Family Hour

Walking his Doberman down the sidewalk, Sam Oscarson paused before an immense, black, wrought iron gate.  A newcomer to the neighborhood, he was not yet accustomed to the sight of it.  It was a work of art, really, with loops and whorls and a sculpted iron vine woven through the interstices to block all view of the mansion beyond.  In the middle of this arrangement, halved along its centerline by a pair of mated doors, was an elaborate, imposing, capital letter M, the sole indication of its owner’s identity. 

Not that by now, much was necessary.  For this very same portal, set between the eight-foot, red brick walls with their distinctive slate capstones, had been a staple image on the evening news programs for weeks on end.  Ever since the announcement of a federal investigation into the ‘business’ activities of one Benito A. Manglione, alleged ringleader of the sixth-largest mafia family in America.  More widely known as Benny the Belly, due to a hearty appetite and its aftereffects, it was said that to address the chieftain by this sobriquet was ill-advised.  According to legend, he had once beaten a man to death with a rolled-up newspaper for precisely that transgression. 

Oscarson was daydreaming now, trying to picture the person capable of such an act, when the chuckles of people opposite drew his attention.  They were clustered around the Channel 5 Newsvan, fifteen or twenty gawkers, and he gradually realized that they were laughing at him.  Then he discovered to his horror that Xerxes had deposited a robust, spiral turd on the pristine cement.  Jerking the animal nearly airborne by its leash, he scurried across the street to join the others.  A fellow he recognized there as one of his new neighbors (Fred or Ed, he could never remember which), spoke up.

          “Boy, Sam, I’m sure glad it wasn’t my mutt took a dump on Benny the Belly’s doorstep.”

          “I couldn’t help it!” spluttered Oscarson.  “I—I didn’t know!”

          The Channel 5 reporter was weighing the merits of a doggie-poop angle when a midnight-blue Lincoln Town Car rounded the corner.   “That’s him!” shouted a voice.  “It’s the godfather!”  All heads swung in unison. 

The limousine rolled gracefully up to the gate, its hood dipping slightly as the front brakes took the load.  For a long moment nobody moved; the throng had become a still life of expectation.  Then the reporter sallied forth with his cameraman in tow, and the spell was broken.  

          The choreography at the Lincoln was more polished.  Three of its doors opened simultaneously; from the driver’s emerged a uniformed chauffeur, and from the passenger’s a tall, elegant young man in black from head to toe, with glistening, shoulder-length hair to match.  This latter was hailed with adoring cries of “Gino!” from women in the crowd; he acknowledged them with a toothy grin and a blown kiss that drew squeals of delight.  These were cut short, however—as was the advance of the herd—when the facing rear door discharged a misshapen golem in a worn tweed jacket.  The brute just kept on coming, straightening up at last to tower above his fellows like a goose among goslings.  Baleful orbs swept ominously beneath the beetled brow, as if determining which of these morsels to eat first. 

          Holding back with his neighbor, Oscarson heard a growl escape the dog.  At the same time, his own eyes widened in recognition.  “Hey,” he said.  “I think I know that guy!”

          “Sure you do,” said Fred or Ed.  “That’s Knuckles Malloy, the boxer.  Benny’s bodyguard.  Watch him do his thing, here; he’s the best.”

          As predicted, Knuckles did ‘his thing’—keeping the riffraff at bay—par excellence.  Even the newsman, armed with his phallic lance of a microphone, was loath to invade this ogre’s personal space.  Instead, he called past him to the fourth occupant of the car, now exiting the far rear door.  It was a barrel of a man, middle aged and squat, yet broad of shoulder and clearly powerful.  He wore a fedora, dark glasses, and a customed-tailored, camel hair suit. 

          “Are they going to indict you, Benny?  Is it true you’re leaving town?”

          The Don cocked his head as if to reply, then thought better of it.  Instead, he glowered at the gates as they opened before him, each with a different, dissonant peal, like alleycats in heat. Knuckles circled the limousine, the crowd edging forward in his wake.  Only when he stood at the boss’s elbow did the man deign to proceed.  But he’d taken only a single step when he paused to look down.  “Bleep,” he muttered.  “Cluckin’ bleep!”

          “He’s found your present,” quipped Fred or Ed.  Oscarson saw that a number of faces had turned his way, and trotted off with the dog. 

The neighbor addressed a nearby woman.  “The godfather never curses, you know.”   

          “Really?  Why is that?”

“A personal code of ethics.  He’ll wrap a guy up in chains and throw him in the Hudson, but he won’t abide profanity.  Go figure.”              

“Gino!” cried the reporter.  “Is it true that you’ve gotten an offer from Hollywood?”

The father’s sullen glare eclipsed the young man’s grin.  Then the entourage passed through the gate, and the doors swung to behind them with an emphatic, jailhouse clang.

*   *   *

Benny the Belly strode across the plush white carpet, a crappy imprint left with every other step.  Donna Maria drew hands to her cheeks when she noticed, but wisely held her tongue; she could see at a glance that her husband was fuming.

          “Leavin’ a-town,” he grumbled, the ghost of a Sicilian accent creeping in, as it did only when he was angry.  “It’s a–common knowledge.  Ev-erybody knows!”  He paused before a man in the blue velvet armchair.  “How is a-that, Peter?  How come ev-ery swingin’ salami knows-a my plans?”

          Edelstein, the family consigliere—the only person present without a lush black mane (his own hair was auburn)—was unshaken.  His sole response to the elevated volume was to pluck an invisible speck of lint from pleated trousers.  “It seems that the ship of state has sprung another leak,” he noted drily.  “It is most unfortunate.”  Eyeing each other in the doorway, Frenchy and Mitch, the ever-present pair of toughs, marveled again at the Jew’s cojones.  Nobody else would have dared to use such tones when the godfather was visibly upset.

          Manglione hovered a moment longer, then stormed away, shaking his head.  “They know ev-erything I do, ev-erything I say—”  Gino strolled in at that moment, munching on an apple.  The Don took one look at him and slapped him across the face.  The apple went flying.  “And a-you!” his father roared.  “How many times I gotta tell you, huh?  I’m not a-bleepin’ John Gotti!  I don’t want-a no publicity!  What’s this cluck I hear about you bein’ in a movie?”

          “It’s only a bit part!” said Gino, fingers pressed to his cheek.

          His father turned eight shades of purple.  “A bit part?” he bellowed.  “How ‘bout I make a-some parts outta you?”  The hand went up again and the young man braced for impact, but the Don relented in mid-wallop, and embraced his son instead.

          “Gino, Gino,” he said, almost sobbing now.  “Look at how they got me.  I threaten my own boy.  I’m sorry, Gino.”  He stepped back and shook a finger.  “But I don’ wanma no movies!”

          His son adopted a sickly grin.  “No movies, Pop.”

          The Don patted the unmarked cheek.  “That’s a good boy.  Now go tell your brother Anthony to meet me in the kitchen.  I got matters to discuss with him.”  Gino nodded and slunk for the hallway.  Watching him out, his father discovered the maid on her hands and knees, scrubbing at his Hansel-and-Grettle dung-trail with a bucket and sponge.  “Cluck,” he spat.  “Bleepin’ cluck!”  He began hopping on one foot as he struggled with the offending shoe.  Frenchy and Mitch crept forward to catch him if he fell—which seemed increasingly likely as he covered more ground with each successive hop, like a pogo-stick rider out of control.  Finally the wingtip was in his hand, and he winged it furiously at the nearest window.  Glass shattered, bells rang, and all bleep broke loose as soldiers responded from every corner of the compound.

*   *   *

Benny the Belly sat on a chair by the kitchen table, his face ensconced in Donna Maria’s ample bosom.  She stroked the hair on the nape of his neck with practiced movements, humming a song whose name she did not even know; a melody that her mother had taught her in the misty distance of childhood.  She well understood how to soothe the savage beast, her Benito; it was a skill she’d acquired early on in their relationship, at first to be endearing, then to be essential, and finally, to enable them all to survive: herself, her husband, and their precious bambini.  Grown now, the three of them, into fine young adults.  Gino and Anthony, so close in years and yet different as night and day, and Jacqueline, or Jackie, or even Jack, as she preferred to be called, not the beauty she had once envisioned, perhaps, but still quite—handsome, she supposed was the word.

          The fat man fell back like a junkie who’d gotten his fix.  “Momma mia,” he cooed, drawing her hand to his lips (but checking first for a clearing in the minefield of platinum and jewels). 

          “Eat some fruit and cheese,” she said, “and I’ll get you a nice glass of Chianti.”

          “No, no.  No wine for me.  My head must be clear for the meeting.”

          “When are they coming, Benito?  And how many?  I have only so much food in the house—”

          “No food.  Give ‘em espresso.  It is only my capos, and Peter.  And Anthony.”  He turned now to the second occupant of the table, a quiet young man with gloomy eyes, who was plucking grapes from a bunch on the platter and peeling each one before consumption.  Much as he hated this behavior, today the Don let it pass without comment.  He leaned forward to rest elbows on the checkerboard tablecloth. 

“I wanted to talk to you, my son, because I have come to a decision.  I have thought long and hard about this thing, and it has not been easy for me.  Sometimes a man in my situation has to twist and turn in ways he did not expect to meet his obligations.  Ways that are not natural for him.  Ways that cause him pain.  Anyway, here’s the scoop.  I have decided that I want you, and not your brother Gino, to become the next underboss of the family.”

His son gave a shudder.  The grape that was headed for his mouth won a reprieve, and ended up on the linen napkin.  After a moment to compose himself, he looked up at his father.  “Thank you, Papa,” he said carefully, “for this great honor.  The underboss is a position second only to to the one that you hold yourself.  Because of this fact, and because of the respect that I have for you, and for the organization, I feel that I must speak openly.  I think that…  That it would be wrong for me to accept this honor.  You see, for someone like me, for someone with my sensibilities, the duties of the underboss are…  I just don’t think that I could—”   

The Don held up a hand.  “Don’t talk,” he said.  “Listen.”  He reached across the table to pat his son’s arm, couldn’t make it that far, and drew back with a sigh. 

          “It’s like this.  Ever since Louie Peaches went up for that personal problem that he has with—children, I been thinkin’ about what I should do.  Normally, the job of the underboss would go to my oldest boy, now that he’s of age, but Gino, much as I love him, he just ain’t cut out to handle authority.  And as for my capos, they don’t…they ain’t…  I can’t trust ‘em, is what I’m tryin’ to say.  Not to take Louie’s place, anyhow.  So that leaves you.”

          “But, Papa, I’m really not the sort of—”

          “You don’ wanna have nothin’ to do with the family business.  I understand that.  You’ve made that clear to me all along.  And part of me don’t want it either.  You’re a smart boy, Anthony.  A good boy.  A God-fearing boy.  Better than your brother.”  His gaze veered off at nothing, then came back again.  “Better than me.  But there’s nobody else I can turn to, my son.  It’s gotta be you.  I know you can do this job, that you will do this job well.”  He thumped a palm to his chest.  “I feel it in my heart.”

          The son was still reeling when two women came in from the pantry.  Jackie wore the usual carpenters’ jeans, one size too large, and a loose-fitting flannel shirt that obscured the hourglass figure she’d inherited from her mother.  Her hair was cut short, and coiffed not unlike her sibling’s at the table.  Don Maglione stared at the brownish fuzz on her upper lip, trying to determine if she’d dyed it again.  The companion was about her height but older, in a tennis skirt and snug knit top that highlighted a buff physique.  

          “Hi, Papa.  This is my friend Elizabeth.”  The girls exchanged looks and coy little grins.

Benny considered them a moment before pivoting to the island where Donna Maria was slicing vegetables.  “Oh, I’ve already met Lizzie, dear,” she said sweetly, then returned to her cucumbers.  He pivoted back.  “A pleasure, there—uh—Lizzie.”

“Well, we’re off to the gym,” said his daughter, leading her friend across the kitchen.

“Watch it,” warned the Don. 

The swinging door flew open as Knuckles came through it like a freight train.  “Dey’s here, boss,” he announced, hooking a thumb the size of a banana over his shoulder.

          The godfather popped a grape into his mouth.  “That’s our cue, kid,” he said.  “It’s showtime.”

*   *   *  

          While the oils by Turner on the dining room wall were reproductions, the watercolor was an original.  It had come into the Don’s possession due to  a gambling debt incurred by a certain business magnate who, thinking at first to stiff the chieftan of his ill-gotten gains, was persuaded otherwise in a darkened parking lot. 

Further features of note in the room were a crystal chandelier, and a mahogany dinner table with a capacity of sixteen.  Four men sat clustered at one end of this, ill at ease on the Queen Anne chairs.  Two of them sported dark suits, one a cardigan sweater and chinos, and the fourth—a white haired fellow with bushy, retro sideburns—was decked out in a calfskin vest over a red shirt with pearl buttons, like he’d stepped off the set of Bonanza.  Edelstein fussed with the Venetian blinds while Frenchy and Mitch, both chewing gum, bracketed the arch to the living room.  Nearer by sat the boxer, in his usual tweed jacket with the green suede elbow patches, struggling determinedly to steer a tiny silver ball through a red-plastic travel maze.  He’d been at this quest for months now without success, but it never seemed to lose its fascination for him.

          All four capos acknowledged the entrance of father and son, either with deferential

nod’s, a mock salute, or, in the case of a rat-like specimen with matching pinkie rings, by a tilt of the head and a spread of the arms, as if greeting a long-lost uncle.

          “This is too formal here,” declared the godfather.  “Let’s go into the livin’ room.”  As an afterthought he asked, “Is it safe to talk now, Peter?”

          “Absolutely, Ben.  The engineer swept the entire domicile this morning.  We’re as clean as a whistle.”

          “That’s good.  Ain’t that good, Anthony?” he said, clapping the boy on the back.  “That they can do these marvelous things?”  His son seemed less than enthused.

*   *   *

The captains shared the two leather sofas with Malloy, whose weight drew a protest from indignant springs.  Anthony was heading to join them when his father caught an elbow and steered him instead to a  blue velvet armchair.  He himself took its twin, while Edelstein leaned against the fireplace mantel. 

          The Don cleared his throat.  “First off,” he said, “I want to thank you boys for comin’ out on such short notice.  I prefer to hold our meetin’s downtown at Ritzy’s Steak House, but this one is too important to be overheard by the wrong set o’ ears.”  Cupping a mighty fist in the opposite hand, he began to massage it absently.  

“So anyway, here’s the scoop.  The organization’s been havin’ some tough times lately, which is no news to any o’ you.  But I ain’t been sittin’ around here like some kinda dummy, waitin’ to see what shakes out.  Me and Peter, we done a lot o’ head scratchin’ lately, tryin’ to find us a solution.”  Eyes roved to Edelstein, who was examining his cuticles impassively.

          “The upshot is, I’ve made some decisions.  This is gonna affect us all in the future, and that’s why I called you guys in today.”  The fat man paused to take a deep breath, and roll his head around in a great circle that drew audible cracking noises from his neck.  The rest of the room was deathly still.

          “Alright.  As you know, the family is a couple a months now without a underboss.  I have decided to give my younger son that position.”  There was a note of surprise among the captains; Little Nicky (the rodent) exchanged a glance with white haired Farinelli, who allowed him the tiniest shrug.

“Anthony is studyin’ to be an accountant, and this knowledge will be very useful to the organization.  Ain’t that right, Peter?” 

          “Absolutely, Ben.  There could scarcely be a more pertinent field of expertise.”  A grunt of contempt escaped the Mongoose, an acne-scarred captain with a finger in his ear, but both men chose to ignore it.  For his part, Anthony seemed fixated on the carpet between his Nikes.

          “I have also decided—and I got no warm and fuzzy about this, lemme tell ya, but it’s gotta be done—I have also decided to relocate the family operations outside o’ New York City.  I think we can all agree that things have gotten so hot aroun’ this place that doin’ business here is near impossible.  So, we’re gonna move.  But we ain’t goin’ to none of them cities in the Midwest that was proposed.  Me and Peter—and Anthony—we talked it over between us, and we agreed that the best thing to do is to head north.  Way north.  As in Canada.” 

          “Canada?” blurted the Mongoose—but he floundered then in search of words, and the godfather continued.

          “Peter, explain to these gentlemen what we been brainstormin’ about.”  Heads

swiveled to the fireplace, where Edelstein was shooting a pair of starched white cuffs.

“We feel, the Don and I—and Anthony—that the province of Quebec offers us a wide range of opportunities.  While several organizations already operate there, these are small and relatively unsophisticated, and ought to be co-opted wth little resistance.”  He responded to the blank stares with a clarification.  “Taken over.  By us.” 

           “So what’s the action gonna be?” asked Little Nicky.  “Gaming?  Numbers?”

Edelstein shook his head.  “We don’t think the gambling racket would be very lucrative there, actually.”

          “Then it’s Coca Cola, right Peter?” Farinelli ventured with a sly grin.

           “No, Jimmy.  We don’t intend to involve ourselves in the drug trade at all in Canada.

The Don feels—and both Anthony and I concur—that dealing with the Colombians has been one of our principal headaches here in New York.  We’re leaving drugs behind entirely.”

          Pasquale leapt in with his own specialty.  “Prostitution will be a part of the mix, I

assume—”

          “I’m afraid it will not.”

          “Now, wait a minute,” rumbled the Mongoose.  “No gambling, no hookers, no blow—what the hell we got left here?”

          The Don bristled at the expletive, but kept his cool.  “Go on, Peter.  Tell them what our business will involve.”

          Adjusting an already perfect Windsor knot, the consigliere said, “There are several key industries deemed ripe for penetration.  Maple sugar is highly profitable, for example, and should yield easily to the slightest pressure.  As will the timber trade, and certain key commodities, such as pike and chub—”

          “What’s a ‘chub’?” asked Farinellli.

          The Don leaned onto his knees.  “A bleep-in’ fish.”

           “Wait a minute!” boomed the Mongoose.  “Sugar!  Fish!  What the hell you babblin’ about, Benny?  It sounds like you’re goin’ soft in the head!  We don’t know nothin’ about that stuff!”  His nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s.  “And it smells like sh*t in here—”

          “Shut the cluck up!” cried Anthony, rocketing from his chair.  “When you talk to my

father—to us—you talk with respect, you hear me?”

          They were all taken aback by this outburst—none more so than the Mongoose, who shriveled like a stuck balloon.  But he recovered quickly enough, pulling himself upright and wiping the doubt from his face with the poise of a lifelong thug.  Locking eyes with the younger Manglione, he summoned up some menace of his own.  “I think I missed the ‘or else’ part of that, junior,” he snarled, glancing right and left for support.  Then it felt like an anvil had dropped on his shoulder, and he looked up at the scowling puss of Knuckles, looming over him like the monster in a Japanese horror film.

“You want I should break sumpin’, boss?” Malloy asked calmly. 

          “No, thank you, Sherman,” said the Don.  “You can let go of him now.”

           The Mongoose slapped a hand to his shoulder, trying to massage some life back into it.  The fat man arose as his son sat down again.  “Look,” said the Don, commencing to pace before the coffee table.  It was made from an inch-thick slab of aqua-tinted glass atop an enormous piece of driftwood.  “I don’t like this turn of events any more than you guys.  New York is my turf, my stompin’ ground.  I grew up here.  But we gotta face facts.  This place is poison for us now.  The feds are breathin’ down our necks.  They’re watchin’ me, they’re watchin’ my children, they’re watchin’ you guys.  There’s nowhere left to hide.”

          His voice took on a manic edge.  “It just keeps gettin’ worse.  In the old days, things were normal.  They made sense.  Everybody knew what they were supposed to do.  Sure, there was cops and robbers—but we all got along.  We respected each other.  It was…orderly.  Then, out of the blue, the world gets stood on its cluckin’ head.  Joe Valachi starts shootin’ his mouth off, and after that it’s Serpico and Guiliani and bleepin’ RICO laws, and before you know it, there’s a bug in every can! 

          “And as if that ain’t enough, we got John a-cluckin’ Gotti, struttin’ around town in his a-bleepin’ Armani suits, posin’ like a-Madonna for the Daily News!”  He was starting to sweat now, and drew a hankie from his pocket to blot his brow.  Anthony looked over worriedly at Edelstein, who made a slight motion as if to say: It’s alright.

          “Everything’s going to bleep in a hand a-basket!  My underboss, he’s a-chasin’ little boys aroun’ da park!  My daughter, she’s a-more macho than-a my two sons!  My wife, she’s a-playin’ footsie with some-a cretino she think I don’ know about, and a-me, Benito Alphonse Manglione—a man of honor!—I gotta flee my own a-cluckin’ home like some a-two-bit, snot-nosed—”

“ROBBIE NOYES HERE FOR GREENCLEAN, THE ONLY CLEANER WITH THE POWER OF REAL LIME FOR THOSE HARD-TO-HANDLE HOUSEHOLD CHORES…” 

Oblivious to the gathering, Gino had sauntered in from the foyer wearing headphones, and switched on the big screen TV, which happened to be blaring out a commercial which his father especialy detested.  Don Manglione swung to the sound in slow motion, his face darkening as the pitchman yelled some more.  Gino saw what was happening then and stabbed with the remote, missing in his panic with every infrared salvo.

The godfather quivered in place like a pot of pasta on the boil.  Gesturing at the screen with a meaty finger, he spoke to Frenchy and Mitch.  “See that guy?  You go get him and you bring him here.”  The hoods exchanged a befuddled look, then left the room together.  

Gino lunged for the cable box.  “Wait!” his father thundered, and he skidded to a halt. 

“I wanna watch the end of it.”  And his voice had become gentler now; almost…serene.

*   *   *

And so it was that in the coming days, preparations were made for the end of an era.  After contributing for more a century to the economic and cultural wellbeing of The Big Apple (or, as some would have it, draining off its lifeblood like a leech or a tick), the Famiglia Manglione was at long last folding up its tents, and stealing away like a thief in the night.  A neurosurgeon from Cleveland had entered into a contract to buy the house.  All eight bedrooms, ten baths, and 15,600 square feet of it, including the pink marble crèche custom-carved in Florence.  Donna Maria had wanted to take that with them, but the Don had explained that, what with finances the way they were, fat chance.  The family had in turn acquired a charming country estate, well removed from the hustle and bustle of Quebec City proper (or, as some would have it, an abandoned pig farm in the middle of nowhere).

          When the date of departure finally arrived, the godfather found himself traipsing alone through the empty hallways, bidding goodbye to a friend who had served him well.  Not ordinarily a sentimental man, he discovered that his ‘allergies’ seemed to be causing him more than a little discomfort this particular morning.  It was in this melancholy humor that he entered Anthony’s now deserted bedroom, recalling the high-school banners and model airplanes that had once held sway within its walls.  Across the hall in Gino’s room, he pictured a stylish teenager forever posing before the mirror, his bureau-top cluttered with hairspray and cologne.  As for Jacqueline, he mused as he spun the knob, it had been all about Barbie dolls and frilly pink party dresses—except that it hadn’t.  It’d been about Tonka trucks and G. I. Joe’s and staying up late for the Friday Night Fights, and here she was now, his princess, putting a lip-lock on the muscle-bound paramour.  He made an about-face and closed the door behind him, feeling suddenly light-headed, like when he’d gone under for his appendectomy…

          “Benito?  Are you up there?”  It was Donna Maria, wife and slut, who had made of him a cuckold; but even this knowledge could not erase the magic in her voice, nor the devotion he felt, now as ever, to the mother of their saintly children.  “Come on down, Benito!  We are almost ready to leave!”

“Yes, my sweet,” he heard himself call, descending the stairs for a final time.  The door stood open before him, and beyond it was a bustle of activity: people with furniture, people with suitcases— 

“Excuse me, boss.”  Frenchy St. Claire, his most loyal minion, awaited beside the newel post.  

          “I’m in kind of a hurry, Frenchy—”

          “I know, boss, I know,” he said, beaming.  “But—we got him!” 

          “Huh?  Got who?  Who you got?”

          “The guy from the commercial!  Mr. Greenclean!  We got him in the kitchen!”

          Abruptly the clouds parted, and sunshine shone on the mobster’s countenance for the very first time that day.  “You know, I forgot all about that.”  Slipping an arm around his henchman, he changed direction for the rear of the house.  “You’re the best, Frenchy, I mean it.  You always do just what I tell ya, huh?”

*   *   *

Robbie Noyes, failed magician and screen actor, and current frontman for a line of over-priced cleaning products, occupied one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs.  A scarlet bandana was cinched around his mouth, his ankles were duct-taped to the chair legs, and his wrists were handcuffed behind him.  He looked older and heavier than he appeared on TV.  At the table with him was Mitch, perusing the Daily News as he munched on a bagel with cream cheese and lox. 

          The godfather examined his pie-eyed visitor like a specimen in a petri dish.  “I guess you’re wonderin’ what you’re doin’ here.  Well, I’ll tell you.  You’re here because you annoy me, that’s why.  You come on to the television yellin’ your head off, always yellin’.  Yellin’ out your name.”  He touched fingers to his breast.  “I’m supposed to care what your name is?  You’re nobody!  You’re an announcer!  Sellin’ snake oil to the ol’ biddies!” 

The Don came as close as he ever did to a smile.  “But I tell you what, Mr. Greenclean.  Today is your lucky day.  I’m in a good mood.  So you and me, we gonna make us a little deal right now.  I’m gonna let you walk out of here in one whole piece, and in return for that, you’re gonna promise me to keep your voice down on those ads you do, and stop tellin’ everybody what your stupid name is.  O.K.?  Sound reasonable?  We got us a deal?”  He leaned over to pat the man’s head as he mumbled something through the rag.  The Don turned to Frenchy.  “Take it off.  He’s tryin’ to talk to me.”  Frenchy untied the cloth, at which point the pitchman began doing what he did best: yelling.   

“I know you!  You’re Benny the Belly, that crook the feds are after!  Well you listen to me, Belly, and you listen good!  I’m not one of these lowlife goombahs you can shove around whenever you feel like it!  I’m a celebrity!  I’m famous!  I’ve got connections!  You’re gonna rue the day you pulled this stunt, Jack.  When I’m finished with you, you’ll be lucky to—to—”  But his visitor fell silent now, for he had seen something that stopped him dead in his tracks.  Something terrible. 

The godfather’s face was changing.  The eyes bulging out like inflatable bladders, the jaw jutting oddly sideways and the lips squirming independently of one another, like a pair of snakes stapled to his flesh.  And the whole of it was shifting colors like a psychedelic light show: now red, now blue, now snowy white and quaking—like Aetna on the brink of eruption. 

“What did you call me?” asked the face, but it wasn’t the Don speaking now, it was Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

“Hey, pal, I didn’t mean anything!  I was making a joke!  Ha ha!  That’s what I do!  I make jokes!  You can take a joke, right pal?  Right buddy?”        

“Give me that paper, Mitch.”  The soldier stood up from the table and handed it to his boss.  Then he retreated slowly toward the sink.

          Finally, thought the godfather.  Finally there was a problem that he knew how to deal with, something straightforward he could handle like a man.  “The deal is off,” he informed the announcer.  “And now I’m gonna teach you a lesson about respect.” 

          When it started, even Frenchy had to turn away.

*   *   *

          There were three news vans in attendance this time, and a multitude of bystanders.  When the caravan got rolling, a cheer went up from the crowd.  Sam Oscarson saw a movement in the window of the Town Car, and imagined the gangster to be waving farewell.  Actually, it was the oversized mitt of Knuckles Malloy, flipping them the bird through the tinted glass.  “I’m a little sad he’s leaving,” he confided to his neighbor.  “It was kind of exciting having him around.”

          “You can say that again,” said Fred or Ed, thinking, this guy with the Weimaraner didn’t have a clue.  Try shagging the Don’s wife for the past six months.  Talk about excitement!  What he couldn’t know himself, of course, was that the real excitement was yet to come.  In only about ten minutes time, in fact, when, heading to the deli for a six-pack of sympathy, he would slide behind the wheel of his cherry-red Elantra, and turn the key.

This story appears here for the first time.

“I

Bullseye

As Rodger told the sergeant what Joey Lawson had done that day, he watched the sergeant’s eyes harden and his jaw jut forward the way they always did when he got good and mad.  What Joey had done was to pound the bag containing Rodger’s peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich with his fist at lunchtime.  And then his Wise potato chips.  And then his Ring Ding.  All in quick succession.  POW POW POW, and his lunch had become a disgusting, inedible mess.  Joey had gotten some food on his hand, and that had been good at least—until he’d wiped it off on the front of Rodger’s sweatshirt.  Everybody at the table laughed, of course, while the monitor saw nothing.  The monitor never caught Joey pulling one of his stunts.

          Sergeant Steele asked Rodger if he had told his homeroom teacher, Mrs. McCaffrey, what Joey Lawson had done, and Rodger explained that he couldn’t do that, because that would be a babyish thing to do; that would be snitching.  And also he couldn’t do it because Joey would hurt him if he did, like he hurt Andrew Lockwood after Andrew told that it was him who’d put the rat in Althea Murphy’s book-bag that made her scream and go to the nurse.  Nobody had actually seen him put it in there, but they’d all heard that crazy giggle of his afterward, and they knew it was him.  The same way they knew a week later that when Andrew Lockwood’s pinky got bent around backwards so far it snapped, that Joey Lawson had meant to do that, and that it wasn’t just an accident that happened while the two of them were wrestling on the playground, like Joey swore it was. 

The teachers believed Joey when he told them his lies, probably because he was two years older than the other kids in fifth grade, and he could keep his face very straight and serious when he lied the way that grownups do.  But sometimes Rodger thought that the teachers didn’t believe him either, and only pretended to, because they were a little bit afraid of Joey Lawson themselves.  He was already taller than Mrs. McCaffrey, and Rodger had noticed that when she scolded him in class for talking or breaking somebody’s pencil or pulling Leslie Sharman’s hair, he’d get that funny look on his face where his eyes would narrow and seem even more like cold blue ice than usual, and Mrs. McCaffrey would go sort of pale and walk back over to her desk and stare at the papers there like she was trying to find one in particular, but you could see that she was trembling, and just letting some time pass until it went away.

          You could tell Mom and Dad about Joey, the sergeant suggested in his big-brother voice, but Rodger only shook his head.

          “No, I can’t,” he told him.  “You know how it is.”  Dad was always busy in the office or away on a business trip or something, and anyway, he’d only say that Rodger would have to deal with these things by himself, that it was just a part of growing up, and that he had to learn to stand on his own two feet because his father wouldn’t always be there to protect him.  And he was right; he was hardly ever there.  And Mom had other things to worry about, what with her volunteer work and tennis at the club, and it wouldn’t be right to interrupt all that important grownup stuff with his own silly kid’s problems.

          Sergeant Steele hunkered down beside Rodger on their special rock, the big gray boulder with the silver flecks in it that glittered like jewels when the sunlight hit them.  It was comfortable to sit on because there was an indentation that your butt fit perfectly, like the bucket seat in a Mustang.  And it was totally hidden in the tall grass beside the brook, so you could be private in there and think all you wanted, and nobody would bother you while you were doing it.  The sergeant was thinking now, about everything that Rodger had told him, and he went on thinking for a long, long time.  Finally he nodded to himself and looked up.

          Alright, soldier, he said in his martial tones, and Rodger’s spirits rose immediately, because the sergeant always seemed to know exactly what to do when there was trouble.

          The way I see it, you can’t rely on your teacher for this one, and Mom and Dad won’t be able to help much either.  So we’re going to have to handle this mission on our own.  It’ll be a tough nut to crack, but I’m confident we can pull it off.  Now listen up.  Here’s the plan…

*   *   *

Rodger was excited as he lay awake in bed, because Sergeant Steele had zeroed in on Joey Lawson’s weak spot: he was a creature of habit.  He left school at the same time each day, and living too close to qualify for bus service (as was also the case with Rodger), he invariably walked home by the very same route, circling Kretchner’s farm and following the dirt path up the ridge by the highway to his gray house with the black shutters at the far end of the development.  But he always hung out for a few minutes first with the guys his own age from Junior High, shooting the bull and smoking cigarettes, so that Rodger would have enough time to get to the house, drop his books on the kitchen counter and dash through the woods to a certain cluster of laurel bushes that only he and the sergeant knew about.  From there he could see the path where it ran along the retaining wall above Rte. 27.

Rodger knew he’d have time for this because he’d done it again and again, perfecting his spy technique at their favorite hiding spot.  Sometimes Joey would come up the path with his pals, and they always stopped at the same place, where the wall was highest, and they’d climb up there on top of it and sit with their legs dangling over the edge—even though it was really dangerous to do that—and curse and smoke cigarettes and give the finger to people on the road below.  Other days they’d throw rocks or bottles down at the cars, and once Rodger heard a bang when they hit one and a screech of tires, and Joey and his friends had run every which way, and he had run too, afraid that a policeman would come up there and arrest him by mistake.

