The Fortune Teller and Other Short Works

Kay

Preface

The roots of the short story run deep; dating as far back as biblical times. It is a hybrid of sorts taking on the role of a stepchild in contemporary literature. Even prestigious novelists such as Herman Melville, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Zora Neal Hurston, and Sandra Cisnero flourished in this genre; which gives us reason to question its current status as an overlooked art form. It has been aptly stated that the main difference between a short story and a poem is line breaks while the difference between the short story and a novel, as defined by renown author, Frank O’Connor (1908-1966), in a short story the crisis is the story. In a novel, the crisis is our only destination…

The Fortune Teller and Other Short Works are written as separate installments of life we observe silently; not as one life, but rather a parcel of individuals that make up humanity. Sometimes familiar, sometimes breathless, sometimes off-beat; and had the works been sketched in longhand they would have first been dipped boldly in ink.

Although it is often critiqued that the short story and its companion pieces have lost their momentum with contemporary readers… I allege that they are still alive and kicking…you just have to go into the gardens and weed them out from among the skeptics…

Dr. and Mrs. Henry Woodridge lived on Ridge Street in the suburbs of Cleveland. Isn’t it absolutely comical, our last name is almost the same as the street we live on, said Loretta to any new acquaintance she met.

It’s her opening line, thought Henry, walking away from the small group hovering around the buffet table. Doesn’t she say that at every party? Isn’t that what they are all thinking? he muttered and reached for another deviled egg.

Henry and Loretta Woodridge had been married for 32 years and on the surface appeared to be happily married. They met while Henry was in dental school studying to be an orthodontist, but during his studies, he decided that straightening the teeth of whining pre-teens was not for him. So, he decided to become a general dentist. That way he wouldn’t have to put up with brats and their annoying parents. Loretta was a debutante whose ambition was to become the wife of a doctor. Mutual friends set the couple up on a blind date. Although Henry wasn’t a medical doctor, Loretta was satisfied with his prospects since he promised to give her the moon. They dated for a short time and wed after a brief courtship. The two were crazy about each other; traveling in the right circles and attending all the right parties. Unlike so many young couples who may have had a difficult time making ends meet, the young dentist and his wife were quite comfortable from the start.

235 Ridge Street was a classic ranch style home. It had been occupied by an elderly couple who had lived there for only a few years until they moved away to be near their children back East. Loretta fell in love with the large red maple out front. It was what she called a show tree, displaying its winter red buds, scarlet spring flowers, pink summer leafstalks, and autumn’s brilliant leaves. Hedged along the back fence was a bed of wildflowers, the varieties Loretta remembered growing in her family garden. There was Squirrel Corn with its white petals taking on the shape of a heart, the flowering Dutchman’s breeches, which resembled pantaloons, and the violet Hepatica, always the first to bloom. Loretta fancied herself a little girl in her apron and sunbonnet, carefully snipping a few of the blossoms to place on the dinner table. But this hobby didn’t last long for her pleasurable pastime grew into daily naggings. The gardener took much of the brunt when Loretta made it her business to oversee his work. Though he was very experienced, she insisted on making lists and reminding him to be careful of the new growth when working in the flowerbeds. Spying from the kitchen window, she would watch his every move until she felt compelled to go outside to check on his progress. Fortunately, the poor man was hard-of-hearing and often remained unscathed by her faultfinding.

As for Henry, the house had provided the perfect location for his dental office. There was plenty of room downstairs with a separate entrance to accommodate his patients. His competent nurse, Mrs. Derby, was efficient, orderly, and courteous. She wore her bun tight, her white shoes polished, and nurse’s uniform crisp and starched with a gold pin depicting a ceramic lamp with a candle, the reminder of Florence Nightingale. Her white pleated cap was the symbol of authority; however, some may think it was more the symbol of servitude. Mrs. Derby maintained all patient records, made the appointments, and was especially careful not to book anyone during the doctor’s lunch break. She lived near enough to a bus stop so that she could ride the bus to work and only had to walk a half a block to the office. In the winter her husband, Samuel, would drive her and pick her up at the stop on his way to and from his own job as a county clerk. She always brought a bagged lunch and would pull the shade down and place the little cardboard clock hanging in the window with its face reading "Will Return At" with the hands turned to 1:00. She was just what Henry needed in a nurse. Mrs. Derby and Loretta got along just fine. Loretta never went into the office, and Mrs. Derby never asked Loretta for anything. Occasionally, they might exchange recipes, however, since Loretta did little cooking, this was only a polite gesture on the part of both women.

