part0044

A thump struck against the door so loudly, it threatened the dusty picture frames lining the kitchen walls. Arthur Richardson, standing over the sink, didn’t flinch along with it. He knew that the noises he heard weren’t always there. While rinsing a bowl, a much longer series of knocks echoed through the air, catching his curiosity.

Arthur dried his hands as he left the kitchen. He opened the front door, leaving his hand on the knob for balance. He lifted his other hand to shield the sun’s powerful glare and focused on the stranger standing so eagerly on his deck.

“Hell–” The words broke from the stranger’s mouth. “Hello, s-s-sir.”

The man in front of Arthur stood tall and sported a fireman’s mustache. His clothes hung loosely, flapping like a flag caught around a skinny pole. The stranger’s face held the subtle remains of an ancient acne problem, and his brunette hair hung over his ears, wiry as a frayed broom. Arthur gaze rested on the man’s eyes but couldn’t quite find a description to fit and decided that he didn’t like the man.

The stranger shuffled his feet. “I’m h-here to d-deliver this.”

“What’s this about? Why you trippin’ over your words?”

“M-m-my name is Corbin T-Turner. I’m here to drop off this t-television.” He smiled and signaled to his right.

Arthur lingered on the broken-looking box, focusing on the dust and scratches covering its surfaces.

“Is your name Artttthhhur,” Corbin caught his breath, “Rich-chardson?”

Arthur started to close the door with a scowl. The man reached out and stopped it. “Is that y-you, sir?”

Arthur pulled the door open and swatted toward the man. “Leave on out of here and take that piece of junk with you! My son tried for years to give me one of those Godforsaken things, and I’m going to tell you just as I told him: I don’t want nothin’ to do with it! That is the workings of the devil, making our world lazy and stupid.”

Arthur tried to close the door again, but Corbin stopped it with his foot. “But th-that’s just it, sir. I’m h-here delivering this from your son, K-Keith R-Richardson.”

Arthur’s heart leapt in his chest. “My son’s been dead for seven years, you prick. Now get the hell out of here!” Arthur threw the door shut, but it bounced off of Corbin’s leg.

“I have it r-r-right here, sir.” Corbin removed a folded paper from his brown tweed jacket and fumbled it open. “There is a message, t-t-too. ‘Get with the t-times, old man.’”

The phrase stung Arthur like a swarm of bees. It had to be a bad joke, but who would do such a thing? Instantly, his neighbor’s face flashed in his mind. “Marty,” Arthur cursed under his breath. “That son of a….”

Corbin lowered the paper and stared at Arthur.

“I know what you’re up to!” Arthur’s voice rose. “You tell Marty that this is out of control and uncalled-for.”

Arthur nudged the man away from the door and slammed it shut. He marched to the living room and fell into his recliner. The situation exhausted him–that phrase. The same exact phrase his son used whenever he attempted to convert Arthur over to the new world: cell phone, television, new car. He flipped through his memories like the pages of a photo album.

He thought of Marty and their first real problem. Shortly after Marty had moved into the farm next door, he discarded a dead cow down the long ditch that met at Arthur’s property line. The horrible scent of rotting flesh and the pallid, emaciated look of the animal had gripped Arthur’s gut and held on for nearly thirty years. Sitting in that chair, Arthur’s stomach churned and his face flushed. He could still smell the decay.

“Prick. Thinks he can play games with me. Well, I’m done with it.” Arthur stood and made his way out the front door. As he stepped from the house, he saw that Corbin had left the television on the porch. Arthur snorted and pushed past the electronic contraption.

The walk proved to be arduous for Arthur. His frail lungs and weak knees stopped him every few steps.

Marty must have seen him approaching because he greeted Arthur from the steps of his house. When Marty spoke, his words came in heavy, wheezing breaths. “Arthur! How are you?”

“Don’t Arthur me, you old crone!” Arthur poked his cane toward Marty. “I know exactly what you’re up to, sending that challenged boy to my house. You’re lucky I don’t drive my mower right through your damned garage!”

“Arthur, I thought we put all of that stuff behind us.” Marty’s jowls jiggled as he spoke.

“Why did you do it?”

Marty wiped sweat from his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Art. Is this nonsense all you came over here for?”

