Too Many Cooks

Bedeviled Ham — Chapter 5

Previously

The pain throbbed into being at his shoulder, just a modest bubbling of discomfort surfacing from some unseen source. It swished about up there until, as though by accident, it tipped downhill into the biceps, picking up speed as it went and, with it, a subtle sharpness to its ache. The pit of inner elbow slowed the movement, caused it to pool and concentrate, but only briefly. Then the slick, sharp run through the forearm, the rapids of the wrist and knuckles until it spilled out at the base of the pinkie.

The echo of a scream splashed around the room and Ham thought of rubber balls as a child, the blinking lights of pinball machines, planets strung up in a science classroom, the shockwave of every star in the universe exploding at once.

“Alright, Ham,” a voice said, “that’s enough.”

Ham opened his eyes and saw concrete laid out before him, stretching out past his peripheral vision on either side and about three feet in front until it reached a wall—also concrete—and climbed out of sight. From his hip he felt the searing throb of a newly-missing digit. He looked down to see his hand had been roughly bandaged while he was unconscious.

“Any time, buddy. I can wait.”

“I did it,” Ham said. “I showed you.”

“Oh good, you’re back. And you’ve placed my voice. How lovely.”

“Nathan,” Ham said, “I did it.”

“You sure did, Ham. You chopped your finger off like…I can’t find an appropriate simile here, Ham. Like a particularly clumsy ninja? Oh, that’s awful. I did warn you. But the point is this: from now on you can only count to ten in the bathroom.”

Ham finally rolled over. The room was immense. Like a concrete airplane hangar. Everything faded to darkness twenty or thirty yards past where the man was seated in a familiar armchair. The voice was right, but nothing that person was saying matched the entry in his head for “Nathan.” It was definitely Nathan. Crisp, pastel Oxford and neatly pressed chinos, a notebook in his lap. Only, he was wearing combat boots. Ham could see the big, right sole as it dangled from a crossed leg several inches above his face.

“What is this? Where did you—”

“Short answer, Ham, is that this is the fork in your particular road. But as that won’t make any sense to you without the benefit of hearing the long answer, I’ll continue. Beforehand, however, can I offer you something to drink? Perhaps a change of clothes? You’ve been sleeping in your own urine for days now and there’s quite a lot of dried blood.”

“Please.” Ham moved to sit up but felt a stern tap from Nathan’s boot at the top of his head and instinctively stopped.

“Really—I can’t get you anything? Very well then, I’ll continue. Or I suppose I’ll begin. But where to begin, that’s always the problem. You ever meet someone at a party and they start in on a story or a joke and then halfway through they say, ‘I forgot to tell you—the car was blue at the beginning. You need to know that. Blue.’ It ruins the whole thing, doesn’t it? All the pleasure just dries up. So I guess I’ll start at the beginning, Ham, and try not to ruin this for you.

Once upon a time, long before you or I made our inaugural splash in this world, a group of educated, curious men, relaxing over scotch and billiards, allowing the current of their conversation to ebb and flow as it does among educated, curious men relaxing over scotch and billiards, found themselves debating a question posed by one among them: would it be possible to construct a perfect life? They defined the terms of the query and were soon crafting ways one might cause someone to believe he was living a perfect life. It would take, they decided, only wealth and manpower and secrecy. They had enormous wealth. And as a result of their enormous wealth, they each had their share of loyal employees—valets, drivers, bodyguards, spies. That cured the loyal manpower problem.”

Ham was suddenly gasping for air. Water was running down his face, into his mouth, dripping from his eyebrows.

“I’ll not have you falling asleep, Ham. Not during this riveting tale. Now. Our heroes solved the wealth, manpower, and secrecy problems. And they’d roughed out the mechanics of the act. They could monitor a subject closely, repair his mistakes as needed, cure his sicknesses before they’d manifested, plant false characters in their daily lives to lie about events and shared memories—everything, in essence, we’ve been doing with you these last several years, Ham. The repaired towel rod, the wine stains, me. We fixed them.

And these men—we’re back to the men now, Ham, so stop staring—these men saw all of this unfolding before them as though right there on the billiards table. They saw how it could work, understood the potential pitfalls, the mental strain it might heap on some men, the freedom it might afford others. And they wondered how those separate outcomes might work to their advantage. Because let’s face it, Ham, wealthy, educated, curious men might engage in experiments of the mind over scotch and billiards, but if they’re to continue on in the light of day, there better be some profit motive.”

Ham felt a familiar sensation at his center. He’d felt it each morning when he found the troubles of the previous night had been swept away. It was the recognition, he realized now, that reality was slipping away from him. “You’ve been toying with me so you can make money.”

“Oh lord no, Ham. We have all the resources we could need. I’m getting to the point now. Be patient. I’m just trying to be thorough. I don’t want to ruin the ending for you. They thought about money, obviously, and while there is the occasional financial reward from our experiments, our aims are slightly less tangible. You see, our original group of men figured that a person living with the unique circumstances you’ve been recently familiar with has one of three potential outcomes. One: he enjoys or simply doesn’t notice his unusual situation and continues on unhindered until he sinks away with time. Two: he recognizes his situation and takes advantage of it, becoming nihilistic and reckless in his daily activities. A little murder here, a little voyeurism there—whatever he’s into, he’s really into it. Three: he recognizes his situation and the horror of it drives him to test the boundaries of its goodwill. He might, for instance, chop off his left pinkie on a live video feed broadcast on his website.

I’m sure you’re asking yourself what could be gained from this? And you’d be right to do so. The first possibility, I’ll admit, doesn’t present much sport. But you know what, Ham? We’d have to get our hands on a mackerel someone had dressed in men’s clothing in order for the first outcome to happen. And that metaphor might be unfair to the fish. Nobody is that idiotic, Ham. It just never happens. We vet our subjects rather rigorously before engaging them, but still, even before we could just Google you it never happened.

