A Short Story and two Poems by Noel Plouffe

Short Story: The Plot

Poems: The February Sun and The Old House Stands Plot

If this were any other night John would have thought his lobby was a personal failure. A trail of dust and sand from the front door to the front desk. Newspapers in stacks on a cart by the elevator and not down in house keeping. Ash trays full. The room also smelled of stale, burnt coffee and not complementary fresh. This was not like any other night; this was his last shift as the night desk clerk at the Worcester Howard Johnson Motor Lodge and most likely the last night of his thirty two year career as a motel desk clerk.

The letter from corporate clearly stated that “all desk clerks will need to be proficient on the new HJ 200 computer system effective July 31, 1982 or face employment termination.” For John the end of the hand written ledger was the end of clerking in brand name motels. He was not going back to work at some road side motel like the Sleepy Owl or the King's Court Motor Lodge. He understood that the advance of digital into hospitality was inevitable but he still hated the thing, lurking behind the desk with it's menacing green monochrome glow.

The spring before John had cashed in the years of accumulated vacation and sick time, thanks to the teacher's union. He left the classroom at the start of the second semester, never to return. He always thought he would keep his motel career intact until the day he died. John was not just a clerk, he was an inn keeper with all of the show and gracious manner he could bring to the job; which was considerable. Where the other desk clerks would leave the large ring of keys hanging on the wall behind the front desk, John would hang the ring of keys from around his neck and out from him would pour affable wit and literary charm taught to him through degrees in English studies from Holy Cross and Boston University. He loved looking after a guest's every need and if those needs became personal and complicated, so much the better.

Not one to end his desk clerk career with a sloppy reputation John emptied the ash trays into the coffee machine waist basket, replaced the old coffee grounds with new, pulled and replaced the trash bag, tied it up and dropping it off in the middle of the lobby on his way to the sink behind the desk to rinse out the glass coffee pot. Out from the desk with a clean pot and an upright vacuum cleaner. Returning the pot, starting coffee maker, plugged in the vacuum, cleaning the lobby carpet working his way toward the elevator door all the while moving the trash bag a little closer and a little closer until the vacuum cleaner is off; John calls for the elevator. Down to house keeping with the trash and newspapers. Returning he unplugs and wraps up the cord with the astonishing efficiency of a practice professional. Returning the vacuum behind the front desk, set the wake up call alarms and check the ledger for any early morning arrivals. The time two am and expected in an hour a guest from Italy. This changed John's mood. He was beside himself with a guest from Italy. Fluent in French and Latin from years spent in Catholic boarding schools he always wanted to speak Italian. He knew a few phrases learned from a “Let's Speak Italian” record box set from when he and his wife were planing a trip to Italy. His wife complained about the Italian lessons, convinced they were intended for Proctor and Gamble executives. Teaching such useful phrases as “Dove si trova il tuo detergente per il bagno” “Where is your bathroom cleanser located?” and “La tua casa è così pulita e .” “Your home is so clean and fresh.” or “Ho poco sapone” “I have little soap.” Ready with these key Italian phrases and any French or Latin that sounded remotely Italian he excitedly awaited for his early morning guest. At ten minutes before the hour a taxi pulled up. John quickly bounded behind the desk, slipping on the ring of keys he pulled together the check in slip, a credit card slip should one be required and a room hospitality brochure with the floor map locating all vending machines and ice makers for a traveler's comfort and convenience.

To John his guest looked like a young Medici. Short in stature and of solid build. Tight curly black hair with a wispy beard and mustache. His tan sports jacket was not off the rack; very fashionable. When the young Medici stood at the desk, John cold see his dark, expressive eyes. “I have a reservation” spoke the young man with with a sweet Italian lilt to his words. “Yes, Signor Bellini, Carlo Bellini, I'm John.” he said pointing to his name tag. “We have a room ready for you. Fifth floor with a commanding view of Worcester.” “Grazie, any room will do, I am very tired, any room will do.” John slides over the check in slip, “If you could please fill this out. How many nights will you be staying with us.” “Three” The young guest fills out the slip and passes it to John. He reads it and sees Singor Carlo Bellini is from Urbian, Italy. John mentally runs through his Proctor and Gamble Italian phrase book, “Dove si trova la tua casi pur il bango.” “You speak Italian?” The young man asks and John like any pizanne gesturing with his hand, “Poco, poco” “Urbian, it's in the middle” “Are you here for business or pleasure?” The young man pauses, “I am in Boston for business but I am here in Worcester for family” “You have family here in Worcester?” John asks “No my grandfather is buried here in Worcester. No one has been to his grave for about thirty years since my father was here. Now that my father is dead and I was in the USA, I should visit the family grave.” He shows John some photographs from his wallet. The first photograph was of a beautiful, angelic little girl. “That's my little Isabella. Wait, here, I have a picture of my grandfather's grave stone.” He hands John a snap shot of a man looking very grim standing next to a large, ornate grave stone. “That is my father, he was the last Bellini here. He never told me where in Worcester to look. I am not sure where to go.”

