"Better Overlate Than Never" by Andrew Shaughnessy — Our June 2023 Bronze Medal Winner

Andrew is our third place winner from the contest posted in our June 2023 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“Very well-defined, true-to-life characters and thematic consistency.”

“The age and stage of the characters make the context refreshingly unusual.”

“It’s a pleasure to read a story where the author is in full control of his / her craft and characterization.”

Meet Andrew

Andrew (Andy) Shaughnessy is a writer and intellectual property litigation lawyer living in Toronto and Gravenhurst, Ontario. Andy is the Bronze Medalist of the December 2021 Blank Spaces Contest. He is a frequent participant in short story and writing contests. His short story “As Night Lifts” was published in Off Topic Publishing’s “Wayward & Upward” Anthology in November 2022. He overuses parentheses—and m dashes—and has (the love of) a dog.

Better Overlate Than Never

the unedited story by Andrew Shaughnessy

Muriel squirmed in the kitchen chair by the window, hiking her legs up so she could rest her elbows on the table and soak up the morning sun. At five-foot-two, she could fit her small frame into the wooden chair window as easily as she said she would cross the approaching septuagenarian divide. She relished her early morning crossword puzzles—wafting coffee aromas, music, with her husband, a human lexicon, at her side.

“Help me with this one,” she said to Walter, who was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. Cargo shorts. Hockey socks. Well-worn Hamilton Fincups hockey jersey. He was cutting coupons from the morning flyers and sorting them. “Eight letters, starting with E,” she said. “It has its ups and downs.”

Walter set a coupon down on the don’t save pile and looked up and to the right, to that spot in his cosmos where he searched for answers. “Elevator.” He tsked. “A weak clue for a Saturday.” He straightened his three piles—don’t save, save, and maybe.

“Weak clue?” Muriel shook her head. “It stumped me. They usually run anagrams on weekends. Maybe elevator doesn’t have one.”

Walter held up a coupon for bran cereal. “The anagram of elevator is overlate.”

“Is that a word?” Muriel glanced over at Walter.

He scratched his beard, like a professor revealing exam answers after he’d flunked the class. “Exceedingly late.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Not part of your lexicon, Em. You’ve never been late for anything in your life.”

* * * * *

At 10:15 a.m. on Monday, Walter steered his car into the Walnut Street entrance of the hospital’s parking garage. He hated the street name, ever since the urologist had referred to his prostate as being the size of a walnut. He took a ticket and started his usual drive to the third floor. He liked to park on a high floor, out of the elements, away from traffic.

Muriel, afraid they were going to be late for his appointment, asked him to grab the first spot.

“He said ten thirty, Em. I can be a few minutes late. He’s not starting without me.” He continued spiraling up the parking garage. They were repeating the same routine from two weeks earlier when Walter attended for a biopsy. Ed Davis was a good doctor but twelve spring loaded biopsy needles, and the sound of them firing into his backside, was something he neither wanted to talk about nor remember.

“All he’s doing today is talking,” Muriel assured him.

“Then it won’t matter if we’re a few minutes late.”

“Not when you are years late getting this looked at,” she muttered, immediately wishing she could take the words back.

* * * * *

They were greeted in the waiting room by Dr. Davis, who ushered them into his office and its imposing walnut desk. “Walter, I’m sorry to say this. You have a little patch of cancer.”

Walter looked up and to the right, to that spot.

Muriel looked stunned. “A little patch of cancer? What does that mean?”

“It’s not a big deal. We’ll monitor it.”

“How?” she asked.

“We’ll do blood tests every three months.”

“What, to determine if he needs another biopsy?”

“Not if the blood scores—his PSA levels—remain the same. If so, that will confirm what I believe now.” Dr. Davis closed his laptop. “Which is that he has a pussycat, and not a tiger.” He smiled at them.

Muriel turned to Walter, who was still looking up. She glowered. “Patch of cancer? Pussycat? Tiger? These are medical terms?”

The smile on Dr. Davis’ face faded. “No. We use these terms to put our patients’ minds at ease. He shouldn’t worry. Nor should you.”

Walter looked back down. He wanted to interject with his speech on neither/nor usage, but Muriel had the floor.

“Please, Ed, don’t you give me that ‘don’t worry your pretty little head’ routine. I need you to do your job.”

The doctor’s face flushed. “Now wait a minute—”

“No, you wait. I have questions and I need answers.” She opened a notebook and pointed the nub of her pencil at him. “How many core samples did you take?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Twelve.” Walter winced.

“How many showed cancer?”

He opened his laptop. “Two.”

“Core volumes?”

“Low. Two and three percent.”

“Histology?”

“Adenocarcinoma—that’s plain vanilla cancer, nothing dangerous.”

Muriel let the plain vanilla comment slide. “Gleason score?”

“Six.”

“Three plus three? Or, four plus two?”

“Three plus three. There is a debate as to whether that’s even cancer. If I’d seen a seven, we’d be having a longer conversation.”

“When you say Gleason seven, is that a three plus four or a four plus three?”

Ed Davis mopped his brow. “At three plus four, meaning the largest colony of cancer cells is rated a three, I’m recommending active surveillance. At four plus three, it’s the patient’s choice but I might recommend intervention.”

“How do we know whether he stays a six or moves up to a seven?”

“We only know that by looking at cells under a microscope. We monitor his PSA quarterly and if it jumps—”

“He may need another biopsy.” She nodded while Walter exhaled—a hissing sound.

“You’ve done your homework,” Ed said.

“With respect,” Muriel said, “you should be telling him all of this. They tell him more at the garage.”

Dr. Davis looked peeved, but not as peeved as Muriel.

Walter tried levity. “And we all thought I was the perfect asshole.”

“That’s rude,” Muriel said. “I’m sure Ed means well.”

* * * * *

In the car, Walter stared ahead at the big number 3 beside the elevator sign on the wall of the garage. “You told him.”

“If I sound upset, I’m upset for you.”

Walter looked chastened.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re not too late.”

“Let’s go home,” he said. “This is just another puzzle to solve.”

She reached for his hand. “To solve together.”

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