FATAL RECALL

FATAL RECALL

A Short Story

Nicholas Cochran


Bud stomped the mud off his boots and hurled aside the flimsy screen door.
He turned the knob of the next door and found it locked; or at least it didn’t open while he lustily twisted the knob a few more times.

A somber chill wrestled with his good temper; invisible darts of annoyance were stinging his otherwise collegial temperament.

And this goddamned door!

He had both fists raised to set hammering—when abruptly the door opened wide; but revealed only an implacable blackness.

Bud was a righteously cautious man of fifty. His hair had run out on him about six months before his wife did; that was three years ago.

But now, on this sub-zero evening around eight o’clock, that bile; that bitter bile of abandonment, had reduced his otherwise pleasant personality to that of a wounded dingo.

But here was the door; open.

He peered through the frostiness of his breath and still saw nothing.

He could feel the prickly bite of freezing air slip up his pant leg and begin to attack his long johns; his feet were already north of numb, and a flash of amputated-toe footage reeled off inside his cranial home entertainment set-up.
This stark terror of limb-loss propelled his six foot five body right into the depth of the darkness. The door slammed behind him even though he had come no closer than a foot to it.

But Bud Bartholomew Cairns was not only big but pretty bright by pipeliner standards.

He had been a welder for thirty-three years and never flunked a test; never had a weld blow; never backed down from a challenge—especially overhead pipe welding. Bud was the best.

Why did I agree to come here?

There in the obsidian ether filling this room of unseen shape, he knew his past was waiting.

Now that the cold had begun to slip away from him, his mind shifted into warp speed, searching for that day—or night—when he had mistreated—or abused—whoever waited for him here.

Somewhere in this weather-worn one story tilting wreck of frame from the 1800s, the past had become the present..

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Bud was surprised and pleased that his vibrant baritone had not decided to run north to a tenor. He repeated his questions; this time with splinters of anger slicing at the edges of his words.

Suddenly, faint notes of music began to come close to him. It was a song that barely nudged his memory; but it did.

Dauphin, Manitoba; 1977; Deidre Evans; tall, long black hair; a goddess in a one-bar town; only eight-teen; they had danced together at the social for almost three hours non-stop.

Bud had loved her during those hours, but he had a wife and three children.

He told Deidre just after they began their dancing. She had smiled so lovingly at Bud, that he wasn’t sure that she’d heard him, so he repeated his marital status; but Deidre—Dede—had laughed easily at his honesty and ignored his marital contract; a mere social construct.

Dede behaved and smiled and laughed as though he had told her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world and that he wanted to marry her.

The music stopped.

The darkness deepened.

“Been a long time Bud,” sultry, beguiling, “and you never came back.”

“But I left that night, Dede.” The words spilled out before he could vet them.

“Of course you did, Bud; but you left me; you left me alone.”

Her tone struck a gut nerve in Bud; he didn’t like the soothing quality of her delivery. In fact he was rapidly beginning to think she was making up something; something that he knew nothing about; some accusation of bad behavior. He sprang to his own defense.

“Dede; we just danced; that’s all. Then your father came and took you home, and I left. That’s all.”

“But Bud, darling, you forgot that you left me pregnant

“What?” Bud needed light; room light ; moonlight; history light; light on the past. “I never did such a thing, Dede; we didn’t even go outside.”


“But Bud; you drank thirteen beers; then we went outside; and that’s when you got me pregnant.”

An icy sweat dribbled down Bud’s sternum; a clamminess grabbed his lower back.
Bud had never drunk alcohol.
Bud was a Mormon. Bud didn’t even have a social sip at summer events; ever.

Quickly, the realization that this disembodied accuser was not quite right, poked a head of dread into his innards. Pure fear slithered around his self-control.

Why was she doing this; how could he find her in this invisible murk; how fast could he flee?
Hammers quickened their pounding on his reasoning; his lips were stuck together by a morbid dryness; he couldn’t scream, even if he had wanted to.

And then he fell; and kept falling until he hit bottom.

* * *

Bud made out his left hand. It was near his head. He was on the floor. He had fallen out of bed.

He erupted in rolling roars of laughter; the merry sounds of relief.

He giggled as Scrooge had done when he realized that deliverance was at hand.

He raised himself on an elbow and quickly began to chastise himself for . . . for what?

He lifted himself back onto the bed and flung out his arms in that solid cleansing fling of relief.

Five very deep breaths, flip down the welding helmet; apply the first beads, like always.


Bud drew back his left arm from its flung-out position and his elbow brushed something. He squinted through the haze of a watery morning light. Something was beside him.

He tightened his brows and jumped into his memory bank, quickly zeroing in on last night.
Nothing.
Finished his shift; made ten percent more welds than anyone else—as usual, and then to Georgio’s for dinner and home to crash.
His mind did a U turn and grasped for anything he had forgotten.

Nothing.

Georgio’s; a few boilermakers with his Ukrainian pal, Jerry Mowk—Mowkers; yeah, good old Mowkers. What a Ukrainian wedding he had produced.
Bud was flat broke for two months as a result of paying so much for so many dances with the bride.

Yeah, boilermakers.

But I don’t drink; well not since Mowkers’ wedding, three years ago.
Audrey had left him because of the disgusting (in her mind) display that he had apparently made of himself.
Mowkers thought Bud was the high spot of the event; unforgettable; by everyone. But since then, no drinking; until . . .

Bud was instantly drowned in a paralyzing fear.

Dawn was casting long strange shadows across the form beside him on the bed.

He sprang off to one side, yanked the lamp cord and swallowed a scream.

She was grey by now; rigor mortis had stiffened her limbs and frozen her lips in a crazed smile of satisfaction.

Lying on her long black hair beside his pillow was Dede; dressed entirely in black; eighteen, and pregnant.

.