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THE MAN ON THE PARK BENCH

  And Twelve More Tales of Intrigue

  By

  Don McNair

  Copyright© 2012 by Don McNair

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  THE MAN ON THE PARK BENCH

  And Twelve Other Tales of Intrigue

  Professional writer and editor Don McNair spent forty years writing for others, but at night he wrote fiction and non-fiction books for pleasure. This book presents his favorite short stories, never before published.

  Contents

  The Man on the Park Bench:

  What were the dark secrets from his past? And his future?

  Beulah’s Glow-in-the-Dark Jesus:

  He was such a nice boy, educated and all. And Beauregard was gone…

  Brotherly Love:

  Jack’s big brother had just gotten out of prison and the police were already hounding him. If someone didn’t help him, he’d go right back.

  Heroes on Parade:

  A parade wasn’t even scheduled. But there it was, and only she and Margaret could see it.

  Home in Time:

  Carl Nichols might be in his nineties, but maybe he could still save his parents.

  The Chipmunk Sign:

  Farmer Ben O’Malley finally visited the ritzy sister who’d abandoned him and their father years ago. But he sure wasn’t expecting this.

  The CLOSET Apprentice:

  Where do old sayings come from? This retiring “old sayings” professional is ready to explain it all to his new apprentice.

  The Green Bridesmaid Dress:

  That dress was sure purty and all. But would it do what it was supposed to?

  The Liaison:

  Richard Smith was ready for a midlife fling. Or was he?

  The Merit Badge:

  If Don had earned that merit badge fifty years ago, his life would probably have turned out a whole lot different.

  The Old Furniture Polish Warehouse:

  When Stacey Jenkins’ mother ran away with the chemical salesman thirty years ago, she didn’t get far.

  The Quarantine Flatboat:

  1770’s pioneer Aaron Reeder thought he knew what love for his young daughter was, until he ran into problems going west on the Tennessee River flotilla to settle the land.

  Deliverance at Last:

  If God wouldn’t save him, he’d have to do it himself.

  Man on the Park Bench

  What were the dark secrets from his past? And his future?

  Jim Morton tapped an idle rhythm on the park bench's iron arm as he looked up Christopher Street toward the town's center. The only people in sight were two old men talking together with hands clasped behind them. A cold breeze rustled red and yellow leaves, fallen from the trees lining the street.

  He shifted his thin body and looked south at third rate houses with wrinkled asphalt roofs and gray plastic weatherboard, flanked with decrepit cars and junkyard bicycles. The day he'd left this town for good he could still see the river, but now those trees and little Monopoly houses blocked the view.

  Maybe Betty lived in one of those houses. She didn't say where she lived, and he didn't think to look at the address in the telephone book when he called her not an hour before. But maybe she married well and lived uptown in one of them condos he'd heard about. Maybe she did.

  He turned toward his bench partner, a black man wearing a tweed jacket under a London Fog overcoat. "I ain't seen her for more'n twenty five years,” he said. “Think I'll recognize her?"

  "You might, man. You just might. How old was she then?"

  Morton's thick eyebrows bunched up. "Hell, I won't recognize her. She was only five."

  "You might. Family resemblance, that type of thing."

  "Yeah, I guess."

  If pigs could fly. He tucked her into bed one December night, took off, and here it was twenty five, thirty years later. A lot of water had gone over that dam.

  "Remember what she looked like then?"

  The black man seemed bound and determined to keep it going. He turned toward Morton, who was hunched down in his khaki overcoat and wrinkled dungarees. Thick gray hair peeked from under his baseball cap. He was only in his fifties, but on days like this, when the wind gusted and the air smelled of snow, he felt old.

  "She was pretty as hell, just like a picture book. But I couldn't pick her out now, even if she did handstands."

  Something moved in the park. His eyes focused on a woman in a faded blue cloth coat and high rubber boots. She took quick steps toward them, head down against the wind. She looked up with squinted eyes and saw them, stopped, then took a cautious step.

  "That's her," Morton whispered, sitting up. "God, don't ask me how I know, but that's her."

  "Right. Well, you don't need me here. I'm moving on."

  The black man walked north, whistling a soulful tune through his teeth. Morton stood and pulled the cap from his head, felt the wind's bitterness, and put it back on. She walked across the street toward him, head down, turned away from the wind, and stopped by the bench.

  "You Jim Morton? I mean—my daddy?"

  He took his hat off again, wadding it with busy fingers, then shivered and pulled it back over his ears to lock out the cold.

  "Yes ma'am, I am. Didn't take long for you to get here."

  "I just live over there in the apartment buildings, behind them houses," she said, pointing across the park. "I'd'a been here sooner, but John drove the car to work."

  For several seconds they stood there, both looking down, not saying anything.

  "Look, why don't you come over to the apartment? It ain't much, but it's warmer there. You have time to do that, don't you?"

