Fall - A Collection of Short Stories (Almond Press Short Story Contest)

by Corrina Austin

  He turned off the tap and dried his hands. Then he tried to flush the sink but something inside the tank sounded as if someone had thrown a big stone into a lake. He tried a couple of more times, but there was no use, it was clearly broken.

  His reflection was still looking at him when he left the room.

  -The flush is not working- said his wife coming into the kitchen, where Randal had served himself a cup of black coffee and a couple of buttery biscuits, and was getting ready to read the papers. Randal Waites was subscribed to all the newspapers that were delivered in his town.

  -Yeah, I know...I will try to repair it tomorrow- he said looking at his wife over the frame of his glasses.

  -Call Kevin, he can help you with it.

  -Margaret, our son has better things to do than coming here on a Saturday to fix our toilet.

  -I could make some vegetarian burritos; you know how much he likes Mexican food.

  -I will go to the hardware store as soon as I finish reading the papers-. And with that he lowered his eyes back to the page.

  His wife sat at the table and served herself some coffee. Randal had the impression that as she sipped it her eyes were firmly fixed on his bald patch.

  -Are we doing anything this weekend?- she asked after a while.

  -Well...you know, whatever you want. Every day is a holiday for a retired man-. He looked at her and twirled the tips of his moustache.

  -I could call my brother. Go downtown tomorrow evening to have dinner with him and Helen- she said shrugging.

  -Yeah sure, we can definitely think about it. Anyway, I am heading out to the hardware store. I will be back in a minute- he added before his wife could say anything.

  -The car’s tank is nearly empty by the way.

  -No problem, I’m walking.

  -To the hardware store?

  Outside on the street the wind howled tearing the last remaining leaves from the branches of the trees and sending them to the pavement, where the others already lay waiting. Stomped and crushed under the weight of a thousand boots, they had started to form a thin multicoloured layer on the sidewalk.

  Randal went down the stairs to the gate of his garden, now patchy and yellow like straw. He opened the gate that squeaked with the friction of rusted metal and looked behind him; quickly glancing from the corner of his eye at first, in case his wife was observing him from the kitchen window, and then directly staring at it when he saw otherwise.

  Randal and his wife had moved to that house when they were in their thirties. Between both of them, they managed to get credit that added up to the unpaid loan of their university tuition fees, and bought a small house in the suburbs -no more renting; they were done with that. The house was not the kind of place where Randal had expected to settle down, but it did not matter much anyway, it was just a house. During his childhood he had lived in quite a grand, luxurious house but he had not liked it there either. Especially when his parents had to go to work and all his brothers and sister were in school, and he had nobody to talk to. And then they would all arrive at once, like a dam broken by the strength of the water, and everyone would be too busy to notice his presence. Randal did not go to school until he reached the age of thirteen. He cried until his eyes looked like wounds just with the mention of putting him into a school, so he had to be home-schooled. However, his parents had neither the money nor the time to teach him themselves, so they sent him to the neighbor’s house, who used to be a university lecturer.

  The walk to the hardware store was on a long residential street, with nothing else apart from the naked trunks of the trees and the people at the bus stops squeezing to the back pane to avoid getting all soaking wet from the vehicles that mercilessly splashed their way through the puddle of water. The driver of the number 47 bus was especially vicious, and this time he caught Randal off guard. The bus passed right next to him like a whale emerging from the waters and soaked him to the bone. He got ready to hurl an amalgam of insults, but changed his mind at the last second and instead sighed and kept walking, trying to stay away from the side of the road.

  By the time he got to the hardware store his clothes were partially dry, but the cold had nearly beaten him.

  -Good morning Mister Waites. Is it raining outside?- asked Tony Finger, the owner of the hardware store.

  -No, I was just...washing the car- replied Randal.

  -Have you come for more modeling glue? What is it that you are making now? More World War One vehicles?

  -No, it is not that. Our toilet broke.

  -Ah, then, why don’t you take a look down isle three? You’ll find some stuff there- he said waving his arm in that direction.

  Randal Waites began to look amongst all the silicone tubes, the light-bulbs and the boxes of screws He picked up what he needed and a couple of extra things that he had decided to buy on the way there. Then he went back to the counter and paid. Tony Finger did not say anything; he just awkwardly smiled and listed all the things out loud as they were passing through the scanner, as he always did.

  -A tube of waterproof silicone, three inches of metal fibre, some plastic caps, ten inches of rubber tube and a cutter knife. Twelve ninety five.

  Randal paid with two ten pound bills and told Tony to keep the change, and he left the store. But as he was setting off, a voice called his name. He turned around and saw a man around his age approaching him with a big smile on his face and wide open eyes.

  -Randal? Is that really you?- he said trapping Randal’s hand and stretching it softly with his. -It’s Gavin, Gavin Brann, we studied together at Saint John’s.

  -Ah, yeah, I remember you- said Randal after a quick gathering of thoughts.

