Story A Day: Elephant Bones

The elephant in the room wasn't actually an elephant.

It was a man. A man named Frank. And nobody was talking about Frank.

They talked about the weather, and the latest radio show, and which neighbor they thought was going to have the most outlandish holiday decorations. But nobody talked about Frank.

Because Frank was dead.

As a doornail. Or a doorknob to be more precise, which was what was lying just inches from Franks head. They were sure that if they got up and compared, the knob would match the rather suspicious looking dent in the side on his temple. But comparisons might require talking about Frank and that was something that no one was willing to do.

It wasn't as if they were heartless. Earlier in the week, they had talked about Frank a lot. They couldn't stop talking about Frank. About what he had done and where he had worked. About the life he lived. They talked about Frank and all the reasons why he ended up dead.

The first time.

The problem was that Frank had developed a nasty habit of dying.

The first time had been his slow slouch into a soup saucer. There had been gasps and screams and calls for help but in the end, Frank was dead. They spent the night talking about Frank and around Frank as he lay supine in the parlor. Then in the morning of their mourning, Frank lifted his head out of the casket and asked about oatmeal. The doctors cried miracle and the men cried hoax and the women just cried. They talked about Frank even more, speculating and studying and generally wondering.

Then Frank fell into the fire in the foyer. The doctors checked three times before assuring a toasty death and once again he was laid to rest. They gathered again to talk about Frank, handkerchiefs held over their noses as whispers of rumors and gossip wafted through the smoke. All the talk, though whispered and shameful, was still about Frank. In the morning they held their breath as they waited for Frank to wake and ask for oatmeal but he was a disappointment. Instead he requested sausages.

Doctors were called who called more doctors until the house was full of people talking about Frank. They sat around him and chattered and babbled and poked and prodded until Frank yawned and totted off to bed. The doctors all left, with more questions than answers, and the household sat quietly for dinner. They sat without fire and ate without soup and talked quietly of Frank and what dangers could still befall him. When they could talk no more, they retired to bed and hoped morning would bring sense.

But dawn's bracing light did nothing but illuminate more problems as Frank slid on soap in the shower and died once again. The calls to the doctor were less frazzled and more frustrated but they still winced as Frank was placed in the casket. They still whispered quietly and wiped tears from their eyes. The next evening when Frank choked on a chunk of cranberry chutney, the whispers started to die off. The following day found Frank expiring from equine evisceration, and the night after Frank was battered to death by a breaking bookshelf, and the next morning Frank accidentally lynched himself on a laundry line of linens. Each time they cried less, mourned less, and talked less.

Until they sat around him now, chatting about baseball and tinsel and dry spells while Frank bled silently into the floor. Maybe if they didn't talk about Frank this time, if they completely ignored the body in the room, things will be different.

Maybe this time, Frank will stay dead.