{"id":7260,"date":"2019-04-17T02:07:09","date_gmt":"2019-04-17T07:07:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=7260"},"modified":"2025-03-12T15:53:20","modified_gmt":"2025-03-12T20:53:20","slug":"knack-of-shifting-gears","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/knack-of-shifting-gears\/","title":{"rendered":"The Knack of Shifting Gears"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n

Tom Sheehan<\/a><\/h2>\n
\n

Original Online Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

G<\/span>race Burgundy lived in a small, attractive house with several garden beds spread on its contours at the end of a lane in the town of Lakeswan, Massachusetts. She was utterly convinced that she had not observed the garage door open in three years at the home of her neighbors, Johnston and Myra Koleride, who lived directly across the street.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Koleride was founder and president of the local bank, Lakeswan Bank & Trust Co.<\/em>, as the bank sign proudly declared in heavy black letters that appeared to garrison, end to end, the whole block-length structure of interest, balances, and trusty incomes. The full enterprise spoke well of its business-clad soldiers of the guard, each a sample of prosperity in the selected employee ranks, for the touch of gold goes magnetic in some directions, hungers or needs. Banks, basically, are born and borne for that charge.<\/p>\n

The stately Koleride house, with garage attached, sat mute and Moroccan brown on the other side of the road, and generally attracted the roving eyes of area visitors. There were no garden beds on the property because, clearly, the banker had no love for greenery, but most assuredly loved his privacy.<\/p>\n

Often wrapped in deep thought and solace at her garden work, and often carried away by miraculous dreams while turning over endless earth, Grace agreed with herself that she\u2019d trade houses if given the chance\u2014and in a quick minute. The elaborate house across the street, with not a single bush or bloom evident, was at least twice the size of her home, and there were no children to decorate or scratch up either one. Once or twice, in deep reveries at her daily garden matters, she even dreamed up scenarios where children flowed a worn path between the two domiciles, but often those musings were shut down the minute evening shadows slipped back home to where they belonged.<\/p>\n

Grace also remembered, most consciously, an image positioning itself solidly in her mind: the day she was working around the most precious and colorful of her small flower beds, when Koleride drove up in a brilliant new red vehicle, full to flowing of shine and shimmy, and parked inside the garage.<\/p>\n

The next morning, he drove the car off to work, after needlessly wiping the windshield free of the smallest speck, most likely non-existent. That was the morning of June 2, 2013, her 40th birthday. She never saw the car outside the garage again, and never saw the garage door open or ajar again, in the three years that followed. It was a mystery, unfolding to curiosity, bent noses, neighborhood news-bearers or seekers, for their own pleasure or for others who like to listen.<\/p>\n

When that fact began to pop up in her nightly dreams, and even in her constant sleep apnea, Grace wanted to attribute the cause to the banker himself. Indeed, her watchfulness told her that Johnston Koleride either walked to work at the bank on good days, had a member of his staff pick him up, or a town taxi delivered him home at day\u2019s end. It had become routine. The different methods of travel to and from work became the norm, while the garage door seemed was as though a carpenter had nailed it tight.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/p>\n

Grace\u2019s husband, George, was a spirited though limited handyman about the house, dallying over the simplest problem. By unspoken agreement, the lady of the house took care of the gardens while he performed the usual repair and maintenance tasks to keep their simple house shipshape\u2014as well as he could. But the day he detected serious rot starting under one corner of their garage addition, structural dotage at hand, he knew they were in trouble; the rot appeared at least core deep and worked its way into his worries as well as into the house\u2019s foundation. Maintenance and correction of this sort were above and beyond his capabilities and they loomed as significant costs to repair\u2014also above and beyond what he and his wife had in the bank, perhaps even-steven with their equity. Trying to think about how he\u2019d tell Grace the bad news, how to make an easy pronouncement, George walked slowly to the far end of the house where she was pruning a cluster of rose bushes still on their upward leap carrying new blossoms.<\/p>\n

