By Henry Shorney

Albert stands in the living room staring out the front window.

“There’s a large man out there doing something suspicious,” he says.

“What?” Ethel replies, looking up from her book.

“He’s grabbing something out of his truck, I hope it’s not a gun.”

“Why would it be a gun?”

“Big man, big truck, big gun… everyone’s got a gun… these days.”

“We don’t.”

“My point exactly, we’re out of the loop.” 

“Al, for God sakes, would you sit down?” 

Al walks over to his usual chair. It’s big, and red, and has a foot rest. He sits down. Ethel resumes her reading. Al looks at the fireplace across from him. He stares into its ashen void. 

“You hear that?” he says. 

Ethel looks up begrudgingly, “Hear what?”

“That clanking, I think the pipes are at it again.” 

Ethel ignores him, although she does hear the clanking. 

“You know, Randy was telling me just last week, had a water line burst, right behind the washing machine, flooded the whole basement, had to shut off the main and couldn’t take a shower for three days.” 

“I’m sure the pipes are fine. They’ve always sounded like that.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about, wear and tear.” 

Al returns his gaze to the fireplace, scratches the patchy beard on his chin, and cocks his head at the next series of clanks. He stands and walks out of the room. Ethel looks up only when he’s gone. She lets out a sigh, listening. She hears him turn on the kitchen faucet, then stomp back into the room. They listen, together, to the rushing water. 

“See,” Al says. “It stops when the water’s running, must be some sort of pressure buildup.” 

He leaves, turns off the kitchen faucet, and returns.

“I’m calling a plumber,” he says. 

“Don’t call a plumber, there’s nothing that needs to be fixed.” 

A clank resonates from within the house, then a gurgle. Ethel looks over at her husband, who’s hand is now hovering over the phone.

 “Don’t,” she says. 

Al sits back down in his chair. He looks at the watch on his left wrist. It has a gold face and a worn brown leather strap. He holds it up inches from his nose, squints, and slowly moves it farther away. He grabs his reading glasses off the small wooden table on his right side, puts them on, looks back at the watch. He taps the glass face with his fingernail, then holds it up to his ear. 

“Would you look at that, my watch stopped.” 

Ethel ignores him. 

“Honey, I know you want to read, but this is serious.” 

“We’ll get it fixed tomorrow.” 

“This thing’s a family heirloom.” 

“It probably just needs a new battery.” 

“A new battery? I’m not even sure it has a battery, I’ve worn it for thirty years, not once has it needed a new battery.” 

“They’ll fix it.” 

He looks back down at the watch, taps the face, says beneath his breath, “Great watch, would be a shame–.”

“Albert! I’m losing my patience.”   

“Okay, okay, sorry.” 

Al puts his legs up on the footrest, adjusts his position. He looks into the fireplace, then the series of family photos on the mantle above it. He can’t make out the images, but he knows them well.

He looks over at his wife reading, one leg crossed over the other, glasses on the tip of her nose. He opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and turns back to the fireplace. He takes his legs off the footrest, stands, and walks over to the window. 

The man’s truck is gone. He thinks this but doesn’t say it. The large man’s large truck is gone, he thinks. Then he walks out of the room. 

Ethel sets down her book, pushes her glasses up to her forehead, and rubs her eyes. She’s tired, tired enough that she could go to bed, but she won’t, at least for another few hours. It must only be around seven, she thinks.

“Honey,” Ethel hollers, “What time is it?” 

Al’s pounding footsteps crescendo, then stop at the doorway.

“What’s that?”

“What time is it?” 

He looks down at his watch. “Four fifteen.”

“Honey.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s broken, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

He goes back into the kitchen, checks the digital clock above the stove, and returns.

“Six forty-five,” he says.

Ethel sighs. Al looks around himself, takes a step towards the window, stops, then turns back to the kitchen. He scratches his chin. 

“What was I going to do?” he says. “I was going to do something.” 

“I don’t know, honey.” 

He mutters something to himself, then walks over to the window. 

“It’ll be dark soon,” he says. 

“Yes, it will, then we can go to bed.” 

He scans the street, searching for something out of the ordinary. It’s late autumn, and the trees are half bare. Brown and red leaves line the streets. One of the neighbors has raked them into small piles, where they sit, waiting to be bagged. 

“It’s strange…” Al says, tailing off. 

Ethel has given up on her reading. She watches her husband at the window, waiting for him to finish. “What is?” she says.

“What’s that?” Al says, turning to look at her. 

“You just said it’s strange, what’s strange?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

He walks over to his chair, sits down, looks into the fireplace. 

“You hear that?” he says. 

“Yes, I hear it.” 

“Clanking, must be the pipes.” 

“Yes, honey, I know.” 

“We should really call a plumber.” 

“We’ll do that if we need to.” 

He looks over at the mantel, at the photos atop it. 

“What do you think Sarah’s up to?”

Ethel lets out a sigh. She considers reminding him, thinks better of it, and says, “probably just getting home from work.” 

“I think I’ll give her a call.”

“No– honey, you can’t do that?” 

“I can’t call my own daughter?” 

Ethel thinks about this. She looks into her husband’s innocent eyes.

“Her phone’s down, remember,” she says.  

“Oh, is that right?” 

“Yes, we can call her tomorrow.” 

“Okay, but you’ll have to remind me, you know I’m no good with these things.”

“I will.” 

Ethel looks into the fireplace, at the mantel above it. She rises from her chair, walks to the other side of the room, picks up one of the frames. It’s a photo of her, her husband, and their daughter Sarah. They were all so much younger then, she thinks, well, everyone but Sarah. 

She brings the photo to Al. She holds it out for him to see. He puts on his reading glasses.

“Look at us,” he says. “So full of life.”

“We were, yes, we were.”

“Where was that again?”

“Florida.”

“Florida, that’s right…”

He stares into the photo for a few long moments, recollecting. He smiles. 

“Remember she drifted out into the ocean on that little inflatable raft? So far that we couldn’t see her anymore. And we thought we’d lost her forever?” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“Then ten minutes later she came skipping up the shore with no idea that we’d been worried sick.” 

“Yes, she was always in her own world.” 

“I wanted to scream at her.”

“I know you did.”

“But I didn’t, remember, I just stood there real stern and was like, ‘now where did you get off to missy?’” 

“Yes, I remember.”

“And then what was it she said again?” 

“She said that she went to the other side.”

“Yes, yes she did.”

*   *   *

Henry Shorney is a Denver based writer. He spends the bulk of his days tending to the grounds at Willis Case Golf Course, and his nights writing, reading, and watching movies. His work has previously appeared in the 2024 summer issue of the New Feathers Anthology.