John the inn keeper steps forward; a guest's every need. “May I help, Se tu per favore. May I call you Carlo? I know how to find the Bellini grave.” The young man looked at him, not sure what to make of this old man. John could see it in his guest's eyes; perche?, why? Singor Bellini had no idea that John's wife often complained about his habit of getting involved with other people's problems. More then once she would say, in complete exasperation, “John I swear you would give away your asshole and crap out your ribs.” John continued, “Carlo, I have a lot of time on my hands and I know my way about the city.” “Grazie John. Let me think about it, I am very tired, where do I find my room.” John watched Carlo enter the elevator and the doors close behind him. He felt a vague disappointment. It would have been a grand adventure to help find that young Italian's lost family grave. As this was his last shift. “Well I have to come in to be fired, I'll come late afternoon. Maybe I will run into Carlo.”

Later that afternoon, John met with the motel management. They were genuinely sorry to see him go, he was reliable and a very good desk clerk but their hands were tied. So as mandated by corporate, he had to go. John was very understanding, explaining he was just to old to learn computers and thanks to the manager for his years working for Howard Johnson. After that he hung back in the lobby. He did not have to wait long when Carlo returned. “How did you make out Carlo” John asked “John, I got nowhere today, is that offer to help still good? I only have two days now.” John smiled broadly, “Carlo it would be my pleasure. I will pick you up in the morning, say about ten o'clock” “Si Grazie John.”

When John pulled up in his black Ford Fairlane with the red vinyl seats and all the windows rolled down, Carlo was waiting for him. The morning was a hot and humid first day of August. The sun burned through a thick city haze and in the air were the sounds of eager cicadas. “I'm right on time.” said John “Yes you are.” said Carlo as he reached in his hand to feel the car seat before he sat down. “It is hot but we will be downtown in no time and I know where we can park near city hall; no questions ask.” “ Grazie John” said Carlo. John parked the car down a back ally near city hall and they went straight in.

On city hall's second floor runs a long, dark hallway. In the hallway on both sides were signs like little street signs reading, “Building Inspector”, “Permits and License” and “Cemetery Commission”. There were no doors into the offices but rather large windows with iron gates that folded back out of the way leaving a counter for city officials to stand behind, while little knots of people milled about in front of each window. By the time John and Carlo arrived there was a line of people looking to do business with the Cemetery Commission. Some were dropping off forms, some picking up forms and some requesting the location of a love ones grave. Those looking were asked two questions, name and year deceased. Then the clerk would walk behind stacks of shelves and binders and return with a large ledger with a date on it and drop it on the counter with a loud thud. When it was John and Carlo's turn the clerk looked up and said, “What you again?” John stepped forward. “We are here looking for a family member's grave, the name is Bellini “ Then John stops, he does not know the first name. “Yes I remember from yesterday, Bellini, Alfonzo Bellini, 1948. It's not there” “Please try again” said John and the clerk went behind the stacks and returned with three ledgers slamming them down onto the counter. “Here we go, 1947, 1948 and 1949” The clerk looked up Alfonzo Bellini in each ledger and came up with nothing. “There must be some sort of record, what about a death certificate?” asked John “Not here” said the clerk, “down the hall, city clerk's office; next” and with that he was on to another person in line.

