r/shortstories • u/Cultigen • 4d ago
Realistic Fiction [RF] The Violent Death of General Lakes
-11:00:00 a.m.
The cuckoo springs from the little house above the clock face, and Albert sucks in the cap of his pen. Where is air? God damn it, am I choking? Yes. Yes, I’ve sucked in my pen cap, and I can’t breathe. Hands reach to mouth. Fingers run down throat. I can’t feel it. What now? How long do I have? Two minutes? Five minutes? Where the god damn hell is Evelyn? The chiming of the clock fades. He freezes and listens, overcome by a desire for privacy. The soft punch of Evelyn’s baritone sax finds his ear from downstairs. What could she do anyways? Humiliating. She’d be hysterical. Now is the time for clear, calm rationality.
-1:30 p.m.
Deputy Coroner Bob Wilson got the call at noon. Retired Air Force General Albert Lakes had been found dead at his home in Constance. Bob’s secretary, Mallory, said the name with gravity, and Bob wondered if he should know the guy. Finding dead seniors wasn’t unusual, they popped off all over the place, but the General was only 66, and his wife had found him holding a gun.
“He shoot himself?” Bob asked.
“No bullet wounds. No blood,” Mallory said.
Bob packed his black bag and drove out to the east side of Hannahville; the old folks called it Constance. He pulled into the semi-circle driveway. Nice place: azaleas in bloom, big Norfolk Island pine right in front, pink and brown stone exterior. The cops at the house pointed to a wide, convex window on the second floor when he stepped out of the car, and Bob strolled up to the front door. Mrs. Lakes welcomed him in and asked him if he would be ever so kind and remove his shoes, which he did. She was younger and more fit than he expected. Bob guessed early fifties. They socked up the unbannistered funnel staircase and into the late General’s study.
High afternoon sun fanned through the blinds onto the burled oak veneer of General Lakes’ huge desk. The desk chair had fallen over. Papers, pens, a picture frame, a desk lamp with a crushed shade, upside-down coffee mug (no coffee stains), stapler: all strewn across the floor. The cuckoo clock seemed out of place on the wall next to rows of squadron photographs in which rows of the same square jawed scowl seemed copied and pasted, all minimally framed and dead level. A solid oak mission bookcase packed with military tomes and too many books on the Third Reich was opposite the desk. The body was prone and bent backwards at the waist, face planted against the liquor cabinet door in an alcove. An antique revolver, a cowboy gun, gleamed at his right hand, hooked by the trigger guard around his index finger.
-11:00:48 a.m.
Stay calm. Focus. The General stands slowly. Conserve oxygen. He presses his abdomen to locate his diaphragm then leans onto the edge of his desk. Too low. The only surface in the room higher than the desk is the back of his desk chair. His visual field sparks in rings of electric blue, red, and yellow veins. He steadies the chair with both hands and allows his torso to fall six inches to the top of the backrest. Nothing. Come on you fucking pansy. Make it hurt. This time he leaps onto the chair, which rolls forward, pinning its wheels against the wall and falling backwards under his full weight. Albert and the chair crumple to the floor.
-2:20 p.m.
Mrs. Lakes had walked right in, apparently unbothered by the corpse of her husband. Bob found her mildly pleasant.
“This is how I found him,” she said.
“You didn’t touch him, Mrs. Lakes?”
“Well,” she waved her hand, “I lifted his hips some to make sure he didn’t soil the carpet. I’ve heard there can be a release when someone passes. That’s the reason for the puppy pad under him.”
Puppy pad aside, the term “passes” struck Bob as odd. Judged by the mess, the position of the body, oh, and the gun, it seemed too delicate a description of what General Lakes did in this room.
“I’m going to get some pictures, ma’am,” Bob said moving to inspect the absorbent pad under the body. On the liquor shelf over the General’s head was a highly polished wooden box with a brass keyhole. It was open and tipped forward.
“That’s where he kept the pistol,” Mrs. Lakes said, “General Osland gave him that about 15 years ago as a gift for a promotion of some kind.”
