The Light Don’t Shine No More: Every family has its secrets. The Demeter brothers confront theirs when their mother passes away. In doing so, they’re forced to measure what’s been lost.

The Light Don’t Shine No More: Contemporary Fiction

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BLURB:The Light Don’t Shine No More

Rachel Demeter—widow, mother, highly respected pillar of Greenstone, Colorado—has died. When her three sons gather for her funeral, old family tensions, rivalries, and grievances resurface. Robert, the oldest, heir to his late, domineering father’s investment firm, is a straight-arrow businessman with political ambitions. Thomas is a creative free spirit who has forged his own life in Florida, away from “the family drama.” Benjamin is the youngest, once the brother with the most promise but now suffering from a disabling head injury. At the center is Rob’s wife, Violet, a strong-willed woman whose past is somewhat clouded in mystery. Family secrets slowly come to light as the Demeter brothers search for ways to reconnect and mourn their mother’s passing.

EXCERPT:The Light Don’t Shine No More

Every table was supposed to have an identical set-up. Menus wiped clean and set upright in wooden holders, crystal salt and pepper shakers, silverware tightly rolled in red cloth napkins, a single iris placed upright in a slender cut-glass vase, a candle burning in a small square ceramic dish. Sixteen tables times four place settings equaled sixty-four total units. Sixty-four knives, spoons, salad forks, dinner forks, water glasses, coffee cups, wineglasses, linen placemats. About forty-five minutes of work for Ben.

He was ready. Traditionally, he woke at seven, methodically performed his morning grooming tasks, listened to Fats Domino and Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis and Buddy Holly to get his blood pumping, fueled himself with a bowl of Raisin Bran, two slices of lightly-buttered cinnamon raisin toast, and a banana, said his prayers, said goodbye to Mr. Whiskers, made double-sure all the doors and windows of his ground-level apartment were locked, then hopped on his custom-made three-wheeler and pedaled the mile-and-a-half through town to his job at Maggiore’s.

He never drank coffee or tea, but in his backpack he carried a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper to help sugar-jolt him through the day.

Ben had worked at Maggiore’s for nearly two years. It was part of his social rehabilitation plan. About a year after the accident, Robert helped him get the job as a step toward Ben regaining some of his independence Ben liked the mathematical structure of his work routine. What was menial work to his co-workers was a comfort for Ben, who performed best when his day was laid out before him like a trustworthy map.

While his fellow employees slipped out the back-screen door to take breaks and pass around a joint, Ben completed his forty-eighth unit. Twelve times four. The task seventy-five percent complete. He didn’t quite whistle while he worked, but he did hum under his breath. He also synchronized his movements to the rolls and bumps of various Fifties rock songs. “Blueberry Hill,” “Sweet Little Sixteen,” “Great Balls of Fire.” Anything by Elvis, naturally. Give Ben some vintage music and meaningful work and he was in his own peaceful zone of joy.

“You like those moldy goldy oldies, don’t you, Mr. Benjamin?” This was Cynthia, one of the regular waitresses.

“I like that Fat Man. I like The Killer.”

Cynthia was by far his favorite co-worker. She was unfailingly nice to him and he considered her very pretty in her black capris and red Maggiore’s t-shirt.

“You’re a sweet guy, Ben. I’ll just bet you have tons of friends.” Cynthia flashed him a sunburst smile which spread a tree of warmth throughout his entire body. He felt his cheeks growing hot and knew he was blushing. He ducked his head and went back to work, concentrating mightily on unit number forty-nine. Grinning, Cynthia returned to her own duties. Ben waited till she was out of earshot before exhaling in relief. To soothe himself, he hummed “Roll Over Beethoven.”

Cynthia was fine, fine, fine, but she was wrong about Ben having a lot of friends. In fact, if asked, he would declare he had just one true friend, that being his cat, Mr. Whiskers.

Mr. Whiskers was a Heinz 57 feline, a crazy quilt stray who arrived unannounced and out of nowhere on Ben’s windowsill at four a.m. one baleful morning last winter. It howled like a cartoon cat, meowing its head off like an ambulance siren. It wouldn’t shut up until Ben paid it some serious attention. He finally eased open the window and let it in. The animal bounded to the floor, its fur wet and disheveled. It scoped out the small apartment while Ben went to the kitchen and set out a bowl of milk, opened a can of tuna. On a whim, he placed a few Cheez-Its next to the bowl. The stray devoured everything. It licked its whiskers contentedly at about the same time Ben discovered a pungent puddle of cat pee next to his bedroom closet.

He mopped up the mess and sprayed the floor with Lysol, which he’d heard could kill even the AIDS virus. He tried to lure the beast out his front door by pulling an old shoelace slowly across the carpet and around the door jamb. The cat watched with casual interest but wouldn’t take the bait. Instead, it stood its ground and fixed Ben with a flat, superior stare. Ben heaved a sigh and pulled the door shut. From his mother, he’d inherited a love of creatures, and it was this love, plus sheer exhaustion, which caused him to wave the white flag.

“You can stay tonight, Mr. Whiskers,” he told the bedraggled cat. “But first thing in the morning, I’m calling the pound.”

