Word count: 2222

Coffee with Joel Tockterman
by Jules Winistorfer

You’d recognize this boy. I did. His image is burned in my mind.
	In virtually every dramatic movie in the thirties and forties, he was the kid on the street corner in the too small, threadbare, tweed jacket, worn knickers, and a too large Jeff hat. He waved a newspaper in the air and loudly mimicked the headline, “Al Capone Jailed for Tax Evasion.” At his side hung a canvas bag with more newspapers. It always seemed as though he barely made change fast enough to service the demand for papers.
	My kitchen window overlooks the front lawn. From there I can see the flagstone walk, all but the last ten feet to my door.
	The first day I saw the kid, he ran down the walk away from my house. I hadn’t seen him arrive and I wondered what he’d been up to. Curious, I left my breakfast half eaten and opened the front door. A brown envelope lay on the doorstep, no address or marking on it. I threw it on the kitchen table and finished my breakfast, savoring, through the delay, the mystery of the unopened envelope. I lifted the wings of the thin metal clasp and removed a ten page short story. I read it that evening. None but the Righteous, about a man and his doppelganger; a nice read. I put it back in the envelope, dropped it in my desk drawer and wondered at its origin. That was on Monday.
	The boy showed up the next day. This time, I saw him arrive with another brown envelope in his hand. He left empty-handed. At the front door, I looked up from the envelope in time to see him turn from my walk and disappear down the block. Day after day, story after story arrived. I spent evenings reading the stories, retired them to my desk drawer, and fretted over the mystery.
	The kid seemed to arrive about the same time each day. Friday morning I stood waiting by the front door and watched through the peep hole. As he dropped the envelope, I quickly opened the door and grabbed his arm. Startled, he twisted from my grasp and backed off the step, flashing me a look of such disdain, I feared if I didn’t ease off he might stop deliveries. Indeed, Saturday and Sunday the kid didn’t show, which promised a long weekend.
***
On Friday evening, however, my fiancée had arrived from Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Gloria is a pet industry consultant and is on a long-term assignment there, coming home on weekends until the stint is over. I’m completely in love with Gloria but reluctant to marry her because of her troubled relationship with husband Joel Tockterman before his death. She says she understands, but who knows a woman’s mind.
	After we’d settled in for the weekend, I decided to share with her the five stories I’d accumulated. When I explained the strange circumstances surrounding their delivery, she seemed excited. We sat on the couch and read them together, trading papers as we finished each one. By Sunday afternoon we’d read them over a couple of times.
	“Cute stories,” she said. “I wonder who wrote them; why they were sent to you.”
	“I’ve been stewing over that all week.”
	“Now that I think about it, one of them, Alto’s dog, looks like something I once saw Joel working on; but that couldn’t be.”
	“Not unless you believe in ghosts.”
	She nodded.
	She put her hand on my knee, which changed my focus to late afternoon lovemaking. We retired to the bedroom to make mad monkey-love. My ardor, however, was dampened by a feeling of Joel’s presence. Wondering if Gloria noticed my lagging passion, I apologetically mentioned it to her. She pooh-poohed the idea, saying my performance excelled and that neither of us was a spiritual person—so there.
	Before dark, Gloria was packed and on her way back to Poughkeepsie.
***
Two weeks later, on a Friday, a final story arrived wrapped in newspaper.
	I carefully unfolded the paper, finding it intact and very readable.
	Under a small headline it said: The body of Schwenksville businessman, missing since Sunday, was found in the Delaware River near Palmyra, New Jersey. Joel Tockterman and his wife Gloria left from Bristol on the Riverboat Queen. The day cruise ended in tragedy for Tockterman who pitched off the stern into the paddlewheel and disappeared in the Delaware’s murky waters off Bensalem. Police suspect foul play.
	I’m Marty Martin. Before his death, three years ago, Joel Tockterman was a partner in my antiquarian bookstore in the one block business district of Schwenksville, Pa. At the time our business had foundered. Insurance money from his death eliminated the shop’s financial difficulty. Because of circumstances, the police hounded me for months assuming I’d hired a hit man. Eyewitnesses said Joel was not pushed, just took a nosedive off the fantail. With no tangible evidence the police finally relented.
	Joel’s wife Gloria became a person of interest. Friends spilled their guts about the couple’s marital problems and told police they saw a counselor regularly. With no hard evidence or eyewitnesses Gloria also was dropped as a suspect and the coroner ruled Joel’s death accidental.
	Work kept Gloria in Poughkeepsie for the weekend, so I read the story, dropped it in my desk drawer, and retired troubled. The newspaper suggested to me the stories might have something to do with Joel. Who knew? I don’t believe in supernatural events. I wished the kid and his fucking stories had never showed up.
***
About three a.m. a breeze rattled the window blinds awakening me with a chill. I got up to get a robe. Think I forgot to lock the front door last night. A trip downstairs proved me wrong.
	The kitchen emanated an ominous energy as I passed. Closer examination revealed a familiar man seated at the kitchen table. An abstruse luminescence surrounded the figure. Though frightened, I entered and faced the man squarely.
	“Is that you, Joel?” I said.
	He nodded.
	“Your new salt and pepper beard had me fooled for a second.” He wore his familiar horn rimmed-glasses but looked thin, his face drawn. I can’t believe I’m talking to an apparition. “Why are you here?”
	“Unfinished business,” he said.
	“You’re dead, Joel. What business do you have?”
	“Don’t get pissy on me, Marty.”
	I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder. It passed through his being as if he were a hologram. My hand tingled and I jerked it back.
	“It’s okay Marty. I’m merely a loosely bound pile of atoms. Ectoplasm travel through the cosmos is a bitch.”
