Misery
Mary E. Rose
Mary Flemming picked up the telephone and dialed the bar nervously. What if Maxwell weren’t there—or worse, what if he was?
The thought made her shiver, even though the sun, which had just set, was still sending out its last few warm rays.
“Hello, Pete’s Tavern,” greeted the crisp voice on the other end.
Suddenly losing her nerve, Mary put down the receiver. She scanned the room anxiously, letting her eyes rest on the Wireless set that Herve had bought to listen to reports of the war in Europe. Now it sat quiet, dusty and unused, the war having ended three years ago and Herve’s suicide the same year.
Mary’s mother was in the kitchen staring at the stacks of bills and slips of paper spread out on the table. At once, she burst into the living room. “Well, what did Maxwell say? Does he have the money?”
“I didn’t call,” Mary said softly.
“Well we’ll be needin’ that money soon; Billy will be here in less than an hour!”
“Oh I know! You think I don’t know?!” retorted Mary, almost in tears. She regretted ever having gotten involved with Billy—but at the time, he seemed like their only hope. They’d needed a large sum of money quickly, and he’d been willing to make the loan.
“Well call!” With that Mrs. Flemming returned to the kitchen.
Suddenly the house seemed icy to Mary. The old clock up on the wall was ticking off the minutes extra loudly, it seemed--or was that just the pounding of her own heart? Mary picked up the phone again.
How had she gotten herself in this mess? She forced her trembling fingers to dial the numbers.
“Pete’s Tavern,” answered the voice on the other end.
“Is M-Maxwell McFaren there?”
She heard the bartender put his receiver down and call out “Is Maxwell McFaren here? Telephone!”
Mary thought she could hear Maxwell’s own voice next: “Is that Mary? Tell her I’m not here.”
“He’s not here, ma’am,” the bartender spoke into the phone.
“Oh—well—thank you,” Mary said softly and slowly replaced the receiver.
What would she do now?
Mother strode back into the room. “Well? What did he say?”
“I called the bar and they said he wasn’t there,” Mary answered.
“What are we going to do now? Billy’ll be here any minute! What are we gonna do?” Mrs. Flemming wailed.
“I don’t know!” Mary covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
“Well, crying’s not going to fix this! We’ve got to come up with a plan!”
Then they heard a rapping at the door. Maxwell bringing the money? Mary thought hopefully, practically skipping as she went to answer—but it was Billy come early.
What was Mary going to do now?
“Billy! We weren’t expecting you this early!” Mary exclaimed.
“Yeah, well, I was in the area.” Billy got to the point quickly. “Do you have my money?”
“Where are my manners? It’s too cold tonight to make you stand out on the front porch; won’t you come in?”
Billy removed his greasy Fedora and came inside.
“Mother’s still in the bath,” Mary lied.
“I’m not really here to see her; I’m here to see you. Do you have my 10 G’s?”
Suddenly, Mother came into the room. “Billy! What brings you out on a night like this?”
“We all know why I’m here, Mrs. Flemming. Don’t play dumb with me. I’m here to collect the ten grand you ladies owe me.”
“The money’s in the kitchen; I’ll get it.” Mrs. Flemming left the room.
“You get it and I’ll just make myself comfortable out here,” Billy said, lowering his weight onto the davenport.
Hatless and relaxed, Billy looked even uglier than before—if that was possible.
Mary had been married, briefly, to Billy years ago. At first everything was fine and they were both dazzled by each other and Billy’s get-rich-quick schemes. But the schemes never seemed to work out.
Mary, with her limited education, was forced to take a series of menial jobs to support them, while Billy stayed home and planned his next move. When Mary got pregnant and was ordered to stay off her feet, they had to start borrowing money from relatives and a few friends—something Mary hated doing, but what else could they do?
The miscarriage was almost a relief.
The subsequent divorce left Mary feeling as if a great weight had been taken off her shoulders.
Billy, very bitter, swore he’d get even with her some day—and now, here he wasÉ
What was Mother up to in the kitchen? Mary wondered. She heard the teakettle being filled and set on the stove.
