Scarlett |
Edith Gallagher Boyd is a graduate of Temple University and a former French teacher. She and her family live in Jupiter, Florida. Her work can be found here: edithgallagherboyd.com |
Undertones
Later in the evening, I realized how seldom my dad advised me on my personal life. My parents had been very traditional in their roles, and my dad worked hard at his job and his golf game. Since Mom’s death, he retreated into himself and his work, and he endorsed my choices including my recent move to Boston.
Snuggling with Evan under our new comforter, I tried to dismiss my dad’s comments as protective paternal advice.
“Say it,” I said to Evan.
“You’re my rosebud.”
The romance had ignited like a house on fire. Early on, he picked that gentle, endearing name and I loved it, and I loved him.
Earlier that day, some college friends who lived in Boston threw me a surprise engagement party at a bistro in Copley Square. I flashed my diamond around as I saw brides do in earlier times, not caring what others thought, my bliss filling me completely.
I was disappointed that Courtney didn’t attend but she was working long hours in the District Attorney’s Office. And one evening when she joined us for drinks, her lips were pinched, her smiles less than glowing. I dismissed it that she feared we’d spend less time together. Or did she see something that I didn’t?
Under the toasty covers, I listened to Evan’s breathing slowing into sleep and I spooned into him, smiled, then remembered what my dad had said.
“Margo, take it slowly. I don’t trust this guy.”
I was approaching the restaurant, phone in my right hand, thanked Dad for caring, and told him I’d call him soon, as I was meeting friends shortly.
When I walked into Oak Bar I was delighted to see balloons, banners and friends in a little room to the right. “Congratulations Margo and Evan!” They said. Evan twirled me around a few times then kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“Thanks you guys,” was all I could think of to say.
Before I drifted off to sleep, I savored the memory of my first glance at Evan, his helping the movers angle a couch through my front door, his biceps tightening under the weight of the couch. He just seemed to appear out of nowhere and successfully maneuvered the brown leather couch into my living room.
When the movers were done, Evan sat with me on my brown couch, and I was pinching myself that this attractive helpful guy lived upstairs in the same apartment building. While peeking at his profile, I imagined doing all kinds of things with him. So few guys interested me, and those who did seemed to be unavailable. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school.
Evan proved to be very different from the young men I was used to. He complimented the slightest thing about me, a change in jewelry or perfume scent, and he gifted me with flowers for our second month’s anniversary of meeting.
During our take-out anniversary dinner in my little kitchen, Evan brought one of the yellow roses he’d given me from the living room and placed it between us on the table.
“My Mom loved flowers,” he said softly. “Dad was pretty good about gifting my Mom with them.”
If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never forget how touched I was by his saying that. Even after everything that I learned about Evan.
Although the romance escalated quickly, we kept our separate residences. When Evan asked for a key to my apartment I gave it to him because I loved how he spoiled me after a long shift playing music at the radio station. He often prepared a crock pot dinner which I smelled as soon as I parked my snow boots next to the door.
His working at home as a day trader, allowed him to provide both of us with small luxuries which made my long work days easier. Early on, I picked up that Evan didn’t like a lot of questions about his work, and I wasn’t terribly interested in stocks or Wall Street or anything like that.
Shortly after our two month anniversary dinner, Courtney threw a party at her spacious condo near Copley Square.
“Didn’t you say she works in the D.A.”s office?” Evan said quietly as we splashed limes into our drinks in the kitchen. It puzzled me, his saying that.
“Last I heard, civil service jobs afforded studios in Brighton, not this….”
Evan said swaying his arm like an orchestra director to the light-filled view of downtown Boston.
A frisson of annoyance crept down my spine, that he noticed anything but Courtney’s generous spirit. Maybe I was used to the stories of how her parents provided for her every need as she made her way through B.U. Law School. I reminded myself to ask Evan more about his childhood as I mingled with Courtney’s friends and pictured actually living in this frigid weather with snow banks still melting in late April.
Always thoughtful, Courtney and my dad conspired to have Dad surprise me at this gathering. Evan attempted to wash some glassware, and Courtney shooed him toward the front door, where my dad had entered with a bouquet of flowers for our hostess.
I rushed over to Dad and he squeezed me and said, “Margo.”
“Here for business?” I said to him after he parked his boots by the door.
“Here for you, Margo.”
I could feel Evan’s gaze and turned to him and asked him to come meet my dad. Dad gave Evan a strong handshake, and I let them speak to each other without me. Dad showed no signs of displeasure, no shoulder up to his ear, as he had with my high school boyfriend. I couldn’t wait to ask each what he thought of the other.
As I file through the events of Evan and me, I remember each of them, my dad and Evan tended to change the subject of what was thought of the other. At the time, I took a child-like pleasure that each considered me his treasure.
Evan liked to warm my ears with his big hands, and I remember, interrupting him to ask about my father, and his tickling me and distracting me. Dad asked me something about my financial situation, and I took it for code that he was still the boss in my life, however subtly.
During one of my father’s short visits to Boston, Evan and I met Dad in a bustling bar in Cambridge, as he was staying nearby at The Charles Hotel.
Dad waved us over to a booth and said, “Thought you kids would like this better than my hotel bar,” sounding somewhat nerdy but endearing.
He’d even ordered a pitcher of beer before we arrived, and the three of us toasted one another with our frosty beer mugs. Dad had also ordered appetizers saving us from the awkward thumbing through menus while making small talk.
While we were finishing off the chicken fingers, Evan took a sip of beer and said to Dad,
“Did Margo’s mother enjoy getting flowers like Margo does?”
Evan and I fought later that night over his probing question.
Dad stiffened upright in the booth and said, “I don’t talk too much about my life with Emily.”
I felt annoyed with both of them, especially my father.
Evan said, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to intrude. Margo loves roses and so did my Mom.”
My father switched gears smoothly and said, “No. I’m sorry, Evan. That came out wrong.” But knowing Dad the way I did, I could tell he wasn’t sorry about anything but maybe my choice of a beau.
After our Uber driver dropped us off, I kicked the dirty snow bank lining our walk and said, “Snow in April. I hate Boston!”
“I don’t think it’s the snow or Boston you’re mad at, Margo,” he said while unlocking the outer door to our building.
“I blew it with your dad, and I’m sorry.”
“How could you ask him such a personal question?” I said to him when we got into our apartment
“Maybe we should re-think this thing we’re in,” he said, and grabbed his coat and left.
Within an hour we were together under the covers no time for talk of rosebuds.
In the middle of one of our music segments at the studio, I could feel myself building a resentment against my father. I wouldn’t say this to Evan, but my uptight parents never got with the new times at all.
“I’ll never learn to text,” my mother used to say archly.
Oh Mom, I wanted to say, you never met an i-phone. You’d be texting me as I left the radio station, insisting I “let you sleep” knowing I was safely home. You would tell me how you feel about Evan slightly more directly than Dad. I didn’t expect you to be blunt with me, but I expected that your reaction to Evan would be easier to read.
“I miss you, Mom,” I said aloud until one of my co-workers nudged me to cut to an ad. The music, which sustained me and warmed me in the chilly air of New England, was stopping so we could sell heart meds to aging baby boomers.
As I re-construct time frames in my mind, I think it was shortly after our engagement, that a police officer tapped on my door, his partner out of sight of my peep hole.
“Sir, “I said aloud. “How may I help you?”
“Routine crime alert, M’am. “
I asked to see their badges, and opened the door and showed them to the brown couch.
They refused my offer of water, and told me of a “weirdo thief M’am,” in the area.
Officer McDermott told me this perp was an expert jewel thief and a bit of Peeping Tom.
“Just want the ladies being careful,” McDermott said.
I could picture my friends erupting over his saying ladies, but this was a good guy, an earnest civil servant and I was grateful for the warning.
More news spread about the bizarre thief and I often brought Evan with me to the joint laundry area which creeped me out in many ways. I wasn’t as pampered as my friend Courtney, but I learned real estate in Boston was steep. And it took nearly six figures to rent a place with its own laundry area.
One evening in May, when the daffodils were peeking through the grassy plot behind the radio station, I received a text from Courtney.
“Margo, I need to see you. This can NOT wait.”
Oh yes it can, I thought spitefully as I pictured her absence during the engagement festivities at the Oak Bar.
Coupled with my father, I had begun to resent Courtney, with her oh- so- perfect apartment and oh -so -perfect boyfriend.
I remember her near sneer when I told her Evan was a day trader.
Everyone isn’t born with a law degree, I wanted to say.
When I arrived at my apartment, there was a note taped to my door from Melinda upstairs.
“Margo, I made too much chili. Text me if you’d like some.”
I wasn’t crazy about chili, but I liked keeping up with a young woman in my building so after I changed into jeans and a sweater, I sent Melinda a text. She was born in Maine and I knew she’d notice my sweater on a May evening, but I was convinced I’d never warm up in this chilly city.
“Give me five minutes” was her reply.
And I did.
She poured me a glass of red wine and we caught up on the events in our lives.
There was a loud knock on the door, and she looked out and said, “Margo, it’s the cops.”
I joined her at the peephole and saw one of them was Officer Mc Dermott and told her not to worry because it was a routine crime alert.
She let them in and Officer Mc Dermott nodded to me indicating he remembered me and Melinda offered them her tattered couch. She pulled two card table chairs out of her closet and we sat facing the officers.
Looking at his notes, McDermott said, “Margaret, nice to see you again.”
Melinda looked wary and I remembered all the foot traffic coming here and hoped the cops weren’t here to bust Melinda.
“I told Margaret here to be careful of a weirdo jewel thief, but we have more details to share, “Officer Mc Dermott said.
I could feel Melinda’s relief that the focus of this visit had nothing to do with her brownies.
“This guy is good. Creeps in un-noticed to women’s apartments,” I wondered if he’d been corrected for the word ladies, “steals some jewelry and brings a piece to the sleeping victim and whispers, “ ‘You’re my rosebud.’ “
It borders on the miraculous that I didn’t scream and drop my wine.
“He doesn’t hurt them, just steals their stuff and scares the be-Jesus out of them. He leaves as quietly as he arrives.”
Stunned, dazed and absolutely devastated, I agreed to meet Courtney at the Oak Bar.
She was seated at a high top table in the bar area and she hopped off the stool and hugged me and said, “Margo.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I sat and watched her fumble through the folder in front of her.
“I have bad news,” she said. “Evan is not who he says he is.”
“And you know this, how?” I said, still clinging to the myth, the euphoria of our romance.
“The night your father came to my party, I saved Evan’s glass to check his fingerprints,” she said looking down at the folder.
“I set it aside for as long as I could stand it, but news of your engagement propelled me to check him out. I’ve never felt right about this guy,” Courtney said.
“How much or how little do you want to know?” She said, assuming a lawyer-like tone.
“Everything you’ve got, Courtney.”
“His name is Billy Colton. Not William, just Billy,” she said,. There are bench warrants out for him in several states.”
“Stop!” I said.
“Please just tell me about his parents,” I said.
“Both heroin addicts who died before his first birthday. Grew up in the foster system in Upstate New York,” she said, and then, “I’m so sorry, Margo. I really am.”
Courtney’s sources in the D.A. Office informed her that they already had Evan, as I will always remember him at the station, and he was docile and cooperative.
I accepted Courtney’s offer to stay in her guest bedroom as long as I liked.
She accompanied me to my apartment to help me pack a suitcase for my stay, and my mouth felt like cotton candy as we walked by the brown couch.
My stay at Courtney’s was much longer than I intended, but she assured me repeatedly, that she enjoyed having company. She offered to return to my apartment with me several times, and on one such visit we saw Melinda who mercifully didn’t mention Evan.
There were days at work when the taste of betrayal threw me into a rage making my choice in music rather blaring and off for the mood of our station. When my insurance kicked in, I found a therapist to work through my angst and disappointment.
On the evening I accepted Courtney’s offer to move in with her, I felt hopeful about my future.
Although I wouldn’t share this with Courtney, as I was drifting off to sleep that night, the lights of the Boston skyline across the foot of my bed, I consoled myself that my instincts weren’t completely wrong about Evan, ……that I saw something good in the boy who wanted his father to delight his mother with yellow roses.
Snuggling with Evan under our new comforter, I tried to dismiss my dad’s comments as protective paternal advice.
“Say it,” I said to Evan.
“You’re my rosebud.”
The romance had ignited like a house on fire. Early on, he picked that gentle, endearing name and I loved it, and I loved him.
Earlier that day, some college friends who lived in Boston threw me a surprise engagement party at a bistro in Copley Square. I flashed my diamond around as I saw brides do in earlier times, not caring what others thought, my bliss filling me completely.
I was disappointed that Courtney didn’t attend but she was working long hours in the District Attorney’s Office. And one evening when she joined us for drinks, her lips were pinched, her smiles less than glowing. I dismissed it that she feared we’d spend less time together. Or did she see something that I didn’t?
Under the toasty covers, I listened to Evan’s breathing slowing into sleep and I spooned into him, smiled, then remembered what my dad had said.
“Margo, take it slowly. I don’t trust this guy.”
I was approaching the restaurant, phone in my right hand, thanked Dad for caring, and told him I’d call him soon, as I was meeting friends shortly.
When I walked into Oak Bar I was delighted to see balloons, banners and friends in a little room to the right. “Congratulations Margo and Evan!” They said. Evan twirled me around a few times then kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“Thanks you guys,” was all I could think of to say.
Before I drifted off to sleep, I savored the memory of my first glance at Evan, his helping the movers angle a couch through my front door, his biceps tightening under the weight of the couch. He just seemed to appear out of nowhere and successfully maneuvered the brown leather couch into my living room.
When the movers were done, Evan sat with me on my brown couch, and I was pinching myself that this attractive helpful guy lived upstairs in the same apartment building. While peeking at his profile, I imagined doing all kinds of things with him. So few guys interested me, and those who did seemed to be unavailable. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school.
Evan proved to be very different from the young men I was used to. He complimented the slightest thing about me, a change in jewelry or perfume scent, and he gifted me with flowers for our second month’s anniversary of meeting.
During our take-out anniversary dinner in my little kitchen, Evan brought one of the yellow roses he’d given me from the living room and placed it between us on the table.
“My Mom loved flowers,” he said softly. “Dad was pretty good about gifting my Mom with them.”
If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never forget how touched I was by his saying that. Even after everything that I learned about Evan.
Although the romance escalated quickly, we kept our separate residences. When Evan asked for a key to my apartment I gave it to him because I loved how he spoiled me after a long shift playing music at the radio station. He often prepared a crock pot dinner which I smelled as soon as I parked my snow boots next to the door.
His working at home as a day trader, allowed him to provide both of us with small luxuries which made my long work days easier. Early on, I picked up that Evan didn’t like a lot of questions about his work, and I wasn’t terribly interested in stocks or Wall Street or anything like that.
Shortly after our two month anniversary dinner, Courtney threw a party at her spacious condo near Copley Square.
“Didn’t you say she works in the D.A.”s office?” Evan said quietly as we splashed limes into our drinks in the kitchen. It puzzled me, his saying that.
“Last I heard, civil service jobs afforded studios in Brighton, not this….”
Evan said swaying his arm like an orchestra director to the light-filled view of downtown Boston.
A frisson of annoyance crept down my spine, that he noticed anything but Courtney’s generous spirit. Maybe I was used to the stories of how her parents provided for her every need as she made her way through B.U. Law School. I reminded myself to ask Evan more about his childhood as I mingled with Courtney’s friends and pictured actually living in this frigid weather with snow banks still melting in late April.
Always thoughtful, Courtney and my dad conspired to have Dad surprise me at this gathering. Evan attempted to wash some glassware, and Courtney shooed him toward the front door, where my dad had entered with a bouquet of flowers for our hostess.
I rushed over to Dad and he squeezed me and said, “Margo.”
“Here for business?” I said to him after he parked his boots by the door.
“Here for you, Margo.”
I could feel Evan’s gaze and turned to him and asked him to come meet my dad. Dad gave Evan a strong handshake, and I let them speak to each other without me. Dad showed no signs of displeasure, no shoulder up to his ear, as he had with my high school boyfriend. I couldn’t wait to ask each what he thought of the other.
As I file through the events of Evan and me, I remember each of them, my dad and Evan tended to change the subject of what was thought of the other. At the time, I took a child-like pleasure that each considered me his treasure.
Evan liked to warm my ears with his big hands, and I remember, interrupting him to ask about my father, and his tickling me and distracting me. Dad asked me something about my financial situation, and I took it for code that he was still the boss in my life, however subtly.
During one of my father’s short visits to Boston, Evan and I met Dad in a bustling bar in Cambridge, as he was staying nearby at The Charles Hotel.
Dad waved us over to a booth and said, “Thought you kids would like this better than my hotel bar,” sounding somewhat nerdy but endearing.
He’d even ordered a pitcher of beer before we arrived, and the three of us toasted one another with our frosty beer mugs. Dad had also ordered appetizers saving us from the awkward thumbing through menus while making small talk.
While we were finishing off the chicken fingers, Evan took a sip of beer and said to Dad,
“Did Margo’s mother enjoy getting flowers like Margo does?”
Evan and I fought later that night over his probing question.
Dad stiffened upright in the booth and said, “I don’t talk too much about my life with Emily.”
I felt annoyed with both of them, especially my father.
Evan said, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to intrude. Margo loves roses and so did my Mom.”
My father switched gears smoothly and said, “No. I’m sorry, Evan. That came out wrong.” But knowing Dad the way I did, I could tell he wasn’t sorry about anything but maybe my choice of a beau.
After our Uber driver dropped us off, I kicked the dirty snow bank lining our walk and said, “Snow in April. I hate Boston!”
“I don’t think it’s the snow or Boston you’re mad at, Margo,” he said while unlocking the outer door to our building.
“I blew it with your dad, and I’m sorry.”
“How could you ask him such a personal question?” I said to him when we got into our apartment
“Maybe we should re-think this thing we’re in,” he said, and grabbed his coat and left.
