A Short Story a Day

by David Michael

“Damn, girl! What happened to you?”

Yolanda’s fingers paused on the piano, felt her eyes get big, her heart start thundering. She recognized the voice, even after all this time. “Steve?” she said.

“Of course. Were you expecting some other ghost to pop by?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Nothing came out. Blackness swelled from the edge of her vision, blocked out the light. She fell, barely hearing the discordant “kin-in-chonk” as she slumped  against the piano, hitting the keys.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she opened her eyes again. She lay on the floor now, facing up, the piano bench on her left, the battered old upright grand piano on her right. When she shifted her weight to push herself up, she heard the dampers settle back onto the strings as her hip came off the forte pedal.

Nothing felt broken, though some parts of her felt uncomfortable. That kind of fall scared her. She had probably bruised her hip, at least. She had been lucky.

Sitting upright on the floor, her head against the keyboard of the piano behind her, she looked around. She was alone in the apartment, as alone as she had been for … She didn’t articulate the passage of time. It didn’t seem so long that way.

“You gonna stay there on the floor, woman? Or you gonna get up and get me a beer?”

The voice–Steve’s voice–came from the couch, as if he were sitting there. Yolanda could see nothing, though.

“What’s going on?” Yolanda asked. She didn’t know who she was asking–or was scared of who she might be asking–and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. But she asked anyway. “Who’s there?”

“Who’s there?” The voice mocked her, the same way Steve would’ve mocked her for saying something stupid. Or for saying something he thought was stupid. He always did have a high opinion of himself. “Who the hell do you think it is?”

“Steve?”

The voice made a disgusted noise. A familiar sound, from her past. “Yes. Steve. I thought we had covered that already.”

“I …” Yolanda started, then stopped. After a few seconds she asked, “How long was I out?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? You think I got a watch?” Another disgusted noise. “The bastard took that after he shot me.”

Yolanda made her own sound of disgust. Another familiar sound from her past. “Don’t offer to help me get up or anything,” she said. She used the piano bench to pull herself up. Her joints protested, as did the muscles in her back and arms. She settled back onto the bench, facing the couch, still seeing nothing. But she could hear him, like he was in the room with her.

She ran her fingers over her face, gingerly. She found a tender lump on her forehead. She wondered what the bruise would look like. Would she have an imprint of the keys on her face?

“Where’s that beer?” the voice asked.

“In the …” In the fridge, Yolanda started to say. How easy it was to slip back into the old conversation patterns. “There isn’t any beer,” she said. “I can make you some coffee, if you want. Or tea.”

“Coffee? Coffee? I don’t drink coffee.”

She shrugged. “I don’t drink beer,” she said.

“I didn’t ask what you drink, woman. I told you to get me a beer.”

“There isn’t any beer,” she repeated. “And if there was, you could get it your damn self.”

“The hell there isn’t.” The voice seemed to be standing up now, no longer sitting on the couch. “I left most of a case in the fridge before I stepped out.”

Yolanda felt a–a breeze? a presence?–go past her, into the small kitchen. She heard the fridge door open. Somehow, that seemed more bizarre than hearing Steve’s voice.

“Damn it, Yolanda,” the voice said from the kitchen. “Why did you get rid of my beer?”

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Yolanda said. “A long time,” she said again, almost a whisper.

The breeze-presence passed by her again, going the other way. “What are you talking about?” the voice asked, back on the couch.

“You died,” Yolanda said.

“No shit I died. The guy shot me, point blank, then robbed me while I watched him do it. Never been so pissed off in all my life.”

“That was … years … ago.”

“Like hell. It was yesterday. I got so mad about it, I took off to the bar, had me a few drinks. Played some pool. I’m still pretty damn pissed off about it, but I figured I would come back, make sure you were OK.”

“Fifty years ago,” Yolanda said.

“The hell you say.”

“Look at my face, Steve, what do you see?”

“Uh…” The voice paused. “Hell, you still look good to me. Still got that round caboose of yours I always liked so much.”

Yolanda smiled. “You …” She paused, then went on. “I’m a stooped old woman, Steve, just about finished with this walk.”

“It was yesterday, Yolanda. I only had … a few drinks, only played … hell … not that many games of pool.”

She shook her head. “Fifty years, Steve. You’ve been gone a long time. This isn’t even our apartment.”

“Sure it is.”

Yolanda shook her head again. “Look at it, Steve. Look at me. Look at the pictures on the wall. William’s grown up now, grown up good, got kids of his own now, and one of them, named Steven William, after you, got kids of his own. And I’ve had other kids …”

“You been cheating on me, woman?”

“I got remarried, Steve. Two years later.”

“Shit. Was it …”

“No one you knew, no. William and I had moved by then. His name is Jeff. Was Jeff. He died five years ago.”

“He better be dead. Otherwise, he’ll get a piece of me.”

“Don’t be a dumbass, Steve.” Dumbass. Yolanda chuckled. How long had it been since called anyone that?

“I don’t have to listen to this.” The voice seemed to be standing again.

“You going to storm out again? Just like before?”

“Shut up, Yolanda.” The voice came from the door now. “Just shut up. I’ll be down at the bar.”

She heard the door open, but the door didn’t actually move. It remained closed.

“When I’ve cooled off a bit, I’ll come back and we can continue this conversation. You better get me some beer, have it cold.”

Yolanda just shook her head.

The unopened door slammed shut, causing the pictures on the wall to shift.

Yolanda remembered the last time he had done that. She had stormed around the apartment, having the argument over and over in her head, muttering under her breath, as she tried to get the place cleaned up, ready for the company coming over.

This time, she just took a deep breath, let it out slow.

“Good-bye, Steve,” she said.

Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.