West River

31 Oct 2019 - Berkeley, CA

NB #1: I submitted the below short story to The New Yorker, and it was rejected (no reply back), so now I’m uploading it here with the expressed and explicit permission of the original author (M.T.S.).

NB #2: As with all other original posts on my blog, all content is subject to the license agreement (aka Copyright Notice) in this blog’s GitHub readme file. To view the readme, please click the red banner at the upper right of this page. As always, thank you for reading. Now, please sit back and enjoy the following short story.

West River (aka Their Separate Ways)

By M.T.S.

The eyes appeared before him, bigger than usual, and continuing to grow. They were so horrendous that he had the desire to tear out his own. Darkness enveloped him, and soon after, the smell of broken earth and the sound of disturbed crickets chirping sharply filled his ears. He heard a terrible cry, and all sound ceased. His eyes swelled as he began to run faster, dodging trees and shredding his way through the thick forest, panting, wondering if the scream was out of fear or agony. Sweat poured off his body, and in an attempt to mop the salty substance from around his eyes he managed only to become blinded by the mud covering his hands. He heard another cry and became desperate. His body ached and his heart strained from madly racing through the forest. Suddenly, as soon as he heard the sound of rushing water, he found his foot tangled in a vine, and collapsed into soil and brush. The night sky was illuminated by the iridescent moon. “I’m too late!” he sobbed. Then, the distant but familiar drowned out screech of gloom echoed throughout the corridors of his brain, body, and soul, until he promptly awoke and cried.

It is a small town. It is such a town that an old wood-grain Chevy station wagon is not only practical, but still considered quite stylish as well. Everyone in this town seems rather complacent, living honestly and being genuinely content with whatever they do or do not have. You will often hear someone chuckle and say, “If you want to know what West River looked like twenty years ago, all you’ve got to do is look around today.” It seems like the town has some sort of immunity against conspicuous consumption, transient fads and, in general, society’s encroaching “material-mania.”

The population of West River holds steady at about 850 and, economically, the town is flourishing. Mr. Kettleton has developed an improved insect repellent (probably so he can fish longer on warm nights down where the West swells), Mr. Stenell’s lumber company is expanding because of an abundance of resources, and Mrs. Griffin’s bakery can hardly supply enough of her notorious Boston Cream’s to her devout fans. As for any potential problems facing the town, Mrs. Garder’s ducks continue to soil the dock and, when visiting Mr. Speldon, beware of falling spruce trees.

Perhaps I have misled you; West River is by no means a utopia. Like every other town, there are (albeit quite infrequent) quandaries, but even the largest dilemmas seem to be cured by the healing power naturally endowed in and characteristic of close-knit neighbors. And it is certainly not misleading to say that we are “close-knit” neighbors. I cannot believe that a more wholesome, loving, and community-oriented group could have been assembled by handpicking 850 individuals from a cross-section of Americana. Perhaps it is something in the water. Either way, we are all generally happy here in West River, where we can gossip with friends, enjoy the fresh country air, and live life one day at a time, but most importantly gossip—that is why the news of the old house on Parker Street being sold spread like warm butter on bread.

The house on Parker Street is blue and moderate. It is the kind with a small, healthy lawn and an elaborate porch that makes the dwelling itself look minuscule. The house’s value lies not in its aging structure, but in the truly magnificent landscaping and picturesque view of the meandering brook, subtly transgressing the backyard. A week short of eight months since Lynne Jacobson put the property up for sale the house was bought by a family trying to escape the rapid tempo of city life. The small, generous community that had wept with Lynne when 35-year-old Sam Jacobson died of a stroke, now shared feelings of relief and divine gratitude that the home had finally been purchased. Now all prayers asked that Lynne be able to successfully move on with her life.

As you can imagine, the people of West River crowded together on Parker Street to try to get the first look at the newcomers upon their arrival. Stepping out of the vehicle, their expression’s portrayed a look both of sessile exhaustion from the long drive up from the city and overwhelming confusion (my guess is that it was from seeing numerous strangers staring at them like recluse animals put on display in some merciless zoo). I can remember Ted Barnes leaning over to me, and wryly whispering, “The last time they saw this type of crowd gathered, someone was probably being mugged!” After shaking my head at Ted in despair, I was the first to welcome the Keller family into the West River community.

