A Short Story

                           Edges of Memories that Blur

                         A Short Story By Erin Gardner

That day was one of the most prominent days of my existence. As I age the memories of ordinary life events blur at the edges, but that day stands out in my memories like a bright star on a foggy night. War can do strange things to people and I believe that, is what caused Herbert McAuliffe to do what he did that day.

            It was June twenty-first, late afternoon, 1950. I had worked at the bank in Langton for a few years now. I was the only teller, and the only one that was needed, Langton being such a small town. We were about to close, and I was excited to get out of the heat and see my husband. A man walked in the door. He had a sun helmet on and sunglasses. His blue pinstripe shirt looked dirty. I thought he must be a farmer. Little did I know that I had thought very wrong. The man pulled a gun out of his jacket and shouted, “ This is a stick up. Everyone get over in the corner and face the wall.”

            I felt panic rise inside of me, and I froze. I was inside the cage that the teller sat in. I thought that maybe this man wouldn’t notice me. But he did. At the last moment I remembered the alarm. I reached my hand over slowly hovering over the small black bud. I pressed the button. Then the man looked over at me, he told me to get into the corner with the others. I ran over to the corner and crouched down. Mr. Van Hooren, the owner of the garage down the street burst into the bank. The robber pulled out another gun and motioned for him to join us in the corner. There were now five bank staff, a customer and now Mr. Van Hooren trapped in the corner. Time went by. What was seconds seemed like hours. He ordered the customer to go to the vault and get out money. He was filling the bag with the bills when he dropped the bag and the money went flying all over the floor. I thought he might shoot the customer. He seemed willing to shoot at any moment to get what he wanted. My hands were sweaty and slippery, but not from the hot June day. I could hear myself and the others around me, breathing in a panicked manner. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear the beats in my head. But he didn’t shoot and the customer filled a new bag. The man with the guns ordered us into the vault. I thought that this was it. He was going to kill us all now. I was only 23 and newly married. I didn’t want to die now. We had planned to have kids and start a life. What would my brother and sister do when they found out? And my mother, I didn’t want her to have to bury one of her own children. I silently prayed for God to spare us. All of the sudden the man ordered the customer out with all of the money. There was too much to carry so he needed two people. The man hit the vault door with his foot, intending to close it, but he didn’t push it hard enough and it didn’t close all the way. He ran out of the room and out of the bank. I thought I might faint.

            The rest of the story, I learned from others. After we left the bank, there were crowds of people outside. I saw a few loose bills flying around in the wind. All of the sudden I had masses of people around me, asking me questions, hugging me. I asked what had happened to the robber. Someone told me that he had drove away and two of the men watching, Arthur Lierman and William Godden had got into a car with a gun and followed him. They tried to shoot at him, and his car went into a ditch. They pulled up behind him in an empty field. McAuliffe, the robber got out of his car and took out a machine gun. He emptied the clip into Lierman and Godden’s heads. A farm boy had seen this; I couldn’t imagine the images that tainted that boy’s mind. The man then ran into the forest.

            When I got home from the bank that day, I collapsed on my bed and started to cry. When I found out that this murderer was somewhere in the woods, I was scared he would come back for me. I had a nightmare almost every night for a while, and I still do to this day have the occasional nightmare. They all end the same; with me dying different ways by the hands of Herbert McAuliffe. I couldn’t go back to the bank even after he was captured.

He was captured after a three-day hunt by a mass of police and towns people. The town’s people were like a mob, angered by what had happened to their friends. Almost all the men in the town had a gun and were searching for McAuliffe. He was found in Statffordville, in a run-down shack, exhausted and dehydrated. The man that found him said that his clothes were torn; he was badly bruised and had no shirt. He was taken to the jail in Simcoe. Later it was found out that McAuliffe was a Canadian Army Sergeant in the Second World War. He said that the reason he killed those men was because the army taught him to kill and said that he could kill whomever he wanted. For weeks, the papers were filled with his name, and it was all the town’s people could talk about. I kept my head down when I had to go into town and avoided everyone that tried to talk to me about it. My family knew how I felt about the situation. Even the sound of that man’s name sent a shudder of panic through me. At night when I couldn’t sleep, I thought of what could have happened to me that day. I tried not to think about that summer.

McAuliffe’s trial was at the beginning of September. He was announced as guilty of two counts of murder. I didn’t go to the trial; I couldn’t stand to see that man’s face again. But my husband went and reported the account to me. At the end of the trial this was announced to McAuliffe:
"You are to be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there to be kept in close confinement until December 19, 1950. On that day, you will be taken to the place of execution and there be hanged by your neck until dead. And may God have mercy on your soul."

            I felt relieved that McAuliffe was not to be part of this world anymore. But in a way I felt sorry for the man. I didn’t think that capital punishment was right for anyone, no matter what they did. In fact I found it to almost be the easy way out for them. Being hanged usually means you die quickly while being in prison for your whole life gives you nothing to do but to reflect on what you have done.

            On December 19^th, 1950 McAuliffe was hung. But his death wasn’t painless, the doctor miscalculated the drop and it took fifteen minutes for him to strangle to death.

            Now that I am old, you would imagine these memories would slip away from my troubled mind. But they haven’t. I forget new things, like my grandchildren’s birthdays, but the memory of trauma stains my mind.

                           Edges of Memories that Blur- Draft

                         A Short Story By Erin Gardner

That day was one of the most prominent days of my existence. As I age the memories of ordinary life events blur at the edges, but that day stands out in my memories like a bright star on a foggy night. War can do strange things to people and I believe that, that is what caused Herbert McAuliffe to do what he did that day.

