“You Must Not Fall.  You Must Remain Safe.” By P.J. Kaiser

Bodies pressed against Gerald as he gripped his cane in one hand and the subway pole in the other.  The throng swayed in unison as the brakes began to slow down the F train and it slid into the 23rd Street stop.  People moved toward the exits and Gerald heard a crackling sound over the loudspeaker.  “You must not fall.  You must remain safe,” said an authoritative male voice.  Gerald looked up in confusion as if to find the source of the voice – what a strange thing for the driver to say.  Then it came again, “You must not fall.  You must remain safe.”

Gerald looked around and saw that none of the young professionals hustling around him seemed to take any notice of the voice.  Shuffling to the edge of the train, Gerald held onto the door, planted his cane on the platform and his foot dangled for a moment before landing next to his cane.  The voice from the speaker echoed in his head as he walked.  He wondered if they had him in mind when they made that announcement.  Gripping the railing, he ascended the stairs to street level.

He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sunlight.  In spite of his failing eyesight, he had no difficulty finding his way because he knew every inch of the route from his apartment in Queens to the Andrew Heiskell Library in Manhattan.  He walked close to the buildings, but allowed plenty of clearance for people entering and leaving the businesses that lined the Avenue of the Americas.  He checked his watch:  9:40am.  Right on time.  It would take him about twenty minutes to cover the three and a half blocks to the library.  Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday he stood waiting outside the entrance when they unlocked the door at 10:00am to provide him access once again to his lifelong passion:  reading.  The “talking book library” made it possible.

He turned from 6th Avenue onto 20th Street and as he rounded the corner, a jogger side-swiped him, knocking into his shoulder.  Gerald reeled and landed against the side of a building.  He leaned heavily against the rough cement and panted.  Looking over his shoulder, the jogger was nowhere to be found.  The voice from the train reverberated in his ears once again:  “You must not fall.  You must remain safe.”  Just once instead of warning him not to fall, he wished somebody would be there to help him up again.  He knew this journey involved risk, but it was worth it.  He couldn’t afford to buy audio books and couldn’t afford to live closer to the library.  His pension pegged to his year of retirement – twenty years ago – and it purchased less each year.

Gerald stood alone outside the library door and within seconds after he arrived, the guard unlocked the door.  The guard smiled and swung the door open wide, “Hello, Mr. Mersino.”

“Good morning, Anthony.  Gorgeous day out, isn’t it?”  Gerald made his way inside and blinked against the relative darkness.

“Spectacular, sir.  Have a good read.”

“Thanks, Anthony.  Take care.”

Gerald checked in at the front desk and picked up his selection for the day.  He walked to the listening center, settled into an available station and inserted the cassette for “Alamut” by Vladimir Bartol.  As the reader’s voice streamed into his headphones, Gerald looked around.  More stations were occupied than usual.  Three of the people he could see were blind.  A woman – perhaps around his age – sat at the station diagonal from his.  He could tell that she had the same vision problems that he did by the thick silver-framed glasses perched on her nose.  She spied him looking at her and gave him a little smile.  As the morning went by, they occasionally exchanged glances and smiles.  Eventually, he couldn’t resist the impulse to glance at her left hand.  He smiled at the presence of an engagement ring, minus the wedding band.  Probably a widow.

He normally stayed at the library until 12:30 and then left to get lunch.  However, when the woman with the silver glasses began gathering her things to go at 12:00, he decided to break with tradition and try to meet her.  As he stood up, his toe caught the edge of the chair leg and he tripped.  Sprawled out on the carpet, he tried to push himself up to find his glasses which had been dislodged in the fall.

“Are you all right?” said a soft voice.  Gerald’s hand landed on his glasses.  He pushed them on and looked up to see the woman with the silver glasses leaning and offering a hand to pull him up.

“Yes, in spite of a warning this morning to be careful, I’ve been very accident-prone today.”  With some effort, the woman braced herself and pulled and Gerald pushed off from the floor and a chair and eventually Gerald stood.

“Thanks so much for your help.  I’m Gerald.”

