Collected Short Stories: Volume II

by Barry Rachin

  Ruby leaned forward over the narrow table, kissed him on the ear and whispered, “You sure are a strange one!” As she pulled away, she let her lips brush the length of his cheek.

  Dr. Gilford lifted his glass and stared at the transparent liquid without drinking. “I saw a five year-old boy this morning with a hole in his heart.”

  The boy had come to the office with both parents. He was underweight and sat listlessly while Dr. Gilford applied the gray blood pressure cuff and squeezed the rubber ball. With a wheezing sound the influx of air swelled the cuff into a turgid mass, and he stalked the thready pulse as it surged at 160 and skittered into oblivion at 110. He touched the flat disc to the narrow chest and studied the percussive sounds. There was the systolic contraction followed by the less intense diastolic release. And now a third sound - whispery soft, ominous. The raspy backflow of oxygenated blood spraying in the wrong direction; the fractured music of nature gone haywire.

  An operation to repair the faulty valve had been scheduled in March but abruptly cancelled. Blood chemistries showed evidence of possible kidney damage. “When your son’s condition stabilizes,” he counseled the anxious parents, “we’ll consider less invasive options.” Dr. Nesbitt’s bitter lesson was still fresh in his mind; too prudent to risk killing the child while repairing the damaged valve, Dr. Gilford finessed the pallid boy into a purgatory of chronic illness.

  When his condition stabilizes ...

  “A human heart is not suppose to beat in three-four time,” he confided, sipping his gin and tonic. “Wrong cadence! A waltz yes, a heart no.”

  As they walked back to the parking garage, Dr. Gilford wrapped his hand around Ruby’s waist, and her hips drifted close to his body. When they reached her apartment he kissed her on the lips. She kept her mouth closed and moved away almost immediately. “The sorbet taken aside, I’d a swell time.”

  She was already halfway up the stairs before he could think to ask, “Can I call you again?”

  “Sure, I’d like that.” Ruby went straight into the building without looking back.

  On Monday morning, Dr. Gilford told the receptionist, “Any calls from Ruby, put her through immediately; if I’m already on the phone, let me know she’s holding.”

  “But I thought - ”

  “Disregard,” Dr. Gilford blustered, waving his hand abruptly in the air, “any previous instruction to the contrary and put the woman through.”

  The receptionist eyed him curiously. “Whatever you wish.”

  Later that night he called Ruby at home. “What are you doing this weekend?” She said she was free. “This time you choose.”

  “Dersu Usala,” shereplied almost before the last words left his mouth.

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s a Russian foreign film playing at the Avon. One week only. I’d like to see it.”

  Dr. Gilford had expected something a bit more mundane, blue collar. “Yes, well that’s fine.”

  “The film’s in subtitles so you might want to bring reading glasses.”

  A waitress with a chastity belt and penchant for foreign flicks. The relationship was getting weirder by the minute. “I don’t wear reading glasses.” Dr. Gilford hung up the phone.

  Friday afternoon, Dr. Gilford picked Ruby up around six. Arriving a half hour early, the line in front of the ticket window already snaked up the street to the end of the block. “It’s a cult film about a Mongolian hunter, who leads an expedition into the Siberian wilderness,” Ruby said. “They bring it back every so many years. The crowds keep growing. Mostly Brown students and the hoity-toity, East Side set.”

  In front of them was a skinny girl with blue hair and a silver hoop in her nose. “You’ve seen the movie before?” Dr. Gilford asked.

  “Three times.”

  The light went on in the ticket window and the line surged forward. “With your ex-husband?”

  Ruby shook her head violently. “His idea of a culturally uplifting experience is sipping boilermakers at the Willow Street Tap. She reached out, grabbed his hand and gave it a playful squeeze. “My ex-husband is a Central Falls wise guy. The less said the better.”

  A Central Falls wise guy. Dr. Gilford was familiar with the type. The mental cretins with five pounds of gold jewelry dangling from their necks and wrists; tough guys and tough guy wannabes who punctuated every sentence with a certain, ubiquitous four-letter word and gesticulated wildly when they talked - a barbaric, sign language for the morally impaired. As a rule, they didn’t spend much time on College Hill or frequent the Avon Cinema.

