Final Arrangements Read online

  FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

  by NIA RYAN

  Copyright © 2010 Nia Ryan

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

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  Edition: Smashwords 2010

  Chapter 1

  Oh wow, Shannon thought.

  There was an amazing guy in the backyard. He was cleaning her father's pool. She couldn't stop staring at him, imagining he was somebody who'd played basketball sometime in his recent past, maybe even tried out for the Lakers.

  He was wearing baggy shorts with cargo pockets topped off with a big green Hawaiian shirt with yellow parrots. He was dancing while he poured in some sort of chemical from a white plastic jug. His height, which she estimated at an astonishing seven feet, added a comicality to the presentation.

  She hadn't known Dad hired a pool man. It had always been a point of pride for him to do things himself. He used to joke about his menial tasks. She remembered the way he said it, with a little smile. Shannon, my first job was when I was five years old, sweeping the porch for my mother. And now it's my last job. The only difference is, I do it better now. But not with as much interest or heart.

  It would have hurt his pride to hire somebody. But perhaps his strength had lessened in his last year, the life force abated to the point where he had to get some help.

  The water in the pool was low. The guy began filling it with the patio hose while glancing at his watch, deciding if he had enough time to wait for a hundred gallons or so to be added, an amount which would keep the skimmer from going dry and burning out the pump.

  With a start she realized he didn't know Dad had passed away last night. And she wasn't sure of the protocol of such a thing. Did she simply go out and tell him? Or did she wait for the monthly bill to arrive and include a note with the payment: Please take some pumice to the tile next time. FYI--Joe Ireland is dead.

  Chapter 2

  She sat down on the couch and watched through the sliding glass doors as the guy cleaned the pool. Memories of the night before played out in her head. She remembered fighting for breath from fright, and sitting bolt upright in her bed, having been awakened by her brother's phone call in the dead of night.

  "I'm still at the hospital," Phil said. "Dad's gone."

  "Gone? What do you mean?"

  "You know ... gone ... he didn't make it."

  She'd rushed to the airport and grabbed the first midnight shuttle from San Francisco to Los Angeles, where the doctors at UCLA explained in detail why the 12 hours on the operating table had failed to restore Dad's tired heart. Phil drove her up from West Los Angeles to the San Fernando Valley to Dad's house, where she'd collapsed on the couch and grabbed a few fitful hours of sleep.

  The memory evaporated, bringing her back to the here and now, which was filled, not with memories of the past, but instead the more immediate sight of the giant outside the window, standing on the far side of the swimming pool, he as completely oblivious to her presence as she was aware of his.

  He was about finished and stood by the fence, coiling the hose. She would have to tell him about Dad. At the moment, however, she had nothing suitable to wear, having slept in her business suit, which was now hopelessly wrinkled.

  She quickly returned to her room and opened the closet to a full rack of her mother's clothes. Cleaned and in plastic. Dad had never been able to give them away, even though it had been two years since Mom died. She threw on her mother's old-fashioned robe which completely covered the wrinkled suit before making her way to the sliding doors which opened onto the pool. It was now or never. She stepped out in full view of the pool man, who stopped dancing. He looked at her, and she at him, at his bright blue eyes, a nose a bit too wide, setting off a clean-shaven face which seemed permanently fixed on the friendly setting, perhaps because of prominent dimples and lips upturned at the edges, the lips not too thin and not too full.

  "You're Shannon," he said. His voice was medium timbre, of a tone which suggested he was not of the whining variety, nor yet was the type to issue the stentorian commands typical of other big men. This was not a guy who bellowed at sporting events, or yelled at the kids. It was the voice of a man who probably favored reason over brute force, a pleasant, earthy voice, and it suited him.

  Not to mention the great tan, doubtless perfected by thousands of hours spent in the reflected glare of countless swimming pools. She noticed his teeth were less than perfectly straight, hadn't had the benefit, as hers had, of orthodontia, one thing her father had splurged on. The slight gap between the front incisors was somewhat charming, cute, even. Dear Lord, I'm cataloguing him, she thought. It must be the shock of Dad's passing.

  "Yes, I'm Shannon. How did you know?"

  "There's a resemblance to your father."

  "Dad showed you my picture," she said. A statement, not a question.

  "Yes. But I must say, Shannon, it didn't do you justice. Your eyes are much greener. And your long red hair is absolutely stunning in person. I take it your Dad explained everything to you. Is that why you're here?"

  His words landed like a hammer blow, reminding him of why she was here. Her father was dead. She was here to make the final arrangements. For a brief instant, she wondered if she had the strength to continue standing.

  He dropped the hose in the pool and walked towards her, hand outstretched in greeting, perhaps not understanding the reason for her silence.

  "Where are my manners? I'm Johnny Murphy. But please, my friends call me Stretch."

