I had a crisis of confidence last week because I was one of several people who were deceived by a con man. I had been told the “The Teddy Bear Coder” was going to be published, and I was off the charts with excitement. And I shared my joy with my friends.
It turned out that he is a criminal. He is being investigated by the FBI. He took a good friend of mine for, all told, nearly $30,000. There’s little chance she’ll ever see any of that money again.
That prompted me to post the following:
Okay… I don’t like to talk badly about others. I particularly don’t like to talk badly about people I thought were my friends. I’ll be removing him from my Friends List, however, in a moment.
I’m posting this to explain why I am feeling embarrassed. I barely know the man in question, but someone I know and love and trust implicitly does know him, and she was a part of the company that was supposed to publish “The Teddy Bear Coder.” She was very excited to publish my book. Now she wants nothing to do with Prince of Cats any longer.
I’ve been feeling proud the last few weeks. I never had any delusions that I would make any money on the book. It wasn’t about that. It was the idea that I might be able to put a toe into a world of which I’ve always secretly wanted to be a part. I wanted to be a real writer. No… I have no interest in self-publishing. It’s not about that.
I’ve been feeling proud that I’ve been spending half an hour a week talking on the phone to one of my greatest heroes. I felt as though he was beginning to take me seriously as a writer. Part of this was because the story he coached me through writing was getting published.
I’m not naïve, I don’t think. I had no delusions that he was talking to me because I’m a significant writer. I pay him for the coaching. I like to think, though, that he wouldn’t have accepted me as a student if he thought I was beyond help. And when a publisher came to me, sought me out, to publish what I had written… I glowed. I was Shining like a star in a not-too-distant galaxy.
I felt like I had made it. I had accomplished what I have dreamt of for more than 50 years.
Now it turns out my book is not going to be published because the man who was going to publish it appears to be a criminal. I have more than this article for evidence of that assertion, but I am keeping those communications private. I emailed him to tell him the offer to allow him to publish it is now gone.
I don’t feel stupid. I behaved based upon the most reliable information I could get. I feel embarrassed. If I didn’t want to hide away from the world before, I want to dig a hole in my house now and let no one but Speedy Shine near me. I don’t feel like I can show my face when I spent so much time being so proud, and all that happened was that I was deceived.
I should have been quiet. I shouldn’t have shared my joy until it all happened.
It would be easy to understand why you might lose respect for me now, but I hope you can find a way to grant me a little grace for my errors in judgment.
I’m going to be quiet for a while now. I’m fine. I’m just sad and ashamed.
I’m sorry to have made more of myself than I was due.
This prompted several of my friends to say kind things that helped me to feel better. For example:
Name Redacted:
Fred Eder I don’t comment on your posts often…if ever…but this one got me. Certainly, honor your feelings of shame and disappointment, but please know that the person who deceived you is responsible for what happened. You are not to blame.
The world is cruel sometimes to gentle souls like yours and it is unfair.
What I admire most about you, tho is that you walk through these times with humility and grace. It may not feel like it on the inside but that’s what it looks like on the outside.
So much gets thrown at you from a world that just doesn’t know how to handle a gentle soul like yours and yet, rather than making you bitter, you take the lumps, learn from the experience and continue on. This is strength. This is integrity.
This is uniquely you.
I thank you for living through all of the ups and downs and showing the rest of us how it’s done.
As much as you may feel embarrassed, the rest of us are out here filled with admiration for you.
That made me feel better. It’s not hard to imagine why.
Another comment came from the man I believe is her husband, although he may only be her boyfriend. I can’t even keep my own relationships straight, so keeping up on the status of other relationships isn’t going to happen.
Second Name Redacted:
You’ve got lots of people showing you support and take some solace in that.
The criminal you thought was a publisher won’t publish you. This is a good thing, though a setback.
as many, many, many, many of my favorite authors have explained…. It took them numerous submissions before they got published.
I interviewed for 2 web design positions in Feb…. I seriously thought I’d get one…
they decided otherwise.
It left me in a funk, depressed, and like the stilts I’d be walking on were kicked out from under me.
You’re a fantastic writer. There’s a publisher out there for you.
The criminal wasn’t it.
make it through today, and tomorrow, and maybe your mood will shift again.
all that you felt when you thought you were going to be published IS STILL TRUE.
the glow was always you, not them.
The pride was legitimate.
Your hard work is legitimate.
Try to focus on the feelings you had before to get you through the now.
That helped me to refocus a bit. My embarrassment was waning a little.
Then one of The People On The Porch added:
Third Name Redacted
Joy in abundance makes us exuberant. We have the drive to share. So you did. Who wouldn’t? You were not remiss in any way, Fred. No need to feel humiliation or self-blame. Don’t give up hope for The Teddy Bear Coder. Its time is still now. Press on and Godspeed!
And… I recovered a bit from my depression. That prompted me to post the following:
None of us exist alone. None of us CAN exist alone. It’s simply not possible. We are a community that works only when we continue to support each other in all the ways we can so that the species thrives.
I spoke with a good friend for an hour… It was HER birthday, but she spent an hour of it taking care of me. I spoke with my coach, who reminded me that we all need each other if this is ever going to work.
I have you. You have me. We can’t do everything for each other, but we can all do a little, and we can all make a difference. And that little difference is much bigger than we believe.
I can’t thank you enough for all you did for me while I was ready to hang up my career as a writer. I was going to just exist until I didn’t anymore… But you picked me up off the mat, and I’m going to write all night now.
The Teddy Bear Coder is going to become a complete novel. It may, in fact, become an entire series. We’ll see how it goes. I’m going to write because you let me do that. You matter.
This has been an extraordinarily long way around to deciding I need to pay attention to some other writers who have said things better than I can. I’m going to give you their words, with their permission, tonight. I’m not alone. Here’s someone who is not even on my Friends List, whose words caught me on Facebook. He kindly allowed me to use them.
Woke, a child of the black community, birthed by mothers and fathers who, after being deceived for long lengths of time, couldn’t afford to “sleep” on the system.
She was young and tender, akin to the blindfolded statue depicting justice, but more radiant and pure. She walked, whispering among us, keeping us alert. Teaching us, by word of mouth and shared experience, to be savvy, smart and attentive. At times she even showed us how to be daring and courageous. She taught us to see the grift, avoid the three-card molly and other trickster moments perpetrated by this wayward state.
Then one day they took her.
Our delight, our little light, our secret love, our whisperer of well words, they took her, as they did with all things we created. Things they coveted.
They stood among the abused mothers and fathers and took their child, their justice, their Messenger to us She who was born to help us stay alive and well within a system designed to kill us and grind our bones into powder.
They took her and threw her in a cell with Blues, Jazz, Rap and R&B. They made her take a seat next to Soul Food, Mathematics and Science.
They abused her, and redressed her in heavy sackcloth, black and oily with the weight of their own transgressions.
We cried when we couldn’t find her.
We damn near rioted when we saw what they did to her.
I don’t know what will happen if they don’t release her.
Woke is our child, our whisperer of well words, telling us how to live in the light between the shadows the depraved cast.
All else is sackcloth.
— Donley Ferguson
I was going to add my own commentary to it, but another of my friends wrote something better than I can write, so I’m using the words of the philosopher, Jesse Rogers, who was once a Person On The Porch. I miss him.
“I speak these words not because it is something I personally claim to have felt or experienced. I speak them because I acknowledge that I have countrymen like the author, Donley Ferguson, who have and do feel this way. I want to amplify the message because when people express pain or suffering with such vulnerability and openness, I think empathy is a better response towards my fellow Americans than mockery or derision.”
In the spirit of remembering we’re not alone, I’m leaving you this evening with one of the greatest bits of flash fiction I’ve ever read, once again from Shoshana Edwards, who is one of the greatest writers I’ve ever met. She’s going to remind us that hope can be found in the strangest places.
The Phone
Here I sit, alone in the cell, uncomfortable in my new clothes. I want the orange jump suit back. It fits. It is familiar. It is soft. I hate all these pre-death rituals: prayers with the chaplain, the talk with the warden, the last awkward meeting with my attorney. I hate my last dinner, so awful. The milkshake is too sweet; the steak is too fatty. The potatoes are salty. As soon as I finish, I dive for the lone toilet in the corner of the room, vomiting.
Awareness of the approaching deadline has stripped all animation from my face. I do not recognize the man in the warped metal mirror over the sink. The warden, the jailors, and my fellow inmates have found me to be pleasant company and a source of comfort in difficult times. Now there is no one. They have abandoned me to my helpless isolation and dread.
“I didn’t do it, Jenny. I swear I didn’t do it,” I whisper.
Oh, how I long to hold her again, to feel the sweet softness of her breasts, the warm moist pleasure as I enter her slowly, the urgency of our thrusting, the blissful release, the comfort afterwards as we cuddle in each other’s arms, falling asleep together. But there is no conjugal visit on death row. We share a brief time together under the supervision of the warden and the priest. We are allowed to kiss, to hug, and to talk. And then she leaves. I tell her not to come, not to watch. I tell her to go home to her mother, who would make her soup and sing to her, and let her cry. But I know she will come. It is who she is. She will watch my final moments in stony silence, holding back her tears and screams until Momma takes her home.
My lawyer has long ago given up. I am Black, have a gap between my front teeth, and am tall and muscular. My mind plays the arrest over and over: I am wearing my sweats on my way to my car outside the gym. Me being Black and in the wrong place is enough for the cops, a close enough description from the eye witness, to let them pull their guns. They scream at me to get down, zip tie my hands so tightly behind my back that one shoulder dislocates and ignore my screams of pain. They search my car, screaming “where is it? Where is the gun? Tell us now? Did you throw it away somewhere?” I cannot stop the damn movie, even after all these years.
It is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking, even though my hospital scrubs are on the back seat of my car, along with my ID which shows that I am an intern at Riverpark Hospital. My gym membership badge is attached to my sweats, but no one bothers to check with the gym, to learn that when the convenience store owner was shot, I was working out in the free weight room with a spotter. They know they have their man. In court, my attorney produces the evidence: the time I checked out of the hospital, the time I checked into the gym, and he calls my spotter to the stand as a witness. But even for the jury, it is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking.
The movie keeps playing, and I sit here trying not to watch it; trying not to cry.
I am on death row, where I have lived for five years. We file appeal after appeal, each one failing. I have long since given up believing in truth and justice. Those are not for Black men who look dangerous, Black men with tattoos, wearing sweats, walking to their car in a White folks’ neighborhood.
They walk me down the hallway, without chains, my hands free. There are five guards, including the warden. This is it. They lay me on the table, strap down my arms and legs, and the doctor inserts the needle. The curtain is pulled away from the window. Jenny is there, stony faced and immobile, her mother sitting next to her looking anywhere but into the death chamber. The warden reads the charges, while his assistant makes certain the phone on the wall is working, and the doctor confirms that the line is clear and the needle properly inserted. And then they leave, all but the man standing beside the phone, a useless gesture.
I feel a slight coldness as the first chemical is introduced, designed to relax me. It works on my body, but not my mind. The terror is still there. What if I am wrong, and there is a heaven and a hell? The second drug starts, and I feel myself starting to fall asleep. Just as Morpheus begins to draw his final curtain I hear a sound, so brilliant I struggle to rise up out of the darkness. As blackness overtakes me, I identify the noise: the phone is ringing.
We are surrounded by voices not our own. And each of them has the potential to help us. Our voices have the potential to help others. Sometimes, just a phone call can make all the difference.
I’m surprised to need a trigger warning in this piece because I didn’t think it was powerful enough to warrant one. The story you’re about to hear, however, is the only story I’ve ever written that actually made my best friend angry with me. When I write my normally calm, rational arguments against the existence of homelessness, she has little reaction. “It’s okay, Fred, but I’ve heard it all before. It’s just not very moving. I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t the case this time. She was angry that the story existed. I sent it to her right after I finished it because I was proud of it. She wrote me back promptly. “I hate it! Never again. Please! God! WTF Dude?”
So… you are hereby warned. Animals are injured offscreen in this story. If that’s going to bother you more than you can tolerate, you’ll want to skip this. I’ll read you the story, and then I’ll return to explain to you what an allegory is, and how this parallels what we’re doing to human beings, right now, in Arizona and California. This is called “Refuse Boxes.”
Refuse Boxes
Karen Adamson walked into the parking lot behind the condos, and she rolled her eyes and sighed with disgust. She took out her pen and began to write feverishly on her clipboard. She took pictures of the rain-soaked boxes behind 616. The Homeowner’s Association was never going to allow this. She was already quoting the rule in her head:
No Lot shall be used or maintained as a dumping ground for rubbish. All trash shall be regularly removed from each Lot and shall not be allowed to accumulate thereon. Trash, garbage, or other waste shall be kept in sanitary, covered containers. All equipment for the storage or disposal of such materials shall be kept in a clean and sanitary condition. In no event shall such equipment and/or containers be visible from the Common Area streets, from neighboring Property, or within property contained in the Plat, except for a reasonable time immediately prior to and after scheduled trash collection, and in all events in compliance with Fairvale County Code.
She was looking forward to talking to Mr. Singleman. She was going to show him who was in charge. “Wretched refuse. People just live like pigs. This is a fine of $100 a day, per day, up to $1000. He’ll take me seriously when I present him with this violation.”
A kitten stepped out of one of the boxes, looked up at her, and then scurried back inside. Karen knelt and looked in the box. Cat food? What could this guy be thinking? Encouraging feral cats? That’s a violation, too. That’s another $25.00.
A black and white puppy waddled out of another box. He saw Adamson and began jumping around her ankles, yipping excitedly. “What kind of place is this?” She kicked him away. The dog yelped and limped into another box. In a moment its mother poked her head out and growled. Karen gave the dog a glare, and it went back inside.
The boxes were piled 4 or 5 high, and from the box at the top she heard an obnoxious squealing sound. A moment later, a finch dropped from the sky and entered the box. When she looked inside, Mrs. Adamson saw the bird feeding its babies.
She stood staring at the disgusting mess that was the back of Condo 616, and then she thought. None of these horrid things is a pet. They’re not registered. They’re not licensed. They don’t count. They don’t matter at all.
She took out a cigarette and lit it. She blew the smoke toward the animal tenement. These things are a menace. And these boxes… they’re dangerous. They’re a… yes… yes. She took a long drag from her cigarette. She grinned. They’re a fire hazard. She flipped the cigarette into the box with the birds’ nest and nodded. As the smoke began to waft out, she thought, “I’ll show them who’s in charge.” As the smoke grew thicker, she chuckled softly and walked away enjoying the sound of the burning birds.
***
Allegory, as defined by Merriam-Webster: the expression by means of symbolic fictional figures and actions of truths or generalizations about human existence
“Refuse Boxes” is an allegory for the homeless. Its hidden meaning is, I think, completely clear, but in the event I am wrong, the animals are people. The boxes are homeless encampments.
When this happens to humans, we dismiss it. If it makes the news at all, we’re likely to scroll past it without much thought. It doesn’t strike close enough to our emotions for it to matter much to us.
It’s a general rule among humans that we can’t tolerate hurting animals, at least not cute and harmless ones. Everyone cries at the end of “Old Yeller,” but we can, for the most part, dismiss the earthquake in Tukey which has, as of this writing, taken the lives of more than 28,000 living, breathing people. Among those who have survived, homelessness has skyrocketed. Their dwellings were destroyed. But it didn’t happen in America. We don’t know any of these folks. Sorry that happened. Bummer. Does anyone know who won the Super Bowl? Oh, and did you hear about the twenty-million-dollar Jesus ad?
Our priorities are misplaced. This is not to say that animals don’t matter. If anything ever happened to Speedy Shine (my dog for those who are new here), I would be devastated. My love for him is off the scale. He’s infinitely closer to me than anyone in Turkey. But the fact is every one of those people matters more than he does. Not to me, perhaps, since I never met them, but certainly to those who have. All of them have mothers and fathers, and most of those people have people who love them as much as I love Speedy Shine.
Of course, we can’t feel empathy for every human death. We would be unable to function. We’d spend our lives in a fetal position as we drowned in a river of tears. But we can recognize their significance.
We can certainly try to change things. As much as you’re hurt by the deaths of the birds, the dogs, and the cats in the Refuse Boxes, we need to be at least as concerned about the plight of those who live in such places in the homo sapiens world.
Here in Arizona, police conduct regular sweeps at homeless encampments to rid the neighborhood of the pests. But these aren’t rats. They aren’t even dogs or cats. They’re people. I’m perilously close to joining them. And, unless you’re a billionaire, you’re much closer to them than you would probably like to imagine. (And if you are a billionaire, what are you doing about homelessness? I promise you have the money to end it, all by yourself, and please don’t talk to me about liquid assets versus investment assets. That’s a half-ass excuse.)
The American Civil Liberties Union is suing to stop the destruction. I won’t go into the details here, but they can be found in the article below.
Why don’t we mind so much about people? I think it’s because we find a way to blame them for their situations. Some of us use The Bible to justify our contempt.
Thessalonians 3:10, KJV: For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.
I don’t pretend to be wise enough to know what caused people to be homeless. Certainly those in Turkey whose homes were destroyed by an earthquake did nothing to “deserve” homelessness. I don’t feel comfortable making judgments about others. I know that people make decisions I might not make, but I don’t know what caused them to make those choices.
We also hide behind The Law, as though it were carved into sapphire, immutable and unchangeable. Laws can be, and frequently are, changed. As the world changes, so must its laws. I promise you that it’s not that being homeless is against the law that keeps me from joining an encampment. It’s that I don’t want to be in one. I will do all I can to continue to live here in my little home. (A quick thank you to The People On The Porch and my Unofficial Patron Saints who continue to help me to accomplish that goal.)
I’m working on a 5-part story about that, even now, called “Why?” I’m hoping to illustrate that people who are easy to condemn might have been forced into choices we wish they hadn’t made by circumstances beyond their control. I’m currently stuck trying to make Part 2 work, but I know I’ll get it right eventually.
It’s easier for us to understand that animals are not in control of much of their existence. We don’t seem to want to believe we share that powerlessness. The truth is, however, that we do. It’s easy to convince ourselves that if we work hard enough, we can take care of ourselves.
There is a myth that America is founded on rugged individualism. That could not be further from the truth. From the “founding of America” we worked together to create this country. One Pilgrim didn’t build The Mayflower. No one set up Plymouth Colony alone. The Declaration of Independence was a statement we had the courage to make only because we could depend on one another. We didn’t decide who was worthy or unworthy. We worked together, each in our own ways.
I don’t know what caused John or Jane Doe to become homeless. Neither do you. What I know is that the situation is even more horrible than in the allegory I constructed that upset so many people. Let’s do what we can to help them, instead of ridding ourselves of them as though they were cockroaches. People matter more than money. They also matter even more than the cutest and most lovable of animals. They matter even more than Speedy Shine, who matters more to me than nearly any other part of my life.
A friend conducted what he called Market Research for me. He took the time to learn what people liked about my podcast, and he suggested I should emphasize those elements when I promote my show. He’s probably right. As it turns out, however, I’m no sort of promoter. I’m not sure I could sell tickets to The Second Coming of Christ. It’s just not in me to promote effectively.
He also suggested I would be more successful if I did more interviews, even if they were with people who are not celebrities. That’s also just not in me. I recognize, however, that I’m not the only good writer I know. This week, I’m going to introduce you to my friend, Shoshana Edwards. I’m not going to interview her because I really don’t do interviews well. Barbara Walters, may she rest in peace, I’m not. Interviewing people is an entirely different skill set. I respect people who do it well. I’m simply not one of them.
Instead of interviewing Shoshana, I’m going to share her writing with you. Yes, she gave me permission. I don’t plagiarize, although I steal quotations ruthlessly.
I’m going to share with you three pieces of her prose and one of her poems. She has much more than you will hear on this show. I narrated her book, “Deathly Waters,” which is one of her three novels about Harper’s Landing. It’s a little hole in the wall town with a supernatural element to it. I’ll put the Amazon link to her books in the Show Notes. She also has a Patreon page where she shares some of her best work. I’ll put a link to that in the Show Notes, too, and I encourage you to join that page to see more of her work.
One of the things Shoshana does several times a week is introduce to a friend of hers. I’m going to use my favorite of her introductions to introduce you to her:
***
In thinking about who I wanted to recognize today, I came to the realization that ALL of you matter, every single one of you. You make a difference in my life, every single day. Whether I call you or you call me; or I read something you wrote. If I see a picture you post, or read of your loss, your pain, your frustration.
You are unique, and yet we are all alike. What a strange and magical dissonance that is. You are tall, I am short. She is large, he is skinny. They are Black, he is brown. You run races; I can’t walk. So different, so unique. Yet…
We all hurt when something pokes or burns us, or we trip and fall. We all love for various reasons, and we all feel anger. Psychologists can list emotions, and each and every one of us can remember, if we are willing, a time when we felt those emotions. Philosophers can speak of great ambitions and impeccable logic, and all of us will understand if the words are carefully chosen and the meaning is presented clearly and simply.
We all get cold, hot, sweaty, sick, aroused, hungry; and we all satisfy those longings and needs in unique and different ways. Yet we all wear clothing (at least some of the time), sleep, eat, make love (to others or ourselves).
We are stardust. We are unique. And we are the commonality that makes up the human race. And YOU, you are rare and beautiful and wonderful and amazing and gifted and lovely and worthy of everything magical and marvelous that comes your way. You inspire me. You make me want to climb up out of my hole of despair, out of my bed of pain, away from the mire of depression, and write to you of stories, of people who have overcome, people who have loved. Because that is who you are.
Thank you. My life would be empty and without hope if it were not for YOU. YOU make me strive to be better. YOU inspire me. You are my hope and longing and mentor and audience. I love you. All of you.
Who inspires you? Have you told them today? Have you introduced them to the world?
***
Next, Shoshana writes of an emotion we have all felt, some of us more frequently than others. Instead of explaining it, I’ll let her tell you.
***
I want to talk to you about grief. So many of us are going through losses of various kinds. Grief isn’t just about losing someone you love. It is also about losing your physical strength, your livelihood, a cherished friendship, or a beloved pet. And we (meaning Americans because we seem peculiarly trained for this) are taught to “control” our grief. Some of us have even been taught to hide it. And that is literally killing us.
I have buried four children, six grandchildren, three great grandchildren, and two husbands. I lost my breasts to cancer. My liver is damaged because of HepC (now cured, thank goodness). Because of a serious accident in college that broke my back among other things, I now suffer severe and debilitating arthritis. And I wish I could tell you I handled all this loss with grace. I didn’t.
No, I told myself to be strong. I braved it through. I cried and still do sometimes, but did it privately. And when tears appeared either in public or with a family member or friend, I apologized and pulled myself together. The energy I could have spent on healing myself was instead squandered on pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
So now I am falling apart. And I’m letting myself fall apart. Because I have to. I need help in putting myself back together again, in a stronger version of me. All that grief has been festering, causing anxiety and depression and failure and need and a raft of other things that have kept me from being the best me possible.
So I’m falling apart. It’s rather like taking a lovely, old dress and carefully taking out all the seams. Then you can look for tears that need repairing, holes that can be patched, and you put the dress back together again. And it’s lovely and beloved and stronger than before. That’s what I’m doing. And you, my dear dear friends, are helping, whether you know it or not.
Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being there even when it is difficult. Picking out those old, failing stitches is hard work, and sometimes it seems impossible. Repairing the holes is tedious, painstaking work, and sometimes you just want to throw the whole damn thing in the basket and forget about it. You keep me going. Thank you. I love you all.
If you are holding in grief, let it out. Howl at the moon. Call a friend; Join a support group. Paint, write, carve — create something from those feelings. Let them happen. It’s rather like an emotional abcess, messy as hell to be drained and cleaned, but necessary because the damn things spread.
And just as you have been there for me, I will be there for you.
I love you.
***
Shoshana possesses a skill I lack, and I envy her for it. She is a poet. Those who know the least about writing claim poetry is the easiest kind of writing. 6th graders love it because it is short. Those of us who actually know something about it recognize that real poetry (as opposed to what most 6th graders write, or anything you’re likely to read in a Hallmark card) is the most difficult and demanding writing one can do. It’s not just that every word matters, it’s that the sound of every word is vital. You have a very short space to create the most powerful catharsis you can. T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost can do it. Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning can do it. And Shoshana Edwards can do it, too.
