Rachel

Note to reader: This story is pure fiction, with certain portions taken from the author's life experience. All characters are over 18, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 All Rights Reserved. No portion of this material may be reproduced without the author's prior written permission. Everyone is over 18.

A reader accused me of plagiarism. NOT TRUE! I am the author of these stories. I abandoned my Literotica account for a few years and rejoined under this pseudonym.

Although this story is in the Mature section, it could easily fit into the romance category. Polite and constructive comments are most welcome. Derogatory comments will be deleted.

Rachel

Sometimes, at Halloween, you get a treat while giving candy to the kids.

When I was a kid, Halloween was a magical time. I remember worrying about my costume and how my friends and I would plan our assault around the neighborhood. I think I was about ten when my best friend Tim and I drew a map of the street we lived on with squares on both sides representing the houses. We put an X over the homes we knew from previous years had slim pickings. There were about 40 homes on our cul-du-sac street, and when we finished our Halloween plundering, Tim and I would dump our collective booty onto my kitchen table to sort the treasure.

The street I lived on growing up is much like the one I live on now. However, today, my neighborhood seems to have fewer children than in years past. I do see a few neighborhood children coming to my door with their children every year. Geez, talk about feeling old.

As usual, I bought too much candy for the little ones. The few children that came to my door this year for Halloween trick-or-treating were ghosts, pirates, princesses, and scary characters from recent movies. I didn't know many of the costumes because I don't get out too often. The price of movies nowadays is too much for a person on a fixed income. I have my retirement income and Social Security, but considering the 2008 crash, COVID-19, and the current uncertain political landscape, one cannot be too frugal.

A little about me: I'm a widower and 67 years old. I am 6 feet 5 inches tall, with a swimmer's build and old age spread in the middle. My blonde hair hasn't started to grey, but it comes in completely grey if I grow a beard. I live alone in a small two-bedroom craftsman-style home built around 1927 in an older section of town. The curbed gutter out front is higher than normal because Model T cars with wooden wagon wheels were quite tall. The higher curbs made it easier for passengers to exit the Model T car. Unfortunately, the higher curb means that with today's modern low-slung cars, passengers cannot open their doors without hitting the curb, so the driver has to stop away from the curb to let out passengers and then pull in close to park the car. Three doors away, in the older section of the street, my neighbor still has a concrete horsestep in his front yard by the street. The city has a plaque attached to the steps telling how people would park their horses next to the step so older folks could easily mount or dismount their horses.

The street I live on is tree-lined, and in the summertime, the leaves of the huge Elm, Oak, and Sycamore trees make a quasi-tunnel. The shade the trees provide keeps the asphalt from absorbing the Sun's rays and overheating the neighborhood. In the fall, the street is covered with many leaves, and the city provides cleaning crews because the leaves block the storm drain openings, and homes often flood from the rainwater runoff. My street is about a quarter-mile long dead end. My house is about 400 yards from the arterial thoroughfare intersection, so I don't hear much traffic noise like emergency vehicle sirens. Unfortunately, the houses across the street from me butt up against the railroad tracks. My wife would not listen to reason about how noisy the house would be when freight and passenger trains rumbled by. She absolutely wanted this house. Sometimes, the freight trains are so heavy their diesel engines thrum and emit harmonic vibrations that rattle the small knick-knacks my wife collected over the years. We could always tell a heavy freight was approaching because of the tell-tale tinkling of the glass figurines dancing on their mirrored tray. It took me years to finally ignore the constant peal of the nearby grade crossing signal bell as the guard arms lowered to prevent cars from crossing the tracks. I can even block out the train horns as they announce their approach to the grade crossing with their two long blasts, one short blast followed by one more long blast.

There had been a lull in the trick-or-treat traffic, and I decided to grab a cup of coffee and sit in my living room watching television. The doorbell rang, and I heard little voices call out, "TRICK OR TREAT!" When I opened the door, I could see the kids with their masked faces, and as I put candy into their containers, each one said, "Thank you," as they dashed away in search of more candy. I didn't see anyone else on the porch or sidewalk in front of my house, so I turned to go back inside. As I turned, I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye. An older woman about my age had moved from the shadows to under the streetlight and onto the sidewalk. She stood by the hedge separating my yard from the neighbor's. She just stood there and did not say anything. I turned to face her and looked for a little one beside her. There were none.

