The Way They Thought That Love Should Be - Softcover

Roth, Ron

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1496960106 ISBN 13: 9781496960108

Publisher: AuthorHouse, 2015

Synopsis

With wit and tenderness, the short story collection What They Thought That Love Should Be explores intimate moments in the lives of men and women as they experience love's enigmas, contradictions, and consolations. A woman mourning the death of her husband refuses to part with her husband's remains keeping the urn with his ashes at her side. An art museum curator meets a severely depressed woman and shares with her a new found capacity for affection as they view his museum's art collections. A terminally ill man pivots between memories of a long past trek through Europe with his wife and their final journey together as he faces death. Written with grace and empathy, the collection's captivating stories embrace the possibilities of love as well as its limits.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Way They Thought That Love Should Be

By Ron Roth

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2015 Ron Roth
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6010-8

Contents

Norman, 1, 
The Glittering Kingdom, 13, 
The Automatic Pilot, 28, 
The Way They Thought That Love Should Be, 38, 
Pilgrimage, 45, 
The Curator, 56, 
Fugue, 75, 

CHAPTER 1

Norman

He was lifting a glass of the Chateau Meyney to his mouth to wash down a slice of the beef tournedos when it happened.

It wouldn't go down.

It just sat there, that little morsel, nailed flush against his windpipe—impregnable, immovable, and, Norman thought, in these last moments of his life, utterly inexorable in its task.

His muscles tightened. Breath stopped.

He looked across the dinner table to Ellen, his wife. His eyes bugged out.

"Norman?" she whispered.

He grabbed the edge of the table and jumped to his feet. The back of his legs banged against the chair, shooting it backwards over the hard wood floor, slamming it into the tea caddie. The Waterford decanter fell to the floor, shattering into crystal shards.

"Daddy!" his daughter Jennifer screamed standing and pressing her hand over her mouth. Ellen jammed her shin against a table leg as she ran to him.

"Grab his arm!" she yelled, hoisting him off the floor. She clenched her fists like hard, rope knots. Jennifer supported his weight from the front while she hugged him from behind. He slumped forward like a Raggedy Ann doll. She squeezed hard, but there was no air in his stomach to pop the meat loose.

Her legs buckled. She fell to her knees. Norman collapsed, pinning her down. Trapped by his weight, she began to shake with short, convulsive sobs.

Norman was dead.

She would not be consoled.

She sobbed frequently and unrequitedly throughout her ordeal: at the funeral home, the Rosary at St Cecelia's, the memorial service.

Peculiar, unexpected things would set her off: the sight of her uncle, his face darkened by chemotherapy treatments; the scent of Norman's brand of cologne worn by a distant cousin paying his respects.

An attractive brunette with bobbed hair, she was ruddy and healthy-looking with dark brown eyes—deep set and lively. A black knit skirt clung to the ample hips that were unmistakably welcoming to the dozens of men who hugged her in sympathy at the funeral home. When she embraced them she went limp—just for a moment—arousing them with an erotic understanding that was comforting to her. As she held them she felt herself draining away into them, into a safe haven she imagined they had for her.

Then she felt it—his signal. It was faint at first, but it was unmistakable.

It was Norman.

She grabbed Jennifer by the arm and walked quickly out of the chapel. They ran through a maze of halls. High ceilings and green and white striped wallpaper stretched the walls to baroque and sinister heights. They scurried past a sitting room where the men were gathered sipping coffee, murmuring about low interest rates and electric garage doors that weren't working. They walked until they found themselves at the office of the funeral home director, Mr. Slater.

There, on the right front corner of his desk, rested a glistening stainless steel cylinder shaped like a bullet. From behind his desk Slater looked up from some papers. Ellen stared at the run.

"Is this Norman?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the cylinder.

"Yes, Mrs. Draper, that is Norman," Slater said delicately.

"I want Norman," she said gently, stroking Norman's smooth, seamless surface.

Slater cleared his throat.

"Well, Mrs. Draper, we plan to inter his remains yet today, so ..."

"I need Norman," she interrupted, lifting her head and staring at him, her jaw tightening.

"Mrs. Draper—Ellen," he sighed.

"I have a special place I want to take him," she interrupted.

