Marvin's Final Descent by Adrian Ludens

Adrian Ludens works in the Black Hills of South Dakota where he is an on-air personality on a classic rock station. His work has appeared in PegLeg Publishing's Glassfire Anthology, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Morpheus Tales, 52 Stitches and Crossed Genres. Visit him at www.myspace.com/adrianludens.

Marvin was old, but Herb was older, and that was the way it stayed until Herb died.

Marvin and Herb had been childhood buddies, high school chums, and college roommates. The pair had enlisted in the Army together, but World War Two ended before they saw any combat. Instead, they went into business.

Marvin handled the paperwork side of their enterprise, while Herb was the creative force. Together they created something wondrous. They called it Happyland.

Happyland was part amusement park, part puppet theater, and part museum. It could have competed with the more famous amusement parks that everyone has heard of in California and Florida, but Herb and Marvin liked Happyland just the way it was.

“It’s like a secret hideout,” Herb had once said. “The right people will find out about it.”

He was right. Happyland’s existence was communicated with almost reverent secrecy by word of mouth. Young and old came from near and far to visit the park. Happyland did enough business for both men to live in modest comfort.

Marvin knew he had Herb to thank. Herb’s skill at woodcarving was uncanny. His life-size creations were so realistic that the fabled Gepetto—had he really existed—would have been sick with jealousy. Herb had shown Marvin the internal workings of a few of his creations in an attempt to explain the intricacies of the gears within, but the technical aspects of Herb’s masterpieces were far beyond Marvin’s grasp, and he had only nodded and looked on in wonder.

When old age, failing health, and increasing property taxes reared their ugly heads like the mythological Hydra, Herb and Marvin were forced to sell. The new owner promptly changed the name, and most of the incredible mechanical wood creations were put in storage to make room for a large video game arcade and new laser tag maze.

Herb and Marvin still met several times a week to reminisce about old times, but Marvin could tell that the disuse of his creations nearly broke his friend’s heart.

“A lot of my creations, according to the police.” Herb replied. “The current owner —that nitwit Cranston—didn’t even think to take out insurance on the contents of the storage unit.”

“It’s a damn shame Herb,” Marvin consoled his friend. “I wonder if they’ll ever turn up?”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” Herb said cryptically, his eyes twinkling. “Sooner or later.”

Somehow he’d gotten the crazy notion to try skydiving. Herb had invited Marvin along, but Marvin politely declined. Later he almost wished he hadn’t.

According to the skydiving instructor, everything went smoothly. The day was gorgeous, the jump was executed cleanly. Herb pulled the ripcord and floated serenely above the green earth staring into a breathtaking golden sunset.

He was dead when he landed, his parachute sweeping over him; an enormous silk death shroud.

Marvin was named sole heir of Herb’s estate and inherited everything, which after the funeral expenses, the lawyers, and the death taxes, amounted to almost nothing. What Marvin ended up with was Herb’s house: a modest little single floor dwelling sitting on two acres of land.

On his first trip through the house, Marvin was pleased to discover three of Herb’s creations on display. A marvelously carved mailman stood in the entry way. If you pushed the lever in his back he withdrew a bundle from his mailbag and held it out to you with a grin.

A little brown carved dog sat next to Herb’s old recliner. By pushing one of the three buttons on its neck, a person could make it stand up and beg, roll over, or sit.

Finally, in the den, a slender feminine-looking wood carving wearing a housekeeper’s uniform and holding a feather duster could be made to stand on tiptoe and dust the top of a bookshelf with a simple twist of the bracelet on her left wrist.

Marvin marveled at these pieces. He recognized them as having been on display at Happyland and wondered briefly if Herb had stolen them from the storage unit. Marvin thought this was very possible, but wondered where the other carvings had gone. Many more carvings were still missing.

At first, Marvin considered selling Herb’s house but quickly decided against it. Marvin himself had few belongings and, he found the idea of taking up residence in Herb’s old house an easier—and somehow more appealing—endeavor.

Marvin moved into in his late friend’s house two months after Herb’s passing.

