Gerald DiPego's Blog
September 24, 2023
154 and PARADISE
May 6, 2023
Coming Soon: A Night of Story-Telling!
I’m so glad to announce a new show - it’s been a while! Please join me, Cynthia Carbone Ward and Sue Turner-Cray for a night of story-telling as we take you through our tales of imagination, laughter and pathos, all for a good cause, and at a fine new venue. See below for details and prepare for a good time! - Jerry“TELL ME A STORY”Sunday May 21st at 7:00 pmAn evening of tales written and told by three local storytellers! Have a glass of wine, get comfortable and enjoy the stories, beginning at 7:30.
Location: "The Grand Room," 181-D Industrial Way, Buellton (adjacent to Industrial Eats).
The StorytellersCynthia Carbone Ward, author and writer of "Still Amazed," her continuing deep and humorous take on life. Sue Turner-Cray, actress, writer and performer of the knock-out one woman show, "Manchester Girl," other plays and TV film roles. Gerald DiPego, playwright and film writer: "Phenomenon," "Message in a Bottle," "The Forgotten," "154 and Paradise," etc.This is a benefit for the Santa Ynez Valley Union High School PTSA. Tickets $20. Cash only at the door, please. Adult language.
November 30, 2022
Remote 2
The girl hangs over the right shoulder of a walking man. Her long hair blows gently in the wind. She is naked and her arms are limp and swaying slightly as the man trudges on. It’s nearly night, and his way is broken as he moves around trees and fallen limbs, stopping once to reset the body he carries, then moving on. He stops once more to pull a small flashlight from his pocket, turn it on, and continue his walk, his search, while the limp girl moves in a kind of loose dance to his steps. He nears an old and unlit building and stops.
In the afternoon of the following day, several towns away in Indian Lake, Illinois, Leonard Defore is building a fence. Just for the look of it, he will say, if anyone asks him, but no one is likely to ask. The real reason for the fence is that Leonard needs the work, the hard and heavy labor. He enjoys this and is glad for the muscles that swell his arms and shoulders, but his primary motive concerns sleep. As always, he enjoys the work and is glad for the muscles that swell his arms and shoulders, but his primary motive concerns sleep. If he has a taxing physical project, he will sleep well and, most importantly, he will not dream. This way of staying dreamless has caused the house to be newly painted, a shed built, more than enough firewood stacked and even the wheel barrow to once again shine a bright red.
He has, over the years, seen his daughter grow and leave the home, and then his wife also in time, and now at 54 he’s been alone for eight years, though his daughter visits. He is an accountant who works out of his home for the people and businesses in the town, and he is also a known "remote viewer." Now and then, sometimes after years of not dreaming, he’ll have another episode, where he sees, in his dream, something that is happening, actually happening, somewhere else in the world, sometimes as close as the town where he lives. Twice, he has used such a viewing to help the police solve a local crime, and this has set him apart and caused a loner to be even more alone than he wishes.
His phone is ringing now. It is likely a client calling. But as he reaches for it, he feels a small tick of worry that it might be someone who wants to know about his “gift,” his remote viewing, a reporter, someone writing a book, or someone who has lost something and wants him to dream where it is. He sees the name of Betha Kane on his phone. She is a police detective in the larger town of Waukegan, and, yes, he helped her solve a case here in Indian lake, nearly six months ago. He is hoping that she has thought long about it and now wants to continue the two-date relationship they had before she stepped back, but he’s afraid that this is police business again, and she will try to pull him into it, just as he is trying to end it, end the viewing, end being that odd man in town who gets those looks. Will he ever erase those looks? Still, he finds he wants to hear her voice, come what may.
“Hey, Betha.”
“Leonard, hi. Have you heard about what’s going on here, the murders, the ‘Hide and Seek Murders’ they call them?”
“I’m fine, Betha. Thanks for asking.”
“Okay, I’m pushing this, Leonard, I know. But it needs pushing. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Well, Waukegan is a long way off. Must be almost fifteen miles from the lake towns.”
“So, you’re still mad at me. That doesn’t matter now.”
“I’m not mad. I was never mad. Just disappointed.”
Well, get over it. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is another girl is missing and we found her clothes, just like the last three. He puts the clothes out where they’ll be found, like some kind of goddamn trophy. But he hides the bodies, and by the time we find them they’re decomposed, and we need a fresh body to stop this son of a bitch. We have a suspect this time. Prime. I’m betting on this guy.”
“I haven’t dreamed in a long time. Well, not that kind of dream. I dreamed of you a few times.”
“Four girls in three years. Four families gutted, and you’re talking about us?! Come here. I’ll take you to the places where we found the other bodies. I’ll show you photos of the girls, of this girl. Liya Pope. She’s 17. I’ll pay your expenses, get you a room somewhere. Give it some days and see what happens.”
“Your department wants me to come, to get involved in this?”
“No. It’s just me. Nobody’ll know what you’re doing. No reporters. No cops. Just us.”
“I don’t see how you can hide me, Betha. From your team?”
“I’m . . . not on the team. I’m officially off the case. It’ll be just us . . ."
“Off the case? What is this?”
“The suspect is a hothead. I got in his face and he put a hand on me, so I punched him in the throat. My captain says I overreacted and so I’m off the case. I’m doing this on my own because we have a chance, Leonard. I handled the last two of these killings and I want this to be over. Forever. Will you please come here?!”
He pauses, but he knew from the beginning he would try to help her. “Will you tell me, please . . that your expectations are very low on this, Betha? Do you know the odds?”
“I know the girls are dying. That’s what I know.”
He arrives in Waukegan the next evening. She meets him at the motel where she has booked him a room. It’s not quite seedy. She apologizes, but he’s not really listening, just studying her brown skin aglow under the cheap ceiling fixture. He’s remembering her hard-won laughter that loosened him like a drink, her smart, sarcastic smile when she gave it, remembering the one deep kiss that she had interrupted as she stood back from him, shaking her head, truly sorry, he saw, but firmly shaking her head. How did she say it? “I’m all job, Leonard, and I’m aiming for the Chicago force in a year and . . . ”
He had asked if there was someone else, and had hated watching her nod. “Cop like me. It’s a secret thing. It’s just . . . something we do and walk away from, and I know you want more than that, and I can’t.”
He had said, “Try me,” and she had stared a while, and then her damn head was shaking as she told him, “You’d want more, and maybe I would, too, but I can’t do it now. Can’t step off this road. Sorry.”
Remembering all this, he asks her now, “Tell me – is it the dead girls, just the girls, or do you want this killer for your plan, for Chicago?”
Her stare goes even deeper, and she takes her time and says it softly. “It’s the girls.”
He nods, tossing his suitcase on the bed. “When do we start this?”
“There’s a diner across the road,” she tells him. “It’s not very good, but it’s quick. I’ll pick you up there tomorrow morning at 8:30. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you these photos, all the girls including the one gone missing now and details about the cases. Look at them here. Not at the diner. You’re not supposed to have access.”
He nods. Now the goodbye. Will she take a step closer? No. She moves to the door, opens it, turns to him, sighs. “You ready for this?”
“For this longshot,” he says. “Yeah.” He nods, she nods, and it’s over, and he’s alone.
In the morning he’s in the diner, finishing his breakfast as he watches one of the servers, a young man who isn’t bringing anyone’s meal, but asking about coffee, juice, a refill . . . Leonard is caught by this man’s dance-like movements, as he dips and turns and uses his hands to underscore what he’s saying, holding one hand as if it is a cup as he asks his question, then dipping, turning, his hand now holding a glass that isn’t there. “Juice, señor?”
Leonard sits with the last bite of pancake on his fork, held by this man – who is then blocked by Betha’s body as she appears at his table, staring. He looks at her, at his watch, says, “You’re ten minutes early. Want some coffee?”
She ignores the question and sits lightly on the opposite chair. “Did you look through everything?”
“I don’t look at decomposed bodies. I draw the line there. What the hell is that supposed to give me? I looked at the photos of the girls as they were. You trying to shock me?
“Yes. Let’s get out there.”
He finishes his coffee, pays. She says, “Keep the receipt. I’ll catch all this at the end.”
In half an hour they’re at a dirt road with deep ditches on either side, and Betha is pointing into a ditch, saying “Mary Beth Oldham. He didn’t exactly bury her. He didn’t dig, just put her in the ditch and covered her with leaves and branches, and all that piled up over time and then was washed away in our biggest storm, and she was uncovered. This photo . . . here.”
He doesn’t look at the photo she holds. Instead he checks one that Betha has given him, the girl when she was alive. Sixteen. A deep and true smile. He steps into the ditch, staring, asking, “So she was face up?”
“Yes, why?” But he only stares into the ditch and again at the photo, and Betha says, “We found her bike right away. We think he was following her in his vehicle and then bumped her to knock her down, then put her in the vehicle and came down this old road, found a secluded spot and raped and strangled . . . Well, you read all this, right?”
He nods, still looking into the ditch. “You think he might have killed her here?”
“Possible. She’d been missing for over eight months.” He nods again, then looks up, toward what she might have seen, the last of what she would ever see. “What do you think?” Betha asks him.
He brings his look to her and says, “We can go to the next one.”
Isabelle Woo had been hidden under a fallen tree, the tree propped slightly off the ground by other deadfall. She had been 15. Willowy. The photo he holds shows her laughing. Leonard kneels at the sight, stares at everything, imagines everything. When he rises and brushes himself off, Betha says, “Feeling anything?”
“Don’t keep asking,” he says. “Okay?” She nods and he goes on. “This is all just . . . Just in case I dream. Thousand to one, all right?” They walk to where she has parked. “Where now?” he asks.
“I have things to do. I’ll pick you up at the motel at ten tonight. Take another look at the girl, and the suspect’s photos, Dan Melios, and his sheet. I’ll bring you to where he works, a restaurant bar. Kinda seedy. He’s the bartender. You can study him. He’s been incarcerated twice."
“I have all this, Betha. I’ll take a look.” But she goes on.
“He was seen with Liya at the bar, where she used a fake ID, and he busted her, but they were smiling, people said. They talked a while. Then, when he closed up around midnight she was out there, waiting. One of the workers saw them, and the suspect confirms that, says she walked him to his apartment, said goodbye and he never saw her again. Just a kid, he said, and he said she was funny. Funny. Melios came to town four years ago. Just before the first girl went missing. I know you read this but read it again. It can’t hurt. And read about his convictions, assault and battery, one of them . . . ”
“One of them a woman,” he says. “I know, Betha. I read every word and I’ll go through it all again. Drop me here, and I’ll walk the rest.”
She pulls over, staring at him. “So I’m pushing you. I know . . . ”
He’s already opening the car door, saying: “I’ll see you at ten. And don’t come early,” and he walks on and she watches him.
Later, in the car, on the way to the restaurant-bar she begins schooling him again. “This girl is exactly, exactly the right fit for the ones he’s killed, the age, the size. He takes a big chance here, ‘cause he knows he’s been seen with her, so . . . I’m thinking maybe it was not planned this time. She was a target of opportunity. We’re here.” She parks across the street from a neon sign: “STALLS.” “Ben Stalls is the owner. Our guy Dan works the bar until they close at midnight. He acts as bouncer too when he has to. He’s a boxer. He was. Welter weight. Eight legit fights until he was arrested for assault and battery, and that killed that.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Study that asshole, go deep . . . so then maybe . . . ”
“Look, Betha, you’re in my territory now. My goddamn dreams. I’ll watch him. I’ll leave, and we’ll see what happens. You can back off. You can wait.”
“Yes, sir,” she says – and they hold on each other’s eyes for two seconds and he’s out of there.
Dan Melios seems to be the perfect bartender. He’s quick, knows his drinks, cracks a handsome smile now and then, but the smiles are tempered. Something on his mind. He has a boxer’s scar that splits one eyebrow, looks like he works out, sends his glance all around, looking for trouble? It’s one of those places with three screens, no volume, all sports, and Leonard, after ordering his whisky tonic, watches a game of cricket, Afghanistan versus . . . He can’t catch it. Dan brings him a nut dish. Leonard nods a thanks to the possible killer of four young girls and sips his drink, eats some almonds.
In the mirror he watches some of the meager patrons. A man two stools down reacts to one of the screens and turns to Leonard, saying “You catch that?! Jesus!”
“Missed it,” Leonard says and looks at his drink with his eyes glancing at Dan now and then. Looking for what? Just looking, just pinning the man into his brain. He tires of this and looks at himself in the mirror and tires of that, too. He wishes the man from the diner was here, the fluid young man dodging and turning and doing a kind of mime dance among the customers, and then he has an odd thought that surprises him. He thinks, what if he were that man? Life would be so simple, wouldn’t it? What if that was all he had to do, that dance, asking with his whole body, bringing the coffee, cream, tea, juice . . . and dancing off again. He lets himself wish that for a minute.
After two hours, one taco and too many drinks, the place begins to shut down around him. He notices, but waits for the bartender to tell him, wanting that contact to help pin him. “Closing out, buddy,” says the ex-boxer. And Leonard nods and pays, taking his time. He steps outside the bar and enjoys the coolness of the night. He lingers out there a moment, and is surprised to see Dan leaving, while others are still cleaning up inside.
He likes the man’s shoulders-back kind of walk. What does he see in that walk? A peacock? A readiness? A challenge? That’s it, a walking challenge to the world: so what I’m an ex-con, ex-boxer . . . whatever else I am, whatever I’ve done, whatever I haven’t done, so what? Here I am. There might be some anger in that walk, and maybe that anger needs an outlet, four outlets in three years, four young girls who had to pay?
Leonard finds he’s walking behind Dan, about fifteen paces. He didn’t mean to follow him, but it’s a good study. He probably wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t for the drinking, but he shrugs that off. He’s letting Dan teach him all about Dan. This could be good – for the possibility of a dream, but he shouldn’t push hard on that, has to let it come, just come. Dan has turned a corner onto a darker, smaller street. Leonard could stop now, stop and call Betha and report, but he has nothing to report, so he finds himself turning the corner to follow the killer-diller.
As Leonard turns the corner, he is grabbed – two strong hands balled in his jacket – and he is pushed hard against the door of a closed laundry, his head bouncing off the door. Dan Melios, teeth bared in anger, pulls Leonard toward him and then bangs him back against the closed door again, saying, “You a cop?! Ha?!”
“No! I . . . ”
“You followin’ me?”
“No! I just . . ."
Melios sends a hand to Leonard’s throat, choking off his words. “You a fucking private cop? Ha?” His hard grip doesn’t allow an answer, and then he withdraws his hand to slap Leonard, bloodying his nose. He’s at his Leonard’s throat again, digging in, furious. “I seen you watchin’ me in the bar, asshole!” When he slaps Leonard again, the bigger man shoves Melios back a step, but the boxer hits him in the forehead with a hard jab and grabs his throat again, and Leonard feels the pain and shock and something else. He feels like he might die, this man might kill him, and he thinks, in a quarter of a second, about the girls, battered and choked, and along with the pain and fear, anger shows up, and hate.
He sends both his large hands to Melios’ throat, and now the smaller man is choking, and Leonard turns and pushes himagainst the building and then turns him around and throws an arm lock on his throat from behind, and the man is trying to tear at that arm, kicking backward and flailing his hands wildly now, and Leonard feels the man’s panic and thinks – is that what the girls felt? And he wonders if he should do it, make this man die, and then all of this would end. But Melios’ movements are weakening, and Leonard relaxes his large arms and shoulders and lets the man slide to the sidewalk where he falls and breathes like some broken engine, sputtering, coughing. Leonard watches the boxer, then steps away, heading for the lit street and the way home.
As he walks, he calls Betha, then thinks he should have waited, so he would have more breath.
“Sorry . . . to call you late . . . ”
I was waiting for it. You sound . . . ”
“Yeah, I’m out of breath. I was following him home . . . just to see him, plant him . . . in my mind, and he turned on me. He hits hard.”
“Oh, shit! He beat you up? Where is he?”
“He’s on his ass . . . and I’m walking away.” Leonard turns to look behind him.
“He’s not following, and I’m going to change streets, just in case . . .”
“You weren’t supposed to get in his face! Now what?!”
“He doesn’t know who I am. Nobody saw us.”
“Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”
“No. No, I need the walk.”
“Leonard, It’s miles.”
“I need the walk.”
The dream lingers, unchanging. A fence? He is looking through what seems to be a rusted fence, and beyond it is darkness, but with . . . pinpoints of light. And somehow . . . the top of a tree? Swaying with the wind? There’s no logic, even to the placement of things. But this is not an ordinary dream. It’s not. It’s a viewing. He feels that. He wakes and sleeps again and then his cellphone wakes him, and he’s pawing the phone off the night stand, glancing at the clock. It’s nearly noon. He says “Hi.” but the word is broken and he tries again, clearing his throat.
She asks, “How do you feel?”
“Said the woman to the punching bag.”
“Did you dream?”
“There was something.”
“Describe it.”
“I need some time. Too groggy.”
“We have him, Leonard.”
“What?!” He sits up in bed, moving through the pain from the punches he took.
“They went in with a search warrant this morning. They found a kind of coin purse, a woman’s coin purse made of leather. Scratched, beat-up. They sent a picture to the girl’s parents. It was hers.”
“Jesus.”
“Found some drugs there, too, and there were hairs in the bed, her color. He knew he was busted, so he admitted she was there twice over the last week. Drugs. Sex. He’s still denying murder, but he’s shaky as hell and he’ll crack wide open. Go dream about that fence and we’ll hit him with everything.”
“What did he say about me? About the fight?”
He just said some big white guy jumped him in the dark and he hit the guy and ran home. You put some major bruises on his neck, and you should hear his voice. You almost killed him, for god’s sake, Leonard.”
“Maybe I should have. For a second I wanted to.”
“Don’t you say that. Don’t be an idiot. He’s done. We’ve got him. Listen, I have to go. They’re questioning him again, and they won’t let me in there ‘cause I was taken off the case, but I can see and hear what’s going on. Call me when you get something.” She hangs up, and he knows he can’t sleep anymore. He puts his feet on the floor and rises slowly, wincing at the pain. He needs an ice pack. He needs some breakfast. He needs to remember.
By late afternoon he feels the tiredness coming back, moving through him. He sits in the one cushioned chair in his room and closes his eyes, but that’s not doing it, so he moves to the bed, lies down, stretches out, looks at the ceiling, and, in time, he’s there again, not dreaming, remembering the dream, but, no, not a dream, remembering the viewing. He’s certain now, continuing to stare upward as the ceiling disappears and he’s staring through that rusted fence or . . . grate, staring upward. That’s it. staring up at the sky, the night sky. Staring up like the murdered girls were staring. He feels his heart increase. He is lying down somewhere. It’s cold. He is looking up at the sky – through a rusted grate. Those points of light he saw – they’re stars, and there is the tree, just the top of a tall pine, moving slightly in the wind, and he realizes he’s not himself. His heart pumps even harder now, as he comes to feel certain, certain that he is looking through the eyes of someone else. The killer? The girl before she died?
