“It’s not your fault. Nobody is to blame. It just happened,” reassured Revered Davies.
Margaret collapsed into Janice’s arms, exhausted and spent. All the stories spun, all the happiness retrieved, leaving none for herself. Her heart ached for her sister, for her mother, for her father.
“But we have to keep living,” added Reverend Davies. “We can’t be paralyzed by things we cannot change. We have to move forward. That’s what your mother wanted more than anything for you before she died. She wanted you to live. Margaret, you have many amazing gifts.”
They had all been given. They had all been spent.
Janice led Margaret over to her bed, and she fell asleep at once.
* * *
It was five a.m. Reverend Davies had left around midnight, content that the cathartic evening of sharing and storytelling had done everyone a world of good. Janice wanted to stay behind and spend the night with Margaret, so she slept soundly on the couch. Margaret stared from the picture window towards the east. Slight hints of pink poked out from the top of the Hetchworth building, readying themselves to illuminate the night once more. She stared at every strand which unclasped the darkness from the underbelly of the blackened sky. Cheevers was wide awake. He held a phone number in his hand that he had surreptitiously coaxed out of Mrs. Trumble the evening before. Mrs. Johnson shared a bed with her husband for the first time in weeks. She gazed lovingly at him sleeping beside her as she gently rubbed her stomach. All was forgiven. Reverend Davies never made it home that night. He drove the city thinking of Taylor and the ridge of death that brought new hope to many. By this time in the morning, he stood over Taylor’s grave, news clipping in hand, and placed it on top of the gravestone.
Margaret could feel him all around her as if he never left. She dared not turn around because she didn’t want to see if he was flesh or not. But she felt his presence, felt the hair on her neck stand on end as he gently whispered reassurances into her ear. She could feel the soft air blowing from his lips, and she could hear his voice loud and clear as if it was an audible, soothing command.
“The light is coming, my dear. The light is coming once again.”
“Papa, don’t go,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Be brave. Be brave.”
The light pierced through the dawn, spreading its course, illuminating all hope, extinguishing all doubt, revealing all hidden and private items which people hoard for comfort. The brilliant light stood waiting to encompass her. Margaret stood still, unmoved and unafraid.
Epilogue
The story of the recluse storyteller had intended to end at this point. Margaret certainly felt that her story had been told in full when she faced the dawn the morning after Reverend Davies left. It was just a matter of time for the light to run its course, and she waited for the final sign—an unmistakable sign—not unlike what Georgia had seen written across the dark prairie sky. But just when the light seemed to have had paid its final call, the most unexpected thing happened.
A knock at the door. She opened it for the first time in a week and noticed a lone can of beans sitting squarely in the middle of the hallway. She picked it up, re-entered her apartment, and ate lunch.
The next morning, the knock came again. This time there was a cardboard banana box without its top, overflowing with cans of soup, boxes of macaroni and cheese, and, of course, more beans.
The next day, Margaret found a large, heavy duty, double-insulated cooler sitting in the same spot. When she opened it, she counted ten cartons of Josten’s Chocolate Cherry Swirl—the exact flavor which had been discontinued a month earlier.
On the fourth day of the knock, on top of a lone stool sat a brand-new laptop computer—turned on with the following written across the screen in large letters: ‘Manual needs revising. See file “WorkFlow” on desktop.’ She took it into her apartment and went right to work.
On the next day, at precisely the same time, Margaret found a single red cap with the familiar ‘C’ across the front. She placed it on her desk next to the new computer.
The following morning, Cheevers knocked bashfully with a teenage girl on his arm. He smiled appreciatively at Margaret, and in a self-conscious manner, gestured with his right arm at his daughter.
“Meagan,” Margaret said.
“Yes.”
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” said the teen grinning widely.
Margaret smiled back.
“Thank you, Margaret,” said Cheevers. She noticed how different he looked without his red cap. He looked happy as they turned and went into 2A. Margaret closed the door and leaned her back against the familiar wood panel like she had done a thousand times before but nothing came. No nudge, no presence, no words.
It was morning, and time for bed, but she felt much too awake. She went to her desk and removed the large stack of envelopes still wrapped in the silver ribbon from the bottom right drawer. She began opening the remaining sealed notes from Reverend Davies and put them aside after reading their bland content. Then she noticed one envelope which was out of chronological order. It was dated only two weeks after her mother’s death. She unceremoniously opened it, carefully not wanting to damage any of its contents. From the envelope, she pulled out a single white note card with a lone scribbling across the front. It was in her mother’s hand.
Margaret, don’t forget to live.
She pulled it close to her chest and brought it up against the locket she still wore every day. She opened it once to admire the sketch of Janice and herself.
“Don’t forget to live.”
* * *
It was around noon when someone knocked at the door. She could hear their voices, bantering back and forth, trying to out-position the other. Margaret smiled and headed towards the freezer for some chocolate-cherry-swirl. Her inspiration, once exhausted, sprung forth in unexpected ways. A new story was about to be told for the first time ever, and she knew a captive audience waited at the door.
The End
About the Author
Mark W. Sasse grew up in western Pennsylvania. He has spent most of the last twenty years living in Vietnam and Malaysia. He is especially passionate about drama and has written and produced 9 full-length productions for the stage. His first novel, Beauty Rising, released in December 2012. The Recluse Storyteller is his second novel.
His third novel is already finished and will be releasing in July 2014. Entitled The Reach of the Banyan Tree, it chronicles the lives of three generations of one American family, who have their lives forever altered by their Vietnam experiences. Sweeping in scope, The Reach of the Banyan Tree is a fascinating mix of historical and contemporary fiction about the loss of love and the pull of family ties, set against the exotic backdrop of modern Vietnam and post-WWII French Indochina.
Connect with the Author
Blog: http://mwsasse.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/markwsasse
Acclaim for Beauty Rising,
the debut novel from Mark W. Sasse:
“I feel like I am at a loss for words to fully express my sentiments regarding this incredible novel.” Dolores Ayotte, Inspirational Author & Book Reviewer
"Author Mark W. Sasse has written an emotionally charged and engrossing story … The two main characters, Martin and My Phoung, are portrayed with great depth of emotion and their quest for redemption and self-acceptance is stunning. … I can't say enough about this book; it's a story that you don't want to miss!!" Marilou George, Kindle Book Review
"... a one-night read … This is a tragic story … written so beautifully." Charlene, Literary R & R
"If there is a book to read this year, this is definitely one to put on your list. The way this book was written seemed a literary seamed perfection." Michelle, whatisthatbookabout.com
"Beauty Rising teaches many lessons to readers and hopefully some will be learned as prejudice, hate, narrow mindedness, fear, lies and deceit do more than rear their ugly heads thro
ughout this well written, creatively crafted novel." Fran Lewis Book Reviews
Available in e-Book and Paperback.
The Recluse Storyteller Page 19