“I’m Gertrude.  Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.  Thank heavens for soft carpeting!” They both chuckled.  “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

“Why, yes!  I’d be delighted!”

Gerald and Gertrude shuffled their way back to the front desk and then out into the sunshine.

Special thanks to @nycstories for the tweet about an actual subway announcement that inspired this story.

This story is available in E-Book format as well.  You can download it in PDF or EPUB formats.

I clicked to open the document and stared at the pulsating text at the top of the screen – “Chapter 30” – and then at the white space below.  The heart of the story would lie in these final words.  Events had shaped these characters at breakneck speed and I had difficulty just keeping up with them.  Two years of my life – countless hours of writing and thinking and stewing and churning and tweaking – had been invested in this novel.

Vicky, my main character, began Chapter 1 as an earnest young girl, fresh out of college and ready to succeed in the corporate world.  We followed her fledgling career at the anchovy bottler.  I had wanted Vicky to work at the accounting firm, but she had a soft spot in her heart for anchovies.  In Chapter 3, she met Lloyd – a manager from another department – who turned out to be a mentor and instant crush.  In Chapter 5, their relationship turns romantic.  Driving through a blizzard to Vicky’s house with Doritos and a bottle of port, he stole her heart and nobody was surprised when the snow rendered the roads too icy for the return trip to his own house that night.

The story took an unexpected turn when Lloyd decided to take a sabbatical and spend six months in an ashram in the Himalayas.  While Lloyd was finding spiritual enlightenment, Vicky met a chiseled personal trainer named Ludwig and turned her attention to physical enlightenment.  I told Vicky to stay away from Ludwig, but she wouldn’t listen.  Lloyd returned to Vicky convinced that debauchery is preferable to an ascetic lifestyle and learned that Vicky had turned towards an austere body-building lifestyle that permits no drugs or alcohol.  However, he was relieved to learn that sex was an integral part of the program.

In chapter 25, when Lloyd learns of Vicky’s fling with Ludwig, things take a turn.  Pencil-necked Lloyd tried to go after Ludwig and quickly realized that a punch from a man who weighs twice what he does can do extensive damage. Vicky stayed by Lloyd’s side to nurse him back to health but Lloyd still had difficulty forgiving Vicky for her betrayal.

At the end of chapter 29, Lloyd was ready to be released from the hospital after three months and he must decide whether there is a future in their relationship.  Where do their hearts lie?  Is it with each other or have the challenges that they have faced been insurmountable?  I paused and listened as Lloyd and Vicky began to tell me the final chapter and I began obediently typing.

“The Artist’s Heart” by P.J. Kaiser

The opening night reception for my first art exhibit yielded more than I could have imagined.  I sold four of my paintings, each around $4,000.  I also received my first commission:  $8,000 for a painting of a human heart.  Initially repulsed by the idea, I was persuaded when the gallery owner explained the patron was a famous heart surgeon.  He wanted an oversized linen canvass for his doctor’s office and I could take as long as I wanted.  My final bounty came just as the reception was ending:  Richard.

He came into my life that night like a surfer catching the wave of my newfound success.  Through the crowd, those brown eyes of his were never far away as I saw to my customers, potential customers and patrons.  As people trickled out at the end of the evening, he stood in front of the picture window by the gallery door.  The track light reflected off his glasses, but I knew his eyes were focused only on me.  Looking like a blend of intellectual and beatnik with an intriguing smile, he asked if I’d like to join him for a glass of wine.  Questions and conversation flowed as easily as the wine in that dusky bar that April evening.  And so began our romance.

The next day I bought the materials for my commissioned painting and began work in my loft studio in Soho.  I studied pictures and drawings of human hearts and began framing the painting; measuring out the space on the giant canvass.  In the next days, Richard and I became inexorably intertwined and the painting began to take shape.  Ventricles and arteries came to life in vivid pyrrole orange, quinacridone red and cadmium red.  The colors on the canvass echoed the passion screaming through my own veins.

