Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories

by Steve Campbell

  #

  A Matter of Time

  THE BEST WAY to describe the room is that it looked old—ancient-20th-century, single-bare-light-bulb, yellowed-wallpaper old. The room was small and square, sans any windows to clear away the smoky light that filled the place with nothingness. It smelled of dust and rotted upholstered furniture, but there was neither to be found. The wood floor with warped slats that held two wood chairs facing each other was clean. It was always clean, yet no one cleaned here. Ever.

  The chairs were straight high backs, their cheap wood painted oily black except where the paint was chipped away like aging wounds. In one of the chairs sat a man in a dark gray suit, silver tie and black loafers. Gray argyle socks peeked from between the shoes and pants cuffs where his ankles were crossed right over left. In the other chair, a woman sat upright, her hands folded elegantly in the lap of her black, strapless gown. Her hair was as dark as her dress and her skin glowed ivory. She was studying with doe-like eyes the man in front of her.

  He drew his large left hand through his short, thick brown hair, then brought the hand to the back of his neck where he stopped and rubbed it. Behind him was a door as old as the room. It was closed. Its handle was round, smooth and bone white. There was a keyhole below where light never passed through from the other side.

  “The prosecuting lawyers think Don Calloway killed his wife,” he said with a tired voice. “Calloway says she fell down the stairs, but the lawyers think she was pushed.” He paused to reach for a cigarette from his shirt pocket, then remembered he had quit. He thought of having a cup of coffee, but the thought evaporated when the woman spoke. Her voice was sweet and ever fresh.

  “What do you think?”

  “Only matters what the jury thinks. Court is nothing more than a room of debaters. Whoever presents the better argument wins. Or loses.”

  The woman brought a delicate right hand to the white pearl necklace around her throat. “Mr. Calloway grew up in Ridgewood,” she said with lips as red as scarlet, “prospered in high school and college events with the help of his banker father, and became prominent in New Cambridge as a TV news anchor. Lived on the north end in that ugly brick house with sandstone trimmings and cast-iron fence. Right next to the Methodist Church that he and his wife always attended, and where their only child was baptized.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “He’s got money.”

  “But remember the circumstances,” the man went on; “Calloway was seeing that New Cambridge shrink Maxine Green, and not on a professional basis if you know what I mean. And the wife … well, suspicion turned for a while on the young man she was seeing. Police had seen him hanging about the house after ‘the scene.’ He gave them the slip and hasn’t been seen since.”

  She looked past him at the door and he turned slightly. They waited as if anticipating someone’s arrival but no one came. After almost a minute, the woman looked back at him.

  “You think the boy did it?” she asked.

  “Did what?”

  “Push Mrs. Calloway down the stairs.”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the back of his chair. “Nah. His tender relations with an older and married woman were harmless and easy to explain. But running like he did only made him appear to have much to hide.”

  The woman nodded. “The fellow next door … Ted Jackson. He said he heard a crash just before Mrs. Calloway screamed, yet no one found anything broken.”

  “Just her neck.”

  She looked at him and frowned. “Did you know their house has a history?”

  He smiled. “It’s been mentioned. Some story started years ago by some crazy writer.” He laughed and saw her scolding him with another sharp look. He stopped and licked his lips.

  She dabbed twisted fingers to the corners of her mouth. “A Dr. Geddes once lived there, back in ’59. He killed his wife Sarah in the kitchen—stabbed her to death after they returned from a party. He thought she had been having an affair.”

  He waved impatiently and frowned. When he had settled, she continued.

  “Then in ’72, a family named Walker moved in and reported that the house was haunted by Sarah Geddes’s ghost. The grandmother, Ethel Walker had a seizure and was taken to the hospital. Right after that, the Walkers moved out and the place remained empty until Mr. Calloway bought it.”

  He shrugged and their conversation stalled. He looked bored and ready to take a nap when the woman interrupted his slumber.

  “She had on a black dress,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Sarah Geddes. A black strapless evening gown like mine. Like the one in the newspaper article my mother has in her scrapbook.”

  He coughed, then shifted in his seat. “They let you go to your mother’s?”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Just once. A long time ago.”

  He nodded and sighed. “Me too, but I can’t remember why.”

  Then he shrugged and unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a blue vest. Except where it was stained a black, inky color, the interior jacket was three shades lighter than his suit. He pulled out a gold pocket watch and clicked it open.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  He wound the watch by its stem. “Don’t know. Damn thing stopped.”

  She looked at the door. “Do you think it will ever be our turn?”

  “Someday,” he said and closed the watch’s cover. “It’s just a matter of time.”