What you need to do is ask what problems our heroes may have envisioned for themselves. Long view, Ham, what did they need?”

Ham moaned and let out long, shockingly wet fart.

“That’s lovely, Ham. But no. Wealth like our heroes’ lives on, it passes from one generation to the next and, provided there are no troubles with the gene pool or degenerate gambling, grows as it moves in time. But what these men saw on their billiard table that they would be wanting for was their supply of loyal manpower. Valets and drivers die like the rest of us and will need replacing. This is where you come in, Ham, but we won’t spoil the ending just yet.

There is the additional problem of enemies. You might not have any yourself, but men like our men acquire their fair share. And sometimes enemies need to be made to go away. Or strongly urged to go away. Or maybe sometimes their daughters go away to college and need never return home. Or anywhere.

You see, Ham, an individual who has lost the ability to know right from wrong is fascinating. Especially when the situations their enacting those loose judgments in are being controlled and manipulated by us. When our subjects have lost their filter, they become like a bullet in a gun. A gun we get to aim. We might bump into them at the coffee shop in the morning, staining their tie; ensure they lose their keys before lunch; steal their cab home while they stand screaming on a sidewalk. The hammer cocks, the trigger twitches. And then from there, through means invisible to them, we guide them into a room with An Enemy and watch what unfolds naturally. Maybe it needs to happen more than once, maybe not. Maybe we can fix it afterwards, maybe not. Either way, the experiment succeeds and all the parties who matter are left happy.

But you—and there are many like you, Hamilton—you are what the educated and curious architects of this program called a Future Loyalist. You broke the code. And in doing so, you ruined your reputation, slight as it may have been, by broadcasting that silly episode to your meager following online. Don’t fret, though, you’ve gone viral. We saw to that. It wouldn’t have happened without us, though. Really, Ham, is it that hard to maintain a blog? To earn a little readership? The way you went about it, you’d think you were constructing a functional time machine from pantry items rather than spinning anecdotal yarns about your daily life. But I digress. And as I said, we took care to ensure that millions have seen your…body modification video. If I can speak for a moment in a capacity outside that of your therapist—which of course I’m not really, Ham—I have to say you come off as nothing more than a raving lunatic in that video. Which means, of course, that now we have you.”

Nathan tapped Ham’s head with his boot and smiled briefly, wiped at the corners of his mouth, and chuckle.

“Don’t I have you?” Ham said up into the bottom of Nathan’s boot. Nathan’s laughter increased. “If I broke the code, I mean. Doesn’t that mean I have you?”

“You haven’t once tried to fight this situation you’re in, Ham.” Nathan’s voice was calm and flat, like the sea of concrete surrounding them. “You haven’t really tried to get up, or overpower me, yelled out for help, tried to ‘kill’ me again. However highly I might think of my own storytelling, I don’t believe that alone could keep someone captive against their will. You’re interested. And weak. We have you, as I mentioned.

Now you’re asking yourself why? Fair point. I like how your mind works. Well, for starters, it takes a shockingly large bureaucracy to maintain these experiments. And like all bureaucracies, we require an army to enact our will on the world. You, Ham, are now being drafted into that army.

But when we began this conversation, I said you were at a crossroads. I meant it. Much as you did when we began our experiments on you, there are now three options available to you. Of course, this time you are allowed to actively choose between them. Can you guess what they are, Ham?”

Ham’s eyes were closed against the pain in his hand. He was remembering a trip to the beach with his grandmother the summer between fourth and fifth grade. He’d asked to be buried up to his neck in the sand—something he’d seen in a movie—and his grandmother complied, digging out the hole and slowly piling the sand on top of him. Ham knew it was a mistake even as it was happening, but enjoyed the smile he saw the old woman’s face and didn’t wish it to end. When the tide started coming in a few hours later, he cried like he never had in his life.

Nathan ended Ham’s reminiscence with a sharp kick to the head. The tapping was over. “Hamilton, I need you here, please. Option one: you walk out of here a free man. Mind, you are now known internationally for believing you’ve been cursed and chopping off your own finger on camera. The life you’d be leading wouldn’t be one you enjoyed. And trust me, Ham—we are capable of ensuring that happens just as we ensured it was perfect. It’s actually much easier to destroy something, as you know.

Option two: I put a bullet in your head. Clean and painless, I end your life. We’re not going to flood this building and make you suffer or drop you into the middle of the ocean in blood soaked clothes. You ask me to, I end your life.”

Ham involuntarily let out a whimper and scratched his cheek against the concrete floor.

“Hold on, buddy. I’m not done yet. You haven’t heard option three. You work for us. You do as we say, help us in our experiments, and you live out your natural life. You’re the faceless stranger who bumps into our man in the coffee shop, who steals his cab, who repairs holes in walls or revives fake therapists after a fall. You’re a foot soldier, Ham, if you want it.”

Nathan pressed his boot into Ham’s shoulder and rolled him to his back. He then stood up and stepped over him, so that his boots were on either side of Ham’s hips. Ham saw he had missed the gun at Nathan’s waist. He was crying, he realized then, sobbing really, totally out of control, buried up to his neck again.

“Come now, Ham,” Nathan said, squatting down so that his face was inches from Ham’s. “Let’s not be like that, man. We’re at the end of my story now. You’re making me feel like I ruined it for you. Just make your decision and we’ll get out of here and on to the next story. What will it be? Just tell me what to do and this is over.”

Rummy — Chapter 3

Previously

The storm had blown away by the time I got out of bed. The sun was already up and shining through my window so it looked like a ribbon was wrapped around Rummy’s mane. Miss Marie was gone, too, just like the storm. Daddy never tells me when she and I have a sleepover, but she snores so loud I always wake up. And when she’s snoring away on my floor, it means Daddy and Uncle Pete are out working.

“Rummy, where do you think they go?”

