The Porch

By David Alan Armstrong

People are not Edward's forte, but despite his best efforts, people are unavoidable. An autistic adult, Edward finds his routine life disrupted by events that force him to face uncomfortable changes. First, he receives an unusual job assignment that requires him to make monthly visits to a cantankerous old man. Then his widowed mother’s stroke forces Edward to become her caregiver. When the old man overcomes his drug addiction, he tries to make Edward his friend, and Edward is forced to learn to interact. The old man’s recently divorced daughter comes to live with him, and Edward experiences his first romantic infatuation. His crush blossoms into love, which he struggles to express with his limited emotional intelligence. More changes tear Edward out of his routine existence as the old man, now his friend, develops cancer and passes away. He comes to grips with a world of changes and leaves the safety of the old man’s porch to enter the doorway to love and a new life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Alan Armstrong
• Release date: Jun 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224538133

David Alan Armstrong

David Alan Armstrong lives with his wife in his adopted home town of Kaysville, Utah, after having grown up in Southern California. His three children and five grandchildren are spread around the U.S. He has degrees in Education from Brigham Young University and the University of Southern California. He retired from a forty-year career in the Information Technology industry as a programmer, analyst, project manager just one week before the COVID-19 pandemic. He spends his time now caring for his disabled wife, keeping up the house and yard, playing guitar and piano, coordinating a caregiver support group, helping his neighbors, actively serving in his congregation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and writing.

Book preview

THE PORCH

by David Alan Armstrong

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by David Alan Armstrong

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictionally. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address David Alan Armstrong, 603 East 1550 South, Kaysville, UT 84037

To Jeramy

CHAPTER ONE

The Assignment

Edward entered the safe haven of his orderly cubicle. Scanning the barren, clutterless workspace, the chair square and tight against the edge of the desktop, the empty waste basket tucked next to the filing drawer, the blank computer screen ready to be awakened, he relished the anticipation of a quiet, orderly day.

As he punched the On button of his computer, sharp tones of a female voice from the adjacent cube penetrated his space. I waited for you for an hour last night. Where were you? Her angry tones grated on his ears. My parents kept checking their watches, but I kept telling them, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be here. He’s just stuck in traffic.’ What the heck? Edward grabbed a microfiber cloth he kept in his desk drawer and wiped a speck of dust from the screen, hoping against hope the irritating voice would stop. That’s not good enough. Get a new phone if the battery won’t hold a charge. You blew it, mister!

He held his breath and waited for the next piercing stream of words, but silence settled like a blanket of calm. Edward let out a long, slow breath, released the tension in his shoulders, and closed his eyes. He re-gathered his focus, touched the tabs on his button-down, starched collar to assure himself that he was organized, put together, trimmed and ready to start the day.

The computer screen lit up, and he opened the email app. At the top of the inbox was the usual urgent request from the prince of Nigeria, who was in desperate need of help in transferring $5,000,000. The message went straight to trash with the click of a red X. He hoped someday to wreak vengeance on the scammers who cluttered his email and wasted his time.

A reminder popped up and grabbed his attention — a staff meeting at nine o’clock. He had not even started his day yet, and already three interruptions had stolen his concentration. His shoulders tightened as he hunched closer to the keyboard. With just fifty-eight minutes to get some real work done, he launched Western Fabricators’ financial system and popped up the accounts payable section.

With a deft shift of the mouse, he pulled up a spreadsheet. The decimals aligned happily down the right column, with three digits to the right in every row—no one would get away with pilfering fractions of pennies on Edward’s watch. Peace settled over him as he scanned the predictable, repetitive columns and rows. The chaos and noise of life evaporated.

Not only did the orderly processes and tools of accounting satisfy his soul, being an accountant offered him a social benefit. In an uncomfortable encounter with a stranger, if he was asked about his job, he would reply, I’m in accounting, and the stranger would immediately lose interest and turn away to talk to someone else. Edward was perfectly happy with this response. He loved his job that both swam with numbers and repelled people.

He focused on the screen, the invoices flying by with efficient clicks of the mouse. A voice from the next cubicle intruded on his concentration, so he threw on his headphones—no irritating music, just the soft scratching of white noise.

Through the wash of hissing, however, pierced the familiar voice of Mr. Cooper, the department head. Edward, I need you in my office. Right away, please.

This was not good, not good at all. Not that his boss was ever mean or cross. In fact, most of the time he was complimentary of Edward’s work. Meticulous, exact, thorough—these were usually the words he heard in Mr. Cooper’s office. Twice in the last five years, a visit to the boss’s office had resulted in a raise in pay. No, the problem was not the words but the shaking of hands, the small talk, the jokes. Edward never got the jokes, never knew how to respond to the little inquiries into his day, his weekend, his mother’s health. Mr. Cooper always wanted to chat before getting down to business, when all Edward wanted was to get to the business and get back to his invoices.

Edward’s fingers tingled with nervousness as he rose and made his way to Mr. Cooper’s office. The door stood open, but Edward remained outside, hidden behind the door jamb. Unwilling to voluntarily enter the room unless he was called, he craned his neck into the open doorway and saw Mr. Cooper sitting at his dark mahogany desk.

Edward, I know you’re out there. Come in.