A grate in the ground means a building somewhere – a place near trees, a place where nobody goes. Abandoned place? He tries Betha, but she doesn’t pick up. He asks this of the motel owner: abandoned building in some forested area, and she sends him to one of her permanent guests, an old man, threadbare man. “Used to be some buildings in the woods north of town. Used to be a . . . Well, there was a school out there for years, but that shut down. Atrem Road runs along the woods there. There was a sawmill, too, but they carried most of that away when they moved the operation . . . ”
He calls while on his way and lets Betha know where he’s going, lets her know about the grate, and she is excited, shouting in a whisper. “Oh, god, if it’s there, if the body is there, he’s done, Leonard, he’s finished.” She gives him clear directions to the abandoned buildings and says, “This is coming to a head now, and they’re going to let me have him, Captain said. They’ve set him up and I . . . But I’ll get to you as soon as I can, and meanwhile I’ll call the person who’s leading the search for the girl and tell her I got an anonymous tip, and she’ll send people out there . . . Leonard? Watch for the . . . ” They were losing their signal, and he found himself speeding, pulling toward the forest, the buildings, the grate . . .
In twenty-five minutes, he’s leaving the sight of the old school, no grating there. He drives on and sees a nearly weeded-over entrance into the forest and takes it as far as he can, then leaves his car and hurries on, his chest tightening as he comes upon what is left of the old sawmill. He feels a pull, a definite pull as he hurries around the half-fallen structure, watching the ground, seeing no grate, then he pauses, slowing his breath. He looks above and sees the trees, tall pines, just as in his viewing. He moves around the structure again, more slowly.
When he sees it, he stands still for a long while, an old, rusted grate in the ground. He knows it’s the one. And he knows someone is in there. He feels that and takes three, four steps. He points his flashlight as he reaches the grate, points it down. It’s her. Liya Pope, and she’s lying on her back, her face pointing upward to the grate, to the late light and the high trees, and she is naked and bruised about the neck, her eyes closed, almost peaceful, he thinks. He curls his fingers into the grating and lifts, and then tosses the heavy metal away into the weeds. She’s about six feet down. He puts his flashlight in his pocket and steps to the edge of the hole and turns, bracing his hands on the ground and then letting himself drop, landing on his feet just beside her. He retrieves his flashlight and studies her, studies her mouth which is slightly open, studied her breasts and doesn’t move his eyes, doesn’t move the light, and he sees what he would not let himself hope to see. He sees the rise of a slight and slow breath.
He moves close to her and speaks her name, touches her face, again, again. The eyes open slightly, not focusing, not seeing him. He takes off his jacket and covers her, studying her face one moment more, wanting to shout, to weep, but he turns to the side of the hole and leaps upward, looking for purchase on the edge, but it is slick and he falls back inside, falls beside her. When he stands again, he hears movement on the surface of the ground, steps, moving slowly, moving to the hole, and he holds his breath.
He sees a tall uniformed police officer reach the edge of the hole and fill it with the glare of a very large flashlight. The cop changes the light to his other hand and draws his gun. Leonard has his hands above him, shielding himself from the wash of bright light. There are more footsteps above now, and people calling out, and the cop says to him, “Who the hell are you?”
And Leonard says, “She’s alive.”
Forty minutes later, Betha arrives. The girl has been taken to the hospital, but the area is still full of police, lit brightly now, a dozen squad and detective cars parked at odd angles as a team studies the area. Leonard sits on the ground, leaning back on one of the cars. He is handcuffed and sore and dirty and so glad, so glad because the paramedic had said, “She’ll make it,” when he asked him.
He watches Betha coming toward him, sees her intercepted by a female police sergeant who points at him and says to Betha, “So, detective, he says he knows you?”
Betha nods, not breaking her stride toward him. “Yeah. He’s with me. Take off the cuffs.” In a moment he is standing, rubbing his wrists as he and Betha hold their stare. No one can overhear them now.
“I have to tell the whole story to the Captain, Leonard. I don’t think he can keep you out of it. Sorry.”
He nods wearily, sighs a long sigh. “Just so she stays alive.”
“I’ll be busy here a while,” she says. “Can you make it back to the motel?” And he nods, and she keeps her deep stare on him. “Thank you, Leonard. You hear me? I’m saying thank you, from all of us and from her parents, and . . . That doesn’t say it all. Not even one little piece of it.”
The stare holds. He nods, then starts his walk to the car. She waves a cop over and tells the man to walk with him and make sure he can pull out of there. She watches Leonard until he’s out of sight and keeps staring in his direction.
She doesn’t come to the motel until three hours later. He’s packed, lying on the bed, dozing, until she knocks, and he rises and lets her in. They sit at a small uneven table, both weary, but she still carries that same deep stare for him, and she tells him, “She came fully awake in the hospital. She knew her attacker, knew of him, one Thomas Trasker. He has a three-truck rodent business in the town, for years. He even ran for city council once. Almost won. We knocked on his door. He was home with his wife, teen kids. We asked him about Liya Pope, and he fell on the floor, literally, fell to his knees. You should have seen the looks – the wife, the kids. They knew zero about this, of course. What a scene.”
“Melios?” he asks.
And she says, “Happy man. Not just free. Happy she’s alive. Happy tears. I think it’s true love.” They both grin a bit, and then grow serious again. Betha doesn’t know what else to say, so she says, “Let’s settle up. Give me your receipts.”
“You already paid the motel, that’ll do it.”
“Leonard . . . you know what I owe you, what this city owes you.”
“I don’t give a damn what Waukegan, Illinois owes me. It’s what you owe me.”
“What? What can I say?”
“Nothing. Not a word. I want just one thing for all this. You ready?”
She nods, wondering, and he says, “I want to finish that kiss we never finished, ‘cause you stepped back.” He’s completely serious, hard-looking about this.
She’s quiet a moment and then begins to shake her head. “I told you then, Leonard, about what I need to do, about the Chicago force, and . . . ”
“I’m not talking about the goddamn future. This is about the past, Betha, about that one kiss, that’s all. I want it in full, a long one, a deep one. I want us to finish it.” He stands up then, and waits.
She stares a while, then also stands, looking tough about this, but her eyes are moist. “Tongue?” she asks.
“You bet.”
“Hands?”
“Just on your back. Ready?”
Another long stare, and then she takes a step closer, and he moves in and it’s on, deep and tight and long, as they press together and his hands are on her back and in her hair, and she’s kissing him back and hard, and is in his hair now, and there is nothing still, not for a second, but all moving, and moving, and moving, two mouths as one mouth, tongues like slippery creatures, mad creatures, on and on, and when they finally break, they’re out of breath, staring hard again, almost moving into each other, but not. Not. He slowly steps away, then moves to the bed where his suitcase lies. He picks it up and walks to the door, not looking at her. Her eyes drop two tears as she watches him.
As he reaches the door and opens it, there is a war inside of him: say something, kiss her again, wait, but he takes a full breath and opens the door wider, thinking he wants her more than anything, but, hey, listen, the woman has Chicago on her mind.
August 4, 2021
Where Am I Now?
August is my birth month, turning 80. I have so enjoyed bringing you these stories, and I have been pleased and honored by your responses. This will be the last in the series, though I will still be writing, and, when we’re able to do so, I will be offering readings and plays in the Santa Ynez Valley. Meanwhile, here’s a story I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s pretty close to the bone for me. The funny bone. Have a good time!
WHERE AM I NOW?
by Gerald DiPego
I thought I was in a hospital. Yes, I remember that. People were rushing. I was on a bed or… I was being wheeled, so I must have been hurt, but I don’t feel any pain, and I’m walking now, walking without hurry, not sure where I’m going. It looks like the suburbs, wide streets, no trees though, and the buildings are not homes. Bigger than that. The weather is pleasant, and I wonder… I wonder about everything. I can’t seem to think it through. There are other people here, walking in the same direction, maybe twenty, thirty. One woman is wearing a robe. There’s a man in his underwear, but most are dressed, and I check myself and recognize my clothing. No shoes though, bare feet, but I’m comfortable, just… lost.
All of us, the walkers, are reaching what looks like a bus stop, at least there are two sleek busses parked there. Several people are waiting, young people, all dressed in the same tan shirts, tan pants, men and women. As I move closer, I see they’re smiling at us. They seem very pleasant, and now a few of them wave. This puts me at ease. They’ll tell me what’s happening, where I am. My mind is blank except for images of the hospital. They come and blink away.
“Welcome,” I hear. The young people are greeting the walkers as we join them near the busses. I’m approached by two of them, and their smiles are so… true. “Name”? the young man asks. I find I actually have to think about it. “Jackson,” I say. “Jackson Deaver,” and then the young woman asks me a question as the man checks a list on his clipboard. Her question is, “What is your work, Jackson?” and I find that my answer comes easily. “Screenwriter,” and the man, looking at his list, says “I have him. Number eighteen.” The girl takes my arm with a light touch and leads me toward the busses.
People tell their names and their work and are placed on one bus or the other, but I’m guided to a bench to wait with three other people. “You’ll all be picked up soon,” the girl tells us, so we wait as the busses pull away, and we’re alone.
I look at the people beside me. “Do you know what’s going on?” I ask. One only shakes his head. The other asks me, “What is this place?” And I can only shrug. A few minutes later an SUV arrives, empty except for the driver. He reads from a clip board, calling out the 'work' of the three people on the bench with me: “Gardener? Teacher? Plumber?” And as he calls out, the people enter the SUV, and I’m now alone. The driver smiles. “You’ll be picked up soon,” he says, and drives away, and I wait. And wait. Several smaller cars drive by, slow down. The drivers look at me, at their clipboards, and then they move on.
Finally, there is a young woman on a bike. It’s a two-seater, and she smiles and says, “Screenwriter?” and I nod and she motions me toward the empty bicycle seat behind her. I find that there are no pedals for me, just places for my feet. She does all the pedaling, and we’re off, moving along, and I ask “Where are we going,” and she says “Everything will be explained.” A few busses pass us, a car, and she speaks to me as she pedals on.
“So… does the screenwriter write what the actors say, or do the actors just make it up as they go along?” I’m happy that I’m able to answer this question while the rest of my brain seems to be in the OFF position. I guess it’s because I’m so used to answering it. “The writer writes what they say.” She nods, pedaling on, and I watch as more cars and busses pass us. “And also…” I add, “we describe the scene and the people and the… attitudes and the… weather, the action and…” “Wow,” she says as we travel on, and I’m wondering why I needed to try to school her. Do I always go on like that? And now I finally see, coming up on our left, another double bicycle. A young man is pedaling and an older woman is behind, looking at me as I study her. She raises her voice to speak to me.
“Screenwriter, right?” And I nod my head.
“Me, too. Movies or TV?” she asks.
“Both. You?”
“Series. You?”
“Longform.”
She nods, and I ask… “Do you know where we are and where we’re going?” But the young man on her bike pedals faster to pull ahead, and I don’t hear her answer clearly. It sounded like “Eleven,” which makes no sense, and then I work it out, and the answer shakes me, and I ask my bike driver. “Did she say Heaven?!” The girl doesn’t turn, just pedals on, saying again “Everything will be explained.” She takes the next corner and there is now a slight hill to climb so she rises up off her seat and pedals harder. I’m trying to think this through, about death, about heaven, but my brain is made of mud, thoughts sink under and disappear, so I just watch as the standing girl’s butt moves side to side in the rhythm of her pedaling, and while I’m watching this, I begin to feel… guilty that I’m watching her butt, given where we might be. Did I die? I keep asking myself, but I simply don’t remember.
We reach a building where several bikes are parked. We dismount, and she walks me to the door and inside into an empty lobby. Everything is so clean. She takes me to a large elevator, presses a button, and when the door opens, with a sound like a breath, she gestures for me to enter. She stays outside, smiling her smile and saying “Third floor. Just take a seat in the hallway,” and I nod, and the elevator ascends.
I look around me and see there are two other people in the elevator, a man I don’t recognize and a woman that I do! My breath catches and I’m shocked and… so pleased. It’s the actress, Jean Simmons, quite old, and quite lovely, and it’s as if I have two heads, one telling me that she died years ago so I must be dead, too, and the other head just grinning widely at meeting her again.
“Jean, hello! So good to see you.” She gives me a pleasant smile and asks, “Have we met?” “Yes, we met on the film ‘One More Mountain’. I’m Jackson Deaver.” Her smile remains, but I see she doesn’t remember. “You were in that covered wagon set,” I tell her, “and we talked between takes, for hours, remember? All about your pets and my… pug.” She never loses that lovely smile, sighing and saying, “Jackson… there were so many movies.” The elevator stops at floor 2, and she begins moving toward the opening door. Before she exits, I have to ask, to make sure. “Jean, am I dead?” Her beautiful face beams. “Oh, don’t you worry about death, Jackson. It’s just another part to play.” As she exits, I’m still speaking… “No, no I’m not an actor, remember? I’m the…” The door closes, but I finish my word: “Screenwriter,” which she doesn’t hear, and now I’m gliding upward again, and I hear the man behind me say,” Oh… really? Listen… do you write what the actors say, or do they come up with that?”
The hallway of floor three is empty of people, but lined with chairs, and I sit and wait without knowing what I’m waiting for. After a while a door opens down the hall and a man enters the hallway, walking quickly, passing me without a glance, and I’m tempted to ask him… but he’ll probably just say that bit about everything being explained. Fine. When? It feels like another half hour crawls by when a different door opens and the woman steps into the hall, the older woman I met while she and I were traveling on the bikes, the woman who writes series. She looks… angry.
“HI,” I say. “It’s me… from the bikes.” She stops and nods, but her look is sullen. “What goes on in these rooms,” I ask, and she says, “Panels. You have to meet with a panel.” She starts to leave, but I call out, “What kind of panel?” But she says only, “Be careful,” and she walks on. A… panel? Some sort of interview? Careful of what?
Another door opens in the hallway, but nobody comes out. I hear voices from that room, so I rise and walk toward the open door, and now the voices are more clear, both men and women, and I hear “That was in 2012.” “Does anyone else feel stuffy in here?” “Everyone ready?” I stop at the doorway and lean in. There are eight people getting settled around a large table. Most are older than me, but not all. One man sees me and says to the others, “He’s here,” and he waves me in, saying, “Mr. Deaver, come in. May we call you Jackson?” They’re all looking at me as I sit, and some are smiling, but not the deep, open smiles I’ve been getting from the ‘staff’. These are quick and fleeting and simply polite. One of the older men looks familiar.
“Sure,” I say, “Call me Jackson. You know… I just shared an elevator with Jean Simmons. So lovely. Is she… ” One of the women breaks in, “Oh, she’s on an actors’ panel today. Shall we begin?” But the man who is familiar is staring, and I say, “I know you, right? I mean, we met, when you were…” I was going to say ‘alive,’ but swallow the word, and he says, “Yes. It was ‘The Mother of Wickham’ project,” and I nod, that title unearthing memories by a slow and heavy dig, and I say, “but… you weren’t a writer.” And he says, “No… not a writer,” and I wonder why he’s on my panel, but the woman speaks up again, showing a smile that comes and goes like a camera flash. “Why don’t we get started,” she says. “First page,” and I look down at the large book on the table in front of me. Each of us has one, and I open the cover and see that page one is a series of three film reviews, films that I’ve written. I remember these reviews. Who doesn’t remember bad reviews? They stick in the mind like darts.
I ask, “Why do you have these negative reviews here? I had some good reviews, you know, and sometimes what they’re picking at is not the writer’s fault at all. You must know that, as writers. Sometimes the director disagrees and has his or her way, and then there are the studio people, wanting this change and that change, and even if you make a clear argument why that change is wrong, well, you know what can they do. They can replace you. Bring in another writer. I’m sure that pissed you off as much as it does… did me. Right?”
They’re all staring. One of the men says, “Let’s stay on point, Jackson. We’ve noticed some weaknesses in several of your scripts, and we…” But I cut him off. “Weaknesses? What about weaknesses in YOUR scripts? “We’re not screenwriters, Jackson.” The man says. And I say, “What?! What are you?!” And the man says… he actually says… “We’re all studio executives, and we think we know scripts pretty well….” “STUDIO EXECUTIVES?!” I’m shouting now. I can’t help it. “You think you know scripts?! Not from the inside, you don’t. Why don’t I have a panel of writers?!” The women says, “We know what we’re doing….” And I cut into her sentence like an axe blow. “Not always, you don’t! You don’t! And I refuse, I REFUSE to be judged by you. Studio executives?! I DEMAND a jury of screenwriters. I DEMAND a jury of my peers!” I realize I’m standing now, standing and glaring at them, and they begin looking at each other, and the older man, the man I knew, says to me… he says… “I think we’re done here.”
So, I’m back outside now, and I see the girl waiting for me by her bicycle, looking like she knows. Somehow she knows, and I walk to her and ask, “What happens now?” and she says “Everything will be…” “Damn it! Will you stop saying that?!” I have erased her smile, and I’m sorry and I tell her I’m sorry. It’s not her fault, right? And she asks me to get on the bike, and I do, and I ask her, in a normal voice, “Where are we going? And please don’t say that ‘all will be…'” She starts pedaling and says softly, maybe breaking some rule, “Jackson… we’re going to the person in charge.” I think on that a while. “You mean…?” I don’t know what to call this person. Actually, I’m afraid to use the word. “You mean the… supreme being?” “No, Jackson, the person in charge of this level.” “This LEVEL? So… what’s this ‘level’ called?” And she takes in a deep breath and speaks softly, saying it once more, after all. “Everything will be explained,” and I let her have that one. Why not?
I’m surprised to find that ‘someone in charge’ is in such a small building, more like a house, showing its age. The girl gets off her bike and moves to the door, and I follow. She pushes a button and the door sweeps open, and she turns to me with a very serious look and whispers, “Be careful.” I start to ask what she means, but she nods her head toward the open door, and I walk in. She stays outside as the door slides closed. Every wall is lined with books, floor to ceiling, and some look very old, and very used, like the rumpled man, the very old and rumpled man sitting at the desk in the center of the house. He stands up with a genuine smile and gestures toward the chair nearby, saying, jovially, “Come in, Jack.”
I take the chair, which rocks as if there’s one short leg, and I say, “Thank you. It’s ‘Jackson.’” “And how are you feeling, Jack?” I wonder if his hearing is faulty. “I’m very confused, and my memory seems to be offline.” “Oh, that’s typical, typical. Now, what’s this outburst I’ve heard about?” He says this with some mirth in his eyes. “You scattered a whole panel. Sent them running.” He chuckles as he creaks back in his old leather chair. “I’m afraid you’re in some trouble, Jack.” I explain about the ‘jury’ and he nods, smiling, but then, slowly, the smile fades. His eyes are still kind, though. He sighs and says, “I’m afraid you went too far, too far, Jack, and it looks like you might have to leave this level.”
“What ‘level’ is this,” I ask, and he leans forward and says, “It’s the middle, Jack.” “It’s Jackson,” I remind him, and I say, “You mean… purgatory?” “Oh, we don’t call it that. It’s just… the middle.” “So that means, whoa! You mean I’m actually going to… hell?” “We just speak in terms of levels, Jack.” “Can’t you… give me another chance? You’re in charge, right?” He nods and says, “But there are rules.” “Nobody TOLD me the rules! Nobody explained! I don’t deserve hel… the bottom level! It’s extremely hot there, right? And painful?” “Oh, it’s not what you think.” “But it’s BAD, right. It’s… hellish. It’s…. Is there ANYTHING I can do to avoid this?!”
