Indulgences

By Bettyann Moore

On the eve of her son’s second birthday, Thea McAllister put down the sifter she was using to make the boy’s cake, crawled into the narrow guest room bed, pulled the blankets up to her chin and stayed there.

The bed, which had been Thea’s while she was growing up in her parents’ farm house, sagged in the middle and smelled faintly of urine and knock-off Evening In Paris, the perfume of her teens. It felt like home.

With cake ingredients littering the kitchen counter and a house full of guests due to arrive the next day for their son’s birthday party, Thea’s husband, Brian, was more than a bit worried. He thought having a party for an oblivious 2-year-old was a ridiculous idea anyway (though less ridiculous than the one Thea had thrown for Leslie’s first birthday, complete with pony rides and clowns – Thea loved clowns), but Brian was loathe to pick up the phone and start making cancellation calls. What he wanted to do, even if it wasn’t a Wednesday, was head down to his secret cellar room and indulge in his lifelong and unmanly habit.

He called his mother instead.

“Well, just march in there and tell her to get her butt out of that bed,” Maggie McAllister said when her son told her what was going on. Secretly, she’d always harbored a grudge against the girl after she insisted on giving the boy – her grandson – a unsaintly name like Leslie. Her husband wasn’t crazy about the name either, calling it “namby-pamby.”

“Mom, she’s done this before; that won’t work,” Brian said with a sigh.

“When? When has she done this before? I don’t remember any such thing!”

“When we were dating,” Brian told her. “And a few times before that, according to her mother. I guess I never told you.”

So while little Leslie played with his wooden train set at his feet, Brian told her how he’d gone to Thea’s house to pick her up for their 100^thdate. He was taking her to the fanciest restaurant in town and planned on asking her to marry him. Instead, he was met at the door by Thea’s embarrassed mother.

To her credit, Mrs. Martin didn’t try to hide what was going on. She invited the young man in and, thinking perhaps he could succeed where she couldn’t, allowed him to enter her daughter’s bedroom sanctuary where Thea lay with the blankets tucked up under her chin. Her thin, white arms rested on the outside of the covers, stiffly at her sides. Her eyes were wide open.

Thea didn’t acknowledge him. Brian sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, after first getting Mrs. Martin’s nodding approval, and held Thea’s warm, damp hand. He’d expected it to be cold. None of his coaxing appeals reached her, so he simply sat and told her about his day, how he’d helped his dad turn a breeching calf in their best milking cow and how he’d rubbed down the little one with hay after it was born.

For the next two weeks, every day after evening milking, Brian talked like that to her. On the fifteenth day, as he plodded up the Martins’ front steps, Thea threw open the front door and ran into his arms, completely back to normal. And she stayed that way … until now.

Brian could hear his mother “tsk-tsking” on the other end of the line. He looked down and saw Leslie’s trains, but no Leslie.

“Look, Ma, I gotta go,” he said. “Can you come tonight and help out? Tomorrow too?”

“Of course, son,” Maggie replied. “Let me get your father’s dinner on the table and I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” Brian’s parents lived just on the other side of McAllister Pond, which was longer than it was wide; they shared and farmed 300 acres together. The land had been in the family for generations.

Brian sighed with relief and hung up the phone. He knew where he’d find Leslie and headed down the hall to the guest room.

Thea looked much the same as she had the first time he’d seen her take to her bed, though her arms were a little less thin and a little less white. Her wide-open eyes stared up at the ceiling; she seemed oblivious to the fact that her son stood at the side of the bed, just inches from her head. He didn’t make a sound. Brian shivered.

“Hey, buddy,” he said in the voice he reserved for kids and old people, “your Gramma M is coming to see you, isn’t that neat?” When the boy didn’t react, Brian sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand.

“Momma’s very tired,” Brian told the boy. “We’ll give her a nice, long rest and then she’ll wake up good as new and play with you, won’t that be fun?” Leslie cut his eyes at him. Even to a not-quite-2-year-old Brian’s happy voice sounded fake. Thea, of course, didn’t react at all.