Summer came and Richard and I savored each other and the warm breezes.  We left galleries and bars behind and moved on to biking and picnicking.  We explored the city even as we explored each other.  A laugh here, an embrace there.  A soft kiss on our picnic blanket in Central Park.  It all led to a depth of feeling that startled me in its intensity and swept me away in its tight grasp.  My painting took on new contours and patterns.  Hansa yellow like the sunshine comprised sinew, providing a protective shell for the heart.  Chromium oxide green like the leaves and grass provided soft shadows that gave the heart a depth that balanced its vibrancy.

Cooler autumn temperatures brought an inexplicable uneasiness.  A pulling back, a shyness.  Suddenly we found ourselves struggling to find our footing, searching for a toehold.  The thread that had wound us so tightly during the summer began to fray and strain.  The painting took on a surreal quality as powerful swathes of cobalt blue and primary cyan and cerulean blue came to swallow the vibrant reds.

The heart looked troubled as Richard dealt the final blow and left me as the first snow fell.  Zinc white and titanium white intermingled among the blues looking like snowflakes and oxygen-starved cells.

Through my tears, I stared at the heart.  There it lay on the canvass – the entire story of our love.  Traces of all the colors could still be seen and they read themselves to me like a diary.  Valves, atriums and veins spoke in a cacophony.

I called the surgeon and asked him if he could receive the painting that afternoon.  He eagerly agreed and I arranged for the workers to dismantle the frame and roll the painting for transport.  They carried the painting out and my heart sighed.

“Lemon Mustang” by P.J. Kaiser

I closed my eyes as I took a long drag on my cigarette.  Although we hadn’t had many customers that morning, the big boss had kept me busy with paperwork and I hadn’t been able to take a break until 10:30am.  I stood just outside the showroom door with Al and Frank.  Each of us had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  The April New Jersey air was cool but a welcome change after a harsh winter.

Al was telling us about some movie he had seen with his wife the night before when a pricey SUV pulled into the lot.  A couple got out and started walking towards us.  The woman was leading the way and she said, “I’d like to see that yellow Mustang convertible.”

Al and Frank started to say something, but I’m the more senior salesman, so I figured I had dibs.  I said, “Hi, my name is Lou.  I’ll help you.  Give me a second to go get the keys.”  At least I got one nice drag on my cigarette, I thought as I crushed it beneath my heel.

I picked up the keys from inside, set my coffee down on my desk and went back out.  I got a bit winded from walking and I could hear it in my own voice as I said, “This car is a beauty.  She just came in a few days ago and I’m sure she won’t be around long.”

The woman slipped into the drivers seat as I unlocked the doors and I could see that she was in love with the car.  This would be an easy sale, especially if they planned on trading in their SUV.

The man said, “Well, my wife mentioned that she’s been admiring this car for awhile, are you sure you just got it in?”

I said, “Oh, well, I’m not certain – maybe I have it confused with another car.  But this one is terrific.  You looking for a second car?”

The woman’s eyes got a faraway look as she gripped the steering wheel.

The man said, “No, we want to trade in our SUV.  It’s too expensive and my wife only drives a few miles each day to work at the hospital.  We want something cheaper.  But it’s a 2007 and it has 50,000 miles on it?  That’s pretty high mileage.  The outside is not in very good shape – has it been in an accident?”

“Not that I know of, sir.  The previous owner took meticulous care of this car.”

The man shook his head, “And you’re asking $28,000 for it?  No, that’s too much for this car.”

“That’s a fair price – have you been looking around at Mustangs?”

“We did some research on the internet.  That price is too high given its poor condition.”  The man walked around to the driver’s side of the car and said, “Jackie, look at the interior of this car!  It’s horrible!”

“Well, we would of course clean up the car before letting you go with it.”

Jackie had started to pay attention to what we were saying and she said, “Can we start it and see how it runs?”

I said, “Of course!  If you want to just slide out, I’ll get ‘er going.”  After Jackie got out, I slid the seat back as far as it would go and I tilted the steering wheel upwards and climbed in.  I put the key in and turned it and heard a click, then nothing.  I tried again.  Nothing.  “I’m very sorry, the battery seems to be run down.  If you give me a few minutes, we’ll give it a jump.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.  I’ll offer you $18,000 for the car.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “$18,000?  You must be joking, sir.  This is a great car …”

“Come on, Jackie.  This car is in awful shape and this guy clearly isn’t willing to negotiate with us.  Let’s go.”  The man took Jackie by the arm and began to direct her back to their SUV.