“I can’t believe the nerve,” Arthur said, turned, and walked away.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Arthur slammed his front door shut and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table, fiddling with his cane, taking long, deep breaths. Once his heart slowed, he stood to make a cup of tea but stopped mid-stride. He heard voices from his living room.

“Art’s going to be home soon. You better have this cleaned up before he does.”

Arthur faced the living room to see a bluish hue flickering off the wall.

“It’s clean. Plus he isn’t going to care,” Keith responded.

Arthur shook his head and wiped sweat from his face.

“Arthur! Arthur, come quick. You’re going to miss it!” his wife’s voice called from the living room.

Arthur jolted forward, nearly tripping over himself, and when he rounded the corner, he froze. Before him sat the archaic television, with the screen displaying Eleanor’s beautiful face. The black and white picture instantly captivated him.

“Arthur,” she called again, yelling off-screen.

“I’m here! I’m right here!” His voice cracked as he flew at the screen, throwing his hands on either side. His palms burned. His flesh sizzled and melted into the surface, and he couldn’t pull away. The buzz of electricity filled the air, and seconds later, Arthur flew back, landing on the coffee table in the center of the room.

His head struck first, blood trickling down his nape, and the borders around his vision blackened. A pain shot up his chest to the base of his neck. Arthur attempted to lift his head, but his vision closed in until everything fell black.

Arthur woke to a silent and dark room. He remained still until he felt grounded, until his head stopped spinning. He pushed himself up but fell right back onto the remains of the cracked table. His hands burned as if they were on fire. He used his elbows to prop against the couch, unsure how long he’d been unconscious.

Fire shot through his palms. Raw tissue, muscles, and tendons were all that remained. His stomach churned. Once the nausea passed, he managed to stand, knowing he had to clean the wounds before they became infected. He climbed the stairs to the medicine cabinet.

While wrapping his left hand, he thought about a burn he had received while in the depths of an old Navy ship. The pain from accidentally brushing against a steam pipe so many years ago echoed through his open palms.

Voices called once more from the living room. Arthur had only half-wrapped his right hand, and when he pressed it against the wall for support, he left a sticky, red streak. His skin burned fresh all over again. The picture glowed so brightly in the dark room it appeared to be floating. Arthur skirted the television and sat on the couch.

Slowly, Arthur became consumed with the television, the show, his family. Everything he had ever wanted lay bundled before him. Time disappeared as he watched.

“You might as well not even ask. I understand he’s your friend, Keith, but you know how your father gets. It’s Christmas Eve. What else can I say? He will flip his lid when he–”

“My friend has nowhere to go! Why can’t he just come over? I hate how Dad is! I hate it! It’s not fair. Who cares if he has long days at work? Guess what, I had a long day at school. I hate it, and I hate him!”

Eleanor slapped Keith.

Arthur had never seen her strike their precious son.

“Don’t you ever, and I mean ever , say that about him! He’s a good man, and he loves you. He might be a little thick, but damn you for saying that. That man….” She tried to catch her breath. “Go. Go to your room, now.”

The image switched to fuzzy snow, snapping Arthur from his trance. He tried to make sense of what he had seen, but another picture washed over the screen, stealing his attention.

Keith appeared older. He sat in the living room alone on the couch. Someone knocked at the door, but he continued to stare at his lap.

“I’ll get it,” Eleanor called from the kitchen. She walked across the living room, past Keith, drying her hands on a towel as she went. She stood on her tiptoes to see who knocked, turned to Keith, and said, “Go to your room for a bit. Marty’s come to help me sort out how much we owe him for the vegetables.”

Keith stood, scoffed, and said, “I’ll bet.” He disappeared off the screen and stormed upstairs, each footfall echoing through the speakers.

“Excuse me, boy , mind your mouth. I won’t have that talk in here,” Eleanor yelled at Keith, who stomped up the stairs.

She turned back to the door and before she could turn the knob, he replied, “You don’t think I know what you do? I’m sixteen, Mom. I’m not a child! And you’re a whore.”

Eleanor’s face fell, distorted with shock.

Arthur’s fists clenched. His nails dug deep, producing blood spots in his bandages. He mumbled under his breath, “You don’t talk to her like that.”

Eleanor wiped her face. As she did, another knock rapped on the door, followed by Marty’s voice. “Hello? Elly?”

She opened the door wide enough for Marty to walk into the living room. Before he could fully enter, she threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him.

