The China Service (standard:horror, 4668 words)
Author: CD Sutton II	Added: Apr 03 2009	Views/Reads: 2794/1872	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An anonymous driver takes a wrong turn...and learns a harsh lesson about personal responsibility.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

corner of the building, his eyes searching the dusty, weed-choked yard. 
A dog house stood at the far right corner of the property, a rusted 
chain lying empty just outside its en-trance, but it was evident no dog 
had patrolled this yard for at least a generation. Impatiently, he 
kicked at the dust under his shoes and came to a decision. Shit, he 
thought, screw this shit, I'll just have to come back out here tomorrow 
and deliver it then. But I'll make damn sure fuckin' Charlie calls 
ahead to make sure someone's here; waste of fuckin' gas drivin' out 
here without checkin' first. Goddamn pieceashit job anyway...tell the 
truth, I could make more green runnin' Uncle Bob's second restaurant 
anyway...hafta give him a buzz tomorrow, see if that offer he made me 
is still solid. Yeah, that'll be cool; sit behind the counter, call the 
shots, watch the cash, and six hundred a week un... 

“Can I help you?” came the soft, pleasant voice from behind him. He
jumped straight up, then spun around, nearly dropping his clipboard. He 
was face to...well, to nothing. He looked left and right very quickly, 
his head moving in jerks. 

The voice came again, “Um..down here.” He looked down. Standing a full
two-and-a-half feet shorter was a balding man of indeterminate age, 
dressed in worn bib overalls that could have fit a child of perhaps 
eight to nine years old.   His face was rosy and round, nearly 
effeminate and childlike in its features, and was entirely devoid of 
wrinkles. Only the eyes, cold and brilliantly blue, showed  any hint of 
experience; they were adult eyes, eyes that had seen. Eyes that had 
witnessed. 

The short man squinted up and said in the same soft voice, “Do you
speak?” The driver nodded. “What is your business here, then? What are 
you snooping for, sneaking through our property? Certainly there is no 
person that answered your yelling at our front door. Certainly no one 
came out to greet you.” He paused for breath. “Well? You indicated you 
can speak, son; What is your purpose in our yard?” 

The driver hesitated, looked at his clipboard and said, I, uh, have a,
uh, delivery on this road. Your number is not marked...I wanted to ask 
directions.” 

“The name?” 

“What?” 

“The name. Who is this delivery intended for? Perhaps I know the party.”


“Oh.” The driver looked at his board. “Mrs. Abelina Grandy.” 

The short man's eyes widened. “For Grand-Momma Grandy? I'd no idea she'd
ordered any delivery. What is the package? What is the item?” 

The driver remembered the company policy and, with a confidence born of
adherence to the rules he said, “I'm sorry, sir, all packages are 
confidential, and can only be opened by the recipient.” 

The man looked offended, but then softened his features.  "Well, son, I
am sorry to say, but Grand-Momma Grandy has passed on.” He extracted a 
kerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. “Nearly two months 
gone, I'm afraid. However, being that I am the closest kin at home 
today, I can sign for this package.” 

“Ensure you inspect that package first, Cousin Bertrand!” The driver was
startled by this new voice, and turned left toward its source. Another 
man, similarly dressed but nearer his own height, was rounding the far 
corner of the yard. He had, evidently, come from the brush behind the 
property, and was carrying a small basket full of turnips and greens 
under his right arm. In his left was what appeared to be a ten gauge 
shotgun, its breech broken open and empty. “You know 'bout those local 
delivery services; they don't care 'bout what condition the box arrives 
in. Watch he don't just try to hurry you along to the signin'!“ 

Bertrand sighed, “You're prob'ly right, Cousin Ethan.” Squinting up at
the driver he said, “We should inspect the package first, just in case 
there is any damage.” 

The driver said, “Sir...y'know, I'm awful late as it is...I've got a
wife, and see, we booked reservations at this great nightclub and...” 

“Nightclub!” Ethan spat in the dirt, leaving a trail of tobacco juice to
mix with the spreading stain on his long gray beard. "Nightclub! You 
need your priorities straightened out, boy!” He placed the basket on 
the ground and adopted an attitude of one delivering a sermon. “When 
the work in the fields is done, the beasts put to bed and all are 
washed and bathed, only then may a meal be shared. Only then may one 
engage in,” he spat again, “pleasurable pursuits.” 