	“I’m sure. Can I get you something?”
	“Coffee. They have none where I am.”
	“I don’t want to screw up the morning setting on my coffeemaker. Is instant, okay?”
	“Whatever.”
	While the water boiled, I continued the conversation. “Tell me how you got here, Joel.”
	“I called the agency.”
	“Agency?”
	“Yes, Netherworldservices.com. They take care of unresolved issues, things left unsaid, unfinished business. Delivery of my short stories was a particularly tall order, but they pulled it off. I suspect the service arranged it all through Kinko’s.”
	“So they are your stories. After the final delivery that was wrapped in a newspaper account of your death, I thought as much. I knew you dabbled, but never suspected you’d written polished stories.”
	“I was a closet writer. Never showed my stuff to anyone. Feared rejection.”
	“Why then, reveal them post mortem?”
	“I got to thinking and realized I wanted to leave something behind—something that showed I was here. Comes under unfinished business.”
	I wasn’t sure I agreed with his logic of keeping the stories secret while he was alive, but who am I to judge?
	“Yeah, but why delivery by that particular kid? Weird. You should have had Spanky from Our Gang.”
	“Too expensive. Even the economy package nearly broke the bank.”
	“Only kidding, Joel.”
	He ignored my attempt at humor. “For old time’s sake, I want you to promise you’ll have the stories published for me.”
	“For old time’s sake, Joel.”
	“Next category: things left unsaid. Tell Gloria I loved her very much even through our final troubled days. And I know she had no blame in my death.”
	“Sure.”
	“Also, I know you’ve always had a thing for Gloria. I know you must be sleeping with her already. No ill will. Go ahead and marry her if you like.”
	“I don’t need your blessing to claim Gloria. You’re fucking dead, Joel.”
	“Don’t break my balls, Marty; I’m trying to be a nice guy here.”
	“Sorry.” The teapot whistled and I set about getting the coffee ready.
	“Two sugars and a dash of half and half.”
	“Pretty specific requirements for a ghost.”
	“Whatever,” he said as I prepared his coffee. “You’ve already discovered my form has no substance. Just put the mug to my lips and pour.”
	He leaned toward me across the table. As though feeding a child, I lifted the mug to his mouth. As the coffee spilled over the cup’s lip, it passed through his body and puddled on the table.
	He smiled. “Wow! A little hot, but it tasted great.”
	“So, what’s the unresolved issue, Joel?”
	“Thought I’d let you know, my death was suicide. Don’t tell the insurance company. I’m certain you’ve already received the double indemnity payout for accidental death.”
	“I have. But why?”
	“Deep depression drove me to it—the differences with Gloria, and our failing business. I wanted to leave before causing her any more pain; and I couldn’t let the shop go down. We both worked too hard on it. Again, I wanted to leave something worthwhile behind and my death seemed the only way. Of course, I regret it now. It wasn’t easy. I paced the length of the boat a dozen times before jumping, while Gloria read a book on the awning protected top deck. That day was a truce in our tumultuous relationship—not a love fest, just a lull. We’d planned a quiet dinner at the King George restaurant overlooking the river when we returned. That didn’t happen.”
	He smiled and sat motionless, looking down at the coffee puddle. I sat sipping my coffee and watching him. What a selfless guy. I couldn’t have done the same for him.
	I went to my desk and brought the stack of stories to the kitchen table. We sat together reading them. We both laughed at the humorous places and silently moved through the rest. Before we finished, the sky outside streaked purple and gray.
	“I’d better get going,” he said, “going back through the cosmos will be tricky business, and Netherworld may already have the overtime clock running.”
	“Ghosts don’t have money,” I teased.
	“How do you know, Marty, you been there?” He laughed. “I had a small bank account, which no one knew about. I arranged through Netherworld Services to have the money transferred to a ‘hereafter account.’”
	This had gotten too wild, even for a dream. I decided to end it.
	“Have a good trip, Joel,” I said and waved as I headed for the stairs, leaving him at the kitchen table staring down at his coffee.
***
There were no such things as ghosts, I knew. Before falling into a fitful sleep, I turned the incredible dream over in my mind and thanked God it was only a dream. Even if it was just a fantasy played in my head like a movie, I felt a measure of absolution from Joel’s blessing of my relationship with Gloria. I suppose I’d been living a guilt trip all along. My gut told me the stories were written by Joel. I’d never know for sure. And the delivery kid will remain a mystery I’ll have to live with.
***
I awoke to the rattling slats of my blinds, stirred by the morning breeze. The sun slanted through my other window as I lay quietly watching a bird on the top of an arborvitae that reached a foot above my windowsill. The smell of cow manure from a distant field drifted into my room and I breathed deeply in spite of it. They say it’s unhealthy to revisit disturbing dreams, but I couldn’t help myself. The insight I gained about my life with Gloria; my gratitude at Joel having sacrificed himself for Gloria’s happiness; his passion to save our bookshop; and, finally, the answer to the short story mystery. All of this, of course, I knew was bullshit, a product of my own mind. But sometimes we have to extract value from the folly of our subconscious. The aroma of my morning coffee reached the top of the stairs and began to supplant the cow shit odor in my room. I felt as though I’d had little sleep, but the lure of my morning ritual lifted me.
	I struggled into a pair of jeans, slid into my slippers, pulled on a tee shirt, and padded down the steps to the kitchen. I poured a mug, added equal, a dash of half and half, and sat sipping while I anticipated my caffeine jolt.
	Even in the dimly lit kitchen, I spied two empty cups across the table and reached over to finger the half-dry, sticky puddle of coffee.