Terry Persun's Magical Realism Collection

by Persun, Terry

  Phyllis sat down next to him and put her hand on his knee. “How are you feeling?”

  Jim was slightly surprised to have Phyllis sit with him. Beth poured herself a second cup of coffee. “I’m fine,” Jim said.

  After the short-lived scandal, many of the women teachers refused to even make eye contact. For a short time the men winked at him as they passed him in the halls. He wasn’t exactly proud of himself.

  Now Phyllis was actually sitting next to him. Friendly? More than likely it was either pity or curiosity. He had known news of the cancer would leak out. His first trip to the hospital had raised eyebrows, and the busybodies in the front office were, well, busybodies. He couldn’t keep his insurance forms a secret. He thought of the secretaries in the front office. With secret being the root word, they sure weren’t able to keep any. Jim laughed to himself.

  “Something funny?” Phyllis asked.

  Jim turned to her. “No. Not that I can think of.”

  “We’re sorry to hear you may have to go back into the hospital.”

  “Thank you.” He imagined, from what little he knew of Phyllis, that she might even be glad that he had a disease. She could say to herself with no little satisfaction, that adulterers get their due reward eventually.

  He had briefly entertained similar thoughts himself. But of all the wrongs done in the world, a short affair with an assistant teacher didn’t seem punishable by death. He just happened to be one of the many people who got cancer. That was it. Not punishment. More like a disease lottery.

  Phyllis fidgeted for a moment. Jim’s answers were much too direct. “So, everything’s all right at home then? With Becky, I mean?”

  “Perfect,” he said. “One thing did happen recently, though.”

  Phyllis perked up. She turned toward him.

  Jim didn’t know what made him do it. He was just sick of all the cattiness. His life was his own. He and Becky had their own problems to overcome. Let Phyllis think about this: “During my hunting trip last week, I talked with deer.”

  “Oh.” She seemed uninterested, as though he were spoofing her. She began to stand and he placed his hand on her forearm to stop her. “One moment. You don’t seem to understand. I met up with three deer in the woods, one buck and two doe. They talked with me.”

  “It figures,” he heard Beth say from across the room.

  “They talked with me all afternoon and they left me with a sign. They said I was the gift and the giver. What do you think of that? What do you suppose that means? Really? I’ve been trying to figure it out for days now.”

  Phyllis forced her way out of her seat against his hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Ask around. I’m looking for suggestions.”

  Phyllis and Beth scooted out the door.

  Jim sat back in the sofa and sipped at the last of his coffee. He felt better for some reason. He’d held so much in these past years. Who cared if he finally let loose? Who cared what they thought? They’d make their own decisions about him when he was gone anyway. Let them start now, he thought. He was crazy. Let them think it.

  CHAPTER 5

  THAT THURSDAY JIM WENT INTO THE HOSPITAL to have the second lump removed. Becky showed up in the hospital room after work, still dressed in a navy-colored silk jacket and slacks, a ruffled shirt of light blue and green, and navy shoes. Jim felt groggy, and a bit sore from the operation.

  “How you doing?” Becky said.

  Jim opened his eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position. “Tired.”

  She touched his arm. “Brad’ll be here pretty soon with Susan.”

  “They don’t have to bother.”

  “They want to.”

  He turned his head. His breathing became heavy, one sigh after another.

  “So,” Becky said in preparation.

  Jim waited to hear it, whatever it was that bothered her. After so many years of living together, he knew what to expect just by her movements, sighs, and sound of her voice. At these familiar moments she looked older to him. The face he loved took on harsh angles. Even her mouth moved differently across words she’d used on countless other occasions.

  “I heard about you telling everybody at school about this deer thing.”

  “Doesn’t take long, does it?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I told Phyllis. She was nosing around and I just got fed up. She and Beth were the only two there.” His words trailed off toward the end.

