Too Many Cooks

Bedeviled Ham - Chapter 6

Previously

Perhaps pain was a clarifying agent. Ham realized that if there was one time in his life where he needed to use his wits, this was it. Nathan was ready and almost eager to put an end to Ham’s life, and if Nathan’s story was to be believed, Ham knew that choosing death now would not turn happily into him being alive and well tomorrow. So much for the perfect life.

Nathan was standing over him again, an alpha dog confronting another pack member for dominance. “Ham? What’s it going to be?”

Ham felt weak, but realized that this was most likely due to several days without food or water. He was not in shape to make wise decisions. He needed time.

He then realized that Nathan couldn’t possibly be one of the main players. If these men behind the scenes were so powerful, they would have others do the dirty work. If Nathan came prepared to kill him, Nathan was one of the, what had he called them…Future Loyalists. Yes. Nathan worked for these men just as he wanted Ham to do. Nathan perhaps occupied a higher rung on the ladder, but when told to jump, he still responded with, “How high?” Ham instinctively knew that if he opted for a choice that was not one of the three given him, Nathan would be unable to carry it out without permission. At least, Ham *hoped* he instinctively knew that. Given his current situation, no harm could come from testing his idea.

“Nathan,” he croaked, his voice surprising them both, “I need a little time to think about what you’ve told me. If you and your friends have put so much time and money into my ‘project,’ I would think you would at least want me to make a lucid decision. I’m tired. I’m hungry and thirsty. I’m also very confused.” The effort of speaking was too much. Ham closed his eyes and drifted. 

*******

Sunlight poured in through a crack in the curtains. Ham opened one eye and looked around. He was in a bed but it wasn’t his bedroom. He opened the other eye and swiveled his head to take in the room. “This must be how the Tin Man felt when he was oiled up after a long freeze,” he thought, as he continued to check the condition of his arms and legs. He was wearing clean pajamas. He didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, and a quick check under his sleeves showed him a piece of gauze taped to his arm. “Hmmm…it would appear that someone had me on an IV. That’s promising, I guess.”

Ham sat up and swung his legs onto the floor. He stood unsteadily and took a few steps over to a window. He was on the second floor of a house that was surrounded by trees and neatly tended lawns. No other houses were visible through the foliage. The area was unfamiliar to Ham, but he wasn’t frightened. In fact, he felt strangely calm. His bid for time had worked. Now, he had to figure out his next, and possibly his last, move.

He tried the door; as expected, it was locked. He heard rustling in the hallway and then a soft click. He backed away from the door and sat down on the bed. 

The door swung open and a woman entered, carrying a tray. Ham was surprised to recognize her as the woman who was always leaving Nathan’s office whenever he arrived for his appointments. She settled the tray on a small table underneath the window and turned to face Ham.

“It’s good to see you up and about,” she said. She had lovely gray eyes and a sweet smile. Ham caught a slight scent of honeysuckle as she passed him on her way out of the room.

“Wait. Don’t go yet.” Ham moved over to the door, blocking her exit. She looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“What’s your name?”

“Cynthia.”

“I’m Hamilton. Ham.”

“I know.”

“Are you one of Them? A Future Loyalist?”

Cynthia seemed perplexed by the question. “Am I a what?”

“You know. One of the players in Their game. You go around and make things perfect for people. Then, these same people end up choosing their fate from a less than stellar list of options. Game over.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Cynthia tried to step around Ham, but he grabbed her by one elbow and refused to let her move.

“There’s a movie called ‘The Manchurian Candidate.’ Did you ever see it?” Ham asked.

“Yes, I saw it. Angela Lansbury, Frank Sinatra, Laurence Harvey…” Cynthia’s voice trailed off.

“Think of me as Laurence Harvey. I’ve been manipulated and now there’s no way out. I don’t know why I was chosen and I don’t know whether or not to believe what I’ve been told. I just need to have some questions answered. Can you help me?” Ham released Cynthia’s elbow; she rubbed the indentations left by his fingers and moved closer to the door.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that you were brought here in horrible condition; it seems you chopped off one of your fingers and then disappeared for several days. Nathan was worried sick about you and had almost lost hope of finding you alive. When he brought you here, he gave strict orders that you were to be kept sedated until your body healed. You’ve been out of commission for three weeks now and the rest has done you a world of good. I heard you moving around and brought up something for you to eat. It’s time you had some real food in your system.” Cynthia went over to the table and busied herself, setting up the lunch tray.