He’s thinking, his aged fingers tapping on his desk, and I hold my breath, and then his eyes come back to me. “There may be something,” he says. “You may be just the one for this, Jack. Yes. Just the one.” He reaches down to one of the desk drawers and starts to pull it open but it sticks. He is shaking it now and pulling, and it only moves by millimeters. I want to jump over the desk and grab that damn drawer…. It has my salvation in it!! He’s still pulling and shaking, and I’m about to leap, but now he’s reaching in and coming up with several stacks of papers’ and he puts them on the desk. Some of the smile comes back to his eyes.
“Me and… some of my close friends… we don’t tell this to many people, but… we’ve been trying our hand at writing screenplays, and I think we’re making headway, Jack, and if you could just read them and…” He stops because I’ve closed my eyes. “Jack?” And now I feel my head lowering, moving down to the desk between us where it thumps. The blow shakes through my body. “Jack?” With my eyes still closed I raise my head again, and down it comes, with a louder bang. I begin making a strange sound, like an “Ahhhhgggg!” “Jack?!” “I’ll go!” I’m nearly sobbing these words. “I’ll go! I’ll go down there! I’ll go!”
The bicycle girl is very sad as we approach a large metal box, free-standing on the sidewalk, and I see now it’s an elevator. I dismount the bike. She doesn’t. We look at each other and I want to hold her, even kiss her goodbye, at least on the forehead. And then I think, what can I lose? I hold her shoulders tenderly and kiss her lips lightly, and feel a slight kissing-me-back feeling, and as I draw back, her eyes show a thin brush of tears. I walk to the elevator. She calls out. “You’ll see a microphone in there. Just call out your work.” I nod, enter the elevator and see the microphone. I say… “Screenwriter,” and I’m suddenly hurtling downward, passing a blur of floors to slow and stop gently on one of them, and the door opens.
Disbelief hits me hard. I’ve arrived… at a bar! It’s an enormous bar, with stools and tables, a long rank of busy bartenders serving drinks and… truly… hundreds of patrons, men and women, drinking, ordering, talking. The cacophony of voices is overwhelming. I step into this, and it surrounds me, like the room itself: warm, stuffy. I’m moving through it, squeezing through the crowd and sweating now and seeing that this room is much larger than I thought, people seated at the unending bar and tables and standing… a thousand? And the room curves around so that this place may just go on beyond my vision. On and on. “What’re you drinking?” A bartender is shouting at me. I shake my head and try to move on, but the thicket of bodies slows me down, and I’m beginning to make out pieces of conversations: “They used to make a better vodka tonic – taste this.” “Ellen and I wrote a script together. She’s awful to work with.”
I push my way toward the man talking about ‘Ellen,’ and reach through the bodies to touch his shoulder. When he turns to me, I shout: “You’re a screenwriter?” The man stares, and then begins to laugh, gut-laughing, and I shout, “Hey, what’s funny?!” “We’re ALL screenwriters here, buddy. Where do you think you are?” “You mean… everybody here…?” I look at the sea of thousands and ask “Are you on break, or…” “On break?!” “From the… shovels,” I shout. “From the ovens,” and he laughs again. “This is IT, buddy. This is all there is.” And then we’re separated by the shifting bodies.
I’m listening closely now, and everyone is talking about the film business: “Back end? Who ever gets back end money? Even if the film does great?” “Eight drafts, they had me do! Nobody could make up their mind!” “They wouldn’t even pay to take me on location!” “You should see the office they gave me. More like a closet!” I’m swimming through all of this, bumped and squeezed, moving on and on through the mob, through the steady chaos of writers’ complaints that are pushing at me, dragging me under. “Two lousy seats to the premier of my film! They cut the best scene! The sound was muddy. The camera never… the music… the meetings… theyneveraskedoverbudgetkilledthirdactgavehimcredit!” I can’t stand to hear it, and I can’t get away from it, and I start to sink, to fall… fall….
“Where am I now?” I hear myself saying, because the noise is gone and everything is dark. I shout “Everything is dark!” and a voice says, “Open your eyes, Jackson.” And I do. I’m in a hospital room. My ex-wife is there, saying “God, you’ve been shouting, mostly gibberish. How do you feel?” And I ask her “What’s wrong with me?” And she says “Do you mean in general or why you’re in a hospital?” And I actually smile, a weak one, and she says “A kind of medium heart attack. You’re going to be fine. Tommy’s on his way from UC. And I’ve been talking to your brother. I always told you you were pushing yourself too hard, so this is the proof. You know I’m always right, right?” I’m still smiling. “So you’re going to slow down now,” she says, “and write that book?” and I nod. “And are they still offering you that teaching job? That’d be perfect.” I say yes, imagining that, telling students all that I’ve learned and working on my how-to book, and…. She goes on, but I’m tired and only half listening now, and my nightmare is fading, dissembling like a thinning cloud, and… gone. When her talking stops, I ask “Did my agent call?”
#
July 1, 2021
Stand-Off
July already? Here’s this month’s story, taking you to rural Illinois on a day when anything can happen and the future is in doubt!
STAND-OFF
By Gerald DiPego
We’ll call the place Perch Lake, Illinois, and the time is around 1:30 in the afternoon, early summer, 2011 or so, and what we’re watching is a man about the age of 80 driving a truck so dented and rusted and rattling it must be traveling on plain spit and spite. The driver is Chester Nash, former roofer who took a fall, former farmer who gave it up and sold off most of his land, former celebrated high-school athlete who gained 48 pounds since those days, and former infantryman in a war that’s so seldom mentioned these days, you’d think it never was, but it was, and he left his youth and some of his friends and some of his blood in the country of Korea.
Chester parks the truck in front of Tip Top Foods, a smallish two-checkout grocery, its windows jammed with sale signs and posters for the town’s ‘Summer Blast’ and the Fire Department’s Carnival, and the Rotary’s Picnic, all of them out of date.
Only a few customers inside, and some nod to Chester, but he doesn’t seem to notice, moving toward the items he wants, carrying one of the plastic baskets and filling it as he’s watched by the store owner who stands operating the only active checkout, and this is Arnold Tattimer, who is 66 and thin and normally suspicious, but now expanding that part of his nature as he watches Chester pass up the cold beer case and reach high up on the wine shelf to take down a bottle of the store’s most expensive California red at forty dollars a pop.
This is a first, and raises Arnold’s worry, but he has to stay put and check out the items on his counter. By the time he’s done, his employee, Lonny Pulaski, returns from her break, and Arnold is free to spy on Chester, whom he sees just leaving the meat counter. He investigates and learns from his butcher that Chester has NOT bought his usual chicken wings and ground beef but chosen two healthy cuts of filet mignon. This is also a first, which quickens Arnold’s pace, coming upon Chester as the man places a box of cookies in his basket, the store’s most expensive chocolate-covered brand imported from no less than England.
“Chester,” Arnold says. “You sell off those two acres?”
Chester barely glances at the man, ignoring the question, moving to the produce for beets and broccoli and then making his way to the front of the store. Arnold beats him there, and when Chester arrives at the checkouts, Arnold says to Lonny, “I’ll check this one out,” and moves to the machine as she backs away. And here comes Chester with his heavy basket, not even pausing, not even glancing at Arnold, but simply walking out of the store, basket and all, getting into his truck and driving away, as Arnold, outside now, shouts something about the police, but Chester’s truck is making too much noise for the words to carry.
About forty minutes after Chester’s getaway, a county deputy is pulling into the driveway of an old well-kept home with a thriving garden and a water element. The deputy, Tom Basco, around 25, walks quickly to the door and rings the bell. The door is opened by a smallish women of 84, wearing a summer dress, her white hair well-kept, and her eyes rather penetrating. She is one-half Native American, and there is a question in her manner, seeing the deputy at her door. Her name is Ella Dawn-Netter, and while she was teaching at the Perch Lake High School, before she married her fellow teacher, John Netter, she was called Miss Dawn, but the name soon morphed into ‘Mizdawn’, and even throughout her marriage with Mr. Netter, now deceased, she was called that name. She taught history to generations of local teenagers for nearly fifty years, and if there is another quality about her, beyond her knowledge and her depth, it would be called no-nonsense.
“Mizdawn, I’m deputy Basco, and the sheriff sent me out here to ask your help. It’s an emergency, and I’m to take you out to Chester Nash’s house.”
She stares for one second, then “Deputy, what’s the emergency? Why am I needed? I’m not a doctor, and I don’t suppose I’m to go out there to teach history, and why didn’t the sheriff call me to see if I’m available, which I’m not.”
Basco takes a breath. “Nash is holed up in his home, and he has a gun, and he…he robbed the Tip Top store and says he’s not coming out, and the sheriff said…” But Mizdawn interrupts: “Why would Chester rob a store and then go home?” “Well, Mizdawn, he’s cooking in there. He robbed groceries and…” “Wait, you’re saying he stole food, and he’s cooking it?” “Yes ma’am. And he says if anybody comes close to the house, he’ll shoot’em.” “And the sheriff wants me to go ‘close to the house’ and do what?” “Well, you can stand off to the side, where he can’t shoot you, and talk to him. Make him come out, or…toss out that gun.” She shakes her head in wonder and says, “Let me talk to the sheriff. Shall I call him on my phone, or…?” “Mizdawn, there’s no time. Gotta go now. Sheriff’s real busy out there. I have to bring you.” “By force?” “Well…Ma’am…I gotta bring you. Now.”
Mizdawn sighs, straps on her purse, locks her house and is taken away in the deputy’s car. They’re speeding toward Chester’s home when Basco says, “So…you were a teacher here?” “Yes, you’re not a local boy, are you?” “No, ma’am, and you… they say you’re part Indian?” “You mean Native American, deputy. The Indians are people from India.” “Oh, yeah…. What tribe?” “Potawatomi. “Uh-huh, never heard of ’em. Where they from?” “From here. Right here. Until they moved us out. Long time ago. Almost two centuries. Do you really need this awful siren?”
When they arrive near Chester’s home, there are four police cars scattered about and four other cars and trucks further back from the house with people outside their vehicles, watching and waiting for something to happen. Mizdawn spots the sheriff hurrying toward the deputy’s car as she is stepping out. The sheriff’s name is Esther Ramirez, and Mizdawn notices that though she’s a bulky woman she moves quickly. “Come this way, Mizdawn,” she says, and leads her toward the side of Chester’s old house, which is badly patched and crying for paint. “Thanks for coming out here,” the sheriff adds, and Mizdawn says, “I had no choice. I don’t know what the hell I can do for you, Esther, and keep this in mind, my great granddaughters are coming from Chicago for a visit, and I WILL meet that four o’clock train.” And Esther says, “Yes, Mizdawn,” the way she might have said it when she was Mizdawn’s pupil thirty years ago.
Esther is worried. “I’m just hoping I don’t have to call in SWAT and we can get him out…” And Mizdawn stops and says, “SWAT? For Chester Nash?! Maybe a fly SWATTER.” “It’s the gun, Mizdawn. He says he’s got a shotgun in there and nobody can come near the house.” Mizdawn shakes her head. “You call his son?” Esther nods, saying “He won’t come here, and it would take him an hour and a half, anyway, and Chester won’t talk to anybody on the phone.”
Mizdawn shakes her head again. “The man steals his lunch, and look at all this hullabaloo – police all over, and those people parking here and hoping to see somebody get shot. Who else is here? Jesus, is that Tattimer from the store? They hate each other, and why am I here? Because I taught him in high school?”
“He still talks about you – to anybody who’ll listen to him anymore. About how you two almost got married.” Mizdawn looks to the heavens. “Hah! Still that same old tattered fib. Good lord…” The deputy arrives and hands an electronic megaphone to the sheriff, and she holds it toward Mizdawn. “He can’t see you from here, so just… get him talking. Here, I’ll show you how to use that.”
Burt Mizdawn just sighs, a long, heavy one, and begins walking toward Chester’s house. “Wait! Hey! Don’t Mizdawn!” the sheriff shouts, but Mizdawn keeps going, making a waving sign for all others to stay back. She walks straight to the slightly leaning porch, steps up on the old boards, as Chester shouts from inside: “Who the hell’s there?! Goddamnit, I WILL shoot!” Mizdawn answers, “Oh, stop yelling, Chester. It’s me. You going to shoot ME?” There is a long pause before Chester answers in a much softer voice, “You can come in.”
But Mizdawn has hold of an old wooden rocking chair and is moving it in twists and turns, stronger than she looks, until the chair is beside the screen door. Then she sits. “This’ll be fine. I can barely see you in there.” The sun is striking the back of the house, while the front is deeply shaded, so that the outline of Chester barely registers in the gloom. “Turn on a light or something, will you?” she asks him. “No. If they can see me, they can shoot me.” “Nobody is going to shoot you, Chester. Do you really have a gun in there?” Chester says, “Never mind,” and then, in heartfelt words, “Thanks for comin’ here, Mizdawn.”
“I was brought here--sheriff’s orders.” She looks over the worn-out house, fallow fields. “Why are you still here, Chester? Why not sell it off and get yourself to McHenry and that home there?” “Where people go to die,” he says, and she answers, “Well you wouldn’t die alone.” He pauses a while. “Used to think…maybe my son would have this place someday. Never gave him much. Did they call him, Mizdawn, about…all this?” she answers “Yes,” and then, “He’s not coming, Chester.” The man sighs. “Don’t blame him. I made a sorry father.”
She puts her hands on her knees, leaning toward the screen door. “Listen, now. Why did you steal those groceries? To get your son here?” “No, Mizdawn, to get a good meal for once, a really good meal. That Tattimer is pricing me right out of his store, and my truck can’t make the highway to the Albertsons, so… I got a fine wine in here. I can pass you a glass.” “Not in the middle of the day, Chester, and in the middle of a shoot-out. So, now your good meal is over, what’s next?” “I don’t know that, Mizdawn. I don’t much care. I ain’t goin’ to jail though.” “So what does that leave, Chester?” “I don’t know what it leaves, but I’ll shoot my brains out before I get arrested.” “Shoot your brains out? What if you miss? That’s a pretty small target.” She doesn’t get an answer, and then hears a sound from deep in his chest, a quiet laughter. “God, I still love you, Mizdawn.” “Oh, that’s right,” she says, “We were going to get married – so YOU say. It was one brief kiss, old man, and that’s all.”
He seems not to hear that, going on. “Everybody in the school liked you, almost. We thought it was so excitin’ havin’ a teacher who was an Indian.” Mizdawn breathes a tired sigh. “You mean Native American, Chester.” “Aw, I know. It just takes too long to say that.” “Listen, you’re not all that busy, old man. I think you have the time for three more syllables.” From the darkness inside the house, she hears his quiet laugh again. “I could never get away with anything with you,” he says. “I could con the other teachers, and in the Army I could even con my sergeant. But not you. So…why didn’t you wait for me? Why’d you go marry that Mr. Netter?” “Why? Because he was a good man and we made a good long marriage, raised a fine daughter. There was love there.” “But you knew I loved you, Mizdawn, and I hoped… you’d wait.”
“And your hope was based on what, Chester – all the letters I wrote you?” He half-shouts. “You never wrote me one!” “That’s my point. I never led you on. I let you give me one foolish kiss, even then you tried for more: high school senior all hot with the girls – not with your teacher, not with this Native American.” “So…Mizdawn… why’d you kiss me at all?” “I didn’t. I let YOU kiss ME.” “But why?” “Because you were going away to probably get killed in a war you didn’t even understand, and you started to cry, all choked up.” “You enjoyed that kiss, too,” he says. “I know you did. I felt it. I…” “Chester, you had a boy’s crush on your teacher.” “Hell, Mizdawn, you were only five years older.” “And you were a child. You’re still part child, aren’t you?” “So… all you felt was kindness for me.” “There was caring, too. And sorrow. I saw your parents, your meek mother, your angry father, I saw his marks on your face more than once. Yes, kindness, so that’s why I’m here, Chester, and I’ll go talk to the sheriff and say you’re giving up your gun and…” “No! I’m givin’ up nothin! Let ’em come for me, and I’ll take some of ’em with me!”
At this, Mizdawn rises, moves quickly to the screen door, pulls it open and steps inside where the sunlight doesn’t reach, and there he is, in a chair he has moved to watch the door. There is no gun in sight. She steps close and slaps his face, hard, his eyes and mouth opening wide as she rails at him, not shouting, but sharp-voiced with a flame in her eyes. “Goddamn you, Chester Nash, how dare you talk about killing people, killing deputies and a sheriff that never harmed you, killing people with wives and husbands and kids? That’s cowardly talk and ugly and stupid, and if that’s what you have in mind, I’ll get your gun and shoot you myself! Where is it? Show me!”
He stares without speaking, tears coming, filling his eyes and moving down his pouched and craggy face. He only breathes and swallows, and then, finally, he says a cracked and liquid word. “Sorry.” His chest shakes and he swallows again. “Sorry, Mizdawn.” She slowly relaxes her body, taking a step back. Her voice is in a normal key when she asks, “Where’s the gun?” “It’s… on the floor, by my foot. It’s loaded, too.” She looks at the old shotgun, then studies him a while more. “Stand up, Chester.” “I ain’t goin’ out there, Mizdawn.” “Just stand up, old man.”
His standing is not fluid, but a series of stiff moves, and then he is facing her, a head taller, as she faces him, working on something in her mind. “I’ve got an idea,” she says, “how this can go, with nobody hurt and maybe you not in jail. You might lose an acre of land, but you have to do what I say.” “An acre of land?!” “Chester, you have to promise.” “How can I promise if I don’t know what else you’re talkin’ about? I ain’t gonna pologize to that bastard Arnold Tattimer. And I ain’t goin’ to jail.” “Damn it, Chester, you just have to trust me.” “Without knowin’ what you’re gonna do?” “Yes.” “Well, why should I do that, Mizdawn?” “Because if you promise to do as I say – I’ll kiss you here and now. I’ll kiss you one more time, Chester Nash.”
He stares a long while, his eyes moist, and says only one word. “Really?” And she nods, and takes his heavy hands in her hands, keeping her stare on him.
“I haven’t always told the truth, Chester. Mostly, but not always. I didn’t admit to wanting you to kiss me that day you came to my house, and I’ve never said that… that it was a great kiss, and that I felt the tenderness of it and the need and the thrill of it, too. I was a lonely young woman and a plain one, and you were this… kind of child-god. You were beautiful and strong, and I was alone. People were kind enough to this Potawatomi girl, but they kept a distance. And there you were, loving me all-out in your young way and wanting me, and I joined you in that kiss. I know you felt that. I didn’t let it go further. I was your teacher, for god’s sake, but for that long minute I was thrilled, Chester. I told you that was the beginning AND the end of us. I told you that, but you didn’t want to believe it, wouldn’t believe it, and I went on with my life, and Jack Netter came along and broke through, broke through to me, and we fell in love, all the way, and that was that. So… put your arms around me.” He does, gently. “Hold me tight.” He does, his hands on her back, their faces close now. “Remember,” she says, “Your hands on my butt are not part of this deal. You tried that once.” He nods, smiling through his wonder, his wonder of holding her again after 60 years.
