Angela Scire resides in Hazlet, NJ and has been writing stories since she can remember. As she works toward a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and Literature, she spends whatever spare minutes she has with family, friends, and her spunky dachshund, Schnitzel. “Mr. Adventure” My brother was born on August 11, 1990 at 2:34 pm. He was seven pounds and eleven ounces and had maybe four hairs on his head. The only reason I remember this is because I could still picture all my aunts and uncles placing bets on the time and weight of the new baby. I was four years old. My family and I were all sitting in front of the nurses’ station. There had to be over two dozen of us all sitting around on uncomfortable hospital chairs with discolored cushions and broken armrests. The only two people standing were Uncle Frank and Uncle Toby. They stood in the middle of the room and continued to raise the stakes of the bet with every minute that passed. I remember the nurse repeatedly coming over to tell them to quiet down as I sat in the corner with my knees against my chest and watched. When my father finally came out and shared the good news with us, the match between my uncles only got worse as they both claimed to have said that it would happen at 2:34. I remember thinking that they were really stupid for not keeping a written record of the deal.
After a scramble of hugs and kisses exchanged between everyone in celebration of a new baby boy, my father grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. The waiting room we were all seated in had bare, white walls and dark grey floors. The halls looked no different except it smelled of feet. We arrived at a big window looking into the next room and my father pointed out my brother in one of those plastic bins on wheels. I nodded and smiled even though there were so many babies in there I really couldn’t tell which one he was pointing to. He said his name was Tom and as his big brother I should always look out for him. We lived in a small blue house with a white porch and white shutters on every window. It was just off of the main road in a small town in New Jersey. Tom and I shared a bedroom basically our whole life. He was the athletic one. He won every trophy a high school and college football team could possibly earn. We were complete opposites. I guess that’s why my entire life has been based on getting him out of trouble. When the jock got himself into trouble on a Friday night (lost in the woods somewhere in northern Jersey or drunk in a parking lot God knows where), it was always implied that his older brother who was home studying would come to the rescue. Despite all of my efforts, I never really resented him for it. As the years went on I realized that he somehow gave my life a meaning or a purpose. Maybe I was mistaken. My college years were spent at my desk writing anything and everything that came into my head. I always wanted to be a writer. Sharing my words with people who would truly understand their meaning seemed like a pretty decent way to spend my life. Tom’s radical lifestyle seemed to fit in to this equation perfectly. I would find myself saving my brother from these odd, dangerous, or random situations he got himself into. Then, I would go home and write about it. I have to admit that sometimes I felt guilty. Writers are supposed to write from their own experiences. My writing career rested solely on my brother’s experiences. I was sitting home one night reading O. Henry when the first of many adventures unrolled in front of me. It was the summer before I started my second year of college and he started his second year of high school. Tom sent me a message with an address and said it was an emergency. The words of my father telling me to look out for him played in my head as I contemplated going to pick him up. I got in my parent’s old, beaten-up minivan and drove there. It was only about a fifteen-minute drive down the main road and then a few turns on various dirt roads until I arrived at what looked like an abandoned barn. There were wooden panels ripping off from the structure. It was red and white on the outside and it looked like no one had been inside for at least twenty years. I pulled up slowly and kept the headlights on the barn door. It was a relatively cold night for the middle of summer and somehow I had forgotten my jacket in the rush of sneaking out of the house without my parents noticing. I was wearing grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and sneakers. I was definitely not leaving the warmth of my car for anything. Luckily I didn’t have to. Tom got in the car and started to explain what was going to happen next. Apparently this wasn’t just a pick-up/drop-off situation. “Get on the highway,” Tom said. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Norwalk, Connecticut,” he answered. “What? What the hell is in Norwalk?” “I have to pick something up. The less you know the better.” His short black hair was a complete mess and his skin looked pale. I wondered what he had been doing at this barn all night. The possible answers worried me so I decided not to dwell on them. “I have school tomorrow. There’s no way I’m driving your ass out to Norwalk and back. I need sleep. You need sleep. And mom and dad would kill us,” I said. He began to get frustrated with me. “You sit at that desk night after night scribbling down your little words that no one is ever going to read. What’s the problem if you help out your brother? I just have to pick something up from a friend of a friend down in Norwalk. Stop being a baby and just drive. Think of it as your next big story to tell.” I remember feeling embarrassed by this. My younger brother actually managed to intimidate me. This was the first of many nights I did exactly as he told. I pushed my feelings aside and drove him. It ended up being a pretty decent night. We listened to music the entire ride and made fun of those late night shows on the radio that gave random people dating advice. We even caught the sunrise by the water in Norwalk. Whatever exchange or pick-up Tom was involved in went smoothly. To this day he refuses to tell me what it was. We got into the house around eight o’clock. I sat in class that morning and wrote an account of everything that happened. I wrote about the drive and the shady man my brother met and everything that was going through my head. Of course I embellished the characters a little bit, Tom was more of a big-shot while I was his naïve brother hiding in the background of it all. That was the first of many stories that were left unpublished in a pile on my desk. The places I saw in the next few years driving my brother around were amazing. We never went anywhere over three hours. We always made sure to be back before our parent’s alarm clock went off at 8:00 am. I refused to get caught by my parents and risk them taking away college for me. They were basically funding my entire education. Sleep was absolutely out of the question. Even after we got home, I would stay up and write about the night before I had to leave for class. I always believed in time being the enemy of a good story or idea. Once too much time has passed between the live action and the words on the page, the story loses its depth and sense of wonder. During my late college years, I sent my stories to so many different publications. I truly wanted them to be published together in a collection of short stories about a boy who craved adventure. I had pages and pages filled with nights that people would never believe actually happened. The publishing companies all turned me down. They complained that there was no climax, no purpose to all of these adventures. They claimed that my work was just a collection of descriptive scenes. My struggles in the publishing world did not change my perception of Tom. I still thought of him as a true adventurer despite the fact that no one wanted to publish his stories. My little brother was now living the life I could only dream about living. I knew the problem with my writing. In my opinion, it was not about the lack of a climax or conflict in the stories. It was the lack of connection. There seemed to be a brick wall between my mind and the words I was putting on the page. I was not my brother. These adventures were just a play I was partaking in, with a set role and a script I needed to follow. I was never fully emerged in it. This picture I had of Tom in my head couldn’t have been healthy. He had become this mentor that I would look up to. I craved to feel the same adrenaline and rush that he felt constantly. I became consumed in his life. Another night while I was in our room hunched over my desk, a smile appeared on my face as Tom called my cell phone. The words “Mr. Adventure” lit up the phone. “Where am I shipping out to tonight?” I asked him. “No where. I’m outside. I’ve got a girl with me. Come down and open the back door would ya? Mom and Dad can’t know,” Tom said. I was disappointed that night. I did as he said and then slept in the basement so they could have the room to themselves. No adventure tonight. No grand story to tell. This continued for the next seven or so years. The adventures stopped and the girls came pouring in. I guess he was over adventures. Tom brought home a different girl every night and it was my job to bail him out in the morning. Sometimes they would forget to set an alarm and I would have to sneak the girl out of the house while my parents made breakfast in the kitchen. Another time, the girl wondered into my parents’ bedroom and gave them both a heart attack. She was probably the dumbest one. When they asked her who she was she simply responded “Brittany” and then asked if she could have a ride home. It followed that I had to pretend she was my college girlfriend and that she spent the night with me. My parents probably would have died if they had found out Tom was having sleepovers with girls in his high school years. So as usual, I was the one who took the blame. I guess I did it because of that heroic image I had of him. Why should a kid who is living the dream have to suffer? I never got in serious trouble anyway. I was in college and was considered an adult. A few girls over the house were no big deal to my parents as long as they didn’t know the specifics of what we were actually doing when they were there. Tom did manage to get me in trouble once. One time Tom decided it was okay for him to go away with his friends for a weekend and sneak into a club in Atlantic City. When your parents realize that your little brother has not been home for forty-eight hours and he has taken a suitcase, there’s really nothing you could say to bail him out. Even though they eventually found out where he was and that he had been drinking all weekend, it was still somehow my fault. Apparently, as the older brother I was not looking out for him and I did not warn him about the dangers of alcohol. I didn’t fight it though, anything for my super-hero little brother. Little did I know that the super-hero would lose his powers and my respect. * * * I open the door to see Tom standing outside with a suitcase. He is wearing a white t-shirt adorned with several stains and a pair of blue boxer shorts. He hasn’t shaved his beard in about five weeks. He just looks at me and shakes his head as I motion for him to come in. My house is very plain. It has beige walls and hard wood floors. The hallway, beginning with the front door, leads to the living room and the kitchen. Upstairs there’s just one bedroom and a bathroom that only fits one person at a time. My wife Diana and I haven’t even started talking about kids but when we do I’m sure we’re going to have to find a bigger place. Tom comes in and shuts the door behind him. “Hey, bro. I’m sorry about this but do you think I can stay over here for a few days? Barbara kicked me out,” he says. “What happened?” I ask, with an already disappointing tone. “She found out about Rose.” “Rose who?” He sighs and scratched his head for a moment as if he didn’t know the answer. “She’s just some girl from college.” “Tom, I thought you were done with cheating. Man, I thought you were done with all of this bullshit: the cheating, the drinking, the…” “I don’t want to talk about it. Can I stay here or not?” he interrupts with a much harsher tone, obviously feeling my judgment. “Honey! Who is it?” Diana screams from the kitchen. “It’s Tom. Barbara threw him out again,” I scream back. “Jesus, Rob, do you have to announce it like that?!” Tom says, embarrassed. “Look, you could stay here but go upstairs, wash up, and put on one of my suits. My in-laws are going to be here any minute. You need to look decent,” I say pointing to the staircase. “You mean the ones that think you are a successful businessman instead of a struggling novelist?” he says with a chuckle. My in-laws are rich beyond imagination. My father-in-law is a very successful businessman and trust me he never lets you forget it. So when Diana and I got engaged there was a lot of tension between us. It is a complete understatement to say that he did not approve of me being a writer. He tried to break us up for years. So I finally told him I would go into business for the sake of my relationship with his daughter. Once I said that, he was perfectly okay with me putting a ring on her finger. Diana always supported me though. She was never like her parents. Although, she sometimes feels the need to make them think she is. “If you can’t play along than you’ll just have to go stay at Mom’s house.” “Okay, okay. Fine.” He says, starting for the staircase. My wife walks into the hall just as Tom goes up the steps. “What’s going on, honey?” she says, concerned. “Tom is going to stay here for a few days. I told him he has to play along tonight.” “Oh…but are you sure that is a good idea?” she says with a nervous look on her face. The doorbell rings and my wife and I look at each other. She sets down her cell phone on the side table next to the front door and starts straightening my tie. I flatten out her dress in retaliation. She is wearing a short, black strapless dress made of silk. I’m wearing a white shirt with a black tie and trousers. We take a deep breath and go for the door. I open the door with my arm around Diana. Her father is a tall, physically fit man in a tight suit. His grey hair is slicked back. His broad shoulders and straight posture defines intimidation. The mother is a petite lady wearing a black dress and a diamond necklace that is probably worth more than my car. The smile on her face widens when she sees us. They quickly come inside and we exchange hugs and kisses all around with the traditional greetings. Diana mentions that dinner is almost ready so we all move into the kitchen and sit down at the table decorated with our only good tablecloth and silverware. “So, Robert. How is business these days?” her father asks. “Business is good. I can’t complain.” “Must be a stressful life and all, working at Meryl Lynch.” “Yep. Honey, can I help with dinner?” I say, trying to change the subject. Tom walks in with one of my white shirts half-buttoned and his tie in a knot. “Rob, how the hell am I supposed to know how to do this?” he says, trying to untangle his tie. He looks up and realizes who is in the room. “Oh…hi,” he says, embarrassed. “Ummm. Lisa, George, this is Tom. He is my…” I begin to say. “Business partner!” Diana interjects. “Hello, nice to meet you,” Tom says to the in-laws. I grab Tom and pull him into the living room. I just shake my head and fix his shirt and tie. “Please. Don’t embarrass me,” I say. I hear a cell phone ring. “Whose phone is that?” Tom says. “It’s probably mine. I’ll get it. You go back into the kitchen and act like a mature human being.” Tom obeys and I reach for my phone and realize it was not mine that rang it was my wife’s. I pick up her cell phone from the side table. There is a text message from a random number that says, “No, of course not. I told him her name was Rose.” I then recognize my brother’s cell phone number. I walk back into the kitchen and sit at the table. Diana is serving the food and we are all sitting around the table. After we say grace, we all dig in. “Can you pass the salt, Mom?” Diana says. Her mother passes her the salt. “Can you pass it here next, Rose?” I say looking at my wife. Diana’s parents stop moving and look at me with concern. Diana looks at me with a confused face. Tom looks at me with fear in his eyes. Diana then looks at him and then at me. I finally found a climax to my story.
