South of Main Street Read online

  South of Main Street

  by

  Robert Gately

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  © 2016 Robert Gately

  Published by Entrada Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  To our mothers – Elizabeth and Barbara

  Chapter 1

  Henry Wolff climbed out of his upstairs bedroom window and stood up looking out into the sky for those early morning stars that flash into existence in the predawn glow of the horizon. He took a couple of deep breaths and then looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching, as if he were sneaking out of the house and didn’t want to be detected. He struggled to balance his fifty-five-year-old body on the sloping roof, walking it like a plank. One careless maneuver and he’d fall into the shrubs. The jogging suit hugged his body like a second skin. He felt the sweatshirt creeping up, so he yanked it down, stretching it for a fitted look. He stopped, briefly, scanning the heavens in a sweep. The sun nudged up and the stars vanished with the arrival of the orange glow, an exhilarating sight just above the skyline. The view made Henry feel life was good, the earth was magnificent, and all God’s creations were in perfect harmony … as they should be.

  “Ohmmmm … ohmmmm …” he chanted, carefully half-stepping across the roof. He grabbed at the overhanging branches of the maple tree that dominated the front lawn. Clinging to the branch, he pulled himself along the edge of the roof to a rope which was draped over the gutter. Picking it up, Henry slipped his foot into the looped end. The distant end was firmly knotted to a thick bough of the tree. Henry yanked vigorously to make sure it was fastened strongly, testing whether his square knot would hold.

  Launching himself into an exhilarating swing, he was Tarzan for a brief moment, sweeping past a smaller tree and his objective, the mailbox. Henry arrived at the apex of his swing, defied gravity for a fraction of a second, and then swung back towards the mailbox. Henry let go of the rope with one hand and tried to grab the mailbox with his other, but his foot slipped through the loop, and he hung awkwardly as he swung towards the house. On his way back again, he seized a branch of the sapling and clutched onto the smaller tree for dear life. The branch broke, his foot slipped back down to his ankle, and his shoulders slammed into the lawn while the rope held his foot high in the air. He wiggled and jiggled, flopped like a fish out of water. Exhausted and embarrassed, Henry indulged himself with a few seconds of self-pity. All the while the tree held him up as if it were posing for the camera with its trophy – the prize catch of the day.

  Henry took a deep breath and lunged for the rope, the loop, his foot - anything to make the tree release its grip. He bobbled and dangled and clutched and finally wiggled his foot free. He stood, brushed himself off and, casually, looked around to see if anyone had been watching.

  Across the street, Maureen Aldrich, a retired schoolteacher, was sweeping her porch and saw everything. “Can’t you stop being a child for one day?” she shouted at Henry.

  Maureen was the last person in the world Henry wanted to witness his botched attempt to retrieve the morning paper. ‘Mizzz Aldrich,’ as Henry called her, was a short and cantankerous woman. Something about her round shoulders and a rough disposition gave him the shivers. She reminded him of a storybook witch, ugly and old, though maybe a tad nicer than the one from the West.

  Shrugging, Henry opened the mailbox and removed the morning paper, and with a well-practiced sweep of the hand, he tucked it under his arm, and over his shoulder he asked Maureen in a gravelly voice, “You wanna go for a swing?” Though he laughed, it was obvious his quip didn’t amuse her. Mumbling, she turned and entered her house. ‘You mumbling about me?’ Henry whispered in his best Robert De Niro impersonation, as her door slammed. “Hey, Mizzz Aldrich, you left your broomstick outside,” he said a little louder, but still out of hearing range.

  Henry picked up the loose end of the dangling rope and tossed it into the maple tree a couple of times until the looped end caught on the tree branch near where his circus adventure had started. With a demeanor of defiance, he raised his hand and pointed to the clouds indicating his morning exercise was over. He then turned and marched into house with the air of dignity showing, if nothing else, that he was better off for this experience.

  * * *

  ROBIN WOLFF sat across from Dr. Zeke Tucker, her psychologist who always seemed to wear a button-down shirt – always opened at the collar. His beard was always the same length. Same brown shoes, laced and double knotted. When the light was just right, he looked more like an appealing bartender than some Dexter-looking shrink who sought to understand the psyche of a woman in her thirties.

  The room, like him, never changed. Everything was in its proper place. A notepad sat in the upper right-hand corner of the desk while he sparingly took notes on a yellow pad with a yellow wooden pencil. His family picture faced at three-o’clock on his desk and a pencil cup filled with bookmarks sat at the left corner. Robin appraised the room at every appointment, and nothing seemed to be out of place in this session. Impeccably clean, devoid of clutter, she was surrounded by a comfortable arrangement of a single couch and two chairs. The walls and the furniture reeked of earth tones, liberating her of emotional associations to her surroundings - a clever arrangement, she thought. In some respects, she felt comfortable thus allowing her to seek truth from within herself more freely, like the fact that she was unmarried, in her prime – a half a decade from forty – and childless which left her with nagging thoughts that her fertility might be in a possible free-fall.

