First published in slightly different form in 1984
Earlier form of story critiqued/discussed by Harlan Ellison and Ray Bradbury who provided input at UND writers conference
Mr. Diestler by Damon LaBarbera
Mr Diestler, a horse-faced man of seventy six sat stiffly on the chaise longue looking longingly at his own house next door. He was getting rather bored with this visit. Curiosity had prompted him to come in the first place. There was something exciting about human oddities, and this Hollis woman who had returned just last week from a psychiatric hospital was an excellent specimen. She would make a unique addition to his collection. Someday he'd incorporate them all into a book. One day... Meanwhile, though, the specimen opposite him was getting tiresome; the oddity was exhausting its sole justification for being.
"Please listen one more time," said Lucy Hollis. "I can show you the papers."
"Go ahead." Mr. Diestler would not listen. He would watch the waves just visible above the dunes in Lucy's yard. The crazy talk wore on. But it was better than home. For, actually, it was not just curiosity that had drawn him here. It was avoidance of the unpleasant task of dealing with a distasteful matter. Why was he the executor of his late wife's estate? Why did Rose foist this grim task on him. Why hadn't she hired a law partners.
Maybe he should randomly pick one relative and give them the inheritance and be done with it. But his kids? Didn't they deserve his part when he p assed. Those pleasant but essentially narcissistic children now ensconced in a faraway city, dismissive of him and the work values that had allowed him to educate and for a time, finance their early adulthood in relative comfort.
Mr. Diestler examined more carefully the small woman opposite him. Lucy Hollis' face was lined prematurely, for she was only twenty-nine; and she had poor skin that turned red around the nostrils. Human oddities, mused Mr. Diestler, were like pointillistic paintings, best viewed from a distance. He remembered the Monet hung on the wall of his house. Only in college when it was on his dormitory wall and conferred some status did he ever really like the mess of colors.
“Please help me. I have all the papers. I do own the boat. They tricked me out of it” Ms. Hollis had inheritance problems as well.
The gyst, as far as Mr. Diestler could tell, was that Lucy and her husband had worked on a research boat. A grant had been given by a local but moderately prestigious college, and the boat was for their use—they were both assistant professors of Oceanography at the time.. It was her big chance
Lucy said that she had always believed that she was destined to do something really big. What exactly it was that she would do was hard to specify, but she knew it would be big. There was even a story in the Newport Lifestyle magazine about the boat and its exploratory mission. But a year later after a heavy storm the boat was damaged, and John, her husband was dead.\\
Something in the insurance, Lucy said, entitled her to a large amount of money. It didn't really make much sense to Mr. Diestler. Lucy could not think in a straight line. Really, he wasn't listening, just thinking of having to call Catherine, his wife's sister. Mr. Diestler just looked at the fields behind Lucy as the younger woman talked
(mid part of story Harlan Ellis made fun of and Ray Bradbury said "its not THAT bad" and needs writing, skip to end)
Then he felt a sort of pain. Not in his shoulder, not a heart attack pain, that was on the other side, wasn't it. It was just random pain.. Age. It had its benefits, but the body was a nuisance, a sort of unmodern inconvenience. During panic attacks, he always thought he was dying or going crazy, and about to lose bladder control. But lately, these old psychiatric problems seemed like old friends. At least they weren't age related. He hardly even took his Elavil or Valium anymore.
Then he felt a presence pas sing through him, a coolness. His face was hot, feet and hands tingled. He could smell the perfume of his late wife. He suddenly felt joined to something or someone larger than himself. “Not feeling well?”, asked Lucy? She suddenly looked a little different.
“Please come in. In the house she opened the refrigerator and gave Diestler a beer. He drank it and felt better. She was steering him to a staircase. Lucy dear, I can't look at these papers. I am not your attorney. You can hire one who do the job correctly. I would need to be at my desk. I cant focus here.
Then, in the same way he used to acquiesce to Rose, he said, “Okay, I will look at them” With the bemused smile one gives to a foolish child, Mr. Diestler extended his elbow as if to be escorted, and she led him slowly up a staircase.
