A Conversation Suspended

Be kind to your mother

“I had to do it,” he said sharply.

“Oh, Nicholas, honey,” she replied with sweet pity cracking in her voice, “that’s really too bad.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to work for those idiots anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. And if you say so one more time, I think I just might hang up the phone.”

 

She backed off, fearful of upsetting him, knowing how only a touch the wrong way could send him toppling over to break in every direction. Her voice whimpered a soundless phrase.

 

“I don’t want your sympathy,” he said. “I’m fine with my decision. I felt like I had to quit. They wanted me to lie.”

“Well, okay. I guess I understand. I just wanted to see how you were doing today. You seemed a little down a couple days ago when we talked.”

“No, I’m fine.”

 

There was a long pause, and he became irritated. “Why can’t she ever think of anything relevant to talk about?” he thought.

 

“Can I call you back some other time?”

“What? Why’s that?” she asked, somewhat offended, but more surprised at his bluntness.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel like talking on the phone right now.”

“Oh, okay. Well, call me back tomorrow when you feel like talking.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Alright,” she said, and there was another moment of silence.

“Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

 

He hung up the phone, an unfortunate mixture of guilt and petulance. He thought, “Why must I be obligated to have a conversation with her?” He lay on the coach and moaned from stretching his sore muscles. “I just don’t like to talk about my shortcomings, especially with her. But. She is your mother. Why must you be so rude?” He frowned as the guilt took over and rose in this throat. He took a deep breath in an attempt to shove it back down. “She’s just afraid for you, and perhaps more lost than you are.”

 

He kept breathing, and rested his head on the couch pillow. He stared up at the bumpy white ceiling, looking for patterns, but finding only spontaneity.

 

----

 

He awoke in a groggy haze, greeted by the same view of the ceiling in the lamp light. He rubbed his eyes, raised his head, and looked at the microwave clock. He had slept for eight hours, and it was three in the morning. “What day is today?” he thought. “Saturday? No, make that Sunday, now.”

 

He turned on his television, but kept the volume down. The chattering blur held off an unappealing silence. This was a good for him in his somber mood. And with the sound low, he didn’t have to endure the effects of persistent advertising. “I hate commercials,” he thought. “Especially late at night. ‘Bad credit? No problem!’ or ‘Are you in debt to the IRS? We can help.’ They’re all scams.”

 

“Why is money so important, anyway?” he asked aloud to himself. “Debt,” he said with high disgust, “should never be real. It leads to persecution. I doubt Jesus ever held any person in debt.”

 

He stood, then dropped to the ground and started a set of pushups. As he got tired, he thought of a face, one that burnt a red fire into his skin, boiling his blood and giving him great strength to continue.

 

“58…59…60,” he said quickly between deep breaths, and then he collapsed as he gave up, exhausted and arms burning. Exercise was a quick fix for refreshment, but this did not satisfy him in the least. He threw on a pair of soccer shorts and a white T-shirt, then bolted out the door for an early morning jog.

 

The fog covered the black asphalt, the green lawns, and the various vehicles parked in the driveways. It made the street and porch lights blurry. He stayed on the sidewalk as he ran in repetition, two breaths in, one breath out. His knees could feel the impact of each step, and were forced to absorb the slight pain willingly after only a couple of miles. “I’m not as young as I once was,” he thought. “But what the hell, I’ll do it, I’ll run across the bridge to the park. If the fog is clear there, I can paint the sky. If not, I can paint the fog.”

 

He ran back home to grab a small canvas, a large flashlight, and art supplies. He piled them into a backpack and walked to the park. He was too tired to run, he decided, but the walk wouldn’t take any longer than half an hour.

 

Once he arrived at the bridge, a man in shambles approached. He had long brown hair, a scruffy beard, a dirt-stained blue shirt, worn work boots, and tattered jeans. His face was long, with a sharp nose, and frail, wrinkled brown skin. His eyes slumped at the far sides, and his eyebrows were bushy.

 

“Excuse me, sir,” said the man. When he spoke, it was from the bottom of his throat with a deep, moaning tone. He seemed drunk.

“Yes, can I help you?” he asked.

“If you could, spare some money?”

“Oh, I see, well, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I didn’t bring my wallet.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he said, and sighed.

“Sure is. I’m sorry. I wish I could help you in your times of strife.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “you could meet me back here later. All I need is twenty dollars. I’m desperate for money.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Why are you desperate for money?”

