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Carter's Trip Home by Florence Cardinal
In honor of yesterday's National Tell a Story Day, we asked community members to submit a short story on our Facebook Fan Page. Congratulations to Florence Cardinal on her winning submission!
Photo Credit: Jenny Downing / Flickr
Carter opened the back door and peered down the hallway. He hadn't been home for years, but everything seemed the same. The faint aroma of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen.
A vase of pink summer roses, Meg's favorites, stood on the hall table and added a breath of perfume to the air.
Carter removed his shoes. Meg was a tyrant when it came to the gloss on the hardwood floor in the music room. A dog barked. He glanced out the window hoping to see Red loping across the freshly mowed grass. The dog, however roamed farther afield, somewhere beyond the box elder hedge and Meg's symmetrical beds of marigolds and petunias.
Down the hall. Slowly. His feet left faint shadows in the plush carpet. Pausing at the first door, he looked into the office with the oak desk, worn leather swivel chair, the walls lined with law books. Old Luther had been dead for years, but the room still reeked of the bitter effluvium of cheap cigars.
Carter moved on, smiled as he entered the bedroom he and Meg had shared. Some things never changed. Burnt orange carpet, apricot walls, peach bedspread and curtains. Meg's colors. Warm and golden, like the woman he once loved.
Still loved.
He listened. Beethoven's "Pathetique" echoed from the music room. It was Carter's favorite melody played as only Meg could play it, each note as rich and clear as the voice of the meadowlark on a warm spring morning.
He hurried down the hall and pushed back the bamboo curtain. The hardwood floor gleamed in sunlight from the bay window. Meg sat primly at the Baby Grand, her face hidden by the fall of her hair. Her fingers caressed the keys. He stood transfixed, basked in her beauty, in the music, in being home at last.
Tears blurred his vision as he stepped into the room. Her name hovered on his lips.
The music faded. He stood for a moment in the stifling silence. Then he turned his back on the cracked, yellow piano keys, fled from the thick layer of dust on the piano bench, the broken window, the bird droppings on the rotting floor.
He ignored the empty rooms, the crumbling walls. The pervasive smell of rot, mold and mildew that made him gag. He grabbed his shoes, stumbled out of the house, down the moss-covered steps, and ran across the overgrown lawn and fought his way through the scraggly hedge.
Back on the street, he stopped, checked his watch. If he hurried, there would still be time to buy pink roses for Meg's grave.
Carter opened the back door and peered down the hallway. He hadn't been home for years, but everything seemed the same. The faint aroma of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen.
A vase of pink summer roses, Meg's favorites, stood on the hall table and added a breath of perfume to the air.
Carter removed his shoes. Meg was a tyrant when it came to the gloss on the hardwood floor in the music room. A dog barked. He glanced out the window hoping to see Red loping across the freshly mowed grass. The dog, however roamed farther afield, somewhere beyond the box elder hedge and Meg's symmetrical beds of marigolds and petunias.
Down the hall. Slowly. His feet left faint shadows in the plush carpet. Pausing at the first door, he looked into the office with the oak desk, worn leather swivel chair, the walls lined with law books. Old Luther had been dead for years, but the room still reeked of the bitter effluvium of cheap cigars.
Carter moved on, smiled as he entered the bedroom he and Meg had shared. Some things never changed. Burnt orange carpet, apricot walls, peach bedspread and curtains. Meg's colors. Warm and golden, like the woman he once loved.
Still loved.
He listened. Beethoven's "Pathetique" echoed from the music room. It was Carter's favorite melody played as only Meg could play it, each note as rich and clear as the voice of the meadowlark on a warm spring morning.
He hurried down the hall and pushed back the bamboo curtain. The hardwood floor gleamed in sunlight from the bay window. Meg sat primly at the Baby Grand, her face hidden by the fall of her hair. Her fingers caressed the keys. He stood transfixed, basked in her beauty, in the music, in being home at last.
Tears blurred his vision as he stepped into the room. Her name hovered on his lips.
The music faded. He stood for a moment in the stifling silence. Then he turned his back on the cracked, yellow piano keys, fled from the thick layer of dust on the piano bench, the broken window, the bird droppings on the rotting floor.
He ignored the empty rooms, the crumbling walls. The pervasive smell of rot, mold and mildew that made him gag. He grabbed his shoes, stumbled out of the house, down the moss-covered steps, and ran across the overgrown lawn and fought his way through the scraggly hedge.
Back on the street, he stopped, checked his watch. If he hurried, there would still be time to buy pink roses for Meg's grave.
MaryK
Apr 28, 11:14 AM
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jerder
Apr 29, 9:05 AM
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Jessyca
Apr 29, 10:55 AM
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