Short Stories and Poems

SHORT STORIES and POEMS

Harold K. Moon

Copyright © 2019 by Harold K. Moon.

ISBN:       Softcover       978-1-7960-5481-1

                 eBook            978-1-7960-5480-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Rev. date: 08/23/2019

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Contents

PART I SHORT STORIES

Post-Prologue

To See the Stars

Miss Margaret

Perchance to Dream

The Ice Castle

Let the Boys Come In

From the Cypress Grove

Vintage Sex Education

Robin Hood-Winked

Revenge

Just Getting in Step

They’s Gold in Them Hills

An Aging Professors Vindication

Beauty and the Bivilswiltz

Jimmy and the Bivilswiltz

Gretchen and the Bivilswiltz

PART II POEMS

Nothing of Value

Sand and Smoke

A Coming Season Remembered

Conventional Musings

Wobble Jack

Martha

Patchwork

Ammon

Tamaracks

Beginning

Forever We

To Her

Burning Bush

The Pronominal Kingdom

Homing

Now I Swear Not at All

This Was a Man

Sister Beloved

Announcement

Late

Same and Changing Seasons

Today

Dane

Dane: So Big Forever

A Cosmic Dialogue

Kay: Appointed to Live

The Word, First and Last

Bishop Harding

The Rock

The Beloved

Three Witnesses

PART I

SHORT STORIES

Post-Prologue

My friend the Bivilswiltz has thrust me into an awkward and embarrassing situation. I trusted him as a friend, expecting an unbiased and fraternal assessment of my work. He has behaved traitorously. He starts out by invoking our friendship, then proceeds to speak of things I would prefer to leave unspoken. His tasteless tergiversation of Shakespeare coldly stamps my creatures as alter egos. He blithely invades the sanctuary of my subconscious, then like a mad psychiatrist, misrepresents me.

He accuses me of creating unusual personalities that are nothing but my daydreams. Well, what if they are unusual? What if they don’t conform to his twisted notion of what reality should be? Must I go about with note pad in hand, copying verbatim the words and acts of normal people to lend an air of realism to my stories?

Why must a writer, especially a Mormon, forever fear his own creations? Why must he constantly face the stupid assumption that he is what he writes? By what authority does the Bivilswiltz judge my creations as strictly autobiographical, or worse, specters from the seething mire of my subconscious that haunt me with reminders of unfulfilled dreams? It makes as much sense to identify God with His wayward children. Fortunately, God has the courage to go on peopling His worlds with spirits, though He knows that many of them will turn against Him. Have I any more control over my creatures? Should I have?

The Bivilswiltz is not very perceptive. I do appreciate the analysis that concedes a measure of finesse to my writing. That is, I am grateful for his observations concerning Conscience. But I repeat that he is not perceptive. He fails to note even the most elemental irony. He insinuates––even affirms!––that Blake Anderson’s situation exactly parallels my own. The story is set at a university where they play the National Anthem twice a day. The protagonist (or is he an antagonist?) teaches Spanish, publishes a little, prefers to write stories … Well, all right, there are a few similarities. But what the Bivilswiltz does not see is that Blake Anderson is a rogue. So is Greg Gonzalez. They insist that their anthology of Chicano literature must be authentic. Most admirable! No real live imposter can find his way into their Representative Chicanos. But they allow––no, they allow nothing, they arrange to include a character who does not even exist, and they go so far as to give him pre-eminence among the authors that appear in their book. And the Bivilswiltz never even commented on that.

Blake Anderson and Greg Gonzalez prove the point that an author, however circumspect, is capable of any kind of creation. Just as every man is either a god or a devil in embryo (with an infinity of possibilities in between), so a man’s mind may produce examples all along the scale of good and evil, without his being necessarily good or evil. He creates from the storehouse of his imagination, not his reputation, character, or biography.

So, obviously, I cannot take the Bivilswiltz seriously. I shall dismiss his assertions––laugh them off. They are worth no more than that. And I remind him of what Miguel de Unamuno told the impertinent Victor Goti, a creation of his whom he invited, as I have invited the Bivilswiltz, to write a prologue for his novel Niebla (Mist). My prologuist friend, he said, should tread carefully in disputing my decisions, because if he irritates me too much, I’ll end up doing with him what I did with his friend Pérez; that is, I’ll let him die …

And so I would caution the Bivilswiltz, don’t forget Mrs. Moody––a poor, dear old lady who harmed no one. She died, you know, and I liked her!

The Professor

To See the Stars

John Ainsley’s gaze is fixed absently on the clutter of unfinished work before him. The corner of the bright green cover on his ledger, barely perceptible beneath a yellow manila folder, contrasts sharply with a bright blue brochure. The telephone squats possessively over the ‘phone book. A short puff of air from the narrow opening in his sliding windows brushes his flesh and brings him back to the present. The radiator pings quietly; his dead glasses, folded and resting on the second shelf of his bookcase, stare at the ceiling.

