Laura’s Shorts
a random collection of short stories
Laura Rittenhouse
www.laurarittenhouse.com
Copyright 2016 Laura Rittenhouse
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Table of Contents
Suspicious Move
Karmic Payback
Adrift
Who?
Blood Oath
Storytellers
Deadly Dreams
Left for Dead
Cabin on a Stream
About
Suspicious Move
“We’re out of milk for the tea. I’ll just pop down to the shops and get some. Back in a tick.” That’s my husband absconding from the scene of an unpleasant task. Something he’d be famous for, if anyone besides me ever witnessed his prowess.
We’re moving next weekend, so today we’re starting to pack. Let me rephrase that; today I’m trying to get my husband to help me start packing. No mean feat. As soon as we woke up, Ralph had a craving for pancakes. He said they would fortify him against the day’s strenuous activities. So I whipped up a batch (using the last of the milk) and watched him slowly cut each piece and slide it gently across his plate to ensure maximum syrup absorption. When he sat back with a sated expression on his face, I whisked the plate out from in front of him and stuffed it into the dishwasher. I rubbed my hands together and said, “Do you think we should start with the office or maybe the linen closet?” That’s when Ralph decided he needed more tea to keep his energy levels up and sauntered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. By this time, I’d started to become suspicious that I hadn’t been fully successful at infusing the love of my live with my commitment to the theory that packing early avoids packing stress.
That said, it’s hard to argue with the fact that we’re out of milk; we’re out of almost everything – which has been the plan, since we’re moving. But Ralph can’t be expected to drink his tea black, so he’s got a legitimate excuse to walk out. Or so I tell myself as I tape up a carton and stand in front of the linen closet trying to decide whether I should bother changing the sheets one more time or whether we can wallow in our own dirt for another week. What about those heat pads? Should I throw them in a box or is there a chance that one of us will strain our backs while packing?
Anyway, the milk run is much more legitimate than last weekend’s excuse. Last weekend was our house clean-out day. Ralph called it our day of reckoning. Since we’ve been living together, every time I brought something home, he’d warn me that one day there would be a reckoning, when I’d have to admit that my new possession was just a different form of rubbish. That day came a week ago Friday, when I realised that we’d consume a small forest to make enough boxes to hold all the things that we didn’t need.
So, last Saturday, Ralph and I agreed (yes, agreed) to go through closets, shelves and shed, collecting the surplus to be distributed between the Salvos and the tip. No sooner had we started, than Ralph decided that he’d have to mow the back garden again before we could move. And that the mower needed a bit of a tune-up before he could mow. Four hours later, I had created 7 cartons of goods to be donated to charity and Ralph had created a grease spot on his jeans. Of course the grass was mowed, but that’s not my point. My point is that if there’s a distraction within a cooee distance of Ralph when an unpleasant task is looming, he’ll grab that distraction with both hands and milk it for all it’s worth. All the while acting like he’s doing the right thing. This leaves me with two options. One: to take on the unpleasant tasks solo. Or two: to wait until the inevitable total panic strikes, when unpleasant tasks become last-minute-unpleasant-tasks, and Ralph transforms himself into a whirling dervish.
Or, more scarily: a combination of the two. Though I have no explanation for it, both options manage to co-exist, contrary to any law of physics I’ve ever heard of. So there’s not really much point in getting myself tied into knots over the whole packing thing, is there. But still, I should get started on the linens. Right after I check on the shed.
The shed is Ralph’s exclusive domain. Not that he’s ever forbidden me to enter it, there’s just absolutely no reason why I would ever want to. He was in there for hours last weekend so he’s probably got it all cleaned out and packing it will be really easy. That’s just like him, he’ll undoubtedly say he wants to pack up the shed today and I’ll be stuck with the linen closet and pantry. So if I just peek in while he’s shopping, I can see whether I should volunteer to help with the shed after he helps with the linen closet, or leave it totally to him.