“Come on, Little Man, let’s go get into your pjs. Maybe when Gramma gets here she’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

“Widdle Engine?” Leslie asked, not taking his eyes off his mother.

“The Little Engine that Could?” Brian asked, relieved he’d gotten his attention. “Sure! That’s one of Gramma’s best!” He stood, gathering up the boy in his arms just as the front doorbell rang. “Hey, that’s Gramma M now, let’s go let her in!”

That night, after the cake was frosted and Leslie tucked in, Brian listened while his Irish-tempered mother railed against Thea’s negligence.

“She’s indulging herself and you’re letting her!” Maggie insisted.

“She just gets real sad,” Brian said after she’d wound down a bit. “And there will be no talk about doctors or hospitals, Ma.” He made his voice hard.

“But … but … the boy ...”

Brian sighed. “How ‘bout this, how ‘bout you take him to your house for a few days after the party? I’ve got to get that last 40 acres plowed and it’d be a real help if you could do that.” He saw his mother’s eyes brighten; she liked nothing more than having her only grandchild at her side – without his mother.

Somehow they got through the party. Thank goodness Thea hadn’t scheduled any clowns or jugglers. The guests – a few kids and their parents from neighboring farms, a couple of Thea’s friends and their youngsters – bought the excuse that Thea had a touch of the flu and didn’t want to infect their guests. Once he’d gotten over his initial shyness, Leslie seemed to have a good time opening presents and playing with his new toys. Thea had worked with him for weeks before, teaching him how to blow out candles, and he proudly did so with a minimal amount of spit.

Afterward, while his mother cleaned up and Leslie played with the finger puppets that someone – the Morrisses? The Whites? – gave him, Brian and his father stepped out on the porch to drink a couple of beers and smoke cigars.

“Nice little party,” John McAllister said, easing down onto the porch swing. “Too bad Thea ...”

“Yep, too bad,” Brian said, cutting him off. He took a big swig of his beer and walked to the edge of the porch and looked out at the yard and fields beyond it.

“Just have that last 40 to do?” John asked, taking the hint. “Tricky piece, what with the lake and those big boulders. Your grandpa and I, we always did that one first.”

“I know, I know,” Brian said, turning to his dad, “to get the toughest out of the way. I like saving the worst for the last, so sue me,” he added, grinning.

Just then, they heard a commotion inside the house. Leslie was screaming at the top of his lungs and Maggie McAllister was shouting for her son. Brian rushed inside, his father at his heels.

The noise was coming from the guest room and Brian raced down the hall. Thea still lay motionless on the bed while his mother, on her knees, grappled with her 2-year-old grandson.

“No-o-o-o-o-o! I want Momma!” Leslie was screaming and fighting to get away from his grandmother and to the bed where his mother lay.

“Your momma has to stay, Leslie, honey,” Maggie was yelling to be heard.

“I want Momma!”

Brian dropped to his knees and pulled his kicking son to him. “Shhhh, shhhh, now what’s all this?” he asked, rubbing the boy’s back. He couldn’t help wondering how his wife could ignore her own son while he sobbed, taking in great gulps of air.

“I just thought we should maybe go tonight,” Maggie began, slowly rising to her feet. It was then that Brian noticed Leslie’s stuffed Spiderman backpack at the foot of the bed.

“Ma, we talked about this,” he said, still soothing his son. “Tomorrow’s soon enough and I need time to talk to him.”

“Maggie, what the hell, woman?” John McAllister growled from the doorway. He took a step inside, barely noticing the woman on the bed, and pulled his grandson from Brian’s arms. “Now, now, little man,” he said, swinging him up into the air, “what’s all this fracas and brouhaha?” A small, reluctant smile played over the boy’s snot-encrusted face.

“Yessir, fracas and brouhaha, diddlysquat and folderol!” John tossed Leslie, who was now starting to grin, up into the air. Brian was always amazed at the way his father had with the boy and how he could draw him out with a bit of silliness. It was a far cry from the father he knew as a child.

“So, you don’t want to come to your old grandpa’s house for a wee visit?” The question caused a momentary frown to cross Leslie’s face. John rushed on. “Ah, but what if we were to take the mighty ship Irish Luck across the wide, blue Lake McAllister to your old grandpa’s house?”