Jackie stopped and said, “Oh, can’t we just wait and let him get it started -”

“No.  This car is too overpriced.  We’ll keep looking.”

Jackie said to me, “Could I at least have your card and we’ll think about it?”

I slid a hand inside my jacket and pulled out a business card.  “Yes, of course.  You think about it and let me know.  But don’t waste any time, this car won’t be around for long!”

As Jackie and her husband got back in their car, I went back towards the showroom shaking my head.  It was fitting this car was bright yellow because it certainly was a lemon.  It had been on the lot for a month and everybody who looked at it had much the same reaction as this couple.  I decided that I would give it a couple more days and if it still hadn’t sold, I would talk to the big boss about lowering the price.

*****

I opened my eyes and all I could see was glaring light.  There were noises and voices, but none of them registered at first.  I had a vague memory of chest pain and a 9-1-1 call.  As my eyes focused, I still felt a pain in my chest and I could now see tubes and cords and monitors.  Oh God.  I was going to die.  And the worst of it was, who was going to miss me?  An overweight used car salesman.  No wife.  No kids.  Where had my life gone?

A woman dressed in white was leaning over me adjusting a sensor on my chest and I struggled to focus on her face.  She had a very concerned look and she said, “Lou?  Lou?  Can you hear me?”

I squinted as I nodded my head.  I’ve seen her somewhere before – but where … Aha! It was Jackie – the woman who came to the dealership the other day. I tried to sit up but the cords and tubes kept me in place and I gasped, “Don’t buy the Mustang!”

“Sixteen More Quarterly Reports” by P.J. Kaiser

George heard the clicking of the computer keys over – or through – the partition separating the cubicles. Peter was finally starting to work on the quarterly financial statements for his division. With every click on Peter’s keyboard, George cringed slightly. George dreaded the end of the quarter because although the dishonesty was going on all the time, the quarterly financial statements not only put it in writing, but they were distributed much more widely than the monthly statements.

George lived and breathed financial statements and had a sixth sense about them. After reading over Peter’s statements quarter after quarter – eight of them in all – he started to develop an eye tick. Peter managed the finances for the division responsible for the new line of overcoats introduced by the company two years ago and he was hired at the same time the new line was introduced. George had interviewed Peter and found that he was barely qualified, but the boss was determined to hire him, so George didn’t make a stink.

Critics had panned the overcoats and fashion magazines virtually ignored them. George saw the internal news briefs indicating that some stores were discontinuing the line entirely, while others were reducing their orders. The financial statements painted a rosy picture, however. Sales were steadily going up, inventory levels were on target and margins were solid. George had questioned Peter about the statements on several occasions and Peter always had some ready answer. “They’re not doing well on the west coast, but they’re going like gangbusters in the midwest, George!” or “We’ve started some international distribution and they’re selling like hotcakes in Europe.”

George didn’t like the smell of it. He poked and prodded and eventually uncovered the truth. The actual inventory levels didn’t jibe – even remotely – with the statements. The country, and maybe even the world, was littered with these overcoats that would not sell. Peter’s boss’s job – and indeed many jobs in their division – hinged on the success of the line and so he had brought Peter in to doctor the financial statements. There were too many discrepancies for them to be mistakes or oversights. The numbers simply didn’t add up. George didn’t know how the deception had gone undetected by the auditors.

Now, as George sat in his cube and listened to the tapping next door, he knew that the numbers were fiction – fiction of the worst kind. It wasn’t fiction to entertain or educate, but fiction to subvert. George had nearly finished with his own quarterly reports, but now that Peter had started working on his, George stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t focus on his own – nonfiction – statements and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. George glanced at the fluorescent light in his cube wondering if the bulb was making him hot. He put a hand up towards the light and proved what he already knew – the heat was internal rather than external.

