Second Lives: A Modest Collection of Short Stories

By Ann O'Neal Garcia

Written by Ann O'Neal Garcia over a span of some forty years, the thirty short stories in Second Lives reveal a brilliant author who, in Ann Tyler fashion, reveals her humanity with a wide range of characters, just as she did with her novel, Spirit on the Wall, published by Holiday House.
Whether the character is a motherless girl of twelve appalled by what's happening to her once-flat chest, or a drunken broad looking to run off with Jesus, or a dim, pimply-faced teenage boy dreaming of the winning bull ride, this author lovingly draws her cast with clear-eyed detail and perfect pitch.
This collection attests to Ann's stunning versatility: the stories range from science fiction to autobiography; some are long and some are short; some are stone sober and some are whimsical.
In every story, the reader feels enriched by Ann's spirit -- how despite the sloughs of despair she sees beauty and finds hilarity. Even in tragic situations, the reader bursts out laughing. When you are finished reading this amazing collection, you too will feel better about the chaos we create and survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann O'Neal Garcia
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463046562

Ann O'Neal Garcia

When I was born in southern Illinois, there was an earthquake that shook Redbud but didn't hurt anyone. There were three infants named Ann in the nursery, but I was the only one whose first name was Ann. Luckily I had very educated parents who were inveterate readers and yes, who often wrote stories. Dad worked with his father who owned a local drug store. Mom worked for the Greenville, Illinois newspaper, the Advocate, part time, but was mostly a stay-at-home mom. She and Dad got to choose any ten acres of woodland from Grandpa's acreage, so they discovered Indian Creek where Dad built us a house at the top of the tallest hill. I had and still have two brothers, Denny and Jody, who also loved living in the woods. We were creative kids, allowed to run free most of the time. All of us read a great deal; I pursued art and story writing while my brothers were more scientific. When I was 11, my brothers 10 and 6, our mom died. It was a turning point in our lives, a devastating blow. I decided early on to "make her proud" even if she was far far away. I figured she'd tune in. She has. I carry her within me wherever I go and try to love life as much as she did. In my professional life, I was a teacher of English, having graduated from the University of Wyoming in 1961. After I retired, I chanced into employment again when we moved to Las Vegas, NM, hired as tutor at the writing center at NMHU. Besides all this teaching which I loved, I wrote and wrote and wrote. The stories you will find here were only a fraction of that writing. I was lucky enough to be published by Holiday House in 1982 with my YA book, Spirit on the Wall. Sun Magazine has taken some of my Readers Write essays, and I had an article published in Our Turn, Our Time by Beyond Words. Most of my writing is under my bed in boxes labeled Stories, Essays, Poems, this novel and that novel. I love to write but hate the business of trying to get published. I figure a writer is, simply, one who writes. I fulfill that description, and now ... I am published again! I think I've made Mom proud.

Book preview

Written by Ann O'Neal Garcia over a span of some forty years, the thirty short stories in Second Lives reveal a brilliant author who, in Ann Tyler fashion, reveals her humanity with a wide range of characters, just as she did with her novel, Spirit on the Wall, published by Holiday House.

Whether the character is a motherless girl of twelve appalled by what's happening to her once-flat chest, or a drunken broad looking to run off with Jesus, or a dim, pimply-faced teenage boy dreaming of the winning bull ride, this author lovingly draws her cast with clear-eyed detail and perfect pitch.

This collection attests to Ann's stunning versatility: the stories range from science fiction to autobiography; some are long and some are short; some are stone sober and some are whimsical.

In every story, the reader feels enriched by Ann's spirit -- how despite the sloughs of despair she sees beauty and finds hilarity. Even in tragic situations, the reader bursts out laughing. When you are finished reading this amazing collection, you too will feel better about the chaos we create and survive.

