The Collector by Lee Mandel (best short novels TXT) 📕

habits when he moved in with Aunt Marie. But even she kicked him out. I just can’t have him in my life.”
“I understand how you feel, Joey, but do it for me. I haven’t seen you in a while. You don’t have to talk to him,” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Jeannie. How about if I come by on Sunday? I’ll stay the whole day.”
Jeannie couldn’t blame him. She hated her father, too. She didn’t want to push. “Alright, but I’ll miss you not being there. You better be here on Sunday.” She said ‘good-bye’ and hung up the phone.

Eleven fifteen, Saturday morning. Jeannie finished putting on her make up. She wanted to look nice for the birthday luncheon. The phone rang. Jeannie ran to it, hoping Joey had changed his mind.
“Hey darlin’,” a rough voice greeted. Jeannie recognized the voice immediately. It was her Uncle Clive.
Although Clive was her father’s youngest brother, he towered over him and was extremely muscular. He was always suave around the ladies, but was just as diabolical as the rest of her father’s family. Jeannie remembered the time he cornered her inside Aunt Marie’s house during a summer barbecue. She had gone inside to use the restroom, but was intercepted by Clive. He grabbed Jeannie’s arm and pushed her into the master bedroom. He began to caress her cheek and told her that she wasn’t as bad looking as Marie always said. He complimented her on her soft form as he moved his hands up and down her body. Jeannie tried to get away from him, but Clive pushed her down onto the bed. He held her down with one hand as he managed to take his belt off.
He warned her not to scream or he’d “show her that her father’s hand wasn’t tough at all.”
At that moment, Charles had come into the house to refill the ice bucket. He heard the commotion and came to Jeannie’s rescue, pulling Clive off of his sister. Clive backed away, but not without connecting his fist to Charles’s jaw first.
“If you ever lay a hand on her again,” Charles began, “I’ll put a bullet through your brain.”

“Er, hi, Uncle Clive. How’d you get this number?”
Clive’s cool attitude steamed through the phone. “Your daddy gave it to me when he invited me to join ya all for lunch. Said you was in charge of the R.S.V.P.s. I was wonderin’ if you wouldn’t mind givin’ me a ride to your daddy’s shin-dig? I don’t really know how to get there.”
Jeannie was uncomfortable talking to Clive, even after so many years. “O-o-okay. I can pick you up in a few minutes. Just tell me where you are.”
“Well darlin’, actually I am right outside your door. I’m callin’ you on my cell phone. So, why don’t cha just come to the front door and let your Uncle Clive in.”
Jeannie looked out the peephole and saw Clive standing in the front archway, waving with a sardonic smile. Jeannie had no choice now. She opened the door and let him in.

Twelve o’clock on the dot and Jeannie walked through the restaurant toward the maitre ‘d. She gave the name of the party and he ushered her to a table where Charles and her father sat uncomfortably across from one another, trying to make small talk.
She sat between them. “Happy birthday, Dad.”
Martin Boggs was a tall, broad man, who was comfortably in his mid-70’s. In his youth, he was a well-built man with little worries from neighborhood bullies. Now, his shaky hands lifted a glass of water to his near toothless mouth. His tongue cradled several prescription drugs, waiting for the liquid to ease their flow down into his system.
Aside from cirrhosis of the liver, from years of alcohol consumption, and a recent on-set of pancreatic cancer, he was still “fit as a fiddle”, as he would describe. A fiddle that Charles always said was playing the “Devil’s Waltz.”
“You’re late,” he said looking at his wristwatch.
“Only a minute,” she defended her tardiness.
“Where’s Clive?” he pressed. “He said you were bringing him.”
Jeannie placed her napkin on her lap and lifted the menu in front of her face. “He called. He said he had something urgent to take care of and couldn’t attend. He said he was sorry.” She perused the menu a short moment. “Shall we order? I’m famished.”
Charles looked puzzled. “What about Aunt Marie?”
“I’ve been trying to reach her since last night,” Martin said. “She doesn’t answer the phone. Maybe she’s still mad at me.” He turned his focus to Jeannie. “Didn’t you say she mentioned something about visiting your cousin Myra down south?”
“Yes, I think that’s what she said,” Jeannie agreed.