  Becky shook her head at him, but he hardly noticed. There was no reason for him to care. That’s how he saw it. Becky was being overly sensitive to his actions because of what happened before. Once he died, though, she’d be pretty much cut off from the school altogether. That’d be it. To hell with them. He didn’t say any of that though. Besides, he felt much too tired to go over it all with her.

  “They probably think I’m crazy for being with you. Or maybe they pity me. I don’t need either, you know?” Her voice was directed at him, but her words got garbled on their way over.

  Jim knew what was up, even if he heard only part of what she said. He was just too tired to think, and too disgusted at this point with his own life, to care what anyone said, thought, felt, or dreamed up. It was his life. His miracle. There were cases, documented ones, where people lifted cars to save loved ones, or fell from planes and lived, or even died and came back to life. All miracles. Accepted ones. So what was wrong with his?

  He had decided to celebrate his miracle rather than hide in it. A wonderful thing happened. He was through with keeping low key so other people felt better about themselves.

  “What have you got to say? Can’t you tell Phyllis you were joking?”

  Jim’s eyes opened and he looked straight at Becky. “It really happened.”

  “Oh. So that’s it?”

  “Thass it.”

  “Maybe when you’re off your pain medicine and back to normal you’ll think differently.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’d better.”

  He turned his head. On the one hand, he wanted the two of them to be close again. He’d do almost anything to make her happy. On the other hand, he had a right to his opinions and his experiences. No one could take them away. And he’d tell her, except that words took too much energy. He didn’t have the strength. He did get the energy to tell Becky that he’d changed his mind about chemotherapy. He was willing to go through a few treatments, “Just to see,” he said.

  Her expression changed. “Jimmy, are you sure?” Her face lit up. “I’m glad.” She wanted him to try. Maybe there was a reason now. Before, she felt he wanted to die so that he could be with Connie. But now. . .

  She remembered their talk earlier in the week. Maybe he wanted to be with her. She hoped so. Through everything they’d overcome, it seemed a waste not to try. She still wanted to be there for him. She still loved him. “But I’d still like you to deal with Phyllis. I hate what they might think.” She came over and fluffed his pillow for him. “Tell me you’ll talk with her.”

  Jim began to speak, but Brad and Susan came into the room, bringing the cold and excitement of the outside world with them.

  Brad pulled off his gloves and took Susan’s coat, then he removed his own. In the midst of the commotion, he hugged his mother and kissed her on the cheek. Susan did the same. There was hardly enough room for the three of them, the bed took up so much space. There was so much confusion that Jim just closed his eyes until they all became situated.

  “So, how you feeling, Pop?” Brad pushed at his father’s leg.

  Jim opened his eyes. “Hi, Son. Hi, Susan.”

  “Hi, Jim. How’s it going?” Susan never called him Dad after she and Brad were married, and Jim was thankful for that small, but significant, courtesy. Especially now, after Connie’s death.

  He really liked Susan. She was perfect for Brad, even though Brad wasn’t always sure of the fact. “I’m doing fine,” Jim told her. “Feeling better all the time.”


  “He’s agreed to try chemotherapy,” Becky announced to confirm what Jim told Susan.

  “Great news, Dad.” Brad grabbed Susan’s hand in excitement. He looked at his father seriously. “We want you around for a long time.”

  “We need to talk more, Brad. There’re things I’d like to talk about with you.”

  “I agree. Let’s start as soon as you’re out of here,” Brad said.

  Jim nodded slowly. His energy waned.

  “Don’t talk now,” Becky told him. “You’ll have time later.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ONCE JIM GOT OUT OF THE HOSPITAL, Brad had trouble adjusting his schedule so that they could get together. Not visit, that still went on, but actually sit down one-on-one and talk. It wasn’t until after Jim’s first chemotherapy experience that Becky created enough fuss over Brad’s lack of commitment that Brad thought to get further involved. The chemo brought back all the reality of the situation, the seriousness of the disease.

