The Memory of a Salt Shaker: a Short Story
by
Bernard M. Cox
Cover designed by Sabine Krauss
Photo by Robyn Oliver
Copyright 2011 by Bernard M. Cox
ISBN 978-0-9886367-0-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
“The Memory of a Salt Shaker” first appeared November 2011 in issue 15 of Up The Staircase Quarterly and was nominated by the editorial staff for the 2012 Million Writers Award.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
The Memory of a Salt Shaker
A Brief Biography of Bernard M. Cox for Those Who Are Concerned
Dedication
To Robyn
I promise not to make you read sad stories in the morning.
The strange stillness of the house continues to wake Bert even twenty-one days later. Sleep is fitful, but reassuring. Fighting the weight of the covers is difficult. The couch is starting to smell acrid from his night sweat.
He can still function. He cooks. A small pleasure to him, the food adds scents and heat to the house, adds presence. He stirs his oats, picks up the salt shaker and shakes salt onto the porridge, then a little cayenne and fresh ground pepper, stirs again. He butters his toast and spreads some orange marmalade across the surface, pours Earl Grey from the tea pot into his mug and sits at the table and stares out the window.
The soft glow of the morning light illuminates the tops of the houses and trees. Traffic on the road is already backing up. The city is moving. The harshness of daylight is a moment away, no time to notice birds alight on power lines soaking up the first rays of sun. He starts eating the toast, lets the sweetness roll around his tongue and takes a sip of the tea. Light starts to fill the kitchen. Daylight begins the ending of morning.
He takes a spoonful of the oats into his mouth. Strange flavors and textures fill his senses. Earth, smooth, salt, heat, pain, and the slight sensation of flesh under his lips—soft, warm, familiar. The street scene fades and she sees him.
He is walking toward her. His jacket is fixed wide open, the tie sticking up over his shoulder. She takes a drag off her cigarette and turns her back. The lower Manhattan skyline shines on. He walks past her and sits down on the roof deck. She watches him as he looks out over the city.
“It’s pretty. It feels empty, though. Like someone punched a hole through it or something.” He glances back at her and then ahead at the skyline.
She didn’t come up here for conversation. She takes another drag. “Are you talking to me?”
“Just out loud.”
“Right.” She puts her cigarette out. “What are you supposed to be?”
“Are you talking to me?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On your answer.”
“A man caught in a windstorm.”
His handcrafted costume is the right level of last-minute flair, but thought-out humor. While he’s not that physically attractive—cute, maybe—she thinks he’s charming, which she finds more dangerous. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“I guess that’s what you would be.”
“Why?”
“Well, what else would you be?”
“What are you supposed to be?”
“A cat.”
“A cat? I don’t see it.”
She takes a cat mask out of her purse, puts it over her face. “Meow.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes the whole thing; black leotard and mask.”
“I needed something quick.”
“This is the third year I’ve been man in a windstorm. Love Halloween, not much for dressing up, though.”
“I usually like dressing up. I wasn’t planning on coming.”
“Me, neither. It’s my friend’s party.”
“Oh yeah?”
He turns back to the city.
She walks over to him, “I was living in Arlington, Virginia, when it happened. I was listening to NPR. I thought it was a small plane or something. Then, the plane hit the Pentagon. The windows of my apartment shook for a moment. I knew then that it wasn’t a small plane.”
He sighs.
“Yeah.” She sits down next to him. “Hi, my name is Mira.”
“Hi, Mira, Bert.”
“Bert? Bert and Ernie?”
“Yep. But just Bert; no, Ernie.”
“You don’t hear your name often. Among real people.”
“Well being from a family of puppets, it’s a pretty common name.”
“I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
“No, smoking is stupid, my name is funny.”
“Yeah, I know I should quit. Calms my nerves.”
“I think it’s unattractive on someone who is as beautiful as you are.”
She laughs. “Backhanded, cheesy compliments your specialty?”
“No. Just my opinion.”
She feels a slow intense warmth start to emanate from her heart and spread out to her extremities. She feels a little lighter. She smiles. “You think your compliment will stop me from smoking.”
“No only you can stop forest fires, or smoking. It’s your choice. Forest fires or smoking.”
She chuckles, “How ‘bout both?”
“Ambitious, you should go for it.”
“Maybe, I will.”
The birds sing outside. The cars move. The sun shines on Philadelphia. He hears his breathing, labored beneath sobs.
* * *
The elevator chimes and he steps out onto the seventeenth floor. He swipes his pass card across the reader and the glass doors of Flum and Goldberg LLP inch open. He walks past the reception desk. He feels an invisible clawing on his back as he passes the windows of each office. His chest feels tight.
His cubicle is clean. Filing cabinets locked. Nothing in his inbox, nothing going out. A couple photos of them together on his desk – Aruba, Barbados, Jamaica, at home. Laughing, smiling. Heart-shaped iron bar puzzle still hangs on the wall unsolved.