            It was June twenty-first, late afternoon, 1950. I had worked at the bank in Langton for a few years now. I was the only teller, and the only one that was needed, Langton being such a small town. We were about to close, and I was excited to get out of the heat and see my husband. A man walked in the door. He had a sun helmet on and sunglasses. His blue pinstripe shirt looked dirty. I thought he must be a farmer. Little did I know that I had thought very wrong. The man pulled a gun out of his jacket and shouted, “ This is a stick up. Everyone get over in the corner and face the wall.”

            I felt panic rise inside of me, and I froze. I was inside the cage that the teller sat in. I thought that maybe this man wouldn’t notice me. But he did. At the last moment I remembered the alarm. I reached my hand over slowly hovering over the small black bud. I pressed the button. Then the man looked over at me, he told me to get into the corner with the others. I ran over to the corner and crouched down. Mr. Van Hooren, the owner of the garage down the street burst into the bank. The robber pulled out another gun and motioned for him to join us in the corner. There were now five bank staff, a customer and now Mr. Van Hooren trapped in the corner. Time went by. What was seconds seemed like hours. He ordered the customer to go to the vault and get out money. He was filling the bag with the bills when he dropped the bag and the money went flying all over the floor. I thought he might shoot the customer. He seemed willing to shoot at any moment to get what he wanted. My hands were sweaty and slippery, but not from the hot June day. I could hear myself and the others around me, breathing in a panicked matter.  But he didn’t shoot and the customer filled a new bag. The man with the guns ordered us into the vault. I thought that this was it. He was going to kill us all now. I was only 23 and newly married. I didn’t want to die now. We had planned to have kids and start a life. What would my brother and sister do when they found out? And my mother, I didn’t want her to have to bury one of her own children. I silently prayed for God to spare us. All of the sudden the man ordered the customer out with all of the money. There was too much to carry so he needed two people. The man hit the vault door with his foot, intending to close it, but he didn’t push it hard enough and it didn’t close all the way. He ran out of the room and out of the bank. I thought I might faint.

            The rest of the story, I learned from others. After we left the bank, there were crowds of people outside. I saw a few loose bills flying around in the wind. All of the sudden I had masses of people around me, asking me questions, hugging me. I asked what had happened to the robber. Someone told me that they had drove away and two of the men watching, Arthur Lierman and William Godden had got into a car with a gun and followed him. They tried to shoot at him, and his car went into a ditch. They pulled up behind him in an empty field. McAuliffe, the robber got out of his car and took out a machine gun. He emptied the clip into Lierman and Godden’s heads. A farm boy had seen this; I couldn’t imagine the images that tainted that boy’s mind. The man then ran into the forest.

            When I got home from the bank that day, I collapsed on my bed and started to cry. When I found out that this murderer was somewhere in the woods, I was scared he would come back for me. I had a nightmare almost every night for a while, and I still do to this day have the occasional nightmare. They all end the same; with me dying different ways by the hands of Herbert McAuliffe. I couldn’t go back to the bank even after he was captured.

He was captured after a three-day hunt by a mass of police and towns people. The town’s people were like a mob, angered by what had happened to their friends. Almost all the men in the town had a gun and were searching for McAuliffe. He was found in Statffordville, in a run-down shack, exhausted and dehydrated. The man that found him said that his clothes were torn; he was badly bruised and had no shirt. He was taken to the jail in Simcoe. Later it was found out that McAuliffe was a Canadian Army Sergeant in the Second World War. He said that the reason he killed those men was because the army taught him to kill and said that he could kill whomever he wanted. For weeks, the papers were filled with his name, and it was all the town’s people could talk about. I kept my head down when I had to go into town and avoided everyone that tried to talk to me about it. My family knew how I felt about the situation. Even the sound of that man’s name sent a shudder of panic through me. At night when I couldn’t sleep, I thought of what could have happened to me that day. I tried not to think about that summer.

McAuliffe’s trial was at the beginning of September. He was announced as guilty of two counts of murder. I didn’t go to the trial; I couldn’t stand to see that man’s face again. But my husband went and reported the account to me. At the end of the trial this was announced to McAuliffe:
"You are to be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there to be kept in close confinement until December 19, 1950. On that day, you will be taken to the place of execution and there be hanged by your neck until dead. And may God have mercy on your soul."

            I felt relieved that McAuliffe was not to be part of this world anymore. But in a way I felt sorry for the man. I didn’t think that capital punishment was right for anyone, no matter what they did. In fact I found it to almost be the easy way out for them. Being hanged usually means you die quickly while being in prison for your whole life gives you nothing to do but to reflect on what you have done.

            On December 19^th, 1950 McAuliffe was hung. But his death wasn’t painless, the doctor miscalculated the drop and it took fifteen minutes for him to strangle to death.

            Now that I am old, you would imagine these memories would slip away from my troubled mind. But they haven’t. I forget new things, like my grandchildren’s birthdays, but the memory of trauma stains my mind.

                                    Reflection

            While I was editing this piece or any piece, I usually read it over once to myself after I have written it. Then I usually let my mom read it so she can find any errors. For this story I had my grade 12 English teacher read it and make any corrections that she thought would be good, and lastly I used the corrections that my peer editor made. My mom and teacher mostly made small spelling and grammar corrections; I took these and applied them to my work. My peer suggested more description in the climax of my story so I added a sentence there. I didn’t want to add too much because I didn’t want it to be extremely descriptive; I wanted the readers to come up with their own conclusions in their minds. Editing can be a large process and from this course I have learned that editing can make or break your work. Because the story is based on an experience that my aunt had, I think that there is some of her bias of when she retold the story and also the bias from the own conclusions I made. I had no idea of my aunt’s thoughts about hanging, the sentence about that is my own opinion. I loved this story when I was finished writing it. I think that it is the best story I have ever written throughout high school and I’m very proud of it.