The “mighty ship” Irish Luck was a 16-foot fiberglass fishing boat with a 7-hp outboard motor. Leslie loved the thing. Brian and Thea had used the craft as a cradle during Leslie’s fussy infancy. He fell asleep the instant the boat left the pier. On the day that Thea caught him crawling down the pier and trying to climb aboard the old boat, though, was the day she insisted it be tied to her in-law’s pier directly across the lake instead. The temptation was just too much, she said.

“Iwish Wuck?” Leslie squealed now, wiggling with happiness in his grandfather’s arms. He’d all but forgotten his mother lying on the bed. The group made its way down the hall, Brian shutting the door behind them.

The next day, the elder McAllisters motored across the pond to their son’s pier where Brain and an over-excited Leslie waited, the boy’s backpack at their feet.

“I appreciate this, Dad, Ma,” Brian said as he strapped the wriggling Leslie into a boy-sized life jacket and lifted him onto the center seat.

“Bye-bye, Papa,” Leslie called as the boat pulled away. Brian waved and headed to his tractor. Later, he’d join his son and his parents for dinner, but in the meantime, the fields wouldn’t plow themselves. And, with the boy out of the house for a few days, perhaps he’d get a chance to sneak down to the cellar later that night, Wednesday or not.

Hours later, Maggie put her grandchild down for a nap and sighed a huge sigh of relief as she sank down into her rocking chair. Her husband, in his recliner, winked at her.

“Feeling a wee overwhelmed, Mother?” he asked, grinning.

“Was Brian this active?” she asked in return. “I don’t remember him being quite so … so into everything!”

Having kept to the barns and fields when Brian was too young to help out on the farm, John didn’t have an answer for her. The pair sat companionably in the quiet and, in turn, drifted off to sleep.

Leslie was having a nice dream. He and his momma were sitting in Irish Luck eating Gummi Worms and laughing. Leslie had never tasted a Gummi Worm – candy was a no-no – but he saw them on the TV and they looked so pretty and made everyone so giggly and happy. His momma would slurp one into her mouth, then toss one into the water where little fishes swam up to eat them. It made Momma and him laugh and laugh.

Grabbing his stuffed bunny, Leslie slid down from his Gramma’s big bed. He wanted his Momma and he wanted Irish Luck and Gummis. He wanted the tickle-good feeling he got when his momma laughed.

Gramma and Grampa were sleeping in their big chairs. Leslie sucked on his thumb and watched them for a while. Before Momma got sick, Leslie could stand by the bed and wake her up by just looking at her. Then she’d open her eyes wide, smile and let him crawl in between his Papa and her. It was warm there. Gramma and Grampa, though, wouldn’t wake up. Everyone sleeps so much, he thought.

He shuffled into the kitchen and went to the screen door. He could see Irish Luckrocking on the water. And the pond. And across the pond, he saw his papa on his tractor and his house where maybe his Momma would wake up and give him Gummi Worms. He pulled down on the shiny handle and the door popped open. Momma and Papa had put special twisty things on the doors at home and Leslie couldn’t open them. This one was easy.

The grass going down to the lake tickled his feet and the sand was almost ouchy-hot. The bumpy green stuff on the pier felt a little hot, but not too bad. Maybe it would feel better in Irish Luck. Before he tried climbing inside, though, Leslie looked up and saw his papa again, only this time he was looking right at him and waving his hat over his head and shouting something. Leslie waved back, a big wave like his papa, and tried to get into the boat.

Maggie McAllister awoke with a start, her heart pounding. Her husband still sat dozing beside her, but she could hear shouting coming from somewhere outside. Then she remembered Leslie, pushed herself up out of her chair and headed to the bedroom, still wondering what the commotion was outside. She gasped when she saw the empty bed.

“John!” she shouted. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph ... John, the boy!”