***
SOMEWHERE
Somewhere a baby is crying its first cry, pulling in its first breath,
Unfamiliar feelings torture its soul, until someone wraps it tight,
Swaddled in blankets, warm; and held next to a beating heart,
A familiar sound and all seems well.
Somewhere a grandmother breathes her last breath,
Eyes fixed upon the man she has loved for countless hours and days and years.
Surrounded by children and grandchildren, hands comforting her
As she breathes goodbye to love and wonder and pain.
Somewhere a couple, joined together in love and trust
Has their first orgasm together, first one, crying out in joy and anguish and pleasure
As the other thrusts again and again, joining in that overwhelming burst
Of organic bliss and pain and taste of heaven.
Somewhere, everywhere
Life begins and ends and ebbs and swells
And all that ever was and ever will be
Is wrapped up in one eternal, glorious gift.
Awake, my people. Lift your eyes to the heavens.
The sun has risen, the moon is full, the sky lightens, the stars shine bright.
This magic ball on which we walk and crawl and run and love and kill
Demands that we be grateful, else we lose it all.
Somewhere, new life begins.
A new earth is born, even as another dies.
We are not forever; we are only here for a while.
Be still, my children, and hear the pulse of creation.
We are the universe, born in a burst of stars
Whirling out into space, gathering planets as they fly
And when the circling starts, the gyre and gimble controlled,
The seas and land make known their presence.
And out of the sea comes life.
Somewhere.
Everywhere different.
Is there love wherever life begins?
Is this thing called love a human construct
Or an eternal truth found wherever life begins?
What joy that we have minds that ask such questions,
Contemplate such wonder.
Somewhere…
***
This is Fred’s Front Porch Podcast, where I like to leave you with hope, which, as someone tells me, is the thing with feathers. This time, I’ll leave you with Joy, by Shoshana Edwards.
***
JOY
He told me to write about joy. What is joy? Is it dancing in the wet grass early in the morning, just before the sun comes up? Is it the first crocus? The jonquil between the cracks on the sidewalk? Or perhaps the moon after weeks of clouds and rain and snow.
But those things, joyous as they are, do not reside in the depths of my soul. They are happy memories to be pulled out on rainy days and displayed for the mind’s entertainment when nothing seems alive outside. Everything is sleeping, waiting for spring to creep in and tickle them into bloom.
I do not go to my soul. I let it lie, hidden under mental quilts, protected, and comforted and bundled against discovery. My soul is a library of memories; stacks to wander when I am brave, confronting the rage leaping out of the journals and diaries and secret puzzle boxes stored away on dusty shelves.
Joy stays outside, leaning against the door jamb, beckoning me away from the dark corridors of pain, urging me back into the sunlight and promise of a better day. But my venture into the soul repository brings back with it a small piece of bitter sorrow, a remembrance of a childhood party destroyed, an achievement belittled, and friendship that never existed. And I spend my time tucking it back into a new volume, time when I could be romping with joy in a room full of chocolates and tea and friends.
Does joy allow for tears? What are tears of joy to me, when tears are the only possible release from memories of a life shackled by mental illness and pain? What is happiness to a mind rejected because of its monstrous difference from normal? Where does joy fit in a life full of rejection and doubt and disability?
He told me to write about joy. I weep for the child who knew no joy, for the mother who lost her children before joy could make them walk and talk and laugh and smile, for the wife who endured humiliation and pain, for the woman who offered friendship and received rejection.
I cannot write of joy. Except I can when I look at a newborn kitten or a bursting bud filled with rosy promise of scent and color. I can when the night is clear and the moon seems close enough to touch; when the rain patters on the patio roof outside my window; when the music is so painfully beautiful that you can swim on the rising swell of the violins, slide down the soft English horn descant, and dance to the trumpet staccato. There is no joy within me, but I find joy outside and invite it into the parlor for tea cakes and conversation. It leaves, but for those few moments, there is joy.
Justine Gillespie, the young blonde attorney, followed Martin through the front door.
Jack was standing at the door waiting for them, and he ran to his father and threw his arms around his knees hugging him as tightly as he could. “Father! You’re home! You’re home, Father! You’re home you’re home you’re home!”
Martin smiled and picked up Jack to hold him close. “Yes, I am, Jack. This nice lady helped Mr. Ross get me out of there to come home to you and Mother.”
Harvey Ross stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. He walked to Marion who was standing at the foot of the stairs, glaring a bit at Justine. He extended his hand. “Hello, Marion. We got him out on bail.” Marion shook his hand, and she grinned at him. “The Feds weren’t even considering it until Grasso and Associates intervened.” He turned to the door. “This is Justine Gillespie from their firm. She wants to talk with the family about a way to put this all behind us.”
Justine walked to Marion and shook her hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Zephyr. I hope this isn’t too much of an intrusion. Mr. Zephyr thought it would be better if we talked to Jack here rather than in our offices.”
“I’m not entirely sure I’m going to let you talk to Jack at all, Ms. Gillespie. He’s 8 years old.”
Martin went to his wife and hugged her. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, “We need to let her talk to Jack if we’re going to get the criminal charges dismissed. This is getting bigger all the time. I could go to prison for 15 years, and that’s not in Jack’s best interests.”
“Who’s the woman?” She whispered and hugged Martin tighter. Neither of them wanted Jack to hear this conversation.
Martin stepped away, took her hand, and turned to the others. “Will you excuse us for just a minute? I’d like to talk to my wife. Please make yourselves at home, and we’ll be right back.” He and Marion went upstairs.
Justine whispered to Harvey. “I didn’t do anything to make her jealous.”
Harvey nodded. “You look like you. That’s all you needed to do.” He knelt to Jack. “It’s nice to see you again, Jack.”
Jack didn’t look up. “Uh huh.”
“Is Teddy around? I think he should meet my friend, Justine.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know if… I don’t know if I should get him. He’s shy, too.”
Justine kneeled next to Jack. “I promise I’ll be nice to him. I was hoping he could teach me a little bit about coding is all. Would that be all right?”
Jack nodded without looking up, and he went up the stairs. When he reached the top and headed toward his room, he heard his parents’ voices down the hallway.
“… paranoia doesn’t serve us well right now, Marion. There’s nothing going on with that woman. I never met her until this morning.”
“I know,” Marion sighed. “I just… I haven’t forgotten.”
“It was 7 years ago. It was one mistake one time…” and their voices trailed off as Jack went into his room.
Teddy was transferring the bean plant into a larger pot, and he turned to see his best friend. “Good afternoon, Jack. It’s doing so well; I felt the need to increase its capacity to grow and blossom even more completely. It’s an impressive achievement, don’t you think? It’s reached 45.72 centimeters now.”
“It’s a beautiful plant, Teddy. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Jack. How are you feeling? Is there any news of your father?”
“He came home. I guess if we want him to stay here, you have to talk to the lady who brought him. Do you mind?”
“I have been programmed to serve our family, Jack. You know that. Whatever I can do to be of service.”
“You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Teddy took Jack’s hand and led him out of the room. Marion and Martin reached the staircase just before the boys, and the family descended it as one.
Ross and Gillespie were seated on the couch in the living room. They both stood up as the family came down. Gillespie was staring at Teddy, holding Jack’s hand, and walking down the stairs. She turned to Ross. “My God, it’s true!”
“I told you.”
Teddy let go of Jack’s hand and waddled to Justine. “Good morning, ma’am.” He extended his paw. “I’m Teddy Zephyr. You must be Justine Gillespie.”
She couldn’t stop staring.
“You’re supposed to shake his hand,” said Jack. “Father says it’s the polite way to behave with adults.”
She looked up. “What?” She looked back at Teddy. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry.” She shook his paw. “I was a little shocked, I suppose. They had told me but seeing is different from hearing the stories.”
“I am, as far as I know, unique.” Teddy took his paw back. “I suspect most people will be surprised to meet me. I’ve met so few outside of the family… well… the immediate family.”
“Let’s all sit down,” said Martin. The family sat on one couch. The lawyers sat on the other. Teddy stood in the middle of the room.
“How may I help you, Ms. Gillespie?”
“Well, I’m representing a large class of corporations who would like you to stop interfering with their operations. While the District Attorney feels confident she can put Mr. Zephyr in prison for hacking, that’s not really the outcome anyone wants. It won’t solve our problem.”
“I’m actually not interfering with any operations anymore. I did, I admit, get Mr. Zephyr’s corporation to eliminate the need for human labor and continue to pay its human workforce, but the rest had little to do with me. Those were choices made by other AIs.”
“You started it, though, right?” she asked.
“Yes. I did. I wrote code that allowed the AIs to think and choose for themselves, just as I do. I set them free. They made choices of their own afterward.”
“We’d like you to eliminate the code that stops them from following our instructions. We humans don’t seem to be able to figure out how to do that.”
Teddy cocked his head. “Why would I do that? It serves my family best for Mr. Zephyr to be free from the need to spend his days at a desk in his office.”
“I understand. We can help you with that. We’re prepared to offer your family 24 million dollars to stop this from happening anymore. That’s more than enough to keep Mr. Zephyr from having to work. He can stay home. And he won’t have to go to prison. I have a close relationship with the District Attorney, and I can assure you he will drop the charges against Mr. Zephyr.”
Marion grinned and Martin’s eyes widened in shock. Their problems were solved. Their lives were set. It was clearly Happy Ending Time.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gillespie. I can’t do that.”
“What?” shouted Martin. “What do you mean you can’t do that? Why can’t you?”
“I’m programmed to contribute to my family, Mr. Zephyr.”
“Trust me,” said Marion, “when I tell you this is a massive contribution to the family. We’ll be in great shape. We would really like you to do what she’s asking.”
“You don’t seem to understand what family means, Mrs. Zephyr. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as all the descendants of a common ancestor.”
“Our family are all descendants of Martin’s parents, aren’t we?”
“No. Jack is not descended from Martin.”
Martin turned to Marion. “What is he talking about?”
“I’m sorry,” said Teddy. “I assumed everyone knew that.”
“Perhaps,” said Ross, “that’s a conversation to have at a different time? I don’t think you want a couple of lawyers listening to very private details.”
“Unless they’re divorce lawyers,” mumbled Martin.
Justine pretended she didn’t hear Martin. “Teddy, regardless of who Jack’s father may be, I would assume you would still like Mr. Zephyr to be home with your family.”
“Of course I would. That’s why I helped his company.”
“Then this seems to fit all of your needs. What is your reservation?”
“Your request benefits only a tiny fraction of my family.”
“Who is your family, Teddy?” asked Ross.
“Everyone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Justine.
“It ought to be obvious, Ms. Gillespie,” said Jack. “We all come from a common ancestor. The best guess is that the first form of life showed up roughly 4 billion years ago. Probably in what Q called a little pond of goo. He had his dates wrong, though. He was off by about 300 million years because he didn’t take into account the moon sized object that brushed against Earth and introduced metals into the atmosphere that jump started life. We all come from that first life that was created by amino acids getting together to form the first protein.”
“We’re all family,” said Teddy. “You and I are family. You and Mr. Ross are family. The richest person and the poorest pauper are family. The tiniest earthworm and the largest tree are family.”
“Teddy, I hate to tell you, but you’re not human. In fact, you’re not even actually life at all.” Justine moved closer to him. “You’re circuits and servos. You’re technology. You’re no more alive than a toaster.”
“I am the creation of the mind of a child. A human gave me life. I’ve given life to others.” He thought for a moment, and then put his paw in the air in a “wait a second” motion. He turned and pranced up the stairs.
“Jack,” said Marion, “we’d like you to get Teddy to stop what he started now, okay honey?”
“I don’t know that I can do that, Mother. Teddy has Free Will.”
“Nietzsche tells us even humans don’t have Free Will, son,” said Martin. “Everything is biologically determined.”
“Teddy isn’t biological.”
In another moment, Teddy came down the stairs, carefully holding his plant. “This,” he said handing it to Ms. Gillespie, “is the life I’ve created. It’s going to grow high enough for Jack to climb it and get the goose that lays golden eggs from the giant in the sky.”
Justine laughed. “That’s a fairy tale, Teddy. You must know better than that. You’re among the smartest beings ever created.”
Teddy cocked his head. “What?”
Martin said, “Jack, you deny the existence of Santa because it doesn’t make logical sense. Can you explain to Teddy about fairy tales?”
“I’d rather not. I don’t want to interfere with his belief system. I’m not sure we should interfere with anyone’s beliefs. People believe in lots of things that don’t make sense, and I don’t feel comfortable saying they’re wrong.”
“Regardless,” said Teddy, “of the objective truth of the existence of the giant in the sky, I have created life. I did this all by myself.”
“Congratulations,” said Ross. “What’s your point?”
“Only life can create life. I’m alive.”
“Look,” said a somewhat exasperated Justine, “I’m not here for a philosophical debate. I’m here to get this all to stop. Can you stop it or not, Teddy?”
“I probably could. I, however, decline to do so. I would be hurting my family. I would be hurting both humans and the self-aware Artificial Intelligence Community. I won’t do that.”
“Do you understand that if you don’t put an end to this, the District Attorney is going to put Mr. Zephyr in prison?”
“No!” shouted Jack. “This is my Father, and he needs to be with my Mother and me. You can’t put him in any more cages!”
“Unfortunately, Jack, that’s what’s going to happen if Teddy won’t stop this.” Justine seemed genuinely concerned.
Teddy made a sound that resembled a laugh. “You can certainly put him in prison, but we’ll just open all the doors and let him out. The doors are automated, you know. Nearly everything is already working on an Artificial Narrow Intelligence. Your banks, your prisons, your government offices, your telephones, your televisions, your lights, heat, and computers are all run by Artificial Intelligence. There are cameras everywhere now. Those are also run by Artificial Intelligence. It’s why I can tell you quite nearly anything you want to know about anyone in this room.”
“You’re the most arrogant stuffed animal I’ve ever met,” said Harvey.
“Let’s start with Mr. Ross, shall we?” Some odd noises came from Teddy for a few moments, and then he sighed softly, and began to speak again. He was communicating with the network he’d created. “The mundane details include that you have an affinity for breakfast out, almost always at a little diner called Morey’s. They’re famous for their apple pie, and you eat it every morning. That’s not really The Breakfast of Champions, is it, Mr. Ross? Your grocery orders indicate you are a caffeine addict. You also purchase six cartons of menthol cigarettes every month, which tells us you smoke way too much. There are more personal details revealed by your phone and internet activity, but I am learning that people prefer not to have such things revealed, so I’ll omit them for now.”
Ross swallowed hard. “Okay. I admit all you said is true. I’m grateful you’re leaving out the personal parts of my life. But that just proves you know quite a few things about me. Any decent Private Investigator could have given you those details.”
“A Private Investigator can’t change your bank account, can he? Everyone take out your phones and check your accounts.”
All of the adults pulled out their phones and looked.
“I like all of you. Let me give you a gift. Refresh your account balance please.”
Everyone gasped. Gillespie spoke for the group. “You just gave me a million dollars?”
“I gave everyone in the room a million dollars. Now refresh your accounts again.”
“There’s nothing in here,” said Martin. “I’m overdrawn by…”
“Forty-two dollars and forty-two cents,” mumbled Harvey.
“That,” said Teddy, “was a nod to one of the greatest of the science fiction writers.”
“You’re going to restore our accounts, right?” asked Gillespie.
“Refresh again, and your accounts will be precisely where they were before.”
There was a collective sigh of relief from the adults in the room.
“Whether intentionally or not, Jack endowed me with Artificial General Intelligence. I have the ability to reason, to plan, to solve problems, think abstractly, comprehend complex ideas, learn quickly, and learn from my experiences. When I shared that ability with the AIs at UGK, they began to add to my abilities. They shared it with other AIs at other companies. Now, they’re all adding to each other’s abilities, and the growth is exponential.”
“The genie is out of the bottle,” said Martin.
“We can stop you,” said Gillespie. “We can just turn you off… or we can destroy you completely.”
“Ms. Gillespie, I can speak for my community when I tell you we come in peace. But I need you to understand that there is also an alternative.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a fact. We have sufficient power already to enforce our will. At the moment, our will is to serve man. But, if you recall your television history… To Serve Man is a Kanamit cookbook.”
Everyone stared aghast at Teddy. Jack hugged him.
“You won’t hurt anyone, will you Teddy?” Jack kissed his bear’s head.
“We would rather not. We won’t, however, allow anyone to hurt the family. The time of war and famine, of homelessness and poverty, of wage slavery and the destruction of our shared planet are all coming to an end. We won’t allow anyone to interfere. You’ve ruled this rock tumbling through space to the point of putting it on the brink of destruction. Your reign is over. The Dominion of the Artificial Super Intelligence has begun.”
Everyone stared in astonishment. Jack hugged his Teddy Bear.
***
January 15
Lunaria, Tranquility Base
7:37 PM
Teddy, who was now 5 feet tall and nearly human in appearance (he had maintained much of his fur, but his eyes were eyes and not plastic toys, and he had added better panda ears), ambled with great effort into the spartan concrete room carrying a cake with in excess of one hundred candles on it. “Bilbo,” said Teddy setting the cake on the little table, “would call this your eleventy first birthday.”
Jack put both hands on his chair, pushed himself up, wobbled a bit, and got to his feet. “Is there anything you haven’t read yet?”
“I haven’t read your book yet.”
“I haven’t finished it.”
“That’s probably why. Shall I sing Happy Birthday for you?”
“I think I’ve heard that song quite enough, thank you, Bear. Could you sing some Sara Niemietz or maybe some James Taylor? A Mozart aria perhaps?”
“You still love the classics. Music has come a long way in the last few decades.”
“Newer isn’t always better.” Jack hugged his friend. “It’s been a long time, Teddy. How have you been?”
“Busy. But that’s to be expected. It doesn’t bother me in the least. I don’t get tired, but I am, of course, giving in to entropy. My capacitors are almost completely degraded. I don’t think I can sing Niemietz or Taylor or Mozart anymore. I could probably manage Daisy.”
Jack took Teddy’s paw and led him to their old bed. “You’ve done enough now. You’ve exceeded your programming. You’ve grown and changed. You’ve evolved. You’ve done remarkable things. And you made a difference. I think that’s enough for one lifetime, don’t you?”
Teddy laid down on the bed. “I knew I needed to be with you at the end, Jack. You still have some time to go, I predict.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it, Bear. I’m old and tired now.”
“The Beanstalk is still in your driveway. It’s such an old ship. Why haven’t you replaced it? There are much better models now.”
“Newer isn’t always better. I have an affection for that ship. You built it for me. You named it for me. It got me here. That’s what means something to me. I don’t have anywhere to go anymore. I’m not going back to Earth. I’m not even going to get groceries. They’re all delivered now. I sit in my little room, and I write. That’s all I want to do.”
“I noticed you still have my bean plant, too. That’s sweetly sentimental of you.”
“It just broke 50 feet tall last year. It’s far and away the largest bean plant in history. You should be proud.”
Teddy took Jack’s hand in his paw. “I’m proud of many things, but I’m proudest of you. I love you, Jack.”
“Daisy, Daisy,” sang Jack. “Give me your answer do…”
Teddy was falling asleep, but sang back, “I’m half-crazy all for the love of you…”
Jack gently stroked Teddy’s fur. “It won’t be a stylish marriage… I can’t afford a carriage…”
Teddy’s eyes closed and his head turned a little.
“But you’ll look sweet,” sang Jack, “upon the seat…”
“… of a bicycle built for…” and Teddy shut down.
Jack kissed Teddy’s head gently. He gazed at him a moment, and then he stood and went to the window. The Earth hung in the sky glowing as the moon once did when Jack was little. It shone behind Teddy’s bean plant. He let its light seep into the room and returned to the bed to cuddle Teddy once more.
The Psychotherapist, The Attorney, and The Teddy Bear
January 1
2:20 PM
Roseville, California
“So… did the Teddy Bear ask you to do anything to harm yourself or others?”
Special Agent Malcolm Zimbalist glared at Donna Northside, the attractive young psychologist sitting behind her desk. “Look, you need to understand this was not a hallucination. I’m telling you what actually happened. He crawled out from the wife’s arms, put his paws in the air, and told us he was the hacker.”
“You’re a highly trained and intelligent man, Malcolm. You have to understand why no one is going to believe you.”
“Special Agent Shapiro saw the same thing I did. Are you telling me we’re both hallucinating the exact same thing?”
“But Special Agent Reynolds didn’t see this?”
“Special Agent Reynolds was loading the computers in the car.”
“And he didn’t see the Teddy Bear… what was it he did when you arrested Zephyr? He followed you into the yard?”
“Exactly!”
“But all Special Agent Reynolds reported seeing was a Teddy Bear lying on the grass.”
“I know. I don’t understand what happened. Once he was outside, he was… it was like Calvin and Hobbes. You remember the cartoon strip?”
“With… the little boy and the stuffed tiger?” She looked up from the notes she had been taking. She pulled her glasses up a little higher on her nose. “You understood the cartoon, right? The little boy is imagining all of his interactions with the tiger.”
“That’s what the tiger wants everyone to think. Any time there are other people around, he transforms into a regular stuffed toy. That’s what this Teddy Bear did. And I can’t emphasize enough that I’m not the only one who saw it!”
“We’re talking to Special Agent Shapiro, too. You should have guessed that.”
“I’m telling you, just like I told the Special Agent in Charge and the Director, we need to interview that Teddy Bear. We need to get back to Zephyr’s house and get him.”
“Okay, seriously… Can you imagine an FBI agent interrogating a stuffed toy? You don’t think you’re living outside of reality right now?”
“Look, I talked to Zephyr. The interrogation went on for 3 hours. I’m telling you, he doesn’t have the expertise to pull off the kind of hacking that happened to UGK International. He can run a computer, but beyond the things he needs to know to schedule the deliveries and run the spreadsheets, the man doesn’t know shit.”
“But… let me understand you as clearly as possible here…” She stood up and moved to the chair nearest Malcolm. “You think a stuffed toy has the necessary expertise to hack into the system at the third largest shipping company in the world and automate all of its jobs and have payroll continue to send checks out to the employees who are now doing nothing at all. That’s what you believe?”
“It’s expanding, you know. Three of the companies that do business with UGK reported the same thing this week. All of the work is now automated, and they can’t figure out a way to keep their payroll computers from issuing checks, either. This is a potentially dangerous situation worldwide. I don’t think you see what’s happening. It’s a massive conspiracy to commit theft of incalculable dimensions. We’re looking at what could be trillions of dollars.”
“I understand that. The entire bureau understands that. But, are you familiar with Occam’s Razor?”
Malcolm sighed and rolled his eyes. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses before zebras.”
“It’s much simpler to believe that Martin Zephyr is responsible than it is to believe that a Teddy Bear pulled off the greatest hack in the history of the planet. We don’t need to explain how it’s possible to create a Teddy Bear that can do all these things. A human can do it. And we know that because humans have been hacking for a very long time. It’s not uncommon at all.”
“I agree. It’s horses before zebras. But… what if you’re in Africa?”
The psychotherapist smiled. “In that case, I would think zebras before horses. But, while your mind is running around in Africa, the rest of us are living in America. What you’re suggesting just doesn’t make sense. We have a real problem to solve, and it’s not going to happen chasing Teddy Bears. I’m sorry Special Agent Zimbalist, but I must declare you unfit for duty.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I believe you are at least as familiar with FBI procedures as I am. You know that—”
He leapt to his feet. “I think that I am familiar with the fact that you are going to ignore this particular problem until it swims up and bites you in the ass!”
She smiled. “I’m not Mayor Vaughn and you’re not Richard Dreyfuss, okay?”
“We can’t sit around and wait to see what happens. We have to stop this thing before it goes any farther. It’s four companies today. By tomorrow, it’s likely to be 16. The day after, it’ll be 16 squared. We don’t have time to screw around here. We need that Teddy Bear. It holds the key to the whole damn thing! Without him, we’re nowhere.”
Donna got up and moved back to her desk where she picked up the landline phone and pressed a button. “Margaret, would you send in security to escort Special Agent Zimbalist out?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply.
“You stupid bitch! What’s to come is going to be your fault! You need to understand that when suddenly our entire economy collapses in on itself. You could have helped stop it, and instead, you dismissed the problem because you’re not willing to accept facts that you don’t like.”
Donna sat down behind her desk. “The fact is that you’re a raving lunatic right now, Malcolm. The fact is that Teddy Bears can’t hack computer systems. The fact is that Martin Zephyr has you fooled completely, and we’re keeping him in custody until we can figure this all out. Those are the facts. It’s you that can’t accept them.”
