Charleswood Road Stories

by Joudrey, M. C.

  “Young fool,” Gerald muttered once his son was out of sight.

  He re-lit his pipe and took three heavy pulls on the stem. A rich plume of grey smoke filled the air around him. He looked out on the moor. The evening moon was low and almost full; a soft eerie glow blanketed the land, however one could still see for quite a distance. Gerald watched in silence as the first of them appeared.

  “Hello, old friend,” he whispered the words in his mind only.

  The pony moved over the crest of the hill and into full view. The creature was a female. Her coat was black and shone like the surface of the lake beneath the moon’s delicate light. Her mane was long, unruly.

  Gerald and the beast met gazes. They would do this each evening; stare at each other in silent understanding. They both weren’t long for this world and had an unspoken agreement. The others would eventually come. Gerald had been a part of this ritual for many years.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his wool jacket and removed a bottle of pills. It was that time. He took out two light yellow pills and reached for his water, took a mouthful and threw his head back to swallow. He waited a few moments for his stomach to settle and then looked back out on the moor. The Dartmoors had gone. He got up, turned off the porch light and went inside.

  The next night brought the same visitation; first the black female, then the rest of the Dartmoors would come silently and Gerald would light his pipe. They would watch each other, then the ponies would graze the moor in the moonlight. Gerald lived for his evenings with these animals although eventually he would start to grow tired and it was then he knew it was time for his pills. He would take them each night at the prescribed time and the Dartmoors would leave as though they knew he would be making his way to bed.

  It was August when things changed for the first time in all the years Gerald had been on the moor. The black female had a routine. She would arrive first and remain at a distance while the others waited. On this night though, she left the safety of the tree line and trotted slowly towards the porch. She slowed to a walk about twenty feet from the porch. She looked at Gerald and him at her, as they had always done. Neither broke their gaze. The bold advance of the pony did not surprise Gerald. They had known each other for many years. She would only become bolder now that things had changed, although Gerald knew it all along to be true. The other ponies did not come that night. She turned and made her way towards the trees while Gerald watched her go. He took his pills and went to bed.

  The next night Gerald sat on his porch, pipe dangling from his mouth and stared out at the crest of the hill. He waited patiently. Tonight was the night he’d been waiting for all this time.

  Eventually she emerged out of the trees, coming up over the crest of the hill and making her way towards Gerald at a calm even trot. When she stopped a few feet from the porch, Gerald was no longer sitting but standing. They looked at each other for a time and then Gerald turned his gaze out at the moor. The others had congregated along the crest of the hill. Gerald nodded evenly to no one in particular and made his way down the porch steps. The pony raised her head and Gerald laid a hand upon the beautiful black creature’s mane.

  “Okay,” he said. And that was all. It was the only time he had let her hear his voice. She made no sound and remained silent, as always. She turned and started to slowly make her way towards the others, stopping to look back at Gerald. He understood and followed her like she wanted him to.

  It was a few days later when they discovered the body. Arthur had tried to call to see if his father would reconsider signing the papers but received no answer. Arthur had asked Dr. Wortham to join him on the trip out to the moor, even though he knew the doctor would not be of much use.

  He looked at his father who was sitting in his chair on the porch, eyes open, looking out at the moor. His father looked incredibly peaceful and more at ease than Arthur thought he’d ever seen him while he was alive.

  “He would always talk about the Dartmoor ponies when I visited him,” remarked Arthur, as he looked upon his father sitting there.

  “Dartmoors, really? Hasn’t been a Dartmoor on this land for almost twenty-five years. The last of the breed died in captivity at least twelve years ago.” The doctor stood a moment in reflection. “Sad really, they were beautiful creatures.”

  “I know,” said Arthur quietly, almost to himself. He turned and placed his hands on the railing of the porch, steadying himself, and looked out onto the moor. That is when he noticed something on the grass below and went down the steps to fetch it. About ten feet or so from the porch, Arthur reached down and picked up an unopened plastic container of his father’s pills.

  Only the Dead Will Rest

  A man takes a shower

  Puts on a suit and goes to work, recording his mileage

  He comes home, warms up leftovers and watches the television

  Makes paltry conversation with his wife

  After a while he goes to bed and the alarm clock and routine are reset for tomorrow

