CHESTER DUNN WOKE UP AT SIX ON A LATE JANUARY MONDAY, vaguely conscious of the kerosene smell from the heater the family was using to save on oil. His tiny room at the top of the old house had no curtains. Only mottled green shades blocked the view of the house across the way. Chester kept them down all the time, now that the neighbors had planted a "Where will YOU spend eternity" sign in their front yard. The question bothered him.

His days on earth already had been an eternity of 37 years, a life all spent in the Village of Montague City in the Town of Montague. The sign just before his house bore this odd collection of place, this senseless conglomeration of concepts. He faced it coming home across the bridge every day from the office job in Greenfield, three miles away. On most weekdays he would reluctantly cross that bridge. Some days he could get out of going to work. If he was needed around the house.

Chester forced himself to sit up in bed and accept another new day. He heaved and grunted until his two hundred and seventy-five pounds resettled in a doughy mass around his middle. This was his room, the only room in the house that was not shared. His cell. Not a prison cell, precisely, but instead perhaps the cell of a novitiate, an acolyte. He had wanted to be a religious brother, a cloistered one. Often he would imagine the rolling grounds of a monastery. Quiet chanting would fill the background; the silent meals and monastic peace of such a place would calm his soul and stomach. He would let no one get close to him, this monk. Celibacy would be a virtue, not this burden. Instead he was trapped in the Brotherhood of The Dunns.

Plus the church had changed so much since he first dreamed of wearing a brown robe, and making jam all day. What with everything that wasn't a sin anymore, he'd gotten confused and never sent in an application to join the quiet brothers.

Chester rubbed his hand over his thin damp hair, poked idly at his navel for a moment, then lumbered out of bed, hoping for a calm breakfast and an uneventful day.

He was the oldest of seven. Not counting his father, only one family member had ever left home for good. That was Tommy, 24, who saw the Alaska Pipeline as a chance to be in a perfect land --quiet and cold --containing wild, hearty animals and women. Tommy traveled a long frozen way from this suffocating, crowded home.

Juleann, the second of the girls, had left home, once, for three heavenly nights, and now there was a little tyke drooling in the back bedroom. "And that's what you get for leaving the church, Miss Smarty," Minnie, their mother, tolled mournfully at any excuse, apparently sure she could be heard clear to the back room.

Today she viciously squeezed orange halves on a fluted glass ball made for such a purpose, as Chester descended the stairs. He stopped at the bottom, one hand on the newel post, reluctant to join the rest of the messy family, checking first to see if the younger kids had already caught the school bus before he entered the room. So much noise in the morning, if not.

Chester saw Juleann playing with the baby in that back room. Good. He hated the mess that babies brought. Pokey, 7, the last one Minnie bore before her husband got killed, was securely in his rocker facing the corner wall, his helmet in place, crashing repeatedly into a carpeted spot Minnie had tacked up there.

Grampa Amos had bolted himself in the bathroom. He was 82 and wouldn't ever come out of there until he was sure he had made Chester late for work. But Chester had learned long ago to say as he passed by the partially shut john door, "Grampa, I have to be at the office by 8:30. Now, don't make me late." Since the office opened at nine, he was always on time. That is, if he went.

As Chester paused in the doorway, he watched his mother crack a half-dozen eggs onto a griddle and pull the muffins from the oven. "Eat, Chester. You'll need all your strength. It's a cold day out there. Them roads. You watch yourself on them roads. A man could get killed. Swerve once and that's it. In more ways than one." She looked at the spatula that had yesterday's egg still on it as if she was thinking maybe she should clean it, but shrugged the thought off and scooped the eggs with a short-order cook's efficiency. "Sit."

Chester immediately sat on the large rock maple chair. A placemat of The Hairpin Turn on the Mohawk Trail covered a large chip on the enamel-topped table and suddenly reminded Chester of his father. His father. Not gone to any Great Reward, surely, just gone. Dead. Father, the traveler selling festive goods for the paper company. Paper plates, cups, cocktail napkins were strewn along the road leading up to the wreckage of his car, like the wake of a mobile party. Her cloth-covered overnight case with big blue flowers on it was found in the trunk, blotted across the middle by a bumper sticker reading, "The Celtics Do It Again!" Dad was gone and Chester ascended to the nominal position of head of this family. He was needed, now and forever.

