Thursday Stories: Red Bear

A New Story Most Thursdays

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Three brothers bury their legacy and search for a teddy bear…

Happy September, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Red Bear. Three estranged brothers bury their newly dead mother, remember their long-dead father, and a search for a red teddy bear. The genre is literary fiction. Red Bear first appeared in The Creekside Magazine, 2024.

Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Red Bear

by Marco Etheridge

My father died when I was four years old, entombed in the intricately folded origami of a 1990 Buick Riviera crushed into a deformed rectangle. Don’t get the wrong idea. Pop was dead before his business associates squashed him. Small favors, right?

All of this I learned years later, another chapter of the Simon family legend. While most of our history is bullshit, the bit about my father, Joe Simon, is true. Pops lived a life of shady dealings and dangerous partners. He died with two bullets in his skull.

You don’t tell a four-year-old boy that his daddy is shot dead and presumed squashed. So, my mother did what she did best. She lied. Ma looked down at me, said Pops had gone away and wasn’t coming back. A lie with a kernel of truth. That cubed Buick was stacked on the deck of a freighter bound for Turkey, Mexico, or Malaysia—no return ticket for Joe Simon.

There I am, a little kid clutching a red teddy bear. What the hell did I know? Not much. I remember hugging Red Bear. I don’t remember crying.

Red Bear had aged by the time I inherited him, but I loved him all the same. The stuffed bear had descended the rungs of the Simon clan, brother to brother, oldest to youngest. The years had not been overly kind. Red Bear’s snappy little fedora had lost its shape. His red ribbon tie frayed at the ends. Yet for all the abuse the little guy suffered at the hands of my siblings, he still had two eyes, all his limbs, and most of his stuffing.

So, there’s little me holding Red Bear, staring up at Ma. I hear what she’s saying while my brain is trying to figure the angle. That’s something Pops taught us. Figure the angle, boys. There’s always an angle. My two older brothers must have been there, but I can’t picture them. Maybe they’d already figured it out.

There were three Simon boys. Still are. No sisters. Pops only shot for male offspring. Clay is the oldest, real name Clarence to everyone outside the family. Jack, short for Jackson, not John, is the middle kid. Two years between them. I came four years after Jack. Adam, the baby. No nickname for me.

The next thing I remember is the memorial service for Pops. Stiff dress shoes, a black clip-on tie, and a too-tight collar that itched. Red Bear slung under my arm. No body, no coffin, just a big photo of Pops propped up on an easel. I remember the picture cut him off at the waist, left him hovering in mid-air. The wooden easel gave him stick legs. Lots of adults dressed in black crammed into a hot room at the funeral home. The guys that shot my dad were probably there, paying their respects.

Life goes on for the living. The dead stay dead. Years flicker past; the leaves on the calendar fly away in a cinematic wind, whatever. We three Simon brothers grew up, grew apart, and left the insanity of our family behind. It happens.

Clay, now Clarence, took the straightest path he could find. Squeaky clean, that’s my big brother. An accountant, certified no less, making sure all the numbers tally. Jack followed in my father’s footsteps. He’s in the resale business. His merchandise falls off trucks or disappears from unattended loading docks. Me, I’m the artistic one, the bartender-waiter-actor. You might have seen me on the big screen. Third worker on the left in last year’s summer blockbuster. Uncredited, of course.

Year after year, Clarence and Jack coughed up the dough to keep Ma in the house. They’re the good sons. I did what I could, which was nothing. Then last week, Ma died. That’s why I’m thirty-five thousand feet above the Midwest farmland, flying back to the East Coast. Jack sent me the ticket, along with a stern warning that I’d better be there if I knew what was good for me. Welcome to the friendly skies.

It’s Clay who picks me up at the airport. He’s thirty now, going on fifty by the look of him. White shirt, button-down collar, a tie no less, complete with an old man suit. Stick him in an audition call for the boring CPA guy, and he’d be cast straight off.

I climb into the rental car and a cloud of brotherly love.

“Hi, Clay.”

“Clarence. And you look like shit. I hope you brought some decent clothes.”

“Nice to see you, too. Where’s Jack?”

Clay signals left, checks his mirrors, checks them again, then pulls out into the slow parade of traffic. He doesn’t speak until we hit the ramp and pick up speed.

“Jack’s going to meet us at the house. He had some business.”

“Business?”

“Look, Adam, I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. It’s simpler that way.”