  So, one Saturday Brad and Jim headed for the hunting cabin. For two days. The weekend would be enough time. Jim was tired, but thought he’d make it fine. Becky was concerned but trusted her son to keep her husband safe.

  Brad let Jim drive the first hour then took over for the last half of the trip. “The mountains sure are beautiful, aren’t they, Dad?”

  “Yes, even without leaves on the trees. There’s something beautiful in their absence, in knowing that spring will bring them back. The return of life,” he added.

  Brad looked sideways at Jim, curious to see his expression. But there was no expression on Jim’s face to lead to any conclusion, so Brad turned his attention back to the road. “You said, have been saying, that we should talk, but you never lead me into conversation, anything we haven’t said before, or couldn’t discuss with Mom and Sue around.”

  Jim looked out the window, the scenery breezing past in a never-ending stream. “It takes time, Son. We have to ease into it. It’s like love making: if it’s jumped into too quickly, it’s instinct, sex—but properly paced, it’s a joining of souls, it’s love.” Jim couldn’t believe he’d said what he’d said. He had been thinking about Becky and him, and felt a little embarrassed.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s true. Those are the things people don’t talk about, don’t get serious enough about. And it’s important.”

  “It is,” Brad agreed.

  Jim looked at his son. He was a man, another grown man with a wife and a home and problems of his own. Jim could remember the boy, but didn’t feel he knew the man well enough. Jim knew his own friends, Mel and Ed, better than he knew his son. “Tell me,” he said finally, “do you talk to Susan about the difference?”

  “The difference?”

  “Between love and sex?”

  “We talk about it. I guess.”

  “And?”

  “Dad, is this what you wanted to get into?”

  “Not exactly, but yes, this too.”

  “Why’s it so important?” Brad asked.

  Jim sat forward in his seat and leaned around so he could see Brad’s face. “I want to know my own son before I die.”

  “Did you know Connie this well?”

  That was a difficult question for Jim. It hurt. He and Connie had a special, private relationship. One he’d never shared. Yet Brad was only trying to know his father, Jim thought. Equal sharing. That’s what the trip was meant to be. “Yes, I think I did.”

  “All those long talks in the den?” Brad said.

  “Yes, and walks at night. Remember?”

  “I think Mom used to get jealous. Mom knew Connie told you things she wouldn’t tell her.”

  “Becky was always so judgmental. She’d decide what was right, then tell you kids what to do, instead of help you figure out what was best for you.”

  “Even me and Con would talk about it. Mom would say, ‘No, you did the wrong thing,’ and you’d say, ‘So, is that what you had hoped as an outcome and how did you feel about yourself afterwards?’ We used to laugh about it.” Brad shook his head. “I miss her, Dad.”

  “So do I. A lot.”

  “Is that why you and that woman at school did what you did?”

  Another rough question. Jim wondered how long Brad had held that question inside. “I didn’t do that because of Connie. Not at all.” He shook his head and Brad waited to hear more, giving Jim plenty of space to talk. “There was a gap then, between me and your mother. Out of grief or cowardice or something. Neither of us attempted to fill it. I turned to someone else. It could have happened to either one of us at the time.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  Was that judgmental or was it just a statement? Did Brad get that trait from Becky? “You don’t know that to be true, Brad.”

  “Did she?”

  “I’m just saying that you don’t know.” Jim was firm.

  “Aren’t people supposed to hold tighter during rough times?”

  All of a sudden, Jim knew that Brad was concerned for himself. Would the same thing happen to Susan and him? “They’re supposed to. But, until they’re tested, you never know how two people might react.”

  “You guys had been through rough times before. You’d think you’d have learned to come together automatically,” Brad said.

  “That would have been nice. I’m not proud of what happened. It’s created its own problems since then.”

  “I can imagine. But, you know, Mom was always a little jealous of Con. Maybe your overwhelming sorrow frightened her and made her back away.”