More Praise for Ann O'Neal Garcia

As a reader of many of Ann O'Neal Garcia's short stories, along with her first novel, Spirit on the Wall, I believe she's a genius. She consistently makes me laugh until I cry, then stop to marvel and wonder. She can shock and disturb me, then instill a new joy in my fellow human beings. Don't get complacent, reader; she can be unpredictable; you won't see it coming. -- Peggy Brown, author of Mana Nui and Mana's Child

'I love this book!' says Susan Kennedy about Ann's first book, Spirit on the Wall, with 'excellent life lessons regarding love, loyalty and faithfulness.' I echo these words as they befit this collection of Ann's short stories. Her authentic dialogue captures her characters, bringing them alive, revealing Ann's capacity to love even the most unlovely and imperfect." -- Sheryl Lain, author of A Poem for Every Student.

Praise from a wonderful writer is praise indeed. Jean Naggar, in response to Ann's comments

Ann creates her fictional world with people so real I talk to them in my dreams. Gayle Lain, author of Trippin' through the Oil Patch

You speak so much truth, about what's hidden in people's hearts. Your writing hurts me with its beauty. From a writing perspective as fine as it gets! -- Rita Laxton, South African author and Ursula LeGuinn's friend.

So telling in such an entertaining way. The buildup of tension and suspense is palpable. -- Peggy Brown, helicopter pilot and published author

I like the twists and turns...keeps this reader motivated. Brilliant passages. So good for those of us growing up in a small town or in the country. -- Linda P. Erickson

Perfectly timed...I saw the fists fly. -- Amy Collen

This is super! -- Virginia Ogden

What a perfect example of some characters' inane prattle. (Your autobiographical stories show) such a fine description of childhood. -- Theresa Verhoort

Excellent story. -- Jean Greenlaw, North Texas State University about Spirit on the Wall. These words apply to this collection of short stories, too.

You can be proud of yourself to be able to write this way. -- Anne Mieke V. Puttin, Dutch pen pal

Across the miles, across the years you still inspire me. -- Nancy Hemsoth, former seventh grade student

Second Lives

A Modest Collection of Short Stories

by Ann O'Neal Garcia

Edited by Sheryl Lain and Margaret Shaw

WellHouse Publishing, Cheyenne

Cover Design by Cal Sharp

Caligraphics.net

Smashwords

Second Lives Copyright 2018 Ann O'Neal Garcia

Published by Ann O'Neal Garcia

at Smashwords through WellHouse Publishing, Cheyenne

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people.

If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only the please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank first of all my teachers, who encouraged my writing: Mrs. Ward, Mrs. Tippett, Mr. Pennington, Mrs. Baker and Dr. Mac.

My first best friend Jeannie in Greenville, IL, wrote and illustrated horse stories with me on Big Chief tablets.

Without fellow teachers in Cheyenne Margaret Shaw and Sheryl Lain there were be no book at all, just pages and pages of characters and their stories lying dormant in the limbo of the unpublished.

Daughter Carolyn thinks I am the best, but continues to laugh at practically everything I do.

Friends in New Mexico, Brent, Bernie, Gail, Johanna, Edith, Lil, and Betsy, all of whom and more shared their love of writing with me.

My present writing group in Hillsboro, OR, encourages, teaches and straightens me out: Theresa, Peggy, Janice, Nan, Linda, Rita, Amy, Virginia and Gail.

And to the men in my life, my husband Tony and my son Jonathan, my son-in-law Jay, my brothers Denny and Joe O'Neal, my spiritual guide Father George Salazar, my soul brother Gayle Lain. And of course, Fred Milton.

Forward

Second Lives comes from my life-long love of writing. I've lived at least two lives -- my day-to-day one where I put on my shoes, hopefully a matched pair, and walked to school to teach kids, and my second one that comes to life from somewhere else and reveals itself through my stories.

All my life I've squirreled away my writing: tucked into closets, folded between pillowcases and old purses, pushed way back under my bed amidst dust balls, or filed in innocuous teaching folders.

Before computer days, I needed a back up of my labors, so I sent copies of my work to my best friend Margaret Shaw. She kept my writing safe. Until her basement flooded this summer. When she dragged out soggy items, there was a huge box crammed with my old stories and letters, some from way back in the 70’s. She read them, along with another dear friend, Sheryl Lain, who also has believed in my literary prowess. They decided I should be published at least one more time before I croaked.