The three enjoyed a tense lunch, mostly in silence. Jeannie made the occasional attempt at conversation here and there. Everyone was well behaved, until Martin began to pick on Charles. “You should eat slower. You eat too fast. Maybe that’s why that wife of yours left ya. You’re too fat.”
Charles focused on finishing his dessert, trying to ignore his father’s usual string of insults.
Martin excused himself and headed for the men’s room. “Jeannie, can you take dad home? I can’t take him any more. Besides, I have a date in twenty minutes and I don’t want to be late.”
A trite smile mixed with disappointment painted Jeannie’s face. “Sure, Charles.” Charles was up from the table and out the door. Jeannie dug into her wallet and matched the bundle of money that Charles left for his half of the meal. The ample difference made a nice gratuity.
As Martin returned, Jeannie got up from the table. “Okay, Dad. I’m taking you home.”
“Where’s Charles?” he asked, looking around the restaurant.
“He had to go.”
“To another money-hungry, blood-draining hussy, no doubt. He’s wasting his time, if you ask me.” His tone indicated a harsh disapproval. “So now I have to ride with you?”
Jeannie wrestled with herself on whether she should defend Charles and her driving or just let the topics drop. She paced herself alongside her father as she escorted him down the street to her car. After securing Martin in the passenger seat, Jeannie walked around the car and took a deep breath before entering into close quarters with the man she despised most in the world.
She wasn’t even away from the curb, when he began his usual incessant badgering. “So, what? You gonna sit in your pathetic dump the rest of the night after you drop me off? Your life is such a waste.”
Pretending to focus on the road, Jeannie tried to block out his demoralizing old voice, but he kept on. How much longer before she got him home?
“No wonder you don’t have a man in your life. Your Aunt Marie is right. Look at you. You don’t know how to present yourself as a fish worth catching. You’re a looser.”
Jeannie felt her blood begin to heat up. Her heart raced. But, she maintained a tender, collected smile. She allowed him to rant a few minutes more before she spoke. “Dad, how would you like to come to my place and visit a while? I have a little birthday surprise for you.”
As though he was settling for a fate worse than death, Martin Boggs reluctantly agreed.

Once inside, Martin edged his way through the long hallway, sneaking peeks of the photographs on the wall. He walked toward the living room and glanced at the shelves on the wall near the window. Proudly displayed was Jeannie’s new collection of Barbie dolls. She had all of the pretty blondes in pristine outfits with matching shoes. There were a few collector’s edition dolls still in their boxes.
Martin eyed them up and down with displeasure. “You really should move. This place is a dump. And these dolls… You need to find a guy who’ll take care of you; get you a decent house and a few brats to take care of.”
That was it. He had hit Jeannie’s soft spot. “Well, Dad, I probably would be married with a bunch of ‘brats’ as you refer to them, if you weren’t a lousy, drunken bastard of a father. Because of you, I can’t hold a relationship long enough to learn a man’s last name, not to mention the fact that you destroyed any chance of my having children.” Her look pierced Martin.
His face gave way to shock. “How dare you speak to me like that,” he rebuked. “I am your father.”
Jeannie walked into the living room and pointed to the armchair that was positioned caddy-cornered at the far end of the room. “Sit down,” she commanded. “I’m going to give you your birthday present.”
She waited until he was sitting before retrieving the nicely wrapped box. Slowly, he tore away the paper, watching her from the corner of his eye. He opened the box. “What’s this? A bunch of broken dolls?” he said with a puzzled look.
“These were my dolls that you destroyed years ago. They were my only happiness. They helped me pretend to live in a nicer world, instead of the world you provided us. You took that away from me. The only thing I had left was Mom, but you took that away, too, when you beat her to death.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he insisted as he waved his crooked finger in the air. Jeannie closed her eyes, knowing that the years of abuse had caused her mother’s body to break down. She never blamed her for giving up.
“Oh, but Dad, this isn’t your real gift,” she said as if the conversation were not bitter. She disappeared from the room. Martin reclined in the armchair, happy with what he thought was another conquest. As he tried to shake off the topic he felt a sudden sharp pain in his neck. He tried to jump out of the chair, but he couldn’t pull himself up. He lifted his hands and pawed at his neck. A thin strand of wire was tight around his neck. He struggled to break free.
“See, Dad, I bought you that fishing wire you’re always raving about. I thought you would be surprised.” Jeannie pulled the wire tighter as she forced her father’s struggling body in the chair. Martin succumbed to the loss of consciousness.

The basement door creaked as she pushed it open. She turned the light switch on before she carefully walked down the stairs to the basement. The feeling was damp as the aroma of must and mildew wafted together. Jeannie walked to the far end of the basement and stopped before the metal shelving unit against the wall. She placed the carefully wrapped head of Martin Boggs on the top shelf, between the one of his sister Marie and his brother Clive.
“Now this is a collection I can be proud of,” she said out loud before climbing back up the stairs. She started to hum and sing the words,
“...R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Take care, TCB” before