Their faces float toward each other, heads cocking to the side, mouths coming close, and then there it is, the second kiss between Chester Nash and Ella Dawn. He keeps his hands on her back as he was told and she has one hand on his shoulder and one behind his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss as he pulls her, until they make one mouth and she feels a fluttering in her chest and he feels a great pull of love and desire and they both close their eyes and swim for a moment in the past, becoming the boy again and the young teacher.
It's she who begins a settling, a slight relaxing that signals the man, and so he settles, too, somehow easing himself back from that most splendid minute of fulfilled desire, and then they’re staring at each other, eyes full and minds slowly pulling them back from a summer day in 1950 to today, where the police and the neighbors are waiting and watching for them, and there is a loaded shotgun on the floor.
“Now Chester, you promised. I’m going out there, and you just have to trust me.” He nods, unwilling to speak, to completely give up the moment still filling him. She steps back and looks around, seeing a table still littered with plates and the leavings of his stolen lunch. She walks to the table. “You didn’t open this box of candy.” He manages to say, “No,” still in a spell he doesn’t want to break. “Well, that’s something.” She buries the candy box in her large purse. “Now you trust me and you don’t go near that gun.” He gives her a nod, but she doesn’t accept it. “Say it, Chester.” “Okay, Mizdawn. I won’t touch the gun.” She nods then and turns, opens the door and moves down the steps. He has moved to the door and calls out to her.
“Mizdawn?” She stops and half-turns, waiting. He says, “About my son?” “Yes, Chester?” In a moment he adds, “I wasn’t a good father, but never hit ’im. Never.” She nods a while and says, “Good. That’s good,” and then she walks on.
As she reaches the side of the house she notices they have all gathered around an old, forgotten picnic table, which is a-tilt and is covered with decades of bird droppings, and she joins the group there, facing the sheriff, two deputies, Arnold Tattimer, and a man taking photos for the local paper, and even the mayor, Nell Wentworth is among them.
The sheriff is speaking to Mizdawn as she joins them. “Jesus, Mizdawn, you scared the hell out of all of us. What kind of state is he in?” And the mayor asks, “Did he harm you?” “I am unharmed, Nell.” “Did you see the gun, Mizdawn,” the Sheriff asks, and the young man there takes her picture. “The gun is on the floor near where he sits. He never touched it, and I think we can resolve this whole mess in a few minutes.” Arnold Tattimer points his finger at her like a pistol and says, “We can resolve this when Chester Nash is in jail and I’m paid back for every penny.” “What’s the tab, Arnold?” Mizdawn asks him, and he answers “One hundred thirty-six dollars and twelve cents, and I’m going to sue him for what he put me through.” “He never even spoke to you and never touched you,” the sheriff puts in, and Arnold says, “Emotional trauma,” and the sheriff says, “Let’s focus on the situation,” and turns to Mizdawn. “What’s gonna get him out of there?” but Mizdawn has a question of her own. “What’s the charge, Sheriff, and what’s the penalty?”
The sheriff takes a breath. “First time shoplifting, no jail, fine of $150, plus possible penalties and adjustments.” “And I’m pressing for the FULL charges and penalties,” Arnold says, and the mayor jumps in. “Stop interrupting, Arnold. Let’s solve this. There’s a TV crew on its way from Waukegan, and I don’t want to see our town looking at its worse.” “I agree,” says Mizdawn, rummaging in her purse. They all watch her. She comes up with two twenty-dollar bills. “Let’s pay Arnold what he lost and get him out of here. That’s a start.” She puts her forty bucks on the table and looks around at the others. “Yes, fine, it’s worth it,” says the mayor, and places a credit card on top of Mizdawn’s bills. “Fifty out of that,” she says, and they all glance at each other. The sheriff, sighs and digs out her wallet. “All right, damnit, thirty more.” Arnold is staring at the pile as he adds it up. “Still sixteen dollars short,” he says, and Mizdawn stares at him. “Among the wine and steaks, Arnold, wasn’t there a box of candy?” “Hell yes, twenty dollars and change just by itself.” Mizdawn digs in her purse again, brings out the unopened candy box and places it on top of the money. “You’re about four dollars ahead, Arnold.” “Hell, what about what I’ve been through, and…” The mayor cuts him off with “Damn it, Arnold you take off NOW! If you don’t, I’ll never shop at your store again and neither will my friends, and I have a lot of friends, so goodbye, and I’ll come by for my card later. We have to move this along!
As Arnold walks to his car, mumbling, the sheriff turns back to Mizdawn. “We still got a fine of $150 – and a hell of a lot of trouble caused and county resources used.” “I know, Esther,” Mizdawn says, “but Chester is making a peace offering that’ll cover it all and more. He’s selling off an acre of this farm land. The one the high school wanted for an extra practice field, and the town of Perch Lake can now purchase that acre at half the going price. I’m sure that once the sale is made, Chester will pay back your money, and you’ll both get a thank-you from all of us citizens, and from the students at the high school.” The sheriff stares at Mizdawn, growing a small smile. “Still looking out for your school, Mizdawn.” Then the sheriff and the mayor look at each other before they both turn and nod to Mizdawn.
Chester is still waiting behind the screen door when Mizdawn comes to the house and up the stairs. He opens the door for her to come in, but she stays put on the porch. “All done, Chester Nash. You’re going to have to put up with the sounds of school children on that far acre that you’re going to sell at half market price, but that won’t be so bad, will it? You’ll make some money, buy a new truck.” He grows a smile, a loving smile, as she says, “Now hand me that gun, and it’s all finished.” He leaves the door and returns with the shotgun, hands it over. “It’s a heavy damn thing,” she says. “Want me to carry it?” “Oh no, Chester, we don’t want you carrying a gun to the sheriff. I’ll deliver it, and so long. You going to be all right, old man?” He nods. She turns and begins walking away. He raises his voice to say, “I love you, Mizdawn. You sure are one fine Native American.” She stops and lets him see her smile, then moves off toward the sheriff and the mayor and the deputies and an arriving television crew that will have nothing at all to do.
#
June 2, 2021
Choice
Welcome to “Short Stories” not necessarily for “Shut-Ins” anymore. Something here for June to help you decide what you want to do with this bright month, to help you make a CHOICE.
CHOICE
By Gerald DiPego
Ben Schulman is 32, single, fairly fit, and nervous. He has an important decision to make and he’s not at all confident that he’ll make the right choice. He has made some poor life choices in recent years, and this has left him with an easy-access pass into the thicket of worry, a place of thorns that he knows well, and, as he walks among the morning throng of downtown L.A. workers, his jaw is tight and his pace is quick, even though he’s early for his job at the accounting firm. He’s actually too early to show up for an important meeting with his boss who is waiting for his decision, and that’s why he keeps walking this fast-paced jagged circle through the canyons of downtown, giving himself one last bit of time to think about his choices.
He has been offered, along with other accountants, the possibility of transferring to the new offices opening in Portland Oregon, and being part of the start-up there with a small raise, or he can choose to remain in L.A. He doesn’t have full confidence that the new branch will do well in Portland, and he could be struggling there for years, but since the firm picked him for this, would a choice to stay in L.A. seem ungrateful and cost him points with his boss?
He’s moving across a street on a green light, among a swarm of office workers who are coming and going, and he notices that one man is approaching him as if they’re about to collide. Ben tries to angle to the right, but the throng is tight, and the young man is coming on quickly for this possible crash, but then, at the last sliver of a second, the man moves slightly to miss him, brushing against him, glancing at him, and saying these words…
“Stay in LA.”
Ben is standing still in the center of the street, his mouth open, his eyes drilling into the back of the hurrying man, when he finds that he is finally able to shout. “Hey! Wait!”
But the man keeps walking, and Ben tries to follow, turning against the herd of workers who are speeding to cross before the light turns green and the cars, waiting like high-strung horses, rush the intersection.
He has lost sight of the man, but he shouts anyway. “Wait!” And some people turn to follow his look, which is a wild, frenzied, unbelieving look, but the man is lost among the crowd, and Ben, now standing on the corner, is moving, in his mind, through all the possible causes for this impossibility: He didn’t hear the man correctly. The man wasn’t talking to him. The man was telling EVERYBODY to stay in L.A. because…because it’s a great town, or…. But none of this feels right. The man spoke to HIM, and said what HE needed to know. He couldn’t have imagined it, could he? No, it was so clear, and he still carries a detailed picture of the man in his mind, like a sharp and precise photograph.
“Stay in L.A.” He remembers the quality of the man’s voice and tries hard to think if he ever saw him before, but no, never. He wonders, oddly, if maybe the man has something to do with his accounting firm. But that’s crazy. Ben wasn’t even near the firm’s building when it happened. He was blocks away and moving in the wrong direction. So, here he is, standing on this busy corner and shaking his head, which is the only option for this situation.
He continues on, but more slowly, aiming himself toward the streets that will take him to the firm, and once there he’ll proceed to his boss’ office, and there he will be asked for his answer: take the Portland offer or…stay in L.A. He is surprised to realize that he’s not so uncertain now. He knows what to say, and this is a great relief. Of course, he’s not completely sure, but he’s not completely lost, not drifting anymore. He has something to hold on to – those three quick words, no matter how they came to him. He holds them tightly and enters his office building.
It’s two years later, and all of this has happened to Ben Schulman: He gained 14 pounds and then lost it – He noticed some hair loss – He was promoted at work and was glad he did not go to Portland -- He met a young woman named Amelia and they dated and became a steady couple – He found a small, appealing house and was thinking of buying it and asking Amelia to move in with him – He bought an engagement ring – He was wondering just how and where and when he would ask her, when she told him, sobbing, that she was seeing another man, an old boyfriend. She was very sorry – He and Amelia broke up.
Ben is depressed of course and also nervous again. He really likes the small house he found in Santa Monica, and knows it will be off the market soon if he doesn’t buy it, but, will living in the new place further depress him because he’ll think of Amelia, who will not be there to share it with? It’s a property that will only increase in value. As an accountant, he would advise a client to buy it, but he’s afraid of being even more sad than he is, if possible.
He’s at a mall now where he often goes, looking for furnishings that would look very good in that new home and then not buying them. He has it almost fully furnished in his mind, still looking for the perfect sofa to not buy. He finds the sofa and feels a moment of joy that’s pushed aside by a wave of sadness, so he walks toward the mall doors to get out of there, outside into the sunshine. He steps back to let an older man enter, and the man looks at him in passing, not smiling, and says, quickly “Buy the house,” and then he keeps walking on. Ben watches him go, his mouth open. He starts to follow, but the man is walking swiftly, and the mall is very crowded. Ben hesitates, remembering, of course, the last time some stranger told him what to do.
Now he sits in one of the chairs outside the mall, in the sun, his brain whirling. He becomes truly dizzy and closes his eyes, takes several breaths. When he opens his eyes, he feels better. He sits a long while, then pulls out his phone and calls his realtor and makes an offer on the Santa Monica house.
Four months later Ben is in a bar, deep within the jolly cacophony of a Friday night. He’s with one of his best friends, Jim, from work, and he’s telling him more about the house than Jim cares to know.
“Enough about the house,” says Jim. “That’s all you talk about lately. I’m supposed to care about a hassock? What else is going on in your life?” Ben laughs and apologizes and then, as he finishes his second beer, he finds that he’s in a bold, why-not mood and says, “I never told you WHY I bought it. It’s because somebody told me to. Some…stranger. Really.” Jim, looks at him doubtfully. “So what did this guy know about real estate? Why trust HIM?” Ben is smiling, tingling even, he has never told anyone about these encounters. “He just told me – ‘buy the house.’” Jim grins now, “You mean like he was giving you a tip? like he goes around giving tips? Like…a tip on a horse? What is he, a guru?”
Ben looks at Jim, staring deeply, as if weighing his words. He’s losing his smile, moving inward, wondering about something, something about the words ‘A tip,’ and he’s deciding two things – that he will not tell Jim or anyone what’s going on or…where he’s going tomorrow.
The next day he goes to the Santa Anita race track, feeling guilty but excited. What IF one of these people…these people who talk to him and tell him what decision to make, what if one of them is there, the man from the street, the old man from the mall, somebody. Maybe they WILL give him a tip. But no one talks to him, and he loses 70 dollars.
At his second visit to the track, he is moving through the betting area, listening, while reading about the horses who are running. He is also glancing at the swim of faces, but, mostly, he’s waiting, waiting for someone to…
“Fancy Danny.”
He looks around quickly to see who spoke. It was a female voice, and he spots an older woman, maybe sixty-five, standing among the crowd, alone, studying her choices. He walks to her, his heart picking up its rhythm. “Excuse me, did you say Fancy Danny? I see he’s running in the next race.”
She looks at him a moment, slightly bothered and says “I said nothing at all.” But Ben is sure that it was her voice he heard. He repeats the name, “Fancy Danny,” and now she’s angry. “If you keep bothering me, I’ll have you thrown out of here.”
Ben gets in line at a betting window. He’s trembling slightly as he pulls out all the cash he brought with him, one thousand dollars, and puts it on Fancy Danny to win, even though the odds on the horse are thirty to one. He walks down to the rail to watch the race, his body tight and each breath shaking in his chest. He wins the thirty thou and ends his gambling days. He doesn’t want to be greedy and he doesn’t want the strain. He buys a new car and two expensive suits.
He is promoted again at work and he feels that part of the reason he was noticed and advanced is because of his high-end suits. He’s promised a larger office. He begins a love affair, but mostly in his mind. She’s a very real young woman, another accountant, same grade as him. Her name is Emily Woo, and, to him, she is beautiful, but she attracts the attention of other men, also, and the boss of Ben’s section of the firm seems charmed.
Ben speaks to her now and then, greetings, work details. She’s very pleasant and has a very real laugh that he begins to treasure. He asks his work friend, Jim, what he knows about her, and Jim says that she dates now and then, but the boss has shown an interest, and this keeps the sharks away.
The boss is married, has kids, but is very smooth, and Ben is worried. Should he just…ask her out and chance it? He’s afraid she’ll say no and that will kill all those possibilities dancing in his mind. He’s also afraid that the boss will find out, and that could hurt his career, just when things are going so well.
He begins taking long walks during lunch and even showing up early to the downtown area to move through the throngs and… wait for a tip, wait for that next ‘teller,’ wait and hope for that certainty, that knowing what to do. The streets do not favor him with a tip, so he tries a nearby park and walks the paved lanes and grassy areas, and he listens, listens. He’s sometimes late getting back to work, and when he is at work, he watches for her, just to catch sight, and he makes up scenes where they’re together, laughing together, holding each other…
He’s back in that park now, and rattled, his breath short, his eyes raking over the faces again as he walks. He feels that he’s coming apart and he finds that he’s speaking under his breath, saying, “now, tell me, now.” People begin looking at him as he passes, and he realizes he has begun speaking aloud, “Tell me…say it…please!” He walks on, losing control, shouting, “Will you tell me?! Will somebody tell me?! You? You?” And people are staring, some smiling, some afraid. He stops walking, but the shouting continues and a small crowd gathers. He doesn’t know how long this lasts, but now a police officer is walking him to a bench and having him sit, talking to him as the crowd of ten, twelve, comes closer.
With great effort, he is able to calm down and to convince the cop that he is all right, that he’s sorry, that he won’t be shouting anymore, that he will rest a few minutes and then walk to his workplace. The cop asks the crowd to move on and most of them do, only a few linger, and then only one, a woman somewhere in her mid-seventies. Ben sits there breathing and noticing how she stares at him, and now walks close to him.
“I don’t listen to them anymore,” she says.
Ben, shocked, stares at her as she goes on. “We just have to stop listening. Can I sit down?” He is still staring, but he nods and she sits. They look at each other a long while. “It’s OUR life, not theirs” she says. “Understand?” Ben slowly nods and finally speaks to her, his voice breaking. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I used to think…angels? Then maybe devils, then nobody at all. Maybe I was doing it, but…. I just don’t know. I just know we have to stop listening.”
Ben is nearly in tears now, asking “How…will we know what choice to make?” and she stares deeply and says, “Usually it’s the hardest one, the one that takes the most courage, the scariest one.” In a moment Ben sniffles, and nods. When he returns to work, he finds that they are ready to move his office to the larger one that was promised, and he spends the day moving – and watching for Emily Woo. He sees her once and nods and she gives him one of her smiles, one of her best.
The next day he comes to work in one of his new suits and enters his new office. It’s only one office away from the boss. He tries to look busy, but he’s watching the hallway, watching for Emily so he can seem to be just stepping out as she passes, and he can ask her inside to show her his new space, and he can ask her…really ask her to have dinner, make the choice and take the chance – and there she is, walking down the hallway. But the boss is with her, his hand lightly on her shoulder as they talk, smile, and move toward the boss’s office and enter.
Ben stands there, pinned as if shot with an arrow. He wants to retreat, but can’t move. He keeps staring at the boss’s closed door, tries to will her out of there, hoping, and, in two and a half minutes, the door opens again. The boss holds it open for Emily, both of them smiling. Ben doesn’t hear their words, but sees that the boss’s hand is now on Emily’s waist, just lightly there, and, as Emily steps out the doorway, the boss, who can’t be seen by anyone in the hall, drops his hand down to Emily’s ass.
Three things happen. Emily, surprised, turns quickly to the boss. The boss smiles, winks and closes the door. Ben steps deeper inside his office, rattled, hurt, disappointed, afraid to be seen. He knows she’ll be walking by his open door soon. He should sit at his desk. He should…. But she doesn’t pass his door and he can’t help himself. He peeks down the hall.
Emily is still standing at the door to the boss’s office, standing still, then she turns quickly and walks away, and Ben sees that she is upset and angry, shaken even. He steps back so she won’t see him, so he won’t be involved, so he won’t get in trouble with his boss and lose his position, so he won’t…. Emily walks past his office, her eyes intense, her jaw shaking. He hears her steps moving further away, and he suddenly knows what to do, all by himself. It’s the scariest thing.
He hurries out of his office and catches up to her. “Emily?” She turns to him, eyes moist, chin rigid and she says, “Can’t talk now, Ben” as she walks on, but he calls after her. “Emily, I saw that.” She stops. She turns to him. He nods, walks close to her. “What he did?” she asks, and Ben nods. She stares and then says, “I’m going to HR now, Ben. I might get fired, but….”
“Tell them I saw it,” Ben says. “Tell them I’m a witness.”
“Are you sure,” she asks, and he nods, and she smiles as best she can, and he basks in that smile, and she walks on.
The rest of the morning is calamitous: accusations and denials and statements to sign, but at the end of it, Ben feels good, actually very good. The future is in doubt, but, then, that’s the thing about the future. It’s always in doubt. He’s walking in the park now before leaving to go home, hoping to see the woman he spoke to on the bench and to thank her, but he doesn’t see her and now he’s just walking aimlessly, at an easy pace, when a teenage boy on a skateboard rattles toward him down the lane, coming very close, brushing past him and saying these words…
“Good Choice.”