"Ah," he hummed. "Well, strictly speaking, the disposition of the remains is at your discretion, and I can see ..."

"You see, Mr. Slater, my daughter and I are not quite ready to part with Norman. I think you can understand."

Slater nodded.

"We have a very nice afternoon planned for Norman, don't we, Jennifer?"

Jennifer shook her head slowly, dazed.

"Chet Baker," she mumbled.

"Chet Baker?" Slater repeated.

"Yeah. Chet Baker. The jazz trumpeter. He was Dad's favorite. We're going to go home and put some Chet Baker on the stereo."

"That's a wonderful idea, sweetheart!" Ellen Chirped. "We'll play something mellow, like `My Funny Valentine' and, well, remember."

Supporting Jennifer with her right arm and cradling Norman's cylinder in the other, Ellen Draper looked the very picture of a modern Pieta.

Like a small chapel radiating off the nave of a cathedral, the den adjoining the living room became a grotto, a shrine to Norman's memory. A little touch of Lourdes.

The wormwood wall paneling, crisp and glistening with shellac, commemorated his life with photographs and memorabilia. Ellen lovingly mounted each photograph, each in its own special frame: lacy tendrils of ferns carved from cherry wood cascaded like tears around a baby picture of him leaning on his elbows his face pointed upward, eyes popeyed and quizzical.

An oval, pewter frame topped with a bow enshrined his confirmation at twelve: dressed like a grownup with a hat and bow tie, Jennifer thought he looked like a confidence man.

Sleek platinum framed him standing next to his first car: a bright red Ford '61 Sunliner convertible – the last of its kind, he would muse to Jennifer, who would listen like an inquisitive archaeologist, thoughtfully reflecting on the technology of ancient civilizations.

There was the photo of the lighthouse on Nantucket harbor—the pale suggestion of it in a morning fog just lifting—taken from the ferry as he and Ellen departed for Hyannis on their last vacation together.

Next to that, engraved in Times Roman on a fine linen stock, a toast he had made to Ellen at a dinner party on their 10th anniversary. He had written it all out and read it formally. Now when she read it, it was like saying grace or a beautiful benediction on their life together. Like Stations of the Cross, each of these relics led finally to Norman, displayed like a reliquary on top of a tall, Victorian plant stand.

It was her friend Nancy, a Mormon with a profound belief in the immutability of family ties—ties that extended beyond the grave—that suggested that they kneel in front of Norman and pray.

"Honey," she glowed, "I can feel him, I can just feel him here."

She fell to her knees, closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. Ellen hesitated.

Nancy opened her eyes and looked up to her smiling.

"Sweetie, I know what you're thinking, but don't worry about it. This isn't a séance. If you haven't prayed for a while, don't worry. What we're looking for here is a little peace of mind for you, and Norman, for that matter."

Nancy closed her eyes again, and Ellen knelt down next to her.

"Lord, accept our prayer for Norman," Nancy said. "Norman may be difficult for a while—he has a tendency to sulk. Things like, well, his golf handicap moving up a stroke or two get him down, so we can only image what something like this is doing to him."

"Nancy," Ellen said, "Are you always this familiar with God?" "Sweetie, you've been off the circuit too long. God came down off His pulpit a long time ago. He's sweating the details now with the little guy. Wants to know how you're doing with cholesterol, how many packs you've smoked today, have you been good to your stepchildren. Real life stuff."

"Oh, I see."

"No, honey, you don't. But it's what's going to get you through. And if I were you, I'd go ahead and keep Norman around as long as you need to."

Jennifer walked into the den.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"We're praying, sweetheart. Praying for Daddy. We have a feeling that Daddy could use a little moral support right now."

"Do you know what we call Daddy, Nancy?" Jennifer said with a tight smile.

"I couldn't guess, honey."

"Pop-in-a-box."

"Pop-in-a-box?" "Yes. Daddy's cylinder is so convenient. Mom puts him in the wine rack while she's cooking—says it relaxes her."

"I can understand that."

"And we take him on walks, and picnics. He fits perfectly in the slot for the thermos in the picnic basket."

Ellen glared at her.

"I'm sorry, Mom, I am," she said, and began to cry. Nancy looked around the room. There was a box of pink tissues on an end table. She got up off her knees with a groan, grabbed some tissues and put her arm around Jennifer.