“Simon says keep it simple.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No, Clay, not funny at all.”

“You call me Clay one more time, and you can walk the rest of the way.”

“Or I could walk back to the airport.”

“Your choice.”

Silence for the remainder of the drive. Sometimes it’s easier that way.

A blacked-out BMW is parked at the curb in front of the Simon homestead. A run-down Cape Cod, indistinguishable from the houses on either side. Brother Jack stands in the open front door, hands in his pockets.

Clarence-not-Clay pulls into the driveway. He shuts off the engine, lets go a martyr’s sigh, gives me the big brother look.

“A few ground rules, yeah? We do the funeral, play nice for three days, then you’re out of here. Try not to be weird. Jack and I will take care of the rest while you run on back to Hollywood. And don’t piss him off. Or me.”

I give him a salute guaranteed to piss him off and climb out of the rental.

 The living room is smaller than I remember like I’ve stepped into a dollhouse. Kid memories are battling with adult reality, and the result is claustrophobic. With Jack and Clarence crammed into the small space, there’s not enough air for the three of us. Clarence is saying something, but I’m not listening. I’m too busy trying to breathe. The walls are closing in on me, and at the same time, I’m looking for something that I can’t find.

“Earth to Adam. Hello?”

Clay doing his exasperated older brother thing.

“Sorry, distracted. What?”

“I said you got your choice between the couch or Ma’s room.”

“Couch. Definitely couch.”

I drop my bag and collapse onto the too-short couch. This is going to suck. But it already sucks. I’m facing the dead fireplace, the mantel, and the built-in shelves on either side. Tchotchkes perched just so, like landmines waiting to explode. Then I see the empty shelf.

“Hey, where’s Red Bear?”

I’m staring at an empty cubby that had been, was supposed to be, the designated retirement sconce for my furry childhood companion. No Red Bear. Nothing. I feel a cold tickle of panic in my lower intestines. Then I see his little hat.

“Shit, he’s gone. Red Bear is missing. Nothing left but his hat. Guys, we gotta find him.”

I’m standing in front of the empty cubby with no memory of leaping off the couch. The teddy bear fedora is in the palm of my hand, creased and tatty. Then Jack punches my shoulder. Hard.

“Forget the fucking bear. We gotta bury Ma.”

The next day is a blur of strangers dressed in black. Ma gets memorialized, then planted. The three of us drop our clods of earth onto Ma’s coffin. The thunk is a lot louder than you’d expect.

That evening is the wake. Strange word. I guess it has something to do with the ship that’s sailed. How would I know? I’m only twenty-four. I look at the ancient crowd packed into Ma’s living room and figure funerals are their saving grace, the only event that gets them out of the house. Or the home.  

A parade of animated corpses who know my name. I don’t remember any of them. It’s like being in a zombie movie where the zombies are friendly. Powdered cheeks, fake sad eyes, and old man handshakes, where the geezers get you by the elbow and squeeze like you’re their last lifeline. Hell on earth, and me stuck in the middle.

It’s late when we get the last of the ghouls out the front door. Jack’s got three crystal highball glasses laid out along with a bottle of good scotch. I recognize the crystal, Pop’s favorite glasses. I’m sure they haven’t been used since he vanished to wherever. Where the whisky came from, I have no clue. Ma favored sweet wines and vodka.

Jack pours heavy and hands us each a glass.

“Where’d you get the scotch?”

“What, you think I’d show up empty-handed? Not me, Baby Brother. Here’s to no more funerals.”

I lay back a good swallow. Peat and smoke fill my mouth.

“So, now what.”

Clay gets his put-upon look, the one that lets you know he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“We get drunk, that’s what. Tomorrow, we throw out all these shitty casseroles. You go to the airport. Jack and I wait for the Habitat truck. They’re going to take everything in the house. That’s it.”

He holds out his glass to Jack, who pours him another.

“No. We need to have a funeral for Red Bear.”

They both look at me like I’m an alien just popped out of my saucer. Then Jack starts to laugh.

“Fucksake, Adam. We just toasted to no more funerals. Whatever. What are you going to bury, his hat?”

I throw off the rest of my scotch and hold out the glass, trying to look hard.

“Yeah, I’m going to bury his hat. And you two are going to be there. Then I’m going to the airport.”

Give me a clear motivation and I’m a half-decent actor. I dig deep and find the tough guy face. Clay looks pissed. Jack just laughs.

“Okay, Brother. You always were weird. But you’re digging the hole. I’ve done enough of that shit.”