“I’m, in debt.”

“In debt? To who?”

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s a touchy subject. I’d not like to get into it. But twenty dollars is all I need. Any time today, I’ll wait here for you.”

“Well,” he said, then pondered his options. “Okay, I’ll be back to help you. But please, leave me alone now, I must get to the park before the sun rises.” At that, he went on his way with a touch more pace in his step.

“God bless you, sir!” yelled the stranger, though Nicholas was already a sufficient distance away. “I’ll wait here! All day!”

 

He went off into the night, and arrived at the park. The fog had not lifted, so he painted its thickness between the trees in a portrait of gray and forest green. “I’m glad I quit,” he thought, staring with satisfaction at his work, lit by the morning sun, which rose at seven. “This is all I need to be satisfied.”

 

He packed his bag and walked home, thinking of his plans for the rest of the day. They would not include applying for a job, he firmly decided. “Should I come back to help that man?” he thought. “Yes, yes, I believe I must.”

 

----

 

He picked up the newspaper from his stoop, walked in and poured a bowl of cereal. He slowly ate his breakfast as he sat, cross legged, turning the paper page by page. Usually there wasn’t much to catch his interest. “Most of it is depressing, anyway.”

 

He put down section A and picked up the City and State section. On page 5, the paper ran the obituaries every day. This, despite how depressing it would seem to most people, was wildly fascinating to him. “Memories of the dead are like confessional poems,” he thought as he glanced at the pictures. “It gives a vague comfort to the tormented author, but stays in a spot where none too many like to visit.”

 

He stopped to read every word on the page, and if the mourned had died young, he especially focused on the syntax, trying to see how much pain it took to write a life story in less than 250 words. Then, when he got to the final entry, he recognized the picture. He stopped chewing his cereal, dropped his spoon with a thud into the bowl, and his eyes glazed over from the sudden chill that ran down his spine.

 

“Sean Michael Fury, 1950-2008,” he read aloud. “That’s him. I’m sure of it. Those eyes are unforgettable.”

 

Sean Michael Fury was a beloved husband, father, and friend. He was so kind, and loving, and selfless. He gave without asking for favors in return, and volunteered his free time to helping the lives of the unfortunate. He founded “Help The Homeless”, a charitable organization that lives on in his name. His family adored him for his philanthropic efforts throughout his life, which ended all too soon for this world.

 

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” he thought with a skeptical look. “That’s impossible.”

He was interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone.

“Mom,” he read aloud, then took a deep breath as he answered.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi. How’s it going today?”

“Fine.”

“Oh,” she said hesitantly. “So do you feel like talking to your mom yet?”

There was a pause. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

There was another. “Oh, well, would you call me back later? I miss you, that’s all.”

“I will, mom. I promise. I’m sorry, I just — am not in the mood.”

“It’s okay, I understand.”

“Do you?” he thought.

“I just want you to know that I love you, and that I would do anything for my baby boy.”

“Wow, you definitely don’t,” he thought.

“So, until later?” she asked.

“Yes, I will call you later,” he said. “Goodbye. I love you too.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

 

He hung up the phone and shuddered at those last words, while his face was embarrassed, tense, and red. “Let me go already!” he screamed in his head. “I don’t deserve any of this!” He went straight for the door, to run more, but remembered to slip 20 dollars into his pocket on the way out.

 

“I’ve got to see for myself,” he thought as he took off in a near sprint toward the bridge. “He can’t be the same person from the newspaper — That’s impossible.”

 

The sun was rising in the sky as the morning wore on, and all the fog was gone without any evidence it was ever there. The heat was beginning to build on the day. It wouldn’t be long until it reached 100. “How can anyone live without air conditioning?” he thought as he kept going, too curious to quit.

 

----

 

He staggered slightly, still running, as he came toward the final stretch to the bridge. He was damp from the collective sweat. His hair, skin, and parts of his shirt were drenched. When he arrived, he bent over, putting his hands on his knees and panting hot air from his convulsive chest.

 

“Whew!” he said between breaths, still trying to calm himself. “I’ll have to walk back, because I can’t take much more today. Too hot.”

