by Gregory Meece
Enjoy this never before published mystery short story.
These days I take pleasure in the little things. My life, so often pinched by work demands, got some much-needed breathing room after my retirement. Now, it’s wonderful just to discover an unexpected parcel of time during the day. It’s like putting on your jacket and finding money in the pocket that you didn’t know was there. Perhaps not enough to make any big purchases, but it’s nice to have it just the same.
Whether it is taking time to prepare a proper meal instead of a grab-and-go, or relaxing on my porch watching a butterfly explore its favorite flowers, I do not take for granted the preciousness of these new-found daily respites. 
One of my favorite new practices is to digest every morsel of the morning newspaper over a cup of coffee that doesn’t have to be taken black just because there’s never any cream or sugar in the break room at the office. Both the daily news and the beverage are best when consumed slowly. During my working days, I was lucky if I had time to browse the headlines. Getting ready for work forced me to prioritize the top two or three articles most worthy of reading—the unchosen stories condemned to go unread, eventually sharing the same fate as junk mail and other trash deposited in the recycle bin.
Now, I savor the local and world news, sports pages, business briefs, and comics. I even peruse the daily entries in the obituaries section. It is not that I have a morbid curiosity about dead people. But those of us who are over 65 find that we are increasingly likely to discover in this section of the paper that a former friend or acquaintance, perhaps one we haven’t thought of for years, has left us. Spotting the face and name of an old school chum, a former neighbor, or even a long-time clerk at the local grocery store, is a reason to pause and reflect. As one gets older, I suppose, one cherishes such memories a bit more.
Our newspaper publishes more obits in the Sunday edition than those of the other days of the week. Is this because more people die at the end of the week, I wonder? Or do the editors just save them up for the day with the biggest readership?
Many of the announcements include smiling photos of the deceased, accompanied by lengthy tributes and employment histories that read like resumes. Others, sadly, don’t include a photo. Under a straightforward headline, “Burial Notices,” they mention only the name, date of death, town of residence, and a notice of upcoming services, if any. One such entry in the Sunday paper caught my eye. Had the deceased’s name been Tucker, Brown, or Smith, it might have gone unnoticed. But the man’s name, Ertle P. McDoodle, was distinctive. So much so that I recalled it straight away, but not from some bygone year. It was from just last weekend.
My encounter with McDoodle was brief but memorable, both because it happened so recently and because the name struck me as funny, like some of the names of the characters in the morning cartoons my granddaughter watches. I could just hear it—“And now, stay tuned for your favorite, lovable groundhog: It’s Ertle McDoodle Time!”
I met the man in my garage. My wife and I decided that when we retired, we would downsize by moving to a 55+ apartment complex in town. The rooms we picked out have a terrace with a view of a very pretty garden. And the building is within walking distance of the local shopping center. For us, the appeal is both aesthetic and practical. With a more mature clientele, the complex promises to be quieter than the street we currently live on. Our suburban neighborhood went through a transformation in recent years. Most of the original homeowners moved out, and younger families with lots of kids took their places. We chose to join the exodus.
The first thing to do when downsizing is to hold a garage sale. This allows one to unload onto others the things you have found to be no longer of use, outdated, or broken. It was finally time to say goodbye to our collection of movie videotapes, the Mr. Coffee machine with its missing carafe, and the boys’ basketball backboard that was once suspended above the driveway.
Since our home is situated at the neighborhood’s entrance, we anticipated many passersby. I counted 30 shoppers, some familiar neighbors who visited on foot, and some unfamiliar car riders who pulled over when they spotted our “Garage Sale” sign out on the main road. One of these latter folks was Mr. McDoodle.
Like the other garage guests, the man casually walked around, looking over my merchandise, and making a few inquiries about prices.
“Interested in anything in particular?” I asked him.
“You got tools?” His reply was terse, suggesting someone who was not inclined to chit-chat.
“Well, we’re moving into the apartments, so all the gardening things must go,” I said, sounding a little too much like an auctioneer’s sales pitch. “The rakes, hoe, and shovels need to find a good home with a vegetable garden. I don’t suppose you would be interested in my riding tractor. It runs well enough. I have a ramp we could use to roll it up into that pickup of yours.”
“What’s that behind it?”
“You mean the lawn chairs? I’m afraid we’ll be keeping those for sitting out on our new….”
“No,” he interrupted. “That big metal thing. Is that a tractor lift?”