The shed assaults me as I enter – literally. A hoe, which I’ve never seen before, lunges at me as I open the door. I suspect Ralph of positioning it so that any uninvited visitor gets a bop on the head for his trouble. Clever of him, to be sure, but it will take more than a slight bump on my scalp to discourage my snooping.
If the assault had ended there, all would be right with my world. But it turns out the shed has more sinister defences at its disposal. The next salvo it in its arsenal is a Horror Stench; a mixture of last year’s cigarettes overlaid onto something like paint thinner, oil, and dirty socks, all left soaking in an old coffee can for weeks. Daunting, yes, but still insufficient to stop me. I pull my shirt up over my nose in gas mask fashion and gather my courage. Bravely, not really knowing what to expect next, I turn on the light switch; which flickers blindingly for about 45 seconds, before finally illuminating the shed and making me recall those sightless seconds with fond memories.
On top of the workbench is Fishing Journal, a rather obnoxious magazine full of overweight men and beady-eyed fish. Ralph gave up his subscription a couple years ago, at the same time as I gave up my subscription to Women’s-World. The sacrifices were in honour of some compromise brokered to resolve an argument that I’ve forgotten about. What I do remember is my sense of joy at the expression on Ralph’s face as he agreed to cancel his subscription. It was so worth the loss of Women’s World.
The date on the magazine is from last week. So, not only did my scoundrel of a husband have a piss-poor excuse for not helping me sort through our possessions, he spent the time, not in tinkering with his mower, but in reading that tacky rag and smoking what looks like 3 packets of fags.
I think I’ll stick to the linen closet and leave Ralph with his shed.
The linen closet is all boxed up. I’ve decided to change the sheets, so I’ll have to do a quick bit of laundry. And I’ve determined it’s best to leave out the heat pads. After some deliberation, I convince myself that the spare pillows won’t be needed but the doona might be (you never know when we could have an unseasonable cold snap). As I pick up my marking pen, I hear a car slowing down in front of the house and work myself into an indignant stance. There is no way that it takes this long to get some milk. The car pulls away; false alarm. But it wasn’t time wasted, because an indignant stance only improves with practice.
I’m mulling over the likelihood of needing creamed corn in the next week when the fridge door opens right next to me. I drop the tin in the back of the pantry and give a bit of a squeak.
“Sorry love, didn’t mean to startle you. Just putting the milk in the fridge. I stopped by the bakery and got us some muffins; your favourite – chocolate-chocolate-chip.”
It seems pointless to look indignant in the face of muffins, so I turn around, crawl back into the pantry and mumble, “Fine dear, I’ll bring them out to your shed. Which you ca
n pack after the office.”
There’s a loaded silence coming from behind me. I have no idea if Ralph’s trying to think of a way to get out to the shed to hide the evidence, or if he’s just ignoring me. I hear the water running into the kettle and suspect it’s the latter.
Sunday night is down time for me. I like to sit and watch a DVD. As I lean on my heat pad to gain some relief for my aching back, Ralph rummages through the cartons looking for the one with the DVD player in it. He finds it in the box with the wok that’s labelled “throw-pillows”. “Oh, good. Toss me one of those will you darling? My back is killing me.”
Ralph is going on about the way I mark my boxes but he’s doing it under his breath so I can ignore him. That’s one of the little ways we keep the peace at home. Comments need no rebuttal unless they’re said clearly at a volume that tolerates no claim of mishearing. You’d be surprised how satisfying it is to have the last word under your breath while ignoring your partner’s last word because it’s said under his breath.
Now I’m sitting with my feet up, my back heated and my wok resting on the coffee table. I’m going to enjoy this quiet moment of escapism. Oh no, I let Ralph pick out the DVD, it was another excuse to get out of packing. The result is that we’re watching some sci-fi thriller written for 14 year old boys.