Ham tried to process what he had been told. If she was telling the truth, she wasn’t involved in the ruse that brought him here. If she was lying, he needed to know why. Were They testing him again? He thought of his three choices: a life of misery, a life as a pawn of a group of bizarre strangers, or death. None of these choices appealed to Ham. He decided to try more conversation.

“So do you live here?” he asked, walking over to examine the contents of the tray. He picked up a small sandwich and took a bite. Some sort of meat paste, but it was good, so he chewed and swallowed.

“Yes. I moved back home when our parents became ill and stayed on after they died. Nathan says it’s really helpful to have me here since he has to travel so much.”

“Wait. Nathan lives here?”

“It’s his home, too. He’s my only sibling, so we inherited everything when our parents died. He is away a lot, so I do what I want. Life is pretty perfect.”

Hamilton shot her a glance, but she didn’t appear to be speaking cryptically. So Nathan was her brother? Perhaps she was telling the truth and she didn’t know about his extraneous activities. Regardless, he needed help and she was here.

“I need to get out of here. I need to go home.” Ham looked around for shoes, but found none. Cynthia went out into the hall and returned with his shoes in hand. He took them from her and slipped them on, then addressed her again. “I don’t want to involve you in anything dangerous, so if you can just tell me where I can find a car and the car keys, I’ll be on my way.”

“Dangerous? Ham, you’re sounding delirious. Nathan said you might experience after-effects from whatever you’ve been doing, so perhaps you should stretch out on the bed and rest again. I’ll give Nathan a call to let him know you’re awake, and…”

“NO!” Cynthia jumped at the sound of Ham’s voice. “I mean, please don’t call Nathan. You don’t understand what’s going on. He’s involved with a very unsavory group of people and the longer I stay here, the more likely you are to become involved. I can’t have that on my conscience, no matter what else I decide to do.” Ham pushed past Cynthia and went out into the hall.

Making his way downstairs, Ham headed for the front door. Once outside, he realized how futile his escape attempt would be. There was no sign of a vehicle and no sound of traffic, while only the occasional chirp of a bird broke the stillness of the day. He decided to walk. There had to be an access road nearby where he could pick up a ride to the nearest town. Anywhere would be better than staying here. Nathan would call or return, and Ham intended to be as far away as possible when that happened.

The breeze shifted direction. Honeysuckle. 

“Cynthia? Is that you?” Ham peered into the dense foliage by the driveway, but could see nothing. The aroma of honeysuckle hung in his nostrils. She was nearby, but why?

“Cynthia, come with me. I’ll explain everything. It will sound fantastic, but you have to believe me.” He heard a rustling in the shrubbery, and Cynthia stepped out onto the drive. She was holding a small pistol, and as she stepped closer, she raised the pistol and took aim at Ham.

“Wait a minute! What are you doing? Give me the gun. Whatever Nathan has told you is a lie. I’m not dangerous and I won’t hurt you.” Ham reached out for the gun, but Cynthia raised her other hand to bring him to a halt.

“You may not be dangerous, but *I* am,” she answered. Her lovely gray eyes had a hardness to them and the sweet smile was but a memory. “You men are always so cocksure about everything. Did it occur to you that everyone in Nathan’s fancy little group might not be male? Of course it didn’t! Dear Ham. Nathan works for me. He never had a good head for money and quickly squandered his share of the family fortune on ‘sure things’ and ‘guarantees’ while I sat back and watched. Once he was in over his head, I introduced him to my group of friends and we brought him on board. He has done fairly well in the past, but for some reason, he was making quite a mess of your situation. I had to step in. Normally, I would not become involved, but you’re rather special and I felt that we should give you a little time to come around.” Cynthia flashed a small smile, but held the gun steady. “You know your three options. You’ve had time to rest, heal, and reflect on your future. I will now ask you for a decision. Go out on your own and have us ruin your life for you. Work for us and live a fairly comfortable life. Choose death and it will be immediate.”

“When you think about it, each choice is a type of death, because my life is no longer my own.” Ham watched Cynthia’s face as he spoke.

