The Recluse Storyteller (2 page)

There was a sudden knock at the door. Margaret sprinted to the wood-framed entrance and leaned into it with her shoulder as if preventing someone entry. The words came. She felt a prodding as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder and made her remember. Margaret started forcefully speaking into the air.

* * *

“‘They are coming. They are coming for me,’ said Janice. She stared intently, willingly ready to leave it all behind for the good of mankind.

“The phone rang and Jennings answered, ‘Yes? Yes, Mr. President. Please hold.’

“Janice didn’t blink. She already knew what he was going to say.

“‘Janice.’

“‘Yes, Mr. President.’

“‘Janice, there are no words to express our gratitude for what you are doing here today. Your sacrifice is great, and your country is greatly indebted to your service.’

“‘I know what must be done.’

“‘God go with you,’ pronounced the president solemnly.

“Janice hung up the phone and stared unflinchingly at the massive metal door. She gently nodded her head, and the chains snapped once as the metal gears clicked into place, slowly beginning its ascent. With each passing second, a vibrant white light began to pierce the hall with such intensity that she had to close her eyes as tightly as possible just to dim its force. The observation room behind her shielded itself with titanium blinds to ward off any ill effects of the bright light which moved closer and closer to Janice who bravely stood, willing to give her life.”

* * *

The door knocks grew louder outside of her apartment, suddenly jolting Margaret from her trance.

“Ms. Pritcher? Are you in there?” yelled a gruff, female voice from the hallway.

Margaret quickly unlatched the door and cracked it open to see Mrs. Trumble holding an envelope.

“Ms. Pritcher. What was all that ranting? Are you all right? Who were you talking to anyways?”

Margaret gave her usual non-response without even cracking a hint of emotion.

“I received this envelope of yours by mistake. It’s for apartment 2B—yours, not 2C. Honestly, I don’t know what is wrong with our postman. Always confusing us.”

Margaret reached out through the crack and snatched the envelope from her hand. She then quickly closed the door, re-latching it without saying a word. Mrs. Trumble stood on the outside, shaking her head and mumbling something about ungratefulness. But this behavior was something Mrs. Trumble had gotten used to. She could never understand Margaret and the patently rude way that she refused to interact with anyone on the floor.

Mrs. Johnson from 3D and her identical twin girls came out at that moment and saw Mrs. Trumble standing flat-footed in front of Margaret’s flat.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” said Mrs. Trumble. “I’ve been strung up again by the recluse.”

“I wouldn’t think much of it. She’s a nice enough lady in her own way.”

“Well, why does she have to be so rude? I was doing her a courtesy. Well, never mind,” she said, turning to the girls. “How are Sam and Pam today? You are looking lovely in those floral dresses. What’s the occasion?”

Mrs. Johnson looked down at the girls prodding them to respond.

“It’s our birthday,” replied Sam. “And we are meeting some of our friends for a dinner party.”

“Well, it’s nearly our birthday. The actual day isn’t until next month,” interrupted Pam.

“How delightful,” replied Mrs. Trumble, who was more pretentious than sincere.

On the other side of the door, Margaret continued her reconnaissance with her ear pressed tightly against the center panel, listening to every word.

“Stolen envelope retrieved. Birthday party downtown.”

“Did you hear that?” Mrs. Trumble scowled and looked at 2B. “She’s listening to our conversation. She said ‘birthday party downtown.’”

“That’s right, Margaret. Birthday party downtown,” said Mrs. Johnson with a loud voice. “Would you like to join us?”

Margaret’s eyes grew big and her mouth formed an oval as she realized she had spoken that out loud. She rested her hair against the door so that it cascaded down over her face like a weeping willow. She hoped the four of them would move quickly on without noticing her, even though she realized how absurd that thought was with a wooden door separating them.

“No response. You’re too good to her,” complained Mrs. Trumble.

“No matter. My mother used to be friends with her mother when she was alive. Well, we have to go. Mrs. Trumble, that invitation stands for you, too.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You two darlings have a wonderful birthday, you hear?”

She reached down and pinched both of their cheeks in the over-bearing manner of an unwelcome great aunt.

“Thank you, Mrs. Trumble,” replied the girls simultaneously, trying to pry their cheeks away from her.

Margaret listened as they finished their pleasantries and exited the hallway. She turned her face away from the door and leaned her head back, resting against it. As she thought of the twins, the words came again as they always did.

* * *

“A single dark cloud hung over Harper’s Hill, making its lonely crab apple tree look like an umbrella prepped for work. Georgia reached the peak first and stood beneath the tree, looking eastward down the rolling hills of alfalfa. Gwendolyn trudged from the west through the high grass still thirty yards from the peak.

“‘You see him?’ she yelled. It reverberated throughout the hollow.

“‘Hurry up,’ Georgia shouted back. ‘Hurry. I see a wagon.’

“Gwen quickened her steps and goose-necked over the peak, hoping to catch a glimpse at the earliest possible moment.

“‘See?’

“‘Is it him?’

“‘I can’t tell.’

“Georgia wiped a drop of sweat from her brow.

“‘I hope it’s him. I’ve missed him so.’

“‘Me too. He did promise that he’d be home by our birthday.’

“‘Yes, but perhaps he’s been delayed.’

“The wagon in the distance crawled along the hollow road, plodding slowly but purposefully. Two horses, in perfectly-timed steps, continued to encourage hope as the two spell-bound onlookers watched them weave along the winding road.”

* * *

Margaret was still leaning against the door, clutching the envelope that Mrs. Trumble had given her. She looked around and then slowly walked over to the couch, picked up her heart pillow and placed it on her lap. She carefully placed the envelope in the middle of the pillow so the embroidered heart pointed directly at her first name in the address line. “I heart Margaret,” she said aloud and smiled. The letter was from Reverend Davies. Her head lifted upwards in a muse-like state. She knew the story of the reverend very well.