But after taking an inventory of time, it could be calculated that the couple accrued only a few short years of marital bliss. Under the canopy of marriage, Henry soon realized his gregarious wife was a selfish shrew he had grown to despise. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but it did. At first, their situation was akin to chewing when you have a toothache. One can manage the discomfort by pushing the food to the other side of the jaw. But after time, the pain becomes too great, and even the softest of foods cannot be tolerated, making it apparent that the only recourse is to ultimately extract the tooth.

At exactly 6 o’clock sharp each evening, Henry and Loretta would dine. At the beginning of every week, Loretta wrote out the weekly menu for Denise, the housekeeper. By early evening, the assigned dinner was prepared and by 5:45 p.m. she set it out on a warming tray. With the kitchen clean, she would then go home before the couple sat down to dine. Henry had begun to loathe their meals together. He found that Loretta’s idle chatter about how poorly the gardener tended the garden and why couldn’t Denise find time to prepare a decent after-dinner coffee an annoyance. He especially disliked the way Loretta would cut her meat; she would position the knife and fork as though she were a European and not an American, turning the fork over her plate, tongs down, as those on the other side of the Atlantic would do. And for heaven’s sake, did she have to butter everything she ate and then take the napkin and dab her lips? Loretta, seemingly unaware of her husband’s disapproval of her mannerisms continued to execute each and every one of them. In fact, as the years of matrimony chugged along, she went about her day like a sleepwalker, appearing not to notice that her husband was hemorrhaging any affection he may have once felt for her.

Life had settled into a routine whereby every Wednesday Loretta kept a steady lunch date with the girls as she called them. Girls, that’s a laugh, more like a group of middle-aged harpies, thought Henry every time she reminded him. Henry, don’t forget, I won’t be home until after 3 o’clock; I’ll be at the club. Be sure to give Louis instructions about the arbor next to the garage; he needs to trim it back. But not too much. (pause) Henry, are you listening? Her voice could peel paint! He would then lower the newspaper just far enough to peer over before acknowledging, Yes, Dear.

The disgruntled dentist was miserable. He boiled with indignation and silently gnashed his teeth, but it was last Wednesday that triggered his usual bad mood into contriving a permanent solution to his sham of a marriage. Loretta had returned from her girls lunch with an announcement that the Welks were going on a weekend jaunt to the lake and they were invited to join them on their boat. "A trip with the Welks!" he shuttered. While the girls were parading around in bathing suits way too skimpy for their ages, he would be stuck listening to that snob, Ken Welks, Mr. Big Shot Cardiologist! That Ken Welks, he loves to slather suntan lotion on all the woman, even Loretta! Ah, he can have her for all he cared! Henry glared down at his tuna sandwich, but without realizing it, he was squeezing the tuna out from between the two slices of bread. Dr. Woodridge, is everything alright? asked Denise, you haven’t even touched my macaroni salad.

Henry looked up at the moon-faced woman who was eyeing his plate and shaking her head woefully. No, no, this is great, thanks Denise, just got some things on my mind. And taking an obligatory bite, he chewed with added animation. Hmmm, delicious, very good. She was pleased and moved away from the table. Henry’s thoughts turned inward as he brooded over his problem, and the more he brooded the more he justified that there was only one thing he could do. He was going to have to rid himself of his wife. Divorce was the obvious and most logical solution, yet, it didn’t take long to realize the misgivings attached to such a plan. By law, he would be obligated to support his wife in the lifestyle that she was used to, and although he knew he could afford the alimony, the ungrateful woman would also be awarded the house and half of their possessions. His mind wondered forward in time. I’ll have to move my office, get a new place to live, explain to my patients, and maybe find another nurse if the new office is too far for Mrs. Derby. It was getting all too complicated. No, divorce was not