There's an art to ignoring the elephant in the room. In this short story by Ron Smith, the characters do their best to pretend not to see what's right in front of them.
No Problem
By Ron Smith
If only Nell hadn’t answered the phone. We were expecting
the Wolfowitzes, a nice couple from up the street, for dinner and cards. We had
met them last summer at a neighborhood barbeque.
Alina Wolfowitz worked in the same building as my wife, and
her husband Norm and I were Seahawk fans. They were fun.
I had the afternoon off and, sipping coffee in the kitchen
with Nell, was about to cut the grass.
The phone rang. I’m superstitious about answering when
expecting company.
“Don’t answer it,” I said, too late.
“Hello?” said Nell.
I tried to decipher the conversation by observing Nell’s
“oohs, ahhs, um-hmmms,” the wan smiles and tightly pursed lips that alter her
face when she is in conflict.
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Yes, yess… I suppose we
could, yeah, no problem. Bring him over.”
The call ended.
“What?” I asked, my eyes widening.
“Not such a big deal,” she began. “That was Milly Campbell.
She and Shep have a ski trip planned and the pet sitter cancelled at the last
minute. I said we’d keep Leon for the weekend.”
Leon, the Campbells’ pet, is not a cat, dog or bird but an
elephant, not full grown but no baby any more either.
“But Nell, we’re having company,” I protested. “It’ll be
crowded. Why didn’t you refuse?”
“I wanted to,” Nell replied, “but Milly sounded desperate.”
“Why not the Smiths?” I asked. “They’re much closer to the
Campbells than us.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “They’re busy or something.”
Before the company arrived, Nell, in the kitchen, busily
stuffed peppers for dinner. Shep Campbell rang the doorbell. Leon, the
elephant, stood behind him in the yard on a rope leash. Pulling and shoving,
Shep and I barely got him through the front door. We led him to a spot where
his head and trunk were in the dining room and his rear in the parlor. Shep
tethered the rope and spread hay on the carpet.
“I sure appreciate you taking Leon on such short notice. I owe
you one,” said Shep.
“No problem,” I replied, trying to sound like I meant it.
Smells of the zoo overpowered the stuffed peppers baking in the kitchen.
When our guests arrived, I took their coats and sat them in
the parlor.
“May I get either of you a drink?” I asked.
Side by side on the sofa, they stared at the beast but said
nothing. Alina Wolfowitz assumed a jaunty, make-the-best-of-anything pose and
Norm sneezed twice, perhaps beset by allergies.
“May I get either of you a drink?” I repeated. They both
asked for bourbon. Doubles. While I mixed the drinks, Leon’s trunk, remarkably
agile from the dining room, explored the air near Alina’s knees and skirt. She drew
closer to her husband, crossed her ankles and complimented an ornate, gold leaf
mirror on the opposite wall.
“Thank you,” I said. “It belonged to Nell’s folks.” I handed
them their drinks and excused myself to check on Nell in the kitchen.
The stuffed peppers were delicious. Alina begged Nell to
share the recipe. Norm and I discussed the Trail Blazer’s chances in the
playoffs. We both agreed that Oklahoma point guard Russell Westbrook would be
hard to restrain. As though he were defending the Blazers, Leon made a shrill
trumpet typical of an elephant, sending bits of straw everywhere. Alina Wolfowitz
smiled bravely but said nothing.
It’s lucky the card game after dinner was at the dining room
table in proximity to the front of
the elephant. During the third match, Leon did what such a creature must do,
sooner or later. Eyes burned and noses curled. The smell nearly unbearable, with
trowels and garbage bags, Norm and I silently cleaned up the mishap.
We resumed the game, spoke of gardens, football, homeless
people and television but never once mentioned the elephant in the room. The Wolfowitzes
excused themselves, maybe a bit early, but who can blame them? It was pretty
crowded.
“What a day,” said Nell with a sigh. “Let’s call it quits. We
can tidy up tomorrow.” We switched off lights and headed for bed.
About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and has been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with several houseplants.