          Mostly, though, Joey Lawson came home from school alone.  And when he got to that spot in the wall that he liked, that very high spot above the highway, he’d fish out a broomstick he kept hidden in the weeds, and scramble right up on top of the wall, which was only three feet high on this side but maybe forty feet on the other, and he’d stand up straight and walk along the slate lintel, using the stick for balance like the man on a tightrope in the circus.  Sergeant Steele said that Joey did that because he just liked to frighten people—even himself.

*   *   *

When Thursday finally arrived, taking forever to get there like your birthday or Christmas, Rodger couldn’t keep his mind on schoolwork, and Mr. Budnik yelled at him in class when he caught him looking out the window for a second time.  Joey Lawson had a chuckle about that from the back of the room where he always sat.  After the bell rang, when everybody was getting up, Joey shot Lisa Dintaman with a spitball, and she started to cry.  Mr. Budnik asked her over and over again what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell him, and nobody else would either, even though a lot of them had seen what had happened.  She covered her face with a hand till she got out in the hall, and when she took it away, Rodger saw that one of her eyes was blood-red where the spitball had hit it.  

Rodger loved those eyes.  And the hair and her skin and the sound of her voice, more than anything else in the whole wide world.  He had a terrible crush on Lisa Dintaman, a secret that he held so close to his heart that not even the sergeant knew about it.  He stepped closer to her now as the students filed around them, and he wanted to say something comforting, to make her feel better, but he was afraid of girls, and terrified of Lisa most of all, and the words wouldn’t pry themselves free of his frozen lips.  She noticed him then standing there beside her, and he turned away.  That’s when he saw Joey Lawson at the top of the stairs, looking back over his shoulder and grinning from ear to ear, as if he were proud of what he had done.

Rodger threw his books down and went after him.  But then a voice was yelling in his head, and it was the sergeant’s voice, and he was telling Rodger to stop where he was, that this was Joey’s way and not their own.  Stick to the Plan, were the words he used, and Rodger listened to him and understood.  He turned around and went back for his books, and the reams of handwritten notes that had burst from his cloth-covered, three-ring binder.  When he had them under an arm again he spoke to the girl he loved, for perhaps the first time ever. 

“I’m sorry, Lisa,” he said to her, and she thanked him and smiled, and that made him feel good in a strange sort of way; bigger somehow, and stronger too.  Then he was heading for the door at the end of the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. 

*   *   *

          There was a sound on the afternoon breeze, apart from the chirping of songbirds, the rustle of leaves and the ebb and flow of the traffic on the highway, an odd, tuneless whistle that told him that Joey was coming, and coming alone—because he never whistled when he thought that he might be overheard.  And Rodger could see him now through the laurel branches, first his greasy mop of hair, and then the rest of him, the black tee shirt with the Day-Glo pirate’s skull that was missing a tooth, and the same ratty jeans that he wore every day, coming up the path.  He paused where Rodger knew he would and rooted out the broomstick, an old wooden thing with no paint left on it, and he swung it around like a baseball bat, taking  huge, gnarly cuts at imaginary fast balls.  Then he drew very still, took a couple of deep breaths, climbed up gingerly on top of the wall, and squatted there for a moment before rising again to full height.  Holding the stick across his chest—and careful to look at only where his feet were going—he began his ten-yard trek along the flat stone surface.  Much as he hated to admit it, Rodger thought that Joey Lawson had to be pretty brave to do a thing like that.

          Or pretty stupid. 

          Rodger could feel his heart pounding.  He turned to the sergeant for a signal, but the man was intent on Joey, who was close to them now and beginning to high-step: lifting each knee up almost to his chest, in the climax of his stunt.  Suddenly, the sergeant gave Rodger a thumbs-up.

          Marbles were the ideal ammunition.  They were good and solid and just the right size, and best of all, they were perfectly round and smooth for a dependable, arrow-straight trajectory.  This one hit Joey above the ear with a nice solid CRACK that Rodger could hear clearly.  Joey’s response was instinctive; he jerked his head away from the impact as anyone would have done, and balancing as he was then on one foot, the change in his center of gravity by even that small amount was too much to overcome.  But he tried all right, oh boy did he try, making every sort of jerk and swerve with the stick, but in the end it was all in vain, and over he went with a long, eerie, fading shriek, and was gone.

          Rodger lowered the slingshot, and stared for a while at the empty space so recently occupied by his nemesis.  But then the sergeant was tugging at his shirtsleeve and shouting commands, and the two of them were hightailing it through the woods toward the sanctuary of their home fort.

*   *   *

          If Maria, the housekeeper, noticed anything different about Rodger that afternoon, she kept it to herself.  He did his homework at the breakfast-nook table, ate his snack of Starbursts and milk, and attacked his Playstation games like any other day.  Mom came home, dinner was served (Dad was out of town), TV was watched and then it was ten o’clock and Rodger was climbing into bed in his underwear, having recently concluded that pajamas were for babies.

          He’d been more than a little anxious about what they’d done at first, expecting a squad car (or two) to come flying into the driveway with lights ablaze any moment.  Well, maybe only half-expecting.  Because the sergeant kept telling him that the mission had gone flawlessly, and that he was sure it would stay that way as long as they both kept their yaps shut.  This was Classified Information, he reminded Rodger, Top Secret—and that meant no blabbing to Timmy Shultz or Petey Collins or any of his other buddies at school.  Not just tomorrow or next week or next year, but anytime.  Ever.  Rodger knew all about keeping secrets, he said, but he was worried that someone would find a mark on Joey Lawson’s temple, and guess what had happened to him.  Sergeant Steele insisted that wouldn’t be a problem, and as it turned out, he was right.  Three cars and a truck full of Wonder Bread had run over Joey Lawson on Rte. 27 before the ambulance arrived, and it was all they could do to piece him back together again.  Or most of him, anyhow.             

          Rodger looked over at the green plastic army men on the bedside table, visible in silhouette against the moonlit shade.  In the center with his drawn .45, Sgt. Steele was hard to miss.  Most of his friends had the posable figures now, and they were neat, but he still liked the old-fashioned kind that his father had brought him all the way from Hong Kong.  A whole bag of a hundred!  So what if you couldn’t bend their arms and legs—the positions they came in were good enough.  And if you used your imagination, they walked and talked and fought their battles as well as the posable ones ever could. 

You did great out there today, soldier.  I’m proud of you.  And between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if you came out of all this with a medal.

Rodger liked the sound of that.  Nobody deserved a medal more than he did, and it wouldn’t be hard to make, either.  He’d cut out the pattern from a shirt cardboard and color it in with Magic Markers, then glue it to that sheriff’s badge in the drawer of his dresser, beside the Wyatt Earp cap gun in its Genuine Leather holster.  Daddy had given him those too (though nobody played cowboy anymore), with a bunch of old Westerns on VHS.  Maybe after school tomorrow, he and the sergeant would watch his favorite, with the good guy and the bad guy and the showdown on Main Street, when only one of them would walk away…

This story appeared originally in WordWrights Magazine.

“I

Department Story

“I don’t know how you can eat those things,” I said, returning my tongue to a flake of red pepper.

          Ray gave me a leer.  “Some men prefer oysters,” he cooed, “and others prefer snails.”

          “Well, I’d take anything over an anchovy.”

          “Then maybe there’s hope for you yet, boss!”

          We’d reached the front of the store now, and I felt a familiar tingle as the automatic door swung open.  Coming back from lunch had a certain queasy thrill to it, like jaywalking in traffic.  One minute you’re nobody out on the sidewalk, and the next you’re the target of a dozen strangers who home in on you like hornets around a garbage can—and you’re not even wearing the badge.  I used to wonder about that sometimes, about what they saw exactly that marked us as clerks.  Because whatever it was, it clung to you on your day off.  People would approach me in other stores and just start asking questions.  It was your bearing, I think, a certain cynical cast that made you stand out in a crowd.  Plainclothes detectives had much the same thing.  And mailmen.  They said that a dog could smell it on ‘em—

“Mr. Piper?”

         It was Doreen at the Courtesy Desk, a lantern-jawed bottle blonde with a short, tight perm and an attitude to match.  When I looked her way, seven or eight faces gaped back at me, but hers shone among them like a beacon in the fog.  If you worked in retail, only the other employees were real people; customers became two-dimensional and ridiculous, like cardboard cutouts.

          “I need your authorization on a return, please,” she said.  There was a problem; I could tell from the way she tapped her pencil.

          “Want help?” Ray whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder.  He always touched me when he had the chance.

          “No thanks, man, I got it.” 

          Approaching the desk, I fixed each person on line with a withering glare.  Several of them averted their eyes; one woman tried a tentative smile, and a pair of gaunt teenagers who could have been bookends gave it right back to me with naked hostility.  Ah.  These, then, were my adversaries.  I nudged my way between them to reach the counter.

          “What’s up?” I asked Doreen.  She set an item on the Formica.  A car radio, a Draco, the brand we sold.  No box.

          “This gentleman,” she said, “wants a refund.  He says he bought it here last week.  He doesn’t have a receipt.  He says it doesn’t work.”  She adjusted her ruler-straight carriage slightly on the stool and awaited my pronouncement.  I glanced at Frick and Frack, who were no longer eager to return my attentions.  Instead, they stared straight down at their designer sneakers like they expected a caning at any moment.  I picked up the radio—or what was left of it—and turned it over in my hands.  They’d done their work crudely; there were gouges from a screwdriver crisscrossing the frame, and the faceplate was chipped in several places.

          I addressed the nearest reprobate.  “I’ll tell you what, Mr., uh—”  The two of them looked at each other.  Then the one I was speaking to said, ‘Jones,’ none too convincingly.

          “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones.  Why don’t you run along home and see if you can scare up that receipt.  And while you’re at it, bring me back the mounting bracket, six sheet metal screws, the antenna wire, and the other half of the power cord that you cut off here with a pair of dikes, and I’ll see what I can do.  Otherwise, no refund.”  I gave him the radio.  He reacted like I’d handed him roadkill.  Then he and his partner slunk off without a word.    

It didn’t always end like that.  Had Mr. Jones been more conversant with our return policy, he could’ve gotten his cash, an abject apology and a complimentary boot-lick after about a minute’s whining.  Not from me, you understand, but a department manager could be overruled—and the assistant store-manager, Gordon Beadle, seemed to live for nothing else.  “By the way, folks, they stole that radio out of a car.  Probably one right here in the parking lot.  It’s happened before.”  There was an undertow of chatter as I made my escape.

          I’d worked at Tulbar for three years now, and it wasn’t a bad gig.  ‘The Bloomingdale’s of the discount chains,’ was how they pitched it—they being Tulley and Barbara Squires, the owners.  Get it?  Tulley and Barbara?  Tulbar?  (We called it Fubar ourselves.)  There were sixteen stores in the Tri-state area, and they were propagating like dings on a jalopy.  Anyhow, I’d gotten the job fresh out of dropping out of college, and had clawed my way up the corporate ladder clear to the second rung.  I was manager of the Hardware Department, which also included automotive accessories, paint, and plumbing supplies, and raked in about two million clams a year.  For this they allowed me twice the minimum wage and a staff of eleven, most of them high school kids or retired part-timers.  Lunch-mate Ray—six feet tall and age nineteen—was my full-time second-man.  He was a dead ringer for Montgomery Clift, who also happened to be his idol.  (I’d been told I resembled a youthful Bruce Willis, but that was by someone who owed me money.)

          Oh yes, and I’d gotten one other thing from the company: wife Sharon, whom I’d met at the Milford store before transferring here to Brayton.  Our marriage hadn’t taken, though; we’d been two antsy kids more focused on leaving the nest than any commitment we might be making.  We hardly spoke these days when our paths crossed at all, which wasn’t very often with our screwball schedules.

          “Is this the oil on sale?”  I peered down at a creature the size of a leprechaun.  In his hand was a quart of motor oil that he’d made the mistake of selecting from a tray where there was a leaker.  In fact, as I watched the syrupy fluid make its way down his wrist to pool in the elbow of his cardigan (cardigan?  It had to be ninety degrees outside!), I decided that, yes, this was the leaker.

          “No, sir,” I told him, taking a stride backward.  “This is the oil here.”  I waved my hand at a mountain of razor-cut half-cases stacked beneath the DayGlo orange sign.  As I tried to move around him, I found my way blocked by a baffled-looking, squash-shaped fellow.  Other presences loomed suddenly right and left.  Too late: I was surrounded.

          “Stoplight for a 2004 Blazer?”

          “Eleven fifty-seven.  Next aisle, carded bulbs.”

          “Wallboard compound?”

          “All the way down, across from the sandpaper.”

          “Spark plugs for a Toyota—”

          “Chart’s on the counter, sir.  By the register.”

          “Extension cords.”

          “Back wall, under the fuses.”

          “Do you sell router blades?”

          “With the drill bits.  Two aisles over, second section back on your left.”

          “WD-40?”

          “Behind you.”

          “Barrel bolts?”

          “ ’Round the bend, with the Stanley hardware.”

          “This oil good for a chainsaw?”

          “No sir.  You need two-stroke.  On the bottom shelf there, those green and white plastic bottles—”

          “Could somebody help me with the paint?”  A middle-aged woman in coveralls had posed the query.

“House or car?”

          “Uh—house.”

          “Certainly, ma’am.  This way, please.”  I led her away briskly, ignoring the questions that flew at my back like Chinese throwing-stars.  If you didn’t keep moving they’d pick you apart, poking and prodding till you lost your temper, or fell into a sort of gibbering trance, like a victim of battle fatigue.  As I slipped past the aisles, I checked for my people.  There were six of us working in Hardware that Saturday afternoon, our busiest time of the week.  When I had gone to lunch, Kenny’d been stocking air filters, Eva was unloading re-packs, Mike was on the register and Jodi—pause, sigh—Jodi was straightening the chemical aisle.  Now Mike and Eva were still on station, Jodi had gone AWOL, and Kenny—

          “Look out!”  He came flying around the header, and I caught him in my arms.

          “Hey!” I said sharply.  “What’s going on?”

          “Can o’ spray paint on the loose!”  Gesturing for the woman to stay where she was, I gingerly stuck my head out.  Sure enough, a can of Tulbar spray—Aztec Blue, I wagered—was wind-milling along the floor tiles, hissing an azure mist over anything and everything.  Finally it wedged itself under a baseboard and fizzled out. 

In spite of all the blue, I saw red.  We’d have to send back twenty gallons of interior enamel, just for the ruined labels.  I was cursing like a drunken sailor when I remembered the customer at my side.  Or, rather—who had been at my side; by then, she was in full retreat.  “Ma’am, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—”  

          “That’s alright! ” she sang over a shoulder.  “I’ll be back! ”  

          Kenny exploded in laughter.  He was a high school sophomore, thin as a twig with a mop of coal-black hair.  He was also my best worker, and good with the customers, too—when he wasn’t fooling around, that is.  Unfortunately, he and I shared a warped sense of humor and tended to be a bad influence on each other.  My attention fell to his Tulbar I.D. badge, which he had altered yet again.  Today it identified him as Elmer Sklue.  Not only was Elmer still chuckling, but fighting for air and turning a fetching shade of scarlet.

“So you think that’s funny, do you punk?”  Heads swiveled.  Kenny went pale.  I grabbed him by the belt and collar and frog-marched him straight across the aisle and through the swinging stockroom doors.  Once we were out of sight, I hollered, “I’ll show you funny!” and slapped an open palm on a case of motor oil.  Whap!  Kenny yelped on cue.  “Ow!”  We continued apace: Whap!  “Ow!”  Whap!  “Ow!” till my hand went numb.

          “Take a peek,” I told him, and he squinted through the constellation of holes in the pegboard wall.

          “Two women,” he began—then convulsed in renewed hysterics.

          “Come on.”  We continued along the narrow stockroom passage to the corner of the building and turned left.  “You’re gonna get me fired with stunts like that.”

          “Me?”

          Just ahead, Ray and Jodi were paging through a price book at my plywood desk.  I came up behind them and looked through the windows in the next set of double doors.  It was the usual madhouse out there: half-a-dozen people in line at the register, and a cast of thousands milling about nearby.  I drew back in the nick of too late.  A pink face filled the glass, and the door drifted open until I blocked it with my foot.  He stood there half-in and half-out.

          “I have a question about the toilet seats.”

          “We all do,” I said.  Kenny began to giggle.

          “What’s that?”

          “You’ll have to wait outside, sir.”

          “There’s no one out here.”

          “Someone’ll be right with you, but you’ll have to wait outside.”   

          Kenny fell on the sword.  “I’ll help him,” he groaned.   I gave him a pat on the head as he sidled past.

          “You’re terrible,” said Ray, smirking.   

          It was all I could do to keep my eyes off Jodi, even for a second.  Then she said something, and I could stop trying.  “What is this?” she asked, holding up a silver dingus.  “It’s not in the book.”

          “That,” I said, stepping closer for a whiff of her delectable perfume, “is a half-inch drive socket extension with universal joint.”  She fixed me with those enormous doe-eyes and shook out her golden mane for a one-two punch.  When she bent forward again over the printout, my gaze zeroed in on the downy white skin where the slope of her breasts began.  There was a tiny blue vein there that I’d grown quite fond of... 

          “Well it’s not in the book,” she stated emphatically.

          “That, my dear, is because you have the wrong book.”

          I turned toward Ray and reached for the automotive binder on the shelf above him.  He stood his ground so that we came in contact; I imagined I heard the smallest grunt of satisfaction.  Opening this book atop the other, I leafed through its pages to Thornton Tools.  As I drew my finger down the column, I became aware of Jodi’s warmth nestled against my right shoulder.  I smiled at her and she smiled back.  Then, returning to the price list, I detected a sibilant breeze upon my left cheek and glanced the other way.  Ray was eyeing me like a cherry pie hot from the oven.  He smiled at me, and I smiled back.  Now when I looked at the numbers, they swam and shifted as the reality of the situation dawned on me for the very first time: I was going to have an affair.  Or—Jumpin’ Jehoshophat!  Maybe two of them!

*   *   *

          You get to the point sometimes when you’re ready to snap.  Dealing with the public will do that to you.  And it doesn’t take an army of transgressors, either; a single wiseacre can handle the job nicely.  Only today, for example, this cud-chewing moron in mirrored sunglasses had invaded my personal space and called me ‘chief.’  Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like it when people approach me indoors wearing sunglasses.  It’s disrespectful, like shaking hands with a glove on.  As is any sort of appellation like ‘chief’ or ‘boss’ or ‘captain,’ whose phony deference is clearly contemptuous.  But I was ready.  Reaching under the counter, I donned a pair of Groucho glasses (with the nose and mustache attached) before inquiring, “And what can I do for you, champ?”  (I made sure it wasn’t much.)

          Then I’m helping a woman decipher the headlight chart, when over her shoulder I see this guy tearing the shrink-wrap off a set of ignition wires.  He tugs out the spidery contents, gives it a Cro-Magnon ogle, then makes a half-hearted attempt to stuff it back in again.  It won’t go, of course; they get machines to pack these things, Houdini couldn’t have done it.  What bothered me more was what happened next: he put the mess back on the shelf, and picked up a new one to buy.  I felt my blood pressure skyrocket as he sauntered over to join the line.

          “Did you find it?” the woman asked me.

          “That was a Ford, right?”

          “A Ford Explorer.”

          “I don’t make ‘em, mister, I only sell ‘em.”  Mike Perotta was running the cash register at the far end of the counter.  An ex-railroad worker who always wore his sleeves rolled up and the same black, clip-on necktie that barely cleared his nipples, he was diminutive, but feisty.  I liked Mike.

          “Nine double-oh six, ma’am.  Behind the speaker display, there, about three feet in on your right.”

          She looked vaguely in that direction.  “Do you think you could get it for me?”

          Oh, sure, I thought, no problem.  Except this guy wants a key cut, and that one needs chain, and the other fella—

          “Void!” Mike chirped happily.  This meant the transaction he was engaged in could not be completed, and he needed an approval (mine) to cancel it out.

          “One second, ma’am,” I said, stepping over a puddle of gunk on the floor.  It was reddish and viscous-looking, but gave off a pleasant, wintergreen aroma.  Just then, Kenny emerged from the accessory aisle.  “Ken,” I called to him.  “Grab a nine double-oh six headlight for this lady, please.”

          “Thank you so much.”

          I took the receipt from Mike, crammed it into a little manila envelope, and added one more illegible scrawl to the collection on the front.

          “Customer changed his mind,” said Mike.    

          “You bet I did!” squawked a voice in my ear.

          “Sorry?”

          “You bet I changed my mind!”  He was a rangy old coot in red suspenders and a baseball cap so frayed I couldn’t read the logo.  Suddenly he slammed something down on the glass countertop.  I cringed.  “How come they’re different prices?”  He had two carded packages of brass cup hooks which appeared to be identical, but were from different manufacturers.  One was marked seventy-nine cents and the other ninety-nine cents.

          “They’re different items, sir,” I explained.

          “I told him that,” said Mike.

          “They are not different items!  They’re the same quarter-inch hooks, six to a package!”

          I knew it was silly, but I tried reason.  “But they’re from different companies, sir.  You see, this one’s from Home Shop, and the other one’s made by—”

          “I don’t care who they’re made by!” he thundered, and banged the counter again.  This time, even the fellow behind him gasped.  “They’re the same thing, and I’m not going to pay an extra twenty cents for nothing.  Every time I come to this store I—”

THWACK!  Now it was my turn.  I’d dug a quarter out of my pocket and slapped it on the glass.  “There you go, Rockefeller.  There’s your twenty and a nickel interest.  Have yourself a night on the town.”  (I knew I was losing it; it’d been a long day.)

          Continuing behind the counter, I reviewed a gallery of stupefied faces.  The last one rang a bell.  “Excuse me, sir,” I said engagingly.  “May I see that wire set for a moment, please?” I held out a mitt expectantly, and he forked it over.  Then I walked briskly around him and headed down the parts aisle.  In a flash I’d returned with the other package, its entrails drooping obscenely from one end.  I thrust it at him.  “This is the one you mangled, I believe.”  His lips parted, but no sound emerged.  I gave him a sneer and moved on.

          My next step was dead-center in the gunk.  “Ih-oo.  Mike, what is this stuff?”  I grabbed a handful of towels to wipe my shoe.

          “STD Oil Treatment, I think.  It was a glass jar—”

          “Yeah, that’s STD.”

          “And I need a break here, Peter.  Don’t forget about me.”

          “I won’t,” I promised, spreading more towels over the mess.  “I’ll send someone over right away.”

*   *   *

Eva was closer to my age, twenty-two or three.  She was also a big girl, taller than I was, with coarse auburn hair parted in the middle, and pretty blue eyes.  Her speech was slow and mellifluous with a very slight lisp to it that was kind of sexy.  She wasn’t my type, but I could understand how others might find her the cat’s meow, and there was often some tomcat in hot pursuit.  Today it was Eric Taylor, the Housewares manager, a massive and intimidating golem of a figure.  Fortunately, we got along well.

          “Hey, Piper,” he said as I arrived.

          “Hey, Eric.”

          “Just helping Eva sort out the knobs, haw-haw.”  (She was filling in the cabinet hardware.)

          “Oh Air-wick,” she admonished with a smile.

          A grandfatherly figure was approaching us now with a sink trap clutched in a mottled claw.  “Pardon me,” he said softly.  “I wonder if I could—”

          Taylor wheeled on him.  “CAN’T YOU SEE WE’RE BUSY?” he roared.  The man recoiled like he’d been horsewhipped; then shuffled away in a slow-motion run for his life.  Taylor put on a self-satisfied grin.  “That’s the way to handle ‘em, eh Piper?”

          “You sure can turn on the charm, Eric.  Eva, would you spell Mike at the register, please?  He’s due for a break.”

          “Oh, aw-wight,” she sighed.  Putting down a carton of brass hinges, she adjusted her skirt, fluttered lashes, and sashayed off with a flourish of swaying hips.  Taylor followed after her like a lap dog.  I took up the hinges and searched for the appropriate peg hook; it didn’t seem to exist.  Then I saw that she’d put the last few in the wrong spot.  I rearranged them, hung the rest, and bent over to stuff the empty carton into a trash box.  When I straightened up again, Jodi was there.  Now it was my turn to play lap dog.

          “What do you want me to do, boss?” she asked, arching her eyebrows innocently.

          This girl was mind-boggling.  Eighteen and flawless, like a spring blossom before the bugs get at it, with the face of an angel and silky blonde hair that beckoned to me with every movement like a champagne fountain in the desert.  I’d tried to resist her when I first arrived, and for a week or two had actually succeeded.  But then she’d twinkled those eyes and swished that hair one too many times, and my resolve had crumbled like a mud hut in an earthquake.  Now I was flirting with her shamelessly.  It was stupid, alright, I knew that well enough.  I was twenty-five and married and her supervisor, for Pete’s sake.  But to be honest about it, I was lonely.  And Jodi was the hottest chick this side of Pluto.

          “What would you like to do?”

          “How about I dummy-up the chemical aisle?”  (This involved pulling all the cans and bottles to the front of the shelf to make it look neat and inviting—a job she’d already completed, by the way, so she was really proposing to do nothing.)

          “Have at it,” I acceded with a kingly wave.

*   *   *

          I was preparing to swipe a Papermate from the Stationary Department when I noticed him.  A man of about thirty, bald, in a work shirt and jeans, a few yards over in Menswear.  He was crouching behind a rounder of fall jackets, and peering at something through a separation in the garments.  Following his gaze, I saw a heavy-set woman fiddling with the handbags on a chrome display.  So, switching tags, are we, dearie?  Gotcha!  I surveyed the area, and sure enough, here was another one: a young woman in a calfskin vest, thumbing through the CD’s as she eyeballed two delinquents in the next aisle.  It was apparently our turn to host the ‘S.W.A.T. Team,’ a corporate anti-theft brigade that traveled from store to store.  Normally we had only Wally, a once-upon-a-time cop with a gut like Santa who limited his collars to the Polident Set.  But every so often there’d be saturation coverage from a group of about a dozen professionals.  They’d haul in the catch for a week, and then an article would appear in the local rag: Tulbar Shoplifting Sweep Nets Ninety.  That was supposed to drive the kleptos over to Sears.  I don’t know if it worked, but they sure were fun to watch.  I put the pen back where I got it.

*   *   *

          The Snack Bar coffee could have been brewed last week.  With a sock in the pot.  “Mmmm,” I commented to Millie, who stood grinning beside the pretzel rotisserie, rag in hand.  She was one of the store’s ageless denizens; her purplish hair and amorphous figure beneath the flowered smock lending a kind of seedy hominess to the establishment.  You just couldn’t imagine the place without Millie.

          “You’re sick, Peter,” she observed.  “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.”  (And this from the chef!)

          “It’s all I deserve, Mill,” I told her, swinging around to the front registers.  Half of them were still cranking, but no longer at full tilt.  We were in the afternoon slump now, when the customers drifted home for dinner.  Soon I’d be among them.  The funny thing was, I really didn’t want to leave.  This was my turf, my ‘hood.’  Out on the street, I was just some schmuck.  But here in my element, I had rank and standing.  Gravitas.  Folks respected me.  Why, there were even troops at my command, after a fashion.  (One particular, doe-eyed trooper leapt to mind...)

“Peter,” spoke the voice of God, and I jerked like a frog in Biology lab.  It was Mr. D’Angelo.  “Could I see you in my office, please?”  The store manager was a tall, dapper, silver-gray gentleman in a pin-striped suit with boutonniere.  Before I replied, he was strolling away from me with that long-legged gait of his. 

“Uh-oh,” said Millie.  “Are you in trouble again?”   

“No way,” I demurred.  Though I suspected otherwise.

*   *   *

          Mr. D was behind an imposing, white oak desk.  At a cheap metal knock-off to the left sat Gordon Beadle, the assistant store manager, a pasty-faced bean-pole with retro sideburns and an ill-fitting, copper-colored jacket that might have spent time in a donation bin.  He was forever coming back to Hardware and giving me imbecilic merchandising suggestions that I would argue with him about until, aquiver with rage, he would finally stammer, “Just do it Peter,” and storm off in a tizzy.  Then I’d call up Mr. D for an appeal, who would invariably end our conversation with, “Just forget about it, Peter.” 

“Hey, Gordie,” I said to Beadle.  There was no reply, but his body language snarled volumes.  (He hated to be called ‘Gordie’.)  

“Sit down,” said Mr. D, gesturing to an armchair.  He leaned forward to prop elbows on the blotter.  “I received a complaint today, Peter.  From a customer.  A Mister—” he referred to a paper on his desk.  “Ezra Fielding.”

          He paused there, so I endeavored to fill in the gap.  “Yes, sir?”

          Mr. D. regarded me searchingly.  I noticed for the first time that he had a partial gold cap on one of his canines.  “Mr. Fielding claims that you were rude with him this afternoon.  He says that you raised your voice, that you referred to him disparagingly as—” his gaze fell again,  ‘Rockefeller,’ and that at one point you tossed change onto the counter in what he described as a ‘most insulting gesture’.”  I glanced at Beadle, who was all but drooling in the peanut gallery.  Mr. D continued, “What I’d like to know from you is, is this true?”

          “Oh, yes, sir, absolutely.  Every word of it.  Except for the ‘change’ part—it was only a quarter.  You see, Mr. Fielding had discovered a price disparity on two items he was purchasing—not a mistake, by the way, sir, they were from different suppliers—and he was complaining about this to Mike, becoming obnoxious and abusive and banging on the counter, and when we attempted to explain our policy to him he just wouldn’t have it, sir, wouldn’t listen, you know how they get sometimes, these…these people.  Anyway, it’s possible that I may have been a bit brusque with the gentleman—but if you’d have seen him, sir, the way he flew off the handle like that—which in no way excuses my own indiscretion, of course, and I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for any lapse of judgment on my part which may have reflected poorly on the company, and to affirm my steadfast belief that—”

          He held up a hand.  “Thank you, Peter.  That’s enough.  I have a much better understanding of the situation now.  That’s all.  You can go back to work.” 

As I arose from the chair, Beadle jumped in.  “But you said the next time this happened, he’d get—”

     Mr. D cut him short with an icy glare.  “That reminds me, Peter.  There is one more thing.  I would very much appreciate it if, in the future, you would try your utmost to remain civil to these…‘people.’  Remember who pays the bills around here.”

          “Understood, sir.  And thank you for the reminder.  Catch you later, Gordie.”

*   *   *

     Passing through the Toy Department, I did a double take: a man was lying face-down on the linoleum.  Or no, not lying—poised on both palms, like he were doing pushups.  An undercover operative, of course, scrutinizing some perp.  In the next moment he was up on his feet like an acrobat and pussyfooting between the displays.  I continued on into Hardware.

          “Car air fresheners?”

          “Around the corner.”

          “Yo, buddy.  I need plugs.  A nineteen—”

          “On the counter, sir.  Laminated chart.”

          “Rustoleum?”

          “All the way down.”

          “In quarts?”

          “Pints and quarts.”

          “Paint brushes?”

          “Same aisle.”

          “Excuse me, but where would I find a plumber’s snake?”  Behind her, Kenny began to titter and make faces.  I looked at him pointedly until he stopped.

          “Three rows down, miss, in the plumbing aisle.  At the far end on the left hand side.”

          Once she’d departed, Kenny started in again.  “Right above the mothballs.”

          “You’re a depraved young man, Kenneth.  I have a good mind to report you to your supervisor.  Wait a minute—I am your supervisor!” 

          Jodi appeared now with a friend of hers from Garden—Jenny or Wendy, something like that.  “Back in a flash,” she purred, and there was a brush of fingers across my stomach as the pair of them swept by.  My heart skipped two beats.  Kenny and I swung together to the dancing derrieres—until I spotted Ray, beckoning to me frantically from beside the car-wax header. 

          “We have a problem, Peter,” he said, keeping his voice down.  “There’s this brute at the register, and he’s got these mats—wait till you see.”

          I saw.  He was brutish alright—and rather simian-looking—with a beetled brow, bristling jowls, and what looked like brambles atop his head.  One of the pockets of his filthy flannel shirt was torn and dangling, like an eye punched shut.  There were no other customers around, which seemed ominous.  Mike and Eva had gone for the day, so it was just the four of us now in Hardware. 

          The man said something I didn’t quite catch as I went behind the counter.  It wasn’t until we were face to face that I smelled the booze.