Down the hall the longest line was under the sign “City Clerk.” John and Carlo looked at each other knowing they were in for a long wait and stepped into line. John was looking for answers, he was dying to know. “Carlo let me ask you, how is it that you have a grandfather buried in Worcester?” “Well my grandfather was not from Urbian. He was from a small town and in 1921 recruiters came looking for workers to go to America and work in the mills. Many men in the village went, some took their families, some sent for them later and some never did. My grandfather supported his family sending money home but then came the war and the family never heard from him again. After the war my father took over a business making electrical cable and was doing very well for the family. Then one day in 1948 my grandmother gets a letter from America telling her that her husband was dead.” “And you have that photograph of your father at the grave, when was that?” asked John “My father was here in 1951.” “And there has not been a Bellini here since.” Carlo turned and looked at John, “Not one, only me. My father never talked about the trip and he never made it again. Not much reason to Si? But I thought I would do it. Pay my respects.” The two men started to talk, getting to know one another. Carlo talked about his plans for the family business, Bellini Electrical Cable and John talked about his long career as a school teacher. They talked about family and Carlo talked about his plans for his daughter Isabella. They talked about God, post war politics, the Catholic Church and death. Despite standing in the dark, hot and stuffy hallway the two men where enjoying their conversation and the time pasted and they moved up in line and before they knew it they we in front of the city clerk, “Your next, what may I do for you gentlemen.” said the clerk not looking up from the paper work he was shuffling. “We are looking for a death certificate, 1948, Alfonzo Bellini” and like before the clerk disappeared behind a set of stacks and returned, this time with a binder and on it the date, 1948. The clerk flipped through the binder and then said, “Ah, here we have it. Alfonzo Carlo Bellini, Died January 23, 1948.” “Where is he buried?” asked Carlo “It does not say. Considering the time of year his body was being held until the grown thawed.” said the clerk as he read through the death certificate. “How did he die?” asked Carlo. The city clerk studying the certificate said, “I'll be damned, it is not stated cause of death, that part has been left blank?” Then the clerk looked up to John, “He died at Worcester State Hospital.” Across John's face flashed a recognition, “The state hospital?” “Yep” said the clerk, “and that is where you will find his burial records, they handled all their own burials back then.” Carlo saw the exchange of looks between the clerk and John. He was not sure what it meant, he knew it meant something and he did not like it.

By the time John and Carlo returned to the car the sun had passed they were now in the deep shadow of the long ally where John had left it. Both agreed that it was too late in the day to head off for Worcester State Hospital and that it would be best to start early in the morning, Carlo having one more day left in the city before he had to get back to Boston. John offered to take Carlo out for some drinks and maybe dinner if he was up for it but Carlo had phone calls to make; he just wanted to go back to his hotel room. John even offered to buy him dinner at the Howard Johnson Restaurant when they got back, an offer John rarely makes remembering the day a complaining guest at check out and John in a moment of grand standing declared, “There has never been a sin committed at the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge” and the guest retorted, “Obviously you have never eaten in the restaurant.” Carlo then asked, “John what does it mean that my grandfather died at the state hospital?” John thought before he answered. “Carlo it means your grandfather may have been sick in his head, he had an illness with his mind.” Carlo sat in silence until they reach the hotel. “I will pick you up at nine in the morning” said John. Carlo only nodded and taped on the car door twice.

The next morning the air was thick and sticky, an uncomfortable morning that promised to be a very uncomfortable day. Carlo was waiting for John this time holding a paper bag. John pulled up, again with all the windows rolled down. “Are you ready Carlo, have you had breakfast yet?” asked John. “I am very ready John, let's get started.” John avoided taking the free way because it was always backed up in the morning; he cut across town taking a rout of side streets and back allies that only a native would know. On there way John tried to explain what Worcester State Hospital was like but nothing John said could prepared Carlo for what they found.

The hospital sat high on a hill over looking parts of the city and across the valley to the east. The hospital was not just one building but several, some still in use. They were all made from field stone, large, imposing with bars on the windows; nineteenth century mental health treatment at it's finest. The most intimidating building of all was the central office building; made of stone with a mammoth and alarmingly top heavy stone clock tower. John parked under the shade of a beech tree, still leaving the windows rolled down. They walked up to the granite steps below the clock tower and looked up at the massive stone structure that seemed to hang overhead, then quickly entered.