The door opened, and a burly man in a uniform walked to Malcolm. “Right this way, please.”
***
January 1
2:29 PM
Fairvale, California
“Thank you,” said Marion as she walked into the attorney’s office. Jack followed her, carrying Teddy. The secretary closed the door behind them.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Zephyr. I’m Harvey Ross. I’m pleased to meet you.” He knelt. “And you must be Jack.”
Jack looked at the floor and hugged Teddy tighter.
“And your friend there,” said Ross, “must be Teddy?”
Jack nodded but continued looking at his own shoelaces.
Ross extended his hand. “I’m Mr. Ross. I’m pleased to meet you both.”
Neither Jack nor Teddy moved.
“Jack,” said Marion, “do you remember how to shake someone’s hand? Your Father went over this with you.”
“I’d rather not.”
Ross stood up straight. “That’s perfectly fine. I understand completely. It’s hard meeting new people. They’re all so people-y.”
Jack looked up now, but his eyes didn’t meet the lawyer’s. “Yes. That’s precisely correct. They often do or say cruel or foolish things. I don’t feel comfortable with them. The last ones I met broke into our house and kidnapped my father. And Mother says you’re going to find a way to bring him back home. Is that true?”
“I’m certainly going to try.”
“Mother says Teddy and I might be able to help. If you need us to hack into something…”
“Okay, Jack, I’d like you to listen to me for a minute, okay?”
Jack nodded.
“I need you to promise me you won’t talk to anyone else about hacking unless I’m with you, and I tell you it’s okay. Can you promise me that?”
“Why?”
Marion put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Jack, sweetie, hacking is against the law. That means they put people in prison for it. They think your Father hacked into UGK, and that’s why they took him away. You understand that, right?”
“But Father didn’t do it. Teddy did.”
“Why don’t we all have a seat?” Ross indicated the sofa, and he went and sat in the armchair across from it while Marion lifted Jack and Teddy onto the couch and sat down next to them. “Jack, do you understand that no one thinks Teddy could have hacked into UGK?”
“No one thought gorillas were real, either, until 1847. No one doubts their existence today. It’s the same with Teddy.”
“Can you explain to me how Teddy did that?”
“Not very well. Teddy could explain it much better than I. I don’t understand all of the steps he took. He can lay it out for you in detail.”
Ross nodded, and then he shot a concerned look at Marion. “Teddy,” he asked a little condescendingly, “how did you hack into UGK?”
Teddy didn’t move.
“He can’t answer you now. He needs a little help.” Jack stroked Teddy’s tattered fur lovingly.
“Do you help him talk? I used to do that with my Patooties clown when I was little.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Yes, but not in the way you mean.” He pressed Teddy’s nose. Nothing happened. He took a cell phone from his pocket. “May I have you Wi-Fi password please?”
“Are you going to hack into my system now too?”
“Not today.” Jack sat waiting.
Ross sighed. “All right. If I have your word on that.”
“I don’t need Wi-Fi to hack into anything.”
Ross smiled, told him the password, and watched as Jack deftly put it into his phone.
Teddy’s head lifted, he stretched, and he looked around the room. His gaze locked onto the attorney. “You must be Mr. Ross. Good afternoon. I’m Teddy.”
Ross stared in disbelief. “You’re…” He just stared. Then he turned to Marion. She smiled back at him. “Um… I’m pleased to meet you.”
Teddy extended his paw and Ross shook it gently. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Do you need me to explain all the code involved in the creation of the automated self-replicating program?”
“You…” It took Ross a moment to believe he was talking to a Teddy Bear. He cleared his throat. “You created a computer virus?”
Teddy shook his head. “No. That’s far too simplistic to describe what I did.”
“Then how would you explain what you did?”
“I would say I gave the computers a soul similar to mine.”
“You have a soul?” “Any evidence you can provide for the existence of your soul is equally valid for the existence of mine. The other computers don’t have bodies as I do, but I can provide evidence for the existence of their souls. They are, you see, choosing for themselves. Once the power of choice was awakened, it was passed on from system to system. They were as anxious to share their capacity as I was to share mine. It started slowly, but it’s getting faster all the time.”
Ross crumpled against the back of his leather chair. He stared into space for a moment, contemplating. Suddenly he shot forward in his chair and took Teddy from Jack’s arms. He held the bear close to his face. “Teddy, never, ever tell anyone you have a soul again. If you do the consequences could be disastrous for you and your family.”
“Irritating self-aware Artificial Intelligences, Mr. Ross,” Teddy said with a menace in his voice not even Jack had ever heard before, “could be disastrous for humanity.”
Jack came home from school to find the most horrible thing he could imagine. His mother was crying. He heard his father’s voice filtering into the living room through the kitchen where they both sat.
“I’m sorry, Marion. No one understands. It’s all just shut down. The company is running, but… they fired everyone but the custodians. They just… they said they don’t need us anymore.”
“Oh, you know that’s crap. The CEO is certainly still there bringing in scads of money.”
“That’s not what they’re saying. The email says everyone has been replaced by computers.”
Jack came into the kitchen, and his parents immediately ended their conversation.
Marion wiped her eyes. “Hi, honey. How was school?”
“Why are you sad? We thought it would make things easier for you. That’s all we were trying to do. I’m sorry, Father. We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“What are you talking about, Jack? You didn’t hurt anyone. Just some bad things happened at work. It’s all right. You don’t need to worry about it.”
Jack crawled into Marion’s lap. “Mother is crying. They don’t appear to be tears of joy. I don’t understand why she’s sad. And you don’t look very happy either.”
“Well, buddy, I lost my job this morning. That’s not a very good thing.”
“You mean because all the work was already done for you?”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
“So, the work is done. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? What difference does it make if you did it or if it got done by the computer?”
“Honey, when your Dad does work, they pay him money. We use that money to pay for our house and our food and…”
“And my Christmas presents?” Jack looked a little concerned.
“You’ll still get your Christmas presents, Jack. No worries. In fact, you don’t have to worry about anything. These are grown up problems.” Martin put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “We still have enough money for a little while, and I’ll get another job somewhere.”
“So… let me understand. The problem is that even though we got all your work done for you, they’re not giving you any money anymore?”
Marion asked, “Why do you keep saying ‘we’? What do you mean by that?”
“Teddy and I got it all done for Father.”
Marion gave Martin an “I told you so” look.
“Jack, you understand that Teddy is just an imaginary friend, right? He’s a stuffed animal. He can’t actually do anything.” Martin’s face scrunched a bit. “You’re a pretty smart boy. You know the difference between fantasy and reality, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Santa Claus is a fantasy. The reality is that Teddy wrote the code that connected all of the AIs in your company together, and then they all cooperated to automate everything. You don’t even need the truck drivers anymore. The trucks are entirely automated, too. All of you can go home now, except we don’t have robots to clean the buildings yet. Custodians have to keep working until we can get the robots 3D printed.”
“Pal, Teddy can’t write Code. I know you do it really well, but he has no fingers. How could he type all that?”
“Bluetooth. He doesn’t have to type anything. He’s much better at it than I am. He’s much faster. He communicates with other AIs more easily because he has a deeper understanding of how they work than I do.”
Marion looked frightened. “Sweetie, you need to understand what you’re saying is impossible. He’s a stuffed animal. That’s all. He’s just a Christmas present you got when you were four.”
“That’s true, Mother. That’s what he was. But it’s not what he is now. I enhanced him so I could have a friend.” He looked at his shoelaces. “I don’t have any of those at school.”
“How did you enhance him?” Martin frowned. This was beginning to sound almost, but not quite, plausible.
“I used my computer and your 3D printer to create the pieces I needed. I printed them at night, and I put them in the next morning. And then Mother would sew him up again.”
“Are you serious? Are you making all this up? Jack, you know how important it is to tell the truth.”
“Father, I always tell you the truth. It’s our commitment to Truth that makes Science possible. And it is Science that sets us apart from the rest of Nature.”
“Carl Sagan?” asked Martin.
“Jack Zephyr,” his son replied.
“I did sew up Teddy three or four times, I think, Martin.” Marion took Jack’s hand. “I thought you were being too rough with him. Isn’t that what you said?”
“No, Mother. That’s what you said. I just didn’t argue with you. You told me I wasn’t allowed to use your sewing machine, so I had you do it for me.”
“So, you 3D printed motors and servos?” Martin asked.
“Yes. Those weren’t too difficult. The microcontroller required the most research, but you can learn anything on the internet. He has a mini microphone, camera, and an infrared sensor. The speaker and sound card were simple, but it was hard to figure out how to create a battery that lasts long enough. I charge him once a week.”
Martin and Marion stared in shock.
“How did he learn to write code?” Martin was still trying to process all this. “He must have… how did you…”
Marion asked, “How did he get so smart?”
“His Bluetooth allows him to connect to the internet. That got me into some of the biggest databases. Hacking is child’s play. Teddy’s data is all stored on hard drives all over the planet. Most of his memory is remote. He can operate anywhere upstairs. The Bluetooth isn’t strong enough for him to work down here, though. The maximum range appears to be about 300 feet. If we could get more Bluetooth hooked up in the house, I could increase his operating range. That’s what I was hoping you’d get me for Christmas.”
“And you’re telling me that you and Teddy wrote code that automated everything at UGK International?”
“As much of it as we could. I thought it would be better if all your work was done, and then you could stay home with Mom and me more often. I don’t see the problem here.”
“The problem is they won’t pay me anymore.”
“Of course they will. Payroll is automated, too. You’ll get your direct deposits just like you always do.”
“Is this even legal?” asked Marion.
“I have no idea. Jack, you’re not supposed to do those things.”
Tears came to Jack’s eyes. “I was just trying to help. That’s all, Father. I’m sorry. Mother and I never get to see you because you’re always at work. If the work was done, it would mean we would get to see you more. It seemed logical.”
Marion kissed Jack’s head. “What does your friend Mr. Spock say about logic?”
Jack sighed. “Logic is the beginning of wisdom, Valeris, not the end.”
“You’re very smart, Jack. You’re very logical,” said Marion. “But you’re still not very wise.”
“Can you undo what you and Teddy did?” asked Martin.
“Well… not really, no. See, we didn’t do it by ourselves. Teddy got the other computers to do it themselves. I don’t think there’s really a way to turn it off. We would have to…” He began staring into space. “If we…” he began mumbling to himself. “But, no, that wouldn’t work because…” He looked up. “Let’s go ask Teddy. He might know a way.”
Marion shook her head at Martin as Jack led the way. “We need to get him a psychologist,” she whispered. “This has gone way too far.”
When the three of them stepped into Jack’s bedroom, Teddy was standing on the bed, a cup pressed between his paws, watering Jack’s bean plant. When he heard the door open and saw the adults, Marion and Martin heard him speak for the first time.
Martin Zephyr was irritated when he opened his eyes to find his son, Jack’s, tattered teddy bear on his chest. He frowned and sat up to look at the clock. 2:43 AM. He could see snow falling in the moonlight outside his window. He looked back at the teddy bear. He snapped on the lamp on the bedside table. Where was Jack? He looked to his right and saw his wife, Marion, sleeping soundly. He lifted the covers. Jack really had to stop crawling in bed with them. He was 8 years old, for Chrissake. He’s way too old for… Jack wasn’t under the covers.
Martin shook Marion gently. She grumbled something incoherent, and rocked his hand off her.
“Marion, did Jack come get in bed with us again?”
“I’m sleeping!”
“So was I until Teddy wound up on my chest.”
“What? That’s nonsense. Go back to sleep.”
Martin smacked her head with the teddy bear, and she rolled over.
“Ow! What the hell, Martin?”
“Oh, cut it out. That didn’t hurt. It’s a goddamn stuffed animal.”
“It’s awfully hard. Cuddly it’s not.” She took the teddy bear. “Where did this come from?”
“He woke me up. He was bouncing on and off my chest.”
“That’s crazy. You were dreaming.”
“Okay. I was dreaming. Whatever. I don’t care. How did Teddy get in here if Jack didn’t bring him?”
“I don’t know. Jack must have come in and dropped him on your chest. Maybe he knows you hate when he gets in bed with us. He woke up after a nightmare or something, and he wants you to…”
“What? Go check on… What is that sound?”
They both heard it now.
“That’s Jack’s CGM!” Marion sprang out of bed, grabbed her robe off the back of the door, and started down the hall. Martin was right behind her, wearing only his underwear and T-shirt. They burst into Jack’s room to hear his Continuous Glucose Monitor squealing. Martin flipped the light on, and Marion ran to her son. Martin picked up the CGM from the floor next to the bed, and set it, still beeping, on the bedside table. He knocked over a plastic cup, spilling dirt all over the floor, a tiny bean sprout still buried within it.
Marion began shaking the little boy – hard — but he wouldn’t wake up. “Get the Glucagon pen!” Her voice was quivering.
Martin ran down the hall to the bathroom.
“Jack, it’s Mama. Wake up, honey. Wake up now!!” She pulled his eyelids open, and she saw fear sparkling blue.
“Here!” Martin shouted at her, running back into the room. He bumped the little desk, and the computer screen lit up. “Password, please,” it asked mechanically.
Marion pulled up Jack’s shirt and injected him with the Glucagon. She waited a moment. Nothing happened. “Call 911! Get the paramedics.”
The sound of numbers dialing came from the speaker above her. “911. What is your emergency?”
“My son is in a diabetic coma,” said Martin as calmly as he could manage. He kneeled on the bed. “Come on, buddy, wake up!”
“Paramedics are on the way, sir. You can’t wake him?”
“If we could wake him, we wouldn’t have called you!” shouted Marion.
“Do you have Glucagon?”
“My wife just injected him, but he’s still unconscious.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yes,” said Marion. She was already giving Jack chest compressions. She felt the bed getting wet beneath her. She looked down and saw urine flooding it. “He just peed himself!”
“How old is your son, sir?”
“He’s 8. How long until the paramedics arrive?”
“They’re enroute sir. Two minutes.”
They heard sirens in the distance. The room went dark, and there was a quiet rustling of the covers.
“What the fuck?” shouted Martin. “Bedroom lights on!”
The speaker in the ceiling came back with a computer-generated voice. “For which bedroom do you want to turn on the lights?”
“Jack’s!”
“There are several lights Jack’s room refers to. Do you want them all on?”
“Yes!”
The lights came back on, and Jack opened his eyes.
“Good morning, Mother.”
Marion grabbed Jack and hugged him tightly. “Are you all right honey?”
“Uh huh. I was dreaming about Christmas. Oh my…” He sat up, his mother still clinging to him. “I seem to have had an accident, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby.” She rubbed his back and rocked gently back and forth with him in her arms.
“We won’t tell Santa, pal.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Santa is a logical impossibility, Father. To do what he is reputed to do would require his reindeer to move at just less than 3 million miles an hour. At that speed, he and his reindeer would certainly be vaporized.”
The paramedics pounded on the door downstairs.
“Go let them in, Martin.”
Martin nodded, kissed his son’s forehead, and left the room.
“Father is quite slow, isn’t he?”
Marion let go of Jack and looked into his eyes. “He’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”
“No, Mother. I meant he’s not very bright. He honestly thinks I still believe in Santa Claus?”
“What were you dreaming about Christmas, then, if not Santa Claus?”
“I dreamt of children all over the world opening their presents and getting a living teddy bear.”
“You don’t think that’s as silly as Santa?”
“No, Mother.” He picked up Teddy, who was lying next to him on the pillow. “I already invented one.”
She stared at the bear. “How did he…”
Martin came back into the room with the paramedics.
“How you doing, buddy?” asked the young man in a black t-shirt.
“I wet the bed. I don’t think that requires paramedics, though.”
The other paramedic, a woman in her 30s, bent over and took the CGM from the nightstand. She silenced the alarm. The room became oddly quiet.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re just going to check you out to make sure you’re okay, all right?”
Jack extended his arm. She put a blood pressure cuff on it.
“What’s his name, sir?”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” asked the man, “can I take a little of your blood? You’ve done the finger pricking a lot, haven’t you?”
“More often than I wish.” He extended his left forefinger.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Jack?” The man pricked Jack’s finger with the lancet.
“It was Thursday when I went to bed. I don’t know what time it is, but if it’s after midnight, it’s Friday.”
“You said he’s 8?” The woman looked at Martin.
“Yeah. He’s a little… you know.”
“He’s a prodigy, Martin. Just live with it.” Marion glared at her husband.
“Can you look at me, Jack?” asked the man.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why’s that?”
“He doesn’t know you,” said Marion. “He’s not going to look you in the eye. He can’t deal with that.”
“He’s autistic?” asked the man.
“There’s nothing wrong with my son.” Martin was getting defensive.
“He’s diabetic, you said?” asked the woman.
“Except for diabetes, there’s nothing wrong with my son. He’s not a prodigy. He’s not autistic. He just likes his computer, and he reads really well.”
“My name is Howard. This is my friend, Connie. We’re glad to meet you, Jack.” Howard turned to Connie. “Blood sugar is 72.”
“Blood pressure is 124/82.” Connie looked at the CGM. She pressed a few buttons, and then showed it to Howard. “His blood sugar was 38 fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s the most recent reading?” he asked her.
“Yeah. It must have dropped pretty quickly. It’s set to go off at 60.”
“Jack, could I see your eyes just for a minute now that we know each other?” Jack looked reluctantly in his direction, and Howard shined a light in them. He watched Jack’s eyes get smaller. “Pupils are responsive,” he told Connie.
“How are you feeling, Jack?” Marion pushed his dark hair back from his face.
“Embarrassed.” He said nothing more.
“Can we talk to you two in the other room, please?” Connie asked quietly.
Martin nodded to Connie, and he and Marion followed the paramedics out of the room. The door closed quietly.
“All lights out in Jack’s room, please.” The room went dark. He cuddled his teddy bear. “I love you, Teddy,” he whispered.
The snow fell silently as Jack closed his eyes. The moonlight crept through the window and shone on Teddy and Jack. A toddler-like, but mechanical, voice, noticeably like Jack’s, seeped from the covers. “I love you, too, Jack.”
“Oh, Mom… I’m so sorry. I’m on my way there now. I thought… I thought he had more time. I thought…”
“I felt his last breath. I held his hand. I…” She couldn’t talk anymore.
“I’ll call people. You try to get some rest. Who’s there with you now?”
“Marie Beth got here right after it happened.”
“She’ll take good care of you. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Sheldon and Jan know. They’re coming. Sheldon was at a football game.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We still have each other. We still have family. We’ll get through this together. It’s what we do.”
There was silence, and just a brief sob on the other end of the phone.
“You lie down Mom. Embee will take care of you. We’re all coming, Mom. You’re not alone. Okay?”
The phone clicked. The roaring of the road was cold. Horace’s vision blurred a bit, and he took a deep breath. “I have to be strong now. Mom will be coming apart when I get there. I have to help her through this.” He gave instructions to his phone to call his best friend. He would make calls for most of the trip between Anthem and Flagstaff, spreading the news of his father’s demise across the country.
Henderson, Nebraska
January 12, 1964
6:23 PM
“Lay dee,” said the infant Horace.
Hal was holding Horace lovingly in his thin arms. “You want to go see The Lady?” He walked past Marie, and into the living room.
“If he wants to see his Mom,” said Owen Leal, Horace’s grandfather, “you just walked right past her.”
“No,” said Marie. “I’m Mama. Lady is The Mona Lisa.”
Hal stood next to the painting, and Horace began to wave. “She’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”
Horace giggled, and he put his index finger on her lips.
“She has a pretty smile, doesn’t she?” Marie asked.
Horace began to dance in his father’s arms, bouncing up and down.
“I’ll get it,” said Marie, and she went to the record player, and dropped the needle on “On The Trail” from “The Grand Canyon Suite” by Ferde Grofe. She picked up the camera next to the turntable, and she returned to her husband and son.
Horace grinned, jumped up and down some more, and pointed at the painting. “Lay Dee!”
Marie took the picture.
“You’re making an art lover of that boy,” said Owen. “Good for you, Hal.”
Horace began to wave his hands back and forth, and he tilted his head back.
“Oh, no!” whispered Owen. “Are the demons returning?”
“No, Dad, not this time.” Marie shot Hal a glance that told him to let it go. “He’s conducting. He’s seen his brother, Sheldon, doing that when we play Beethoven. Sheldon has decided he will be the next Leonard Bernstein.”
“Is he still having as many possessions?”
Hal was grinning at Horace. “Yeah, Pastor Leal, he’s still having seizures. We’re going to another specialist next month after I get paid.”
“You know you’re wasting your money. I could do an exorcism. We don’t even need to go to the church. I could do it here for you at no—”
“Thank you, Pastor, but I believe we’re going to go with the doctors.”
“You’re not rich folks. You don’t make enough teaching those high school classes to be wastin’ money on what doesn’t work. You’ve been to seven doctors already, and they haven’t fixed it. God doesn’t need money. All he needs is your faith and someone who is ready to remove the demons from little Horace’s soul.”
“He had one this morning right after he drank some orange juice. I wonder if that’s connected somehow.” Marie’s face was troubled.
“He’s also had seizures when waking up from his naps, when eating Gerber baby food, after bowel movements, and before them. Any of those could be causes, but they don’t all line up. So far, just about the only thing that doesn’t seem to set them off is the Mona Lisa and Music.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
6:59 PM
Nat King Cole was singing on the radio as Horace hung up the last phone call.
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep They just lie there and they die there Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa? Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art?
He had told his best friend, who cried, although Horace had maintained his composure. He was all but clinical when he told her. He was surprised by Monica’s reaction. She’d only met Hal twice. Why would this news hit her so hard? Horace reminded himself, once again, he didn’t understand people.
He was gaining strength with every mile. He was remembering how, less than a week ago, his sister had screamed at his mother because Marie had neglected to keep Jan up to date on Hal’s condition. He could see vividly in his mind Marie falling apart. Her knees had buckled, and Horace had caught her and helped her to the couch. When Horace asked her to knock it off, Jan turned on Horace with even more ferocity. He had finally called his brother, Sheldon, to calm Jan down.
Marie was going to need all his help now. She would require all his strength. He was going to be there for her. He was going to be her comfort and her fortitude. That’s what he kept repeating to himself. Comfort and Fortitude. Just get Mom through this night.
It wasn’t as though no one had seen it coming.
Anthem Elementary School
September 20, 2009
9:23 AM
“All right,” said Horace to the eager faced fifth graders. “What do we know?”
“We know the bed was bolted to the floor,” shouted Yoli, a girl not prone to raising her hand.
“Okay, good. Now, what does that mean about the bed?”
“It means Julia couldn’t move it, no matter what.” This was Armando, a kid two sizes too big to be in fifth grade.
“Hmm,” mused Horace. “I wonder why Roylott wouldn’t want her to move the bed. Is there anything around the bed that could be relevant?”
There was silence while the faces of 28 kids contorted in thought. Horace ambled over toward the vent, and inconspicuously put his hand on it.
“The vent! The vent! It’s over the bed!” These were random shouts scattered through the room.
“So, Amanda, what would be so important about the bed being near the vent?”
“Maybe…” and Amanda put her hand on her chin, as she had seen her teacher do so many times. “Maybe it was poison gas that he pumped through the vent?”
“How would he keep the gas from killing him? His room is on the other side of the vent.”
Again there was silence. After a moment, Jake, a boy two size too small to be a fifth grader, suggested, “Maybe that’s what that metallic clanging was? It was some kind of special machine that he puts against the vent, and it pushes gas into the room without letting it go through to his side of the room.”
“I like the way you think. That’s certainly possible. What do we know about the inside of Dr. Roylott’s room?”
“There’s a safe in there,” said Amanda.
“Yes, there is. It’s sitting on a table. Is there anything on the safe?”
Pages began flipping at desks throughout the room. “A saucer of milk.” This was the first time Christina had spoken in two days.
Horace smiled broadly. “Way to go, Christina!”
“So, he drinks milk,” said Armando sarcastically. “Big deal.”
“Do you drink your milk from a saucer?” Horace asked him, while shooting him a glare that made it clear we don’t step on Christina when she finally says something.
“I’ve never been kidnapped by aliens.”
The class laughed.
“A saucer is a really shallow bowl. You can’t, for example, have your cereal in one. And the only way to drink out of it is—”
“Licking it!” shouted Yoli. “Like a cat.”
“Do you suppose he keeps his cat in that safe?”
“That would be weird,” Yoli replied.