“Yes, that is right, Cousin Ethan...thank you.” He smiled up at the
driver. “Cousin Ethan is our beacon; he always keeps us on the 
path...should we stray, that is. Let us check this package. Although 
I'm certain all is well, one cannot be too careful in this modern and 
sinful age.” He started toward the front, toward the delivery van. The 
driver, after a slight hesitation, began to follow; likely a good idea, 
considering the fact that Ethan (with his shotgun) now stood behind 
him. 

The trio approached the delivery van and went around the rear to the
side doors, which the driver unlatched and slid open. Reaching inside, 
he extracted the lone package and turned to the cousins. “Y'know, we're 
not supposed to open packages that aren't signed for.” 

“Too bad,” said Ethan, his reply rife with distrust and suspicion. “Now,
now,” soothed Bertrand, “no harm's done yet, there's no need to treat 
this boy unkindly. Let us just see what's here...oh my.” He pointed to 
a corner of the box. “This is not good.” 

They looked at where he was pointing: the indicated corner was slightly
crushed from top to bottom, and there was a small tear, most probably 
caused by  a some metal on the interior panel of the cargo area. The 
driver looked at where the box had been sitting and, sure enough, there 
was a small scrap of brown cardboard on a protruding bolt. Though the 
damage was what most would consider as mild, Ethan's reaction was not. 

“I knew it! I knew it! See what I told you, Cousin Bertrand? Arn'cha
glad we checked before signin?” He spat again with the same results. 
“These young folks today, they got no respect; no respect, I say!” He 
turned to the driver. “So eager to leave here with a signature, leave 
us here holdin...” 

“Cousin Ethan!” cried Bertrand. He wiped his brow with the back of his
hand. “You...will you quit doggin' this boy?” He looked up, the setting 
sun laving the left side of his face in golden light. “Please...you 
simply must forgive my cousin, dear boy, you must; he bears no trust of 
town-folk, feels you people are of no account.” And aside he whispered, 
“Myself, I seem to remember a city woman dropped him on his head when 
he was a child, so his distrust is understandable, don't you agree?” He 
pulled a small penknife from the breast pocket of his bibs and opened 
it. “Now, let us open this package and inspect the contents.” 

Ethan spat as Bertrand expertly slit the seal from end to end, being
careful not to use more than the tip of his blade. “Grand-Poppa Grandy 
taught me, taught all of us, how to use this,” he said as the knife was 
closed and re-pocketed, “and he always said, 'Ensure you never use more 
blade than is necessary, as you might tend to damage that which you 
cannot see.'“ He winked at the driver. “He was a Deacon in our church, 
you see, and gave the most powerful sermons; Ethan spent many an hour 
at his feet and by his side.” He turned his attention back to the box, 
which he now opened fully, revealing several...no, nearly a dozen 
smaller boxes which were nestled in styrofoam peanuts. Laying on top 
was a small square of thrice-folded paper which, when Bertrand opened 
it, revealed itself to be a packing slip. “Oh my,“ he said. 

Ethan crowded forward. “What is it?” he demanded. His cousin looked up
at him and replied, “The china service.” 

“The china service?” 

“Yes; the china service.” He paused and wiped his brow again. “I
remember now...Grand-Momma Grandy ordered this from the general store; 
why it must be four months ago! Don't you remember, Cousin? This came 
all the way from England, from Staffordshire! Oh, she prizes... prized, 
I mean to say...English china above all other kinds.” He sniffled a 
bit, and the kerchief came out again. “I wish she could have been 
here.” 

“Ashes to ashes;” intoned Ethan, “dust to dust.” 

“As the Lord giveth, so must he taketh away,” his cousin finished. He
looked again at the driver. “Balance, son; there must be a balance in 
life, in spirit, in a reckoning.” He turned to the opened box and took 
out the largest of its contents. Setting the box down, he again 
produced the penknife, and slit the tape along the side. Opening the 
flap, he moved aside the tissue-paper packing and reached in. 

The driver was astounded. The cousins sighed with pleasure. The object
that was pulled forth and presented was the largest of the set; an 
exquisite teapot of the finest English bone china, decorated in the 
style of the early eighteenth century. Aristocratic female figures were 
garbed in fine gowns, and haughty male figures sported tall top hats 
and breeches; all were seated, and all were portrayed in the act of 
drinking tea. 