“That’s true, and that’s what makes it so perfect, don’t you think? It comes down to which type of death you can handle today. Make your choice, Ham. Your time for thinking is over.”

Ham lunged at Cynthia, grabbing her hand that held the pistol. They struggled, locked in a bizarre dance, until a shot rang out.

The body hit the ground with a thud and all was quiet once again. Somewhere, a bird burst into song.

*******

The cell phone was set to vibrate. Nathan pulled it from his pocket, flipped it open, and said, “What?”

He listened intently, said, “I’ll send a clean up crew,” and hung up.

When he reached his house, everything was as it should be. He took a seat in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and accepted the tall glass of tea handed to him. “Very nice work. I’m impressed. I knew I would be.”

“It played out exactly as you said it would,” replied Ham. “I think I’m going to like it here. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

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.”

Bedeviled Ham - Chapter 4

Previously

Ham ran outside and ducked into a gangway. He worked to compose himself. He was hyperventilating and he could not think straight. He just couldn’t seem to comprehend what was happening. He rubbed his face and wrung his hands and mumbled to himself. “That’s it. I know what I have to do.” Passers by looked at Ham a little sideways, but he didn’t even notice. He had made his decision.

He walked in the door of his apartment and looked around. He set the bags down and checked the closets and looked behind the shower curtain. At this point he was so paranoid he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find an alien standing in the bathtub or sleeping in the closet. Once he assured himself he was alone, he went to work.

Ham set up the tripod and video camera in the kitchen with a view of the counter area. He made sure the camera’s live feed showed up on his website, then he put the camera on standby. He opened the other bag and pulled out the wire cutters. He got the cutting board out of the cabinet and put it on the counter in view of the video camera. He set a bowl of ice out next to the cutting board, took off his belt, and grabbed the roll of paper towels.

With the scotch poured and at the ready, Ham turned the camera back on. He downed the scotch and poured another, this time a full tumbler. He went to the bathroom so he could relieve himself before he got started. He wasn’t exactly sure he could predict what would happen, and he didn’t want to have an accident.

He stepped back into view of the camera and began to speak. “I’m Ham.” He spoke in a shaky voice. He gave his address and Nathan’s phone number. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” Ham said. He was growing paler by the minute. He had another slurp of scotch. “If you see anything untoward in the next few moments of this broadcast, please contact Nathan immediately. I need to prove once and for all that I am not delusional. This is the only way I can think to do it without hurting someone else.”

Ham turned his attention to the items on the counter. He fastened the belt tightly around his left forearm, laid his arm gently on the cutting board with his pinky extended, and took a deep breath. Grabbing the wire cutters, Ham sighed. “Here goes nothing.”

Bedeviled Ham - Chapter 3

Previously

Ham froze as if the phone were a deadly spider that had injected paralyzing venom into his brain. Words wouldn’t form. The alien creature, seemingly affixed to his head, had to be dealt with.

“Ham, are you there? Ham, can you answer me?”

Having pried the phone away from his head, Ham stared at it as he tried to get his brain to instruct his fingers to manipulate it in a way that would stop the voice from emanating. A simple task that now seemed impossible.

“Ham, it’s Nathan. Is everything OK?”

In terror, his reflexes took over and he just released the phone and watched pieces skitter across the hardwood floor. It went silent as the battery-powered guts lay exposed.

After a series of shallow breaths, he heaved several more labored breaths. Ham realized that Nathan wasn’t dead after all. The voice on the phone certainly sounded like his resurrected therapist. Great. Now he was not only the guy who didn’t call for help when the guy died, he was also the guy who hangs up on the dead guy now that he clearly wasn’t dead anymore.

He had been right. He was cursed. Or crazy. Right now, that seemed a better answer. He should be used to this sort of thing by now but it seemed to be getting harder to deal with. Why hadn’t he realized last night that this would all be fixed, just like all the previous mishaps? Why hadn’t he just slept on it. After months of therapy he seemed no closer to coping with his situation. But, until last night, he had taken for granted that things would right themselves.

Having steadied himself somewhat, he took to the task of reassembling the cell phone. The familiar glow of the screen told him it was in working order and then the notifications of several missed calls and voicemails from Nathan appeared.