          “You manger?” he spat.

          “Yes, sir.  How may I assist you?”

          He slapped a paw down on a heap of garbage that may or may not have once been a car floor mat.

          “(Gibberish) don’ fit,” he mumbled.  “I got (gobbledygook) pair o’ mats.  Kid there (babble) can’ do it.” 

          “He doesn’t want an even exchange,” Ray interpreted.  “He wants those.”  He indicated one of our deluxe, carpeted sets of floor mats, also on the countertop.  The sound of Ray’s voice seemed to irritate the ogre, who raised his volume (though not his intelligibility) up a notch.

          “I wan’ thish-un,” he reeked.

          “Well, sir,” I explained, “what you have to do is to bring your old mats up to the Courtesy Desk for a refund.  Then you can apply that credit to this other set.  You can take them with you and pay up front if you like.”

          He continued to stare at me blankly, the head slightly awobble.  Behind him, I saw Jodi coming up the center aisle.  She surveyed the scene at the counter, then made a detour to arrive next to Kenny at the combination-lock display.

          The rummy came to life.  “I ain’t takin’ no (garble) back no (mutter),” he asserted loudly, “and I don’t give a—hic—wha’ you say.”

          I covered my mouth and spoke sideways to Ray.  “Call Security,” I murmured.

          He whispered back.  “What?”

          I turned to him and mouthed the words.  “Call Security.”  This time he got it, skipped backward and disappeared into the stockroom.

          I grinned winningly at Handsome.  He leaned precariously across the counter and wafted Eau de Lush in my direction.  “I’m take theesh (jibber-jabber) out o’here, and no’bee gon’ shtop me.”

          There wasn’t much riposte to that, so I kept smiling while I furtively noted my escape route, should things get ugly.  Then, just as I thought he might take a poke at me, he pulled himself back, scooped up his booty and let fly with a final tongue-lashing.  “You pimple thinker sho high-mighty,” he declared, bloodshot orbs ablaze.  “But ash me, you all bunch o’ duddle-fuggers!”  Apparently satisfied, he rounded on rubbery pegs and lumbered off.  I took a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips.

          Ray emerged through the double doors and gave me a thumbs-up.  I sat down on the counter and swung my legs over.  “Let’s go,” I told the crew.  It was after five o’clock now, and the place was dead; there was only a handful of shoppers left to be seen.  Our man was making for the exit, plowing determinedly through empty air as if wading in molasses, seemingly unnoticed and uncared about.

          Suddenly, they materialized.  One of them came from the Snack Bar, and a pair from Pharmacy; several departed the checkout lines like hounds to a silent whistle.  There were married couples and gawky teens; bikers and bimbos and runners in sweats—six, eight, ten of them, all converging in perfect synchronization.  Mr. Mat was outside the store now, trudging along with unpaid merchandise under an arm.  A challenge was issued and a gin-addled fist thrown, and then they were on him like a pack of hyenas, dust and limbs flying, and handcuffs glinting in the late-day sun.

          “What are they doing?” Jodi asked excitedly.

          “A crash course in capitalism.”

          Kenny burst out laughing.  “This place is unreal.”

          Ray was disgusted.  “I don’t want to see violence, Peter.  Can we go back to Hardware, please?”

“All those in favor, raise your hand.”  Three of them went up.  I high-fived Ray, then Kenny, but something came over me when I got to Jodi.  I took her hand in mine, and drew it slowly to my lips for a kiss in front of everyone.  I’d pay dearly for that indulgence.  Because the most astonished face of all didn’t belong to her, or Ray or Kenny, but rather to a person I hadn’t noticed in front of the Jewelry counter.

“Oh.  Hey, Gordie.”

This story first appeared in Poydras Review.

The Golden Egg

Newt was making yummy noises across the table, but Jimmy wouldn’t look up.  He didn’t have to.  He knew what he would see: Newton Brisbane, eating.  Eyes aglow, jaws grinding, an expression of contentment on his face like Bowser at the feed bowl.  And it didn’t much matter what he was eating; filet mignon or Cracker Jack, if it could be chewed and swallowed, it was a hit.

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Though he wasn’t the least bit hungry, Jimmy took a bite of his cheeseburger.  He’d be needing the energy, he knew, back at Holcomb’s, the department store where the two of them worked.  Unloading trailers, sweeping stockrooms, hauling skids of fertilizer around on pallet jacks—grunt work.  And him with a higher education, no less.  Or almost.  Alright: one semester of community college.  He should have stayed in there and toughed it out, earned a degree in something.  Anything.  You had to have a diploma these days for a decent job…

          “You gonna eat those?”

          “Huh?”

       “Those fries.  You gonna eat ‘em?”

          “No.  Here, make room.”  He lifted his plate and shoved them off onto Newton’s; the kid was already drooling.  But he wasn’t a kid, was he.  At nineteen, he was a full-grown man.  He himself was twenty-five, halfway to fifty, one foot in the grave already.  With no degree, no girlfriend, no prospects… 

          What did people do when they were adrift in life, and needed to refocus?  He snapped his fingers.  They joined the Army, that’s what!  He imagined himself in a jaunty uniform with those things on his shoulders, what were they called again?  Epithets, yeah, the girls went nuts for those!  Learn a skill, see the world, meet people—sure, why not?  He could do that!   

But even as he pictured it, his scheme began to fizzle.  No way could he do that.  Hut-one, hut-two, some doofus shouting orders—he’d be AWOL in a week.  His gaze returned to the placemat.

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          Brisbane was scratching himself like a dog with the mange; Jimmy couldn’t resist.  “So, Newt,” he asked him.  “What are your plans for the future?”

          “I was thinkin’ of gettin’ me a slice of that cherry pie they got over there.  With a big ol’ scoop of whipped cream on top.”

          “No, I mean big picture.  The rest of your life.  You going to stay at Holcomb’s, or what?”

          His lunchmate frowned.  “Gee, I don’t know.  I guess.  The money ain’t so hot, but I get by.”

          “You’re living at home with your parents.”

          “So are you.”

          “Yeah,” he said.  “And it bothers me.”

          “How come?  They probably like having you around.  You know, for company.”

Jimmy was scanning the diner.  There were about a dozen patterns going on here, all clashing: pink-and-green floor tiles, copper-colored counter, checkerboard ceiling—as if they’d picked them out of a catalog blindfolded.  Dominating the rear wall was a six-foot panorama of the owners on a sandy beach.  But they were as far away from each other as they could possibly get, she in a huff with her arms crossed and he in a moody slouch—why would you even want a picture like that? 

“Only losers live at home with their parents.  I want to make something of myself.”

Brisbane bristled.  “I ain’t no loser.  I like Holcomb’s.  They treat me right and the work’s okay, and they got foot-long chilli dogs at the Snack Bar, and those big soft pretzels with the salt on ‘em—”  He lit up at the thought of it.  “I love those things, man.”

          Jimmy rolled his eyes.  Pretzels…    

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He read that last one again.  A thought formed, simmered, boiled over onto the stove. 

That was him.  It was him they were describing.  Motivated?  For eighty grand he’d climb Mt. Everest!  Swim the Nile!  Wrestle a turtle!  Or an alligator, rather!  And sales, boy, that was right up his alley!  He was a good talker, people liked him, he looked sharp in a tie and jacket—wait a minute.  Did he even have a tie and jacket?  Because he’d need one for the interview…  Sure he did.  The blue blazer Mom had gotten him for Uncle Roy’s funeral.  With Dad’s red-and-gold necktie.  Bingo!

His mind ran wild with the possibilities: nice clothes, nice shoes, nice…  So, what do you do for a living, Jimmy?  I’m a salesman.  I’m in sales.  Say, that’s a swell car you’re driving.  Want to go for a spin?  Oh, can I, Jimmy? Can I really?  Sure, babe, just let me put the top down…

“What’s so funny?”

“Huh?”

“You’re sittin’ there grinnin’ like you got a boner or something.”

Jimmy smirked.  “Yeah, that’s right, Einstein.  I got a boner.  You know what’s wrong with you, Newt?  You think small.  Miniscule.  Grains of sand, you know what I mean?”

Brisbane shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.  Now me, I think big.  Real big.  I’m going places—”  He noticed the clock.  “Speaking of which, come on.  We’re going to be late.”

“What about my pie?  I don’t care if they dock me ten minutes.  I’m hungry.”                                “Well, I care.  I’m calling in sick tomorrow, and I don’t want any trouble over it.  Get it to go.  Lunch is on me.”

“Gee, thanks!” said Brisbane.  “You win the lottery or something?”

“Not exactly,” said Jimmy.  “But you know what?  I think I might.  I think I just might.” Tearing off a corner of the placemat, he folded it in half, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

*   *   *

He wasn’t too familiar with Flucksburg, having only been there once for a pair of boots that had given him blisters on both feet.  But he’d gotten directions from the lady on the phone  (if only he could remember them), and what was her name, again?  Wanda?  Sandra?  He had to get better with things like that.  A good memory was important for a salesman, one of the skills he’d need to make this gig work.  And he was going to make it work, by gum, no more backing down or chickening—

Wait a minute.  Where was he?  Had he made a wrong turn?  He couldn’t be late for the interview!  Let’s see: he started out on Lexington and followed that down to Main, made a right at the light and a left at the church, and he was supposed to turn again on—what was it?  Some kind of fish.  Tuna…trout…tilapia…  Walleye!  There it was!  He made a screeching right as a flashbar flared in the rearview mirror.  Oh, no!  Not now—  But the cop went around him and zoomed off down the road.   

He pulled into a slot and listened to his heart hammer.  When he checked his reflection, he was beet-red and sweating.  That wouldn’t do; they’d think he was sick or something.  He found a tissue and wiped his face.  Then he remembered the water on the back seat.  He grabbed the bottle and took a swig—yeccch!  How old was this stuff?  Oh, great!  Now he’d have food poisoning!  But he couldn’t think like that, he had to be positive; this was crunch time.  He rolled down the window for a deep breath.  There, that was better.  Now all he had to do was to find the Armstrong Building, Suite 2B.  It had to be around here somewhere.  He pictured a shining tower of glass and aluminum, but that didn’t seem right for this neighborhood.  Across the street was a boarded-up tire shop, and next to him was another dump: flaking stucco, sagging gutters, a window fixed with duct tape—and then he found the sign: Arm-trog, it read.  Holy mackerel!  This was the place!

*   *   *

The hallway stank.  Of mildew and old food.  There was an elevator there and he pressed the button, but when nothing happened he took the stairs beside it two at a time.  He paused at the entrance to Suite 2B, mesmerized by the placard: Di Vinci International.  Wow.  This was the big time, alright.  Paris, London, Hong Kong, who knew where?  Exotic food, exotic climes—exotic women… 

With exotic diseases, he thought next.  And jet lag, bedbugs, foreign policemen with scars on their cheeks—could he even handle a scene like that?  He’d seen a show once where a tourist had ended up in a real, old-timey dungeon— 

“Help you, sport?” 

The man at his shoulder was in his forties, balding, in a red-and-green sport jacket with collar points over the lapels.  He wore loafers with tassels, but no socks.  “I have an appointment with Mr. Di Vinci, sir.  I’m applying for a job.”

“An appointment?  Oh, sure, I get it.  Come on in.”  He opened the door for Jimmy.   

In the far corner of the reception room was a secretary with her head down on the desk.  Beside her was an inner door topped in frosted glass, and against the walls were couches and coffee tables with vases of flowers on them.  The man extended a hand.  “Sterling Forrest,” he said, revealing a gap-toothed grin.     

“Jimmy Stuart, sir.”

“Ah, like the actor.”  

“I spell it the other way.”

“Sure you do, I get it.  Well, have a seat, here, kid, and I’ll see if the boss is decent.”  He started across but veered off to rap knuckles on the desk.  “Up and at ‘em, lover.  It’s showtime.”

The woman awoke with a start.  She wore pink, cat-eye glasses with matching lipstick, and her hair was done up in a bun, with a plastic arrow stuck through it.  “Thanks, Forry,” she said, beginning to type.  “I have to finish this.”  He entered the office and closed the door behind him. 

Jimmy took one of the couches.  It was stained and threadbare, he noticed.  In fact, the whole establishment looked kind of shabby: peeling paint, flowers wilting, the hanging prints crooked and smudged.  All of which made perfect sense; in a busy sales operation, there wouldn’t be a lot of time for housekeeping, and the pace would be enough to burn anyone out—just look at their secretary.  He was looking at her, in fact, when she jerked her head around and gasped. 

“How long have you been here?”    

“Oh—just a couple of minutes, ma’am.  I arrived with Mister—”  But a hail of laughter cut him short, and they both swung to the office.  The woman stood up, smoothed a snug red skirt, and went over to tap on the door.  When there was no response, she tapped a little harder.  When there was still no response, she hauled off and pounded on it with a fist: BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!  Silence fell.  She opened the door and spoke harshly to someone, then pivoted back to Jimmy.  “You may go in now,” she cooed. 

Three scowling faces awaited him like a court martial; he froze in the doorway, unsure what to do.  After a second they all started laughing.  In the center, at a big, imposing desk, was a man in a sky-blue jacket and bolo tie.  He had blazing dark eyes, a pencil mustache, and an arching black pompadour like Elvis.  Slouched to his right was Sterling Forrest, and on the other side, overflowing a director’s chair in a cream-colored suit, was a massive individual with a comb-over, bulging eyeballs and lips like blood-sausages.  The one at the desk reached out to him.  “Leo Di Vinci,” he said.  “First among equals.  I believe you know Sterling, here, our vice president, and this is the corporate fixer, Mr. Naugahyde.”

“Call me Stavros.”

“And what shall we call you, young squire?”

“It’s James Stuart, sir—”

“Like the actor.”

          “I spell it the other way.”
          “Of course you do.  Sit down, sit down,” he urged, waving to an empty seat.  Jimmy looked around him.  There were photographs of business people in cubicles, at meetings, chatting at the water cooler—but they all looked false, somehow, like pages torn from a magazine—

“So, you want to be a salesman, is that right?”  Di Vinci fingered a tie clasp shaped like a mermaid.

          “Oh, yes, sir, very much,” said Jimmy, trying to smile.  His gaze kept darting to Naugahyde, who regarded him strangely as he licked his lips.

          “Fine, fine,” said Di Vinci.  He picked up a bell with a handle, rang it resoundingly, and set it down again.  Jimmy expected something to happen now, but nothing did.

          “You got a résumé on you?”  This from Forrest, over his shoulder. 

          Jimmy’s heart sank.  “Well, I—  No, sir.  I forgot it.  But I can get it to you this afternoon—”

          Di Vinci arose for a seventh-inning stretch.  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, son.  I’m a pretty good judge of character, and what I’ve seen so far augurs well for your success.  You’re a cab driver, is that correct?”

          “No, sir.  I work at Holcomb’s.  In the receiving department.”

          “Even better.”  He circled behind Naugahyde to the window.  When he depressed a slat in the blinds, motes of dust filled the air.  “Just look at them out there, intrepid knights of free enterprise.  Barber, haberdasher, delicatessen man—even young Johnny Jones, hawking the daily rag.  Each of them an essential cog in the great, meshing gears of prosperity.  Very inspirational.”  Instead of returning to the desk, he strode to the center of the room, and took hold of his lapels.

“Trade, barter, commerce, call it what you will.  From Johnny Jones to General Motors, it is an essential concept, a defining ethos.  Both the potting soil of the seedling, and the latticework of the vine.  The fountainhead of production.  The keystone to advancement.  The provenance of art and culture, science and industry.  And it’s men like yourselves, entrepreneurs, movers and shakers with vigor and foresight, that have made it all possible.

“In fact, it is not an exaggeration to say that this beloved nation itself, this land of milk and honey, of Old Glory, America the beautiful, purple mountains’ waves of grain, is built upon those very same, time-tested principles.  Why, just think of it, man!  The implications!  Washington!  Lincoln!  Plymouth Rock!  Baseball!  Bikinis!  The Liberty Bell—” 

          He stabbed a finger at Jimmy.  “But you’ll say that I’ve gone too far.  That I exaggerate, pontificate, that I’ve lost my marbles.  Admit it, embrace it, I won’t be offended.  But the nut of my argument rings as true today as it has throughout the ages.  Mutual needs.  Reciprocal desires.  That’s the ticket.  I have something you want, you have something I want; we haggle and flatter and threaten and cajole, and before you know it—bingo!  The golden egg!”

          “Reverend!” shouted Forrest.

          “Why, the very notion of what we do here gives me the willies!  The willies, I tell you!  I lie awake nights!  How is it conceivable, I wonder, that we have come so far?  Reached such heights?  Amassed such laurels?  And you, my eager beaver—unless I’m wildly off the mark—would like to become a part of it!  An abettor!  A minion!  A plodding ass in the mule train of Di Vinci!  Am I mistaken?”

          “No, sir!  Count me in!”

          “Then IN you shall be COUNTED!  And now, my young buck, for the test of fire.  For we shall presently embark upon an actual sales call, right here in town, and you yourself shall be riding shotgun.  Pendergast is the fellow’s name, an oboe player, you’ll like the chap.  Oh, how I envy you, James.  I remember my first sales call like it was only yesterday.  Wait a minute—no I don’t; can’t even say what year it was.  I was closer to your age, of course, had my own teeth then, and—”

          “Excuse me, Leo,” said Forrest, glancing at his watch, “but there’s a certain amount of hurry-up involved here.”

          “Quite so.  Salesmen, on your feet!”  They were all up in a flash except for Naugahyde, who wobbled ominously in the director’s chair.  After a series of cracking noises, it dropped him to the floor like a sack of potatoes.  The others rushed to help him as Jimmy backed away.  By the window now, he peeked through a gap in the blinds; there was nothing to see out there but a solid brick wall— 

          “Hey, kid,” called Forrest.  “Lend a hand, would you?  We got hernias!” 

*   *   *

When the four men filed from the office, the secretary was awaiting them, bag in hand.  “Jimmy,” asked the boss, “have you met my sister, Rhonda?  Cute as a button and quick as a rattlesnake.”

          “Yes sir, we uh—”  But she was approaching him with an elbow bent, like a date for the prom.  Flabbergasted, he took it. 

          “Where do you find these specimens, Leo?”   

          “Roll of the dice, my dear.  Loaded, of course.”

          The next thing Jimmy knew they were cramming into a white-and-rust Cadillac, Di Vinci at the wheel, he and the girl beside him, and the springs groaning audibly as Stavros climbed aboard.  They departed the curb in a flatulent blast of backfires and blue exhaust.

          “Well, son, how does it feel to be on your first expedition?”

          Jimmy was trying to see through a scrim of dirt and bugs; it seemed like they were traveling much too fast.  “Pretty exciting, sir!” he yelled, above the roar of a perforated muffler.  “But I’m still a bit confused.  I mean—what do we sell exactly?”

          Di Vinci exploded in laughter.  “What do we sell?  What don’t we sell!  Hard goods, soft goods, commodities, antiquities—”

          “Sold an airplane once,” hollered Forrest, “in Guadalajara.  Little prop job with all the trimmings.”

          Wow, thought Jimmy.  Airplanes, Guadalajara—

          But they were already pulling over.  “Well, here we are, kids,” said Di Vinci.  “The stomping ground of legends, great and small.”  Jimmy couldn’t say what he’d expected, but it sure as heck wasn’t the Crazy Legs Lounge.  They emptied out of the car—Naugahyde like a beaching whale—yet once his shoes hit the sidewalk, he seemed to transform completely: back went the shoulders, up went the chin, and he entered the club like a VIP.  

          It was gloomy inside, with a dim reddish glow from Chinese lanterns behind the bar.  There was music playing (a tango?), and a hatchet-faced patron in a vest and bow tie hastening forth to greet them.  “Leo!” he gushed.  “Welcome back!  Let me look at you.  How long has it been?”

          “Ah, about a week, I’d guess.  But I have a surprise here, Hoot.  In addition to the usual suspects, we’ve brought along our newest inductee, Mr. James Stuart.”   

          “Ah, like the actor!”

          “Spells it the other way.  Jimmy, allow me to introduce Colonel Hoot McCloskey, peerless proprietor, heralded huckster, and persona non grata in fourteen states.”

         “I don’t like to brag,” said McCloskey, “but you’re forgetting Puerto Rico.”

         “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

          “Likewise, chief.  Now, if you folks will follow me, I have a special table ready, right by the stage.”

          Rhonda perked up.  “Ooh!  We’re going to have entertainment?”

          “That all depends, sugar.  Can you carry a tune?”

          She stared at him a moment, then giggled and touched his arm.  “Oh, Hoot.”  

          No sooner had they been seated than a pitcher of beer arrived, and the waiter began doling out shots of some greenish liquor.  Jimmy said, “Gosh, Mr. Di Vinci, I don’t usually drink during the day—”

          “This isn’t drinking, son, it’s a tongue loosener.  Salesman’s grease.  A Continental practice, like bangers and mash.”  He raised his glass and held it aloft until his protégé had followed suit.  “Anchors aweigh,” he sang, and the bottoms went up.  A chorus of contented sighs ensued—except from Jimmy, who choked and lunged for his beer.  

          “You were a sailor?” said Forrest.  “You’ve been awful tight-lipped about it.”

          Rhonda laughed.  “Leo was in the Army,” she explained.  “Until he went AWOL, that is.”

          “Had to,” said the boss.  “A matter of personal dignity.  Hut-one, hut-two, some doofus shouting orders—it was more than a man could bear.  But they rounded me up quick enough.  Six long months I spent in the brig.  Ate rats while I was in there, like Papillon.”

          Jimmy was agape.  “You ate rats?”

          “Well, not really.  You’ve caught me out.  There weren’t any rats, only mice.  And lice.  And chiggers.”  When he reached into his jacket, the jolly front collapsed.  “Egad!  I’ve left my billfold on the chifforobe!  James, my good man.  Could you spot me a couple of Jacksons?  A pair of twenties, that is?  Just until your first advance, of course.”

          Jimmy was grinning helplessly as he forked them over.  “Gosh, Mr. Di Vinci!  I get an advance?”

          “Does he get an advance,” mugged the boss.  “Why, once we’ve made this transaction, lad, you’ll be swimming in it.  The world shall be your oyster.  Your oyster, I tell you!”  (Jimmy was beside himself; he loved oysters!  Or were those clams?)

          The waiter was back to fill their glasses.  Now it was Naugahyde’s turn to toast.  “To hanky panky, hocus pocus and the ol’ switcheroo!”  

Jimmy didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but it sure sounded swell.  In fact, from where he was sitting, things just couldn’t be better.  Rhonda was playing footsie with him under the table, his three new partners were buds already, and his future looked bright as a Harvest Moon.  Whatever that was.  He loosened his tie and leaned back.  An hour went by, and then another, with the music playing and the liquor flowing and the rest of his paycheck duly donated, and when it finally occurred to him that the man they’d come to meet had never actually materialized, it didn’t seem to matter one iota. 

No, sir; he was sold.

This story first appeared in The Nude Bruce Review.

Chemistry Set

Dr. Leyton elbowed his way through the door with a briefcase in one hand and a hot cup of 7-Eleven coffee in the other.  Sylvia and Mallory sat together on the receptionist’s desk, laughing.  Leyton went to a table, opened the case and made a show of sorting through the contents.  When he felt sufficiently collected, he put on his casual grin and turned to the others.  The façade held firm while he considered his partner, but shattered like glass when he got to the girl. 

Her face was so sweet it was painful—like looking into the sun—and her long blonde hair seemed to shimmer in the radiance.  The outfit she wore of flannel and denim only highlighted, by understatement, a wonder of hill and dale beneath, and her scent—well, that haunted him through each workday, and infused his troubled dream-world by night…

“Good morning, Bernard,” she said, and his throat became dry and incapable of speech.  He raised the cup for a sip of scalding liquid.

“Morning Sylvia, Jim,” he managed.  (Her smile was a miracle of moist white teeth; his partner’s the usual smirk.)

“Let’s see what Bernie thinks,” said Mallory, placing a hand on the young woman’s thigh.  She seemed oblivious to the contact, but Leyton flushed with anger.  He was taunting him, the swine, flouting their intimacy.  And it was working like a charm; his blood pressure was sky-rocketing.

“We’ve been trying to decide on the worst way to go, Syl and me.  What do you think?  What’s the worst?  Absolute rock bottom.”

          “Go?”

          “Die.  Croak.  Kick the bucket.  She thinks drowning would be the worst.  You know, holding that last breath forever—”

          “Well, that’s a pleasant topic to begin the day.” 

          “It’s a quarter of ten, Bernie.  Hardly the crack of dawn.”  He made eyes at Sylvia, and they giggled some more.

          “Burned,” said Leyton.  “Being horribly burned.  Roasted alive like a pig on a spit, your skin going taut over the swelling muscles till it splits wide open like a sausage on the grill—”

          “Oh, gosh, Bernard,” said Sylvia, “cut it out, will you?” 

Mallory gave her a playful nudge.  “You started it, remember?”

“I know, but we don’t have to be so gruesome, do we?  And anyway, what about you, Dr. Jimmy?  What’s your idea of the worst way to go, huh?” 

He thought about it.  “Poison,” he said, and Leyton had just enough time to look away before coffee spurted from mouth and nose.  Mallory was there in a flash, pounding him between the shoulder blades.  “Bernie, Bernie!  Air down the little tube and coffee down the big tube!  We’ve been over this!”  As always, Leyton was acutely aware of his shortcomings when the two of them stood together.  Mallory towered over him like a monster, yet weighed in at one less sack of potatoes.

          “Bernard?” asked Sylvia.  “Are you O.K.?” 

          Embarrassment replaced suffocation as his main concern.  When he could breathe again, he said, “It sure pays to keep yourself in tip-top physical condition.”  She smiled at that, and his spirits soared.  She was fond of him, he knew she was, and if it weren’t for Mallory—

          His spirit’s engine sputtered and died, and headed into a tailspin.  Mallory.  Business  partner and former friend.  With the brand new Jaguar purchased against their meager line of credit.  And the string of co-eds hired on as ‘receptionists,’ but in reality, as his personal playthings.  Mallory, of the forked tongue and the crossed fingers (“We don’t need a lawyer, Bern—here, just take my hand…”), who’d squeezed him like a lime over one of his Beefeater gimlets until he’d solved their chief conundrum, then patented the discovery under his own name, the biggest success they’d had, might ever have: an enhancement to certain surgical adhesives.  Not very sexy, but potentially worth millions.  And now he was departing and taking it all with him: patent, formula and a sample batch of their breakthrough compound.  He’d sold his soul in secret to the Pfazer Corporation, the Big Fish, and was striking off to Better Living Through Chemistry.  

          But Bernard was on to him.  Old dumpy, balding, second-fiddle Bernard knew the score, and had now for weeks.  Ever since he’d intercepted the special delivery letter that the fool had had sent here to the lab, and steamed it open the way that he’d seen a P. I. do it on TV, and read with interest all about Dr. Mallory’s plans for a bold new future.  Plans that did not, sadly, include his chum and partner of seven long, back-breaking years.  Years spent hunched over burners and balances and titrating burettes, watching reagent pass by as his life did likewise, drop by miserable drop—

          “You sure you’re O.K, Bernard?  You look a little peaked.”  She always called him Bernard, always treated him with respect.

          “I’m fine, dear, thank you.  But late.  Takes a full six hours to make our magic potion—”

          “And I’m going to need an extra liter for those tests while you’re on vacation,” said Mallory.

          “You’ll have plenty.  I’m making a double batch.”

          “Perfect.  And don’t forget to—”

          “Sixteen degrees ‘C’.  Yes, I know, Jim.  I’ve been working with our product for a long time now, remember?”

          The other flashed a winning smile.  “I remember, Bern.  And you’ve done a fine job with it, too.”

          “Yes I have, buddy boy,” said Leyton, touching a finger to his partner’s chest.  “And that’s why you’re bringing a family-sized jug of Glenfiddich with you to dinner tonight.”

          “Oh, fine,” pouted Sylvia.  “A dinner party, and I wasn’t invited.”  Both men turned to her with identical hand-in-the-cookie-jar expressions.

          “Well, I—” Leyton began, before Mallory cut him off.

          “You told me you had an exam to study for.”

          “I do.  Physics.  I was only kidding.”  Mallory brightened, while Leyton’s heart hit the floor.  So now they were coordinating their schedules.  How nice.  If only she knew what a louse he was, if only she’d been around for last year’s conquest (Angelique was her name, with the cornrows)… 

         “Want me to kick it off today Bern?”

The question was rhetorical.  By custom, they split the lengthy preparation process into two phases: the first, a protracted series of weighings and distillations, and the second, a shorter, but truly dangerous step involving the addition of a toxic catalyst.  Mallory opted inevitably for the latter, saving energy, no doubt, for taxing bouts of philandering in the front office.  His partner didn’t much mind this arrangement, helping as it did to pass the time, while offering the occasional advantage…

          “No, thanks, Jim,” he said, poring over his data sheets.  “I’ll leave the heroics to you.”

*   *   *

          Leyton brought the volumetric flask to eye level, and using a squeeze-bottle of deionized water, raised the liquid up its narrow throat until the meniscus was even with a line etched in the glass.  He stoppered the container, inverted it, and watched as tiny snowflakes disappeared into solution.  Then he placed the vessel in the refrigerator, adjusted the thermostat, peeled off his disposable gloves and checked the clock.  Perfect, right on target.  Now there was only one more thing to take care of, one small detail, and he’d be off for a week’s well-deserved vacation.  

          It was time to murder his partner.

          And yet, despite everything, he hesitated.  Despite the fact that the man was a back-stabbing scoundrel who plotted to destroy their business, and with it, his own career.  And even though he had come to loathe this person in a way that he never thought possible, not only because of his deception and disloyalty, but also—and perhaps primarily—because of his attitude.  For they were no longer equals.  Not in Mallory’s eyes, and even worse, not in his own.  He felt inferior in every respect, which was patently ridiculous.  He was smarter, more accomplished, and better educated.  It was he who had led the way always, from the formation of their company to the direction it would take, and then in getting them across the finish line.  Mallory couldn’t have done it, would have been lost without him.  And yet somehow, over the course of months and years, he had managed to weasel his way into a postion of superiority, treating him more and more like an underling, until, almost subconsciously, he had begun to accept that role.  He would have accepted it, too, wouldn’t even have cared so much, if…  If it hadn’t been for Sylvia.  He was in love with her, why deny it.  That was his prime motivation, certainly, but there were others, and plenty of them.  The man was a menace, a bane, a blight on society; why, the act would be a public service. 

And the scheme he’d devised to carry it out was brilliant in its simplicity.  The final stage of preparation—the one that Jim would be handling—was the introduction of four hundred and fifty-six milliliters of p-dimethylaminobenzaldehyde to the base solution over a ninety-minute period.  No big deal, from a procedural standpoint, unless you understood that p-d happened to be one of the nastier substances on the face of the earth.  So nasty, in fact, that a permit from the State of New York was required to even store it on the premises.  So utterly nasty, in fact, that should you absorb so much as a couple of micrograms of the stuff during handling (i.e., a single sniff)—you could kiss your ass goodbye. 

According to G. Eric Sands, Industrial Hygienist, and author of the renowned, Dangerous Properties of Industrial Chemicals, within about four hours of exposure, you’d begin to exhibit the symptoms: cramps in the extremities, blurred vision, nausea, dizziness.  After a day or so, when the agent had hacked its way through your synapses like weed killer in a vegetable patch, you’d be blind and mumbling as electrical signals from your brain found themselves stopped at ‘Road Closed’ signs with ever-increasing frequency.  It was around this point that your vital organs would be affected, and then…

But workers protected themselves from such hazards with an array of  special equipment: gloves and face-shields to preserve the skin; respirators and fume hoods to guard against dusts and gases.  The severity of the threat in this case would call for the latter two to be used in tandem, although the hood alone—if operated correctly and properly functioning—would be just adequate.  This, of course, was all that James J. Mallory, Ph.D., Casanova, and Man’s Man, ever chose to employ. 

The hood was a beige metal box about a yard cubed.  It worked by pulling air in through a sliding sash window at the front, and expelling it through a duct at the top that ran outside the building.  The chemist would place the items he was going to work with inside it, draw down the sash as far as possible, then reach in underneath to perform his task.  Induced draft ensured that any air or gas flow would always be from the outside in, and never the opposite.

