Catfight

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is ‘Starting Over’.

Today’s story was written by Phil Yeats. He recently published his third novel using the pen name Alan Kemister. His first two were cozy mysteries. This one has a more serious theme. The Souring Seas is the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. For information about this book and others in what will be a series of three (and possibly more) novels about this important topic, visit his website – https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

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Catfight

by Phil Yeats

 

“You remember Jim Abbott?” Melanie said to Fiona in the atrium outside the university library.

Fiona shook her head. “Don’t think so. Some reason I should?”

“He was in your biology class. Then he didn’t return last September.”

Fiona stared ahead with wrinkled nose and furrowed brow. “Decent -looking guy, but nothing spectacular. Mediocre student into sports and hitting on girls and nothing else. Something strange about why he didn’t return. Yeah, I’m getting the picture. Why mention him?”

“He’s from my hometown. At school, he tried hard to fit in, but always messed up. I felt sorry for him.”

“He’s a doofus. Why bother?”

“I saw him yesterday. He’s back on campus, registered for second year, so a year behind us. But he’s really changed, and I’ve always been curious about why he dropped out.”

“Car accident, wasn’t it? He got seriously hurt and took months to recover.”

“That was after he dropped out. It’s an intriguing little mystery.” She pointed toward a coffee counter. “If you’ve time for coffee, I could describe it. I’m buying.”

“Can do,” Fiona said as she pulled out a wrought-iron chair by a round glass-topped table. “But I’ll have tea, no milk, no sugar.”

“That summer, I went home for the summer and worked in our local drugstore,” Melanie began as she added sugar and cream to her coffee.

“I remember. I had a job on campus. It paid better than yours, but after my room and board, you came out ahead.”

“About Jim—” Melanie said.

“Yeah, what about Jim?”

“Didn’t see him all summer until one morning in mid-August. He shuffled to the dispensary where Mr. Jones, the pharmacist owner, always perched like a gargoyle. I was doing something boring like tidying shelves. I peeked over, hoping I might learn something, but Jim picked up something, a prescription presumably, paid for it, and left.”

“Why the interest in someone we agree is creepy?”

“Not sure I agree, but he looked so awful, like death warmed over. It sparked my curiosity.”

Fiona smiled. “Methinks you secretly like the guy.”

“Gimme a break. He was in my class at school for six years. Can’t I feel sorry for someone I’ve known that long?”

“Sorry I said anything. Get on with your story. I’m like not having all day.”

“When my lunch break came, I went to eat outside like I usually did. I saw him sitting on my favourite bench. He was slouched ahead with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands.”

“Sounds like he was waiting for you.”

Melanie shrugged. “Perhaps, and his story kind of spewed out. He had cancer, diagnosed and treated surgically within days. Too overwhelming, but it was a treatable cancer. His chances of recovery were almost one hundred per cent. He never told me what type, but he said he should be functional within a month.”

“This was early August. Why would it cause him to drop out of school?”

“He called it a wake-up call. Taking a term off would help him ‘get his shit together’ to use his phrase.”

“But he was in a car accident, wasn’t he?”

“An innocent bystander, well, bysitter, if that’s a word. He was sitting near a window in the coffee shop when a car crashed through the window and landed on top of him. Apparently, glass flew in all directions. He was hit by some and ended up with a major cut that produced a big scar and blinded him in one eye. Add a broken femur, and a thoroughly smashed up knee. Yeah, seriously hurt.”

“Wow. He must have looked awful.”

“It happened on Labour Day weekend after I returned for the start of the new term. I didn’t see him until I was home at Christmas. By then he was walking wounded with a scar and eyepatch, hobbling around with the help of a cane.”

“Testicular cancer,” Fiona exclaimed.

“What! Why that? Why not leukemia or something else?”

“Because it fits your description. Quick surgery after diagnosis, quick recovery, almost certain cure, and what do you think? Would this loser want to tell you he’d lost a ball?”

“Jesus, girl. You so have it in for this guy. Can’t you show some sympathy?”

“Don’t see that he deserves any. And how does this explain him getting his shit together? More likely make him sink deeper into his psychological rut.”

“You are so bloody unfair. I don’t know why I bother talking to you. He took a term off because he didn’t know how long the recovery would take. Getting his shit together resulted from the scandals surrounding the car crash.”

“Scandals?”

Melanie thumped her mug on the table. “Yeah, scandals, plural. The first one was the window glass. The building was new. It should have had glass that wouldn’t shatter, but the builder broke the rules, cut corners, installed glass that shattered and injured Jim and several others. He wrote about it from his hospital bed, got it published, and worked for the past year in the town newspaper.”

“You said scandals.”

“The car driver. He’s a standard feature of many towns. The obnoxious kid of the richest citizen, in this case a lawyer, thinks he’s God’s gift, above the rules. His daddy gives him a new car after he gets drunk and totals his old one. Drives the new one down Main Street at high speed, loses control, smashes through the shop window. All while his licence is suspended. Jim’s studying English and writing an expose. He’s going to be famous, and I’m like making you crawl on your knees and apologize to him for all the mean things you’ve been saying.”

Fiona stood, laughing. “I hope you’re right. I hope the doofus does turn it around. And just so you don’t hear it from someone else. I know all about this story. He’s living in our apartment with Susan, Christine, and me. And Chrissy has the inside track on his affections.” She strutted away. “Thanks for the tea.”

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/