This was Ham’s chance to redeem some level of humanity. The more the events of his life seemed to perfect themselves the less perfect he felt as a human being. How could he just leave his therapist glassy-eyed and crumpled? And what would he now say to that same therapist who clearly had no memory of Ham’s version of the previous day’s events?

Pressing the button to bring up the voicemails, Ham turned on the speakerphone and set the spider-turned-communication device on the nightstand and plopped down on the edge of the bed. Listening to the messages would buy him a few more minutes before he would have to speak.

“You have three unheard messages. First unheard message.”

“Ham, this is Nathan. I’m concerned that something has happened to you. Call me back.”

“Next message.”

”This is Nathan again. I’m going to be in the office all day. I’m sure we can talk through whatever you think happened.”

“Next ….

Ham hung up before listening to the final message. He had gotten the point. Nathan wasn’t going to give up. He pressed 4 on the phone and it rang straight through to the therapist’s office. He had no idea what to say, which turned out not to matter. Nathan did most of the talking and told Ham to come to the office right away.

Emotionally spent, Ham didn’t have as much resistance left as he would have needed to refuse to his victim’s request. He made sure he had enough clothing back on to go out in public without drawing too much attention. He didn’t care that the wine-soaked evening of the night before had left a few tell-tale signs beneath his eyes and his hair had clearly been styled by a sweat-soaked pillow.

Unexpectedly the In Session sign was flipped up on the door to Nathan’s office so Ham had to spend time in the waiting room. Ham paced in the entranceway and stared at the finger-painted images on the wall with such intensity that he thought he could see the colors swirling a bit. Shifting. Blurring.

Just then the door to the therapist’s office swung and a girl came scurring out and brushed past him as she headed for the exit. It took a moment for Ham to stop registering all the motion and realize that she was the same girl he had seen on his first visit.

“Is she getting any better?”

“Why don’t you come in the office and we’ll talk about everything.”

“You have kids?” Ham seemed momentarily frozen again.

“Just come inside.” Nathan gently reached out a hand to beckon Ham toward the inner office. Ham flinched but moved in the intended direction clearly not wanting Nathan’s hand to come into contact with his body.

For the first time in several weeks, Ham opted for the couch. The chair suddenly looked menacing and he imagined straps appearing to restrain him as if it were an electric chair. Perhaps he deserved to be punished. Bad things were happening. And he wasn’t convinced that the fact that no one else seemed to know about them exonerated him of responsibility.

“I killed you,” Ham finally blurted out.

“What?”

“I killed you. That’s why I didn’t call last night. I knew you couldn’t answer.”

“Now, Ham. Clearly I’m OK.”

“Well, clearly I’m not. And it’s getting worse, not better. I can’t keep coming here.”

Nathan tried to calm Ham down but the dialog just ricocheted around the office and Nathan made little progress settling his patient down. Finally he suggested that maybe it would be best if they took a break and Ham got some food and rest. They could try again in a few days. He wasn’t sure if Ham was really in agreement but he finally left the office.

Nathan waited to hear the sound of the second door closing, signaling that Ham had left the outer office. Then he picked up his pen and made a few additional notations in the growing file of session notes about Ham. Leaning back in his chair, Nathan sat motionless for several moments and then reached for the phone.

“I may have pushed him too hard and need some help with this case.”

Bedeviled Ham - chapter 2

Previously.

“What about Thursday? I’ve got, let’s see, ‘closed Peterman deal and celebrated with a long run.’”

Ham looked queasy as he checked his journal. “That’s what I’ve got too. What I don’t have is anything about the towel bar I accidentally ripped off the bathroom wall. I was tired from my run and leaned on it a little too much.”

Nathan checked his journal again and made a note on his pad, “Nothing in mine about that. Did you forget to tell me?”

“I didn’t forget to tell you. I told you. And I wrote it down. And you told me that you wrote it down.”

Nathan made another note. “And the next morning?”

Ham closed his eyes and sighed before answering, “It was fixed. No, not fixed. It looked like it had never happened at all.”

One more, slightly longer note. “I see. And Friday?”

Ham’s eyes snapped open and he glared at Nathan. They’d been at this for five weeks and had gotten nowhere. No matter what went wrong one day, it was magically fixed the next. He remembered everything, clear as day, but his journal and the doctor’s were always changed to reflect the new and perfect order.