          With one exception.  On the exterior, right-hand wall of the box, near the back, was an unobtrusive and never-used lever that allowed the flow path to be reversed for a periodic cleaning of the filter element.  If the louvers were reconfigured to this position while the internal fan was engaged, the air in the hood would actually discharge through the sash opening to engulf anyone standing before it.  Nor would he have any indication of this development, as the bulb in the warning indicator had never been installed, and the air conditioning unit overhead—with its whining belts and gale-like emission—produced more than enough distraction to confuse the issue. 

          Not that there was a realistic chance of this happening accidentally.  Unless, that is, someone had been stupid enough to locate an aluminum coat rack only inches away from the cleaning lever, its silver prongs nearly identical in shape and size…

          Leyton knew that his plan was clever, oh yes.  But as a man of science, he knew also that nothing was guaranteed.  It was possible that the mission could fail, or worse, that it could work halfway, but that investigators would reach higher into the logic tree than the low-hanging fruit he’d provided for them.  It was conceivable that he’d be arrested and convicted and imprisoned in some hideous hell-hole with the dregs of society.  But the odds were against it.  Because short of an outright confession, there’d be no way to prove that the fatal occurrence in the laboratory were anything other than the hapless error it appeared to be.  And there would be no confession.  That much he could guarantee.  No; there’d be statements taken, sympathetic nods, crocodile tears, and then: case closed. 

Yet still, he hesitated.  It was just that, well, he wasn’t big on killing things.  Not the 

mallards he’d blasted with Grandpa, nor the rats that he’d chloroformed in college, much less a human being.  And Mallory was at least technically one of those, if a more vile example could scarcely be imagained.  

          Hands behind his back, he began to circle the long center island.  He knew that if he didn’t act today, now, in the next five minutes, he never would.  One lap completed, he started another before halting abruptly beside the pH probe, and raising his fist as if to obliterate the instrument in a fit of rage.  Instead, the arm fell limp at his side. 

          It was no good.  He couldn’t go through with it.

          Eyes misting, he shook his head in disgust.  Not only had he proven himself a coward (in addition to his other failings), but he’d still have to make good on the invitation, still have to sit across the table from that worm and watch him masticate.  At least he could ruin the meal; that was something.  He slipped off his lab coat, hung it up, and trudged for the office door like a condemned man to the gallows.  Reaching for the knob, he glanced at the Venetian blind over the connecting window, and noticed a darker strip along its base, meaning that the lights were out, for some reason, in the room beyond.  A sound came to him simultaneously, and he yanked his hand back.  No, he thought, it couldn’t be.  As he stood there listening, it came again.  He knew that sound—not, unfortunately, from personal experience, but rather from the movies—as in the kind they kept roped off in the back of the video store.  It was distinctive to the ear as the crack of a walnut, the whistle of a tea kettle, or the purr of a declining zipper: a female moan of passion.

          Leyton saw red.  Here he was, working his butt off in the laboratory while Mallory was in there pawing a girl half his age—with the lights out no less!  What the heck could they be doing?  An idea occurred to him, and he switched off the overhead fluorescents, equalizing the brightness on either side of the glass.  Then he carefully depressed a slat in the blind and peeked through the notch.  They had pulled the shade on the street-side window as well, but he could still distinguish them clearly enough.  Sylvia stood with her back to the filing cabinet, and Mallory—Mallory was pressed up against her, grinding and groping.  The nerve of that snake!  At least they still had their clothes on.  Impulsively, he reached over and jiggled the doorknob.  Her shirt gave birth to a huge white hand, and the two of them staggered in opposite directions.

          The doctor jerked himself upright, spun in place and retraced his steps to the coat rack.  With one eye on the door, he removed his smock from the hook, hung it on the fume-hood cleaning lever, and pulled down smartly with both hands until he felt the position change, and heard a telltale clunk.

*   *   *

          When he finally entered the office, the lights were back on, Sylvia had disappeared into the lavatory, and Mallory slumped in the client’s chair, thumbing his cell phone.  His bottle-black coiffure was freshly slicked with that goop he used.  “The potion’s in the fridge,” Leyton enthused.  “You’re all set up.”  His partner grunted.

          “So, what do you think.  Zucchini O. K.?”

          “Huh?”

          “With the steak tonight.  Or maybe sautéed mushrooms.  Which do you prefer?”

          “Either one’s good.  Surprise me.”    

           Alright; a surprise it is.  And Jim, I was thinking.  If you have any trouble with those tests next week, just give me a call at the house.  It’s not like I’m going away or anything.”

          “Thanks, Bern, I appreciate that.  But we’ll make out alright.”

          We.  Us.  Always rubbing it in.  “I’m sure you will.  Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.  Well, off for groceries.  See you at seven.”  His eyes went to the bathroom door.  “And be sure to say goodbye to Sylvia.  For me, that is.”  

*   *   *

The smoke alarm in the hallway would beep when he made toast.  If Leyton actually cooked something, the harangue became intolerable.  No sooner had he ascended a step stool to disconnect the battery than he smelled smoke, and realized that the sirloin was in fact on fire.  Scurrying back to the kitchen, he drew on an oven mitt, pulled out the broiler rack and blew out the flame.  Then he grabbed a fork, skewered the meat, and had peeled it off the grill when another sound—not a beep this time, but the crackle of tires on gravel—caused him to freeze in place, the steak drizzling fat onto the carving board.  At last he slapped it down and strode for the door.  But every step grew harder as panic pushed back like a stiff north wind.  What was he afraid of?  It was only Mallory out there, a man he knew well, had spoken to only a few short hours ago…

          Only it wasn’t.  This was an anomaly, an aberration, an affront to nature.  A thing that was stone-cold dead for all intents and purposes, but still twitching away, like a frog’s leg in Biology lab—

          DING-DONG.

          Leyton choked off a cry.  Then he took hold of himself, slipping on the neutral gray mask that he’d worn for so long now it seemed almost real.  It was the same one he’d donned as a boy when the others made fun of his weight, or the old-fashioned clothes that his mother dressed him in, or the inability to do a single pull-up in gym class.  How he’d longed to strike back at them somehow, to wipe those filthy grins from their faces—

          The door swung inward with a baleful moan, and here was one of them now, by gum, looking down his nose like all the rest.

*   *   *

          Whiskey splashed as Leyton poured between the glasses.  Grabbing a sponge, he took an exuberant swipe at the spill, then flung the pad to the rear of the sink.  He felt marvelous.  The tension he’d experienced earlier had abated somewhat when Jim had shown up looking fit as a fiddle.  It had reduced further during the meal and its attendant carafe of burgundy, again over after-dinner liqueurs, and now, as he carried their second round of highballs from kitchen to dining room, wasn’t even a speck in the rear-view mirror.       

“Mind if I steal one?” asked Mallory, pushing aside his dish and reaching for the cigarettes.

          “Please do,” said Leyton, noting with pleasure that his partner had to be well in the bag to be smoking.  Perhaps he’d veer into a tree on the way home and spare the coroner a lot of head-scratching and superfluous dissections.  Though it was also possible, he reckoned as he checked his watch, that there’d been no exposure after all.  He could have worn a respirator for once—there was a first time for everything—or put off the job till tomorrow… 

          Instead of the ashtray, Mallory tapped ashes on the remains of his cheesecake.  “You know something, Bern?”

          “What’s that, Jim?”

          “I admire you.” 

          That drew a snort.

“No, really, I mean it.  You’ve chosen the bachelor life, and you live it well.”  (Right, thought Leyton.  Like a midget chooses to wear short pants—)  “You’ve got a great house here, your affairs are in order, you keep your appetites under control…”  (Was that a slam at his physique?)  “You’re even a good cook.  I can’t remember when I’ve had a better—ow.  Ow!  Mother of—  Will you look at that!”  He banged his hand onto the tabletop, and Leyton watched in fascination as the fingers curled in on themselves as if he were squeezing an invisible tennis ball.  (‘Cramps in the extremities,’ intoned G. Eric Sands.  And so it begins…)

          “Happens to me all the time,” said Leyton, both thrilled and horrified at the spectacle.  “Hang on a second.  I’ll fix you up.”  He got to his feet and started for the medicine cabinet.  When he returned, Mallory’s hand appeared normal again, though he was still gawking at it in amazement.  His host rolled two amber capsules onto the place mat in front of him.  “Here you go.”

          “What’s this?”

          “Vitamin E.  Essential for the aging chemist.  I take them every day.”

          “But I’ve never had any trouble with cramping—”

          “And I had all my hair until it fell out.  Go ahead, take them.  You’ll see.  You’ll be a new man.”

          “I don’t know.  Maybe I should—”

          “C’mon, c’mon.”  After a pause, Mallory tossed the pills back and gulped his drink.

          “That a boy,” said Leyton, picking up the empties and heading for the kitchen.  “I’ll get us a refill.”              

          “Time marches on, Bern,” his guest called after him.  “You’ve got that right.  Ever since I turned forty, I’ve felt like an old jalopy that’s falling apart piece by piece.  Eyesight’s going, hearing’s shot—I’ve got age spots, for Pete’s sake.”  He held up the offending hand, frowning at the back of it this time.  “It may sound funny, but…that’s why Sylvia’s been so important to me.  She makes me feel young again.”

His host looked daggers at him from the counter, but he was staring into space.  Sure, thought Leyton.  Just like Angelique, and What’s-her-name before that.  It’s a wonder you’re not in swaddling clothes by now.  And a vision came then, of Mallory’s trip last month to the Washington convention.  Sylvia had gone with him.  It was supposed to be a secret, but they’d dropped enough hints to make it obvious.  He saw them now in the hotel suite, naked beneath their bathrobes, giggling over plastic cups of champagne.  He might have been a fly on the wall.  And suddenly it was imperative that he kill Jim NOW, this minute, that he take this heavy steel cleaver and go over there and begin hacking at him like a side of beef, chuckling with childish glee as the festive slivers flew hither and yon—

          But his partner was sliding his chair back and struggling to his feet, a hand clenched to his gut, complaining of discomfort and stumbling urgently for the bathroom, and there was G. Eric Sands at the lectern, reciting symptoms in the mournful cadence of a Grigorian chant: ‘NAU-se-a…  DIZZ-i-ness...’  Leyton padded over to stand outside the door, and listen contentedly to his guest heaving dinner into the john.

*   *   *

          By the time Dr. Mallory shuffled into the living room (looking ghostly pale and screamingly unwell), Leyton was planted on the sofa by the coffee table, toying with an ivory chess set.  “Hope that wasn’t a commentary on the cuisine.”

          “A thousand pardons, Bern.  Guess I can’t hold the sauce like I used to.  Alright if I crash here on the couch?  I don’t think I could make it home.”  As if to dramatize this point, he staggered into an armchair.

          “Not a problem.  I’ll fetch you some blankets.”  Leyton indulged in a languorous stretch before standing up again.  Then, noting some wobble in his own gait, he took it as a warning: no more booze for him tonight.  He’d need all of his wits about him in the AM, when he’d awaken, possibly, to a cadaver on the livingroom floor.  But no, he decided on the way to the linen closet; Jim was a tough old coot.  He’d hang in there till tomorrow afternoon, easy. 

When he got back, Mallory’d taken his place on the sofa, and was staring at the chessboard blearily.  He had one arm out of the sports jacket that drooped from a shoulder like a nobleman’s cape.  “Can hardly make the darn things out,” he grumbled.

          “I can hardly make you out,” said Leyton, piling the bedding beside him.  “Here.  This ought to do the trick.  If you get hungry later, there’s leftovers in the fridge.  Just help yourself.”

“The only thing I’ll be helping myself to is about eighty winks.  Wake me up for lunch.”

          “Or vice versa,” said his host, and he left his soon-to-be erstwhile partner wrestling with

the remaining sleeve.

*   *   *

          Leyton lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the shadows.  Nature’s Rorschach test, thanks to a sugar maple, a gentle breeze, and the sodium streetlight outside his window.  In quick succession, he identified an antelope, a stagecoach, the coastline of the British Isles.  But mostly, he saw Sylvia; her breasts and buttocks and floriated mound, appearing and disappearing in a seething pageant of carnal revelation.  And he found himself stirred by the notion that, realistically, it could all soon be his.  For what could she see in a scarecrow like Mallory but the glitter of gold: the car, the suits, the Rolex—all derived from their discovery, and the patent that would now revert to him alone, thanks to the death clause in their partnership agreement—the only protection that Jim had conceded, assuming, of course, that it would never come into play. 

          The scene at the hotel returned transmuted, with Dr. Leyton in the starring role, and beside him at the restaurant, in the jacuzzi, on top of the heart-shaped bed in the honeymoon suite, his loyal, star-struck assistant…and lover.  Impossible?  Why, it was all but carved in stone.  Tomorrow morning, he would bid adieu to the zombie with comforting pats and platitudes, then spend his day in the garden with a pitcher of fresh lemonade, awaiting the inevitable phone call and its oh-so tragic news.  The thought put a smile on his lips, and when sleep began to beckon like a long lost friend, he did not resist its summons.

*   *   *

          Mallory rolled over for the thousandth time, the blanket wrapped like a tourniquet around his neck.  Cursing, he sat upright and ripped it away.  He felt terrible: hollow and wired and pulsing with an eerie discomfort that he couldn’t put his finger on.  Both smashed and exhausted, he still couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even begin to get comfortable.  With a valiant effort he hauled himself up on rubbery legs, and headed uncertainly for the kitchen, his shins battering like ice-breakers through a sea of foreign obstacles.  Finally he found the light switch, and a glass, and the bottle, and poured himself a triple.  He took a sip and felt better, then a swig and better still, and was about to kill the light again when he spotted Bernie’s smokes and figured, what the heck.

          Now when he hit the sofa it was welcoming at last.  Or more than that; it was blissful,

sublime, the stuff of dreams.  And before too long he was dreaming for real, of Sylvia Slyvinski; of her skin and her lips and the smell of her hair.  And a romance involving another sort of chemistry was near at hand as well.  For when he slid to the pillow, the red-hot tip of his cigarette met the inviting folds of chenille upholstery, and the heat of their passion seemed to know no bounds. 

*   *   *

          Zoltan Papp, bass guitar player for the cover-band Blinding Darkness, raised his boot off the gas pedal a half-block from the intersection.  When the signal went green he had to smile: another high note in what was fast becoming one kick-ass Friday night.  First they’d played to a packed house at the college, then he’d picked up a red-hot babe at the band party afterward, and now, tooling across town to his motel, she was snuggled up beside him like a puppydog.  It just didn’t get better than this—    

          A whoop and a flash and he stomped the brake, dragging the Camaro to a shrieking halt.  A huge red beast barreled across in front of them, then another one: fire trucks.  Holy cow, that was too darned close.  Should’ve been paying attention…

          “Follow them,” said the girl, the charge in her voice electric.  He gave her a kiss.   The big-block growled as he let out the clutch, hurling them around the corner.  They were in Leave-it-to-Beaver-land now, all flower beds and white picket fences, and there was an odd, purplish glow in the sky before an angry blaze leapt out of the darkness.  It was a single-story ranch off to the right, with bright orange flames lapping from every window.  Zoltan shook his head.  They weren’t going to save that sucker, no way…

          A car in the driveway glittered like a scarab in the hellish illumination.  It was a black Jaguar, noted Sylvia, a lot like Dr. Jimmy’s—but then a fireman was waving them forward and she averted her gaze, glad to escape the ugliness.

This story first appeared in WordWrights magazine.

Birds and Bees

   The talk-show lineup looked like a dud, and my options were growing slim.  There had to be something worth watching on at midnight.  I tried the educational channels.  Maybe I’d catch that gem on the Romans’ use of concrete, or a survey of Canadian glaciers.  But no, tonight it was a choice between some geezer playing the bagpipes, pink-fannied simians, or Howard Hughes: Man of Mystery...

Oh, heck, I thought.  What’s the use of dawdling?  I still had work to do (I often toiled late, so as not to preempt my evenings with the wife) and there was no avoiding it.  Except briefly, for a tinkle-break.  And then maybe cocoa—boy, did that sound good.  Sure, a nice mug of hot chocolate with those little marshmallows floating on top—you had to have those, those were essential.  But did we have any left?  There was something squishy in the rear of the candy drawer, behind the jellybeans and Chunkys—

But first things first.  I was heading for the bathroom when the glint of windowpanes drew my attention.  Recalling a full moon, I changed direction for the terrace.  Our terrace was what everyone else called a deck, but I couldn’t abide that word.  It summoned up visions of some dork in overalls with a tool belt.  Too bourgeois, even for me.  So terrace it became in the  family parlance, and Astrid was forced to endure yet one more eccentricity in her artist husband.  (Artist, that is, in the looser sense of brayers of pop music, or those who think animal scat belongs in a museum.  I’m a writer, actually, meaning that I spend blocks of time filling in pages by quill or keyboard, even if precious little trades for cash.  The scat-mongers score government grants.)

Anyhow, I exited the sliding glass door, and shuffled across the cool damp planks in my bare feet, marveling at the way the moonshine made neon abstracts of the aluminum furniture. Down the steps and onto the grass (cooler, damper), I followed the juniper bushes into the shadow of the house.  Once there, I cozied up to the hedge, unzipped, and allowed my gaze to drift skyward.

And it was blissful, cathartic, a sensuous joy.  Standing tall on my own estate, the breeze caressing my manhood, and above me, vast and purple, nothing less than God’s own velvet painting.  Why, I could almost make out His signature.  And then—lo!  A shooting star!  The first I’d seen since childhood!  This was too much! 

In the next instant, a mosquito tapped a nerve-center on my neck.  I slapped at it as I stumbled forward into the junipers, which, if you’re unfamiliar with them, bristle with millions of tiny barbs to make the smarter, four-legged animals keep their distance.

“Fudge!” I barked—or a word to that effect—then shot a fearful glance at the second floor window.  It was open to the summer air, and behind it lay my wife, hopefully still asleep.  She worked hard at her job as a real estate broker, and deserved a good night’s rest.  Besides which, it was her income that kept this ‘artist’ uncoupled from the ‘starving’, if you catch my drift.  I would turn that around with the royalties from my fictionalized life of Emmett Kelly, in which the hobo-clown was revealed to have been a protégé to Einstein, a commando in Vichy France, and inventor of the jockstrap.  But that was later.  For now, I was a pillar of salt, waiting.  The light didn’t come on, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

My exultant mood having tanked, I was loping along sullenly (itching at both ends), when I tripped over something.  What the—there shouldn’t be anything here but lawn.  I reached down to check; it felt like a pile of dirt.  Flinching away from another vampire, I went inside for my Trooper Special triple-cell, and came back out to look.  It was dirt, alright—a heap of it—where I sure as heck hadn’t left any.  But not regular dirt; it was firm and crunchy, like it had been moistened and baked in the sun.  There were lumps of it around my feet, and as I played the beam in wider arcs I found—another one!  There, not five feet away!  And it wasn’t just a pile, but a discernable shape: a cone, big as a dunce cap.

I stalked the yard in a wary crouch.  The mounds were everywhere: six, eight, ten—noxious warts in all directions.  Then I froze as an epiphany dawned: animals.  It was animals that had done this thing.  Invaded the sanctity of our hallowed half-acre.  Violating it, is what they’d done, with their nasty little snouts and claws.  And this, I realized, glaring down at the earthen effrontery between my feet, was a…molehill!  But wait.  We’d had moles when I was a kid, and they only made those shallow ridges under the bird feeder that’d squash flat when you stepped on them, nothing like this.  This was…vandalism!

I felt the familiar signs approaching, but it was too late; I had entered The Red Fog.  My face grew hot as my blood pressure zoomed to the top of the gauge.  Then I was running, the beam of the light zigzagging crazily, all thought of quiet abandoned.  Galloping over the deck—er, terrace—clomping through the sunroom/kitchen/hallway en route to the walk-in closet, clattering past heaps of umbrellas and luggage and Christmas ornaments for the one-and-only, terror-striking, doomsday weapon…

Target, dead ahead!  Enemy outpost at six o’clock!  Reinforced soil construction! READY, AIM—  Whacko!  Direct hit!  Obliterated in a cloud of dust!  A giggle escaped me as I swung again.  Forehand, backhand, each blow more devastating than the last.  Thud!  Blam!  Pow!  I was drunk with power and the thrill of battle.  I could have continued forever, adrenaline and testosterone sweeping me along like a sailboat in a hurricane: the Righteous Avenger, grimly reaping in the name of all that was decent and and holy, for kids and Mom and apple pie—

Then night became day as the floodlights came on and I halted, transfixed, my Louisville Slugger raised high, peering through the haze at a long-haired, nightie-clad beauty.  “Jack?” she inquired from the terrace.  “Are you alright?”

My bloodlust softened like pasta on the boil.  “Oh—hi, honey.  Did I wake you?”

The beauty stiffened and crossed her arms.  “Wake me?  I thought the house was on fire the way you were crashing around down here!  What the heck are you doing?”

Knowing that her tone was entirely justified made it all the more irksome.  I squared my shoulders and gestured with the bat.  “Just look at it,” I said.  “What they’ve done.  All this damage.”  I was proud of my accomplishment.  Beasts had attacked the homestead, and I had defended it with my own two hands.

“Damage?  What damage?  Who are you talking about?”  (Teacher addressing pupil, just before the knuckle rap.)

“The moles, of course!  And all this!”  But as I waved my arm, I saw that I’d done my job too well: the cones were so thoroughly obliterated, you couldn’t even see where they’d been. 

“But—there were these mounds all over the place!  Huge, ugly ones!  You should’ve seen them, honey!  They were…they were…”

She was turning away now and shaking her head.  “…ugly.”  A skeeter gave me a peck on the cheek, and I whacked myself viciously.  There seemed to be a bunch of them.  And when Astrid glanced back before entering the house, the last thing she saw was her screwball husband flailing away with a baseball bat, apparently at the empty night air…

*   *   *

I rolled over to embrace my wife, an image of her mounds front and center in my dawning consciousness, but she had long-since departed.  The productive half of our partnership was out producing, at the ungodly hour of—I checked the clock: nine-thirty.  After a languorous stretch, I hauled myself up to start the day.

The late-night writing had not gone well.  I was working on a story about a middle-school savant named Clio, who had determined that the same intellect which endeared her so to her teachers was resented by her classmates, who gave her the cold shoulder in response.  As a result, she had ‘dumbed herself down’ to fit in, a strategy which horrified her mother, who lived for the reflected glow of her offspring.  I set the piece at Clio’s thirteenth birthday party, where Mom had assembled not only a group of her daughter’s chums, but also the mayor, the school principal and a local reporter—all of whom had children in attendance.  A decent premise, I figured, which could veer in any number of directions.

The problem was that Clio wouldn’t behave herself.  Every time I turned around she was picking her nose or hiking her skirt, or flipping off one of the dignitaries.  I cast down my Bic in disgust.  I didn’t want to pen this dreck; I wanted to write real stories about monsters and cowboys and private detectives—the sort of genre fare that made stuck-up editors hold their noses while they looked down them at you (no mean feat).  And I was good at it, too!  Why, hardly a month had passed since I’d scored Third Prize over at Fiction Funhouse for a gut-wrenching tale of murder and revenge, along with a ten-dollar check on a background of bunnies and ducklings.  I was planning to have it framed. 

A squeal of brakes evoked the usual excitement, and I hurried out to the mailbox.  Authors live for their correspondence: the craft magazines, the vanity publishers, the writers’ school scams—all offering nothing for something—and best of all, those eerie missives addressed to yourself, which you’d sent out previously along with submissions.  You really know your trap is clogged when you supply some ingrate with a self addressed, stamped envelope to send you a form rejection slip—the literary version of a Bronx cheer.  There was nothing of import today, though, but a couple of Astrid’s—er, our—utility bills, and as I was passing my pride-and-joy, a 1991, mint condition Town Car, I heard a plop, and glanced over to find its newly-waxed, burnt sienna hood anointed with a starburst of avian offal.  I peered up at the canopy of maple leaves just as a downy-cheeked gewgaw, or whatever the heck it was, burst from the leaves in a flapping frenzy.

I shook a fistful of junk mail at it before spotting my bald and beetle-browed neighbor across the street, Igor Schnitzel, where he stood behind his lawn mower, gaping.  Feeling silly, I dropped the arm at once, trying to convert the motion into a kind of tortured wave.  He replied with an expression that could only be described as: Ugh.

Igor and I did not get along, and it was wholly my fault.  Soon after we’d moved into the house, I’d taken the initiative to go over there and introduce myself.  The huge man had extended a friendly hand as he gave me his name, and I had laughed in his face, thinking he’d made a joke.  Further mistaking his subsequent sour puss as an extension of the gag, I was fairly doubled over with hilarity when the shouting began.

“What are you?” he roared.  “Some kind of a wiseguy?  Get off my property!”  I noticed his eyes in search of something, which I very much feared might be the axe that was leaning against yonder tree.  I skedaddled, and that was pretty much the template of our relationship.  Over time, I had managed to convince myself that Igor, a retired mortician, was not only the misshapen troglodyte that he appeared to be, but quite possibly a dangerous deviant besides.  I fully expected to see him handcuffed in a cloud of pepper spray any day now.

Determined to reclaim positivity, I settled onto the terrace with a cup of coffee, a microwaved breakfast sandwich and the newspaper.  I decided that if I couldn’t make any headway on the story today, I’d file it away in my Fragments Folder and outline something new.  I would devote two solid hours to work—well, one hour, anyway—before lunchtime.  You couldn’t force these things, any more than you could will yourself to be pregnant, or lucky at the track.  The important thing was to relax, to offer the spirit of inspiration a nice clean slate, a warm, receptive, phosphate-rich loam, from which it could send out its icky-white tendrils in all directions.  Or something like that.

Enjoying my resolve, I helped myself to a generous lungful of crisp, clean, morning air.  Though it was barely still morning, and a trifle muggy if the truth be told.  Still, it was grand to be sitting out here with nothing in view but the pleasing sight of our very own yard, and the lush green woods beyond it.  Once you came around back, you couldn’t see the road or any of the other houses.  And the peace was profound; no yapping dogs, no road noise—

VRRRROOM!!

—though Schnitzel’s lawn mower, through some arcane law of physics, did manage to come through loud and clear.  I felt myself tensing and shook it off.  None of that, I thought.   Think positive.  Good karma, one with everything, all that sort of tripe.  Behold this perfect spread of lawn!  Our stately apple tree!  That opulent stand of—I reached around to scratch at a bite.  The lawn wasn’t perfect at all, I saw now, but marred by the remnants of those blasted cones.  And one or two of them actually seemed larger, as it they’d begun repairs—

I recoiled from a yellow jacket and spilled coffee on my shirt.  As I slid away it landed on my sandwich.  I waved the paper at him, and he disappeared under the table.  I waited expectantly—poised to swat him when he emerged—but he never did.  Soon another one appeared and went under at the same spot.  Hmmm…  Standing up, I removed my breakfast things, put a hand on either side of the wicker table, tilted it slowly onto two legs, and—   

They came at me in a rush and I leapt back, dumping the table onto its side.  Now I could see the softball-sized sphere on the bottom, like a wasp motel with a VACANCY sign.  This time I didn’t feel the Fog approaching at all; it was just there, like a toothache.  “That’s it!” I shrieked.  “All you stinking vermin, buzzing and pooping and flapping around like you own the place!  Well, you listen to me!  This is MY house, not yours, and I’ve got—DOMINION!!”  I jerked a raving thumb over my shoulder.  “Go over there and play footsie with Igor!  Leave me the hell alone!”

And the hornets—the dozen or so that were milling about the nest—gathered into a tight little knot like a squadron of fighter planes, shot past my shoulder and over the railing, and were gone.  Just like that.  I stood there gawking for perhaps a minute before I noticed that the sound of the mower had changed.  Then it sputtered, then stopped.  And next came the most indescribably horrible noise I’ve ever heard in my life.  Like an animal caught in a trap, though what manner of beast this could be, God only knew.  I flew down the steps and around to the driveway.  It was Schnitzel across the street, careening from point to point on his lawn like a pinball.  Obscuring his head was an electron cloud of hornets.  He smashed into a tree and went down—then he was up again like a Jack-in-the Box and charging for his house.  When the door slammed behind him it echoed like gunfire.

I don’t remember returning to the terrace.  My next recollection is of sitting on the steps, deep in puzzlement.  Or, up to my ankles, say—that’s about as deep as it gets with me.  Anyway, there I am, trying to make sense out of what I’ve just witnessed.  Lets’ face it, we rationalize.  If the round answers don’t fit the square questions, we keep on banging away till we drive those suckers home.  But this time, I couldn’t do it.  I knew what I’d seen, and that was that.  I’d ordered some bugs to assault my neighbor, and they’d done it.  As of course they should in a perfect world, my being their evolutionary better and all.  Not to mention squire and kahuna of everything for as far as the eye could see, which from my present vantage point was about forty feet.

My attention narrowed to the pockmarked grass.  “Yo, moles,” I ventured.  “It’s your turn.  Straighten up this mess you’ve made, and be quick about it.  Chop, chop!  The master has spoken!”  Brown bodies appeared from a dozen holes at once, and I started violently, thumping my head against the newel post.   

They went to work at a feverish pace, moving so quickly I could hardly follow them.  Only after a while was there change enough to see what they were about.  Cleaning up the mess is what, just as I’d requested.  Tiny brown mammals, somewhere in size between a field mouse and a hamster, dashing hither and yon, pushing, pawing, scraping—doing moley stuff—and in their wake: nothing but level ground.  No piles, no clumps, no ridges—no grass, either, where the mounds had been, but you couldn’t expect miracles.  Why, they were even carting away leaves and twigs! 

When they’d finished, they commenced to form a hairy mob in the center of the yard, and I thought, oh boy, here it comes.  They’re massing for an attack!  “Uh, thanks, boys, you can go now,” I stammered as I scrabbled backwards up the steps, and before I’d drawn another breath, they were scampering off in all directions.

“Oh, no,” I muttered.  “No, no, no.  This is impossible.  This can’t be.”  A bird came sailing over the roof, and I fixed it with a finger.  “Hold it!” I cried, and it sort of skidded to a stop and hovered there as best it could, frantically treading air.  “Dismissed,” I appended, and it flitted away.

So what happened next?  Well, I went a little goofy with my new-found skill, I admit it: sending all of God’s creatures to fertilize Igor’s spread; having the rabbits weed our flower garden and the squirrels shine my shoes.  I had a ‘coon riding deer-back, a fox doing the foxtrot, and I even coaxed a black bear out of hiding for a display of brute force—moving that boulder that Astrid wanted centered between the yew bushes.  (I toyed with the concept of dispatching Smokey to Schnitzel’s place for some good-natured roughhousing, but managed to restrain myself.) 

Around lunchtime, I prepared a kind of smorgasbord for the gang by emptying the contents of every kitchen cabinet onto the lawn.  In the process I made an important discovery: wild animals will eat anything.  You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a turtle gumming a Ring Ding, a red-tailed hawk with a pickle, or a teary-eyed possum wrapped around a Bermuda onion.  The ants and termites seemed satisfied with the crumbs. 

When I heard Astrid’s Pathfinder trundle up the driveway, I had just enough time to shoo the menagerie out of view; it wouldn’t do to have my secret revealed until the moment was perfect.  I jogged on over and opened her door.  “Hi, honey,” I beamed.

She was frowning.  “Well don’t you look—soiled.  What on earth—”

“Oh, just doing some calisthenics,” I explained, pinwheeling my arms for emphasis.  “So, how was your day?”

She gave me an odd look.  “Frustrating.  The McHenry deal is dead in the water.  Now they’ve decided they want—what’s that smell?

“Just my own manly musk, dear,” I winked.

“Smells more like bull—musk, from this angle,” she said.  “Better check your sneakers.

You must have stepped in something.”  We started up the walk.  “How’s the epic coming?”

“It seems to be morphing into something unexpected.  A sort of a fantasy piece.  I’m going to need your help with it.”

“My help?” she asked incredulously.

I nodded.  “I need your input for the ending.”

“Well—O.K.  I’ll take a look.  So.  Are you ready for some culture?”  She had come home early for a visit to the new museum. 

“Sorry, sweetie, we’ll go another time.  I have a special treat lined up, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

She stopped short and turned to face me, a nascent smile forming.  “Oh, you do, do you?  And just what sort of treat is this, pray tell?”

“Something you’ll never forget,” I boasted confidently.  “We’re going to the zoo!” 

This story was first published in WordWrights magazine.

Ground Zero

    God was after Grover Prue.  He knew that sure as he knew his own name, though he couldn’t have explained why.  He had tried to be a decent fellow always; loyal to his friends, respectful of his elders, pious and patriotic as the next lad.  Or no, much more so than the next lad.  He’d seen to that.  Scrupulously: altar boy, Eagle Scout, Honor Society, he’d done it all.  Yet the Big Guy was still out for his hide, and no mistake.  Grover had never discussed this fact with anyone—not in so many words—but they all knew it too.  His parents, his brother and sister, his classmates, and even the neighbors knew it.  Because they’d witnessed, as he had, the Wrath in all its fury. 