George stood up and stretched his legs. Maybe a trip to the restroom and a cup of coffee would help him forget what was going on in the next cube. George moved slowly down the aisle – his eye twitching with each step – into the restroom and then the break room. He eventually came back to his desk, hot coffee in hand. He settled into his chair again and as he sipped his coffee he realized his hands were shaking. He needed to tell somebody about this. This deception was like a pit that he was carrying around in his stomach. When the pit became agitated like today, it rendered George incapable of the simplest task.

George looked over at the phone list and scanned down to the name of his boss – “Alfred Tanner – 88292.” George picked up the phone, stared at the buttons on the phone and nearly began dialing. His thoughts going like a freight train, he eventually laid the phone back down. He continued to stare at the handset, willing it to pick itself up and dial. No matter how he tried to signal it, the handset remained defiantly cradled in its base.

Taking a sticky note and a pen out of his drawer, he began to calculate how many more quarterly reports would be produced before his retirement. He was fifty-six and he would retire in nine more years. Thirty-six more quarterly reports. No, surely he couldn’t survive thirty-six more rounds of this incredible stress. Maybe he could do his reports early each quarter so that he could take the day at the end of each quarter off.

Maybe he could put in for early retirement. He might be able to do that when he turned sixty. That would mean only sixteen more quarterly reports. George smiled slightly, picked up the sticky note with his calculations, folded it and put it in his pocket. He sent a quick message to Alfred Tanner to tell him that he was going home. He slipped into his overcoat, picked up his briefcase and made his way out of the building. George put his finger next to his eye and pressed, in hopes of stopping the twitching.

“Friending the Dead” by P.J. Kaiser

Silence enveloped the house.  The children slept in their beds and Brenda’s husband was already upstairs reading.  The cleaning and laundry were finished and Brenda sat at her computer to check emails one last time before going to bed.  She didn’t bother to turn on the lights.  The glow of the computer screen cast gentle shadows on the desk and Brenda’s face.  Just one email from work appeared in her inbox.  She read it over, typed her reply and pressed “send.”  She opened a new window for Facebook and saw that she had a friend request.  Clicking on it, her breath caught as she stared at the name.  “Veronica Weber.”  She had been thinking about Veronica all day since she had received the news that morning – via Facebook – that Veronica had been killed in a car accident.

Best friends when they were young, Brenda and Veronica lived on the same street.  Then as the girls went into middle school, their interests started to diverge and each made new friends.  The shiny, new friendships rendered the old one uninteresting.  Once the girls were in high school, they barely saw each other.  Except for that time that Brenda inadvertently went out with Veronica’s boyfriend.  Brenda had asked Mark – Veronica’s ex-boyfriend – out, only to discover after their date that he was not her “ex-” but current boyfriend.  Veronica caught wind of their date and confronted Brenda.  Words were exchanged, voices were raised and eventually apologies were offered and accepted.

Brenda had never sent Veronica a friend request on Facebook, although they had many friends in common.  She was never sure whether Veronica had really forgiven her and she didn’t care to reopen old wounds.  Seeing the name on her screen, however, made her realize that Veronica must have sent her a friend request just before she was killed.  Brenda shut down her computer and slipped into bed, next to her already-sleeping husband.

The next morning, Brenda woke with a haunted feeling.  Her dreams had been filled with images of Veronica.  Veronica – as an adult – trying to do the things they used to do as children.  But doing them alone.  Veronica swimming in a pool, flailing her arms and nobody to help her.  Veronica crashing on her sled and nobody to dig her out of the snow.  Brenda went straight to her computer and accepted the friend request.  She knew it was irrational, but it seemed necessary.

Brenda got breakfast for her kids and husband, she dropped her kids at school and she and her husband parted at the train station to take different trains to their respective offices.  As Brenda walked towards a seat on the train, it lurched forward, throwing Brenda off balance.  She fell and narrowly missed hitting her head on the hard, plastic seat.  A man helped her to her feet and made sure she was not injured before sitting back down.  Brenda sank into her seat.  Her face flushed with embarrassment and with the thought that she could have been seriously hurt.