  Another man ties his shoe with a broken lace

  He pulls yesterday’s newspaper around his body and shuts his eyes

  He will eat nothing and witness another man capture and eat a rat

  He urinates in a city planter box while statistics look but don’t see

  Numbers without faces

  A girl at a party smokes a joint

  It is her first time

  Her eyes glaze

  John approaches her and she can’t find the right words

  He is confused and walks away with friends

  She will have sex with Danny an hour later

  Another girl does not drink

  She studies and never goes to parties

  She achieves top honours upon graduation

  A job is offered and she works 14 hours a day

  This will go on for 15 years

  At the age of 35 she will look 55 and feel 65

  She will be rich

  A dog cools his belly on the concrete steps

  The afternoon sun begins to creep slowly into his shade

  He is unaware

  He watches his master

  Who toils beneath the same blazing sky as he cuts the lawn

  A woman fills her car with fuel

  The price is $1.17 a litre

  She watches another woman on a bicycle ride by as the fuel pump clicks off

  The woman pulls the nozzle from her vehicle

  She pinches the fat at her waist

  A bike could help with that

  Reflections of a Dying American Cigarette

  IT’S TRUE I’VE KILLED; I’VE taken a man’s life, but who does not know of someone who has done the same? Oh, sure, maybe it was in the name of country or freedom or the acquisition of mineral deposits, but is that any better than taking a life in the name of personal pleasure and satisfaction? I ask this be contemplated as I continue to expire.

  My smoker has taken a drag from me and placed me lovingly in the ashtray near his coffee. I do my best to burn slowly and build a proud silken wave of smoke around me. I am careful not to ash too quickly as I am aware my life is coming to its end. I am confident that I should be able to provide at least two more healthy draws before I extinguish to the filter. Then I will leave my legacy in the hands of my anxious brothers who still faithfully remain in the comfortable package for their climactic moment to arrive.

  It feels like a lifetime ago that I was lit by the butane lighter and felt my smoker take his first puff from me. Such a terrible and wonderful feeling all at once to know that with each inhalation from me into my smoker’s lungs I am performing my one task that will ultimately take my life. Is it so unfair that I should do the same to him?

  I like watching my smoker speak. At this moment he is engrossed in a meaningful conversation with a woman in whom he appears to have great interest. So many of the world’s most important conversations have been had over a cigarette. It’s the smoking that induced the conversation and nur
tured it to fruition. Imagine, if you will, all the conversations human beings might not have had if smoking was not readily available.

  I have heard from other cigarettes, back in the early stages of our birth as we rolled along the assembly line at the factory before being packaged, that a very gratifying human experience is to smoke immediately after pleasurable sexual intercourse. This is of course something I will never get to experience, as my fate has been ordained and my one life experience will play out here at this café.

  I watch my smoker’s hand slowly reach down for me while he continues to make eye contact with the woman in front of him. His movements with regard to my life are subconscious, machine-like, and I feel terribly neglected. A deep sorrow is realized; one of my final drags will be so very nonchalant. Still, I will do everything I must to fill my smoker’s lungs with pleasure and help spur his intimate conversation.

  Once I am returned to the ashtray I realize I may not be able to perform for one final pull on the filter. The previous one was too deep and long and left little of my precious tobacco. Still, with great effort I will try to hold out for one more final moment of satisfaction.

  I remember when I was first packaged and how lovely it felt to be part of such a large family. I doubt any family could be closer than we were. I can still hear the cheers of my brothers as I had been selected to be the next in our smoker’s life. They were all so proud of me. I am proud of myself too; I’ve worked hard for my smoker. I’ll not feel guilty if I should cause his health any harm. Do not a cheeseburger and fries kill just as often? I would consider myself to be much more satisfying than any fast food greasy burger.

  I look up one last time at my smoker who has forgotten where I lay and has not taken notice that I am about to expire. I feel lonely and desperate in my last moments and wish he would at least begin to reach for me even though I have nothing left to offer. Please, reach for me! Yes! I see his hand approaching. Thank you.

  “Hmm, damn thing’s finished. You don’t mind if I…?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Great.”

  Flick! Flick!

  “Mmm, so as I was saying…”

  Untitled

  I check the bowl

  Empty

  Always half empty

  Sit around the apartment

  My perch on the 28th floor

  Watch the ants

  Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.

  I’ll be one too

  Not so bad

  I get to do stuff

  Thanks to the pittance

  It adds up

  Time erodes the soles

  Unravels the laces

  Silences the tongue

  Can swallow the soul

  But the sun comes up

  Each day

  The damn thing

  Keeps on coming

  I guess I can too

  Plus I like seeing it

  Each day

  Somehow always worth it

  Soon, he thought

  Night Plane

  THE PLANE WAS LEAVING THE tarmac at 6:45 p.m. and Donald slid the vinyl blind open so he could look out the window. The sun was just sinking below the horizon and fleshy hues dashed softly across the clouded sky. Soon, he thought, they would be above the clouds and he would leave the colours and the city behind him.

  Donald was sick. In fact, he was dying. He still had some time; the disease was really only just starting to progress. He had his mobility and lucidity, but he didn’t know for how long, which is why he left.

  Donald had purchased a one-way ticket. He sat in coach even though he could more than afford executive class. He was going to see his daughter, Jennifer. He hadn’t seen her in four years, since the wedding. He had never been much of a father but that was when things were at their worst. Now on the last few miles of his life, he would go to see if there was any redemption for him at all in her eyes. He had neglected her terribly when Annette was still alive. Annette, would she be waiting for him? At least he had been a faithful husband. He never betrayed her, but he was just never there.