So…long saga short…here’s a collection of stories from 1970's to present day. I do have a recurrent theme, that of losing my darling Mom when I was 11. When I began writing about her, I re-discovered her. These stories, though sad, were comforting reunions for me.

A good many of my stories investigate death, resurrection, ghosts, kids and adults who are trying to figure out life and death. Each of us works out the purpose of our individual life, its mysteries and its absolutes. The stories weave tales of those lives: Mine. Yours. Ours.

Contents

About this Book

Forward

Abigail's Obituary

Adoration of the Gypsies

Allie

As Told by the Parties Involved

Aunt Frilly's Big Surprise

Beauty of Empty Space

Conspiracy at Chapel Hill School

Desiree

Down the River

Empty Desk

Facts of Life

Fish Fish Fish

Ghost Town

Gift

God Sighting

Havilland China

High Noon LeDoux

Holding On

Life with Gramma Emma

Little Foxes

Megaclone

Methuselah and Saul

Physical Education

Possession

Russian Babushka

She Doesn't Equivocate

Snaps

To Tell the Truth

Toast to Sadness

Wrong Cart

A Bit About Ann O'Neal Garcia

Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again. -- Joseph Campbell

Abigail's Obituary

She used to try to please but not anymore! She is too busy writing her obituary.

In Ward Three, Abigail lay motionless, a tiny figure shrunken within the bedclothes, so slender she hardly made a dent in the mattress. You might think she'd recently passed on, but if you leaned over her more closely, you could detect a flickering beneath her opaque eyelids. Her right hand, out of the covers, also quivered. You would probably never guess that she was entertaining herself by composing her obituary.

Abigail Lain O'Shaw McLaughlin, 95 years of age. She had a good life. Her first child, Marcus Royal, married Hattie, an old-fashioned name for a thoroughly modern woman. No progeny. Hattie was much too concerned about her waistline ever to hazard having children. Now, Hattie was well past the child-bearing age. Of course, none of that could be in the obituary. She was straying. As always. But what was the point? Was there a point to life itself? Leave it to the philosophers. I am too old to bother. Abigail sniffed and continued. As her thoughts came, her right index finger trembled. It recalled the feel of her favorite fountain pen. The other child, the late beloved daughter, Antoine Etta Henderson...no, no, take out beloved or put it in front of Marcus Royal's name as well. It would hurt him if she said beloved for Antoine and not for him.

Go on. Keep writing.

And the late granddaughter, the only granddaughter, Phoenicia, and Phoenicia's most beloved child, Abigail's great-granddaughter -- oh, yes, here she should say beloved, beloved, beloved. The late ten-year-old Cubbie. Abigail shivered. Most beloved Cubbie. All three of Abigail's girls killed when American Flight 56 plowed into the World Trade Center. On their way to see her for her birthday on September 11. What presents had they carried? She always said, "Just yourselves. That's all the present I could ever want, more than enough to see your sweet faces, but they came like the Magi, always bearing gifts.

The year before the accident, Cub brought her a dog she'd rescued from the pound's death row, an old Chihuahua, wobbly and woozy, obviously on its last legs. I know you said you didn't want any more dogs, Mamaw, Cubbie apologized, bending down and kissing the old lady's dry cheek. Cubbie knew Mamaw professed there was nothing she loved more than dogs. It was unspoken family knowledge that the only reason Grandmother didn't get another one after Bingo's passing was the fear the new one would outlive her. This one surely wouldn't. Cubbie tenderly placed the diminutive female dog in her great-grandmother's lap, as if the Chihuahua were a fragile wine glass.

Against her better judgment, Abigail immediately reached out and fingered its ribs, thinking. Pablum. Baby food. Strained beef. Ask Dr. Hewlett what diet this poor little stick of a dog could tolerate. When Cubbie and Phoenicia and Antoine left that time -- the last time they would ever be together, although, of course, none of them could know that -- the separation hadn't torn at Abigail as badly as usual, because she was so wrapped up with her new project, her little Snookie. Snookie would be in the obituary. And the others? There had been twelve dogs, twenty-one, if she counted the foster dogs PAWS placed in her care over the years. But this last one was the most special because Cubbie had picked her out. Snookie Pie, a stupid name, the stupidest name Abigail had ever given an animal or human, and she'd come up the some doozies. Snookie had to be in the obituary. With a capital B. Beloved.