Bert boots up the computer. People walk by, en route to projects. No one stops, he’s still not here. Nine hundred seventy-four emails pop up in the inbox. The email at the top of the list is one from his boss, David. “See me when you get in.” He gets up and walks to David’s office.
He sees John. John waves. Bert smiles with difficulty and walks into David’s office.
“How ya doing, buddy?” David is an imposing man, large hands, and loud voice – someone who should be a contractor not running a division of a CPA firm. He shakes Bert’s hand.
“Good, fine.”
“That’s great. Time to get back to work, huh?”
“Yeah.”
David thrusts a thick file towards him and proceeds to tell him about a small clothing company that needs a valuation of its total assets.
“Owner of company looking to sell. Employee wants to buy. Kids are out of the business. You know the drill. Simple job. Should be quick. Get’s you back in the game, ya know?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”
David smacks him on the shoulder. “Attaboy. Go get’em.”
Bert heads back to his desk.
“Bert!” John comes up behind him.
“Hey, John.”
“Want to get an early lunch?”
“What time?”
“Now?”
“Hmm. Give me a bi
t.”
“You say that. You get back to your computer and I know you, you’ll be there all day.”
Bert smiles, “I really should get back to it, though.”
“Come on, let’s ditch.”
“I’d like to.”
“I’m begging! You remember that time in high school.”
“Don’t bring that up, you always bring it up. It doesn’t have weight anymore.”
“We got detention because you decided to go back to school. You owe me.”
“That was like 15 years ago.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to be productive anyway. Let’s go.”
“Give me like thirty minutes.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“John.”
“It’s okay. No worries. Go about work, it’s probably better.”
John hugs him. “Good to have you back.”
“Thanks.”
John walks off. Bert sits down at his desk and opens the file. “Neilson’s, Inc.” He closes the folder and takes the puzzle off the wall.
* * *
The house smells of comfort – cinnamon, celery, onion. He pours the butternut squash soup into a blender. He adds some cream to the soup and watches the large chunks of vegetable grind down into a thick creamy orange liquid. The phone rings. He shuts off the blender.
“It’s your mother.”
“Hi, mom.”
“How was your first day back to work?”
“Fine, already got me working on a project.”
“Really?”
“Nothing, heavy duty, though.”
“That’s good, honey.”
“Yeah. How are things with you?”
“Your sister came over for dinner tonight. You should have come.”
“I didn’t know she was coming.”
“You don’t need an invitation to see your mother.”
“I was there yesterday for Sunday dinner, mom.” He tastes the soup. He picks up the salt shaker and adds a few dashes and then grinds the pepper.
“I’m not saying that, I’m just saying. . .”
He lifts the spoon to his mouth.
– Clean up on isle six –
Mira laughs, “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“You pushed me,” Bert points at the jars of pickles shattered on the floor.
“Oh, blame me.” Tears start to well up in her eyes as she tries to inhale against the guffaws.
A clerk comes around the corner, “Are you two hurt?”
“Only his pride,” She wheezes.
“And the pickles. Oh, the pickles! Poor, poor pickles,” He sticks his lower lip out mocking the tragedy in front of them.
Mira inhales, grabs her stomach, buckles over, stumbles and holds on to the side of the cart. She lets out a whale of a laugh that rings off the rafters. Bert is wheezing with each wave of exhales. Her cheeks begin to ache. She tries to prop herself up, the cart shifts and she falls on her butt.
“Oops.” They both start the cacophony over.
“Are . . . are you . . . okay?”
“I can’t see.” Her face is wet with tears. His hands slide under her arms and lift her. She starts to regain her footing. “Leave, me. Save yourself.”
The world is awash in abstracted watercolor. His face is wobbly as he comes in for a kiss. She closes her eyes and holds him close as their breathing slows to gulps.
“Ya know, Mira? We should get married. Ya want to get married?”
“You’re so blurry!”
The soup is all over the counter and the splash back.
“Bert!” His mom yells. “Are you there?”
“I’m okay, mom. I spilled my soup.”
* * *
The lobby of Neilson’s is a throwback to the 1950s romance with modernism. The image was definitely not a reflection of the cookie cutter industrial park that he had driven through.
A svelte, stylish receptionist looks up through her pink, horn-rimmed glasses, “Hello, may I help you?”
“Hi, I am Bert Perkins from Flum and Goldberg. I have a meeting with Nancy Neilson.”
“Yes, Mr. Perkins. Ms. Neilson is running late, can you have a seat? She should be here momentarily.”
“Yes, that’s no problem.”
He sits down on a Herman Miller-inspired chair and studies the spiral staircase leading to the corporate offices.
“Hey, Barb, can you sign for this?” The receptionist takes the electronic clipboard from the delivery person. Bert glances over to the man in the monochrome uniform. The man looks back.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” Bert smiles.
“Da you think the Eagles will ever get any better?” The delivery man leans against the receptionist’s counter.
“Not this year.”