Rummy never answers. He likes to make me work it out myself. But my throat’s dry and my tongue feels bigger than it should, so I head downstairs for a drink. There are already voices down there. It’s early for voices. At least ones that aren’t just Daddy or Uncle Pete. Daddy doesn’t open the tavern until afternoon, because he says the only ones who’d come in the mornings aren’t worth having around anyhow. I like that it’s our quiet time. Or usually is.

Even though the voices made me want to rush down there and investigate, I sat at the top of the steps so no one could see me and listened. It might be private, or business, or just not for little girls, and if that were the case, Daddy would just send my back up to my room anyway. I could hear him washing up behind the bar, sloshing water around in the sink, clanging dishes and mugs together. Hearing the water and mugs like that just made me thirstier. But I could wait. I’m old enough now that I can wait. Daddy would like that.

“Mr. Whitmore,” a voice was saying, “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just asking you what you were doing down at the river last night.”

It sounded like the sheriff’s assistant, Mr. Rupert. Daddy said he wasn’t actually a deputy but he did the sheriff’s collecting. I didn’t understand how that was possible but Daddy wouldn’t explain. He’d just say something like, “The walrus likes to eat other people’s fish” and confuse me more. He thinks that’s funny, I guess. I like Mr. Rupert anyway. He has a big mustache that hangs down over his mouth, so when he speaks his voice sounds hairy.

“And I’m asking you why you want to know, Steven.”

“Mr. Whitmore.”

“That’s my name, Steven. I don’t think we’ll have much luck in this conversation if we’re both answering to the same name.”

“Sir, please just answer the question.”

“I believe you know my daughter, Steven?”

That’s when I stopped breathing. What did I have to do with this? Did I get Daddy in trouble with the sheriff? Or was I in trouble? Eventually I remembered to breathe again and got up and crept down to the landing quiet as I could so they still wouldn’t know I was there.

“There are reports, Mr. Whitmore, of your truck being seen down by the river.”

“My daughter’s name is Genevieve, Steven.”

“Of course, sir, but—”

“Genevieve’s only eight years old. While I’m inclined to admit she’s a bit mature for her age, certainly even you’d agree that eight is still a bit young to be left alone at night.”

I hugged my knees up under my chin and rocked gently against the railing. There was a squeal building up behind my smile and rubbing the two of them into my legs was all I could do not to pop.

“Mr. Whitmore, the tavern was closed last night.”

“The tavern was closed last night, Steven. That is true. And I can attest to that fact, as I was right here, witnessing its being closed firsthand.”

“Closing your tavern for a night is an unusual happening, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Whitman?”

“Not as unusual as this conversation, Steven.”

Mr. Rupert laughed. It sounded like a sick dog’s bark at first, until it stopped being a laugh at all and just turned into wheezing.

“True enough, sir. True enough. It’s also true, is it not, that Miss Chapman was seen leaving here late last night?”

“Surely you don’t want me to speak to what other folks did or did not see, Steven.”

“There are reports to that effect, Mr. Whitmore.”

“Well then. It seems there are a lot of eyes in this town with nothing better to do than stare in my direction, don’t you think?”

“If I’m not mistaken, Miss Chapman’s your usual babysitter, Mr. Whitman.”

“Genevieve is quite fond of her.”

“Am I to assume she was babysitting last night, sir?”

“There are many reasons Marie might be here after dark, Steven, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to discuss any of them with you.”

Mr. Rupert coughed twice. I heard him pull a handkerchief out of his pocket and the quiet rustling sound of his mustache being wiped.

“Why was the tavern closed last night, Mr. Whitman?”

There was a sharp noise and then nothing. I recognized the bang as the tin plate that hung behind the bar being slammed down on the bar top. I’d heard it through my floorboards so many nights I don’t even wake up anymore. That sound always cuts through the voices and manages to quiet them down. Daddy says it’s easier than violence and just as effective. Even though I couldn’t see them from where I was, in the quiet that followed the slamming, I just knew that Daddy was scrunching his eyebrows down around the bridge of his nose and staring at Mr. Rupert, who I imagined was chewing on his mustache.

“What is it that you want, Steven.”

“You know what we want, Mr. Whitman.”

“This is the last time.”

“I’m not so sure Sheriff Davis would agree to that, sir.”

Daddy sighed and drummed his fingers on the bar. “There’s a liquor delivery should be here within a half hour, so you’ll need to be quick.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Whitmore. Whatever you say.”

I listened to their footsteps move off toward the back door, then into the yard toward the barn. Once I couldn’t hear them anymore, I counted to ten three times then ran back to my room. I jumped up on Rummy and hugged his neck hard as I could.

“Why was Daddy lying to Mr. Rupert, Rummy? And what are they doing now?” He didn’t answer me. I stayed draped over his neck for a long time trying to work it all out myself, until the feel of his mane on my lips reminded me of Mr. Rupert and I had to move.

Round 5, Week 2

I’ve been trapped under something heavy all week, so this Week 2 Wrap-Up is coming to you with three-fifths of Week 3 on the books. This is not a problem, good readers; this is a gift. You see, this means that the overwhelming anticipation you normally feel upon reading these roundups, the nervous waiting that typically stymies your weekends and causes you to obsessively refresh the TMC page every Monday until there’s new work to be read, this week that emotional turmoil can be immediately soothed by your diving in to the next chapters. Three of them are already up and waiting for you below this post. See? I did this for you, you sweet-tempered, good-looking reader. I did it all for you. Pinkie swear.