Within an hour we were together under the covers no time for talk of rosebuds.
In the middle of one of our music segments at the studio, I could feel myself building a resentment against my father. I wouldn’t say this to Evan, but my uptight parents never got with the new times at all.
“I’ll never learn to text,” my mother used to say archly.
Oh Mom, I wanted to say, you never met an i-phone. You’d be texting me as I left the radio station, insisting I “let you sleep” knowing I was safely home. You would tell me how you feel about Evan slightly more directly than Dad. I didn’t expect you to be blunt with me, but I expected that your reaction to Evan would be easier to read.
“I miss you, Mom,” I said aloud until one of my co-workers nudged me to cut to an ad. The music, which sustained me and warmed me in the chilly air of New England, was stopping so we could sell heart meds to aging baby boomers.
As I re-construct time frames in my mind, I think it was shortly after our engagement, that a police officer tapped on my door, his partner out of sight of my peep hole.
“Sir, “I said aloud. “How may I help you?”
“Routine crime alert, M’am. “
I asked to see their badges, and opened the door and showed them to the brown couch.
They refused my offer of water, and told me of a “weirdo thief M’am,” in the area.
Officer McDermott told me this perp was an expert jewel thief and a bit of Peeping Tom.
“Just want the ladies being careful,” McDermott said.
I could picture my friends erupting over his saying ladies, but this was a good guy, an earnest civil servant and I was grateful for the warning.
More news spread about the bizarre thief and I often brought Evan with me to the joint laundry area which creeped me out in many ways. I wasn’t as pampered as my friend Courtney, but I learned real estate in Boston was steep. And it took nearly six figures to rent a place with its own laundry area.
One evening in May, when the daffodils were peeking through the grassy plot behind the radio station, I received a text from Courtney.
“Margo, I need to see you. This can NOT wait.”
Oh yes it can, I thought spitefully as I pictured her absence during the engagement festivities at the Oak Bar.
Coupled with my father, I had begun to resent Courtney, with her oh- so- perfect apartment and oh -so -perfect boyfriend.
I remember her near sneer when I told her Evan was a day trader.
Everyone isn’t born with a law degree, I wanted to say.
When I arrived at my apartment, there was a note taped to my door from Melinda upstairs.
“Margo, I made too much chili. Text me if you’d like some.”
I wasn’t crazy about chili, but I liked keeping up with a young woman in my building so after I changed into jeans and a sweater, I sent Melinda a text. She was born in Maine and I knew she’d notice my sweater on a May evening, but I was convinced I’d never warm up in this chilly city.
“Give me five minutes” was her reply.
And I did.
She poured me a glass of red wine and we caught up on the events in our lives.
There was a loud knock on the door, and she looked out and said, “Margo, it’s the cops.”
I joined her at the peephole and saw one of them was Officer Mc Dermott and told her not to worry because it was a routine crime alert.
She let them in and Officer Mc Dermott nodded to me indicating he remembered me and Melinda offered them her tattered couch. She pulled two card table chairs out of her closet and we sat facing the officers.
Looking at his notes, McDermott said, “Margaret, nice to see you again.”
Melinda looked wary and I remembered all the foot traffic coming here and hoped the cops weren’t here to bust Melinda.
“I told Margaret here to be careful of a weirdo jewel thief, but we have more details to share, “Officer Mc Dermott said.
I could feel Melinda’s relief that the focus of this visit had nothing to do with her brownies.
“This guy is good. Creeps in un-noticed to women’s apartments,” I wondered if he’d been corrected for the word ladies, “steals some jewelry and brings a piece to the sleeping victim and whispers, “ ‘You’re my rosebud.’ “
It borders on the miraculous that I didn’t scream and drop my wine.
“He doesn’t hurt them, just steals their stuff and scares the be-Jesus out of them. He leaves as quietly as he arrives.”
Stunned, dazed and absolutely devastated, I agreed to meet Courtney at the Oak Bar.
She was seated at a high top table in the bar area and she hopped off the stool and hugged me and said, “Margo.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I sat and watched her fumble through the folder in front of her.
“I have bad news,” she said. “Evan is not who he says he is.”
“And you know this, how?” I said, still clinging to the myth, the euphoria of our romance.
“The night your father came to my party, I saved Evan’s glass to check his fingerprints,” she said looking down at the folder.
“I set it aside for as long as I could stand it, but news of your engagement propelled me to check him out. I’ve never felt right about this guy,” Courtney said.
“How much or how little do you want to know?” She said, assuming a lawyer-like tone.
“Everything you’ve got, Courtney.”
“His name is Billy Colton. Not William, just Billy,” she said,. There are bench warrants out for him in several states.”
“Stop!” I said.
“Please just tell me about his parents,” I said.
“Both heroin addicts who died before his first birthday. Grew up in the foster system in Upstate New York,” she said, and then, “I’m so sorry, Margo. I really am.”
Courtney’s sources in the D.A. Office informed her that they already had Evan, as I will always remember him at the station, and he was docile and cooperative.
I accepted Courtney’s offer to stay in her guest bedroom as long as I liked.
She accompanied me to my apartment to help me pack a suitcase for my stay, and my mouth felt like cotton candy as we walked by the brown couch.
My stay at Courtney’s was much longer than I intended, but she assured me repeatedly, that she enjoyed having company. She offered to return to my apartment with me several times, and on one such visit we saw Melinda who mercifully didn’t mention Evan.
There were days at work when the taste of betrayal threw me into a rage making my choice in music rather blaring and off for the mood of our station. When my insurance kicked in, I found a therapist to work through my angst and disappointment.
On the evening I accepted Courtney’s offer to move in with her, I felt hopeful about my future.
Although I wouldn’t share this with Courtney, as I was drifting off to sleep that night, the lights of the Boston skyline across the foot of my bed, I consoled myself that my instincts weren’t completely wrong about Evan, ……that I saw something good in the boy who wanted his father to delight his mother with yellow roses.
William Dilbert is a writer with an affinity towards fantastic novelizations that focus on tales of fantasy and science-fiction. It is his belief that fictional writing often reveals more about the real world than works of non-fiction. To that end, Dilbert is a student at Full Sail University and is seeking a bachelor’s degree through their Creative Writing program. For more information, please visit: https://www.linkedin.com/in/william-dilbert-05a48b1a5/ |
You Only Get One
Tony wiped the sweat from his palms as he stepped into the dim office tucked away in the back of Fucilli’s. A cloud of smoke hovered at his nostrils and stained the air with grey swirls. He took off his worn-down hat, making sure to swat the smoke from his face.
A white-haired man with a pencil moustache sat behind a dark mahogany desk. A rose corsage stood vibrant against the black suit that blended into the dark wall behind him.
Don Fonzarelli.
“You wanted to see me, boss?”
“Anthony, sorry for the last-minute call. I’m glad you could make it.” The boss sucked at a smoldering cigar between his lips. He bobbed his head at the chair opposite his and waited.
Tony pulled back the chair lightly, noting the two others in the corner behind him. Vinny and Damien, the Don’s favorite fixers, both in their trademark tailored suits with slight bulges just below their arms. The pair sat around a small table playing with a shoddy briscola deck.
A bead of sweat formed on Anthony’s brow.
“Nervous, Anthony? Don’t be. We’re all family here, after all.” Fonzarelli reclined into his padded leather chair and smoothed out his black tie, wiping away small flecks of ash in the process. “So, what’s new with you, huh? How are the wife and kids?”
Tony’s heart pounded against his lungs; his words came out stuttered. “I… they’re, uh, they’re good. Ya know Michael just came home the other day with his report card. Little squirt got straight A’s. Can you believe it? That’s gotta come from his mother’s side of the family.”
“Really? Good for him. You must be proud. Not every day, your boy gets to show off his noggin. How old is he now?”
Tony fidgeted with his shirt collar. “He’s, uh, he just turned ten last week. I hate to be so forward with you, boss, but can I ask what this get together is all about?”
The Don’s face tightened. “I’m glad you asked, Anthony. Like I said, there ain’t no need to be scared. Just gotta tell you about a little rumor I heard the other night, right outside.”
“A rumor?”
“You know Vito, right? Well, Vito came by the restaurant and talked about how some punk kid went and dinged up his Royce.” The boss held his arms out to his side. “Now, you know me, I didn’t want to look into a little vandalism on account of that weasel, but I told him I would, so I did, you know how it goes.”
Tony’s pulse regained its rhythm as the boss leaned into the desk and pointed into his face.
“I’m tellin’ you this because you’re family and family is important, as you know. It was your boy that scratched up Vito’s ride. Don’t panic. I didn’t tell Vito, and I don’t plan on it neither. I just want to make it clear that if this happens again and someone else does the investigating, we’ll be meeting in a cemetery, not my restaurant. We clear?” he asked.
“Like crystal, sir. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good, good. Last thing we need is for another turn out like the Corleone boys. Poor kids thought they were slick stealing those paintings from the museum. Next thing ya know, boom. They wind up with a new pair of cement shoes.”
“Must be nice to have the Boss here to clean up your messes all the time.” Vinny said, smacking a card down onto the table.
Tony clenched his fists.
“Next time you might want to teach your boy some manners. They clearly don’t teach those in school.”
Tony spun from his chair, closed his fist, and struck Vinny square in his jaw. The goon fell from his chair, blood pooled on his lip. He stood back up and shoved his hand under the suit’s arm. “You little shit.”
“Enough.” The boss rubbed his eyes. “You had that one coming, Vincent. I don’t pay you to be juvenile. Now clean yourself up and sit your ass down.”
“Sorry, boss,” Tony said. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”
“Forget about it. You can go now. Just remember what we talked about. Michael gets into any more trouble and I won’t be able to help. Everybody only gets one.”
“Yessir.” Tony put on his hat and left the restaurant, ignoring Vinny’s glowering expression.
The street was a stark contrast to the cramped office. Its lights, even at night, blinded him as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. As he stood at the storefront, beneath the streetlamps and high rises, waiting for a taxi, he couldn’t help but flex his hand, his knuckles were red, and his face winced with every movement.
Tony clenched his fist. “You only get one.” As he turned to make his way home, Tony froze noticing the expensive car that sat motionless beneath the prefect frame of a streetlamp’s light.
A Rolls Royce.
A white-haired man with a pencil moustache sat behind a dark mahogany desk. A rose corsage stood vibrant against the black suit that blended into the dark wall behind him.
Don Fonzarelli.
“You wanted to see me, boss?”
“Anthony, sorry for the last-minute call. I’m glad you could make it.” The boss sucked at a smoldering cigar between his lips. He bobbed his head at the chair opposite his and waited.
Tony pulled back the chair lightly, noting the two others in the corner behind him. Vinny and Damien, the Don’s favorite fixers, both in their trademark tailored suits with slight bulges just below their arms. The pair sat around a small table playing with a shoddy briscola deck.
A bead of sweat formed on Anthony’s brow.
“Nervous, Anthony? Don’t be. We’re all family here, after all.” Fonzarelli reclined into his padded leather chair and smoothed out his black tie, wiping away small flecks of ash in the process. “So, what’s new with you, huh? How are the wife and kids?”
Tony’s heart pounded against his lungs; his words came out stuttered. “I… they’re, uh, they’re good. Ya know Michael just came home the other day with his report card. Little squirt got straight A’s. Can you believe it? That’s gotta come from his mother’s side of the family.”
“Really? Good for him. You must be proud. Not every day, your boy gets to show off his noggin. How old is he now?”
Tony fidgeted with his shirt collar. “He’s, uh, he just turned ten last week. I hate to be so forward with you, boss, but can I ask what this get together is all about?”
The Don’s face tightened. “I’m glad you asked, Anthony. Like I said, there ain’t no need to be scared. Just gotta tell you about a little rumor I heard the other night, right outside.”
“A rumor?”
“You know Vito, right? Well, Vito came by the restaurant and talked about how some punk kid went and dinged up his Royce.” The boss held his arms out to his side. “Now, you know me, I didn’t want to look into a little vandalism on account of that weasel, but I told him I would, so I did, you know how it goes.”
Tony’s pulse regained its rhythm as the boss leaned into the desk and pointed into his face.
“I’m tellin’ you this because you’re family and family is important, as you know. It was your boy that scratched up Vito’s ride. Don’t panic. I didn’t tell Vito, and I don’t plan on it neither. I just want to make it clear that if this happens again and someone else does the investigating, we’ll be meeting in a cemetery, not my restaurant. We clear?” he asked.
“Like crystal, sir. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good, good. Last thing we need is for another turn out like the Corleone boys. Poor kids thought they were slick stealing those paintings from the museum. Next thing ya know, boom. They wind up with a new pair of cement shoes.”
“Must be nice to have the Boss here to clean up your messes all the time.” Vinny said, smacking a card down onto the table.
Tony clenched his fists.
“Next time you might want to teach your boy some manners. They clearly don’t teach those in school.”
Tony spun from his chair, closed his fist, and struck Vinny square in his jaw. The goon fell from his chair, blood pooled on his lip. He stood back up and shoved his hand under the suit’s arm. “You little shit.”
“Enough.” The boss rubbed his eyes. “You had that one coming, Vincent. I don’t pay you to be juvenile. Now clean yourself up and sit your ass down.”
“Sorry, boss,” Tony said. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”
“Forget about it. You can go now. Just remember what we talked about. Michael gets into any more trouble and I won’t be able to help. Everybody only gets one.”
“Yessir.” Tony put on his hat and left the restaurant, ignoring Vinny’s glowering expression.
The street was a stark contrast to the cramped office. Its lights, even at night, blinded him as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. As he stood at the storefront, beneath the streetlamps and high rises, waiting for a taxi, he couldn’t help but flex his hand, his knuckles were red, and his face winced with every movement.
Tony clenched his fist. “You only get one.” As he turned to make his way home, Tony froze noticing the expensive car that sat motionless beneath the prefect frame of a streetlamp’s light.
A Rolls Royce.
The author offers this play to any group that wants to stage it.
Script for: Bert and Ernie and The Man
A short one-act play, in two scenes.
Cast: Jerry Lambert, aka Ernie, a man with a past. A man who takes care of things.
Bert is an abused woman seeking an answer.
A bartender (A different man in scene two can be done with a costume change)
One or two “barflies” sitting on stools in scenes one and two. Add two men at a table in scene two.
Scene one.
(A seedy bar. Barflies sitting on stools, with drinks. A bartender polishing glasses. Jerry enters and sits at the end of the bar where he can look around suspiciously.)
Jerry: “Two chili dogs and two Rolling Rock longnecks.” (Jerry empties the first bottle quickly then waits for his food.)
(Enter Bert, who sees him drinking from the bottle. She has unkempt hair, a bruise on her cheek, an oversized Steelers sweatshirt, and a large shoulder bag. She sits next to Jerry.)
Bert: “Why are you drinking from a bottle?”
Jerry: “It makes a good weapon.”
Bert: “You must be a tough guy.”
Jerry: “When needed.”
(Bert orders a Rum and Coke, reaches into her bag, places a lighter on the bar, then digs for her cigarettes, putting one in her mouth. Ernie beats her hand to the lighter and flames it.)
Bert: “Thanks. What’s your name?”
Jerry: “Ernie.”
Bert: (surprised) “You’ve gotta be kidding me. My name’s Bert”
Jerry: (chuckles) “Really?”
Bert: “It’s Alberta. My dad wanted a boy, so they compromised.”
Jerry: “What if I call you, Al?”
Bert: “I’ll kick you, where it’ll hurt the most.”
Jerry: “Okay, I won’t. So, what do you do for fun?”
Bert: “Sit around, wishing my husband would die.”
Jerry: (Taps the side of his face, indicating he sees the bruise on her.) “Did he do that?”
Bert: “That’s not the worst of it?”
Jerry: (Shrugs) “Why don’t you do something about it?”
Bert: (Shrugs) I’d like to. I don’t know how, and I’m afraid.”
(Jerry orders another round of drinks.)
Jerry: “What the hell, put some rat poison in his soup. Get him drunk in the car and leave it running in a closed garage. Use your imagination.”
Bert: (Looking scared) “I’ve thought about a lot of ways, but I’m afraid I’ll get caught.”
Jerry: “If you’ve got enough evidence of continuous abuse, the worst you’ll get is a light sentence. Maybe not even.”
(She picks up her new drink and tips it in salute to “Ernie”)
Bert: “Thanks. (Takes a drink) It’s not the law; it’s his family. They’re all crazy, and they’d get revenge in some horrible way. His brother once told me he’d chain me to his truck and drag me down the highway.”
Jerry: “Tough guy.”
Bert: “He’s a bully, just like my husband. They’re all crazy.”
Jerry: “Any kids?”
Bert: “I almost did, but he kicked me in the belly when I was five months. I lost that child, something happened inside. And I can’t have kids. Good thing, actually.”
(Jerry finishes his beer and waits for another. Takes a drink.)
Jerry: “Sounds like you have a problem.”
Bert: “No, shit, Sherlock. Do you have a solution?”
Jerry: “Maybe.”
Bert: “Maybe what?”
Jerry: “Maybe if you have some money, I might know a solution.”
Bert: “Know, or do?”
Jerry: “Let’s talk about money.”
Bert: “How much?”
Jerry: “For you, three-large.”
Bert: “That’s a lot of scratch.”
(Jerry taps the side of his face again suggesting her bruise)
Jerry: “Could be a bargain. Like you said, that isn’t the worst of it. Do you have any money?”
Bert: “I’ll get some. After that scum is dead, I’ll get the insurance money. Forty grand a legit policy we took out when we got married twelve years ago.”
Jerry: “I can see you’ve been thinking about this, but these things don’t work on credit. Two years ago, I took care of a guy who used a propane torch on his wife.”
Bert: “I have a down payment.”
Jerry: “Like what?”
(Bert digs into her purse and takes out a small wad of tissue, unwraps it, and takes out a diamond ring. She hands it to Jerry, who turns it over several times, trying to assess the value.)