Marvin began to suffer from frequent heartburn. This is what he told himself. Yet he paid what bills he could, tied up some financial loose ends, and donated a number items to a local thrift store.

The thrift store’s sales benefited a local homeless shelter and a community youth program. Marvin appreciated the spirit of their mission and had resolved to donate more items whenever he could.

More and more often, Marvin found himself sitting alone in the living room trying to relax. His chest pains were bothersome. When Marvin had turned eighty a few months ago, he had realized he needed to receive every new day as a gift. Marvin thought about everything he’d accomplished during his life and was satisfied.

He found himself entering that phase near the end of life where one feels compelled to give. Marvin decided he’d rather donate much of the furniture and household items to the thrift store now rather than wait to have them sold at an estate auction after he died.

Marvin felt the warmth that comes from true charity fill his heart as he picked up the phone.

When the pair from the thrift store arrived in a pickup with a cargo trailer hitched to the back, Marvin showed them around the house. He indicated the bookcase and books, a sofa he rarely used, and a tall wooden dresser. He had set aside one kitchen chair and the card table for his own use; the other three chairs and the oak table were to be donated. Marvin pointed out lamps, paintings, and other smaller items to the skinny man and the bored looking teenager whose job it would be to load everything into the back of the pickup and the trailer.

Then Marvin showed them the mailman, the maid, and the dog. “Something special for your customers who collect art or who want something unique for their home,” he said proudly.

An uneventful week passed. Marvin felt good about donating so much to the thrift store and the worthy causes they supported. The sky seemed bluer, the grass greener. Marvin’s heart even felt better these last few days.

One afternoon, Marvin rose from his customary seat in his recliner and resolved to drive downtown. He’d visit the thrift store and talk with the manager. He wanted to find out how many of his donated items had sold and for how much. Marvin was particularly curious to see how much interest the intricate wood carvings had generated. Afterward, if he felt up to it, he’d stop for coffee and pie at the cafe where Herb and he used to while away their afternoons playing checkers. Marvin made his journey amid daydreams of happier—or at least easier—times.

Inside the thrift store, Marvin saw one or two items he recognized. The manager said most of the items had already sold. When Marvin asked about the wood carvings, the younger man flushed.

“We didn’t really know what to do with them,” the thrift store manager said. He wouldn’t meet Marvin’s gaze. Instead he focused on a spot somewhere over Marvin’s shoulder.

“Put them in the front window,” Marvin suggested. “They are masterful works of art. Their inner mechanisms are nothing short of genius! You could pick your price and they’d still sell.”

The manager’s gaze darted over the store, as if seeking a reason to excuse himself, but found none. Finally he swiveled his gaze back to Marvin.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” the manager replied. “We chopped them up and sold them in bundles as firewood.”

Marvin opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His vision blurred with tears.

“You must understand that all donated items become the property of...” the manager explained but Marvin wasn’t listening. He was focusing on the numbness creeping through his left side and invisible hand squeezing his heart.

The doctors told Marvin that he had suffered a mild heart attack. One of them prescribed nitroglycerin tablets for Marvin to take whenever he felt chest pains. Marvin spent a week in the hospital recuperating and running up medical bills that he could not pay. The morning he was discharged, Marvin brushed aside the pamphlet for a nearby eldercare facility and hobbled to the cab he had called. He didn’t even know where his car was, but since he was in no condition to drive himself, he didn’t care.

Marvin spent another two weeks resting at home. Herb’s wood carvings never left his mind. Depression sank its talons into Marvin. The sky seemed perpetually gray, the grass permanently browned. When Marvin looked at his reflection in the mirror, he saw the lusterless eyes of a gaunt and haggard stranger staring back at him.

Marvin didn’t go out. He disconnected the phone and barely took the time to get his mail, which he let pile up on the counter in the kitchen.

