THE COLLECTOR (A short story by Maria Garcia)
The beach was almost deserted. Behind some rocks, a solitary crab enjoyed the peace and quiet left behind by the tourists and their kids. Mostly the kids. Why did they have to pick him up, dangle him upside down, carry him in a bucket? Just thinking about it made the poor little guy shiver.
In the distance, the crab saw an old man, but he was not afraid. He knew him. The old man came to the beach every day. He always wore the same old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, even when it was hot. The seasons didn't change for him. The crab guessed that, at his age, cold had become part of his whole body and reached even his creaky bones.
Hurry! Let's get out of the crab's tiny head now and follow the old man as he slowly walks towards his home. His name is Richard, something the little crustacean doesn't know. Richard has lived alone since his wife died five years ago.
His house isn't the most beautiful in the village, but it's the quaintest. The one the tourists always point at. Thatched roof, pinkish walls and so many untended rose bushes in the garden that it looks like a multicoloured jungle.
When his Lina died, Richard's life changed overnight. It wasn't just the oppressive sadness and the silence you could almost touch. It was also the fact that he felt lost. They had been a traditional couple. He worked a nine to five job and Lina looked after the house and the garden. Keeping things beautiful and tidy had always made her happy. Richard also appreciated beauty, but of a different kind.
In case you haven't noticed, we are inside Richard's home now. The kitchen looks dark because he doesn't usually bother to open the shutters or just opens them half-way.
'We should go to the doctor's, Dad', his daughter, Joy, said every Saturday when she visited. 'You're depressed.'
'I'm not depressed, young lady. I'm perfectly okay.'
You should know that Joy was already sixty-three, but she didn't resent the fact that her dad thought she was still a little girl. In fact, she found it kind of endearing. Her father had always been her favourite parent, but as she was extremely discreet and considerate, she had never told anybody. Not even herself.
But I digress. Remember this story is called 'The Collector'? Remember at the beginning the crab was wondering what Richard looked for at the beach every day? Or maybe I forgot to tell you. My memory isn't what it used to be.
It was Saturday and Joy had just arrived. She had her own key. Just in case.
'What did you find today?' she asked her dad. She sounded weary, bone-tired, the way she always did when she spent time with Richard these days.
'Come to my study and I'll show you.'
They walked into the stone-walled, lopsided room and Richard sat at his desk.
In front of him, Joy saw several assorted pebbles of various sizes and colours. They weren't even pretty this time around and there were no cute little shells like there used to be.
'This is gossamer,' Richard told Joy, picking up one of the smallest pebbles.'
'And this is seren, seren...'
'Serendipity, Daddy.'
'That's it, darling. You're a life saver. Why don't you go to the kitchen and tell Mum to come and see my collection? Im sure she'll love the new ones.'
'In a while. Show me a few more first,'
Richard's shaky hand picked up one more chunk of beach. It was blackish and irregular.
'This is ebony.'
Joy sat on the carpet and kept on listening to her father. From time to time, she helped him out. After an hour or so, they had gone over all the week's findings.
'Which one is your favourite, Daddy?'
Richard thought for a while. His grey eyes looked momentarily haunted, as if he had suddenly seen or felt something that frightened him.
'I think I like hibiscus best. And you?'
'They're all beautiful, but I think I'll go with besotted'.
A pause. Some silence.
'Why don't I make us some tea?'
'Don't worry. I'll do it. Stay here and arrange your collection,' Joy told Richard.
She closed the study door behind herself. Once in the kitchen, she leaned against the wall and started crying. Her father's dementia was getting worse and worse.
She thought of her childhood. Of the many hours Richard spent in his study reading and writing. If her mum hadn't reminded him, he'd have forgotten to eat.
Joy's dad had been a well-known poet. People stopped him in the street to talk to him and there were always writers and other artists at her home. When their discussions got heated, Lina and Joy would look at each other and smile.
But time had robbed Richard of what he loved the most: his poems, his beloved words. He couldn't write anymore, so he did the next best thing: he collected all the words that he found on the beach.
While she chose the nicest mugs she could find in the cupboard, Joy wondered what there was left in her father's once brilliant brain. Maybe just gossamer.
Life was like that. Mere serendipity. Some got lucky and others had to walk the ebony path of hell. However, not everything was bad: there was a purple hibiscus bush in the distance. And Richard could see it when he closed his eyes.
During the time Richard played with his words, Joy thought of why she still called him Daddy. Probably because of the many hours she had spent sitting on his lap while he read aloud. Poems that glided smoothly into her ears and she couldn't understand.
Head hopping? So? I'm the narrator and I can do what I want.
P.S. I have edited this very quickly and kind of sleepily so there might be mistakes and typos.