Bert: “That was my mother’s, my scumbag husband never gave me one.” (Bert grips Jerry’s arm) “I’ll give you a bonus after.” (Bert drops her hand onto Jerry’s leg.)
(Jerry returns the ring.)
Jerry: “That won’t be necessary, maybe we can work this out.”
Bert: “How can I contact you?”
Jerry: “You can’t.” (Takes a phone out of his pocket) “Give me your number.”
Bert: (Hesitates then gives a phone number) “941-555-0019.”
Jerry: “Give me an address.”
Bert: (Hesitates, looking scared, then gives an address) “28441 South Pomegranate. Aren’t you gonna write it down?’
Jerry: “I’ll remember it.” (Gets up to leave, pushes some money from his change on the bar to Bert) “Have another drink. I’ll be in touch.” (He walks toward the door.)
Bert: “When will I hear from you?”
(Jerry ignores her and leaves. Bert orders another drink. The scene ends.)
Scene two.
(Same bar, the same bar flies drinking. Two new guys at a table. A new bartender.
Phone conversation off stage. Jerry calls Bert.)
Jerry: “Do you have it?”
Bert: “The ring, is that okay? Please. I’m counting on you.”
Jerry: “Tomorrow. Same place, same time.”
Jerry: (Enters the bar and sits at the same stool as before.) “Rolling Rock longneck.”
(Bert enters. Hair styled. No bruise. Wearing a business suit. Jerry sees her approach in the mirror he turns on the stool looking surprised. Raises his hands in a What gives? Gesture.)
(The bartender points a gun at Jerry’s back. The men at the table stand up with guns in their hands.)
Bert: (Opens her suit jacket and displays her ID.) “FBI Agent, Bert Merriweather. Jerry Lambert, you’re under arrest. Sorry, Jerry.”
END
Cast: Jerry Lambert, aka Ernie, a man with a past. A man who takes care of things.
Bert is an abused woman seeking an answer.
A bartender (A different man in scene two can be done with a costume change)
One or two “barflies” sitting on stools in scenes one and two. Add two men at a table in scene two.
Scene one.
(A seedy bar. Barflies sitting on stools, with drinks. A bartender polishing glasses. Jerry enters and sits at the end of the bar where he can look around suspiciously.)
Jerry: “Two chili dogs and two Rolling Rock longnecks.” (Jerry empties the first bottle quickly then waits for his food.)
(Enter Bert, who sees him drinking from the bottle. She has unkempt hair, a bruise on her cheek, an oversized Steelers sweatshirt, and a large shoulder bag. She sits next to Jerry.)
Bert: “Why are you drinking from a bottle?”
Jerry: “It makes a good weapon.”
Bert: “You must be a tough guy.”
Jerry: “When needed.”
(Bert orders a Rum and Coke, reaches into her bag, places a lighter on the bar, then digs for her cigarettes, putting one in her mouth. Ernie beats her hand to the lighter and flames it.)
Bert: “Thanks. What’s your name?”
Jerry: “Ernie.”
Bert: (surprised) “You’ve gotta be kidding me. My name’s Bert”
Jerry: (chuckles) “Really?”
Bert: “It’s Alberta. My dad wanted a boy, so they compromised.”
Jerry: “What if I call you, Al?”
Bert: “I’ll kick you, where it’ll hurt the most.”
Jerry: “Okay, I won’t. So, what do you do for fun?”
Bert: “Sit around, wishing my husband would die.”
Jerry: (Taps the side of his face, indicating he sees the bruise on her.) “Did he do that?”
Bert: “That’s not the worst of it?”
Jerry: (Shrugs) “Why don’t you do something about it?”
Bert: (Shrugs) I’d like to. I don’t know how, and I’m afraid.”
(Jerry orders another round of drinks.)
Jerry: “What the hell, put some rat poison in his soup. Get him drunk in the car and leave it running in a closed garage. Use your imagination.”
Bert: (Looking scared) “I’ve thought about a lot of ways, but I’m afraid I’ll get caught.”
Jerry: “If you’ve got enough evidence of continuous abuse, the worst you’ll get is a light sentence. Maybe not even.”
(She picks up her new drink and tips it in salute to “Ernie”)
Bert: “Thanks. (Takes a drink) It’s not the law; it’s his family. They’re all crazy, and they’d get revenge in some horrible way. His brother once told me he’d chain me to his truck and drag me down the highway.”
Jerry: “Tough guy.”
Bert: “He’s a bully, just like my husband. They’re all crazy.”
Jerry: “Any kids?”
Bert: “I almost did, but he kicked me in the belly when I was five months. I lost that child, something happened inside. And I can’t have kids. Good thing, actually.”
(Jerry finishes his beer and waits for another. Takes a drink.)
Jerry: “Sounds like you have a problem.”
Bert: “No, shit, Sherlock. Do you have a solution?”
Jerry: “Maybe.”
Bert: “Maybe what?”
Jerry: “Maybe if you have some money, I might know a solution.”
Bert: “Know, or do?”
Jerry: “Let’s talk about money.”
Bert: “How much?”
Jerry: “For you, three-large.”
Bert: “That’s a lot of scratch.”
(Jerry taps the side of his face again suggesting her bruise)
Jerry: “Could be a bargain. Like you said, that isn’t the worst of it. Do you have any money?”
Bert: “I’ll get some. After that scum is dead, I’ll get the insurance money. Forty grand a legit policy we took out when we got married twelve years ago.”
Jerry: “I can see you’ve been thinking about this, but these things don’t work on credit. Two years ago, I took care of a guy who used a propane torch on his wife.”
Bert: “I have a down payment.”
Jerry: “Like what?”
(Bert digs into her purse and takes out a small wad of tissue, unwraps it, and takes out a diamond ring. She hands it to Jerry, who turns it over several times, trying to assess the value.)
Bert: “That was my mother’s, my scumbag husband never gave me one.” (Bert grips Jerry’s arm) “I’ll give you a bonus after.” (Bert drops her hand onto Jerry’s leg.)
(Jerry returns the ring.)
Jerry: “That won’t be necessary, maybe we can work this out.”
Bert: “How can I contact you?”
Jerry: “You can’t.” (Takes a phone out of his pocket) “Give me your number.”
Bert: (Hesitates then gives a phone number) “941-555-0019.”
Jerry: “Give me an address.”
Bert: (Hesitates, looking scared, then gives an address) “28441 South Pomegranate. Aren’t you gonna write it down?’
Jerry: “I’ll remember it.” (Gets up to leave, pushes some money from his change on the bar to Bert) “Have another drink. I’ll be in touch.” (He walks toward the door.)
Bert: “When will I hear from you?”
(Jerry ignores her and leaves. Bert orders another drink. The scene ends.)
Scene two.
(Same bar, the same bar flies drinking. Two new guys at a table. A new bartender.
Phone conversation off stage. Jerry calls Bert.)
Jerry: “Do you have it?”
Bert: “The ring, is that okay? Please. I’m counting on you.”
Jerry: “Tomorrow. Same place, same time.”
Jerry: (Enters the bar and sits at the same stool as before.) “Rolling Rock longneck.”
(Bert enters. Hair styled. No bruise. Wearing a business suit. Jerry sees her approach in the mirror he turns on the stool looking surprised. Raises his hands in a What gives? Gesture.)
(The bartender points a gun at Jerry’s back. The men at the table stand up with guns in their hands.)
Bert: (Opens her suit jacket and displays her ID.) “FBI Agent, Bert Merriweather. Jerry Lambert, you’re under arrest. Sorry, Jerry.”
END
Casey Alexander Carter is 21 years old. He grew up in the American north east. He is currently studying creative writing at Fullsail University, and hopes to make writing a career. This is the first time he has ever been published.
In that cursed chateau de rouge
“You think me mad,” the knight said, thumping his fingers on every word. His watery gray eyes stared at Mihaly, boring into his skull.
“No... of course not. At least I don’t think so.” Mihaly suddenly found something interesting to look at in the bottom of his ale mug. He supposed the knight was probably mad but he didn’t want to be rude by admitting it. Plus, the knight had a sword, and Mihaly did not.
The knight laughed, “You do! I know you do. Everyone does. ‘Poor old mad Sir Leonhardt’ they say.” He took a deep draught from his mug and seemed to calm himself down. He straightened his back and gave Mihaly a serious look. “It's fine. I’m too old and brave to be offended by peasant rumors and the like.”
“I recognize the name,” said Mihaly. “Sir Leonhardt of Gaul, Hero of the Albian wars. You sailed an army across the Fang Sea and killed every man in the Albianish line of succession. You’re the reason they have no king.”
“Ah yes!” He chuckled, “Swam across the sea I did, beheaded a fair lot of princes I did.” Sir Leonhardt leaned across the table almost spilling his drink. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, and Mihaly had to crane his neck to hear what came next. “I’ve seen thousands butchered by sorcery before me very eyes. I’ve raised entire villages to the mud. But what I saw in that cursed Chateau de rouge had me pissing my own breeches like a schoolboy.”
“What did you see?” Mihaly interrupted. He was beginning to think that perhaps Sir Leonhardt was either more, or less mad than he had first thought.
The Knight scooted his chair closer to the table, took another draught of ale, and prepared to tell his story. “I thought the chateau was empty save maybe a few scavengers or brigands. Nothing I couldn’t handle. I walked in the front door waving my sword about and shouting. Little did I know, I had just woken up a dragon. You should have seen the look on my face when it stood up on its hind legs, stomping its front paws in front of me. ‘How dare you!’ It said. ‘You men, you monsters, interrupting my slumber, cutting down my trees for your hearth, murdering the subjects of my kingdom of the wood for your bellies! If you continue to disturb my kingdom, I will fly to yours and burn it all to ash!’ The dragon roared so loudly the walls shook and the stonework began to crack. And then...”
“And then?” Mihaly asked. Sir Leonhardt took a sip of ale and grunted.
“Then the beast sneezed and blew me down on my arse!” He chuckled again but soon continued. “Then he let me go. I was lucky to get away for sure. I’ve wrestled bears with my own bear hands, but I couldn’t fight that dragon. Lucky he didn’t roast me in my own armor like a chicken, I am.” He then quieted down. He gazed out the tavern window with a sort of melancholy look on his face. “I warned the lords, the wizards, even the priests. None of them will believe me, yet no one will take a trip to that chateau. They probably believe me; they just don’t want to be bothered with it. Lazy buggers they are.”
“That was a good story,” Said Mihaly. He did enjoy it and he at least partially believed the knight. “I certainly won’t be making a trip to that chateau.”
“That was a kind way of saying you don’t believe me,” said the knight. He leaned on one elbow and began to stare at Mihaly again.
“Oh... I do believe you. I just don’t know what to do about it. You’re the knight, why don’t you bring an army and slay the dragon?” asked Mihaly. “Isn’t that what you're supposed to do?”
“I’m much too old for that now,” Sir Leonhardt said. “there's probably nothing I can do. Cities got to grow, men got to fill their bellies, and lords got to make their coin. Someday we’ll push too far into the dragon's kingdom. We’ve got no right to, but we will. And then that winged beast will burn us all. Soon trees will sprout from the ash, and our kingdom will be just another haunted wood.”
“If he does, I'll take a trip here and give whatever charcoal is left of you a proper burial,” said Mihaly.
“You know what?” said the knight. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever offered to do for me.” Then they ordered some more ale.
“No... of course not. At least I don’t think so.” Mihaly suddenly found something interesting to look at in the bottom of his ale mug. He supposed the knight was probably mad but he didn’t want to be rude by admitting it. Plus, the knight had a sword, and Mihaly did not.
The knight laughed, “You do! I know you do. Everyone does. ‘Poor old mad Sir Leonhardt’ they say.” He took a deep draught from his mug and seemed to calm himself down. He straightened his back and gave Mihaly a serious look. “It's fine. I’m too old and brave to be offended by peasant rumors and the like.”
“I recognize the name,” said Mihaly. “Sir Leonhardt of Gaul, Hero of the Albian wars. You sailed an army across the Fang Sea and killed every man in the Albianish line of succession. You’re the reason they have no king.”
“Ah yes!” He chuckled, “Swam across the sea I did, beheaded a fair lot of princes I did.” Sir Leonhardt leaned across the table almost spilling his drink. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, and Mihaly had to crane his neck to hear what came next. “I’ve seen thousands butchered by sorcery before me very eyes. I’ve raised entire villages to the mud. But what I saw in that cursed Chateau de rouge had me pissing my own breeches like a schoolboy.”
“What did you see?” Mihaly interrupted. He was beginning to think that perhaps Sir Leonhardt was either more, or less mad than he had first thought.
The Knight scooted his chair closer to the table, took another draught of ale, and prepared to tell his story. “I thought the chateau was empty save maybe a few scavengers or brigands. Nothing I couldn’t handle. I walked in the front door waving my sword about and shouting. Little did I know, I had just woken up a dragon. You should have seen the look on my face when it stood up on its hind legs, stomping its front paws in front of me. ‘How dare you!’ It said. ‘You men, you monsters, interrupting my slumber, cutting down my trees for your hearth, murdering the subjects of my kingdom of the wood for your bellies! If you continue to disturb my kingdom, I will fly to yours and burn it all to ash!’ The dragon roared so loudly the walls shook and the stonework began to crack. And then...”
“And then?” Mihaly asked. Sir Leonhardt took a sip of ale and grunted.
“Then the beast sneezed and blew me down on my arse!” He chuckled again but soon continued. “Then he let me go. I was lucky to get away for sure. I’ve wrestled bears with my own bear hands, but I couldn’t fight that dragon. Lucky he didn’t roast me in my own armor like a chicken, I am.” He then quieted down. He gazed out the tavern window with a sort of melancholy look on his face. “I warned the lords, the wizards, even the priests. None of them will believe me, yet no one will take a trip to that chateau. They probably believe me; they just don’t want to be bothered with it. Lazy buggers they are.”
“That was a good story,” Said Mihaly. He did enjoy it and he at least partially believed the knight. “I certainly won’t be making a trip to that chateau.”
“That was a kind way of saying you don’t believe me,” said the knight. He leaned on one elbow and began to stare at Mihaly again.
“Oh... I do believe you. I just don’t know what to do about it. You’re the knight, why don’t you bring an army and slay the dragon?” asked Mihaly. “Isn’t that what you're supposed to do?”
“I’m much too old for that now,” Sir Leonhardt said. “there's probably nothing I can do. Cities got to grow, men got to fill their bellies, and lords got to make their coin. Someday we’ll push too far into the dragon's kingdom. We’ve got no right to, but we will. And then that winged beast will burn us all. Soon trees will sprout from the ash, and our kingdom will be just another haunted wood.”
“If he does, I'll take a trip here and give whatever charcoal is left of you a proper burial,” said Mihaly.
“You know what?” said the knight. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever offered to do for me.” Then they ordered some more ale.
Evelyn Umezinwa lives in New Jersey. As a child, her father encouraged her to read and think critically about the world that she lived in. In recent years, Evelyn has started to take writing seriously. She hopes that with every story that she writes, she can improve in her writing. Evelyn hopes that by writing about her culture and heritage, she can educate others about it.
“Those Black Americans”
Brrrng! Brrrng!
My finger banged on the tiny doorbell. I paced back and forth trying not to fall off the tiny step. Finally, the door slowly creaked open. A girl, around my age, stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Hi, I’m Chizoba. I think your mom is supposed to do my hair today,” I said, gesturing towards the large black bag, overfilled with hair extension packets, that I was holding.
Before the girl could respond, a loud voice from inside the house boomed out. “Adaeze, who is that? Get away from that door!” A woman with a thick Igbo accent yelled out.
“Mom, Chizoba is here. She said that you were supposed to do her hair today,” Adaeze said, looking behind her.
“Okay, come in,” The woman replied in a calmer voice. The girl opened the door, allowing me inside.
As I entered the house, I noticed the state of the small living room. The linoleum tiles were faded and grimy. In the corner of the room, a large, rectangular table, entirely covered with piles of papers and magazines, took up almost all of the space. A small, flat screen tv mounted to the wall was playing News New Jersey.
The woman pulled out a small stool, with broken and chipped back legs, from under the table, put in right in front of the TV and motioned for me to sit down. I sat down on the hard surface and it buckled from under my weight.
The woman tapped me on my shoulder, pulling me back to reality.
“Did you say good morning to me?” She asked, glaring and frowning at me. Damn it! I forgot to say good morning! Shoot! And I don’t even know what her name is! Now that I’m thinking about it, when I’d entered the car that morning, Mom had warned me to greet the woman when I saw her. She looked me straight in the eyes, pointed her finger at me, and said,
“Make sure to greet her. Say, good morning Esther. Do not be disrespectful to her. Do not be a disrespectful child.”
I looked up at Esther and said,“Sorry. Good morning.”
Esther nodded her head and there was a glimpse of a smile before she turned away from me. She walked over to the table and grabbed a small comb.
“Did you bring the hair?” She asked me. I nodded and pulled out the packs of hair extensions from the bag. Esther picked up the packs, turning them over and mumbling to herself. Then, she opened up a pack, took out the hair, and began working out the kinks.
Realizing that it was going to take a lot of time before she would start, I pulled out my headphones, and began listening to music. A couple moments later, I heard a woman’s voice saying “A man shot five times and left to die.” I took out my headphones, looked up, and saw “Breaking News” running across the bottom of the TV.
A reporter was reporting a couple of feet away from a row of Yellow Caution Tape. “Just for the viewers tuning in right now, I am currently at the scene of what cops suspect to be a robbery gone wrong. It took place at the corner on South 18th Street in broad daylight…”
As the reporter kept speaking, footage of the scene rolled. There was a group of cops talking amongst themselves and members of the forensics team were taking evidence. The reporter continued on,“And the police already have a suspect.” Footage of a man on a cellphone video rolled: in the background, you could hear music playing, as the guy, wearing a bandana to conceal most of his face, showed off a stack of money in one hand and a pistol in the other. The man was laughing in the video and smiling towards the camera. He was black.