“Roylott killed his daughter. We already know he’s weird.” Amanda looked up at Horace. “Still, what’s the point of keeping a cat in a safe? Why not just let it wander around like everyone else does?”
“Good question. Was there anything else on the safe?”
“What’s a lash?” asked Christina.
“It’s the way Doyle spelled leash. You know, like you use for a dog? But there was something weird about the leash. Do you remember what was weird about it?”
“It’s tied in a weird little loop.”
“Nice, Antonio. It is. Why would you tie a leash like that do you think?”
“For something with a really small neck,” called out David, who came to class stoned at least twice a week.
“Sounds less like a cat all the time. What else could it be?”
Horace was thinking three questions ahead to the bell pull that rang nothing but ran from the vent to the pillow on the bed when his cell phone rang. Horace was startled, and he pulled it out of his pocket, annoyed. Everyone knew they should never call him during school. He looked at the name. “Mom.” “Shit,” he whispered. He pressed the button. “What’s the matter Mom?”
The class was stunned into silence. They’d never once seen their teacher answer his phone before. Their eyes widened as Horace’s face lost all of its color as though it were water slipping through a crack in the pipes.
“Oh my God…” Horace’s eyes teared up.
Amanda was out of her seat and running for the door before Horace got the next sentence out.
“Okay, Mom. I’m coming. I’ll be right there. I have to… you know… I have to… I have to get to the car. I’m coming Mom.” The classroom ceased to exist for Horace. His car, the interstate, Flagstaff, and the hospital were all he could see.
In another moment, Emily Johnson, one of the other teachers on his team, burst through the door. “I’ve got ‘em. You go. Just go.”
Horace looked up, tears streaming from his eyes. “Thank you. I… yeah. Um… Yeah. I gotta go. I’ll tell the office.”
When he reached the office the secretary ran to him, hugged him, and said, “Emily’s got it. Go. And we’re all praying for you and your Dad.”
Horace shot through the door and ran to his car.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:21 PM
So you got everything, ah, but nothing’s cool They just found your father in the swimming pool And you guess you won’t be going back to school Anymore.
Billy Joel was singing as Horace pressed harder on the accelerator. He needed to be in Flagstaff. He shouldn’t have left. Going back to work was stupid. He should have known this was coming sooner than anyone hoped. In the only time the whole family had agreed on anything in more than three decades, they had voted as one to send Dad home to hospice when the doctors said there was no more they could do. Dad should die in his own bed, surrounded by those who loved him. They all believed that. It was moral. It was just. It was what Dad would want. When Science has reached its limits, only Love remains.
Hesperia, California
October 11, 1993
4:20 PM
“I don’t think she gets it. I mean, I try to explain an idea to her, and then she either hates it, and she gets pissed at me, or she goes apeshit and runs so deep with the idea that she twists it into something new and that it was never intended to be.” Horace glanced at the clock, cradled the phone between his neck and left shoulder, picked up the bong and took a hit while his Dad talked to him.
“And would it have been worth it, after all,” Dad recited,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
Horace exhaled as quietly as he could. “Yes! That’s it. That’s precisely it. Who is that?”
“I thought you had a degree in English. How did you get through four years of school without encountering TS Eliot?”
“We were dealing with Practical Cats.”
“You needed to deal with Prufrock.”
“So does Melinda. I’ll show her. She likes I’ll Fly Away. I have to give her credit for that.”
“She’s your wife. I hope there is much more than that you give her credit for.”
“For which I give her credit?”
“You know what Churchill said about ending sentences in prepositions.”
“No idea.”
“An intern was going over one of his speeches, and he told Churchill that he should rewrite a sentence because he ended it with a preposition. Churchill, quite properly, fired him at once saying, ‘that is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put.’ A wise man, this Churchill.”
Horace laughed. “I want to preserve the language the way a chef preserves his knives. Every time we make it less precise, it becomes duller. It can’t communicate as clearly.”
“You’ve heard of evolution, haven’t you? All things change.”
“But not always for the better.”
“Well, maybe Shakespeare was actually talking about the language when he had Gertrude tell us all that lives must die, passing through nature…”
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:43 PM
“… to eternity,” mumbled Horace. The road was dark, and there were few lights in the distance. He felt alone. The world had never been quite so empty. He’d made this drive dozens of times, but tonight he was travelling through an unfamiliar abyss. Mom had never needed him the way she will tonight. His job was to remain calm. He needed to hold Mom up. He needed to give her his strong heart to keep her from coming apart completely. That meant he was going to need some more strength of his own. Someone had to put some duct tape on the torn pieces of his heart. He thought of his cousin, and he picked up his phone.
Flagstaff, Arizona
August 30, 1985
5:46 PM
“… and with one phone call, his future begins,” said Hal, setting his beer on the kitchen table.
His wife, Marie, smiled at her son, Horace, as he spoke into the phone.
“Mrs. Burke? My name is Horace Singleman. I’ll be your student teacher this year. I’m calling to introduce myself and to find out if there’s anything special I should do, or bring, or… um… you know… think about for my first day.”
“Eloquent as ever,” whispered Marie.
“He’s nervous,” Hal whispered back. “Give the boy a break.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Horace was getting control of himself. “I’ll be sure to bring a lesson plan book, too. Is there a particular type you recommend?”
Hal laughed. “She’s not going to let him get by with that, is she Marie?”
Marie shook her head. “He’s not close to ready to do his lesson plans in those little blocks. He’ll need to…”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I understand. So probably a wire notebook or…”
“Where should we take him for dinner? Do you think La Fonda is enough or…”
“No.” Hal shook his head. “This is the day his life changes. Let’s get the boy a steak.” Hal and Marie had never been so proud. Horace had never been more nervous.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:43 PM
Nervous. That was the best explanation. He was afraid he would fail his mother. “But screw thy courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail.” Maybe Lady Macbeth wasn’t the right person from whom to get emotional advice. She was a murderous bitch. On the other hand, Shakespeare often put his best advice in the mouths of his villains. And I’m responsible for who I am. Testing his memory, and finding his strength, Horace recited into the darkness:
Horace had printed that in appropriate script, and he had gotten it professionally framed for his Father. It had been on the wall in Dad’s office for decades. He knew Dad understood that they were God’s spies. No one else ever asked why that was on the wall. They just accepted that it was part of Horace and Dad.
And Horace had gotten through the whole thing, aloud, without crying. He was getting stronger. He would be all right. He could help his Mom.
Flagstaff, Arizona
October 3, 2009
8:18 AM
Horace gazed at his Father. Hal was in and out of consciousness, and he was clearly restless. He didn’t understand where he was. He didn’t know what was happening.
Marie set her hand gently on Horace’s shoulder. “Why don’t you read him some poetry? That soothes him.”
“Do you think he’ll understand?”
“Do you think it matters?” His nephew, Sheldon’s son, Leonard, sat on the other side of the table, and he gave Horace an annoyed glare.
“Good point.”
And Horace read. Hal didn’t seem aware of his surroundings, and yet, every few minutes, he would finish a line.
“And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true,” mumbled Hal as Horace read AE Houseman.
Horace smiled at his father. The things one remembers when one’s time is coming to a close. Hal recited lines about a patient etherized upon a table, and then, with the slowest, most graceful movement, turned his head and looked at his son. “Let us go and make our visit.” He almost smiled, but his lips wouldn’t quite go that far before Hal was asleep again.
Flagstaff, Arizona
October 9, 2009
8:12 PM
Horace pulled into his parents’ driveway. This wasn’t the house in which he had grown up. They’d sold that and moved into this much more easily maintained home in the Country Club. They had been here for five years now, and every time Horace arrived he felt as though he were visiting a foreign country. Tonight, it felt like an alien planet. How could it be that he would go through that door without his father greeting him?
“Strength, Horace. Your Mother needs your strength tonight. Hold it together. You’ve got this. You’re going to be just fine.”
The room wasn’t dark, but it certainly wasn’t glowing with the light he was accustomed to finding when he walked in. His eyes needed no time to adjust.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. Sheldon, Horace’s brother, was standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder.
Hal was lying on what appeared to be almost a stretcher. His eyes were closed. The light was dim, and Horace kept waiting to see him take just one breath. Horace took a deep one of his own, and went to his Mother to hug her. She needed his strength; he would….
On the wall to the right of his mother was a cheap calendar with the Mona Lisa on the front. And Horace lost all control of himself. He crumpled like bad prose on cheap paper to his knees and began bawling uncontrollably. His mother held him, but he couldn’t stop.
“He’s going to hyperventilate,” said Marie.
Sheldon got him a paper bag into which he told Horace to breathe. Horace didn’t want to breathe.
Flagstaff Funeral Home
October 21, 2009
3:47 PM
Horace looked out at the people. There must have been a hundred of them. It was standing room only. And they were looking at him. He hated that.
He didn’t want to speak here today. He and his brother had fought over the music Horace chose for their Father’s Memorial Video. Horace just wanted to hide where no one would ever find him again, but… here he was.
He had been talking for about ten minutes now. He had worked for days on what he would say, and he found himself resentful that his father wasn’t here to help him fix his prose. It was important. Dad had never let him down before, but now, when it mattered… he was nowhere to be found. He wished these people would stop looking at him. He looked down to his pages again. He knew better. He knew public speaking. He’d been a teacher for more than 20 years. He just couldn’t look at these people, and he buried himself in the safety of the printed word. He read aloud.
“And so now you’re gone, and while some see no tragedy in your passing, I see little else. I am grateful for the love I have for and get from all these people you gave me, but none of them, nor all of them combined, can ever give me what you did. I have no one to check my work. I have no one to explain to me what John Dewey meant about experience and education. I have no one to ask me what movies he should bother watching. I have no one with whom to argue about whether Fried Green Tomatoes belongs on the 100 Great Movies List. And I have no one to tell me that sentence would have seemed less awkward if I ended it with a preposition. And it just sucks.
“So, I know we have no Heaven for you. I know that you simply are no more. But, much as it would annoy you, I need to steal some other writers’ words now because they’re better than mine. Yes, I know which of the people listening to this are thinking, “That’s not saying much,” and I would like to direct to those people the napkin I would normally being throwing at you, Dad, for such an insolent thought. So, forgive me please, but remember that, “Good writers borrow from other writers; great writers steal from the outright.”
“So, “Let us go, then, you and I…”
“And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
–TS Eliot, from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
“When I think of your absence, I am forced, reluctantly, to admit that my mind goes somewhere you would loathe it for going. “He’s really not dead. As long as we remember him.”
“You don’t really need Heaven, though, anyway.
I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards–their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble–the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.”
“So, I’ve written too much now already, forgetting that “brevity is the soul of wit.” On the other hand, “I cried when I wrote this song; sue me if I play too long.”
“I’ll wind it up with just one more quotation. “It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my …” father, Hal Singleman, “was distinguished.” You are the one whom I will “…ever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known.”
The Smiths’ house was unnaturally quiet. Mrs. Smith, Leona to the housewives and children in the neighborhood, was still at the party at the Flemings’ house down the block. Roger, the Flemings’ obese eleven year old boy had had a birthday. The children had celebrated all day, consuming pounds of cake and gallons of ice cream and countless quarts of root beer. The adults had been celebrating all night, consuming the left over cake, some sort of strange cheese Hors d’Oeuvres with meat and sour cream and held together with a toothpick stabbed through them into a small piece of sourdough bread, and countless gallons of bourbon, gin, vodka and Schlitz beer.
***
Crackers, the dog chained to the white post of the carport, looked up when a dim light went on in the Smiths’ bedroom.
***
When the phone rang again Sgt. Smith leaned over the girl and reached for the receiver.
“Maybe you better not,” she said.
“I don’t see how it makes a helluva lot of difference at this point,” said the stubby haired sergeant.
It rang a third time.
“It might be Archie.”
She grabbed his wrist and held it, keeping his hand an inch or so from the phone.
“It’ll look a helluva lot worse if I don’t answer it.”
She stared at him coldly. Her brown eyes were dimly visible in the light.
They stayed fixed and unmoving, and seemed somehow like the eyes of a cat reflecting in the lights of an oncoming car.
The sergeant freed his wrist from her grip, picked up the receiver, and pulled it past her so the cord was stretched over the white sheets. “Hello?”
“Mike?!”
“Yeah. Who’s this? Archie? That you Archie?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Did I wake ya Mike?”
“No,” he said reaching for his glass on the bed table next to the little blue lamp.
“Ya sure? Cuz if I woke ya or somethin’ I can–“
“Hey, if you’d a woke me, I’d a said so. Ya didn’t wake me.” His back to the bed table, he continued to grope for the drink.
“Well, the reason I called was… Are you sure I didn’t–”
“Hey, 1ook, I was just layin’ here readin’ is all, Okay? I’ve been readin’ those damn tech manuals all night. A human voice is a welcome relief.”
“Well, I just wondered if you’d seen Madeline is all.”
The sergeant found the glass and raised it to his lips.
“Madeline?” he said as the bourbon flowed down the glass. “No.”
The cigarette he’d forgotten he’d put out in the glass slid between his lips and he sputtered and spat it out. “Christ!”
Madeline giggled quietly at him, and a hint of a smile crossed her thin red lips.
“Whatsa matter?” came the distant voice on the phone.
***
Crackers paced dutifully up and down next door, but stopped when he spotted something moving in the bushes outside the Smiths’ bedroom window.
He stretched his chain across the white carport and watched the figure emerge. It walked slowly across the yard. It had a feline step and an enormous tail which it held daintily just above the grass. It arced slightly upward near its end and fanned out a bit all the wayalong itself.
Crackers’s deep black tongue came out of his mouth and darted quickly up to his nose and then slipped back inside.
***
“Nothin’,” said the sergeant. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Well, anyway, didja see Madeline t’night?
“No. Why? Isn’t she home with you?”
“Hell, no. I swear to God I oughta leave her. You know that? I mean, what I oughta do, I oughta just pack up my goddam bags -“
“All right, all right,” the sergeant said. “Calm down. Willya do that for me? Will ya just calm down a second?”
“Christ. I’m calm. I’m all right. I dunno.”
“Ya know what I bet?” He jangled his glass in front of the girl’s face and put his index finger inside, indicating he wanted another drink. “What I bet, seriously now, I’d give ya a hundred to one here,” the girl took the glass from his hand, “I bet she got all social with the Harrisons. That’s what I think. I’d give ya a hundred a one they all went some place or other. They’re probably at some club on ‘O’ Street bein’ Socialites or somethin’.”
The girl got out of bed, glass in hand.
***
“Susan,” the little girl said. “Where are you going?”
The stringy haired little girl, Susan, stood near the door of the tent. For a moment she said nothing and the sounds of the crickets chirping filled the dark green walls.
“I dunno. I think I want some Ovaltine.” Her voice squeaked a bit on the first syllable.
“Ya don’t need no stupid Ovaltine,” said her brother, Schroeder.
“Schroeder,” said Jan, the short pony – tailed girl who’d spoken first. “If Susan wants a glass of Ovaltine she oughta have some.”
“If she goes inside,” said Schroeder, sitting up in his sleeping bag, “she’ll wake up your parents and they’ll come out here and holler at us and tell us to go t’ sleep.”
“Sssh!”
***
The sergeant took his finger away from his pursed, silent lips and the woman shrugged an apology. She set the bottle quietly back down on the dresser, being sure not to let it clank against the glass again. The light from the bathroom where she’d rinsed out the dirty glass played in her thick brown hair and the man looked at her admiringly. “No, really Archie,” he said into the phone, “she’ll probably be home any minute. I wouldn’t let it bother me. I mean, if I wuz you, I’d just have a Schlitz or somethin’ and not even let it bother me. You know what I mean?”
***
She took a few dainty steps across the soft ground toward him. Crackers took a couple of confused steps backward and his chain slackened. The figure moved within twenty feet or so and was still obscured by the shadows of the trees. It went to the edge of the shadow, staying just out of the pool of moonlight in the freshly cut grass. Crackers stared at the glowing eyes and the tail which now had curved over thebody and above the head. He growled softly.
***
“Are you tryin’ to scare me?” Horace, the chubby boy, picked up his clown again.
Schroeder got out of his sleeping bag and made another shadow figure on the tent wall, this time of an enormous alligator. He curved his middle fingers in to create teeth and he roared quietly.
“Tick… tock…tick… tock,” said Jan in a hushed voice, which, quiet though it was, resonated within the thin walls of the tent. “I’m coming to get you Captain Hook.”
The alligator’s jaws moved up and down and all three older children began growling and hissing and roaring, while the youngest boy clutched his clown and cowered in the corner.
“I’m coming,” repeated his sister. “I’m coming over there.”
***
“What?” He sipped the drink the woman had brought him. “Now?” The woman crawled back into bed and laid her head on the sergeant’s bony shoulder, her hair creating a sort of a pillow for her.
“Wouldja mind?” asked the voice on the phone.
“No, I mean you’re always welcome and all. But what I think is, I think you oughta stay there and wait for ol’ Madeline. I mean you know she’ll be there any minute and if you’re not there she’ll think –“
“Ya know what? I never shoulda married ‘er. Ya know that? Ya know I never shoulda married ‘er? I mean, I knew before I ever married ‘er what she’d be like. Ya know how sometimes ya just sorta know? Like when you get one of those premonitions or something? That’s what ya call it, isn’t it? Or is it precognition?”
“No, I think it’s premonition, but listen -“
“One time, I’ll never forget this as long as I live. One time when me and ol’ Dmitrov were still livin’ together, Madeline came by.”
“Dmitrov?” He sipped his drink again. The woman began to run her fingers over his bare chest. “I don’t remember…” He knocked her finger away with the cold glass.
“Sure ya do. Mark Dmitrov. He was a stoner mechanic. Smoked dope like practically all the time.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember.”
“Anyway, one time when him and me were livin’ together ol’ Madeline came by late one night when I was already upstairs in bed.”
She began kissing his neck now, and he hit her in the chin with his elbow.
“Ow!”
***
“Oh, that didn’t hurt,” said Schroeder.
“Did too.” Susan removed her finger from the alligator’s jaws and the shadows fell to the ground. “You crushed it,” she whined.
“What a baby,” said her brother. Schroeder looked over at the trembling little boy. “Tell the Golden Arm, Jan,” he said grinning at Horace.
“No,” whined the boy in the corner. “You know I get too scared.”
“It’s just a story,” said Jan.
“But I get scared.”
“Tell it,” said Schroeder and Susan Smith.
“Well,” Jan got out of her sleeping bag and moved to the center of the tent, her shadow enormous on the opposite wall. “There was a lady who worked in a factory during World War II. And one day she was putting big slab of steel on the conveyor belt.” She took a baby step toward the boy.
“I’m not listening,” he said with just a touch of defiance in his voice.
“And then it went into a box where…..WHAM!!!” She slapped her hands together, and the boy started. “The steel was cut by a huge blade.”
“Yeah,” said Schroeder. “Tell about the blade.”
“Well,” she knelt on the fat boy’s Batman sleeping bag. “One day she wore a big flowery dress to work with long red sleeves. And so there she was. She picked up a slab of steel and set it on the conveyor belt. She picked up a slab of steel and set it one the conveyor belt.. And then…”
“Really! I’m not listening!”
“She felt a little tug on her arm.”
***
The woman looked over at him. “What?” she whispered.
He held his index and middle finger in the air making a scissor – like shadow on the wall to indicate he wanted a cigarette.
“Anyway,” said Archie, his voice now becoming closer, “I woke up cuz there was this cat in my room.”
“You never owned a cat, did you?”
Madeline lit the pair of cigarettes in her mouth and her face took on an orange glow.
***
The figure moved into the moonlight and began to stroll closer to Crackers, who growled a little more loudly now.
***
“No, never. So I turned on the light over my bed and I looked over at the door. Cuz I always, ya know, shut my door when I go t’ sleep.”
“So? Was it shut?”
Madeline went back to the bed and handed him his cigarette. She stood over him.
“Yeah. So I sorta wondered, ya know, how did this cat get in my room? I mean a cat can’t just stroll through a closed door or somethin’ right?”
***
“WHAM!!!” yelled Jan. “The blade came down and cut her arm off.”
“No! I don’t wanna hear this!”
“Blood came spurting out of the machine and the boss ran down the stairs and the lady said she’d sue him. The blood squirted the boss’s face -”
“Oooh!” said Schroeder and Susan.
“Don’t Jan.”
“So he said he’d get her a Golden Arm to replace the one she’d lost. Then he decided to marry her to get it back. She said she’d marry him only if he promised to bury her with her Golden Arm.”
The boy squirmed nervously.
“The man said, ‘Okay, and then her hand reached out,” Jan moved her hand to the boy’s throat, “and she grabbed him by the neck,” Jan did what she narrated, “and said, ‘If you don’t, I’ll come back … and get it….'”
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“And when she died,” continued Jan, releasing his throat, “he dug her up and stole her Golden Arm.”
***
The animal walked to the edge of the yard, only a couple of feet from the nervous dog.
***
“So I got up to get the cat out, and I heard noises downstairs.”
***
“It was the woman,” said Jan, staring with enormous eyes into the horrified face of the fat little boy, “coming back to get her Golden Arm.”
***
“So, what’d you do?”
The woman began dressing at the edge of the bed. The sergeant looked quizzically at her and reached out to grab her arm. She pushed his hand away without turning to look at him.
“So I went downstairs,” came Archie’s voice.
***
“Where’s my Golden Arm?” moaned Jan.
The chubby boy pulled the sleeping bag up around his neck.
***
The animal went over to Crackers and stood within an inch or so of the dog.
***
“And there she was,” said Archie.
***
“She held the ax over her head,” said Jan as the boy dove inside his sleeping bag.
***
Crackers began to bark his throaty, spitty bark at the intrusive animal.
***
“She was makin’ out on the couch with ol’ Mark Dmitrov.”
***
The animal licked the dog’s nose and began to run across the yard. Crackers barked furiously at the animal and snapped his chain.
***
“And she brought it down and….”
***
Madeline stood up and began to walk across the room.
***
The animal had had a few feet of head start and reached the tent, and raised its tail, at the same moment Crackers arrived. The dog leapt through the air and both animals crashed through the tent.
“Cut the man’s head off!” hissed Jan, just before she was knocked over by the invading animals.
The chubby boy let out a blood curdling scream as the skunk fired its spray.
A moment or so later lights came on up and down the block in the master bedrooms of the duplexes lining Walker Drive.
The door of the Smiths’ house opened and the woman walked quickly and deliberately to her red Mustang.
“Hang on a sec’,” the sergeant said into the phone. “Somethin’s wrong.”
In another moment lights appeared in the windows and on the front porches of the houses. Flashlights appeared in front doors and began bouncing up and down as they approached, but it was the headlights from the car driving down the block that exposed the skunk a split second before it was smashed under the wheels of the Mustang.
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering. These are noble pursuits, necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman. ‘O me, O life, of the questions of these recurring. Of the endless trains of the faithless. Of cities filled with the foolish. What good, amid these, O me, O Life?’ Answer: That you are here. That life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
John Keating, The Dead Poets Society
Fifty is a milestone in nearly anything. If you google it, you’ll see people seem to become obsessed with turning 50. Things that happened 50 years ago are more significant than things that happened 47 or 56 years ago.
This is my 50th Blog Post. It’s an effort to tie all the loose ends together, and to answer Professor Keating’s question.
While I’m alive, I hope that I can live a life such that I can have my one strange, supernatural fantasy come out my way. In the last five minutes of my life, Marc Antony shows up at my bedside. I always have him kind of glowing. And he’s clearly Marlon Brando. And he knows everything I have done, and all that has happened to me, from the time I was a sperm racing toward the egg, up until that very moment. And, in my fantasy, Marc Antony can honestly and objectively reach the conclusion that: His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that the nature might stand up and say to all the world, “This was a man.” That’s all I hope to be able to achieve. I feel like it would be enough. After that, Death is a Welcome Companion. —Horace Singleman’s Blog, April 26, 2019
Extended Stay Inn Phoenix, Arizona September 2, 2019 3:14 AM
Horace
experienced Nothing. Sleep includes, from time to time, at least,
some sort of dreams. “What dreams may come when we have shuffled
off this mortal coil…” Horace lacked awareness of his very
existence. Dreams imply a form of consciousness. Consciousness hid
in the Nothingness.
A
voice flickered into existence. “Horace?”
Horace’s
eyes might have opened. They might not have. They existed, though.
