THROUGH THE TRAP DOOR
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Edwin Blake woke early on Friday morning, retrieved the heavily laden gunny sack from under the back porch, loaded it on the bicycle cart and peddled down to the lake. The rowboat had been a constant companion throughout the summer. Once a pale blue, the weathered and splintered wood rail pricked his hand as he swung the sack aboard with a heavy thud upon the floor. He rowed against the wind, pulling toward the center while constantly looking back toward the cabin as if memories needed to be captured. A pied-billed grebe circled above and softly splashed down nearby. Edwin took this for a sign that he had reached his destination.
From a large waist pocket of his jacket, he removed a rope and fashioned a double constrictor knot around the sack opening with one end and his right ankle with the other. Careful to not tip the boat, he slowly edged to the side and draped his legs over into the water until his shoes were fully submerged. In such a position, it took a strenuous effort to lift the rock filled sack up to his lap while the boat listed further. Balancing the load under his forearms, he was ready to hoist it over the side, when suddenly, the grebe rose from the water and flew over his head so closely that water from its body struck his face. He looked up to follow the bird’s flight circling back toward the shore, its wings beating against the air. For a few moments, he leaned forward, drew in and slowly expelled air as if breathing for the first time. The sun striking the water stirred by wind gusts captivated his attention with a kaleidoscope sparkle. Suddenly, as if awoken from a dream, Edwin reached for his fishing knife, cut the rope and heaved the sack over.
With a burst of energy he rowed back toward the dock. Only at the last moment did he turn to see a woman with a yellow bonnet standing near his cart. “That’s my bicycle, don’t touch it,” he yelled out. Edwin ignored her reply as he secured the rowboat and stepped onto the dock. With her hand fashioned as a salute, she shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare. “If you didn’t hear me, I said I was not touching anything. Why are you dragging a rope tied to your ankle?” He continued to ignore her presence as he peeled off his jacket. She stepped back from what she called a bicycle contraption and spoke in a pleasant manner, “I’m not wanting to be a busybody, but are you Edwin Blake? The man at the store said you had such a device?” Tossing his jacket into the cart, Edwin promptly sat in the wet grass and untied the rope. Looking up he finally spoke with forced kindness, “Okey, you found me. Can this be our little secret.” She pressed her palms up as if in a prayer of contrition, “Don’t be angry with me, but “Angel’s Unaware” is my absolute favorite book, I had to say hello.” “Thank you” he said, “My publisher of those many years ago, thanks you. Now please forgive me but I must be going.” Riding away he knew the hated words were already airborne. “Will there be another book” she called out.
Ozzie was patiently waiting on the porch, his tail thumping on the weathered pine. Edwin scratched the back of his ears, “Hello old man. We both get a reprieve.” The worn out envelope addressed to “Maggie” was removed from his collar and they went inside. His grandfather had built the stone cabin sometime in the 1940’s, and his earliest memories were sleeping on an army cot in the main room with the dying glow of the evening fire casting magical shadows on the ceiling. He paused while walking into the kitchen as if the hoard of food-stained dishes had a voice of complaint. “Hard to believe I was once an organized and tidy person,” he mused and then laughed loudly while finishing his thought, “Hell, Edwin Blake even had talent as a writer.” A roach, the size of a small toad ambled across the floor. Edwin started a race to the wallboard but the roach won and disappeared.
The night’s sleep was a number 6, perhaps due to the rowing and kitchen cleanup which had a positive affect. Saturday morning held a duel purpose as Maggie came to clean the cabin and Edwin was shooed away to restock groceries and gather the weekly junk mail. Ozzie struggled to jump into the cart and Edwin gave him the needed lift. “Hey pal, don’t answer if you choose but ever get depressed?” Yellow bonnet lady was sitting at an outside table at Stella’s and gave a wave as the twosome neared. “Mr. Blake, come join me if you wish, I just ordered coffee and granola. I’ll even treat to make up for my intrusion yesterday.” Today, her cheerfulness was not so oft-putting, and in truth, he had time to kill. “No treating, dutch only if you can put up with my presence,” She threw her head back while laughing “Being a sourpuss is just your way of hiding from your fan base I’ll bet, and I promise not to say anything about your genius” as she laughed even harder at her gibe.