He not only hated to tell her about the situation, he was very nervous about doing so. Grace, he had learned long ago, had a certain way about her, especially about surprises, responsibilities, demeanors.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t bother me, George, with anything about the house. How many times do I have to tell you, that\u2019s your ballpark?\u201d She clipped a long, bare offshoot from one bush, waved it in his face, and added, \u201cThis part is my ballpark.\u201d She spoke like a fourth-grade school teacher talking at the end of a long day to an irascible child.<\/p>\n

George spilled the news at once. \u201cWell, Grace, I hate to tell you, but the rot is so bad in a couple of beams that we\u2019ll need a contractor to fix it, and that\u2019ll cost an arm and a leg, and we won\u2019t have enough left over to handle anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorge, that\u2019s easy. Go to the bank and get a loan. That\u2019s the only thing we can do. I am not leaving my gardens or my house because a second garage in this damned neighborhood goes useless but may fall down around your neck. You can just walk across the street and talk to Koleride over there, our big-time president of the bank. It\u2019s easy as eating cake\u2014or cutting cake.\u201d An ironic smile curled up from her true self like a statement of her humor, and she waved the rosebush offshoot as though it had become a sword of some measure.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I\u2019ll see him at the bank some day this week,\u201d George said. \u201cI\u2019d rather do that than walk up to his house and ask him for a loan, off the beaten path so to speak.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, George, do it your way.\u201d She went back to her trimming work, another long bare shoot falling to the ground with the tool\u2019s next adamant snip, as if it had said, \u201cThere\u2019s nothing left to say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"The<\/p>\n

The following Wednesday, George came home early from work and appeared angry when he stepped into the kitchen, half murmuring under his breath, \u201cThat son of a bitch across the street turned me over to one of his associates at the bank, a friggin\u2019 beginner, who turned down my request, and I\u2019m convinced he was told to get rid of me.\u201d Irritation scarred his face with a bewildering redness.<\/p>\n

Grace almost dropped the dish she was holding. \u201cWhat do you mean, get rid of you?\u201d She stood straight and tall, her head cocked at a curious angle, something in her carriage admitting she was as mad as her husband, and more likely to provide a reply to this high and mighty denigration.<\/p>\n

\u201cLike he doesn\u2019t want us as neighbors,\u201d George said. \u201cBut we never did anything to him, to them. We mind our own business. Haven\u2019t we? Don\u2019t we?\u201d He shook his head several times, shrugged his shoulders, left a puzzled look, a grimace, hanging on his face, lost in the middle of a storm.<\/p>\n

Grace wasn\u2019t sure if wonder or hatred had affected him the most, but she could feel her own build-up of feelings start immediately. \u201cOf course, we never did anything to him, to them. Why would he be like that? I can’t really believe it\u2019s spite for something we didn\u2019t do.\u201d<\/p>\n

She turned away from her husband and went back to bush trimming, the tool snapping loudly in the otherwise sudden silence.<\/p>\n

In bed that night, half asleep, somewhat wakeful and wondering about the banker, Grace Burgundy\u2019s mind was transported back to June 2, 2010, her 40th birthday, and there followed a whole package of reasons, possibilities, scenarios of every description about the banker\u2019s car and his garage. She could not go back to sleep because every reason that came to her mind, every possibility, came with images so vivid they proved to her to be actualities. Ultimately, she believed he was keeping his car out of sight for a legitimate reason\u2014or an illegitimate reason, such as carrying a danger for him or the bank.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d soon find out if a deep secret had to be exposed. More than once she heard a voice in her head say, \u201cIf it ain\u2019t broke, don\u2019t nail it shut,\u201d not sure if it was a warning, a threat, or a promise, and she could feel a sense of excitement begin to mount in her mind. There was something besides roses on the bloom.<\/p>\n

At 2:45 A.M. she slipped out of the house in the blackest outfit she could find in her closet and walked directly across the street to sneak a peek into Johnston Koleride\u2019s garage. After a few moments with her phone\u2019s camera tight against the garage window, the flash doing its job, she went back across the street and into her own home. Once back in bed, she fell asleep in a matter of minutes, the rest of her day already planned.<\/p>\n

