Conversations :: :: Stories by Paul Beckman

Conversations :: :: Stories by Paul Beckman :: Short Stories Author

Conversations

NOTHING HAPPENED

So thats it. Im telling you, thats it.

Thats the reason youre not speaking to her anymore?

Im talking to her. Shes the one not speaking to me. Thats it. Thats the story. Shell have to speak first then Ill speak to her.

Im missing something. Tell me what happened.

I told you. She did the same thing as last time.

Humor me. Tell me again.

Well, I was in Stop and Shop because I had coupons. Usually I shop Big Y. I picked up a loaf of rye bread when that woman comes up to me and . . .

Your sister. That woman is your sister.

. . . that woman comes up to me ands says, Seedless. How can you buy seedless? The first time that woman has spoke to me in five years is to tell me that Im buying the wrong rye bread. Can you believe it?

Then what happened?

Seedless? I says. Oy! Without my glasses they both look alike. I fumbled around in my purse for my glasses, put them on and switched to the rye bread with seeds.

But you dont like seeds in your rye bread. You say they get under your plate.

I know, but I couldnt let HER know that.

Then?

Then she says, I thought you shopped that other place. Why are you slumming? The mouth on her. I tell you. If I wasnt a lady Id of walked away. So I says Coupons.

Thats ALL you said?

Thats all I had to say.

Then what happened?

Then what happened?

Nothing happened then?

How can nothing happen? Youre not talking again. What happened?

Then nothing happened. I shopped and that woman went on her way.

Your sister. Well. . .?

Look. Im not saying anything bad. She bumped me in mustard.

So?

So, I was minding my own business looking at a jar of Guldens when a cart bumps my cart and its HER.

Anything break? Anyone hurt?

No.

So whats the problem?

Whats the problem, Mister? Whats the problem you ask?

Im not Mister. Im your nephew. Whats the problem?

She says to me, for a few cents more you can get the spicy. Its worth the money. So I get out my glasses and I switch for the spicy.

But he spicy upsets your stomach.

You think Id let HER know that?

So, cause she bumped you in mustard youre not talking.

No. Were not talking cause she bumped me in mustard.

Tell me.

She says, so long as youre here you might as well come for coffee. Another time maybe, I says. Its time for me to go home for lunch and she says so come for coffee and lunch. Youre already here. Ill get a can tuna, she says.

So I says, dont get bread. Bread I have right here a nice rye. So she says, I cant eat that, the seeds get under my plate. So can you believe that?

So thats why youre not talking again?

INCLUDE ME OUT

--So tell me. How’s thee writing going?
--Not bad.
--Is not bad good or not good?
--It’s good.
--What’s so good about it?
--I finished a story this week and mailed it off to a magazine.
--Well, I hope you included me out this time.
--I love when you do your Louis B. Mayer imitation.
--Don’t change the subject. I see no humor in your stories about me.
--I don’t write stories about you. I write some of my stories about a fictional aunt who occasionally may have something in common with you.
--Why don’t you write about a fictional uncle?
--OK. I’ll make my fictional aunt my fictional uncle from now on.
--Good.
--Satisfied?
--Yes. Very satisfied, thank you. Every story?
--What do you mean every story?
--Are you going to include me out of every story?
--You mean my fictional aunt?
--Yes.
--Yes.
--Oh.
--Isn’t that what you wanted?
--Once in a while is okay.
--Once in a while--like half the time?
--Half is not once in a while.
--You’re right.
--Thank you.
--Would you consider one in ten as once in a while?
--That’s too once in a while.
--OK. I got it now.
--Good. What are you writing?
--Writing? Just some notes on my fictional uncle.

TESSIE DIED

"I thought I'd see you at the funeral this morning," Aunt Leah said.
"Funeral? Who died?" I asked.
"Tessie. May she rest in peace."
"Who the heck's Tessie?"
"Don't swear."
"I'm sorry. Who's Tessie?"
"She lived on the third floor of Garfield Street when you lived there."
"We moved from Garfield Street when I was four."
"So? That's a reason not to go? She was very good to your mother."
"I didn't know she was still alive."
"She's not. I told you I went to her funeral today."
"Yes. You're right."
"You should have gone. Your mother would have wanted you to go."
"How was I to know she died? I didn't know she was living. I didn't know her and never ever heard anyone mention her name."
"Don't get upset. If you would call me more often you would know what was going on."
"But I spoke to you three days ago."
"Three days ago Tessie was still alive."
"Well if it was that important that I go to the funeral why didn't you call me?"
"You know me—I don't like to call with bad news."

SOURPUSS

“I didn’t want to go alone so Frannie went with me to make a condolence call. That’s why I wasn’t home if you tried to call me Tuesday.”
“I didn’t call you last Tuesday.”
“I didn’t think so. I know how busy you are.”
“I tried to call Wednesday.”
“Wednesday I had a feeling that you would call so I stayed home waiting until three. Then I went shopping.”
“I called around four.”
“Next time call when I’, home.”
“I’ll try to remember. Tell me. Who was the condolence call for?”
“You know my friend Minnie?”
“Yes.”
“Her sister had three daughters. Do you remember them?”
“No.”
“Sure you do. You remember Linda—braces, long brown hair, pimples—a little wild.”
“I don’t remember—it was a long time ago. Is she still the same.”
“Her face has cleared up.”
“The condolence call?”
“What about it?”
“You were telling me about the condolence call and Linda.”
“Linda has two sisters . . .”
“I never met them.”
“I know. You were always too busy.”
“Did something happen to Linda or her sisters?”
“No. Why?”
“The condolence call is why.”
“The girl’s father died.”
“That’s too bad. You know—I don’t remember hearing anyone mention him.”
“The girl’s mother was a saint; but the father was never much of anything—a real sourpuss.”
“I though we don’t speak badly of the dead.”
“I’m not speaking badly—I’m just saying. That’s all.”
“So you went for the daughter’s sake? That was nice.”
“No. The daughters are not so nice. They are sourpusses like their father—nothing like their mother.”
“I thought she died of a heart attack.”
“You see?”
“Then why did you go? If you didn’t like him, don’t like them, and the Saint is dead—why did you go?”
“Respect. Out of respect. When you get older you’ll understand.”
“I see.”
“So we went up and sat for ten minutes, Frannie and me. No one else was there and no one came over to talk to us. It was terrible.”
“Did you go up to anyone?”
“Well at first we walked in and went up to the sisters and said our sorries then we went and sat down in the living room. That’s when no one came over.”
“Did you go over to anyone else to talk?”
“That’s not how it’s done. We don’t stand on ceremony in our family, but there is a ritual.”
“Oh.”
“So we got up to leave and sourpuss Linda comes over. She wasn’t all the friendly if you must know.”
“Her father just did.”
“Her sisters never came over.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We got away from the sourpusses as fast as we could.”
“So—it’s over?”
“Not quite. The other day I got a card signed by all three sourpuss sisters thanking me for my condolence call. They said it meant a lot to them. I was quite surprised.”
“That was nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yes nice. They didn’t have to send a card.”
“Nice, maybe. Easier. To them it was easier than calling.”
“How come?”
“You know. Sourpusses never call.”

Back to Come Meet My Family