As her husband sputtered awake, Maggie came down the hall and out of the corner of her eye saw that the kitchen door was wide open. She raced toward it, shouting Leslie’s name. As she slammed through it onto the porch, she saw three things: Her daughter-in-law running out of her house, screaming; her son ripping off his shoes at the edge of the pond and her 2-year-old grandson slipping into the water between the pier and the Irish Luck.

As much as she tried to, Maggie McAllister couldn’t get Father Doyle to call it a miracle. Despite the fact that her 2-year-old grandson who’d never so much as set foot in anything larger than a bathtub had started swimming – swimming, not just floating – to her guilty mind constituted nothing short of a miracle. He listened with an open mind, he told her (when, in actuality, he just couldn’t get enough of her crumb cake), but eventually the good father had to promise that he’d call Rome. Maggie had to be satisfied with that.

She didn’t mention the other part of the miracle, that her daughter-in-law, upon hearing her husband frantically shouting Leslie’s name, broke out of her “spell” and had jumped into the water and reached Leslie long before anyone else. Her in-law’s negligence had almost cost her son’s life, but Thea never said a word against them. Somehow, that made Maggie feel that much worse.

But not John. John, in the telling, glossed over their negligence and went right to his grandson’s amazing feat.

“I get to the dock, all set to jump in,” he tells any and all listeners, “and the boy just bobs up on the other side of the Irish Luck and he starts whirling his arms and kicking his feet and swimming, by God, like a God-blessed porpoise! That’s my grandson, a God-blessed porpoise!”

Of course, the name stuck. Leslie was no more. From that point forward he was Porpoise McAllister to everyone, except his mother, who continued to wake up whenever she’d feel her boy’s eyes silently watching her.

Be My Valentine

by Colleen Sutherland 

She peered down the row of booths to the audience of the big screen TV at the end of the restaurant. The little chairs were filled with children watching cartoons. On a spring day the same children would be climbing on the play equipment outside, but this was frigid February. Cartoons were all the Jolly Burger could offer to keep the kiddies from running riot.

Her Davy was one of those children. As soon as he had his hamburger and juice, he abandoned her for the cartoons. She didn't blame him. She didn't want to be anywhere near herself either. She shoved the last melting ice around her cup. She could go to the pirates serving at the counter up front and order another, but this outing was Davy's treat. He wanted to pay for it all and she knew he didn't have any more money.

He looked back at her from his pre-school sized chair. She lifted her glass, cupping her hand to hide the lack of beverage and gave him a big smile. He grinned back and turned back to Disney.

***

It wasn't meant to be this way. Last week, Arnie was in the garage for hours as he worked with the children next door on some project.

“What's going on?” she asked when he came in for a beer.

“Grace and Billy are making a present for their mother. I suggested a window box and got dragged into it.”

“How sweet.” Olivia had been mooning around the neighborhood since her husband left her at Christmas. Poor thing, but then she let herself go after the kids were born. Some women did that. What could she expect? Though she had been losing weight since then and was looking pretty good these days.

“We've got the box made and now they're painting it with hearts.”

“That explains all the trips to Walmart.”

Valentine's Day. Usually, she and Arnie let the day slide by unobserved and forgotten, but this year, it looked like he was actually thinking ahead. She wondered what she could expect. Not much, but there might be chocolate, maybe even a single rose, something to prove his love. She began to think about what she should get him.

On her way home from the office that afternoon, she wandered through Walmart, looking for the exact present. She found a lovely sweater on clearance. Perfect. Not expensive, but the color was right for him and he would never notice the slight flaw in the back. As she stood in the express line, she dreamed of a candlelight dinner at the old Italian bistro down the block. They would probably have food poisoning the next day but it would be worth it.

The line moved on.

Or perhaps it would be a romantic movie at the 99 cent theater. She had better line up a sitter for Davy right now.

She thought for a moment she should go back and look for some lingerie. She looked at her watch. No time before she had to pick Davy up from after school daycare. Besides, the watch on her chubby wrist reminded her that her rolls of fat would show through the filmy fabric. They only made love in the dark these days. No point trying to be sexy.

The line inched forward. Why was there always some old lady trying to find coins to pay the bill exactly?

Finally, she was there. She handed the checkout clerk her credit card and kept on dreaming of flowers, chocolate and Valentine's Day cards.