Our initial observation of the Keller family was that they were not representative of the typical West River family—not because of their city accents, looks, or attitudes (certainly they were nice enough), but because the two children, Eric and Neoma, had no mother. Their father, Connor Keller, later solemnly explained to me that Susan, his late wife, had died in labor with his son. He had decided to move north to escape both the mental and social pressures of the city shortly thereafter.

Connor was a tall man, thin around his ankles and wrists, with a hardly noticeable but slowly swelling gut, like an athlete who had stopped training. His face was handsome, his eyes able to penetrate brick. His oldest child, Neoma, was quite attractive as well. Her long, brown hair and sparkling eyes reflected a mother who must have been beautiful. People were tied up by her looks and distracted from her innate timidity and reluctance to move from the city, where she undoubtedly had many friends. Conversely, her younger brother, Eric, was significantly more outgoing. He too had brown eyes and hair, as well as a face ambivalently drowned with innocence and curiosity. Fortunately, they were both able to make new friends rather quickly, for everyone’s really a friend in West River anyway.

Since the first day the Kellers arrived, it was clear that Lynne Jacobson, the widow who had sold the house, had taken an immediate liking to Connor; however, she anxiously waited for them to settle in before stopping by for a visit. Her first visit was somewhat successful, in that she discovered that Connor Keller was as charming as she had hoped, but also seemingly without interest of entering a new relationship. I had gathered the same from talking to Connor; however, it was not just Mrs. Jacobson who Connor was not interested in, but all womenfolk in general. Although I am certainly not a doctor of any sort, I would say that his wife’s death inflicted on him great psychological anguish, and I doubted that he would ever engage in a passionate relationship again. Mrs. Jacobson, however, begged to differ.

After four more “friendly” visits to the small blue house, Lynne began to discern the frivolous progress that her desperate efforts were yielding. The greatest clue came when Connor flat out told her that he was not looking for any type of “significant other” in West River, or anywhere else for that matter. However, Lynne struggled to keep her relentless desires from besting herself. When Lynne finally decided that Connor was equally stubborn as he was enchanting, she attempted a more elaborate means of winning him over, this time through his children.

By all metrics of sociology, psychology, and downright common sense, Lynne’s plan certainly seemed sound enough. After all, Neoma and Eric had lost their mother, Connor lost his wife, and Lynne, who had recently lost Sam, thought that she was able to provide the missing link. Therefore, with Mr. Keller’s job ending at five, and the children’s school day terminating at three, Mrs. Jacobson saw an opportunity that Connor simply could not, and indeed did not, refuse.

As the year progressed, Neoma and Eric’s anticipation of their first summer outside the city became almost tangible. For nearly three months, Lynne had been picking the kids up from school and bringing them back to her apartment, which is located near my favorite fishing spot on the West River. Initially, Neoma had been apprehensive about the whole “babysitting” ordeal, but extensive conversation with Mrs. Jacobson soon eradicated most her fears. “What a magnificent name Neoma is,” Lynne once said to endear herself with the girl, “do you know where your name comes from?” Ordinarily, Greek is far too advanced for an eight-year-old child, but after having fielded this question with some regularity, she asked her dad and could now help provide some insight. “Neoma means ‘shining moon’” she told Mrs. Jacobson, “my mother was fascinated by the nighttime sky.” Noticing that Neoma now seemed confident enough to begin sharing personal details about her mother, Lynne Jacobson reciprocated by stating that her own mother once explained that her name meant “virtuous and pure”.

Like any enthusiastic babysitter, each day Lynne attempted to do something new with the kids after school. Regardless of the activity, whether it was baking a homemade meal for Connor, working in the garden, or making paintings of themselves together, it eventually became routine that Lynne would finish most endeavors herself, while the kids gleefully chased amphibians around her backyard. Regardless, the trio seemed to enjoy their time together nonetheless.