So:

• I started last week off with the second installment of “Len,” moving our narrator back into her past as she grappled with how she might deal with the startling accusation that closed Chapter 1 and get the answers she needs to move forward.
• On Tuesday, Jann took over the reins of “The May Not Mean To, But They Do,” and she managed to get Skip out of The Closet of Neglected Band Instruments and into a comfortable, torment-free silence beside his strange new friend Lindsey Buckingham Palace. At least, it might be torment-free. Probably. Damn teenagers, they’re so hard to read.
• Richard threw some more obstacles at “Bedeviled Ham” on Wednesday. Or one big obstacle, really. But as Ham has told his therapist, he’s cursed with a perfect life, so that big obstacle was just wiped from the record. And with it just might soon follow Ham’s sanity.
• Valary moved into “Welcome to Boomtown” on Thursday, and we saw its protagonist wheezing through hospital rooms with yet another doctor giving frightening diagnoses in oddly-accented English. Things aren’t looking too good for our man Earl.
• Finally, Cary finished the week with another installment of “Rummy.” The safe, quiet sanctuary of Rummy’s nursery room stable turned to the stormy banks of the Mississippi River, where we learned Daddy might not be the saintly man his daughter led us to believe he was.

Len — Chapter 2

Chapter 1

At first you pretend not to notice. Or maybe it’s more that you learn not to see what you’re looking at. You walk into someone’s living room enough times where there’s an eight-foot-tall mounted black bear in the corner standing claws-out next to a treadmill being used as a dish rack and eventually you learn to not even turn your head. You just smile and move on to wherever they point you. I think in most cases the manner one organizes his belongings doesn’t necessarily say anything more about his character than how he prefers to organize his belongings. This is almost certainly true in the situations I tend to meet people in, which makes it relatively easy to ignore peculiarities. A couple months ago there was a man who’d rearranged all the furniture in his house so that it was facing southeast. Every chair, bookcase, end table, even the ottoman he’d pulled up beside his wife’s hospital bed in the dining room. He said it made him feel warmer. I knew enough not to ask.

When Gerald called me about this place, he’d warned me the rooms were a little unkempt. That’s the word he used: unkempt. “Hello, Ms. Horovitz. This is Gerald Johnson calling from Dr. Leach’s office.” He said it every time, as though caller ID doesn’t exist. Or even if it didn’t, like I wouldn’t just know his voice. We’ve been talking once, twice a week for five years. I’ve interviewed him, I’ve been to their office Christmas party and witnessed his karaoke version of “Santa Baby” (he makes a convincing Eartha Kitt after a few drinks), and I’ve even politely turned down a fumbled request for dinner.

“You know you can call me Althea, Gerald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Althea, Gerald. Now how are you?”

“I’m well, Ms. Horovitz. Thank you for asking. I’ve called because we have another candidate if you’re interested.”

I moved the cat from my lap and found a notebook. “I’m always interested, Gerald.”

“Her name is Agnes. She lives with her son. We’ve spoken to him about your work and have his initial consent. Shall I continue?”

He continued. I got the information. Gerald mentioned the boxes, in his way. Later that afternoon I spoke briefly with Len on the telephone. I explained I research end-of-life care and that I was hoping to ask him and his mother some questions. I left out that I’d been working on my dissertation for six years and while my advisor was continually impressed with the amount of data I’d collected at the bedsides of the soon-departed, all I felt I’d accomplished was a lingering minor depression, an immunity to certain smells, and the ability to turn a live-in boyfriend into an ex-boyfriend who lives in Berkeley. (“People die in California, too,” he said before he left. “I don’t know why you have to stay here. People die everywhere.”) Len gave me the address and now here I was.

I look down at the bed, where this sad woman furtively burrowed herself away. “Agnes,” I say. “Agnes, did I hear you right?”

“Nessie.”

I look over at the doorway and there he is. He has the dog tucked under one arm like a newspaper. There’s a bit of pus in the corner of its eye that Len wipes off without looking away from my face. “Nessie?” I ask.

“Her name,” he says. “Nobody calls her Agnes. Not even my grandma called her Agnes. It’s Nessie. But she won’t answer you anyway.” He looks at the hillock of blanket and crumpled tissue suggesting his mother. Nothing registers on his face, no new emotion tightening the skin around his eyes, no whirring of thought visible in the way his lips open, nothing. But he holds his gaze there, like it might mean something. “Nope,” he finally says, “she won’t hardly ever wake up at all anymore.”

Family do weird things at the end. Who can blame them? More often than not they’ve been working hard for too long in order to ensure there’s never a time when a woman like me or the Hospice nurses comes to tell them it’s the end. When that time does arrive, they’re left with a strange mix of relief and sadness. Nine times out ten that little bit of relief mixed in there makes them either temporarily lose their minds or hate themselves. Neither’s a good option when fueled with grief. Last year I watched a mother go out and buy her teenage daughter a prom dress less than a day before she died. She got the dress on her, too, so the girl was just lying there in bed wrapped in satin and the cords from a heart monitor. When I asked the woman why, she told me she just wanted her daughter to feel pretty, to feel like a normal girl one last time. Then she locked herself in the bathroom and I showed myself out.

I’ve seen all sorts of weird things from family members. And I’ve forgiven them all. It isn’t my position to judge. But this situation is different. I just want to get my interviews done, get some good songs on the radio to sing along with on the way home, and enjoy a nice breeze through the open windows as I drive. I don’t want this. I’ll hold Nessie’s hand as I record her experiences that led to being in that bed. I’ll push a Kleenex box toward Len when he starts to cry while talking about his childhood. But I don’t want to be an advocate. I’m not supposed to be an advocate. The Hospice nurses are advocates. Gerald and Dr. Leach are advocates. I’m meant to be impartial, an observer, witness.

And now I’m not even sure this woman is actually dying.

I can feel Len staring at me. Here I am, standing in his mother’s bedroom, a stranger loitering among the debris of their lives, and I don’t even show the courtesy of responding when he speaks to me. I put my bag down on top of some boxes beside me and pull out a notebook. I flip through the notes I’d made in preparation, my standard questions, then put the papers back. I turn so I’m facing the door, but remain where I’m standing.

“Len,” I say, “do you love your mother?”