The camera footage ended and the face of the reporter was back on the screen. “If you have any information, make sure to call Crime Stoppers New Jersey”. The reporter’s voice was cut off by the News New Jersey anchor. “Thank you Patricia,” she said smiling, “ And in other news-”
Errrrrrrr! The voice of the anchor was cut off by a loud screeching sound. I turned away from the TV and saw Esther dragging a chair from the dining table. She was shaking her head and grunting as she looked at the TV. She placed the chair right behind me and plopped down onto it. In her hands were about three or four strands of hair extensions. She grabbed a portion of my hair and began braiding the extensions into my hair. While she was braiding, my eyes were still glued to the TV.
Suddenly,“Breaking News” flashed across the screen again.
“Breaking News,” The anchor began, “Police have detained the person they believed to have shot a 21 year old man.” As the anchor was talking, the video from before of the man showing off money to the camera, played.
“According to the police, the suspect— who is seen in this cell phone video— was a young gang member who shot the man while he was leaving his car. While the exact chain of events is not known, at some point the gang member ended up robbing the man of his wallet. Police believe…”
“Hmph!” Ester’s loudly grunted, interrupting the anchor. “Stupid boy!” She paused for a second, as if she was waiting for me to nod my head in agreement. But then I just stared ahead, and after sucking her teeth, she continued braiding.
A couple seconds later, Adaeze came into the room. She grabbed the remote, and switched the channel.
“Ah-Ah! What are you doing!?” Esther yelled.
“I wanted to watch my show! What’s wrong with that?,” Adaeze asked, crossing her arms. “Change it back! Now!”
“No! Why?”
Esther stopped braiding my hair and looked at her. Her head was cocked to the side and her eyes were shooting Adaeze daggers. Adaeze shifted her feet nervously, but she still rolled her eyes. The laughter from the sitcom on the TV interrupted the silence.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Adaeze picked up the remote and changed the channel back to the news station. She turned around, threw the remote onto the dining table, and stomped out of the room muttering to herself.
The anchor was different this time. “At about 2:00 today, a 25 year old man was shot dead by a local gang member. Police have arrested a man by the name of James Smith, known to people in the area as J. The man….”
Esther sucked her teeth and grunted. She began mumbling to herself. “I work my butt off, I pay all the bills, I pay for her clothes, her food, and she treats me this way! What is she learning at that school? Is she learning how to be rude to her mother from her friends?” Esther was getting louder and louder, and now she was screaming over the anchor. “You are not one of those black Americans! You better stop acting this way or else me and your dad will need to have a serious talk with you. Okay! Because this behavior is not acceptable! It is unacceptable!”
In response to the screaming, a door upstairs slammed. Esther stood there fuming and shaking her head. Finally, she picked up some strands of extension hair and began braiding again. By this point, it was basically silent. I could only hear the sound of Esther’s hands twisting.
But after a while, she stopped. “You don’t act like them, right?” She asked me.
Them? Who’s them? I sat there confused by her question, until I realized that she was pointing at the TV.
“No.”
Esther nodded her head, satisfied and picked up her comb again. I was squirming in my chair, though. I knew who “them” was. They were the black people that didn’t have Nigerian parents or African parents. The ones that didn’t go to an Igbo church or speak Igbo.
Suddenly, before I even knew what I was doing, my mouth opened. “Well, what do you mean by ‘them’?” I asked, even through I already knew the answer to my question.
Esther stood up from her chair and stood in front of me. She began braiding the front section of my hair. As she braided, though, she maintained eye contact with me.
Finally, she spoke. “You know, some of these people around here are just troublemakers. You are only a child. You do not know just how bad they can be. At the hospital, I see them come into the hospital for only two reasons: to deliver their babies or get a bullet taken out of them. They are out of control because they do not have African parents. Their parents cannot control them! It is not like back home— I mean, imagine if I was pregnant at such a young age. I would be dealt with harshly. My mother would beat me merciless! You see, that is the problem with these kids— they have no discipline and their bad behavior is corrupting Adaeze. Unless I put a stop to it, Adaeze is going to be like one of them. And I will not let that happen. It will be too shameful!”
I sat there shocked by her ranting. But after a little while, the shock wore off. I mean, was it really so shocking? I mean, she sounded just like my family.
“You see the problem with those black Americans….”
“You see, not all of those black Americans can go to college. They don’t have meaningful professions. I mean, it’s just sad…”
“I hope you know that you’re not like one of those black Americans. You know you’re Igbo, right?”
“Just because you were born in America, doesn’t mean you’re one of those black Americans.”
It was always said. At cookouts, parties, meetings, or just on the phone. And every time I’d heard someone say that, I would feel a pang of guilt. “Those black Americans” that my aunties and uncles criticized were my friends. And they weren’t lazy, or pregnant, or violent, or messed up. They were just like me. They weren’t the devils that my relatives believed they were. But to my aunties and uncles, and even my parents, whatever they saw on the News was everyday life.
Every time the reports of carjackings, robberies, and shootings ran across the News, they were always marked with the mugshot of a black person or with the voice of the reporter saying “the suspect is believed to be a young black man”. The grunts and the shaking of their heads only told me one thing: that in our eyes, we were more respectable than “those black Americans”. My family, blinded by what they saw on the news about African Americans, had made it their mission to remind their children that they were always more respectable than “those black Americans”.
Finally, I spoke. “But that’s not how it is. Just because you see something on the news that’s bad about them, doesn’t mean that they’re all bad.”
Esther sighed. “Listen to me very carefully. Now, because you are a child, you just cannot understand this world. You know, not every person you meet is your friend. You need to understand that this world is very unsafe and that it is just better for you to stay away from certain people, if you know they are bad.”
I was pissed. “But they’re not bad! How can you call them bad, if you don’t even know them?”
Esther put down the extensions and moved away from me. She took the remote and turned off the TV. She began pacing back and forth.
“Listen, I do not want to argue with you, but you do not get it! I have seen how they act, I know how they are.”
“Humph! They are even corrupting you! You did not greet me properly when you first came in and now you are yelling at me and talking back to me! You are being very disrespectful and you better stop now!”
I was ready to fire back. She was the disrespectful one. She assumed that the black people she knew here were nothing more than trouble. In her eyes, herself, her family, and all other Africans were a level higher than the rest of the black people here: that we were more respectable than “those black Americans”. In the eyes of the police, though, we were just the same as “those black Americans”. We weren’t more respectable or the “better blacks”. We may have had different cultures, but we were all black.
But I said none of that. I don’t know why, but all I could say to Esther was “I’m sorry.”
Unsatisfied with my apology, Esther replied, “For what?”
“For disrespecting you.”
With a smug smile on her face, she said, “Mhm. You better be.” I nodded and made sure to look up at her. Satisfied with my apology, Esther grabbed her comb and the extensions and began braiding my hair again.
I don’t know why I couldn’t just say the truth. I couldn’t tell her how stupid she sounded, because I had to abide by tradition. I mean, it just wasn’t worth it.
What was the point of arguing with her when she was just going to stay the same? There was no point in trying to change her mind or the minds of my parents and my uncles and aunties. They were biased against the black people that didn’t fit their mold of the right type of black person and they would always be. I just put my head down and stayed silent. After all, they would never change.
My finger banged on the tiny doorbell. I paced back and forth trying not to fall off the tiny step. Finally, the door slowly creaked open. A girl, around my age, stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Hi, I’m Chizoba. I think your mom is supposed to do my hair today,” I said, gesturing towards the large black bag, overfilled with hair extension packets, that I was holding.
Before the girl could respond, a loud voice from inside the house boomed out. “Adaeze, who is that? Get away from that door!” A woman with a thick Igbo accent yelled out.
“Mom, Chizoba is here. She said that you were supposed to do her hair today,” Adaeze said, looking behind her.
“Okay, come in,” The woman replied in a calmer voice. The girl opened the door, allowing me inside.
As I entered the house, I noticed the state of the small living room. The linoleum tiles were faded and grimy. In the corner of the room, a large, rectangular table, entirely covered with piles of papers and magazines, took up almost all of the space. A small, flat screen tv mounted to the wall was playing News New Jersey.
The woman pulled out a small stool, with broken and chipped back legs, from under the table, put in right in front of the TV and motioned for me to sit down. I sat down on the hard surface and it buckled from under my weight.
The woman tapped me on my shoulder, pulling me back to reality.
“Did you say good morning to me?” She asked, glaring and frowning at me. Damn it! I forgot to say good morning! Shoot! And I don’t even know what her name is! Now that I’m thinking about it, when I’d entered the car that morning, Mom had warned me to greet the woman when I saw her. She looked me straight in the eyes, pointed her finger at me, and said,
“Make sure to greet her. Say, good morning Esther. Do not be disrespectful to her. Do not be a disrespectful child.”
I looked up at Esther and said,“Sorry. Good morning.”
Esther nodded her head and there was a glimpse of a smile before she turned away from me. She walked over to the table and grabbed a small comb.
“Did you bring the hair?” She asked me. I nodded and pulled out the packs of hair extensions from the bag. Esther picked up the packs, turning them over and mumbling to herself. Then, she opened up a pack, took out the hair, and began working out the kinks.
Realizing that it was going to take a lot of time before she would start, I pulled out my headphones, and began listening to music. A couple moments later, I heard a woman’s voice saying “A man shot five times and left to die.” I took out my headphones, looked up, and saw “Breaking News” running across the bottom of the TV.
A reporter was reporting a couple of feet away from a row of Yellow Caution Tape. “Just for the viewers tuning in right now, I am currently at the scene of what cops suspect to be a robbery gone wrong. It took place at the corner on South 18th Street in broad daylight…”
As the reporter kept speaking, footage of the scene rolled. There was a group of cops talking amongst themselves and members of the forensics team were taking evidence. The reporter continued on,“And the police already have a suspect.” Footage of a man on a cellphone video rolled: in the background, you could hear music playing, as the guy, wearing a bandana to conceal most of his face, showed off a stack of money in one hand and a pistol in the other. The man was laughing in the video and smiling towards the camera. He was black.
The camera footage ended and the face of the reporter was back on the screen. “If you have any information, make sure to call Crime Stoppers New Jersey”. The reporter’s voice was cut off by the News New Jersey anchor. “Thank you Patricia,” she said smiling, “ And in other news-”
Errrrrrrr! The voice of the anchor was cut off by a loud screeching sound. I turned away from the TV and saw Esther dragging a chair from the dining table. She was shaking her head and grunting as she looked at the TV. She placed the chair right behind me and plopped down onto it. In her hands were about three or four strands of hair extensions. She grabbed a portion of my hair and began braiding the extensions into my hair. While she was braiding, my eyes were still glued to the TV.
Suddenly,“Breaking News” flashed across the screen again.
“Breaking News,” The anchor began, “Police have detained the person they believed to have shot a 21 year old man.” As the anchor was talking, the video from before of the man showing off money to the camera, played.
“According to the police, the suspect— who is seen in this cell phone video— was a young gang member who shot the man while he was leaving his car. While the exact chain of events is not known, at some point the gang member ended up robbing the man of his wallet. Police believe…”
“Hmph!” Ester’s loudly grunted, interrupting the anchor. “Stupid boy!” She paused for a second, as if she was waiting for me to nod my head in agreement. But then I just stared ahead, and after sucking her teeth, she continued braiding.
A couple seconds later, Adaeze came into the room. She grabbed the remote, and switched the channel.
“Ah-Ah! What are you doing!?” Esther yelled.
“I wanted to watch my show! What’s wrong with that?,” Adaeze asked, crossing her arms. “Change it back! Now!”
“No! Why?”
Esther stopped braiding my hair and looked at her. Her head was cocked to the side and her eyes were shooting Adaeze daggers. Adaeze shifted her feet nervously, but she still rolled her eyes. The laughter from the sitcom on the TV interrupted the silence.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Adaeze picked up the remote and changed the channel back to the news station. She turned around, threw the remote onto the dining table, and stomped out of the room muttering to herself.
The anchor was different this time. “At about 2:00 today, a 25 year old man was shot dead by a local gang member. Police have arrested a man by the name of James Smith, known to people in the area as J. The man….”
Esther sucked her teeth and grunted. She began mumbling to herself. “I work my butt off, I pay all the bills, I pay for her clothes, her food, and she treats me this way! What is she learning at that school? Is she learning how to be rude to her mother from her friends?” Esther was getting louder and louder, and now she was screaming over the anchor. “You are not one of those black Americans! You better stop acting this way or else me and your dad will need to have a serious talk with you. Okay! Because this behavior is not acceptable! It is unacceptable!”
In response to the screaming, a door upstairs slammed. Esther stood there fuming and shaking her head. Finally, she picked up some strands of extension hair and began braiding again. By this point, it was basically silent. I could only hear the sound of Esther’s hands twisting.
But after a while, she stopped. “You don’t act like them, right?” She asked me.
Them? Who’s them? I sat there confused by her question, until I realized that she was pointing at the TV.
“No.”
Esther nodded her head, satisfied and picked up her comb again. I was squirming in my chair, though. I knew who “them” was. They were the black people that didn’t have Nigerian parents or African parents. The ones that didn’t go to an Igbo church or speak Igbo.
Suddenly, before I even knew what I was doing, my mouth opened. “Well, what do you mean by ‘them’?” I asked, even through I already knew the answer to my question.
Esther stood up from her chair and stood in front of me. She began braiding the front section of my hair. As she braided, though, she maintained eye contact with me.
Finally, she spoke. “You know, some of these people around here are just troublemakers. You are only a child. You do not know just how bad they can be. At the hospital, I see them come into the hospital for only two reasons: to deliver their babies or get a bullet taken out of them. They are out of control because they do not have African parents. Their parents cannot control them! It is not like back home— I mean, imagine if I was pregnant at such a young age. I would be dealt with harshly. My mother would beat me merciless! You see, that is the problem with these kids— they have no discipline and their bad behavior is corrupting Adaeze. Unless I put a stop to it, Adaeze is going to be like one of them. And I will not let that happen. It will be too shameful!”
I sat there shocked by her ranting. But after a little while, the shock wore off. I mean, was it really so shocking? I mean, she sounded just like my family.
“You see the problem with those black Americans….”
“You see, not all of those black Americans can go to college. They don’t have meaningful professions. I mean, it’s just sad…”
“I hope you know that you’re not like one of those black Americans. You know you’re Igbo, right?”
“Just because you were born in America, doesn’t mean you’re one of those black Americans.”
It was always said. At cookouts, parties, meetings, or just on the phone. And every time I’d heard someone say that, I would feel a pang of guilt. “Those black Americans” that my aunties and uncles criticized were my friends. And they weren’t lazy, or pregnant, or violent, or messed up. They were just like me. They weren’t the devils that my relatives believed they were. But to my aunties and uncles, and even my parents, whatever they saw on the News was everyday life.
Every time the reports of carjackings, robberies, and shootings ran across the News, they were always marked with the mugshot of a black person or with the voice of the reporter saying “the suspect is believed to be a young black man”. The grunts and the shaking of their heads only told me one thing: that in our eyes, we were more respectable than “those black Americans”. My family, blinded by what they saw on the news about African Americans, had made it their mission to remind their children that they were always more respectable than “those black Americans”.
Finally, I spoke. “But that’s not how it is. Just because you see something on the news that’s bad about them, doesn’t mean that they’re all bad.”
Esther sighed. “Listen to me very carefully. Now, because you are a child, you just cannot understand this world. You know, not every person you meet is your friend. You need to understand that this world is very unsafe and that it is just better for you to stay away from certain people, if you know they are bad.”
I was pissed. “But they’re not bad! How can you call them bad, if you don’t even know them?”
Esther put down the extensions and moved away from me. She took the remote and turned off the TV. She began pacing back and forth.
“Listen, I do not want to argue with you, but you do not get it! I have seen how they act, I know how they are.”
“Humph! They are even corrupting you! You did not greet me properly when you first came in and now you are yelling at me and talking back to me! You are being very disrespectful and you better stop now!”
I was ready to fire back. She was the disrespectful one. She assumed that the black people she knew here were nothing more than trouble. In her eyes, herself, her family, and all other Africans were a level higher than the rest of the black people here: that we were more respectable than “those black Americans”. In the eyes of the police, though, we were just the same as “those black Americans”. We weren’t more respectable or the “better blacks”. We may have had different cultures, but we were all black.
But I said none of that. I don’t know why, but all I could say to Esther was “I’m sorry.”
Unsatisfied with my apology, Esther replied, “For what?”
“For disrespecting you.”
With a smug smile on her face, she said, “Mhm. You better be.” I nodded and made sure to look up at her. Satisfied with my apology, Esther grabbed her comb and the extensions and began braiding my hair again.
I don’t know why I couldn’t just say the truth. I couldn’t tell her how stupid she sounded, because I had to abide by tradition. I mean, it just wasn’t worth it.
What was the point of arguing with her when she was just going to stay the same? There was no point in trying to change her mind or the minds of my parents and my uncles and aunties. They were biased against the black people that didn’t fit their mold of the right type of black person and they would always be. I just put my head down and stayed silent. After all, they would never change.
Will Wright is a Chartered Accountant by day, an avid writer and reader by night. He lives in York, UK with his girlfriend and long-suffering proofreader, Amy.
TETHERED
I agreed to meet Linda Grove at my local pub, the Swaley Arms at 7pm. Like me, Linda had lived in Lowton her whole life. She’d come into the store the other day whilst I was working. We’d got chatting and I’d proposed meeting up sometime, more a throwaway comment than anything else. But she was eager to take me up on it. Life in Lowton is slow and laborious, so I agreed to meet with her anyway.
There are rumours hanging over Linda’s head. Depending on who you speak to, Linda is an alcoholic, a drug addict, or maybe even a prostitute. Everyone in a small town like this has a string of rumours nailed to their back. Anyway, Linda and I had a fling back at school and I don’t have that many friends, especially here in Lowton. I’m sure people will talk, but let them say what they want.