Clay rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Jack laughs at him, then puts us another round. The long night gets longer. I don’t remember hitting the sack.

I’m standing on the bridge of a huge ship, wearing a captain’s hat and staring out over an endless ocean. The deck below me is stacked high with crunched cubes of scrap metal. A voice is calling to me, drifting up from the matrix of crushed blocks. I can’t make out the words, but I recognize the voice. Then the ship’s horn is blaring, drowning everything. I wake up sweating, tangled on the too-small couch.

My hand flails around until I find my phone and silence the alarm. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when an ice pick stabs through my skull. My head drops back to the pillow, and I groan at the impact.

“That’s how you say good morning?”

Jack, upright, holding two cups. Coffee. I need coffee. He sets one cup on the end table and sinks into an armchair, sips his coffee, and grins at me. I want to kill him.

“Drink up, cowboy. We’ve got a bear to bury.”

He laughs, way too loud, and the ice pick has another go at my brain. I drop my legs to the floor and lunge for the steaming cup.

 An hour later, the three of us are standing in the backyard under Ma’s prize lilac tree. Red Bear’s hat is taped into a shoebox. Despite the killer hangover, I’ve managed to dig a miniature grave.

I bend down and place the shoebox in the hole. The world goes dizzy. I feel like I’m going to pass out, but the athletic little grave is too small to fall into, so I shake it off and stand up. Clay is frowning, and Jack’s grinning. Par for the course.

Jack points to the lilac.

“I’m trying to remember what all is buried under there. Gotta be three hamsters, at least. And a turtle.”

Clay blows out an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, and your guinea pig. So what. C’mon, Hollywood, give the damn bear a eulogy already. You got a plane to catch.”

“Right, okay. We’re gathered here today to remember Red Bear. Red Bear was our childhood friend, first to Clay, then Jackson, then me.”

“Clarence, dammit.”

“Right, sorry, Clarence. Anyway, Red Bear was always there for us, even when things got weird or sad, which was most of the time. Even after we left and went our separate ways, Red Bear was here. Now our friend is gone. We don’t know where. But we want to honor his friendship by burying his hat and acknowledging his memory. He was the best friend a kid could have, and we will miss him.”

I give my brothers a look. Jack gets it first.

“Right, so long Red Bear. Thanks, ya furry little mug.”

Clay shakes his head.

“Adios, Red Bear. Now, can we please get on with it?”

The shovel scrapes against the dirt. It only takes a few seconds to fill in the hole, but it looks like a fresh scar. I use my shoe to riffle dead leaves and twigs over the black soil until the tiny grave is hidden.

Jack lays a meaty hand on my shoulder.

“Well done, Adam. That was easily the weirdest eulogy I’ve ever heard. C’mon, I need some breakfast.”

I’m trying to choke down a second piece of toast when Jack clomps up from the basement. Clay is sitting across from me spooning down cereal. We both look and there’s Jack, standing in the basement doorway, hands behind his back and grinning like a six-year-old. I drop my toast on the plate.

“What?”

“You’re not going to believe this shit.”

Clay wipes milk from his mouth.

“Stop messing around, Jack. We need to get moving.”

Jack steps into the kitchen with a flourish and sweeps his hands from behind his back.

“Ta-dah!”

I can’t believe my eyes. It’s Red Bear, big as life, Jack’s fingers wrapped around his tummy. Those shiny glass bear eyes are looking straight at me, and I feel hot tears welling up.

“Found him in the basement, tucked behind some boxes. How about that?”

I’m off the kitchen stool and across the linoleum when a hard thought smacks me in the forehead. We buried Red Bear’s hat. I pivot and head for the back door. Jack’s laughing while Clay scolds me.

“Adam, we don’t have time for this shit.”

I ignore him, grab the shovel off the back porch, and head out across the yard.

It should have been easy. I mean, we just buried the damn thing, but I don’t find it on the first try, and not the second either.

I’m digging like a madman. I disinter part of a hamster and half a guinea pig before I find the shoebox. I yank the crushed shoebox out of the ground and make a half-ass go of filling in the bones and dirt. Then I’m running back across the yard, shoebox under my arm, shovel dangling from my free hand.

Jack is sitting on the backstops, laughing his ass off. He’s got a beer in one hand and Red Bear balanced in his lap. I drop the shovel, sit down beside him, and rip open the shoebox.