#
May 4, 2021
Kilimanjaro
KILIMANJARO
By Gerald DiPego
Tanner Schiff and Faya Ramon are both 74 and have been friends for 17 years, part of a foursome. Tanner was married to Gwen and Faya to David. Gwen left Tanner five years ago. David died two years ago. Tanner and Faya are unmarried and continuing their close friendship, an unbreakable law of dinner once a week at his place or hers with long talks, and sometimes a movie on television before they part for another week.
They are at Faya’s tonight, finishing dinner. Tanner has poured himself a rare third glass of wine, and, as they sit on the sofa, he keeps staring at her.
FAYA
What?
TANNER
What d’you mean, ‘what?’
FAYA
You’re staring at me.
TANNER
I have something to say.
FAYA
Obviously.
TANNER
What if I….
(There is a long pause.)
FAYA
What if you what? Am I supposed to guess?
TANNER
That would help.
FAYA
Give me a hint. What if you…? Went to Istanbul…wore a cowboy hat…?
TANNER
Faya…what if I didn’t go home tonight?
FAYA
You mean…. You don’t mean…. Oh, god, Tanner…. Oh, no…. Can’t you just…can’t you just go to Istanbul?
TANNER
What if I stayed here, all night?
FAYA
It’s the wine. You had an extra glass of….
TANNER
For courage, yes.
FAYA
Tanner…Tanner…let’s not go there. Now? Let’s not ruin this. After all these years? What we have is so… special and very important in my life. And now? Sex? Really? At this age?
TANNER
Yes. Now. It can finally be our turn. You know I’ve always loved you, and you….
FAYA
After all these years you want to take me to bed? Why? Why now? Is it something like…climbing Mount Rushmore before you die? So you can say you’ve done it?
TANNER
Nobody climbs Mount Rushmore. You can’t climb Mount Rushmore.
FAYA
All right then – Kilimanjaro. What am I, an alp? You have to plant your flag?
TANNER
I’ve always wanted to plant my flag with you, but there was Gwen and after Gwen there was still David and now there’s no one between us. This isn’t some wild thought. You can’t say you never wanted us to be lovers because I saw…sometimes I’d see you look at me that way, and I looked at you, and we KNEW. And now two years have gone by....
FAYA
So, what is that, some ‘sell-by’ date? Now or never?
TANNER
Yes! Waiting more than two years goes against all human law.
FAYA
Waiting? I haven’t been waiting. You’ve actually been waiting?
TANNER
Yes! And imagining. And wanting and….
FAYA
Thinking about this…what…every day?!
TANNER
Mostly at night. And there’s nothing to stop us now.
FAYA
Age, Tanner and…the thought that we could lose what we have, and I need what we have. I treasure it. Please, PLEASE go to Istanbul.
TANNER
You know what I’ve been thinking of?
FAYA
Stop thinking.
TANNER
We were all at the beach, oh, what, a dozen years ago? And…your bathing suit slipped down. I must have been…58 or so, but I felt…like a boy, a teenager getting a glimpse of….
FAYA
They don’t look like that anymore, Tanner. For god’s sake…and you’re not a boy!
TANNER
I am, that’s what I am with you. I’m this love-struck, aching boy. So, tell me now. Tell me once and for all. You need me in your life, but you don’t want me in your arms? In your bed? Faya, are you through with sex? Do you never have those feelings? Aren’t there times…?
(She closes her eyes. She sighs. He waits.)
FAYA
Yes…times. Now and then.
TANNER
Thank god. When?
FAYA
Mostly…when I…watch a film.
TANNER
A film? What film? You mean…any film?
FAYA
No, you idiot. A film…with…
TANNER
With what?
FAYA
With Javier Bardem.
TANNER
Oh, for god’s sake.
FAYA
It’s his eyes.
TANNER
He’s not real! I’m real and I love you and want you and…it’s time for us. Finally.
(She stares at him a while, her eyes moist now, taking him in, her Tanner.)
FAYA
When Gwen left you for that…ridiculous man, I wanted to hold you and rock you. I did hold you.
TANNER
Yes. I remember. I loved that. It was like CPR. You held on…. You did actually rock me. You saved me.
FAYA
Yes…and I DID want to take you to bed.
TANNER
So you wanted that.
FAYA
Oh, yes. I would weep for you. David heard me at night once or twice and he would ask me, and I would say, “I’m just so sad for Tanner.” Maybe he guessed about my feelings for you, but he never said anything about it, and I never DID anything about it, and now it’s way too….
TANNER
And when David was dying, I was hurting for both of you, and….
FAYA
You were great. You were with us to the end….
TANNER
Yes, but oh, how I wanted to take you away somewhere after all the gatherings and the memorials and the pain, take you far away and bring you peace and love you in every way. But….
FAYA
But we didn’t, and so we held on to what we had. What we’ve always had, and now here you are, shaking everything loose. We could get hurt, you know. We could be giving up something fine….
TANNER
And safe.
FAYA
Yes. Why chance it – at this age?
TANNER
Maybe that’s the point?
FAYA
What’s the point?
TANNER
Now or never – because never isn’t so far away anymore.
FAYA
What if it’s a disaster? Could we come back from a disaster?
TANNER
Don’t say “disaster." You’re jinxing it.
FAYA
Could we come back?
TANNER
I think we could. I think we should take the chance.
FAYA
Am I the only one who’s afraid?
(He stares a while. Then…)
TANNER
No.
FAYA
Well, thank you for that.
TANNER
You’re welcome. So…?
FAYA
So?
TANNER
Should I stay?
FAYA
You mean now?! Tonight?! God no. I need some time to…. I need some time to fit this into my brain, and…think of what to wear.
TANNER
Next week then. It’s a date.
FAYA
Is it? Really? I guess it is.
TANNER
A definite date.
FAYA
Tell me…would you have brought this up if you hadn’t had that extra glass of wine?
TANNER
I…don’t know. But I’m glad I had the wine. And now…let’s be brave. Without any wine.
(She stares a long while, eyes going deep.)
FAYA
So, we’re really doing this?
TANNER
Yes. Please. My place?
FAYA
No. Here.
(He kisses her forehead, then they lightly kiss on the mouth, and he stands.)
TANNER
Maybe you’ll think about me in bed before you sleep tonight.
FAYA
Are you crazy? Who’s going to sleep tonight? I won’t get any sleep for a whole week.
TANNER
Maybe…it doesn’t have to be a whole week.
FAYA
Really?
TANNER
What’ll you be doing tomorrow evening?
FAYA
My granddaughter is coming over to teach me how to put a Zoom together, so…
TANNER
Tuesday I’m giving that talk at the Rotary.
TANNER/FAYA
Wednesday?
(They stare, sigh.)
FAYA
Dear lord.
TANNER
Wednesday evening here. I’ll…bring sushi.
FAYA
I’ll make a salad. Listen to us. So…normal.
(They share a soft smile, move to the door, one more long look. Then he leaves. She sighs again, worried, wondering and…in her eyes, there’s a nearly invisible glow.)
--------------------------------------
Wednesday evening has come. Faya’s doorbell rings. She moves to the door, taking a deep breath, then speaking through the door.
FAYA
Tanner?
TANNER
No. It’s… Javier Bardem.
(She opens the door. He’s standing there with a bottle of wine and a bag of Sushi choices. He’s nervous. So is she. She wears a kind of billowy caftan, covering her from neck to ankles. He’s in a suit with a colored shirt, open at the neck. They both take a deep breath. Soft music is playing on her sound system. She looks him up and down, sternly.)
FAYA
You’re not Bardem.
TANNER
No, he… couldn’t come. I’m the man with the sushi.
FAYA
Well, you might as well come in.
(He walks in and moves toward the sofa where plates and a salad are set out on the coffee table, also water and wine glasses. He places the bag and the wine on the table, studies her.)
TANNER
You look beautiful.
FAYA
No, I don’t. Do I? I didn’t know what to wear.
TANNER
Me neither. I did shower though…twice today.
FAYA
Thank you. I bathed.
TANNER
Oh.
FAYA
“Oh.” Meaning…what?
TANNER
Well…that’s nice. Bathing. It’s sensual. Maybe some…relaxing, scented bath salts, maybe some very…very smooth cream for your skin….
FAYA
I put the cream on the night stand, for us. In case….
TANNER
You did?! You really did that?!
FAYA
Yes.
TANNER
That’s a wonderful idea!
FAYA
Don’t lose control.
TANNER
Of COURSE I’m going to lose control. That’s why I’m here. Won’t you…lose control?
FAYA
I don’t know. It…depends.
TANNER
Oh, god – it depends on me, right? Is that fair? What if I fail? It’s been years!
FAYA
I believe it’s a shared responsibility, Tanner.
(He sits on the sofa, staring at his thoughts, worried.)
FAYA
What?
TANNER
I, uhh. I think I’d like some wine.
(He rather hurriedly opens the bottle. She sits beside him.)
TANNER
I brought white because…because of the sushi.
FAYA
Yes. White is fine.
TANNER
Are you nervous, too?
FAYA
Not at all.
(He pauses in mid-pour, staring at her.)
FAYA
Of course, I’m nervous, Tanner! Of course. I’m jumping inside. I couldn’t decide on the music. Do you like the music?
(He fills the glasses, listening to the music.)
TANNER
Uhhh. Really? Classical? It’s a little heavy.
FAYA
You would prefer what…Grunge? Ska?
TANNER
Ska would be good.
FAYA
It would?
TANNER
For the…rhythm.
(He sways to an unknown rhythm. She turns to the music system on the side table.)
FAYA
ALEXA…play ska music.
‘ALEXA’ VOICE
Ska – for your pleasure.
FAYA
You think she knows what we’re going to do?
(Tanner is swaying a bit to the music as he begins distributing the sushi, still nervous.)
TANNER
We better start on this.
FAYA
Why are you hurrying?
TANNER
Well, we should eat the sushi.
FAYA
Before it gets cold? Before it spoils?
TANNER
Aren’t you hungry?
FAYA
No. I’ll pick. Here…
(She serves the salad, watching him eating, drinking rather quickly.)
FAYA
Slow down – will you please? Tanner – can we make this just one of our usual evenings together, all right? Just the same, except, at the end, you… don’t leave. Can we try that?
TANNER
Okay. Yes. All right. (DEEP BREATH) We’ll try that.
(They eat, drink, more slowly now.)
FAYA
Mm, very good sushi. Thanks for picking it up. Were they crowded?
TANNER
No. No, uhh, try the wine. It’s Italian.
FAYA
Oh, it’s fine. Mmm. Such a nice country, Italy. Great shoes. Oh, what was it you talked about at the Rotary yesterday?
TANNER
My newspaper days.
FAYA
I’m sure they enjoyed that.
TANNER
Yes, I think so, but then…I told them all about what we were going to do tonight and we had a question and answer.
FAYA
Hm. Learn anything?
TANNER
They all said I should remember to act…ordinary.
FAYA
How’s that going?
TANNER
It’s impossible. What do you think of the wine?
FAYA
The wine is perfect.
TANNER
Let’s…not use that word tonight.
FAYA
What word?
TANNER
“Perfect.” It raises expectations.
FAYA
All right. The wine is…adequate.
TANNER
Thank you. OH! God! This role is spicier than I thought. My lips are burning…
FAYA
They are?
TANNER
Yes!!
FAYA
Show me.
(He stops still, staring at her. She puts her face close to his. He leans in, kisses her lips with his own burning lips. When the kiss ends, they stare, deeply.)
TANNER
Are my lips still…hot?
FAYA
Actually…they’re perfect.
(She smiles a bit, stands. He stares at her, and then he slowly stands. They come close. He puts his hands on her shoulders, gently.)
TANNER
So…you’ll tell me what you like and…don’t like. All right?
FAYA
Yes…I’ll just…bark. Once for good. Twice for bad.
(They both smile. He softly kisses her neck. She likes that. She BARKS. He laughs, holds her more tightly. They are hugging, then staring deeply. She slowly moves, and he moves with her, walking toward the bedroom doorway. They reach the doorway. She moves in first, holding his hand.)
FAYA
Follow me.
TANNER
Anywhere. Everywhere.
(As she moves through the doorway, she says…)
FAYA
Kilimanjaro.
(They enter the darkened bedroom, smiling, and we’re left outside with Alexa and the ska.)
END
April 2, 2021
Remote
You may know I’m part of a writing family and so want to mention a new Audible Book by son, Justin, “The Seven O’Clock Man,” a gripping mystery with an excellent narrator, son Nico Rosso’s powerful romantic mystery, “Haunted,” and daughter-in-law Eva Leigh’s many Romance titles, most recently: “Waiting For a Scot Like You.” All available through Amazon. We love to tell you stories.
And here is a mystery of my own for April - with a twist. Hope you enjoy.
REMOTE
By Gerald DiPego
Leonard Defore, 52, is digging out the roots of a dead tree on his property, nearly a mile from the small town of Round Lake, Illinois. It is the beginning of the spring of the year 2012, not yet warm, Midwestern chilly. Leonard is sweating, though, and glad to be sweating. He enjoys physical labor, a passion for him. His old, well-kept home rests on an acre among many trees, mostly planted by himself. He also tends a small garden and repairs his fencing, and he once tried to build a shed all on his own, with blueprints and careful planning, but it was beyond his skills, so he hired a local man and became the willing helper to this builder. He pauses now in the digging of the roots to catch his breath and is held still by a ‘V’ of silent birds in the sky. He is lifted by the sight, watching until the birds are only specks and then continuing with his task, glad to have it, glad for his health and strength but glad mostly for the weariness he’ll feel this night so that if he dreams at all, he won’t remember.
Nearly four miles from Leonard’s home a search party is moving carefully along the banks of a channel that is twelve to fifteen feet wide. Most of the party is made up of police officers. They are in uniform except for their Detective Lieutenant, a woman sent out from the larger town of Waukegan. She is 49, and her name is Bertha Kane. Bertha walks slightly behind the searchers, but her eyes are moving constantly in case something is overlooked. Beside her is another uniformed officer and a woman also in her late forties named Isabelle Shew. Isabelle is searching, too, but her eyes show a deep well of pain because this search is for her son, Charley, a man of 24. Trailing Isabelle is her daughter, Willa, 16, carrying the same stricken look as her mother.
“It’s coming up,” The mother, Isabelle, says. “Where the bank juts out.” “This is his fishing spot?” the detective asks, and Isabelle says, with no life or color to her voice, “One of ’em.” “Have them mark it,” the detective says to the cop beside her, and he moves ahead while the women stand still a moment. “You said you looked at all these places” the detective asks the mother and girl. “Hope we didn’t wreck anything,” the girl says, and the mother turns to the detective and stares, drawing her attention. “I called that man, that… Leonard Defore.” The detective sighs and says, “Didn’t you tell me you’d wait?” Isabelle answers. “Try waiting when it’s YOUR son.”
The detective stares at Isabelle, unhappy, but understanding. “I just don’t want anyone dropping into this investigation out of nowhere, confusing things, giving you false hopes or… I know you’re terribly upset, Isabelle, but let’s give this a chance. This is the procedure. It works.” Isabelle Shew puts her eyes back on the murky water of the channel that is ever sliding slowly toward the lake three miles away. “He said no,” Isabelle says, “but I’m trying again. He helped the police before. It’s my Charley, and I’m not giving up.”
Leonard has read about the disappearance of Charley Shew in the local weekly paper, seen the young man’s photo: “Charles Shew Still Missing After Three Days. Shew was last seen with a man at the Harmony Restaurant on Saturday night. It is believed this man was in the area for a college reunion in Lake Forest. He has not yet been identified.” The same day Leonard saw this, the missing man’s mother had called him. “Anything you can do,” she had said, her voice unstable as though she was shaking. “Anything -- like when you helped the police….” “That was almost 12 years ago, Mrs. Shew.” He had kept his voice gentle, taking in her pain through the phone, thinking of his own daughter and how he would feel. “It was a… just a coincidence….” She had cut him off with “But it’s a chance. I’ll…. Listen, I’ll pay you, whatever you…”
“There was never money involved and… I’m just not able to help. That… part of me is gone, Mrs. Shew. I’m not who I was, and I really, truly can’t help you.” He had heard her ragged breathing, but no further words, and he had said, “Sorry,” and cut the call. Now, this evening, there is a car parking in his drive and now a knocking on his door, and he knows it has to be her. Who else would come there?
She stands one step back from the door as he opens it, and she is holding the drawer to a dresser, full of objects, an old wooden dresser, so it must be a heavy burden, but Isabelle is a large woman, having no trouble with the drawer. Her daughter ,Willa, stands behind her, taller and also thick-set, looking to Leonard somewhat like her missing brother had looked in the photo in the paper. The same fleshy mouth.
“You know who we are?” Isabelle asks. “Yes, but….” Leonard gets no further as she interrupts. “I know what you’re going to say, about… 'that was a long time ago,’ but just imagine, please just imagine if it was your family member, your son or daughter. Do you have kids?” “Mrs. Shew, I… yes, I can understand, and it must be awful, but….” She interrupts again. “In here I’ve got photos of Charlie and his friends and some of the things Charlie wrote. He liked to write stories sometimes, but mostly music, and he moved around with his band, his country band, and there’s pictures of that and some tapes you could listen to. There’s a tape player in here….” “Mrs. Shew,” Leonard begins again, and still she cuts him off. “Call me Isabelle, and this is his sister, Willa, and if you look through this, you just might get a feeling, maybe dream something like you did back then. I read all about it.”
“Twelve years,” he says to her, “and it doesn’t happen anymore, so….” “So, what have you got to lose?” This comes from Willa, whose eyes are tearing, and her mother says, “So you’re saying it’s a million to one that you could be of any help to us at all.” “Yes, I’m sorry, but….” Isabelle extends the heavy drawer toward him, saying, “I’ll take that. I’ll take that million to one. I won’t expect anything. I won’t hold you to anything. It’s just a million to one, and I’ll take that.”
He stares, and then he accepts the drawer because he sees how it strains her arms, holding it out to him, and because this woman and child are so beleaguered, so riven by fear and loss. He takes the drawer, and Willa says a muffled and liquid “Thank you,” and Isabelle only stares and nods, her lips twitching, and then she turns away, and they move toward their car.
He puts the drawer on his kitchen table but doesn’t look through it, not yet. He sighs a great breath and moves about, aimless, turning on lamps because of the thinning of the evening light. He is hungry so he feeds himself early and enters his office and works for an hour at his accounting business, but that drawer is pulling at him, full of a life, full of someone’s stories, someone’s music, full of the hopes of a mother and sister and full of Leonard’s own memories and the brute force of his dreams.
It’s nearly ten o’clock, and he is still looking through the material, the life to date of Charles Shew. He has played two of the young man’s songs. His most recent photos do not stir any memories in Leonard or remind him of any dreams he has had lately. He is now re-reading the brief letter that was put into the drawer by Isabelle: “We didn’t see him much. He came home late last month while his band was scattered and resting, and he had a plan to increase the money they were making, new management, better venues. He was always thinking about it. He would walk all over the area, go to town, see his friends, and go fishing to relax. Perch and bluegill and carp, but we don’t eat the carp.” She’s telling him they don’t eat the bottom fish, the carp. Why tell him that? Because she has nothing else to tell him. So, he studies the recent photos again, taking in that face, the eyes. There is an intensity there. Only one smile, in one photo of Charlie and his sister. He studies the smiling young man and feels nothing at all beyond the sadness and panic of a mother and daughter as the time beyond the disappearance ticks away.