Snookie now resided with Marcus Royal and Hattie. Hattie, who said she'd never have a dog! Why, she'd fallen in love with the Snook in a flash, and even painted the dog's toenails with fingernail polish, a different shade each week. Abigail's right hand curled as it recalled writing.

Marcus Royal had brought Snookie to see her just last week, hidden from staff under his jacket. Snook wasn't upset that Abigail was no longer speaking, not upset the way Marcus had been and still was. Just too weak, the nurse told Marcus when his mother decided to go silent five months ago. There's nothing wrong with her voice box. She just can't make the effort. It happens, dear.

Abigail quit speaking after she had the dream for the first time. She figured if she didn't talk, people would become more and more uncomfortable around her and quit coming to see her. Indeed, the regular visits had dropped off dramatically. Even Marcus Royal came just once a week now, generally on Sunday afternoon, instead of four or five times during the week.

Mother, please, please talk to me. I miss your voice, he begged her. Her heart broke for him, the way it always had in her former life. She wanted to please him, she did. Her tongue worked and she could not count the times she almost broke down and granted his request, but she managed somehow to keep her lips sealed. His plaintive pleas continued. I miss you. Isn't that the craziest thing? You're right here in front of me, and I miss you. Please, Mama. Just say my name. Marcus. C'mon, Mom. Marcus.

Marcus, Marcus, Marcus Royal, she said over and over in her mind. Go away, darling. Do. Go to Hattie. Be everything she wants you to be, and that'll keep you busy for the rest of your life. Go with my blessing. But he came back every Sunday for his mother fix, even if it was no longer satisfying. He still needed her to entertain him, placate him, praise him, pander to him.

Abigail had been in the business of pleasing people all of her life. She'd done a fairly good job of it. People naturally gravitated to her. First, her grandparents were so adoring. They marveled at her name, perfect for her, they said. It meant bringer of joy. She was absolutely the epitome of joy, they assured her. They waited for her on their porches, stretching their necks out like turtles to be the first to catch a glimpse of her as she rounded the corner with her friends on the way home from grade school. Snapping turtles, she unkindly thought. She denied her own meanness as fast as it arose. She maintained a fierce loyalty to them she supposed was a form of love.

Later, she developed that same watching syndrome over her own children and it helped her understand her grandparents. She'd never known such love. It tore her into pieces. Was there no part of her inviolate to love like this? The grandchild and the great grandchild -- Phoenicia, oh, Cubbie -- had been more relaxing, the love more pure. She didn't know why. She had adored her husband, Francis, but she also resented him a good deal of the time. His flirtations. The affair she'd discovered. The embezzling charge that ate up most of her inheritance to get him in the clear. She made friends easily, but when they loved her back a bit too much and began to crowd, she withdrew. This confused them, and she did not understand it any better than they.

She embraced some causes with fervor. Save the Children. PAWS. Sometimes the causes made her want to scream. None of these self-revelations in the obituary! She'd always scorned women who analyzed themselves ad infinitum, ad nauseam, and now she was doing it. But at least, not over a bridge game in a loud, pushy voice that bounced importantly off the parlor walls. The inconsistencies in her character didn't make any sense to her, irritated her, made her writing fingers twitch.

Well, she certainly had expended much energy on many things that no longer interested her. Now, left to herself, she could reflect on what did matter and what did not -- or even, if anything at all mattered. She could play mind games, be sinfully self-indulgent.

Name a few favorite sights you have not considered for a while, she told herself. She heard the memory of her voice. Objects backlit by the setting sun. If I were an artist, this is what I would paint: Weeds in a pasture, the sun a huge red ball slipping down behind the hill, the weeds in the foreground white, shimmering, ethereal. Or that sorrel colt I once saw, its wiry crewcut mane lit up as if on fire. You could count each separate blazing hair.

What are the best things to smell? Alfalfa fields being harvested. Puppy breath. Freshly turned earth. The neck of a baby or of a horse.

Best things to feel? Oh, of course. The Visitor. She would think of that later. Save the best to savor before sleep, and perchance to dream. Again.