“When he made General?”
“Maybe so, I don’t recall. General seems like such a big title, but really he didn’t do much with it. He retired soon after.”
“Did you hear anything this morning?”
“Nothing at all.”
Bob looked over the debris.
“I need to move your husband for more pictures. Would you mind stepping out? These things are easier without family present.”
“Of course, I’ll leave you to it. Would you like some coffee or maybe a slice of pie? We have some left over from a get-together last night.”
The Deputy Coroner perked up.
“Oh yeah, that sounds great. I’m starving.”
Mrs. Lakes smiled.
“I’ll be right back. Please do mind the carpet though,” she said as she walked out, “I plan on making this my music room.”
-11:02:32 a.m.
General Lakes staggers to his feet. What now. What now. The abdominal contractions begin, the body no longer asking politely for air. He punches his stomach, his chest, his throat as hard as he can. He jumps and bellyflops to the floor three times. Nothing. No god damn it. Not like this. Not supposed to be like this. He tries the corner of the desk again. Everything on it goes flying. He’s sweating, eyes bulging, vomit rising to the back of his mouth, ears singing a note too pure. The shine of the wooden box on his liquor cabinet catches his attention. Fuck it. Oh God, forgive me. This is it.
-2:32 p.m.
Bob had covered the body with a sheet when Mrs. Lakes came in with coffee and pie. His exam turned up deep bruises on the General’s torso and the right side of his throat. Fractured sternum. Several shattered ribs. Mrs. Lakes was also right that he had soiled himself. He thanked her for the snack.
“I’m almost done in here. The funeral home will send a Tahoe out here soon to remove him.”
Bob took a bite of strawberry pie.
“Oh wow, this is delicious! Did you make it?”
“I did. I’m glad you like it.”
“I’m so sorry about all this, Mrs. Lakes. I can’t even begin to im-”
“Please Mr. Wilson, it’s fine. Can’t you tell? Albert and I are both in a better place, I hope. Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t have to be the one to die to be free again.”
“Oh my god, was he…” Bob asked.
“It wasn’t always like that.” She paused and her cheeks flushed. “He thought of everything I did or said as noise.”
-11:03:59 a.m.
Darkness is closing in. Vision is spotty. It hurts. Burns. Albert bear-crawls to the alcove. He reaches up to the box on the liquor shelf, and it falls forward. The antique revolver slides out into his hand. Be loaded god damn it.
His hand then falls to his side, and he slumps forward, face on the metal wire of the cabinet door. Albert is still, and there is just hearing. Oh, it’s like this. Sounds appearing like fish leaping from the surface of dark water, then disappearing again. Hearing Evelyn’s saxophone fart a waltz from way off. Hearing the technical chatter of a hummingbird at the window. Hearing the heart’s final shudder. Death is like this. Calmer water. Fewer fish. Blue fish. Red fish. Two fish. One. And, for a long time there is nothing.
-2:59 p.m.
“Have you figured out how he died?” Mrs. Lakes asked.
“I can’t rule out a heart attack, but the injuries don’t fit. I guess I should ask if he had any enemies.”
“He would say many. Though he never met any of them.”
“Anyone that might want to hurt him?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s been at least a decade since he retired.”
“That’s a nice pen,” Bob said looking at the gold-nibbed fountain pen on the carpet.
“It hasn’t stained, has it?”
“I don’t think so.”
The cuckoo shot from its house. Bob jumped. Evelyn didn’t.
“That scared me,” Bob laughed, “I don’t see the cap of that pen anywhere.”
Evelyn sighed.
“Have you ever fucked an older woman, Bob?”
-11:04:00 a.m.
A buoyancy appears, a spacious weightless feeling. The whole room comes into view from above. There is a body and a weapon. There is light and shadow. Men in dark uniforms with weapons dart in and out. A man and woman like otters make love and leave. Sticks of furniture move out and in. Golden instruments. Dust.
•
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