George went off to work in the morning, and Grace yelled out, \u201cHave a good day, dear,\u201d just as a car pulled up in front of the banker\u2019s house and he, too, went off to work. Her eyes followed the vehicle, the new voice inside her brain saying, \u201cDon\u2019t mess with us, Mr. Bank President.\u201d<\/p>\n

In an hour she was dressed, and her oversized pocketbook was filled with pencils, pens, two regular-sized notebooks, one small 3×5 notebook. At 9 A.M. she entered the town\u2019s public library, where she said to the librarian, \u201cI want to look up news reports or records for June 2, 2013. That was the date of my 40th birthday and I want to make a surprise for my husband; we got married on the same date in 1993.\u201d<\/p>\n

The librarian, a young woman in her thirties, exclaimed, \u201cWhat a marvelous idea! I can direct you to our computer and connect you to the Internet. You\u2019ll find out a ton of stuff for any date. Oh, my, what a delicious idea. This is a pleasure, which doesn\u2019t happen very often here.\u201d<\/p>\n

She ushered Grace to a new computer, saying, \u201cIt\u2019s all there: births, marriages, deaths, town matters, headline news, sports, big games and big names. You name it and it\u2019s there. Have a ball!\u201d She walked back to her duties, as pleased as she could be, a definite bounce in her steps.<\/p>\n

There was nothing of note in the Lakeswan Birder, a weekly newspaper carrying little more than advertisements, local sports and a top-notch crossword puzzle. But the out-of-town papers gave her exactly what she\u2019d been looking for: a young man was killed by a hit and run vehicle. Grace wrote down an eyewitness\u2019s full statement about the accident: \u201cSpeeding the driver was, and right through a red light. No way that driver should have been at the wheel of a brand spanking new vehicle, red all over and shining like a gem, the kind I\u2019d parade around in.\u201d<\/p>\n

The account was given by a lone witness from a town about 30 miles up the coast. Extracting all the pertinent details and entering them in her smaller notebook, Grace nearly danced out of the library, waving her thanks to the young librarian.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/p>\n

A few days later a letter\u2014the address typed and no return address, the stamp cancelled from another small community about 50 miles away\u2014was delivered by the mailman. Myra Koleride, Johnston\u2019s wife, opened the envelope and dropped her lower jaw agape; a singular intake of breath jammed its way down into her lungs, as emotion rang a solid alarm. She quickly dialed her husband at the bank. \u201cPlease come home,\u201d she said in a tone he recognized and understood as soon as he heard them.<\/p>\n

At the door, she nervously handed him the open letter. \u201cSomebody knows.\u201d She nodded sideways at the garage, her eyes widened with fear, shaking her head and nearly collapsing into his arms before he read the letter.<\/p>\n

In bold, dark upper-cased letters, the short note said, \u201cWe know what you did, we know what you hid, but you can\u2019t hide it forever. Don\u2019t dump it now because we have pictures of the damage. We have scraped off blood residue. And the witness, thank the good Lord, is still alive, old as he is. We know where he lives… and not in great comfort.\u201d (That last part made him see the image of another hand reaching towards him.)<\/p>\n

A small addendum on the note said, \u201cYou know we will contact you again. There are favors to be gained from appropriate action.\u201d<\/p>\n

The next morning, Grace Burgundy saw Johnston Koleride get picked up at the door by a bank associate. At first, she wondered about Koleride, and then about her husband. How much deeper could they get\u2014should they get? A death was in the mix. The line must be drawn at some time, at some place. There\u2019d be a judge pointing an official finger, lawyers arguing, a jury with smug smiles, a separation of lives. Questions kept coming and she couldn\u2019t remember them all, the way they pounded at her from every direction, every corner of her mind\u2014at bedtime, at cooking, at gardening, even after making love. \u201cIt’s such a burden for you,\u201d George uttered once, to which she offered no reply.<\/p>\n

Koleride, fully forced against the wall, stood that early evening in a front room of his home, perplexed, unable to name any enemies to advance this newest deed. He\u2019d had detractors before, sour businessmen who\u2019d missed out on timely or good deals because the bank would not extend credit; usually it was their own fault, but they placed blame on him\u2014but never legal threats, legal repercussions, injunction of property, repossession, jail time, shame, displacement\u2026<\/p>\n