The teapot lid, when Bertrand pulled it from the packing, also bore the
marks of fine craftsmanship and care in manufacture, and was unique in 
that the tea ball was part of the underside. The top of the lid was, in 
fact, a quarter-scale replica of the larger, and was held in place by 
means of a small china hinge. When opened, the tea ball could be filled 
with loose tea, and the lid could then be held closed with a small 
latch of the same material. This was an object to be treasured, the 
product of master craftsmen...something one would bring out for only 
the most favored guest. 

As Bertrand and the driver were admiring the teapot and lid, Ethan was
open-ing the smaller boxes closest to the damaged corner. As he opened 
the fifth of the white boxes and removed the packing, he straightened 
suddenly and cried, “Cousin Bertrand!” And he held out the smallest 
piece of the set, a miniature sugar spoon of fine gold, the metal 
bearing scratches from the protruding bolt, the china handle cracked. 

All three men looked a long time at the damaged spoon, their emotions
plain on their faces. Bertrand looked sorrowful and 
disappointed...Ethan looked as if he were about to go ten rounds with 
God; the driver looked like he wanted to be elsewhere...but he knew his 
departure was going to be delayed. No way they'll sign for it now, he 
thought. No damn way. 

No one spoke. Ethan handed the spoon to Bertrand and slowly turned to
the driver, full of hate and the most violent intent. His hands were 
fists at his sides, solid rocks on the end of weathered, sinewy arms 
that were nearly hairless. “Youuuuu....” he hissed, his voice rasping 
on tightened vocal chords, “You citified, urbanite, double decaf 
lah-tay drinkin' , pizza eatin', forni...” 

“ETHAN!” cried Bertrand. 

“No! You'll not dissuade me, cousin! This...this boy is a usurper! He
ain't us! He has no honor, no sense of right or wrong!” A gleam came 
into his eye. “But we can make this right, Cousin Bertrand! We can!” 
And with that, he reached into the right pocket of his overalls, 
withdrew two fresh shells, and reloaded the ten-guage. Then he raised 
the weapon and pointed it at the driver, who turned white. 

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” he screamed, terrified. “I'm sorry! I'm
sure we can work something out! Just lemme...” He got no further. 
Bertrand had stepped between him and the shotgun. 

“Cousin Ethan,” he said quietly. Ethan was trembling in anger, his
finger in the trigger guard. “Cousin Ethan,” he repeated, and placed 
his left hand on the barrel, exerting the slightest pressure downward. 
Ethan resisted for a moment, then took his finger out of the guard and 
slowly lowered the weapon. Bertrand held his gaze for a moment longer, 
then turned halfway toward the driver, keeping Ethan in his peripheral 
vision. 

“Son,” he said quietly, “again, I simply must ask you to forgive my dear
cousin; as I said, he is mistrustful of strangers, and is quick to 
anger.” 

“Don't apologize for me, Cousin Bertrand!” The words were spat from
Ethan's mouth. “And don't apol...” 

Bertrand snatched the shotgun away from his cousin. “Cousin Ethan.” It
was not a plea, but a warning, and Ethan turned away, retreating about 
ten or twelve feet. Bertrand turned his attention back to the driver, 
who was still shaky and unsure of his legs. “Son,” he said again, just 
as quietly, “let's talk about this situation. Now, I am certain as the 
day is long that you had no intent of marring or besmirching this 
package. I know, you see, that you take the utmost care in delivering 
your parcels intact.” He paused. “But you must understand, dear boy, 
that this damage, no matter how small, regardless of the intent, is 
entirely unacceptable. You do understand this.” 

The driver had regained some composure, but his nervousness was apparent
in his voice. “Yes, I understand...but you realize there is little I 
can do. I could call my office on the celphone,” he patted his shirt 
pocket, “b-but it's late...it's a Friday...no-one's there...and there's 
no way to re-order another spoon or...” He got no further as Ethan 
strode close and took a position less that three feet away. 

 “Oh,” he sneered, the sing-song sarcasm plain in his tone, “it's
Friday...do you hear that, Cousin Bertrand? It's Friday... Friday?” He 
reached out, snatched the celphone from the driver's pocket, and threw 
it to the ground, where it broke apart. “I don't care if it's Friday. 
I'm so sorry your precious evening at your precious night-club has to 
be ruined by taking responsibility for your care- lessness and the 
resulting trespass! I...” “Cousin Ethan!” roared Bertrand, finally 
showing some loss of patience with his uncle's son, “Enough! You're 
going to ruin this...” 