  “After the divorce,” Ruby interrupted his reveries, “weekends were the hardest. A waitress took sick, I was thankful to pull an extra shift just not to be alone. One Memorial Day weekend, I came up here and was wandering the streets like some half-crazed bag lady, and what do you think was featured at the Avon Cinema?” She pointed at the marquee.

  Throughout his sheltered, college years, Stan had been dismissive of ‘working class’, blue-collar types - the depth of their feelings, sincerity and conviction - as if human virtue were a function of culture rather than innate charater. Listening to Ruby’s frank confession left him feeling like an elitist snob. An emotional fraud. Again the line heaved and contracted as people ahead trickled into the theater. “Funny thing is,” Ruby added, “I don’t choose the movies. They choose me.”

  The skinny girl with the hoop in her nose turned fully around. Her sneakers were so frayed they looked like they had been fed through a food processor. She wore no bra and her nipples caused the material of her tie-dyed T-shirt to pucker suggestively. “I don’t follow you,” Stan said.

  “I only come up here when I’m lonely or depressed. Whatever’s featured, that’s what I get to see. French, Russian, Chinese, South American, German. I never even bother to read the reviews in advance.”

  They reached the ticket booth and Dr. Gilford pushed the money through the window. Ruby was in a pleasant enough mood, but once the film began, she pushed his hand away, fixed her eyes on the screen and withdrew into an emotional shell. Near the end of the film, when the Mongolian hunter lost his eyesight and was forced to give up his exotic lifestyle, Dr. Gilford glanced over at Ruby. She was sitting in the dark with tears streaming down her face, a wad of Kleenex clutched in her hand.

  “If you’re interested,” Ruby noted as they were making their way back to the car, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show is playing over at the Cable Car Cinema the week after next.”

  “Another film I’m not familiar with.”

  “It’s a spoof on horror films. This drag queen who...” Ruby pulled up abruptly. “There really isn’t much of a plot.”

  Driving down Atwells Avenue in the direction of Mount Pleasant, Ruby asked Stanley if he was religious. “My parents are Episcopalians,” Dr. Gilford answered, “but, since my divorce and some unpleasantries leading up to it, I haven’t been too sure of much of anything in the spiritual realm.”

  Ruby pursed her bottom lip. “That’s too bad!”

  Bernice never went to church, and only spoke of religion derisively. Dr. Gilford was of the opinion that his ex-wife would willingly consecrate her soul to a Wiccan priestess - a hermaphrodite, even! - but never a deity in the likeness of man. “Are you going to stop seeing me because I’m a failed Christian?”

  “That’s your business.” Ruby glanced briefly at him and looked away. There was no arm-twisting or sense of urgency in her tone. “I’m Methodist. You can attend services with me some Sunday if you ever get the urge.”

  Dr. Gilford downshifted as he approached the lights at the bottom of Mount Pleasant Avenue. When they pulled up in front of the apartment, Ruby kissed him discreetly, then pushed him away at arms length. “About that little boy with the heart condition, what are his odds surviving surgery?”

  “Fifty-fifty. And that’s a generous assessment.”

  “If he’s going to eventually become an invalid and die, wouldn’t it be better to operate?”

&nb
sp; “Perhaps, but I’m not willing to take that risk.”

  “You could let the parents decide.”

  “Ultimately, it’s a medical decision.”

  “If it were my child, I’d want a say.”

  For such a normally sullen, close-lipped woman, Dr. Gilford marvelled at her persistence. “I’m opting for the lesser of two evils.”

  Ruby laughed but it was not a particularly pleasant sound. “Lesser of two evils for who?” As Dr. Gilford turned the engine over and pulled away from the curb, his normally steady, surgeon’s hands were visibly shaking.

  A month later Dr. Gilford took inventory and this is what he knew about the woman. Once a week on Saturdays, Ruby took a hot bath, lacing the water with Calgon bath beads. She read the latest issue of Woman’s World from cover to cover, while soaking in the blue suds. She owned an old-fashion, 3-speed bike with a straw basket fastened to the handlebars. During the spring and early fall, she strapped the bike to the trunk of her rusting, 2001 Camaro and drove to the East Bay bike path where she pedaled several miles along the ocean through Riverside all the way to Barrington before turning back. On the way out she stopped for raisin rum ice cream; on the return trip she ate New York style wieners with all the fixings. This is what made her happy.