He looks up from the letter because another car has come into his drive, and he feels a tightening in his chest. Isabelle again? Another drawer? Sorry, he says in his mind to the woman, sorry but leave me alone now. Leave me alone. There is a brief, hard, two-tap on his door, and he sighs and rises and pulls it open to see the detective, Bertha Kane. She stares without a smile. There was no photo of her in the paper, but she is holding up a badge briefly, then putting it in her pocket, staring again, making calculations, it seems, her eyes hard on him. “Detective Lieutenant Kane,” she says, and he steps back and she enters, taking in the room. More calculations, practiced, professional calculations. And conclusions? She seems to Leonard to be full of conclusions. She stares at the drawer.
“Heard about that,” she says. “Have you been through it?” and he answers, “Yes.” “And you’ve solved my case?” “I don’t know anything about your case, anything that could help.” “At least you admit it.” She moves to the drawer, studies it, then lifts her eyes to Leonard. “So, are you done, then? Going to call her, tell her you can’t help her?” “I already told her that,” he says, “but she wouldn’t believe it.” “Tell her again,” Bertha says and then asks if she can sit, and he nods, and they both take chairs at the table. He slides the drawer from between them, and they stare, the overhead lamp bathing their faces. His strong jaw and tanned face looking harsh, but her brown skin is burnished by this soft light, as if absorbing it, and he studies her, wishing for a part of a second that they weren’t adversaries, that she was someone who had simply come to call.
“So you had a dream, and you called the police -- that time years ago. Tell me about that, okay?” Her stare settles deep and doesn’t waver. “A man had been killed by a rifle shot,” he says. “The… incident was in the paper. I had seen the man around town, the one who was killed, didn’t know him.” “And...?” “And that night I had a dream. I saw a man holding a rifle, walking toward a barn. And again, it was somebody I recognized from around here but didn’t know.” “So he was walking to a barn.” “Yes, that’s all I saw. He looked… upset, afraid, and… since it was a rifle….” “How many men around here keep a rifle? What made you think…? “Look, Detective, it wasn’t just any dream. This kind of dream is different. I can’t explain it. It has… more weight. I woke up and…. Well, it felt important, ominous. I knew the cops wouldn’t believe me, but I had to tell them, just in case. I figured I’d tell them, and I’d describe the rifle and the man and the barn, and they could do whatever they wanted with the information, or do nothing.”
She sits back, but doesn’t break her stare. “And what did they do, Leonard?” He sighs and holds her eyes. “You know my first name. What’s yours?” “Detective,” she says, and they each show a miniscule smile, her eyes still hard, penetrating. “They did nothing,” he says. “They laughed. But then that afternoon one of them drove out here. They had a few possible suspects by then, and he wanted to take me to one of their homes. I went with him. He stopped the car and nodded out the window. “That looks like the barn you described,” he said, and I said it WAS the barn and that I was sure, and that was that. He drove me home. They got a search warrant, found the rifle in the barn, checked it, and it was the murder weapon.”
“So, you were a hero?” “No, a freak.” Their eyes hold a long time, then he goes on. “Half my accounting clients left me. I gave up the office. Had to work from here.” “Two years later, you and your wife separate. Was that related?" “You’re out of your territory,” Leonard says, and after another long look, he asks, “You want some coffee, a drink?” She ignores the question and says, “There is no, NO hard evidence that what’s called ‘remote viewing’ even exists.” “Of course there isn’t,” he says. “It might go on in my dream state for a few seconds, maybe five, maybe ten at the most, and then it’s gone.” “How many times for you, Leonard?” He knows he doesn’t have to answer, but he likes having her at his table, in his home, in that burnishing light. “For me, it’s always at night, always a dream. Eleven times I’m sure of, other possible events that… I can’t swear to.” She nods a while, then says, “So you see something happening somewhere else?”
“I’m going to have a drink,” he tells her, standing, moving to his cabinets. “Got Scotch… Bourbon…. You in?” “Bourbon," she says. "Water.” While he’s pouring, he begins. “One time in my twenties, I’m having a hell of a dream. I’m up high, looking down. I see a… spectacular sight, a big navy ship, a carrier, and it’s on fire: chaos, sailors jumping off the deck.” He places the drinks, sits again. He sips, waits until she does. “Then I was ON the deck, inside the chaos, right there. I woke up… amazed at that dream, how real it was. Shook me. I got up, had my day, put on the TV at night. 'Australian Aircraft Carrier Burns At Sea.’ So… what do you think? Coincidence?”
“Has to be,” she says. “No,” Leonard says flatly. “No, it went too deep and it was too exact.” “Coincidence,” she repeats, and he says “So then I’ve had, over the years, eleven coincidences, right?” They sip their drinks, not breaking their stares. She leans closer, elbows on the table. “So now you’re going to dream what happened to young Charley Shew. You’re going to tell me where to look and solve my case. OR… you’re just going to give a mother and sister some false hope for a while, string out their misery so when they fall apart it’ll be even worse for them. All for what? What do you get? “I would never ask money for this,” he says. She sips her drink again and stands. He stands. She begins to leave, then stops. “Maybe there’s something else you want.” “What?” She waits, then gives it to him. “Worship.” He says “Bullshit,” and she opens the door, then turns to him once more. “Anything you SEE or DREAM or even THINK about this case, you bring it where, you bring it to who?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You won’t tell me your name.” It takes her a moment. “Bertha Kane.” “I’ll tell YOU Bertha. I’ll bring it to you before anybody. “Good boy,” she says, and leaves.
He dreams nothing that night, or forgets it by daylight, but he would have known if he had had a "viewing." Those are not forgotten. He remembers clearly the punch of those dreams, and that punch has not come for… three years now. He avoids the dresser drawer. There’s nothing more to see. He throws himself into the digging out of the small, dead tree and finishes too early, with too much time to think. He saws the wood into fireplace logs, takes a walk almost all the way to town, and comes back along the hills.
While he’s walking through the weeds, he scares a pheasant that blasts into the sky, shocking him, and he watches its flight as his heart bashes his chest. What is he afraid of, he wonders, but in truth, he knows.
At this same time, the police are continuing their slow search of the channel banks. They have found two items and called Isabelle Shew, and she is there with Bertha now, examining a few partial footprints in the mud, three stepped-on cigarette butts – Charley’s brand – and an empty bottle of high-end whisky, too expensive for Charley’s choice. All is bagged for the lab. Bertha looks about now, as she talks to Isabelle. “Looks like two men sat here, looking across the channel. Not much to see. Had a mostly full moon that night.” “So, what do YOU think happened?” Isabelle asks, her jaw out and stiff as if waiting for a blow. “Still can’t tell,” Bertha says. “But the weeds here, these smashed weeds…. It looks like they kept going on down the channel.” Both women look along the bank, where, just forty feet away, is a stand of willow trees, delicate, dancing slightly with the breeze. “Isabelle… I need to know if Charlie was gay or bisexual.” “Jesus, no. No!”
“It’s not a judgement,” Bertha says. “we’re wondering why two men came to this bank and lingered here. Could’ve been just a talk.” “Yes, a talk,” Isabelle says, her voice louder now. “Of course it was just a talk.” Bertha doesn’t answer, but takes some slow steps toward the willows, following the searching policemen.
It’s not an ordinary dream, but how to describe the difference? For Leonard there is an overall sense of alarm. There is a stripping away of everything non-essential, down to basic images only. There is a weight, a palpable weight to these images, sounds, feelings, and there is a steady and stable viewpoint. For this dream, Leonard’s viewpoint seems to be the back seat of a car -- though he does not feel he is seated.
He is just there. His presence is there behind the driver of the car, and it is night, and he can see part of the man’s head and his right ear and jacket collar, and he can see the man’s right hand on the steering wheel, and he can hear the sound of the car moving, the engine, the tires on the road. He studies this unchanging event, this driving along on some road somewhere, and he notices that there is a flurry of snow outside the front window, but not enough so that the driver turns on the wipers. Leonard sees all of this, sees the man’s hand with a ring, a small portion of the side of the man’s face, which is not clean shaven, the facial hair not long enough to be called a beard. He watches the man’s hand lift from the wheel, the man’s right hand, with its ring, and the hand elongates a finger and the finger touches a button on the dashboard and there is a quick slice of music that is jarring in the purring car, and the dream ends. It has lasted approximately eight seconds.
In waking from the dream, Leonard sees that there is no early light on the shade of his window. He guesses that it’s three or four in the morning. He feels the aftermath of the dream and notices his breath is short, his chest pounding, and he knows, he simply knows, that he has been somewhere else. His consciousness has been in an actual car with an actual man on an existing road, and he knows he will not fall back asleep this night. He rises and turns on the heat and gets back beneath the covers and studies every slice of every second of the dream.
At eight in the morning Bertha Kane is walking the channel area, a paper cup of coffee in her hand that is too hot to drink. There are six officers and five volunteers with her. Her phone sounds, and she trades hands with the coffee and answers. It is Leonard Defore, saying, “I dreamed last night. I saw things.” “Leonard, I ‘m at the channel. I have to keep my mind on the work here.” “I’m coming there,” he says. “No,” she answers. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
“I’m coming there,” he says, and cuts the call.
He’s there in twelve minutes, and she is not happy, but sees how different he is, tightened and… is he shaking? So she allows the conversation as she keeps her eyes on the searchers. “So tell me your dream, and then leave me alone.” “You first, please,” He asks. “Tell me what’s new that you didn’t know when we talked? Please, Bertha.” She sighs, still watching the search, and she takes a tentative sip of the too hot coffee. “The other man’s name is Daniel Frieberg, 34, and yes he was at the Lake Forest reunion. People in the bar described him, tall, thin….” Leonard presses in. “You have a photo by now, right?” “Why show you that,” she asks. “YOU describe him, Leonard. Tell me about YOUR 'viewing' first.” “I will. I will, but go on, all right?”
“People in the bar saw Frieberg and Charlie Shew talking for about an hour, then they left together, about eleven o’clock.” She puts her eyes on Leonard now, sees the tight focus, the slight but definite trembling, and feels a wisp of sorrow for him and wonders if he might be insane. “Describe him, Leonard. You first,” she says this matter-of-factly.
“In my dream I was behind the driver of a car, behind, so I didn’t see the face. Jacket with the collar up, leather and… light tan. Car was… low to the ground, small, expensive looking. I saw his right hand on the wheel, saw a ring….” He sees that she has deepened her stare. “Describe the ring,” she says, “and the watch he was wearing.” “I didn’t see the watch….” She interrupts him. “You didn’t see anything. You just dreamed it.” “I SAW only his right hand, and I… drew the ring.” He takes a folded paper out of his shirt pocket, but doesn’t show it to her. “You first,” he says. She waits, then says, “solid gold wedding band, small diamond in the center.”
He shows her his drawing. There are arrows pointing at the ring with the words “gold” and “diamond inset.” She stares at this a long time. “Are you playing me, Leonard? Do you have access to the information I’m getting…? “No. I don’t." What else about Frieberg?” She is thrown by that drawing and hesitates, then… “Lives in Columbus, Ohio, attorney, recently divorced. His wife moved out and took the children. There is a restraining order against him. No violence, but… a bad temper. This is him.” She finds a photo on her phone, turns it to him, tall skinny man in a suit, goofy smile. Leonard nods, then looks back to her, his eyes asking for more, and she decides to go on. “He had planned to fly in for the reunion, but decided to make it a car trip, take some days, so… the law firm isn’t happy. He hasn’t kept in touch with them or with his wife. He doesn’t answer his phone. Listen… I don’t know what this is, Leonard, but it feels like I’m being had. You got the jacket right… and the car, the ring. How did you do that?”
“I told you. I told you everything,” he says. “But you just won’t believe it.” “Okay,” she says, challenged now. “Okay, you say you SAW Daniel Frieberg in his car -- so where is he? Huh? Then I’ll believe it. Tell me where he is.” He stares, then… “He’s somewhere where it was snowing last night, a light snow.” “A light snow… that’s what you’ve got?” He turns and begins walking away and she calls after him. “Give me something I can move on. Snow? He could be in Canada by now. He could be in friggin’ Alaska!” He walks on toward the road and his parked car.
He has been home for two hours and has taken everything out of the dresser drawer and spread it on the table and checked the items one at a time, taking them in, taking in Charlie Shew in pieces, in moments. Then, one by one, he puts each item back in the drawer, slowly, studying it again as he runs the dream in his mind, each second of the dream, each half-second. He only stops when he hears a car and thinks it might be Bertha, and he opens the door, but it is the girl, Willa Shew, staring hard at him as she approaches, her face dulled down even further now by the waiting and the strained hoping.
He steps back from the door, but she only stands there and says a muffled. “Anything? We want to know if you found anything, if you… have anything to say.” What he says is “Please come in,” and she does, staring at the drawer on the kitchen table. “Been through it?” she asks. “Couple of times,” he says, but he’s not looking at the drawer. He’s studying her, Willa, sister of Charley, staring at the resemblance. “Are you about… Charlie’s height?” She nods. “Almost.” “Weight?” he asks, and she nods again. “Can you show me your hands, Willa?” She stares, and he nods, and she does, and he looks at them, at the three rings, at the thickness of the fingers. He stares at this, at all of her, and he’s deep inside the dream, and he is wondering. “Do you mind turning around, please?” She does. “And… move the hair away from your neck, your… right ear,” and she does -- and then her phone sounds. It’s a rock tune, and she swipes it and puts it to her ear, “Yeah?” And then she’s suddenly stock still, and then she’s falling, sinking to her knees on the floor, her face all pulled together and the eyes wet and her throat wet as she says, brokenly, “They found Charley’s body!”
He offers to drive her to the channel, but she shakes her head and hurries out the door, runs to her car. He turns back to the drawer and looks at everything, at nothing.
Leonard drives to the channel road and parks and walks toward the group just beyond the willows. He is surprised by how slowly the three police are moving, under Bertha’s direction, moving through the weeds, uncovering the ground so that nothing is overlooked and nothing is destroyed. They have roped off the area. What can be seen so far is blood, one small glimpse of muddy skin, the mostly buried jacket of Charlie Shew. Bertha has insisted that the mother and sister are far enough back from the delicate digging that they see nothing. They sit on the ground, Isabelle covering her face with her hands as Willa holds her. Leonard passes them and moves toward the burial until a cop calls sharply, “Sir!”
Everyone looks up, and Bertha’s angry look screws into him. “You don’t belong here, Leonard. Back off.” He stares at her and says, not shouting, “It isn’t him.”
Nobody moves, then Bertha takes a step toward him. “Move, or I’ll HAVE you moved.” “It’s not Charley,” he says. “It’s Frieberg,” And then he does turn and he does walk away, and the faces follow him and then turn back to the burial. “Rafael,” Bertha says to one of the plain-clothes cops, “uncover the face. Go gently.” The cop nods and carefully pulls away dirt and dead leaves, twigs and bugs, until…. The cop stands straight and stares at Bertha. Further back from the body, Isabelle and Willa stand, trying to see. The cop says….“Frieberg.”
When Leonard reaches his car, he hears someone running and turns as one of the cops shouts. “Stay in your car, sir. The lieutenant says stay in your car!” Leonard nods to him, enters his car, shuts the door rolls down the window and waits. It’s twenty minutes before she comes. Time enough for his intensity to slacken, his trembling to disappear. He feels very tired now. The sun has moved and lays on his shoulder, the side of his face. He turns when Bertha comes, but she walks around to the passenger side and opens the door and sits before she looks at him. She takes her time. “Let’s hear it,” she says.
“It was the ring that got me, as I thought about it, went over and over what I saw. You told me it was a wedding ring, so why wear it on the right hand, on the little finger? So I went through the most recent photos of Charlie. He has a ring, a kind of Native-American ring on his third finger, left hand. So, if he took a ring, he might put it on his right hand, that’s true, but Frieberg was a thin man, and… Charlie’s hands are thick, just like Willa’s. So, he would put a ring like that on his little finger, where it would fit -- until he could sell it. And all this… it led me to study that neck, that ear that I saw. It was more hefty, not a thin man. So…. So that’s it.”
Bertha’s stare has not changed. She opens the door, but doesn’t leave for a moment. Then she does, but before she closes the door, he says, “You just can’t do it, can you?” And she puts her eyes back on him. “You just can’t take that step,” he says, “That step over the line. Can’t let yourself believe, right?” She takes a long time, then says, “I’ll let you know, Leonard,” and she closes the door and walks back toward the channel. He watches her.
He hears nothing from her for six days. He hears nothing from the Shew family and so delivers the drawer, leaving it at their front door. He’s grateful that he hears no more from the police and nothing from the local newspaper. He plants a new tree. When Bertha calls, she says she’ll be in the area Friday, seeing the Shews, and she’ll come by his place after. Ten o’clock? He says he’ll be there.
He already has the drinks poured when she comes. He makes sure it’s the same seating at his table because he remembers how the light was like a low flame on her dark skin, and he enjoys that again. He waits. She’s quiet, then begins without any urgency. “Charley Shew didn’t come home to rest. He came home to try and borrow money from his mother, from Willa, too. He was using, and the band kicked him out. So, he meets this wealthy lawyer with the fine car and the gold watch and the ring and… he got drunk and went for it. Maybe it was going to be just a knock-down and a steal. Maybe Frieberg fought hard. Death by chokehold. Quiet. We got him in Minnesota where he tried to sell the car. Y’ know… Isabelle and Willa… they said they hate what he did, but they’re glad he’s alive. That’s how they put it.”
He nods. They drink again. She sighs a long one. He smiles just a bit, studying her. “Am I going to see you, Bertha? I’d like to see you.” Her stare lingers. “Oh, you’ll see me, Leonard.” She lets a pause fill in, then says “In your dreams.” It’s the biggest smile he’s had from her, and he loves it.
#
March 3, 2021
Gateway
Wow. My monthly ‘stories for shut-ins’ has nearly reached the one year mark. Thanks for being there, readers. Here’s one for March. Be well and safe.
Wow. My monthly ‘stories for shut-ins’ has nearly reached the one year mark. Thanks for being there, readers. Here’s one for March. Be well and safe.
GATEWAY
by Gerald DiPego
Heather Wentley, age 54, is sitting in the living room of her small condo, looking at bookshelves that reach nearly to the ceiling. Several hundred stories there, more than a thousand characters, some whom she knows very well, others still to be discovered if only she had the time. She can almost hear the mingled voices from the shelves murmuring like a swift river. She is alone in her home and mostly alone in her life, except when she’s teaching her high school classes, English, and Literature, of course.
Her husband left her years ago and remarried. Her daughter lives only twenty-two blocks away, but they mostly speak on the phone, mostly when Heather calls, checking in. If she didn’t check in with Meg once a week, would they speak at all? She supposes, yes. At some point Meg would look up from her work, from her husband, from her friends and wonder about Mom. Wouldn’t she? They were very close until Meg entered her mid-teens, the I-hate-my-mother phase. Well, it wasn’t hate, of course, but it wasn’t a phase, either. It was during the time that Heather’s husband was leaving her. She let him string it out, to go to another woman and come back, twice, instead of pulling him off of her heart quickly, like a BandAid. Meg had been furious at her, and then, finally, less openly angry but more detached, like a visitor in the home, until she went to college. The breach never healed.