“What's all this ruckus about?!?” A new voice inserted itself into the
mix. They all turned toward the owner of that voice. The driver gasped. 
If he was disconcerted at the time he met Bertrand, he was triply so 
upon his first sight of this man. The voice belonged to Bertrand's 
polar opposite; the face bore resemblance, but the body was enormous. 
Easily three hundred fifty pounds of carved male physique, shirtless 
and shoeless, clad in the seemingly obligatory denim bib overalls. 
Except  for professional wrestlers, the driver had never in his life 
seen someone this large. More impressive than his size, though, was the 
effect his presence had on Ethan's demeanor. 

“Nothing, Uncle Victor,” he said, suddenly contrite and calm. “Nothing
at all.” 

“Nothing, huh? Ethan, you've been screaming at this boy, at Bertrand, at
some unfairness or another, for the past five minutes! Do you thing I 
want to spend my Friday evening like this? Do you think your Aunt 
Camelia wants to hear your incessant braying?” 

“But, Uncle Victor...” 

“No 'buts' about it, nephew!” He turned to Bertrand. “Now what's all the
fuss? Straight up, now, boy.” And Bertrand proceeded to tell him of the 
driver's arrival, the china service, the broken spoon, and showed him 
these items in turn. Ethan attempted to insert a word at one point, but 
was immediately silenced by a look from his uncle's steel-blue eyes. 
After the tale was spun, Victor swiveled his atten- tion to the driver, 
who was looking at his watch, knowing he was late, later than late, 
obscenely late...and now he had no way to call either the office or his 
home. “You need t'be somewheres, boy?” His tone was accusatory. 

The driver blanched and stuttered, “Y-yessir...um, me and my
wife...we're supposed to...” 

“He's goin' to a nightclub, Uncle Victor...he and his woman, fornica...”


“Ethan, I'll tell you just one last time to shut your mouth!” Victor's
voice was, if conceivable, larger than his own bulk. “You were always a 
whiny little pissant, ever since you was seven years old.” He turned 
back to the driver. “Seems we got us a problem here, boy. My nephews,” 
he turned slightly to indicate Ethan and Bertrand, “my nephews are 
unhappy with the condition of this delivery. And so am I.” He turned 
his head and spat into the dirt. “What explanation are you offering for 
this?” 

The driver cleared his throat, buying a few seconds, thankful that a
seemingly cooler head had intervened. “Look,” he said, “I under- stand 
you're all upset about the damage; obviously, something got bumped. It 
was an accident, that's all. But we can record the break-age...” He got 
no further. 

“ 'Record the breakage?' Victor mocked. “And then what? You'll 'see to
it' the damage is 'properly reported?' Order a new spoon for Abelina's 
china service 'first thing on Monday?' “ Victor shook his head. “Lemme 
ask you somethin', son...did you pack this truck today?” 

The driver's face fell as he answered. “Yes.” 

“I see. And it's obvious to anyone who isn't an idiot that you drove
that same truck today...was it all day, son?” 

“Yessir.” He looked at the ground. 

“And you drove that truck here, right?” 

“Right.” The driver's voice was subdued. 

Victor reached out and lifted the young man's chin. “So we can't very
well hold your company responsible for the damaged items, can we?” He 
paused, holding the driver's eyes with his own. “It's a problem with 
the world, son...this 'pass the buck' thinkin'. No one is willin' to 
step forward anymore and say, 'I did it, it's my fault, I'll fix it, 
I'll make it right.' Wellsir, we hold responsible those who will not 
take responsibility.” 

“So shall it be,” intoned Bertrand and Ethan. 

“So son...is this damage the result of your actions?” 

The driver had no other option but to answer, “Yessir...I guess it is.” 

“And you take responsibility for that damage?” 

“Yessir.” 

“And what might you think of as adequate recompense for your fault?” 

The driver looked around him then said, “I...I can't fix the items, sir.
I can offer money, but I only have about thirteen dollars on me. Can I 
promise to personally pay for the damage?” 

Victor turned to his nephews. “What say you, boys? 