The rubber sole of his left shoe squeaks on the floor; his swivel chair squeaks; a motorcycle roars in the distance. There is a conversation outside his office door; a muffled staccato laugh. His glasses stare at the ceiling; and stare . …

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t really need glasses. Why did he get them, anyway? He picks them up and stuffs them in their miniature coffin, then places them in his desk drawer.

J. P. Donforth opens the door. His face brightens as he sees John. Oh, John ... You’re here. They told me you had gone to the hospital.

I did.

I’m glad you’re back. I normally don’t hold with anyone leaving the job for personal reasons, but I suppose there are legitimate exceptions. Your first baby, eh? Three days old! How is he? And Shirley? Doing well, I hope?

John does not answer. J. P. throws a short laugh over his nervousness, trying to keep the strain out of his joviality.

Well, I’m glad you’re back, he repeats. We’ve got to get this Windsor contract cleared up today …

John has scarcely heard Donforth. He stares at a point on his desk.

Look at that ‘phone.

What?

Ten dead eyes, arranged in a circle around the disk. It can’t go anywhere. Just squats possessively over the ‘phone book. Ten eyes, and it can’t see a damn thing.

John, are you sure you’re all right?

Me? Me, I’m fine. Great ... but he’s not. His eyes …

What are you talking about?

Nothing. Let’s get at the Windsor thing.

Are you sure . . . ?

Let’s get at it.

I think you’re sick!

I’m fine. Where do we stand with the old man?

Are you sure . . . ?

Let’s get at it.

Well, he’s still holding out.

How high can we afford to go?

That’s what we’ve got to go over this afternoon. You have the figures on equipment and an estimation on labor, haven’t you? And Wendy will bring us up to date on the purchase price of the surrounding acreage, so we can pretty well estimate … John?

John is staring at his ledger. Look at that ledger. Bright green.

Donforth does not suppress the irony in his voice as he answers, So it is!

A yellow manila folder is covering it––except for one little corner.

Not very tidy, but the desk is yours …

And look how it contrasts with that bright blue brochure …

If this has something to do with the Windsor contract, you’d better fill me in.

Those are colors.

Bravo!

Colors! he’ll never know the meaning of color.

Forgive my little callousness, but I’m afraid I don’t give a damn if old man Windsor and all his ancestors are color blind! Or his posterity after him, for that matter. What has that to do with …

Oh, the devil take Windsor!

I thought that was what we were discussing.

I wasn’t.

Obviously. Maybe you’d better tell me what you’ve got in mind.

My boy . . . !

Your baby? What about him?

I … haven’t named him yet …

Is that all? For a minute I thought it was something serious.

John’s voice is a thin thread. No. Nothing serious.

Donforth says nothing for a moment. Then: We … never could have babies, you know.

Sorry.

Oh, no. Quite all right…. One would think that after a while it wouldn’t matter ... not having children. You really don’t know how lucky you are.

John’s voice carries an acid dryness. Yeah. Lucky.

The older one gets the more it matters. I’m wealthy, I suppose, by anyone’s standards. But where does it all go? No one to leave it to.

You’re not dying, are you?

Donforth smiles wryly. Well, not today. But when I do…. You know? It gets lonelier all the time. Have you ... thought of a name?

What can I name him?

Well, of course, that’s your decision, but …

What do you name a blind child?

A …

Blind! My boy is blind! That’s why I left work this morning––if it makes any difference. They called me, ‘Come down to the hospital,’ they said, cheerful as pink punch. Come to the hospital, so we can destroy you with a few words carefully chosen to soften the blow!

What could have caused it?

Shirley had measles.

Is there anything they can do? An operation …?

Nothing. They said there’s nothing can be done.

If I could … help …

Can you give him the new green of springtime? Or the flame of autumn? Or make him wince in the incomparable whiteness of a sunny winter morning? What can anyone do for him?

John, I could … provide schooling for him, maybe. The best! Give him everything possible to ease the … burden … and help him live with his handicap.

John sits silently at his desk, his head bowed. Thanks, J. P. I’m sorry I struck so viciously …

Natural, isn’t it, to want to strike back somehow.

Sure. Natural. There is iron heaviness in the pause that follows. Natural. Nothing natural about blindness, is there? Unless you happen to be a mole …

John, this bitterness …

Damn it, that’s all there is, bitterness. Name one good thing about this. One!

He’s alive, and he’s yours.

He’d be better off … He does not go on. His head sinks slowly until his face is hidden in his arms on the desk top. What can I do, J. P.?

* * * * * * * * *

Dr. Ralph V. Zayas. The name appears on the door of a spacious office in the department of Psychology at Ross University.

Dr. Zayas raises his head and shifts the thick lenses that have absorbed the personality from his faded eyes. One could not say that Dr. Zayas has blue eyes. Or brown. Or gray. Dr. Zayas has glasses. Thick crystal disks, impenetrable as silver dollars. A large book lies open on his desk, but he is reading something else. The book’s title: A Psychologist’s Foray into Parapsychology. The author: Ralph V. Zayas. But Dr. Zayas is reading something else.

