Here is a September Short Story from Craig Towsley, who wrote a very entertaining tale about the goings-on at a particular dinner party. Well done on the story, Craig, and here it is for you all to read…
Randolph Garr sat midway down the left side of the dinner table. Three places away from the head of the table. Which was fine with him. The more chairs between Peterson him, the better. Peterson peered at him over the edge of his glass. Garr nodded and sipped at his bourbon.
It was Peterson’s birthday, a surprise dinner thrown by his wife, with all his closest friends. Garr thought it telling that he had been invited. He smiled. Poor old Peterson couldn’t fill a table. Couldn’t fill a cup, Garr thought.
They worked together. Peterson had been at his throat since he started. Garr saw it for what it was: the panicked fear of an old, jealous man, and acted accordingly. The only reason he had been invited was because the president of the company liked to think of the business as a family, and families ate and celebrated together.
The president, Mr. Kantz, sat to the left of Peterson and smiled down the table benevolently. His eyes were bright and you couldn’t help but like the man, even if he walked around half-blind. Beside him was Mrs. Kantz, who sucked on thick pink peppermints to hide the scotch on her breath.
Mrs. Peterson’s parents sat across from him. Their heads slumped between weakened shoulders and long noses made Garr think of turkey vultures.
Garr was hemmed in on both sides by men so fat and bland and wheezing that they should have been brothers. The one to his left droned on about interest rates on a mine he owned. And the other about a mine he was interested in. Garr let their two sonorous voices mould together into one constant buzz which he could nod at and ignore.
Instead he watched the girl across the table and two chairs up. Mr. Kantz introduced her as his niece, Mildred. Right now the poor girl was trapped in Mrs. Peterson’s jewelled talons. Her sharp, too-red fingernails wrapped firmly around the girl’s thin, creamy white arm as she talked about her days in Paris as a young woman, and how the niece simply must make time to be there herself.
Mildred smiled politely and listened intently. But Garr noticed the sidelong glance she threw towards him as she placed a wisp of straw-coloured hair behind her ear. He watched her slender, unadorned finger graze the lobe as she returned her hand to her wine glass. Garr tried to look away but was drawn back. More than drawn, he thought, he was impelled to stare at the delicate slope of her neck and shoulders. Her lips remained parted constantly, invitingly. Her green eyes deeper than any pool.
Garr sipped at his drink and tried to control himself.
A steak tougher than an old saddle was set in front of him. He concentrated on eating. He jutted his elbows out, digging into the brown sides of the bores beside him, as the saw-toothed knife worked through the meat.
Garr managed to make it through the dinner without choking on the leather or being crushed by boredom. He stood before the fire and smoked. The rest of the party was settled at the far end of the living room, sipping from ceramic tea cups. The lot of them were talking about a recent deal that fell through and Garr abhorred thinking about work outside of the office. He set his drink down on the mantle and saw Mildred, one thin elbow resting on the mantle.
Garr realized she was somehow more beautiful when standing, or maybe it was just she was standing before him. Her green eyes looked through him, and he almost turned to see what trophy might be hanging from the wall behind him.
“Dreadfully dull, isn’t it?,” she said. Garr smiled and agreed. They began talking, saying the normal things, where they were from, what school they attended, where they had travelled. For once Garr found this type of conversation fascinating. Mildred painted pictures with her words. He saw himself at her boarding school lunchroom as she talked of schoolgirl mischief, and sitting in the smoke-filled train as she described the Spanish countryside.
The rest of the party, those envious dullards, noticed their lively conversation. Peterson sat in his high-backed chair and seemed to take their enjoyment as a personal affront. While Mildred lit her cigarette, Garr noticed his grumbling to the others, and then standing and striding across the room like some rusted suit of armour.
“I haven’t yet thanked you for coming, Garr,” Peterson said, interrupting Mildred. Garr smiled and assured the older man he was glad to be there.
“Has young Garr here been telling you of his exploits, little one?” Peterson asked Mildred. “How dazzling his rise in the company has been? From stock boy to clerk to partner in five years? Hell, most likely, he’ll be soon taking the reins from your dear uncle and booting us all from the wagon!”
Peterson slapped Garr hard on the shoulder, spilling the bourbon out from its glass.
“Actually,” Mildred said, “I was just telling Randolph here of my trip through the Pyrenees.”
“Randolph?” Peterson said, cutting the girl off. “I’ve seen young bucks like him many a time. They climb fast but burn out quick. Won’t be long before he’s nothing but ash and embers.”
Garr had enough. He set his empty glass on the mantle. Then he turned and socked Peterson in the jaw. The older man stepped back twice and fell to his ass. He sat there, legs splayed wide, his hand on his cheek, dim eyes looking up. The rest of the party remained seated, shock bolting their shoes to the carpet.
“Some people age as wine, Peterson,” Garr said. “You have more in common with milk.”
While everyone sat dumb, he thanked Mildred for the lovely evening and said he hoped to see her again. Mildred kissed him lightly on the cheek and said the same.
He shook hands with the Katz’, the bores, the vultures and told Mrs. Peterson that the steak had been delicious. He told them not to bother to get up, he could see himself out. Randolph Garr closed the heavy front door behind him and walked down the street smiling.
The stories coming in have been great so far, keep them coming!
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