I surrendered to the fierce wind today. The floating books shop might have been blown away. Here's a short story, Rain and Rhubarb, I had published long ago. It's 1600 or so words, about a ten-minute read:
Ron's mother swatted lint from the lapels of his black suit jacket, then straightened his black tie.
"Are you going to be able to read with those on?" she said, referring to his sunglasses, which were so dark as to hide his eyes.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I tried it at home. I'm afraid I might lose it. Uncle Bob wouldn't want that. He'd say something like: 'Think of people who really have it rough, then tell me if your tears are justified.'"
His wife, tense, pale, squeezed his bicep. His father, who had barely spoken a word since learning of the death of his younger brother, lowered his silver head.
They entered the chapel and sat in the front row. Ron stared at the casket, at the body that had had such life. So distant were his thoughts that his mother had to summon him back to the present. The delicate touch of her hand alerted him to Father Mooney, who had called on him to deliver the eulogy. He exchanged a peck with his wife, let go of her hand, and stood on rubbery legs, notes in hand. The silence was daunting as he stepped to the dais and faced relatives and friends.
"Today," he said, beginning quietly, reading; "we mourn the passing and celebrate the life of Robert Falcone, 'Uncle Bob' to me, who was taken from us much too soon at the age of sixty. Uncle Bob was a man's man. He worked hard, never complained, and never had a bad word to say about anybody. He was kind, generous and good-natured."
He paused for effect.
"He did have one fault, though."
Heads rose. Every eye was on him. Fidgeting was prevalent. He could read their minds: he wouldn't dare go there, would he?
"He never let anybody know how lonely he was."
He could feel relief spreading throughout the room. He would not let them off the hook, however. "We all took it for granted that he was a born bachelor. We even thought he was.... Well, you know."
He looked away, biting his lower lip to repress anger. Several mourners hung their heads. He held a notebook aloft.
"I found this journal in his desk." He looked out at everyone, challenging them. "Guess what? We were all wrong about him. The only entries in this are about the three women he loved in his life. He wrote about them with the gentlemanly class you'd expect from him. Although none of them loved him in return, God only knows why, he felt no bitterness toward them. None of them realized the mistake they made in letting him get away. If they've found husbands that love them half as much as Uncle Bob did, they're doing great. They could've never found a better father for their children, though. I know that because he often stepped in for my dad when he was away on business."
He gazed sidelong at his father, who was leaning forward, dazed, hunched, hands entwined.
"Uncle Bob would always show up to take me somewhere. He was great company, so much fun in his quiet way. He taught me so much. He taught me how to fish. And he had such an offbeat sense of humor. We'd be sitting quietly at the water's edge, waiting for a bite, and he'd look at me and say: 'Hey, Ron, think the rain'll hurt the rhubarb?"
People chuckled briefly, reservedly.
"I'd just shrug, not knowing what to say, feeling a little dumb because I had no idea what he was talking about. It took me awhile to realize it was just one of the silly things an uncle says to show affection without being sappy. One day I finally got the drop on him. 'Uncle Bob,' I said, 'think the rain'll hurt the rhubarb?' 'Not if it comes in cans,' he said without missing a beat."
Everyone but his father laughed as he conjured a puzzled expression.
"I was totally baffled, just when I thought I had him."
He lowered his head.
"That's a bittersweet memory now because, reading this journal, I know how much he would've wanted to share that riddle with a child of his own."
He paused and gazed at the faces before him, which were now a blur.
"Why didn't he ever get married, we all wonder? I found the answer here."
He had the page marked.
"...If you don't feel a twinge in the gut at the sight of her, then she's not the right girl...."
He raised his head. No one was looking at him now. He saw faces flushed with shame. He was glad, although he knew Uncle Bob would not have wanted that.
"Right or wrong, that's what he believed. That's the standard he set, and his standards were always high. I guess he felt that twinge whenever he saw any of those three women. The last one was especially painful for him. She was eighteen years younger than him. She didn't know that when she made the first move. Here's what Uncle Bob said about her."
He turned to a paragraph highlighted by a yellow marker.
"...Why do I feel such sorrow when I knew a girl of such decency and common sense would be scared off once she learned my age? If I was her uncle or older brother, I wouldn't want her to be with a man so much older than herself. Yet my heart cries out to her, for her. It has to be because I know that a man could walk to the ends of the earth and not find a better mother for his children. I am now convinced that I will never have children. God save me from the black hole of despair that threatens my soul. God grant me the grace to keep from blubbering like a pathetic fool whenever I see her sweet face. Her presence is now a large absence in my life. God give me the strength to keep my tears confined to home. Don't let me make her feel sorry for me. I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me. There are so many people in this world, in this city, who are much more unfortunate than me. I have to remember how lucky I am. But what will I do if she comes to laugh at me?"
Face burning, Ron drew a breath to gather himself. Heads were hanging. Eyes were glazed.
"That was the last entry. It was his forty-eighth birthday."
His body jerked with emotion. Tears were trickling beyond his sunglasses.
"God grant me the grace to forgive all of you who thought you knew what this prince of a man was. I'm ashamed that I came to believe you."
He clutched at the edges of the dais to keep himself erect.
"We all wondered why in the world he changed careers at the age of forty-nine. I think I know now. He must've wanted to escape the pain of seeing that woman every day, seeing her beholden to another man, pregnant with the child he so desperately wanted. I hate her, even though I know Uncle Bob would be appalled. He would never hate her because he was a better man than any of us could ever hope to be. And darn if he didn't make a success of himself all over again in his new job. Then again, why should that have surprised us?"
He noted the concern on his mother's face. She was about to rise when his father, without looking up, placed a hand on her delicately, holding her back.
"We all wondered why he moved every few years. He told us it was for a change of pace. I bet it was because he was self conscious about always being alone. In the journal he says he became reluctant to speak to children because he felt the neighbors thought he was a weirdo. That alone might have killed him because I remember how much he loved to play with kids. It's so unfair."
His fists clenched.
"Now I know why he seemed to age overnight after looking young for so long. Now I know why he stopped coming to family functions - he didn't want his sorrow to spoil things for the rest of us. Now I know why his heart stopped at such a young age. It was worn out from loneliness. What does it say about the human condition that such a sweet, honorable man should die alone? You know what, though? Uncle Bob'd say it was his own fault. That's the kind of man he was. God forgive me if I ever take my sweet wife and kids for granted again."
Choking back emotion, he gazed at the casket.
"You may have died alone and misunderstood, Uncle Bob, but you didn't die unloved. I love you and I'll miss you, and I'll never forget you - never! Today we put you in the ground. Appropriately, it's raining. Your noble soul will nourish the rhubarb."
He broke down. His family rose as one to console him. They stood in a tight circle, sobbing, arms about each other.
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Horror Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
No comments:
Post a Comment