  She wondered if she would ever be happy in a town like Coalsville, Pennsylvania. It didn’t have a movie theater or a big name hotel, although it did have a four-star bed ‘n breakfast listed in the Tudor Travel Guide. The town had one pharmacy, two bars, and a quaint Main Street where shoppers could buy name brand shoes and clothes. Notwithstanding, no one picked the name of “Coalsville” from a hat. The roots of the name gave special thanks to those men and women who worked the mines and helped define the Industrial Revolution in America. No nonsense. Blue-collar all the way. But that was its isolated past and, proud as Robin was for being brought up in such a place, she wondered - maybe even hoped – if it might be time to explore other places.

  It got very cold in Coalsville. During the bitter, arctic days of winter Robin joked there was less corruption in Pennsylvania because the politicians had their hands in their own pockets to keep warm. To say living in Coalsville was like living anywhere else along the Appalachian territory was like saying present-day in the new millennium was like any other time in American history. In many ways, in Robin’s mind at least, Coalsville changed very little from one generation to the next. People seemed to be rigid in their beliefs. Republicans were always backed by big oil or coal manufacturers, and Democrats were always spending other people’s money. That never changed.

  Robin grew up believing paved roads were free, and thought all one had to do to possess the gold ring was take the merry-go-round enough times, keep on reaching, stretching, probing, and just ‘go for it’ – the prize would eventually be hers. But times were tough and, although people struggled much in the same way they always had, that metaphoric ring seemed harder to define as the years have rolled on. Or perhaps her passion for life was changing – her motivations – her dreams. Or maybe the things she h
eld important in life were not so important anymore. Indeed, she felt privileged because she grew up living on the north side of Main Street, the rich section of town. She was a lawyer. She knew people. Could maneuver through the maze of bureaucracy better than most, which made her feel important. Those who lived on the south side were less fortunate. Main Street seemed to divide the town between the have and the have-nots. That never changed either.

  So why did she feel depressed, she wondered? She always considered herself able to handle life’s ‘issues’. All she had to do was just go for it! It made sense she was feeling this way because her mother was in the hospital on her deathbed, but she had prepared for her mother’s impending fate for months, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe this feeling was because Christmas was right around the corner and her well-groomed happy facade, sustainable during even the most trying times – and a way of secretly canonizing her loneliness – seemed more fractured as of late. However, the memories of past holidays, much more endearing than this impending one, was never a reason to be melancholy. Still, maybe thoughts of future Christmases without her mother were reason for feeling the way she was. It was just her wayward sister, Sharon, and her father now.

  Her father … yes. That was probably it. Her father, who for as long as she could remember, needed special care. No, no. She didn’t want to get into that with the good doctor. Not again. She’d be talking in circles. Maybe it was Sharon, who once-again was acting like a selfish brat …

  Robin pursed her lips and tried to shake the downbeat reflections from her mind.

  “Why did you just shake your head just then?” Dr. Tucker asked.

  “Oh, nothing! I’m just trying to remove these negative thoughts. They’re killing me. I can’t shake this cloud of … whatever is hanging over me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Robin said. “Like everything. I want to change my disposition. I want to change my life.”

  “Maybe it’s because your mother is dying.”

  Robin shrugs and lets out with a quiet, “Maybe.”

  Dr. Tucker just sat there waiting for her to explain herself.

  She wanted to tell him the stigma of seeking the solace of a psychologist interfered with her ability to be honest or, at least, open. Perhaps, if there was more red in the room, she could be more revealing.

  “Maybe it’s my father,” she blurted out.

  “What about him?”

  “He always needed looking after and now that Mom … I don’t know.” Robin brought up her father, the usual topic of conversation, because in the midst of everything being the same, he seemed to be the only one changing. “I just feel so unsure about him surviving on his own. Yet, he’s done so well taking care of Mom when she was sick. Christmas is right around the corner. It doesn’t feel the same. My sister’s a pain in the ass. You see, I’m in and out of these moments of negativity. Mostly in. I can’t stop them. Help me stop them.”

  “I can’t,” Dr. Zucker said. “I mean I can help, but I can’t do it. You have to do that.”

  Of course he couldn’t do it. It had to come from within herself. Maybe she should try and encourage herself like her father used to do when she was in grammar school, when he used to improvise Knute Rockney before an important exam. Although this is not a test, she heard him in her mind’s eye. Come on, Robin. You gotta go! You gotta run! You gotta forget your mother is dying. So what, your father’s only predictability is his unpredictability, and your sister’s self-centered attitude is causing you grief. Stop this crap and get off the pity-pot Be the steady rock in the Wolff family. Come on. You gotta go. Go … go … go …

  So, she got off her proverbial pity-pot and stared at the doctor for a few seconds secretly acknowledging he was a slightly attractive man with an impeccable-groomed beard and long flowing black hair. He seemed interested enough in what she was saying although he exuded an element of detachment, a tactic he probably learned in school, or a skill he picked up after years of listening to his patients’ tales of doom and gloom. Nevertheless, she tried focusing on his above-average looks - a good reason for a minor distraction, she thought. Robin knew Dr. Zucker had left a few broken hearts since she met him, and no one would blame her if she acted on her marginally lustful thoughts, but she knew that was a road paved with sink holes. Although currently unattached, the good doctor was gay, and the prospect of doing an end run around nature would be too exhaustive. There would be no issues of transference with her shrink on this day – or any day for that matter. There were more rewards catering to her negative projection anyway.