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Frances Tate lives in the north west of England where she puts all that rainfull to good use growing tomatoes and chillies. She enjoys travelling and visiting historic sites such as romantic ruins and battlefield walks. She writes novels about vampires and short stories and flash fiction about all sorts of things. Co-writer of two self-published drabble books and published writer of drabbles and flash in The Dark Sire, various Black Hare Press antholgies, The Drabble, Elephants Never and Fiveminutelit. The Teddy Bear Dilemma
On the top deck of the number twenty-seven bus, Clara’s reflection stared back at her. The interior’s harsh lighting performed the unappreciated public service of hiding everything dull and gloomy behind silvered window glass. Welcome to mole season. It was dark when she left home and dark when she got back. If not for the half hour lunch break when she’d stumbled out into daylight from the windowless factory, she may as well work nights. The pay would be better, but childcare costs would go through the roof. Maybe she could take ironing in, work from home? It was already late October and her Christmas fund was pitiful. Please let there be overtime soon. Isaac was five. Nursery had taught him to tie his own shoelaces and not to try to force the square peg into the round hole. It has also introduced him to competitive gift-getting. Isaac wasn’t a greedy child, but he knew he didn’t have half the things his classmates had. He often arrived in the playground breathless and rosy-cheeked, sometimes rain-soaked after a brisk walk and a ride on a crowded and frequently late bus. He didn’t hop down from a warm SUV at the school gates. And he never would. Clara sighed and the bus stopped at the traffic lights on the slip road. It always took more than one revolution of the light sequence to get through. The illusory tunnel of the dual carriageway loomed ahead. Curved pale concrete barriers and endless tarmac stretching out below an arching street light canopy. It looked, it felt more enclosed, more oppressive than it was. If she worked overtime, she’d need a taxi to get home. There’s no way she’d walk this road alone. The sign at the top of the slip road warned that the street lights would be switched off at midnight. The Council was trying to save money. She didn’t dispute the intention, but it didn’t help her do the same thing. And there it is. Any chance of increasing the Christmas fund, any possibility of hope already sucked away. Frustration prickled in her eyes. Better here than in front of Isaac. But better not at all. She dragged her coat sleeve across her face, experience evading the faux leather button at the cuff, and cupped her hands against the cold glass. She’d had enough of the sight of her miserable face. The non-judgemental gloom outside suddenly had much more appeal. Plenty of people are far worse off than we are, remember that. She glared down into the roadside scrub. The headlights of cars turning off the roundabout onto the slipway glanced too. The traffic queue kept light trained on the wasteland beyond the crash barrier. A face stared back at her. She blinked. The traffic lights changed. The bus lurched forward. That was a teddy bear. Big and pale with half-moon ears and a gentle face. An expensive bear. Almost the size of Isaac. What child would throw away such a beautiful toy? What kind of parents allowed that behaviour?! Ones who could afford to. She twisted in her seat, tried to catch another glimpse, but the darkness wouldn’t allow it. That’s common land, isn’t it? No fences, no purpose. Even the heavy blackberry crop was loaded with fuel soot. Spoiled. The Council picked litter from there every few months. The public replaced it every day. Eventually everything ended up in the landfill. Some of it was sacrilege. Some of it bear-shaped. There was a bus stop coming up. No. The bear was dirty. Even if it wasn’t missing half its stuffing, it would be worse than buying Christmas presents—as well as clothes—from charity shops in the next town. Soon Isaac or Isaac’s classmates would catch onto her, and then the teasing would start, and it would last all of Isaac’s school life. Children’s cruelty knew no bounds. No. I can’t, I won’t add torture to poverty. The bus stopped. Clara stayed in her seat. # She thought about the bear all the next day. Not from choice. That gentle face reproached her from frozen veg, stared back at her from congealed parsley sauce. In mashed potato, Isaac curled his arms around the bear, sharing his pillow and smiling happily. Who would ever know? There was no way anyone could guess where it came from. Lancelot Bears don’t grow on trees! They don’t land like windfalls. I didn’t steal it; I just didn’t waste it. It won’t hurt to look. Then the bear could stop torturing her, stop teasing her with glimpses of her child’s pleasure. Her bus ticket was a Weekly Rider. She could hop off and on as she pleased anywhere on the route. The only cost would be arriving home thirty minutes later than usual and having to pay the babysitter for an extra half hour. Bruised pride, briar scratches and a few extra pounds, versus the priceless gift of a delighted child? # The next night Clara got off the bus on the dual carriageway. She ran across the four lanes two at a time like a frightened rabbit; her thumping heart climbing up her throat as cars roared by, whipping her hair and coat. They were so close. And much faster than she realised from the safety of the top deck. At least for the next part of the task she was well-prepared. There was a folded bin bag in her pocket and a small torch in her hand. Pulling herself out of clinging brambles and floundering across the unstable rubbish, she fought her way to where she thought the bear was. If it was a bear. If it still looked like a bear. A bear a child could love. Having failed to convert passenger speed to pedestrian speed accurately, she was out by several yards in her estimation. Several painful minutes of refereeing synthetic wool versus all-natural thorns. She was out of breath -and belief- when she struck gold. It was a beautiful bear. And she was right about the size. Balanced on its back paws, with Isaac supporting him, the bear would reach the little boy’s shoulder. A tad damp but looking almost straight out of the box, Sir Lancelot Bear beamed at her. She beamed back. She stuffed the bear into the black plastic bag expecting someone to yell ‘Oy! Pikey,’ or ‘skip rat!’ at her. But no one did. Pirouetting clockwise to uncoil the persistent brambles clawing at her jeans, she spotted a bright red, Lancelot Bear-sized coat. Accessories, too? The familiar squeal of bus brakes pulled a memorised timetable through her head like a scroll. The Fifty-eight; early for once. Catch it and she’d get home just a few minutes later than usual and not need the babysitter to do overtime. She grabbed the coat and ran. # After dumping the bin bag, top securely knotted, in the bath, she prepared supper. It was almost 9 pm before Isaac finally fell asleep. As though he sensed she was keeping a secret from him and desperate to share it with her. Clara collected and opened the bag, tipping bear and coat onto the kitchen floor. All her initial assessments held. It was indeed a trademarked Lancelot Bear; this year’s must have toy, advertised on every bus shelter and commercial break. He was in excellent condition. She read the care label. He would tolerate the washing machine on its coolest setting. The coat would not. She pushed the pliant stuffed toy through the washing machine’s porthole, added a two-in-one washing capsule and closed the door. As the squashed Lancelot began to rotate in six inches of soapy water, she picked up the coat and her coffee mug and turned off the light. She put the coat in the bathroom sink with a little washing up liquid and warm water. The label said spinning was okay. So, after the current wash cycle finished, she’d give the coat a quick spin. Tomorrow, Isaac would be out all day. Both items could spend the next day secretly dripping off the airer into the bath. Wiping her hands, she reached for the now cold coffee and headed into the living room. The evening news had started. The lead story was halfway through. Uniformed policemen faced the camera looking uncomfortable and serious. In another shot, a panel of well-dressed civilians shrank behind a fence of microphones, dishevelled and distraught. Clara’s stomach clenched. Her fingers curled around the mug at the universally recognisable sight of parents in hell. The missing three-year-old was called Joshua. He’d been taken yesterday morning. His mother’s multi-ringed and manicured shaking hands held up a glossy 8 x 10 of a little boy with hair the same colour as his Lancelot Bear. And he was wearing a bright red coat. The mug fell through Clara’s numb fingers. It spun on the carpet as her foot clipped it. The last of the coffee flew out as, retching, she ran for the toilet. What had she done?? Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to Bethesda, Maryland. She is now a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in America magazine, The Dewdrop, Plainsongs, FOLIO, HeartWood, The Sheepshead Review, Coastal Shelf, and others. The StainWhen Lia was introduced to Tomás on his first day at the hospital she noticed he did a double-take. This surprised her, because in her experience she was not noteworthy, or even noticeable, to most men. She expected a man of his obvious charisma and much-sought-after academic expertise to hold court with eager, young residents and nurses toward whose rapt attention he could funnel his virility – and hold court he did, but never without a gracious acknowledgement that Lia was the attending physician on service, and he was but a consultant offering opinions.