  Up close, she was forced to tilt her head straight back to continue the eye contact. It was time to tell him. The first time she told someone of her father's passing would be the hardest, because once the words were out to a complete stranger, it somehow made it final. Made it real in a way keeping it all inside never could. Even if it was simply a matter of informing her father's hired servant. Later on, it would be easier to make this admission when forced to announce her father's passing to other relatives, co-workers, State officials, bankers, lawyers, and the rest of the Lilliputian myriad whose business it was to be kept informed of the passing of the people they'd kept strapped down while still alive.

  He was getting closer.

  She found herself bracing for whatever run-of-the-mill faux sympathetic comment it was he chose to offer, it being important as a means for clearing the air of sentiment in order to get straight at the business of officially processing the death of Joe Ireland.

  "Mr. Murphy--,"

  "Stretch. Please." His hand floated toward hers. Fingers twice as long as her own. And three times as thick. Rough hands.

  "Okay. Stretch. I ... my dad passed away last night."

  The handshake never made it. There. It was out. And it wasn't so bad, really. The sun continued to burn off the early morning Los Angeles haze. The world continued revolving without shudder or shimmy. Rivers hastened their way to the sea.

  It was just a few quiet words escaping into the air, but words which had a powerful e
ffect all the same. Stretch Murphy's piercing blue eyes focused on something inside himself.

  For some reason, she felt ashamed. As though she had admitted a terrible personal weakness. I have no father. I am alone. I am suffering. I am something abnormal. Please look away when I am passing by. My father is dead.

  She waited for whatever stock phrase Stretch would offer to get them both past the point where it was an issue, and free them to get on with the business of deciding what to do about cleaning the blasted pool in the weeks ahead while the estate was being settled.

  "I have no words," he said finally, his eyes focusing on hers. "I know all the standard phrases. But somehow none of them seem to fit. All I can tell you is I'm terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man. A man I am proud to have known. I considered him a friend. I can't believe he's gone." The man seemed to be shrinking before her.

  With a start, she realized he was going down to one knee. "It's a shame he won't be there to give you away when we get married," he said.

  Of all the things he could have said, this was the most unexpected. It's a shame he won't be there to give you away when we get married. It was something in his eyes, and the way he'd gone to one knee as he said it.

  "Excuse me? When we what?"

  "When we get married. That is why you came down, isn't it?"

  "I don't know what you mean. Is this a joke?"

  Stretch appeared genuinely hurt by her comment. But then, slowly, understanding began to spread over his somewhat uneven features, and he began to rise once again to both feet.

  "He didn't tell you, did he?" Stretch Murphy said.

  "Tell me what?"

  "About the arrangement. About us getting married. He was supposed to tell you this week. I thought you were here to meet me and my folks. We're supposed to have the ceremony this Saturday and celebrate at Ireland 32 afterward. My dad's reserved the main room just for us. There will be lots of great Irish food and traditional dancers and everything. My mom's going to make her famous Irish dumplings."

  With that, she managed to get back inside and lock the door. She ran to her cell phone and dialed Phil.

  "There's a guy in the back yard," she said. "He's saying some strange things. Should I call the police?"

  "Is he about 10 feet tall?" Phil said.

  "That's him."

  "He calls himself Stretch," Phil replied. "He's a friend of Dad's. Been helping Dad with the pool. He's okay. Nothing to worry about."

  Phil's voice was gravelly, and slurred. There was a lot of background noise, like people talking and yelling.

  "Phil are you okay? Where are you? You sound funny."

  "I haven't been home since I dropped you off last night," he said.

  "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

  "Naw, I called my sponsor and we stayed up all night."

  "The big guy outside is babbling about marrying me," Shannon said.

  "I don't know anything about that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crash. Call me later."

  She put the phone down and went back to the window. The guy was still there, but sitting at the patio table with a big frown on his face. She paced a bit, wondering how long he would sit there. She looked again. He was still there.

  It occurred to her he was sitting there because she had upset him, had simply slammed the door in his face.

  I'm not being a good Christian, she thought. I've hurt his feelings. Phil says he's okay. Is there any chance what he's saying might be true? There's only one way to find out.

  She opened the door and stepped out again.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I think we had a misunderstanding."

  "Oh, no!" Stretch exclaimed. "There's no way I can make you understand what's going on if your father didn't tell you first. I dump it on you ice cold, you'll never believe me!"

  I'll just let him talk for a minute, she thought.

  "Would you like to explain it to me?"

  "Yes, but this is going to sound all wrong. The timing is terrible. Joe couldn't have passed away at a worse time. You see, your dad had this idea. When I first met him, he said he wished I could meet you. He wanted to find a husband for you, because he said you were unable to find anyone for yourself, that you were putting your job and your career in front of the things that really mattered in life.

  That does sound like something Dad would say, she thought.