Ozzie laid by her leg and contentedly draped his head over her boot. She reached down and patted his back with her left hand while offering a handshake with her right. “Louisa Waters” she said. Edwin closed his eyes, lifted his head as if praying, “Please” he muttered, “don’t be that Louisa Waters?” Stella placed the cereal and coffee on the table and gushed “I just called my mom and said “Guess who is eating my granola, it’s Fanny Farmer, the British detective.” Louisa took her hand with both hers, and thanked her for the kind recognition. Looking over to her table-mate she spoke quietly “Mr. Blake, I truly do not want to embarrass you or chase you away, but you are the writer, and I am just a woman with a vivid imagination that drives my editor and agent up the wall.” Edwin gave a nod and a wistful smile, and he too spoke softly. “You would give an old man a gift and pretend I’m the village character who has roamed these hills for far too long, often acts strangely, and knows a little of the flora and fauna. In this there is some truth. As for being a writer, perhaps one with my name had such a claim, but that person no longer exists and chooses to be forgotten.”
With Ozzie in the cart, Louisa slowly peddled the bicycle as Edwin named birds, and broke off fragrant leaves for inspection and sniffing. Around a bend, they arrived at a bluff offering a panoramic view of the lake below and surrounding hills in the distance. A beautiful carved bench glistened with a rich coat of lacquer that invited their rest. “My grandfather’s labor,” spoke Edwin, “and along with my dog, one of the few things I care about.” Louisa sat turning somewhat toward Edwin, “They say we all have three lives. Our public life, our private life, and our secrets. We’ve only just met, and I could be horridly mistaken, but perhaps I could be a listener, and you could voice, as if speaking to this glorious nature, whatever might lighten the weight you carry, if such a burden exists. The Lord knows I have mine.”
Breakfast together became a daily routine, and both laughed and argued on numerous topics, always dancing around writing while maintaining a safe enough distance. Edwin was tapping his coffee spoon on the table top one morning and looked up, “The day we met, I tried to kill myself. A floppy grebe saved my life.” Louisa removed her glasses and slowly folded them before speaking. “The rope tied to your ankle,” she said, “But Edwin, it was not a bird, you saved yourself. I believe this is your secret. You care more about yourself than you’re willing to acknowledge. Hidden beneath that self-imposed facade of writer’s block, is a marvelous person with many talents. You do not owe it to yourself, and certainly not to anyone else, to write another book. What you accomplished was a treasured gift with no strings attached. End of story if the pun is accepted.” He laughed heartily and stomped a foot causing Ozzie to jump up and bang the underside of the table sending coffee and silverware flying.
It was a risky step of faith for Edwin to invite Louisa to his cabin for an evening fire and nightcap. After exhausting the litany of ills currently circulating the world, they both sat in silence looking at the flames and allowing their thoughts to settle. It was Louisa who suddenly folded her arms tightly around her sides and spoke without turning. “Here’s a crack into my secret if you are up to it?” “Louisa, you honor me” replied Edwin, and he turned her way. Still looking forward, she spoke her words quietly and with numerous pauses, as if reaching for the right way to express each phrase. “I was 22 years old, listening to my close friend Catherine struggling to explain her marital difficulties, when she asked a pointed question that opened a floodgate. ‘Have you ever been betrayed, I mean painfully betrayed?” Louisa took a noticeable deep breath as if emotionally moving herself back to that moment. “My quick answer was no, thankfully not.” Louisa turned toward Edwin, tears quickly forming as she continued, “Catherine went on to further her story of hurt. I tried to show compassion but was seized by a stomach cramp that truly radiated both down to my feet, and up to my eyes. For a moment, I felt ready to choke on bile that was coursing up my throat. Waving a hand in her direction, I raced to her bathroom. Unable to make the toilet, I retched in her sink with a shaking that took me to my knees.”