Edward pulled at the cuffs of his light blue shirt, touched the buttons on his collar, wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers to dry the perspiration, and peeked around the door frame again. Mr. Cooper was watching. His face was devoid of the characteristic smile. Was he angry, bored, serious, distraught? Edward could never tell what a blank face meant. He had learned over the years to recognize smiles, although he sometimes mistook a grimace for a smile, and he could rarely distinguish between a genuine smile and a sarcastic grin. At any rate, Mr. Cooper was not smiling, so Edward was pretty sure he was not happy.

Edward flipped through everything he had done in the past two days. All the accounts balanced. Every invoice was on time. The receipts were in order. The checks were all deposited. Electronic Funds Transfers—wait, had he mistyped an account number? Unlikely. Even though he had locked every account number in his head, he always double-checked against the register. Nothing in his performance even hinted at the reason for this summons to the boss’s office.

Don’t stand there, my boy. Come in. And close the door.

Edward touched the buttons of his collar one more time and entered the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him. He stood next to the chair facing the desk across from Mr. Cooper. Sit down, Edward, the boss said with a sigh.

Edward perched on the edge of the chair, folded his hands, and rested them firmly in his lap. With the big desk in the way, he could not see Mr. Cooper’s shoes. Edward was a shoe watcher. Shoes told a lot about people—how they looked at life, approached the day, cared about their jobs, felt about themselves. He knew from experience Mr. Cooper’s expensive shoes were buffed to a high shine—careful, rigid, demanding. Edward’s shoes, on the other hand, were low-maintenance loafers, but never scuffed and never dusty—solid, orderly, unassuming.

It wasn’t that he particularly liked shoes, but they were easier to look at than a person’s face. Shoes never made weird expressions. Faces were always changing and churning, but shoes were dependable.

His gaze fell on the tangled metal puzzle at the edge of the desk. He clasped his hands together to resist the urge to pick up the object and twist the interlocking rings to separate them. Having studied the tantalizing chrome puzzle carefully at every visit, since it was always on the boss’s desk, he knew he could solve it if he picked it up. It was not his toy, however. It was Mr. Cooper’s, and Mom had taught him to leave other people’s things alone unless he was invited to touch them.

Edward, are you listening to me? Mr. Cooper’s voice was sharp but the tone was steady.

Still focused on the puzzle, he blocked from his peripheral all the clutter of papers, pens, paper clips, folders and other paraphernalia strewn across the desktop. How the boss could get anything done among the mess was a mystery. Sorry, Mr. Cooper. I was thinking. He kept his hands tightly folded and did not look up. He could nevertheless feel his boss’s eyes piercing him.

Pay attention, Edward. Mr. Cooper let out a small sigh. Sighs were even harder to translate than smiles or frowns. Edward sighed when he was bored. Maybe Mr. Cooper was bored. Or maybe the boss was just tired. Mom often sighed when she was tired.

I have an assignment for you. It’s something I need you to do on the first of every month. It’s important that you’re never late and never miss.

I am never late, Mr. Cooper.

I know that, Edward. That’s one of the reasons I’m giving you this job.

Edward glanced up briefly and saw the corners of Mr. Cooper’s mouth turned up, which he guessed was a smile. He hitched up the corners of his mouth for an instant in mimicked response then focused again on the desk.

Mr. Cooper pushed a piece of paper across the glass-covered desktop toward Edward. On the first of every month, you’re to write a check to this man for this amount and hand-deliver it to him at this address.

The boss stopped talking, so Edward used the pause to inspect the paper.

Mr. Cooper asked, Do you have any questions, Edward?

Obviously. Why?

Why what?

Why does Frederick E. Johnson get a check every month on the first?

It’s a legal settlement.

The next question was just as obvious. Why?

Why what?

Why does Frederick E. Johnson get a settlement?

Mr. Cooper let out another sigh, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Edward recognized the frown. A frown was better than a sigh, but it was still not easy. A frown could be sad or angry or frustrated or just thinking. He didn’t mean to make the boss sad or angry, he just wanted an explanation. So, despite the frown, he waited for an answer.

Well, he was an employee here, and he was injured on the job.

Still not connecting all the dots, Edward couldn’t help but ask, Why?

The sigh became a groan. What?

Why was Frederick E. Johnson injured?

I don’t know. It’s none of my business. The court papers said that he gets this amount of money every month for the rest of his life. That’s all we need to know. You run the accounts payable system, so you write the check and take it to him. It’s that simple.

Writing the check each month made sense. He wrote lots of checks. But this business about taking the check to the man made no sense. Was the boss trying to save the cost of a stamp? Why?

Mr. Cooper clinched his hands together so tightly the knuckles turned white. What now? His voice was louder than before.

Why do I have to take the check to him? Why can I not just mail it like I do all other payments?

Because— Mr. Cooper’s voice started out very loud, but then he lowered it, and the color returned to his knuckles. Because, Edward, the settlement stipulated that the check must be hand-delivered to Johnson’s house.

Mr. Cooper continued before Edward could ask his next question. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is. You write the check, and you deliver it. Do you understand?

The instructions were clear enough, even if they did not make sense. Write a check; take it to this address. Yes.

Good! Mr. Cooper unclenched his fists.

In the mental map of Edward’s regular route between home and the office, Pontiac Trail in the town of Applevale was