“The usual, Tim?” Karen asks as I arrive at the bar. She’s the barmaid and like a lot of people in Lowton, she’s aged badly. I remember her being a stunner when I first came in here, but time hasn’t played Karen a good hand.
I smile and nod. As she pours my pint, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. I’ve seen my reflection in that mirror many times over the years. I see myself looking into it as a blurry eyed 17-year-old, hoping to ask one of the barmaids her number. It may have even been Karen’s number I was after. But looking back at me now is a bald, overweight man. Seems like time hasn’t played me a very good hand either.
Karen places my beer on the bar and I pay her.
“Are you single Karen?” I ask. The froth of the beer sits as a moustache on my top lip.
“No, Tim, and that won’t change however many times you ask me,” she says and walks back to her magazine at the other end of the bar.
Soon Linda arrives. In the light of the pub, I see how sallow her face is. She has bags under her eyes the size of suitcases, as though she hasn’t slept since she was my girlfriend over two decades ago. We start chatting. Perhaps there is some sort of spark there. She’s quite timid and shy, but opens up after a couple of drinks. I catch her eye at one point, and it feels like there’s a lot of sadness there. I don’t really know what to say about that.
I tell her my plans of getting out of Lowton. I have a couple of ideas. One of them is to franchise the store and go and move to Scotland or something, open a shop in a town up there and settle down, away from Lowton. My other plan is a bit more radical. Leave the store in someone else’s hands, whilst I go off around the world for a few months. Who knows when I might come back. If I will come back.
“You won’t be able to,” Linda says. We’ve both had a few drinks. I’m quite drunk and ignore her comment. I only realise later what she’d said.
The conversation dries up. I say to Linda that I’ll walk her home. I still live at my parents’ house and she lives a bit beyond that, but I tell her its fine. I thank Karen, but she barely looks up from her magazine.
“I’d love to leave this place.” I say. I feel very drunk now, the stars above me blurring together into stains of white on the deep blue carpet of night.
“Yup,” Linda says. There is something strange in her voice.
We’ve stopped outside my parents’ house and Linda turns to look at me. Her eyes are still beautiful and it stirs a feeling I’ve not felt for a long time. But there’s something dissonant about the way her brow furrows. She leans in to kiss me, but I back away.
“Please Tim,” She says. “You have to take some of this weight from me.”
“What?”
“It’s… I can’t explain it, just kiss me at will become clear,” Linda says. I feel my groin stir for what seems like the first time this millennium. I unlock the door, pull Linda inside and kiss her. We make our way to the bedroom.
Then the memories rocket to surface.
#
I was thrust backward, memories crashing like waves against my mind’s eye. I wasn’t there on that Saturday night anymore. No, those memories were powerful enough to knock the present from my perception.
The memory settled. I was 17, in my first year of A Level study. Next year I’d complete my A Levels and I’d get a chance to go to a university as far away from Lowton as possible.
Only I never sat those exams.
I was selected as Head Boy, and Linda and another girl called Stacey Botello were both selected as Head Girls. Those in their second year of A Level study didn’t have the time for that, so we were the most senior students in the school. It was only later that I realised how sinister our selection had been.
We were three of the best-looking people in our year and all three of us had strong family links to Lowton, going back three or four generations. The fact I say we were the best-looking people sounds self-centred, and it probably is, but that’s one of the key reasons we were picked to the roles as head students. The staff picked us, or at least that’s what we thought. It turned out it was only one member of staff. I later found out that it was just the Head of Sixth Form, Mr Phillip Ross, who picked the three of us.
Mr Ross was an old-fashioned teacher. His hair was always immaculately parted, and his shirts and trousers were always well ironed. Ross taught history and he was a disciplinarian teacher, but one that treated you right if you stayed on his good side. His face, though, was as red as a tomato and I often smelled alcohol on his breath in our meetings.
You see, we had meeting two or three times a week, and I can’t for the life of me remember what we used to discuss in those meetings. Perhaps it was organising parties for the A Level students, and maybe there was more serious stuff like attendance issues, though there wasn’t much I could do about that. The main overriding thing I can remember is feeling like Ross was weighing us all up. For some of those meetings early in the year, Brett Simpson would also attend, and I’m pretty sure there was one were James Foley turned up, but they didn’t attend any meetings after the October half-term. After October, Ross didn’t really pay much attention to me. I later realised he’d already made his decision on me.
Once we got around the turn from Christmas towards Easter, I felt Ross ramping up his assessments. Not of me, but of Linda and Stacey. It was the middle of February when I really noticed Ross weighing them up. There was something heavy in his eyes. If I’d seen a guy from one of our classes looking at Linda and Stacey that way, I would have thought they had a crush on the girls. But that wasn’t what I saw in Ross’s eyes. It wasn’t just about sex; it seemed to be about something far bigger.
By the end of February, Stacey stopped attending our meetings. After that, the meetings followed a similar pattern. Linda always arrived before me, Ross always turned up fifteen or twenty minutes late. And that’s when Linda and I started getting close. We went on a few dates and by the middle of March we’d become an item. We slept together a couple of weeks later. I wasn’t a virgin, and I got the impression that Linda had experience too. But teenage sex was always a bit awkward. I felt horrendously self-conscious, and though Linda tried to help me out, I never really got over it.
But anyway, back to Mr Ross. There was one meeting when he turned up over half an hour late. I smelled the familiar scent of alcohol on his breath. I’d been flirting with Linda, and we’d been close to going at it right there on the table, when Ross walked in. He looked stressed when he opened the door, but when he saw my hand under the desk on Linda’s knee, he smiled. Even when I moved it, his smile hung there like the Cheshire Cat’s. I saw something in his eyes that made me feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“The mayor will be pleased,” he mumbled, before apologising for being late. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, not until later anyway. By the time we’d finished the meeting, I’d forgotten his words and never mentioned it to Linda.
As I said, Ross was a disciplinarian, and that meant he was harsh and cold most of the time. When I said he treated you right, I actually meant that he didn’t treat you wrong. And there is a difference. He reserved compliments, and when they came they felt so good, you wanted another, but the second one would rarely ever come. It was classic Stockholm Syndrome, but at the age of seventeen, I had no idea what that even meant.
I turned up early for one of those meetings and Ross was there this time and Linda was running late. Ross and I sat in silence for a couple of minutes while he wrote out some notes. I took out a notepad and doodled whilst we waited.
Then Ross looked up and said, “I just want to say, Tim, that you’re being an excellent Head Boy. One of our best. You’re really doing our town proud.”
I’d never been on Ross’s bad side, but I’d also never received praise from him. I beamed a smile at him and thanked him for his comments. It was only later that I would remember the way he’d leered at me, and the fact that he’d said town and not school. I mean, sure, the school was in Lowton, but it wasn’t like some high schools you see in American TV shows, were the high school and their sports teams were the epicentre of town life. Our school was just where most of the kids in town went between 9am and 3pm; the town didn’t really give a shit about the school.
We reached the end of March. We’d had a week of nice weather, where I’d gone back to Linda’s each night and sat out in her garden. Her parents both worked long hours and her sister was at university, so we were never disturbed. We slept together three or four times a night. At the time, we thought it was because we were so into each other, but I think on reflection, it was because we didn’t really have much in common, other than the fact we wanted to sleep with each other.
On one of those nights, we sat outside, sharing some beers and Linda said, “Don’t you think it’s strange that Stacey doesn’t come to our meetings with Mr Ross anymore?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I said. And I hadn’t. I was a dumb kid.
“I just don’t get it. You used to see the way Mr Ross looked at me and Stacey?”
I nodded.
“Well, I always thought he was infatuated by Stacey. But I think he told her to stop coming to the meetings.”
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” I said. I kissed her then. The conversation was forgotten and we were soon up in Linda’s bedroom again. I wish I hadn’t kissed her though, I wish we’d discussed it, because Linda was on to something.
After that week, the weather soured again. Winter dragged itself up from the canvas to have a couple of more swings before its corner threw in the towel and spring and summer took the spoils. I didn’t see Linda as much when the weather wasn’t good. And ever since that conversation, it felt like there was a dissonant note that fed its way into my life. The roses didn’t seem to quite smell as good.
Mr Ross cut our meetings back to one every fortnight. Easter was late that year, April 24, and our last meeting was a week before it. Ross wanted us to come into the school on Easter Saturday, when the school would be deserted. He said it was a traditional meeting with the school governors, the Head Boy and Girl and the Lowton town mayor. I didn’t even notice that Stacey wasn’t invited.
We met in the school hall, which was dark as the long curtains were drawn. There was a large round table set out in the middle of the hall, and around it sat the school governors, the mayor and, of course, Mr Ross. There were a few men lurking in the shadows, though I didn’t notice them until later. In the middle of the round table was a worn old book with a tattered leather cover. The book looked like something from an old fantasy movie. Next to it was a small Coleman gas canister, like ones I’d seen when I went camping as a kid. You could start the fire on the top of the canister.
Ross locked the door behind us once we were all in the hall. I thought that was odd but not enough to raise any alarms; another note of dissonance was fed into that harmony, but not enough to sound any alarm bells.
The mayor pulled the leather tome towards him, while Ross lit the gas canister placing a tripod and gauze around the candle, with a small metal box placed on top of the gauze. There was an inkwell and a quill there too, next to the ledger.
“Thank you all for coming. We don’t usually like to do our duties this early in the year, but what with such a late Easter, we have little choice,” the mayor said. “Thank you, governors, for attending, we appreciate you providing us with your time. Thank you, Mr Ross, for arranging all of this. And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Tim and Linda for attending us.”
The governors and Mr Ross banged the table with their fists. I wasn’t scared at that point, but I Linda’s fear. She grasped for my hand under the table. It felt clammy.
“Mr Ross tells us the two of you are an item now?” The mayor said. I nodded. “Well that is good, makes this whole event so much easier,” The governors tittered. A couple of them banged the table again.
The mayor unclasped the book and opened it, while I saw Ross fiddling with something under the table, making a repeated shck noise. In the book, I could see hundreds of pages of scribbles, each scribble with a red mark next it. As the mayor flicked through the pages, the ink became less faded and as he approached the more recent pages, I saw that it wasn’t a book, but a ledger.
When the mayor found a blank page, he looked up at us. I noticed then that the marks were all little seals made with red wax, which for some reason struck me as odd. I no longer heard a couple of notes of discordance, but a loud stab of dissonance, as though someone had hammered all the notes of a piano at the same time.
“Right,” the mayor said. “Here we are.” He looked me dead in the eye and I felt sweat dripping down my back. “I trust we won’t have any struggling.”
“Why would we struggle?” I said. I looked around the table. The governors were all silver-haired men and women. Most of them had expressions of boredom on their face, as though they’d seen this same ceremony numerous times before. And I’m sure they had. There was another round of table banging, as I looked at Linda. It was then I noticed she wasn’t holding my hand any more. She knew that something bad was going to happen. She looked at the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks.
But I still didn’t understand, and I looked at the mayor and Mr Ross, perplexed. They both shared a similar expression of satisfaction. And that turned nearly orgasmic when Ross carefully opened the box on top of the tripod and gauze. Inside that box was a small slab of clear liquid that bubbled gently. That clear liquid was paraffin wax.
“This here is a ledger,” the mayor said, signalling at it with an open hand. “In here is a list of healthy, lithe and beautiful teenagers that have helped our town to survive over many years.”
I was still confused. The mayor beckoned myself and Linda to stand up and come around to look at the ledger. In calligraphic writing were a series of names, some of the later ones I recognised. One of those names was “Karen Hill”, a future barmaid of The Swaley Arms. At the top of both of the open pages of the ledger, written in green ink was the word “Tethered”. In smaller writing beneath the header, read, “the following townspeople agree to be forever tethered to the town of Lowton.”
“What does ‘tethered’ mean?” I asked. My voice cracked.
The mayor sneered at Ross. “Didn’t you tell them?”
Ross’s crimson face somehow turned a deeper hue of red. “No, sir. I didn’t want to… spook them.”
The mayor and Ross stared at each other for a long moment. I could hear the paraffin wax sizzling on its tray, could see dust floating in the air where a finger of sunlight poked itself around one of those long curtains.
“Fine,” the mayor said, his eyes still on Ross, who now looked down and fiddled with the thing in his hands again. “Fine, I’ll tell them.”
I groped for Linda’s hand.
“Tethering is something that has happened in this town for decades, maybe even centuries, as you can see by the thickness of this ledger,” the mayor said. He barked a dry, humourless laugh. “We’ve taken two of the finest teenagers each year and tethered them to our town, in order for the town to continue to live. To make it clear, you will never be able to leave Lowton.”
I was speechless. I froze. Linda, though, she was far more composed than me. She said, “why have you picked us?”
The mayor looked up at this, greed in his eyes. “Mr Ross here, well he assesses the options and picks the most appropriate for what we need. Family links to the town, but also their appearance. You two were deemed to be the most suitable, and unfortunately, there is no choice in the matter.”
“Why me?” Linda asked. “Why not Stacey Botello?”
“Stacey’s family haven’t been in the town as long as yours. Only a couple of generations. And, what was it you said Mr Ross? Stacey’s breasts weren’t a scratch on our friend Miss Grove’s here?”
Linda started to struggle, flailing and crying, her composure fleeing her. Two men moved from the shadows and grasped her. I saw there were two more men lurking there for me, but I didn’t move. I was welded to the spot like a statue, and I thought I might never move again. The mayor’s words rung around my head. You will never be able to leave Lowton. And that thought was like a bulldozer through the bedrock of the rest of my life.
I raised my arms then, and I sensed those two men move from the shadows, as Linda continued to bellow, kicking her legs. Watching her struggle showed the futility of it. I lowered my arms. There was no use fighting in fighting them.
Mr Ross stood up at that point, brandishing a sharp steel knife with a mahogany handle. More sunlight poked into the room, glinting off the blade, and Ross placed a whetstone on the table. He’d been sharpening it, and it looked like it would slice through rock if Ross needed it to.
“Arm,” Ross said. The two men holding Linda pushed her forward as she squirmed, one of the men holding her arm out above the bubbling wax, as the mayor wrote our names into the ledger. The governors banged the table again, as aggressively as they had done. Mr Ross took his knife and sliced across Linda’s wrist, blood dripping down into the wax. The crimson colour spread like cordial in water, dyeing the substance red. The two men pulled Linda away. She’d stopped struggling and just stared blankly at the governors around the table.
“You’re not going to squirm, are you?” Ross said to me. He fixed me with a patronising grin, like he’d outsmarted me in a game of chess. And I supposed he had, though I hadn’t even realised there was a game in progress. As I unbuttoned my shirt cuff and held my arm out, the mayor put the quill down, and fiddled with a ring on his little finger. Ross gripped my arm and sliced across my wrist as he had done with Linda. I barely even felt it. The only recognition of the cut was a couple of white spots of faintness at the edge of my vision. I watched my blood pool with Linda’s in that tray of paraffin wax.
The mayor stood up at that point and carefully pressed his ring into the wax, then pressed it onto the page next to Linda’s name. He repeated the trick, this time pressing seal next to my name. I watched as the red seal bubbled and solidified into the shape of the Lowton town crest. That was the last thing I saw before I passed out.
#
I wake up, a mess of sweat and sheets. My back hurts, as it has done for years, and I know this isn’t a memory, it’s now. The room smells like sex. The light of the bedside lamp brings my attention to Linda. She sits in a chair by the bed, wearing one of my jumpers. She smiles. Tension has left her face. The bags under her eyes seem smaller, and there’s a healthier colour to her face.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself,” she says.
“We’re tethered?” I say.
“Yes,” She says.
“Tethered to this fucking shithole town?” I ask.
“Yes,” She says again.
We sit in silence for a few moments. I have so many questions, I don’t know which one to asks. Linda breaks the silence.
“When you’re tethered, the process makes you forget,” she says. She’s right, I’d forgotten it all until now. Everything about that day in the hall with Mr Ross and the mayor had gone, replaced with… with what exactly? I don’t know. A sort of blackness I guess.
“The blackness was too much for me,” Linda says. It’s as though she’s reading my thoughts. “It was different for you, with your Dad and everything…”
She blushes.
“What did you do?”
“I asked around, but no one knew what I was talking about. Understandable. After a few years I went back to school one evening. I found Mr Ross. By that point, I was so desperate. I would do anything to know. And he was happy to oblige. More than happy. He’s tethered too. We slept together and—”
“You slept with Ross? Like you’ve done with me?!”
“Yes,” she looks to floor. A tear rolls down her cheek. “It’s the only way to remember. Someone tethered who remembers the tethering process, in my case Mr Ross, in your case, me, well if they sleep with someone who doesn’t remember, then they open up the fountain of memory again. It’s fucked. But the reason they prefer it if you’re in a couple, is because they hope you’ll stay together and never sleep with anyone else. And therefore not know you’re tethered.”
There is silence again. Too many thoughts bombarding in my head. I break the silence this time. “So the tether is broken if we know?”
“Erm, no. But now you know. That blackness has disappeared.”
“Why did you want me to know?”
“Because we’re in a tethering pair. If one of us knows and the other doesn’t, then the tether pulls like a choke lead. I’ve put off telling you for the best part of two decades.”
The tears are running freely down her cheek, now. I want to cry but can’t. I can almost feel that tether around my neck, suffocating me. I get up and hug Linda. She hugs me back. I look at her. We kiss. It’s the only thing that seems to ease that suffocation. We have sex again. Sleep takes over eventually and memories rush back in.
#
I feel like I’m flying over the timeline of my life like a drone, grainy footage of the tether acting on my life play’s like a projector on my mind’s eye. There were no more meetings with Mr Ross after the tethering, and I didn’t see Linda for a few weeks afterwards either. I remember entering the sixth form common room, seeing Linda sat alone. I sat next to her and we made small talk for a while. When she finally looked at me, Linda’s face was dazed, indifferent towards me. That look was enough for us both to know that our relationship was over. I wasn’t that fussed. If anything, the thought of sleeping with her turned my stomach.