They May Not Mean To, But They Do — Chapter 1

“I hate Fleetwood Mac.”

It was lunch, first day of eighth grade, and the boy had mustered enough strength to talk to the new girl. He’d fallen in love with her that morning, before he’d even seen her. Mrs. Crosby read her name from the homeroom roster and he knew. The boy had suffered years of torment due to his own name, so it was a relief to find someone burdened even more than himself with the imagination of her parents. Though most of their classmates would have been hard-pressed to name exactly what the inspiration for these names had been, they could still recognize the odd ring of them easily enough. And that was all it ever took in any school in America to arouse abuse.

“Lindsey Buckingham Palace?”

It quivered like a prayer, hit his ears like a balm he hadn’t known was needed. From somewhere within him came a sudden mandate: Speak with her.

There was a ripple of laughter, a couple of unmemorable remarks, a request to tell Princess Di hello next time she came by for the queen. A girl stepped slowly from the corner of the room. Her face didn’t acknowledge the jeers—clearly she was a battle-tested pro. And as she swept by him and moved toward the seat assigned and pointed at by Mrs. Crosby, the boy found it difficult not to reach out to touch her arm, to tell her he knew and that it would be okay. We need to stick together! But he was too weak to say anything. If they stuck together, they’d survive. Power in numbers, like his aunt said when she told her stories about protests and marches.

In actuality, he had no real opinion of Fleetwood Mac, even kind of liked when his aunt put on their records and danced around the living room. There were definitely some songs he disliked, but if Fleetwood Mac came on in the car he wouldn’t ask for the station to be changed. He merely assumed the girl had grown to hate them, having been named after their guitarist and thereby shoehorned into that horrible pun of a name. So he risked it, sat down beside her on the empty lunchroom bench, and waited for a response.

Lindsey took another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. After swallowing, she slowly turned her head toward him, looked him square in the eyes. There was a long pause before she spoke, the sort of pause and the sort of slowness he would come to learn were as much a part of her as her name. But it was a slowness that disappeared as soon as she opened her mouth.

“Is that meant to be cute or are you just an asshole?”

The boy imagined each word from her mouth was an arrow, none of them in any way related to Cupid. There had been no preparation for this response in all of his planning. When he’d daydreamed about it in Algebra, she laughed a cute, breathy laugh then spoke in a bemused voice, thanking him, telling him that she hated Fleetwood Mac too, hated her parents as well for having so foolishly named her as they had. At the very least, in more modest imaginings, she blushed, looked down at her food, and mumbled something adorable. But this, this gross deviation from the daydreams, these harsh words shooting at him, this was startling.

“What?” In the time since he sat down, it seemed, he had developed a stutter. It was exhausting just to keep his mouth moving. “No, I’m not. An asshole, I mean. I’m not. I just…” He gave up. His words sank into the milk carton suddenly at his mouth. He broke her stare to study the table’s graffiti.

“You’re the Nixon kid, right?”

He was. He was the Nixon kid. Richard Milhous Nixon Patterson. He answered mostly to Skip, in those few moments he could get people to stop calling him Dick or Tricks or Watergate. The political references mostly came from teachers and other adults. Kids just fixed in on Dick and went from there.

“Yeah. You can call me Skip, though.”

“Skip?” She paused again, this time cocking her head slightly to the left, as though making the shape of his name with her mouth had somehow injured her.  “No, I don’t think I’ll call you Skip. I don’t think I’ll ever call anyone Skip.” She placed her sandwich down on the tray before her; he read Ozzy Rules! from among the table’s decorations. She stared hard into the side of his face for what Skip felt was much, much too long, then continued. “And why in the hell would you think Skip a better name than the one you’ve got? You’re named after one of the greatest criminals in the history of our young country and you’re going to mask that with a name given to idiotic characters on horrible sitcoms starring short Canadian heartthrobs? You’re a fool.”

Skip scanned the surrounding tables for faces staring at him. There were none and he was thankful. Surprised, as well, as he’d assumed, given the feel of her words, that she’d been screaming. This was all very new. He’d been beaten up a number of times since starting school (fourteen was his official count; it went up to twenty-two if he included occasions broken up before punches were thrown but after his face was against the ground and his arm hoisted up his back painfully toward his head or he’d been backed against a corner bank of lockers by his predator(s), but he didn’t count those occasions for many sound and obvious reasons). This feeling, however, this warm horror, this was unusual. There was no threat in her voice, none of that familiar contempt or angry confusion he’d faced nearly every day of his education. But there was nothing inviting in it either. Skip busied his fingers with tracing the carved letters of Duran Duran on the tabletop and busied his mind with plotting an escape. Eventually the bell rang and he was allowed to run away.

Skip fled to the instrument closet by the auditorium, a sanctuary he’d sought as a seventh grader mostly on dodgeball days. He liked that he could pull the door closed and there’d be nothing but quiet, dust, and his own distorted reflection staring dumbly out at him from the bell of a saxophone. He hadn’t anticipated needing the closet that first day of school. He hadn’t anticipated talking to the new girl, either. Yet there he was.

Divergent - Chapter 6

Previously

Andy’s imposing figure worked against him. Nobody stops to give a lift to someone his size at that time of night, especially when you’re near a hospital. No telling what sort of weirdo who’s had to go to A&E you could end up with.

Summoning what little energy he had left Andy dragged himself to a nearby park and slumped onto a bench. He looked to the clear night sky for answers but in return all he got was silence.

As he stared at the stars an overwhelming feeling of insignificance and loneliness engulfed him. The events of the day came crashing in on him. He fought back the growing urge he had to scream while he wept until his tears ran dry. He sat without moving for a long time. His mind eventually stopped whirling but it was more out of numbness than peace.

A sudden cough made him jump. Looking round he saw a dishevelled old man standing a few feet away. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Andy recognised him as one of the homeless people who were all too common in these parts. Everyone knew him as Scratch and he’d been in the area longer than Andy had been alive.