The television blinked, then focused on Marty and Eleanor in the kitchen. Eleanor leaned against the counter, crying into her hands. Marty extended his arms to console her, but she stopped the embrace with a hand on his chest and said, “This needs to stop.”

Arthur leaned forward, confusion tearing at his mind as Marty made another attempt to scramble Eleanor’s resolve. The screen blinked back to snow.

Stop what, Arthur wondered. He stared at the snow, different images like some sort of Rorschach inkblot test—his wife crying, his son storming off, and Marty entering the house.

Suddenly, Corbin’s face floated toward him. Arthur closed his eyes, squeezing a tear down his cheek.

He had fallen asleep at some point, trying to avoid the images flying at his mind. It wasn’t pain that woke him, but a soggy feeling in his pants. When he edged forward on the couch, the television flicked back on.

“Get the hell out of my house!” a much older Keith yelled from the screen. Even through the black and white, Arthur saw his cheeks were flushed. He shoved Marty toward the front door.

“Go destroy your own life. I’m done. I sat here for years while you guys did this to Dad, and I’m putting my foot down!” He cocked his arm back and launched it forward like a piston. A half-nude Marty tripped on the rug, fumbling to keep hold of the shirt in his hands.

Eleanor ran down the stairs wearing only a towel. Keith slammed the door behind Marty and turned to his mother, tears wetting his face. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything, the television flicked again, changing the scene. Now Keith and his mother sat at the table in the kitchen.

“Keeeeiiiitttthhhh,” Arthur heard his own voice call from another room. “Keith, buddy!”

The television focused in on the hatred displayed on Keith’s face. “I’m in the kitchen with Mom.”

Art entered the scene, years younger, wearing his old shipyard clothes. He glanced between them. “Everything okay?” the ghost of his former self asked. Keith’s face cleared in an instant. He jumped up and wrapped his arms around Arthur.

Arthur glanced from the screen and down at his bandages, wondering how long it had been since he’d hugged his son. He remembered coming home that day and how happy he was to see Keith’s bags by the door on the kitchen floor.

Someone knocked at his door, and the moment it happened, the television shut itself off.

Arthur reached out at the display with a silent cry. He wanted to be with his family, and the empty, dark screen made him want to cry. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath, pushing himself from the couch.

“Art, open this door!” Marty wheezed from the other side.

Arthur glanced from the television, to the door, then to his palms. The blood had soaked through the poor bandage job. After another wave of knocking, he rose from the couch, and worked to open the door.

“About God calling time you old–” Marty cut his own words off. “Jesus Christ in a Chevy. What’s happened to you?”

Marty’s eyes passed from head to toe and after a moment of silent consideration, he asked, “Did you piss yourself, old man?”

“What do you want, you two-faced bastard? Come for your television? Well, it just so happens that the joke’s on you because I like it. And I’m keeping it.”

Marty’s eyes fell to Arthur’s hands. Arthur pulled them behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Marty said, forcing himself into the house. “Now before we get to cleaning you up, I just want to clear the air with you. I’m not sure what earlier was about.”

Arthur slammed the door. Marty jumped at the noise and removed his hat, twisting it in his hands. He glanced from the television up to Arthur. “I want you to know that I’ve not meant to upset you with anything. I honestly don’t even know what it is that I’ve done. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. We are in way too shaky health to be keeping enemies.”

Arthur responded quickly, “I’m sorry, too. Would you mind helping me out? I need to clean these.” Arthur cast a smile at Marty and lifted his bloody hands.

Marty’s shoulders relaxed, and he replaced his hat. “Well, alright. Let’s get you taken care of then. Where’s your medicine? Upstairs or kitchen?”

Arthur watched Marty work his way upstairs. Once Marty cleared the top step, the screen flicked on, taunting Arthur. The scene of Keith hitting Marty, Marty stumbling, and his wife entering the picture sped up and played over and over until Arthur’s chest raced with anger.

A loud creak sounded as Marty began his descent back down the stairs. The television switched off at the very same moment.

On the couch, Arthur swallowed hard as Marty removed the bandages. The soggy cloth had been floating on a mixture of pus, ointment, and blood. Once the new bandages sat secure, Marty said, “You need to change your clothes, Art. You smell like an outhouse.”

“Alright, well, I’ll go change.”