One gray morning Marvin awoke with pain cramping his chest. He reached for the night stand only to find it gone. Then he remembered he’d donated it; his heart pills were in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

Wincing, Marvin gingerly slid from the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom. He clutched his chest with one shaking hand and opened the medicine cabinet with the other. Marvin twisted the cap off the nitroglycerin and shook several pills into his open palm. The pain in his chest became sharper and Marvin raised his hand to his mouth. He darted a tongue out and caught one of the dry pills on the end of it like an anteater snaring food. Marvin swallowed the pill dry and closed his eyes.

After a few minutes the pain subsided. Marvin sighed and relaxed. His arms fell to his sides and the tiny pills, forgotten in his hand, poured out onto the floor. Marvin groaned. At least his knees were still good, he reflected. Marvin eased himself to the tile and began retrieving the medication.

Several of the pills formed as straight line where they fell, and Marvin realized they were all laying in a crack between tiles. Peering more carefully, Marvin was able to make out three more sides. He stood, confused. How had he missed this during the time he’d been living here? Marvin noted that one side of the apparent trapdoor fit snugly against the wall, a second side was flush with the bathtub and the third side had always been covered by a small plush rug. Marvin surmised that he had always noticed the fourth side but had assumed it was simply a crack between the old tiles.

Marvin knelt again. He examined the center of the apparent trapdoor for a handle or latch of some sort but found none. Marvin could not get his fingers into any of the edges but the space was wide enough that he thought a tire iron or crow bar might fit. Marvin hoisted himself up, using the sink basin for leverage. A sheen of sweat covered his face, and he realized he needed to sit down and rest.

Marvin eased into the recliner and drew his gnarled hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat away. Herb had never mentioned anything special about the bathroom before. Now that he thought it over, Marvin realized that Herb’s home was never brought up in conversation. He wondered what lay under the floor in the other room. A suitcase full of money? Important papers? Spider webs and mouse droppings? His mind played with the question until he realized he felt better. Marvin shuffled to the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. He ate two pieces of toast with a smear of jam on each, then returned to his bedroom and got dressed.

Marvin left the house and strode to the garage. He unlocked the side door and pushed the automatic door opener to allow the daylight in. Marvin cast about for a few minutes and was soon rewarded in his search. On a shelf in one corner he found a heavy duty crowbar wrapped in a shop towel. Marvin hefted it in one palm and then turned to go back inside the house. He was halfway toward his front door when a station wagon filled to capacity drove past. A fast food soda cup flew from one of the passenger windows and connected with the white picket fence. The lid flew off and dark liquid dribbled down the slats. Marvin sighed and altered his course. He stooped to pick up the empty cup, lid, and straw. Marvin straightened in dismay. Trash littered the grass near the street. He’d have to go back in the house, find some gloves, and then drag a garbage can out with him to clean up.

The thought surprised Marvin. Yes, he did have a little mystery to solve. Perhaps later he would return and clean up the yard facing the street. Marvin turned resolutely and tromped to the house.

The crowbar worked perfectly. Marvin lifted the trapdoor open and used the rounded end to tip the door and lean it against the side of the bathtub. He looked down and gasped in amazement. Narrow wooden stairs disappeared into the darkness. Marvin hurried to the kitchen for the flashlight that stood sentinel on the window sill above the kitchen sink. He retrieved it and returned to the hole in the bathroom floor. His thumb pressed the button and a strong orange beam pierced the darkness. Marvin stepped carefully, testing the top step before putting his entire weight on it. The steps appeared to be rather new and sturdily built, though steep. Marvin descended, his flashlight stabbing the darkness.

Marvin’s foot crunched on concrete and he found himself in a room corresponding in size to the small bathroom above. The beam illuminated concrete walls on three sides. The fourth side was dominated by a large circular vault door. Marvin stood rooted to the floor. His labored breathing was the only sound.

Could Herb really have a bank vault down here? Was the door even functional? The flashlight beam traced the outline of the metal door. Small white markings were visible to the left of the apparent vault. Marvin moved forward for a closer look. A series of numbers were written in chalk on the concrete wall. Marvin recognized Herb’s habit of putting lines through his sevens and zeroes. Had Herb left the combination for him? Marvin held the flashlight with his left hand and worked the circular dial with his right.

