The Recluse Storyteller

by Mark W. Sasse

  “‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us,’ said Red Hat. It just wasn’t meant to be.’

  “She shook in fear, cowered back by a lie, a grand deceit that had been perpetuated in front of her and had shielded her eyes for years. She hated him at that moment and with all the emotion she could muster, stood up and slapped him across the cheek. He hardly flinched. Meagan started crying.

  “‘It’s all right, Meagan. Sometimes slapping is all there is to say.’”

  * * *

  “Stop, Margaret,” whispered Cheevers in a taut manner. He gently rubbed his right cheek as if he had just felt the slap himself. He stood up, half-dazed, and walked recklessly over to the door, bumping into the floor lamp and the side of the kitchen table as he went. He stopped at the door, hand recoiled back for a moment, unsure if he wanted to turn the knob and leave, but he was emotionally spent. He had nothing more to give to the story. He reached out and opened the door, leaving Margaret once again alone with her thoughts.

  Chapter 15

  Over the Ridge and Looking Up

  Reverend Davies promptly met Janice outside Margaret’s apartment block the next morning. After Janice had heard the strange tale of Reverend Davies’ research, she was especially curious to see what Margaret would say—of course that curiosity in itself was a stretch of the imagination with Margaret involved. In addition to the mysterious tale, Mrs. Johnson had called three times that evening to complain about Margaret coming uninvited into her apartment. Janice felt quite sick and confused over the whole matter of her niece and was determined to figure out something and settle the matter—the sooner the better.

  “Reverend.”

  “Janice,” he breathed out a sigh. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  They ascended the dreary stairwell, walked past Cheevers’ door not knowing, of course, that Cheevers had spent the night drinking himself to tears and thinking about his tragic past. They arrived at her apartment door with uncertainty hanging over them like a looming thunder cloud that might pass over if the right wind comes along to ease away the tension. Reverend Davies’ heart was heavy. They knocked.

  Margaret opened the door partway, but when she saw who was standing there, she released it like a child who spitefully gives up a playground ball that her mother said belonged to someone else. The door sputtered open, allowing the two guests to enter. They said nothing as they came to sit down on the familiar couch opposite Margaret, who had taken up refuge in the chair where she recounted the twins’ story.

  “Hello, Margaret. Thanks for seeing us. The story you told us the other day. Where did you hear that?” asked the reverend, who had a completely complex scowl on his face.

  No response came back from the statue, who occasionally lifted her bronze arms to run her fingers along the edge of the large buttons on the chair’s cushion.

  “Okay,” Reverend Davies started again, only to be cut off by Janice.

  “Margaret, we just want to decide some things concerning you. What you say or do not say will go a long way in determining what happens. We just need to know what’s going on inside of you.”

  Reverend Davies glanced at Janice and decided to try a third approach.

  “Margaret. Remember that day that I met you in Full Brands? The second time? The time you were up against the canned foods and you looked at me and said something? Do you remember what you said?”

  “Reverend Taylor.”

  “That’s right. You called me Reverend Taylor in the store. But there was a Reverend Taylor in your story the other day as well. Why?”

  “Reverend Taylor,” she murmured in a gloomy manner.

  “But that wasn’t all you said. Do you remember what else? Something about death. Do you remember?”

  Janice looked on with great interest, trying to piece together a puzzle that she anticipated could not be solved by the spryest and analytical minds known to man.

  “I wanted to die. I wanted to change places with the old man who had been shot to hell; his lone solace being this—his opened wounds masked their embarrassment by being covered up with a conical hat placed there by a small girl in bloodied clothes. I wanted to be like him. Insides lain bare. The dead are honest. The dead tell the truth.”

  Reverend Davies heard the words again but this time in a new context. This was no veiled attempt at craziness or suicide, as the store manager rightfully intimated. This was something much more. A glimpse, a picture, a fragment of light from another time.

  “Margaret, where do those words come from? How do you see this scene? What do you see? You mentioned a conical hat? Is this in Asia somewhere? Margaret? I need answers.”

  She brought her head straight down, opened her eyes, and began staring right into the face of Reverend Davies for perhaps the first time in her life. She saw him for who he was, unsure, afraid, wanting answers as badly as people wanted answers from him. He looked frail like a long held secret had been haunting his actions all these years. Her stare made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t turn away. He had to hear what was coming next. He had to have everything confirmed. Margaret remembered the aisle, remembered the cans she pushed onto the floor, and remembered Reverend Davies walking towards her. She also remembered what she said before he arrived. It was now time.

  “Jackson had quickly slid down the ridge and attended to the little girl. He yelled for me to call for the medic, but I froze in fear and shock at the destruction I had caused.”

  “Jackson,” thought Reverend Davies—the word pierced an arrow through his heart. No one had called him that since ‘Nam.

  “My rifle butt was against the ground, and the barrel pointed directly up at me. I stared into the small dark hole that could bring me relief with one quick flick of my finger. Pain. Make it go away. One quick flick of my finger, and it was all gone”

  “No!” yelled out Reverend Davies, as he once again saw the horror that hung permanently over his life.