Mr. Keller, however, was growing increasingly critical of Lynne’s relationship with his children and he surmised that she may be purposefully bonding with them in order to leverage him into an unwanted romance. I do recall Connor describing how Lynne would sometimes speak of the children as if they were her own and how uncomfortable that made him feel. When Lynne wasn’t at the Keller house, Connor often found that he had to ignore her phone calls and messages in order to have privacy. Eventually Lynne suggested that she move in with the Keller family “for the kids’ sake” and in order “to eliminate all the running around”. Connor described how he had attempted to courteously tell Lynne that he felt she was growing too close to him and his children as it was, and that he would feel better if he compensated her for the much-appreciated services that she had provided for his family instead. Additionally, Connor told Lynne that I would now be watching over his kids, taking me up on an offer I had made to him when he first arrived in West River. Oddly, the tactful manner in which Connor broke this news did not seem to make the slightest difference; Connor still has nightmares of the ominous glare Lynne gave him before leaving his house that day, filled with unprecedented enmity and lacking compassion of any sort.

The morning after this incident was sunny and hazy, not uncommon for West River in late June; I found myself rather anxious about Eric and Neoma’s return from school at the Parker Street bus stop. While waiting for the now visible bus to arrive, I jealously reminisced about my school days, and contemplated how much easier buses would have made our lives. As the children of Parker Street stood to disembark the yellow monstrosity now obstructing traffic, I failed to perceive two figures resembling those who were to be under my immediate care and supervision. Sure enough, Neoma and Eric were not on the bus. Supposing that I was to pick them up at the school instead, I drove there directly and strangely found no sign of them. When I called Connor’s office, wondering if he had picked them up without telling me, his secretary informed me that he was “out on business”. After an hour of blindly searching for the missing children, I returned to my house around 4:30 p.m. and decided that rather than cause undue panic, I would wait half an hour for Mr. Keller to return home.

Connor waved to me as he pulled his otherwise empty car into the driveway, shortly after five. I crossed the street, greeted him, and noticed a confused look on his face. “Where are the kids?” he asked, at which point I felt my heart begin to palpitate in my throat. Without any need for further conversation, we jumped into his car and sped to Mrs. Jacobson’s apartment, innately fearing that the children were in danger. We found the dwelling secure and unoccupied, and we searched the immediate area for any clues on the whereabouts of his children. Unsuccessful, we decided to return to his house and continue our search, this time with increased desperation. Mr. Keller let himself in through the front door, and immediately observed a letter that had been placed on the kitchen table, written on his own stationary and signed by Lynne Jacobson. It read:

Connor,
	I must thank you for never changing the locks on the doors
upon moving in—I can't tell you the number of times I've let myself
in when no one else was home, pretending that I would always be
welcome in your house. I know now that I was wrong. I don't think
you'll ever realize how painful it was for me to listen to your
stories of Susan and how wonderful a wife she was nor do I expect
you to ever have a change of heart and suddenly begin to love
again.
	Therefore, if we must go our separate ways, then so must
your children, the only living memories you have of Susan. What
do I mean by this, you ask? Tonight, at dusk, Neoma will be hanged
next to the West River, where Eric will drown. My hope is that
someday you will both realize how selfish you've been and feel the
pain and grief you've caused me to endure.
				Sorry it had to end like this,
						Lynne

Connor glanced outside and saw through fear-stricken eyes that it had already begun to grow quite dark. I ran to the telephone and informed the local authorities, neighbors, and anyone else I could think of who could possibly help impede the pending tragedy. Connor stared, dazed, at the pictures of his wife and children held to the refrigerator with artistic magnets made at Lynne’s apartment. He felt helpless as he drifted to and from consciousness, recalling Susan on her deathbed, and how she looked at him solemnly and said, “The kids shouldn’t grow up in a big city.” It had taken him so long to cope with her death, and he remembered how long it took him to locate the community of West River, ideal for raising such precious and fragile children. Connor became increasingly despondent despite his friends and neighbors who began to assemble in his house as word quickly spread, assuring Connor that everything possible was being done to rescue his children. Instead, Connor made a gruesome attempt to imagine the torturous acts on such innocents, being lured through the dense forest somewhere along the river, and quickly what could have been a key piece of evidence against Mrs. Jacobson became a tear-soaked parchment wrinkling beneath his quivering chin. Connor’s mind raced with the many things he could have done differently, like spending more time with the kids, allowing Neoma to take ballet lessons, and teaching Eric to swim.

Still holding his head between his hands at the kitchen table the father wept incessantly as the sun settled in the West and the shining moon ascended high above anything professedly virtuous and pure.

West River

West River (aka Their Separate Ways)

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