"You need me, Ma? Should I go to work today?" Perhaps he could stay home. One less trip in the '67 Dodge meant one less chance of dying. He was afraid of his car, bridges, and the interstate highway -- a road he had never taken. Chester feared meeting new people, dogs that waited in bushes to lunge at his wheels, food from vending machines, and public restrooms.

He was allowed to keep his job as a clerk in an accounting office only because he had been working at minimum wage for 15 years, never complained and did well the rote work the CPAs hated to be bothered with. They put up with his almost biweekly absences because he had a single-minded concentration that let him catch up easily on work missed, and he had no need to socialize or make distracting conversation with the clientele the way the young receptionists did.

Minnie just grunted at his question about going to work. She probably didn't need him around today. Pokey was relatively calm, Grampa could walk to the Senior Center and if Chester were home he wouldn't let her watch "Another World." It was opposite the Catholic Charity telethon today, which Chester loved. She had to know if Mac and Rachel got back together and if John would find out about Olive's plan. "Your lunch is in the fridge. Don't forget it." As if he had ever missed a meal. "You go to work now, Chet. We can get along fine today."

Chester sighed and yelled up to the bathroom for Grampa to hurry, knowing he still had plenty of time. When Grampa Amos came down smelling wildly of after-shave and still skating his damp palms dry on the legs of his trousers, he offered to start up the Dodge for Chester. "Lemme jus' warm it up for ya, Chet. It's cold out there. Don't want to be late, do yuh?" he cackled at Chester's broad back as his grandson moved past him toward the stairs. Grampa loved to play in the car and move the wheel around, pretending to steer. He had been a gadabout years ago. He supposed himself to be Grandson Tommy's idol. He often said the rest of the family was "fulla poop" the way they stayed home all the time. "Fulla poop," he said to Chester's back as his grandson trudged upstairs to get ready.

After a longer while than usual, Chester came down from the bathroom, looking distressed. He had been suddenly sick up there, and although the feeling of nausea had passed, he wasn't sure he cared to leave the house, but he didn't know how to introduce the possibility of staying home for his own sake.

He opened the refrigerator, reaching for the lunch bag his mother had packed. With some suspicion toward its contents he nevertheless nestled it into the left arm cradled against his body, still feeling unsteady. He pulled his plaid wool jacket off the coat rack, put a wool cap tenderly on his head and aimed himself out the door.

The Dodge idled heavily in the driveway. Grampa had wet-toweled the mucky headlights and kicked the snow clumps from the wheel wells. He had also moved the front seat up so that he could reach the pedals. Chester jammed himself into the driver's seat, the wheel pressing into the folds of his belly. He searched quickly for the lever that would slide the seat back. A tuft of puffy cuticle caught on a bolt, ripping a bit of flesh. The pressure against this middle made him feel worse as the queasiness returned. His fear grew. Sweat collected on his forehead. Slowly he backed out of the driveway, breathing deeply, looking for manic bus drivers, half-crazed dogs, and misguided sleds that might barrel toward him. The roads never seemed clear when he was on his way to work. Overwhelmed by the crowd in his own home, it was becoming more difficult to drive into a world that contained so many more people. Unpredictable people.

Arriving at 8:57, Chester paced slowly in the carpeted hall. He checked the bathroom down the corridor for toilet paper, towels, and Airwick. He plotted the time it took to get from the office to the john, just in case it happened again. It looked as though he could make it. The thought of being embarrassed at work ...well, he just couldn't begin to think of it.

Galen, Sampler and Walsh arrived, the partners in the firm. Russell Crate, the newest associate, just out of business school, brought up the rear. As he shut the outer opaque glass door behind him Mr. Galen said, as he always did, "Monday morning, four to go, so ... le-e-e-t's GO, men!" Then the inner series of doors slammed shut.