“It most certainly is. I bought it years ago to raise the front end of my riding mower so I could replace the blades from time to time. I’ve hit more than a few stumps and rocks in my day.”
The man walked over to where he could get a better look at the contraption. “How much?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not for sale. I need to get rid of it all right, but I couldn’t sell it because it may not be safe. Never had the time to fix it, not that I know how. And now that I have time to figure it out, I don’t need it anymore.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Beats me,” I confessed. “Possibly something with the hydraulic system. All I know is the last time I used it I had the tractor up about 24 inches. I went away for a few minutes to locate my file for sharpening blades. When I returned, the tractor was only 10 inches off the ground. I cranked it back up, but she crashed to the garage floor. You never heard such a bang. Almost gave me a heart attack. You can see there where it chipped a piece of the concrete in the middle of the garage floor,” I said, pointing accusingly at the impact point as if it were a bullet hole discovered at a crime scene.
The man perused a few more items on my sale table. He paid two dollars for a pair of rusted pruning shears. As he turned to leave, he paused for a moment, as if thinking of something he might have forgotten. Turning back, he asked, “How about ten dollars for the tractor lift? I’m handy, and I’ll make sure it works properly before using it.”
I felt a bit conflicted. I hated to foist something broken and potentially dangerous upon the stranger, but he did seem confident in his ability to repair the thing. Not everyone shares my ineptitude at do-it-yourself projects. I assuaged my inner conflict by telling the man he could have it for free. Just hauling it away was worth more than the ten bucks he offered.
I helped him move the contraption down the driveway and nudge it into the bed of his truck. Before he pulled away, I stuck out my hand and said, “By the way, my name’s Frank Dolan, what’s yours?”
The man shifted a little in his seat and stared ahead for a moment. Still looking through the windshield instead of at me, he said, “McDoodle. Ertle McDoodle.”
As he drove away, I smiled inside. “Ertle McDoodle,” I said to myself. “Bet he got kidded a lot in school.”
That was the last I saw the man, or thought about his funny name. Until I read his obituary a week later.
***
After finishing the newspaper, I didn’t think about the man or his death until later that evening. I don’t know what it was that recalled it to my mind, but I began to wonder how Mr. McDoodle died. He looked healthy enough when I saw him. His interest in the tools led me to believe that he was still quite active. I’m guessing he was about 40, which is young (at least to us senior citizens). I tried to watch a television show, but the man’s death kept interrupting my enjoyment of the program. Then, I began to become anxious about the thing. Later that night it kept me from falling asleep. “I hope his passing doesn’t have anything to do with that faulty tractor lift I gave him,” was my worried thought.
The next morning, I confess that a possible connection between McDoodle’s death and my garage sale got the better of me. Of course, I told myself, it was irrational to be so troubled. There are a hundred things that could have led to the man’s demise, most of them far more probable than an accident with my old lift. To settle the matter in my mind, though, I resolved to call the funeral home listed in the obituary.
A young woman answered. Her voice was friendly without sounding too upbeat—a tricky balance in her line of work, I imagine. “Eternal Fields Funerals and Cremations. How may I help you?”
“I’m inquiring about a fellow whose name I read in your listing yesterday. An Ertle P. McDoodle,” I said. Saying that I had just met the man for five minutes at a garage sale would sound trifling, so I adopted a more reasonable-sounding approach—hoping to give her the impression that the deceased and I were old friends. “We haven’t seen each other in so many years. Tell me, was it expected? Someone said he had a bad heart,” I lied.
“Well, here at the Eternal Fields we don’t give out that kind of information,” said the woman politely.
“But the services for Mr. McDoodle are tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure the family hopes you can attend.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I replied. “I’m sorry I asked about his cause of death. I just hate to think he suffered from some lingering disease. Picturing him lying in a hospital bed for months just makes me so sad.”
“It was nothing like that,” she blurted. “He died sudden…” She stopped herself before adding any details that might have revealed too much. But I knew that the use of the term “died suddenly” in obituaries could mean one of two things: suicide or a terrible accident. For my selfish reasons, I hoped it was not the latter.
The next day I decided that I would attend Mr. McDoodle’s viewing and speak to some of the mourners who were bound to be present. Perhaps someone could provide details about the man’s “sudden death.” Since these affairs typically include an eclectic assortment of relatives, friends, co-workers, and the like, my presence as an unknown visitor would not attract notice.