 

He lifted his head, and the sun was not too far above the horizon, but still burning in the cloudless sky, through the muggy air into his eyes. He stood up straight, and glanced his head around, looking for the stranger. Now that the sun was up, many people were out enjoying the sunny day, though hardly any could pass as a drifter. “He can’t be hard to find. Just look for the dirty laundry.”

 

The man wasn’t under the bridge, either. “He must be in the park,” he thought. He strolled over the bridge, and soon found a massive thicket of branches that resembled a careless shelter. Two feet stuck out from the shabby entrance, one without a sock.

 

“Hello?” Nicholas asked. The man stirred, and grumbled a little before falling motionless again. The deepness of his voice confirmed his identity.

“Excuse me,” he said again, a little louder.

“Errrah,” he groaned. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“We met this morning. Unless I am mistaken, you are in need of some help.”

There was a pause. “Just a second,” he said as he climbed backwards through the entry way. He rose to his feet, “Of course, of course, now I recognize you. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be back.”

“Tell me, before I give you the money. What is it for?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Well, it’s my money, and I’m just curious.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop? No way.”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen, I’m guessing it’s gambling, alcohol, drugs, or a combination of those. Am I right? Don’t worry, man, I won’t care what you’re involved in, and I’m prepared to hand you this money no matter what. Just tell me, what’s it for?”

 

He stared into Nicholas’ eyes, and saw the same gray that had seeped so deeply into his own persona, now an apathy toward all.

 

“I,” he started to say, but hesitated. “I, haven’t been homeless for long.”

“So? You said you were in debt.”

“I am. Why do you think I’m homeless?”

“But there’s no way twenty dollars could help.”

“Well I need to eat don’t I?”

“He’s nervous, sweating. What’s he trying to hide?” Nicholas thought with an inquisitive look.

“Don’t I?” he asked again, more emphatically.

“Oh, yes, of course. I was just, lost in thought, sorry. Here, take this,” he said, and put out the bill in his palm. The stranger snapped his arms out to quickly take hold of such a precious commodity, and he caressed it in his hands with glimmering eyes and a wide, genuine smile.

“Thank you, sir! You’ll reap the benefits of your karma, very soon! I’m sure of it,” the stranger said, and took off toward the bridge.

“One last thing,” Nicholas said. “Sean Michael Fury?”

 

The stranger stopped, silent and still, and slowly turned around to face a suddenly fearful Nicholas, who backed up, aghast at the stranger’s fierce glare. “Have I dug too deep?” he asked himself.

 

The man looked around, making sure no one was near enough to hear. “Whatever you know about Sean Fury, you should forget. Last time I saw that son of a b***h, he was about to be buried, six feet under. Now, the world is better off. Trust me.”

 

“But the obituary…” Nicholas began to say, but instead stood unmoving in the day’s relative silence and watched the man walk over the bridge, into the distance, around the bending road toward obscurity.

 

----

 

“Hello, I’m looking for Sean Fury,” Nicholas asked. “I missed his funeral, and want to pay my respects.”

“Of course. I’ll take you to him.”

 

He followed the young woman, who wore a silky black dress, spaghetti strapped, and matching shoes. Her long brown hair, straight and shiny, bounced as she walked, with a peculiar hop in her step. They exited the building and walked into the cemetery. The sun was sinking now, but still scorched the day with a piling heat.

 

“Sure is hot today,” she said, as they maneuvered their way through the lawn of headstones.

“It’s too hot to be outside, that’s for sure.”

“Uh huh,” she reassuringly replied. “And too hot to wear black. It’s part of the dress code, though.”

“It seems appropriate,” he said.

“Well, of course,” she said, with a smile. They walked a few more yards, and she stood over a fresh stone. “He’s buried right over here.”

 

Fury’s grave was near the northwest corner. The soil that plotted the front of it was unsullied and clean of grass. He kneeled down on one leg and studied the spot.

 

“Should I leave you two alone?” she asked.

“No, not yet. I have a question. Was it an open casket?”

“Closed.”

“Why?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I just read about it in the paper. He was, an old friend of mine, from childhood. I haven’t spoken to him in years. How did he die?”

“I’m not sure. They don’t tell me anything like that. So you don’t know how he died?”

“No,” he said. “I have no idea.” He stood back up, but stared down at the grave with his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll let you pay your respects,” she said, and walked away.

 

He looked at the sky, sighed, looked straight down, into the dirt, and asked, “Who were you, Sean Fury?”