“Alright if I sit with you?” Andy nodded and shuffled down the bench.

Scratch sat and looked thoughtfully at him, a compassionate half-smile on his face. “It’s not easy being different, is it,” said Scratch. It was not a question but Andy wasn’t sure which of the two of them he was referring to.

And then, without meaning to, Andy found himself telling Scratch everything. How he felt he’d let his friend Pete down while being in an impossible situation. How angry he was for having been put in that situation The car accident. Pete’s mother’s reaction. He even told him about his new-found ability, although he didn’t expect Scratch to believe him.

“I didn’t ask for any special power. I’m just a kid. I don’t want this kind of responsibility!” Andy looked imploringly at Scratch.

“You sound like you’re channelling Spider-Man.” Scratch smiled kindly and Andy laughed, suddenly feeling understood and less alone.

Scratch talked to Andy for a long time. It was as though he was inside Andy’s head and knew just what to say to help him make sense of it all. And how to better accept the things that just wouldn’t make sense.

Andy was surprised at his depth of wisdom and understanding. Like everyone else in the town, Andy has never seen beyond the label of “Scratch, the homeless guy” and he felt ashamed.

“So what about you?” asked Andy. “How did you life bring you to where you are?”

For the briefest of moments Andy thought he saw Scratch’s blue eyes turn orange but he dismissed it as a trick of the light from the rising sun.

“Well that,” said Scratch, “is a very long story.”

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore - Chapter 6

Previously

In the house next door, Theo put down his night vision binoculars and picked up his cell phone, touching a digit from his speed dial list. His call was answered after only one ring.

“I think we need to move on this situation. I’ve lost contact with Mike.” Theo listened intently to the voice at the other end. “I’m pretty sure she clocked him,” he said, stifling a laugh at the thought of Mike being knocked out by an elderly woman. “She had two visitors today: one was ours and one was a local police officer.” Again, he listened. “Just alert the team. I’ll contact the daughters. That will be the tricky part. It always is.”

Theo flipped the cell phone closed, put it back on his desk, and massaged his forehead with his fingers, trying to rub some ideas into being. This was going to be messy and complicated, but he had handled crazier situations. He was sorry that the end of this job would mean another move for his own family, but that was how life had been during his illustrious career as a caretaker and clean up man for the organization.

It would be less alarming for her daughters if he called them in the morning. It also gave him the easy way out in trying to explain things, and after decades on the job, he preferred the easy way. He unlocked his bottom desk drawer, removed a binder, and flipped it to the page that contained the information he needed. 

*****

The following morning, at Theo’s request, the daughters arrived at their childhood home. He had said it was nothing urgent, but he usually alerted them by phone if Mom had been up to something. He had never before asked for a meeting.

They let themselves in at the back, as usual. The house was quiet and their mother didn’t respond when they called. The younger daughter saw a large envelope on the kitchen table with their names carefully printed on it. “This can’t be good,” was all she said before opening the envelope. She removed a sheaf of legal documents topped by a letter from Theo. The sisters sat down and started to read.

“I know you’re wondering what is going on, why I asked for a meeting, and most importantly, why your mother isn’t here. The explanation follows; please keep an open mind as you read.

My family and I moved here right after your father died. I remember telling you that I relocated here because of my job. That is true. What I didn’t tell you was that my job was to keep an eye on your mother.

Before you were born, your mother held a secretarial job. She thought she was working for the public works system. She was trained and did her job well. What she didn’t realize was that she was actually involved in borderline espionage for our agency. She transferred code from one system to another. It was minor, low clearance work, but it paid well.”

“That’s preposterous!” The younger daughter blurted out. The older daughter giggled.

“Your father also worked for the agency, but in a much deeper capacity. His ‘business trips’ were very lucrative ‘information gathering jaunts,’ and even though he was debriefed thoroughly after every trip, we had a feeling that he may have told your mother about some of his, shall we say, adventures. You girls never knew that he was traveling in other countries, but she did.

When your father died, we planted listening devices in the house as a normal precaution. Things were fine until your mother started to show signs of dementia. We picked up conversations she had, thinking that your father was still here. We heard her discussing details of trips that should not have been in her memory. We realized that this could put her in danger, should anyone, including the two of you, hear them and perhaps mention them in conversation. Governments always walk a fine line where espionage is concerned; our agency cannot afford more negative press right now.

Yesterday, things came to a head. Your mother had a very busy day. She first attempted to knock out one of our agents when the woman came to check on her in the afternoon. It seems your mother brews her own special blend of tea, and it is very potent. She actually succeeded in sedating one of the local police officers a few hours ago. Luckily, the female agent was still here, dining with my family, and we were making a late night of it. She smoothed things over with the officer. He thinks she’s the social worker assigned to your mother’s case. She told him that your mother accidentally put some of her medication into the tea. She has told me before that your mother reminds her of Martha from “Arsenic and Old Lace.” Actually, that story sounded plausible, considering your mother’s current mental state. Another agent was cold cocked by your mother with a tea kettle and she rolled him down the basement steps. He had just found the police officer and was afraid something had happened to your mother. When he went upstairs to check, she was ready for him.

The agency, can’t allow your mother to continue to live in the house and possibly jeopardize some operations that are still in place. We have moved her to a facility where she can be cared for and will be free to say whatever she wants without potentially bringing harm to herself or her country.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Mom? Dad? Espionage? I think perhaps Theo needs his medication levels checked. I don’t think he can just swoop in and take Mom away without our permission. Where is he, anyway?” The older sister stood up, prepared to go next door and face Theo, but sat down again when her sister motioned to the legal documents under the letter.