Russell Crate and Chester were left in the outer office. Each cleared his throat and got to work, their backs to each other until lunch time. Russell seemed to think Chester strange and after his first few weeks in the office had given up all attempts at normal chatter, which gave Chester a great feeling of relief. Chester was, after all, a little afraid of Russell, who was young. And married.

Chester would overhear Russell on the phone planning social engagements for coming weekends -- dinners, movies, even a party, once. It was Russell who had been on a plane headed to Bermuda for his honeymoon. The daring combination of air travel and conjugal assignation had upset Chester for weeks. He had punched himself firmly in the stomach every night for a month whenever his thoughts turned to the new man's wedding trip.

The work morning passed without real event and the church clock across the town common now clanged 12. After the three senior partners left for the noon hour, Russell rose to go Strecker's luncheonette, the local hangout for suited business men. As he stood at his desk Russell asked, "Eating in, Chester?" knowing the answer, but apparently needing to break the silence. Chester surprised him with a new response. "Gee, I don't know if I can eat lunch." He really needed to talk about this morning's discomfort with someone.

"Beg pardon?" Russell said.

"I'm a little nervous about lunch today. I was sick this morning."

"What? Do you think you've got the flu or something?"

"No."

"Well, what do you mean, 'sick,' Chester?"

"I was brushing my teeth and I stuck it too far back in my throat and I threw up. Do you think I can eat yet? I'm kinda hungry but I wouldn't want to ... you know ..." He drifted off, aware of not having spoken so much at one time outside his own home. It was as though a vow of a particular perpetual silence had been broken.

"Live dangerously, Chester. Eat your lunch," Russell said and left quickly. Chester ate slowly, letting the bread almost dissolve before swallowing, testing his digestion. Everything was working OK, it seemed.

At one, the bosses and Russell came back. Mr. Sampler called Chester into his office, an unusual occurrence, since work was usually left on Chester's desk when he came in each morning. Chester valued the routine; this summons was upsetting. He moved like a slug into the brown-toned office.

Mr. Sampler shot both cuffs out of his sleeves and stacked papers randomly as he spoke. He avoided Chester's eyes, staring mostly at the tomato seed hardening on Chester's white collar. "Chester. Got a little errand for you. Need some books from Bernardston. Kamen brothers. They'll expect you by quarter to two. Go down Main Street to the rotary, get on 91 North. Second exit says Northfield. Take that. It's just down the ramp. Kamen Brothers. You got that? Hmmn?" No response seemed to be coming from the large, round man. "Good-bye, Chester." He waved Chester away with two short motions and bent down to a side drawer, as if he were really searching for a file.

Chester stood in place for a long moment, hoping this was a joke. How could he go? Three traffic lights lurked down that way. Mr. Sampler knew what he was asking, how impossible this request was. They'd had an understanding from the start. Why would he ask him to get on the highway, as though this were a normal errand? Chester would always follow orders, but ... oh .... Until now they were always inside orders -- to the copier, to the UPS pick-up box, to the storage room.

He walked stiffly to the coat tree and paused his hand in mid-air before lifting his jacket off the hook. He fished in his coat sleeve, but forgot to complete the motion, thus leaving the garment hanging off one shoulder. As he gazed wildly around the office, he felt sick. Just sick.

Slowly he made his way down the stairs to the small parking lot in the back of the building. He slumped onto the front seat, hardly able to lift his legs toward the pedals. A rotary. Cars oozing in and out from all directions. He hugged the wheel desperately, half sobbing. Route 91 North. What had he done to deserve this punishment? He turned the motor on; he needed heat. The orders, the directions came back on him. "Turn down onto a ramp. Oh. God. Please. Bless me Father for I have sinned. Forgive me Father, I know not what I do. It has been two weeks since my last ..." he was mumbling and gibbering in the cold.

He would have to try to drive in a new direction. He was being tested. That must be it. Suddenly the thought of losing this job frightened him even more than picturing himself heading toward the highway. He'd show them. By golly, he would. Backing carefully out in the now steaming car, after squealing the fog off the inside windshield with his jacket sleeve, Chester hesitated in the parking lot driveway for 15 minutes, first making sure that no cars were coming in either direction and then waiting until four green ones passed by, to bring him luck.