"Hi!" Calling the woman, "Where is your trick-or-treater this evening?"

She just looked down at her shoes. I could tell she was unhappy as she was visibly trembling. It was getting cold outside, and she did not have on a sweater or jacket. I could tell she was nearly impoverished by the shabby clothing she wore. Her trousers were too large for her tiny frame, and her threadbare top had seen too many washings. The woman's tennis shoes were dirty, and the laces had knots in the places where they had broken. When I stepped off the porch to approach her, she looked up with fear in her eyes.

"I won't hurt you," I said. "You look cold. May I get you something warm to wear? My wife died two years ago, and I haven't had the heart to remove her clothing. I'm sure there's something in there to help keep you warm."

The woman's expression changed from fear to sadness. She appeared to be crying and started walking away from me.

"Please don't go," I said. "Let me help you. I'm harmless. Please?"

The woman stopped and stood halfway into the street with her back toward me. She was sobbing. Her head was down, and her shoulders shook slightly.

I walked slowly toward her and softly said, "I'm Jacob. Jacob Smith. But you can call me Jake. Everyone calls me Jake. The kids in the neighborhood call me Grandpa Jake."

The woman spoke, "I'm Rachel."

"Come with me, Miss Rachel," I pleaded. "You can warm up inside and pick out something you like."

Rachel stood there momentarily, looking at me through her teary eyes. After a moment, she slowly turned toward my front door, looked at the house, looked at me, and then started walking behind me. We walked across the lawn and up the steps to my front porch. Rachel stopped a few steps before my door, afraid to go inside. After all, she was a woman being asked to enter a stranger's home on a chilly night. I patiently waited for Rachel to enter and said nothing as I stood inside my house, holding the door open. She must have decided that I would not harm her because she took a few steps forward but stopped short of the threshold. Rachel leaned her head into the doorway, slowly peeked around the door jamb, and followed me inside. I put the candy dish on the small table next to the door and turned off the front porch light, indicating that Halloween was over at this house.

"Can I get you something warm to drink, coffee or hot chocolate perhaps?" I offered. "I already have a pot of coffee on the stove."

"Coffee would be nice," Rachel said.

"Would you like cream and sugar, Miss Rachel?" I asked.

"Black, please," was Rachel's quiet remark.

I quickly retrieved my cup from the end table beside my sofa, walked into my little kitchen, and grabbed another cup for Rachel.

I called her from the kitchen, "Oh dear Lord, where are my manners? Please sit down, Miss Rachel. Sit anywhere you like."

She chose the worn-out sofa. I set the coffee cup next to her on the end table. Rachel placed both hands around the cup, enjoying the ceramic mug's warmth on her tiny fingers. As she sipped the hot liquid, I tried to assess her condition. Rachel's worn-out sneakers contrasted with her ankles as she wore no socks, and it appeared that she was not wearing any makeup. Her silvery hair was combed but straight as an arrow. Her figure looked like she could use a few pounds but not too skinny or anorexic. Her cheeks and nose were red, as were her eyes from crying. The shabby clothes and absence of makeup unfairly add years to Rachel's appearance. There was a wadded tissue in her lap. Rachel is a petite woman. I estimate she is maybe 5 feet 2 inches tall and barely 100 pounds if that much weight. Her face is thin, but I can tell she was a stunningly beautiful woman at one time. Her loose-fitting clothes effectively hid her stature. All I could see was a woman who needed help.

"You look sad, Miss Rachel," I commented. Is there something wrong?" I queried.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Jacob," Rachel said. "I was out for a stroll and watching the children scamper about with their costumes, and it brought back memories of my grandchildren. I tried to stay far enough away so people wouldn't notice me."

"You are no bother at all," I replied. "I'm glad I saw you. I've not had anyone in my home since Elizabeth died two years ago. I lost her to Cancer."

Rachel started to cry and said, "I'm sorry to hear that, Jacob. I lost my family three years ago to a drunk driver."

"Do you have any other family nearby?" I asked.