After the last number Marvin pushed down on the steel handle. It moved easily, and Marvin drew the vault door open, unconsciously holding his breath. Marvin pierced the darkness with the beam of the flashlight and started back in alarm.

Marvin gasped and took a frantic step back. The jerking flashlight beam illuminated a baseball player and a policeman. Marvin uttered a bark of amazed laughter. He had discovered Herb’s lost creations.

Here they all are! Herb stole them back and here they are. Marvin couldn’t stop from grinning. His fingers found a light switch on the wall just inside the door and the vast room was illuminated.

The scene took Marvin’s breath away. Never was there a more idyllic day at the park tableau than the one before him now. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling had been expertly painted, creating a mural that dazzled the eye and warmed the heart. A young couple shared a bicycle built for two on the wall to Marvin’s left. Children flew kites from a grassy meadow that receded in front of him. Throughout the basement, Herb had cunningly placed his wood carvings. The policeman stood in a painted crosswalk, smiling at a woman pushing a stroller. Marvin remembered the woman well. By spinning one of the stroller’s wheels, one could make the baby inside wave his arms and kick his legs.

A carved figure in overalls Herb had laughingly dubbed Otis reclined in a hammock strung between two sturdy support beams painted to resemble trees. To his right, Marvin took in a man in a white apron holding out ice cream cones to a blond girl and dark haired boy. Standing behind the pair was a woman carrying an umbrella and a man in a cowboy hat. A line for imaginary ice cream. Marvin shook his head, marveling. Herb had created something so realistic that it was perfect in its imperfection.

Marvin stepped toward the carving of the pointing little girl. Now that his perspective had changed, Marvin turned in the direction the girl was pointing and saw the clipboard nailed to the wall above the light switch. Marvin retraced his steps and squinted. He could make out Herb’s scrawling handwriting. Marvin lifted the message from the nail and read:

Hello, old friend. I hope it did not take you too long to find the makeshift Happyland I created. Not bad for an old man with an unfinished basement, is it? I hope you will get a thrill out of seeing some ‘old friends’ again. Consider it a reminder of old times and a promise of a reunion in the Next Place. I’m saving a spot for you across the checkerboard here and There.

Marvin looked up and scanned the room again. There, indeed, was a white haired man hunched over a small table on which lay an open checkerboard. Pulse racing in a nervous excitement he could not quite explain, Marvin shuffled toward the figure. As he approached the table, Marvin’s steps slowed.

“Herb?” he queried. No response came, and Marvin chuckled at his foolishness. Still, Herb had done a marvelous job carving his own likeness into the wood. The figure looked as if it were simply waiting for Marvin to sit down and make the first move.

Marvin swept a hand over his wrinkled face and his palm came away wet with tears. The entire scene was both simple and complicated. Ordinary and extraordinary. Heartwarming and heartbreaking. He would come back, he decided suddenly. He would come back to stay.

Marvin surveyed the room one more time and made his way back to the vault-like door. His mind was already racing to make plans. He needed to make a few phone calls, make some final arrangements. He carefully ascended the narrow stairs and hoisted himself back into the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and was startled by the rosiness of his cheeks and the excitement that glittered feverishly in his eyes.

Marvin paused long enough to take a few deep breaths. Got to relax or I’ll give myself a damn heart attack.

Marvin sat down in the recliner and closed his eyes. Visions of the wood carvings below him immediately sprang up in his mind’s eye. He would make some calls, he vowed. Turn off the electricity by the end of the week. Same for the water and garbage service. He’d spend his last days here in the house, waiting. He would dump his heart pills down the sink. Perhaps he’d even wipe the chalk combination from the wall. It was a hopelessly romantic idea, and the lonely old man fell completely in love with it almost instantly.

Marvin bustled about his kitchen with newfound alacrity, preparing a dinner that he was almost too excited to eat. After the meal, Marvin sipped coffee and washed his dishes in the sink. As he fastidiously wiped each item clean, he idly gazed out at the darkened street. Cars and trucks sped past in both directions, vomiting refuse from their windows and clouds of exhaust from their tailpipes. His window pane shook several times with the thumping of someone’s stereo system and once or twice Marvin thought he could hear drivers cursing at each other. He would not miss this busy, selfish world; that was certain.

