THE SILVER RING
by Robert Swartwood
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009 Robert Swartwood
All Rights Reserved
Introduction
In 2000, I wrote a 22,000 word novella called The Silver Ring. I was eighteen. I submitted it to a major science fiction and fantasy magazine (I’m sure you can guess which one) and it was rightly rejected. In the rejection letter the editor said it was “ambitious.” He was being too kind. What was ambitious about it was the length. At the time it was the longest thing I had ever written. But it needed work, and I knew it, and so I put it away and didn’t think of it again until the spring of 2009 where I took it back out and rewrote the entire thing. Keeping the main storyline the same, I managed to cut out 4,000 words while adding in almost three times the amount of action.
As an experiment in self-promotion, I posted the novella online at http://thesilverring.wordpress.com. I even uploaded it onto Kindle. And now I am making it available for free on Smashwords.
Thank you for downloading The Silver Ring. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please mention it to someone else you think might enjoy it too.
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1
Five minutes before the man with the gun entered the store, two little girls cut in front of me in line.
It wasn’t really their fault. I was waiting in line, yeah, but this being a convenience store, the tabloid magazines were stored on a rack beneath the counter, and I was turned toward them, reading the ridiculous headlines about even more ridiculous celebrities. Above me, the speakers in the ceiling poured out some song by Bruce Springsteen.
It was summer and the temperature was stifling and for the past week after work I’d been stopping in for a slushie. The movie theater where I worked was having a promotion with this chain of stores: bring in your ticket stub for a free sixteen ounce soda or slushie. The theater floors always littered with stubs, I figured what the hey and stocked up on ticket stubs.
So I was standing there, a Cherry Coke slushie in one hand and reading a recent headline about Tom Cruise, when the man who’d been in line before me finished his purchase and turned away. The two girls stepped up and threw candy bars down on the counter.
The cashier—a woman named Dorothy, who never seemed to have a night off because I always saw her in here—gave me a look, as if asking, You mind?
I shrugged, took a sip of my slushie, and reached into my pocket for a ticket stub.
Among some change and a pack of gum, my fingers touched something solid that at first didn’t make sense. Pulling it out, I realized it was a ring I’d found tonight while cleaning house seven, one of the biggest houses. It was silver and looked expensive and I’d meant to turn it in to one of the managers but then we’d gotten busy and I’d forgotten. And now here it was resting in the palm of my hand.
It had a neutral look to it, like it could belong to either a man or a woman, and I don’t know why, but right then I needed to try it on. Just to see if it would fit, I told myself, and so I slipped it onto my finger. Not that I knew much about jewelry at seventeen, but it fit perfectly.
Before I had a chance to slide it back off the two girls shouted, “Thank you!” and suddenly turned away. The one closest bumped into me, causing me to drop my slushie. It hit the floor and spilled reddish-brown slush across the linoleum.
The girl who’d bumped me stood completely still, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The other girl had to cover her mouth as she giggled.
“I’m so sorry,” the one girl said.
Outside, a car beeped, and the other girl said, “Come on, Mom’s waiting,” and then the girls were hurrying away, an electronic buzzer going ding-dong when they exited.
Dorothy was already coming out from behind the counter, a roll of paper towels in her hand.
“This is why I don’t have any kids,” she said with a sigh.
She looked to be forty, fifty years old. She had long gray hair. Because of the silver ring now on my finger, I happened to notice she wore nothing on any of her long fingers.
Tearing off a long piece of paper towel, she said, “Go get yourself another. I’ll take care of this mess.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind cleaning this up. I’m used to it.”
She was already lowering herself down to the floor, holding on to the counter for support. “Used to it. What does that mean?”
“I work over at the movie theater as an usher. I’m always cleaning up people’s messes.”
“Is that how you get all those ticket stubs? I just thought you liked watching movies.”
I smiled. “To be honest, I don’t really have much time to see movies.”
She placed the long sheet of paper towel over the bulk of the mess, tore another sheet.
“Go get yourself another,” she said. “I’ll be fine here.”
Deciding it best not to argue, I turned and headed toward the back of the store where they had the soda and slushie machines. I reached for one of the sixteen ounce cups but then stopped.
The ring on my finger was glowing.
“What—” I started to say.
And that was when the electronic buzzer went ding-dong and the man with the gun entered the store.
2
“Get up off the floor, bitch!” The voice was loud, angry, scared, hyped up on some kind of drug. “I want the money! Everything you got!”