Not long after the non-verbal break up, the tether landed its first significant blow. My parents had just opened a store in Lowton, a supermarket-type shop, but filled with only local produce and products. We sold all sorts, from vegetables to Viagra, from raisins to rope. Their plan was to own the store for long enough to build up a good reputation locally, and sell the store on, the proceeds of the sale providing money for their retirement. They knew I wanted to go to university, and they encouraged me to do so. “Get a degree, find a girl, make something of your life,” Dad had said.
But in early May of that year, Dad died in a car accident. That’s what Linda had meant. The black spot for her was so obvious, but for me Dad’s death distracted me from the blackness caused by the tethering. I still don’t know much of the details about that. I hid myself from it. I didn’t want to know and I was pretty damn low. So was Mum. All of her plans out of the window. She was going to try to sell the store, but I said I would work as much as I could to keep it afloat. There was a local family, the Whites, who circled my mum like sharks. Their modus operandi was to take advantage of local businesses, offering them a paltry sum of money for their business and dressing it up to look as though they were offering them the world.
I didn’t want anything to do with the Whites, so I kept on working. I dropped out of school in order to work full time. Mum and I met with the accountant on my 18th birthday, and I became a director of the company. I left school with no A Levels. No A Levels meant no university, which shut off my main route out of Lowton, the tether cracking like a whip. It wasn’t until maybe three or four years later, when my friends from school started to graduate from university, that I realised that my chances of university had probably passed, and by that stage, I didn’t really care. University seemed to be a lot of drinking and a lot of pointless essays. And I did plenty of the former in Lowton without needing to waste my time with the latter.
Then the tethers acts flashed in front of my eyes. In my early twenties, I started to date a girl, Chloe, who worked in town, but was from Leeds and wanted to move back there. Chloe and I were both very superficial. And I remember vividly the day that I knew she would break up with me. I was in the shower, and when I applied shampoo, huge clumps of my hair fell out. My hairline had not even been receding, but the majority of my hair fell out in one morning. The night before, Chloe and I had looked at some estate agent brochures for flats in Leeds. When I got out of the shower, I decided I had to shave my head. I distanced myself from Chloe, to see if my hair would grow back, but of course it didn’t. She finally got hold of me a couple of weeks later. She was angry that I had dodged her for the past fortnight, and when she saw my hair, she lost her shit. We finished our relationship over text that weekend.
The weight gain crept up on me. My exercise reduced until it stopped completely, and my diet worsened. Eventually, I only slept with women that were going to be in Lowton for the rest of their lives. If I chased a woman that looked like she might leave town, something would happen to end it. She’d cheat or I’d sabotage. Though, now, I realise it was the tether sabotaging me. As my twenties gave way to my thirties, I realised I looked like the rest of the Lowton lifers; overweight, bald, and what hair that did grow through was grey.
My mum and I managed to establish the store, in town though. We moved to larger premises and our reputation grew. We were successful enough to drive a couple of the national supermarkets out of town. Around this time, I was hankering for something a bit different, even if it was just to get out of Lowton for a few months and do a bit of travelling. My mum didn’t begrudge me that. I’d looked at places I wanted to go, and we’d lined up a temporary replacement for me, John, who might migrate into being a manager when I returned. If I returned.
But of course, the tether wouldn’t allow me to leave. The doctor gave Mum the bad news, cancer. She died about two weeks after the diagnosis. That was a gut punch to me. I cancelled my plans to travel, and kept on working through the grief. John did come onboard, and he helped me immensely, as did our other employees. My mum left me the house, and I still live their now. I still sleep in my box room at the back of the house. I still haven’t fully cleared through their stuff. I tried to do it one day, but when I opened my mum’s wardrobe, her smell wafted out, and it was as if I’d smelled a ghost. I couldn’t so much as open their bedroom door for a fortnight. I still don’t see it as my house. It’s my home, sure, but it’s my parents’ house. And I don’t think I can let it go out of the family, not that easily. That might be the tether making me stay put though.
And maybe that’s why I’m still at the store. The White’s circled again when Mum died. They tried to flash cash in front of me, but I didn’t want them to have the store. Our name is on the hoarding outside the store, and that is another thing that keeps me connected to my parents. And connected to Lowton.
#
When I wake up, Linda is leaving. It’s the last time I ever see her. I head to the store with a headache and a dark cloud. I’m not working but I need some supplies.
#
Extract from the Lowton Gazette, 20th June edition.
‘Local Shop Owner Found Dead in Lowton’
Tim O’Meara, lifelong Lowton resident and local shop owner, has died.
The 41-year-old was educated at Lowton High School, where he was Head Boy in his first year of A Level study. He left school to help run the much-loved family shop and had ran it for over two decades, prior to his death.
Yorkshire Police was called to an address in Shackle Lane, Lowton, at around 14:00 GMT to reports a man had died suddenly, a spokesman from the force said.
The spokesman said that the force was not treating the death, reported on Sunday, as suspicious.
END
There are rumours hanging over Linda’s head. Depending on who you speak to, Linda is an alcoholic, a drug addict, or maybe even a prostitute. Everyone in a small town like this has a string of rumours nailed to their back. Anyway, Linda and I had a fling back at school and I don’t have that many friends, especially here in Lowton. I’m sure people will talk, but let them say what they want.
“The usual, Tim?” Karen asks as I arrive at the bar. She’s the barmaid and like a lot of people in Lowton, she’s aged badly. I remember her being a stunner when I first came in here, but time hasn’t played Karen a good hand.
I smile and nod. As she pours my pint, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. I’ve seen my reflection in that mirror many times over the years. I see myself looking into it as a blurry eyed 17-year-old, hoping to ask one of the barmaids her number. It may have even been Karen’s number I was after. But looking back at me now is a bald, overweight man. Seems like time hasn’t played me a very good hand either.
Karen places my beer on the bar and I pay her.
“Are you single Karen?” I ask. The froth of the beer sits as a moustache on my top lip.
“No, Tim, and that won’t change however many times you ask me,” she says and walks back to her magazine at the other end of the bar.
Soon Linda arrives. In the light of the pub, I see how sallow her face is. She has bags under her eyes the size of suitcases, as though she hasn’t slept since she was my girlfriend over two decades ago. We start chatting. Perhaps there is some sort of spark there. She’s quite timid and shy, but opens up after a couple of drinks. I catch her eye at one point, and it feels like there’s a lot of sadness there. I don’t really know what to say about that.
I tell her my plans of getting out of Lowton. I have a couple of ideas. One of them is to franchise the store and go and move to Scotland or something, open a shop in a town up there and settle down, away from Lowton. My other plan is a bit more radical. Leave the store in someone else’s hands, whilst I go off around the world for a few months. Who knows when I might come back. If I will come back.
“You won’t be able to,” Linda says. We’ve both had a few drinks. I’m quite drunk and ignore her comment. I only realise later what she’d said.
The conversation dries up. I say to Linda that I’ll walk her home. I still live at my parents’ house and she lives a bit beyond that, but I tell her its fine. I thank Karen, but she barely looks up from her magazine.
“I’d love to leave this place.” I say. I feel very drunk now, the stars above me blurring together into stains of white on the deep blue carpet of night.
“Yup,” Linda says. There is something strange in her voice.
We’ve stopped outside my parents’ house and Linda turns to look at me. Her eyes are still beautiful and it stirs a feeling I’ve not felt for a long time. But there’s something dissonant about the way her brow furrows. She leans in to kiss me, but I back away.
“Please Tim,” She says. “You have to take some of this weight from me.”
“What?”
“It’s… I can’t explain it, just kiss me at will become clear,” Linda says. I feel my groin stir for what seems like the first time this millennium. I unlock the door, pull Linda inside and kiss her. We make our way to the bedroom.
Then the memories rocket to surface.
#
I was thrust backward, memories crashing like waves against my mind’s eye. I wasn’t there on that Saturday night anymore. No, those memories were powerful enough to knock the present from my perception.
The memory settled. I was 17, in my first year of A Level study. Next year I’d complete my A Levels and I’d get a chance to go to a university as far away from Lowton as possible.
Only I never sat those exams.
I was selected as Head Boy, and Linda and another girl called Stacey Botello were both selected as Head Girls. Those in their second year of A Level study didn’t have the time for that, so we were the most senior students in the school. It was only later that I realised how sinister our selection had been.
We were three of the best-looking people in our year and all three of us had strong family links to Lowton, going back three or four generations. The fact I say we were the best-looking people sounds self-centred, and it probably is, but that’s one of the key reasons we were picked to the roles as head students. The staff picked us, or at least that’s what we thought. It turned out it was only one member of staff. I later found out that it was just the Head of Sixth Form, Mr Phillip Ross, who picked the three of us.
Mr Ross was an old-fashioned teacher. His hair was always immaculately parted, and his shirts and trousers were always well ironed. Ross taught history and he was a disciplinarian teacher, but one that treated you right if you stayed on his good side. His face, though, was as red as a tomato and I often smelled alcohol on his breath in our meetings.
You see, we had meeting two or three times a week, and I can’t for the life of me remember what we used to discuss in those meetings. Perhaps it was organising parties for the A Level students, and maybe there was more serious stuff like attendance issues, though there wasn’t much I could do about that. The main overriding thing I can remember is feeling like Ross was weighing us all up. For some of those meetings early in the year, Brett Simpson would also attend, and I’m pretty sure there was one were James Foley turned up, but they didn’t attend any meetings after the October half-term. After October, Ross didn’t really pay much attention to me. I later realised he’d already made his decision on me.
Once we got around the turn from Christmas towards Easter, I felt Ross ramping up his assessments. Not of me, but of Linda and Stacey. It was the middle of February when I really noticed Ross weighing them up. There was something heavy in his eyes. If I’d seen a guy from one of our classes looking at Linda and Stacey that way, I would have thought they had a crush on the girls. But that wasn’t what I saw in Ross’s eyes. It wasn’t just about sex; it seemed to be about something far bigger.
By the end of February, Stacey stopped attending our meetings. After that, the meetings followed a similar pattern. Linda always arrived before me, Ross always turned up fifteen or twenty minutes late. And that’s when Linda and I started getting close. We went on a few dates and by the middle of March we’d become an item. We slept together a couple of weeks later. I wasn’t a virgin, and I got the impression that Linda had experience too. But teenage sex was always a bit awkward. I felt horrendously self-conscious, and though Linda tried to help me out, I never really got over it.
But anyway, back to Mr Ross. There was one meeting when he turned up over half an hour late. I smelled the familiar scent of alcohol on his breath. I’d been flirting with Linda, and we’d been close to going at it right there on the table, when Ross walked in. He looked stressed when he opened the door, but when he saw my hand under the desk on Linda’s knee, he smiled. Even when I moved it, his smile hung there like the Cheshire Cat’s. I saw something in his eyes that made me feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“The mayor will be pleased,” he mumbled, before apologising for being late. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, not until later anyway. By the time we’d finished the meeting, I’d forgotten his words and never mentioned it to Linda.
As I said, Ross was a disciplinarian, and that meant he was harsh and cold most of the time. When I said he treated you right, I actually meant that he didn’t treat you wrong. And there is a difference. He reserved compliments, and when they came they felt so good, you wanted another, but the second one would rarely ever come. It was classic Stockholm Syndrome, but at the age of seventeen, I had no idea what that even meant.
I turned up early for one of those meetings and Ross was there this time and Linda was running late. Ross and I sat in silence for a couple of minutes while he wrote out some notes. I took out a notepad and doodled whilst we waited.
Then Ross looked up and said, “I just want to say, Tim, that you’re being an excellent Head Boy. One of our best. You’re really doing our town proud.”
I’d never been on Ross’s bad side, but I’d also never received praise from him. I beamed a smile at him and thanked him for his comments. It was only later that I would remember the way he’d leered at me, and the fact that he’d said town and not school. I mean, sure, the school was in Lowton, but it wasn’t like some high schools you see in American TV shows, were the high school and their sports teams were the epicentre of town life. Our school was just where most of the kids in town went between 9am and 3pm; the town didn’t really give a shit about the school.
We reached the end of March. We’d had a week of nice weather, where I’d gone back to Linda’s each night and sat out in her garden. Her parents both worked long hours and her sister was at university, so we were never disturbed. We slept together three or four times a night. At the time, we thought it was because we were so into each other, but I think on reflection, it was because we didn’t really have much in common, other than the fact we wanted to sleep with each other.
On one of those nights, we sat outside, sharing some beers and Linda said, “Don’t you think it’s strange that Stacey doesn’t come to our meetings with Mr Ross anymore?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I said. And I hadn’t. I was a dumb kid.
“I just don’t get it. You used to see the way Mr Ross looked at me and Stacey?”
I nodded.
“Well, I always thought he was infatuated by Stacey. But I think he told her to stop coming to the meetings.”
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” I said. I kissed her then. The conversation was forgotten and we were soon up in Linda’s bedroom again. I wish I hadn’t kissed her though, I wish we’d discussed it, because Linda was on to something.
After that week, the weather soured again. Winter dragged itself up from the canvas to have a couple of more swings before its corner threw in the towel and spring and summer took the spoils. I didn’t see Linda as much when the weather wasn’t good. And ever since that conversation, it felt like there was a dissonant note that fed its way into my life. The roses didn’t seem to quite smell as good.
Mr Ross cut our meetings back to one every fortnight. Easter was late that year, April 24, and our last meeting was a week before it. Ross wanted us to come into the school on Easter Saturday, when the school would be deserted. He said it was a traditional meeting with the school governors, the Head Boy and Girl and the Lowton town mayor. I didn’t even notice that Stacey wasn’t invited.
We met in the school hall, which was dark as the long curtains were drawn. There was a large round table set out in the middle of the hall, and around it sat the school governors, the mayor and, of course, Mr Ross. There were a few men lurking in the shadows, though I didn’t notice them until later. In the middle of the round table was a worn old book with a tattered leather cover. The book looked like something from an old fantasy movie. Next to it was a small Coleman gas canister, like ones I’d seen when I went camping as a kid. You could start the fire on the top of the canister.
Ross locked the door behind us once we were all in the hall. I thought that was odd but not enough to raise any alarms; another note of dissonance was fed into that harmony, but not enough to sound any alarm bells.
The mayor pulled the leather tome towards him, while Ross lit the gas canister placing a tripod and gauze around the candle, with a small metal box placed on top of the gauze. There was an inkwell and a quill there too, next to the ledger.
“Thank you all for coming. We don’t usually like to do our duties this early in the year, but what with such a late Easter, we have little choice,” the mayor said. “Thank you, governors, for attending, we appreciate you providing us with your time. Thank you, Mr Ross, for arranging all of this. And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Tim and Linda for attending us.”
The governors and Mr Ross banged the table with their fists. I wasn’t scared at that point, but I Linda’s fear. She grasped for my hand under the table. It felt clammy.
“Mr Ross tells us the two of you are an item now?” The mayor said. I nodded. “Well that is good, makes this whole event so much easier,” The governors tittered. A couple of them banged the table again.
The mayor unclasped the book and opened it, while I saw Ross fiddling with something under the table, making a repeated shck noise. In the book, I could see hundreds of pages of scribbles, each scribble with a red mark next it. As the mayor flicked through the pages, the ink became less faded and as he approached the more recent pages, I saw that it wasn’t a book, but a ledger.
When the mayor found a blank page, he looked up at us. I noticed then that the marks were all little seals made with red wax, which for some reason struck me as odd. I no longer heard a couple of notes of discordance, but a loud stab of dissonance, as though someone had hammered all the notes of a piano at the same time.
“Right,” the mayor said. “Here we are.” He looked me dead in the eye and I felt sweat dripping down my back. “I trust we won’t have any struggling.”
“Why would we struggle?” I said. I looked around the table. The governors were all silver-haired men and women. Most of them had expressions of boredom on their face, as though they’d seen this same ceremony numerous times before. And I’m sure they had. There was another round of table banging, as I looked at Linda. It was then I noticed she wasn’t holding my hand any more. She knew that something bad was going to happen. She looked at the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks.
But I still didn’t understand, and I looked at the mayor and Mr Ross, perplexed. They both shared a similar expression of satisfaction. And that turned nearly orgasmic when Ross carefully opened the box on top of the tripod and gauze. Inside that box was a small slab of clear liquid that bubbled gently. That clear liquid was paraffin wax.
“This here is a ledger,” the mayor said, signalling at it with an open hand. “In here is a list of healthy, lithe and beautiful teenagers that have helped our town to survive over many years.”
I was still confused. The mayor beckoned myself and Linda to stand up and come around to look at the ledger. In calligraphic writing were a series of names, some of the later ones I recognised. One of those names was “Karen Hill”, a future barmaid of The Swaley Arms. At the top of both of the open pages of the ledger, written in green ink was the word “Tethered”. In smaller writing beneath the header, read, “the following townspeople agree to be forever tethered to the town of Lowton.”
“What does ‘tethered’ mean?” I asked. My voice cracked.
The mayor sneered at Ross. “Didn’t you tell them?”
Ross’s crimson face somehow turned a deeper hue of red. “No, sir. I didn’t want to… spook them.”
The mayor and Ross stared at each other for a long moment. I could hear the paraffin wax sizzling on its tray, could see dust floating in the air where a finger of sunlight poked itself around one of those long curtains.
“Fine,” the mayor said, his eyes still on Ross, who now looked down and fiddled with the thing in his hands again. “Fine, I’ll tell them.”
I groped for Linda’s hand.
“Tethering is something that has happened in this town for decades, maybe even centuries, as you can see by the thickness of this ledger,” the mayor said. He barked a dry, humourless laugh. “We’ve taken two of the finest teenagers each year and tethered them to our town, in order for the town to continue to live. To make it clear, you will never be able to leave Lowton.”
I was speechless. I froze. Linda, though, she was far more composed than me. She said, “why have you picked us?”
The mayor looked up at this, greed in his eyes. “Mr Ross here, well he assesses the options and picks the most appropriate for what we need. Family links to the town, but also their appearance. You two were deemed to be the most suitable, and unfortunately, there is no choice in the matter.”
