Friends and Readers,
Most of the stories in Parables from the Grave are just stories—stories that allowed me to examine certain ideas which I may or may not have agreed with at the time, stories that I just hoped my readers would find entertaining.
But there are some that I really believe contain a germ of truth.
I posted one of those—Dahlia—about a year ago, shortly after my wife and life-long soulmate died. This is another.
I’ve learned, since I published the book, that some readers find this story difficult to understand. Others have no problem at all.
The form is a bit unusual, but if you stick with it I think you’ll get it in the end—and even see why I wrote it the way I did.
And I personally believe it’s worth the effort, because—like Dahlia—I think what it says at its core is, at least, part of the truth.
The puppy was drenched and pathetic, huddled on the steps outside of her kitchen door, just inside the downpour.
He turned his eyes upward at Alice, beseeching her.
She laughed and invited him in, in spite of the fact that her guests were about to arrive and she hadn’t finished preparing the appetizers.
“What the hell,” she thought. “It’s my birthday.”
She’d only turn twenty-five once.
* * * * *
Russell stroked her head, which she rested on his chest. Alice still liked his scent, after all these years.
“I think I’m getting used to it, finally,” she said.
“Retirement?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I told you. It takes a little while.”
* * * * *
She stood at the top of the hill, holding her sled.
It was so steep, so far down.
Her heart was racing, her breath rapid. Allen, a fifth-grader, older and wiser and much less patient, stood behind her.
“Come on, Alice. Don’t be a sissy. Either go or get out of the way.”
* * * * *
He was a doctoral student, and she was in the master’s program.
He crossed to her table on the patio, carrying his own tray.
“So I hear you’re an atheist.”
His unruly hair made her smile.
She pointed to a chair.
“Sit.”
* * * * *
Russell drove.
Alice sat beside him, Dexter in her lap.
Russell glanced at the old dog, and then at her face.
“It wouldn’t be fair not to, you know. He’s suffered too much as it is.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. This is just so—so stupid.”
* * * * *
He put the tray down and stuck out a hand.
“Russell. Russell Danes.”
“Alice—”
“—Simmons. I know. So you think this is it, then? We live. We die. End of story?”
“I think you’re confused. I don’t believe there’s a large pretend human being out there in magic-land. I haven’t said a thing about what happens after death.”
“Okay. So tell me.”
“Maybe. When we know each other better.”
* * * * *
Sam and her brother came through the living room, laughing and punching each other.
They stopped short when they saw the puppy.
Sam squatted down, and it wandered over to sniff at his hands.
“Who’s this?”
“A stray. Showed up drenched and hungry at the back door. I let him come in out of the rain.”
“What’s his name?”
“What?”
“I said, what’s his—oh. Duh, huh?”
* * * * *
Alice returned Beth’s wave, and smiled bravely as the train pulled out of the station.
Soon it was out of sight.
Russell grunted and put his arm around her.
“Seventeen years old. Where does she get all that confidence?”
Alice’s eyes were damp.
“I feel like I’ll never see her again.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He squeezed her shoulder. “She’ll be home for the holidays.”
* * * * *
Christmas morning.
Alice sat up straight in bed, suddenly wide awake. She slid out from under the covers and danced down the stairs, her pigtails flying. She paused only long enough at the top to survey the tree and make certain that Santa had actually visited.
She reached the bottom step, then dashed to the foot of the tree.
It was the most beautiful doll in the world.
* * * * *
Russel brought two mugs of chocolate out to the porch. He handed her one, sat down beside her on the swing.
“So where do you think old Dexter is now?”
She chuckled.
“You’re not going to worm it out of me that easily.”
He nodded, gazing at the lawn.
“You remember what you said. ‘When I know you better.’ How much better do you have to know me?”
She touched his hair, now tinged with an early gray, but just as unruly as it had been that first day.
“Well, I’ll say this much. How do you know what time it is? How is now different from then?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s now because that’s where I am at the moment.”
“But wouldn’t you always think that? Imagine that you jumped around in time, that you were here now, and the next moment you were back at school, trying to pick up that sexy atheist. Would you know?”
He considered.
“I guess I wouldn’t. I mean, I would only have whatever memories I had at the time, so I would think I had just come from the moment before...”
“Exactly.”
“But what has that got to do with—”
She put a finger to his lips.
“Sometime. I promise.”
* * * * *
The doctor wore a mask, but she could tell he was smiling by his eyes.
“You have a healthy daughter,” he said, and lifted the baby for them to see.
She squeezed Russell’s hand, exhausted.
* * * * *
The hospital was quiet. She was glad Russell was there. She turned her head, and managed a low whisper.
“I came at it from physics,” she said, “but you’ll understand because of your novels.”
“Alice, please,” he said, “don’t try to talk.”
“No. I promised you, and now is the time. Time. That’s the key.”
“You really don’t have to, love.”
“In physics, you see, time is just a dimension. It’s like a yardstick. A yardstick doesn’t stop existing just because you’ve moved past the end. It’s still there. It’s right where it was.”
He patted her hand.
“Okay. I understand.”
“No you don’t. And don’t start patronizing me at this late date. It’s like one of your novels. Do your characters cease to exist after the reader has turned the last page? No. They’re still there, in the book. Forever. All of their experiences, all of their lives.”
“But for the reader, the author...”
“You’re thinking of yourself as the author. But you aren’t, you know. I told you the first time we met. There is no author. You’re the character. You’ll still be there, I’ll still be there. If I was there once, I’ll be there always. Always on that page.”
“Okay. I do get it, now.”
“Always...”
“Rest, dear. Please.”
“...Always...With you.”
And she was gone.
* * * * *
She was half focused on kissing Sam and half focused on keeping the flour from the counter off the back of her dress, when she felt herself losing her balance.
It was the stray puppy. He had managed to tangle himself between their feet.
Sam steadied her and stepped back, laughing.
He squatted and ruffled the dog’s head.
“He needs a name. How about ‘Dexter’?”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to keep him.”
“Sure you are. You’re taking him with you, to graduate school.”
“You think?”
Sam nodded, a sad and knowing look in his eyes.
“Lucky dog,” he said. “Lucky dog.”
This story really spoke to me. As we approach what we call the end, we often have flashes of how things began - a puppy becomes an old dog, a chance meeting becomes a lifelong love. We exist somewhere in between these memories and the present, touched by the lessons learned, either in retrospect or in the moment. I saw Virginia in there…