Louisa spoke of waking from 12 years of dissociative amnesia from a period of time she was abused by a trusted family member. She felt grateful that her adolescence was somewhat protected by the power of one’s mind providing an escape hatch or trap door away from the lurking evil. “Looking back, I now better understand why I had such difficulty with male relationships during those years. The awakening was extremely painful as acute memories flooded back vividly, leaving me with conflicting emotions of shame, anger, and resentment. Even if I had the strength to confront this person, he had passed, and I was left to suffer in silence.” “Angels Unaware” was a best seller for years, and translated into six different languages. Often reviewed as intense, emotionally disturbing, and yet victorious in redemption, the protagonist faced similar abusive trauma at an older age. In the four years it took Edwin to complete his debut novel, he lived with each word like a groom with his bride, celebrating the good and suffering in the wrong. He now reached a hand toward Louisa, and taking hers, cold and clammy, he felt a flow of warm blood coursing between their two bodies. Louisa looked up to Edwin, “That’s why I started writing you know. I needed to fill my mind with other’s stories, to be their avenger in bringing perpetrators to justice, to bring closure to the wounded whose voice was stolen.”
Emotionally drained, sleep soon overtook Louisa, and Edwin carried her into his bedroom and covered her with a quilt embroidered with winter critters. He left a note on the kitchen table in case Louisa would awake, and hiked up to the bench with Ozzie trailing. A coyote howled as billowy clouds crossed before the full moon, and the crisp night air further stimulated the many thoughts competing for his attention that Edward now held. He pondered why writers write, some he felt for self preservation, some for expression perhaps all for airing what both haunts them and some for what provokes them. Louisa was right; he was hiding from himself, falling through his self-made trap door, afraid he had nothing to offer a world searching for a greater meaning beyond barest existence. For the first time in years, Edwin was scribbling down thoughts to ponder in greater detail, and sooner than later, certainly not forgotten which had been his habit.
Louisa scoured the refrigerator for a semblance of breakfast, and strong coffee saved the morning. “I’ll be going back to the city tomorrow. My editor is pushing a deadline that I have been ignoring for this past week. Do you remember Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn in the movie ‘Same Time Next Year?” Edwin grinned. “I once stayed at that very inn pictured in the movie. They had all the movie posters hanging on the restaurant walls. If you’re having breakfast at Stella’s a year from now, I’m all in, and be sure to wear the yellow bonnet. Hopefully letters or a phone call or two along the way if you would have time for me.”
It was their 5th reunion when Louisa waited at Stella’s with “The Moon Beckons” laying on the table. When he peddled that wonderful contraption up to the deck, she waved the book calling out, “Autograph on page two, Mr. Blake, if you please.” Number one for the 10th week in the New York Times Sunday book section, Edwin wrote his name under the dedication, “For Louisa, may our secrets be forever binding.”
Perhaps because of their age difference or fear of spoiling something very special, Edwin and Louise never moved beyond their annual two weeks. For the 15th reunion, Louisa arrived wearing her third yellow bonnet. The innkeeper said he had tried to reach her by telephone. Maggie had found Edwin a day earlier, lying on the bedroom floor, having passed from an apparent heart attack at the age of 85.
Louisa chose to stay for a final two weeks. So many special memories needed to be relived for the last time. Louisa was on the deck of Stella’s savoring her favorite granola when Maggie arrived with Ozzie Junior. Affectionately called Junior, he strained at the leash to climb the stairs, his tail swishing back and forth. Maggie had become a dear friend to Louisa over the years, and now the two cried and laughed for over an hour while reminiscing. Stella then came out with her scrapbook and joined the two women. Two years earlier, Edwin and Stella held a surprise party for Louisa to celebrate the final Fanny Farmer Detective book titled “The Long Goodbye.” Upon solving her most difficult and dangerous case, Fanny retires to a country hillside village. The closing paragraph has Fanny sitting on a bench situated on a bluff overlooking a lake below. At peace with both herself and the community she faithfully served, Fanny is able to close her eyes, raise her head and receive the warmth of a glorious afternoon sun. For Louisa, her peace and warmth came from writing those stories, but also from a friend, a very special friend, who traveled a shared path of honesty, acceptance, and most of all love.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Edwin Blake woke early on Friday morning, retrieved the heavily laden gunny sack from under the back porch, loaded it on the bicycle cart and peddled down to the lake. The rowboat had been a constant companion throughout the summer. Once a pale blue, the weathered and splintered wood rail pricked his hand as he swung the sack aboard with a heavy thud upon the floor. He rowed against the wind, pulling toward the center while constantly looking back toward the cabin as if memories needed to be captured. A pied-billed grebe circled above and softly splashed down nearby. Edwin took this for a sign that he had reached his destination.