  "No, I… I really don't. I gotta move on in a minute. Gotta catch my ride."

  "Well, let's sit down, then. How you been?"

  They both sat. "Tolerable. Nothing to brag about, but tolerable. You doin' all right?"

  "I guess.”

  “Well, it’s good seeing you again.”

  Daddy, why did you leave us?"

  Just like that. He looked at his dirty knuckles, then toward the park. "One of them things, I guess. Your Momma and me, we just didn't get on."

  "She said you beat her up."

  "Well, yes, and I'm sorry for that." He tried to think of something, anything, to change the subject. "What's happened to you since then?"

  "I'm married, got three kids. Guess you already knew that."

  "I didn't know about the 'three kids' part. Knowed you was married, though. I found that out."

  She shivered and pulled her coat collar up around her ears, partially covering her bleached, dirty looking blonde hair. She did have the family look. Slit like eyes, a broad nose, high cheekbones, even the dimple. He rubbed his own thin chin absently, watching her. Was it the light, or did she have a black eye? He reached up to touch it.

  "An accident," she said, pushing his hand away. "I had an accident."

  "Looks like somebody beat you up. Your old man treatin' you all right?"

  "He—he hit me there," she said. "He don't mean to. But sometimes he's been drinkin', and I say something he don't like. I guess it's as much my
fault as his."

  "Mebbe so."

  He used to hit her mother, too, like she said. Sometimes she'd leave him, and then he'd cry and promise not to do it again, and she'd come back. He'd beat her up pretty bad that last time. She called the cops, and he just walked out and left her. Left with only a dollar in his pocket. He'd hitchhiked west, got as far as Kansas City before he robbed that convenience store to get something to eat. He blinked, trying to make the picture go away. The frightened clerk, her screaming sobs, the popping noise the Coke bottle made when he hit her to shut her up. It made headlines the next day, about her being nearly dead. He'd hid for three days before hitchhiking out of town.

  "Three kids, you say."

  "Two girls and a boy. The oldest's fourteen. She's got a mind of her own, I'll tell you. She's pregnant, too, don't know who the father is. I know'd who her father was, but he wouldn't marry me. One of them snooty people, know what I mean?"

  "Yep, sure do," he said. "Enough of them in the world."

  "My boy's eleven. Sharp as a tack. Wants to be an astronaut or a policeman or some such thing. Seems like it changes every day. But he'll probably wind up like his daddy and me, working at the tractor factory."

  He nodded. "I worked there once. You know they've been there since before World War I? Made tanks for Uncle Sam, I think. Long time, ain't it?" He looked at his wristwatch, then up at her. "Well, I better get goin'." He shuffled his feet, as if to get up.

  She stood and adjusted her wrinkled coat. "When you goin' to be back through here again?"

  "You cain't never tell. I'm goin' out to California, now. Probably spend the rest of my life there."

  "Well, if you come back, you can stay at our place. We'll make room."

  "Mebbe I will." He looked at his watch again. "Well, I'll be seein' you."

  "I can stay and wait with you," she said. "If you want me to."

  He touched her arm. "I thank you, I really do. But you know, I'd like to remember how you look when you walk away. So I can see you all at once."

  She looked puzzled, then nodded. "Okay, Daddy, if you want me to. Well, goodbye."

  She hugged him awkwardly, brushing her lips on his cheek. Then with the same quick steps, her rubber boots crushing the fallen leaves, she was gone.

  Morton leaned back and watched the spot where she'd disappeared. He wiped tears away with a dirty finger and looked toward town. The black man was coming back. He stopped by the bench and reached into his jacket pocket.

  "Well, how was it, man? She like you thought she'd be?"

  "Guess so. But I don't really know what I was expecting, Ron."

  Ron fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a key. He knelt and inserted it into the leg iron that anchored Morton's left ankle to the bench leg and turned it until it clicked. Morton rubbed his ankle.

  "You tell her you killed your old woman, an' was on your way to prison?"

  Morton shook his head. "Didn't seem like a good time. She's got her own problems."

  "Don't we all. Here, stick your arms behind your back."

  Morton did. He cringed as the handcuffs snapped on his wrists.

  "You know we broke the rules here. They find out, they'd probably fire me. Keep your mouth shut, understand?"

  "Sure, no problem."

  "Don't think I'm getting soft. I even hear you breathe wrong, I'll stomp you with both feet."

  "Okay, Ron. I hear you, man."

  "Well, let's go. The van's right around the corner."

  They walked up the block and turned the corner. A guard stood there, a hand resting on his holstered pistol. Morton stared back across the park, now saw tops of grayed apartment buildings above the little houses. No, he'd never see her again. Life in prison was forever, but at least he was alive. He'd survive. He hoped Betty would survive her prison, too.

  He turned, and they walked toward the van.

  Beulah’s Glow-in-the-Dark Jesus

  He was such a nice boy, educated and all.

  And Beauregard was gone…