He gripped the arms of the straight-backed chair - it was the least comfortable chair in the room but it seemed to fit his mood as the weeks dragged on. “You know, I’m sick of all this. My life’s a nightmare and I just want to wake up from it.”

“Ham, come on. Most people would kill for a charmed life like yours.”

Ham jumped out of the chair and lunged for the door. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s not charmed. It’s cursed!”

He was out the office door and barreling down the entry hall before Nathan had even put down his pad. Nathan’s office and reception area took up most of the first floor of the old brownstone he lived in, and as he rushed past, Ham realized the finger paintings tacked to a cork board were probably by Nathan’s children and not his patients. He made it to the front door and threw it open onto the sunny street.

Nathan caught up with Ham at the top of the front step and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Ham was a tough case, but with a little kindness and patience they’d work through his issues together to figure out the heart of his dissatisfaction.

Ham shook himself free and Nathan lost his balance, tumbling forward. Ham watched as time dilated. It was just six steps from the landing down to the sidewalk, but Ham saw every thud, bump, slip, and skip. He saw the way the shadows of leaves made freckles on Nathan’s face and arms as he cartwheeled. He saw Nathan’s shirttail pull free from his pants. He heard an oriole singing from the branch of a nearby maple, and he heard Nathan’s head crunch against the cement when he came to rest.

Ham took the stairs two at a time and knelt over Nathan. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle and his eyes were glassy and blank. He looked up and down the block and saw no one. Then he ran.

Ham always thought of himself as the hero type who’d jump to the rescue if he ever came across anyone choking or having a heart attack. But as he sat on his couch in his dark living room and counted the empty bottles of wine on the floor, he realized he wasn’t even the responsible type who’d make an anonymous phone call if he saw someone die.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw Nathan’s blank eyes staring at him. No, they were staring right through him. Nathan knew who Ham really was, what kind of man he was. He was the kind of man who’d run away.

He didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out, but even still he was haunted by nightmares of Nathan falling. Sometimes he floated gently to the sidewalk, and sometimes he bounced like a superball from step to step, accompanied by a cartoonish “boing, boing” noise. But no matter how he got to the bottom, he always ended up staring back at Ham with those dead eyes.

He woke up in utter blackness with a noise slamming against his head like Satan’s church bells. He didn’t know where he was or why the air was so hot and fetid, but he twisted and turned trying to find the source of the sound.

As his mind swam up to consciousness, he realized his shirt had worked itself up over his head. He peeled it off, saw the state of his apartment, and remembered what he’d done. He finally figured out the screaming siren was his cellphone, inches away from his ear in his shirt pocket, and punched the answer button.

“Ham, you never called last night with your journal update. Anything unusual happen yesterday?”

WXYZ - Chapter 6

Previously

Wesley remained in his chair, unable to process the event with which he was confronted. As the door opened, all he could see was a silhouette carved out of the bright rectangle that was the hall light spilling into his apartment.

“What are you doing in here?” the Super barked at Wesley. “I never imagined you’d be in here when I got a call about water leaking into the apartment downstairs.”

“What? Water? From where?” But then, much to his horror, he knew the answer. He was going to wash some dishes, then started making tea and had apparently gotten distracted. He’d found his mind wandering on multiple occasions lately. The simpler he had been trying to make his external existence the more complicated his internal landscape had become. During that moment of consideration the Super had finished his work, which really just meant turning off the faucet in the kitchen and tossing some towels down to start soaking up some of the spillage.

“Could you pay a little more attention next time?” he added on his way out.

And so he did. For the next several weeks he tried to reorient himself. It was very disturbing to his psyche for things to be disorganized and frankly his mind had become discombobulated. He double-checked everything for several days after the flooding incident. Water. Check. Water. Double-checked. Book. Check. Reread and edited. Double-check. Schedule. Check. Confirm tea time. Phew. Gradually he felt his confidence that he was on course return.

Rain had kept him away from his clean-up tasks at the cemetery for nearly a week, but that just freed up time to complete other tasks. One of his neighbors had gotten a number of new books which made borrowing some of the older ones even less obvious. 

He felt better when the clouds cleared and he was able to go and visit his parents and tend to the funerary plots. He performed the usual anti-litter campaign. Clearly the rain hadn’t stopped the local teens from having some beers graveside. He gently brushed away some rain soaked leaves that were clinging to the top of the gravestone. Across the top it had the family name, Yardley, carved deep into the marble headstone. 