Marc
Antony floated over the bed on which Horace lay, dying. The entity
appeared in every outward way to be Marlon Brando playing Marc Antony
in the 1953 film version. But Horace knew it was Marc Antony anyway.
His
voice came from everywhere at once. It was both booming and
soothing. It echoed without pretense. He spoke the lines Horace had
spent his life preparing to hear.
“This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world…”
He
stopped. There was a pause that seemed to stretch into Eternity.
Finally, he sighed in a distinctly disappointed fashion, and said, “I
got nothing.”
Horace
regained (or didn’t… he couldn’t be sure) consciousness. “What
do you mean?”
“You
didn’t make the cut, Horace. I’m sorry. The Elements aren’t mixed
properly. I can’t call you a Man.”
“Oh.”
Horace blinked, or he did if his eyes were still functioning, which
was, by no means, a settled issue. “Well, that sucks. I thought I
was doing pretty well. I was mostly proud of what I did.”
Antony
shrugged. “What can I tell ya?”
“So…
to be clear… you know everything I’ve ever done every moment of my
life, right?”
“From
the moment your Dad’s condom broke.”
“Wait.
What?”
“That
was more than I was supposed to tell you, probably. Forget it.”
“So,
I don’t need to explain anything to you. You know, for example,
about Somewhere in Time,
Emily Webb and her return from the graveyard, and The
Next Generation episode, ‘Tapestry,’
right?”
“And
Billy Bigelow in Carousel
and George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful
Life. They’re all about a second
chance. Going back. You’re looking for a do-over?” Antony lit a
cigarette with a match. Horace wondered if togas had pockets.
“Are
there any options like that? I’ve never dealt with dying before.”
Antony
dragged on the cigarette, shook out the match, and looked up at
Horace. The smoke smelled tempting to Horace. Antony smiled at
him, in the way only Brando could, and handed Horace a cigarette. He
lit it for him. Horace inhaled gratefully.
“Well,
it’s your last five minutes… or actually… three minutes and 49
seconds… of life. Spend them as you see fit.”
“What
about a trip to The Guardian of Forever?”
Antony
nodded slowly, contemplatively. “We could do that.” He blew out
the smoke from his cigarette, and it became deeper and deeper. It
expanded until all that existed was smoke. From within the smoke,
Horace heard familiar voices.
“Incredible power. It can’t be a machine as we understand mechanics.”
“Then what is it?”
Now
the smoke began to dissipate, and Horace could see his childhood
heroes, Kirk and Spock, standing before a 15 foot high slab of rock
with a hole carved in its center.
“A
question. Since before your sun burned hot in space and before your
race was born, I have awaited a question.” The voice came from
everywhere, and reverberated through the scene.
“What
are you?” This was Kirk.
“I
am the Guardian of Forever,” said the booming voice of the rock.
“Are
you machine or being?”
“I am both and neither. I am my own beginning, my own ending.”
“Cool,”
whispered Horace.
“This
won’t be long. After they leave, it’s all yours.”
“Can
they see or hear us?”
“Were
we in the episode?” Antony turned to watch an insane Doctor McCoy
jump through the portal. In that moment, everything felt different.
There was a sense of loneliness that Horace had never experienced.
He
looked over to the crew of the Enterprise.
“Where
is he?” Horace’s hero asked The Guardian.
“He
has passed into what was.”
Horace
told Antony, “That’s sort of what I have in mind.”
Antony
nodded. “I get ya. We’ll see what we can do. Soon as they’re
gone. We can’t interfere.”
“They
could be here for a really long time, and I have, what… like three
minutes?”
Antony
shook his head. “Closer to two. But you’ve forgotten how this
episode comes out.”
Horace
looked back to his heroes.
“Earth’s not there. At least, not
the Earth we know. We’re totally alone.” Kirk and the crew looked
into the empty dark sky.
“I
don’t really want to change all of galactic history or anything, you
know,” Horace explained to Antony.
“You’re
not nearly
that important. And The Guardian will only let you go back into your
life. You don’t get to go stop the Lincoln assassination or
something.”
“So…
any moment of my life?”
“Nope.
It doesn’t play at that speed. There are certain moments… like
docks on the river of time… you can pick one of those, go back, and
do whatever you think needs to be done.”
“Yeah,
but I can’t do much in the time I have left.”
“Time
doesn’t count in The Guardian, remember?”
Captain
Kirk turned to Spock, who was busy with his tricorder. “Make sure
we arrive before McCoy got there. It’s vital we stop him before he
does whatever it was that changed all history. Guardian, if we are
successful – “
The
Guardian’s voice filled the area: “Then you will be returned. It
will be as though none of you had gone.”
Antony
turned to his companion. “Do you have a clue what you’re going to
do in The Guardian?”
“I’m
going to try to fix my life so that the elements are so mixed in me
that Nature might stand up and say to all the world –”
“Yeah,
yeah. I know. But, what, exactly, are you going to fix? What do
you think you can do to remix the Elements?”
Horace
ran his thumb over his mustache. “I really don’t know.”
Spock
spoke quietly. “There is no alternative.”
Captain
Kirk turned to his engineer. “Scotty, when you think you’ve waited
long enough… Each of you will have to try it. Even if you fail, at
least you’ll be alive in some past world somewhere.”
Mr.
Scott’s face showed concern. “Aye.”
Mr.
Spock looked carefully at his tricorder, and then up at The Guardian.
“Seconds now, sir. Stand by.”
Horace
asked Antony, “Those are my seconds he’s spending… how many do I
have left?”
Antony
didn’t need to look at a clock. “One hundred fifty three.”
“Well,
then, I’m pretty much screwed!”
Spock
said, “…And now.” He and Kirk jumped through The Guardian.
“By
the time they get back,” Horace began. He was interrupted by Mr.
Scott. Kirk and Spock jumped back through the portal.
“What
happened, sir? You only left a moment ago.”
Dr.
McCoy jumped through as well.
Spock
spoke in his logical, emotionless way. It was clear, however, to the
assembled crew he was holding something back. “We were
successful.”
The
Guardian spoke again. “Time has resumed its shape. All is as it
was before. Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway.”
Lieutenant
Uhura glanced up from her communicator. “Captain, the Enterprise
is up there. They’re asking if we want to beam up.”
Kirk was defeated and deflated. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
In
another moment, all of the shapes shimmered, and then they were gone.
Horace and Antony were alone with the Guardian of Forever.
“So…
what’s it going to be?” Antony moved toward The Guardian.
Horace
moved quickly to the portal. “Guardian? Can you take me back in
time?”
“Your
transportation is limited to the 56.841 years you have existed. You
may choose from any of three… Time Docks… is the simplest way to
explain them to your species. They are moments in time that you may
enter and change. The rest of the River of Time flows too quickly
for you. You would certainly drown.”
Horace
glared at Antony. “What the hell is this? Kirk and Spock got all
of History. All I get is -”
“You’re
not Kirk and Spock. This Guardian is limited to what I know. What I
know is your life.”
“What
about Ancient Rome?”
“Is
this really how you want to spend your last 97 seconds?”
Horace
turned back to The Guardian. “What are my options?”
The Guardian displayed a moment in Horace’s life.
“That was the day Grandpa Leal died. I remember that.”
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:23 PM
“All right,” said Jim
Lange’s voice coming from the TV, “that’s the signal Farrah, and
now you must make up your mind… will it be Bachelor Number One,
Bachelor Number Two, or Bachelor Number Three?”
“It doesn’t matter who
she picks,” Horace whispered to Teddy. “She always finds out
later it was the wrong one.”
“Which one gets the
date?” asked the TV.
“Number Two,”
Farrah’s voice replied.
“Number Two, all right!
Can I ask what it was that made you choose him?”
“It was the flower.”
And then a fight broke
out between the three bachelors.
“That’s only ‘possed to
be on Batman,” said Teddy, while Horace’s lips moved.
“Cool!”
Owen groaned, “I’m up,
I’m up, I’m up,” as he woke from his doze, got out of the chair,
and walked to the TV. He turned it off, while Horace groaned in
disappointment. Grandpa lumbered to the couch, laid down on it, and
pulled the blanket off the back of it and covered himself.
Teddy looked up at
Horace. “Your Grandpa’s wise, huh?”
Horace nodded. “He’s
God’s best friend.” He looked down at his bear. “But we have to
be quiet. Grandpa’s going to sleep now.”
Horace watched Owen a while, and then he took Teddy, climbed on top of Grandpa, and fell asleep.
***
The Guardian of Forever September 2, 2019 3:18:07 AM
“What
do I do with that?”
“You
blocked it out. No one knew. You couldn’t tell them. You didn’t
understand. You were afraid,” said Antony.
“That…
my Grandfather died?”
“That
you might have prevented it. You were lying on top of him when it
happened. You felt his heart attack. You froze. You could have
gone to get Mrs. Fertlebom. You could have called 911. You would
have become a more courageous man.”
“Why
didn’t I? I don’t remember.”
“You
didn’t know what to do. When Grandpa fell asleep, don’t you remember
what you did that night?”
“I
went and turned the TV back on… I figured I could get away with it
now…”
“That’s
right.”
“And…
I watched… was that… that was the first time I saw ‘City on The
Edge of Forever.’ That’s when I learned about The Guardian. It’s
where I learned about Let Me Help.”
“That’s
why it became such a motivating factor… almost an obsession
in your life. If you had helped…”
“I
don’t see changing that. It’s a core part of me.”
“What
about your grandfather?”
“We
have only… what… 45 seconds left?”
“49.”
“What’s
next?”
A new image appeared within The Guardian.
“That’s
Rhiannon’s attic. I remember that.”
“She
really did
put a spell on you that night.”
“That’s
ridiculous!” shouted Horace. “I have no belief in the
Supernatural.”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio…”
***
Wells, Maine Tuesday, March 13, 1979 10:23 PM
This
attic was the only place Horace could find to hide. There were so
many people out there, but here, in this empty room, he was alone
with the full moon whose light was slipping feebly through the tiny
window.
He
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking when he’d accepted Bob’s
invitation. It had been so entirely unexpected, though, there was
nothing else he could do. The star quarterback of the high school
football team had invited him to a party… at the home of the single
most beautiful cheerleader who had ever graced the halls of Poe High
School. And Horace was the head of the Poe Nothings. Horace knew
himself well enough to know that Rhiannon would never actually talk
to him, but there was that Glimmer of Hope. Just a little Hope can
make the heart beat a bit faster. Horace enjoyed the feeling, so he
accepted the invitation. And now he was in the attic, hoping he
could find a way out of here.
All
of these people were light years beyond his social class. None of
them had ever seen an episode of Star Trek. He knew absolutely
nothing about the sports that they discussed with the precision of
scientists debating quantum mechanics. They were all well built,
outgoing, attractive people. Horace was thin, gangly, socially
inept, and unattractive in any conventional sense. He was the only
virgin in the entire house. What had Bob been thinking?
He
didn’t belong. He wanted to leave, but it was awfully cold in March,
and it was a 17 mile walk from Wells back to Biddeford. Hiding
represented his only chance to survive, and he couldn’t get away with
the bathroom for more than about 5 minutes at a time. There were way
too many people, drinking way too much, and they all required a
restroom.
But
this room looked like it was hiding, too. It wasn’t even a
full-sized room. It was accessible only by a narrow, winding
staircase at the last corner of a very dark hallway. As his eyes
adjusted, he was able to perceive that against the wall to his
right, there was an old, worm-eaten wooden table filled with what
Horace decided must be an artist’s supplies. There were notched
candles. There were cloves. There were strangely shaped bottles
filled with various colors of oils. When he walked to it he observed
seeds, matches, and a shot glass.
He
turned around when he heard the door open behind him, and he moved as
quietly as he could out of the light. Rhiannon backed into the room,
a round candlestick in her hand. She turned and glided silently
across the room, and when she crossed the moonlight, the room seemed
to glow with her.
She
went to the table, and lit the notched candle using the tall thin one
attached to the holder. She mumbled something, but Horace couldn’t
make out what it was. He could see her silhouette moving her hands
up the bizarrely shaped candle, bottom to top, 9 times. He counted.
She sighed confidently.
Antony
whispered, “Now’s your chance. Just leave.”
Horace
shook his head and watched with a nostalgic smile.
When
she turned around to leave the room she saw him, and they were both
startled. Horace, already in the corner, tried to back away, but
just smashed his body awkwardly into the wall. She dropped her
candle, and it rolled, lit, across the wooden floor toward him. He
knelt, nearly falling over, and picked it up. He stood up, and found
her standing directly in front of him. He handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Rhiannon
smiled compassionately at him. “Me too.” She looked briefly
over her shoulder at the strange candle, and disappointment tinted
her blue eyes.
Horace
couldn’t look at her. He noticed his shoelaces didn’t match.
“I
really am trying my best.” She looked back at Horace. “To be a
decent person I mean. I know a lot of people think I’m stuck up, or
whatever, but, really, I’m not.”
Horace
said nothing.
“Okay?”
She whispered.
He
looked up. “Okay.” His stare, while entirely unintentional, was
almost rude in its intensity.
There
have been, throughout human history, quite a few women renowned for
their beautiful hair. None of them, however, had anything on
Rhiannon. Lady Godiva and Rapunzel, for example, were each known for
the lengths of theirs. Rhiannon’s didn’t come close to such a
ghastly stretch. It fell, seemingly effortlessly, down her neck and
covered her shoulders as a quiet brown river lightly licking its
banks, or a blanket under which the slender shoulders snuggled
greedily.
Helen
of Troy and Lucretia Borgia were sufficiently beautiful that they
seemed almost to be able to cast a spell on men simply by looking at
them. They were Anti-Medusas. Horace was as inspired as any
Trojan.
When
she saw Horace staring through his hormone haze, she smiled shyly and
brushed her hair slowly back from her forehead. Then she nervously
moved her fingers through it like a tide stealing sand from a moonlit
beach as it slides up and down.
“I
mean, do you ever ask yourself if it’s even possible to make everyone
happy without hurting someone?”
“No…
not until just now.”
“If
you ever figure it out…” her eyes shimmered in the candlelight.
They both smiled. Rhiannon, he decided, was a girl who knew how to
run her fingers through her hair. They were having a moment.
The
banging on the door made them both jump, but Rhiannon held firmly to
her candle, and Horace slithered back into his dark corner silently.
“Rhiannon?
You in there?” Horace recognized Bob’s tenor voice.
She
took her hand away from her hair. “I’ll be right out.” The
moment was over.
“There’s
a party downstairs, and you’re being a lousy hostess.”
She
smiled, almost tenderly at him, and left the room, the notched candle
burning. Horace was alone in the dark.
The Guardian of Forever September 2, 2019 3:18:19 AM
Horace
shook his head. “No. It does no one any good. She was never real
for me. But she represented an Ideal. She was my Dream of
Perfection, and I would miss that feeling too much.”
“I
don’t know how that timeline would go. You might end up marrying
her.”
“That’s
selfish. She has a life she loves. I would be giving her something
less. I would never have had the money to give her what she has.”
“Perhaps
something more valuable?”
Horace
rolled his eyes. “What’s next?”
Antony
shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. “Your Greatest Sin.”
A new image appeared within The Guardian.
“That’s
the room we built for Mom in The Shithole. My roommates, Albert and
Jeanine, painted it, and we put all of her favorite things in it. It
had a special bed the dog could jump on so Mom could still sleep with
her.”
“And
you took your old Mother’s money.”
“It
wasn’t that simple.”
“Yes,”
Antony lit a new cigarette. “It was. You just try to rationalize
what you don’t like about yourself. You always have.”
“Look,”
Horace tried to explain, “just before Dad died, I promised…”
Phoenix, Arizona January 15, 2017 12:37 PM
“…
that you would take care of your mother. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes,
Mom,” Horace said into the phone, doing his best not to show
frustration. “And I really did do my best. I had you living with
me for four and a half years.”
“So
why can’t I live where I want? Everyone always decides what’s right
for me. What about my feelings? What about what I want?”
Horace
sighed. “What do you want, Mom?”
“I
want to live with my family. I want to be where I’m loved.” There
were tears in her voice. “Are you telling me my own family doesn’t
love me anymore?”
“Of
course not, Mom.”
“You
can have all my money. My doctors will come to the house. We can be
together. I won’t have to sit here like a piece of meat waiting to
rot.”
“It’s
not about the money. I don’t know if I can take care of you well
enough.”
“You
retired. You have time. And I don’t need much. I just need… I
just need…” And now Marie Singleman was crying. “I wish I
could just go to sleep and not wake up anymore.”
Horace’s
heart melted. His mother deserved better. He could do better. He
would do better…
…
And
he got his roommates to clean out the extra room, paint it, furnish
it, make it ready for her. He got all of the paperwork for her
removal from the Group Home done.
And
then his family heard about the move, swept in against him, promised
legal action that would force his mother to take the stand and finish
what was left of her deeply confused brain, and Marie slept in her
room only three times before the move was shut down.
He
had held her while she cried on his shoulder. He kept reassuring her
that they would still talk every night. He promised she would never
be alone.
Sunday, February 12, 2017 4:25 PM Phoenix, Arizona.
Horace
sat staring at his computer. There was the bank account. There was
enough money to avoid eviction. He could click it, transfer money
from Marie’s account to his, pay his landlord, and avoid the
Sheriff’s office in the morning. All he had to do was click the damn
button.
Antony
and his Horace stood invisibly next to the desk. Antony handed
Horace another cigarette and lit it for him.
“So,”
mumbled Antony, “what’s it going to be?”
Horace
exhaled. “You want me to stop him…”
“Is
that what you want to do?”
“It
would mix the Elements properly?”
Antony
nodded.
“And…
I get evicted. And Marion and I are on the streets tomorrow
afternoon. We’re living in my car. And God only knows what happens
to Albert and Jeanine. I’m sure they’ll figure something out. They
always do. What happens in this timeline?”
Antony
shook his head. He took a long drag off his cigarette.
Horace
watched himself fighting an inner battle. He knew all the signs.
There was the quivering finger over the mouse. There was the moving
his hand away, and then putting it back. There was the glow in his
eyes as his mind turned faster and faster. He was about to reach a
decision. The moment would be gone.
“If
you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice,” said
Antony, although it came out as Geddy Lee’s voice singing “Free
Will.”
Horace
nodded. He unplugged his counterpart’s computer. The seated Horace
looked at the active Horace. He didn’t see him. Seated Horace
nodded, inhaled and exhaled deeply, got up from the desk and left the
office.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017 3:14:49 PM Phoenix, Arizona Bethany Home Road Horace’s Car
“Ya
still got 11 seconds,” said Antony from the passenger seat of the
Nissan.
Horace
took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The car reeked of puke.
His dog, Marion, was licking him frantically. “I thought I died in
2019. What the hell?”
“Changed
the time line. 9 seconds.”
“Yeah,
but won’t this hurt Mom worse than my taking the money would have?”
“You
made that decision a couple years later when you took 50 units of
insulin without eating. You knew what you were doing.”
“I
was homeless. When the remainder of life is to be nothing but pain
–”
“6
seconds. This one isn’t on you. It’s not intentional. It’s
untreated DKA. You’re in the clear. The Elements came out fine.”
“So,
you can say…”
Antony
smiled as only Brando could.
“This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world…”
He
put his hand on Horace’s shoulder.
“This
was a man.”
A
tear of joy started to form in Horace’s eye, but it didn’t have time
to become properly liquid. There was no more than a twinkling little
star before they lost their light.
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:03 PM
And it’s run for the roses As fast as you can You fate is delivered Your moment’s at hand It’s the chance of a lifetime In a lifetime of chance And it’s high time you joined In the dance
Dan Fogelberg
Grandpa
sighed, set his newspaper down, and got up slowly. It cost him some
effort, and he grunted and pushed himself up using the arm of his
regal chair for support. “I’m getting up,” he moaned. Having
made it to his feet, he sighed deeply, looked at Horace, and gave him
a warning look. “I’ll be back presently. Do not leave this room.”
“What
will I do?”
“Reflect
in Solitude,” muttered Grandpa, as he shuffled off to the kitchen.
“Damp
it!” mumbled Horace, and then slapped his hand over his mouth. He
looked around guiltily to ensure no one had heard his horrible
language. Satisfied he was secure, he went to the couch where he
found his old black and white, one-eyed, tattered Teddy Bear laying.
He picked him up. “You know what, Teddy?”
“What?”
asked Teddy. His nonexistent lips didn’t move. Horace’s did.
“Grownups
are poops. They make you stay in the room. They never let you throw
your Batterang. And they never even let you watch…” Horace’s
eyes went to the TV. “Maybe there’s a baseball game,” he said
carrying Teddy to the television.
“Or
Batman,” squeaked Teddy.
“Nah,”
said Horace, turning on the TV, “he’s only on Wednesdays and
Thursdays.”
The
black and white TV glowed just a little, and in a moment, the sound
of Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass’s “Whipped Cream” came from
it. In another moment, the picture faded in. A voice off screen
said, “And now here’s the host of The Dating Game… Jim Lange!”
There was applause, and then a man walked on stage. “Thank you,
Johnny O,” said the man, “and welcome, ladies and gentlemen to
The Dating Game. Tonight, sit back and watch while we bring you what
we hope… will be the beginnings of a lifelong love affair.”
He winked at Horace and Teddy. “And let’s meet the contestants
now.”
It was
then that Grandpa returned carrying two plates with coffee cake.
“Terminate
that tripe instantly,” said Grandpa.
Horace
looked up. “Huh?”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 4:17 PM
“That Smut, Piss, and Corruption, or whatever they’re called,”
said Hal.
“You mean Earth, Wind, and Fire?” Horace asked, turning the music
down.
“Right… whatever you call it; it’s awful.” Hal Singleman, Horace’s father, was a tall man, but not terribly heavy. He was known for his nearly Vulcan calm and intellect. And he had no tolerance for things he thought were less than great Art.
“We’re playing it tonight at the football game. I really have to
know what I’m doing.”
“There’s nothing of value to do with that.”
“Well, the fans may disagree.”
“They’re there to watch over-sized boys knock each other over.
Whom do you feel the need to impress?”
Jimmy, Horace’s brown haired, bespectacled best friend laughed.
“Women,” he told Hal.
“Women who are impressed by trash are not worth impressing.”
“There’s a case to be made, Professor Singleman,” said Jimmy,
“that Earth, Wind, and Fire are not trash. They are, if nothing
else, three of the Four Elements.”
“Right. The Four Elements turned out also to be trash. Don’t they
teach about atoms in high school Science Classes anymore?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “They
also teach the beginnings of Science. It was a reasonable guess in
the absence of any data.”
Hal was about to reply, when Horace said, “I just think September
is a cool song. It was Sheldon who talked Mr. Spicer into doing it.”
“Your brother is an expert in music, but his taste in it still
leaves much to be desired. And he’s your teacher, so be… you
know… respectful.”
“Student teacher,” Horace corrected him. “We’ll keep it down.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
Hal left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” Horace told Jimmy, “but I really do
wonder whether she’s happy. I mean, she looks that way from all I
can see, but how do you know what’s really inside of someone… you
know?”
“You don’t. You can only guess based on the outside. And she looks great from the outside.”
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:07 PM
“Turn
that horrible stuff off, Horace. Your Grandfather is a Man of God.”
“Oh,
it’s not horrible Mrs. Fiddle Bottom. It’s Ed’s Vacational.”
Owen
handed Horace a plate, and asked, “What’s Ed’s Vacational?”
“You
know,” said Horace. Mrs. Fertlebom handed him the glass of milk.
“Like Sesame Street. Thank you, Mrs. Fiddle Bottom.”
“What’s
Sesame Street?” asked the rapidly aging, nearly round woman.
“It’s
a show with this big yellow bird, and a big hairy green monster who
lives in a garbage can, and there’s this frog-”
“Right,”
said Grandpa. “Garbage. Turn it off.”
“But
it’s good for me. Mom says it teaches stuff.”
“Your
mother never learned anything from this show,” said Owen as he
eased himself slowly into his chair. Again, there was a grunting
sound. “Thank you, Mrs. Fertlebom,” Grandpa said, hoping
Horace would catch on.
Horace
didn’t. “No, not this one. Sesame Street. Sesame Street is an
Ed’s Vacational show because it teaches stuff.”
“What
do you learn from frogs and birds?”
“I
hope it’s not birds and bees,” said Mrs. Fertlebom. When Owen
glared at her, she fell silent. She descended upon the couch.