The hospital, San Roque, and the new medical school nearby were the crown jewels in the efforts of the Guerrero family – the northern branch, not the southern - to thank the Lord for their son’s survival of dengue fever. Their daughters survived too, but it was for their son Rocco’s patron saint that the hospital and school were named. They allotted part of a plantation for the project, boasting sustainability and respect for the nearby tropical forests as virtues of the build. Already a small economy was beginning to boom around the hospital, with a bustling nearby town whose inhabitants could enjoy a spaghetti meal from Jollibee or a croissant at the “French” café whose bakers, naturally, also produced ensaymada and sans rival. Lia’s residents were always relieved to have her as the attending physician on their service because she was completely benign. If she asked a question on morning rounds and the resident didn’t know the answer, despite the fact that public shaming in school often wound up being a natural extension of the kind of disciplining these young adults had endured at home, Lia would never scold, mock, or punish the hapless doctor, who had likely been up all night checking labs and tracking urine output. Instead she would hint or coax and only as a last resort turn to another resident for the answer. The only rule she was strict about on rounds was that her residents present all their patients in English, which she had noticed over the years was in steep decline. They were grateful for this rule when Tomás appeared. A Spaniard by ethnicity, with his light eyes and fair skin, they thought that he, too, would prefer the language of academics to the speech of the ordinary citizen, but the truth was his Tagalog was even better than theirs, thanks to a family whose embrace of their homeland was more fervent than that of most indigenous peoples. He was as gentle with the residents as Lia was, but somewhat more playful. “After-work drinks for everyone if you can name the stigmata of hepatic failure. But only if Doctora Herrera is available to join us,” he would qualify, showing off a perfect rolled r with a wink at Lia when the hands of the women in the group shot up at full speed to answer. Given the obsequy with which the nurses would jump to carry out his orders and his obvious hold over the residents and medical students, Tomás found Lia’s reluctance to socialize with him mystifying. When she arrived at a meeting or lecture after him, she would seat herself at the opposite end of the room or out of his line of sight. If he arrived later, he would cross the room to join her at the conference table but she would only greet him politely and frown all the harder at her laptop screen or journal article until the meeting began. When they discussed patients in the corridor, he could not help but lean every muscle toward her, but though she would not pull away, and met his gaze without a hint of fear, she would always make sure not to linger. “Don’t you want to try that new noodle place after work? I know you love ramen as much as I do.” “I would love to,” Lia would say, “but I have to get a paper out by Friday,” or, “my mother is having a luncheon in Manila this weekend and wants me to come.” “Great – bring a date. I can do all the driving.” But Lia wouldn’t budge. As she walked away Tomás would observe the friendliness with which everyone she passed would greet her, from the janitor sweeping the floor to the radiologist who had just read a film for her. “Hi, Doctora,” “Good afternoon doc,” “Uwi na, Doctora Herrera?” He envied them even those small moments. Their stolen conversations were never enough. He started dating others, never for very long, and never for the conversation. Lia didn’t want Tomás to know about The Stain. The Stain was a large, red starburst that would appear on her body without warning. It was like a spider’s web of crimson blood vessels visible through her skin, with a red so bright it almost glowed. It sometimes appeared on her abdomen, her inner thigh, her chest, her shoulder, and it burned from within as if each curling tendril were on fire. The pain was just bearable enough to be able to hide. Lia’s mother had spotted it once when Lia was a small child, just before Lia’s father died. She brought Lia to the doctor, who called it a hemangioma. It disappeared soon after. Lia first noticed it in medical school, during her pediatrics rotation. The hospital she was in at the time had a large pediatric cancer ward. Every time she walked into San Roque and detected the smell of the ether with which the hospital’s surfaces were cleaned, she was immediately transported to her time in pediatrics for a moment. The experience had almost driven Lia to despair. The Stain appeared frequently in those days, and a particularly large manifestation of it spread across her belly like a map when she grew attached to a 5-year-old who looked 85, whose cancer so widespread that her abdominal scan was an unrecognizable jumble of tumor crowding out every mass of tissue. After that rotation The Stain disappeared for a while, but once again during her oncology fellowship, when one of her elderly patients, a sweet man who had wooed his wife with a guitar and some home-made steamed pork buns, developed a reaction to his chemotherapy infusion. The Stain appeared on the inside of Lia’s upper arm. One of the nurses caught a glimpse of a tentacle of redness creeping down toward the bend in Lia’s arm when Lia took off her white coat at the end of the day. “Are you okay, Doctora? You have, like, a rash on your arm.” “Oh it’s nothing – I just scratched it on a bush in my mother’s garden.” She tried once to see a doctor about it, but by the time she arrived at the appointment it was gone, and she felt sheepish even explaining the reason for her visit. Only one person besides Lia’s mother knew about The Stain, and that was the hospital chaplain at San Roque, Lia’s closest friend, Father Franco Fernandez, whom the nurses called FFF and whom Tomás referred to as the Jolly Jesuit. Franco even had nicknames for the thing. “The Fireball.” “The Death Star.” And his personal favorite, “The Rose By Any Other Name.” One day, after Tomás was paged overhead in the hospital cafeteria and had to leave Lia and Franco at the lunch table, the Jesuit put down his spoon and looked at Lia without speaking. “What?” she said. “When are you gonna give Dr. Esquivel a break?” “What do you mean?” The priest rolled his eyes, picked up his spoon, and started in on his dessert, a rather sad little mound of chocolate mousse. “The man is head over heels in love with you and all you can do is talk shop?” “Tomás is dating about three different nurses right now.” “Because you won’t give him the time of day. All because of The Red Thing?” “Puwede ba, could you lower your voice? It’s a hospital. Ears everywhere. And that is not one of your best monikers, by the way.” “Why don’t you just explain it to him.” “Not a chance.” “Lia. He’s pining. It’s so obvious. The way he looks at you.” “You’re being ridiculous. Finish your mousse.” Not long after this, after decades of avoiding church and eschewing any leisurely practice that could even remotely be called “spiritual,” Lia went to Franco’s parish when he was sitting in the confessional. He recognized her voice right away when she uttered the opening, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned” and couldn’t suppress a smile and a shake of his head. “It’s been…ten years since my last confession.” “Are you sure about that?” “Maybe fifteen.” “Okay.” “I’m not here to recite a fifteen-year laundry list of infractions, Father.” “Then why are you here?” “I just want to confess one thing. I’m jealous. Horribly, painfully jealous.” The priest remained silent, leaving space for her words. “Every time I see him, even after a couple of years of working with him, my heart skips a beat. I try not to stare but I can’t help it. When he smiles at me or talks to me it’s all I can do to hide how happy I feel. When I see him driving off with a pretty woman my chest hurts and I almost can’t bear it.” Franco pursed his lips inside the dark booth and fingered his stole. “Why not replace the sin of envy with the virtue of honesty, then? Hasn’t the pretense of rebuffing him gone on long enough? I should just order you talk to the guy for your penance.” “No. I’ll read one of the gospels in full instead. I’ll even say a whole rosary.” “You haven’t said so much as a Hail Mary since we were in high school.” “Is this still covered by the seal of confession? Even if it’s not a real confession?” “What’s said in here stays in here.” “I’m gonna go now. Thanks for listening, Franco.” Franco sighed and muttered the prayer of absolution even though Lia had gone. Sometimes Lia would go up to the terrace on the roof of the hospital, next to a helipad that was used only to transfer patients away from San Roque, to the larger centers in Manila. From there she could see both the ocean and the surrounding hills. The sunsets were glorious swathes of orange and red, followed by lavender all across the sea, and finally a deepening blue at dusk. The tip of the peninsula where she had built her house was just out of sight. She much preferred her life here to the chaos of Manila, though her apartment in Bonifacio Global City was high above the noise and filth. Here there was quiet, and less worry. On a warm day in December Father Franco found Lia in her office at the end of the day. His smile was less jovial than usual. “I’ve been feeling a little tired lately,” he said. “Sit. Let’s check your BP. Did you eat? What about water? You never drink enough.” His blood pressure, pulse, and temperature were normal. They chatted for a while, laughing occasionally at the antics of a co-worker or exchanging opinions about local eateries. Franco finally left saying he felt much better. Not long after he left Lia felt the dreadful burning sensation beginning in the small of her back. Instinctively she reached behind as if to squelch it. She could feel her heart beating faster. She locked the door to her office and took off her dress to look in the mirror. It was there: a burning bramble on her lower back, spreading its bright red branches upward across her spine and toward her rib cage. She put her dress back on, grabbed her purse, and ran out of the office. Franco had been gone for at least half an hour. She didn’t even know where to start, and she had to lean on the wall for a moment to deal with the pain in her back. She hurried to the far stairwell to go to her car. Tomás was coming up the stairs to retrieve something from his office. He smiled at first but when he saw Lia’s face his brow furrowed immediately. “What’s wrong?” He reached up as if to wipe the tear that was about to fall down Lia’s cheek but remembered himself and put his hand awkwardly on her shoulder instead. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you later. I have to go.” Lia hurried down the stairs, found her car, and drove to the parish rectory hoping to find Franco, but he wasn’t there. She left a message for him to call her and left. When she arrived home there was a car in her driveway. Tomás was sitting on her front stoop waiting. “I’m sorry. I was worried. And you apparently have no housekeeper.” Lia sighed. “I do, but just on certain days.” She unlocked the door and let him in. “How did you even know where I lived?” “You know how it is here. Ask enough people out there where the Doctora’s house is and eventually all the pointed fingers lead you to the right road.” The entrance opened into a corridor tiled with terra cotta that led into a living area overlooking the ocean and a few small islands in the distance. Lia opened the sliding capiz shell windows to let the sea breeze in, and immediately the smell of salt wafted over their nostrils. Next to an arrangement of couches was a round dining table, and across from it a kitchen where Lia scavenged through the freezer for ice to soothe her back. “Can I get you anything?” “Are you having something?” “Calamansi juice.” She poured two and sat on the couch holding an ice bag to her back. “At least let me hold it for you,” said Tomás. Tears started to flow from Lia’s eyes but she didn’t sob or make a sound. They sat in silence listening to the surf outside. When the ice bag felt more watery Lia laid it on the glass coffee table and leaned against Tomás on the couch. He put his cheek on her forehead and said nothing. People think the point of no return lies in the heat of a moment, the crossing of a border. But giving in to trust, or not, happens before that moment, where the trespass is invisible, the almost imperceptible widening of a door ajar. In Lia’s heart a sea breeze blew, and with it, the sound of a creaking hinge. “Franco is going to die,” she said. The salt in the sea breeze hurt inside her. She knew she would tell Tomás, show him, how she knew. Outside, the setting sun glowed red against a darkening sky. They watched as it sank beneath the horizon, disappearing from their sight.
Crocodile, Mississippi My head would not stop throbbing the entire time she was gone. And this time she took the car. My car. My wife took my Chrysler 300 sedan.