Poison? That’s brilliant, thought Mary.
Mary smiled to herself. Things were going to work out just fine, thanks to Mother’s cleverness.
But Billy must have had the same thought, for when Mother returned with the tea tray, he said abruptly, “I can’t stay. Just give me the cash and I’ll be on my way.”
Mary’s heart sank.
What would they do now?
Suddenly there came another rapping at the door. Could it be Maxwell at last? Mary thought as she went to answer. Billy stood to his full six feet and waited with his arms folded over his chest.
“There had better not be any funny stuff,” he hissed.
“Oh
Maxwell! Am I glad to see you!” exclaimed Mary, giving him a quick hug. “Did you bring the money?”
“Not all of it—but enough for a down payment,” he answered.
“We can give Billy what we have now and pay the rest later.”
“Oh that’s fine!” cried Mary.
“How much do you have?” Billy growled.
“Most of it. Eight thousand five hundred. In small bills.”
Billy snatched the cash and counted it himself.
“That’s good for now, I guess, but I have a business to run. When can you get the rest?”
“I’ll get you the fifteen hundred in a few days.”
“Two hours. With no funny business,” Billy stated firmly. “I’ll be back later tonight.”
“But that’s not enough time!” Mary protested.
“Two hours it is, then; that’ll be fine,” Maxwell said, escorting Billy out the door.
Mary turned to Maxwell. “What are we going to do? He’ll be back at 9!”
“I’ll think of something,” Maxwell promised.
“You mean you don’t have a plan now? You sounded so confident when you talked to him.”
“That’s the way you gotta do with guys like Billy.”
“Well, we need a plan,” said Mrs. Flemming when she rejoined the others in the living room.
“I know that! But what, what?” Mary was again near tears.
Maxwell put a comforting arm around her. “We’ll figure out something. Just try to stay calm.”
“I’ve got it!” Mrs. Flemming shouted. “There should be some money stashed in the cookie jar.” She rose and walked quickly into the kitchen.
A few minutes later she returned “I guess we spent that money. Oh, this is hopeless!”
“No; at least you’re thinking!” Maxwell said encouragingly. “We’ve got to be creative!”
“Didn’t Dad always keep his stash under his mattress?” Mary asked her mother.
“Yes, but I think we used that to pay for your typing classes,” Mrs. Flemming remembered. “We’ve got to come up with something else.”
The trio was silent for a time as they thought. Finally Mary spoke: “We do have Uncle Herve’s old printing press out in the shed, and his inks.”
“Print up our own money?” Mrs. Flemming was clearly appalled.
“That might be our only choice, since we don’t have much time.” Maxwell considered the idea. “But do you know how to use it?”
“I watched Uncle Herve use it hundreds of times! I’m sure it’ll come back to me in no time!
“Come on!” Mary took Maxwell’s arm and led him out to the shed.
Herve had been a man of big dreams who’d enjoyed several years of real prosperity in the ‘Teens and ‘Twenties when the stock market was going like gangbusters. He’d dreamed of starting a small newspaper, so he’d rented a building and equipped it with typewriters, telephone sets, tables, and a modern hot-lead press. Unfortunately, the venture never really took off. Item by item had to be sold off to pay creditors. Finally, heartbroken and bitter, suicide seemed to Herve the only logical next step.
The old press was all that remained.
Billy could barely suppress a grin as he drove his ancient black Packard down the road away from the Flemming farm. The gods seemed to be smiling on him for a change. Soon, he would have enough money to go far away from this crummy old town and start over.
Mary had really stung him when she’d asked for the divorce—like a fly with its wings savagely torn off—but having the Flemmings finance his Second Chance seemed like the perfect poetic justice.
Suddenly, a deer emerged from the wood and started to lumber across the road. Billy swerved to miss it—but
lost control of the car in the process, sending it onto the strip of red dirt that broke off into cliffs. He pumped the brake frantically--but too late: the car kept going forward, hit the rocks with a crash, and spiraled down, down, down into the ravine.
It was several days before some kids hiking along the ravine found the mangled sedan and the body of the driver inside.
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