Hell. There’s no other word for the last 7 days. First, there was the week of evening-packing. (And the regrettable unpacking. No mortal could have foreseen the need for barbecue tongs on the night before the move.) Then my suspicion that Ralph shirked almost all of the packing was confirmed when I counted a total of 4 boxes with his handwriting on the outside.
Next there was Saturday. The movers actually had the audacity to arrive early. I had packed the last minute toiletries, but hadn’t even opened the linen closet door. However, like a pro, I ignored the muscle-bound-boys and filled the last half-dozen cartons. As I was panic-packing, Ralph waved his arms about with great purpose, tutted and generally supervised the labourers. He’s much better at that than I am. I can’t help but feel that it’s rude to watch someone carrying your family treasures into a waiting van, as if they’re planning to hurl the boxes marked “fragile” into the back of the lorry. In fact, there is one school of thought that suggests that it was Ralph’s “supervision” that caused that box to spiral from the truck.
It’s Sunday afternoon. All that’s left to be done today is the clean-up of the old house so that we can get back our full bond. Our overdraft is motivating Ralph into a frenzy like I’ve never seen. I’m not sure I have the strength of character, never mind body, to keep up with him. But since I did three-quarters of the packing, I figure Ralph can do three-quarters of the cleaning.
“Oops, I seem to have a hole in the end of my rubber glove. I’ll just pop down to the shops and get a new one. Back in a few minutes.” Getting a hole in the end of a rubber glove isn’t as hard as you might imagine. All you need to do is catch it on the edge of an oven rack and yank.
I’ve been craving this second helping of chocolate-chocolate-chip muffins all week. I suppose I have time for one more cup of tea. By then I should have finished reading Women’s World and I suspect Ralph will have finished scrubbing the kitchen.
Karmic Payback
This story is a sequel to my novel, Life’s Journeys. Sophie, the heroine, reappears here with many of her flaws and all of her determination in tact. And now for the story.
~ *** ~
A very nice stranger just left the travel agency. But not before asking me to help her plan her husband’s Christmas present, the perfect summer holiday. On Christmas day Sue wants to hand Douglas their itinerary then whisk him away with little more than shorts and a t-shirt each. When she gave me their details, I realised that Douglas is an ex-colleague of mine from my days in banking. He’s the monster who enjoyed finding ways to make my work-life hell and played no small part in my career change. And she just gave me the job of arranging his dream holiday!
Now that she’s gone, I waste a few minutes toying with the idea of rising above it all, but honestly, this is the kind of chance that only a fool ignores.
Sue’s request is simple; organise a trip so she and her demon-husband can share a relaxed getaway, escaping the summer rat-race of Sydney. My plan is less simple; give karma a bit of help in providing its payback.
Maybe at first glance Sue doesn’t deserve to share in Douglas’s karmic payback, but she’s married to one of hell’s minions so she can’t expect to escape unsinged.
Pushing back with my heels, I send my chair gliding the length of the office to a filing cabinet, the final resting place of customer complaints: grievances about dirty carpets, roaches and road noise. As they arrive, each is answered with a polite letter and then filed, never to be seen again–until today.
The first drawer I open looks promising. One file in particular bulges. I grasp the folder in both hands, not wanting to risk losing a single precious page, and wheel myself back to my desk.
Fifty-seven minutes later, I have a horror summer holiday planned. The villain-tourist that the gods have entrusted to me will receive his just rewards for six days at a Fijian “boutique resort”. If the complaints are to be believed, the full-pension hotel offers cold food served warm and hot food served cool, excessive fauna of the rat variety, a noisy generator, rude staff and unreliable transport service. There isn’t much I can do about the ocean two steps from the front door since that was Sue’s only requirement, but with a room overlooking the parking lot, I figure I can mitigate the beach-effect.
~ * ~
The next morning, after receiving confirmation from the “resort” that my preferred room is available, I email Sue. She rings me five minutes later, thrilled that I’ve found the ideal summer holiday for her and her scoundrel-man.