"Honey," she said brightly, "Let's take Norman for a picnic. Why not? I could use a little air right now, couldn't you?"

They drove to a delicatessen and bought some yuppie food—things with wild rice and morels. They spread a yellow and green plaid blanket under a large pine tree. Some wood swallows dived at them as they were laying out the food. Nancy chased them like a madwoman, gnashing her teeth and pretending to tear her hair out. Jennifer laid out Norman, his silver urn set neatly between the pâté and the potato salad.

As they were finishing, a man in red slacks and white sweatshirt was walking nearby.

"Isn't that Mr. Bambridge, Mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I think it is."

"Who's that?" said Nancy.

"He's a friend of Norman's. He's very spiritual."

"Dad called him Mr. New Age."

"Why is that?" asked Nancy.

"Oh, you know, he's into Indian sweat lodges and walking on coals, things like that. He teaches a course at the community college, the Psychology of Human Fulfillment. His doctoral thesis was on the spiritual dimensions of dolphin language."

"Jim!" Ellen yelled. "Jim Bambridge!"

He turned around, squinted, and waved briskly, walking toward them.

"Ellen, Jennifer, how are you?"

Jim Bambridge's "How are you?" was like none other.

Uplifting and irresistible, it never faltered in its artful sincerity and heartfelt good nature. It made you feel good each and every time you heard it. He had sculpted his high-pitched, musical voice into a fluid, comforting tool. It neatly complemented his purposeful effort to style his physical demeanor into a package where every movement—whether it was changing a tire a saying grace—had a meditative and thoughtful quality to it. When he walked, he had Tai Chi written all over him.

"Ellen," he asked softly, looking at the cylinder, "is that Norman?"

"Yes, Jim, this is Norman. You've probably heard, we're keeping him around awhile, until, you know, this death thing blows over."

"I understand, I really do," he said mellifluously, and he said it in a way that made Ellen feel like he really did.

He sat down on the edge of the blanket. Jennifer followed the progress of a ladybug crawling up the side of the picnic basket. Nancy rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a pocket Bible. She adjusted her glasses, then read: "In the Lord I put my trust: How say ye to my soul, flee as a bird to your mountain. Keep me as the apple of thine eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings."

Ellen lay back on the blanket, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand. "Jim," she said, "could you, would you mind helping us with a little meditation?"

"Absolutely. I'd love to. It's very simple really. Just sit or lie in a relaxed posture, and begin breathing deep, long breaths, and we'll flee like that bird in the Psalms into the shadow of that mountain ..."

And so it went, the Zen master of Metropolitan Community College, leading them down shady lanes, deep in summer's farthest reaches, the sun igniting gold filaments of spiders' webs, their frail threads vibrating in faint currents, billowing like tiny spinnakers, sails catching minute breaths of wind.

It was a wonderful calm for Ellen. But for Jennifer, it was something else. She laughed, breaking the spell.

"Jennifer," Ellen said, "What is it?"

"It's Daddy," she giggled. "I got down into this thing, you know, followed the river; and there's Daddy, fiddling with the knobs of the stereo; he looks up at me, looks straight at me, says, `I love heavy metal, honey. I can't get enough of it.'"

"This just cracks me up, so I say, `Who do you like, Dad? `Def Leppard,' he says. `I can't get enough of Def Leppard.'"

"And I am like, you know, I cannot stand it; this is so funny; and I'm thinking, honestly, ever since Daddy got into that urn, he's been a great dad."

Ellen nodded, and looked at Jennifer, smiling weakly. "Yes dear, there have been some improvements, haven't there?"

Moonlight gleamed off of the canister, coated the bedroom in a cool, gray wash the color of bone. Outside, the pale light surprised the night with shadows, surfaces radiating a fluorescent luster as if dimly lit from within. The light was so pale it seemed to ache, and it collected her, took her into itself. The serene hum of a transformer, the white noise of stars, covered her like a sheath. She was in poise between consciousness and the deep black pool in which she glided, just below the surface. With strong, slow strokes, her back arched, head raised, naked and sure, she shot to the surface.

"Jennifer," she whispered to her daughter coiled at her side.

"Jennifer?"