  -How have you been?-. The question for some reason seemed obscene to Randal; after all those years, how had he been?

  -Well, you know...the usual stuff-. But Gavin Brann nodded not contenting himself with the answer. -I finished university and went to live to Paris with my wife...

  -You got married? To who? Kelly Fisher? I remember that you were crazy about her.

  -No, I have not seen her since the summer trip to Spain, in second year-. Randal thought it was funny how memory worked; he could perfectly remember moments that took place thirty years ago, and not even remember what he had done last weekend. -I am married to Margaret Hofmann.

  -Margaret Hofmann...

  -She was in our class.

  -Ah yeah! So, what a life you must have had! Going to Paris with your dream girl. Why did you come back?

  -It was just… not what I had expected-. Randal remembered perfectly his time there. Margaret had started working as an international relations manager for a big French multi-national company, and he taught English to French businessmen and wrote leaflets in English for some history museums. They normally went out with a couple from Boston and a Ph.D. student from Minnesota. They met on the weekends in Irish pubs, museums, art galleries, wineries, or rented a car and drove to the country. They lived like that for over a year, but they could never escape the feeling that, in that city, they would never be anything more than tourists, so they decided to go somewhere else that they could one day call their home.

  -I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go for a couple of beers and catch up?- said Gavin Brann trying to get his attention.

  -No...I can’t- said Randal, still clouded.

  -Come on! Why not? Do you have to be somewhere? Work?

  -No...it is not... I am retired. I just don’t drink.

  -You can get a soda-. After considering the idea for a moment, Randal nodded, feeling that he had no other choice but to accept. -So, retired! Living the dream, huh?- Said Gavin Brann as they got in his car.

  Even during his time as a university student, Randal Waites had not been a dedicated drinker. However, that day he really
felt like having a beer. And by the fourth bottle the conversation had already been going on for a while. Gavin Brann told him that he had got a job in a law firm as soon as he graduated and had been working there since. He had a kid with his first wife and when he married the second he decided he wanted to have more. Unfortunately for them, they were already too old and the chances of their son coming out with some kind of physical problem were too high to take the risk. Randal also told him a bit about his life, he was a bit reluctant at first as had never enjoyed talking much about himself, but as the drinks came and went his tongue got looser.

  -You have definitely had an interesting life, and your family sounds great. You must feel very proud- said Gavin Brann while he patted his shoulder, then he finished his drink and made a sign to get another.

  -Yeah...I should, right?-. Gavin did not say anything to that, but Randal felt how he stared at him with a confused look. -I just wish I had learned to appreciate it back then.

  For a couple of minutes neither of them said a word, they just stayed there propping up the bar with their gazes lost on the bottle racks and the mirror behind them.

  -You know? I have already done everything I have ever wanted to. I have a list actually. Nothing extravagant, just some things I wanted to get done. And every time I crossed something off it, I could not help feeling a little bit disappointed; all my life waiting to do this and to do that, and then in an instant it was already over, so I started thinking about doing the next thing on the list. I also kept adding new things, you know? Things that I didn’t know that I would have ever wanted to do...the last time I wrote something was five years ago.

  -Oh! is all because you retired? Look, you’ll find something to keep you busy, we all do.

  -No, it isn’t that, at least not like that-. Randal took a couple of seconds to think. The truth was, he did not know what it was that he wanted to say, but at the end it just came out of his mouth. -I just feel that there is nothing else to look forward to...that the time for making decisions has passed already, and now it is the time to accept them. The problem is that I have not made a decision in my life.

  It was already dark when Randal got home. The drunkenness had reached its peak and faded away. His wife was in the kitchen making dinner. When she saw him she could not hide her surprise; in all her years of marriage her husband had never arrived home drunk. She found it quite funny, and she giggled with the image of the old man stumbling to one of the kitchen chairs flushed by the booze and embarrassment.

  -So, did you get lost on your way to the hardware store?- she said chopping some carrots on a wooden board.

  -I...happened to meet Gavin Brann, and...we had a couple of drinks.

  -Who?

  -Gavin Brann, he was in our class. He changed to corporate law after second year.

  -Ah yeah, that kid was a lost cause. How is he doing?

  -He seemed very happy.

  -Really? I don’t know, I thought old corporate lawyers ended up being a bunch of boring workaholics.

  -Well...if that is what keeps them going.

  Margaret kept chopping some vegetables while Randal looked in her direction without seeing her.

  -So, are we going out with my brother and Susan tomorrow?- While she was talking, Margaret did not taking her eyes from the carrot she was chopping.

  Randal remained quiet, looking at her, frowning, seemingly confused, as if he had not understood the question. -Yeah sure, why not? – he said after a while, with half a smile on his face. -I am going to the basement, let me know when dinner is ready.

  When Margaret had finished cooking they both sat at the table and ate watching the news and then the quiz show that followed, as they always did. Margaret tried to answer the questions before the participants could, and smiled at Randal, proud, every time she got one right. And Randal responded with a congratulating shrug of the moustache.