As a small boy Wesley could remember going into his parents’ room and peering up from the foot of the bed to see if they were awake yet. As a grown man he now stood at the foot of their final resting place. Just as in life, Wesley’s father slept on the left as indicated on the grave marker which read Frederick Gerald-Harris, devoted husband and father. To his right lay his blessed and loving mother, Ida Jane Klempton. 

After completing his tidying up, he put out a blanket on his area and stretched out for a few moments. Hands behind his head, he watched the clouds pass overhead and even tried to identify some of the shapes that marched across the sky. He admired the tree branches that hung over his plot and watched the breeze play with the leaves. It did seem a shame that he wouldn’t have this same view from inside his planned mausoleum but he should still have space on the plot to have some outdoor entertainment.

Elsewhere Abby was also visiting the cemetery as she had done for almost as many years as Wesley. She now sat, slightly askew with her feet tucked underneath her left hip. There was a much simpler and cryptic marker atop her father’s grave which read Quispiam rarus. Sic tu una voce. As she did each time she visited, she pulled a volume from her bag, opened it and began reading, quietly but out loud. 

This was a ritual she and her father had had since she was old enough to sound out words. He would spend hours with her on his lap saying words that she pointed to. She would smile and giggle and repeat them. As she got bigger her father continued to dote on her and they would spend even more hours together in his study taking turns reading to one another. He would end each reading session by giving her a kiss on the forehead and saying her loved her. 

That was until she was nine. That was when her mother had left them. She didn’t know what had happened, she only knew that while her father continued to love her and give her kisses, she never heard another I love you. In fact there were no more spoken words. He never uttered another sound. But she would continue to read to him in life and death.

Wesley spotted Abby on his way out of the cemetery and quietly walked over. “My Latin is a bit rusty,” he ventured. Abby clutched a locket that hung low on her neck that bore a similar inscription with one hand while keeping her place in the book with the other. 

“It was a phrase my dad made up. Roughly it means ‘Something precious. You have a voice.’” Wesley didn’t fully comprehend the message but had to admit that he had noticed what a beautiful voice she had, even in those first moments when she was pointing a gun at him. He suddenly sensed that he was intruding,  became very nervous, and left with “So, I’ll see you tomorrow for tea?” She simply nodded, having never raised her head nor turning to look at him.

The following day they met at the designated time for tea. They had taken to alternating between their apartments, but today it was Abby’s turn to host. After some preliminary chit chat, she took a deep breath and said, “As long as I’ve known you, you have been trying to get two things: my books and your permit for the mausoleum.”

Taken a bit aback by her directness Wesley, nonetheless, had to agree that those had consumed a good deal of this thoughts in recent months. Before his brain could filter his words he uncharacteristically blurted out, “Yes, I do look forward to the day when I can invite you to tea at my new place.”

“I only visit one man at the cemetery, Wesley. And that’s not going to change anytime soon.”

Like a house of cards collapsing in on itself, Wesley could feel the paper cuts scrape across his heart. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn’t come visit. He thought she understood him.

Before he completely sank into his sadness Abby continued, “I have something for you.” Wesley snapped back into the moment and watched as she gently laid two items on the table between their teacups. The first was the volume of ella minnow pea that so continually tugged at Wesley. “You can read this book, or any of the others, but only so long as I am in the apartment.”

Then she picked up the second item, a large envelop, and opened it to reveal a stack of papers. “Or you can take this and never come back.” Abby had previously mentioned to Wesley that she might know someone who could help gain the permit he so desperately sought but they had never discussed it again. 

After a long moment, another wave of shock rolled over him. Reaching for an answer Wesley looked to Abby, but she remained as silent as her father. His eyes danced back and forth between the book and the permit. And finally taking one more look back to Arabella Beatrice Clementine, Wesley Xavier Yardley (Z) reached out and accepted her offer.

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.

WXYZ - Chapter 4

Previously…

Though Wesley owned no television and had little use for the popular cinema, he nonetheless recognized the sound of a pistol’s hammer clacking in place.