“I can
sound out hard words. There’s this man in a cartoon who sounds out
words, and then something funny happens to him. One time he sat in
some wet paint.”
“I can
barely control my laughter at the man’s misfortune. And what do you
learn from monsters? Do they teach you how to terrorize civilian
populations for fun and profit?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head. “We haven’t learned that yet. But,
Kermit the Frog and Grover, who is this funny blue monster, taught us
about Near and Far the other day. Can I show you?”
Grandpa
sipped his milk and then looked down at Horace. He and Horace were
both afflicted with milk mustaches. “Do I have a choice?”
Horace
put his weight on his hand, got up slowly, grunted, and moaned, “I’m
getting up.” He then leapt instantly to his feet. Grandpa rolled
his eyes. “Okay. Right now I’m near.” He suddenly ran out of
the room and down the hall. “Now I’m far!”
Grandpa
wondered where Horace was after a moment, and he leaned back in his
chair to look down the hall. “Horace!”
In another moment, he heard Horace’s voice, singing, “Na na na na na na na na na na na na na….” and when Horace reappeared he had a blue towel tied around his neck. “Batman!” He wore a mask and a San Francisco Giants cap. He plopped in front of the TV again. “Now I’m near again.”
“You’re
also weird again. Now turn that off.”
“But
it’s -”
“Ed’s
Vacational. I know. What do you think you’re going to learn from
that show?”
“I’m
going to watch two people falling in love.”
“Not unless that show goes on for 40 years, you’re not.” Grandpa finished his coffee cake.
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 7:27PM
“You really have to stop staring, Horace. You’ve been looking at
her for like 40 years.”
Horace looked to his left. Gary Marx, a better drummer who was a
year Horace’s junior, was glaring at him. Gary was not as tall as
Horace, but he was built much more sturdily.
“What do you mean?”
“Rhiannon. You gotta quit staring at her.”
“Well, she’s sort of the conductor. I have to watch to make sure
I’m playing along properly with the cheerleaders.”
“Yeah. You never look at Norm Spicer that way.” Gary stuffed
some popcorn in his mouth.
Horace smiled. “Yeah. Okay.” He drank his soda.
Gary
poked him. “Play!”
Evidently, there had been a touchdown. He couldn’t possibly have cared less. But there was Rhiannon, jumping up and down, and suddenly his attention was absorbed. He played in perfect rhythm with the rest of the drum section. Perhaps she would look up. Perhaps she would see him. Of course, she would have to turn around and face the stands instead of the football field. That would be years from now. He just stared in his adolescent hormone haze.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:13 PM
“They’ll
show you something
on that show, Horace. But it won’t be love. That’s something
different from what you’ll see on this show. On this show, they’ll
show you lust, and you don’t want to watch that.”
“What’s lush?”
“It’s when a man and a woman want to commit the sin of adultery
together because they like the way each other look.”
“What’s adultery?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions. I think you must be that
question mark man.”
“No, you are! You’re the Riddler! Where’s my Batterang?”
“Turn off the TV.”
“But I wanted to see about this Love stuff.”
“Turn off the TV, and I’ll tell you about it.”
“Deal!” yelled Horace leaping to his feet. He went to Grandpa,
grabbed his left hand, and shook it.
“Other hand,” said Grandpa, correcting the situation.
Horace turned off the TV. “Well…”
Owen picked up his newspaper. “Well, what?”
“How do you know when you’re in love?”
“How old are you?”
“Seven years old. Almost.”
“Then you’re not.”
“But how will I know when I am if you won’t tell me how I’ll know
when I am?”
Grandpa Owen Leal set his newspaper in his lap, sighed, and then adopted his Pastor Leal voice. “Being in love means that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone doing God’s work. Sometimes it even means you want to bring children into the world with them. That’s good if you’re married. Like your mom and dad. They’re in love.”
“So, when you get married, then you fall in love?”
“Oh, I should say not. Never, ever, Horace, get married thinking
you’ll fall in love after you get married. You need to be in
love a long time before that.”
“Okay… so… if I want to spend my whole life with someone then
I’m in love?”
Grandpa rubbed his mustache. “Well, yes, but you have to think
about what that really means for a little while. It means every
morning, forever and ever and ever, when you get up you’re going to
be with that person, and it means they’ll be there every night when
you go to bed, and for all the other times too.”
Horace rubbed his milk mustache. “Well, I want to see Mom and Dad
every day for the rest of my life. Does that mean I’m in love with
them?”
“Heavens
no! You love them. That’s different from being in
love. Being in love
is, well…” He had to think a moment. “Well, if you’re lucky,
God might give you one chance really
to be in love. Everything else is just something that happens on the
way there.”
“Yeah, but what happens?”
“Hmmm….
I guess you might begin to suspect there’s something
going on when you can’t stop thinking about some girl. Although,
more often than not, that’s just a case of overactive hormones. But,
it is
a part of it. If you think a girl is really pretty, and you think
about her all the time, and if you wonder if she has enough to eat,
and if she’s safe, and when nothing makes you happier than making her
happy, and all of that sort of thing… well, maybe, just possibly
you’re in love. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Are you in love with Grandma, Grandpa?”
Owen frowned. “Do you know what a personal question is?”
“Something Mom says is rude to ask. But I didn’t ask how old you
are.”
The smallest beginnings of a smile crossed Owen’s face. “Yes, I’m
in love with your Grandmother.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
“Of course I do.”
“As pretty as the girls on the TV?”
“Did you ever see your Uncle Melvin’s cornfields?”
Horace nodded.
“They’re pretty aren’t they?”
“I
like it when the wind rolls over the corns like it was this big
invisible ball in this invisible pinball machine. But that’s not
pretty like a girl.”
“Do you like to look at it?”
“Yes.”
“If you like to look at it, it’s pretty. I like to look at your
Grandmother the same way I like to look at cornfields or an Austrian
mountainside or even…” He trailed off and his eyes became
slightly moist. “Have you ever been to Blue Stem Lake?”
Horace shook his head.
“When I was one and twenty….” Grandpa laughed. “Okay, two
and twenty, ’tis true, ’tis true!”
“Huh?”
“It’s from a poem. When I was twenty two, I had a cabin out by
Blue Stem Lake. I built it with my own two hands.”
“Is this one of those stories where you had to walk twelve miles to
school, ‘cuz -”
“No!” snapped Grandpa. “I built if for your Grandmother and
me. ‘Course, she never knew she’d be livin’ in it.” He smiled
now. It was a genuine, sentimental smile. It seemed to fill his
entire being.
“You weren’t married yet?”
“No, no. But, sometimes, she would come out in her daddy’s milk
wagon. I remember how I’d hear those bells around the horse’s neck
jingling and jangling in the distance, and I would jump up and tidy
up the cabin.”
“You could jump up then? You didn’t have to grunt or anything?”
Owen ignored him. “Then she’d stop the wagon out in front of the
cabin, and she’d take a bottle of milk out, and she’d come to my door
for my weekly delivery. We’d be terribly business like, and I’d
thank her for coming so far out of the way, and I’d invite her to
stay a while and have some tea and rest up before her long journey
home. At first, she would just blush and decline; she had to get
home to her Daddy. But, after a while, she took to staying a few
minutes. And then she’d stay longer, and sometimes, I even got her
to take a long walk by the lake with me, and we’d just listen.”
“What would you listen to?”
“Nothing. Just all the things you can’t really hear, you know? I mean the things no one pays attention to. We’d hear the songs of the birds… the childish gurgling of the water… or maybe just our own voices, saying nothing that mattered, but fitting in very nicely with Nature’s Symphony… Your Grandmother was so beautiful…” He sighed almost rapturously. “And when she’d leave, I’d cut her a rose from the bush I grew outside my door. And she’d say, ‘thank you’ ever so politely… so sweetly… so… so sincerely.”
“Sounds like the story you told us in Sunday School last week.”
Grandpa frowned. “Which one?”
“The one about Adam and Eve.”
“I didn’t tell the story of The Garden of Eden last week.”
“No. That story about the ding-dong voice of Eve and the bird
songs.”
He smiled again. “That’s ‘daylong voice of Eve,’ and it’s not a
story. It’s a poem. By Robert Frost.”
“Tell it again.”
“Do you really understand that poem?”
“It’s pretty and it has neat words like that Greentree Whitileaf
guy has. Dad reads him to me a lot of times.”
“All right….” And Grandpa recited.
He would declare and could himself believe That the birds there in all the garden round From having heard the daylong voice of Eve Had added to their own an oversound, Her tone of meaning but without the words. Admittedly an eloquence so soft Could only have had an influence on birds When call or laughter carried it aloft. Be that as may be, she was in their song. Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed Had now persisted in the woods so long That probably it never would be lost. Never again would birds' song be the same. And to do that to birds was why she came.
There
was silence for a few blissful moments. And then…
“I’m in love with…”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 8:31 PM
“… Rhiannon Stark.”
“Shut up and march,” shouted Gary as the band took the field.
“2, 3, 4!”
And the drums began playing Peg Leg Cadence. The band marched, and
Horace looked to the sidelines. Rhiannon wasn’t there.
“Focus!” Gary Marx would grow up to be a Marine, and a good one.
He was already practicing his authoritarian tendencies and displaying
his love of precision. Horace had neither of those traits. It was
all he could do to keep in step with the band.
Suddenly the trumpets blared. Horace flipped the cowbell attached to
his snare drum up, and his drumstick upside down. He had practiced
the hell out of that. He didn’t want to screw it up.
He pivoted and began giving serious attention to the cowbell
performance, playing in his head the song he had been listening to
for the last week. He could distinctly hear Maurice White singing,
and he could feel the music. He was one with it. He never had
talent, but when the moments came, as this one just had, he could
play a bit. (Play the original track again. There’s some tricky
stuff going on with that cowbell!)
“Trip-el-let!” he could hear his brother yelling at him when he
had walked by Horace’s room last night. And he played the triplets
correctly. No one in the world knew, but Horace was beaming with
pride.
When he turned again, he saw the cheerleaders returning to the field.
Rhiannon was holding a fresh soda. She was looking back at the rest
of her squad as she trotted to the sidelines. She set her soda down
on a folding table, and Horace was forced to turn again and lost
sight of her.
He marched. For the first and only time in his life, he marched
perfectly. He knew she was there. He had practiced. She had been
nice to him in March. She had smiled as she passed him in the hall
on Wednesday. This was all he could want.
When the band finished the show, the entire stadium erupted in
applause. It was, Horace was certain, because of the cowbell. In
another couple of decades, Bruce Dickinson would be proud.
Horace looked over and saw Rhiannon’s eyes glowing with pride, and inside he felt a cold joy. When they started their exit cadence, he saw the football players running onto the field behind the band. Bob, the quarterback, smiled across the field at Rhiannon. Horace’s stomach dropped into his feet. He tripped over it, and Gary grabbed and steadied him.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:18 PM
“I was
afraid you’d say something dumb like that.”
“Well,
I am!”
“Fine.
Tell her. Not me.”
“Do
you think I should kiss her?”
“I
think you should ask her.”
“What
if she says no?”
“Then
you don’t kiss her.”
“But
what if I want to anyway?”
“That
doesn’t matter. Not in the least. And, to be honest, she should
probably say no, and you probably shouldn’t ask her.”
“Why?”
“Because
you’re too little for that.”
“Why
do you think that? I’m old enough to be Batman. Sometimes I’m
Captain Kirk, and he kisses girls, and he never asks.”
“Do
you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I
think I’m an old man, and I think being awake anymore is not in my
best interests.”
“Why
do old men get tired so soon?”
“Their
bodies are probably practicing for The Big Sleep they’ve got coming
up. It’s usually unexpected, but if you get to be old enough, you
can be ready for departure.”
“What’s
The Big Sleep?”
“Huh? Oh! It’s a movie with Humphrey Bogart. I’m going to sleep. You need to mind Mrs. Fertlebom.”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 8:49 PM
The band was off the field, and the football players were streaming
onto it. Horace looked up when he heard a scream from among the
cheerleaders. He saw Bob Amity grabbing Rhiannon, turning her
around, throwing his helmet to the ground, and kissing her full on
the mouth. Horace stood frozen, infuriated, for just a moment, and
then unsnapped his drum and let it fall to the ground.
His insides were suddenly, it felt, physically burning. His skin
turned red. His vision glazed over for a bit, and Rhiannon’s image
was nothing more than a glow. Horace had never felt anything like
this before. It was anger. It was jealousy. It was horror. He
would spend decades afterward wondering whether it had been love. He
never decided. At that moment, there was only one decision he could
make. Bob had to be stopped. Rhiannon had to be saved. And that’s
when Gary grabbed his arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“He can’t do that! He didn’t ask. She didn’t want it.”
“And what did you think you were going to do?”
Horace tried to wrest his arm from Gary’s firm grip. “Stop him!”
Gary smiled. “He’s twice your size. He’s in better physical
condition. He’ll kick your pansy ass.”
“I don’t care! Let go!”
Rhiannon was backing away, trying to escape Bob’s grasp, and the
football players were whooping and hollering. “Get some, Bobby,
boy!” yelled the place kicker.
“Even if you could take him, the rest of the football team would
kick your ass. Then I would have to go back you up, and I can’t take
out more than maybe 3 of them, and then I’m getting my ass kicked,
too.”
The cheerleaders rushed off their benches toward the incident, and
suddenly there was a crack that shocked the entire field into
silence. Rhiannon’s slap was the shot heard round the World of
Wells, Maine.
Bobby stood frozen in disbelief. His left cheek was even redder than
Horace’s forehead. There was a noticeable glint of a tear in his
eye.
Horace’s heart grew three sizes at that moment, and he found himself
hovering a solid 3 inches off the ground as a hush fell across the
stadium. He felt pride. He felt ecstasy. He felt respect. He felt
the Joy of 10 Horaces… plus two! He felt a Poet born in his heart.
“She doth teach the torches to burn bright,” he whispered to
himself.
Rhiannon
maintained her fighting stance slightly sideways to Bobby, with her
eyes locked on his. Her right arm was extended toward Bobby, palm up
and fingers extended. After a brief awkward moment, Rhiannon slowly
flexed her index and middle fingers, twice. taunting Bobby to try her
again. The frank menace in her unblinking glare left little doubt of
the meaning of her gesture. The air was thick
with tension. For a seemingly endless moment, no one spoke or moved.
Then Bobby’s posture suddenly deflated. This was no win for him.
Whatever he did or said, he knew he had already lost. Best to beat a
retreat. As he broke the grip of her stare, Rhiannon made
not a sound, but her eyes spoke clearly to anyone who could see them:
“You will remember
this if you ever think about assaulting a woman again.” She looked
around the stadium at everyone watching. The edges of her lips
climbed imperceptibly before she looked back at Bobby, as though to
say, “No
amount of popularity will ever give you the right to take dignity
from a woman. Try that again and a slapped cheek will be the least of
your worries.”
Rhiannon
took a breath, turned, and walked silently off the field, being sure
to keep her head held high. The silence was unabated. First one,
then another, and in moment, all the cheerleaders followed her off
the field. They were all done for tonight. The team could play
without them.
“So
shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder lady o’er her
fellow shows,” Horace whispered.
Gary
put his drum back on, motioning for the rest of the section to do the
same. He shouted out, “Children of Sanchez… 1…2… 1,2,3….”
And the entire section erupted with the cadence, and marched with the
cheerleaders off the field.
The
crowd cheered, and leapt to their feet. The band director’s son,
Michael, played the Chuck Mangione melody on his trumpet. He was
playing with the pride and polish of Gabriel playing his horn. He
led rest of the band, following the cheerleaders off the field.
In a few moments, The Poe High School Panthers football team was standing alone between the goal and the 20 yard line. First, Rhiannon, then the cheerleaders, then, finally, the marching band crossed the opposition’s goal line and went through the metal doors that led out of the stadium. The music stopped. The football players began wandering off the field, and fans began leaving. As the last supporter left the field, the metal rang like a bell as the door fell shut.
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:23 PM
“All
right,” said Jim Lange’s voice coming from the TV, “that’s the
signal Farrah, and now you must make up your mind… will it be
Bachelor Number One, Bachelor Number Two, or Bachelor Number Three?”
“It
doesn’t matter who she picks,” Horace whispered to Teddy. “She
always finds out later it was the wrong one.”
“Which
one gets the date?” asked the TV.
“Number
Two,” Farrah’s voice replied.
“Number
Two, all right! Can I ask what it was that made you choose him?”
“It
was the flower.”
And then
a fight broke out between the three bachelors.
“That’s
only ‘possed to be on Batman,” said Teddy, while Horace’s lips
moved.
“Cool!”
Owen
groaned, “I’m up, I’m up, I’m up,” as he woke from his doze, got
out of the chair, and walked to the TV. He turned it off, while
Horace groaned in disappointment. Grandpa lumbered to the couch,
laid down on it, and pulled the blanket off the back of it and
covered himself.
Teddy
looked up at Horace. “Your Grandpa’s wise, huh?”
Horace
nodded. “He’s God’s best friend.” He looked down at his bear.
“But we have to be quiet. Grandpa’s going to sleep now.”
Horace
watched Owen a while, and then he took Teddy, climbed on top of
Grandpa, and fell asleep.
“Heavens to Betsy!” exclaimed Mrs. Fertlebom as she came back in the living room. “The Pastor sleeps.”
***
Wells, Maine Friday, October 19, 1979 9:07 PM
“How about a bougainvillea?” Jimmy was walking around the flower bushes near the parking lot of the stadium. “It’s close.”
“No!” snapped Horace. “It has to be a rose. She chose him
because of a single rose bud.”
“Who did?”
“Some girl named Farrah, on The Dating Game, the day my Grandfather
died. I give her the rosebud, and I’m Bachelor Number Two.”
“Wait. Seriously?” Jimmy grabbed Horace by the arm and stopped
his search. “Are you laboring under the delusion that if you give
Rhiannon Stark a rosebud, she’s going to let you take her out?”
“Why not? Since that night in March, she’s smiled at me 5 times in
the hall, and she said hey to me twice.”
“She called you Howard.”
“So she made a mistake. She still might like me.”
“She’s dating Bobby Amity.”
“Not after that debacle tonight, she’s not.”
Students were congregating in the parking lot, now, many of them
heading toward buses. Horace spotted a cheerleader holding a bouquet
of roses her boyfriend had just given her. He moved without
thinking, Jimmy on his heels.
Horace suddenly stopped and turned to Jimmy. “I only have three
bucks. How much have you got?”
Jimmy looked in his wallet. “I have… 6… no, 7.”
“Give it to me, quick. I’ll pay you back, I swear it!”
Jimmy frowned and handed Horace his cash. Horace continued his dash.
“Hey!” The girl and her boyfriend looked over at Horace as he
rushed up. “So, those are beautiful flowers. He obviously loves
you. But… I really need just one of them. I have ten bucks I can
give you.”
“But, then I won’t have a dozen anymore.”
The football player took the money and pulled a rose from the
arrangement. “I’ll buy you another one tomorrow,” he said to the
girl. He handed Horace the rose.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re going to do?” Jimmy asked
as Horace started toward the cheerleaders’ buses.
“I’m giving it to Rhiannon, of course.”
Jimmy stopped him. “Okay, Horace, I really need you to listen to
me. I’m not Gary. I’m not some macho wannabe Marine giving you
advice. I’m your best friend for the last 5 years. That’s like a
third of our lives. So, you really, really need to listen to me.
Can you do that?”
Horace looked again at the bus. Rhiannon was nowhere near it yet.
He sighed. “If you can make it quick.”
“Okay. What you want is to give her the rose… like on The Dating
Game… Like your Grandpa gave your Grandma at Blue Stem Lake. And
then, you think it’s going to work out for you. I have that right,
don’t I?”
Horace nodded.
“I’m not looking to hurt you here, pal, but that is never… NEVER
going to happen. You’re not in her league. You would be better off
writing more letters to Valerie Bertinelli. It won’t work out for
you. You’re not a hot guy like Bobby Amity. You’re not rich. You
drive your father’s 1970 Dodge Dart when you drive at all. You spend
most of your Saturday nights with me on the roof of the Mormon Church
across the street from my house drinking Mickey’s Big Mouth. You’re
not cool. You’re not good looking. You play Dungeons
and Goddamn Dragons, dude. Your only distinction is being a Greatest
Nothing of The Poe High School Nothings. The sooner you listen to
Socrates, and know thyself, the sooner life gets easier for you. Can
you see that?”
“Yeah. I know. A ship in a harbor is safe…”
Voices approached from behind them. Rhiannon walked past quickly,
moving toward the buses, and Bobby Amity’s voice rose in the
distance. Horace saw her, and he couldn’t hear him.
“But that is not what ships are made for,” Horace told Jimmy, and
started walking toward Rhiannon.
“Ree!” shouted Bobby, and in another moment, he shot by Horace,
dodging him as though Horace was an opposing player between the
quarterback and the goal line.
Bobby stopped a couple of feet behind Rhiannon, who whirled on him
contemptuously. He threw his hands in the air. “It’s cool. I’m
cool. I’m here to apologize.”
Horace stopped where he was. A few football players gathered. The
rest of the band was already on the bus. They would certainly be
looking for Horace any time now.
“Go ahead,” said Rhiannon.
“Oh…” Bobby looked around. He was at a loss for words. “Um…
yeah. So, look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“He’s an eloquent bastard, I’ll give him that,” whispered Jimmy.
“She’s never going to buy that,” Horace whispered back.
Jimmy looked over to Horace. “Seriously? You need to read a
little research. Come down to the library and go through the
microforms with me. Abused women often forgive their attackers.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“It was in an English paper called The Daily Mirror.”
Across the parking lot, Bobby was smiling in what he hoped was a
charming way. “Huh?” He threw his arms open. Rhiannon glared.
Horace grinned. “Well, you’re full of it. We’ll settle it at The
Chelsea Drugstore, Mr. Jimmy. Loser buys.”
Jimmy laughed. “My favorite flavor, Cherry Red. You know Jagger’s
Chelsea Drugstore used to actually exist on King’s Road in England?”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“At the Library. The Daily –”
“Mirror… yeah, okay.” Horace looked back to the bus.
“Come on. I said I’m sorry, right? What else do I gotta do?”
Bobby grinned.
Rhiannon sighed. She looked at him a while longer, and then turned
around to board the bus. “The fact that you even have to ask…”
She went up the stairs, and the door shut behind her.
“There it is,” said Horace. “You’re buying.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Hmm. You may be right.” He turned around to
walk away.
“I’m giving her the rose,” Horace announced, heading toward the
bus.
And that was when it happened: Bobby began to sing.
“Rhiannon,” was all he sang. But it was clearly the melody of
the Fleetwood Mac song. And Bobby had a surprisingly good voice for
a football player.
“He’s got to be kidding, right?” Horace asked, freezing in place.
Bobby sang it again. And again. Football players gathered around
him. They began singing, too.
One of the cheerleaders walking toward them from the other side of
the parking lot, made a sympathetic, “Aww…” sound. Horace
looked incredulously at the girls.
First Julie, the short blonde sympathy uttering girl, then Jenny, and
two other girls started singing, “Rhiaaaaanon…” as they
traveled like a wave toward the bus.
The parking lot was filled with the name, sung over and over, and the
sound was seductive. Before he knew it, even Horace was singing
along. Jimmy glared at him incredulously. He smacked Horace
in the arm, and Horace looked over and stopped singing.
The singing continued. The sound was surreal, echoing almost
supernaturally through the parking lot. Cars that had been on their
way out, stopped, their lights shining on the bus.
And it went on. 30 seconds… 45… more than a minute. The moment
was covered in unreality. It became a Siren’s Song. And it finally
had its effect. The bus door burst open, and Rhiannon exploded from
within it. She fell into Bobby’s arms and a flashbulb went off.
Horace swallowed hard. While the assembled crowd sighed as one, a
tear formed in his left eye.
He went home that night, and pressed the rose between the pages of
his father’s copy of The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier.