Heather’s closest friend, Nica, moved away three years ago. She called Nica first to tell her the news. They wept on the phone, and Nica said she was coming to be with her, but Heather said, “No, please, later. I have to…I need to…I don’t know, just sit with it, take it in. Then of course I’ll need to see you, Nica, and be with you, but I know you’re very busy.” Nica swore at her, and then they laughed and wept again.
There is a fellow teacher that Heather dines out with once a week. This is Ellen, who tells Heather everything about her life and never asks a question. Heather has called Ellen to tell her she can’t make their dinner this evening, and then, before the voicemail ran out, she told her the reason and swore her to complete secrecy. She knew Ellen would call her when she looked at her messages, probably after school.
Now she sits with her phone in her hand, looking at her books and into her books. What novels would you read or re-read if you had time for only three…maybe five? She has already tapped in Meg’s phone number. Her finger rests on the call circle. She starts to practice what to say, but then cancels that and just makes the call.
“Hi, Mom, what’s up? “I’m sorry to break in on your work, Meg, but I need you to come over.” “Why?” “I’ll tell you when you when you get here, honey. What time do you think you can come?” “Tell me now. I’m swamped, as usual.” “I have to tell you when you’re here. Please.” “Are you all right?” “I’ll tell you when you’re here.” “Now you’re scaring me, Mom.” “Don’t be scared. Something to discuss. I…need your opinion.” “And you can’t just tell me?” “Sorry, no. When can you come?”
In twelve minutes, Meg arrives. They don’t hug. Heather puts a hand on Meg’s shoulder and smiles at her daughter, who is worried and waiting. Heather begins telling her as they walk to the sofa. “I hadn’t had a medical check-up in two years, and now they have these long questionnaires. You have to get there fifteen minutes early just to….” “Are you sick? Just tell me, Mom.” They’re sitting on the sofa now. “I am telling you, Megs.” They were ‘Megs and Ma’ for years. Heather holds on to that time by still using the nickname. “So I checked the box that said ‘former smoker,’ and because of that they looked at my lungs.” “And?” “And…there’s cancer in there.” “Jesus, Mom.” Meg’s eyes now, suddenly, have a skein of tears. She takes her mother’s hand. “What…what do they say about it? What do they suggest?” “It’s metastasized,” Heather tells her. Now both of them have tearing eyes, and Meg’s lips shake, and she tightens them for a second and then says, “So what happens, Mom? What’s next?”
Heather takes a long breath that shakes in her chest, and Meg’s tears, two single tears, are now moving down her face. “Mom?” “Well, Honey, now I decide if I want the chemo…or….” “Or what, Mom?” “Or if I don’t.” “What happens if you don’t?!” Heather has trouble saying the next sentence, and her daughter is slightly trembling now, her hand gripping her mother’s hand as if to hold her, to keep her. Heather says, “Three to five months.” “Months! Three to five months?!” Heather nods and her daughter takes her other hand and squeezes it so that it hurts. Meg is openly weeping now and shaking her head. “Well, Christ, Mom! Let’s get you into that chemo! Now! And we should get a second opinion, and soon, and….” “I did that, honey, and listen, the chemo…will be rough, and….” “You can’t be afraid of the chemo, Mom! The chemo is life!” “The chemo…gives me about a year,” Heather tells her. “That’s their guess.” “Well, Jesus! It’s just a guess, Mom! And it’s a chance! It could make it go away…or stop growing. That happens. You know that happens – like Uncle Dan. Remember? So, you have to take it, Mom. It’s your chance! Let’s call your doctor, call him now. Right now!”
“It’s a woman, Dr. Nashine. She’s…very good, and….” “Call her now, Mom, or I’ll call her. Give me her number. I want to talk to her and…. Let me take over. Let me do this. Let’s call her. There are new drugs developed all the time! You know that! Let me get you started!”
She stares at her daughter, who is back with her now. It’s all back now, the early years, the depth without the darkness and the pain, and Heather smiles through her tears to see this and welcome it. “Honey…Megs…all right. Thank you, but….” “But what?” “I just…before I jump into all this, I need some time.” “Mom! Time? We have to start this now!” “All right, but…just…a few days for me, a few peaceful days.” “But I’ll get it going, though, Mom. I’ll get it set up.” “All right, Meg, but…let there be a little time first, my time to just…be, or to go somewhere and…I don’t know.”
“Where would you go? And why?” “It sounds crazy,” Heather says. “I’ve been thinking about things I always wanted to do and never did. We were going to do it as a family before that fell apart, and then you and I were going to go….” “Go where?” “To the Arch, remember? In St. Louis, that massive arch, the “Gateway to the West.” “Jesus, Mom.” “Yes, silly maybe, but I want to stand there and look at it.” “Go all the way to St. Louis?” “It’s only about an hour and a half by plane, and I’ll stand there and…. It’s something I want to do. I always wanted to do it, and I feel okay, you know. I really do, so…don’t fight me about this, all right?” Meg stares at her, being still for a moment, and Heather sees the battle in her daughter’s eyes. Will she keep pushing or not? “Do you want me to come with you, Mom?” Heather smiles, “You never gave a damn about the Arch. No. I don’t want to drag you there. I’d be standing there feeling guilty. This is for me. So…two days and I’ll be back here.” “And I’ll have it all set up, Mom, and it’s going to work! You’re going to beat this! Right?” Heather stares and then gives her daughter what she wants, gives her the nod.
They did hug then, a grand one before Meg left, long and tight, a mother pressed against the woman who had come from inside of her and was still, and would always be, a part of her, and then Heather had thought about the word ‘always,’ and then she stopped thinking about it, about anything, warding off thoughts like a swarm of bees and getting her jacket and beginning a long, mid-morning walk to the park.
She’s half-way there now, and this is where she stops. A family passes her, moving around her like water around a rock, but she’s not watching them. She steps to the side and stands there, the engine of her mind moving on, moving ahead, clutching at…. Why not go now, today? Use today. Go home and check the internet for flights to St. Louis. She bats away the misgivings that come: Now? Today? Bats them away and thinks it through and looks at the time. It’s only 10:30. She could BE there in a matter of hours, standing there beneath the Arch. It’s a place to stand, a special place because she wished it, waited for it, and, standing there, time would stop a while, just a while. She’s been feeling…pushed, pushed ahead, through all the medical testing, and now with the chemo that’s looming. She needs to stop in a special place that is just for her and breathe.
She’s walking home now and planning. Find the flight and book it. Find a hotel in the area. Oh, and the school. She hasn’t been teaching because of the testing and the meetings with doctors, and she so misses it, and her chest tightens when she faces the thought that has come and gone for days, the possibility that she might not teach again, ever. How she would long for it, and the students, some of them whom she has taught for the last three years and are seniors now…. She thinks about saying goodbye, or just saying…that she has to take care of some medical procedures so will not be back with them for a while, just that, only to one class, the seniors whom she knows from the past years. A few of them matter more to her, matter like friends. Yes, just that one class at one o’clock, step in just as the hour is beginning, before the substitute starts the lesson, just before that, she would say her brief piece and be looking, especially, at the four or five who feel close to her, so they’ll know, they’ll see how she cares for them. It won’t be in her words. She is not very good at saying such things, but they’ll see it, in her eyes, she hopes, and then she’ll step out, leave the school and drive to the airport.
She’s walking down the so-familiar school hallway now that smells of…what? Smells of itself, of the kids, of the cleaning solution, and the food and the…22 years of her own life. There are still students entering her classroom, though it’s nearly time to begin, and she follows them in and moves toward the substitute who is at the board, a man who has been at the school on and off for the last two years. He is surprised to see her, too surprised, somehow, his eyes going wide and so deep, as if….
“I…Heather, I…I’m so…. It’s good to see you. And…I’m so…. Let me say I’m so very sorry for what you’re going through.”
She stares at him, while students are taking their seats, but quietly, and she follows the thought…he knows, and she comes to her conclusion. “Ellen,” she says. “Ellen Howard was…not supposed to tell….”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. She was upset and….”
“And now the whole school knows,” Heather says. It’s not a question, but the man nods his head. She takes a deep and shaking breath and turns to the students, who are all staring at her. She sees the ones she cares dearly for. Sees Shana biting her lip, her eyes tearing. Sees Leon, who looks stunned, and Doreen and the others…. She smiles at them all, a deep but nervous smile.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I…I’m going to be absent a while because of a health issue, so I wanted to say...I have really…really enjoyed teaching you, and Mr. Zane will carry on until….”
The bell to begin class interrupts her, though it’s not a bell anymore but I kind of chime, and Heather waits and picks up her speech again. “Mr. Zane will carry on until I come back, so, bye for now and…be well. Have fun.” It’s all she can manage and she has to turn then and walk to the door. It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” but it was all she had. She hears someone approaching her just before she opens the door to leave, and she turns, and it’s Shana, with her unabashed tears, and the girl spreads her arms and hugs Heather, and Heather hugs her, too, though it’s against the rules. She feels a soft jolt as Shana’s body moves in her grip, a single, voiceless sob. They stare, and then Shana hurries back to her desk, and Heather opens the door, upset by the emotion, upset because they know. Everyone knows. She’s moving down the hall when she hears the door open behind her and sees that it’s the boy, Leon, who is walking toward her, so she stops. He doesn’t come close, just stares, and then….
“Mrs. Wentley, I stole that book. I gotta tell you. I kept it and said I lost it, and I’m sorry.” She had taken it from the library for him, “The Catcher in the Rye,” and he had read it and told her it was his favorite book of all and always would be, and told her he had lost it. “I wanted,” he says to her slowly, “to have that very book. The one you handed me, and…not get it at a book store to keep, but to keep that one, but I’ll give it back to you now if you….”
“Leon….”
“I’ll leave it with the school or come to wherever….”
“Leon…keep the book. Please. Keep the book.” They stand and stare then, and she doesn’t want to weep or say something foolish, so she smiles and nods and turns and keeps walking, and as she walks, she thinks of what she could have said, should have said, and is reminded of all the times this has happened to her, the words coming too late, but this time she stops and turns, surprising herself, and he’s still there, still watching her. She takes a few steps toward him and he walks forward to meet her.
“Listen, Leon…I want you to read that book again ten years from now. Promise me, and then read it again ten years later. A book like that will teach you a lot about yourself. Will you do that?” His dark eyes are moist as he nods. She touches his shoulder and then turns and walks on down the hall. She hears him enter the classroom and close the door as she is approaching Ellen’s room, and she hesitates, angry at the woman, angry at the telling of her secret and angry for all the years, for all of Ellen’s talking without listening. She could open the door. She could ask her to come out into the hall. But she doesn’t. She walks on out of the school and approaches her car, where her luggage is stashed, and she slides behind the wheel, and, as she punches in the GPS for the airport, she notices that her hand is shaking, and she stares at that a moment.
During the flight she had been ready to say, “Oh, I’m taking a trip just to see that Arch, you know, the Gateway to the West,” and then she imagined the rest of the conversation, which would not contain her cancer and possible death, but she only traded smiles with her seatmate and the flight attendant, and all the prepared words stayed within her in case she would meet someone at the hotel.
In her hotel room, she unpacks her suitcase, preferring to have her things in drawers, preferring the neatness and also the feeling that she is actually away. She calls Meg, mostly to let her know she is feeling fine, and Meg begins telling her of coming appointments and more tests, and she says, “I’d rather leave that all to you, Megs, okay? And I thank you.” She hopes her daughter might pick up on the old nicknames: Megs and Ma, but she still doesn’t, only asking Heather to please not tire herself.
After Meg, she listens to a new voicemail from Ellen, who has obviously been talking to Heather’s substitute about the school visit today: “I’m so sorry, Heather. You know I’m sorry. I was just so stunned and…I know I wasn’t supposed to tell, but, god, when I heard your voicemail I just broke down. You know me – I’m so easily shaken, and you certainly shook me. You can’t believe how shaken I was, to hear this news on my phone and…I’m not the kind of person who can just…. It shook me badly, Heather, but I made sure…I TOLD people not to say anything. I’m sure I did, so….” The voicemail runs out, and Heather’s finger hovers over the call back area, but instead she kills her phone, afraid she is still too angry and might go overboard with Ellen and hurt her feelings. She considers calling her parents, then, and imagines them taking in the news. There were so many times when Heather had to clamber so hard to be seen by them, felt by them, that she finally gave up and lived her own quiet existence among them. They’ll feel put upon, she thinks. Oh, they’ll be struck by it and saddened by it, but somewhere underneath all that, they’ll feel put upon. She delays calling them.
She doesn’t want any thoughts of conflict now. She wants rest and peace and decides that she will walk around in the area of the hotel, take her time, have a meal, a drink? She will save the Arch for tomorrow, when the sun is bright and she has the full day to study it from every angle, and take the tram and go inside the museum and.… Because, after all, it’s her chosen sight, her chosen place to be before…before it all begins, and before (she couldn’t avoid thinking it) before it all ends, and so she will take her time with the Arch and…take it in like a book, one of her favorites, feel it fill her, slowly, this Gateway, gateway to what? To everything, to whatever comes.
The next day is a perfect sunny day, and Heather now sits on a bench in the Gateway Arch National Park, staring again at the structure as she has stared at it all day from every vantage, and she has already taken the tram and been through the museum and later tonight she will take in the sight of it from a riverboat. She still holds the brochures she has read and the photos she has purchased because they’re better than the images she now has on her phone.
She does love the arch – as a structure, as an art piece, as a bold rendering in metal flung into the sky, a gleaming statement, one hell of an accomplishment. She praises it for all of that, but a four-word line in one of the brochures has put her off, and all her thoughts keep bumping into those words. These thoughts are interrupted by a woman who asks if she’ll take a photo of her and her husband with the Arch as a background. She agrees, and the woman hands her a phone as she and her husband thank her and take their position. Heather stands, moves, and finally goes down on one knee to capture the couple and the top of the arch, her move a kind of genuflection to the structure and the moment.
When they gather over the photo, the couple is very pleased, and the three of them then stand and study the arch because it is thrilling and must be seen and seen again.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” the woman says, and the man says, “Mmm” as he nods, and Heather says “It’s everything I wanted it to be.” They all nod, and Heather wonders if she should mention the brochure and the words that have tripped her, but why spoil the moment, and then the woman says, “And to think of all the covered wagons moving on from here, all those journeys.” “Tough times,” the husband says, and Heather says to herself – what the hell, and then begins. “There are some words, though, in this brochure that…make me stumble. Where it talks about the people moving out from here and “Winning the West.” The couple has moved their stares from the Arch to Heather, wondering. “If something is ‘won,’” Heather says, “that means that it’s also “lost.” Who was it won FROM? Well, it’s obvious it means the Native Americans. It means they lost it and we won it, and that troubles me. That’s a black mark on our history, like…all the black marks where native peoples were…pushed aside or worse. Wouldn’t it have been great if instead of the Winning of the West it could have been the Sharing of the West?”
They stare at her, and then they both nod, understanding, if not pitching in, and Heather goes on. “It’s not that I don’t celebrate the pioneers and their…guts and their journey, the accomplishments and…oh and I’ve loved the various books about those people and their hopes and struggles…. ‘Oh, Pioneers’ and ‘Cimarron,’ even ‘My Antonia,’ and, oh, ‘The Way West’ by, uhh, Guthrie, and…” Now here Heather notices something familiar, something she’s seen for many years in her classroom. The man and woman’s eyes are very slightly glazing over and she’s losing them, and it makes her smile at herself, the teacher, going on and on, and then here comes the glaze. She smiles openly and says, “It’s been very nice meeting you.” And the couple says the same and thank her and move off. Heather sits on her bench and puts her eyes back on that arch winging across the sky. What does it remind her of? She wonders and then thinks, well, kind of like…a wishbone up there, a beautiful, shining wishbone. Ok, then…what should I wish for, and she stares, still slightly smiling and then growing more serious as she finds it, finally, her wish.
She calls Meg before she boards the plane and asks her daughter when she can come over, gives her the flight time and Heather’s expected arrival at her home. When she lands, Meg has left a text: “We’re all set up. I’ll see you at 1 pm. We have an appointment at 3.”
This time Heather hugs her daughter at the door, holds her hand, and walks her to the sofa. Meg is already laying out the schedule for the next few days, but Heather says, “Wait…wait. Let’s take a breath, Megs. Okay?”
“Oh, sorry, I just want to bring you up to date. You said you enjoyed the…Arch?
“Beautiful.” They are seated now, and Heather has made tea and there are cookies on the table, but Meg says she has just finished lunch, and Heather sits back and studies her daughter with eyes that go deep and she wears a small, loving smile and hopes that Meg sees the love. “Megs, I hope you know how much I love you, how…deep and full my love is.” Meg stares and her eyes fill and she says two words that have a liquid quality. “Oh, Mom,” and she knows what Heather is going to say. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you,” Heather asks, and Meg is fully weeping now, and Heather puts a hand on her daughter’s leg, and Meg speaks again. “Oh, Mom. Jesus. I made appointments, I….” I know, honey, and that means you talked to the doctor and so you understand the choices and….” “But there is that chance, that slim, crazy…. Don’t do this, Mom.” “It’s really okay, Megs. It is. It is.” Meg is slowly shaking her head. One of her hands rises quickly to wipe at tears that are falling, and that hand comes to rest on top of her mother’s hand which remains on her lap.
“It’s really okay,” Heather says again, and she watches how her daughter studies her face, and Heather slowly nods, a kind of final nod that says ‘this is happening. It is.’ This causes Meg to shake her head ‘no,’ but it’s not an argument, that gesture. “Mom…you won’t try. You….”
“I’m so certain of this,” Heather says, still carrying her soft smile. “It’s what I want, what I wished for. It all became so clear, honey.” Meg bites her lip to hold back her weeping. “I don’t think of this as giving up,” Heather says. “It’s the opposite for me. It’s reaching for just a little more. More time with my daughter, more time spent with Nica, time for a bit more of life, not in a…hungry or desperate way. In a loving way, Megs. And I know you’ll help me. I need your help. We can learn all about hospice and how that works and how we’ll know when it’s time….” Meg, still staring, weeps audibly now, and Heather reaches out, sliding closer on the sofa, embracing her daughter, and she feels her daughter embrace her and hold tight, and how Heather thrills at that, how she loves that feeling above all others.
“It’s only the ending,” she tells her Meg softly. “It’s like the ending of a very good book, a book that I’ve treasured. The ending isn’t the whole story. It’s just one little piece. There are all those years, all the days that came one by one, all those thriving minutes. That’s the story, and this is the ending I choose for it, honey, my honey, my Megs. Please tell me you understand. Do you?” Meg, tight in their embrace, nods her head, then speaks a liquid “Yeah Ma,” and moves her body, somehow, even deeper into her mother’s arms.
February 3, 2021
GON FR GD BANTHAR
Let’s have fun. This is a frontier story. Don’t worry about the title. Just ride along.