I reach for Red Bear, but Jack curls away from me.

“No way. Look at your hands.”

He’s right. I’m filthy to the wrists. I dash into the kitchen and start scrubbing. Clay is back at his cereal, trying to ignore our insanity. Then I back out on the steps.

Jack hands over Red Bear. I hug my old friend, sniff his head. The smell of him is so familiar, so right. I look up and Jack’s holding the little fedora. I take it from his hand and fit it over Red Bear’s head. I swear he smiles at me.

After a long pull on his beer, Jack sinks an elbow into my ribs.

“I was just thinking. Pops would have got a kick out of this. He’d be laughing his big ass off.”

I sit Red Bear on my knee and look out across the backyard, the same way Jack is staring.

“You want to hear something weird?”

Jack snorts.

“Everything you say is weird, Baby Brother. But sure, surprise me.”

“No, weird serious. I know we just buried Ma, but it’s Pops I’m missing. I don’t think I miss Ma. That’s shitty, right?”

“Maybe shitty, I don’t know. I’m not one to judge. That’s Clay’s job. But I hear what you’re saying. I miss Pops, too. You wanna hear what really happened to him?”

 “What, like he wasn’t squished in a junk car and shipped to who-knows-where?”

“Naw, that’s all true. But you want to know why?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

Jack shrugs, but he keeps talking.

“It was the Rinaldi crew that capped Pops.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know. Look, what did Pops always say?”

“Figure the angles, boys.”

“Look at you, smart guy. Got it in one. Pops stepped over a line. He knew where the line was, and he took his chances. Figured the angles, right? Only he figured wrong. It was just business, nothing more.”

“What about you, Brother? Do you know where the line is?”

Jack smiles, tips back the last of his beer.

“Yeah, I try to.”

“Make sure you do, right? One Simon funeral is enough to last me a long time.”

“Yeah, thanks, little brother.”

“What about Clay?”

“What about him? He’s happiest when he’s got something to make him miserable. Right now, he’s got all this shit to deal with, selling this old house, dealing with the details. He’s happy as a pig in shit, and twice as sorry. Don’t waste your time worrying about Clay. And don’t call him Clay to his face. It makes him nuts.”

I lift Red Bear with both hands, turn to look at my brother Jack.

“Remembering the past makes Clay nuts. I get that. But what about you, Jack?”

“Me? I’m not much for remembering. Done is done. But not you. Listen, baby bro, you want to get clear of this shit? Take your bear back to LA. Try to get serious about something. You want to be an actor, then act, you know what I’m saying? You want to be a bartender, then serve drinks and be happy doing it. But stop fucking around.”

“Hey, that’s something Pops would have said.”

“Who do you think I’m quoting?”

Jack rolls his wrist and checks his Rolex.

“Listen, you want I should drive you to the airport? Clay will do it, but he’ll make you suffer for it.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Don’t forget your bear.”

“No chance of that, Big Brother.”

I’m leaning against the bulkhead, watching the baggage guys toss luggage. The last of the passengers are boarding. The middle seat beside me is still empty, but I know better than to hold out hope. Joe business guy is holding down the aisle seat, itching to break out his laptop and show us all how hard he works. Whatever. I’m rooting for the flight crew to slam the doors when I see her sidestepping down the aisle.

She’s an LA girl for sure, pretty in that unique way of SoCal women, all legs and tan and teeth. And she’s heading straight to our row. Sure enough, she gives Joe Business the eye, and he’s out of that seat like a poker got him in the ass. LA slips into the middle seat and stows her bag at her feet. I’m trying not to ogle, but she’s only inches away and smells really good. When she sits up, I look away, catching a last glimpse of East Coast tarmac. Then I hear her soft voice and I realize she’s talking to me.

“Are you afraid of flying?”

I look at her and she’s smiling. My brain stutter steps, and it must be written on my face because she nods to my lap.

“The teddy bear.”

Then I get it. A grown man flying to LAX with a red teddy bear in his lap. Emotional support bear. Well, there’s some truth in that, but I’m not fessing up.

“No, I’m fine with flying. Red Bear is a family heirloom. I didn’t want to stick him in baggage. Sorry, it’s sort of a long story.”

She flashes me another smile, a real one, and I feel myself relaxing.

“And it’s a long flight, so we’ve got lots of time. Tell me the story of your red bear.”

So I do.

finis

You can find The Creekside Magazine here:

https://creeksidemag.wordpress.com/

That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog

Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.