. As they climbed the stairway, he saw more and more of the upstairs hallway: the ceiling, a smoke detector, the top of a doorway. .The spacious house was air-conditioned but needed airing. Each visual increment seemed to correspond to an olfactory one, so that Mr Diestler, wobbly on his feet, stopped on the last step and forced himself to btreath through his mouth. Mr. Diestler tried to retain his smile but his face muscles would not oblige. The two threaded their way around a large bin of laundry, some kitty litter near the top of the stairs, and some cleaning supplies. * She brought him to her desk and withdrew some papers.
Mr. Diestler looked, first with disinterest, then with focus, and finally with intention. She might be right, he mused. She might have been entitled to a substantial settlement. Then, again, Mr. Diestler had felt his mouth dry and underarms wet. And he could relate only scattered impressions of what happened afterward. He found himself in a hospital bed. An array of tubes surrounded him. Something shifted near him. A nurse was adjusting his bed.. At eye level was Lucy's face. Her head seemed, at this angle, perched neckless on the side of the bed. Then his life seemed to become permanently groggy, alternations of sleep and barely more alert wakefulness. He seemed to know that Lucy was always there, and eventually began to suspect that she was some manifestation of his late wife, Rose. "I am not deluded," he said to a doctor. This is not some grief related craziness. Nonetheless, Haldol was prescribed. Lucy was there frequently, sometimes lucid, sometimes now
He never called Catherine, his sister in law, but did arrange she inherit half the money. Lucy brought potted plants to the hospital and sat as he watched television—reruns of Happy Days and World War II footage. Eventually he began callin her Rose. It didn't matter. In his delirium he had the vague realization that he missed his late wife more than ever his carapice of cynacism would have allowed him to admit. He arranged that his children get small, rather token, sums, and tow of three showed up at his funeral, wondering if Lucy had been his, so to speak, his concubine, because he had left half his estate to her, and she gave half to Catherine.
Earlier form of story critiqued/discussed by Harlan Ellison and Ray Bradbury who provided input at UND writers conference
Mr. Diestler by Damon LaBarbera
Mr Diestler, a horse-faced man of seventy six sat stiffly on the chaise longue looking longingly at his own house next door. He was getting rather bored with this visit. Curiosity had prompted him to come in the first place. There was something exciting about human oddities, and this Hollis woman who had returned just last week from a psychiatric hospital was an excellent specimen. She would make a unique addition to his collection. Someday he'd incorporate them all into a book. One day... Meanwhile, though, the specimen opposite him was getting tiresome; the oddity was exhausting its sole justification for being.
"Please listen one more time," said Lucy Hollis. "I can show you the papers."
"Go ahead." Mr. Diestler would not listen. He would watch the waves just visible above the dunes in Lucy's yard. The crazy talk wore on. But it was better than home. For, actually, it was not just curiosity that had drawn him here. It was avoidance of the unpleasant task of dealing with a distasteful matter. Why was he the executor of his late wife's estate? Why did Rose foist this grim task on him. Why hadn't she hired a law partners.
Maybe he should randomly pick one relative and give them the inheritance and be done with it. But his kids? Didn't they deserve his part when he p assed. Those pleasant but essentially narcissistic children now ensconced in a faraway city, dismissive of him and the work values that had allowed him to educate and for a time, finance their early adulthood in relative comfort.
Mr. Diestler examined more carefully the small woman opposite him. Lucy Hollis' face was lined prematurely, for she was only twenty-nine; and she had poor skin that turned red around the nostrils. Human oddities, mused Mr. Diestler, were like pointillistic paintings, best viewed from a distance. He remembered the Monet hung on the wall of his house. Only in college when it was on his dormitory wall and conferred some status did he ever really like the mess of colors.
“Please help me. I have all the papers. I do own the boat. They tricked me out of it” Ms. Hollis had inheritance problems as well.