I passed by the registry book, which bore an inscription at the top, “In Memory of Our Dear Ertle McDoodle.” Upon taking my position in the receiving queue, a woman in front of me turned and said, “So sad. I can’t believe Ertle’s gone.”
In my most empathetic voice, I replied, “And so suddenly, too. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Yes, he was taken too young. I feel so sorry for his wife. Mildred and I work together at the bank.”
Here was an opening to learn more about the man’s cause of death. “I can’t even imagine how Mildred must have felt,” I said, while reaching for a handkerchief. “Was it she who discovered the body?”
“I heard that she went to the shed to get him in for supper. He’s always out there fiddling with one thing or another. When he didn’t respond to her calls, she went inside the shed and that’s when she discovered the horrible scene. Poor thing. To see him like that. She always told me he should take his riding lawnmower into the shop for repairs. But he liked to save a penny by trying to fix things himself. She said he even recently got a secondhand jack, or a lift gadget of some sort, so he could raise the machine off the ground to work on it from underneath. And that’s where she found him. The weight of that tractor on his chest cut off his air. He couldn’t even call out for help, poor fellow.”
That was it! My worst fear was confirmed. McDoodle died because of me. I gave him that lift, knowing that the deathtrap was prone to giving way. He must have had it cranked up to its full height when he crawled beneath it. The images of what must have occurred raced through my mind like those flickering pictures in an old horror movie.
My next thought was to consider if I could be legally liable. No way, I told myself. First, it was unlikely anyone could trace McDoodle’s purchase to me. No money was exchanged and there are hundreds of garage sales each weekend. Second, I gave him the equipment only after making full disclosure of its malfunctioning status. He promised to fix it first. I may not be facing any criminal consequences, I thought, but my remorse might remain.
I felt that many accusing faces were staring at me, but a look around the room showed this was not the case. I wanted to leave so I could ponder the matter fully in the quiet of my home, but I couldn’t very well exit the service after standing in the receiving line. So, I proceeded forward.
Before me was Mrs. Mildred McDoodle. What could I say to this grieving widow? Instinctively, I relied on my “old friends who haven’t seen each other in years” cover.
“So nice of you to come,” she said, while blowing her nose.
“I heard it was a tractor accident?” I made the statement sound like a question—a strategy to garner more information. Like did she know who supplied the “cause of death.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Some fellow gave it to him. I have no idea who.”
There it was. Confirmation that my relationship with the deceased would remain anonymous. Feeling relieved, I respectfully allowed the next mourner in line to take my place with Mrs. McDoodle. I proceeded to the casket with my head bowed. I did owe it to the man to say a silent prayer when I stood before his body. But when I raised my eyes to look at the man I almost fainted! The body before me was not the man I met at my garage sale!
I stood before the open casket in shock; my eyes fixed on the man’s face. The mourners may have mistaken the emotion on my face for grief. I tried to detect any identifying features that would prove me wrong. But this man was a stranger to me in every detail. How could it be?
Slowly, a wave of comforting relief replaced my stunned confusion. After all, whatever the reason that this McDoodle fellow died, it wasn’t because of anything I did. This was not the man I met.
I quickly proceeded toward the exit, not wanting to risk any more potentially dangerous small talk. Too many ways to get tripped up. As I left the funeral home I maintained my lowered head position, partly to keep up the appearance of a typical mourner and partly because I felt ashamed to look the other visitors in the eyes because of the phony façade I was portraying at this solemn event.
A month later, I came across something in the morning newspaper for which I was unprepared. The Sunday paper includes not only the week’s largest listing of obituaries but, on a happier note, also features recent wedding announcements. This time, it was not the name that I recognized. It was the face. Or, I should say, the faces. There before me were the cheerful faces of the former Mrs. Mildred McDoodle (now Mrs. Robert F. Jones, according to the caption) and her grinning new spouse—the man who hauled the broken tractor lift from my garage that day!
Retirement has given me the gift of time. Time to sit on the terrace of my new apartment and enjoy a steaming cup of coffee with my newspaper. Time to think about things. Like why a man gives someone else’s name at a garage sale. And why a woman gets married so soon after her late husband’s tragic accident. There must be more to it, I thought, than wanting to get rid of a funny sounding last name.
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Great story! I was hooked from the very beginning and it held my interest to the very end. Well done.
Bob