“Ma'am?”

“What?” She tore her thoughts to the present.

“The card doesn't work. It's maxed out.”

“Can't be, I paid it off last month.”

“Well, it's maxed out. You'll have to pay cash.”

She searched through her bag. Nothing but a few small bills and loose change as people behind her stared.

“Never mind.” She grabbed her credit card and rushed from the store, her face red.

Arnie was sprawled on the couch with his beer watching jiggling girls in bikinis toss around a volleyball.

No, she wouldn't start another fight about money. They had been down this route before. Valentine's Day was tomorrow. He probably used up all the money on his gift for her. The day after Valentine's Day was time enough to discuss finances.

She found some macaroni and cheese dinner in the cupboard and opened a can of green beans. Tomorrow was her payday. She would get groceries. She would make Arnie a steak dinner and a heart shaped cake, chased down with a foreign beer. The Italian bistro was out unless he had some cash set aside....but she was dreaming.

***

Davy ran back from the TV.

“Can we stay for another cartoon, Mom?”

“Sure honey.” She hugged him. None of this was his fault.

***

That morning, she whispered “Happy Valentine's Day, darling” in Arnie's ear.

“Huh?”

“Fourteenth of February, dear.”

“So?”

“Valentine's Day.”

“Just another day dreamed up by the greeting card industry.” He turned over.

“But you were helping the kids next door...”

“Oh, that? Just doing a neighborly thing. The paint was more expensive than I thought and I had to buy a new drill to get the screws set properly. While I was at it, I got a few other tools, too. Got a good buy on all that stuff, 50 percent off.”

The fight was one of their better ones, epic, with Davy crying as they fought. Arnie slapped her around a bit. When the neighbors called 911, the cops came and dragged him off.

She calmed Davy down but told him he could stay home from school.

“But Mom, it's Valentine's Day.”

Yes, it was. They stopped at the dollar store for half priced Valentine's cards. Davy signed them in the car. They didn't address them since he couldn't remember the names of all his classmates.

She slapped on enough makeup to hide the bruises and went to work. She ignored the whisperings of the people she worked with and paid no attention when roses and chocolates were delivered to other women's desks. When Arnie called her to see about bail, she hung up on him.

When they got home that afternoon, Davy scampered into his room. She heard glass smashing. She was about to find out if he was acting out when he came to her, holding out his hand with all the quarters he had been saving.

“I'm taking you out to eat for Valentine's Day.” And here they were at the Jolly Burger. She looked down the row of booths to the screen. In each booth there was a woman, sitting the same way she was sitting, staring down the aisle at a child in a chair. Alone. Lonely. But each with a dearly loved child.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” she whispered to them all. “Love is love, wherever you can find it.”

But she no longer believed it.

The Night Shift

Image by ・・・・via Wikimedia Commons

When your convenience store gets robbed twice a month, you need a special kind of employee behind the register. That's me. I like the night shift, which is good, because those in my condition tend to stay up all night. The late shift is usually busy on the front end and tapers off to dead quiet later, perfectly matching my body's natural energy levels. It also leaves me with time to contemplate life, the irony of it all!

Abetter job would be night watchman at a chemical factory I suppose, but I'm not comfortable with all the noxious chemicals that may or may not affect me. Supposedly it's all safe now with OSHA guidelines, but I'm skeptical. Man has delved too deeply into chemistry without glancing from side to side to consider all its ramifications to those of us with unusual medical conditions. Anyway, I digress.

I'm half way through my Wittgenstein when the customer comes in that will rob me tonight. It's the eyes, I suppose, or the carry of the shoulders that gives her away. Her red pea coat might conceal a shotgun, but I predict a handgun. I wonder what Freud might have made of her choice if he were in my place, but I suspect that he would have more pressing issues on his mind than penis envy, or lack thereof, in the woman's choice of weaponry. He'd probably be pissing his pants. Some of us just aren't cut out for working the night shift.

“You got any A and W?” She says.