The gyst, as far as Mr. Diestler could tell, was that Lucy and her husband had worked on a research boat. A grant had been given by a local but moderately prestigious college, and the boat was for their use—they were both assistant professors of Oceanography at the time.. It was her big chance
Lucy said that she had always believed that she was destined to do something really big. What exactly it was that she would do was hard to specify, but she knew it would be big. There was even a story in the Newport Lifestyle magazine about the boat and its exploratory mission. But a year later after a heavy storm the boat was damaged, and John, her husband was dead.\\
Something in the insurance, Lucy said, entitled her to a large amount of money. It didn't really make much sense to Mr. Diestler. Lucy could not think in a straight line. Really, he wasn't listening, just thinking of having to call Catherine, his wife's sister. Mr. Diestler just looked at the fields behind Lucy as the younger woman talked
(mid part of story Harlan Ellis made fun of and Ray Bradbury said "its not THAT bad" and needs writing, skip to end)
Then he felt a sort of pain. Not in his shoulder, not a heart attack pain, that was on the other side, wasn't it. It was just random pain.. Age. It had its benefits, but the body was a nuisance, a sort of unmodern inconvenience. During panic attacks, he always thought he was dying or going crazy, and about to lose bladder control. But lately, these old psychiatric problems seemed like old friends. At least they weren't age related. He hardly even took his Elavil or Valium anymore.
Then he felt a presence pas sing through him, a coolness. His face was hot, feet and hands tingled. He could smell the perfume of his late wife. He suddenly felt joined to something or someone larger than himself. “Not feeling well?”, asked Lucy? She suddenly looked a little different.
“Please come in. In the house she opened the refrigerator and gave Diestler a beer. He drank it and felt better. She was steering him to a staircase. Lucy dear, I can't look at these papers. I am not your attorney. You can hire one who do the job correctly. I would need to be at my desk. I cant focus here.
Then, in the same way he used to acquiesce to Rose, he said, “Okay, I will look at them” With the bemused smile one gives to a foolish child, Mr. Diestler extended his elbow as if to be escorted, and she led him slowly up a staircase.
. As they climbed the stairway, he saw more and more of the upstairs hallway: the ceiling, a smoke detector, the top of a doorway. .The spacious house was air-conditioned but needed airing. Each visual increment seemed to correspond to an olfactory one, so that Mr Diestler, wobbly on his feet, stopped on the last step and forced himself to btreath through his mouth. Mr. Diestler tried to retain his smile but his face muscles would not oblige. The two threaded their way around a large bin of laundry, some kitty litter near the top of the stairs, and some cleaning supplies. * She brought him to her desk and withdrew some papers.
Mr. Diestler looked, first with disinterest, then with focus, and finally with intention. She might be right, he mused. She might have been entitled to a substantial settlement. Then, again, Mr. Diestler had felt his mouth dry and underarms wet. And he could relate only scattered impressions of what happened afterward. He found himself in a hospital bed. An array of tubes surrounded him. Something shifted near him. A nurse was adjusting his bed.. At eye level was Lucy's face. Her head seemed, at this angle, perched neckless on the side of the bed. Then his life seemed to become permanently groggy, alternations of sleep and barely more alert wakefulness. He seemed to know that Lucy was always there, and eventually began to suspect that she was some manifestation of his late wife, Rose. "I am not deluded," he said to a doctor. This is not some grief related craziness. Nonetheless, Haldol was prescribed. Lucy was there frequently, sometimes lucid, sometimes now
He never called Catherine, his sister in law, but did arrange she inherit half the money. Lucy brought potted plants to the hospital and sat as he watched television—reruns of Happy Days and World War II footage. Eventually he began callin her Rose. It didn't matter. In his delirium he had the vague realization that he missed his late wife more than ever his carapice of cynacism would have allowed him to admit. He arranged that his children get small, rather token, sums, and tow of three showed up at his funeral, wondering if Lucy had been his, so to speak, his concubine, because he had left half his estate to her, and she gave half to Catherine.
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