            They’d been there, some of them, at the birthday party when Grover turned six and the oak came down.  A mammoth of a thing it was: eighty feet high, old as the Colonies and solid as a mountain.  Or so it had seemed.  In reality, it was hollow as a gourd from generations of termites having their own party, and down it had come that day—square across the redwood table where they’d all been eating lunch.  Grover’s sister Macie had just gotten up to play horseshoes, joined by cousin Clarence, brother Ralph and Grover’s buddies Philip, Seton, and Carl.  Only the birthday boy remained on the bench, polishing off a second slice of cake and content as a clam.  It missed him, that tree did, by about a yard, halving the table and rattling windows in the house next door.  Its limbs had struck like Louisville Sluggers, annihilating plates and glasses but sparing the little towhead who popped up through the leaves, goggle-eyed and still chewing. 

            A couple of years went by, and the incident entered the realm of family legend, embellished with each retelling of this astonishing, once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon.

            Then the boiler blew.  It was a steam explosion, the principal had explained.  The principal of Toddville Elementary School, that is, who admitted to Grover’s parents that he was only repeating what the state inspector had told him.  It seemed the automatic feed-water valve had stuck shut, but that the safety switch hadn’t cut off the fire like it was supposed to do when that happened.  So the drum had gotten hotter and hotter until it was red-hot and glowing, like the filament in a toaster.  Only this was a steel tank twelve feet long and heavy as an Eldorado.  Then the valve popped open and let the water in—which flashed to steam so fast that it blew the thing apart like an overstuffed balloon. 

            A wall of the boys’ lavatory had been demolished, filling the air with deadly shrapnel.  Fortunately, the room had been empty at the time save for a lone occupant: Grover Prue.  The third-grader had been balancing a wooden bathroom pass on a finger and contemplating life from the perspective of the third stall when all heck broke loose.  He was spared by a sturdy metal partition which had absorbed the impact of the flying debris but not, alas, the sound waves, which had left him deaf for nearly a week.

            While inexpressibly grateful for their son’s good fortune, George and Edna Prue couldn’t help noting the peculiar coincidence of a second, ultra-close call.  Sideward glances were exchanged when the events were linked in conversation.  But they got over it, and Grover went back to his studies, George to his job at Q-Mart, and mother Edna to managing it all.  

            The following June, the family had made its annual jaunt to Happy Valley Amusement Park.  It was small by modern standards—one of the nation’s oldest, in fact—and was home, therefore, to no parachute plunges, theme rides or geriatric, kibble-fed tigers like some of its competitors.  What it offered instead was a wholesome, hand-tooled charm that had endeared it to generations.            

            On line for cotton candy, Grover spotted a teenage girl by the Fun House who seemed to be watching him.  Too young to have the social wares to look away, he had simply stared back, and it was she who, with a smile and a nod, finally broke the connection.  Only then did he realize how pretty she was, this fresh-faced, long-haired blonde, but when he turned around again with his treat, she was gone.            

            After lunch, Macie and Ralph made straight for the Dragon Coaster, while Mom and Dad escorted their little brother to his own favorite ride: Spinning Sammy Spider.  Rushing ahead as he munched on a corn dog, Grover was approaching the lovable giant of a whirling red bug, his eyes wide with excitement, when it decided to come to him instead.  With a horrific groan, a critical linkage let go, and one of Sammy’s legs—a twenty foot assembly with a two-seater car attached to one end—broke free and sailed through the air like the hammer of Thor.  Mother Edna, was dumb struck; there was no time to reach him, to yank him from harm’s way, to do anything but give voice to the heart-wrenching cry that ripped from her lungs. 

            Grover didn’t hear it.  The music of the calliope, the whoops and bells from the other rides, the buzz of the folks around him—all of it was gone now as he watched a slow motion, 3-D drama in rapt silence.  The spider leg was coming for him.  Not to the right and not to the left, but for him, Grover, star of his own disaster film.  And he was rigid, ossified, as fixed to the spot as if he’d been planted there, watered and nurtured for a full nine years in preparation for this event.  He watched as the thing grew huge, until he could plainly see the faces of two grownups, mouths locked in screaming O’s as they hurtled his way.  Grover closed his eyes and sound returned: shrieks and shouts and then a blast of wind and a terrible, protracted crash—

            His mother seized hold of him and spun him around to face her, and when he opened his eyes he was looking at the ticket booth over her shoulder.  Or what was left of it.  The roof had been shorn off completely, the supporting uprights probing space like an inverted stool.  Beyond that, Sammy’s leg had punched through Humpty Dumpty’s papier-mâche wall, leaving an outline of itself before landing in a haymow at the Children’s Zoo.  People picked their way through squawking chickens and bleating goats to reach the couple still in the car, looking as bewildered as if they’d landed on the moon. Grover’s mother clutched him to her breast.  “Oh, honey, honey,” she sobbed.  “I thought we’d lost you.  I thought my baby was gone for sure.”  She thrust him away for a better view.

“Why, it came so—”  Her eyes rose to a scratch on her son’s forehead, a scratch that led to a perfect part in his hair that hadn’t been there before, coinciding, she would later find, with a six-inch bolt distending dagger-like from the belly of the two-seater car.   “So close,” she finished, and George was there to catch her when she fell.

            Life continued normally after that—if playing dodge ball with the Grim Reaper is what you consider normal.  When he was twelve, for example, lightning struck the aluminum flagpole in front of Toddville Middle School.  The freak discharge of a single scudding cloud, no one was anywhere near the thing at the time—except for Master Grover Prue, who’d been leaning against it, daydreaming.  The pole itself survived intact, but Old Glory, vigorously awave beneath a brass finial, had burst into flame like it was doused with gasoline.  As had Grover—or more accurately, his green flannel shirt—a nigh disaster averted by the quick-witted maintenance man, who had tackled the sprinting torch only seconds from immolation.  Grover’s injuries were thus limited to the loss of a favorite garment, and the indignity of failing to outrun the janitor.

            Nobody thought the boy was to blame.  Anymore than they had when the Wawkatinny Creek Bridge collapsed a heartbeat after his bike had rolled over it; or a few months later when the only recorded twister in Bolton County had leveled the Captain Cone Ice-cream Hut as Grover departed with a black-and-white soft serve; or when the façade of the old Brewster Building had crumbled into Main Street, pulverizing a taxi stand and a VW Beetle, but leaving the teenager poised between them entirely unscathed. 

            Increasingly however, the townsfolk (and eventually even his friends and relatives) had begun to keep their distance.  It seemed only logical that such a stretch of luck was bound to run out eventually, and that when it did, it would be the boy proper, rather than the surrounding acreage, who would get clobbered.  Grover seemed to sense this also.  Against the protest of his parents and the recommendation of his guidance counselor, he had taken, upon graduation from high school, a caretaker’s position in another town.  The salary wasn’t much, but at least the bus wouldn’t empty out whenever he climbed aboard.  And more significantly, it called for hours to be spent on the spacious lawn, or tending to one of the gardens, or mending fences in some far-flung corner of the estate, where dragging others along on his trip to the Pearly Gates might be avoided.

            And so it was that Grover, a handsome young man of nineteen, who felt as if he had already lived far more years than the calendar would suggest, at last found a measure of peace in his life.  Not the sort of peace that you or I would recognize—what with rabid skunks and copperheads slinking into your path, and the chainsaw kicking back to trim your sideburns with some regularity—but enough for Grover Prue.  In the evening, when his chores were done, Grover would settle into his little cottage to enjoy a frozen dinner and an hour or two of television.  He was especially fond of the history fare, where a show about the Titanic or the curse on Tut’s Tomb would strike a sympathetic chord.  Later, after the screen went dark and he lay awake listening to the mockingbird flinging its rejection of circadian rhythms into a vast and lonely night, it would come again.  That dreadful introspection, when he'd wonder for the umpteenth time if he had done something terrible to bring all this about.  If so, he sure couldn’t put his finger on it.

            And then, much as he tried to avoid the topic, to concentrate on the next day’s work, or King Tut, or anything else whatsoever, he would end up pondering how it would happen.  He didn’t dread the idea as he once had, didn’t waste his time anymore on elaborate schemes of avoidance or escape.  Death came to everyone eventually.  For him, the scale was tilted a bit toward the sooner side, that’s all.  He only hoped was that it wouldn’t be too painful, and he’d pray for that as sleep enfolded.

*   *   *

            Grover dog-eared his paycheck as he stood in line at the bank.  He was thinking about a movie he planned to watch that evening—an action-adventure yarn, full of the car chases, fist fights and shootouts that brought him so much joy.  There was something about the sheer phoniness of the Hollywood mayhem that he found soothing, even if, for obvious reasons, he wouldn’t have touched a real gun with a pair of tongs.  Like that one.  Darned if that didn’t look just like the butt-end of a pistol in the crease of that guy’s shopping bag, the fidgety one with the salt-and-pepper beard…

            “Alright!  Everybody down on the floor!  This is a stickup!”  He waved the weapon ominously, then strode to the teller’s window and shoved his bag through the slot.  “Fill it up,” he growled.  “And be quick about it!”  The startled woman opened her cash drawer, and began transferring sheaves of bills.

For Grover, sprawled on the tile with the rest of them, it seemed as if the entire universe were reduced to the glint of that revolver.  He was so focused on it that he didn’t notice the person to his right—a ruddy-faced gentleman in a camel-hair blazer—was surreptitiously coiling himself into a crouch.  When the teller unlatched her window to hand over the money, this man sprang to his feet—brandishing a sidearm of his own.  “Police!” he announced, to a chorus of drawn breaths.  “Drop the gun!” 

Eyes on the bag in front of him, the robber froze for a moment—then spun around.  He didn’t stand a chance.  Already in position, the cop had only to squeeze his trigger.  The resultant click was loud as a church bell in the absolute quiet: his gun had misfired.  As he fought to eject the round he managed to jam the next one, panic replacing confidence in a sickening reversal.      

His opponent, meanwhile, had screwed up his face in bleak anticipation, not even attempting to shoot back.  Now his bravado returned with a vengeance.  Seeming to enjoy himself, he made a show of taking aim.

Then Grover was up like and leaping in front of the officer.  A shot rang out.  Then another one, and again and again and again—each blast deafening in the marble-walled enclosure.  To his left, a rack of brochures blew into pieces.  To his right, a cardboard spokesman caught one and went down.  Over his shoulder, a windowpane shattered and an instant later its neighbor followed suit.  The policeman grunted with each report like a boxer taking a punch.  Suddenly, there was silence.  The thief glared down at his smoking weapon, and up again at an unharmed Grover.  Seconds passed.  Then he was dashing for the exit, all thought of loot abandoned. 

He didn’t make it.  The cop took him out with a flying tackle that carried the two of them over a divider, sailing across the manager’s desk and onto the kiddie table, which collapsed like a house of cards.  On his back now and out cold, the crook had, by all appearances, nodded off while perusing The Cat In The Hat.   

Grover picked his way through the patrons and exited onto the sidewalk.  The ringing in his ears was reminiscent of another day, long past, except that this time he recognized the tune: it was the Song of Survival.  Epiphany had come as he lay in contact with an ice-cold floor.  There was no reason for it, no cause, simply an awareness that hadn’t been there before.  It was a total rewriting of his entire life, anything and everything turned on its head.    

God wasn’t after him at all.  It was precisely the reverse: he was protected.  By what or by whom he had no idea, but it was there alright—an invisible shield—and it was powerful.  Powerful enough to guard him against every conceivable calamity.  Which naturally begged the question of…why? 

He peered across the avenue to find, arising from behind a parked car opposite, a family of three who had taken cover when the shooting began.  Two of them were little girls (twins, he could tell that), long haired, cherubic blondes about eight years old.  The third was their mother—a woman he had seen before.  First at an amusement park all those years ago, and occasionally thereafter: among the crowd departing a theater, across the concourse at a busy mall, through the window of a train or bus.  Sometimes he thought that she’d seen him too, and at others not so much, but he would always sense a connection between them, ethereal as sunshine but every bit as real.  He felt that now as she returned his gaze, and in that instant—(poof!)—the final piece of the puzzle snapped into place.

“He’s alright!” he shouted, adding a thumbs-up for emphasis.  She smiled back at him and returned the gesture, and he knew that she understood.  They had been waiting for their daddy (and husband) in the bank—a ruddy-faced gentleman in a camel-hair blazer. 

            And it left him then, whatever it was, left him like a bird that had taken wing, and it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  He strolled to the end of the block in a jubilant daze and kept on going into rush-hour traffic, and everyone would agree later that he never felt a thing.  

This story was originally printed in Willard & Maple magazine.

The Enchanted Stall

    Hollander didn’t expect his morning break to be any different than usual.  Coffee from the machine in the lobby, a visit to the restroom, and back to work.  No big deal.  And when the deviation presented itself, it was a bagatelle, a trifle, hardly worth a moment’s thought.  But he did give it that much—and his decision would change everything. 

            Ordinarily, he used the first of four stalls in the company men’s room.  With a solid brick wall to one side, it afforded him more privacy than the middle two.  The far enclosure was similarly advantaged, but that one had been broken for as long as he could remember.  Today, however, the OUT OF ORDER sign was conspicuously removed, and Hollander—feeling adventurous—had elected to try it out. 

Once ensconced, he’d inspected his venue with a critical eye.  Should its ambience prove superior to that of Old Reliable, there was certainly no reason not to switch.  But for all intents and purposes, they were identical: both were painted the same, blah, industrial blue, comparably lit, and even defaced with equivalent graffiti.  (Efforts had been made to eradicate this latter, but it was hopeless, like shooing flies from your picnic lunch.)  Between his Oxfords were the familiar two-tone ceramic tiles, set in a random pattern.  He had learned that by forming these mentally into well-known structures—the Alamo, say, or the Eiffel Tower—the boredom of confinement could be partially mitigated.  Better in this regard was a magazine, and best of all a paperback novel—providing its storyline were as far removed from tax returns and balance sheets as creatively feasible.  His current read, which he extracted now from a pocket of his sport jacket, was a yellowing whodunit from the used-book store.  About to dive in, he realized that he wasn’t exactly comfortable.  The seat beneath him was cockeyed or something, and as he tried to center himself, his elbow struck the flush lever.

            “Darn,” he grumbled, at a spritz of cold water.  And then came…

            …the Voice.  “Greetings, Squire,” it said.

            Hollander jerked his head around to a man beside him.  He grabbed for his pants, but they were already up.  Next he discovered that he was no longer seated, but standing—outside—in a field of grass.

            “Greetings,” the man repeated.  He was short and trim, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.  He stood with his legs apart and arms akimbo, in black leotards, a scarlet blouse, and a three-quarter length cape that fluttered about him in the breeze.  “It’s quite alright.  Newcomers are often startled at first, but you are entirely safe here, I assure you.” 

            Hollander found his tongue.  “Who the cluck are you?”

            “I am Porcelino, the crown prince.”  He stepped forward to offer a hand.   The ring finger sported a ruby the size of a pearl onion.  Hollander gawked at it. 

            “Ah, yes.  The Regal Stone.  A duplicate of my poor father’s, wherever he might be.”

            A giggle drew their attention to a nearby conifer.  A face appeared and was gone again: peek-a-boo.  The prince chuckled.  “Come on out, Tinkles.  Out, now, and show yourself.”  From behind the tree sprang an even smaller man—or no, a creature—a man’s body, but with the enormous head of a squirrel, glistening brown eyes and buckteeth.  It walked upright, but precariously—as if all fours were the normal mode—in lederhosen, over a pelt of reddish fur.  As Hollander watched, it covered its eyes shyly with a paw.

            “This is Tinkles, the messenger,” said the prince.  “It is he who informed me of your presence here today.”

            “B—but,” stammered Hollander.  He felt as though a high-voltage charge were arcing between his earlobes.  “Where am I?  And—how did I get here?”

            “You are in the kingdom of Söoerland.  A place far removed from the one you know.  As to how you got here, I’m afraid that process remains a mystery.  My people put great store in magic, and there’s a touch of that to be sure.  I can tell you that you managed, by whatever means, to access…the Vortex.”  At the sound of the word, squirrel-boy buried his face in the prince’s cloak.  “There, there, Tinkles.  It’s alright, son. 

            “You see Squire, the Vortex is a kind of portal between our two worlds.  Nobody knows how it works, exactly; only that people can pass through it without warning, and in either direction.”

            Hollander stared numbly at these apparitions, then beyond them at a huge stone castle looming in the distance.  A rider was approaching from that direction.  And as it drew closer, he saw that it was a dark-haired woman in white finery atop a majestic steed, locks trailing out in a gorgeous banner.  The others turned to look.  “It is indeed your lucky day, my friend.  First you meet the prince of the realm, and now you shall greet his sister.”  A squeal of delight escaped Tinkles. 

            When the horse had drawn to a halt and its rider dismounted, Hollander’s jaw fell.  If before he’d been soaring through levels of bewilderment, tethered to earth by a gossamer thread, that thread was now snipped with a golden scissors, and the breaths of angels and cherubs wafting him ever higher into the void.  For striding his way was quite simply the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes upon.  “Squire,” said the prince, “may I present to you Phloe, princess of Söoerland.”  She closed the space between them, enveloped him in a ravishing scent, cradled his face in her hands, and kissed him full on the lips.  He rapped his heels together blissfully as a dog might wag its tail, but then she was drifting away again like a boat departing the dock—

“Don’t go!” he shouted, lunging forward…

…to slam against a closed steel door.   

“You alright in there?”

            Hollander looked around him at the familiar blue walls.  “Yeah, ” he spluttered at last.  “Thanks.  I’m fine.” 

*   *   *

Reaching absently for the coffee cup, Hollander knocked it over.  A mad scramble ensued as he rushed to save his documents from a creeping brown defilement.  Only then did he notice Freddy Fellows’ pasty face, smirking from the cubicle opposite .  He grabbed an eraser and winged it at him. It hit the divider and fell to the floor; someone in pinstripes picked it up. 

“Problems, Richard?”  said Mr. DeWitt, offering a mirthless grin.

Hollander aped it.  “Oh, no, sir.  Thank you, sir.”  When the boss had gone he turned back to his computer, determined to get some work done.  But it was no use.  The Question blocked all progress like a mountain in the path of a railroad; something to be blasted away with ton after ton of TNT.  But he only had a firecracker.  And no matches.

He’d nodded off and had a dream.  That had to be the answer.  He’d never fallen asleep  before in the john, but there was a first time for everything.  And they only took a second, so even if it seemed like longer, that was just an illusion.  So there it was.  He’d just had a silly dream is all: Q. E. D.

*   *   *

            Fruit pies beckoned from a lighted case.  The guy in the baseball cap was munching his daily burger, while waitresses passed in and out of the kitchen like a relay team.  In short, the diner was as it always was when he turned up there for dinner: a thirty-year-old bachelor, presently between girlfriends.  (Way between, he noted glumly.)

            A soccer match was commencing on TV.  But instead of the players, Hollander saw a beauty on horseback, breasts abob in a clutch of satin and tresses flying in ravishing waves…   

“Meatloaf no good?”

“Oh, no, Gretchen, it’s fine.  Just not very hungry tonight.”

“How about dessert?  A nice slice of pie, maybe?”

He shook his head.  “Just the check, please.  Going home to hit the sack early.  This’ll sound nuts, but—did you ever have a dream so nice you wanted to get back into it?”

“Yeah, once,” she said.  “In Atlantic City.  But I sobered up.”

*   *   *

It advanced with a maddening deliberation, like the minute hand of a watch.  It was the minute hand of his watch.  Hollander had checked it so many times now that the image was seared onto his retinas.  Finally, he pushed the chair back and stood up.  Nine-eighteen: time for a break.    

Instead of the usual coffee fix, today he passed right by the machine and strode chin-up and resolute, to the can.  Entering the first stall, he shut the door and settled in.  Nothing was going to happen, of course, he understood that.  Nothing out of the ordinary, anyhow.  And yet, much as he tried to resist it, he couldn’t suppress a certain frisson.  A feeling that, maybe, just maybe...  He took out his paperback and began to read.  Polishing off one page, he started down the next.  But soon he became aware that he was only skimming the words with no comprehension, and stealing glances left and right—

He slammed the book shut.  It hadn’t been a dream, darn it!  He’d been there!  He’d touched her!  But, why?  How?  There had to be a key, a triggering mechanism of some sort.  He didn’t have a clue what it was, but he did know one thing: if it had happened once, it could happen again.  And he very much wanted it to happen again.  C’mon, now, Rich; you’re a college boy—think!  Rub two brain cells together! 

Dropping his gaze to the floor tiles, landmarks emerged to greet him like old friends.  He reasoned across the Brooklyn Bridge, cogitated around the pillars of Stonehenge, and was ruminating up an Aztec pyramid when penny loafers appeared in the space below the door.

“Hey, Rich!  You in there?” 

It was Freddy.  “What do you want?”

            “Better come out.  Dimwit’s been pacing around your cubicle for twenty minutes now.”

            Twenty minutes?  Ye gods!  “O.K.,” he said.  “Thanks.”

*   *   *

            “These are most impressive, Richard.  Clearly you’re wasting your time with all this accounting nonsense.”  It was a ledger pad, filled with grade-school quality sketches of castles and horses and something that looked like a rat in a Boy Scout uniform.  He hadn’t dared to render Phloe.  “Sorry to be so crass as to mention business, but there’s that trifling matter of the Bloomberg account.  You remember.  Our biggest client?  Moving along on that, are we?”

            “Well, uh—” 

The smile collapsed.  “Now, listen to me carefully, Richard.  Today is Wednesday.  You’ll have those books audited, annotated and on my desk by noon Friday, or you’ll be finger-painting on somebody else’s dime.  Got it?”

            Hollander gulped.  “Got it, sir.”

*   *   *

            Lying awake for a second straight night, Hollander stared at the ceiling fan.  It looked like a bug from a fifties’ horror movie, ready to pounce.  He glanced at the clock: 4:15.  If he went to sleep right this minute, he could still get almost three and a half— 

            Yeah, right; who was he kidding.  After a sigh, he started in again, parsing every minute of the previous day.  All the files he’d had open, all the calls that he’d made, every scratch, burp, yawn and wiggle he could dredge from a silted pond of memory.  There had to be a detail, some crucial bit of minutiae that he’d overlooked—and then it was just there, like the name of that band you’d been trying to remember (Badfinger). 

            It was that stall.  The one at the far end.  He’d never used that one before yesterday—there had to be a link!  

                                                                        *   *   *

The cold light of morning put a new complexion on things.  When Hollander actually examined the Bloomberg account and saw what it entailed, that complexion became a deathly pallor, brightened here and there by the rosy buboes of encroaching doom.  Suddenly Xanadu, or whatever it was, seemed as remote and ethereal as a Kindergarten sing along.  Bottom line: he had a week’s worth of work to do in a day and a half, or he’d be scrounging empties for the mortgage money.  Booting up his workstation, he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and dove in.

*   *   *

It was ten-thirty before he answered a call of nature.  Commencing sometime earlier as a mere whisper, it clamored now for attention like a Klaxon in a phone booth.  He hit the men’s room door at a bound, flinging it wide to clear the old janitor’s waxy visage by a whisker.  “Sorry, Rex!” he blurted, and, seeing the man was cleaning his normal haunt, hurried on down to the end.  Then he was locked inside and wrestling his buckle like a skydiver with a tangled ripcord.  He plunged onto the seat off balance, his palm mashing the handle…

…and was jolted every which way at once, as if he were riding a bucking bronco.  His vision cleared, and he found he was riding a bucking bronco, holding on in white-knuckled terror as the great beast stamped and gamboled beneath him.  Suddenly it lurched forward and settled into a trot, giving him time between spankings for a frantic look around.  Shock arrived and dissipated in a bell-curve swoop; no chance for indulgence when a slip could break your neck.  He was back in the kingdom, and surrounded by horses.  But wait.  Weren’t those—horns?  He peered again at the equine skull bobbing before him, and saw that it too had a three-foot spire protruding from the crown.  Oh, no—it couldn’t be.  This was too much.  And the riders!  They weren’t—human.  Next to him was the squirrel-boy, and in front a kangaroo, and darned if that fuzzy one wasn’t a marmoset—

            He looked ahead at the castle rushing up to them and a drawbridge lowering from immense, clanking chains, and as they crossed the moat (a moat!), he glanced down at a fellow in a dinghy with a blazer and skipper’s hat...

They tore through the courtyard at full speed, his efforts at braking having no effect whatever on the storybook quadruped between his thighs.  Then it skidded to a halt of its own volition, launching him into the arms of a gap-toothed behemoth draped in animal skins.  He struggled to free himself with all the efficacy of a bunny in a bear trap.

            “Do not worry, Squire!  Harry will not hurt you!”  It was Tinkles, sounding as if he were speaking through a kazoo.  But sure enough, the ogre set him down gentle as a feather before a vaulted door.  It was only then that he noticed his own bold attire: purple blouse with billowing sleeves above skin-tight black breeches and an orange cod-piece, the only familiar apparel his trusty brown Oxfords.  Now the big door swung open, and he was swept with the others into a great hall lighted by flaming torches.  The scene they revealed was so bizarre that he didn’t know whether to soil himself or go blind.  A table the length of a flatcar was heaped with food: baskets of pineapples and coconuts, mounds of un-shucked corn, and what looked like tubs of birdseed.  Around this sat a menagerie of people, livestock, and missing links of every description, jabbering away in a haze of glottal gibberish.  Behind them was a curtained archway with suits of armor to either side.  The curtains parted and a figure emerged; Hollander recognized the little prince from his previous visit.  He thought of Phloe then, and began a fervid search of the room.  There was a woman facing away from him with a tumble of black hair atop alabaster shoulders, and when she turned, their eyes met for an electric instant—

            “People of Söoerland,” intoned the prince.  “I must interrupt our feast with ill tidings.  The sentries report that within the hour, we shall face assault—yet again—from our most relentless tormentor.  I refer, of course, to the insensitive, mean-spirited and wantonly homicidal Clench, Earl of Rimstayne, and his redoubtable Floaters!”  A suck of breath set the torchlight aflicker.  What did this mean? thought Hollander.  Were there about to be hostilities?  Should he try to escape?  But, how?  And—what the heck was a Floater?

            “I wish I could spare you, good subjects, from this dire fate.  But, alas, I am powerless.  Even as I was powerless to protect my own father, the king—”  (All heads bowed as one to reprise: ‘The king...’)  “—borne away by the earl’s evil ally,” and here he dropped his pitch to a disdainful growl, “the Wicked Wizard of Whoosh—” 

            A burst of light and a puff of smoke, and when it cleared there stood upon the tabletop a shrunken codger in tattered robes and a conical hat, with a scruffy beard, and a nose so long that it dimpled his upper lip.  Cries of anguish filled the air. 

            “Did I hear my name?” screeched the wizard, and he began a sort of frenzied tap dance, chalices and silverware scattering all around him.  “Banish him I did!  Your beloved king!  Into the Vortex!  And I’d do the same with the lot of you—only I’m old and tired, and can’t remember the spell too clearly.”  He stopped prancing now to stare down mournfully at his slippers.  “But I do recall this one,” he shrieked, and stabbed a gnarled digit at a fellow in a nearby seat.  There was a POP! and the man was gone—replaced by a salmon that flopped about like a fish out of water.  “Hee-hee!” tittered the fiend.  “Fish chowder on the menu, I see!  And how about you, Master Tinkles?  Would you care to join in the fun?”

            A yelp escaped the squirrel-boy as the demon singled him out.  He grabbed Hollander’s hand for protection, the POP! sounded again, and Hollander found himself holding a squirming catfish by the tail.  “Nyahhh!” he yowled, tossing it into a punch bowl.  POP! and kangaroo-man was a mackerel.  POP! and a woman became a crappie, piscine countenance puckered in surprise.  “And now for the great and noble Porcelino!” the villain roared, spinning to confront the defiant prince.  As he drew a bead on the diminutive figure, Hollander dashed forward.  Scooping a coconut from one of the baskets, he hurled it like a shot-putter going for the gold.  There was a CRACK! as the missile connected with the wizard’s skull; he tottered for a moment like a statue of Lenin, then pitched headlong to the floor.

            Stillness reigned.  Suddenly it was shattered with shouts of “Hoorah!”  Hollander was hoisted into the air and spun like a pinwheel.  “Harry Cheakes!” called the prince.  “Set the squire down, lest he lose his lunch!”  The hulk landed Hollander on the banquet table, where he staggered about drunkenly till a hand seized his own.  It was Porcelino, and he wagged the limp appendage with fervor.  “I can’t thank you enough, Squire!  How ever did you summon the pluck?”

            Hollander was giddy.  “Well, your honor, I don’t really know.  I’m not a violent man by nature—”

            Another voice sliced through the din.  “Harry Cheakes, lift me up to greet the squire.”  He turned to see the princess rising fairy-like to his side.  “In the name of our kingdom,” she said with a flutter of lashes, “I thank you for your gallant deed.”  She gave him a curtsy, and the room erupted in applause. 

Now the curtains parted anew, and something that looked like a six-foot parrot capered into the hall.  “Prince Porcelino!” it squawked.  “The enemy is nigh!  Soon they will be upon us!”  Panic set in at once.  Guests ran in all directions, slamming into the table and forcing Hollander and the princess to alight on opposite sides.

            “Harry Cheakes!” shouted the prince.  “Open the armory posthaste, and distribute the royal weapons!”

The giant lumbered over to a cabinet, and snapped the padlock like a candy cane.  Men began queuing behind him.  Hollander swallowed hard, then proceeded to join the line.  Heaven knew what lay ahead, but he would fight if he had to to protect Phloe, and yes, even these animal-cracker chums of hers.  A wry smile tickled his lips.  Here he’d spent decades avoiding risk: the safe job, the safe house, girlfriends who never got too close—and look at him now:  barfed through the looking glass, and about to engage in hand-to-hand combat in some kind of fantasy-world sprung to life.  A knot was forming in his throat when the bird returned with more heartening news. 

“Sir!  They’ve scaled the walls!  They’re crossing the yard by the baker’s dozen!”

            Porcelino was beside himself.  “Hurry Harry!” he enjoined, and the line shuffled faster.

Next it was Hollander’s turn: he was handed a spanking new, stout-handled—bathroom plunger?  “Excuse me, sir, but are these all we have?”

            “Yes, yes,” the prince told him impatiently.  “The imperial halberds.”

            Hollander shook his head, even as a terrible pounding began against the outer door. “But—will they be effective?  Against Clench and his men?”

            “Effective?  Against maces and broadswords?  We’d be hacked to hamburger in the blink of an eye!  No, Squire, there’s no thought of fighting; these weapons are ceremonial.  We must flee, my friend, as fast as our pointy shoes shall carry us!  To the tunnel!” he howled.  “One and all!  Run for it!”

Now the fireplace swung open to reveal a passageway big enough for a Mack truck.  People poured into it as Hollander battled the tide, trying to reach Phloe.  Beyond them, the great door began to shudder in its frame as a tremendous barrage was mounted upon it.  When he was mere yards from the princess, her eyes widened and she stopped in her tracks.  “Phloe, darling!  Come along!  To the tunnel!”

“Achilles!” she cried.  “My hamster!”  Hollander’s heart sank as she veered off toward the curtained arch.  An instant later, the door gave way in a thunderous crash, and invaders began rushing through the breach.  But they weren’t like any troops he’d ever seen before.  They were—

Toads, actually.  Toads the size of frogmen, advancing with hideous, awkward strides that made wet slapping sounds on the stone flooring.  And in front, worst of all, ugly amongst uglies, loped Clench, Earl of Rimstayne, a mighty green blob with orbs the size of basketballs, swinging a spiked club to smash anything within reach. 

Harry Cheakes stood guard at the fireplace, motioning stragglers to safety.  Hollander panned from tunnel to archway; there was time enough to reach only one—he ran for the arch.  At the curtain, he paused for a final glimpse of the hall.  A squad of Floaters was assailing Cheakes; he took up a bench and felled the lot of them like so many bowling pins.  Then he too was in the tunnel and pulling the facade closed behind him.  There was confusion amongst the amphibians until Clench spotted Hollander, and thrust the club in his direction.  “Splomph!” he spat, and the toads surged forward.