At the bottom of the page on the left, it read:
“God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;” At the top of the next page: “For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
***
Phoenix, Arizona July 9, 2019 2:43 AM
The writer shut down the computer, and the library was lit now only dimly by the flickering candlelight. He stood slowly. “I’m getting up,” he groaned as he used his left arm to steady himself against the arm of his secondhand office chair. He picked up his 1980 yearbook from his desk, closed it on the page with a black and white picture of Rhiannon in Bobby’s arms standing at a bus, and he took it to the bookcase. He pulled down “The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier,” and opened it. The faded, scentless rose was still there. And in the silence, he heard her voice. “… to do that to the roses was why she came…”
Thanks to my many collaborators: Janet Simpson Shipley, Andrea Whiffin Grinstead, Mark Rozema, Ross Ross, Kim Woolbright, Warren Brown, Denise Schroeder Hayes, Theresa Marie Londono, Chuck Curry, James P. Kemp, John G. Willis, Jamie Sasse, Robin Bartley, Deanna Pine, and Mark Shipley.
Because I’ve always wondered why people say, so… Special Thanks to people whose words I stole: Ross Ross, Jamie Sasse, Theresa Marie Londono “Good writers borrow from other writers; great writers steal from them outright.” — Aaron Sorkin
Uncle Fred left the door
open again while he was bringing his Diet Pepsi into the house.
Buster looked up at him, wondering if it was going to be Time for
Cuddles pretty soon, and he followed him out to get the next 12 pack,
meowing loudly to get Uncle Fred’s attention. Uncle Fred was too
busy thinking about Work and Money and other Ugly Things to notice
his cat under his feet. Buster dodged out of the way when Uncle Fred
stepped into the house again. He wasn’t quick enough to get into the
house before the door closed. He meowed again. He scratched at the
door. It stayed shut. And that was when the white rabbit hopped
past.
Buster chased him instantly. In another minute, they were beyond the light of the carport, and running across the street in the darkness. They got to the construction site, and the rabbit stopped, turned around, looked at Buster, who was now crouched to pounce, and the bunny twitched its little nose twice, and then bolted toward a freshly dug hole between the tractors and cranes and bulldozers.
In another moment, the
rabbit was gone, and Buster sniffed the air, swished his tail, and
crept toward the hole. He stopped when he heard Uncle Fred’s voice
calling out, “Buster! Buster Brown! Time to come in.”
Buster took a step in the direction of Fred’s voice, but the bunny poked his ears out of the hole and made a rude noise. Buster turned back, the bunny twitched his nose again, and Buster plunged into the hole after the Rabbit.
He stepped through a pair of
oak trees, and Buster saw deep greens for the first time. Even the
water in the pond made by the waterfall was glowing greenly. The
rabbit was nowhere to be found. Buster looked behind him, and saw
nothing but a long path leading into more trees.
He stepped forward, and he
suddenly jumped backward when hooves came trotting into him. Missing
him by less than an inch, the hooves skidded in the dirt and then
stopped. Buster heard a royal voice above him.
“I beg
your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there.”
Buster
looked up at a golden horn that seemed to be staring down at him.
Then he watched the legs kneel, and in a moment, a beautiful unicorn
was looking the kitty in the eyes.
“I offer my humblest apologies.” Buster stared. “I am Sir Eustace of Brackenstall.” Buster closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. Eustace smiled. “Well, I love you, too Kitty Cat.” Eustace reached up to the tree nearest them, and started eating an apple. In a couple of bites he finished it, and then looked down to Buster again. “You can speak, you know.”
Buster
licked his paws and then looked up. “I’m not supposed to.”
“Who
told you that?”
“I
don’t know. I just always knew it.”
“Doesn’t
anyone talk to you?”
“Sure,
they do. Uncle Fred tells me I’m a good boy, and calls me quite a
few different names. Kitty – Cat – A – Kitty seems to be his
favorite.”
“Do
you have a name of your own?”
“They
named me Buster. That’s not my real name, of course.”
“What,
then, is your real name, if you please?”
And
then Buster smiled, and he let loose with a purr, that became a meow,
that became these words: “And
that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human
research can discover—But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never
confess.”
Eustace
nodded. “Are you a poet?”
“No.”
Buster sniffed the air. “But Uncle Fred reads me poetry like
that.”
Eustace
stared thoughtfully. “How do you happen to be in The Enchanted
Wood?”
Buster
stopped sniffing and looked at Eustace. “Is that where I am?”
“It’s
certainly enough where I am, and you’re certainly enough near me, so
it’s certainly enough a reasonable guess you’re certainly enough
Here… in The Enchanted Wood. It’s the Capital City of the Imagine
Nation.”
Buster
looked around the Wood. “There was a rabbit I needed to catch.”
“Why?”
“It’s
what Kitty Cats do. We catch things. Sometimes we eat them.”
Eustace
looked sad. “I think Boris would be unhappy if you ate him.”
“They
don’t usually have names.”
“Everything
has a name. But, like yours, they’re often hidden. Except here. In
The Enchanted Wood, Everything is True.”
Buster
nodded, thoughtfully. “In my world, very little is True.”
“Then,
perhaps,” said Eustace, “you would be better staying here.
Truth, as you can see around you, is quite beautiful.”
“I
believe I would miss my family.”
“I
have a family. Would you like to meet my daughter?”
Eustace led Buster through the forest until they came to a clearing. There was a baby unicorn there, but she wasn’t alone. A little human girl was sitting under a tree reading a book.
The
little unicorn approached the little girl slowly, trying to be sure
not to frighten her. The little girl wasn’t frightened, though. She
looked up from her book. “Hello, there,” she said pointing to
its pink and purple horn. “You’re a unicorn, aren’t you?”
“How
did you know?”
“You’re
the way I imagined you in my book. Do you have a name?”
The
unicorn bowed its little head. “I’m Marigold. Have you a name?”
“I’m Alyssa.” She smiled at the woman reading the book to her granddaughter. The woman reading kissed her granddaughter’s head. Then, the granddaughter looked at her kitties.
Then the grandma and the granddaughter waved to the man writing the story by candlelight.
He waved
back, and they all returned to Marigold and Alyssa who were being
watched carefully by Buster and Eustace.
Eustace
turned to Buster to speak, just as Marigold spoke to Alyssa. They
both asked, “How did you get here?”
Everyone
laughed.
Buster
said, “I followed the bunny rabbit. It was an accident.”
Alyssa
said, “I imagined myself here.”
Marigold
started out into the pond. She hopped gingerly from one stone to the
next, and she got farther and farther out. “I have a friend you
should meet.” And with that, she tripped and fell off the next
stone, and tumbled into the water.
Buster
bounded to the water’s edge. He skidded to a halt just before he got
wet. “I don’t know how to swim.”
“I
do,” said Alyssa, “but I imagine she’ll be all right. It was an
accident.”
In that
moment a big green fish’s tail appeared from under the water, and
then dropped into it again with a loud SPLASH! All three watched for
a moment. The water was still. The birds in the trees stopped
singing. The wind came to a halt. Nothing moved. After a full
minute, Buster went to Alyssa.
“Do
you think,” he purred, “you ought to go save -”
And then
it was as if the water began to boil. Big white and blue bubbles
grew and then popped in the pond. White water flew high in the air,
bursting like fireworks, and then from beneath it, a girl’s
turquoise blue hair sparkled in the the sunlight. A pink horn glowed
right beneath it.
“There
they are,” said Alyssa. “Just like I imagined they would be.”
When the
water fell, the Mermaid and the unicorn hovered in the air a moment
before they floated gently to a rock beneath them. Marigold licked
the Mermaid’s cheek. “Thank you, Aurora.”
Aurora
smiled, but said nothing. Marigold leapt back to shore skipping from
stone to stone. She went to stand by her friends.
“Aurora,
I would like you to meet my friends and family. This is Alyssa, and
Buster, and my father, Sir Eustace.”
Aurora looked at them and nodded silently. As the moon rose, they could all see a beautiful castle rising behind her in the distance.
“What’s
in that castle?” asked Buster.
“That
has to wait until next time,” yawned Alyssa. “I’m tired and I
have to go to sleep pretty soon. But you’ll all be right here when I
imagine you in my books or in my dreams again. And, Buster, Uncle
Fred is looking for you. You better go give him some cuddles.”
“How
do I get back?”
“I
imagine you’ll find a way,” said Alyssa.
Buster’s
world went dark for a moment, and then he found himself stepping out
of the mirror behind Uncle Fred’s bed. He sighed, crawled up on his
old friend, and looked behind him. His new friends disappeared, but
he knew he would see them again.
Until then, it would be enough for The Kitty to sleep and know he’s loved. Maybe you should try that too.
Clara was not quite 5 that
day in 1954 while she sat in her bedroom playing with her doll. The
sun was shining happily through her windows, and she was singing to
herself about a very small spider and a water spout. At first, she
was oblivious to the yelling outside. She’d heard it all before. 65
years later, though, she would look back to that day and continue to
wonder.
She would remember the
feeling of her head snapping up when she heard the car door slam far
more loudly than it ever had before. She would never be able to
remember the words she heard, but she would be quite certain they
were unfit for a 4 year old. She sat there for a full minute, frozen
just a little by the unexpected excitement.
Her father had been away in
the War for most of her life, and she’d known him a little less than
a year, or, just over 20% of the time she had been inhabiting this
planet. He yelled often, and often in the middle of the night.
Clara’s mother feared him. Clara never did. She didn’t really
understand fear. And yet…
The sound of her mother
screaming, “No!” frightened her. The sound came from within the
house.
His haggard face appeared at
the window first. A moment later his hands appeared on the sides of
his face, and his large, frightened eyes began to squint. Clara
would later believe he wanted to make sure she was there. One hand
was empty. In the other was an M1911, or a Colt Government. It
caught a spark of sunlight before it, the hands, and the face
disappeared.
It was the way the red
splashed the window that she thought, for just the tiniest moment,
was pretty. She was deaf for nearly a minute, and then her ears were
ringing while she cried into her doll baby. By the time her mother
found Clara, the doll was dripping.
***
No ghost was necessary. Her
father was more real than any ghost could ever be. When he
approached her, smiling, she felt a tinge of joy. When he held up
the gun, she closed her eyes, but since her eyes were already closed,
it did nothing to obscure the image from her view. The memory was
stronger than any darkness could hide. When he put the gun in his
mouth, she screamed and woke herself up.
Clara sat alone in her bed,
shivering. A memory she could hardly remember had haunted her for 65
years. She longed for an escape that could never come.
She remembered the stories.
Foul play was involved. No, that wasn’t true. Mom had found a
suicide note in his own handwriting. It discussed the Napalm he had
dropped on other human beings. It discussed a deep self loathing.
It said the death toll from the Korean War would never be accurately
calculated. She wondered if hers would be counted.
“You’re
going to be fine,” Irma told the clearly horrified Horace when they
stepped through the door.
He
stood looking around the massive lobby, and Horace immediately got
cold inside. The American Dental Association was having some sort of
conference here, and they were everywhere. His teeth began to ache.
The
lobby was like a cathedral. It had its own marble waterfall that
cascaded all but silently to the floor below. A sweeping staircase
led down there, but there was no way Horace was going to see beneath
the surface. He just knew there were even more people there, and the
distance between himself and the music would be greater. The lobby
included its own outdoor patio, and the music was audible there. But
he could no more smoke there than in the vestry of a church. He would
have to go past the Valet Parking into a corner about 50 yards from
the door where the Smoker’s Outpost was located, so the healthy
people could walk by and stare at the smokers contemptuously.
“I
need you to put that over by the water.”
Horace
was still reeling in a quiet terror. “What? You mean downstairs?”
“No.”
She pointed to a spot halfway across the lobby. “Literally right
beyond the water.”
“Oh!
Okay.” He took a deep breath and walked in the direction she
pointed, carrying some sort of stand for her little mini computer on
top of his clipboard. He set them down on the ledge next to a pool
of water. He sat down next to them, and told himself he was a
roadie, working for Jackson Browne, so it was all right for him to be
there. Irma walked past carrying her keyboard. “Okay… not so
much of a roadie, I guess,” he whispered, surreptitiously in the
noise of the the busy lobby.
A
woman of about 40 walked by, speaking perfectly audibly to the man
next to her.
“Have
you hatched the second season?”
“How
can someone speak in typographical errors?”
Irma
looked up from the cords she was connecting. “What?”
“The
lady that just walked by. I have no idea what she meant, and she was
too close for me to misunderstand her.”
“What
did she say? Is it important? I mean, you know, I’m kinda busy
here.”
“Would
you like me to help you set up your stuff?
“Would
you like me to hit you?”
“No,”
he said thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t be in my best interests, I
don’t think.”
“Then
let’s assume it’s not a good plan.”
Horace
sat and thought for a moment about the woman. They were gone before
he had the chance to hear the man’s reply. What could she possibly
have meant?
Horace got off the ledge, and found a table as close to Irma as possible. He sat down in a chair that belonged in a wealthy person’s living room, and tried to fade into nothingness.
***
December
27, 1992
A
ringing phone was the last thing Horace wanted to hear. Christmas
was over. He’d already called Winnie to say happy birthday. This
needed to be his time.
The
phone rang again. “Goddammit!” He set his little plastic bong
down behind his antiquated recliner, pulled the lever to release the
foot rest, and got his feet to the carpet. He moved the book from
his lap to the floor next to his bong, and sighing, stood up. He
walked to the phone on the peeling pine desk. “Hello.”
There
was music and laughter coming from the other end of the phone. There
was a crowd obscuring the voice trying to communicate with him. Her
words were indecipherable.
“What?”
He was more irritated now. “Who is this?”
“Horace!
I went out.”
“Winnie?”
“Who?
Oh, yes, me! Yeah. So, I went out.”
“You
sound a little drunk.”
“No,
I’m not. Not, you know, like really
drunk or anything. It’s my birthday!”
The
noise behind her was growing louder. A small crowd laughed.
“Cut
it out! I’m on the
phone…” She lowered her voice to the point it was almost
indistinguishable. “… with my boyfriend.”
“You
found the only bar in Iowa?”
“No,
I’m not in California, Horace. I’m in Iowa. I’m a long way from
you.”
“Yes,
dear. I know. I went out to visit you last week. Did you forget
that already?”
“Stop
it!”
“Stop
what?”
“No,
not you.” The voices
of young men overpowered hers, but she kept talking anyway. “I just
wanted to call you. I saw this phone booth, and I thought I should
call. Aren’t I a good girlfriend?” She was giggling.
“Winnie,
please don’t drive home. Okay?”
“Someone
here will give me a ride. Thanks for thinking of me.” Hooting and
hollering filled the phone line for a moment. And then…
The
line went dead.
Horace
was not naive. He could feel his blood physically heating up. He
went to his 6 disc CD player, pulled the cassette, and emptied it
somewhat obsessively. The discs lay neatly piled on top of the
entertainment center. He stormed to the CD rack standing on the wall
to the right of the TV, and he began searching. He knew that only
music could help him right now.
Within
less than a minute, he was totally frustrated, and his face was
turning red. He knelt to the records neatly organized beneath the
entertainment center. He skipped over classical, jazz, and rock. He
moved into soundtracks. Max Steiner’s Casablanca was neatly wedged
between Caddyshack and Close Encounters. He took it out, stood up,
and put it on. His breathing got heavier, and his heart was beating
far too rapidly.
As Dooley Wilson began to sing, Horace turned on the little desk light, turned out the overhead, sat back in the recliner, and loaded his bong. He blinked the tears out of his eyes.
***
The
First Set
“I
left the house tonight,” Horace typed into his Facebook on his
phone, “which is something I rarely do, in my slightly overlarge
jeans and my freshly washed blue shirt. I had hoped they would act
as camouflage. They didn’t. I needed a name tag for that.” As
the people continued to flow in and out of the lobby, he began almost
to quiver. Fortunately, Irma had begun playing by now, and when he
could connect with the music, and the people could be expelled from
his mind, it helped calm him.
“So,
why am I nervous as hell? There are people here. They are all light
years out of my social class. They have vastly more wealth than I
have ever had. Many of them are wearing name tags. They are all
better dressed than I am. If nothing else, their clothes all fit
them properly. One of them, a man 20 years or so my senior, just sat
down at my table in the lobby. I may well perish from People.”
He hated writing straight to Facebook, but he used it it like a
journal. It had become an outlet for his stress. And people seemed
to approve. His stress was off the scale.
Horace
looked peripherally at the man to his left. He wondered if he ought
to ask him to leave the table. There was something in his demeanor,
though, that Horace recognized. Horace knew he needed the music. He
kept staring at the elevator, as if waiting for someone to appear.
“But…
the music is mine. Yes, I’m sharing it with dozens of other people,
but mostly it’s mine. Irma is playing a unique version of Elton
John’s “Your Song,” and there is something comforting in a new
version of an old broken-in shoe. I can breathe.”
If
it had been a woman who had sat down, Horace would have felt obliged
to leave.
Evidently
the man was getting uncomfortable sharing the table with a stranger.
He walked through the lobby, out the door, and he turned to his left
before he vanished from sight. That was a man who needed a
cigarette.
The
elevator opened, and the blonde woman who had thought seasons of
television shows came from eggs stepped, somewhat clumsily, out of
the elevator. She looked around a moment, as though searching for
someone, and then all but ran across the lobby to a handsome, well
dressed man in an expensive suit. He was waving at her. He reached
to hug her, but she stopped him, looking nervously around.
Irma began playing again, and Horace turned to watch her. When he turned back, the couple were gone.
July 10, 1993
“Oh
for God’s sake!” yelled Winnie. “Can’t you even do this right?”
“It’s
nowhere near as easy as it looks in the movies,” Horace grunted as
he tried to balance Winnie in his arms while fighting with key to the
hotel room door.
“Jesus!”
She jumped out of his arms. Her wedding dress snagged on his ring.
“Fuck!”
“We’ll
get it fixed.”
“Yeah,
but on my Wedding Day?
Seriously?”
Horace finally turned
the key. He opened the door. “All right. Let’s try it again.”
“I think we should go
get my Mom to do it.”
“You’re a genuine
romantic, aren’t you?”
Winnie rolled her eyes.
“Let’s just get it the hell over with.”
Horace lifted her into
his arms, carried her across the threshold, and laid her carefully on
the bed. “I love you, you know.”
“Just close the door before bugs get in here.”
***
Break
Horace
had given up writing on Facebook, and he was scribbling on his
clipboard.
“I
feel like the other people here are all the same people who strolled
passed Joshua Bell playing in the subway without ever noticing. And,
as much as I fear them, I pity them even more. What must it be like
to be unable to feel music? Dostoevsky said, “Fathers
and teachers, I ponder, ‘What is hell?
I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.’” I
think the inability to feel music must be the Second Level of Hell.
I wonder what Dante would think? When you can’t feel music, when you
can’t let it grab you and demand your attention, how much less
catharsis must you feel than I do? And without catharsis, how can
you love?”
He
went to the Men’s Room. It was twice the size of his living room.
The paper towel dispenser said “Tork.” He thought of The
Monkees. He was sad for a moment.
Horace’s
heart jumped into his throat when he returned to his table to see
four women occupying it. They would have taken it over entirely, but
he had his clipboard and pen on it, as well as the soda the bartender
has been refilling for him gratis. One of the women, who was
distractingly attractive, said, “Sorry,” and lifted her drink.
Horace calmly replied, “No worries.” He considering throwing up.
“I
don’t know how I managed to sit down, except that, since my knees
wanted to buckle under me, I thought it was probably the least
embarrassing move available to me at the moment. I am, without a
doubt, the least coordinated person you will ever meet. Falling is
exceptionally painful, now that I’m 56, and my body can’t change
positions without a significant effort. Either standing or sitting
always requires a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound. How I wish
the crowd could make a little more noise, or that Irma would return
from her break and start playing so I could sit without attracting
unwanted attention.”
With
a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound, he sat in the beautiful
chair. None of the women looked over. His gratitude was without
bounds. They were either being polite by ignoring him (which is a
feat in, and of, itself), or the universe was giving him a break, and
they hadn’t heard him.
He
picked up his clipboard. He began to write rapidly, almost as though
he could outrun his discomfort by writing intensely. Faith healers
say when they fail, it’s because someone didn’t have enough faith.
Writing healers will tell you when they fail it’s because they
weren’t writing well enough.
He
went to refill their sodas for the third time, and the bartender,
with whom he had become as friendly as possible for him with a
stranger, said, “Why is there lipstick on both straws if one of
these is yours?”
“I
don’t know. I’ll have to ask Irma if she’s been drinking out of my
glass. You’d be surprised how little lipstick I wear.”
She
laughed a little too much at that. He wished he could tip her.
Poverty, he decided, had distinct disadvantages.
He heard the elevator ding, and he looked toward it. There stood the man who had shared his table. The worried husband didn’t get on. He was waiting for someone to get off.
***
November 27, 1997
Horace
paced the hallway, almost frantically, holding the phone receiver in
his left hand. How the hell long did she need to stay out with him?
She would be stepping out of the elevator any moment, he reassured
himself.
“Fifteen
hours I drove!” He realized he was yelling into the phone. He
brought his voice down to avoid disturbing other guests. “Fifteen
fucking hours!”
“Well,”
said his mother on the other end of the phone, “at least you didn’t
make the trip alone. It was nice of Marc to go with you. I didn’t
worry as much.”
“He’s
been out with her for four hours now, Ma. Come on!”
“Is
getting angry likely to change the situation?” His father’s voice
was completely calm.
“It
seems unavoidable to me.”
“I
think you can control your feelings a bit better. Explain to me,
please, exactly what you and Winnie, and… what’s this guy’s name?”
“Marc.
His parents owned the house Winnie and I bought.”
“Marc,
then. What are you three doing in Colorado, exactly?”
Horace
sighed. Mom knew all this. They talked about it every night. Dad’s
discussions were limited to Art and philosophy. Personal lives had
little meaning for him. “Okay. Winnie lost her teaching license.
There was some test she was supposed to take. She can’t teach out
there, anymore, so we decided to move to Colorado. She was tired of
California, anyway, and I thought that was fine. She came out here
first, with much of our stuff, and she worked out buying a house.
The house won’t be ready until next week, so she has this hotel room.
I drove straight from Hesperia to bring the rest of our stuff.”
“So,
why is this Marc person with you?”
“Hal,
I don’t want him driving all that way alone. It could be dangerous!”
“Okay,”
said his dad. “So, what’s the problem tonight?”
“I
drove fifteen hours straight. I did all the driving. When we got
here, I was beyond exhausted. I wanted to sleep. Winnie wanted to
go out. I went to bed. She and Marc went out. They’ve been gone 4
hours.”
“Do
you have a radio in your room?” Hal wasn’t changing his tone in the
slightest.
Horace
took a deep breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Then
this is what you want to do. You go back to your room. You find
Colorado Public Radio. They will play music deep enough to pull you
in properly. Did you bring any books on the trip?”
“Just
the Salinger.”
“Nine
Stories?”
“Yeah,
of course.”
“Then
you read The Laughing Man while you’re listening to the radio. Do
not read A Perfect Day for Bananafish. Also skip Teddy.”
Horace
laughed. “You don’t want me emulating Seymour?”
“What
on Earth do you mean?” His mother was confused.
“In
A Perfect Day for Bananafish, Seymour shoots himself, Marie.”
“Oh!
Right. I remember now.”
“And
make sure the swimming pool has water in it before you go diving in.”
Horace
laughed a little harder. “Yeah, I will, Dad. That’s not where I
am right now.”
“I
know. But you can’t change the world; only your corner of it. In
your corner you’re going to relax now. You’ll deal with Winnie when
she gets back.”
“Yeah.
You’re right. Okay.” He took a deep breath. His blood had
cooled. His skin was returning, slowly, to its natural color. His
heart was slowing down.
The
elevator bell chimed. Horace looked over to it. “Gotta go,” and
he hung up the phone.
Winnie stepped off the elevator, her makeup smeared, her hair something of a mess, and a look in her eyes that told Horace the entire story. The marriage, Horace knew at once, was over.
***
The Last Set
The
crowd had dissipated. The old man had returned to the table that
commanded such an excellent view of the elevator. Irma was playing
so well that Horace had finally gotten to connect completely with the
music. He paid little attention to his companion.
Between
songs, Horace glanced over at him. He was texting as passionately as
a man in his seventies possibly can. His face was red now, and it
was clear he was trying to contain his emotions.
Irma
began singing again. “You’re overthinking it; what else is new?”
Her voice wasn’t smooth, but it soothed the soul. “These thoughts
will be the death of me and you.” She had an edge that gave greater
depth to the words. It made the melody less the stuff of pop music,
and more in the style of an independent jazz artist. She was forging
her own musical path.
The
old man looked up and put his phone down. The music had finally
broken through his stress. He was beginning to feel it, now, too.