She shook her head no and stared into the coffee mug, holding it with both hands as the dark elixir radiated heat and continued to warm her delicate hands. Rachel explained that her husband had taken their adult son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren to the beach and was returning home when they were all killed in a traffic accident. They were hit broadside by a speeding tractor-trailer driver who was drunk and went through the intersection without slowing down. His big rig knocked the van onto its side and then rolled on top, crushing it flat. Everyone was pinned inside and died from blunt force trauma before the emergency medical team could arrive. The family never knew what hit them.

I gasped and said, "Oh no!"

I paused to reflect on my life with Elizabeth and how much fun we had for the 32 years we were married. She could not have children because of a congenital disability that prevented her ovaries and uterus from forming normally. I loved Elizabeth with all my heart and resolved that even though I would never be a father, we would lead a happy life together.

"Elizabeth and I never had children," I said. "I can only try to understand how you must feel during Halloween and seeing all the little ones running around. I lost Elizabeth to an inoperable cancerous brain tumor. It will be three years come next February. No matter the holiday, the loneliness is sometimes difficult to bear when we lose loved ones."

We sat silently, and then I said, "Miss Rachel, how are you out without any warm clothing tonight? It must be in the 40s outside, and you have such thin clothes."

Ashamed to say it, Rachel explained how she lost everything in a fire. She had carelessly tossed junk mail on the counter beside the gas stove in her kitchen, and while she went to the bathroom, the flame under her soup started the paper on fire. The burning paper then set the kitchen cabinets on fire, and soon, her wood-framed house was burning like an old-fashioned bonfire before a homecoming football game.

"Is your home a total loss?" I asked.

"Yes," Rachel said. "It burned last month. But I am staying at the apartments around the corner. The Red Cross put me there for the time being."

"I remember reading about that fire," I remarked. "I could see the smoke a few blocks over. Was that where your house was?"

"Yes, I lived on the corner of Maple and Simmons," Rachel cried as she told me her former address."

"Did you have insurance on your home?" I asked.

"Yes and no," Rachel said. "I paid off the mortgage with the insurance settlement from the accident, and when I no longer had a house payment, the automatic homeowner's insurance deduction in the impound account was canceled. My insurance agent convinced me our insurance was still valid despite closing the impound account. Little did I know at the time that my agent was a crook. After the fire, I contacted my agent and filed an online claim for my loss. I waited for my agent to contact me but later discovered he was no longer employed and had skipped town. My agent had canceled my policy without telling anyone when I paid off the mortgage, and he pocketed the premiums. I paid my regular premiums to the agent, not the impound account. I am so lost now."

"That's terrible," I said. "Will your insurance broker compensate you for your loss?" I asked.

"No," Rachel sighed. "The letter I received from the corporate office law firm told me that because felonious fraud was involved, the broker and parent company were not liable for any damages caused by their employee."

My hackles stood up when I heard Rachel tell me about the letter. I'm no attorney, but I took a semester of law courses to round out my education. In those classes, I learned about agency and partnership. According to the "Captain of the Ship Doctrine," an employer is responsible for the actions of their employees as part of their regularly assigned responsibilities. However, if the employee is engaged in frolic and detour, like getting drunk on company time and crashing the company car, the employer is absolved of responsibility. I believe the letter Rachel received is a scare tactic to prevent a cause of action against the broker and parent insurance company. I'm willing to bet dollars to donut holes that a junkyard dog-like attorney would love to have a case like this.

Rachel continued to explain, "The only money I have now is what little I have left over from the few dollars the Red Cross gave and my monthly Social Security survivor's benefit."

"Well then, I guess this is your lucky day," I said proudly. "My wife's clothes are still in her closet, and you are welcome to have anything you like there. You appear about the same size, so everything should fit you nicely."

"Jacob, I cannot do that," Rachel said. "They're your wife's clothes. What would you think if you saw me wearing her clothes?"

"Look," I said. "When I met my wife during my senior year of college, she majored in shopping. Apparently, it's a requirement for her Mrs. degree. Elizabeth knew that she was barely going to graduate with her degree in liberal studies, so she focused on reeling me in for the catch. I had fallen hopelessly in love when our eyes met the first time at the student union coffee shop. We were truly a match made in Heaven. Elizabeth loved to shop, and my Commission in the Air Force after my college ROTC would satisfy the requirements for her Mrs. degree. No matter where we were stationed, Elizabeth found stores for her shopping addiction. But, it was putting us in the poor house. I finally had to put my foot down and curtail her unlimited spending. I gave her a budget and said she could only go shopping every other weekend. Of course, she could have ignored me, but she knew she had a shopping addiction and agreed to follow my advice."