Reverie was her sole project now, even as painting the baby's room or training a new dog or writing a letter to a faraway friend or taking photos of the children or lining up entertainment for a charity marathon or baking her husband's birthday cake, all had been consuming projects in the life before this. For this final project, she needed only to be very quiet and let whatever would come, come.

At first the nurses tried to cajole her out of her silence. They were losing their pet patient. Still not speaking, hmmm? Oh, now we're getting the silent treatment, hmm? And what have we done to deserve that? C'mon, Mrs. McLaughlin. Just a word. We miss your voice. Your happy laugh. Your bright and positive attitude.

Indeed, she had been a favorite among staff when she first came to the home. She had made sure of that, had wooed them shamelessly, seen what they wanted and given it. Coming here had been her idea, she told them so. They liked that. She told them she would not be a burden to Marcus Royal, though he and Hattie had begged her to live with them. The staff admired her spirit, her independence. It was time to live in a dormitory again, she trilled. Like going back to college, rah-rah, she chirped. Why hadn't she waved some pom-poms while she was at it? Time to abide by the rules of an institution again, she said, and then asked them, What are your rules?"

We have very few rules, Mrs. McLaughlin, they assured her. They lied, of course.

There was a game to play at any institution, and Haley's Rest Home was no exception. She knew how to rack up points in her favor, and for at least a month, she enjoyed pleasing them. Staff preferred good-looking old ladies, and she was one of that elect. Thanks to fortunate genes, she had not wrinkled much or gone to slabs of fat. She was thin. They liked thin. The whole world liked and admired thin, as if a high metabolism were something you had worked hard all your life to achieve, as if it were a mark of sterling character, instead of what it actually was, a happy occurrence of DNA. She was also well-dressed, though her wardrobe was now limited to a few skirts and blouses, a sweater, pajama sets, some nice pairs of slippers, underwear, a silk robe. Limited as it was, the labels were impressive. Don't think for a moment they didn't prioritize such insignificant details.

She had not objected when they poked and prodded and talked about the wonderful old sport she was. She went off to therapy docilely and tried valiantly to do what they asked. But she surpassed their fondest dream when she insisted on taking care of her most private needs by herself. The main way to be popular in an institution of this ilk was to use the toilet on your own. To get up out of bed, no matter how weak, to situate yourself behind the walker, to shuffle yourself to the toilet and to stay there until something moved, even if it took the better part of the morning, and then, by God, to clean your own self up. This was how to please staff, and she had known it and done all of these things just the way she conscientiously worked the people in her former life. She supposed, when it got right down to it, she was a phony. A bowing, scraping people-pleaser.

But, after the dream, it was as if she had been given permission to be herself. The effort of trying to be good or wonderful became too irritating to sustain. It took up so much precious time, time she was no longer willing to donate.

This was, after all, the end of her life. She had no say about the beginning, little say about the middle. Surprising, how she'd let herself be carried along like a log in a swollen river all those years. But now she would do exactly as she wished, no more, no less. No more manipulating, no more trying to be clever or sweet or strong or valiant. Let there be accidents if she felt too weak to leave her bed. Let them come and diaper her. Let them spoon broth into her mouth and wipe her chin. Let them bruise her, if that is what it came to, if they grew impatient and angry. All she wanted, just for whatever time she had left, was to be silent and cater to nobody.

Marcus Royal nagged at her, nearly broke through her resolution time and again. She rationalized that she needed to release him for his own good and that she was actually doing him a favor. She reminded herself of the constrained, grim set to his lips during his visits, even when she still was speaking. She had seen him sneaking looks at his watch. Caught him rolling his eyes when she forgot and repeated herself. I've heard that already, Mother. Watched him stifle sighs and yawns. Listened to the over-solicitous tones as he asked, Are you in pain today, Mother? Did you sleep well?