“Why me?” Linda asked. “Why not Stacey Botello?”
“Stacey’s family haven’t been in the town as long as yours. Only a couple of generations. And, what was it you said Mr Ross? Stacey’s breasts weren’t a scratch on our friend Miss Grove’s here?”
Linda started to struggle, flailing and crying, her composure fleeing her. Two men moved from the shadows and grasped her. I saw there were two more men lurking there for me, but I didn’t move. I was welded to the spot like a statue, and I thought I might never move again. The mayor’s words rung around my head. You will never be able to leave Lowton. And that thought was like a bulldozer through the bedrock of the rest of my life.
I raised my arms then, and I sensed those two men move from the shadows, as Linda continued to bellow, kicking her legs. Watching her struggle showed the futility of it. I lowered my arms. There was no use fighting in fighting them.
Mr Ross stood up at that point, brandishing a sharp steel knife with a mahogany handle. More sunlight poked into the room, glinting off the blade, and Ross placed a whetstone on the table. He’d been sharpening it, and it looked like it would slice through rock if Ross needed it to.
“Arm,” Ross said. The two men holding Linda pushed her forward as she squirmed, one of the men holding her arm out above the bubbling wax, as the mayor wrote our names into the ledger. The governors banged the table again, as aggressively as they had done. Mr Ross took his knife and sliced across Linda’s wrist, blood dripping down into the wax. The crimson colour spread like cordial in water, dyeing the substance red. The two men pulled Linda away. She’d stopped struggling and just stared blankly at the governors around the table.
“You’re not going to squirm, are you?” Ross said to me. He fixed me with a patronising grin, like he’d outsmarted me in a game of chess. And I supposed he had, though I hadn’t even realised there was a game in progress. As I unbuttoned my shirt cuff and held my arm out, the mayor put the quill down, and fiddled with a ring on his little finger. Ross gripped my arm and sliced across my wrist as he had done with Linda. I barely even felt it. The only recognition of the cut was a couple of white spots of faintness at the edge of my vision. I watched my blood pool with Linda’s in that tray of paraffin wax.
The mayor stood up at that point and carefully pressed his ring into the wax, then pressed it onto the page next to Linda’s name. He repeated the trick, this time pressing seal next to my name. I watched as the red seal bubbled and solidified into the shape of the Lowton town crest. That was the last thing I saw before I passed out.
#
I wake up, a mess of sweat and sheets. My back hurts, as it has done for years, and I know this isn’t a memory, it’s now. The room smells like sex. The light of the bedside lamp brings my attention to Linda. She sits in a chair by the bed, wearing one of my jumpers. She smiles. Tension has left her face. The bags under her eyes seem smaller, and there’s a healthier colour to her face.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself,” she says.
“We’re tethered?” I say.
“Yes,” She says.
“Tethered to this fucking shithole town?” I ask.
“Yes,” She says again.
We sit in silence for a few moments. I have so many questions, I don’t know which one to asks. Linda breaks the silence.
“When you’re tethered, the process makes you forget,” she says. She’s right, I’d forgotten it all until now. Everything about that day in the hall with Mr Ross and the mayor had gone, replaced with… with what exactly? I don’t know. A sort of blackness I guess.
“The blackness was too much for me,” Linda says. It’s as though she’s reading my thoughts. “It was different for you, with your Dad and everything…”
She blushes.
“What did you do?”
“I asked around, but no one knew what I was talking about. Understandable. After a few years I went back to school one evening. I found Mr Ross. By that point, I was so desperate. I would do anything to know. And he was happy to oblige. More than happy. He’s tethered too. We slept together and—”
“You slept with Ross? Like you’ve done with me?!”
“Yes,” she looks to floor. A tear rolls down her cheek. “It’s the only way to remember. Someone tethered who remembers the tethering process, in my case Mr Ross, in your case, me, well if they sleep with someone who doesn’t remember, then they open up the fountain of memory again. It’s fucked. But the reason they prefer it if you’re in a couple, is because they hope you’ll stay together and never sleep with anyone else. And therefore not know you’re tethered.”
There is silence again. Too many thoughts bombarding in my head. I break the silence this time. “So the tether is broken if we know?”
“Erm, no. But now you know. That blackness has disappeared.”
“Why did you want me to know?”
“Because we’re in a tethering pair. If one of us knows and the other doesn’t, then the tether pulls like a choke lead. I’ve put off telling you for the best part of two decades.”
The tears are running freely down her cheek, now. I want to cry but can’t. I can almost feel that tether around my neck, suffocating me. I get up and hug Linda. She hugs me back. I look at her. We kiss. It’s the only thing that seems to ease that suffocation. We have sex again. Sleep takes over eventually and memories rush back in.
#
I feel like I’m flying over the timeline of my life like a drone, grainy footage of the tether acting on my life play’s like a projector on my mind’s eye. There were no more meetings with Mr Ross after the tethering, and I didn’t see Linda for a few weeks afterwards either. I remember entering the sixth form common room, seeing Linda sat alone. I sat next to her and we made small talk for a while. When she finally looked at me, Linda’s face was dazed, indifferent towards me. That look was enough for us both to know that our relationship was over. I wasn’t that fussed. If anything, the thought of sleeping with her turned my stomach.
Not long after the non-verbal break up, the tether landed its first significant blow. My parents had just opened a store in Lowton, a supermarket-type shop, but filled with only local produce and products. We sold all sorts, from vegetables to Viagra, from raisins to rope. Their plan was to own the store for long enough to build up a good reputation locally, and sell the store on, the proceeds of the sale providing money for their retirement. They knew I wanted to go to university, and they encouraged me to do so. “Get a degree, find a girl, make something of your life,” Dad had said.
But in early May of that year, Dad died in a car accident. That’s what Linda had meant. The black spot for her was so obvious, but for me Dad’s death distracted me from the blackness caused by the tethering. I still don’t know much of the details about that. I hid myself from it. I didn’t want to know and I was pretty damn low. So was Mum. All of her plans out of the window. She was going to try to sell the store, but I said I would work as much as I could to keep it afloat. There was a local family, the Whites, who circled my mum like sharks. Their modus operandi was to take advantage of local businesses, offering them a paltry sum of money for their business and dressing it up to look as though they were offering them the world.
I didn’t want anything to do with the Whites, so I kept on working. I dropped out of school in order to work full time. Mum and I met with the accountant on my 18th birthday, and I became a director of the company. I left school with no A Levels. No A Levels meant no university, which shut off my main route out of Lowton, the tether cracking like a whip. It wasn’t until maybe three or four years later, when my friends from school started to graduate from university, that I realised that my chances of university had probably passed, and by that stage, I didn’t really care. University seemed to be a lot of drinking and a lot of pointless essays. And I did plenty of the former in Lowton without needing to waste my time with the latter.
Then the tethers acts flashed in front of my eyes. In my early twenties, I started to date a girl, Chloe, who worked in town, but was from Leeds and wanted to move back there. Chloe and I were both very superficial. And I remember vividly the day that I knew she would break up with me. I was in the shower, and when I applied shampoo, huge clumps of my hair fell out. My hairline had not even been receding, but the majority of my hair fell out in one morning. The night before, Chloe and I had looked at some estate agent brochures for flats in Leeds. When I got out of the shower, I decided I had to shave my head. I distanced myself from Chloe, to see if my hair would grow back, but of course it didn’t. She finally got hold of me a couple of weeks later. She was angry that I had dodged her for the past fortnight, and when she saw my hair, she lost her shit. We finished our relationship over text that weekend.
The weight gain crept up on me. My exercise reduced until it stopped completely, and my diet worsened. Eventually, I only slept with women that were going to be in Lowton for the rest of their lives. If I chased a woman that looked like she might leave town, something would happen to end it. She’d cheat or I’d sabotage. Though, now, I realise it was the tether sabotaging me. As my twenties gave way to my thirties, I realised I looked like the rest of the Lowton lifers; overweight, bald, and what hair that did grow through was grey.
My mum and I managed to establish the store, in town though. We moved to larger premises and our reputation grew. We were successful enough to drive a couple of the national supermarkets out of town. Around this time, I was hankering for something a bit different, even if it was just to get out of Lowton for a few months and do a bit of travelling. My mum didn’t begrudge me that. I’d looked at places I wanted to go, and we’d lined up a temporary replacement for me, John, who might migrate into being a manager when I returned. If I returned.
But of course, the tether wouldn’t allow me to leave. The doctor gave Mum the bad news, cancer. She died about two weeks after the diagnosis. That was a gut punch to me. I cancelled my plans to travel, and kept on working through the grief. John did come onboard, and he helped me immensely, as did our other employees. My mum left me the house, and I still live their now. I still sleep in my box room at the back of the house. I still haven’t fully cleared through their stuff. I tried to do it one day, but when I opened my mum’s wardrobe, her smell wafted out, and it was as if I’d smelled a ghost. I couldn’t so much as open their bedroom door for a fortnight. I still don’t see it as my house. It’s my home, sure, but it’s my parents’ house. And I don’t think I can let it go out of the family, not that easily. That might be the tether making me stay put though.
And maybe that’s why I’m still at the store. The White’s circled again when Mum died. They tried to flash cash in front of me, but I didn’t want them to have the store. Our name is on the hoarding outside the store, and that is another thing that keeps me connected to my parents. And connected to Lowton.
#
When I wake up, Linda is leaving. It’s the last time I ever see her. I head to the store with a headache and a dark cloud. I’m not working but I need some supplies.
#
Extract from the Lowton Gazette, 20th June edition.
‘Local Shop Owner Found Dead in Lowton’
Tim O’Meara, lifelong Lowton resident and local shop owner, has died.
The 41-year-old was educated at Lowton High School, where he was Head Boy in his first year of A Level study. He left school to help run the much-loved family shop and had ran it for over two decades, prior to his death.
Yorkshire Police was called to an address in Shackle Lane, Lowton, at around 14:00 GMT to reports a man had died suddenly, a spokesman from the force said.
The spokesman said that the force was not treating the death, reported on Sunday, as suspicious.
END
Ty Herrington is a fan of musical theater and enjoys voice acting. He has been writing stories, scripts and screenplays since 2012. He loves writing fantasy and sci fi. He is currently pursuing his bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University. Ty lives in Clearwater, FL where he enjoys participating in community theater, singing at his church, playing video games and taking long walks on the beach. |
4th OF JULY
4th OF JULY
The sound of Jaime’s Black-Cat Whistler fireworks almost made me forget about why we were at the forest. Sure, it was the day of our independence or something like that, but it was also something important for me. And even more importantly, for her. I told Jaime, and the rest, that I needed time to clear my head. Jaime shrugged and told me that it was cool, but he told me to be back by 9. His friend Ryan mockingly shouted to not let the Jersey Devil get me, causing the group to chuckle.
But this wasn’t funny, Lia was important to me, and I couldn’t screw this up. I felt a knot in my stomach, that just couldn’t go away. Then I realized that I was deep in the woods, and I had no clue where I was.
I tried listening for Paula’s music, since she was playing that one annoying song from Frozen that I will not name. But I heard nothing, except for breathing. It sounded awfully close, as if it were behind me. So, I turned, and there he was. His claws were menacing, and almost kangaroo-like. His body was not too different from a man’s body, but with a lot more hair. His feet ended in powerful cloven hooves. His wings were massive, almost 6 feet in length. His tail was very much serpentine and dragged behind him as he circled me. And his face had a mixture of wolf and horse-like qualities. He gave a guttural growling whinny, that made my neck hairs stand on end.
I thought I was dead, and all that would be written on my tombstone would be, “Here lies Jason, who couldn’t propose.” I closed my eyes and waited for the feeling of his fangs. But all I got was silence, I opened my eyes, and saw him seated there on the ground, looking up at me. I was initially confused.
“Are you going to practice asking her or not?”, he said with a deeply accented voice.
I didn’t know what made me more confused, the fact he could talk, or the fact he sounded like if Chris Hemsworth were a psychiatrist.
“Um, okay,” I then cleared my throat,. “Hey Lia, um, I wanted to ask yo-.“
I was suddenly interrupted by a clap of the creature’s hands, “No, no, no, no!” the creature said furrowing his brow. He rubbed his snout, and said, “Try again, but with feeling!”
I was a bit perplexed, but I nodded and started again, “So Lia, I was going to-.“
But the creature stopped me again, “Is that really the best you can do?” he stated.
I gave him a shrug, which he answered with a groaning neigh, “We have so much work to do.”
So, for the next hour or so, we practiced my posture, wording, elocution, and my manners. After that, I felt an eerie calm, a kind of calm you feel while watching a movie with your family, or roasting marshmallows on a bonfire.
“Now only one test remains,” the creature proclaimed.
“What would that be sir?” I asked him questioningly.
He put a claw on my shoulder and said, “Be yourself.”
He then extended his wings, and flew up above the tree line, he looked down at me, and gave me a knowing nod before flying away.
I had only just turned around, when the sound of awful music clearly from a Disney movie filled my ears. I ran in that direction and found Jaime and the others. They were pleasantly surprised to see me come back. Jaime was confused as to where I had been for 2 hours, but I told him that wasn’t important, and that I needed to see Lia.
She was sitting on the bench next to Chris’ green Mercedes, so I joined her. For a minute, we didn’t say anything, so I decided to break the silence. I reached into my pocket, and found the box, it wasn’t a special looking box, but hey, it’s from Jared. I moved off the bench and got on one knee, she turned at look to me, at first with a look of confusion, but then a look of pure shock.
So, I started, “Lia, you mean the world to me, I care about you, and have loved you even before we graduated.”
Lia smiled with tears in her eyes.
I started tearing up myself, but I continued on, “You are singlehandedly the smartest, most beautiful woman I know, and I’ll say it from here to Dallas.”
Jaime patted my back, and I got ready to ask Lia the big question, “So Lia, will you-?“
She stopped me and said, “You had me at smart and beautiful.”
We kissed, and with almost perfect timing, the fireworks from town started firing off. And although it was hard to see, I could almost make out the faint outline of a creature watching the fireworks from the tree line.
END
The sound of Jaime’s Black-Cat Whistler fireworks almost made me forget about why we were at the forest. Sure, it was the day of our independence or something like that, but it was also something important for me. And even more importantly, for her. I told Jaime, and the rest, that I needed time to clear my head. Jaime shrugged and told me that it was cool, but he told me to be back by 9. His friend Ryan mockingly shouted to not let the Jersey Devil get me, causing the group to chuckle.
But this wasn’t funny, Lia was important to me, and I couldn’t screw this up. I felt a knot in my stomach, that just couldn’t go away. Then I realized that I was deep in the woods, and I had no clue where I was.
I tried listening for Paula’s music, since she was playing that one annoying song from Frozen that I will not name. But I heard nothing, except for breathing. It sounded awfully close, as if it were behind me. So, I turned, and there he was. His claws were menacing, and almost kangaroo-like. His body was not too different from a man’s body, but with a lot more hair. His feet ended in powerful cloven hooves. His wings were massive, almost 6 feet in length. His tail was very much serpentine and dragged behind him as he circled me. And his face had a mixture of wolf and horse-like qualities. He gave a guttural growling whinny, that made my neck hairs stand on end.
I thought I was dead, and all that would be written on my tombstone would be, “Here lies Jason, who couldn’t propose.” I closed my eyes and waited for the feeling of his fangs. But all I got was silence, I opened my eyes, and saw him seated there on the ground, looking up at me. I was initially confused.
“Are you going to practice asking her or not?”, he said with a deeply accented voice.
I didn’t know what made me more confused, the fact he could talk, or the fact he sounded like if Chris Hemsworth were a psychiatrist.
“Um, okay,” I then cleared my throat,. “Hey Lia, um, I wanted to ask yo-.“
I was suddenly interrupted by a clap of the creature’s hands, “No, no, no, no!” the creature said furrowing his brow. He rubbed his snout, and said, “Try again, but with feeling!”
I was a bit perplexed, but I nodded and started again, “So Lia, I was going to-.“
But the creature stopped me again, “Is that really the best you can do?” he stated.
I gave him a shrug, which he answered with a groaning neigh, “We have so much work to do.”
So, for the next hour or so, we practiced my posture, wording, elocution, and my manners. After that, I felt an eerie calm, a kind of calm you feel while watching a movie with your family, or roasting marshmallows on a bonfire.
“Now only one test remains,” the creature proclaimed.
“What would that be sir?” I asked him questioningly.
He put a claw on my shoulder and said, “Be yourself.”
He then extended his wings, and flew up above the tree line, he looked down at me, and gave me a knowing nod before flying away.
I had only just turned around, when the sound of awful music clearly from a Disney movie filled my ears. I ran in that direction and found Jaime and the others. They were pleasantly surprised to see me come back. Jaime was confused as to where I had been for 2 hours, but I told him that wasn’t important, and that I needed to see Lia.
She was sitting on the bench next to Chris’ green Mercedes, so I joined her. For a minute, we didn’t say anything, so I decided to break the silence. I reached into my pocket, and found the box, it wasn’t a special looking box, but hey, it’s from Jared. I moved off the bench and got on one knee, she turned at look to me, at first with a look of confusion, but then a look of pure shock.
So, I started, “Lia, you mean the world to me, I care about you, and have loved you even before we graduated.”
Lia smiled with tears in her eyes.
I started tearing up myself, but I continued on, “You are singlehandedly the smartest, most beautiful woman I know, and I’ll say it from here to Dallas.”
Jaime patted my back, and I got ready to ask Lia the big question, “So Lia, will you-?“
She stopped me and said, “You had me at smart and beautiful.”
We kissed, and with almost perfect timing, the fireworks from town started firing off. And although it was hard to see, I could almost make out the faint outline of a creature watching the fireworks from the tree line.