“I hate my car,” she said. She wondered why they didn’t name cars after dogs. She’d have loved to drive a Suzuki Pekingese, she told me, or a Nissan Boxer. She said her mother would have liked to have had a white Cadillac Poodle, while her Daddy would have preferred a big black one with leather. GM could market the model in toy, miniature, or standard. It was a running joke. I told her I’d buy her a Volkswagen Dachshund GT, but she said she’d rather drive a Hyundai Chihuahua. I thought she was on to something. Everyone loved the idea. I could just see myself waltz into Cherokee Ford in West Memphis and ask to see a maroon St. Bernard pickup with a sunroof, but she said it would be too expensive. We settled on a Peugeot Pug. She said she went to visit her cousin outside Vicksburg. We met down there. This was years ago. We met as children. If her husband hadn’t died, we’d never have seen each other again. Good thing he kicked the bucket. A century earlier, 17,000 Union and 11,600 Confederate soldiers died on this site. They fought at dawn in the rain. There’s a monument for the Generals in town but none for the soldiers. Now they want to take the monuments down. Jenny said she felt like one of them soldiers. They can have the monuments for all I care. Just don’t cut down the trees. The men were said to have been so hungry they gnawed the bark. To this day you can see their marks. Men relieved themselves where they stood. They couldn’t bathe. Best friends committed mercy killings and then killed themselves. My wife said she felt like killing herself. There is nothing natural about war. The calm down there along the river clears with the fog. Look carefully, people said, and you could see the blood. Grown men cried and hid their faces. Men said goodbye in the dark. They say now they fought for nothing. They say now they were vain. They say now they were racists. They say now they were weak. It may be true; maybe not. Cousin Verne, though, was no chump. At 6’3” with feet size twelve, he was a strapping lad. He didn’t die to protect slavery. Verne fought alongside his dear cousin, Albert. His mother asked him to tag along, that’s all. Verne had poor eyes but could throw a knife. My wife came back after five days to pick up a few things. She took her jar of manuka honey. Jenny didn’t eat for a week, she said. Not a thing. She stayed with her cousin and hid in her room. She drank tea. She had yoghurt. She puts honey in both. Not a thing else. She went on long walks. “This land here is a pretty sight. If I were a deer, I’d be happy here. If I were a rabbit, I would make a family. As I’m only a woman, I’m content to look on. I don’t want to kill.” She wrote this to me in a letter. She said she thought of that time back when we hitched all the way to Moscow, Tennessee. We caught a ride with a guy in an aqua Cougar, a man who had been on the road for months looking for his wife. He had Joan Baez on the radio. Did I remember that? And then for no good reason we headed back instead of going on to Nashville. That was the year that Altman movie played at the Malco. We are not far in America – and is it just in America – from evolving a right to feel good about ourselves. Yo! My son won his 3rd grade spelling contest! He only made two mistakes. Everyone wins a prize. First this, and then one learns to be offended. I drove down to Vicksburg that afternoon after reading Jenny’s letter. I convinced her cousin to let me take them all out for dinner. Jenny didn’t order. In the morning, Suzie cooked. She held a 2-foot-long pepper grinder as she stood in the kitchen, but served the eggs cold. The coffee had been excreted from the anus of a Cambodian squirrel but she poured it lukewarm. The bread was offered untoasted. Breakfast promised to be a gourmet delight but the temperatures weren't right. She made the eggs first, set them aside, and forgot to toast the sourdough. She spread each slice with frozen unsalted butter flown in from France - the best money can buy, but it wouldn’t melt. I sulked. It was like a breakfast served by the Mad Hatter. Suzie is the kind of person who has nothing for anyone she is not fucking. Another woman? Men? She searches for signs of availability. The coffee was cold because she was sleeping alone. She’d been working on Jenny, trying to get her to see things her way. It’s all in The Dying Animal. The politics of oral sex. The politics of same-sex partners. It is always a story of so what or whatever. Every failure leads to failure; every triumph leads to failure. “Do you know who you are?” “Of course not, who does?” “I remember you, a shifty-eyed little fella with his fly open.” She loved to speak of me in this light. I recognized it as a sign she was beginning to forgive me. “After a life of turmoil and defeat ….” “Hide?” “Place your head between your knees. I’ve been saying this for years, but you never listen. You are too busy trying to take over.” “All I wish is to get along.” “Genghis Khan with a phone.” “Right.” “And a colander. Don’t involve me.” “Out.” “My God, what a sight.” “We settled that.” “I’d just as well not come. I am not coming.” “Don’t. I said. Out. Free.” “Thanks.” “You’d prefer I kick it, let the world go by?” “Asparagus.” “What?” “One sprig, one asparagus apiece. White for the girls; boys, green.” “Napkins?” “That’s it.” “Fine.” A silence. “Butter?” “Fifteen fucking asparagus. One for each guest.” “Butter?” “Toothpicks.” “I thought you were moving to St. Louis.” “You confuse me with T. S. Eliot.” “I’d be in panic city. Do you know panic city?” “Not really. I prefer Nabokov.” “People in the hood don’t have kerfuffles; they have ass-kickings.” “I’m not that esoteric. You always confuse me with someone else. You say, you said I looked like that long-necked lady in that painting, but I don’t. I’m not. I’m not a Modigliani.” “Then who, what? I don’t know you?” “I’m one of Picasso’s cave women. I’m a brute.” “Your feet.” “My Daddy used to say people deserve the violence.” “Did he?” “Every penny of it.” “I remember when you called me a brute.” “You do?” “Back when I was a frat boy and you were a girl.” “Oh?” “You used to sit naked on the floor of my dorm room, with your legs spread out.” “I did not.” “I’d roll oranges across the floor toward you.” “Better than an egg.” “When I hit your bell, you’d give my friend a little kiss.” “How about that?” “And what did you say?” “’Come and get it?’” A silence. “You can’t stay here and live off honey.” “‘Isn’t it darling?’ Oh, no. I know: you asked me to put on more lipstick.” “We have any oranges?” “We’re desperate, don’t you know? The lies are killing us.” “The fat don’t benefit from being called thin.” “It applies to the stupid who call themselves smart.” “People used to speak the truth.” “Thank God for death.” “If people didn’t die, we’d still be listening to Demosthenes.” “You’re just showing off.” “What about grapefruit?” Me and my wife were reconciled after our long ‘thing’ and we were able in Suzie’s house to make up for lost time. Something about our place out in California made her want to get dressed as soon as she got out of bed, but once back in Mississippi she was eager to take off her clothes and stay that way. Not sure why. I thought it might be the humidity which made one feel dressed without having a stitch on. I was the same. I’d put nothing on but my tennis shoes and take a walk in the back yard. One day, I would discover the secret and introduce it out West. Cousin Suzie was nowhere to be found when we had finished in the bathroom and done the packing. We were ready to hit the road but there was no way we’d leave without saying good bye. No notes from us, no emails or voice messages. There had to be a proper send off with hugs and kisses and, if she had her way, a little “skinship” as she liked to call it. That entailed rubbing her boobs against all male visitors and if she could manage it, work in a nice ass-squeeze. Personally, I was all for it. I, too, was a proponent of “skinship” and all that it entailed. I was getting more than a little annoyed and, at least in my own mind, considered starting the car. All of a sudden, Suzie came bounding in, out of breath, and was spitting mad. She’d had to step into her office that morning at the school and somehow got caught up in something big. No apologies. I was hearing all about it in fits and starts. The gals were in the kitchen. I heard the bottles being taken out and knew that drinks were being poured. It was still morning. She drank white wine from a tumbler when she was upset. She shouted out, “Don’t think you’re getting away so easily in there, mister.” I braced for impact. “You hear, Mister Cool and Detached? You are not going anywhere.” I began to worry. This sounded like she was getting all wound up. “You might as well put your keys away. We gots to talk.” She was talking about her new student Pall Mall, a kid from Vermilionville, Louisiana. We’d already heard a little. Now there was trouble. She was telling us the story from the very beginning. Both of us were eager to head back but now we were being sucked back in. The boy had disappeared. “He comes in that first day,” Suzie explained, “looks around, and shouts, ‘Be back.’” Then, she said, he high tailed it out the school altogether. “We were perplexed, to say the least. Sure enough, though, he come right back and took a seat. He stayed, as his probation officer had instructed.” I thought, “Why me?” We would never get out of there. “I don’t like students to come in after the bell, you know that.” “We didn’t used to do that,” I commented. “All this special treatment gets to me.” Suzie looked more than a little concerned. I thought for a second I saw a flash of fear. “We think he’s got a gun.” The principal’s gun was missing from his office. An hour later she was still going at it. We hadn’t had breakfast. “Called him ‘Elephant’ on account of his tiny frame, weighs no more than hundred ten, maybe hundred-fifteen pounds. Never seen a movie. Don’t believe he’s been to McDonald’s, can you believe that? Don’t think he ever washed his feet, to be honest. I got so I stepped aside when he come near me. Earl: that’s his name. Family calls him that. Pall Mall is a nickname, of course. Kid’s friends call him that and other names, too, but never without a smile, so he knows they are joking. Otherwise, he’ll haul off and sock you. He punches real hard. He does this with lightning speed and can thrust his fist out without moving his arm above the elbow. He delivers a low blow.” “Suzie?” “Don’t you ‘Suzie’ me. He’s out there and he’s threatened to kill me!” Jenny and I just stared. “He is sneaky. He can talk without moving his mouth. He can throw his voice. These two talents no doubt help him stay alive. He was only fourteen when we first come in that day. His whole thing is being self-sufficient, worldly, but he is animated almost entirely by his vivid imagination, his fantasy life. He has no street smarts. He lives and breathes his delusions or dreams. All that shit promoted by the world around him. “Andrew, you are going to have to stay and help us find him.” # “Jenny, you know the story. Tell him, tell Andy what happened. Andrew, you have to listen. I have to tell you, OK? I was once a groupie. A rock ‘n’ roll groupie, you see. I slept around with many stars a long time ago. I slept with Janis Joplin and Robert Plant. I was a slut. I slept with others. I slept with any many as I could. I slept with B. B. King. I worked the Delta Queen. I hung out in Memphis at the Peabody. Then, the Hilton. I slept with Harry Belafonte. I was a star-fucker. I was bi-sexual. I slept with Nina. I slept with Tina.” I found myself just staring into space. “Don’t be unkind. It happened, OK? Women like sex, too, you know. It is what it is, OK? Shit happens. There are girls who follow baseball players around the country. I followed rock stars. My dream was to fuck Mick. I told you, I fucked Harry Belafonte. I’d been shooting for Morgan Freeman. He’s over 80. He probably smells like an old rag but I love his passion. I’m sure his dick is as limp as Play-Doh but his tongue is sure to be on fire.” Jenny was crying. “Would you tell me what this is all about?” I was getting angry. “That boy is my son. Earl, the boy they call Pall Mall, is mine. He is my little boy, Andy. I need you to find him before the sheriff goes and shoots him. They’ll kill him. You know they will, they’ll shoot my little boy. My son; the offspring of one of those men.” “Oh, Sue. Suzie Q. Come here.” And with that we had a good, long hug. “Of course, I’ll help you. We’ll stay.” “I have a ton of money.” “Well…” Jenny looked surprised. “No, I do. I’ve had some gifts. The father…. I had a fling with a foreign rocker. A guitarist. He spoke to me in French. I didn’t understand a word. His wife offered to translate. He slapped me when I called him honey. I won’t repeat what he called me. He made me crawl around on all fours. Oink, Oink. Quack, quack. Moo, moo. He had a fetish. We played barnyard animals. He was Farmer Brown. I got worried when he demanded four eggs. He said, ‘You are the chicken and I’m the fox.’ We ran around the room. This made his wife laugh. He said when he caught me, he would ring my neck. She stopped laughing when I produced four eggs.” She was laughing. “His wife died. And then he died, too, and he left me all his money.” She began singing, “Old McDonald had a farm.” Suzie looked lost as she fell silent. Then, she perked up. “Being big doesn’t help when you’re limp. The body sags in odd spots. Even his nipples shriveled. His farts were sweet but his breath was foul. EIEIO.” I had never heard any of this. We tried our best to regroup. I thought it best to play things by the book and not do her any favors. I called my office and assigned the case. We had to open a file and I had Binswanger talk to her about our rates. She gave me a substantial check as a retainer against expenses and I contacted a local agency in Jackson to assist. I’d need some help, if nothing else to run license numbers and the rest, take advantage of local resources. We started with $20,000. “We will find him, Sue. We will.” Suddenly, Jenny delivered a sales pitch. I didn’t even know she knew what I did for a living. “He’s the best, little Sue. He is the best fucking detective in the country.” I hired a Pinkerton man to watch the house. A burley black fellow who parked his pick-up on the lawn. He came armed. We moved back to the Airbnb. I didn’t like to mix business with pleasure. And I didn’t want to be around so much booze. The girls could drink but I was trying to stay away. We met again after we had a chance to go for a bite, got ourselves sorted out, and I found a second car, so Jenny could get around freely. I would be out and about now day and night. I also bought a gun. We had a chat and talked shop. I didn’t want to involve Jenny. There wasn’t going to be any of that TV-show crap where the detective gets shot because the bad guys have his girl. Jenny would be fine and, if not, she would have to go back to California. “Is that clear?” We agreed it was. We also talked a bit about Suzie without gossiping too much. Suzie definitely belonged to the Southern school of narration, whereby, especially in these parts, all stories are said to need telling, especially the ones that aren’t true. The TV networks currently subscribed to this ideal. My point is that everything Suzie said needed to be taken with a grain of sand. I was supposed to be on a salt-free diet. I decided I wanted to meet with Suzie alone. Jenny went out to do some shopping. I