The ring continued to glow and I just stared at it, completely calm.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” the man shouted, and while I couldn’t see the front of the store I somehow knew he had a .45 pointed at Dorothy’s face—Dorothy, who had her shaking hands up in the air and was having trouble getting to her feet.
“Please, please,” she started to sob.
The man with the gun struck her across the face, knocked her back down. She landed in the spilt slushie.
“Don’t fucking talk,” the man said. He was Hispanic and his eyes were red and his name was Irving and he needed only fifty bucks for another hit.
How I knew all that I didn’t know, just as I didn’t know why I started to slowly turn around, began to walk toward the front of the store.
“Please, please,” Dorothy sobbed.
“Bitch, you don’t shut your goddamn mouth, I’ll shoot you.”
Dorothy went silent.
“Now get the fuck up and get me my money.”
Her hands still raised, her bottom soaked with slushie, Dorothy managed to get into a sitting position, lean forward, place her weight on one knee, and stand.
“Fucking hurry,” Irving said. He’d waited outside until those two girls left, until there were no more cars in the parking lot, and knew the woman was alone (thought he knew, anyway), and he needed that money, he needed it.
Now standing on trembling legs, tears running down her face, Dorothy started to turn back toward the counter. But her sneaker skidded in more slushie, causing her to slip, to wave her arms wildly, and Irving, already hopped up and wired, thought she was trying to attack him and did the only thing he could do to protect himself.
He shot her three times in the back.
Dorothy stood still for an instant, her arms no longer waving, and then fell forward dead.
“Irving,” I said, standing now at the end of the chip and candy aisle, just a few feet away.
He turned, his eyes even wider, and unloaded the rest of the bullets into my chest.
3
I stumbled backward, my body went limp, my legs lost their strength, and I landed on the floor and knocked my head hard.
I didn’t feel it.
I didn’t feel anything.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, at one of those speakers hidden somewhere in the plaster tile. Bruce Springteen was over—he’d been over—and now someone else was singing. I couldn’t tell who it was or what they were saying.
All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. That and Irving cursing again, the sound of his footsteps as he ran for the door, the electronic buzzer going ding-dong.
And then silence.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to do both so very much but I couldn’t. I just lay there and stared at the ceiling, at that speaker emitting music of someone I didn’t know, didn’t recognize, and before I knew it I closed my eyes.
For an instant I saw darkness.
Then I saw a glow through my closed lids—somehow I knew it was the glow of the silver ring on my finger—and I opened my eyes again, took a breath, and sat up.
The first thing I did was touch my chest.
There was no blood. No bullet holes. Nothing.
The second thing I did was scramble to my feet and look wildly around the aisle, searching for those spent bullets.
Everything in that aisle—the bags of potato chips and pretzels, trays of candy bars and gum—looked no more disturbed than usual.
The ring glowed on my finger again—I somehow felt it glowing, like a pinprick—and I turned and hurried over to where Dorothy lay on the floor in a growing pool of blood and slushie.
She was clearly dead, the back of her blue uniform shirt ravaged where the bullets had entered.
“Dorothy,” I said, like she would answer.
She didn’t.
I stood back up, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone, when the silver ring glowed again.
I stared at it, then looked back at Dorothy.
I placed my hand on her back—the hand with the silver ring that was still glowing, somehow brighter now.
I kept my hand there and closed my eyes.
And in the space of five seconds I saw Dorothy’s entire life—her childhood, her adolescence, her adult years—and I knew about her two cats at home, Mork and Mindy, I knew about her last boyfriend, a man to whom she’d been engaged, and how he’d beaten her almost every other day.
With my eyes closed, seeing all this, I also saw the growing pool of blood and slushie surrounding Dorothy’s body. I saw the blood reverse course, going against gravity and its nature to spread out, the blood instead returning to her body, her body dislodging the bullets, first the one, then the other, and the skin closing back up, repairing itself.
I opened my eyes, looked down at the ring.
It was no longer glowing.
Dorothy groaned, mumbled something, and turned over. Staring up at me, she said, “What happened?”
“A man came in here with a gun and tried to rob the place.”
“What?”
“It’s okay. You slipped, knocked yourself unconscious, and the guy didn’t know what to do, so he just bolted.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“I was still in the back. I was”—I swallowed, looked away—“scared.”
Dorothy sat up, wincing at the pain in the back of her head. She looked down around her at reddish-brown pool of slushie and shook her head. “Well this is certainly a mess, isn’t it?”
4
“Name?”
“I already told you.”
“David Beveridge.”
“Age?”
“I already told you that too.”