He is reading a newspaper. The newspaper carries a short entry that tells of John Ainsley’s baby boy, who was born blind. The story was not news. A blind baby boy does not make news. The story made the newspapers because J. P. Donforth has no children. J. P. Donforth is a millionaire. He lives in John Ainsley’s town. He is John Ainsley’s employer. He has left John Ainsley’s baby boy a legacy, to be spent for the child’s special needs. J. P. Donforth makes news. J. P. Donforth is a millionaire.

Dr. Zayas folds his paper; something outside has drawn his imprecise scrutiny. A few dry leaves whisper a short protest to the vagrant breeze that stirs them. The overseeing oaks mutter momentarily. Dr. Zayas sits and listens. Is he listening? His glasses catch a glimmer of sunshine and come alive for a second.

He turns his swivel chair slowly back to the desk, his elbows resting lightly on the chair’s padded arms, his fingertips forming a pyramid under his chin. He picks up the paper again for an instant, his glasses scanning the article once more. He lays the paper over his massive book and rises slowly. A glint of resolution momentarily lights the crystal disks as he walks toward the door.

* * * * * * * * *

Mr. Ainsley? Dr. Ralph V. Zayas.

John Ainsley does not know the name.

I work at Ross University. Psychology.

Happy to meet you, sir.

You have a son, Mr. Ainsley. A recent arrival.

Yes. John Milton.

I beg your pardon?

That’s his name. John Milton.

I see.

Named after me.

After … you?

His first name. The Milton was Mr. Donforth’s choice.

Ah.

Could I … You wanted to …??

Ah, yes-I’d like to talk with you about the boy. You and your wife together.

Well, I … have no reason to … eh … What did you …?

I’ll explain it to you, if I may, this evening. Are you and your wife free at eight?

I suppose so.

A brief silence. John speaks:

If you’re … that is, Mr. Donforth has arranged things for the boy––doctors, schools and the like, so …

I’m sure he has. But I think I may have something that will help––go beyond schools and medicine. Mind if we talk about it later?

Implacable crystal disks look through John Ainsley.

At eight?

Eight.

At my home?

Dr. Ralph V. Zayas nods. Then:

I assure you, my intentions are only to help the lad. I’ll explain it when your wife can be with us.

When Dr. Ralph V. Zayas leaves his office, John Ainsley picks up the ‘phone and dials.

Shirley? Look …, uh … a man’s coming over tonight … No, not for dinner. To talk about little John … I don’t know, he said he had something to help … Dr. somebody … No, I don’t know him … Don’t get excited, I didn’t sign my name to anything. He wants to talk to both of us … Eight. Yes, eight … I don’t know anything about it …

* * * * * * * * *

Dr. Zayas arrives promptly at eight. John and Shirley Ainsley are not at ease. Those glasses are an invasion of privacy. Insolent! Those glasses are insolent! Dr. Zayas, his glasses notwithstanding, manages a certain cordiality. The atmosphere thaws a little.

John and Shirley are seated on the green divan. Danish modern. A sort of tweed. John strokes the rough fabric on the armrest and notes absently how worn it has become. Dr. Zayas leans forward in the overstuffed easy-chair-also green-as he talks with them.

As I explained to Mr. Ainsley this morning, I am a psychologist. But my interest in recent years has turned to another fascinating field, a field which most regard lightly, or even scornfully; the field of parapsychology.

John and Shirley Ainsley are silent. Shirley shifts slightly and clears her throat. Dr. Zayas continues.

I am on the point of retirement. My recent work, quite frankly, has not endeared me to my colleagues, but I am sure-I feel absolutely certain-that my interest, my deep interest of these past few years is as legitimate, as useful as any area of study that is presently receiving a government subsidy. For that reason …

Excuse me, Dr. Zayas, Shirley says, what did you say that was?

I beg your pardon? Oh, I’m sorry. You mean parapsychology?

Yes. What is it?

Well, I ... I forgot you’re not … eh … You’ve had no brush with that sort of thing. Parapsychology has to do with telepathy, clairvoyance and thought transference. Not the fare most psychologists care to spend a lot of time with, you know. They say it’s a bastard science, at best, but my own studies show …

Mental telepathy? Like mind reading, or something, isn’t it?

Mind reading? Well, in a sense, I suppose, though I’m hardly speaking of sideshow sensationalism. Most of us have experienced a form of extra-sensory perception-to some degree. You know, when you sense that something is about to happen, and it does … Or the déja vu experience––that is, when you find yourself in a new place that you know you’ve never seen before, yet you have a feeling that you’ve been there before … or …

Like the time when you woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and felt strange, and we found out later your mother had died that very hour, says John.

"Or the feeling I had when I was carrying little John