The front hall, as was the rest of the interior of the building, as was the interior of every room in every building of the hospital, painted that peculiarly unique, post war, institutional light green color from when America was was awash in a blend of Department of Defense green and white paint. Unlike city hall there were no lines to stand in. Plenty of people but they all seemed to be on their way to somewhere and none of them noticed the two men standing at the front desk. John looked for a bell to ring or button to press when a women stepped out from a back office behind the desk. Slowly she walk over to the desk, reached under and pulled out a bell that she placed on top. “May I help you?” she asked. “We are looking for information regarding a man who died and was buried out of here in 1948” said John. “Are you related to the deceased?” she asked while she was around under the desk pulling out a blank form. “No but he is” said John pointing at Carlo. “Well fill this out. Do you have a picture ID?” “I have my passport, I am from Italy” “Ya an Italian passport will do.” and she returned to the office behind the desk. After he completed the form John and Carlo rang the bell and waited. A man in a starched white shirt and tie came out and looked over the form, looked over Carlo's passport, looked over Carlo. “You want to pull 34 year old files?” he asked “Carlo said “I am looking for my grandfather grave.” “Is that all you want?” “For today, yes” “Okay, hold on” and the man went back into his office and shortly returned holding an index card with the number 465 written on it. John and Carlo looked at it and did not know what to make of it. “What is this?” asked John. “This is Alfonzo Bellini's grave number.” “What?” John not understanding. “Look you know your way to the municipal graveyard, right” “Which one?” asked John still confused. “The big one, Grand View, down there behind Webster Square on Route twelve, remember.” “Ya, sure, a left off the road heading south.”said John “You got it. When you go through the main gate, take a right and go all the way to the end. That's where you will find Alfonzo's grave, good luck” and with that the man moved the bell back under the desk and returned to his office.

When John and Carlo stepped outside, they both stopped and without thinking held their hands up, seeking protection from the heat. “Holy Cow,” said John and the two men slowly walked to the car that happily was still in the shade. John started the car and turned to Carlo, “Webster Square is on the other side of town.” Carlo nodded yes, “Do you want to stop for lunch, it will be close to noontime when we get to Webster Square.” asked John. Carlo nodded no. “Lots of places to eat over there.” “Grazie no.” said Carlo “It will be my treat.” said John. Carlo deeply appreciated every thing John had done for him but Carlo had been running the family business for the past five years. He expected people to provide understandable answers to his questions not confusing index cards and he expected people listen to him. The old inn keeper, as generous as he may be, was beginning to grade on the young Italian. He turned to John and said clearly, “No, thank you John.” “Very good” John answered. The car rolled out through the hospital gates and into the slow moving cross town traffic. The black Ford Fairlane with the red vinyl seats was baking in the sun at each stop light. Even with all the windows rolled down. The ride was long. The ride was brutal.

As soon as they pulled through the cemetery gates, John stopped the car. At last some cool shade. He wanted to enjoy it for a few minutes but Carlo looked at him, “To the right John, all the way to the end.” “Yes, yes” said John turning right onto Grand View Lane, “All the way to the end.” John drove down the lane under the oak trees with grave stones and grave markers of different stone and color, shape and design as far as the eye could see through the trees. Then the lane came out of the trees and back into the sun, starting down a steep hill and on both sides were row after row of grave markers. Not as big nor as grand as the old grave stones under the trees but still very functional, very sensible. Then at the bottom of the hill the lane came to a large, flat open field of dry grass. Beyond the dry grass was the cemetery fence and beyond that the retaining wall for the free way.

John drove very slowly as he and Carlo looked back and forth across the open field. Carlo then yelled, “John, stop the car.” and John did just that. Carlo looked at the grass and then started to slap his pockets looking for the index card When he found it he bounded out of the car. Running in circles while he held the index card out in front of him. He seemed to be lost but then he started running in a straight line across the field. He would stop and look at the grown and start off again. After running a long distance he stopped and stared at the index card and stared at the grown. Then he dropped to his knees. John slowly brought up the car near where Carlo was kneeling. John turned off the car, sat in it watching the young man. John tried to figure out what was going through Carlo's head. The expression on his face was one of complete astonishment, not grief, not anger. From time to time Carlo would look at John and say, “He lied to me. For years he lied to me.” John lit himself a cigarette and continued to watch his fallen Medici. The car grew too hot and he thought the young man might be in want of a smoke. He offered Carlo a cigarette who was happy to take it. John handed Carlo a book of matches and it was then he saw what Carlo was looking at. On the grown, deep in the grass was a brass plate with the number 465 on it. John looked around and he saw that they were surrounded with little brass plates with numbers. John then stepped a little farther and looked around and saw that they were in a field of brass plates. These were the graves of the city's indigents, the forgotten, the has been and the never were; like some pauper's field sprung from a Dickens' novel.

John let the young man think but it was very hot day. He had a bandanna for wiping his own brow but he could see the sweat up and down Carlo's back. Carlo looked at John. “I don't understand, why would he should lie to me. It's not that important. He could have told me he had no grave stone and I would have been fine with that. Maybe I should get one for him. Some day my dear little Isabella will be in charge. I will tell her the truth, don't bother going to America to look for your great grandfather's grave. Crazy man dies in a state hospital, buried in an open field with a number. He must of done it for his . He did not want her to know the truth.” At last John said “Carlo, it's too hot here. Let's go into the shade up there,” pointing up to a grove of oak trees on the top of the hill. “You can figure this out up there.” Carlo climbed back into the car and they drove to the top of the hill.

