosopher?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, what I need is an elevator operator.” George ran his fingers through his thinning red hair. “Just get me to the top floor, will you?”
Arlen shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the time for you to choose your own direction has passed.” His eyes caught fire in the eerie red glow of the elevator and an evil smile flickered across his lips. “Going down, Mr. Wickersham.”
Copyright ©2004 Kenn Allan.
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From his lofty vantage point in the Tree of Good and Evil, the serpent watched Eden's former occupants flee the garden and disappear into the musty sunset. His eyes glittered with excitement as a fiery sword plunged into the earth and opened a jagged chasm which spanned the entire distance between north and south. The wailing of cherubim filled the night as they gathered at the edge of the blazing abyss and sang a tearful hymn of despair.
All in all, it had been a good day.
* * * * *
The next morning, the serpent awakened to a strange rhythmic pounding. When he parted the leaves with his tail and peered downward, a large white placard nailed to the trunk of the tree caught his eye:
GARDEN of EDEN
REVITALIZATION
PROJECT
The snake blinked his beady eyes. Then blinked again. "What the...?"
All around the base of the tree, cherubs dressed in white overalls and gleaming hardhats rushed about their mysterious business. A few carried scrolls of rolled parchment tucked under one arm, but most were holding various types of potted plants in white-gloved hands. Every once in a while, one of the cherubs with the scrolls would whisper something to one of the plant carriers, who would then scurry off in a different direction. The whole scene resembled an albino anthill gone mad.
"Hey, you'd better get down from there!"
"Huh?" The serpent twisted around to discover a husky cherub standing at the base of the tree with a lethal-looking axe slung over his shoulder. "Pardon, but were you talking to me?" he inquired without taking his eyes off the axe.
"Yeah, you," replied the cherub. "This tree has gotta come down. You can either come down on your own or fall with the tree, it doesn't matter to me."
The serpent slithered down the trunk and coiled himself neatly at the cherub's feet. "I don't quite understand what this is all about," he said politely. "Can you enlighten me?"
The cherub hoisted the axe off his shoulder and took a few practice swings. "Look, all I know is what they tell me," he puffed. "We're supposed to clear out some of this old stuff and plant a few seedlings. This tree is on my removal list."
"Oh, dear," sighed the snake. "I have a particular fondness for this tree. Must you cut it down?"
"Yup." The cherub reached into a hidden pocket, pulled out a small scroll and unrolled it. "See? It says right here this tree has been designated an obstruction."
"Obstruction? To what?"
"To the new garden, that's what."
The serpent flicked his tongue nervously. "What new garden?"
"It's gonna be beautiful." The cherub leaned on his axe, a dreamy smile playing across his lips. "Right about where we're standing, there's gonna be a grove of gentlefruit trees, surrounded by a lovely bed of joyberries. The faithmelons will go over there, and the love apples—"
"Wait a minute," snapped the serpent. "Just who in the world is going to eat all this fruit?"
"Oh, they tell me the place is gonna fill up real quick," answered the cherub. "Especially after the Boss finishes building His bridge over the chasm. He's quite a carpenter, you know. You'll be surprised what He can do with a couple boards and and a handful of nails."
The serpent looked around at the bustling activity. "So what am I supposed to do?" he seethed. "This was supposed to be my garden."
"Well, you're welcome to stay for now," said the cherub. "But once the place fills up, you're gonna have to leave." He nodded towards the chasm, which chose that very moment to release a sulfurous belch. "But if you'll excuse me, I really have to cut down this tree."
The serpent removed himself to one side and watched as his beloved Tree of Good and Evil was hacked to the ground. After casting a final gaze around the garden, he lowered his chin into the dust and slithered into the underbrush.
"I hate progress," he hissed.
Copyright ©2005 Kenn Allan.
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It was official - Frankie had hit the lowest point of her life. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the unfurnished room, sipping wine from a bottle and listening to some unknown musician's pain on the radio. They would be turning off her electricity tomorrow and the rent for her apartment was due yesterday. And then there was the loneliness. Since the telephone was turned off last week, she had nobody to talk to but herself. And, occasionally, to God.
She staggered to her feet. Maybe there were a few pills left in the bathroom. It would be so easy. A few pills, a bottle of wine, and her misery would be over. Whatever waited on the other side had to be better than this. Maybe then God would give her some straight answers.
As she lurched across the floor, her foot became entangled in the telephone cord, sending the instrument clanging across the room. Frankie and her wine bottle followed close behind and all three ended up in a twisted heap inches away from the portable radio.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she sobbed to the cracked plaster ceiling. "What did I ever do to you?"
The song on the radio came to an emotional end. After a brief pause, a woman's voice began speaking to her. It was a kind voice, gentle and full of compassion. It reminded Frankie of her mother.
"We can help you talk it out. We're here to listen! All calls are confidential and free 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. We won't tell you what to do and we're not here to give out advice. We aim to help you help yourself. Call 555-HELP now to speak with someone. That's 555 H-E-L-P. This is a local call."
"Oh, whatever," choked Frankie, snapping off the radio. "A lot of good that does me now." Then she surrendered, allowing her sobs to take full control of her body.
From somewhere near the back of her mind, she became aware of a new voice. It was not as friendly as the woman on the raido, yet somehow familiar. She lifted her head from the floor and strained her ears to identify the source.
"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then call your operator. If you'd like to make a call..."
The telephone. How could this be? She had lifted the receiver a dozen or so times since it went silent last week, desperately hoping to hear a dial tone. It was dead, she was sure of it. It must be a mistake, a crossed wire or something. But in her desperation to hear another human voice, Frankie was more than willing to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity. She dragged herself into a sitting position and cradled the phone in her lap.