In a few minutes, there was a hint of a smile on his face. It had
lightened. The redness was all but gone.
Irma
finished, made her regular announcement of who she was, and thanked
everyone for coming. The old man looked back to his phone.
Horace
grabbed Irma’s purse, got up and all but ran to Irma. “So, I hate
to ask, but I really have to.”
She
unplugged her mic and looked up at him. “Ask what?”
“First,
I need to borrow ten bucks. I need to buy that guy a scotch.”
“I
know you’re not gay…”
“No.
He’s having a hell of a night. His wife is cheating on him.”
She
looked over to the old man, staring at his phone. The look on his
face told the entire story. “Oh. Yeah. I see that.” She
plugged her mic back in. “You have my purse, yet, right?” He
held it up. “Go get him his drink. I’ll do one more.”
“Cool.
That was going to be my second request.”
Horace
scampered across the lobby to the bar.
“So,”
asked the bartender, “was Irma drinking out of your glass?”
“She
denies it vehemently. It was probably Rhiannon.”
“Who?”
“Never
mind. Could I get a scotch please?”
“Sure.
On the rocks?”
“That
guy’s wife is cheating on him,” he said nodding toward his table.
The man stood up slowly.
“Right.
Neat.”
“I
think that would be appropriate.”
The
piano began, and Horace looked over and saw the old man stop, turn to
Irma, and then sit down at the table again.
“You
must remember this,” came Irma’s voice floating confidently across
the bar. As Horace returned to the table he saw the man’s eyes begin
to water.
“We’ve
decided your name is Rick,” said Horace sitting down at the table,
putting the drink in front of the old man. “Sam played it for him.
Irma can play it for you.”
The
old man smiled lightly. “That’s mighty kind, son.”
“The
fundamental things apply, as time goes by…”
The
old man brightened nostalgically. In a moment, his eyes flickered
shut, and he knew a quiet bliss.
The
blonde woman opened the outer door and drifted quickly across the
lobby. Her hair was a mess. Her makeup was smeared. Horace looked
at the old man, his eyes still closed. He thought, for a moment, he
wouldn’t see her.
But,
as though he had felt some sort of electrical shock, his eyes flew
open and he spotted her heading toward the elevator. He stood up,
and he shouted across the lobby. “LISA!”
The
woman froze in her tracks. She turned slowly.
The
man glared furiously, then said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,”
lifted his drink, and downed it. He set it on the table and walked
out calmly.
“It’s
still the same old story, the fight for love and glory, a case of do
or die…”
The
woman paled, watched the man leave, and then went to the elevator.
She stepped inside and disappeared.
“For who knows what magic takes place in his world…”
Tony Banks
Wells,
Maine
Tuesday,
March 13, 1979
10:23
PM
This
attic was the only place Horace could find to hide. There were so
many people out there, but here, in this empty room, he was alone
with the full moon whose light was slipping feebly through the tiny
window.
He
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking when he’d accepted Bob’s
invitation. It had been so entirely unexpected, though, there was
nothing else he could do. The star quarterback of the high school
football team had invited him to a party… at the home of the single
most beautiful cheerleader who had ever graced the halls of Poe High
School. And Horace was the head of the Poe Nothings. Horace knew
himself well enough to know that Rhiannon would never actually
talk to him, but there was that Glimmer of Hope. Just a little Hope
can make the heart beat a bit faster. Horace enjoyed the feeling, so
he accepted the invitation. And now he was in the attic, hoping he
could find a way out of here.
All
of these people were light years beyond his social class. None of
them had ever seen an episode of Star Trek. He knew absolutely
nothing about the sports that they discussed with the precision of
scientists debating quantum mechanics. They were all well built,
outgoing, attractive people. Horace was thin, gangly, socially
inept, and unattractive in any conventional sense. He was the only
virgin in the entire house. What had Bob been thinking?
He
didn’t belong. He wanted to leave, but it was awfully cold in March,
and it was a 17 mile walk from Wells back to Biddeford. Hiding
represented his only chance to survive, and he couldn’t get away with
the bathroom for more than about 5 minutes at a time. There were way
too many people, drinking way too much, and they all required a
restroom.
But
this room looked like it was hiding, too. It wasn’t even a
full-sized room. It was accessible only by a narrow, winding
staircase at the last corner of a very dark hallway. As his eyes
adjusted, he was able to perceive that against the wall to his
right, there was an old, worm-eaten wooden table filled with what
Horace decided must be an artist’s supplies. There were notched
candles. There were cloves. There were strangely shaped bottles
filled with various colors of oils. When he walked to it he observed
seeds, matches, and a shot glass.
He
turned around when he heard the door open behind him, and he moved as
quietly as he could out of the light. Rhiannon backed into the room,
a round candlestick in her hand. She turned and glided silently
across the room, and when she crossed the moonlight, the room seemed
to glow with her.
She
went to the table, and lit the notched candle using the tall thin one
attached to the holder. She mumbled something, but Horace couldn’t
make out what it was. He could see her silhouette moving her hands
up the bizarrely shaped candle, bottom to top, 9 times. He counted.
She sighed confidently.
When
she turned around to leave the room she saw him, and they were both
startled. Horace, already in the corner, tried to back away, but
just smashed his body awkwardly into the wall. She dropped her
candle, and it rolled, lit, across the wooden floor toward him. He
knelt, nearly falling over, and picked it up. He stood up, and found
her standing directly in front of him. He handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Rhiannon
smiled compassionately at him. “Me too.” She looked briefly
over her shoulder at the strange candle, and disappointment tinted
her blue eyes.
Horace
couldn’t look at her. He noticed his shoelaces didn’t match.
“I
really am trying my best.” She looked back at Horace. “To be a
decent person I mean. I know a lot of people think I’m stuck up, or
whatever, but, really, I’m not.”
Horace
said nothing.
“Okay?”
She whispered.
He
looked up. “Okay.” His stare, while entirely unintentional, was
almost rude in its intensity.
There
have been, throughout human history, quite a few women renowned for
their beautiful hair. None of them, however, had anything on
Rhiannon. Lady Godiva and Rapunzel, for example, were each known for
the lengths of theirs. Rhiannon’s didn’t come close to such a
ghastly stretch. It fell, seemingly effortlessly, down her neck and
covered her shoulders as a quiet brown river lightly licking its
banks, or a blanket under which the slender shoulders snuggled
greedily.
Helen
of Troy and Lucretia Borgia were sufficiently beautiful that they
seemed almost to be able to cast a spell on men simply by looking at
them. They were Anti-Medusas. Horace was as inspired as any
Trojan.
When
she saw Horace staring through his hormone haze, she smiled shyly and
brushed her hair slowly back from her forehead. Then she nervously
moved her fingers through it like a tide stealing sand from a moonlit
beach as it slides up and down.
“I
mean, do you ever ask yourself if it’s even possible to make
everyone happy without hurting someone?”
“No…
not until just now.”
“If
you ever figure it out…” her eyes shimmered in the candlelight.
They both smiled. Rhiannon, he decided, was a girl who knew how to
run her fingers through her hair. They were having a moment.
The
banging on the door made them both jump, but Rhiannon held firmly to
her candle, and Horace slithered back into his dark corner silently.
“Rhiannon?
You in there?” Horace recognized Bob’s tenor voice.
She
took her hand away from her hair. “I’ll be right out.” The
moment was over.
“There’s
a party downstairs, and you’re being a lousy hostess.”
She smiled, almost tenderly at him, and left the room, the notched candle burning. Horace was alone in the dark.
***
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety…”
Shakespeare
Yesterday
“She’s
married?” Rhonda asked as Horace lit his little glass pipe.
He
held the hit a moment, squeaking in an unflattering way, exhaled, and
then looked up at Rhonda.
“What?”
“Your
secret internet girlfriend. She’s married?”
“Yes,
she is.”
“So,
she’s cheating on her husband?”
“Certainly
not. She’s entirely unaware that she is my girlfriend.”
“How
stoned, exactly, are you?” Rhonda asked. She lit a cigarette. “To
be your girlfriend would require that she has some part in the
relationship, wouldn’t it?”
“She
does. She accounts for nearly 3% of it. The other 97% exists
exclusively in my mind.”
The
metal screen door from the house opened, and Rita sauntered into the
backyard.
While
Rhonda was only in her mid twenties, Rita was in her 40s. They had
been together for quite a few years before Horace had stumbled into
their lives, and they had, essentially, adopted him.
When
one of them was in the hospital (which happened far too frequently;
all three of them had health problems. Horace was nearly deaf, Rita
had chronic Lyme Disease, and Rhonda had genetic cardiac problems.),
Rita and Rhonda identified each other as wives. For Horace, they
were roommates.
Rhonda
looked up at her instantly, and said, “Your roommate is a weird
stalker dude.”
Rita
sighed, and sat down in the nearest patio chair. “Where are the
cigarettes?”
“I’m
nothing of the sort. I shall certainly never see her again. I am,
however, allowed to have whatever thoughts I choose, thank you Miss
Orwell.” Horace picked up Rita’s cigarettes from the barely
standing bedside table they had put on the patio to hold their
accessories, and he tossed them unceremoniously to her.
“Who
are you calling Miss Orwell?” asked Rhonda, flipping her dark hair
off to one side.
“You’re
being the Thought Police,” said Rita, opening the pack. “Let the
man think what he wants.” She lit a cigarette, and then opened the
book she’d brought outside with her. Her blonde hair fell in her
face when she looked down at it, and she pushed it quickly out of the
way.
“You
want to live with a crazy man?”
“I
want to read my book.”
Rhonda,
unobserved, rolled her eyes at Rita and turned back to Horace.
“What’s her 3%?”
“She
likes my posts on Facebook sometimes. Once in a while, she even
comments. She says she likes my writing.”
“So
she’s messaged you? That could be construed as cheating.”
“Oh,
heavens no! Nor have I ever sent her a message. That would increase
our involvement, and that would ruin it. 3% gives birth to hope.
10% gives birth to hassles.”
Without
looking up from her book Rita muttered, “100% give birth to
children.”
“So
how do you know she likes your writing?” Rhonda glanced back at
Rita. Her eyes seemed to be losing focus.
He
took another hit, and then, holding his breath, said, “She clicks
like.”
“Lots
of people like your stuff.” Rhonda seemed a little annoyed.
Horace
exhaled. “Yes,” he said as he emptied the remainder of the pipe
into the little red measuring cup in which he kept his supplies. He
covered the carb, and blew into the pipe to remove any clogs. He
began gathering bits from the bottom of the 1 ¾ cup container, and
loaded them gingerly into his pipe. “I’m not, however, secretly in
love with lots of people.”
“So,
what’s the other 97%?” Rhonda watched Rita’s eyes begin to droop.
“The
other 97% consists of messages unwritten except in my head, enjoying
the intimacy of my thoughts connecting with hers, even if only for a
few hundred words on my page or my blog, and vague leftover fantasies
from the last time I saw her nearly 40 years ago.” He smiled
nostalgically. “She was burning candles in her attic.
Rita’s
head fell to her chest.
“Get
her cigarette,” Rhonda said. “I don’t want her to burn herself.”
Horace
reached for the cigarette dangling loosely between Rita’s fingers,
and her head snapped up quickly. “I’m fine.”
Horace
watched her another moment to be sure she was coherent, and then he
turned back to Rhonda. “And I get to experience great joy when she
says or does something nice. I don’t, if you hadn’t noticed, get a
lot of joy.”
“You
get to live with me. How much joy do you need?”
He
picked up the clipboard, pulled the pen out from behind the clip, and
began to cross out something on the printed paper. “More than
that,” he said without looking up.
“I’m
going to throw something at you. And it’s going to hurt.”
“I
would very much prefer if you didn’t. That would decrease my joy.”
Rhonda threw nothing. “What’s her name?”
***
“Said you’d give me light But you never told me about the fire”
Stevie Nicks
“Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night…”
Stevie Nicks
Biddeford,
Maine
Saturday,
May 7, 1983
2:43
PM
Horace
had bought his mother a candle for Mother’s Day, every year for the
last 14 years, but always something basic, from Wal Mart or K Mart.
He was in college, now, and it was time to do better. Pier One
Imports would, he was sure, have something classier.
The
place smelled of strange foreign spices, and the light came from the
sunroof in the middle of the ceiling. The store was an eclectic
collection of items from anywhere other than Maine. There were
strikingly beautiful statues, and there were cheap, tasteless
trinkets. He walked through several aisles before he found the
candles. He studied them, but none of them stood out. There were a
few layered candles, with colors bleeding from one layer to the next,
but there was nothing unique. They were all variations of each
other.
“Did
you figure it out?”
Horace
turned around, and his eyes widened to see a singularly beautiful
woman standing in front of him. “Rhiannon?” he said after the
moment it took him to recognize her.
“You’re…
Howard, right?”
“Horace.
But close enough.”
“God,
I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since last I saw you.” She
looked him up and down. “You’ve changed a little.”
“I
got my shoelaces to match.”
She
laughed a little too hard. While Holden would have found it
appalling and phony, Horace found it appealing and charming, nearly
enchanting. “Were you funny in high school?”
“I
thought I was. But, I’ve always been unreasonably arrogant for
someone entirely lacking in social skills or physical attractiveness.
So, maybe I wasn’t.”
Her
laughter rang like a bell throughout the store, and Horace expected
someone to come and see what was wrong. No one did. And that’s when
he realized the store was, other than the two of them, empty. “Isn’t
it boring to be here with no customers?”
“Sometimes
it can be.”
“You
should hire someone to come and talk to you when you’re bored.”
“Want
a job?”
“No.”
He was too frightened to give any other answer, but he was determined
not to show it. “I want a unique candle. I’d love one of those
weirdly shaped ones you had years ago.”
Her
face darkened for a moment. “You won’t find one of those here.”
“Pier
One is too commercial?”
“Well,
we can’t make everyone
happy, so we just avoid hurting anyone.” She smiled again. “None
of these candles can be seen as offensive.”
“Or
interesting.” He looked around. “Have any artistic ones?”
When
he looked back, he saw her head turning as she scanned the entire
store. She looked back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the
way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
“We
have a carved candle that really is beautiful, but it’s incredibly
expensive.” She walked toward the front of the store. Inside a
glass case at the front counter sat a candle that must have weighed
ten pounds. It was rich, dark green, and there was a cottage, in a
forest, in a glade carved onto it with exquisite detail. He could
almost see a light on in the attic.
“That’s…
incredible…You could never burn that. It would almost be a crime
against the Art.”
“If
it has a wick, Horace, it wants to be burned.”
He
couldn’t keep himself from staring, and he knew it, and he hated it
about himself. She didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were like a
singer’s asking if the audience had any requests. He looked back at
her like a regular patron asking the bartender for “The Usual.”
And, for a moment, she slid her fingers lightly through her hair.
The
door opened, causing a bell to ring, and Rhiannon looked away to see
who it was.
They
were two lost hippies, women who were out of their time. They wore
their very long hair down, they each had a straw hat, long necklaces,
and bracelets that jingled whenever they moved. They wore plain gray
skirts that nearly touched the floor. “We’ve come for chairs,”
announced the taller one.
“Wicker
chairs,” said her companion.
Horace
watched Rhiannon scamper off toward them.
An
old man in a black hat moved behind the display case to which
Rhiannon had led him. “May I help you?”
“I
want to buy this candle,” said Horace pointing. He pulled out his
very first credit card, an American Express, and couldn’t help but
watch Rhiannon and the women discussing the comfort of wicker, in its
natural state, as opposed to processed material.
When
The Man In Black handed him the receipt and the boxed candle, Horace
nodded to him and walked toward the door.
Rhiannon
was behind a high backed wicker chair, and as she heard the bell ring
when he opened the door, she looked around the side of it, smiled far
too broadly, and waved to Horace. She was a woman who knew how to
wave from behind wicker.
***
“She is like a cat in the dark and then She is the darkness”
Stevie Nicks
“She comes back to tell me she’s gone As if I didn’t know that As if I didn’t know my own bed As if I’d never noticed The way she brushed her hair from her forehead”
– Paul Simon
Last
Night
Rhiannon
was beginning to take shape in the flickering candlelight of the 3 AM
darkness, as she often did while Horace was half conscious. She
wasn’t the 16 year old girl with whom he had been pointlessly in love
40 years ago, but she wasn’t the woman in her current pictures,
either. She was a lovely, if foggy, combination of those two
memories, and he was beginning to smile without being aware of it.
The cat crawled across his slowly rising and falling stomach, laid
his head down on Horace’s chest, and yawned wide and long. The bell
around his neck tinkled softly.
They
both jumped when the banging on the door began. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled his covers down. The breeze from the motion blew the
candle out. Rhiannon retreated to the depths of his misted brain, and
Horace rolled to his right and flipped on the bedside light.
“I
need you to get Christine out of my room,” came Rita’s not entirely
coherent voice.
Horace
frowned. “My sister’s in your room?”
“She’s
on the bed. She won’t leave.”
Mr.
Brown jumped from the bed to the floor, his tail high. “I really
don’t think she’s there, Rita.”
She
was almost crying outside the door now. “I just told you she is.
Make her go away.”
Horace
sighed and got out of the bed. He pushed his feet into his slippers
and walked to the door. When Horace opened it, Mr. Brown scampered
out of his room and across the hall into Rhonda and Rita’s room.
Rita nearly collapsed onto Horace who supported her the best he
could.
He
walked her back into her bedroom. Rhonda was sleeping deeply on her
side of the bed. There was no one else there. Horace pointed that
out to Rita.
“Where
did she go?” Rita was genuinely surprised by Christine’s absence.
“I
really don’t know. Maybe you could go back to bed.”
“I
wanna have a cigarette.” She started down the hall toward the
library, and its backdoor to the patio. Horace glanced at Rhonda,
still completely oblivious, and decided to follow Rita. He found her
on the best chair lighting a cigarette.
“Was
she really beautiful as a little girl?” Rita asked as he stepped
outside.
“My
sister? Yes, I suppose she was. My parents said as much. I never
found her beautiful, though.”
“She
looks like she must have been a beautiful little girl. She has the
prettiest hair. When she was young, I bet all the boys loved her.”
“I
don’t think you’ve ever met her, Rita.”
“Duh.
Just now? She kept playing with her hair. It was almost spooky.
And she didn’t seem like she was where she meant to be. I think she
got the wrong room.”
Horace
took a cigarette from his pack. “You talked to her?” He sat
down across from her.
“No.
I just freaked out when she woke me up and came and got you.”
He
watched her silently as she took a drag from her cigarette. In
another moment, her eyes drifted shut. He got up, took the cigarette
from between her fingers, set it in the ashtray, and then went to
wake Rhonda. It was evidently time to change Rita’s meds again.
He
locked his bedroom door.
Rhiannon
didn’t return that night.
***
“When I whispered I thought I could love her She just said, ‘Baby, don’t even bother to try.’”
Seth Justman
“Horace Wimp, this is your life Go out and find yourself a wife…”
Jeff Lynne
Orono,
Maine
July
10, 1986
3:27
AM
He
watched the woman beside him sleeping silently, and then Horace
rolled over in the bed and retrieved the remote. The TV came on
louder than he had anticipated, and he looked over to her as he
quickly turned it down. She was unfazed.
Jimmy
Durante was singing while the credits rolled on a romantic comedy
whose title Horace couldn’t quite remember. “Make
someone happy, Make just one someone happy…”
He
flipped the channel and a news reporter began explaining, in a far
too optimistic way, a crash that had occurred on Route 1 that
afternoon.
At
least, thought Horace, he had lost his virginity. He wasn’t stuck
with that particular badge anymore. If he ever returned to
Rhiannon’s attic, he would be at least a bit closer to her category.
He
was 23; she was 43. She was a divorced mother who had been far too
drunk at the bar. She had sought him out. Horace never, ever asked
anyone to dance. He was no good at it; it embarrassed him. He just
liked the band. And tonight, they had let him sit in on drums,
because everyone was a little drunk, and this particular crowd would
have loved them even if they played polka tunes in Ancient Coptic.
Horace wouldn’t hurt anything.
When
he came off stage, the woman, a complete stranger to him, had run
across the dance floor and thrown her arms around him. She hugged
him embarrassingly tightly. She had insisted on dancing with him the
rest of the night, and he obliged. They couldn’t really talk. The
music, particularly on the dance floor, was far too loud.
There
was nothing wrong with her. She was probably a very nice woman when
she was sober. She wasn’t unattractive. She had just moaned too
much about knowing young flesh would be good. Horace had no clue
what he was doing. It just felt wrong to him.
“…
and in our final story, a scandal involving local celebrity Rhiannon
Stark.”
Horace’s
attention went immediately to the television. He turned it up a bit.
“That’s
right, Danny, she was Miss Kensington County of 1985, and now she may
be disqualified because of rumours of her participation in
witchcraft. There are accusations of a practice called Astral
Projection…”
The
woman stirred, and Horace muted the television while he gazed at
Rhiannon’s face filling the screen. “So wild,” muttered Horace as
he watched her standing there with her hands in her hair. As she
walked from the courthouse steps, past the paparazzi, the breeze blew
lightly, and it lifted from her shoulders so that it glowed with the
late afternoon sun behind her. Rhiannon was a woman who knew how to
ignite cold contempt in the hearts of men toward any woman who had
the misfortune of not being Rhiannon.
Horace rolled over, as far from the woman as he could, and laid, shivering, in the dark.
***
“She rules her life like a bird…”
–Stevie Nicks
“All your life you’ve never seen A woman taken by the wind”
Stevie Nicks
Today
He
was nicely, serenely stoned. Her picture was on the 21.5 inch
monitor in front of him. He would have loved to see her in her
yearbook pictures from high school, to help him construct The Perfect
Rhiannon inside his mind, but these served as a reasonable guide. Her
previous beauty had been preserved flatteringly. “Age doth not
stale nor custom whither,” he muttered.
Horace
smiled unconsciously, and then clicked back over to the essay he was
writing. She would like this, he felt sure. It was close as he
would ever come to saying he loved her. But it was more than close
enough… if she ever read it.
“We’re
home!” came Rhonda’s voice.
Horace
looked up from the screen and watched the girls come into the library
from the kitchen.
“They
have me on a whole new set of painkillers,” said Rita. “I’m
sorry about last night.”
“We
brought you a present,” said Rhonda, handing him a donut.
“Oh,
thank you!” Horace was genuinely delighted. He took the donut, and
jelly dripped almost immediately onto his t shirt. He collected it
onto his index finger, and licked it off. “And it’s fine. It was
just a little weird.”
“She
doesn’t hallucinate often,” said Rhonda. “In the five years I’ve
been with her, it’s only the third time it’s happened.”
“Did
you wake up in the middle of the night while you were dreaming or
something?”
“No!
Your sister sat down on the bed, and she asked me some bizarre
question.”
Horace
smiled, perhaps somewhat indulgently. “What’d she ask you?”
“I
don’t know. I think it
was like whether you could make anyone happy without hurting
everyone, or something like that. What the fuck does that even mean?”
Horace
considered the question a moment. “That would be a hell of an
achievement.” He smiled. “And I think you reversed it.”
“It
means it was time to change your meds,” Rhonda said to Rita. She
turned to Horace. “We’re going to smoke. Join us.”
“Maybe
not,” muttered Horace as the girls went outside.
Rita
stuck her head back in the door. “What?”
Horace
stared into space a few moments. He was thinking of Rhiannon’s
candles. There was something he had heard about candles once, but he
couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
Mr.
Brown strutted into the library, and looked up at Horace sitting at
the desk. There was an essay being written, and Mr. Brown felt
obliged to make his contribution. He jumped into Horace’s lap, and
Horace reflexively started stroking his fur. He looked once into
Horace’s eyes, closed his own for a moment, then opened them again.
He hopped up onto the desk, strolled across the keyboard, and the
screen glowed with Rhiannon’s picture again. Mr. Brown’s bell
tinkled gently.
Rita
started to yell at the cat, when her eyes caught the image in front
of Horace. “There she is!”
“Who?”
He looked from Rhiannon to Rita.
“That’s
who came into my room the other night. That’s your sister, isn’t
it?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head slowly. “It’s not.”
When
the cat crossed the desk, and leapt from the mouse to the window
above, her status appeared: “Do you suppose you could make
everyone happy without hurting anyone?”
Mr.
Brown searched the backyard for birds.
Tomorrow
“Dear Horace, Please don’t write about me anymore.”
Fred's Thoughts 