Althea’s Eventful Night
by Charles C. Cole
On the late-night “Lanford After-Dark Ghost Tour,” the small, shivering group waited for a traffic light to change, even though nobody had seen an approaching car for several minutes. Swain Clatchee and Althea Grover, Swain’s girlfriend of the last year or so, drifted to the back, standing close together for fellowship and body heat.
The weather was chilly, the stories cheesy, the “evidence” had been sparse, and the hour had gotten late. Swain squeezed Althea’s hand, and they kissed.
“We don’t have to go back to where we started,” whispered Swain. Althea squinted up at him, confused, lost in her own thoughts. “I mean, we can take a shortcut back to the parking garage.”
Althea knew the evening’s success had been important to Swain. “We made it this far,” she offered.
“You’re freezing.”
“So long as we agree that leaving early is your idea,” she said, quickly acclimating to the notion.
“It kinda is.”
The two backed up a few steps and took a cross street towards their waiting truck, Althea pulling Swain along. “I can’t wait to be warm again,” she admitted, now that they were officially ending the night.
As they approached the garage with an enthusiastic pace, a sign posted at the entrance read: Closes at midnight. “Don’t remember that before. Must be to discourage riff-raff. We’ve got twenty minutes,” said Swain. “That should be plenty.” The garage was only two levels, small and mostly empty, yet their truck was not to be seen.
“Something about this makes no sense,” said Swain.
“You think it was stolen?”
“In Lanford?” asked Swain. “This town doesn’t see that much excitement. Heck, I think even the ghosts moved away for some place busier.” Althea bounced the side of her head against his shoulder, being casually affectionate.
A nicely dressed woman of about their age joined them, walking fast, the sound of her heels bouncing across the cement walls. She bee-lined toward a red compact.
Swain called out, “Can you help us?”
The stranger stopped and smiled. “You two okay?”
“Ma’am, we seem to have lost our truck,” explained Swain. “It was here a couple hours ago, now it’s gone—”
“Oh, honey, not you, too? Happened to me once. There’s another garage four blocks away. Looks just like this one. Let me give you a lift.”
“We couldn’t impose,” said Althea.
“If that other garage locks up at midnight, we have to,” said Swain. Althea and Swain jumped into the back seat.
“You’re not from Lanford,” said the driver good-naturedly.
Swain answered, “No, ma’am. I’m from Weezer Township. My date’s from a bit farther.”
At the other entrance, the driver said: “Here you go. You still have time. When I was a kid, they used to roll up the streets at nine. Now it’s midnight. Enjoy your ride home.”
Althea and Swain climbed into the truck, cranked the heat and drove away. Swain turned on the radio for some rambunctious country music.
“Honey, can we skip the tunes?” asked Althea.
“Sure.” Swain turned the music off. “But I might have to sing to stay awake.” He looked over for a smile at his joke, but Althea didn’t react. “You alright?”
“Just tired. It’s late,” she said.
“Sorry for the last-minute excitement.”
“Can you pull over, please?” she asked, suddenly.
Outside of town, the shoulder was narrow with loose gravel. Stones flew up as Swain stopped. Althea jumped out like she was in a hurry.
“You okay?” asked Swain, concerned.
“Give me a minute. And don’t come out.” A long moment later, she returned, in a better mood. “Take me home, good sir.”
“What was that about?” asked Swain.
“I needed air.”
Swain wasn’t buying it. “Most modern trucks come equipped with it.”
“Fine. My stomach was gurgling. I thought it was gas. I couldn’t do that to you. My mother would have been mortified.”
Swain smiled.
“Please don’t laugh.”
“Althea Grover, you don’t have to be any certain way around me. I’m happy just to share your company, warts and all.”
“Warts?!” echoed Althea. “Such an unpleasant analogy. Sorry I said anything.”
Swain held up an index finger and opened his door. “Excuse me a minute.” He stepped out and around the front of the truck. Then Swain came around to Althea’s door.
She locked it impulsively. He knocked on the glass. “What do you want?” snapped Althea.
“Delivery,” said Swain in a singsong voice.
“Please take me home. Or I’ll tell my father you got rough with me. He’s very old-fashioned.”
“Open the door; I’m freezing.”
Althea compromised: she rolled down her window. “How can I help you?” Swain ducked down out of sight. “What are you doing?”
“I dropped something. Found it!” He reached up with an antique ring with a blue topaz stone between his thumb and finger.
Althea lost her breath. It was beautiful! “Was that just lying there?” she asked, though she knew better.
“It belonged to my mother. Her mother gave it to her, and she was supposed to give it to her daughter, but she ended up having me. Althea Grover, will you marry me?”
Althea shook her head. “This is NOT how I pictured the most important night of my life!”
“Is that a no?” asked Swain. “I know it’s kind of sudden and you’re cold and I should have done something more romantic, but I can’t stand the thought of taking you home when you should be beside me, whether walking up the aisle on our wedding day or lying in bed. I knew I’d do it wrong.”
“Ask me again,” insisted Althea.
“Really?”
“Do it, foolish boy.”
“Althea Grover, will you marry me?”
“I will,” Althea replied.
“Really?”
“You have to ask my father for my hand. Let’s go see him. It’s a formality.”
“Right now?” asked Swain.
“He’ll be too tired to say no. Then we should get this ring resized.”
“Now?”
“No, honey,” said Althea, “we have our whole lives.”
Copyright © 2025 by Charles C. Cole