rented her a Malibu. I kept the Chrysler. Suzie drove a fancy SUV, a humongous Japanese thing. I called her license plate in just to see if she owned the car. I had my associates do a thorough background check, as well, including a search of all court cases, civil and criminal, going back twenty years. A lot of the records had been destroyed. Normally, I wouldn’t do this, not on a client, but all the talk about multiple sex partners and illegitimate children suggested to me that there was more to this than just a black eye. There were issues of paternity. Issues of inheritance, issues of title that almost always blow up. Litigation is what holds this country together. I just figure it is always a good idea to find out who owns what. Meanwhile, I wanted to search that school. How did Pall Mall get that gun? And why? The school’s principal was a big guy. “Anchor” Dillon. Former football coach, a town hero; he had brought the school to regional fame for its winning streak. Dillon got a lot of the credit. We shook hands and he invited me to sit. Suzie had called ahead. I assumed the office had been broken into. Now I learned the office door was closed but left unlocked. The principal said he must have left it open. He didn’t remember, but he said he often had a lot on his mind. “It’s been quite a blow, this recent event. They removed the Confederate flag from my back yard. “Who’s ‘they’?” “Never mind, it was on my property.” “I getchu.” “The goddamned city council and the home-owners association ordered its removal when they learned I’d put it up to honor my great uncle, General William Lindsey Brandon, of the 21st Mississippi.” “All right. I’ve heard the name.” “I am a distant – very distant – grandnephew of the once-famous general. At first, they demanded the flag be burned by torch, that is, to be burned “alive,” as it flapped in the wind; they’d just take a blow-torch to it. Someone finally said, perhaps it was the fire chief, that setting fire to a flag in mid-air violates city ordinances.” That didn’t seem credible. “They’d just come and set it on fire? It was once said that to be so treated would be an insult to tradition. After all, the general was a graduate of the United State Military Academy. He wasn’t just some drunken sailor.” I didn’t know what to say. “Flags are meant to be lowered and folded, not set on fire, someone pointed out, thank the Lord, but this city council is on a mission. Half the members aren’t even from around here. They knocked down all the statues in town square, including one of Rutherford Hayes. These people are iconoclasts; that is exactly what they are; they are defacers. “I’ll say.” “I would not be surprised to hear that they are ready to drop the name of our state capitol.” Anchor Dillon spoke as though he missed talking to groups of children. “I wouldn’t put it past them.” “From now on Jackson will be known as Magnolia or whatever. Crocodile; in another blow to America’s past will be the decision to drop the name of Washington, D.C.” “Not that I would care.” “When I went to see about school supplies the other day, I asked for some Dixie cups for the infirmary and I was told from hence forth the cups should be referred to Pixies in honor of our friends over at Black Lives Matter. We have a local chapter.” “I would not put it past them.” “Damned right.” “I sent my old flag to a collector in Bakersfield, California. He’s not heard of General Brandon but he knows someone over there in Japan who does and he collects memorabilia, including samurai swords and souvenirs from the Pacific War. It’s against the law in Japan to hide the past.” I said I understood. I wondered if we could talk about the boy. What about the gun? He said he left it in the cabinet. Which one? That seemed to catch him short. It took him a while to think what to say. Didn’t he keep it in the same place? No, he said, he didn’t keep it at school. He just happened to have it and left it in the drawer just that once. Funny that the boy knew where to look. I was beginning to keep my thoughts to myself. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t believe him. Nobody brings a gun to school and forgets where he left it. Who would do that? A guard who always carries a gun, sure. She might set it down in the restroom, place it on the sink. But the principal said he brought it special just that day and then forgot it. I think he knew exactly where it was every second it was in the school. I cracked a joke, hoping to lighten the mood. It was a Californian ‘intervention’, I read somewhere, and I had let it become a bad habit. Unfortunately, I was the only one laughing. “It wasn't all clowning, Mr. Nettle, by far. There is now talk of violence. That boy is on the loose. I don't know how to convey to you the ominous sense many people around here have, nor the sense of violation about what happened the other night. If you weren’t here, if you don’t not feel it, it cannot be conveyed. My wife is afraid to leave the house. I brought my shotgun.” I wasn’t sure I knew what he was talking about. “What violence?” I just wanted to pin him down. Was he talking about something that had happened already or was he discussing fears, legitimate or not? People seemed keyed up. I asked if the school had surveillance cameras. Where? I was eager to be shown around. I asked if I could take a look. He asked me why. This, too, seemed strange. Again, I kept my thoughts to myself. I tried to shrug it off, not to seem to think it was important. I told him my firm sold equipment. I wondered out loud if the school had a security contract. I thought maybe we could get in on any security updates coming up. He laughed. I asked if there were camera in any of the restrooms or in the gym. What about parking? I figured he would refuse if I asked to see them, so I made a note to get a warrant. At the same time, I didn’t want him erasing anything. I was beginning to smell a rat. I played it cool, asked again about any future business, and watched carefully as he locked up. He stood in the parking lot as I walked away. It looked like I would have to scale the fence to get back in. A chain link fence ran the entire perimeter of the school. I decided to return. I just had trouble understanding why he was being so cagey. I certainly didn’t want to run into him in a dark alley. He was about 6’5” and a good ten years younger. I figured I could outrun him but that’s about it. I wondered now about that gun and I wondered if it was true that Pall Mall had taken it. I had the office in Jackson run a background check. He may have been a football hero, but he was not from this area. I detected a Texas drawl. He moved like a cowboy, too, real slow. When I found out he’d taught in Dallas for a while, I called an old pal in Houston and asked him to pull the guy’s license. I wanted to know why he’d left. I knew they paid a lot less in Mississippi than in Texas, and Dallas paid good. He must have taken a $15,000 cut to start over in the South. I got a call back from the Nielson Agency while I was having a couple of pig ear sandwiches in town. The principal had lost his teacher’s license some time back, pulled on unsubstantiated criminal charges, no conviction. He had taught Phys. Ed., been a coach and a sports coordinator. Details sealed. Records available by court order. We didn’t have time for that nonsense, so I called the office in L.A, and asked Don, ex-military intelligence, to approach his contacts. They went beyond civilian records. It was $500 just for a look-see. A lot more for anything in writing. I called Suzie to say that her bodyguard would not be available that night. Would that be all right? Be sure to lock the doors. I explained that his agency needed him. In fact, he would be meeting me at the school after dark. I wanted a look-out. I wasn’t expecting trouble but I worried about being on school grounds after hours and without local ID. That might look bad. I didn’t want a confrontation with Rod Steiger. I was no Sidney Poitier, but the local sheriffs in the area could be tough. My California license wouldn’t hold water in Mississippi, and I couldn’t afford to sit in jail, even for a night. I figured my Pinkerton could keep watch. He parked a bit down the road, next to my car. I walked alone and hopped the fence behind the gym. I didn’t find any cameras outside. The place was not very secure. All the transom windows around the basketball courts were wide open. The kids were doing indoor calisthenics when it was 95 degrees in the shade. All that gym had was a little cross-breeze. I climbed down onto the bleachers. I wanted to find the boy’s locker room. I planned to check all the lockers. I didn’t know if Pall Mall used one and, even if he did, I didn’t have his number. It took time. Lots of smelly socks. Some daring porn. Some other things that school officials would be alarmed to find, but nothing too surprising. Of course, I didn’t turn on any lights, but I used my flash light and my camera. After an hour, I stood there in a near stupor and decided to crawl around above the lockers. Kids toss a lot of crap they don’t want to get caught with. I gave the metal shelves a good look and was about to get down, when I spotted something in the acoustic ceiling. Thing is, there was nothing below what I saw. The object was hanging above one of the benches. Even if I stood on the bench, I wouldn’t be able to reach it. I’d need some help. I rummaged through the janitor’s closet, pulled out his mop and portable ringer, and turned the thing upside down so I could stand on it. What I found required some sort of an explanation but I decided not to touch it. I put everything back, got myself out through the nearest transom, and headed back. I sent Gabe the Pinkerton back to Suzie’s, called her to expect him. There was no answer. I called Jenny to let her know I was on my way home. She picked up. “Back in thirty.” As I drove along, I couldn’t help but wonder what a camera probe was doing in the boys’ locker room. Who put it there? I mean, I could imagine why someone might do that; I just couldn’t figure out on my own who did it. Of course, as soon as Don called me in the morning with news from his contacts, I figured we were dealing with a pro. The coach turned school principal was a pederast and had more than a little practice enticing boys and selling pictures. I decided not to say anything to Jenny about it. Better not. Leave everything alone. I learned this from P.K., back in Los Angeles. Life is often exactly the opposite of a cowboy movie. No rescues, no posse, no heroes; just villains and their victims. If I acted, I was nearly certain to fuck it up. The law guarantees that. You have to wait. Watch and wait. Most of these bastards get caught but one has to go slow. All I wanted to know, of course, was how Pall Mall had gotten himself mixed up with this pervert. Something told me that pistol was being aimed directly at his very head. I drove fast. We were cruising on occasion at 95 mph, me and my younger self. I was not a superb driver. Some people can do it. Some even like it. Some even love to take the curves at high speed. Had my IQ been twenty points lower, I might have hung my head out the window and shouted. As it was, I drove with caution. Had I been a little more confident, I would have called ahead to the local police but I had to be certain. All this while we were listening to the thumping of Ike and Tina, Elvis, B.B. King, and their entire generation of Delta masters. Suzie agreed to come when I told her I found the deed to a property up in Hardy, Arkansas. Something told me she got that property from one of her boyfriends but that didn’t matter now. I had reason to believe that was where we’d find her son, Pall Mall. When I asked if he knew where it was, she didn’t have to say a word. She seemed to panic. It had taken some doing to get her to come clean. No, I didn’t bust her in the mouth like they did in the movies. What I knew and repeated was a lot more explosive than a punch in the kisser. That boy was born to her out of wedlock and, back in the day, it would have caused her a whole lot of stress to admit she had been to bed with a black musician. It was one thing to be a groupie to Cat Stevens or the Rolling Stones. Quite another to admit to being in love with one of the greatest blues singers of all time, especially if you were a white chick from a prominent Mississippi family. Even her daddy might have trouble defending his little girl. The thing of it was that there had been a reversal of fortunes. Her daddy’s clan no longer owned 1,000 acres of prime river front top soil, but Jimmie Hendricks, etc. still owned the music. There was big money in music. There was even money in the Blues. She might not win a paternity suit at this point, given the fact that her beau was dead, but what I’d found out was that Pall Mall’s daddy had left his sons a whole lot of money, and now one of them was on the run. Pall Mall and one of his brothers had been in a history seminar together on Knowing One’s Civil Rights. This was in a juvenile lockup, not state prison. I do not approve of teaching prison Marxism to kids, but who gives a shit? They were too young for that, in my opinion. I hated to think they were being taught to hate their country. Somehow or another, that brother found out their daddy had died, knew about a lost will and, instead of informing Pall Mall, he had somebody try to kill him. That in a nutshell was what I had been able to piece together. Something must have gone awry. When Pall Mall got out, the killer followed. Pall Mall, as far as I knew, was running away, but he could just as well find himself being chased by assassins. I told all this to Suzie and got a kick out of watching her jaw drop. I’d been able to track down some details that even she didn’t know. I had a chance to ask around. The boys’ instructor had been a retired school teacher named Calabria who used to pound the table and demand to know why the prisoners hadn’t completed their assignments. I spoke to the program director who understood that I wanted to hire him. He offered a strong recommended. The boys loved him. Instead of writing them off and taking their shit with a wimpy smile, this guy told them how he really felt and earned their respect. I spoke with the section chief. Students knew when their efforts were half-assed and could smell false