  “Jackson kept yelling towards me. But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. I was no longer on this earth.”

  “No!” the reverend shouted. “Put the rifle down! Put the rifle down! Don’t do it!”

  Janice, wide-eyed, looked at the transported figure of Reverend Davies standing in front of the couch, looking up the ridge at the lone soul on top who wanted to end it all. Everything was there, the depressing heat, the oppressing humidity which drenched every portion of their uniforms, the mosquitoes buzzing, the children wailing, the artillery firing from the north, the twitching finger of his dear friend, broken by death, ready to end it all. He saw himself scale the ridge, desperately trying to reach him on time. He knocked the rifle sideways, shooting an errant bullet into the trees. He wrestled his friend to the ground, yelling, swearing, beating, trying to get him to wake out of his hysteria. Then the tears. The overwhelming tears that caused his best friend to weep, chest constricting for air as he picked up his head and rested it on his lap, patting him like a father comforting a son. He saw it all so vividly that he could no longer focus on anything else. Reverend Davies put his hands over his face and cried.

  “No!”

  Then he turned and ran out the door, leaving Janice in a complete state of shock and Margaret in her normal comatose position on the chair.

  After a few minutes of silence, Janice stood up and paced back and forth from the balcony to the kitchen. Every time she arrived on the balcony, she would peer over, hoping to get a glimpse of the running preacher, but he seemed to be long gone. Finally, she broke the silence.

  “Margaret. I don’t understand what’s going on here. I just don’t. Stay here. Let me go see what’s happening. Perhaps he’s just downstairs.”

  Janice kept the door partly opened as she walked down the hallway towards the steps. Cheevers’ door was also cracked open, and she poked her head inside.

  “Michael. Michael Cheevers. This is Janice, Margaret’s aunt. I wondered if you had seen Reverend Davies …”

  She stopped immediately as she caught a glimp
se of Cheevers sitting in front of his refrigerator, part weeping, part drunk. Next to him sat Reverend Davies, guzzling down a bottle from another Cheevers’ six-pack. She stood flabbergasted, thinking that everyone had lost their mind.

  “Reverend Davies? What …?” she started, but realized that she was at a loss for words. “Cheevers? What’s going on?”

  “Pity party courtesy of your niece.”

  “Reverend—”

  “Janice. Leave us alone. Just leave,” Reverend Davies said, as he gulped down more of the beer.

  She closed the door behind her as she walked back towards Margaret’s apartment, feeling perplexed beyond reason, wondering what Margaret was doing to everyone. As she neared the door, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Trumble bounded down the hallway in a huff, with determined looks on their faces and quickly approached Janice, who was beginning to think that something had to give. She couldn’t take much more of this.

  “Janice,” started Mrs. Johnson.

  “I know. I know. I’m doing the best I can, but there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “You cannot imagine that we will sit back now and just wait and see. Not after this despicable incident. That unstable woman forcing herself into the children’s bedroom,” whipped Mrs. Trumble, happily defending her neighbor and, of course, the honor of her fingers, which were no longer wrapped in bandages.

  “Mrs. Trumble,” said Janice sternly. “I hardly think this is your concern. I shall deal directly with Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Well, it is my concern when that menace starts terrorizing the whole neighborhood.”

  “Mrs. Trumble, stand away from this door unless you want another bout of bandages.”

  “I will not take such insults from you.”

  “That would be fine with me. If you go back in your apartment, I shall not have to insult you anymore.”

  Mrs. Trumble huffed in disbelief at Janice’s arrogant and belittling attitude. She was about ready to let go an unrehearsed rant when Mrs. Johnson stepped in between them.

  “Mrs. Trumble. I appreciate your sympathy, but perhaps this is something that I need to discuss alone with Janice.”

  Mrs. Trumble huffed some more and grumbled a sentence or two under her breath before retreating back to her own apartment. Janice looked exhausted. She glanced over at Mrs. Johnson and pointed down the hall toward her apartment.

  “Can we speak in your place?”

  “Sure.”

  They went back to the scene of the familiar and painfully long meeting of a couple weeks ago, which they had thought was going to decide Margaret’s fate. That all seemed silly at this point. Mrs. Johnson began telling the whole story which, of course, Janice had already heard more than once on the phone the day earlier.

  As the conversation continued, Sam had an idea. She always had an idea that Pam usually discounted but ending up acquiescing to eventually. They once again scurried along the perilous route, trying to be unseen by the grownups in order to arrive at the front door. Sam hoped that that lubricant of two weeks earlier was still working on the hinges. It was. She opened the door about a foot-wide without making any sound. Then she scampered down the hallway and stood outside Margaret’s apartment, softly knocking on the door.

  Margaret sat in her familiar chair, unresponsive to everything around her. She waited for Janice to return, and she knew she hadn’t seen the last of Reverend Davies or Cheevers. She heard the soft knock, followed by a scratching sound like a piece of paper shuffling on a wooden floor. And so it was. She glanced to see a sheet of paper that someone had slipped under the door. She stood up, walked past her much ignored computer, and picked up the sheet which had several neatly printed sentences on it.

