Untitled Short Fiction

I had a friend in college who was one of those evangelical Christian types. We’d have arguments from time to time, always good natured and respectful. I remember him saying something about there being no atheists in foxholes, which I countered by telling him that was completely untrue citing the existence of MAAF. He explained that the saying wasn’t meant to be taken literally, it just meant that fear, especially fear of your mortality and of those around you, can be a strong motivator to believe in something supernatural. I distinctly recall my closing argument being that he had a stupid haircut and liked Nickelback, therefor he was wrong. After what happened to me a couple of days ago, I guess I kind of see his point.

My name is Sam Wallace and I’m a project supervisor for Dynamic Solutions, a company that has its hands in just about everything, but my particular department works mainly at a micro level optimizing energy based… you know what? I bet your eyelids are already starting to feel heavy and although you’re seeing the words they might as well be cuneiform script for all you care about them. “Get to the good part,” I hear you saying. Well, okay then.

Every morning I grab my silver tumbler of coffee and briefcase and kiss my wife and two year old daughter goodbye before heading out the front door. I leave for work at seven in the morning to get to the office between seven forty-five or eight, depending on traffic. Most mornings my Sedan rolls up to the stop sign at the end of the cul-de-sac and crosses a line of fresh yellow paste that reaches from curb to curb, all the way across the street. My tires smudge the yellow paste as the car rolls over it, and by the time I get home in the evening the line will be nearly gone from all the other cars that have crossed this threshold throughout the day. Occasionally, especially if I leave earlier than usual, I will see Miss Vandercoy dressed in an old off-white terrycloth bath robe and black Nike sandals heading back to her house, gray hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, hobbling along with a child’s green beach bucket filled with that yellow paste and a paintbrush handle protruding from the top.

The housing association decided years ago to allow Miss Vandercoy this one eccentricity once it was determined that the paste was harmless, and left virtually no trace after about twenty-four hours. However, they did require a written explanation, which Miss Vandercoy happily provided. According to the letter she sent the housing association, the paste was powerful Wiccan recipe that prevented demons from crossing over into our world. The housing association thanked Miss Vandercoy for her efforts in keeping the neighborhood safe and reminded her to keep her grass trimmed as it has exceeded twelve inches.

Back to the subject of my work at Dynamic Solutions. My team was over budget and behind schedule. I had to report my failings along with an updated timetable and… I just wasn’t looking forward to it. So the morning of my meeting I leave earlier than usual. My whole body feels tense like I’m straining to lift weights, and in fact my briefcase feels like it’s been filled with cement as pick it up and trudge toward my car. I pulled out of the driveway and start fiddling with the radio, hoping that a morning show and some tunes would help calm my nerves. I had forgotten about Miss Vandercoy. Nearly slammed the front end of my Sedan right into her head. She was knelt down on the street, paintbrush in one hand, bucket in the other. I just happened to look up in time to hit the brakes. Then, before I even realize what I’m doing, I get out of the car and start screaming at her. I don’t remember the details, it was like an out of body experience. It’s what I guess people call a blackout rage. All I know for sure is that I told her to take her brush and bucket and go home. I vaguely recall some protest. She hadn’t finished painting. In fact she had barely started. I told her I didn’t care.

“Sam,” she said and she fixed me with a meaningful stare that just irritated me more. “I’ll go home. But you will regret it.”

I watched her hobble back to the sidewalk and up the steps to her house. She pulled out the paintbrush and painted single line in front of her door, then went inside. I got back in the Sedan and went to work.

At nine o’clock that morning I stood before a handful of people whose combined salaries could pay for my house half a dozen times over. I shuffled paper as often as I tried to shuffle blame for the disaster I was presenting. I kept hearing one of them sigh heavily with every new graph I put up on the easel. Then my cell phone rang in my pocket.

I apologized and pulled the phone out long enough to read the caller ID: HOME, then silenced the phone and slid it back into my pocket. A few minutes later I felt the phone vibrating.

Buzz… buzz…

The vibration seemed impossibly loud and I wondered if everyone else could hear it. Nobody acted as if they did. They just stared at me, faces totally unreadable.

“So, everyone should have a copy of the updated timetable. Attached to that is a breakdown of…”

Buzz… buzz…

My mouth went dry and tried to swallow but was unsuccessful. Instead I had a brief coughing interlude. The vibrating seemed even louder in the silence that followed. I cleared my throat and looked at the poster I’d placed on the easel. Half of the poster was dedicated to a bar. The largest line was a pasty yellow color. Had I really picked that color?

Buzz… buzz…

HOME. What was happening? And then, amazingly, the thought came, unbidden. What has she done?

Miss Vandercoy. That loony old lady with her totally irrational eccentricities. Crazy Miss Vandercoy who didn’t finish painting the street this morning, but made sure to paint her front porch before hiding away from whatever awful things would come creeping into the neighborhood.

Buzz… buzz…

Buzz…

I wrapped up as quickly as I could and left work. On the way home I tried calling but kept getting a busy signal. A cop pulled me over for speeding on the interstate. I didn’t argue, just tossed the ticket on the passenger seat and hurried off as fast as I legally could. I called my wife’s cell phone but no answer. I wasn’t surprised. She keeps in on silent and frequently leaves it back in the bedroom. I tried to call the house phone several more times but each time got a busy signal. Or the phone was off the hook. Or dead.

Dead phones. Dead family. Who knew what I’d find when I finally burst through the front door.

What I found was this. My daughter sitting on the living room floor, cordless house phone in hand. The phone was turned on and she was holding it up to her ear babbling a constant stream of toddlerisms. My wife was folding laundry and watching a morning news show. She looked surprised when I came barging into the living room, then concerned.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I take it the meeting didn’t go well.”

I stood panting as if I’d just run a marathon.

“Huff… huff… Meeting?”

My daughter dropped the phone and toddled over to hug my leg. I picked up both her and the phone. I pressed the talk button to turn it off. Then, suddenly a thought occurred to me and I turned the phone back on and hit redial. Almost immediately my cell phone started vibrating.

“She’s been super cute with that today, talking into it all morning.”

“She kept the line tied up. I’ve been trying to call.”

My wife looked confused. “That’s the old one. The one we let her play with. The new one’s on the cradle.”

She pointed to the writing desk. Amid the pens and scattered notes was the empty phone cradle.

“Oops,” my wife shrugged.

No atheists in foxholes, indeed.