END
Tanya Ross is a former middle and high school teacher who now writes fiction novels for Young Adults. Her Sci-Fi novel, Rising Up, is currently available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She is working on the second book in the series, Ramping Up. Her short story, ”The Rescue” won first place in her city’s annual short story competition. Ross resides in San Diego, County, California. You can follow her on Instagram: tjross_author |
The Rescue
It was getting late. My sitter—also the housekeeper—left at her regular time, before I’d seen the sun melt over the top of the mountains. Dark now for hours, the stars burn through the blackness, scattering their pinpricks of incandescence throughout the inky sky. But still I won’t leave the window.
Night after night, I watch until John (I can’t bring myself to call him “Dad”) drives his car up the driveway, turns off its uneven engine, and enters through the back door.
I never know exactly what kind of mood he will be in when he arrives. Sometimes I can tell by the way he walks: a shuffling gait—exhaustion; or other times, when it was past the usual arrival time, a squished tiptoeing that ghosts into the hallway, when he was worried he’d wake me. The entrance I always fear most is the sodden drop of heavy feet occasionally meeting the walls in places along the passageway. It is then I cower, for John isn’t himself those nights.
Tonight is one of those occasions. I run to the living room and cower behind a chunky recliner, tucking my awkward form out of sight.
“Ben! ...Ben! Ben, I’m home!” John’s voice bellows in the silence.
I sit perfectly still. Now was not the time to even breathe.
“Ben!”
I hear him knock something over. A clang, and then an echo of metal rolls along the floor.
“Shit!” Silence. “Damn it, you come out now. I’m not…playing games!”
My leg involuntarily twitches. I fight the urge to change position, but I don’t want any shift to give myself away. If he finds me, he’d blame me for something – toys scattered around, food gone missing, or some mess I made. I think about my day, searching my brain for anything I’d done for which he could blame me. I can’t remember anything I might have done that afternoon to make him mad. But he’d beaten me too many times for no simple reason, so I am taking no chances. I wasn’t coming out.
“Aww, hell. Who…cares…where you…are.” He slurs his words, sounding like some alien language.
My ears tune in to every rustle and bump. He stumbles his way across the room in the other direction, and then there is silence.
The clock on the paneled wall makes loud ticks, which John has struggled, without success, to fix. He has cursed it. But for me, it serves to mark time. After waiting during a period of clicks, I peek around the side of the chair to see what John is doing to make so little fuss. Was it just a fake out? Was he just waiting for me to let down my guard before jumping out at me? He’d done that before, scaring me into peeing, which he then ranted and raved about.
But what I see is John laid out on his back with one arm flung out into space, and the other flat across his belly. His eyes are shut.
I’m not taking any chances, though. I hold my space, watching and waiting.
A sudden snore ripples through the room. Asleep! I relax, knowing from past nights he is dead to the world. I stand up and stretch, releasing the cramp in my right hip. Ah…better!
Now I am free to roam our house without fear. I love the darkness for discovering forbidden mysteries. Or I can just crash in bed for the night… I decide the latter sounded best. It is later than usual, and I am exhausted.
I dream of my mommy...
Her arms are around me, and her familiar warmth envelops my whole being. She sings to me, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” She looks into my face, and her eyes twinkle, and then she laughs.
The dream morphs…
Cookies! She gives me one after another. “I love these,” I tell her with my smile, and I know she understands.
Pop! I sit up. The sound has shattered my dream. What was that?
I listen, worried about a stranger breaking in. Or, did John wake? But there is only quiet.
I resettle myself, pulling a flannel blanket around me for extra security and warmth. There is no heat in the house tonight.
I sigh. My dream had been lovely. Not all dreams were. Dreaming of my mommy, Jenny, is my favorite.
Everyone celebrated when John and Jenny adopted me. I was only a baby. But growing up I had only felt a part of the household when Jenny was home. She was the one who wanted the adoption.
She took me to a special school, made sure I had plenty of playmates, and always bought me toys. She cooked my food from scratch. She said nutrition was very important, but there were always cookies. And even though I didn’t like being dressed up, Jenny bought me all kinds of jackets, hats, and shoes. Unlike John, she made sure I wanted for nothing.
The day John broke down in tears, I knew it was bad. Then, she left on a rolling bed. I never saw her again. I asked myself if I was to blame. Was I too much trouble? Is that why she left? Or, did she tire of John?
Within two days, someone I’d never seen took away all her clothes and knick-knacks in an enormous truck. There was nothing left of my Jenny at all. After a time, even the smell of her perfume no longer lingered in the house.
I close my eyes, not in sleep, but in sadness. I drift off…
Again, I wake. A noise of a unique sort. A quiet roar, like a furnace running, is coming from the other room, where John slept. But this sound is not our furnace. That I know. And a smell, a little like when John is cooking, wafts my way. I spring out of bed.
When I reach the end of the hallway to the source, I freeze. My hair stands on end. My heart races. I step back and cry. I behold John still asleep on the couch. A yellow heat crawls up the curtains. As I watch, the brightness tears across the room, eating an electrical cord alive. I have never witnessed such a beast, but I know instinctively the monster can take my life. John’s too.
Get away! Run! Find a way out.
What about John? I don’t like him, but could I leave him? This demon will discover him—and eat him.
What can I do? I’m small. I’m nervous. John even called me “useless.”
I feel my eyes grow big. A bright snake, curved and winding across the floor, blocks my path to the only close exit, the front door. It writhes and hisses, spilling heat. I back up, but it doesn’t matter. The serpent only approaches faster. A dusty fog swirls and expands around me, and a heavy, acrid stench turns my stomach. Is it steel wool in my throat? I choke, trying to cough it out. And my eyes! They burn like nothing I’ve ever felt. Worse, my vision is murky. I struggle to see. Am I going blind? Why can’t I see?
I shake my head, but my eyesight won’t clear. I pace and whine in frustration, but my sudden handicaps are making me weaker every moment I delay. I’m afraid of John, but more terrified by what’s happening. There’s no choice. I must find him in the haze. Get him up.
I think of Jenny and recall how she praised my sense of direction. I have to trust it.
I remember the route to the couch, jaggedly dodging obstacles that loom up. My blindness lifts at the sight of flickering objects. A sparkling, dancing orange phantasm reclines in John’s favorite chair. As I watch, the specter’s arms reach out thinly over the sides of the chair, as if to gather it completely to itself. I skirt it, only to brush too closely by what looks to be a person with a brilliant aureole. Has the invader already consumed John? Am I too late? No…merely a floor lamp. But the blackened pole leaves a sting across my back.
At last I am there. The couch. And John is still sleeping.
I throw all my weight against him and howl, “Get up! We’re gonna die!” He shifts slightly. I dance away a few feet and then take a running jump, landing on top of him, this time with as much force as I have.
He moans and opens his eyes. “Ben! Stop—!” I fall back, panic-stricken. He sits up. “Oh shit, oh SHIIIIT!”
John leaps up from the sofa and grabs me tightly around the middle, crunching my ribs, and lifts me up. It hurts, but I don’t even whimper. He wraps a blanket from the couch around the two of us. I’m already uncomfortably hot, but I don’t resist. We run in befuddled zigzags for the door across the field of vipers; their tongues singe us. John cries out, his words hanging like the sludge in the air. He coughs and splutters. He pulls the blanket down over his face as if he can’t bear to look ahead.
A series of last leaps, and we’re there. I’m breathing hard. John jerks the door towards us, the heat behind us thrusting us out. We dash to the front yard, making our way to the furthest corner of the grass. Fresh air. Escape from the beast. We are safe.
Sirens from up the street shred the silence. Piercing noise always unnerves me, but this time I remain quiet, more worried about how I can’t stop trembling.
John releases me, and I tumble away, my heart still beating out of my chest. Drool drips from my mouth. I shake it off, ashamed.
A truck drives up, screaming and honking, a red monster hell-bent on a mission. The shrieking hurts my ears. It halts, and a group of men, all in hats, rush to our house, two of them weighed down. They carry what I’ve seen John use outside for watering, but these are bigger and spray forceful blasts of water. A few fellows wear masks and sprint directly to the house. I watch, wide-eyed, as two guys run full tilt toward the heat and destruction. They’re shouting, but they don’t appear to be a threat to either of us.
From the front patio a nervous man paces back and forth yelling at the top of his lungs to John. “Anyone in there?”
“No. No—just us!”
The person shouts back. “Thank God!”
The roof in front of him crumbles and drops. He falls back, calls something out to his friends, and then sprints our way. When he runs over, I’m excited. I want to talk to him—to show my appreciation for what they’re doing. But I know the stranger is there to speak to John. I hang back.
“You’re one lucky man, Mr.—?”
“Dreyfuss. John Dreyfuss.” John holds out his hand, and the kindly man grabs it.
“You just got out in time. Smoke alarm?” The hero looks at John quizzically.
“Nope…no. I got him to thank.” John’s hand waves in my direction.
The visitor claps John’s shoulder. He hurries away, shouts already on his lips.
“Ben.”
My eyes go to John, and I wince, sure he’ll blame me for the demon in the house.
John kneels down to my level, grabs my face and looks into my eyes. His own are full of tears. “Ben…without you, I’d have died in that fire. You’re a good boy, Ben. The best dog anyone could ever want. I’m so sorry…” He grabs my collar, smashes his face into my fur, hugging me, my steel ID tags jingling.
I bow my head knowing that Jenny would be proud. But, more than that, John and I will go forward, this time together. To love and be loved. That is why I exist.
The End
Night after night, I watch until John (I can’t bring myself to call him “Dad”) drives his car up the driveway, turns off its uneven engine, and enters through the back door.
I never know exactly what kind of mood he will be in when he arrives. Sometimes I can tell by the way he walks: a shuffling gait—exhaustion; or other times, when it was past the usual arrival time, a squished tiptoeing that ghosts into the hallway, when he was worried he’d wake me. The entrance I always fear most is the sodden drop of heavy feet occasionally meeting the walls in places along the passageway. It is then I cower, for John isn’t himself those nights.
Tonight is one of those occasions. I run to the living room and cower behind a chunky recliner, tucking my awkward form out of sight.
“Ben! ...Ben! Ben, I’m home!” John’s voice bellows in the silence.
I sit perfectly still. Now was not the time to even breathe.
“Ben!”
I hear him knock something over. A clang, and then an echo of metal rolls along the floor.
“Shit!” Silence. “Damn it, you come out now. I’m not…playing games!”
My leg involuntarily twitches. I fight the urge to change position, but I don’t want any shift to give myself away. If he finds me, he’d blame me for something – toys scattered around, food gone missing, or some mess I made. I think about my day, searching my brain for anything I’d done for which he could blame me. I can’t remember anything I might have done that afternoon to make him mad. But he’d beaten me too many times for no simple reason, so I am taking no chances. I wasn’t coming out.
“Aww, hell. Who…cares…where you…are.” He slurs his words, sounding like some alien language.
My ears tune in to every rustle and bump. He stumbles his way across the room in the other direction, and then there is silence.
The clock on the paneled wall makes loud ticks, which John has struggled, without success, to fix. He has cursed it. But for me, it serves to mark time. After waiting during a period of clicks, I peek around the side of the chair to see what John is doing to make so little fuss. Was it just a fake out? Was he just waiting for me to let down my guard before jumping out at me? He’d done that before, scaring me into peeing, which he then ranted and raved about.
But what I see is John laid out on his back with one arm flung out into space, and the other flat across his belly. His eyes are shut.
I’m not taking any chances, though. I hold my space, watching and waiting.
A sudden snore ripples through the room. Asleep! I relax, knowing from past nights he is dead to the world. I stand up and stretch, releasing the cramp in my right hip. Ah…better!
Now I am free to roam our house without fear. I love the darkness for discovering forbidden mysteries. Or I can just crash in bed for the night… I decide the latter sounded best. It is later than usual, and I am exhausted.
I dream of my mommy...
Her arms are around me, and her familiar warmth envelops my whole being. She sings to me, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” She looks into my face, and her eyes twinkle, and then she laughs.
The dream morphs…
Cookies! She gives me one after another. “I love these,” I tell her with my smile, and I know she understands.
Pop! I sit up. The sound has shattered my dream. What was that?
I listen, worried about a stranger breaking in. Or, did John wake? But there is only quiet.
I resettle myself, pulling a flannel blanket around me for extra security and warmth. There is no heat in the house tonight.
I sigh. My dream had been lovely. Not all dreams were. Dreaming of my mommy, Jenny, is my favorite.
Everyone celebrated when John and Jenny adopted me. I was only a baby. But growing up I had only felt a part of the household when Jenny was home. She was the one who wanted the adoption.
She took me to a special school, made sure I had plenty of playmates, and always bought me toys. She cooked my food from scratch. She said nutrition was very important, but there were always cookies. And even though I didn’t like being dressed up, Jenny bought me all kinds of jackets, hats, and shoes. Unlike John, she made sure I wanted for nothing.
The day John broke down in tears, I knew it was bad. Then, she left on a rolling bed. I never saw her again. I asked myself if I was to blame. Was I too much trouble? Is that why she left? Or, did she tire of John?
Within two days, someone I’d never seen took away all her clothes and knick-knacks in an enormous truck. There was nothing left of my Jenny at all. After a time, even the smell of her perfume no longer lingered in the house.
I close my eyes, not in sleep, but in sadness. I drift off…
Again, I wake. A noise of a unique sort. A quiet roar, like a furnace running, is coming from the other room, where John slept. But this sound is not our furnace. That I know. And a smell, a little like when John is cooking, wafts my way. I spring out of bed.
When I reach the end of the hallway to the source, I freeze. My hair stands on end. My heart races. I step back and cry. I behold John still asleep on the couch. A yellow heat crawls up the curtains. As I watch, the brightness tears across the room, eating an electrical cord alive. I have never witnessed such a beast, but I know instinctively the monster can take my life. John’s too.
Get away! Run! Find a way out.
What about John? I don’t like him, but could I leave him? This demon will discover him—and eat him.
What can I do? I’m small. I’m nervous. John even called me “useless.”
I feel my eyes grow big. A bright snake, curved and winding across the floor, blocks my path to the only close exit, the front door. It writhes and hisses, spilling heat. I back up, but it doesn’t matter. The serpent only approaches faster. A dusty fog swirls and expands around me, and a heavy, acrid stench turns my stomach. Is it steel wool in my throat? I choke, trying to cough it out. And my eyes! They burn like nothing I’ve ever felt. Worse, my vision is murky. I struggle to see. Am I going blind? Why can’t I see?
I shake my head, but my eyesight won’t clear. I pace and whine in frustration, but my sudden handicaps are making me weaker every moment I delay. I’m afraid of John, but more terrified by what’s happening. There’s no choice. I must find him in the haze. Get him up.
I think of Jenny and recall how she praised my sense of direction. I have to trust it.
I remember the route to the couch, jaggedly dodging obstacles that loom up. My blindness lifts at the sight of flickering objects. A sparkling, dancing orange phantasm reclines in John’s favorite chair. As I watch, the specter’s arms reach out thinly over the sides of the chair, as if to gather it completely to itself. I skirt it, only to brush too closely by what looks to be a person with a brilliant aureole. Has the invader already consumed John? Am I too late? No…merely a floor lamp. But the blackened pole leaves a sting across my back.
At last I am there. The couch. And John is still sleeping.
I throw all my weight against him and howl, “Get up! We’re gonna die!” He shifts slightly. I dance away a few feet and then take a running jump, landing on top of him, this time with as much force as I have.
He moans and opens his eyes. “Ben! Stop—!” I fall back, panic-stricken. He sits up. “Oh shit, oh SHIIIIT!”
John leaps up from the sofa and grabs me tightly around the middle, crunching my ribs, and lifts me up. It hurts, but I don’t even whimper. He wraps a blanket from the couch around the two of us. I’m already uncomfortably hot, but I don’t resist. We run in befuddled zigzags for the door across the field of vipers; their tongues singe us. John cries out, his words hanging like the sludge in the air. He coughs and splutters. He pulls the blanket down over his face as if he can’t bear to look ahead.
A series of last leaps, and we’re there. I’m breathing hard. John jerks the door towards us, the heat behind us thrusting us out. We dash to the front yard, making our way to the furthest corner of the grass. Fresh air. Escape from the beast. We are safe.
Sirens from up the street shred the silence. Piercing noise always unnerves me, but this time I remain quiet, more worried about how I can’t stop trembling.
John releases me, and I tumble away, my heart still beating out of my chest. Drool drips from my mouth. I shake it off, ashamed.
A truck drives up, screaming and honking, a red monster hell-bent on a mission. The shrieking hurts my ears. It halts, and a group of men, all in hats, rush to our house, two of them weighed down. They carry what I’ve seen John use outside for watering, but these are bigger and spray forceful blasts of water. A few fellows wear masks and sprint directly to the house. I watch, wide-eyed, as two guys run full tilt toward the heat and destruction. They’re shouting, but they don’t appear to be a threat to either of us.
From the front patio a nervous man paces back and forth yelling at the top of his lungs to John. “Anyone in there?”
“No. No—just us!”
The person shouts back. “Thank God!”
The roof in front of him crumbles and drops. He falls back, calls something out to his friends, and then sprints our way. When he runs over, I’m excited. I want to talk to him—to show my appreciation for what they’re doing. But I know the stranger is there to speak to John. I hang back.
“You’re one lucky man, Mr.—?”
“Dreyfuss. John Dreyfuss.” John holds out his hand, and the kindly man grabs it.
“You just got out in time. Smoke alarm?” The hero looks at John quizzically.
“Nope…no. I got him to thank.” John’s hand waves in my direction.
The visitor claps John’s shoulder. He hurries away, shouts already on his lips.
“Ben.”
My eyes go to John, and I wince, sure he’ll blame me for the demon in the house.
John kneels down to my level, grabs my face and looks into my eyes. His own are full of tears. “Ben…without you, I’d have died in that fire. You’re a good boy, Ben. The best dog anyone could ever want. I’m so sorry…” He grabs my collar, smashes his face into my fur, hugging me, my steel ID tags jingling.
I bow my head knowing that Jenny would be proud. But, more than that, John and I will go forward, this time together. To love and be loved. That is why I exist.
The End
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