  "But then he took it a step further," Stretch continued. He met with my parents, and they all arranged for us to get married. A formal arrangement between the two families. Your father even brought in his lawyer and we all filled out papers and everything, spelling out the amount of the dowry, and everything."

  "A dowry? Did you say a dowry? That's ridiculous."

  And it was. Beyond absurd. Yet, weird as it was, the man seemed so genuine, so sincere. Highly believable, except for the subject matter of which he spoke--the two of them getting married by formal arrangement of the parents. An arrangement as archaic as it was ridiculous. It was his fantasy of an arranged marriage which was the crack in his armor, illustrating to all the world that Stretch Murphy was not normal.

  "Shannon, you must think I'm off my rocker. I can see it in your eyes."

  "Hush. I'm thinking."

  She had heard of people who put on a great facade, appeared perfectly normal, right up to the moment they made some ridiculous observation. She wondered if Stretch Murphy was one of these.

  Out of curiosity, she decided to play along for the moment.

  "So we're getting married," Shannon said. "Dad arranged it with your parents. I guess that settles it, then. Just name the time and place, and I'll meet you at the church."

  "I understand your surprise," he said. "But there's no need to mock."

  "Why do you think I'm mocking? Why don't you think I'm serious?"

  "I know you're mocking, because I'll admit when I first heard about it, I was skeptical myself. Especially in this day and age. But as time went by, the more your dad discussed the idea, it grew on me. So, what do you say? Does the idea of marrying me appeal to you? Gosh, this is awkward. The way your dad had it planned, we weren't supposed to have to go through this awkward part. We were simply going to see each other for the first time at the ceremony itself. But now, I have to know. Are you even the least bit open to marrying me?"

  "Sure," Shannon replied. "If my father said it was a good idea, why shouldn't we get married? By the way, if you don't mind my asking, exactly how did my father bring the subject of our getting married to your attention?"

  She had to give him credit. He was sticking to his story. She knew from her Psych 101 course in college that some people who were otherwise perfectly normal constructed elaborate yet logical fantasies, of the kind where once you accepted the first statement, you were in the trap, and there was no way out but to give in to the whole thing. And it didn't matter if you reacted to the opening ruse affirmatively or negatively. The fact that you reacted at all rendered you instantly captured.

  "It was almost six months ago," he said. "We were right in the middle of a chess game. I was thinking about checking his King and Queen simultaneously with a knight fork when he first mentioned it. He said he had a single daughter who needed to get married."

  "He did? What else did he say?"

  "Your dad told me that in the days of old, all marriages between royalty were arranged. He believed it was still an idea with a lot of merit. As our game wore on, he suggested arranged marriage between me and you."

  "He did all that? Right in the middle of a chess game?"

  Stretch nodded.

  "Been playing chess long, Stretch?"

  "No. Only about a year. And not really playing. More like taking lessons, really. Your dad was the only person I played with. That's why I carry a portable game with me so I can study the moves on my own."

  "That's something we have in common, Stretch," she said. "Chess. I'm was in the middle of a chess game with my Dad. A game he won't be able to fin
ish. He taught me the moves when I was seven or eight. When I moved to Pacific Heights, we started playing by mail. I think I had him beat, but I was waiting for his next move to come. The move never arrived. And now, I guess it never will."

  On this last note, her voice had faltered badly. From somewhere had come a choking sob, somewhere down deep, where the little girl part of her resided.

  Chapter 3

  "Do you want to talk about it?" Stretch said. "About your dad's passing?"

  Something inside her said, Yes, I want to talk about it! Yes! I want to know why this terrible thing has happened to me. Who should I talk to? The guy who cleans the pool? What kind of a joke is God playing on me? Shouldn't I be making an appointment with my pastor, or a therapist, or grief counselor? Relying on a specialist to guide me through? Somebody who understands these things and takes my insurance to pay for it?

  But she found herself under the pressure of the little girl inside, who needed to talk about the loss of her father to somebody. In a way, perhaps it would be easier to talk to this perfect stranger. He was, she was forced to admit, very attractive. Aside from that, he was here right now, and she needed to talk now. He was in the right place at the right time. She really had no one else at the moment.

  "Yes, Stretch. I'd like to talk about it."

  "Over coffee?"

  Why not? A simple gesture of hospitality, a ritual of being kind to strangers which had been a hallmark of Dad's life.

  "Yes. Coffee it is. How do you take it, Stretch?"

  "Black. With two sugars. Your dad always made great coffee for our game. And he always had pound cake."

  "I'll put on a pot. And there may even be some pound cake. I'll check the fridge. Are you sure you have time?"

  "Are you kidding?" he said. "The world doesn't exactly turn on my schedule, if you know what I mean. I'll finish up my work while the coffee's brewing. If you like, we can sit out here. If it's more comfortable for you. I know I make people nervous sometimes when I come into their house. They're always worried I'll bump my head or something."