Arthur worked his way to his bedroom, entering the closet. He wasn’t looking for clothes. Instead of a new pair of pants, he grabbed the shotgun leaning in the corner and reached for a shoebox on the shelf above him. Batting dress shoes aside, the box tumbled to the ground, shells bouncing everywhere.

Moments later, Arthur returned wearing the same bloodstained clothes. Marty’s eyes traveled to the gun gripped in his bandaged hands.

“You screwed my wife,” Arthur accused, stepping toward Marty.

Marty’s face screwed up. “I did no such thing!” He stood up from the couch and backed away a step.

“Don’t lie to me, Marty. I saw everything.” Arthur glanced at the television. The blood and charred handprints made it look as though the television smiled.

“Calm down, Arthur,” Marty said, backing toward the kitchen. “I don’t know what’s got you all stirred up, but put the gun down, and we’ll go to the hospital.”

Arthur forced Marty into the kitchen. “I saw it. You would come in while I was out working at the shipyard!”

“I’m telling you that you got facts wrong, Art.”

Marty slipped past Arthur to avoid being cornered, coming dangerously close to the gun.

“You don’t tell me nothin’!” Arthur yelled.

His head pulsed so hard it felt like it might burst. Marty disappeared into the living room with Arthur pursuing. As Marty ran for the front door, the television flicked on, showing an image of Marty and Eleanor naked on Arthur’s bed, arms wrapped around each other, smiles cracked on their faces.

Marty stopped and slowly faced Arthur. “I...I’m sorry.”

Arthur lifted the gun, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked him into the kitchen’s doorframe. He slid to the ground, grabbing at his chest.

The scene on the television focused on Marty’s face, blood running from the corner of his mouth. “You shot me, you son of a bitch,” Marty gulped. The camera pulled back enough to show the spreading stain where the bullet entered Marty’s chest. “I can’t believe you shot me.”

The camera zoomed out to show Marty standing next to Eleanor, his hand gripping her throat, his knuckles bleeding lines of white.

Eleanor tried to speak: “Arr…th…rr, Hhhlllp.”

Arthur rose to his feet and lunged at the television. “No! Get off her!” He cocked his fists back and swung. Both of his hands went into the screen as though he had punched water, waves rippling to the borders. He tried to pull his fists out, but the television wouldn’t let go.

“C-c-come on in, Arth-thurr,” a strange, familiar voice stuttered from the speakers.

The television pulled him in to his elbows, then to his shoulders. Arthur tried with all his remaining strength to pull away. The television was too strong, like a million little hands pulling him inward. As Arthur slipped through the screen, the television went blank, catching the bottom of his old loafer and popping it off and back onto the living room floor.

“Jess, set the table. James, put your schoolbooks in your room,” she said as she pulled the door open.

“H-hello ma’am. I-I…my name is C-Corbin. I’m here to d-d-drop this t-television off from your neighbor M-M-Marty.” Corbin pointed behind him as if to signal up the street.

“I see,” Rose said, passing her eye from the man to the television. “Well, we really don’t need another one. Do you mind letting him know that for us? But we appreciate the kindness.”

Corbin lifted his hat and bowed slightly. “Well ma’am, I was only d-d-doing him a favor. You’ll have to reach out t-to him. I best b-be on my w-way now.”

“Wait. What is it you do, Mr. Corbin? For a living. Maybe someone there could use it.”

He smiled, his mustache lifting up like a wiggling caterpillar. “Oh, bless your soul, but I s-seriously doubt that, ma’am. I’m only a…a kind of a d-d-delivery man.”

Rose frowned. “Well, I think it might be best if you go on and get that television out of here. Like I said, I kindly appreciate it, but we don’t need it.”

“Cool!” James yelled as he slipped between her and the doorframe. “Can I put it in my room? I can play my games there! Pleeeeease?”

“It s-seems like maybe you can use it a-a-fter all.” Corbin turned and walked across the yard.

A shiver went up Rose’s back and bumps ran down her arms. “Well, if you want it, help me bring it in.”

James squeaked happily and grabbed one side of the television. •

J. W. Zulauf wears many hats while walking the streets of the writing world. He started with a focus on the short story, first winning the Marjorie Flack Award for Fiction. Then he became one of the editors for Daylight Dims , which has grown into an annual anthology. He now works as an author with Evolved Publishing, creating the children’s series, The Balderdash Saga , beginning with The Underground Princess .