“Who can I call?” she asked aloud. Sadly, she realized everyone she knew either didn’t have a home, a phone, or was in jail. Her brief moment of excitement faded. Then she remembered the voice on the radio. “555-HELP,” she recalled. She picked up the phone’s receiver and squinted at the buttons. “I hate those cutesy word things,” she grumbled. “Let’s see... 5 5 5 4 3 5 7...”
No sooner had she pressed the final button than a voice crackled in her ear.
"Community help line. How may I help you?"
Frankie had anticipated a few seconds to compose herself before actually having to speak. "Uhhh... yeah. I'd like to talk to someone about my stinkin' life, please."
"That's what we're here for," the voice replied. "What seems to be the problem?"
Frankie noted the voice sounded familiar; however, all voices sounded familiar today. "Nothing seems to be the problem," she shot back. "My life is the problem."
The person on the other end sighed. "Okay, let's start with the basics. What's your name? You can make one up if you would feel more comfortable."
"Frankie."
"Nice to meet you. My name is Francine."
"Hey, that's my real name," Frankie gasped. "I quit usin' it because it sounded too old-fashioned."
"I prefer to think of it as classic," Francine replied.
"Well, I'll bet that's probably the only thing we have in common," said Frankie. "I'd love to have your cushy job, gettin' paid to talk on the phone all day."
"I'm not paid for this, Frankie. I'm a volunteer."
"Your kiddin', right?" Frankie couldn't hide the awe in her voice. "What are you, some kind of a do-gooder or something?"
Francine laughed. "Something like that. Have you ever heard the expression, 'There but for the grace of God go I?'"
"Yeah, mebbe."
"Well, that's how I feel. I've been truly blessed in my life. I have a wonderful husband and a precious three-year-old daughter at home. I volunteer here a few nights a week to help those who haven't been as fortunate. Without God's help, it could just as easily be me on the other end of the phone."
"So, you're a religious person?" Frankie asked.
"I am a Christian," came the quick reply.
"Well, that's good, then," said Frankie, "'Cause that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. I think God is punishing me for something."
"Oh? What did you do?"
Frankie sighed. "It happened about five years ago when I was still in high school."
"Don't remind me of that nightmare," said Francine. "Except for meeting my husband, those four years were probably the worst of my life."
"Yeah, you got that right," Frankie agreed. "Anyway, there was this guy, David. My mom knew his parents from her church and tried to force us together. Guess she figured maybe he could straighten me out. Nice guy, but I wasn't interested. All my friends thought he was so boring. Besides, I had my eye on this other guy, a real bad boy named Danny. He was―"
"What high school did you say you attended?" interrupted Francine.
"Fulton Senior High. Why?"
"It's just that... oh, nothing. Please go on."
"Okay," Frankie said, clearly annoyed. "Like I was saying, I was pretty hot for Danny. All my friends thought he was really cool, but my mom hated him. We got into some real screaming matches, y'know what I mean? Finally I couldn't take it anymore and left home to shack up with Danny."
"And that's why you think God is punishing you?"
"Naw, that's just the beginning. Pretty soon I found out Danny was a little too fond of the bottle. He treated me okay when he was sober, but he would thrash me around pretty good when he'd been drinkin'. I made the mistake of confiding in one of my friends, and somehow it got back to David. He started callin' me, tryin' to get me to leave Danny before he killed me or something. I figured he was only tryin' to scare me. Danny would never do something like that. At least I didn't think so at the time."
"So what happened?"
"One night I finally agreed to let David 'rescue me,' as he put it. He would pull his car into the alley behind our apartment and I could jump in before Danny even knew I was gone. Well, Danny had been drinkin' all day and just happened to be out back taking a leak on the fence when David pulled up. Danny was sure I was cheatin' on him and went absolutely wild. Poor David didn't have a chance. From the looks of things, Danny beat him to death with the bottle he was carrying."
"How horrible," Francine gasped. "And you feel responsible?"
"Kinda. It's just that when they took Danny off to jail, I felt... well, relieved. No feelings for poor David at all, only glad I wasn't gonna get beat anymore. Does that make me a terrible person?"
"No, not at all," Francine replied gently. "You were just reacting with your survival instinct. I'm sure I would have felt the same way under those circumstances."
"Yeah, sure," said Frankie, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, my life has been a mess ever since. It's been one guy after another and one step ahead of the landlord. Most of my friends won't even talk to me anymore, after what I done. I'm sure even my mom has quit wonderin' what happened to me."
"Being a mother myself, I can promise she still worries about you," said Francine. "Trust me."
"Well, mebbe." Frankie dabbed at the corner of her eye. "So, what do you think? Is God punishing me?"
"No, of course not," Francine replied. "He doesn't work like that. It sounds more like you are suffering the results of decisions you've made - or failed to make. It's not too late for you, Frankie. As long as you are breathing, there is still time for you to start making the right decisions."
"I suppose," Frankie replied thoughtfully. "But it's certainly too late for me to become Mrs. David Brewster, isn't it?"
"What did you say?" The tone was icy. "Who are you... really?"
"I told you my name at the beginning. It's Frankie."
"Well, my name is Francine Brewster," snapped the angry voice. "David Brewster is my husband."
"But-but, I―"
"I don't know who you are, but here's my official advice," growled Francine. "Get a life!" A loud click, and the phone went dead.
Stunned, Frankie stared at the receiver for several minutes as her numb mind tried to make sense of what just happened. It didn't make any sense―or did it? She replaced the receiver, then picked it up and held it to her ear. To her relief, the phone was still working. With a trembling finger, she punched in some almost-forgotten numbers.
"Hello, Mom?" she wept. "It's me, Francine. Can I come home?"
Copyright ©2006 Kenn Allan.
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