It was Bertrand who answered, “But...what good is money to us, Uncle
Victor? We already have everything we need, don't we?” 

“That is true, Nephew.” 

“An ounce, Uncle Victor!” Ethan's voice was triumphant. “An ounce of
flesh!” 

“Yes, Uncle; an ounce would be not soon forgotten.” Bertrand spoke as
one entertaining a fine idea. 

“Two!” came a new voice, strong and certainly female, and they all
turned toward its source, a somewhat stout woman of fifty or so, who 
appeared from the interior of the house and stood just outside the 
doorway. She was wearing a faded print dress of thin cotton, which was 
partially hidden by a food-stained apron. 

“Two ounces, Eudora?” Victor sounded doubtful. 

“Brother! Abelina's china service! Two ounces!” 

“Yes, Uncle Victor, two ounces would be appropriate,” Ethan chimed in. 

“Two, then,” Victor agreed. 

“Wait a minute!” The driver was becoming agitated by these exchanges.
“What the fuck is this 'two ounces of flesh' shit?” 

All fell silent...all eyes turned on him; he felt the stares, the shock.
Victor came forward and stood very close so that the driver could hear 
him breathe. “What did you say...boy? Did you utter a curse in our 
yard...in my presence?” he hissed. 

“Three ounces, Uncle,” whispered Bertrand, not allowing the driver to
respond. “Three.” 

“Not enough, Bertrand!” cried Eudora, who had been joined by another
woman on the sagging porch. “Not enough! What say you, Camelia?” 

Camelia, standing in the shade of the awning, was as thin as Eudora was
stout. Her face was tired and pocked with scars from an ancient acne, 
but her eyes were hard and intense. She nodded in agreement and chimed 
in, “Not enough. You are in the right, Sister Eudora; three ounces are 
a mere pittance against his trespass! More is certainly needed to 
rectify this! Five ounces!” 

“Five it is!” cried Eudora; this was quickly discussed by the men, their
voices overlapping. 

(Five ounces...yes, five ounces should be enough...no, maybe six? No,
five ounces is what we are discussing here, Cousin Ethan...Alright, 
Cousin Bertrand, alright...Both of you stop...) 

The driver stood aghast as it became clear that the five ounces of flesh
under discussion was to come from him. The fear hit him like an 
electric shock, galvanizing his motor skills, moving his body toward 
the delivery van door just a few short feet away. He had to get to the 
door, into the seat, run any risk for escape, run them down if he had 
to...and he almost made it. 

Victor's hand was large and lay heavy on his shoulder as he was yanked
back to bucolic reality. “Where you goin', boy?” he asked. The question 
was rhetorical. “Take him to the shed,” he told his nephews. Ethan and 
Bertrand grabbed the driver's arms and forced him to the sagging barn. 
Victor preceded them, pulling one of the doors halfway open. The driver 
looked around wildly, realizing the glimpse of metal he had seen when 
he first entered the yard were in fact large hooks mounted on a rack. 
And he knew what those hooks were. He had grown up on a small ranch, 
had husbanded cattle, had helped with the slaugh-tering. They were meat 
hooks. 

“Please,” the driver pleaded, terrified. “I'm just a delivery driver...I
got a wife...we just got married last month...please...” 

“New wife?” Victor considered, then shook his head. Leaning close, he
said softly, his voice tinged with regret, “Well...I'm sure she'll miss 
you.” The driver's rising scream was cut off when the stock of Ethan's 
shotgun connected with his head. 

The Grandy men looked at the unconscious body in the dirt. He was not a
large man. Ethan lifted him with little effort, held him still while 
Victor and Bertrand arranged two hooks at shoulder's width. At a nod 
from Victor, Ethan let the driver's weight fall, the hooks piercing him 
in the armpits, emerging through the top of the joints, suspending him. 
Blood seeped through his shirt and trickled down his sides. They had 
done the job just right, avoiding the large blood vessels. 

Victor then took out a long knife and slit through the belt. Bertrand
unsnapped the jeans and pulled them down, exposing the white flesh of 
the thighs, toned and muscled. Ethan smiled. Victor nodded his 
approval. Bertrand was drooling. “Better start the fire,” he said, and 
left to find some wood. 

The driver awoke only once during the night, too weak to scream, and
looked down at what was left. He could not feel the hooks through his 
shoulders. 

He wished he had turned right. 


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