From a large waist pocket of his jacket, he removed a rope and fashioned a double constrictor knot around the sack opening with one end and his right ankle with the other. Careful to not tip the boat, he slowly edged to the side and draped his legs over into the water until his shoes were fully submerged. In such a position, it took a strenuous effort to lift the rock filled sack up to his lap while the boat listed further. Balancing the load under his forearms, he was ready to hoist it over the side, when suddenly, the grebe rose from the water and flew over his head so closely that water from its body struck his face. He looked up to follow the bird’s flight circling back toward the shore, its wings beating against the air. For a few moments, he leaned forward, drew in and slowly expelled air as if breathing for the first time. The sun striking the water stirred by wind gusts captivated his attention with a kaleidoscope sparkle. Suddenly, as if awoken from a dream, Edwin reached for his fishing knife, cut the rope and heaved the sack over.
With a burst of energy he rowed back toward the dock. Only at the last moment did he turn to see a woman with a yellow bonnet standing near his cart. “That’s my bicycle, don’t touch it,” he yelled out. Edwin ignored her reply as he secured the rowboat and stepped onto the dock. With her hand fashioned as a salute, she shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare. “If you didn’t hear me, I said I was not touching anything. Why are you dragging a rope tied to your ankle?” He continued to ignore her presence as he peeled off his jacket. She stepped back from what she called a bicycle contraption and spoke in a pleasant manner, “I’m not wanting to be a busybody, but are you Edwin Blake? The man at the store said you had such a device?” Tossing his jacket into the cart, Edwin promptly sat in the wet grass and untied the rope. Looking up he finally spoke with forced kindness, “Okey, you found me. Can this be our little secret.” She pressed her palms up as if in a prayer of contrition, “Don’t be angry with me, but “Angel’s Unaware” is my absolute favorite book, I had to say hello.” “Thank you” he said, “My publisher of those many years ago, thanks you. Now please forgive me but I must be going.” Riding away he knew the hated words were already airborne. “Will there be another book” she called out.
Ozzie was patiently waiting on the porch, his tail thumping on the weathered pine. Edwin scratched the back of his ears, “Hello old man. We both get a reprieve.” The worn out envelope addressed to “Maggie” was removed from his collar and they went inside. His grandfather had built the stone cabin sometime in the 1940’s, and his earliest memories were sleeping on an army cot in the main room with the dying glow of the evening fire casting magical shadows on the ceiling. He paused while walking into the kitchen as if the hoard of food-stained dishes had a voice of complaint. “Hard to believe I was once an organized and tidy person,” he mused and then laughed loudly while finishing his thought, “Hell, Edwin Blake even had talent as a writer.” A roach, the size of a small toad ambled across the floor. Edwin started a race to the wallboard but the roach won and disappeared.
The night’s sleep was a number 6, perhaps due to the rowing and kitchen cleanup which had a positive affect. Saturday morning held a duel purpose as Maggie came to clean the cabin and Edwin was shooed away to restock groceries and gather the weekly junk mail. Ozzie struggled to jump into the cart and Edwin gave him the needed lift. “Hey pal, don’t answer if you choose but ever get depressed?” Yellow bonnet lady was sitting at an outside table at Stella’s and gave a wave as the twosome neared. “Mr. Blake, come join me if you wish, I just ordered coffee and granola. I’ll even treat to make up for my intrusion yesterday.” Today, her cheerfulness was not so oft-putting, and in truth, he had time to kill. “No treating, dutch only if you can put up with my presence,” She threw her head back while laughing “Being a sourpuss is just your way of hiding from your fan base I’ll bet, and I promise not to say anything about your genius” as she laughed even harder at her gibe.
