George Pips
George Pips is a story from the archives. It was originally written in 2010 for a fiction workshop in Stony Brook Southampton. The story is about a man who meets Death on a rainy day in August. It follows a disjointed timeline of his life up until this point.
George Pips
A Short Story
By Eastin DeVerna
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George Pips dies today.
He sits on a damp bench looking over a small, sludgy pond in Amityville and there are three swans in the water.
“I’ve been expecting you for some time now,” Pips says as Death strolls up the path. Pips is forty-three years old, but received his letter from Death only three years ago. It read:
So sorry, Mr. Pips, but you will die on a cool day with spots of rain in August.
Yours,
Death
And that was all that it said.
#
Seven years ago Pips wed Florence Rochester. She was a beautiful woman but he never felt the explosion in his chest, which he felt when he first ran into Stella Burndhart. Pips and his wife were fine to the entire world around them, but Pips knew that their love had rotted since the beginning.
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“So you’ve received my letter. Good. They sometimes get mixed up,” says Death as he pulls the spectacles from the edge of his nose and wipes them with a yellow kerchief.
#
One year ago, in September, Pips ran into his first love, Stella Burndhart, and felt his heart rumble. He fell in love with her all over again and she with him. Pips planned to declare his love for her the night before Christmas Eve in a coffee shop in Manhattan, but Stella was pushed in front of a speeding subway train and never made it.
Pips waited alone that night until the shop closed.
#
“Today’s the day then,” Pips says standing up. He is taller than Death, but less handsome. “How’s it going to happen?”
#
Six months ago there was a knock at Pips’ door. It was a man he’d never seen before who turned out to be the son he’d had with Stella when they were only twenty-three. Stella told Pips she’d had an abortion, which was a lie. Pips hugged his son and welcomed him in. They smiled and laughed and drank and Pips told his son stories of himself and Stella all through the night until the two of them became quiet.
#
“That is information that I am not allowed, nor willing to disclose,” says Death. The two of them look out at the pond and at the three swans.
#
While backing out of his driveway this morning, Pips felt his car bump. He stepped out of his car and looked under the tire. It was Luther, Pips’ cat. The head had been crushed and the tail still twitched slightly. Pips shook his head and got back into his car. He was very sorry that he had killed his cat.
#
“I see,” says Pips. He stands up and takes Death’s hand. They walk up the path to a bridge where a destroyed Stella Burndhart stands holding squished little Luther. Pips smiles at them, but they turn their backs. Death squeezes Pips’ hand and they walk onto the bridge.
#
Thirty-seven years ago Pips packed snow into a rectangular bucket out in the blizzard with his father. They worked for three and a half hours creating the best igloo George Pips would ever see.
His mother came to the front door with two cups of steaming cocoa. Pips and his father took the cups into the igloo, nuzzled up against the bright cold walls, sipped, and listened to the silence that only a snowy night can bring.
The End.