  In 1996, Ruby enrolled in night school and passed her GED. “The math was agony! Away from the cash register, I ain’t much good with numbers.” She never spoke of her ex-husband and hardly reacted when Stan tried to draw her out. Like the dodo bird and saber tooth tiger, the man had long since ceased to exist.

  Stan told her about Dr. Nesbitt’s trial. Ruby shrugged and said, “Rhode Island’s the smallest state in the union, but, more people sue each other here than in all the others but one.”

  “A sobering statistic,” Dr. Gilford replied. “What’s the other state?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Ruby joined a women’s support group but lost interest after only the third session. “A bunch of bitchy broads bellyaching about their sorry lives. I needed that like a second asshole.”

  Dr. Gilford, who had no specialized training in proctology, shook his head in agreement.

  Regarding the prospects for sex, he was like a ship dead in the water with a blown engine and defective rudder. Ruby wasn’t frigid; she had no phobias or neurotic blocks. She just didn’t put out without a gold band on her finger. Yet, after fifteen years of being rubbed raw by Bernice’s double-entendres and acidic humor, a female who spoke in broken sentences and required minimal emotional maintenance was a refreshing change.

  Only by a queer process of elimination, could Dr. Gilford comprehend the woman. Ruby was not a snob. She wasn’t particularly outgoing but, then, neither was she withdrawn. Innuendo and petty mind games were not a part of her emotional repertoire. She was neither profound nor flagrantly stupid. She was not particularly generous or kind-hearted, a quality which was balanced by a certain tough-minded fairness. Ruby could be crass and unapologetic. She was far from perfect. She had no fatal flaws.

  Stan and Ruby were sitting in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Mineral Spring Avenue in North Providence. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled envelope and slid it across the table toward her. Inside was the brochure from Copper Canyon plus a round-trip ticket from Northwest Airlines. “Tuesday, Dr. Spiegelman’s mother fell down a flight of stairs and broke her hip. He’s canceling out. Gave me his ticket gratis and said to find someone else who could appreciate the subtleties of Mayan culture.”

  “You can’t be serious?” The rough-cut edginess in her voice that he originally mistook for a character defect had emerged as one of Ruby’s most endearing virtues. By way of a reply, Dr. Gilford inched the packet across the table. “We’ve got nothing in common,” she continued fretfully. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I feel good when we spend time together,” Stan said softly. “And when I haven’t seen you for a few days, I don’t feel so good anymore. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand that.”

  “You know the ground rules.”

  Powdered sugar crusted on his fingertips as Stan reached into the envelope and retrieved a piece of paper stuck at the bottom - a brochure for a 4-star hotel in Chihuahua City. Dr. Gilford flattened the brochure on the table and indicated a column of print indented and flared in phosphorescent, gold ink:

  ‘Our honeymoon suite includes king size bed, Jacuzzi, complimentary bottle of champagne and bouquet of freshly cut flowers. Along with the customary amenities, on the day following their arrival the newlyweds will receive a full breakfast served in the rose garden where ...’

  “Is this some sick joke?” Ruby muttered, never lifting her eyes from the printed matter.

  Stan rose and helped her on with her jacket. “The plane leaves Saturday at noon. Let me know in a day or so what you decide. And for what it’s worth, I’m in love with you.”

  They drove back to Providence in silence. When he pulled up at the curb, Stan said, “About the little boy with the heart trouble, I told the parents their options.”

  “And?”

  “He’s scheduled for surgery the first week in November.” Stan shook his head grimly. “Now I’ve got to find an anesthesiologist - questionable kidneys notwithstanding - willing to put him under.”

  Ruby sat in the darkness, head lowered and tilted to one side. The acrid scent of marigolds floated into the car on a warm breeze. Five minutes passed without a word. Finally she looked up. “Animals don’t scare me, at least, not the four-legged kind. Except for merry-go-rounds, I’ve never been on a horse.”

  “A minor technicality. Does this mean - ”

  “Don’t,” she hissed, “go reading anything more into it.” Her gruff tactlessness was tempered with more than a hint of bluster.

  Dr. Gilford waited until she was safely in the apartment before putting the car in gear.