Ozzie laid by her leg and contentedly draped his head over her boot. She reached down and patted his back with her left hand while offering a handshake with her right. “Louisa Waters” she said. Edwin closed his eyes, lifted his head as if praying, “Please” he muttered, “don’t be that Louisa Waters?” Stella placed the cereal and coffee on the table and gushed “I just called my mom and said “Guess who is eating my granola, it’s Fanny Farmer, the British detective.” Louisa took her hand with both hers, and thanked her for the kind recognition. Looking over to her table-mate she spoke quietly “Mr. Blake, I truly do not want to embarrass you or chase you away, but you are the writer, and I am just a woman with a vivid imagination that drives my editor and agent up the wall.” Edwin gave a nod and a wistful smile, and he too spoke softly. “You would give an old man a gift and pretend I’m the village character who has roamed these hills for far too long, often acts strangely, and knows a little of the flora and fauna. In this there is some truth. As for being a writer, perhaps one with my name had such a claim, but that person no longer exists and chooses to be forgotten.”
With Ozzie in the cart, Louisa slowly peddled the bicycle as Edwin named birds, and broke off fragrant leaves for inspection and sniffing. Around a bend, they arrived at a bluff offering a panoramic view of the lake below and surrounding hills in the distance. A beautiful carved bench glistened with a rich coat of lacquer that invited their rest. “My grandfather’s labor,” spoke Edwin, “and along with my dog, one of the few things I care about.” Louisa sat turning somewhat toward Edwin, “They say we all have three lives. Our public life, our private life, and our secrets. We’ve only just met, and I could be horridly mistaken, but perhaps I could be a listener, and you could voice, as if speaking to this glorious nature, whatever might lighten the weight you carry, if such a burden exists. The Lord knows I have mine.”
Breakfast together became a daily routine, and both laughed and argued on numerous topics, always dancing around writing while maintaining a safe enough distance. Edwin was tapping his coffee spoon on the table top one morning and looked up, “The day we met, I tried to kill myself. A floppy grebe saved my life.” Louisa removed her glasses and slowly folded them before speaking. “The rope tied to your ankle,” she said, “But Edwin, it was not a bird, you saved yourself. I believe this is your secret. You care more about yourself than you’re willing to acknowledge. Hidden beneath that self-imposed facade of writer’s block, is a marvelous person with many talents. You do not owe it to yourself, and certainly not to anyone else, to write another book. What you accomplished was a treasured gift with no strings attached. End of story if the pun is accepted.” He laughed heartily and stomped a foot causing Ozzie to jump up and bang the underside of the table sending coffee and silverware flying.
It was a risky step of faith for Edwin to invite Louisa to his cabin for an evening fire and nightcap. After exhausting the litany of ills currently circulating the world, they both sat in silence looking at the flames and allowing their thoughts to settle. It was Louisa who suddenly folded her arms tightly around her sides and spoke without turning. “Here’s a crack into my secret if you are up to it?” “Louisa, you honor me” replied Edwin, and he turned her way. Still looking forward, she spoke her words quietly and with numerous pauses, as if reaching for the right way to express each phrase. “I was 22 years old, listening to my close friend Catherine struggling to explain her marital difficulties, when she asked a pointed question that opened a floodgate. ‘Have you ever been betrayed, I mean painfully betrayed?” Louisa took a noticeable deep breath as if emotionally moving herself back to that moment. “My quick answer was no, thankfully not.” Louisa turned toward Edwin, tears quickly forming as she continued, “Catherine went on to further her story of hurt. I tried to show compassion but was seized by a stomach cramp that truly radiated both down to my feet, and up to my eyes. For a moment, I felt ready to choke on bile that was coursing up my throat. Waving a hand in her direction, I raced to her bathroom. Unable to make the toilet, I retched in her sink with a shaking that took me to my knees.”