“Remember when she first told you about intruders? She was right. We had people who would go in from time to time to check on her, and to make sure the listening devices were still operational. It’s a good thing you two didn’t believe her and start snooping around. We have excellent psychiatric staff on board, and they will work with her and make her transition as smooth as possible. You’ll see that all of the documents are in order and all arrangements have been made. By the time you have gone through them, I’ll be back and will take you to see your mother. If, after seeing her, you are still uncomfortable with the situation, the agency will work with you to make things right.”

Time passed as the daughters scanned the various documents in the packet. Everything seemed to be covered, and every document had signature lines for the two of them. At least events did not seem to be set in stone. Decisions could be made once they saw their mother and spoke with Theo in person. Until then, all they had was a pile of documents and Theo’s strange, unbelievable letter.

“So,” the younger daughter said, “I guess we wait for Theo. Then we’ll go to see our own little Mata Hari.”

“Who would’ve ever thought it?” asked the older daughter. “While we wait, why don’t we have a pot of tea?”

The women looked at the unmarked canisters on the counter.

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” said the younger daughter. “I think we should stick to water from the kitchen faucet.”

“Good idea. Let’s go sit on the glider and wait. Once Theo gets here, I’m going to need some caffeine. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.” The older daughter pulled two glasses out of a cabinet, filled them from the faucet, and gave one to her sister as they left the kitchen.

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

WXYZ - Chapter 5

Previously

“I must admit that when you put it that way, it does make my desire seem a bit, um, eccentric. I have no intention of ending my life. I just want to eliminate the clutter and noise.” Wesley centered his empty cup in the saucer and leaned back in his chair.

“You don’t know how close you came to getting your wish.” Abby patted her purse and Wesley felt a thin shock pass the length of his spine as he recalled his recent close encounter with a firearm. He wasn’t quite sure if what he felt was fear or excitement. He realized that it had been some time since he had felt much of anything, and he relished this new experience.

“I do appreciate the fact that you didn’t shoot me,” Wesley said as he rose to take his leave, “and I wonder if it would be overstepping the bounds of your kindness if I asked to borrow one of your books?” He walked over to her bookcase and reached out for ella minnow pea. His fingers twitched with excitement; he would most definitely enjoy his time with this volume. He might even need to buy a new red pen!

“I never loan out my books. Never.” Abby’s reply hit him like a verbal bullet. Wesley’s hand stopped just short of touching the coveted book.

“Well, perhaps I could come here and read it. That way, it would still be here and you wouldn’t have to worry about it being lost or…”

“No. I’m sure you can find your own copy. Check the library if you prefer not to buy a copy.” Abby moved toward him, still carrying her purse. Wesley stepped away from the shelves. He loved editing his books, but he also loved his body and felt it would not be enhanced by the addition of bullet holes or bullet fragments.

“Fine. I understand. Yes. Most definitely.” Wesley sidled to the main door, keeping an eye on Abby and her purse as he moved. “Perhaps we can get together again for tea and coffee. I did enjoy chatting with you. You seem to be a very understanding person.”

A faint smile moved across Abby’s lips. “I’ve been called many things, Wesley, but I don’t think ‘understanding person’ has ever been one of them. I accept your invitation and look forward to hearing more about your plans. For now, I think we should call it a day.”

Wesley heard the snap of the main lock and the heavier click of the deadbolt as he stood in the hallway outside of 4B. He realized that Abby was watching through the peephole, so he headed back to his apartment.

A creature of habit, Wesley let himself in and headed straight to the kitchen where he brewed a cup of tea. Real tea. Not whatever Abby had given him. He really must instruct her in the fine art of tea preparation and drinking. She seemed cultured, if the decor of her apartment and the collection of books were any indication. Odd that she should have a gun, now that he thought about it. More specifically, it seemed odd that she would carry something called a Desert Eagle. She had piqued his curiosity, and once Wesley’s curiosity was piqued, it had to be satisfied.

*****

The following day, Wesley set out for his favorite bookstore. The proprietor didn’t mind the hours Wesley spent browsing, as he had always been a very steady customer. Wesley took his time, checking his favorite sections before locating what he wanted: a book detailing firearms. He found several sources and learned that the Desert Eagle’s main uses were for hunting, target shooting, and silhouette shooting. This seemed an odd choice of weapon for a woman who wanted protection from intruders or muggers. Perhaps Abby inherited the gun. It was the only sensible explanation. 

Before leaving, he decided to purchase a book. Even though this went against his plan for spartan living, he felt he deserved something new to read after his adventures of the past few days. Sadly, no copy of ella minnow pea was available. He had to find something else. He knew now that ella minnow pea would be the Mount Everest of his editing efforts. He would one day possess his own copy, and that knowledge made him happy. Perhaps that would be his special treat once he had settled into his mausoleum. Yes. That would be most satisfactory.

Wesley finally settled on a book, paid, and made his way home. He spent some of his afternoon tidying up his apartment. A place for everything and everything in its place. He loved order and routine.

He fixed a simple meal of soup, bread, cheese, and grapes. As he ate, he daydreamed about his life in the mausoleum. He would invite Abby to visit; she would be impressed with his innovative ideas, and he blushed as he thought of various phrases of praise that would fall from her lips.

Once the kitchen was tidied up from his meal, it was time for his favorite activity. He busied himself with his preparations, muting his telephone ringer and turning the volume off on his answering machine. He hated interruptions while he read.

At last, he sat in his favorite reading chair, his slippered feet propped up on the ottoman. He was ready for a lovely evening at home. The small table next to his chair held a fresh pot of tea, his latest purchase from the bookstore, and his red pen. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, picked up his book, and uncapped his pen.

He opened the book to its first page, and that’s when he heard it. No mistake about it. Someone just unlocked the door to his apartment.

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 5

Previously

Chapter 5

“Poultry and Rabbit Inspector?! This is how you plan on getting me access to the main government building? What did you call it – The Garden?” Fernando waved the forged papers towards the large building in the distance which could just be seen through the apartment window.