            Hollander ducked behind the drapes.  He found himself in a circular anteroom with three doors at the compass-points.  Darting to the center one, he yanked it open, then raced to the rightmost, entered and shut the door behind him.  He put an ear to the wood to listen.  Sure enough, he could hear his pursuers slurping across to the decoy.  Now he bounded up the spiral staircase, praying he’d made the correct decision.  At the head of the steps, another door—this one bolted—barred his way.  Thrashing about anxiously, he thought he detected a womanly whimper.  “Phloe?  Is that you?  Let me in!”

A jiggle of latches, and she was in his arms.  “Oh, Squire,” she sobbed.  “We’re doomed!  Doomed!”  She gestured with a hamster toward the window; Hollander looked out on a courtyard packed with toads.  “First things first.  Is there another way out of here?”  But even as she pointed, the door burst open into the room.  And there, framed in the threshold, huffing and puffing and bristling with warts, tunic awash in mud and ichor (his normal state), stood Clench, Earl of Rimstayne, great club aquiver at his side.  The monster took one pie-eyed glance at the princess, and commenced to drool like an overflowing bucket.  In the next moment he was plodding her way.

            Hollander stepped between them.  Taken aback by such effrontery, the toad let fly with an oath.  “Glurmph!” it sounded like he said.  When he continued forward Hollander reared the plunger like a bat, and Clench paused again.  The animal considered the weapon, and if it’s possible for a toad to chortle, this one did so.  Then it directed a terrible blow at Hollander’s head.  Hollander ducked and the club smashed the hamster cage from its perch.  In a smooth follow-through it came again; Hollander leaned back as the spikes grazed his jersey.  On and on it went: the toad hacking and Hollander leaping clear, the furniture annihilated piece by piece.  Hollander knew that his luck couldn’t hold; sooner or later the club would connect, and then—

            When it whisked by him next, he jabbed with the plunger.  It stuck to the toad’s snout like a death mask.  For the first time, a look of uncertainty clouded his eyes.  Dropping the bludgeon, he grabbed the wooden handle and tried to detach the cup.  But Hollander kept pushing, and soon they were circling the chamber like dancers at a lunatic ball.  Hollander pushed harder to increase their speed, and at just the right moment—let go.  Clench staggered rearward, caught the edge of the windowsill and tumbled out.  There was a spine-tingling wail and a splat far below.

            The lovers rushed to embrace.  He was trying to quell her tears (a hamster mewling at his eardrum), when Floaters came storming in from either side, swords drawn.  This time, there would be no escape.  Hollander and bevy stood toe to toe when a particularly foul-smelling specimen parted blubbery lips to speak: “Oo chull glunk!” he asserted, for which Hollander was none the wiser.  The next croaker was kind enough to interpret.  “He says you’ve killed Clench, old boy.  Never liked the chap, none of us did.  Bit of a swine, really.  Good show.”  He extended a three-toed extremity and, flabbergasted, Hollander shook it.

            “Oh, Squire!” gushed the princess.  “You’re a hero!”

            “A hero,” he repeated dreamily, clacking his heels in rapture...

            ...and a knob was at his fingertips, so he slid it back and opened the door.  But he could take only baby-steps.  Blinking in a gathering sentience, he found himself in the restroom with his pants around his ankles—and he was not alone.  Rex, the janitor, was scrubbing the sinks not ten feet away from him.  He retreated quietly and closed the door.  Emerging again, he went over to wash his hands.  

            “Ah, Mr. Hollander.  How are we today, sir?”

            Hollander would have spoken, but his gaze had fallen to the hand that held the scrub brush—and a ruby the size of a pearl onion.

*   *   *

A feeling of separation.  Like there’s a pane of glass between you and the world, and it’s smeared with chicken fat.  That’s how it was for Hollander as he sat zombie-like for the rest of the workday, drove to the diner through a riot of red lights and honking horns, and ended up in bed—where it felt like he were floating.  But not in water; in some viscous black ooze that would suck him down like a mastodon if he rolled the wrong way.  But which way was right?

*   *   *

            At eleven o’clock, Mr. DeWitt passed by the cubicle.  Hollander was hunched over his papers, as he had been all morning.  The boss rapped knuckles on the metal frame until he looked around.  “My office at twelve o’clock sharp, Richard.”

            “Right, sir.  Noon it is.” 

*   *   *

            At eleven forty-five, Freddy said in a stage whisper, “Hey, Rich!  A quarter till!  Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?”  He peeked across the aisle, but saw only a white shirt-back.  Then Rex rolled by with his cleaning cart, and Hollander was up and after him—almost as if he’d been waiting for just that moment. 

            Had he made the deadline?  Freddy had to know.  He didn’t want to see Rich fired, exactly—though that could well mean a promotion.  He scurried across to the other desk.  But, what was this?  He didn’t even have the books open!  There were only drawings of—unicorns.  Unicorns everywhere!  He rubbed his chin.  Something fishy was going on here…

*   *   * 

            When Freddy entered the restroom, Rex was filling the towel dispenser, and Rich—Rich was sneaking up behind him, as if to—

            Hollander grabbed the old man in a bear hug and lifted him off his feet.  “Sorry about this, Sire, but I know you don’t remember, and I have to get you back.”  He carried his struggling charge into the last stall.  The door banged shut; there was a scuffle, a flush, and Hollander appeared alone.  Hopping on one foot, he slipped off a shoe, then the other.  “Here, Freddy, catch!”  His co-worker ducked as they hurtled his way.  “Those are what brought me back, just like Dorothy!  Only figured it out last night!  Well, give my regards to Dimwit—and enjoy that promotion!”  He shuffled sideways into the stall, and the door closed again.  Another whoosh echoed from the walls, and then there was only…silence.

            Freddy crept forward like he were crossing a minefield.  Dredging deep in a shallow pool of courage, he peered beneath the compartment door.  What he saw there would lead to a lifetime of therapy.

This story appeared initially in For Page and Screen Magazine

The Blue Funk

    “Pat and Patty, that’s so cute,” said the woman, and the realtors laughed together like bosom buddies.  Sandwiched between them on the stoop, the Llewelyns played along; they’d heard that one before.  The seller’s agent ushered everyone inside: Llewelyn, followed by Patty and the two children, with Janet Oakley, their own broker, bringing up the rear.  Llewelyn noted how everyone was careful to wipe their feet on a new doormat, though they’d only been on the flagstone walk, and it was a lovely spring day.

            Prior to their arrival, he’d urged his wife to keep a poker face during the showing.  The realtors would regard any enthusiasm as a cue to spiral down like vultures on carrion.  But the more he saw of the place, the harder it was to keep his own rule.  A cozy living room evoked Jimmy Stewart movies and hot chocolate; the kitchen could have been lifted from House Beautiful, and the sunroom in back overlooked an inviting, spacious deck.  There were even enough bedrooms for each of the kids to have their own, and him to score that office he’d always wanted. 

            “Oh, Pat, look,” said Patty, stopping in front of the bathroom.  “A clawfoot tub.”

            “Wow,” he observed—then waved fingers in front of his nose.

            “Potpourri,” said the broker.  “They must own stock in the stuff.  It’s everywhere.” 

“Mommy!  Daddy!” came a chorus.  Cyndi and Rory, eight and nine, appeared around a corner.  “Mommy!” Cyndi repeated, but she grabbed her father’s closer hand.  “It’s Bambi!”  Janet Oakley was all smiles as he was hauled to the rear of the house.  And sure enough, there it was—or there they were, for there were three of them—white-tailed deer, browsing beneath an apple tree.  But a head arose to fix him with enormous black eyes before the trio took flight, melting into the underbrush like figments of the imagination.

            “Did you see them?” Rory asked breathlessly.  Llewelyn reached out to ruffle his son’s hair.

            Cyndi’s eyes were almost as big as the deer’s.  “Can we go outside, Daddy?  Please?”  He checked with Janet, who gave him a nod.

            “O.K.,” said Llewelyn, opening the sliding glass door.  “But stay close.”  The kids flew across the deck and onto the lawn like they’d never seen grass before.  And what a lawn it was;  the house was set on two full acres, most of it flat and green—

“There’s a Sears tractor in the shed.”  The seller’s woman again, practically reading his mind.  “Included in the price.”  Ah, yes, the price: that stultifying bug in the ointment.  The owners wanted three eighty-five, but he couldn’t pay more than three and a quarter, and that was including soda deposits and a midnight raid on Rory’s piggy bank.  No way could he coax them down that far—

            “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Patty beside him, a wistful lilt to her voice. 

            “It really is,” he conceded.  “Let’s get out of here.”

*   *   *

            Llewelyn put in a bid that afternoon, then tried his best to forget about the house on Cypress Lane.  Though neither of them had said as much, he and his wife both assumed they’d be spending another year (or two) in their cramped, downtown apartment.  Then, after dinner on Friday night, the hall phone rang.  Llewelyn picked it up.  A chirpy tongue at the other end told him they’d gotten the house.  There was a pause.

            “What?”                 

            “The house,” Janet Oakley repeated.  “On Cypress Lane?  The owners are in a bind.  He’s taken a job in Florida and has to be there yesterday.  They’ll accept your offer of three twenty-five, but we have to sign by tomorrow.  Is that a problem?”

            “A problem?  Uh—no, not at all.”  He looked over at Patty, working on her needlepoint as she watched Jeopardy with half an eye.  “Thank you, Janet.  Talk to you tomorrow, then.  Goodbye.” 

“Honey,” he called out, already misty-eyed.  “Good news!”

*   *   *

It was three full days before anyone noticed.  Characteristically, it was Cyndi’s vigilant proboscis—always the first to flag sour milk in the fridge or a missing pair of Rory’s socks—that sounded the alarm.  “Daddy,” she yelled up the stairway.  “The bathroom smells funny.”

            Llewelyn was kneeling beside his desk, trying to make sense of a jumble of cables.  He’d gotten his monitor going, and the printer/fax, and that camera thing-ee that Rory loved so much—but where the heck did this yellow one go?

            “Daddy!”  (Shriller now, not happy with being ignored.)

            He turned his head to the doorway.  “It’s O.K., honey.  Bathrooms always smell funny.”

            “No, Daddy.  Not like this.  Come look.”

            It was a command and not a request, and Llewelyn knew that resistance was futile.  He could shout down the stairs till the cows came home, but he’d get nothing accomplished, and would end up giving in anyway…       

            “Daddy!”

            “Coming, honey!”  Struggling up on protesting joints, he picked his way gingerly through a forest of tripwires.  Just when he thought he was clear his toe caught a line, and he stumbled into the doorjamb as the monitor blinked out like he’d shot it through the heart.

*   *   *

            There was something there alright, something other than the lingering aura of the potpourri they’d already dumped.  He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but he did know the cure.  “Just needs a good scrubbing,” he declared.  “Go round up your brother while I get the cleaning stuff, and we’ll have this place spic-and-span before Mommy gets home from shopping.”

*   *   *

            Patty scanned the yard for her son as she carried in bags of groceries.  Rory was strong enough now to be a real help, but he was nowhere in sight—and that was unexpected.  He’d practically camped on the lawn since they’d first arrived: hunting bugs, smacking Wiffle balls, and generally dashing about like he’d been raised in a box.  And in a way, maybe he had.  Apartment life was no good for children; they needed flowers and birds and sunshine.  She stopped walking a moment and let her eyes climb the maple tree at the foot of the walk.  A squirrel was up there tooling along the twigs like a high wire act.  She felt herself smile.  Maybe it wasn’t only the children who needed those things…

            “Mommy, Mommy!” sang Rory, bursting out the door.  “Wait’ll you see what we did!”  His sister emerged behind him, shushing with all her might.  “It’s supposed to be a surprise,” she hissed in frustration.

            “Rory, grab one of those bags from the car, and I’ll come see this—whatever it is.”

            Cyndi zoomed past her brother.  “Let me get one!”

            “You’re too small!”

            Patty had a vision of Fruit-Loop rainbows filling the air.  “Alright, hold it, you two.  Rory, you take the bag with the French bread, and let Cyndi have the plastic one.”  The kids took their burdens and plodded up the walk, each trying hard to conceal the effort.  Their mother looked after them with a surge of pride.   

            No sooner were the groceries on the kitchen counter than Patty was escorted to the bathroom door.  Her husband stood inside, drying his hands on a towel.  “Well?” he asked her.  “What do you think?”  She surveyed the room in amazement.  The sink and tub were as white as snow, and the faucets shone like jewelry.  Even the floor tiles, those pink and green relics she’d given up for lost, actually looked—nice.

            “Well?” Llewelyn repeated, winking at his assistants.  “How’d we do?”

            His wife put palms to her cheeks.  “My goodness!  Everything’s so beautiful!  You guys must have worked your tails off while I was gone.”  The kids nodded to each other in concurrence.  “But what,” she wondered with a sniff, “is that smell?”

*   *   *

            Llewelyn waggled painfully through the eighteen-inch opening, his spine impaled on a snaggle-toothed cinder block, and his feet dangling in space.  Where the heck was the floor?  He hated not seeing where he was going, what he was touching…  There it was, thank goodness.  Then he was inside the crawlspace and turning back to check on Rory and Cyndi, their faces bobbing in the brightly lit square like birthday balloons.

            “Made it,” he observed, waddling about in the four-foot clearance.  “That wasn’t so—”  CLUNK!  His head hit a crossbeam and he saw stars.  “Owwwww!  God—”

            “Daddy?  Are you alright?”

            Llewelyn counted to ten.  Then twenty.  “Yeah, honey,” he managed to croak.  “Just bumped my noggin.  Hand me in that flashlight, will you Cyn?”

            Armed with the triple-cell, he felt better.  A quick pan of the area showed that this wasn’t any web-festooned catacomb, but rather an intricate network of pipes and wires, suspended over a sandy floor.  Suddenly, there was a tingle of excitement: he was a spelunker, about to search his very own cave!  He crab-walked forward a ways, and was studying a drooping mass of pink insulation when he heard the children.  They were sliding through the entrance with the pliant ease of youth.

            “Wow,” said Rory, peering about in the gloom.  “This is cool!”

            Cyndi was dusting her hands.  “Ih-oo.  What is this stuff?”

            “Just sand, honey,” Llewelyn told her.  But he wasn’t so sure; he’d come down here looking for a sewage leak, or some other problem that might raise a stink.  Heaven only knew what they’d find.  Moving further into the space, he tried to orient himself with the house above.  This would be the kitchen, and over that way—   No, wait.  Left was east, so the kitchen had to be…  These stacks of cement blocks weren’t helping any.  Piers, the engineer had called them, set beneath the joists to keep the floors from rebounding.  Evidence of a summer place converted into something more substantial.  Or less deficient, if you wanted to look at it that way.  He didn’t.  This was their new home, and it beat the stuffing out of the old one, even if it was fifty years old.  With cinder blocks holding up the floorboards.  And a funny smell.  But he’d get to the bottom of that alright, even if it meant muddling around down here on his hands and knees like some kind of— 

He froze in place.  Animal.  That was the word, and it conjured up some nasty images.  First was that of a four-legged corpse: a skunk or a woodchuck, maybe even a cat or a dog that had found its way in here and never gotten out.  Sick or wounded or just plain old, and now it lay stiff and bloated and reeking away, somewhere in the darkness, somewhere close...       

But worse than that was another notion that exploded in his mind like a stink-bomb: that the crawlspace was a perfect sanctuary for anything wild.  Warm, dark, quiet and never violated—never until today, that is, when some halfwit was blundering around in its murky depths without the flashlight he’d left way over there, a guy who could turn the corner of any one of these columns, and come face to face with—

            He wasn’t frozen now, boy, but quivering in his loafers.  Because there’d been a sound, sure as heck, behind that pier off to his right.  There!  There it was again!  Something was creeping around back there, finding its footing in the sand… 

            It came at him then and he lurched away—ringing a pipe like a gong with the ball of his skull.  The world went white and when it cleared again, there were two green eyes above a cherubic grin.  “Did I scare you, Daddy?” Rory giggled.

*   *   *

            When Llewelyn arrived home from work, he gave a shout out to the kids (unanswered),  crawled with Patty on the livingroom carpet (for Legos), went through his mail, and glanced at the newspaper before visiting the bathroom.  He scowled in anticipatory disgust before even encountering the funk, a redolence he could now detect above any spray, candle, sachet, or plug-in doodad on the market.  And yet, as he stood there at the sink washing his hands, it almost seemed as if... 

            A grin was dawning on the man in the mirror.  Was it possible?  Could it be?  Gone.  It was definitely gone!  He practically skipped across the house to tell Patty, but she didn’t seem to share in his enthusiasm.  “Take a stroll through the sunroom,” she said cryptically, and continued to harvest crayons from under the coffee table.  He hovered there a moment before doing as she’d suggested.  One step across the threshold, and he drew up like he’d hit a wall.  It was here alright—that same darned smell—and strong, strong as it had been in the bathroom at least.  But how in the world...

            Cyndi tripped past him now with her brother in tow, their voices raised in song: “Rinky-house, dinky-house, dirty-yucky-stinky-house...”  As they scampered outside through the sliding glass door, Llewelyn felt himself deflating.  Stinky house?

*   *   *

            “Thanks for coming by on a Saturday, Mr. Eifler.  We really appreciate it.”

            “No problem, ma’am.  I know how aggravating these things can be.  I’ll just grab my knee pads from the car, and we’ll take a look.” 

            Llewelyn followed along.  “I’ll come with you, Bill.”  It had been Patty’s idea to contact the engineer who’d inspected their house for the bank.  They’d both liked the guy, and he had identified several minor issues that they never would have spotted on their own.  “I checked out the crawlspace myself.  And everywhere else I could think of: attic, closets, behind the appliances, but I didn’t find anything.  What’s weird is—it moves.  I mean, I know that sounds crazy, but we first noticed the smell in the bathroom, and now it’s coming from the rear of the house, in the sunroom.”

            “That’s not as strange as you might think, Pat.  We’re talking about a gas here, from whatever source, and gases’ll float all over the place, depending on temperature, density, a whole range of things.”

            Llewelyn nodded.  He couldn’t bring himself to mention the other peculiarity; that the odor they were tracking wasn’t like sewage or oil or some household chemical whose presence could be expected.  No, he and the wife were in complete agreement now, after extensive sampling, that it was actually more like...  A lot like...  Exactly like…  Freshly cooked asparagus—

            “But don’t you worry, Pat,” said their expert confidently.  “Whatever it is, I’ll find it.”

*   *   *  

            “Well, whatever it is, I can’t find it,” Bill Eifler sighed.  “I’ve been over your house with a fine-tooth comb, and I don’t see any problem.  Of course, I’m only a general engineer; you could still call in a plumber if you like.  But the drains are flowing and the traps look good, and I didn’t see a hint of a leak anywhere.”  He tamped at his brow with a handkerchief as Pat and Patty exchanged a glance.  “Also looked for vermin infestations—mice, bats, termites, things like that.  Clean as a whistle.  To be honest with you, I’ve covered every square inch of your place today, and the only thing I can smell is that asparagus you’re having for dinner.”

*   *   *

            Asparagus oficinalis was not, in fact, on the menu that evening.  Patty didn’t like the stuff, and her husband was indifferent; when they got around to considering the question, it was decided that they had not prepared this particular vegetable even once in eleven blissful years of matrimony.  But the odor had to come from somewhere.  Could it have wafted in from somebody else’s stovetop?  Llewelyn forced himself to interview the neighbors, though after the second or third door was closed politely but firmly in his face, he was certain that he would forever bear the mantle of the village loon.         

            His next move was to research the organism, sufficient at least to determine that there were no vast fields of the mitered weed thriving in adjacent woods, or even the odd, pesky stalk amongst the begonias.  This avenue of inquiry having fizzled out like the rest, Llewelyn took Eifler’s advice and called in a plumber.  A pair of them, actually.  Also a handyman, an electrician, an exterminator, the boiler guy, and a second engineer.  All the professionals came to the same conclusion: there was nothing wrong with the house anywhere.

            Meanwhile, things were going wrong with Llewelyn.  He was more and more exhausted, but getting less and less sleep.  He’d begun to think of the stench as a sentient entity that vied with him for control of the Castle.  Something like The Blob, only more insidious for its invisibility.  He’d lie awake nights wondering where it was, where it would loom by morning.  Because it roamed freely now from room to room, like an old dog trying to get comfortable.  He’d been heartened at first by its disappearance from an area, until he realized that it would always turn up somewhere else.  From then on, its apparent absence would elicit only dread, causing him to pause at every doorway, wondering if that next stride would plunge him headlong into its suffocating embrace.  Patty took matters better than he did, accepting and adapting in her womanly wisdom to a new and unchanging paradigm.  To the children, it was simply a joke, an oddity to laugh about and be kidded over at school.

            But to Llewelyn, it was no joke.  To him, it was a threat.  An enemy.  Something to be hunted down like a rabid beast and destroyed.  And he would destroy it, too, he vowed, staring up at the ceiling fan in the wee small hours, nostrils flaring unconsciously...

*   *   *

            “Artie Benson,” said the fellow with the sun-bronzed face, and Llewelyn hesitated before taking his hand.  He was a septic tank man, after all, up to his armpits each day in—his work.

            “When’s the last time you had ‘er pumped out?”

            “I haven’t.  Just bought the place this year.”

            Benson pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves, and extracted a shovel from the rear of his truck.  “Good idea to get ‘er done.  Then you know where you stand.”  The two men headed into the backyard, and Llewelyn pointed out the spot where he’d been told the septic tank reposed.  Benson probed with the shovel till he got a telltale thump.  Then he scraped away a few inches of grass and topsoil, and removed a concrete cover by its protruding iron handles. 

            “Need some help?  That looks heavy.”

            “Nah,” said Benson, setting the lid aside.  “Twenty pounds.”

            They stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment, peering into the yawning black maw.  Then Benson made for the hose reel on his rig while Llewelyn leaned down a bit, sniffing.  Detecting nothing, he leaned further, then further still, until…  Whew!  He popped back up and skittered to safety.  He’d gotten a snoot-full that time, alright.  But it was only, well—sewage.

            “Gonna be close, but she’ll make it,” observed Benson, arriving with a red serpent tucked under an arm.  He snaked one end into the pit.  “You might want to stand back some.  There can be splashin’.”

            “I’ll do better than that,” said Llewelyn, striding for the house.  “Give me a yell when you’re done.”

*   *   *

            Benson had the truck in reverse and a boot sliding off the clutch pedal before Llewelyn could bring himself to speak.  There was nothing the matter with his septic system—he’d known that going in—but this was the very last soul he could think of to ask for assistance.  “Artie,” he spluttered desperately, clamping hands onto the window frame like a life-preserver.  “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

            Ten minutes later he came to a stop.  He’d laid it all out in gruesome detail, the entire saga from beginning to end.  Benson had remained mute beyond the rhythmic working of his chewing gum.  “I understand it’s out of your line,” Llewelyn concluded, his imploring face almost inside the cab now, “but if there’s anything you can come up with, anything at all, I can’t tell you how grateful…”  His voice trailed off pathetically.

            Benson looked at him for a time in silence.  Then he dislodged a pencil from behind one ear, scrawled something onto his billing pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Llewelyn.  “Don’t tell him I sent you,” he said.  Then the truck was rolling backwards, and was gone.

*   *   *

            Rory was excavating a colony of ants with one of Daddy’s brand-new screwdrivers.  “Not far from here, as the crow flies,” said Llewelyn, watching his son through the window.  “Maybe two miles.  But it took me almost an hour to find the house.  If you can call it that.”

            Patty stopped kneading her meatloaf.  “What do you mean?”

            “It was more of a shack, really.  Shingles missing, moss on the roof, plastic sheeting over the windows.  Hardly seemed habitable, but I checked the number three times before I left my note.”

            “I don’t like this, Pat.  A strange name on a slip of paper…”

            Llewelyn turned to face her.  “I know, honey.  But we have to do something.  I’m at my wit’s end here, and—”

            DING-DONG. 

“Did you hear a car?”  Patty shook her head as her husband went to the door.  When he opened it, he considered slamming it again and throwing the bolt.  There was some weirdo out there; a vagrant, maybe, or one of those holy-roller types.  Long gray hair, headband, hooked nose—he looked like a Hollywood Indian after a bender.  He had on a tie-dyed tee shirt, and a tangle of chains and pendants around a wattled neck.  Then it clicked.  Not an Indian, but a hippie, that’s what he was.  An ancient, freeze-dried flower child.  But something was happening now: a slow-motion contortion of the face.  Teeth appeared—a dingy palisade with one pale missing—and the rheumy blue eyes seemed to focus in on him for the first time.  Suddenly, Llewelyn realized the man was smiling.

            “Howdy, Patrick.  My name’s Smithereen Johnson.  I got your message.”

*   *   *

            Cyndi gazed rapturously into the balmy night sky.  Above her head, Johnson’s crooked index finger limned another constellation.  “And that there’s Capricorn.  The goat.  Cold and rational.  That’ll be your daddy’s sign, I’ll wager.”  Llewelyn shivered as the creature glanced his way.  That was his sign.  How could he know that?

            “Where’s mine?” Cyndi asked him.  “I’m Aquarius.”

            Johnson tilted his chair back on two legs.  Llewelyn was sure it would scoot out from under him and dump him on his head.  Could he sue me for that? he wondered.

            “We can’t see yours this time o’ year, honey,” Johnson explained.  “Nor mine, neither.  I’m a fish.  A Pisces.  We’re good at solving mysteries, that’s why I was able to help you folks out today.”  He plucked another cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

            Llewelyn smirked.  You had to give the old coot credit; he had one heck of an act. Since he’d shown up at the house this afternoon, he’d trotted out every mystical hokum known to man, from Haitian voodoo to Feng Shui.  They’d used magnets and power crystals, drawn pentagrams in chalk, consulted the Runes, and mumbled complicated incantations while he twirled like a dervish on the living room rug.  The kids ate it up, of course, and Johnson took full advantage.  Just when Llewelyn was ready to give him the boot, the man had found ‘gold coins’ behind each of their ears, and related solemnly that they were from Captain Kidd’s own treasure chest.  They’d looked up all wide-eyed at Daddy, whose resolve had vanished like the pea in a shell game.  Not only was Johnson not evicted, but he’d ended up joining them for meatloaf—and a cold beer to wash it down. 

            The sliding glass door opened now, and Rory appeared with a bottle of Sam Adams Ale, and Llewelyn’s special frosted mug from the freezer.  His father’s expectant smile curdled as his son passed him by to deliver them to Johnson.  “Here you are, Uncle Smithereen.  It’s the last one.”

            The…last one?  Llewelyn was still nursing his first.  He squinted into the shadows beneath Johnson’s chair, trying to count the empties.  Two, three—no, four—

            “That’s all I could want, young feller.”  Johnson poured out the amber brew lovingly, then raised his mug for a toast.  “Here’s to—” he began, then paused to suppress a belch.  “Here’s to my swell new friends: Rory and Cyndi, Patty and Patrick.  The Llewelyns!  May the forest numen forever fertilize your bountiful garden.  May Princess Gaia shine her golden globes—”

            “Smithereen?” said Patty.  “You never told us about your name.  You were going to explain how you got it.”

            “Oh, yeah,” he remembered, his eyes falling to the citronella candle.  “I get asked about that a lot.”  He scratched his chin for a moment, then looked up.  “Well, gather round, children,” he directed, beckoning them forward with both of his arms, “and hear the tale.”  Rory and Cyndi immediately plunked down cross-legged at his feet.  Johnson waited.  Clearly he had the bigger children in mind as well.  Llewelyn and Patty traded a look, then slid their chairs closer to the Man of Mystery.

            Johnson stared deep into the dancing flame, and scratched himself some more, this time below the left clavicle.  “Picture if you will, a simple stone dwelling set off by itself in the rollin’ English countryside, long, long ago.  A farmhouse it was.  Built the way they made ‘em back then, of fieldstones dug from the land around it, mortared together with thick red clay, and topped with a good thatch roof of heather and straw. 

“A family with lots of youngins lived in that house, all of ‘em together in the one single room.  They didn’t have much money, this family, none at all for going into town and buyin’ nice stuff for themselves, fancy bonnets and buckle shoes and whatnot.  They didn’t have no gold doubloons, like some folks we know.”  His gaze fell to Cyndi and Rory, who giggled. 

            “But they weren’t exactly poor, neither, this family.  Hog farmers, they was, and proud of it, with a pen chock-full of plump pink sows, a randy boar to service ‘em, and a hectare each of oats and barley grain.  Even a sway-back ol’ mule.  So they always had plenty o’ grub for themselves and fodder for the livestock, and they could fashion most o’ the other stuff they needed, say, a new pine bucket to fetch water from the well, or a birch tree split into rails for the fence, or maybe a slingshot, or a cute lil’ dolly o’ sackcloth and wool for one o’ the nippers.  And if they got to wantin’ somethin’ else bad enough, somethin’ they couldn’t snatch from nature’s bounty with their own two hands, well, then the daddy—he was a big ol’ mountain of a dude with shoulders this wide and a barrel chest to match—why, he’d go into that lean-to where he kept those special tools o’ his, and root out a dimple-worn sharpenin’ stone he had in there, and his good ol’ trusty, double-crescent axe, and he’d set to work honin’ up both sides of that sucker till you could’ve parted a baby’s silken—uh, ‘scuse me here a little minute.”

            Johnson picked up his mug of beer, took a long leisurely pull at it, set it down again and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.  Llewelyn checked his watch.

            “Now, where was I?”

            “He was sharpening up the axe!” Rory reminded.

            “Right you are.  You’re a clever young buck, ain’t ya?  I’ll bet you’re a whiz with figures.”

            “He is very good in math,” Patty allowed, smiling.  Llewelyn let out a sigh.

            “I knew it!  O.K.  So anyhow, that big ol’ daddy fella, he’d buff them blades till they shone like silver, then he’d go around back to the pen, pick out a likely candidate from that bunch o’ sows in there, and—well, let’s just say he’d dress ‘er up for market.  Then he’d yoke his ol’ mule to the wagon, climb on board and set off for town, about six miles yonder.  Now, that doesn’t sound like a far stretch to you and me, what with our big ol’ motor-cars and such, but back in them olden times, that was a whole day’s trek there and back, not to mention negotiatin’ pork-meat prices with the grocer fella, and roundin’ up them sundry items you can only get with cash money, like coffee and salt and nails, and a trinket or two for the missus—he couldn’t forget that, no siree, not if he wanted any peace in the premises when he lugged his duff on home again.  Likely a few o’ them colorful glass beads she liked to string together for herself and the girls, or maybe a tortoise shell comb for that purty brown hair o’ hers.  Then there’d be watering the mule at the horses’ trough, and checkin’ for any chums as might be hangin’ in the saloon—or, pub, that’s what they call ‘em in the ol’ country.  There’s a lot o’ words they use that’s different from ours.  They say lift when they mean elevator, and lorry for truck, and a bathroom is a loo.  They seem to favor them ‘L’ words, for some reason.  Used to call ‘em ‘Limeys’ durin’ the war, and that’s another ‘L’ word, but I don’t think them Brits’d be any too happy ‘bout—”

            “Excuse me,” said Patty, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s getting kind of late, and the children have to—”

            “Got it,” said Johnson, holding up a finger.  “We’ll make ‘er quick.”  He turned back to the kids.  “Well, to make a long story longer, the daddy, that great big ol’ galoot with the barrel chest and them broad shoulders, who lived on that farm with the mule and them pigs and whatnot, well, his name was John.  And when the boys grew up, each one of them was a son of this John, or one of John’s sons.  A John-son.  And forever after, all the children that was born to them, and to their children, and to their children’s children, and so on, all the way down the line to my own pappy, and then to yours truly sittin’ right here tonight, we all been called Johnson, lo these many years.” 

            A beat passed before Llewelyn leaned forward.  “Actually, Mr. Johnson, I believe Patty was inquiring about your first name.  About Smithereen.”

            “Aw, shoot,” chuckled Johnson.  “Your guess is as good as mine on that one, Patrick.  The parents was such goofballs—”      

            “Alright,” said Llewelyn, getting to his feet.  “Time to go.”

*   *   *

            At the front door, Johnson turned back.  “Now, about my fee, Patrick—”

            “Your—fee?  Fee for what, exactly?”

            “Why, for aid and comfort, o’course.  For services rendered.”  A hiccup escaped him, but he seemed not to notice.  “That smell of yours.  She’s eradicated.  Go ahead and check, I’ll wait.”

            Llewelyn took the man by the elbow and ushered him onto the stoop.  “No thanks, friend.  I’ll take your word for it.  You, uh—you send me your bill.” 