"Yes."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

Ellen turned over on her back, looking at the ceiling.

He drank too much. He snored. He left dirty underwear everywhere. He never held her except when he wanted sex. A year of marriage counseling was wearing thin when he died, but he was making progress, professed an interest in becoming a member of the human race and a loyal subject in the kingdom of middle class marriage.

He had had an affair: the word processing secretary.

Later, to his credit, he had confessed and made his amends to her. And, in the illogic of marriage, it jump-started a series of fresh, erotic episodes between them. He would enter from behind, coaxing the deep longing out of hibernation. Inside of her, he was still. She enveloped him, and with slow, deft movements he would define for her a small, luxuriant ecstasy, and the overwhelming promise that was waiting.

Ellen looked at Jennifer. "Let's take Daddy back now."

She put on a black and red jogging outfit as Jennifer gently placed Norman in a yellow canvas bag they got for making a pledge to a public television station. Ellen quietly opened the door of the back porch. They surprised a raccoon sniffing around the garbage can, and it darted into the bushes.

As they walked, the sky on the eastern horizon paled. The stars faded, disappearing finally. Venus hung low on the horizon, sparkling and significant to them. A metal foundry clanked and whirred nearby; they heard, faintly, a train and its groaning metal lumber through town somewhere.

Soon they were at Slater's. An elegant Victorian survivor, festooned with gingerbread wood trim, it was too cheerful for a funeral home, Ellen thought. They left Norman on the back porch, in an old tin, milk delivery case. He fit perfectly.

"Now what?" Jennifer asked.

"I don't know. I'm sure he's gotten the message."

"What message?"

"That it's official."

Ellen turned away to sit on the steps of the porch. She pulled a Post-It notepad from her purse and scribbled a short message on it to Mr. Slater, stuck it on the window of the back door. She patted the top of the milk box and started the walk home.

CHAPTER 2

The Glittering Kingdom

"The sword of the Lord is upon us!" the radio spat out.

"God's judgment is upon us! The prophecy of Revelations is upon us! There are just days, hours left for you to receive the blood of Jesus."

The man sitting on the toilet listening to these warnings is Herbert Ridley, my father. It's 7:00 am, and our house is filled with an outbreak of prophecy. The radio's volume is amped up so the whole family can share Pastor Ralph Wakely's bleak vision of the coming days.

"Satan is powerful! He poisons you with thoughts of lust, greed and envy. He lays traps for you, sinner: that low cut blouse of your secretary that beckons you with adulterous fantasies; or that daily bank deposit you make for your company: How easy it would be for you to skim a couple dollars off the top. That ..." and here Pastor Wakely pauses dramatically, then whispers, no, hisses into the microphone top secret, "GOD'S EYES ONLY" classified information only he and God have. "That temptation," he continues, "is Satan speaking, luring you into his snare."

I roll over in bed and groan. Outside the sun rises over the hills filling the valleys with soft bowls of light. A shaft of it peeks into my room climbing slowly up the chest of drawers. Little slivers of dust dance wildly in its wake. It glides over a small, plastic, glow-in-the-dark cross on the top of the chest, then widens and hovers over the picture of Christ with his blue eyes and fair hair staring down at me. I won the cross as a prize for a year's perfect attendance at Sunday school, and its benign glow comforts me at night lying in bed.

"Even now, as I speak," Pastor Wakely continues," Souls are departing from their bodies being lifted into heaven. God is clearing the decks and leaving behind the bodies of the damned that will continue to go about their business in Satan's cunning masquerade to fool them into a fatally false sense of security."

Pastor Wakely is old school. He's not one of those prosperity preachers holding out the promise of a Mercedes when you send them some checks. He runs a west Texas Revival Ranch for single pregnant girls; "Out of wedlock" he calls them. They sit in rows of chairs in the recording studio listening to him during his broadcasts, yell "Praise God" on cue and eat a morning breakfast concoction Pastor Wakely calls God's Grits. Dad is very gullible on the subject of salvation, and he fell for this guy's pitch, sending him a hundred dollars every month to underwrite the grits.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Way They Thought That Love Should Be by Ron Roth. Copyright © 2015 Ron Roth. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Publication date: 2015
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1496960106
• ISBN 13: 9781496960108
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 108