Crossing himself as he passed two Catholic churches, at great risk, since it meant taking one hand off the wheel, Chester realized he'd made it through two of the three signal lights. Due to the road conditions, and time of day, little traffic from shoppers clogged the streets. Chester worked on calming his overactive heart. The same heart that was causing his face to boil and his brow to drip.

He passed the dry cleaners, the Italian restaurant, Sears, Party-rama, two gas stations, Dunkin Donuts and a U-Haul Rental place. Suddenly a shadow sped just beyond the field of vision in his right eye. Perhaps he felt it more than saw it, whatever it was. A dog? A little child? He squashed the brake pedal, skidded sideways and wound up in a snow bank.

After a few minutes of resting his head on the steering wheel, trying not to lose consciousness, he lifted his eyes and peered around. No one was on the street. Snow blew more thickly than before. He felt his eyebrow because the world looked red out of his left eye. A large bleeding bump deposited rusty spots on his hand, then his handkerchief. But what about the dog, or the lost child?

Chester fidgeted with the door handle, forgetting how it worked for some long minutes. After he made his clumsy way out, he looked under the car hoping there would be no more blood on this day. He gouged his right hand while feeling up under the pipe work, so, nothing in pain under the chassis except for Chester. There was nothing else at all. No dog whimpering and threatening to bite off his numb nose. No little boy looking at a grownup who had betrayed him, and made him suffer.

Leaning with both hands on the still warm hood, Chester tried to remain conscious. Most of the stores had closed early. His rubbers were filled with slush. He couldn't go on. But he certainly couldn't stay there.

Remembering a sack of cat litter in his trunk, one his mother had made him buy to pour on slick front steps, Chester attempted to open the back lid of the car. His shaking hands couldn't fit the key in the slot for the first 10 tries.

Somehow he managed to pour enough Tidy Cat for traction on the back wheels and, in the still empty street, broke the law by making a U-turn in the middle of Federal Avenue. Yellow blinking lights and a few slow skids brought him back to the office. Two hours had passed. He had traveled one long mile for his efforts.

In the back parking lot, Chester idled in the car until 4:45. Cold, blue, and broken, he had failed at his mission. He was a bad, bad employee. They had tested him and he had failed. What now?

After what seemed like an eternity, Chester ever so slowly leaned forward and turned the lone key to the off position, while staring at the statue of St. Christopher, who had recently been demoted. The car settled into absolute quiet, except for a clicking in the engine. This metallic response sounded like some unseen hand snapping its fingers impatiently.

Chester left the car, his shoulders slumped over, and plodded to the back door of the building. Then he climbed upstairs, staying to the center of the worn rubber runners and told his first lie, his first lie ever. Add this onto breaking a law. Chester felt like both a felon and a sinner.

The partners were all standing casually around Russell Crate's desk when he entered the office. They acted surprised when he came in, empty-handed.

Chester said he couldn't find the place, knowing all the while they could have taken long looks from Mr. Sampler's office or the reception area. They would have seen his car sitting there throughout much of the afternoon. In fact, when he had cranked his thick neck around awkwardly to look up toward his window and desk before he left the Dodge just now, he saw Russell staring down, hands casually in the pockets of his pants.

Chester then did what he was meant to do: resigned. All the partners nodded. Mr. Sampler pulled his offered hand back as he noted the bloody, encrusted one that Chester held out.

As he turned, his head bowed, and left for what now seemed the sanctuary of home, Chester hoped they, at least, would still have him.

[ Story copyright © 1999 Beverly Carol Lucey. All rights reserved. ]

Originally from New England, Beverly Carol Lucey writes now from the Land of Lard and Peaches. Fearing she will never master the regional subtleties in the varieties of ham (sacks? butts? fresh? cured?) at the local grocery chains, she contents herself with trying to master the short story. Two slices are available in Deeply Shallow; two others are in the 1999 edition of The Flint River Review; "Birthday Tape" is in the winter 2000 print edition of Moxie. She lives with her standard poodle, the elegant Miss Bessie Smith.

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