How About A Short Story?

Ever wonder what writers do in writing groups and classes? The answer is lots of work on the craft of writing!

In one of my groups, all the members have written short stories that will be published in a group anthology this fall. Below, is my short story entitled The Donation. The assignment was to write a short story with a 2000 word limit (mine is 1996 words!) and the theme was "Stories From TheAttic".

This story below is a bit longer than my usual post, but if you read the entire story and post a comment on my blog page or Facebook, I will put your name in my drawing for a free copy of the short story collection when it is published. (The story is fiction, so I hope you enjoy it!)

Happy reading!.

The Donation

The cool air hits me as soon as I open the door. I file in behind the dinner crowd and stand against the wall where I’m finally shielded from the blood orange sunset baking the parking lot. When it’s my turn, I step up to the hostess stand and nod to the manager. After a week of patronage and good tips, he simply smiles at me when I slip alone into the restaurant’s bar.

Bottles clink above the murmured voices as I make my way towards a lone stool. The bartender, whose name I’ve learned is Stan, is wiping glasses at the end of the bar. He likes to flirt and I’m always a sucker for his weak jokes. On another evening, he might have made his way towards me, but he glances up at my red rimmed eyes and keeps his distance. Much like my job at the hospital, his line of work has taught him to read faces and skip the jovial comments when pain is evident.

Without a word, I watch Stan’s expert hands pour and swirl his creations. He makes me my usual drink, a vodka tonic that looks like water when he’s done, but I shake my head and motion for a soda. After the day I’ve had, the last thing I need is another depressant.

“Thanks,” I say when the tumbler lands on my napkin.

“Hard day?” Stan asks.

I nod, feeling his eyes study me while I sip and I’m grateful for his silent understanding. After a long moment, he steps away, leaving me in peace. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him start to serve another customer. He reads their body language with precision, and I’m reminded of why I like him. Stan is a master of all things human.

For a moment, I consider calling him over, to seek out his wise counsel, but the envelope in the pocket of my jeans stops me. I know my whole story is far too complicated for a casual exchange. Maybe I’m just afraid that Stan might listen. Then he would ask me why I wasn’t more wary of the old man, and I know I won’t have an answer for that one.

The truth is that my only real motivation was to help Mama. I guess that’s the problem with being an only child. You take on adult roles and volunteer for tasks, especially when the one person who raised you is battling cancer.

Of course, cleaning out an attic seemed like the least I could do for her. Besides, I knew Mama really didn’t want to set foot in that house. She always told me that she left home at an early age, and that the old midtown bungalow still makes her skin crawl. We only ever went over there on Christmas Eve and Father’s Day, and even then, she was on edge.

By the time I was twelve, my mouth did most of the talking during our brief visits. Mama and I would sit side by side on the heavy furniture in the formal living room, and I would ramble on about anything, just so we could leave as early as possible. There was always a sense of relief for both of us when our car would finally pull away from the curb. I would turn around to watch the white columns on the front of the house grow smaller and smaller, and after a few miles, our anxiety would start to fade. Then Mama would make me laugh by telling me how eager she was to drown out our memories of that place with a pitcher of sweet tea and pile of smoked barbeque.

Gramps, that’s what I called him, lived in the sprawling house and I always knew he had a hard way of looking at life. When I was younger, I assumed that meant he was strict. The authoritative way he carried himself coupled with his stern shoulders and giant forearms was slightly frightening. He worked as a cotton merchant, which was interesting, except that he always had a look in his eye whenever he talked about his business deals. During those conversations, his gaze felt like steel, making me glad I never had to negotiate with him.

“I’ll clean out the attic and give you a break,” I told Mama last week when I brought dinner over to her house.

“Would you?” she asked, pushing her Pad Thai around on her plate, hoping I wouldn’t notice her poor appetite.

“No problem. I have the whole week off from the hospital. I don’t think there’s much left, and a couple of days should do it. Besides, I love the restaurants in Midtown. You can schedule the estate sale and cleaning crew when I’m done.”

She simply nodded then reached over to take my hand. Her boney fingers felt cold on my skin, and I hoped that my offer of a few days of labor would nudge her to keep fighting.

I twirl the ice in my glass and for the first time, I wonder if Mama knew who her father really was. Maybe she understood, better than I did, the type of beliefs he held. All afternoon, I’ve been thinking about questions like that. There’s so much I need to ask her and I long to hear her voice. It might be childish, but carrying this secret around feels like it might break me tonight.