  “I’m feeling like there’s a war inside me,” she said. “I have resentments. My father. He is what he is. But my sister? I got this deep … abiding … bitter … anger towards her.” She paused for a few seconds to see if the good doctor had anything to contribute. He did not.

  “My father gave us nicknames when we were younger. Sharon’s was Flower.” Robin couldn’t help herself accenting the nickname with over-the-top candor, nor could she stop herself from raising her hand and cupping it as if she were holding a rock and was a fraction of a second away from squeezing it into a black hole.

  “I sense you’re still upset over that,” Dr. Tucker finally replied. “Are you?”

  “Over a nickname?” She relaxed and sat back, let out a single puff of air that was supposed to be a chuckle, and thought about his question more seriously.

  “What was your nickname?” he asked.

  Now he was getting closer to what was bothering her. “Trigger,” she admitted, none too willingly.

  “I see,” the doctor said. He looked at her as if he wanted her to get on with it.

  “You’ve heard this before,” she continued. “I’d just be repeating myself.”

  “Yes, you would. We’re coming full cycle, which brings me to the question of what you’re looking to gain from your visits.”

  Robin took her time thinking about what the doctor just requested. For a tiny moment she thought about telling him a roll in the hay might be what she needed and wanted, but that was a comment that would go nowhere. Perhaps she should tell him she was thinking of saving her money by going to a 12-step group for people who have control issues or who embrace negative projection like it was kettle popcorn. But she suddenly remembered a piece of her past she had never told the good doctor.

  “When my dad ‘zoned out’ on us when were kids,” she began, “he’d open an imaginary door in our rooms and describe his fantasy place as if he were really seeing it. I remember Sharon saying in her little shrieky, irritating voice ‘Where is it, Daddy? I want to go there’. And he’d say, ‘It’s la-la land.’ Everything was ‘la-la land’ to him. Jack climbed the beanstalk in ‘la-la land’. The three little pigs were in ‘la-la land’.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled in an attempt to rid herself of all the bad karma. She went to say something, but stopped. Maybe this was a good time to talk about Sharon. Yes, this was the time to dump. “I don’t understand why my sister has to be so … I don’t know. I don’t have a word for her right now. She’s worked at the damn collection agency for so long that I think she has become her job. My sister likes squeezing people. It’s a game with her. Maybe she’s jealous of what other people have. She’s so … so …”

  “Self-centered?”

  “Yes,” Robin said. “Self-centered. You know what she told me recently? She gets so caught up in the ‘squeeze’ frenzy because of this end-of-year prize they give for the best … what would they call them … squeezer?”

  “They probably call them agents,” the doctor said.

  “Well, the agent who squeezes the most money from people gets the ‘big kahuna’ bonus. She has worked for so long and hard playing on people’s fears and misfortunes ... like a dentist, you know? She drills them until there’s no more defense, no more masks. She’s become a monster.”

  “Wow! That’s a little more than being self-centered, Robin. You seem to be extra sensitive today?”


  “Yeah, well, I’ve had too much coffee today. Or maybe I’m still pissed off over the other thing.” Robin fell silent and the doctor sat stoically waiting for her to continue. “I mean, he’s our father, for crying out loud. He may be slow or dimwitted, or however you want to classify him, but he can handle his own affairs. He’s getting better.”

  “From what you told me in the past, Sharon doesn’t think so,” Dr. Tucker replied. “Your mother has had to take care of him all these years. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yeah, but he did just fine the past year with Mom being sick. And more recently he’s had to take care of her when she was bedridden, right? Okay, I’ve had to pay the bills for him, but he does his own food shopping now. He cooks for himself … he …”

  “What about the bank printout your sister showed you? You told me your father’s taking liberties with the bank account. That’s reason for concern. Right?”

  “Perhaps,” Robin conceded.

  “So, might your sister have a point?”

  “The point is, our mother is lying in the hospital, dying, and our father is doing just fine on his own. What kind of daughter would go to a judge declaring her own father as incompetent to handle his own affairs? What kind of daughter would want to spy on her father in an effort to claim him as unfit? What kind of person would actually like going to work because she loves sucking the living marrow from people who have come on bad times? What kind of human is she?”

  A buzzing sound interrupted her. “Oh, damn …” Robin sighed deeply and pulled out her cell phone and hit a button to stop the ring. She looked at the caller-id window and recognized the number. She flipped the phone shut. “What the hell does he want? It’s Pastor McMillan.”

  “Well, maybe that’s a sign we should call it a day. Same time next week?”

  * * *

  PASTOR MCMILLAN and Henry Wolff were sitting in the front pew in an empty church not too far from where Robin had her session with Doctor Tucker. The Pastor sat with his leg half-bent, up on the seat, facing Henry who sat straight up looking ahead like a statue.