  Overwhelming sorrow, Jim thought. Is that how Brad saw his father during that time? “Let’s not blame her. It takes two. I didn’t look to her for comfort either. That was the worst time in my life.”

  “I’m sorry.” Brad watched the road. “Now isn’t?”

  Jim felt pride that his son could be so open with him. “Not now. In a way I’m getting to explore life.”

  “You’ve thought about death a lot too since this started?” Brad asked.

  “I have.”

  “Does it disrupt your day an awful lot? How do you ever concentrate on anything else?”

  “Oh, I do. I do.” Jim sat back in his seat once again to relax, accepting the new line of conversation. “I see everything clearer now. I tend to experience the now more than I’ve ever done. That may sound odd, but if you think about it, aren’t you always in the past or future, some other place?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Simple. When you’re at work, you’re thinking ahead. When will this project end? When will the day be over? Or you’re in the past. About that fight you had with Susan that morning. Or the love making. How often do you actually notice your desk? The walls? Do you have a radio in your office?” Jim asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you honestly say that you hear it all day?”

  “No, of course not,” Brad said.

  “And a window?” Jim asked.

  “You’re right, Dad. Sometimes it’ll begin to snow and I won’t notice until one of the secretaries steps in and tells me.”

  “Exactly. Did you know that most people begin to get depressed Sunday afternoon about three o’clock, just in anticipation of Monday morning?”

  “Really?”

  “It’s true. And their weekend isn’t even over. They’ve got a good seven or eight hours left to enjoy it.”

  “A full work day,” Brad said.

  “That’s right.”

  “But you can’t be present, in the present, one hundred percent of the time. Isn’t it our ability to compare past and present, and to project into the future what makes us human? Isn’t it all part of being intelligent?” Brad asked.

  “But it was never meant to reduce the present to nothing. Or, if we’re being fair, to only a few moments a day,” Jim argued.

  “Stop and smell the roses.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So,” Brad turned to his father, “how do we live
more in the present?”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you. You may have to learn on your own. But one thing’s for sure, I’ve been doing more of it. I think getting into the woods helps. The only thing around is the present. Hunters may have something there, something they didn’t know they had, a link to the present. No wonder it’s so attractive to some people.”

  “So, are you noticing the drive?”

  “Of course. Maybe more than you. But also, I’m here with you. Listening to the way you speak, watching how you turn your head. I listen closely to your words. I know what your face looks like when you’re embarrassed and when you’re interested. I can tell when you’re not listening, too.”

  “Uh, oh.”

  “You laugh just like when you were a little boy,” Jim said. “You haven’t changed in that way. Sometimes I’d hear you downstairs watching cartoons or something on a Saturday morning, and you’d laugh. Becky and I would look at each other and just break up.”

  Brad kept his eyes on the road and made the turn to go up to the cabin.

  “Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Jim said.

  “You didn’t really. Well, maybe a little. I just never realized, never knew how you felt. You never said.”

  “There’s always been a lot I loved about you. I’m proud of how you grew up. You’re a good man. I think the easiest way to tell is by watching Susan.”

  “Why?”

  “The way she listens to you when you speak. How she takes your hand when you reach for her. She’s comfortable in being part of your life. Regardless of your minor differences, and I’m sure you have them, you have a mutual respect there, a closeness.”

  Brad brought the car to a stop next to the cabin. “I would never have guessed you’d be able to notice so much from a few seemingly small acts.” He nodded. “Thank you for noticing.”

  Jim smiled. Brad had a few wrinkles around his eyes and laugh lines, too, around his mouth. He had the kind of face that made people feel at home. Even though Jim recognized parts of himself in Brad’s face—his nose and chin—Becky’s influence lighted Brad’s eyes and mouth, which created that friendly look Brad carried with him. Those same features had made Connie stunning, and probably helped cause some of her problems while growing up. Brad handled his appearance well. Jim was sure Susan appreciated that fact as much as he and Becky did.