  -I was thinking about entering one of these shows, it could be fun, and with my general knowledge I think I stand a chance of making some money.

  -It is always a lot harder when you are actually there. Besides, they probably only get people that are funny, like white-trash, noisy house-wives...

  -Always so optimistic!

  They watched the rest of the show and then went to sleep. Randal always slept on his side, showing Margaret his back as she was an avid reader and kept her lamp on until late. That night, Randal could not sleep, there was something troubling him, so eventually he decided to go to the toilet and fix what was unfinished.

  He got all the things he had bought from the plastic bag and got to work. He changed the metal tube from inside the tank and fixed the pipe attached to it. Then he tested that everything worked perfectly before he sat down and started doing his private things. For some reason it felt very important to do it before getting on with his following task.

  As he always did, he tried to avoid his gaze in the mirror, and when he was done, he washed his hands, and then put the plug in the sink and started to fill it with warm water. When the sink was three quarters full, he turned off the tap and rolled his sleeves up.

  The first cut was the worst; the look of his vein throbbing under the thin layer of skin of his forearm. But after the initial pain, he started to feel a little bit dizzy and when the time came for the second one he barely even felt it.

  Randal Waites looked at himself once more in the mirror, and oddly, he felt liberated, freed from all the pressure and expectations. There was nothing else to look for, no reason to wait or to be disappointed. He looked at himself, and for the first time, saw no future, nor good, nor bad. There was only past now.

  Right at the end, when he thought he was about to leave, he started wishing he had left a letter to his wife, his kids, the world. He hurriedly thought about writing it with his own blood on the mirror, but the idea seemed distasteful, nor did he have any desire of taking his arms out of the warm water. He felt relaxed and dizzy, and when his head finally hit the ground he did not feel any pain. The last thought that remained in his head -his last regret, was that he had not been able to write that letter.

  We are born at the start of a blooming spring,

  that we waste looking for the summer to come,

  but when fall arrives instead,

  we finally stop wondering what’ will come next.

  We realise that we have lived a summerless life.

  Vague in Conversation - Mahalia Solages

  The pockmarked walls that enclosed the mass of faded women was no place for someone like me.

  The bell rang.

  I trudged out of the Haitian prison with the other inmates for the hour-long airing allowed in the guarded courtyard, the only highlight of the day. They had been glaring at me, the newcomer. The one where time and circumstance hadn’t imprinted its outrages. The cycles of anxiety, however, were staggered in dried rings from the armpits of my blouse. I had endured four sweaty nights; the moaning women had cued my tossing. Now that I could smell the nauseating stench of uncleanliness, I avoided abrupt movement, careful of disturbing the ripe odors.

  Feeling the regards, I had dared only a few sidelong glances at the dilapidated buildings with narrow gates. Otherwise, my attention remained on the pattern my heels made when they weren’t catching on the tufts of grass crowding the pavers. I had quietly scoffed at the blatant commentaries made at my expense.

  “She even got blanket with her atemiyó,” one guard had said when I clicked by.

  “Oh? She must have money,” another had replied.

  My back burned with aches. My muscles felt clenched from choosing to sleep in a seated position rather than lay on the roach-ridden mat. The straw runner, atemiyó—meaning “the floor is better” and moldy swatch of fabric were hardly amenities in my private cell.

  My cell had a block missing, hig
h, near a corner as if the brick mason shrugged off his miscalculation, therefore creating a window. The chalk green walls were flaking, revealing a dried blood color of a previous decade. One wall was marbled with fissures; another had chunks missing exposing veins of rebar. The bathroom was a tin bowl in the corner. The bowl was battered as if it had been given to a dog as a toy. The ration of square sheets masquerading as toilet tissue had the texture of construction paper. The gutter, as concave as a saucer, ran along the front of the cell. My bowls, daily rations and body secretions both were delivered through a small opening at the bottom of the gate.

  My father was forced into early retirement as an ambassador; his revealed addiction to kleren and other hard liquors had disgraced him in Haitian society. My father drank with purpose. Slowly, friendships took spills and lending hands emptied. I had become a teller at a local bank where I met popular socialite I was acquainted with from school. Axelle, also a teller, befriended me and started betting me to higher positions. As I reached my pending promotion as a foreign accounts executive manager, my mother and I agreed the extra income would send my father overseas in one final attempt to dry him out.

  Last Friday afternoon, my “friend” Axelle, had passed me her pin to withdraw money from her account as she occasionally did. She had usually asked for the favors at the end of the workday. This time she had been delayed with a client and the five hundred dollars, she claimed, were to treat me to treat me to drinks and the spa to celebrate my promotion. “Frederique, soit un coeur,” be a heart, Axelle had said every time she asked.

  A silhouette of cold closed over me when I had felt guards dragged me back into an office, while Axelle slithered out of the building.