praise. “Teach” was obviously very naïve and may have been gay. He invited the boys to look him up as soon as he they got out. Some did. Pall Mall had done so. Why? I wanted to see this teacher asap. Meanwhile, Sue and I were on our way to a cabin up in Arkansas. It was supposed to be a cottage for happy families on summer vacation, but I suspected it was being used as a drop house for drug dealers. “Prove me wrong” was my middle name. After an hour, I told Suzie we’d have to pull over. I had to take a whizz and was growing peckish. I figured on a burger joint or even a tamale stand. Suzie vetoed that as only a woman could, promising to find us a decent place to eat. She said she couldn’t eat off paper plates. “I JUST CAN’T.” Isn’t it great how women can go off like that and it means next to nothing? If a man spoke like that, what would people think? She insisted on a family favorite which, according to her, served real food. From the looks of things outside my window, it was hard to believe, but what did I know? She had us pull off the highway where I was able to get a nice steak cooked in cognac, and she was able to order chicken cordon blue. I was amused by the offer to throw in some pecans for fifty cents. I asked for Brussels sprouts as a side (my favorite vegetable) and she shared her mushrooms. All in all, a very fair meal; certainly, better than most burgers. We were there a while but both resisted having alcohol. Easy for me, torture for her. We took off in less than two hours. “That’s Cambodia, Captain.” We were back to listening to the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now, the great Vietnam movie with, you guessed it, whatshisname. Willard was my hero, not Brando. We were not even to Memphis when a light rainy fog descended. We were crawling at less than 30 miles per hour. There was something ahead. We were on a truck route so nothing would surprise me. I’d seen a lot of strange things spread out over the highways, especially back in California. Suzie was having the time of her life. I was hoping she would fall asleep. I wanted to listen but my ears were getting sore. I was enjoying the tape. I was right there with the boys as they went up river. “Never get out of the boat.” That had become my anthem. Ever since I first heard it some years earlier, I knew intuitively what that meant. One never knew what one might find out there in the jungle. I used to expect something good; now I always expected the worst and was rarely disappointed. “Terminate with extreme prejudice.” Those were haunting words of instruction directed at young Willard. He had been given a lot to think about. He carried pictures of the uniformed Kurtz in a file but had trouble matching the man of great military accomplishment with the maniac in the jungle. I think of this now as I read The New York Times. It’s been nearly forty years. If you’ve seen this movie, the man in the White House today may seem somewhat familiar, a type whose methods many find as unsound as Kurtz’s. Of course, forty years ago, the man in the WH was not Marlon Brando but an actor held in what many might say was considerably less high regard. But this is now, not then. I don’t recall thinking at all about politics as we plowed through the increasingly heavy rains that were falling. Suddenly, Suzie switched off the tape. She insisted on being heard. It was as I had come to expect: true confessions time. “Listen.” Following this, a cascade of sexual anecdotes and bizarre stories poured forth. Some from high school, others from her days as a Rock ‘n’ Roll princess, who from the sound of it, spent most of her time on her knees. I wasn’t all that sure of what I was hearing. Some of it rang true, but beyond that, I thought she might be making the whole thing up. I hoped so. Such an exchange invites conjuncture and the mature imagination runs to fantasy, to what men and perhaps women desire, but she was mainly speaking here of teenagers, of the young and perverse, of those who are inexperienced and naïve. No, the boys Suzie had known hadn’t demanded sexual pleasure so much as humiliation. The story that stuck out was of the boys who liked to pull up the skirts of girls as they danced and, if successful, pull down their panties. Something about it made me think of shotgun weddings. Male groupies had their pick of nearly hysterical chicks waiting to be fucked by rock stars. All that Southern belle first base/second base shit went out the window. Late one night, one fellow had already received one kiss, but before too long insisted on more. He liked being kissed on the mouth, but had a brilliant idea. Pretty soon, he’d lowered himself onto the floor and beckoned the innocent girl to follow. This was either an anecdote or a fantasy, I wasn’t too sure. I found myself driving but trying to catch her eye. He commenced to walk crablike backwards on all fours, with his bared crotch in the air. He made that desperate girl follow, with her dress pulled up, exposing her pink backside fully. He was wearing her panties.This was what Suzie described to me. I could see now where this was going. As he walked backwards, she crawled after him on all fours. When she caught up, he slowed to allow her to take him into her mouth. Then he took off, so she had to chase him with his ever-hardening cock round and round, with her dress flipped up and her ass bared for all to see. The other boys couldn’t control themselves and ran over to give it a smack. They hovered and had at it until her ass was red. They said they wouldn’t stop until she went down on the guy’s cock. Their paddling quickened and they paced their rhythm to the speed of her bobbing head. He remained nearly silent but the others screamed when they saw that he had come in her mouth. They laughed when she cried. They only stopped when she promised to return to do them, one at a time. They got her to swear on the Bible. In all the excitement, she swallowed, which thrilled them all the more. I kept wondering if Suzie been talking about herself. Memphis was by now in my rear-view mirror. I barely recognized it. Once, it was all about R & B, Gospel and the Blues, but soon enough, Hip Hop, city music. The artists were black. Otis, Al Green, Isaac, for a while, then all sorts of folks, mostly from out of town. Suzie had been determined to sleep with them all. She hadn’t wanted to be accused of racism. Nore had she wanted to be thought a prude. She wanted the boys to take her panties. She hoped someone would ask to look up her skirt. She hung out at the Overton Shell, “making herself useful” with the stage hands and the musicians, most of whom were local nobodies. She hung out, bought everybody cigarettes, kicked back at the studios, and followed the boys to the parking lot. The boys picked her up every weekend all through high school. She never had a steady, but she kept technicians and bodyguards entertained. She was happy to head out any time of the day or night. One time, some boys took her down to Lake Sardis where someone’s parents had a small summer house with a large screened porch. On their first visit, things went terribly wrong when in everyone’s excitement, including hers, Suzie managed to arrive at the cabin well past ten p.m. without so much as a stitch of clothes. The boys had thrown each and every item out the window as they careened down Route 55. One boy held her head down in his arms, while they forced her naked rear end out the window. She rode for one hundred miles, mooning every passing vehicle and its passengers. Lucky for her, they had missed entirely this generation’s fascination with video and our mania for selfies. Thankfully, there was not a single picture taken of her and the boys. It took a lot out of Suzie to tell these stories. Most girls would say they had learned a lesson, but all Suzie learned, she said, was that she preferred group sex to fucking any single boyfriend; feeling vulnerable and helpless made it all the more exciting. She liked having her face squeezed and her bottom smacked. She rated that night down at Sardis as one of the happiest of her entire life. By morning her ass was black and blue. “Disneyland? Fuck, man, this is better than Disneyland!” That’s how I felt about our long drive to Tupelo and then across the bridge to West Memphis, Arkansas. Suzie finally dozed off. I turned up the sound. I understood sweet Lance’s enthusiasm for that cruise up the Mekong. Human beings turn mayhem into glory. Wasn’t that Suzie’s point? How, I couldn’t say. Why? Who the hell knows? What’s love got to do with it? That was Suzie’s second point. I pulled into the parking lot at the famous truck stop in West Memphis. We got us two rooms for less than $75. I like rituals. Truck stops, gas stations, diners, cheap motels: I found the whole thing oddly soothing. Suzie was surprised when I took her to her room and said good night. The ritual was this: walk away. I told her I wanted to leave at dawn. I’d wake her. We needed to get to Hardy by sun up. I was getting a little keyed up and wondered if I’d fall asleep. I did but woke at three. This is when 24-hour diners come in handy. I went over for some eggs and coffee. Yes, it was better back then, far better to be alive. The place reminded me of my youth, better times. They put the groceries on a conveyer belt at the A & P, which carried them far below. They were taken outside to a spot in the parking lot. One didn’t push one’s cart across the gravel back then. It was called civilization, this; what is it called now? The angry man called me a motherfucker when I brushed up against him in the subway. He was angry. Of course, I had never laid eyes on this man ever before. He was a fool. I could scarcely care, I wanted to say, but I said sorry. I’m terribly, terribly sorry, my dear, for touching your tender shoulder. The truck-stop looked a whole lot like 1975. Before then, we weren’t rebellious at all. We obeyed. It was all about Yes, sir, and knowing when to stop. Although there were those among us, like Matt, my best friend, who had a well-cushioned ass. He provoked the flat-topped coach to strike; he grabbed his polished paddle and swept it across Matt’s backside. It made Matt laugh. Back then, we said Ma’am? not What? If we wanted to thrive, we had to submit. There were rules in my day, not chaos. We had no rights. Our parents stood with the school against us. What? was thought rude. It was not permitted. They called it respect, but we all knew it was obedience. The men were just back from the war. They were fighters. They were prepared to knock our teeth out. It was a tough time and we were expected to take our clothes off. No if ands or buts. Get your clothes off, strip. We took showers together in the nude. Modesty was a sign of femininity. No blushing, no hard-ons. Get your ass into the pool. Boys in those days were expected to be men; we were in training to kill. Lot of my friends went to Vietnam. Those were the good old days, and don’t you forget it. I was there. Kids didn’t tell their teachers to fuck off. Not back then. Adults ran the world. Our lockers didn’t lock. Mom and dad left the door wide open. Mother let the car run while she dashed in for milk. Kids stayed in the car. Some people believe in progress. Things are always getting better. I laugh at the thought. We found Hardy. The place was on the Spring River, an A-frame; I figured on being able to find it. I pulled off the road to confer with Suzie. The boy had a gun and I wanted to know what we could expect. I didn’t want to get into any kind of exchange with the lad, one that ended with him or me or both lying in the grass. “Maybe you had better go to the door,” I suggested. “He knows you.” She didn’t seem to like that idea. “It’s critical that we don’t alarm him. I don’t want him to panic and do something stupid.” She was crying. “Did I say something?” Turns out she had never come clean with the boy. He just thought she was a kind lady, maybe a kind white lady, meaning he may not have entirely trust her. “It’s time, Suzie.” I promised to stay in the car. “Who are you?” “Come again?” “How am I going to explain you? Who should I say you are?” “Tell him I’m a cop. Tell him I’m your friend, your I don’t know what. We want him to be cool and we want to protect him. Tell him I’m your bodyguard.” I sat. I watched as she went to the front. She went to the back where I couldn’t see. Suddenly, a little Rav4 shot out from behind the house, worked its way through the trees and took off down the gravel road. There were two people in the car. Was that Suzie at the wheel? I instinctively started the car but then thought better of it and cut the engine. I went instead to check out the house. I didn’t want to see them wrapped around a tree. I’d call the highway patrol and have them stopped at the bridge. I’d call the state police. He was armed and dangerous. She was a damned fool. There was a ton of pot piled sky high in the back room. The windows were boarded up. Everyone slept on the screen porch. There were cots set up. There was no heater so I don’t know what they did in winter. It was strictly a summer cottage. I had some pals I called over in Little Rock. I didn’t want to deal with the locals. In fact, I wanted to take off as soon as possible and did. I gave my DEA pals the address and both license plates, mine and the one on the Rav4. They might send a helicopter. They might send the cavalry. I hit the road. Of course, I didn’t know which way they were headed. Was that Pall Mall in the car? I wasn’t 100% certain. All I knew for sure was the Suzie was in some deep shit. The house on the river belonged to her. Someone had left it to her in her name. I believed it to be Pall Mall’s daddy. I figured she and he had never married. He’d been head of some band. The house went to her and the money was meant for the boy but for some reason he had not been informed. The funds were tied up in probate and the man behind the dough was now a corporation called Away We Go, Inc. I was making good time. When I saw the signs for Graceland, I felt a pang, but I didn’t stop. I just kept going and sighed. Yes, I would have liked to have stopped but I was determined now to get to Oxford before supper. In fact, if I stepped on it, I thought I might be able to make it to Rowen Oak, William Faulkner’s place. I’d only been there once, as a teenager, and I wanted to see it once again. I