Short Story Contest 2024 – A Room at the End of the Hall

by Craig Evans

On my fourth birthday, I was at the table, surrounded by family. My cake had a multi colored balloon bouquet in its center, and in staggered lettering, “W-A-L-T-E-R” was spelled  across the balloons. (I’d only recently learned my letters, so this was pretty cool.) I distinctly  recall a feeling of absolute happiness – an entire cake, all for me. 

Of course, it didn’t work out that way. After I blew out the candles, Mom sliced up my  cake and handed it out – which made me cry, and everyone else laugh. They said it was my cake – my name was on it – and they sliced and served it without even asking me. My joy evaporated  quicker than the wisps of smoke from the candles. Lesson learned: happiness is fleeting. 

A few years later, at the county fair, my sister Wendy won me a goldfish in a baggie.  George moved into a V-shaped vase Mom found in the cupboard. I promised myself I’d take special care of George, and was determined we’d be lifelong friends. I suppose from George’s  perspective, we were. Three days later I called Wendy to my room to show off George’s new  trick – he was doing the backstroke. She called out, “Mooom,” and left the room. I was upset and  asked Dad what to do. He used a cup to scoop out George, then assured me he’d take care of  everything, right after a quick trip to the bathroom. Lesson learned: life is short. 

I was seven. 

I was a strange kid. I thought about things other kids seemed to ignore. Like when I was eleven, and people asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said, savings bonds, preferably with at  least a ten-year term. Honestly, which is better: a book I might not read, a sweater I’ll soon  outgrow, or a federally-backed bond yielding 4%?

In junior high, Wendy and I spent every Saturday at the Bijou. The matinee was only  thirty-five cents, and if you got there early, you could sit in the balcony. We saw all the great  ones: House of Frankenstein, I Walked with a Zombie, Son of Dracula. I had a particular  fascination with Dracula, especially his immortality.  

In freshman year of high school, my Aunt Trudi passed away. I was nervous about the  funeral. I also didn’t have the proper clothes. Dad said I could “get by,” but Mom wanted to buy  me a suit. The thing that stayed with me – that haunted me for years – was Mom’s closing  argument: “He should get one; he’ll be needing it.” 

Throughout high school my anxiety increased, but it wasn’t because of Aunt Trudi. They constantly warned us about the dangers facing teenagers: listening to rock n roll, smoking reefer,  and racing hot rods. Since George’s last lap around the vase, I intellectually knew I would  eventually die, but my high school years really drove it home. 

In college, I had a tough time picking a major. I was obsessed with mortality, and didn’t  want to make things worse. Since I was an introspective kid, philosophy seemed promising, but  in my Intro to Philosophy class, every discussion hinged on whether afterlife was one word or  two. I briefly considered becoming a writer, until I realized, every story – even a love story – had a sad ending, if you stayed with it long enough. I finally settled on a discipline entirely devoid of  human emotions: Mathematics. I loved math because you could always count on numbers to behave logically (even the irrational ones).  

Throughout my life, something from my freshman year – from that philosophy class – has given me peace. The idea was there’s a room – which I imagined is at the end of the hall – that you enter when you die. Nobody knows what’s in the room – if they say they do, they’re lying. Some people think when you cross into it, you’re bathed in a bright light, while others  believe you’re engulfed in darkness. Some obsess their whole life about what’s in the room,  while others don’t give it a moment’s thought. Some people spend incredible effort trying to  

avoid the room, while others almost look forward to crossing the threshold. For everyone, the  room is always nearby – whether you’re dining at the local Mexican place, or hiking in  Yosemite. It’s always there, waiting for you. Just the fact it’s over there (down the hall in my  mind) and I’m over here, gave me peace. You might think some crazy notion about death is a  funny way to find serenity, but I’d argue, that’s the way everyone does it. I think the thing that  made me different, was I realized something about the room at a young age, that most people  didn’t think about until they were much older. Early on, I realized, no matter what you do, the  door is always open. 