  I think she understood, Donald thought, wincingly. He was thinking of her in her last days and what she’d said to him.

  “Don’t lose your window to be her father.”

  Then she died with dignity like someone like her would. Donald looked out the plane window. The sky was a deep, dark blue with a few stubborn, fading colours. It looked like a bruise and reflected his pain. The attendant touched his arm.

  “Would you care for a beverage, sir?”

  “Water.”

  “Of course.”

  The attendant poured and passed then moved the trolley to the next aisle. Donald took a small sip from the cup and looked back out the window. The sky’s colours had vanished. Things change that quickly. Now the night was nothing but darkness. Donald reclined his seat slightly and tilted his head back against the headrest. He would try to sleep. He thought about the first time Jennifer slept in the new house when he and Annette brought her home from the hospital. Donald couldn’t remember the delivery, the birth or anything else from the hospital that day but he could remember with remarkable accuracy watching how his newborn daughter slept that night. He sat beside the crib in the antique wooden chair his wife had purchased only a month before for the room.

  “This is for when you want to watch her,” Annette’s distant voice replayed softly in his ear.

  A foolish extravagant purchase he had thought at the time, as he watched his child sleep and he himself began to doze. He had never since known a peace like that night.

  The plane was quiet now. The attendant had finished her concessions and was somewhere in the back. The other passengers were mostly asleep though a few read books or magazines. He felt alone now, not lonely. There’s a difference between the two. He was alone and could finally be truly honest with himself. He probably wouldn’t even get in the front door. He might have a little under a minute to explain himself before she closed it on him. He had hurt her with what he’d said at the wedding.

  “Thanks for coming, Dad. I know you’re busy.”

  “I am these days darling, as always. Is this him?”

  “Dad, meet Jim.”

  “A pleasure to meet you sir.”

  “What do you do with your time, son?”

  “I’m in construction. A foreman actually.”

  “I see. I suppose you’ll need my help often then with issues of finance.”

  “Dad!”

  “It’s all right, Jenny. Mr. Kroft, can I get you a drink?”

  “I can find my way. Nice meeting you, John.”

  It was no surprise his daughter had asked Jim’s father to make a speech at her wedding rather than him. That choice stung him, despite the endless vodka sodas he had consumed. She had done the right thing; at best he would have embarrassed her but more likely worse. Donald had passed the point of no return at nine that evening and the last thing he would remember from his only child’s wedding night were her last words to him. He had just entered the elevator of the ballroom to leave and she held the doors open, just as they were clamping shut.

  “I have forgiven so much because I believed you were in pain over mom. I can’t forgive you for this one Dad, I just can’t.”

  And the elevator doors closed. This was the last time she had spoken to him.

  The seatbelt sign sounded and the lighting came on in the cabin. The captain made a brief announcement that they would be landing soon and the local time was 7:45 p.m. They had gained two hours in the air. Donald set his watch to the correct time and stood up to get his bag in the overhead bin. He reached for the latch and felt a hot wave wash over him; he suffered a powerful bout of vertigo and lost his balance. Another passenger caught him as he fell and helped him back to his feet.

  “You alright buddy?”

  “I … I think so, just need a little fresh air is all.”

  The passenger lifted Donald’s bag out of the bin, pulled the luggage handle up for him
and handed it to him.

  Donald had not checked any other luggage and made his way outside the airport. The air outside was cool and there was a breeze which did wonders to restore his vitality. This sudden resurgence of energy made him aware of how nervous he was. He was only a few short kilometres from his daughter. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address.

  Donald rubbed his hands together in the back seat, trying to stay calm. What would he say when she opened the door?

  The cab pulled up to the house and Donald paid the driver. It wasn’t until the brake lights of the cab had disappeared over the hill that Donald realized he was alone and hadn’t moved an inch from where he had stepped out of the cab. She was in there and he was afraid of being rejected by her, his only child, his daughter, a woman whose life he was mostly absent for and whom he barely knew. She probably hated him and thought of him only in moments of weakness and anger, he thought to himself. His whole life, his wealth, the money, everything but Annette felt like one big regret. He could leave now, walk away and no one would know he was ever there or know that he was a coward even in his last moment of real living. In his gut he knew his daughter would not speak with him and would close the door in his face. He could feel that awful feeling already, but he loved her. He’d always loved her from that first night he watched her sleep and every day after he loved her, even though his actions may have not reflected this.

  He stepped forward towards the door.

  His thoughts pulled at him to such a painful degree that he felt physically hurt from the mental stress as he managed his way to the front door. He made a fist to knock. He hesitated again just before his knuckles struck the surface of the door; he had thought of nothing to say. He clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he rapped on the door. He took a step back absently and waited.