Louisa spoke of waking from 12 years of dissociative amnesia from a period of time she was abused by a trusted family member. She felt grateful that her adolescence was somewhat protected by the power of one’s mind providing an escape hatch or trap door away from the lurking evil. “Looking back, I now better understand why I had such difficulty with male relationships during those years. The awakening was extremely painful as acute memories flooded back vividly, leaving me with conflicting emotions of shame, anger, and resentment. Even if I had the strength to confront this person, he had passed, and I was left to suffer in silence.” “Angels Unaware” was a best seller for years, and translated into six different languages. Often reviewed as intense, emotionally disturbing, and yet victorious in redemption, the protagonist faced similar abusive trauma at an older age. In the four years it took Edwin to complete his debut novel, he lived with each word like a groom with his bride, celebrating the good and suffering in the wrong. He now reached a hand toward Louisa, and taking hers, cold and clammy, he felt a flow of warm blood coursing between their two bodies. Louisa looked up to Edwin, “That’s why I started writing you know. I needed to fill my mind with other’s stories, to be their avenger in bringing perpetrators to justice, to bring closure to the wounded whose voice was stolen.”
Emotionally drained, sleep soon overtook Louisa, and Edwin carried her into his bedroom and covered her with a quilt embroidered with winter critters. He left a note on the kitchen table in case Louisa would awake, and hiked up to the bench with Ozzie trailing. A coyote howled as billowy clouds crossed before the full moon, and the crisp night air further stimulated the many thoughts competing for his attention that Edward now held. He pondered why writers write, some he felt for self preservation, some for expression perhaps all for airing what both haunts them and some for what provokes them. Louisa was right; he was hiding from himself, falling through his self-made trap door, afraid he had nothing to offer a world searching for a greater meaning beyond barest existence. For the first time in years, Edwin was scribbling down thoughts to ponder in greater detail, and sooner than later, certainly not forgotten which had been his habit.
Louisa scoured the refrigerator for a semblance of breakfast, and strong coffee saved the morning. “I’ll be going back to the city tomorrow. My editor is pushing a deadline that I have been ignoring for this past week. Do you remember Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn in the movie ‘Same Time Next Year?” Edwin grinned. “I once stayed at that very inn pictured in the movie. They had all the movie posters hanging on the restaurant walls. If you’re having breakfast at Stella’s a year from now, I’m all in, and be sure to wear the yellow bonnet. Hopefully letters or a phone call or two along the way if you would have time for me.”
It was their 5th reunion when Louisa waited at Stella’s with “The Moon Beckons” laying on the table. When he peddled that wonderful contraption up to the deck, she waved the book calling out, “Autograph on page two, Mr. Blake, if you please.” Number one for the 10th week in the New York Times Sunday book section, Edwin wrote his name under the dedication, “For Louisa, may our secrets be forever binding.”
Perhaps because of their age difference or fear of spoiling something very special, Edwin and Louise never moved beyond their annual two weeks. For the 15th reunion, Louisa arrived wearing her third yellow bonnet. The innkeeper said he had tried to reach her by telephone. Maggie had found Edwin a day earlier, lying on the bedroom floor, having passed from an apparent heart attack at the age of 85.
Louisa chose to stay for a final two weeks. So many special memories needed to be relived for the last time. Louisa was on the deck of Stella’s savoring her favorite granola when Maggie arrived with Ozzie Junior. Affectionately called Junior, he strained at the leash to climb the stairs, his tail swishing back and forth. Maggie had become a dear friend to Louisa over the years, and now the two cried and laughed for over an hour while reminiscing. Stella then came out with her scrapbook and joined the two women. Two years earlier, Edwin and Stella held a surprise party for Louisa to celebrate the final Fanny Farmer Detective book titled “The Long Goodbye.” Upon solving her most difficult and dangerous case, Fanny retires to a country hillside village. The closing paragraph has Fanny sitting on a bench situated on a bluff overlooking a lake below. At peace with both herself and the community she faithfully served, Fanny is able to close her eyes, raise her head and receive the warmth of a glorious afternoon sun. For Louisa, her peace and warmth came from writing those stories, but also from a friend, a very special friend, who traveled a shared path of honesty, acceptance, and most of all love.
RICHARD SWAIN