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.