Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Russell DeJarnette

The Good Samaritans

I helped guide Larry down the steps of our house to the waiting taxi. It was like participating in a game he must have created for the occasion, the semi-controlled lurch. It wasn't a team sport either. He had gained a lot of weight since I'd seen him last and he now outweighed me by a hundred pounds. (And, his legs had turned into the stuff rubber was made of.)

When I finally huffed my way back into the house and closed the door my wife asked solicitously, "You gave the driver his address, didn't you?"

"Yeah," I said, settling into a kitchen chair. "Larry was in no shape to put two words together."

"Couldn't have him drive home in that condition," she continued. "I hope he doesn't pass out and the driver takes advantage of him. You know, like rob him and roll him out on the sidewalk."

"No chance," I said emphatically. "I tipped the driver really big and made him promise to deliver Larry inside no matter what it took."

"He looked so awful when I saw him at the grocery store this morning," she said. "Didn't look like he'd slept or even had a good meal in a long time. One look at him and I couldn't help but ask him to come over for dinner." Her tone told me she was asking me to say again it was all right for the hasty call to my office earlier in the day to tell me what she had done without asking first.

"You did the right thing," I responded. "Never hurts to be a Good Samaritan." Guess I felt guilty too.

She sighed. "He just dropped out of sight for a few months. We should have been more supportive during that time."

"Yeah, the divorce is really knocking him out," I said. "It's tough to be so much in love with a woman and have her casually say one day at breakfast she doesn't want to be married to you anymore. Then to make him move out of the house so quick."

"I heard she had a mover come that very morning after he went to work, pack up his stuff, and set it out in the garage," she replied with a disapproving frown.

"I know. He told me later. Didn't say a word to anyone about it for several weeks. Just kept thinking about it day and night, calling the house, trying to reason with her."

"Didn't he say you were the first person he told when you ran into him at the diner that morning?" She said it, not as a question, but as a statement to reaffirm once more that he should have been invited to dinner, regardless of how it had turned out.

"Yeah, it's too bad," I said, momentarily slipping into fond reverie. "The four of us used to have some nice times at their house. I even bought Larry's favorite scotch and cigars for tonight. Thought that might cheer him up."

"I feel bad about sending him home that way." She sighed again. "And all we were trying to do was make him feel better. And, I thought he was able to hold his liquor, but it didn't take much to get him potted, did it?"

"Surprised me," I said. "He hit the scotch pretty heavy before dinner. I thought he was okay. But, it seemed like the wine really got to him. By the way, wasn't that one of the wine glasses that he broke we got for a wedding present?"

"Well, let's look at it this way," she said, slightly defensively, "we were lucky to have them all these years without one getting broken."

"Those were the one of a kind hand blown glasses for a wedding present, weren't they?" I continued, already knowing the answer. I wanted to continue with the topic not far enough to exact a pound of flesh but perhaps a couple of ounces. She knew how much I loved those glasses, had seen me stop by the china closet and admire them often, like they were a work of art.

"Yes," she admitted, knowing that the only way to move the conversation along was to accept responsibility. "By that guy who went on to become a really famous glass-blowing artist in New York. I know they should have stayed in the china closet, but I wanted the table to look really nice for Larry."

"It was lovely, especially with the linen tablecloth." I said, reluctantly returning to a rehash of the evening.

"Yes, dear. And I think the wine stains will come out." But he was really apologetic, even offering to replace the wine glass and the tablecloth.

"Let's see," I mused, "two hundred dollars for the glass, maybe more. Seems like I heard some of his early work is in the Smithsonian now. And the tablecloth, hand-made by your mother's sister, wasn't it? The one who won all those prizes at the county fair?"

"Yes, dear," she responded wistfully, trying to conceal her disappointment about the tablecloth.

"Well, maybe Larry could get her to come back in a séance. You know, ask her to make another one for us," I said sarcastically.

"Honey," she gently chided me by putting the accent on the last syllable and drawing out the word, "we need to remember he's going through a really tough time. You know, I even thought I heard him mumbling something about AA when I brought the coffee into the den."

"I thought he was trying to talk like a sailor, you know, aye, aye. Besides, that's all he did for the last hour was mumble," I said rolling my eyes upward.

"Well, drunk is one thing," she said, "but the hole in the carpet that he made by dropping his cigar is another. Think insurance will pay for it?"

"Don't remind me," I replied. "I think the cigar must have slid out of his hand during my speech about how we'd be there for him through thick and thin. Right after my earnest soliloquy, I noticed a funny smell. Then I saw the smoke coming up from the carpet. Perfect timing. What could I say?"

Trying to be helpful, she said, "I'll call the insurance company tomorrow. If they won't pay to replace it, I'll call the carpet company where we bought it. Maybe they'll look at it and see if it can be repaired."

"Speaking of carpet," I said, “ask the cleaning people tomorrow when they clean up the mess of vomit from the living room rug. Jeez, talk about smells. I hope they can take care of that one."

"I don't remember him getting sick like that," she said. "He's changed a lot during the time we lost track of him."

"Yeah," I said, trying unsuccessfully not to be sarcastic, "he didn't used to be incontinent."

"Oh, you mean the living room couch?" she wrinkled her nose.

"Better add that one to the cleaning people's list," I said with a sense of resignation.

"It just shows how tough it must be on him, trying to cling to a woman who just wants to get rid of him. Maybe that's part of the reason he gained so much weight. And he was a big guy to begin with."

"Yeah," I said. "With that extra hundred pounds, the coffee table didn't stand a chance. I'll put the pieces out back in the morning."

"I was sure he was going to knock over your grandmother's lamp when he fell on the table." She immediately realized she had hit a sore point with me and tried quickly to come up with something to redirect the conversation.

But I was mentally out of the blocks before her. "No," I said, "he got the lamp later when he was sitting on the couch and swung his arms around in that anguished tirade about his soon-to-be ex-wife."

"Boy, did you hear him talk about how she hates him? Do you think all that is true?" asked my wife.

"I sure hope so," I responded with a self-satisfied smile slowly spreading across my face. "I gave the cab driver her address."

© Copyright 2003 Russell DeJarnette

About the Author:
Russell DeJarnette, born in Kentucky, lives in North Carolina where he is restoring an antebellum house. He lives with Mr. Puss whose former residence was the pound.