After collecting herself for a few moments, she pulled her iPhone out of its case, pressing the button and unlocking it before looking at the screen.  Checking first to be sure there were no emails from work, she opened the Facebook app and saw several notifications.  There was a lot of nonsense about “Farmville” and then this:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.  Click to see her answer.”  Thoughts of a hoax entered Brenda’s mind.  She furrowed her brows and considered who would do such a thing. She cautiously tapped the screen and the text read, “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die on a train?’  Veronica answered ‘no.’”

A chill ran through Brenda’s body as she quickly turned off her phone.

The train came to Brenda’s stop and she began the ten-minute walk to her office.  Other walkers enjoyed the spring day, shedding their coats as they walked.  Brenda still felt chilled even as she finished her walk to the office and sank into her chair.  The ring of the phone brought Brenda out of her thoughts and her hectic day began.

In the mid-morning, Brenda got on elevator to go to a meeting in a nearby building.  Before the elevator reached the ground floor, it suddenly stopped and made an alarming dip.  Brenda grabbed the hand rail and pressed the emergency button.  The operator came on the intercom and assured Brenda that everything was fine, but it would be a few minutes until the elevator could move.  She paced back and forth in the elevator for ten minutes until the elevator resumed its slow descent.  She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby.  As she walked to the building next door, she turned on her iPhone and checked Facebook.  She gasped as she saw the message again:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.  Click to see her answer.”  Her breath became shallow as she clicked.  “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die in an elevator?’  Veronica answered ‘no.’”

Brenda quickly turned off the phone and slipped it back into its case.  During the meeting, Brenda’s eyes darted back and forth.  Twice during the meeting, Brenda’s boss asked if she was OK.  Brenda mumbled that she was and she took a few deep breaths to help her focus.

After the meeting was over, her boss touched her arm and said softly, “Maybe you should take an early lunch, Brenda.  Take it easy and I’ll see you back in the office later.”

Brenda nodded and walked out of the building into the sunshine.  Not many people were passing by since it wasn’t yet lunchtime.  Brenda definitely did not feel hungry.  In fact, she started to feel somewhat nauseous.

Brenda turned and began walking in the opposite direction from the office.  If somebody was trying to pull a hoax by posing as Veronica on her Facebook account, it was in unbelievably bad taste.  And what about the strange coincidences about the train and the elevator?  Brenda began to wonder if any of her other friends had been getting messages also.  Walking down the sidewalk, Brenda pulled out her iPhone and touched on the Facebook icon.  Another notification:  “Veronica Weber has answered a question about you.”

Brenda skipped over the notification and went to Veronica’s profile page.  Several of her friends had posted condolence messages on her wall but it didn’t look like there was any activity from her account.  Brenda typed a quick message to one of her friends from school, asking if she had received any messages from Veronica since her death.  Brenda stared at the letters on the screen and realized how absurd it seemed, and she deleted the message.  Her heart was racing and she knew that she should try to sit and calm down.  Across the street was a small cafe where she could buy a newspaper and a cup of tea.

Brenda stepped into the crosswalk and she clicked on the notification.  “Veronica answered the question ‘Is Brenda likely to die in a car accident?’  Veronica answered ‘yes.’” She looked up from her phone and her scream caught in her throat as Brenda heard the squeal of the brakes and felt the impact of two tons of steel.

“The Literary Inheritance” by P.J. Kaiser

The call from Alice, my mother-in-law, came at 9am on a Saturday.  Steven, my father-in-law, had died.  We left home in a flurry of clothes, suitcases and phone calls.  More emotional than I have ever seen him, my husband talked to his mom on his cell phone for most of the three hour drive while I fought back tears from the driver’s seat.  Our son – eight year old Ben – sat in the back seat and stared out the window.  I had told him that grandpa had died and that we were on our way to visit grandma.  I explained she would need us to stay there for at least a few days.  My flexible writer’s schedule allowed for such deviations from routine, but I knew that my husband’s employer wouldn’t be so easy.

We had just seen my in-laws two weeks prior when they had come to visit us for Easter.  He seemed to be in perfect health, he walked every day with Ben to the park.  Then came this news that he dropped dead from a heart attack.