Johnson seemed to reflect on that as he stumbled down the steps.  “Okey-doke.  Guess that’ll work.”  He stooped to retrieve a bicycle lying on its side in the grass, mounted it, and wobbled away squeakily into the night.  “Hasta lumbago,” he called over his shoulder.

*   *   *

            Patty had her arms around him before he could put his briefcase down.  “Well, if it isn’t my hero!” she gushed.  “My knight in shining armor!  Calling in Mr. Johnson was a stroke of genius, honey!  Everything’s back to normal again!  Isn’t it wonderful?” 

Llewelyn tried to match her grin, but failed.  In fact, he was a little bit annoyed to be getting the confirmation.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want the smell to be gone, gosh knew; he’d wanted little else for as long as he could remember.  But for that sleazebag to get the credit—that was almost worse than the stink. 

When he’d made the tour last night and found nothing in the office (where their vaporous bane had tarried most recently), or anywhere else in the house, he had definitely gotten the creeps.  It wasn’t Johnson, of course; it couldn’t be that crackpot and his jibber-jabber.  The departure was a coincidence and nothing more.  If it really was gone, that is, and he wasn’t convinced.  He loosened his tie, slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over a chair.  As he began to prowl the dining room, sniffing into corners like a hound, Patty rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen.

No, sir, he was not convinced.  Not by a long shot.  

*   *   *

            By midnight, he was convinced but good: the Reek of Ages was history.  It continued to be gone the following day, and the one after that, until an entire week had elapsed and he was beginning to sleep nights all the way through.  On Saturday afternoon, when Smithereen Johnson arrived for a second unannounced visit, Llewelyn was almost glad to see him.  The guy might be phoney as a wooden nickel, but at least his shenanigans were concurrent with a happy event, and he had provided an evening’s entertainment.  One, however, was quite enough.

            “So, then, Johnson, how are you?” Llewelyn queried.  It was all he got out before the man had slithered past him into the house.

            “I’m swell, Patrick,” he replied with a holey grin.  Today he wore a peasant’s smock studded in rhinestones, and a zebra-striped headband.  “But the real question is—how’s that squatter you was complainin’ about?”

            “You mean the smell?  It’s gone without a trace.  Can you believe it?”

            “Oh, I can believe it, alright.”

            Cyndi and Rory came harmonizing down the stairs.  “Uncle Smithereen!”

            “Howdy there, munchkins!”  Then his face grew serious.  “You’ve kept your lips buttoned about ol’ Cap’n’ Kidd’s booty, I hope?”

            They nodded to each other gravely.  “Show us a trick, Uncle Smithereen,” urged Rory.  “Please?”

            Johnson stroked his chin.  “Let’s see now—”

            “Mr. Johnson can’t stay,” said Llewelyn smartly.

            “Can’t I?”

            “’Fraid not, pal.  Not this time.”

            Johnson wedged blue-nailed fingertips into the fraying pocket of his jeans.  “Well, I reckon I’ll just give ya this, then,” he said and, producing a crumpled slip of paper, proceeded to iron it flattish against his chest before handing it over.

            Llewelyn took one look and started to laugh.  “ ‘Magical Mantras,’ ” he quoted, “ninety dollars.  ‘Celtic Spells,’ two-fifty.  A hundred for ‘Funneling Forces’—”  He had to stop to catch his breath.  “Oh, this is priceless, Johnson.  Though you do have a price, don’t you.  And it’s a doozy!  Four thousand, six hundred and seventy-five smackers.  And me without a coupon!”  The kids joined in the merriment now, even if they didn’t quite get the gist.  Patty watched her husband turn fire-engine red from non-stop cackling.  “But there’s no sales tax,” Llewelyn observed.  “You’re not a tax cheat, are you, Johnson?”

            “Don’t believe in it.  Against my principals.”

            “Uh-huh,” Llewelyn acknowledged gamely.  “Mine too.  Say, seriously, this statement’s a hoot.  Can I keep this?”

            “Sure,” said Johnson.  “That there’s your copy.  All I need is cash money.  Or you can write me out one o’ them purty checks o’ yours with the bunnies on ‘em, if that’s more to your likin’.  Wouldn’t take one from just anybody, but the truth is, Patrick, I trust ya.”

            “A personal check.  In the amount of...”  He consulted the bottom line.  “Forty-six hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

            “That’s about the size of it.”

            Llewelyn waited in vain for his smile to be retuned, glancing at Patty for support.  She hunched her shoulders.  “You’re a real joker, Johnson, let me tell you.”

            Johnson made a sort of clicking sound with his tongue.  “That ain’t no joke, Patrick.  That’s what you owe me.  Forty-six seventy-five.”

            “You’re kidding,” said Llewelyn, not smiling now.

            “Not kidding,” said Johnson.

            “Get out,” said Llewelyn. 

            Johnson’s eyes, while not exactly flashing, shed a portion of their dullness.  “I’ll go when I have my money.”

            “You’ll go now,” Llewelyn corrected.  “Voluntarily or otherwise.”  He took a step forward.

            Johnson peered left and right—then bolted for the living room.  “Pat!” called Patty as her husband charged after him.  “Pat, be careful!”  By the time she reached the doorway, he had the old man in a bear hug.

            Johnson began yelling as he was lifted from the floor.  “Presto!  Bingo!  Ooga booga!”  Then he was carried across the carpet waving arms and legs, like a lobster headed for the pot. 

On the stoop, Llewelyn released him  “Now get out of here, you dingbat!  And don’t you come back again!”  Johnson took a moment to recover his composure, brushing his hair back and arranging the chains he wore with a sound like distant sleigh bells.  Then he descended the steps to a prostrate bicycle, which, in the light of day, Llewelyn could see was so mangled and rusted he was surprised that it held the man’s weight.

            Rory leaned out of the doorway.  “Bye, Uncle Smithereen!” he called, and his father glared down at him.  Johnson raised a hand as he trundled away.  Watching him go, an unsettling thought occurred to Llewelyn: how had he known about the design on their checks?

*   *   *

            Sunday morning found Pat and Patty relaxing on the deck over mugs of hot coffee, he with his travel section, and she with her mystery.  He had just looked up from an article on Polynesian resorts, and was trying to morph their apple tree into a coconut palm when Cyndi called out from a bedroom window.

            “When do we get popcorn?” she wanted to know.

            Her mother was twirling a lock of hair absently.  “Popcorn?  You haven’t had your lunch yet.”

            Rory chimed in in support of his sister.  “But we smell it, Mommy.  Who’s making popcorn?”

            The apple tree was changing, alright, but not into a palm—into a hook-nosed ogre with bloodshot eyes.  Llewelyn was up like a jack-in-the-box and bounding for the house.  Patty took longer to connect the dots.  By the time she’d reached the foot of the staircase, her husband was already trudging back down again, looking ashen and shell-shocked. 

            It was there alright, in the linen closet: popcorn where there was no popcorn, strong enough to make your mouth water. 

            “Sweetheart?” she asked him carefully.  “Are you O. K.?”

            Llewelyn was in another world.  Thirty-five hundred, he was thinking.  And not one penny more…

This story first appeard in Poydras Review.

Needles

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” asked Calandra.  Her father was watching a commercial that she knew he hated, with a bunch of happy sick people on some funny-sounding medicine, and then a list of the horrible side-effects that could happen if you took it.  He said these commercials only made people sicker by getting them to worry all the time, and he’d always change the channel when one of them came on.  But maybe he wasn’t watching it.  Maybe he was looking at the reflection of Christmas tree bulbs on the TV screen.  When it was off they were really pretty—like colorful, blinking snowballs in a big black picture frame, but when it was on they were fainter and stranger looking, like angels or aliens, floating in the background.

            “He got fired from the funeral home,” her brother whispered.  The twins were sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, between their parents in the twin armchairs.

“Now, Kyril,” said Deborah, “don’t you start spreading rumors like that.  Your father and Uncle Felix just had a little disagreement, is all.”

            “I got fired,” said Gaston, still staring at the television.  His wife let out a sigh.

            “I told you,” hissed Kyril. 

“Why’d you get fired, Daddy?”

“Uncle Felix and I had a little disagreement.”

            Deborah clapped her hands.  “So.  Who wants popcorn?”  

“I do, I do!” came a chorus.

Kyril wanted to know if they could put salt on it.

“Of course not,” said Calandra.  “Salt will kill you.”

Her brother giggled.  “Then Dad’ll have to bomb us!”

“The word’s embalmed,” said Deborah.  “And it’s salty enough as it is.  Now you two come to the kitchen and be my assistants.” 

The kids were up in a jiffy, though Calandra paused in the doorway to observe her father.  She noticed that the lights of the Christmas tree were reflecting off his bald spot, just like the TV screen.  “You come too, Daddy, and help.”

      “Now, Cally,” said her mother, brushing her own dark hair back with her fingers, though both of her children were towheads (a recessive trait, according to Gaston).  “Let your father relax.  He’s had a rough day.”  But a moment later they heard him coming.  While Kyril grabbed the popcorn, Calandra the special bowl, and Deborah a pitcher of Koolaid from the refrigerator, he passed them by for the liquor cabinet and a bottle of Old Grand-Dad. 

His wife gave him a look.  “Go easy on that, Gas,” she said.  “You hardly touched your dinner.”

*   *   *

            With their ten-year-olds tucked away in bed, Deborah decided it was time to broach the subject.  She carried her diet Pepsi into the living room and set it down beside her husband’s glass on the coffee table.  Far from drinking to excess as she’d feared, he’d been nursing the same Bourbon-and-water for over an hour now.  He was standing behind the couch at the Christmas tree, tinkering with the ornaments.  “Tell me what happened.”

            “I flunked out of medical school, that’s what happened.  Then I switched to mortuary science.  That was my second mistake.  We’d go into business together, my father said.  He and his brother and son.  A family dynasty, he called it.  We’d be rich.  Then his heart exploded, and I ended up with Felix.”  He paused here to remove an ornament, shift it about an inch and re-hang it. 

            Deborah kept her voice down.  Right now, she wanted nothing more than to keep her husband calm.  Everything else would fall into place eventually.  “But we are rich, dear.  I mean, by most standards.  We have a three-bedroom house, our children go to a nice school, and we have a good jump on their college fund.  Or at least, we did…”  She could have slapped herself.  How could she be so stupid?  But he didn’t seem to have heard her.  He was unscrewing one of the light bulbs, and switching it with another one: red for blue.

            “I love this tree,” he said, a catch in his voice.  “The whole concept of it.  Imagine, bringing a real pine tree into your home, and adorning it with all these beautiful objects.  A tradition dating back centuries.  Just smell it, Debbie.  Drink in that scent!”  (It made her a little nauseous, actually.  Especially now when it was dying…) 

            “Do you know what that is?” he asked, pointing to a decoration.  Of course she did: the tiny bottle, banded in silver, held one of Calandra’s baby teeth.  Or maybe Kyril’s; the two  of them were identical, other than the initial etched in the glass.  “It’s Cally’s baby tooth.  There’s an ornament from the year they were born, and another one from every year after that that we picked out together, as a family.  This giraffe is from our trip to the Bronx zoo, and that anchor’s from Mystic Seaport.  There’s even a miniature tennis racket from our lessons at the club.  It’s all here, Debbie, our entire lives, on this one organic monument.” 

He turned to her cheerfully.  But even as she watched, the expression slid from his face like melting candle wax, and something else took hold.  Something frightening.  He looked at her blankly for a moment, but it wasn’t her that he was seeing, she was sure of it.  Then he walked around the end of the couch, picked up his highball, drank it off, and contemplated the glass in his hand before winging it into the fireplace.

            “Gaston!  Control yourself!  You’ll wake the children!”

            He dropped into a chair.  “Sorry.  I was thinking of my uncle.  The swine.”

            “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

            His gaze arose to the Christmas tree bulb light-show on the blackened television.  “He’s the polar opposite of my father, Debbie.  The man has no conscience.  No scruples.  He’s colder than one of the stiffs.  And he cheats our customers.  Poor people.  Old people.  People who can’t afford it, who’re weak and confused in a time of loss.  Talks them into things.  Floral arrangements fit for a king.  Caskets made of teak and mahogany that cost as much as a triple bypass.  Then, after the ceremony comes the coup de grâce.  He covers the box with a velvet shroud.  Free of charge, he tells them.  Only it’s rayon, and the coffin’s become a cheap veneer.

            “And that’s not the worst of it.  Do you remember Major Armstrong, the war hero?  The one who got the police escort out to Oakwood Cemetery?”  He looked over to catch her nod. “The family had stipulated that we bury him in uniform with all of his medals.  A common request for veterans.  Anyway, Felix botched it.  Put the uniform on Flannagan, the barber.  I was away on a house call, or I would have stopped him.  He was drunk, Debbie.  He drinks every day now in the afternoons.  Gin.  You can smell it on him when he forgets his Altoids.  Anyhow, I was checking up on things before the service, like I always do, and it was only by chance that I noticed.  The major had a deformity, a pinky that angled sharply inward.  I happened to glance at it while I was making my adjustments, and it was straight as a pin.  Then, on a hunch, I went over to Flannagan.  And there it was.  The finger.  It took me a minute to figure it out.  He’d switched their heads, Debbie.  The man had taken a bone saw, and… 

“Well, the ceremony was minutes away.  I hid the pinky under the other hand, that was easy enough, but then I noticed how the neck was—well, I don’t want to be gruesome.  Let’s just say that it didn’t look natural.  And we were out of time, you understand; the bereaved would be arriving any second.  Then it struck me.  There was a hankie, a big silk thing with his regimental insignia on it that we’d tucked into a pocket.  I managed to get it wrapped around him like an aviator’s scarf.  It worked like a charm.  During the service, the son told me discreetly that it wasn’t supposed to be like that, but that he approved anyway.  Said it gave him a kind of swagger, and he thanked me.

            “When it was over, I had it out with Felix.  It got pretty heated.  He reminded me that even though the Dubonnet brothers had founded the home together, he was now its sole proprietor.  Then I got the heave-ho.”

            “Did you slug him, Dad?”  Kyrils’s voice jerked their heads around.  The children were in their pajamas, watching from the foot of the staircase.

            “Kyril, Calandra,” their mother said sternly.  “What are you two doing there?”

            “We heard a bang.  It woke us up.”

            Their father approached the archway.  “I’m afraid I lost my temper.  I apologize.  Everything’s fine now.  And to answer your question, Son, no, I didn’t slug him.  That’s not how we solve our problems.  Now, you go back to bed, please.  There won’t be any more banging tonight.  I promise.”

*   *   *

            Normally, they bought their Christmas tree from Green Valley Nursery in mid December and decorated it that same night, fortified by hot chocolate and hot toddies, to the accompaniment of a crackling fire (the Dubonnet version of the Yule Log—vestige of an ancient Germanic rite involving human sacrifice, according to Gaston), and carols on the stereo.  The tree would remain in the living room until the weekend after New Years, when Daddy would denude it of lights and ornaments (which he insisted on doing himself, so that they were repackaged according to his own fastidious specifications), and then he and the kids would drag the remains ceremoniously through dining room, kitchen and sunroom onto the lawn, and a furlong or so into the woods to a certain stretch of stone wall, where, coaxed to the far side by team effort, it would join its forerunners in the Christmas Tree Burial Ground.

            This year, things had gone differently.  Gaston had lost his job in the interval between the holidays, and seemed disinclined to do much more than to take long walks up and down the road, shovel snow (digging the expected paths to bird feeder and oil tank, and then branching off into maze-like passages to nowhere—a pursuit in which the children had participated eagerly until the cold and the futility had driven them inside to watch their driven father from the windows), and fiddle around with the Christmas tree, which, now in the third week of January, had long since stopped drinking water (though he persisted in checking the level beneath the skirt several times a day), and was instead shedding needles onto the carpet like an old dog shed hair, which he’d gather up with a dustpan, and deposit in the trash.

            Deborah had tried to speed things along.  “Dear,” she would suggest to his back as he moved an ornament up or down or sideways, or swapped a regular bulb with a blinking one, or relocated a bit of tinsel to a nearby offshoot, “Don’t you think it’s about time for us to take down the tree?” to which he would reply with a grunt or a murmur, or sometimes not at all.

            Today, however, he had surprised her.  He came around the couch to encircle her with an arm.  “Just look at it, darling.  Isn’t it gorgeous?  I love our Christmas tree, this Christmas tree, more than any one we’ve ever had.  It’s proof, Debbie.  Proof that things don’t have to change, that they can just go on and on as steady and true as always.”  He gave her a kiss then, and a pat on the bottom, and she was beginning to consider how long they’d have before the school bus arrived when he was back at it, buffing each blown-glass sphere with one of her dustcloths.

            Later on—or maybe it was the next day, or the one after that—who could keep track anymore? Calandra had come into the kitchen while she was preparing vegetables.  Her daughter leaned elbows on the marble island and watched her mother with those piercing blue eyes as she chopped her onions and carrots and celery.  Kyril had the same eyes, of course—the exact same eyes genetically—but Cally’s had always seemed different somehow, with a quality that allowed them to see inside of you, as if she were reading your thoughts.  At times, Deborah found the effect disconcerting.  

            “Where’s Daddy?”

            “Upstairs, polishing his shoes.  He likes to keep them ship-shape, in case there’s a…”

            “Funeral?”  Her mother ignored that, and continued slicing.  Calandra stole a bit of carrot, and popped it in her mouth.  “Is Daddy going crazy?”

            Deborah looked up.  “No, sweetheart.  Your father is not going crazy.”

            “How do you know?”

            “How do I know?  Because—because when someone goes crazy, they—well, they do crazy things, and you can tell.  That’s how.”

            Her daughter thought about that while she chewed.  Then she made an about-face, and marched upstairs to her parents’ bedroom.  Gaston sat at the foot of the bed, a shoe-shine kit in front of him, and several pairs of wingtips, brown and black, fanned out in a gleaming crescent.  Calandra approached him and held out a hand.  “Come with me, Daddy,” she said.  “There’s something we have to do.”

            He looked up at her vaguely.  “What?”

            “Right now.  We’re going to take the tree down.”

            “What?  The tree?”

            “Right now, Daddy.  Or I’ll scream.”

            “What?  Don’t scream, honey.  Why would you scream?”

            “Right now, Daddy.”  She wiggled the hand.  Her father looked around confusedly, then grasped it and stood up.  She led him down the hallway to the next room.  Her brother was playing a video game on his laptop computer.  “Kyril, come with us.  We’re going to take the tree down.”

            “No way.  I’m fighting the Gorgon.”

            “Daddy, tell him to come.  Right now, please.”

            Gaston looked down at the blazing blue eyes, then over at his son.  “Come on, Kyril, let’s go.  Or Cally’ll scream.”

            “Huh?  Why would she scream?”

            “Let’s go, I said.  Right now.”

            Calandra did not, in fact, scream.  What she did do was to herd her father and brother into the living room, where they unplugged the lights on the Christmas tree and dismantled the decorations—stowing everything away just-so according to Gaston’s instructions—as her mother watched in amazement.  Then they put on their hats and coats and mittens, and trudged through the snowy woods to the Christmas Tree Burial Ground, where their friend was laid to rest beside his predecessors—in progressive states of decay, like a series of time-lapse photographs.

            Soon, Kyril and Calandra, famished from their exertions, were stuffing themselves with sphagetti and meatballs, while Deborah partook with lady-like decorum, and Gaston pushed his own around like a child avoiding the Brussels sprouts.  For dessert, Kyril requested ice cream.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.  There isn’t any.”

            The boy was crestfallen until inspiration struck.  “Can we go for ice cream, Dad?  To Carvel?  Please oh please oh please?  Can we?”  His father looked to Calandra for help, but she was on the other team.

            “That’s a great idea, Gas,” Deborah piled on.  “A trip into town would do you a world of good.”

“You think so?” 

“A world of good, Daddy!  Please?  Please?” 

The next thing Gaston knew, he was behind the wheel of their SUV and tooling down Main Street in the winter darkness, the lampposts still dressed in their plastic wreaths and snowflakes.  Kyril posed a query from the back seat.

            “How do you bomb somebody, Dad?”

            His sister huffed.  “It’s em-balmed,” she corrected haughtily.

            “You pickle them,” said his father.  “On the inside.”  Then he was making a right as he had a thousand times, and stopping in front of a stately white Colonial with long black shutters.  A canopied walkway extended to the street, its forest-green canvas emblazoned with the legend, Dubonnet Funeral Home.  Floodlights bathed the outer walls, while the windows shone warmly with a golden incandescence.  Gaston turned to the kids.  “Wait here,” he told them.  “I’ve got to speak with Felix.”  Then he was out of the car and heading up the walk.  After letting himself in, he and a second man appeared in a corner room, talking.  Or arguing, was more like it, judging from their body language.

            Kyril pulled up his door handle.  “C’mon,” he said, “let’s check this out.”

            “We’re supposed to wait here!” Calandra protested, but as her brother circled the Jeep and began slinking across the snowy yard, resistance crumbled.  Soon the two of them were peeking in a window, hands cupped to their ears to listen through the glass. 

            “My father built this business with hard work and integrity!  And you’ve done nothing but milk it dry!”

            “Give me that key and get out!  Or I’ll have you arrested!”

            Gaston turned eight shades of purple.  “Have me arrested?  Why, you—”  A fist shot out to connect with the uncle’s chin; he staggered backwards.  “That was for my dad, you sot!  And if you act against me in any way, I’ll give them enough dirt on you to keep you swinging a sledge hammer till you’re ninety!”  He threw his key down on the table, and started to leave.  Calandra and Kyril hurried back to the car.

            When he was buckled in again, Gaston looked long and hard at the familiar premises.  “Believe it or not, kids,” he said at last, “this is the only place I’ve ever worked.  I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m going to do now.  I probably shouldn’t be telling you that, my own children, but I’ve always tried to be honest with you guys.”

            Calandra studied her father’s profile for a moment, then followed his gaze to the big white house beyond the canopy.  “Why don’t you just get another one, Daddy?”

            “Another what, honey?”

            “Another house.  Like this one.”

            “Yeah, Dad,” said Kyril.  “Where you bomb people.  You can do it better than that old sot any day.”  (He didn’t know what a ‘sot’ was, exactly, but it sure sounded right.)

Everyone was quiet for a while after that.  Then Gaston released his seat belt, and swung around to face the twins.  Even though it was dark inside the car, Calandra thought that his eyes seemed brighter than they had in ages.  

“You know,” he said, looking from one to the other, “I think you two may have something there.  Sure.  There’s plenty of business in the area.  That’s exactly what I’ll do.  I’ll open up my own place, on the other side of town.  That’d be perfect—”

            “You sure slugged him, didn’t you, Dad?”     

            “Now, Son,” his father began, “that’s not how we—”  But the jig was, as they say, up.  He put on a smile instead.  “How about some ice cream?”    

This story first appeared in Carbon Culture Review.

Head Case

Dr. Frankenstern assessed the patient in the client’s chair.  It was a smallish man, dark and plump and balding, who sat bolt upright and regarded him with large, moist, rapidly blinking brown eyes.  The brows were uncommonly lush, the nose round and pink, and the full lips coaxed by an overbite into a permanent expression of wonder.

            “So, where do we go from here, Vic?” the man asked him.

            The doctor drew in a preparatory breath.  “It’s not every day, Earl, that I advise a patient against having more tests.  But in your case, I can’t really justify—”

            “Oh, please, Vic,” said Haggart, wringing his hands.  “Don’t leave me in the dark.  I can’t stand the not-knowing.”

The doctor suppressed a smile.  “Well, to be honest with you, Earl, I’m not quite sure how to pursue this thing.  The symptoms you describe are a little…vague.  Tell you what.  Why don’t we go over it again from the top, and maybe the proper course of action will suggest itself.  Now, you say that you have a pain in the lower abdomen—”

            “Not a pain, exactly.  More of a discomfort.”

            “A discomfort.”

            “Yes, that’s right.  A feeling of disorientation.  I was thinking it might be a twisted bowel, because I remember reading once that—”

            “No, no,” said the doctor with a shake of his head.  “With a twisted bowel you’d have rectal bleeding, and all sorts of—”

            “Then maybe kidney colic,” Haggart suggested helpfully.  “Or a parasitic infection.  There was an article last month in JAMA about—”

            “I’m the doctor here, Earl,” Dr. Frankenstern said sternly.  “And, I think...”  But then he brightened.  “I think we’ll start you off with a barium enema.”  He picked up his prescription pad, scribbled on it, and tore off a page.  “Here.  Bring this out to the nurse.  She’ll fill you in on the details.”

            Haggart’s lower lip quivered.  “That’s not like a colonoscopy, is it, Vic?  Because frankly, I’m a little nervous about—”

“Oh, no, no, no.  Nothing like that.  Much less intrusive.  A glorified X-ray, really.  We don’t do many of them these days, but as far as you’re concerned, if you’ll forgive the pun, I think it’s just what the doctor ordered.”

            Haggart fairly sprang from the chair.  “Oh, thank you, Vic.  Thank you so much.  Gee.  I think I feel better already.”

*   *   *

The nurse opened a red plastic box.  Inside was a smorgasbord of pills and capsules, each in its own special compartment.  “Nothing to eat or drink but clear liquids for sixteen hours prior to the examination.  You’re scheduled for eight A.M., so that means no solid food after four this afternoon.”

            “Got it,” acknowledged Haggart.  “Nothing after four.  I’m so glad to be having this test, Jill, I can’t tell you.  I’ve been so worried.”

            “That’s perfectly understandable.  I hope it puts your mind at ease.  Now, the regimen of laxatives is very important.  The instructions are right here inside the lid.  If you have any questions, just give us a call.”

            Haggart surveyed the array of medicine.  “And which ones are the laxatives?” he asked eagerly. 

            A grin flickered and died.  “They’re all laxatives,” she told him.

*   *   *

The elevator doors had hardly closed when the receptionist piped up.  “That your hypo, Jill?”

            “Listen, Patty.  Just because someone has a healthy concern for their own well being doesn’t make them a hypochondriac.  On the other hand,” she continued, pointing with a thumb, “that guy’s the genuine article.  He thinks he’s got everything from beri beri to anthrax, and we’ve drawn enough blood to fill a lily pond.  Doc says the only thing wrong with him is a pair of flat feet.”

            “And a loose screw,” ventured Patty.

*   *   *

            “Good morning, Flo,” sang Adelaide, holding the door for her neighbor. 

The other woman squeezed by with difficulty, impeded less by the webbed laundry basket than her own considerable bulk.  “Phew!  It must be a hundred degrees in here!  Will they ever get that fan fixed?”

“Someday, I imagine.”  Addie found her reflection in the washing-machine glass, and adjusted a wayward lock.  Not bad, she decided, for sixty-one.  The cheeks were still pretty, her chin had yet to sag, and that silver mane did wonders for her striking green eyes.  

            “Oh, darn,” Florence broadcast.  “Two quarters short.  You wouldn’t happen to have a couple extra, would you, hon?” 

            Adelaide dug the usual touch from an apron pocket.  Several dollars a month were donated in this fashion, but she didn’t much mind.  Things were a little tight for Flo and Bob; he’d retired from the butcher shop, after all, and didn’t have a nice teacher’s pension like her Earl.

            “So how’s the mister?” her neighbor asked, feeding in the coins.  “I haven’t seen your hubby around in ages.”

            “He’s fine,” Adelaide told her, then responded to the raised eyebrows with a clarification.  “Well, not exactly fine, I suppose.  He’s at the doctor now, as a matter of fact.”

            “Oh, my.  Is it still that terrible ringing in his ears?  I remember that was bothering him for the longest time.”

            “No, that went away.  I think.  Lately it’s been some kind of an intestinal ailment.  For about a week now.”

            “Oh, my,” said Florence, studying the kaleidoscope of churning clothes.  “I know it  can’t be easy for you, Addie.  With Earl, I mean.  I can’t imagine what I’d do if my Bob was…had…  I guess what I’m trying to say is—if we can ever be of help with anything, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”

Adelaide patted her friend’s arm.  “Thank you, Flo, that’s sweet.  But I’m O.K., really I am.  It may sound funny, but Earl and I have a sort of a routine down at this point.  I’m used to it.”  She gave a little chuckle.  “The truth is, sometimes I wonder what I’d do if he ever stopped—suffering.”

*   *   *

            “Feel eet ray-goo-lar?” the young man inquired.  Probably an illegal from Mexico, Haggart surmised, but he was certainly pleasant enough.  And he had yet to forget the gas cap, which the previous incarnation (an alumnus of the very high school where he himself had  taught history) managed to do on a regular basis.  He nodded assent as he pried himself from the car.  Ooh, there it was again, that stab in the lower back.  Could mean a herniated disc... 

As usual, he found himself drifting toward the service garage.  There was something about this cavern that he found irresistible: walls hung with arcane equipment, floor filled with mysterious stains, the atmosphere redolent of balms and potions— 

“What’s up with the Toyota?” asked the mechanic, of a man with a smoking cigar. 

            “Loss of power, guy says.  Check the compression first and see what we got there.  If them rings are blowin’ by, it’ll poison the mix somethin’ awful.”  (Haggart drew a fist to his chest; acid reflux, rearing its ugly head...)

            “Then pull the fuel filter.  Any gunk in the tank, that’ll mean clogged injectors.”  (He wondered about the results of his liver tests.)  “Bottom line, we got an old dog on our hands, here.  What’s she got on her?”  The mechanic peered through the window.  “Eighty-five, but that’ll be twice around.”

            “Well, there you go.  A car with that kinda mileage is circlin’ the drain.”  (‘Circling the drain,’ Haggart recalled uneasily.  That was a phrase that doctors used for their terminal patients...)

            “Do what you can, Louie.  Change out the plugs, and dump in a can o’ oil treatment for that knock.  But we can’t work miracles.  This engine’s a cluckin’ time bomb.”  (That’s me, thought Haggart; sixty-six and ticking away…)

            “Yo, meester,” called his friend at the pump.  “Turty-two feefty.”

*   *   *

            “Eat all of your peas, dear, you’ll need your strength.”  Addie had hardly touched her own supper; 3:00 P.M. was a bit too close to lunch.  Her husband, on the other hand, had dined with relish.  At the instant the clock struck four, he dutifully pushed his plate away, scooped up the first two amber capsules, and washed them down with a refreshing swig of mineral water. 

            “Would you like to go outside for a while?”  It was their habit to sit by the walk, and watch the young mothers with their wee ones.

            “I don’t think so, love, not today.  I’m looking forward to starting my new book.  But, please, you go ahead.”

            She looked at him questioningly.  “You’ll be O.K.?”

            “Absolutely.  Don’t you worry a minute about me.  All I have to do is to take my medicine like a trooper, and while away the hours with a relaxing read till bedtime.  Couldn’t be easier.”

            Addie’s heart filled to brimming as she took in that face.  He could be so cute sometimes, so much like a little boy.  “Enjoy your reading, then, dear.”

*   *   *

            When she returned home an hour later, her husband’s favorite haunt—the upholstered wingchair he’d inherited from his mother—was empty.  But the tumbler was still there on the lamp-stand, as was that novel he’d bought at the used-book store.  A Russian author, he’d mentioned; she wondered if it was another from Count Tolstoy, or his beloved Dostoyevsky.  On impulse, she went over to see.  Ah, Solzhenitsyn: Cancer Ward.  My, that didn’t sound very cheery.  Haggart emerged from the bathroom then and tottered down the hallway like a boxer in need of a ten-count.  “How are you doing?” she asked him, but he seemed to look right through her.

            “Gosh,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of a hand.  “Those pills are really something.”

*   *   *

            Adelaide rolled toward her husband, but encountered only empty sheets.  She opened her eyes on the clock: 1:36 A.M.  Where could he be?  Departing the warmth of their bed, she draped a robe around her shoulders, and headed for the sliver of light at the base of the door.  There was a whoosh of water, and the sound of retreating footsteps.  “Earl?” she tried, but got no reply.

She found him back in the wingchair, already ensconced in his novel; mouth ajar and the text held inches from his nose.  “Earl,” she repeated, and he gave a start.

            “Oh, hello, love.”  Her husband’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face so pale it seemed almost aglow.

“Why are you still up?  You neeed your rest for that appointment in the morning.”

            “Can’t sleep,” he said.  “Those pills.  And this book, Addie, it’s horrible.  The things they’re doing to these poor sick people.  Experimenting on them with radiation, like rats—”  A teary-eyed snuffle cut short his review.

Addelaide circled the wingchair, and stroked her husband’s sparsely sown pate.  “Early, Early,” she cooed, “that’s all over, now, remember?  Ronnie Reagan put paid to those nasty Bolsheviks way back when.  Now, close that book and come to bed.  You need to get some sleep, even if it’s only a couple of hours’ worth.”