Her coat is worn at the shoulders from too many heavy purses and her sneakers are coming apart at the soles. Most of her brown hair is hidden under a knit beret. Her eyes , peeking out from under frizzy bangs, are all sunken in from too little sleep with little dark spots on the lids that will only get worse as she ages. Frown lines are inexpertly spackled with makeup, making them all the more noticeable under the fluorescents. I wonder if I pity her, and decide that I do not.

“No,” I say, “We have Barq's and Dad's, but no A and W.”

“Well then just give me some smokes.”

“What kind?”

“The ones from over there,” she says, nodding at something over my shoulder. Amateur distraction, that. Sometimes they run if you just hold your ground.

“Virginia Slims?” I stare right at her as she shifts from foot to foot.

“No, those.” She points at the rack with a wiggling finger.

“Those are American Spirit,” I say, not bothering to turn around. “You want the regular or lights?”

“No, not those, the other ones. The ones I'm pointing at.” She's almost whining at me.

“Why don't you just tell me what they're called?” I say.

“Goddammit, I don't know the names, just what they look like, okay?” She jabs her finger over my shoulder like she's leading a cavalry charge. “Gimme those.”

They always try to distract you, well almost always. Funny how people are willing to put a bullet into you for a measly few dollars, but won't look you in the eye when they pull their gun. I've met exactly three humans that had the courage or sociopathy to meet my gaze and pull their weapon. This woman doesn't have it. I don't pity her, I don't want to do her a favor, but I do want to get back to my book so I sigh and turn around. I hear the whisper of cloth and feel air tickle the back of my neck.

“You know,” I say,”if you pull the trigger now my chest will explode, my brains will paint the wall, or you're going to miss. In any case, the register isn't going to open and there's going to be a God-awful mess.”

“Just turn around, real slow,” she says.

“Slow is a relative term. What's slow to me may still get me shot. How about snail slow? Turtle slow? Mime in an invisible forcefield slow?” I pause, but she doesn't say anything. “The Earth is spinning at just over a thousand miles an hour, and I'm on the Earth, so I'm not moving all that slow at all, am I?”

“Einstein corrected that bullshit Newtonian thinking hundred years ago,” she says.

I turn around, real slow. She's standing taller now, shoulders back, and pointing a mini-cam at me.

“So you're not here to clean out the register,” I say.

“No, I'm here for an interview.”

I'd rather be shot.

“I'm working.”

“No you're not, you're reading Kant.”

“Wittgenstein.”

“Same difference.”

“Says the lady who makes the distinction between Einstein and Newton.” I shake my head. “No, I'm working. The boss allows me to read when it's slow, but never said anything about interviews.”

“I can change your mind.”

“Oh?”

“I'm doing a documentary.”

“I hate documentaries.”

“You'll like mine. It's about working the graveyard shift.”

“If I wanted to see a documentary about that, I'd bring a mirror to work.”

“I'm at a place in my narrative where I want to explore the dangers of night jobs, so I staked out some convenience stores likely to get knocked over.”

“And you found this place.”

She nods. “Number one on my list. And it's been robbed seven times since I started filming two months ago.”

Seven times? I've only been held up six. Who was the seventh? Oh yes, Lou. Poor bastard. The guy knocking him over didn't even fire. It wasn't the bullet in the end, it was the heart attack. I didn't feel too bad for him though. Five kids on four women and he never restocked the shelves during his shift. Lou's probably looking up at me now, laughing his scorched ass off.

“Funny thing,” she says, placing a thumb on a button that makes the lens twist, “the last time this place was held up, the guy shot you three times in the chest before running out with the cash. Five minutes later you stood up, called the cops, and finished the shift like nothing had happened.”

I shrug. “The guy was a lousy shot. Blew out a carton of Marlboros, a display stand of Horny Goat Weed, and the take-a-penny dish.”

She clucks her tongue at me. “Before you called the cops, you mopped up the blood from the floor and changed shirts.”

My stomach falls to my knees, someone is going to die because of this, and I hope it's not me.

“You're mistaken,” I say.

“I have it on camera.” She smiles at me like an assistant D.A. bucking for promotion. “My name's Kennedy, by the way, Kennedy Rue.”