Jerry
GON FR GD BANTHAR
By Gerald DiPego
1. The meeting
Before Wyoming was a state, and before the word "frontier" faded and fell apart like an over-washed shirt, a particular day was breaking over an endless, sun-splashed prairie, where stood a small, slightly leaning, mostly sod home, the curl of smoke from its chimney no more than a puff against the baby blue bowl of sky.
The creaking, rough-scared door was opening slowly as a young woman leaned her face into the coolish morning, slowly bringing an old rifle to her shoulder. Even squinting, she was pretty-faced, and her body, covered to the ankles in a tattered garment that may have been a dress or a cut-and-sewn table cloth, was slim. She was squinting because the coming rider was far off, like a lonely period on a large golden page. As she studied him, youth and experience were jostling for command of her face. She was called Pash.
The rider was a man, mounted on a smallish pinto and leading a mule burdened with packs. He was in the middle of his thirties and wore a blanket-like coat, a wide hat, cavalry trousers, dusty boots. The leather strap that belted his coat held a holster for his pistol, ammunition, and a knife in a fringed and decorated scabbard in the style of the tribes.
He had a beard as blond as the hair that poked from his hat, but it was close-cropped and tidy. He was sunburned and lightly freckled, and he was doing a queer thing for a person who was nearing a prairie home where a woman stood in its doorway aiming a rifle his way. He was smiling – big and bright as the early day, and he sent a shout ahead to the young woman, still 40 yards away, as he walked his mount closer. His name was Boyd Timms.
“Ho, the house! Greetings! I think I must be rocking in the arms of a dream, dear lady, instead of rocking on this boney, mis-jointed animal. Oh, my Lord, look at you! Are you real – in your tiny home out here, adrift like a ship on a windy ocean…. What? What is that you are saying?”
The girl shouted back. “I said SHUT UP! And come no farther or I will shoot you just to stop your talkin’! Jesusmary! Who are you and what in hell do you want?”
Boyd stopped his horse and lost his smile, looking affronted and massively disappointed.
“Why, Miss, I mean you no kind of harm, and if my tongue runs on it is because I have spoken only to this horse and mule for three days, and they stubbornly refuse any discourse. Might you lower your weapon? I am saying please.”
“Come on real slow,” Pash said, “and tell me what you want, and keep in your mind that I can shoot the shell off a turtle.”
Boyd’s smile returned as he nudged his mount and his ramshackle caravan slowly approached the home. “I have never done battle with a turtle, Miss, but I am no stranger to the firearm and once shot the eye out of a hurricane.”
Pash giggled at that, unguarded laughter that somehow turned her prettiness into three seconds of aching beauty. She moved the barrel of her gun off the man, but did not ground the weapon. The sound of her laughter had skated over the distance to Boyd, causing a grin nearly as wide as the cloudless sky. He stopped his horse a dozen feet from her and slowly dismounted, stiff in every joint. As he smacked the dust from his clothes, his manner grew serious.
“I have a problem, Miss. I’m afraid I need to make my water. It is urgent, and I see your outhouse is beyond my walking range at this moment,” and Pash answered “Just turn around and get to business.”
Boyd recovered his grin and turned, saying “I will do that, but do not think you can shoot me in the back while I am occupied, dear woman, because this horse will let me know your every move.” But the girl countered. “No she won’t. She’s on my side.”
During the next ten minutes Boyd walked his animals into the wobbly corral, watered them, unsaddled the horse and unburdened the mule. He put aside his long rifle held in its leather, opened one mule pack, and carried from there a wooden case as he came toward the house where Pash waited, her rifle hanging loosely, but still in her hand. While he had been unloading his mule, she had run a hand through her hair and corrected her posture. He approached her, a smile in his eyes that seemed warm and true.
“My name is Boyd Timms, miss, and I wonder if I could sleep a few hours on your porch as long as your parents do not object. Might your father be at home?”
“My father’s dead, may he rest in pieces, and I’m a missus. My name’s Pash Banford and my husband ain’t here, and you won’t be layin’ about on any porch. You’ll come inside and split a breakfast with me and sleep on a pallet tonight if you’re stayin’ over to rest. I ain’t worried and can take good care of myself. You step in first. I don’t trust you behind me yet.”
Inside, they shared biscuits, churned butter, strong coffee. and a wandering conversation.
“Your name…Pash?”
“Short for Passion.
“Really. What a fine, no, a beautiful name. Did your mother…?”
“The girls named me.”
“Oh -- your sisters?”
“Nope. My father sold me to a whore house when I was fourteen. Some of them girls mothered me, some sistered me, and some were pure snakes.
“I…I’m very, very sorry. Truly sorr…”
“Oh, to hell with men who are sorry. Sick of it. Dan Banther wanted me all to himself, and I figured that’s a better story: me in my own home with a man that don’t beat me except when he’s drunk, and even then not nearly as hard as my father. I crack him in the face when he’s drunk asleep, and I tell 'im in the morning that he just HAS to stop fallin’ out of that bed.” Here she giggled again, a scale of notes running high. “Broke his nose twice! He’s out huntin’ for days. Sells the birds and meat to the store and the hotel in Mantry, so he ain’t around to bother me much. Gets lonely, though.” She stared a moment at the pity and sorrow she saw in his eyes and swatted at it. “You can stop lookin’ so deep and troubled at me, Boyd Timms, and tell me about the world I’m missin’ and tell me about yourself. Where you comin’ from?”
He studied the girl and could not shake the pain he felt for her and the black anger for her husband. “This ‘Banford’ is not a man, Pash. This is a snake with legs. Why not leave him far behind, and make another life?”
“Doin’ what? Where? It’s too many miles to anywhere but Mantry – back where I started from. Tell me something about you and have another biscuit and finish the coffee you didn’t finish. Your pants tell me you was a cavalryman.”
Boyd took his time moving his mind away from Pash’s troubles with great effort, like the action of giant gears and pullies. “No. No, Pash, not a soldier, but I recently had some business at Fort Steel.
“Oh, hell, Fort Steel? Troopers would come from there into the whorehouse plenty of times, some of ’em awful wild. Two corporals had a fight over me once, a bad one, so I got a gun and fired it into the ceilin’ yellin’ ‘The loser gets me!’” She gave Boyd a proud, bright-eyed smile. “Those fools stopped cold and didn’t know WHAT to do!”
She giggled again, and Boyd laughed loudly with his head thrown back in surprise and deep delight at this girl and the picture she had painted for him. His laughter ignited her, and she joined him until she had the breath to speak again.
“Now you! Go ahead! I need to hear somethin’ else, somethin’…not me, somethin’ new. You got that long rifle in the fancy case. You a hunter, too? Ever kill a bear? Ever kill a man? Tell me.”
He rocked a bit on his chair legs. “Well…Pash…a Comanche warrior once hit me with an arrow, and I shot him off his horse. I don’t know if the man expired because I fled the field with my friends and never looked back.”
Pash started deeply a moment. “Where’d that arrow hit you?”
“I cannot discuss that with a lady.”
She smiled, then her eyes widened with a thought. “He unmanned you?!”
“No…he put a hole in my caboose.”
Pash laughed loudly and banged the table with her hand so that the cups danced, and Boyd was thankful that he, at least, had given her that.
“So you’re an Indian fighter.”
“No – it was just one brief skirmish between the Comanche and the Utes. I was with the Utes.
“WITH ’em?”
“I lived with the Utes on and off for two happy years. A fine people. I appreciated their friendship and they appreciated my work.”
“What work?”
“Showing them just what I saw when I looked at their faces.”
While she was wondering, Boyd opened his wooden case and carefully lifted from it a sheet of stiff paper, blank on one side, and when he turned it, Pash saw a Ute woman, staring at her, half smiling, saw her hair and upper dress, saw her eyes and into her eyes and the living humanity there, and it caused Pash to capture her breath and hold it still, and the room and the day were also still for several heartbeats.
“You DONE that? It looks like she’s gonna talk any minute! Like I KNOW her. Goshall, Boyd.”
“It is what I do, Pash.” He pulled another unframed painting from his case, a Ute man, strong, with stories in his eyes, and Pash, again, marveled.
“Look at that! Was he the chief?!
“No, a close friend.”
“And…you go around sellin’ these? Bet you sell a bunch!
“There is a gallery in the states where they sell, in Chicago, and some are in a book and some in museums. Before the Utes, I painted the Osage in Missouri. I’m traveling to the railroad now, to Laramie and on to Illinois, to bring these to the gallery.
She held the paintings carefully, finger and thumb on the very edges and studied again. “We had some paintins in the house and in the bar below but nobody seemed like they was gonna step right off the paper.” She handed the pictures to him very carefully. He took them and was replacing them in the case when he said it.
“I’d like to paint you, Pash, if you allow.”
“Me? You mean…now? Here? Put ME on the paper?”
He nodded and Pash lit the surrounding countryside and Boyd’s heart with her wonder and her smile.
2. The Interruption
Pash combed her hair and chose the better of her two dresses while Boyd’s preparations were made with colors mixed as if by a conjurer. He set his folding easel and moved it many times, opened the door halfway to gain more light, and adjusted its position by inches. Sketches were made and abandoned until he was pleased. Pash was instructed many times as to her pose in a broken and mended rocking chair, and she bore all this with much interest in the work and in the artist, too, a man winning more of her heart with each move of his brush and every long, penetrating stare, and his close attention seemed to carry much kindness and even, if she allowed herself to feel it, a kind of love, and if she let loose of all misgivings, a trace of worship.
After nearly two hours, all of this was exploded by sound and swift motion as the door was kicked fully open and Dan Banthar was swinging the butt of his rifle into the head of a half-rising and wildly surprised Boyd Timms, who flew back into his easel, splashing the paints into the face of Pash as she reared back, breaking the unstable chair and landing on the floor. Boyd, too, lay on his back, stunned, his foggy sight showing Banther pointing a rifle at his heart.
Banther now stared wildly at his young wife, who was splattered by a dozen colors and lay on the floor shouting at him.
“He was paintin’ me, Dan!”
Banthar was shocked by this statement, his mouth fully open as he studied his many-colored wife and then shifted his crazed look to Boyd, shouting “Why?! Why’d you put paint on my wife, you crazy bastard?!”
Pash was trying to rise. “NO, Dan. He was ‘Paintin’ me! Like….”
Banther aimed his rifle at Boyd’s forehead now. “Paintin’ on women, you crazy fool! What else did you do to her?!”
“DAN!” Pash untangled herself from the broken rocker. “DON’T!” Boyd was slowly rising to his knees, his consciousness unable to fully come to roost. Banford pushed the muzzle of his hunting gun closer to him, shouting “I heard you from outside sayin’ ‘Don’t move, Don’t move, Pash…”
“He PAINTS people, Dan!”
“That’s plain CRAZY,” Banford screamed, as Boyd was slowly standing, swaying, his eyes foggy.
“Don’t shoot him!” Pash moved beside Boyd. “Don’t!”
“Shut up,” Banther shouted. “I’ll deal with you later! Get yourself away from this woman-painter! I’m gonna blast him!”
Boyd’s vision was clearing, though he still tilted. His words were mush. “Mr. Banthar…I was trying…to capture Pash’s….”
“Capture her?! I’ll kill you where you stand, you…”
“DAN! You can’t shoot him!”
“Why not!!”
“Cause It was ME he done it to, and I should be the one to shoot him down! Here! Wait…!” She moved quickly to a blanket on a shelf and from its folds drew an enormous Navy Colt pistol, turning it toward Boyd and cocking the weapon as she held it with both hands and pointed it at his chest. “I’M gonna do it, Dan! Not you!”
Boyd was blinking in wonder, staring at this young woman who had upon her all his chosen colors and held, along with a heavy pistol, all the love in his heart.
“THEN SHOOT!” Banther shouted.
“Watch him so he don’t move, Dan!” And when Banther’s eyes flicked toward Boyd, Pash shot her husband. The explosion seemed to lift the home and shake it, the man knocked back into a corner and losing the rifle and falling to the floor, as Boyd’s mouth dropped and Pash stood there in the smoke from her weapon, wide-eyed at the figure on the floor. Boyd’s open mouth and the smoke from the pistol and Pash’s hard-focused stare seemed to last beyond all time. Then Boyd walked to Banther’s crumpled form and knelt there, and Pash, not able to speak until then, asked “Is he mortified? I aimed for his shoulder.”
Boyd was inspecting the man’s wound. “Your shot broke his arm.”
She came to stand over Boyd. Her husband’s eyes were closed. He was twitching. “He’ll be riled,” she said. “He’ll be awful riled.”
Boyd’s long sigh seemed to take in every moment of this amazing day. Then he spoke. “No. No, Pash…not riled. I believe…your husband is suffering an attack, a heart attack.”
It took only seconds, and then Daniel Banther no longer existed. Boyd rose, steady now, though his head throbbed like an engine. He stared at Pash, then took the heavy revolver from her hand. She remained staring at the dead man who had abused her, but had taken her from a whorehouse to a home. She felt an ache, but no tears.
“It’s me that done it,” she said, “made him die.”
“What you did, Pash, is save a life. My life. That is what you did, and only winged your husband, who then died of natural causes, and that is the bottom truth of it. Do you know the sheriff in Mantry?”
“The sheriff? Sure, he owns half the whorehouse and he and Banther were thick.” They stared a moment, then she added “You best sit down.”
While Pash applied cold well-water to Boyd’s throbbing head, she sent her mind ahead to the future. “What if the sheriff comes lookin’ for 'im, for the huntin? What do I say?’”
“You best not be here. Pash, why stay? Leave this place, and I will take you wherever you want to go.”
“I don’t know where to go.”
“Come with me. We’ll travel far from here, and then you can make up your mind. It would be an honor to have you with me.”
“It would?” Her question seemed to erase all other sound, and Boyd made sure he had her eyes, and he nodded. “It truly would.” A smile came trembling to her face, small and broken. Then she turned again toward the corner where the body lay. “What about…?”
Boyd sighed again, long and heavy, then asked the question.
“Pick and shovel?”
“Under the porch.”
3. The Stranger
The gathering of the tools caused the dizziness to return, so Boyd sat on the porch boards and closed his eyes to bring the world to a stop. He could hear Pash working in the house, setting it back in order and, he hoped, salvaging the painting. When he opened his eyes, the day was bright and standing still. He stood, but then halted all motion, staring out across the prairie. There was a rider in the distance, coming their way. “Pash,” he said, then spoke louder, never taking his eyes from the distant traveler. She joined him on the porch and followed his stare. “Shit,” she said, and Boyd left the porch, saying “Come with me.”
They walked to the corral, and Boyd dipped into one of the mule packs and pulled from there a slender telescope. He put it to his eye and found the rider in the glass, adjusting the instrument and then handing it to Pash. She faltered at first and then brought a large man on a large horse into focus. Boyd asked, “Know him?”
“Nope. But he’s comin’ from the direction of Mantry.” Boyd removed his rifle from its leather, cocked it and held it at his side. They looked at each other for a moment, her speckled with paint and him still carrying his headache, then they put their eyes back on the coming man and watched as he also took a rifle from its scabbard and held it across his horse as he came on.’
“You are certain you never saw him, Pash?”
“Sure as rain.”
Boyd had not heard that expression, but took its meaning and nodded. Then he said, “I’ll be Banthar.”
“You will?” He nodded, still watching the on-comer as Pash stared at him. “You don’t look much like Banthar and you sure don’t talk like Banthar, y’know?”
“I will try it.”
“What if he KNOWS Banthar?”
“Have you ever played poker, Pash?”
“Sure.”
“Bluff.”
They walked out of the corral and stood waiting as the large man came to them with no hurry, still carrying his rifle crossways in front of him. He’s was powerful looking, though quite over-weight. His slack and shaven face was without greeting and his eyes were hard on Boyd, who spoke, attempting the vernacular.
“Why’d you uncase that rifle, Mister?”
“I come here to kill Dan Banthar.”
Pash opened her mouth without any words, and Boyd stared, thinking hard, and then asked, “Why?”
“That’s my business,” said the man.
“My business, too,” said Boyd. “I’m Banthar.”
“No you ain’t.”
“Am too.”
“Banthar’s a bigger man, and you’re a liar.”
Pash said, “Don’t you call him a liar. He just quit drinkin’.”
Both men were stymied for a moment, then the big man asked “What?” And Pash said, “That’s how he lost the weight.” Boyd picked up this idea.
“The whiskey was doing harm to our marriage and making me fat, like you.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed on Boyd, then shifted to Pash. “Why she painted like that?”
“She’s part Ute, and we’re finished talking here.”
“No we ain’t. Banthar’s a taller man. I seen him once, and you ain’t him.”
Boyd hesitated for two more seconds. “Ever hear of Cross boots?”
“What?”
“They have extra tall heels, puts more height on a man. Had to give them up because they hurt my ankles, so that makes me Dan Banthar and that means you’re sitting on my property and threatening my life, and I’m allowed to shoot you in the heart.”
Pash joined in here. “My man can shoot the eye out of a…blackbird, so you better give it up and go away.”
The man kept his stare on Boyd. “So you’re Banthar.”
“That I am and true, so what?”
“So you hit my cousin with a bar stool last winter and that’s why I’m here and that’s why I’m gonna kill you.” Their guns were not aimed at each other, but both men moved a finger and found his trigger, while Boyd was thinking and Pash staring at him. He finally spoke.
“Did I kill your cousin?”
“No, but he didn’t even know his name for a long time.”
“He know it now?”
“Yeah, but you put him through a lot of pain, and he’s got a dent in his forehead.’
Boyd took another moment. “I was drinking then and don’t remember that scuffle, but if he’s above ground and able to walk and talk then you are not allowed to kill me. I hereby apologize for the bar stool incident.”
“That won’t clear it. He still has a dent in his head.”
“Well…I’ll tell you what: I’ll pay him five dollars for the dent and pay you five dollars for your trouble coming here. Otherwise…lift that rifle and die.”
Pash held her breath for the longest moment of her lifetime until the big man finally cracked the silence, shouting “TEN! Ten dollars and no less! Each!”
Boyd turned to Pash. “Reach into my hip pocket, dear ’un, and pull out a twenty-piece.”
She did so and then approached the man and held out the coin in her hand, staring at him in visible triumph. The man took the money, and Boyd said, “Case that rifle,” and the man slid his gun into its case, turned his horse and left in a slow gait, and they watched him shrink and disappear into the wide prairie.
“So, he will now go and spread this story,” Boyd said, and Pash added, “Like honey on bread,” and Boyd finished with “and Banther will be alive to the whole world.” They turned then, walking to the house.
“What’s that you called me,” she asked, “when you sent me for the money?”
“Oh, ‘dear’un.’ It’s what my grandfather called my grandmother. ‘Dear one’. Do you mind?”
She took his free hand as they walked. “Say it again?”
“Dear ’un.” And he watched her smile grow as they went on, but then she turned on him with a darker thought. “But someday they’ll come here for Banther and his huntin, and… What’ll the sheriff think? He gonna come after me?”
“We will be far, far gone, Pash. But to make sure, we’ll have Banthar leave a message. Could he write?”
“Just some. Not much.”
“We could carve it right into the wall.”
“Yeah, carve it big, right over the fireplace. What’ll it say?
#
(see the title)