            “Yes, alright.  I’ll try.”  He stood up weakly and shut off the lamp with the brass pull chain—then switched it back on again.  There on the coaster were two sky-blue spheres, staring back at them like cartoon eyeballs.  Haggart swept up the pills with a trembling hand. “Last set,” he said around gritted teeth.  Addie waited while he took some water, then led him down the hallway to their bedroom.  In ten minutes flat, they were snug as bugs-in-a-rug and fast asleep.  In fifteen, Haggart was up and dashing for the john like a sprinter to the finish line.

*   *   *

            The waiting room in Radiology was hot, cramped, and dominated by Norman-Rockwell-like renderings of sagacious doctors with cringing children.  These lacked the naturalistic flair of the master, however, and looked like the chintzy knockoffs they were.  Haggart found the effect disquieting; it seemed like something shameful were afoot.  He picked up a magazine, which fell open to an ad for floating hotels off the coast of Belize.  What drivel!  How could anyone enjoy such decadence when good people were suffering—people like himself? 

            And he was suffering now, boy, if he hadn’t been before, after a night without sleep and a morning with no breakfast.  He knew it was silly, but he felt as if he were starving; every movement of his head made the room swim around him.  And as if that weren’t enough, he was painfully shy about exposing himself, and couldn’t help thinking that this particular test might involve… 

But at least it would be administered by a middle-aged man; he’d verified that with a call to the desk.  Frank Loman was the good fellow’s name—

            “Mr. Haggart?”  A nurse stood in the doorway, a girl really, cheeks the color of cotton candy and hardly more than twenty years old.  Must be a new hire; he knew most everyone at the medical group by sight, if not by name.  “We’re all set for you now.” 

He accompanied her past examining rooms familiar as old friends.  Here was the shadowy X-ray suite (‘chin up, shoulders forward, take a deep breath and hold it…’), and directly opposite, the MRI machine, where they stuffed you into a sewer pipe while powerful men with sledge-hammers (or so it sounded) beat frenetically on the outside.  But the room at the end of the hall he could never remember visiting.  Inside was a stainless steel table of the sort used for autopsies.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Haggart?” the nurse inquired, closing the door behind them.

            “Oh, not too bad,” he lied, his heart rate starting to skyrocket.

            “Has anyone explained the procedure to you?”

            “Uh, well, no, I don’t think so.  That is, not in so many words.”

            “That’s alright, it’s pretty straightforward.  We don’t actually do too many of these anymore.”  He noticed a scent on her then that was unmistakable: bubble gum.  The girl was chewing bubble gum.  Stepping away, she removed a piece of equipment from brackets on the wall.  It was composed of a black rubber bag of about a gallon capacity, attached to a heavy-duty flexible tube, from the end of which protruded—

            Oh my god.

            “First we insert this self-locking probe,” said the nurse, joggling the abomination back and forth in front of her.  “Then we inflate the lower bowel to maximum distension with a slurry of barium salt solution and compressed air, until we get a clear—are you O.K.?”

“I—I’m fine,” Haggart spluttered.  “But I think I’d like to see Dr. Lowman now, if that’s alright.”

            She smiled at him patiently till her eyes found the clock.  “Mr. Lowman is on vacation this week.  My name is Dawn, and I will be your technician today.  Now, remove all of your clothing for me, climb up onto the table here and lie down flat on your back.  There’s a step stool on the other side.”

Haggart swallowed hard.  “All of my clothing?”

            The nurse mulled it over.  “You can leave your socks on if your feet are cold,” she said.

*   *   *

            Haggart entered the living room wearing his third change of ties.  Adelaide could tell by his expression that he liked this gold-and-navy best.

            “How do I look?” he asked, doing a shuffling pirouette.

“Very handsome.  That one definitely compliments your shirt.  But honestly, Earl, you act as though we were having dinner with the president.  It’s only Clifford Bliss, your ex-student, and he practically worships the ground you walk on.  It’s him who should be a nervous Nellie.”

            “Well, I like Clifford,” said Haggart, shrugging into his jacket.  “And I won’t deny that I consider these reunions to be quite an honor.  It isn’t every high school teacher who’s feted by a student fifteen years after graduation.”

            Addie went over to straighten the knot he’d inflicted.  “That’s true.  Particularly one who’s done so well for himself.”

            “Yes, he—ooh, not so tight, love; I’ve got a little swelling there in the glands—he sure has made a go of it in the import business.”

“And in the romance business, apparently.  He said on the phone that he’s bringing someone special.”

            Haggart’s eyes widened.  “What?  Clifford’s gotten serious?  That doesn’t sound a bit like the devoted rake I remember.”

            “Love conquers all, dear,” Addie reminded him.  “It happens to the best of you.”

“Yes it does,” he conceded with a wink.  “Indeed it does.”

*   *   *

            The Pirate’s Cove was the fanciest restaurant in town.  Bliss made reservations there whenever he came to visit, and invariably for the table by the window with its sumptuous view of the bay.  Tonight was no different, nor did he alter his routine by arriving on time.  Planned for seven, dinner was already a half-hour late when, adjusting himself on the chair, Haggart got a stitch in the upper thigh.  The opening strains of sciatica, no doubt—a severe and debilitating condition that would only worsen over time.  But he wouldn’t let it beat him, no sir.  Not that, nor any of the other maladies that chomped and gnawed at his aging carcass like a pack of hungry jackals.  Resolve, that was the ticket.  Grim resolve in the face of adversity…

“Earl,” said Addie with a nudge, and here was their host, weaving among the tables with that confident, carefree stride.   And on his arm…

            Oh dear.  Oh my goodness.

            “Addie, you look grand,” effused Bliss, bending to buss her cheek.  “And you, Earl, you look—terrible.”  A palisade of sparkling ivory.  “Only kidding, Doc, you know that.  You haven’t changed a whit in twenty years.  You’re like that guy in the painting, what’s his name—”  He snapped his fingers until he thought of it: “Delorean Gray.”

            Haggart smiled back as he took the man in.  Bliss was elegance personified: Italian suit, hand-screened silk tie, Rolex—even a boutonnière.  Then his gaze skipped to the woman at his side, this jewel.  Chinese, most likely, petite and exquisite, with jet-black hair, dazzling cat-eyes, and skin as white as an eggshell.  Her lips were the color of a perfectly ripened plum.

            “Addie, Earl—may I present Mei Chang,” said Bliss, and Haggart found himself rising from his chair and bowing ridiculously.  “And this,” Bliss told her, putting a hand on his shoulder, “is good old Doc Haggart, the man who taught me all there is to know about the history of the universe.”

            Haggart demurred.  “Now Clifford, you exaggerate.  I hardly think that—”

            “No, really,” Bliss insisted, “you changed my life.  You did.  I remember those lectures like it was only yesterday.  Solomon, leading his elephants over the Andes—”

            “You mean Hannibal, and the Alps.”

            “Yeah, whatever.  Let’s get some action here.  I need a belt.”

*   *   *

            Haggart did his best during the meal not to ogle Mei Chang.  He tried to concentrate on Bliss’s chronicles; the endless jaunts to Paris and Prague, the debut of his company’s fourteenth store, the brand new beach house in Santa Monica—but the eyes strayed of their own volition, and tarried longer than they should have done.  More than once, Addie had caught him staring and given him a look, whether of amusement or annoyance he wasn’t sure.  But he couldn’t help it, anymore than he could have ignored the Hindenburg wafting overhead; he was a schoolboy again, bewitched and mooning in the presence of a great beauty.

            As usual, Bliss went on and on about the importance of history in his life, giving his teacher credit for everything he’d accomplished.  This had always been a mystery to Haggart; as he’d explained to Addie, Bliss had not been a good student, and even something of a troublemaker.  He recalled afternoons spent with the teenager whom he’d held over for detention, himself correcting papers while the lad had covered his binder with ballpoint sketches and designs.  Obviously he had managed, via some mystical channel, to reach through the fog of failing test scores and missing homework to connect with the boy in a very special way.  In the end, it was none of the first-row, budding laureates who’d given him credit for a contribution to their lives, but rather Bliss—Clifford Bliss of all people.  And Haggart was grateful for it, too, more grateful than he could ever express.  

            “This was our first international acquisition, and Jeffrey—he’s my sales manager—he says to me, ‘I don’t know, Cliff, do you really think we should venture into France?  It’s a whole new ball game over there, what with the language and everything.’  So I say to him, ‘Listen, son.  We’re Americans.  We take chances.  You didn’t hear Admiral Peary whining about his trip to the South Pole, did you?’  Well, that stopped him cold—and no pun intended.”

            Bliss let out his infectious laugh, and the others, infected, joined in.  Haggart was delighted by Mei’s charming little chitter.  “Forgive me for being pedantic, Clifford, but you’re thinking of Amundsen.  Peary went to the North Pole, in nineteen nine.  Got frostbite in both feet.  They sawed off most of his toes, poor devil, but he wouldn’t give up.  Made it the last few miles with nothing but a handful of Eskimos and a couple of wild dogs.”

            “See?” cried Bliss, thrusting a finger.  “He knows everything!”

            “Well, I hardly—” Haggart began, but then the girl was regarding him with a kind of reverence in those captivating eyes of hers, and he felt himself sitting up straighter and pushing out his chest.

            “That’s what he did in class!” Bliss recalled excitedly.  “He’d reel off these wonderful stories about kings and castles and ships on fire—the stuff that dreams are made of.  Why, I’d leave that classroom floating on a cloud.”  Inspired anew, he raised his cocktail.  “Ladies, I give you Dr. Earl Haggart, my personal mentor and inspiration.”  He said this last rather loudly, and a fellow at a nearby table began clapping.  Soon another had taken it up, and then the whole establishment seemed to burst into applause at once. 

            Haggart didn’t know whether to be mortified or exhilarated.  He looked from Addie to Bliss and lastly at Mei Chang, finding her own delicate hands joining in the tribute.  A flush of pride came over him then as he hoisted his Scotch to clink the other glass.  “Thank you, Clifford,” he said.  “Thank you very much.”  He felt as if he were ten feet tall.

            “You are...doctor, Mr. Earl?”  This from Mei, who had scarcely uttered a word all evening, except to whisper into Bliss’s ear. 

            “Not a medical doctor, dear,” he explained, aware that his voice carried a lilt of adoration, but unable to suppress it.  “I have a doctorate in world history.  From Cornell.”

            “That’d be a laugh,” opined Bliss, laughing.  “You, an M.D.  With all of your, you know, peccadilloes.  You’d bill yourself into the poorhouse, ha, ha.”  Haggart peered at him quizzically, a queasy sensation forming in his stomach.

            “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said.  “What are you referring to?”

            “Clifford—” Addie began, but Bliss cut her off, growing more tickled by the moment. 

“The doc’s a bit of a worrier,” he said to the girl, “about his health.”  He seized his cocktail, found it empty and lifted a finger for the waiter.  “Always thinks he’s got something, you know, that he’s sick when he really isn’t.  What do you call that?  Oh, you know what I mean.”  But Mei Chang didn’t have a clue, and continued to stare at him with a prettily furrowed brow.

            “Clifford,” Addie chided, reaching to touch his hand, but he’d angled away to a nearby diner.

            “What’s the word for someone who imagines they’re ill?” he asked, and waited until the other had finished chewing.

            “Hypochondriac,” came the answer, and Bliss spun around.  “That’s what you are, old boy!” he thundered, slapping the tablecloth for emphasis.  “You’re a hypochondriac!”

            The restaurant fell silent for a long, eerie moment.  Then the man who’d applauded before was applauding again, and soon everyone was laughing and clapping uproariously.  Haggart turned to Addie for support, only to see her solicitous mien shatter as she began to giggle in spite of herself.  And then he was growing smaller, shrinking away like a lump in a cup of tea, and just when he thought he might disappear entirely, his eyes found Mei Chang—her features contorted and even repulsive—cackling away with the rest of them.

*   *   *

             “Would you like more ginger ale, dear?”  Her husband was sitting with the paper in his lap, as he had been for over an hour now, but his gaze was fixed beyond it, on a whorl in the carpet of uncommon interest, or on something else entirely that only he could see.  “No thank you, love.  I’m fine.”      

            He was still reeling from the fiasco at dinner, and rightly so.  Of all the stupid things for Clifford to blurt out in front of half the town—and after all that his teacher had done for him, by his own admission.  Everybody and his brother knew that Earl was…one of those, but it was a handicap, an infirmity, not the kind of thing you made fun of, anymore than you’d rib a man about his stutter, or a club foot.  And Clifford didn’t appreciate, couldn’t begin to fathom, that her husband’s disorder had become an integral part of his lifestyle, and by extension, of her own.  In a very real sense it was their guiding star, their raison d’être, what set them apart from all of the other shambling, A.A.R.P. relics. 

Sure it was tough to endure sometimes; the conga line of complaints, the endless hours spent in waiting rooms, the constant focus on illness and disease—like a bastard child, to be coddled and nourished and toted around with her wherever she went, in lieu of the real one she’d never been blessed with.  But it was her cross to bear, and bear it she did, bravely and around the clock, as she had now for decades.  And there was a source of pride in that, a certain dignity, like a woman with a son in the war who garnered respect for the sacrifice.  Not a concept that everyone would grasp, especially a philistine like Clifford Bliss—

            “I’m going for a walk, Addie,” said Haggart, getting to his feet.  “I’ll see you in a little while.”

*   *   *

            He’d heard it before, of course.  At first they’d taunted him at school for being a ‘momma’s boy,’ and later, once his afflictions began to develop, for being ‘sickly.’  But it wasn’t until the fifth grade when Mrs. Miller had used it herself, that they had learned the accursed word.  He’d asked for the hall pass to see the nurse about a headache—or maybe it had been a rash, or a sore throat, or a dizzy feeling.  In any case, Mrs. Miller had gotten angry.  “You’re not going anywhere, Earl Haggart, because there’s nothing wrong with you.  Not now, not yesterday, and not last week; the nurse told me herself that there’s never anything wrong with you, that you’re a hypochondriac.  Do you know what that is, Earl?  That’s someone who thinks they’re sick when they’re perfectly well.  That’s you, Earl, that’s you to a tee.  You’re a hy-po-chon-dri-ac.”  She’d reached for a piece of chalk to write it on the board, but hesitated as she looked again at the little boy with the moisture welling in his trusting brown eyes.  Then she picked up the wooden cut-out of a firetruck instead.  “Here, Earl.  Take the pass.  Go and see the nurse.”

            But he hadn’t been well that day, nor any of the other ones, either.  Mrs. Miller just didn’t realize that some people were more sensitive than others, that’s all, more prone to illness and injury, and that there was nothing whatsoever they could do about it.  It certainly wasn’t his fault.  Or Mother’s... 

He pictured her now in one of her print dresses—the one with the sunflowers—attentive and doting as she had been in his youth, bringing him a Coke as he sat before the television with his after-school snack of bologna slices and Wise potato chips.  “Poor baby,” she murmured, skimming his face with an ever-present Kleenex.  “Runny nose again.  You’re coming down with something, I just know you are.”  Was he?  He thought that he felt O.K., but if Mother said— 

If Mother said...

            Haggart stopped walking and peered up into the vast night sky, suddenly aware of a chill in the air.  There was a constellation above him that he should have recognized, but the stars seemed different tonight, cryptic and indecipherable, a crowd of cosmic strangers.

            Mother had done plenty of her own suffering, of course.  He joined her now for one of her migraines, she in the parlor wingchair amidst a comforting sea of pillows, and he in short pants on the ottoman alongside.  The shades would be drawn against the sunlight, the pulse of her headache in synch—or so he imagined—with that clock.  (The grandfather clock: ebony sentinel looming in the corner.  How he’d despised that thing.  The ominous clacking of its wooden works like the gait of a stalking monster; the funereal chime a theme song for every one of his nightmares.)  Father would arrive home oozing commiseration.  Except that Earl would catch his surreptitious sighs, the half-hidden shakes of the head, and occasionally, when he was speaking on the phone in the library where he didn’t think to be overheard, the characterization of his tormented spouse as…as a…

            Then Haggart was sobbing into his palms as he hadn’t done for years.

*   *   *

            “How do you feel this morning, dear?”  Addie delivered his whole-wheat toast and the jar of marmalade.

            “Splendid, my sweet,” he replied sweetly. 

            She had returned to the kitchen before it gelled.  Had he said, ‘splendid’?  Earl was many things in the morning: hanging in there, tolerable, fair to midling—but ‘splendid’ was definitely not in the repertoire.  Maybe he wasn’t fully awake yet; yes, that could account for the queer remark.  She took up mugs of coffee and joined him at the table.  “Would you mind if we stopped by Sears today?  I’m dying to find a sweater to go with my new fall slacks.”

            “Capital idea,” said Haggart.  “I can stock up on Old Spice, and check out those treadmills they have in the flyer.”

            Addie began to cough and sputter.  Haggart moved with surprising swiftness to pat her on the back.  “Sweetheart?  Do you need some water?”

            “No, no,” she managed at last, waving off his ministrations.  “But—what was that you said about a—treadmill?”     

Her husband chuckled.  “Oh, not to worry.  I intend to be very cautious at first with my exercise program.  Or I should say, with our exercise program, because I’m counting on you to join me.”  He smiled at her strangely then, and she could only gape in response, dumbstruck. 

“But—what about your your neck?  And your back?  And your knees?  And your—”

            He waved a hand.  “The challenges of middle age, my love, nothing else.  Oh, I know that I’ve dwelt on those things more than I should have, a practice I inherited from my dear mother, bless her soul.  Raised suffering to an art form, that woman, and passed the skill along to her only son.  I was a quick study, of course.  Always have been—”

            “Earl, I—”

“No, please.  Let me finish.  Last night was a godsend, Addie.  It drove me to ponder, long and hard.  And I came to the conclusion that—well, that…” (he directed his next words to the ceiling) “…that I’ve suffered quite enough!” 

The wall phone rang then, and Haggart strode to answer it, savoring the amazement on his lovely bride’s face.  But there was something else there, too—something, perhaps, akin to hope—and as he encouraged that look with one of his own, a spark leapt between them. 

The phone pealed again, and he snatched up the receiver.  “Hello?  Yes?  Oh.  Good morning, Jill.  You’ll be calling to verify my Wednesday appointment.  I’d like to cancel, actually.  Yes, that’s right.  I’m feeling much better now, and—what?  The week before last?  Sure, I remember.  What about it?” 

The silence seemed to go on too long. 

“Alright,” he said finally.  “I understand.  Yes.  Thank you, Jill, I’ll be sure to follow up.”  He hung up the phone softly, but never turned.

            “Earl.  Earl, what is it?  What did the nurse say?” 

“That test we did.  The biopsy.  They got the results back from the lab.  And they found…  They found…”

Addie stood up from the table and began to approach him, a hand clutching the neck of her bathrobe.  “Found what, Earl?  What did they find?  Tell me.”    

            Her husband swung around slowly.  “Just what I’ve always been afraid of, Adelaide.  Nothing.  They found absolutely nothing.” 

A grin exploded then as he swept her into his arms.  “Alright, babe, here’s the plan: we can hit the mall later, but first, we’re gonna drag this blasted wingchair down to the dumpster where it belongs.  And after that—we’ve got to start planning our trip!  That’s right, Addie!  A second honeymoon!  I’m taking you to Belize, in Central America!  Can you believe it?  And wait till you see our hotel…”  

This story appeared first in Poydras Review.

D-Day

“Don’t be sad, Jenny,” her mother urged, stroking the little girl’s long dark hair.  “Try to understand, honey.  Departure Day isn’t a bad thing at all.  It’s a good thing.  A rite of passage sort of—like a graduation.  There isn’t any pain involved, no suffering…”  She glanced at her husband, who gave her a furtive nod of encouragement.  They had both worked hard to prepare their daughter for this first Departure, but you could never tell how you’d done until the day arrived.

            Jenny blinked back a tear.  “Can we go see Grandpa now?”

            “You bet we can,” said her mother.  Jenny picked up her hug-worn Teddy bear, and they left the kitchen together for the rear bedroom. 

Grandpa was sitting in his comfortable chair by the window, watching the birds on the feeder outside.  Jenny crossed the carpet to look over his shoulder.  None of the pretty birds were there now, no cardinals or purple finches, just a couple of those sparrows with the brown-and-white spots.  The sparrows all looked the same to her, but Grandpa said there were lots of different types, and he’d tried to teach her the names one day.  She’d gotten them all mixed up, but he hadn’t been the least bit mad at her.  Grandpa never got mad at anyone.  He was the nicest man in the whole wide world.

            “Can I see your Gold Watch, Grandpa?”

            His crinkly Santa Claus face spread into a smile.  “Of course you can, bumpkin.”  He placed his wrist on the arm of the chair.

Jenny had seen lots of Gold Watches, but she liked this one best.  The metaloid gleamed with a flawless finish, and every movement drew sparkles from a ring of lunar diamonds.  In the center, the display was set in a pretty pink cloud that roiled and shifted like a sea of cotton candy.

For seventy-nine years, one hundred and sixty-four days, that display had consisted of the date, time, GPS coordinates and barometric pressure, the values alternating sequentially every other second.  But then, almost twenty-four hours ago, there had been a dramatic change.  The numbers had gone from their usual, cheery yellow to a no-nonsense flat black.  And now only the time was shown in military format, marching inexorably backward toward the end of the final day.  There were currently, Jenny saw, just six minutes and forty-three seconds of that day remaining—

            ...42, 41, 40, 39...

            “Are you afraid, Grandpa?” Jenny asked him.

            He looked into her clear, blue, eight-year-old eyes and smiled again.  “Oh, no, bumpkin.  Grandpa isn’t afraid.  I’ve been ready now for a long, long time.”

            “Isn’t D-Day supposed to be when you’re a hundred, Grandpa?”

            A firmer voice answered from the doorway.  “Not always, Jen,” said her father.  “It’s often around there, but it can be different for everyone.  You see, when you turn twelve, you’ll give some hair to the doctor—”

            “Not my hair!” 

            The grownups shared a chuckle.  “Only a strand or two,” her father clarified.  “You won’t even know it’s missing.  So, the doctor takes the sample, like he did from Grandpa, here, when he was twelve, and from Mommy and me, and he’ll send it down south—”

            “To Big Alice?” Jenny suggested.  She had learned about Big Alice in school, like all of the other children.

            “That’s right.  To Big Alice, the DNA mainframe in Virginia.  The computer will calculate your genetic prognosis—and there’s everything in there about you, every exact detail about the way that your body will grow and respond to stimulus over the years—and then it selects a Departure Date, to avoid the, uh…”

            Mommy came to the rescue.  “Some of the yucky stuff that would happen to people when they got very sick, or older—”

            “But not as old as I am now,” added Grandpa.  “People used to have a lot of physical and mental ailments when they were as young as, oh, seventy or eighty.  I’m ninety-one and I still feel fine.”

            “Then why does your Gold Watch say you have to go, Grandpa?”  She looked at it as she waited for a response.  Four minutes and thirty-six seconds, it read.

            ...35, 34, 33, 32...

            “Well, bumpkin, you see—we decided a long time ago that when folks get to be around my age, they...well, they’ve generally had all the living they need.  I mean, you’ve raised a family, you’ve had your career and your National Service, and it’s just kinda right that you should step aside and make some room for all the young whipper-snappers.”  He reached down to tweak Jenny’s nose, and she giggled.

            “Oh, boy,” said Grandpa, checking the time.  “We’re getting close now.  Come and sit on Grandpa’s lap and we’ll follow these rascals down together.”  Jenny tried to climb up, but she couldn’t make it past the old man’s knees.  Her father was starting forward when Grandpa motioned him back.  Finally, on the third attempt, she and Teddy managed to wriggle into place.  Grandpa wrapped her in his arms and adjusted the watch so they both could see it.  Across the room, her parents took hold of each other’s hands.  Two minutes, fifty-five seconds, the watch read.

            ...54, 53, 52, 51...

            “Grandpa?” Jenny asked.  “What will the Gold Watch do to you?  Will it hurt?”

            Her grandfather held her close.  “Oh, no, bumpkin.  Nothing like that.  It’s kind of neat what it does, really.  At Departure Time, I’ll get a tiny dose of medicine right through the skin—we’re talking a few molecules here, not even so much as an itty-bitty drop—and it’ll shut down all of the electrical signals inside of me, just like you turned off a light.”

            Jenny pondered this a while before her attention drifted back to the numbers.  Then her face grew very serious, and she sat up straight.  “Mommy, Daddy, come over here and watch the last minute.”  Exchanging a look, her parents advanced to stand beside the chair.

            “You count ‘em down for me, bumpkin,” said Grandpa, and Jenny recited out loud.

            “Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight...”

            “Goodbye, Ed,” Jenny’s father said to Grandpa, reaching down to pat his shoulder.

            “Goodbye, Dad,” said Jenny’s mother, and there was a catch in her voice as she planted a kiss on his forehead.

            “Now, now, little girl, none of that,” Grandpa admonished.  He gave her a wink before turning back to mind the digits with his Jenny.

            “Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—”

            And the watch-bearing arm descended softly as the other hand slipped from her waist.

Jenny twisted around to see that Grandpa’s eyes were shut and his head cocked a little to one side, as if he’d fallen asleep.

            “Bye-bye, Grandpa,” she said with a sniffle.

The ensuing silence was broken by her mother.  “Do you know what let’s do, Jenny?” she said, lifting the girl from her grandfather’s lap.  “Let’s make us some D-Day cookies.  In honor of Grandpa.  I think he would have liked that.  What do you say?  Does that sound like a good idea?”

            “Mocha chocolate chip?  Those were his favorite.”

            “Mine too,” said her father.  “When do I get some?”

            “Now Carl, they’ll be ready when they’re ready.  You’d better go and see about those forms.  The Air Van will be here soon.”

            “Right,” he said, “I’d forgotten all about that,” and hurried off down the hall.

            “Then mocha chocolate chip it is.  And I think the occasion calls for a double batch.  What do you think?”  Jenny was nodding, but her gaze was still on Grandpa, lifeless now as the bear beneath his arm.

            “Do you want me to get Teddy for you?”

            Jenny thought for a moment, then shook her head.  “No,” she said.   “Teddy needs to be with Grandpa a little while longer.”  She pried her eyes away then, and allowed herself to be led from the room.

*  *  *

The buzzing came while Jenny was licking cookie dough from a big wooden spoon.  Looking to the window, she saw the Air Van blot out the world as it descended to a hover-landing a foot above the lawn.  Shaped like a football, it was higher in the middle than the top of their tallest apple tree.  And it was green—not a deep green, like the grass, but more bluish-green, like the swimming pool at the park.  Jenny had seen the Vans lots of times in the sky, but never up close like this before.

            “Can I go outside and look at it?” she asked her mother.

            “I don’t see why not.  Just don’t get in the men’s way.”

            “Oh, I won’t,” Jenny promised, and she was out of the door in a flash.

The ship’s hatch opened with a sound like a gust of wind, and four men stepped down, all of them wearing shiny silver Authority Suits, like policemen.  The tallest one noticed her standing there, beside the azalea bush.

            “Is this your home, Little Miss?” 

            Jenny nodded shyly.

            “What lovely plastiform it’s made of.  Did you pick out that pattern?”

            Jenny knew when she was being kidded.  “No,” she said with a grin.  “My mommy and daddy picked it.”

            “Well, it’s very attractive,” said the man, and then he followed the others over to the house, where her father was waiting to greet them.  They disappeared into the kitchen, and Jenny found herself alone.

            It was then that she noticed the noises coming from the ship’s interior.  The more she listened to them, the more they sounded like some funny little bird: Wink-dink, wink-dink, doodle-oodle.  Wink-dink, wink-dink, doodle-oodle...  Pussyfooting closer, she peeked in through the open hatchway.  It was dark in there, and hard to see anything until her eyes adapted.  Once they had, she found the gently floating image was making her a little dizzy.  She leaned against the doorframe and let her body get into the rhythm; then she felt alright again.  

At the front of the Van, to her right, were twin pilots’ seats set before a wide, crescent-shaped windshield that was invisible from the outside.  Below this was a maze of dials and meters with red and blue numbers on them.  Some of them shone steady, while others were changing so fast she couldn’t even read them.  To the left there were three more seats, and beyond these was a big cluster of transparent cylinders arranged in a pattern like a honeycomb.  A few of them were empty, but most contained long, white, plastic bags.  Sprouting from the bags were wires or tubes that connected them to a wall-mounted machine emitting a series of noises.  Clicks and hisses mostly, but every few seconds a familiar refrain: Wink-dink, wink-dink, doodle-oodle…

            The screen door creaked behind her, and Jenny retreated from the Air Van, not sure if she was allowed to be so close.  As she watched, two men came out of the house carrying a stretcher with a white bag on top, and she guessed that her grandpa must be in there.  They passed her by to enter the ship, while the other pair stayed with her father.  Soon they all shook hands, and the men in the silver suits came across the lawn, talking.  Jenny heard something about a return trip tomorrow, but then she forgot about that when the closer man—the one who’d addressed her before—held out her Teddy bear.   

“I think this belongs to you, Little Miss.”  He was smiling, but it was one of those smiles that grownups make when they’re only pretending.  “You’d better go inside, honey.  The energy field can be pretty strong when we lift off.”

            “O.K.,” said Jenny.  “Glad to meet you, sir.”

            “Glad to meet you too, Little Miss.”  He stepped aboard the Van, and turned back as if to say something, but then let his eyes fall.  The hatch swept closed like a curtain to block him from view.  The buzzing began again, and she was already running when her father called her name.

            *  *  *

Standing on a chair by the kitchen window, Jenny looked out at the big, blue-green football rising from the ground.  It continued straight up until it was higher than the neighbor’s chimney, and then the pine trees, and then the electrical tower, and higher and higher still until Jenny had to put her chin to the glass and tilt her head way back to keep it in view.  Then it stopped for a moment while the front of it swung around gently like a mobile hung from a string, and it began to move forward, slowly at first but then faster and faster until it shrank to a tiny dot against the clouds.

            Jenny turned around and sat down cross-legged on the chair.  Across the room, her mother was programming dinner instructions into the auto-chef, while her father sliced vegetables on the cutting board.  She spoke to the stuffed animal in the crook of her arm.  “You see, Teddy?  Grandpa’s going to be O.K.  Those nice men in the Air Van are going to take very good care of him.  Isn’t that right, Mommy?”

            Her mother was swiping a plastic recipe card.  “What’s that, dear?”

            “Aren’t those nice men going to take good care of Grandpa?  That’s what I told Teddy Bear.”

            Her mother swiped again and sighed, then began punching in the numbers manually.  “Absolutely.  He’s in the best of hands.  Carl, this reader isn’t working at all now.  You’ll have to call Sears.”

            “See, Teddy, I told you so.”  Jenny remembered something, and scrunched up her face in concentration.  Sliding from the chair, she went over to stand between her parents.

            “Can I see your Gold Watch, Daddy?”

            “Sure, sweetheart,” he said distractedly, rotating his wrist.

            “Thanks.  Mommy?  Can I see your Gold Watch?”

            “Hmmm,” said her mother, looking from card to keypad as she held out her arm.

            Jenny’s eyes lit up.  “Oh.  Con…grat…u…lations, Mommy,” she said, struggling with the big word.  “It’s you!”

            “Uh-huh.  What’s me, honey?”

            “It’s your D-Day too, Mommy!  Con…grat…u…lations.”

Her mother’s focus veered a few degrees from the auto-chef.  Then she jerked her hand up to look at the watch.  22:17:58 it read, in flat black numerals.

            ...57, 56, 55, 54...

            “Carl,” she spat.  “It’s started!  My watch!  The countdown has started!”

            “What?”  Her husband lunged to see for himself.  “It can’t be,” he said as he checked the display.  “It can’t be…”

            “But I’m not sick, Carl.  And I’m only forty-nine.  Only forty-nine...”

            They gaped at each other, dumbstruck.  It didn’t occur to either of them that there may have been some mistake.  Unicom didn’t make mistakes; everyone knew that.  

            But their little girl was speaking, and they swung their heads together to her bright and bubbly voice.  “Don’t be upset, Mommy.  I understand now, really I do.  And so does Teddy Bear.  Teddy says you’ll get to ride in the Air Van, just like Grandpa.  And tomorrow, Daddy and me can make S’mores, ‘cause those are your favorite.  Isn’t that right, Daddy?  Can we, Daddy?”

            There was a long silence before he answered.  “Why sure we can, sweetie.”  Then his gaze moved slowly to meet his wife’s.  “I think…she would have liked that.”

This story first appeared in REAL Magazine.