“William Shears,” I say.

“Your name tag says Paul.”

“I know. I borrowed it.”

“So what are you, Billy?” she says. “What is bulletproof and only comes out at night?”

“I just work here, and let's just leave it at that,” I say.

“No, no, no, that will never do. I think you're far more interesting than the graveyard shift.”

“I think you should leave now, before I call the cops.”

She leans in. “Let's do that. Let's tell the boys in blue that if they go to a certain mausoleum, they'll find the gnawed remains of a man wanted for robbing this very convenience store. the same man who put three rounds in your chest a week ago.”

So she was tailing me too? I began having visions of dismemberment, being placed in separate boxes and buried in the desert.

“Coincidence. Nothing to link that place to me,” I say. Though I would have to find a new place to crash for a while, hallowed ground with the right mix of clay and loam.

“Nothing except for a hidden camera showing you crawling into the vault each morning after work.” She tilts her head and purses her lips. “What I can't figure out is why you don't smell like grave dust and rotting flesh.”

“Trade secret.”

“But I must know.”

Some assailants you can bluff into thinking you're a harder target than is worth risking. One guy just walked out when I laughed at his gun. “You wouldn't be the first investigative reporter I've eaten,” I say.

Her free hand pulls a green plastic squirt gun from her pocket. “Holy water, blessed just this morning, mixed with garlic oil.”

For the first time since I took the job, I wonder if I can get to the panic button under the counter.

“I'm not allergic to garlic, that's just a myth.”

“Noted. Are there many vampires in the world?”

I let out a long breath. No point in bluffing now. “A handful.”

“Why work here? Shouldn't you be in a castle, the head of some multi-national or something?”

“I've made many fortunes over the years, and lost every one in spectacular fashion.”

“You sound unlucky.”

I shake my head. “Every loss was deliberately planned. I like to ride the roller coaster; it adds variety to existence.”

“How'd you lose your last fortune?”

“Derivative trades. I used to run Lehman Brothers behind the scenes.”

She let out a low whistle. I shrug.

“That timetable did accelerate out of control a bit at the end, I admit. Now I just needed to start over again. A friend of mine owns this chain and was having problems with this particular location. I saw a need, and filled it.”

“The entrepreneur's mantra,” she says.

“Just so.”

“You are going to make me famous.”

“My continued existence depends on keeping a low profile.”

“Then you will want to stay in my good graces,” she says. “So here's how it's going to work. If you don't want the videos I have at home made public, you will do as I say. You will come when I call. You will come to an empty building and sit across from a camera while I ask questions from a secure location. In exchange, I will protect your identity.”

“My brethren will know regardless, they will kill me as a traitor.”

“If I release the video now, they'll surely kill you anyway. If you cooperate, I can give you a month or two head start before I release anything.”

“It won't make a difference, I say.”

“Think of it as a new roller coaster to ride.”

Whatever response I had in mind is cut short by a masked man with a shotgun bursting through the door.

“The money! In the bag!” he throws a garbage bag on the counter. Kennedy turns, the camera with her. The man's eyes narrow and he points the shotgun at her. Not a perp you can bluff, this one, a pure sociopath with his own calculus of risk and reward.

“Put that down! Down!” he says to her.

Kennedy cringes and lowers the camera. “Okay, it's off. Okay?”

He turns to me, still holding the weapon at Kennedy. “The money in the bag or I'll blow her damn head off.”

“Sure thing,” I say, and I open the till. My fastest time for clearing out a register is thirty seconds. It takes me forty-five this time because of the pennies.

“And all the cartons of hard packs,” the man says.

I begin adding the cigarettes to his bag.

“Gimme your camera,” he says to Kennedy.

She hesitates. “It's not on.”

“I don't care, give it to me.”

“You can have my wallet,” she says, “but you can't take my camera.” She looks up with a flare of defiance. “ It's mine.”

“Just give it to him,” I say.

“No!”

Kennedy then makes two mistakes. The first is not letting go of the camera when man reaches out and grabs at it. The second is grabbing at the shotgun during the struggle. There's a thunderclap, and Kennedy falls with a surprised look frozen on her face.