After graduation, I landed an entry level job at an insurance company. I didn’t last long. I  was no longer obsessed with mortality, but c’mon – I didn’t need a count-down calendar on my  desk. My actuarial tables not only informed me the exact date of my demise, but also told me how I’d go (coronary) and roughly where (within 1.2 miles of my house). The point is, when  your expiration date is firmly affixed in your brain, it’s kind of hard to get too excited about the  7:30 showing of Wheel-of-Fortune. 

I could recount my job-by-job existence over the next several decades, but that stuff  doesn’t really matter. What does matter, was the decision I made one day, concerning breakfast. 

That morning, I entered the kitchen and realized I was out of raisin bran, and the eggs in  the fridge were three weeks expired. Since I needed gas anyway, I decided to stop at the Texaco (a new station, with a mini-mart). 

I was behind two people, with my breakfast, when I felt someone get in line. Then, a  female voice said: 

“Bran muffin, bold choice.” 

I turned and looked at her. She had short blond hair and was wearing a white polo shirt  and black slacks. Her outfit said, retail – maybe a restaurant, or a shop at the mall. She wore a  gold cross on a necklace and silver palm tree earrings. She was grinning, waiting for my  response. 

(I should say, I was twenty-eight, and flirting was not my forte.) 

It’d only been a few seconds, but the fact I hadn’t responded seemed weird. I said, “It’s,  fiber,” then nervously blurted out: “my body is my temple.” My God, where did that come from? 

She smiled. “A temple, no doubt, with excellent plumbing.” 

I couldn’t help but smile. I noticed what she was buying, and said, “A Snickers, really?  For breakfast?” 

With mock seriousness, she said, “Oh, this isn’t for me.” 

As the man in front left, I said, “It’s not?” 

We both moved forward. She said, “It’s for the children, at the orphanage.” 

I nodded. Is this banter? Am I bantering? I suppressed the thought, to not get self conscious, and said, “Only one? For all of them?” 

She leaned forward and raised her eyebrows. “Well, we wouldn’t want to spoil them,  would we?”

Again, I grinned. “I suppose not.” I reluctantly turned back around. Damn, she seemed  nice. The lady ahead was getting her change. I wanted to look at the girl, but that would be  weird, with nothing to say.  

The lady left, and I placed my muffin on the counter.  

The old bald guy at the register picked it up, turned it over, and said, “One bran muffin.  That’ll be—” 

“Wait,” I said, surprising myself, “I’ll also take one Snickers.” I turned around and held  out my hand. As she handed it to me, I mimicked her earlier seriousness: “for the children.” 

Her smile brought me ineffable joy. 

When we left the counter, I said, “You know, they don’t have orphanages anymore.” “Really? Then I guess I’ll have to eat it. Thank you.” 

I pushed open the glass door, and held it for her. As she passed through, I said, “It’s my  pleasure.” 

I stood and watched her walk away. 

I was about to turn to my car, but noticed she’d paused, like maybe she’d forgotten  something. She walked back, and said, “I eat real food at lunch, if you’re interested.” 

That was the most important moment of my life. In a way, the start of my life. All  because I was out of cereal, and my eggs had gone bad. 

Leva and I were inseparable. She was thirty-two, four years older than me. She moved in  with me six months later, and a year after that, we got married. A few months after our daughter (Helvi) was born, I took out my old actuarial book and took a peek. Marrying Leva had added  2.8 years to my life, but Helvi’s birth had subtracted .7. The absurdity of it all made me smile.  

It’s a cruel irony that the good times flow by so quickly. Yesterday I was walking Helvi  to school for her first day, then I blink and, she’s graduated college, and living on her own. 

After Helvi moved out, Leva and I travelled. We went to Disneyworld, Hawaii several  times, and even took a few trips to Europe. Leva meticulously planned every hotel, activity, and  day-trip. When I asked about some detail, she’d say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”  And she always did. 

Of course, there were hard times too – when life ground to a halt. The death of my dad,  and two years later, of Mom. In both cases, they were pretty old, had led full lives, but died way,  way, too soon.  