“Yes,” she replied patiently. “That position is held in the highest regard and will grant you unrestricted access. Once you are inside a colleague of mine will escort you to the room you need.” She was convinced he was The Chosen One and that once he got to the room with The Device he would know what to do.

If he had understood her correctly, this device somehow allowed one to see everywhere and everywhen simultaneously. It was rumoured that it also enabled travel to wherever or whenever. Fernando had no choice but to go along with her seemingly crazy plan. He wanted to get home and he had no other options.

Until he was inside The Garden - a towering, grey, lifeless edifice which housed the city’s Technocrats, bureaucrats and suchlike - he was convinced that he would end up in prison. Or worse.

He approached the main gate nervously while doing his best to appear calm and confident. The guards eyed him with suspicion but as soon as he showed them his papers they immediately began to treat him with deference. They escorted him to The Garden’s foyer where he was met by a small, nondescript man who indicated that Fernando should follow him.

He was lead through a maze of hallways, stairs and elevators until they reached a long corridor with a single door at the end. Nondescript nodded in the direction of the door and left. Fernando made his way down the corridor until he stood facing the door. It was a plain wooden door upon which a large white number “1” had been fixed. As he reached for the brass handle a familiar voice came from behind him.

“Hello Fernando. You took your time getting here.”

***

This web of time - the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries - embrace every possibility. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

***

Younger Quizzical still couldn’t quite believe that his trip had been approved and was grateful for the advice that Taller Wider had given him. He whistled happily to himself, enjoying the warmth of the mid-morning sun as he made his way to The Ministry for Temporal Relocation. He was completely lost in thought, which is why he didn’t notice the lamppost.

As he rubbed his forehead it occurred to him that there were no lampposts on this street. At least there weren’t a few moments ago. He looked around and found himself in a much narrower street, lined with old-fashioned buildings. It had suddenly become dark and foggy.

Other than the street lamps the only light he could see came from a building a little further down the road. He made his way towards it, passing a beautifully preserved, vintage Cadillac. On the wall by the Cadillac someone had spray-painted an ornate alphabet. The last four letters were obscured by a poster of a winged insect. Any words on the poster had long since faded.

Voices drew his attention away from the poster towards two men who sounded as though they were arguing. Younger Quizzical approached them, noticing that they were both bald. They appeared to be fighting over a comb.

Hearing his footsteps, one of the men glanced at him. The other used this distraction to claim the comb and ran off laughing. The glance turned in to a glare and for a brief moment Younger Quizzical thought the man’s blue eyes flashed amber before he set off after the other bald man, muttering incomprehensibly.

“Well, I guess we’re not in Kansas any more,” said Younger Quizzical to the cold, night air.

As he neared the building spilling its soft light into the street he saw a sign above the door: The Labyrinth. He entered the smoke-filled room and made his way to a small table, having to step round an old man on the floor who was hanging on to the bar. A few moments later a waitress placed a glass of caña in front of him. “Compliments of the lady over there,” she said, indicating a redhead on the far side of the room.

Younger Quizzical lifted the glass in her direction. She tilted her head and smiled. He lost sight of her as a man rose from a nearby table and stumbled past him to the front door. The companion of the stumbling man caught his eye. He drew deeply on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an overflowing ashtray.

“Won’t you join me?” he asked Younger Quizzical. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said as he tugged on his goatee.

***

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore - Chapter 4

Previously

I pressed my ear up to the door and listened as hard as I could. There was nothing to be heard. I peered through the window. There was nothing to be seen. Getting locked out of my own home twice in a week was not good. I hoped that my daughters would not find out. They would not care or even believe that this time it was not my fault. This was rather bothersome.

I was feeling somewhat shaken as I sat back down on the glider. It was a little cooler this evening so I wrapped my husband’s cardigan tightly around me. I liked watching the stars come out as the day disappeared. I sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to myself. It helped me to feel calm. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little girl. My Father made me go into the cellar if he thought I’d been naughty. I didn’t like it there. Mother sang to help me feel better. That was such a long time ago.

Eventually my nerves settled down so I made myself comfortable on the glider. It was a bit too early to go to sleep so I passed the time by creating my own constellations with the stars. That group looked like a little sailing boat. The ones over there reminded me of a castle. My favourites were the ones that looked like a puppy chasing its tail. I couldn’t help but giggle.

I must have drifted off to sleep as the next thing I knew a light was shining in my face. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” I held my hand up to my eyes. A young police officer was pointing his torch at me. He looked very handsome in his crisp uniform.

“I’m fine, officer,” I replied as I pushed myself into a sitting position. “What brings you here?” Although still feeling a little drowsy I remembered to smile.

“One of your neighbours reported that your lights were still on. They thought that was a bit odd as it’s the middle of the night so called to let us know of their concern. I was in the area so thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh dear me! What a bother I am. I locked myself out of my house earlier. I didn’t mean to put anyone out.”

“It’s no bother, ma’am. Now let’s see if I can help you get back into your home.” He walked to the back door and turned the handle. The door swung open. “It appears to be unlocked, ma’am.”

The intruders were clearly trying to make me look foolish. I would not let them get the better of me. I kept the smile on my face. “I’m so sorry officer, wasting your time like this. You must think me a frightfully silly old thing!”

“Not at all, ma’am. My shift’s just finishing and I’m glad to be able to help. Now, let’s get you inside.” He helped me up and gently assisted me into the house. Such a kind young man.

“I think I need a cup of tea to warm my bones. Would you care for a cup, officer? I would feel better if I had someone to sit with me for a little while.”

I noticed that he glanced at his watch. Then he nodded. “That would be much appreciated, ma’am.”

“Thank you officer. You have been most kind. I shall use my good cups.” I readied two tea pots. I put ordinary tea in the one for me. “I make my own special blend,” I told him as I prepared the other pot. “I do hope you like it.”