  Back to Table of Contents

  Circus Maximus

  "Hazelton's back!" The voice on the far end of the cell phone belonged to Rodger Ephraim, chairman of the philosophy department at Brandenburg Community College. Rodger assumed the plum position three years earlier under the most peculiar circumstances, when Buddy Hazelton, the previous department head, walked away from the position. Professor Hazelton offered no formal notice. From one day to the next he didn't simply show up at the college. The cryptic message taped to his desk blotter read:

  I am taking a sabbatical of unspecified duration.

  Eight, unambiguous words that revealed nothing. A month earlier, Buddy emptied his bank account and canceled his townhouse lease. Saying nothing to anyone, he vanished. Poof - up in smoke. Just like that! Local police could do nothing. The academic had no history of mental aberrations, vices or kinky predilections. He oversaw the philosophy department while teaching several post-graduate classes on A.J. Ayer's theory of logical positivism and Wittgenstein's impenetrable Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. As months passed with no new revelations, jokes about 'finding Buddy Hazelton' became endemic, faculty members vying to one-up each other with outlandish theories about what really happened to the mild-mannered scholar.

  "Okay, so where is he?" I blurted awaiting the punch line.

  "I'll be over in ten minutes." Rodger’s tone had assumed a flinty edge. "Dress casual. We’re going for a little drive."

  *****

  Rodger Ephraim said nothing as we cruised the interstate to South County. Abandoning the highway in Tiverton, Rhode Island, the Volvo hugged the marshy coastline for another three miles until a huge canvass tent appeared off to the right in a sandy field. The Waverly Brothers Traveling Circus loomed directly ahead. A garish billboard they passed just before reaching the fairground boasted fire breathers, trampoline acts, plate spinning, contortionists, sword swallowing, juggling, acrobatics, wild animals and a even freak show.

  Rodger parked the car in a weed pocked lot. "Let me do the talking."

  An emaciated employee with protruding ears and dirt-str
eaked face was sitting on a stool just inside a fenced-off enclosure. A wad of chewing tobacco the size of a golf ball bulged from his left cheek. "Gates don't open for another half hour, “he drawled, pointing at a ticket booth two hundred feet away where a small crowd of families were milling about."

  Rodger waved a hand dismissively. "A mutual friend… a roustabout works for your outfit."

  The employee shook his head from side to side and spat a syrupy wad of tobacco juice in the dirt. "And who might that be?"

  "Buddy Hazelton." Rodger pulled his faculty ID from a breast pocket and waved it under the man's hairy nose. "Show this to Buddy and tell him -"

  "Can't do that." The man brought him up short. "He's hosing down the elephants and visitors aren't allowed back there under any circumstances." The man paused to snort a bugger from his right nostril. "Anyway, this being the big day, he don't need no distractions."

  "How’s that?"

  "Buddy's cannonballing… first time in public. The crazy sonofabitch volunteered last week after Rufus went off his trajectory and tore the hell out of his rotator cuff." The man grinned displaying a set of pebbly, tobacco stained teeth and receding gums.

  "Why don’t we just just wait over there," Rodger pointed to a trailer with 'Cotton Candy' painted in huge pink letters, “until Buddy finished with the elephants.” The man shrugged and finally let them pass.

  With an hour to show time, performers and circus workers were rushing about purposefully. Still out of costume but boasting pastel-colored clown's faces, several midgets hobbled by. A wiry woman with an elaborate bouffant hairdo was doing stretching exercises. On the far side of a huge tent an elephant trumpeted. Rodger glanced over his shoulder. The gatekeeper had his back to them and was jawing it up with the midgets they passed moments earlier just as the pachyderm let loose another shrill blast.

  "Let's take a look see." Rodger meandered off in the direction of the noisy commotion but pulled up immediately. Halfway across the field near a stand of sugar maples, a full-grown, bull elephant was being washed down by a slope-shouldered, balding man with a long-handled brush. The former chairman of Brandenburg College's philosophy department had traded a tweed jacket for cutoff dungarees and flannel shirt with a raggedy gash under the right armpit. Rodger ducked back out of sight. "It seems our esteemed colleague," he observed with pokerfaced dismay, "has bartered away a PhD and academic tenure for a garden hose and lifetime supply of buttered popcorn."