In this quandary, he noticed that his neighbor across the street, working as usual in her attractive gardens, too often to be casual, turned suddenly to study his house. She was persistent, looking back and forth, making him think of different scenarios. He quickly remembered his loan officer at the bank had turned down a loan for her equally odd-lot husband, George Burgundy. An entire reactionary scenario jumped into Koleride\u2019s mind as if it had been shot there by a pistol, into the deepest part of his brain. The imagery ran amok for a short spell.<\/p>\n

Koleride nearly salivated at the clarity of it all, as if it had mushroomed into a cloud of crystallized vapor; some answers he heard or saw before he knew the questions bound to be asked, before they were even formulated, and then tossed at his feet.<\/p>\n

He called his wife into the front room. \u201cMyra,\u201d he cautioned with grave concern and certainty, \u201cthe source of our problem may not be too far from us.\u201d He nodded out the large picture window to their neighbor across the street, who at that moment turned and looked at their house and the garage door still shut tight\u2014locked up tight in each mind in the small, narrow triangle now in place.<\/p>\n

Breaking the silence, he said, \u201cOf course, I can’t go too far trying to get information about them, about her. Not directly, of course, because of bank business, the matter of odd appearances. But you can, at least from a friend or two at the Garden Club. From what you\u2019ve said, I don\u2019t think she belongs to much else. He mixes with no one that I know about, and it\u2019s so plain that he\u2019s the kind to hide things. But hell, everybody has a secret now and then.\u201d He shrugged his shoulders. \u201cAnd everybody has a price in mind. It\u2019s so damned apparent that he does too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Later, on a gorgeous day of bright sun and soft breezes, Johnston Koleride stared from his office at the bank across the square until his eyes rested on the library. Another scenario jumped into his mind with such clarity that he left the bank early and entered the library on the way home. The smile on his face grew from the inside, as though it was carried by a new taste.<\/p>\n

By a twist of luck or good fortune, he was approached by the same clerk who had aided Grace Burgundy in her lone search. Soon they were in discussion about how people in town, without computers, came in for information, and quickly learned the search ropes. \u201cWhy, a little while ago a woman was looking for information about a particular date. I\u2019ll never forget it: June 2, 2013. Said she wanted to make a surprise for her husband.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat interesting research,\u201d Koleride said, and followed the librarian to the nearest computer.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t dig very far into the computer, not at all, already pretty well satisfied he knew what Grace Burgundy had discovered in her search. He called his Myra at home.<\/p>\n

When he arrived back at the house, she had the insurance policies, several different ones, neatly arranged on the kitchen table. \u201cThey\u2019re all there for you to check again,\u201d Myra said. \u201cAll of them. I agree it\u2019s the only way.\u201d She fell into his arms.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t worry, my dear,\u201d he offered softly, hugging her in turn. \u201cI\u2019ll take care of the whole thing with a single match. There\u2019ll be nothing left but a new start for us. I told you I\u2019d take care of everything right from the beginning. It\u2019s like I said, I really should have driven up there that night, not you. Don\u2019t blame yourself one bit for that.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

Tom Sheehan <\/strong>is a prolific, award-winning writer and a great friend of Faith Hope & Fiction. Among The Knack of Shifting Gears,<\/em> Tom’s many accomplishments are: 33 Pushcart<\/em> Prize nominations, five Best of the Net<\/em> nomination (one winner), short story awards from Nazar Look <\/em>for 2012-2015, and a Georges Simenon Fiction Award. He has published 32 books and has four books in a publisher\u2019s production line.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Tom Sheehan Original Online Fiction<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,48,1],"tags":[161,279,280,170,83,281,25],"class_list":["post-7260","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-tom-sheehan","category-uncategorized","tag-adventure","tag-bank","tag-blackmail","tag-fiction","tag-mystery","tag-short-fiction","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Knack of Shifting Gears | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Her eyes tracked the vehicle, a voice inside her brain saying, \u201cDon\u2019t mess with us, Mr. Bank President.\u201d The Knack of Shifting Gears \u2013 online short fiction\" \/>\n<meta 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