Here's the second installment of my potential serial novel, The Projectionist. The first chapter was posted about a week ago so if you haven't read it, it's probably best to
do so now. Also remember that I'd really appreciate your casting a vote in the upper left sidebar as to whether or not you'd like this serial to continue. Thanks!
Chapter 2
The passage of time had done nothing to ease the pain. Porter got
out of an empty bed each morning, went to an empty kitchen, made coffee that he
drank alone. He worked both shifts at The Magic every day, one of them free of
charge, to escape the house whose boards seemed to creak and moan in misery
themselves. Other than Teddy, the visitors had stopped coming. They still gave
the little consoling smiles when he met them on the street or at work, still
administered the occasional squeeze of the shoulder. Worthless.
As bad as the days were, nights were worse. Exhausted, yet unable
to sleep more than a few minutes at a time, he spent most of the time staring
into the darkness, cursing the God who took his life and wrung the joy from it
like water from a rag.
On this day, he decided to go through the stack of mail that had
piled up on the old table beside the front door. Not that he cared what was in
the stack, but because Alice was nagging him about letting it pile up. Porter
was imagining the nagging--he was pretty sure of that--but he had discovered
that what's said in the mind and soul often trumps brick-and-mortar reality by
a long shot. And every time he had come in or gone out the front door for the
past several days, passing the table in the process, he had heard Alice's
voice: Porter
Hamlin, might be something important in that mail! He ignored it the first few times, but recently he had taken to answering her. Briefly at first, then full-blown discussions on the pros and cons of mail examination. Alice's logic finally won out--nothing unusual there--and he took the stack to the dining room table.
* * *
Porter stared at the document in his hands, read it a third time,
found it just as hard to believe. Your presence is hereby
requested on September 12, at the law offices of H. Lawrence Walker, for the
reading of the last will and testament of Alice Hamblin, of Diebold, Tennessee,
said will having been executed on July 7. They had done their
wills together. Updated them once a year. Together. And Larry Walker wasn't
their lawyer.
He put the letter down and made his way to the bedroom closet,
where he moved aside a stack of old clothes and pulled out the metal firebox
that held a lifetime of important papers. Inside, their three wills--his, hers,
joint--rode the top of the stack as they had for years. He opened Alice’s will,
looked at the date: May 12. Then back to the letter from Walker: July 7. Two
weeks before she died. Porter re-folded the will and put it back in the box.
Three days to wait. Three long days to wonder why his dear bride would have
kept something so important from him.
* * *
"Porter, Porter, do come in!" Larry Walker said,
beaming a bleached smile that stretched across his tan, leathery face as he
ushered Porter into his office. "So sorry for your loss, Porter. How're
you holding up?"
Porter had been endlessly consoled for seven weeks. Every person
he met was sorry. Every person he saw couldn't believe poor Alice was gone.
Hell, they may as well believe it. He had the empty house, the lonely nights to
prove it. He could show them the big, empty, sunken spot in the mattress where
Alice had lain. She was gone, and Porter wasn't in the mood for Larry Walker's
fake concern.
"Fine, Larry. Let's get to it."
"Of course, of course."
"Why do you say everything twice?" Porter felt like a
jerk the moment the words rolled off his lips. It wasn't Larry Walker's fault
that Alice was gone. Yeah, he was a pompous little small-town lawyer who loved
to put on a big-city shine, but that was no excuse.
Walker's smile was gone, replaced by something Porter thought
looked a lot like hurt. "I'm sorry, Larry, that was uncalled for."
"No problem, Porter. No...have a seat."
Porter eased into a tufted leather chair while Walker made his
way around his desk and sat. A file labeled Alice Hamblin lay
on the desk. A very thick file. Walker picked it up, removed a sealed envelope,
and handed it across the desk to Porter.
"She wanted you to read this first."