After my parents’ deaths, eventually, life sped up again – Leva and I travelled, Helvi got  married, Charlie (my grandson) was born . . . Then, a few years ago, Leva entered her room.  She’d been sick and knew it was coming. She was one of those people who didn’t fear the room;  she had a hunch there was something more. She knew I had some trepidation about entering my  room, which is why she said it was good she was going first. The night before she passed – peacefully in her sleep – she said to me, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” 

We had over a half-century together, but it wasn’t enough. The truth is, I barely remember the service – it’s all a blur. What I remember most about that day, happened between  the funeral and a small gathering at Helvi’s house. 

I wanted a few minutes alone, before dealing with everyone. Driving home, I found  myself near that old Texaco station (now a Chevron). I parked and got out. I needed to see where it all had started. Inside, the place was empty, except for the young guy working there, who had  headphones on, and a folded newspaper on the counter. He was bobbing his head while working  on the crossword. He had the business end of the pencil between his thumb and forefinger and  was rapping on the paper with the eraser. He was oblivious to my existence, like I was a ghost. 

I walked over and stood in front of the magazine rack, about ten feet (or two phantom  customers) away. The two people in front of us back then, were a man and a woman, both  middle-aged – odds were, they were both gone now too (had crossed into their rooms). I turned  slightly toward the register, and waited, listening . . . 

Eventually the kid came out of his daze, pulled the right headphone a couple inches from  his ear, and said: 

“What-can-I-get-ya?” 

I shook my head. I didn’t look at him; I was afraid he’d see my eyes were glassy. He nodded, replaced the headphone, and turned back to his paper. 

I was at the door when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. 

After making my purchase, I drove home. I’d eat it in the morning, with my coffee. That’s how I’d say my goodbye – not with a room full of people, but quietly, with just the two of  us. 

~ ~ ~

These last few years have been tough. I know my turn to cross the threshold is  approaching, and I think about it more often. I spend most days relaxing in the recliner, watching  TV, but before long, I always fall asleep. I dream about my life: when Wendy won me a  goldfish, sitting in the balcony at the Bijou, meeting Leva at the Texaco, walking Helvi to school . . .  

“Dad. Dad, wake up. We’re about to get started.” 

I opened my eyes. I was in the recliner, with the legrest extended. Helvi was next to me,  with her hand on my shoulder. I could see, across the room, everyone already at the table, with  Charlie at the end. He was turning seven today, and had three friends flanking him on each side. 

“Sorry,” I said. “Guess I drifted off.” 

“It’s fine, Dad. Why don’t you come to the table – we’re gonna sing soon.” 

I pulled the lever on the side, and with a groan, got up, and walked to the table. One of  the fathers of one of Charlie’s friends got up to offer his chair. Years ago, I would have waved him back down, but I was well past pretending. I said, “Thanks,” and sat down. Helvi and Todd  were in the kitchen, hovering over the cake; Helvi was placing the candles.  

I turned to Charlie. “So, what are you now, eighteen?” 

He smiled. “Seven, Grandpa.” 

“That cake of yours looks good. Are you going to let me have a slice?” 

“Of course, Grandpa – it’s for everyone.” 

I nodded once. “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

Todd (poised at the light switch, while Helvi was lighting the candles) said, “I don’t think  he’s seen that one Dad, probably doesn’t get the reference.” Then, muttering to himself, he  added, “Not sure I do either.” 

Twenty minutes later I was back in the recliner, when Helvi came over and knelt next to  me. 

She said, “You can go to your room if you want. We’ll miss you, but you must be  exhausted.” 

I was tired. I knew soon, I’d need to head down the hall. The fact she said they’d miss me warmed my heart. I sensed the room was close, and – if I’m being honest – I did still fear it. But  I also figured – who the heck knows – maybe Leva’s there, getting everything ready. I do think I  was wrong about one thing. Back in college, I thought all stories, if you followed them long  

enough, were sad. In this moment, I felt my story – so far – had been pretty damn great.  Helvi was watching me, waiting. She said, “Dad, what do you think?” 

I said, “If you don’t mind honey, I’ll stick around a while longer, and enjoy the party.”

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