would soon be in South Haven and from there it’d be long. I was not even a big fan, although I had my favorites. I just liked the idea of seeing his house, maybe more than I liked the idea of reading his books. The one of that group I admired most was his friend, Shelby Foote. Now there was a fine fellow, a real national hero as far as I was concerned. Anyway, I felt like I was going to church as the ladies did when I was a boy on Wednesday nights. By pulling into Rowen Oak, I was that much closer to God. When I got done, I went to have something to eat. I had some jambalaya at the Tallahatchie Café. I didn’t eat stuff like that in Los Angeles, although I would no doubt be able to if I tried. You could get just about anything in LA. Jambalaya was not something I had to have. I enjoyed it but if I had to wait another ten years before I had another serving, it would be fine by me. Mid-way through, my phone started to vibrate and dance around on the table. I took the call outside. I didn’t want to be accused to turning the restaurant into an office. It was bad news. Suzie had been driving, as I suspected, and had wrecked the car south of Tupelo, having tried to outrun the highway patrol. The state police had been notified and one of the officer’s spotted the Toyota with Arkansas plates and gave chase. Suzie was in the hospital with some serious injuries but her male companion, an Afro-African, twenty-six years of age was killed. He was thrown from the car and slapped that asphalt real hard when he landed. It was not Pall Mall. It appeared to be his half-brother LaVone, although I still wasn’t sure who was who on that family tree. May God have mercy on his soul. I would not be allowed to see Suzie until morning, said the nurse, when I called in to check on her. I was also told I would not be allowed to know anything about her condition without a family code. I decided not to bother with that and went back to finish my supper. By the time I sat back down, my jambalaya was cold. I ordered a shrimp po boy to go and picked at the jambalaya while I waited for them to fix it. As soon as I could, I hit the road. It wasn’t Suzie I was worried about. It was Pall Mall. As far as I knew, he was still out there and still had that gun. I decided to get a move on. I also made some calls. I tried Jenny and was real surprised not to have her pick up. Damn. I wondered what that was all about. Next, I called my partners in Jackson to see about security at Suzie’s. The office was closed. I figured on that, so I left a number. It must have been a good twenty minutes before anyone thought to call me back. When I answered, I must have sounded miffed. I was. I wanted to get a report from their fellow out on Willow Cove. “Who is this I’m talking to, anyway?” He didn’t sound too bright. He claimed not to know anything about Willow Cove. I told him I was with P.K.’s firm out of L.A., but he claimed not to know anything about it. I said shit and hung up. As this rate, I’d be there by the time he figured out the difference between his elbow and his smartphone. I called again for Jenny. Nothing. Dang. I didn’t know what to do. I sure as shit did not want a ticket, not in Mississippi, so I slowed down. I couldn’t call the DA until morning, but I wanted something done about that porn camera sticking in that ceiling at the school. I was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on. Was any of that connected to what I found in Hardy? I had no idea. I was driving real careful now. I figured Pall Mall knew someone was after him and until today I suspected it was his half-brothers. Now, it was just the one half-brother, the survivor, the one I guessed was the most dangerous, the greediest, and by now the most desperate. Something told me that was his stash. Suzie knew what was going on but probably didn’t have contact with all three of the boys. She knew Pall Mall was in danger. With probate closing and those funds soon released, someone was counting on Pall Mall being out of the picture. As it stood, LeVone was gone. The third son’s name was Riley. I wondered if that made him a junior. B. B. King’s first name was Riley. Up until today, there was something like $7,000,000 and three boys. Now there were two. My job was to make sure Riley didn’t take it all. By the time I pulled into Pearl it was late. I cut my lights and parked a few houses down. The streetlights weren’t bright. I could see my man’s SUV parked in front of Suzie’s place, but I didn’t see the driver. I also saw that the driver’s door was open. Now I saw Jenny’s car in the drive. The blue Malibu, the one I rented. What the fuck? I saw a light on in the house. Had Pall Mall come back? I thought so. Hoped? Not sure. Where else would he go? And Jenny? I had no idea, unless she got bored (likely) and decided to pay her girlfriend a visit. That was the alibi I was sticking with. I had my pistol out. It felt funny. This was not my thing. Carried it once empty in L.A. and assumed it was a felony to do that. I had a license. Here in the Delta things were different. Someone was always trigger happy. I hung back. Way back. I went to the back yard and found Suzie’s house sitter’s body laid out flat. This was getting serious. There were people inside. Things were beginning to resemble Panic City. There were three distinct body types in that house. I could make them out but not a hell of a lot more. Had any of them been in touch with Suzie? If that was Riley and he knew his brother LeVone was dead, he might very well let Jenny and Pall Mall have it. Panic City. I knew it well. I decided to kick the garbage can. I did not want to call in the Union soldiers. I did not want the cavalry. I didn’t want a hovering helicopter and SWAT. My order of concern was yours truly; next, Jenny, Pall Mall (my client), and finally shit for brains, the master of ceremonies. I figured that he was the next one likely to go on a killing spree. I gave the can a good swift kick and ducked behind the garage. Nothing. Then, the interior lights went out. I crouched down and didn’t move. I needed time to think. My next move was to disable the cars. I didn’t want Riley coming out of that house blasting and racing away with two hostages. There were three cars. I only knew Jenny’s. Riley’s, and Pall Mall’s: I had no idea which was which. After thirty minutes total silence, I played like a crab, scuttled toward to the street, and punctured the tires on the Chevy. The rental company would squeeze me for this, but the last thing I wanted was a chase. Someone might get killed. There was a black Durango parked out front. Process of elimination told me it belonged to Pall Mall or to Riley. I slashed the front tires. There were only three other cars on the street: mine, parked several houses down. Out front, I had to decide between a Nissan Sentra and a Ford Explorer. A young kid like Pall Mall might have a Sentra, why not? That’s the sort of car a teenager might drive. I took my chances and wrecked all four of the tires. I didn’t want to leave myself vulnerable, especially not to a bullet in the gut. I found a blind spot near the neighbor’s house from which to throw something heavy onto the roof. I counted on them hearing it. I wanted Riley to think someone was on the roof. Then, I waited another thirty minutes before I went to cut the water from the main at the property line. At this point, I was just fucking with him. I stood in the back yard now at some distance and, like a marksman, lay on my belly. I took a shot at the back porch light. They were bound to hear the falling glass. I was counting on all involved to keep their heads. Jenny was sensible. I figured Pall Mall and brother Riley wanted to live and would act accordingly. I figured on things turning my way the moment Riley opened the door to let me know who was boss. I would shoot him. I kicked the garbage can again. I hid behind a tree. This time the cans banged and rocked back and forth but didn’t fall over. Still, it aroused the household and I saw a few more lights go on. “We’re in business,” I said to no one in particular which was half the fun. Someone opened the door wide enough to let off a shot. He had no idea where I was at. I didn’t shoot back. I didn’t want to shoot my client. Where was he? I saw another movement and fired. I caught him, whoever it was, or so I thought. “That you, Riley?” “Try that again and … I’ve got your girl.” “You and LeVone make a deal? Why didn’t you include your little brother? Where’s Pall Mall?” “Fuck off.” “Don’t you like him?” “Girl’s next!” “How many you gonna kill, Riley? LeVone’s dead. Your mother might not make it.” “Shut the fuck up.” “Call the hospital, Riley. I’ll give you the number. Here, take my phone.” When he opened the door, although only slightly, I was able to get off a clear shot. This time he fell. He was still alive but was losing blood. “Let me take you to the hospital. Let’s go. Come on, Riley. No hard feelings.” # As we raced to the emergency room, I called to report the body in Suzie’s backyard. Half the police department was waiting for us as we entered the hospital. I had Pall Mall stay in the car. The police were all over me. Suzie filled them in. It took a while but they finally let me go. I promised to return the gun the boy had taken. I took him to visit his mother after putting him up at the Motel 6. We stayed in adjacent rooms, got freshened up, and had some biscuits and gravy in the morning. His mother was in bad shape. Suzie allowed Pall Mall to stay in her house while she recuperated. I replaced the tires on his car so he could drive to school. I decided to let the matter of the mysterious camera in the boys’ locker go as it had nothing to do with Pall Mall and that was all that I had been paid to look into. I discretely advised Pall Mall to keep his shorts on. By the time I was done with all that, Jenny and I figured it was time to get away. We were eager to get reacquainted. We left town. We ditched the Malibu and drove to Alabama for a little visit to a familiar spot on what has become known as the Redneck Riviera. I remembered the area when it was pristine. Never mind. We were eager to disappear. We found a nice spot and hung out for a few days. She was eager to hear all about my adventure with her cousin Suzie, all ears, in fact, until I started in on Suzie’s true confessions. Then, she got real quiet. She said that what I had heard must be Suzie newest version, but it wasn’t what really happened. The fact is that the state police had been involved. Suzie had been a minor and it hadn’t been the sex circus she described. It had in fact been a nightmare. Jenny said she found it interesting that Suzie had tried to make it so entertaining. She wondered if she always told it that way, or had her cousin done that just for me? What she told was true up to a point. The boys had stripped her in the car. She was seen standing topless through the sunroof, waving wildly, screaming at the top of her lungs. She’d also been seen with her ass hanging out the back window, but she’d cut the rest. What happened, Jenny said, was that the teenagers had attracted the attention of a bunch of roughnecks, locals in a pickup who’d been out drinking. They followed the kids in their Mercury sedan down to the lake. They were out to make trouble. They beat up the boys and took Suzie for a ride. By the time they were finished, she couldn’t walk. They buried her up to her neck on the beach and spent the rest of the night drinking and using her mouth as a toilet. They made the boys join in. Altogether there were nine men, seventeen to twenty-six. They picked up a case of beer. Compared to them, her friends had been nice. They had been sweet. These guys weren’t. There was something about her they didn’t like; they wanted to get even. She seemed rich. They wanted to make her feel sorry. They were nasty. They were cruel. The maniacs left her in the sand, her face and hair sticky with sperm. They disappeared with all their clothes, leaving the boys naked with Suzie. The guys were frantic and ready to leave, but Suzie, barely coherent, ran for the lake, desperate to get rid of their filth and the smell of urine. Jenny and I stopped in Buckatunna before heading back. I didn’t have to be at the airport until later and I was determined to take a trip down memory lane. Crazy K’s, Dad’s favorite spot, was not on the way, but what the hell? It had been years. He always ordered the baked potato covered in garbage – that’s what he called it – and I was determined to have the same. They called it a “Train Wreck.” A potato with cheese, chicken, bacon, and chives. Dad loved to tease me, chiefly for the thrill of watching me get upset. He knew I didn’t like being embarrassed in front of strangers and that I was a prude. When the waitress visited the adjoining table and bent over to wipe it, he asked if I wanted to put my hand up her skirt. “Go on. Give her a feel.” My wife Jenny said I was just like my father. When the waitress stopped to take our order, even though I’d told him I wanted orange juice, he pretended not to remember and asked for a glass of pokeberry juice. Then he tried to look mad when she said she didn’t have any. Of course, I knew his tricks. When I started talking about the Beatles, just like all the other kids, my father barely listened. My best friend in the fifth grade did an incredible imitation of Paul McCartney. Finally, Dad said, “Well, anyone who’s read Faulkner is acquainted with Ringo. What I want to know is why that Englishman took Ringo’s name. What’s in it for him? What do you say, son?” I had no idea what he was talking about. Ringo sounded different to me. “What do you mean you aren’t reading Faulkner?” We weren’t reading any Americans. “I think his name is Thomas Hardy, Dad. And Dickens. Shakespeare. That’s about it.” “We’ll see about that.” Dad had that look. Finally, we got up from the table and headed for the car. When I asked him about it later on, all he said was “never you mind.” That was my cue to shut up. The next year – was I in the ninth grade? – Mrs. Moorehouse gave me a funny look. “We’re starting with Sherwood Anderson.” A Monster Marriage Fear and hate are the only feelings Akam has for his dead father while he watches his bride’s father walk her down the aisle. Fear because his father always appears in his dreams like he always threatened. Hate because of who he was alive.