“Seventeen.”
Officer Titus, a large bulky black man with a shaved head, looked away from the pad he was writing on and glanced at his wristwatch.
“It’s eleven-fifteen,” he said. “Curfew for minors is eleven.”
At this point, my dad, who had been standing idly by wringing his hands, stepped forward.
“Okay, Officer, I think my son has answered all your questions. He was in the back when the assailant entered the store and he stayed there and didn’t see the man’s face. Now are we done here?”
My dad had arrived less than a minute after I called him. After all, we lived only ten blocks away and he had hurried here in his BMW in sweatpants and an undershirt.
The police—Officers Titus and Mallory—had pulled into the parking lot about a minute after Dorothy came to. I’d just helped her to her feet when the electronic buzzer went ding-dong and there the two cops stood staring at us with frowns.
Officer Titus took his time marking something down on his pad. He seemed bored, like he was too good for this type of cop work, probably believed he would someday make a great detective instead.
His partner, who had been inside taking Dorothy’s statement, came out the door and walked over to us shaking his head.
“Nothing on the tape.”
“Say that again?” Officer Titus asked.
“The tape was in the player and it was recording. Right before the perp came in, it all turned to static.” He noticed my dad, smiled, and extended his hand. “Assistant D.A. Beveridge, it’s very good to meet you, sir.”
Officer Titus gave my dad another look, something changing in his face. “Oh shit, I didn’t—”
“That’s quite okay,” my dad said. “So are we done here?”
“Just one more thing,” Officer Malloy said, stepping forward and taking my arm. In a soft voice he said, “David, what I’d like you to do now is glance across the street and see if you recognize any of those people as the guy.”
Officer Titus said, “The kid says he didn’t—”
“I know that,” Officer Mallory said. “But it’s a small store. He may not have seen the guy’s face completely, but he may have gotten a glimpse. Maybe even the color of his shirt or his hat. What do you say, David?”
We were right outside the store, the police cruiser next to us with its red and white roof lights flashing. It had drawn some attention across the street, a half dozen or so people milling around wondering what was what.
“Sure, okay,” I said and gave that side of the street a quick look—some Puerto Rican kids, two old black men, a tall bald guy with a thick goatee—and then I looked back at Officer Mallory and shook my head.
Officer Titus blew air through his nose but Mallory ignored it. He reached into his pocket, dug out a card, and handed it to me.
“If you can remember anything else, please feel free to call me, okay?”
My dad took the proffered card and slipped it into his pocket, smiling at me for the first time. “So are we done here?”
Officer Mallory nodded. “Yes, sir.”
5
My dad parked the BMW a block down from our brownstone. As he shut off the car, he said, “Where’d you get the ring?”
“The what?”
“On your finger. I don’t remember seeing it before.”
I glanced down at my left hand, lost for words, then said, “Just found it somewhere.”
We walked to the brownstone in silence, the block still but the city faint with noise. As we neared the house the streetlamps along the block flickered briefly.
“Strange,” my dad said. At the bottom of the stone steps he looked at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, murmured, “I love you, son.”
I instantly felt that sudden pinprick on my finger and stepped out of his embrace. Staring up at him I studied his face, the furrows in his brow, the bags underneath his eyes.
Frowning at me, he said, “What is it?”
“You promised you would stop.”
“Huh?”
“You made a promise to Mom and me that you would never see her again.”
“David, what are you talking about?”
“You can’t even admit it, can you? You’re pathetic.”
The front door opened and my mom appeared in her wheelchair. “David? John? Is everything okay?”
I glanced back at my dad and saw him staring at me, his face suddenly tight.
“Yeah, honey,” he called. “Everything’s great.”
I turned away from him and hurried up the steps. Mom held out her arms, and I leaned down and gave her a hug.
“I was so worried,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“It sounds worse than it really was.”
My dad was still standing at the bottom of the steps, staring down the block.
I placed my hand on the door and waited for Mom to roll back so I could shut it.
“What about your father?”
“He said he needed to make a call before he comes in.”
I shut the door harder than I probably needed to, hoping he would somehow feel my anger through the vibrations.
“Easy now,” Mom said quietly. “You’ll wake your sister.”
But apparently my sister was already awake, little eight-year-old Emma dressed in her Hanna Montana pajamas rubbing the sleep from her eye as she stumbled out of the living room.
“David?” she asked sleepily. “Is that you?”
“Hey, munchkin. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Mom said, “When your father received your call he was frantic and managed to wake her up. She’s been worried ever since.”
“...
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