After finishing his task at the sink, Marvin tried to read, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he gave up and padded into the bedroom where he slowly undressed. Marvin slid into his threadbare cotton pajamas and glanced briefly toward the bathroom. Heck with it. Last night of my life, I think I’m entitled to skipping some of the formalities. Maybe in the morning he’d feel like going through the rituals of brushing his teeth and shaving. But now his body craved rest. He slid under the covers and stared at the ceiling. He thought about high school dances, college football games, basic training with Herb, and the early days of Happyland. Finally he drifted into sleep.

Marvin dreamed of carved wooden soldiers parachuting through the sky against a golden sunset. They broke into pieces as they hit the earth.

Marvin awoke in the gray darkness of predawn. He stretched languidly and tried to doze again, but his bladder nudged him back into consciousness. Finally he gave in, tossed the covers aside and set his feet down on the cool wooden floor. He let loose an immense yawn and shuffled toward the bathroom, absently scratched his backside. Marvin turned into the little bathroom, his fingers finding the sink counter in the darkness. He stifled another yawn and stepped forward... into nothing.

Marvin instantly realized he had not closed the trapdoor. He had forgotten about the hole in the floor.

Marvin shot his arms out in an effort to stop his fall. His right elbow cracked painfully against the rim of the toilet bowl; his left arm flailed wildly, caught the towel rack and tore it from the wall. Marvin’s right foot plunged downward, clipped the edge of the fourth step down and turned awkwardly. His left leg buckled into a kneeling position, then slid into the hole with its partner. His body began a jouncing slide down the stairs. Marvin reached both arms out again in an attempt at grabbing the edge of the bathtub, but shrieked as a sharp pain shot through his right elbow. The strength in his left hand was not nearly enough to stop his momentum, and he tumbled down the length of the stairs in a dizzying and bone-cracking series of awkward somersaults.

Marvin lay still on the concrete floor. The room spun and there was a ringing in his ears that sounded like a cat yowling. Marvin eventually realized the sound was coming from his own mouth. He closed his eyes and willed himself into silence.

The shock of the fall had numbed him briefly, but now the injuries began to announce themselves throughout his body. Marvin was reminded of a time when, as a boy, he had seen lightning strike a tree behind his home. Orange flames licked random branches, each inflicting additional injury to the already destroyed tree. Marvin thought he had broken his right ankle and perhaps his right elbow. If his left hand wasn’t dislocated, then the wrist was most assuredly broken. When Marvin tried to roll over, his hips felt like they were being drizzled with molten lead. Another shriek escaped his lips, and Marvin fell back on the concrete, his skin slick with cold sweat.

Marvin sobbed and turned to look inside the vault door. He had kept it open, and now he realized that in his excitement earlier, he’d left the lights on inside as well.

Now the pain in his left arm was receding; becoming numb. Marvin felt the weight of the world come crushing down on his chest, and he realized his mistake.

Herb hunched over the checkerboard, facing away from Marvin. With one hand feebly clutching his failing heart, he focused on his friend. The wood carvings seemed to be shimmering, and Marvin’s vision began to blur. He panicked.

“Herb! For God’s sake, Herb, please help me!” Marvin’s agonized cry echoed off the cement walls, mocking him. The cacophony of pain reached a crescendo inside Marvin. Then something incredible happened. Marvin’s vision cleared and he saw Herb rise from the checkerboard and hurry toward him. Marvin realized that he no longer felt any pain. Instead, he became aware of the sun warming his face, the breeze tousling his hair, and the grass cushioning his prostrate frame.

Herb, hale and hearty, came to a stop in front of Marvin. He reached out a hand to help his old friend to his feet. The others, at first just intricate carvings, had been replaced as well. Broad smiles welcomed him all around.

“Nice of you to finally drop by,” Herb said. “There are a thousand names for this place, but I like to call it Happyland. Welcome home.”