All that remains is for me to arrange my own getaway between Christmas and New Year when the travel agency will be closed. Even if Sue, or more likely Devil-Douglas, tries to phone to complain or request the seats on their return flight be rebooked away from the toilet, their calls will go unanswered until January second when they’ll be home, karma having once again achieved balance.
~ * ~
My phone rings. It takes me a second to realise I’m home. I vaguely recall a taxi ride after last night’s New Year’s Eve party. The ring vibrates around my eyeballs until I steel myself and press “talk”.
“Sophie, I hope it’s okay to call your mobile. I wanted to thank you for the best summer holiday.”
Oh God No. Sue is happy. Struggling to decipher her ramblings, I deduce that the resort’s new owners are gorgeous people who hold sing-alongs and give free cooking classes. I swing my feet over the edge of my bed while Sue, barely pausing to draw breath, explains how scrumptious the champagne in first class tasted after their free upgrade. When she switches to praising the daily massages, I stagger towards the kitchen for a glass of water.
Passing the doorway into my lounge, I stop dead in my tracks. I survey the ransacked room while Sue drones on about the adorable village children. Dropping cross-legged to sit in the middle of the floor, I pick up a brochure of swaying palms that the thieves discarded and press its cool surface to my throbbing forehead as the phrase “karmic payback” hovers somewhere behind my third eye.
Adrift
Thank God, it’s finally starting to get light. With this leaden mist I still can’t see the water, much less the horizon, but at least now I can see my hand on the tiller.
What a night. The wind died around midnight casting us hopelessly adrift. Since Paul went below and left me to my night watch, I’ve been on my own, straining to spot any ships that don’t notice our tiny yacht bobbing aimlessly in the middle of the ocean. I should be looking for hazardous flotsam as well but that’s so far beyond the realm of possibility tonight I’m trying not to even think about it.
Alone on deck, I listen to the waves lapping against the hull. Slap, slap, slap.
A sense of dread settles on me through the mu
rky fog. I nestle in the embrace of fear, yearning for the sun to come up and burn away my anxiety.
Slap, slap, slap. The waves rhythmically strike the yacht as I rock with the swell.
The radio has gone quiet. It’s dead again – some problem with the fuse that Paul keeps fixing. I really should learn more about the yacht so I’m not totally dependent on him.
Slap, slap, slap.
Not that the radio matters. Way out here all I’d hear is static anyway. Static and the waves.
If the wind would pick up, at least the sails would flap and the wires would hum. Their familiar sounds might drown out this oppressive silence. As it is, I only hear the water hitting the hull. Nothing to break the tension of the night.
Slap, slap, thud.
What was that? It sounded like a body hitting the hull. No, not a body. My imagination is running amok in this gloom. Soon the sun will burn through and the sounds will seem less sinister.
Slap, slap, scratch. Like a hand scraping the bottom of the boat.
The hair on the back of my neck tingles. I stand up and lean over the stern, trying to see what caused the noise. In this gloom I can’t even tell which direction I’m drifting. All I see are rolling waves absorbing the pre-dawn light.
Probably just a floating log.
Slap, slap, slap.
I sit back down and try to focus on the horizon that exists only in my memory.
It’s time to wake Paul but I’ll wait a little longer until the sun comes over the horizon. Then this eerie feeling will vanish and I can greet him with the news of a dead calm and a dead radio before I hand him the helm and snuggle into the warm spot he’s made in our bed.
Slap, slap, slap. Oh God! I can’t stand it anymore. In the half-light the fog is starting to look like ghosts sliding across the deck. The waves are beginning to sound like ghouls struggling for release from their watery graves. Time to shake off this mood and wake Paul up.
When I open the cabin door, the hall light splashes across our empty bed. My throat tightens as fear tries to pull me down into its arms.
My eyes drop to Paul lying on the floor. He’s face down with his legs entangled in the blankets and his hand stretched out as if he’d tried to drag himself to the door.