“Hands where I can see them. Slowly if you please,” the voice, sweet and throaty, commanded and he obeyed. Wesley raised both hands above his head, still clutching the purloined book with his left. He heard the door close and was touched by a zephyr, smelling faintly of gardenia. “Turn slowly with your hands up, please.

“What’s your name, dear? I hate to shoot a man when I don’t know his name.”

“Z,” he responded, noting a brief look of shock on her face.

With a rush of adrenaline, he prevaricated on the spot. He’d rarely had occasion to lie and had little practice with it, but he spun a plausible tale so easily and smoothly he almost began to believe it himself. He told her he’d been called in response to a leaky ceiling in the apartment below. He explained that he had a master key to all the apartments and often backed up the super. He further elaborated that the super had seemed in his duties of late.

“Have you ever seen the damage a Desert Eagle can do, Z?”

Wesley’s eyes drifted to the pistol, a heavy cumbersome affair that looked out of place in the hands of the woman from 4B. He had expected a dainty, feminine gun more fitting to her dress and manner and found he could only stare at the cannon pointed at his chest. This short adventure had quickly gone sour and Wesley wished nothing more than to end it and calm himself with a cup of tea.

“Let’s assume for a minute I believed your story. Shouldn’t you be in the bathroom instead of raiding my bookshelves?” She waved her gun from Wesley to the back hall and back to Wesley to punctuate her sentence. “Maybe you should start over. And stick with the truth this time. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Do you think I could trouble you for some tea?”

“I’m a coffee drinker. But I might have some Lipton. Sit there,” she said, indicating a chair at the kitchen table.

Wesley told Arabella Beatrice, Abby she preferred to be called, everything. He was hesitant and halting at first but Abby drew it out of him. He felt comfortable talking to her in a way he hadn’t felt with anyone since his parents had passed away. More so once she put the gun in her purse. She listened attentively and shared his disgust with the local attorneys who’d been unable and unwilling to help him with his mausoleum. She even suggested she might know someone who could cut through the layers of bureaucracy.

When he finished, and had apologized a second time for trespassing in her apartment, Abby leaned her chair on its back legs and crossed her arms in a manner that seemed off-puttingly masculine to Wesley. She smiled and asked, “Why are you in such a big rush to end your life?”

Wesley clarified that he merely wanted to live a spartan lifestyle.

“Living like that is no life at all. You might as well be dead. Certainly be easier to get your crypt approved that way.”

WXYZ - Chapter 3

Previously

The meeting with his solicitor had not gone well. He simply wouldn’t listen to reason. Wesley had explained patiently that there was nothing in the deed stating that he had to be dead before availing himself of a mausoleum’s accommodation. The air-headed lawyer had waffled on about the spirit of the law and zoning regulations. Wesley had the distinct impression that he was not being taken seriously so had firmly but politely informed the solicitor that he would no longer be retaining his services.

Upon returning to his simply furnished apartment Wesley began systematically making his way through all the law firms listed in Yellow Pages. After making numerous calls, and before he had even reached the end of the E section, Wesley realised that the Yellow Pages clearly only advertised on behalf of idiots. He was stunned at both the rudeness and general incompetence he was met with when he explained his situation.

Wesley was certain that there must be someone with enough common sense and legal knowledge to assist him. In desperation he decided that he would turn to the internet for help. He was not a technophobe; he just had no real interest in computers and the like. He had heard his former work colleagues talk of something called “Goggle” which they claimed was a great source for finding out whatever details on whatever topic one could ever need.

He would have gone to his local library to use their facilities. Unfortunately a number of people had complained about the editing he had done to books he had borrowed and he was now banned from all libraries within a 50 mile radius. He knew that there was something called an internet café in his neighbourhood so decided to continue his research there.

One of the serving staff patiently explained how to use a browser and Google and Wesley began searching for information that would help him on his quest. He found a lot of information - everything from night clubs in Moscow to pictures advertising cemetery accommodation in Australia. Nothing, sadly, that was of any use to him.

He wondered if he might find any law firms to help him and out of frustration typed “blood sucking lawyers” in the search field. Unfortunately he inadvertently clicked the image search and ended up rather disturbed by some of the results. Somewhat dejected, he made his way home.

As he approached the apartment block he noticed the woman from 4B getting into her car. She was smartly dressed, as she had been whenever he had seen her previously, and looked to be of a similar age to Wesley. He had never been to apartment 4B and as she drove off he decided that now would be the perfect time to use his set of master keys.