“Got that right. Hey, do I know you?” The man takes his clipboard back and hands the receptionist the envelope.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You seem really familiar.”
“Got one of those faces.”
“Must be,” The man steps toward him.
Bert smiles bigger. His palms sweat. He checks the clock.
“No, I know, I know you. That’s it. Your wife was killed wasn’t she? Some kids at a high school, right? I saw you on TV. Oh man, I’m sorry. You okay?”
“I.” The room feels smaller, the air thinner.
“Man, I hope those kids get the chair.” The delivery man heads to the door. “I knew, I knew him.”
The circles in the carpet slowly start to spin. The receptionist is staring at him. “Could you tell Ms. Neilson that I’ll have to reschedule for tomorrow?”
She adjusts and snaps back to her computer. “No problem, Mr. Perkins.”
“Thanks.” Bert makes for the door.
“I’m sorry. It’s just awful.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The cold wind raps against his face, fills his lungs. He runs for the car.
* * *
The arugula is rusty and starting to wilt; the chèvre, flavorless and pasty. Bert laments that John has never been able to pick a restaurant in his life. The choices are always standard American fare, no surprises. Bert flips the greenery back and forth over his fork.
“Salad bad?” John munches down on a piece of bread.
“Read well.”
“How you doing?” Crumbs tumble out of his mouth.
“It’s difficult, my friend.”
“Yeah.”
“I keep having these memories of her.”
“Yeah.” John gulps down a spoonful of soup.
“But they’re her memories; or rather they feel like her memories.”
“Yeah. What do you mean?”
“Like the other night I’m making dinner and I remembered when I proposed to her. It was vivid and it was like I was looking at myself, through her eyes. It was strange. I dropped the soup all over the counter.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah. Strange, huh?”
“It’s going to be hard, ya know.”
Bert pokes at a pine nut and it mashes up. “Stale.”
“Whaddya mean stale?”
“The nut.”
“Oh.” John slurps the last of his soup, wipes his face. “You should talk to my cousin, Bette.”
“Bette? Betina, the Psychic?”
“She’s so much better than her mom, Aunt Josephina. She could help you. She helped my Aunt Rosa when Uncle Tommy died. She helped her say her peace.”
“No offense, Betina’s nice and all, but I don’t think she can help.”
“Don’t knock it, Bert. Works for some, works for my family.”
“I don’t mean anything by it. I’m not open to that kind of thing. I don’t think it would work for me. Don’t you have to be open to it?”
“Hey if you think you’re being revisited by your Mira’s memories, you’re open to it.” He takes out his wallet and pulls out a business card. “She can
help. Call her if you need to. She knows you. If anything she’s a woman and women have the real coglioni when it comes to these things.”
“Maybe. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
The waitress puts plates down. “Here you go, gentlemen.”
“Cheeseburger, man! Thanks.”
“No problem. Anything else?”
“Could you take this?” Bert offers up his salad.
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Bert you should come over to my house and play Madden this weekend.”
“Why is my Madden always over at your house?”
“Bigger TV.”
* * *
The counter is strewn with the same ingredients and equipment he used for the soup. He tastes the soup again and waits. There’s no memory. Again and waits. He searches through the ingredients and then reads the recipe.
“What did I forget?” He tastes again. “Salt and pepper, of course.”
He picks up the pepper and adds it. Nothing. He picks up the simple glass salt shaker and adds the salt.
She unlocks the red door. Sunlight pours into the foyer, shines off the golden bamboo floors. The house smells new. It’s hers. His too, but all hers. A deep, strong warmness builds inside her. She turns around and looks at Bert who is smiling at her.
“We have our own home! Aren’t you so excited? Let’s have sex.”
He taps the salt from the shaker onto his finger and places it on his tongue. Her memories flood his senses.
Light presses on his eyelids. The floor is hard. His side aches. His mouth is on fire. Bert pushes off the kitchen floor and opens his eyes.
He makes it over to the cabinet and pulls down a glass, fills it with water and drinks. The pain on his tongue starts to subside. He chokes, braces himself against the counter. Next to his wallet he sees Betina’s card.
* * *
“Did you bring something of hers?” The room is dim for eleven a.m. and smells of patchouli and chicken. Betina starts lighting incense.
“Yes, but it’s really only this one object, I think.”
“Well, we have to contact her.”
“I only have a question about this one thing, Bette.”
“We can ask her.”
“No, I mean. It’s not a séance I need. Please sit down and listen.”
“I wasn’t going to do a séance, Bert.”
“Bette! Please!” He throws himself onto a chair.
Bette faces him and eases herself into her chair. “I’m sorry, Bert.”
“It’s okay.”
“If you aren’t going to help with the process, I won’t be able to help her.”
He takes a deep breath, reaches into his pocket and pulls out the salt shaker, wrapped in a cellophane bag, and places it on the table. “I am trying to tell you about this, Bette. Her memories are in it.”
She picks it up and unwraps it. “A salt shaker?”