Last week when he'd smuggled in Snook to see her, she had known it to be a ploy, of course, to break through her silence. That she wouldn't speak, even in her joy, didn't bother the dog who seemed to read her mind. Oh, Snookie, I've missed you so much! The dog burrowed under the sheets, settled gently by the old lady's side and laid her tiny head down on one of Abigail's sunken breasts. You seem happy now, Mother, Marcus Royal observed. Then pried, Are you? Are you glad to see your little Snookie Pie? Can you open your eyes, Mother? Hattie got Snook a new collar. Thnookie-Pie looks so thweet in pearls, ha ha. Oh, Mother come on. Say something, so I can tell Hattie. For God sakes, Mother.

He sat rigidly in the bedside chair, simmering with anger. Abigail could feel his heat waves. Suddenly, he reached under the sheet to reclaim Snook. The Chihuahua edged away from his hand, growling, snapping at him as he lifted her squirming body from the bed. Oh Mother, look, he said, the anger in his voice not abated. Snook doesn't want to leave. Don't you care about anything, Mother? Then before he turned on his heel, he spat out, I suppose you've lost your mind. You don't speak because you can't. You're a useless shell, that's all, and I don't know why I bother. Goodbye.

Superfluous information, all of this. Not obituary material, not at all.

Old habits prompted her to bring herself back to point. Now, what was it that she said about her life in the beginning of the obituary? A good life. Well, it had a nice enough beginning, if you skip the initial tragedy. Easy for her, because she hadn't been old enough to remember. Her mother died in childbirth, her father quickly remarried, but he was killed a few months later in a horse and buggy accident. Her stepmother turned Abigail over to her two sets of grandparents. Grandmother and Grandfather Lain, Grandmother and Grandfather O'Shaw. Being their little girl had been the nice part. Growing up adored by four august people. Well, who wouldn't like that? Who wouldn’t call that nice? They gave her everything her heart desired. It was nice, wasn't it?

The grandparents had taken her to the Episcopal Church every Sunday where she sat primly between the Lains on her left and the O'Shaws on her right. She rarely missed a service from age one through twenty, and she had fervently believed in the faith all the way through childhood. But later, the doubts came. Perhaps she had read too much. Thought too much. Questioned too much. Became convinced human beings made up the gods in their own image. She wished now she were not agnostic. It would be so lovely, so very simple to believe as she had back then. Comforting, especially now. However, she was not afraid of death. Suddenly came the image of the plane disappearing into a ball of flame against the building. Cubbie. Phoenicia. Antoine. Not afraid. No, I am not afraid, she told God, if there was a God. She stuck her chin out defiantly. Christianity was built on one's vulnerability, one's fears, and she wouldn't cave into it ever again.

She stroked the sheet with her see-through hands, the blue veins prominent. They stretched up toward her fingers like branches of a barren bush. She did not need to open her eyes to view her hands. She told herself to keep breathing despite the recurring image of the plane. Do not let the plane wreck stop your breath. Not breathing just made the head swim, and even if you felt faint, you didn't faint. You didn't die, not even if you wanted to. You just gasped and took a breath anyway. She couldn't seem to stop breathing any more than she could stop some very negative thoughts. Well, let the thoughts and images come, then. Go on. Look at them. Go into the center, the terrible center, and find peace. That was a Buddhist idea she recalled having read somewhere. Some funny name for its author. Lu Dohge? Dogue Lobsand? Lobsang Lu? Go into it, he said. Staying on the periphery is more damaging, takes more energy. Stopped-up energy is very bad. Every old person knows this.

So she lay there and watched the doomed airliner that carried Phoenicia and Cub and Antoine hit the South Tower over and over again. This was the terrible downside of the reveries. Was it a swift death? Did they see it coming? Did they have time to hold hands? To say a prayer? To scream? Was it a more lenient death than the death of those who jumped from the building to escape the fire? Again, she caught herself holding her breath as she plummeted down to death with the jumpers. She had read -- damn the reading anyway -- that the height was not sufficient to make the jumpers pass out before hitting the pavement. Before she'd read this, she imagined them blacking out. Clumsy with the remote, she had accidentally caught a bit of a TV show that included the terrible sound of the jumpers' deaths in the background. Like watermelons exploding. She hated these memories, but was powerless to stop them. Well. There wasn't much more life left in her. The memories would stop soon enough.

She was older than she imagined she would ever be, and weak, so weak she could not keep her eyes open long enough to