Mr. Whiskers blinked up at him, yawned, licked a paw, then curled up on the living room floor where it fell dead asleep.

Cat lovers the world over will not be surprised to learn that, when Ben awoke to late morning sunshine, Mr. Whiskers’ warm furry body was coiled next to his on the bed. In less than six hours, the stray established squatter’s rights. Ben grunted, gave it more milk, some tuna and a Wheat Thin smeared with peanut butter. He added to his weekly grocery list the items wet/dry cat food andkitty litter.

Mr. Whiskers became the cat’s official name. Over time, though, depending upon circumstances, it might be called Mr. Hungry, Mr. Smelly, Mr. Sleepy-head, Mr. Pain-in-the-Butt, Mr. Troublemaker, Mr. Mysterious, and other colorful appellations. Only the title of ‘Mr.’ remained constant.

It was something of a shock, then, when the vet, providing shots, vitamins, and a routine check-up pronounced Mr. Whiskers a ‘she’.

The ‘Mr.’ tag stuck, though, and slowly Mr. Whiskers’ true temperament revealed itself. The first clue should have been her right ear, which was horribly mutilated. It looked as if someone had taken a hole-puncher and methodically employed it around the perimeter of the ear. So, she’d been victimized by a cruel owner sometime in her shadowy, feline past. As things turned out, she was also an instigator, and a tough customer who gave as good as she got. She routinely terrorized the neighborhood at night, picking fights, seducing toms, scratching up the neighbors’ screens, bringing birds and snakes into the apartment, howling like a fool at traffic.

Most of Ben’s doctors viewed his companionship with Mr. Whiskers as a healthy component of his recovery. The accident had left Ben with what was mystically labeled ‘cognitive deficits’. His main symptom seemed to be long-term memory loss. Ben remembered very little about his life prior to the fall. “Very common for a head injury,” the therapist told Robert and Violet. In a way, Ben had been fortunate. Everyone said he was blessed to be alive, lucky not to have wound up semi-paralyzed or worse.

His impulse control was mostly good. He didn’t suffer from seizures or sleep deprivation. He retained his faith in God. He simply processed information more slowly and incompletely than before. Sometimes his equilibrium went haywire.

After the hospital, there was no question he would stay with Robert and Violet for a while. As he rehabbed, Ben appreciated living in the same house as Vi. She had a clean soap smell about her. She didn’t seem to mind his shaved head, or his slurred speech. She catered freely to Ben’s sweet tooth. Together they laughed at a lot of the same TV shows. They argued over music, Coltrane and Roy Orbison and Mozart. They discussed God and the mysterious ripples of His universe. At times, Robert could be impatient, but not Vi. Ben thought she was beautiful, and she always saved him a reassuring smile.

Ben couldn’t say Robert was unkind. They were brothers after all. One wouldn’t be cruel to the other, that wasn’t the way brothers behaved. Rob was, however, the cold moon to Violet’s shining sun. Ben would not have conceptualized it in this manner, but Robert took the same ‘ledger system’ approach to his relationships he applied to his work. He calculated what he owed and what was owed him, then attempted to make it all balance. Sometimes, Ben wondered how his brother and Vi ever stayed in tune, but much of the time they seemed to manage.

Ben finished his fifty-fourth unit and took a moment to stretch. Even now, in his diminished capacity, his own relationship with God remained personal. “Faith is no joke,” he liked to say. He rarely forgot to thank the Lord for his job, his apartment, his brother and his sister-in-law. He deeply valued their abiding love, his whole blessed existence. Day in, day out, he humbly acknowledged and accepted things might have turned out much, much worse for him. God bless, indeed.

Yet, he remembered enough of Before The Accident to miss the prophecies and revelations which had once lit up the inside of his head with divine fireworks. Those pyrotechnics now remained subdued, flaring only when stress or fatigue worked like a welding torch upon his mind. Those were the only moments when Ben felt anything close to regret or self-pity. He recognized those moments as a test. He had to force himself to remember his accident was all part of a Grand Plan he could never understand but must accept.

Maggiore’s was less than an hour away from opening up to the early lunch crowd. The restaurant’s employees buzzed about, getting ready for the rush. Ben smiled to himself, hearing the comforting clamor of pots and pans, the salad bar being prepped, his co-workers hurling jokes and uncensored insults among themselves before the arrival of customers. He thought, All in all, I’m a lucky, lucky man.

Ben remembered two episodes of violence marring his near-textbook recovery. Those incidents gave his doctors pause when it came time for endorsing his request to live independently.

KEYWORDS

Family drama, dysfunctional families, brothers as rivals

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LINKS

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08HKH63ZD

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-light-dont-shine-no-more-rod-williams/1137596186;jsessionid=206826B1C17E061038219721D844163D.prodny_store02-atgap17?ean=2940162961437

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-light-dont-shine-no-more/id1531012385?mt=11&app=itunes

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-light-don-t-shine-no-more

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Rod_Williams_The_Light_Don_t_Shine_No_More?id=dnD7DwAAQBAJ

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