For the last part of our trip, we rode the ferry from Seattle to Vashon Island.  The three of us momentarily forget the day’s tragedy and enjoy the spectacular views of Puget Sound.  We arrived at Steven and Alice’s house – a red brick home dwarfed by an oversized pine tree in the yard.  The house sat atop a hill and overlooked the water.  Upon arrival, I went about fixing a meal for everybody.  I knew poor Alice hadn’t eaten a bite and it was already mid-afternoon.  As the four of us gathered around the dinner table, Steven’s absence was palpable.  Everybody had assigned seats and his empty chair – in between Alice and John – dominated the table.   I bit my lip and forced myself to eat.  We tried to focus on the mundane.  The appointment to plan the funeral was Sunday morning.  John’s sister, living in San Diego, had been called and her flight would arrive at 8:30pm.

At one moment in a lull in the conversation, Alice looked at me and said, “You haven’t told anybody, have you?”

Taken aback by the question, I said, “No.  I told Ben’s school there had been a death in the family.”

“Johnny, can you call Les and have him come over this afternoon?”

John said, “Sure, Mom.”

I looked expectantly at Alice and my husband thinking that they might explain who Les was, but no explanation was forthcoming, and so I kept on eating my lunch.  After lunch, I took Ben out for a bike ride so that John and his mother could have some privacy.

While roaming the neighborhood streets that wound among the hills in the neighborhood, Ben and I continued our discussion about death and I tried to prepare him the best I could for the events to come.  When we got back to the house, there was a dark Lincoln Town Car in the driveway.  As we went inside, I heard voices coming from the living room.  A man’s voice was saying, “- and we’ll plan for a public reading of the will, of course.  If the funeral is on Tuesday, we can have the reading on Wednesday.”  Was he talking about Steven?  Why would a retired insurance salesman need to have a public reading of his will?  And who was this Les guy?

Holding Ben’s hand, I poked my head into the living room and said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry.  We’re back – just wanted you to know I’ll be upstairs with Ben.”

As I turned my back to leave, Alice said, “No, it’s best you stayed.”  As I turned my head, I saw Les give Alice a glaring look.  “No, it’s high time she knew.  She’s going to find out anyway.  Ben, sweetheart, would you mind going to watch a DVD for awhile?”

I got Ben set up with the upstairs TV with one of his favorite DVD’s and I slowly went into the living room and took a seat next to John.  I reached over and held his hand and he gave my hand a squeeze.

Alice said, “My dear, Les is my husband’s publicist.” I glanced at Les and he partly rose from his seat and reached over to shake my hand.  I gave him a weak, confused smile.  “You see, Steven was a writer.  He was always very secretive about his writing and he used a pen name.  He never wanted anybody to know about his writing, he really didn’t even share it with me.  I got to read his books along with the public after they were published.  We always felt bad keeping it from you, dear, but that’s just the way Steve was.  He wanted it that way.  He didn’t even talk about it with John and his sister.”

I looked at John who had a squeamish, apologetic look on his face and at Les and Alice who wore earnest smiles.  “I see.  Well, that’s wonderful – I mean – I’m glad that he found something that he loved doing.”  I felt uncomfortable that the focus had been put on me.

Alice said, “Steven’s pen name was Christopher Musgrave.”

I gasped and my hand flew up to my mouth. “Oh, my God!” To be a secretive writer was one thing, but to be a New York Times best-selling author, and winner of the National Book Award was quite another.  I could not even attempt to reconcile my mild-mannered father-in-law with Christopher Musgrave, one of my favorite authors.  I could see by their faces, though, this was no joke.

Alice continued, looking straight at me, “I know we should wait until the reading of the will to discuss this, but I know that Steven had always said that if he were to pass away in the middle of a novel, he would want you, dear, to finish it.  He had been working on the notes for his next novel for three months before he died.”

My eyes grew wide, “And he wanted me to finish it?” My face grew red and I glanced at John who was beaming at me.

Alice said, “Yes, dear.  It’s about a writer who gets her big break when she inherits an unfinished manuscript from her father-in-law.”