  Dear Ms. Pritcher,

  This is Sam. I am sorry my mother was angry. We would really like to hear the end of the story. Call us at this number at nine o’clock, and we can hear your story over the phone.

  Your friend,

  Sam

  P.S. We really enjoyed the white bread. My mom made the beans tonight. We liked them a lot.

  P.P.S. The number is 879-2121.

  “Ate the beans,” she said aloud.

  Perhaps Janice isn’t coming back today, she thought, walking over to her bed to lie down, hoping to have her mid-day sleep. It was becoming more difficult to do.

  Janice and Mrs. Johnson continued their conversation.

  “Mrs. Johnson, I don’t disagree with you. It was not proper for Margaret to enter their room without your knowledge. But, we must get the facts clear. How did she get into the apartment in the first place?”

  “The girls let her in.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something right there?”

  “It tells me that my girls have no common sense.”

  “Perhaps that’s true. But it also says something else. They don’t consider Margaret a threat at all.”

  Mrs. Johnson doubtfully leaned back, listening to Janice’s explanation. It was hard to refute.

  “But—”

  “Of course, you’re their mother. If you don’t want them to see her, that is your prerogative. But, have you asked yourself this question? Why are they so keen to spend time with Margaret?”

  Mrs. Johnson paused for a moment and looked down. She didn’t have a good answer to that question either, and she hoped stalling could help her think of something.

  “I don’t know. I guess they like her stories.”

  “There is something about her stories,” suggested Janice as her mind wandered back to the beer drinking, weeping blood-brothers in Cheevers’ apartment.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Apparently Cheevers has been listening to her stories as well. He’s drunk, crying inside his room.”

  “What? That’s bizarre.”

  “That isn’t even the half of it. Reverend Davies and I confronted Margaret today on a few issues, and she went into storytelling again, and it made Reverend Davies storm out of her apartment in tears.”

  “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  “But wait, there’s more. He is, as we speak, drinking beer and crying next to Cheevers.”

  “This is unbelievable. Reverend Davies drinking beer in Cheevers’ apartment? What is going on?”

  “I don’t know. I actually have no idea, but I do know it’s causing me the biggest headache in the world. What am I going to do with her?”

  Mrs. Johnson finally felt some sympathy towards Janice, who had been the criticized point-person in the middle of the whole mess. She put her hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ll figure something out, Janice. I’m not going to call the police or anything like that. I really don’t think Margaret is harmful.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Janice’s cell phone started ringing inside her purse.

  “Oh, now what?” she wondered aloud, as she reached in and picked it up. “Oh no.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Mr. Tomsey. Excuse me.”

  Janice paused, took a deep breath, and answered.

  “Mr. Tomsey. Yes, I know. I am dealing with it right now. Can I call you back tomorrow? I should have more information by then. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  “Trouble at work?”

  “Reliable Margaret has been anything but lately. I don’t know what is going on, but I will find out. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Thank you, Janice.”

  Janice scuttled down the hallway, her head in a tizzy, wondering what she was going to say to Margaret. She entered the room and saw her sound asleep on her bed. It was, after all, her ‘night’ time. Janice sighed and thought that she would let it be until tomorrow. She walked past Cheevers’ apartment. The door was now wide open, and Cheevers continued to sit against the refrigerator with a great many beer bottles at his feet. Reverend Davies was no longer there. Janice closed his door, descended the stairs, and went home.

  Chapter 16

  Mrs. Johnson’s Sec
ret

  The girls had been tucked in bed since 8:45, but they lay wide awake, both of them in Sam’s bed, her cell phone on silent mode lying between them.

  “Sam, I feel kind of funny doing this,” said Pam, always the more responsible one.

  “Why?”

  “You know that Mom doesn’t want us to be in contact with her.”

  “I know, but Mom never told us we couldn’t talk with her on the phone. Plus, she hasn’t been fair to Ms. Pritcher, has she?”

  “I guess not.”

  “It’s not guess. It’s true. Ms. Pritcher has been nothing but kind to us. She’s fed us ice cream and told us stories. What’s the crime in that?”

  “I know, but don’t you think she’s a little strange?”

  “Who isn’t strange? You’re strange. Much more than me. What’s wrong with being strange?”

  “Hey, I’m not strange. Plus, you know what I mean. She’s different. She never talks unless telling a story. And white bread and beans? I mean—”

  “I have to admit that was a little strange.”

  A lull in the conversation settled silence into the room. Just down the hall, the soft, punching, laugh track of a sit-com punctuated the living room with the tepid moments of evening life.

  “Do you ever think she would hurt us?”

  “Pam, how could you say such a thing? Why do you accuse people who are nice to you of being bad? I’m sure you would never do the opposite—for example, accuse Mrs. Trumble of being nice!”

  Pam laughed.

  “I just think Ms. Pritcher is lonely. Plus, I want to hear the rest of the story.”

  “So do I,” agreed Pam.

  At that moment, the phone vibrated on the bed. The girls looked at each other in anticipation, and Sam answered quickly.

  “Hello.”

  There was no reply.

  “Hello? Ms. Pritcher. Is that you?”