My fingers start to fumble with my phone until I look down at my screen saver. I stare at the image and for a minute, it’s like I could reach back through time and touch her. The picture was taken at my graduation from nursing school. Mama looks so happy with her hair brushing her collar bone and her soft, round figure. I swallow hard because the mother I have now wears a scarf and is brittle. That’s when I put the phone face down on the bar. There’s no use in adding more hurt to someone you love when they’ve already had enough heartache in life to fill the Mississippi River.

The phone goes back in my pocket but not before my hand grazes the bulky envelope. On instinct, my fingers draw back, because any gift can be diminished by the truth.

“This is for you,” my mother told me earlier in the day when I stopped by to see her.

She pressed the yellowed envelope in my hand. The weight of all the paper told me there was money right inside the flap, but I hesitated. Cancer treatments are expensive when your health insurance has stopped paying, and all of Mama’s inheritance was finally going to stop the bill collectors from harassing her.

“He wanted you to have what was in his safe. It’s not much, because of his gambling, but you said you wanted a new car, and this should help.”

I remember smiling at that moment. As a first-year employee, all I’ve been able to afford up to this point are my student loan payments and rent. My car runs well enough, but Mama knows how I’ve longed for more than basic transportation. Getting to the hospital for the night shift would be so much nicer if I had reliable heat in the winter and air conditioning that didn’t sometimes involve rolling down four windows and driving sixty mile an hour. If only I hadn’t looked behind the water heater, then I could be planning a trip to the dealership for a test drive.

The problem was that the lone trunk looked so odd, just sitting there in the corner. When I first saw the dusty box, my only thought was to simply add it to all the other old furniture I was piling together on the floor. My back was aching, so I grabbed the antique chest without much thought. I almost left the lid shut, almost, but I didn’t, because the top reminded me of a pirate’s treasure.

Old locks always make me curious, so I stopped to look at the one I was holding. The latch was shiny; the way old metal never is, so I tried the clasp. To my surprise, the mechanism opened with ease. Was it worn from constant use? I’ve thought about that for hours, especially after what I found.

At first, I thought they were just a bunch of old sheets. I was just about to pitch them into the trash when something caught my eye. A small point in the muslin seemed out of place. I grabbed the simple white cotton and stared in horror as a Klansman’s hood unfolded.

My hands were trembling like an earthquake, but I managed to rip up the fabric in a matter of minutes. I threw the long strips in the dumpster outside, and then I buried the cloth under all the rest of the junk from the attic. By the time I was finished, every reminder of Gramps, except for the heavy furniture, was gone from that house.

I shake my head because now the money in my pocket starts to feel like a curse. Staring into my glass, I wonder what I should do. I rub my temples until I remember another hopeless situation.

It was last winter, and a young gunshot victim was rushed into the emergency room. He was thirteen years old, with the thinnest arms I’ve ever seen. His wounds were severe, so I started a central line and helped the young intern on call to stabilize him. We worked at a frantic pace until they took the patient up for surgery. That’s when the doctor and I finally stopped. There was blood on the floor and the area was a wreck. At that moment, we looked at each and thought the same thing. Does the hate and violence ever stop?

I place a few dollars under my glass, and Stan catches my eye. He merely nods, letting me know that I have a raincheck on his charm. When I go outside, the sunset has faded into a navy velvet night. I ignore the exhaust fumes lingering over the parking lot and start my engine. Poplar Avenue stretches out like a long ribbon, and I travel east until I reach the small community where Mama and I used to bring the mobile food pantry.

Despite the total darkness, I manage to find the right place. For years, part of Mama’s job involved feeding rural families. Sometimes I rode with her, and we always came to this exact single-story building.

My tires crunch on the gravel, and a soft glow from the windows spills over the handful of cars that are lined up against the wall. I pull around to the side entrance, and I smile when I see that the signs for the youth center and clothes closet are still there.

I haven’t been in church in years, but I step inside the office door and hope for the best. Music, played on a piano, floats through the air. I start to walk towards the Gospel hymns, assuming choir practice is starting, but a voice at my back startles me.

“May I help you?”

I turn to find an older man in a slightly frayed suit. He has a Bible in one hand and some papers in the other. His face is the color of rich mahogany and I recognize him as the minister. He holds my gaze but from his expression, I can tell that he doesn’t remember me.

For a minute, I don’t speak because I’m not sure where to begin. I stand there and wonder what he must think of me. Maybe I just look like a white girl in sweat-stained clothes, with her hair in a ponytail. Maybe he sees me or maybe he doesn’t, but I bet he knows my soul needs salvation.

“I hope so,” I finally say, “you see, I need to make a donation.”