“No one.”

Nicholas anxiously shook his head, looking for the voice. He noticed a shadow behind a tree.

“Who are you?” he asked. The stranger from the bridge appeared.

“No one.”

“You are Sean Fury, aren’t you?”

“No. But I knew him.”

“I saw your picture, in the newspaper. You are Sean Fury.”

“No,” he emphatically said, and stared into Nicholas’ eyes, serious and menacing.

“You look just like him.”

“Read between the lines.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No!” he said. “Don’t you see? You know, but you don’t see. I left that world.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I killed myself. Get it now?” In response, Nicholas shook his head, in complete disbelief. “Life insurance. You read my obituary. I had a family. I wasn’t going to watch them suffer from my mistakes. I shot myself, through my forehead. I deserved it, too. DOA.”

“You, you’re, dead?” Nicholas asked.

“I,” he said, hesitant, and stuttered as he continued. “I, might as well be. I fucked up, big time, and debt. Debt is no game. Not in this world. So I slipped under its cracks, down here, in the earth’s gutter, where no one sees me. No one, except you, anyway, somehow. You, are a very kind man. And, apparently, it’s not safe for me to stay here, in this world.” He shook Nicholas’ hand, and slipped a twenty dollar bill into it.

“But…”

“Let me leave. I’ll know where to go.”

 

Sean walked away from his own grave and through the cemetery fence, and he never looked back at Nicholas.

 

“Wait!” Nicholas yelled, and Sean stopped in the middle of his stride. “Why did you need the twenty dollars? Why did you ask me?”

Without turning around, he yelled, “I didn’t. And, it was a test, of the dynamic human spirit, let’s say.” He took two more steps, “And call your mother!”

And just like the fog, Sean Michael Fury walked into the forest of the park across the street and evaporated through the distant air. On Nicholas’ walk home, his phone rang, and with perfect timing, it was his mother. He answered.

 

“Mom,” he said. “I’m sorry, for being so reclusive. I love you, more than you know.”

“So, I guess you feel like talking now?” his mother asked in a surprised and cheerful tone.

“Yes. Of course I do…”

 

THE END

Author's Note

I'm finished, but open to critiques and changes. Please, let me know, I'd love to be good at this fiction thing.

Reviews

[T. F. Rice]

You are beginning to develop the main character well, however, some of the thoughts this man has sort of stopped my believing the story to be real. They might be rectified by a little word change, or other slight alterations. For example:

He hung up the phone, and felt an unfortunate mixture of guilt and petulance.

***This man is too feely in this section, maybe? You could just as easily say the following, and not introduce this paragraph with the word "felt" included, since you convey his feely-ness well enough in the rest of it.***
An alternate sentence:

He hung up the phone, with an unfortunate mixture of guilt and petulance.


NEXT...

He thought, "Why must I feel obligated to have a conversation with her? I'm tired, and sore, and just don't like to talk about my shortcomings, especially with her. But. She is your mother. Why must you be so rude? She's just afraid for you, and perhaps more lost than you are."

An alternative:

IN ITALICS: Why must I feel so obligated to have conversations with her? END ITALICS. He was still thinking about his mother, IN ITALICS: Am I the only one with shortcomings?! END ITALICS. [Name of character] shrugged his sore shoulders and didnt sit down, for fear of falling asleep. IN ITALICS: She's your mother and afraid for you. Don't be rude. A lost soul is needing you. Be there. END ITALICS. He sighed and sat down, feeling just as lost as she.


Do you see how you can"show" the person's feelings, instead of telling all the time. Then, the feelings are more believable, especially coming from a strong main character, a man, who you have more to show... Make us believe your story and keep us reading! Always mix the telling with the showing, to keep the reader interested, so nothing is redundant. If you are already showing soemthing in a paragraph, by the way the person talks or acts, or by somethign said, then you dont have to say it. For example, that he is tired and sort. No one sits and thinks, "Gosh I am so tired and sore." They might sit down in a chair and feel swallowed by it, that they sink almost to the floor, that they could just sit there forever and not care. They may groan that it hurts to lean back into the chair because of an injury at work yesterday, or be brought back to feelng the impact of the ice beneath their back, slipping off the front steps.

Just suggestions... write on! And thanks for reviewing one of mine! I apprecaite the feedback. (And sorry about any misspellings... I'm always short on time!) TFRice