He retrieved the keys from his apartment and tried to appear nonchalant as he made his way to 4B. His heart was racing with excitement. After checking that the hallway was clear he put the key in the lock and felt a little shiver run through his body. He quickly stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

Her apartment was uncluttered and tastefully decorated. There was a pleasing sense of symmetry about the place that instantly made Wesley feel at ease. Best of all, there was a large antique bookcase forming the focal point of the main room. The books were arranged by height and grouped in complementary colours.

Wesley scanned the titles. There were many classics in the collection as well contemporary titles by well known authors. One book in particular caught his attention. He had heard of neither the title nor the author: ella minnow pea by Mark Dunn. He removed it from the bookcase, intrigued by the completely lower case title

As he read the back cover he knew that this was the book he would borrow. It must’ve been a challenge to write with an ever shrinking alphabet. It would no doubt be a challenge for him to edit. He relished the thought.

He opened the front cover and saw a beautiful book label which read as follows:

This book belongs to

Arabella Beatrice Clementine

And then he heard a key turning in the apartment door.

WXYZ - Chapter 2

Wesley walked to the cemetery in the morning sunshine, donned his gloves and began pulling the weeds and overgrown grass from around his parents’ headstones. Why the groundskeeper didn’t use a trimmer was beyond him. It was just plain disrespectful. So he put his little rubber kneepad down and went to work.

There were a few empty beer bottles scattered around. Teens and their cemetery drinking had always baffled him. Wesley didn’t like the taste of beer or the sensation of being drunk; he didn’t mind being in the cemetery at night, but not with a group of unruly teenagers. Even as a teen he had preferred the quiet company of a good book.

He replaced the weather worn plastic flowers with new plastic flowers, brushed the dirt bits off of the headstones and looked around. He was alone. This was why he came early in the morning, most people were at work or asleep and he didn’t have to pretend to be friendly to strangers while he worked.

Squinting in the sunshine, Wesley imagined the mausoleum he planned to build. He could picture every detail, mentally turning to examine each interior and exterior wall. He would use granite, because limestone was too dusty. It was worth the extra cost. There would be room for his chair, a single bed, a reading table and hot plate.  A spigot on the side would provide running water, and he was planning to buy a composting toilet.

The thought of such well-executed self-sufficiency made him smile. He packed his gloves and kneepad into one bag and the beer bottles and worn flowers into another specifically for rubbish. As he walked past the public waste can he tossed the garbage bag in. Wesley whistled as he made his way home.

Wesley set the mail on the kitchen table and put the kettle on to boil. He washed his hands thoroughly, and as he dried them he realized he was down to just a few books. They were the dregs, the Jackie Collins that his mother had given him all those years ago, the Vonnegut he had already read at least five times. He needed something new to read, but he was not about to bring new belongings home now.

As he poured water for his tea, he looked out the back window onto the parking lot below. Most of the cars were gone since everyone was at work. That was why he had the back-up set of master keys to the building. He had lived here even longer than the super, so if there was a small problem such as getting into a locked apartment or mailbox, the super called Wesley for back up. He didn’t mind. It gave him a feeling of novelty, opening doors to the homes of others, quietly looking at their things while the resident found her keys or purse or whatever she had left behind next to her keys.

Some of the residents had magnificent book collections, and he leered at them while he waited for them to hurriedly grab their belongings so he could leave.

Today as he made his tea and gazed down at the empty lot, he realized he had a built-in place to stroke the spines of the beautiful hardcovers and take his time choosing just one, one that would never be noticed, to borrow and return just as soon as he read it with his red pen in hand. No one would notice; the books were dusty. There weren’t there to be read, they were there strictly for appearances. These people didn’t even deserve to have such lovely books when they didn’t even take proper care of them. Broken spines, tattered pages, parakeet poop on leather covers for God’s sake! Unbelievable.

This was a brilliant idea! He could step into an apartment that was well appointed with books and shelves, and just quietly borrow one for a few days. No one would ever notice, and he would have the opportunity to read books that he would not normally buy or even run across. Once he was finished, he could just slide the book back into its place while the owner was at work, none the wiser. It seemed a win-win for Wesley and the books.