* * *

“The reverend watched as his daughter, veiled in radiant white, hid her smile and tears as she proceeded down the aisle, one gloriously painful step at a time. Quan, her Vietnamese husband-to-be, stood on the reverend’s left. She was marrying a good man. That comforted him, but it did not take away the pain of his little girl flying away. Quan’s tuxedo looked two sizes too big for him, but he gazed at his bride-to-be with loving eyes. It was hard for him to imagine his life arriving at such an unbelievable junction. It was a tall order marrying into this family, but he was determined to make it work because he loved Nicki very much. As the bride approached the midpoint of the processional, she stopped just as they rehearsed the night before. The music paused as the reverend addressed the crowd.

“‘Ladies and gentlemen, I will now ask the father of the bride to escort her the rest of the way to the altar.’

“At that point, the reverend stepped out and handed Quan his Bible.

“‘That would be me.’

“Delightful sighs could be heard throughout the sanctuary as Reverend Taylor walked toward his daughter with tears streaming down his face. Flashes lit them up on all sides as he took his daughter’s hand and placed it through his arm.

“‘Shall we?’

“She nodded in approval, and the music began right on cue as they proceeded towards Quan, bridging culture, generations, and war—uniting two families together in a bittersweet mix which amazed even the most casual onlooker.”

* * *

Margaret stopped her narration and looked down at the envelope.

“I’ll put it with the rest,” she said and walked over to her desk drawer, placing the unopened envelope on top of a stack of others that had never fulfilled their intended purpose.

“Time for bed,” she said as she turned off the lights, pulled down the blinds, and jumped into her unmade bed in the little room off the kitchen. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

Chapter 2

A Can of Beans

“Red Hat crouched down against the wall, the door-jamb leading into Quinn’s office flush against his nose. He heard Quinn inside and knew that he would have to make this quick and brutal for it to be effective. He didn’t think at all of his wife or little Meagan. He rarely did.

“Red Hat took a deep breath and cocked his head around the corner so that he could see Quinn, who sat calmly behind his desk with stacks of papers strewn all over. The office was messy beyond repair, with boxes stacked on boxes, and half-open cupboards full of crumpled papers. Red Hat suddenly changed his mind and decided to do it the direct way. He slid his back up the wall into a standing position. He cocked his head once, straightened his shirt, and walked directly into the office to confront the shady accountant who had long meddled in his affairs.

“‘What are you doing here?’ inquired Quinn. Red Hat stood silently, hands in his pockets, emulating his best Eastwood impression. ‘Collins said you were taken care of.’

“‘I’m a persistent bastard,’ Red Hat said with calm authority. ‘Give it to me.’

“Quinn put his hand up to his face like he was rubbing his sinuses then made a quick move for his top-right drawer. Red Hat flew over the desk, belly-flopped on the desk-calendar, and clasped his hands around Quinn’s neck. Red Hat’s momentum flipped the desk chair backwards, and the two of them flailed back and forth on the floor in writhing knots. Red Hat lifted Quinn’s head, knocking it senseless on the floor. He then got up on his knees and punched him four times. Quinn’s nose bled, and he flopped his head over to the right, leaning his cheek against the cold tile floor. He was unresponsive.

“Red Hat stood up and looked inside the open desk drawer, revealing the small caliber handgun that Quinn had wanted to use. It didn’t interest Red Hat, who began to look around the room, trying to find the one place where Quinn would have hidden the key. He noticed a leather strap hanging off of Quinn’s belt that went into his front pocket. Red Hat reached down and pulled out the strap, which had three key chains holding about seven keys. He slid his hand into his front pocket, retrieving a pocketknife, cut the leather strap in two, and put the keys into his pocket. Quinn slowly came to and glanced at Red Hat as he started walking out the door.

“‘Collins is going to kill you for this. Do you realize that? You’re dead.’

“Red Hat knew one thing for certain. Quinn was wrong.”

* * *

Margaret stopped. An email notification from the computer jolted her back to reality.

“Open,” she said, clicking on the mail symbol.

Margaret,

We received the revisions you sent us on the HVAC revised manual. This is excellent work. We appreciate your attention to detail. This was a big help for us. Your compensation has been forwarded to your account. I have another task I’d like you to work on. I’m meeting Stanley in personnel in the morning, and I’ll have a better idea of its scope and breadth after that. I’ll be in touch shortly.

Chester Tomsey

“You’re welcome,” she said out loud without emitting any emotion.

She had woken up around six p.m., had a quick breakfast, and spent the last several hours working on manuals on her computer. She had just started narrating about Red Hat when the email came in. It was now eleven thirty p.m.

Precisely at midnight, after eating some soup with buttered bread, Margaret walked out into the hallway with her purse strapped over her shoulder. Everything was quiet, except for the sporadic sound of the laugh-track from a sitcom coming from Michael Cheevers’ apartment. She thought about him sitting in front of his TV, donning his red cap. He wasn’t, however. Mrs. Trumble’s room remained dark and motionless, as was the apartment of the Johnson family and the twins. Margaret thought of them all as she slowly and quietly descended the staircase and went out into the brisk autumn night. Full Brands Market—open 24 hours—was only three blocks away, and it only took Margaret seven minutes to reach it due to the frantic way she traipsed. Every Tuesday night she did her shopping in the same manner at the same time. She hadn’t had a run-in with someone she knew in over two years and that was only the electrician who rewired her kitchen. Margaret felt safe out on Tuesdays.