When Akam was six or so he remembered, he had a terrible nightmare. Waking up, body soaked in sweat and teeth chattering, he ran to his parent’s room. The door was locked, and he remembers how bruised his knuckles were, knocking so violently on the door. His dad, seeing him crying, quickly carried him and brought him to their bed. He was quick to announce he had a nightmare, but his father just hugged him while his mother caressed his back. He was locked in his embrace, and after what felt like an episode of Ben 10, he released him. Akam knows all the things he wanted to say stuck in his throat when his father told him, “Don’t be scared of the monster, Akam, your mom and I are here for you.” Akam remembers tapping his mother, who was already asleep. His father drew him closer, “She’s tired. But don’t worry, I’m here for you always. If the monster ever appears again, tell him your dad is going to fight him.” Akam knows he asked sheepishly, ‘How can you, Dad? He’s very big.” “I’m also big. And when I appear in your dreams, I’ll be bigger, stronger and I’ll scare him off.” Akam slept peacefully that night, holding on to his words much more than he was supposed to be holding his bride. His bride is wearing the usual long, fitted white wedding gown and her smile is more than the skies. She squeezes his arm and winks. Today is the day they’ve been waiting for. He forces himself to think of the moment and forget about the monster. The clergyman is coming to the altar, and Akam sizes his suit. He’s wearing a hand-tailored, three-piece, double-breasted suit. His shoes are dazzling new, and his ballpoint pens are aligned on his breast pocket. One might even think he is the groom if his face wasn’t wrinkled. Akam knows he shouldn’t be comparing the clergy’s dress, especially on his wedding day, but the monster always compares him in his sleep. You’ll never be better than I am. In fact, you’ll become exactly as I am. He knows who the monster refers to. And he knows every bit of his story. The story that starts when there was downsizing in his workplace. He trekked home since the car went too, and he hadn’t finished the payment. Akam knows he shouted and screamed and hurled his fist in the air while his mother consoled him. He also knows when he stepped in, his father claimed to be praying. And he prayed for a long time. He always prayed when he woke up, and when he had dressed wearing a plain tie and a transparent file bag in one hand—a look that announced he was job hunting, he muttered a quick prayer. Akam also remembers when he said his graces at the meal table as portions were rationed. Mother always tried to pacify him by giving him her meat, though it was never enough, he still prayed at the end of the meal. He was such a man of prayer that when others had slept off, and Akam still avoided seeing Ben 10 monsters, he heard him praying. The wall was thick between their rooms, yet Akam heard every single word. At times, his prayer woke him before the monsters got to him. It didn’t take long before Mother also prayed with him. And Akam wasn’t surprised, in fact, he wished for it. Only a family that prays together can stay together, his Sunday school teacher said. And since she joined, he thought he could too. He entered their bedroom right after the grace. That was the first time he touched both of them. “Let us pray”, the clergy says. Akam bows his head but doesn’t close his eyes. The clergy taps him and tells him to shut his eyes. Akam obeys and tightly shuts them and hopes he doesn’t pray like the monster. But what happens is worse, he sees the monster. Not in his dreams but within his eye? Is he imagining things? He takes a sneak peek, but only the clergy is in front of him. He closes them again, and the monster is right there. He’s saying something too. Let me teach you how to pray. In fact, you’ll become exactly as good as I am. I’ll make sure you both stay together forever, just like your mom and me. It’s his wedding, but he places his best man in charge, he needs to immediately get to the restroom. At the basin, he washes his face continuously, yet he still feels hot. He needs a drink. He hears the monster laugh. Is he in his head? How did he know he was going for a bottle? Akam mainly remembers the first time he touched them because of the following day. After the monster got dressed, he left home like nothing had ever happened. Akam recollects entering their room and snuggling closer to his mother. He was ten years old, and this was when he was supposed to stop being mama’s boy, but he couldn’t stop crying into her wrapper. The truth was that that was the day of his initiation into adulthood—more like night because the monster came home past midnight with the first of bottles. He prayed as usual; mother prayed along till he touched her. Akam knows he stepped back, he had been hurt the previous night, and like a good child, he wasn’t ready for another beating. The monster made sure he paid for it with his dreams: his nightmares always began with her screams. On some days he was lucky, but mother was never lucky. Not even once. He learnt his first trade before his next birthday, and by thirteen he was paying for his school fees and his mother’s medicals bills. The monster came home less frequently, but the damage was done: mother was not only losing her body, she was losing her mind too. He knows the day he came back from his errand runs, and saw her sprawled on the floor beside their wedding album: the monster smiling with his arms wrapped around his bride’s waist. Mother never looked so pretty. She had to be admitted, and he lost the year’s savings again. When the monster came home, he didn’t care anymore. He demanded his usual ration—when mother started losing her mind and became unfit for work, Akam became the breadwinner and had to foot the monster’s bill—but Akam had nothing. He tried explaining the money went for Mother’s deposit, but he was too late. For a thirteen-year-old boy, he fought hard, blows, kicks, bites and all but it wasn’t enough. The next day, Akam skips checking on his mother and signs up for a gym membership. It’s very profitable because not only does it ease things at home, it helps his several dates before his bride—the girls can’t get enough of his biceps. Puberty hits and his deep voice equally matches the monster. Mother is getting better—working too! And it seems everything is back to the new normal. It seems the monster also notices the mood because he devises new means to frustrate their lives—mother’s though. He brings his affairs home—the curvaceous young ladies, and he makes sure they spend the night while mother sleeps in his room. Akam confronts him the next day, the monster smiles and asks him to pay the prostitute. Mother pays though. The monster is running out of ideas quickly. He’s smoking, doing drugs and even does mercenary jobs from the house. Akam and his mother are unbothered. They have been saving for their new home too. Just a little more and they will be able to rent a tiny but lovely apartment. When they discuss their plans, mother seems unsure, she still has feelings for the monster. “Mannn, where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Akam looks up, it’s his best man a.k.a the closest thing to a friend he’s had in years. Bolaji knows his story, from his father’s drinking to the nightmares that still happened on the bachelor night. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep seeing him everywhere!” “I know. But this is your wedding, and you have to return before people think you aren’t stooling.” Akam laughs. Bolaji has always been a liar. “And that’s why I brought this!” Akam looks at what Bolaji has been hiding behind his back the whole time. A bottle of Cognac. “Now, before you tell me you don’t like drinking, people drink sometimes for good reasons. Like when they can’t handle the pressure.” “Like he couldn’t? You know that Bolaji! You said it yourself. The power of the bottle!” “I know I said it, but this is different, you need something to calm your nerves now!” The monster laughs in Akam’s ear. You need that drink Akam. You know you do. It will help you numb your mind. It will give you courage. It will drown my voice. Akam knows he is baiting him. Yet he still considers it. Go on, Akam, your bride is waiting for you to put the ring. See her amidst family and friends without her groom, her husband-to-be. Without you. “But I’ll become exactly as you are.” Akam mumbles. “It doesn’t matter. Forget about the drink. Let’s go now!” And Bolaji drags him out of the restroom. He enters the hall with smiles and though his bride’s face tenses, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Since the groom is feeling better, we shall now take the vows and exchange rings” the clergy announces. Akam reads his vows first. It’s not very poetic. And it doesn’t help that his bride’s is longer and much nuanced. He had planned to go freestyle, but now that he knows he can’t close his eyes and that his father’s voice haunts him, he is grateful for the emergency note he has written. The ring bearer brings the ring, and the clergy goes on about the significance of the rings. Akam’s mind wanders, and he finds himself strolling down the street as a sixteen-year-old. He and mother had just spent two months in their new apartment. The neighbours are friendly, the air is fresher, and they haven’t heard from the monster. He smiles when he sees a cute girl ogling at him—he still doesn’t have the time for that, but it’s nice to know he’s getting noticed for other things than being the son of a monster. He’s holding breakfast: freshly baked bread, eggs and a treat for mother: watermelon. She’d love them. He is climbing the stairs, and he is whistling too, and you’d be a mad man not to notice his joy. All that snaps as soon as he sees a broken hinge. “Mom, are you there?” “Come in, son. Your mother and I have been waiting for a very long time.” His voice sends chills up his spine. He couldn’t give them more than two months rest. Surprisingly, Akam calms. That’s what happens when you’ve spent almost four years training. He should have killed him as soon as he could, but that would have made him no different. Now, he can, with the help of the law too. He pushes the door open, and the monster is looking worse than ever—if that’s still possible. There is grey pallor all around his face, and his eyeballs have sunk deeper into their sockets. Akam thinks he looks like one of the Ben 10 monsters but can’t quite recall the name. In one hand, he holds a half-empty bottle and with the other, he grips mother’s arm. Immediately Akam flares, and he is running to pounce on him. “Wait, I didn’t touch her. I came to talk. I’ve had a change of heart, and I want us to become a family again.” Akam has started smiling since the move, but the laughter that comes out still shocks him. He looks at his mother’s face, she’s worn out from his grip. “Leave her alone first.” “Then you promise to talk. I’m serious about this.” Akam doesn’t respond. His father continues. “Both of you have been enjoying yourselves. You have nice curtains and a television. Is your bedroom as big as the one in the house?” “You can as well check it out. Bastard!” Almost on cue, they both shout, “Language!” The monster continues. “Do you still want us to be one big happy family? Ready to take your pops in?” His mom says something. “No, mom. No” His dad takes the remaining liquid in a swig and spits. “You don’t want to take me in?” He raises a bottle over his mother’s head. “After everything I’ve done for you two. I walked miles in search of a job. I applied every single where I could,” His voice is breaking, and Akam is almost scared the monster is tearing up. “My friends turned their back on me. But I always returned to this family. I always did. Just as I am now and you don’t want to take me in?” The question hangs over the air for almost a minute. He pulls mother’s hair. “Answer me!” “Now the bride, do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband in the presence of God and the witnesses here to honour, love, cherish and support in health and sickness till death do you part?” “Yes. Yes, I do. Yessss!” Can you see how enthusiastic she is? Are you? You know you are exactly like me, and you know what we do to our wives. Once again, Akam knows. Monsters grab their wives’ hair and threaten their sons. When their sons’ stammer, they raise their empty glass bottle directly over their wives’ head and threaten their sons not to come closer. Their sons break down, torn between both decision, tears strolling down their cheeks freely. The monsters tell them to man up and choose. Mother shakes her head, and that’s when he hears her last scream. The screams that haunt him so frequently every night. How their sons run away and their promises to catch up. His best man whispers in his ear. “Akam, whatever is going through you, shake it off and answer. We are tired of waiting.” His mind plays the film roll while the monster chants. Monster! Monster! Monster! He imagines praying first, then touching and the incessant nightmares drowning in a bottle, the fear of the monster lurking around his bride and the hate when he kills his mother in his presence. “No. I’m a monster.” And he runs out of the hall as fast as his legs can carry him. Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB). The Universe is about to end This is far into the future about two billion years. Planet Earth has been under a lot of stress because of wars and the end of the world. The universe is decaying, and the planets are being affected by changes in temperature. This is affecting planet Earth the most. Human life is deteriorating, and people are in constant panic. This is how it is now on Earth and the other planet being affected greatly is planet Mars. The universe is in ruins. What will happen next? It is clear the universe will end, and humanity will cease to exist on planet Earth. People are hard to understand on Earth. They get worked up over everything but now is the time to do that. The universe is about to end, and the planets may cease to exist soon. This is something that is hard to understand but a reality. The sun is about to cease to exist soon. The universe is about to die out and what will happen next to humanity if a new universe develops. So many events are transpiring now. This is the way it is and will continue. We are so far into the future. The future continues to evolve, and this is what is happening with life. It is amazing how huge this event is. The chaos will continue, and the universe is now disappearing. Human life will eventually disappear from Earth. The universe has become a total vacuum. It is hard to describe this, but planet Earth and the rest of the planets have now disappeared. Life as we know it is gone and it is hard to understand what will occur next. This is the way it is now this far into the future. How will the universe come back and what will change? This is hard to know and understand. This is how it is. Life as we know is gone. Take this all in. What new life will exist again if this does happen? Humanity is gone and what will occur now. No one knows and let the future continue whenever that is one step at a time. A Planet Where Life Forms need to go and existThere are three planets in the solar system that need to escape their home world. These planets are Earth, Mars, and Saturn.
Planet Jupiter is the largest and most expansive planet in the solar system. It is by far the friendliest as well. The people that live on these three planets need to escape and go to Jupiter. Constant wars and destruction have made people come to this planet by the droves. Due to the massive size of Jupiter, these people can live comfortably there. Jupiter is expecting droves of people from these planets to come there and start their lives again on that planet. It is becoming very congested in the solar system now. Due to the length of time in the future, all life forms have space pods to get them to any place in the solar system. These three planets need to get away and live in a safer environment. This must be on the agenda and these life forms need to stick with moving from their respective planets. Jupiter has never had any major wars or disturbances with people. People go to Jupiter to get away and live life in a much more peaceful way. Destruction can happen anywhere. It is just on Earth, Mars, and Saturn wars and destruction are really devastating right now. People need a world to start a life at. This may be a new world or a place where peace dominates the domain. Jupiter is such a planet. People are prepared to go there and adjust to this amazingly large world in our solar system. Humans on planet Earth love confrontation. Unfortunately, this starts battles that leads to wars. Earth has had too much destruction now in its domain. Planet Mars runs into the same category. The world of Mars fights over matter that are small, and this is how minor things turn into wars. The people there need to get to Jupiter as well. Saturn is a planet that is stoic in nature. Wars happen there even more than Earth and Mars. The people there get so depressed and angry. Therefore, they love to go to Jupiter to get away from the badness in the world. There is nothing more to add here. Planets in ruin need a place to start over and try a fresh start at life. Jupiter is the perfect place. I wish the people well who go there and live their lives as the best way they know how. This is how it is and hopefully in the long run great things can happen to everyone involved. |
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