There was a thick grove of trees. An of shade. A parking space for the car and there carved into the stone a large, cool bench to sit on. John pulled out two cigarettes, they both smoked, deep in thought. John was finding the day not quite living up to the adventure he was looking for. He knew this was his last motel adventure and he was hoping for a happy ending. These adventures had a real fascination for him though they sometimes would end painfully for his wife with the lies he would tell her or the expenses his family could ill afford. John patted Carlo on the back, “I understand why he lied. He was trying to protect your grandmother, you, the family name. There is no harm in it.” He thought Carlo was taking it too hard., maybe when he is older he will understand that sometimes it s best to lie but John knew he was kidding himself. He started to think where the nearest payphones were so he could call home and tell his wife how the day went. Carlo sprang from the stone bench and ran over to a large gravestone while he was checking his pockets. Carlo yelled “This is it John, I found it” Carlo ran to the car and pulled out a camera from the paper bag he brought with him. “I found it” and John followed him over to a large ornate stone with a weeping marble angle draped over the top. “Here John, take my picture.” Carlo handed John his camera and the snap shot of his father. John looked at the picture and looked up to see Carlo posing himself next to the gravestone. It was the same stone. John looked through the viewfinder. Carlo smiled broadly and said, “I hope my little Isabella never finds out.”

David cleared his airline security check and was sitting at the gate in LAX. He was catching the red eye direct to Logan and he expecting to be back in Boston first thing in the morning; planning to head home and not go into work. David was looking over his emails and investment statements on his iphone, day dreaming about his retirement in the next few years when the phone started ringing. The caller ID was from the Boxboro Lab. He looked at the digital time read out and saw it was late back at work and why the hell were they calling him. “Dave, it's Kenny, on your way home yet?” “I'm on my home in about thirty minuets. Why, what's up Kenny? Why are you working so late?” “Well the Bellini Cable optic router failed the environmental testing today.” David waited, expecting to hear more, “And?” he finely said. “Well I thought you should know that Isabella herself is flying into Boston tonight. She'll be coming into the lab in the morning, management wants you here tomorrow, in case you were planning on taking the day off.” There was a pause and David said “Oh Crap … So tell me Kenny, is she pissed?” “No, she is coming over here for personal reasons.” “Personal reasons?” asked David. “Ya, you know how you thought we won the contract with your Belcore ESTI hybrid test plan.” “Yes, some brilliant engineering if I do say so myself.” said David. “Well it turns out she has family buried near here. Somewhere in Worcester I think.” The February Sun

The February sun is a sneaky star. Hiding Behind cold, icy winds, driving bone chilling rains so painful are, pelting pedestrians, shoulders forward and grim. The February sun shines behind snow filled clouds. That new white fluff on slushy streets. A luster of freshness now ready to plow, the season holds hard, winter not yet complete. But the February sun slips up, letting that incandescent gas guard down. Appearing in places long not seen. Above hillsides, between buildings, in long dark corners downtown. Up driveways, side side streets and down valleys once green. The February sun returns surprisingly strong, with a warm and sunny springtime oasis on granite steps. Sitting and basking, eyes closed, chin up knowing this warmth soon will be gone, and once more into winter I shlep. April in Paris may well be sublime, But February in Fitchburg will always be mine. The Old House Stands

Of solid New England brick, the old house stands. On unmovable, Fitchburg granite foundations. Granite too are window casements. Stone steps and door jambs. Pride of now long gone masons' earnest exertions. The years take their toll, a , persistent old vandal. Where mortar lagged, bricks sag, parts of the wall have shifted. Previous repairs of fresh mortar are there, stop gaps that workmen can handle, shim up this corner, tuck under that course, take care angles have drifted. Use grinders and chisels, use mallets with force, trowels with half inch pointers. Drip edges, tin patches, used shingles of slate, the roof will be tight from here after. Built for one family, subdivided for three, homes for the city's hard workers. Because of the age , changes are made from footings to wooden rafters, but still stands through the assault of time; a bit worn this warm old dwelling. Perhaps a bit faded not as grand as had been. Built with good judgment, tempered through time, still sturdy and excelling. The brick house is old but let's no one down, protecting all through thick and thin. Don't be surprised by old, worn and tattered. Old will come through with what really matters.