"Elizabeth quickly learned how to get around her monetary restrictions. She would only buy one or two sale items to keep within her budget. She often found a skirt she liked but no matching top. Or, she would find a pretty top but no pants or skirts to match. Elizabeth hoped there would be matching articles for the clothes she already owned when she shopped again. I never said Elizabeth wasn't smart. She figured out a system to maximize her shopping while minimizing her spending. Elizabeth would leave the store tags on the clothes she purchased. If Elizabeth didn't find anything that matched what was in her closet after a few weeks of hopeful shopping, she'd return a few items and get store credit for the returns. I honestly believe there are clothes I have never seen there, so if you're worried about me getting melancholy seeing you in her clothes, it's not an issue. Come with me, I'll show you."

I took the coffee mug from Rachel, set it on the end table, grabbed her by the hands, and pulled her upright to follow me into my bedroom. I turned on the light and walked to my wife's side of the room to her closet. She had so many clothes in her closet that I had put mine in the guest bedroom. I've been dressing in there for the past 22 years.

Rachel folded the doors back to reveal a solid wall of clothes from one end of the closet to the other. All rainbow colors were splashed across the tightly jammed clothing in the closet. On the floor below were boxes and boxes of women's shoes. Some were comfortable, and some were sexy, but most were sneakers and sandals that she wore around the house. On the shelf above the clothes were various hats my wife would wear when we went outside. The hats were large-brimmed because she could not be in the Sun long. Elizabeth spent too many hours sunbathing when she was younger and developed a few melanoma spots.

"Good grief, you were right about her being a clothes hound," Rachel exclaimed. "This looks like there are enough clothes here to never wear the same outfit twice in one year."

"Pick out whatever you need," I offered.

I left her in the bedroom to pick out clothes. About ten minutes later, Rachel came out wearing a pair of slacks, comfortable flat shoes, a turtle-neck sweater, and a warm coat in her arms. She looked fabulous.

"Hey!" I exclaimed. "Who are you, and what did you do with Rachel?"

She smiled and asked if her clothes were okay to take. I nodded, and Rachel walked toward the front door.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Is that all you are going to take? That's only one outfit. Please, take more clothes with you. I don't need them. Besides, they fit you well, and I like how you look."

"Well," Rachel giggled. "If you insist, I guess I could get a few more things."

"Wonderful!" I said. "Take your time. I'll be right here watching the news."

Rachel spent the next 30 minutes rooting through Elizabeth's fashions. When she left the master bedroom, she asked me for plastic bags to carry the clothes. Rachel filled four large contractor-grade clean-up bags with dresses, shoes, skirts, trousers, tops, and scarves. The smile on her face was radiant. Her eyes were bright as she watched me carry the bags toward my front door. Rachel stopped halfway to the door and gasped.

"Oh, no!" Rachel exclaimed. "I didn't realize how much I gathered. Here, let me put these back. I can't carry all of this back to my apartment."

"Not to worry, Rachel," I said. "I'm happy to drive you home. Besides, it's unsafe for a woman to walk home alone at this late hour."

"I don't want to bother you any more than I already have, Jacob. I'll be okay," Rachel pleaded.

"NO, you won't," I said in my military voice, "I insist on driving you home. I would not sleep tonight worrying about you, so forget about walking. Let's go."

I grabbed the four bags as Rachel opened the front door. It closed behind us and locked itself. Outside, we walked around the corner of the house and down the driveway to the detached single-car garage in the back of the property. I pressed the key code on the wall to open the electric garage door. I walked toward the passenger side of my pick-up truck, tossed the bags in the back, and opened the door for Rachel to get in. Once she was in, I pulled her seatbelt from the side and handed it to her. My nose sensed the aroma of her perfume. It wasn't enough to be noticeable at a distance, but she smelled like flowers up close. I closed the door and got in on my side. Backing out of the garage, I pressed the remote to close the garage, and we headed toward her apartment complex.