The masked man turns and fires a blast into my chest. I understand; in for a penny, in for a pound. I see stars when my head smacks against the floor, only clearing in time to see a gloved hand reach over the counter for a bag full of money and smokes.

I sigh and stand up a minute later. I'm pleased there is no blood behind the register. The vest I made from adult diapers seems to have done the trick. I make my way to Kennedy, mindful of not stepping in her pooling blood. I reach for the forgotten camera and fiddle with the settings until I find the “erase all” function. The police will find the security camera broken – again. Shotguns are so inaccurate weapons after all. Her wallet will be missing, which will mean it'll take a while before they identify her. In the meantime, I'll visit her place and get rid of all her evidence of my condition.

I now decide that I pity Kennedy Rue. She had enough commitment to her calling to blackmail a vampire, after all. If she had done a little more research about the psychology of armed robbery, or worn a bulletproof vest, maybe she would have come out of this alive. But that's the breaks when it comes to working the graveyard shift. Some people just don't have what it takes to survive.

Get Yourself Free

Get Yourself Free

By Bettyann Moore

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free*

The song ran a continuous loop through Porpoise McAllister’s head. He wasn’t even sure when he’d actually heard it last. A year ago? Five? It didn’t really matter. It was in his head now and, given the circumstances, appropriately so.

He swung his car, a 1977 red Gremlin (now mostly faded to pink), off the highway and onto a side street. He was in no hurry to get back to his apartment and to Jennifer. He needed time to think.

Jennifer is a great girl, he thought, really she is. Funny. Smart. Cute in an elfish sort of way. Kind. It’s the kindness part that made this so hard for him. She was so kind that she didn’t gag or anything when she’d first met his grandpa McAllister two years before and he’d blown his nose – one nostril at a time – onto the ground near her feet. Later, she’d only commented that his grandparents had some “quaint customs.” Porpoise thought that was the moment he fell in love with her.

Thing was, he was out of love with her now and didn’t know how to break it off. It had to be him. Something was wrong with him, not her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that was the way to approach it: It’s not you, Jennifer, it’s me …

No, wasn’t there a whole disastrous episode of “Seinfeld” that revolved around that theme? Or maybe it was “Friends.” Whatever. It wouldn’t be kind of him to lie to such a kind person. Fifty ways to leave your lover and he couldn’t think of one!

Porpoise meandered through unfamiliar neighborhoods, drawing ever nearer to 104^thSt. His old car choked and wheezed, drawing more than a few glances, but he was oblivious. Maybe flowers and dinner out, he mused. A bottle of her favorite wine. He thought about his bank account and rejected the idea. Besides, wasn’t that mean, too? And what if she misinterpreted the gestures before he could finally draw up the courage? The girl was crazy about him, after all, and often hinted at marriage. No, that was out.

Just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free. It was Porpoise’s apartment, a graduation gift from his grandparents; he couldn’t very well abandon it to her. Sure, he could think of better places to live than a third-floor walk-up above a fish shop on the first floor and a dry cleaners on the second (when the windows were closed during the winter, the smells and headaches came fast and furious), but it was rent-free and what could be better than that in the long run?

“Jennifer, we need to talk,” he said aloud, testing it out. No, nothing good ever came after those words. She’d get all uptight and do that thing she does with her nose when she gets nervous, flicking her forefinger rapidly up and down across the tip, looking all the world like someone with severe autism. Whenever she did that, he instinctively did whatever he could to make her stop. That would mean backing down. That was out.

No need to be coy, Roy. Maybe head-on was the way. “Jennifer, I’d like you to move out. I don’t love you anymore.”

Yikes, just thinking those words made his palms sweat. How did people do this? There would be tears for sure. And what if she got violent, started throwing things? She knew how much he treasured his vintage Star Wars action sets. What if she got even by destroying them? He envisioned Jennifer with a vengeful look on her face, laughing gleefully as she dangled Han Solo over a Bic lighter.

Porpoise shuddered and pulled the Gremlin to the curb. Mockingbird Lane and 99^thSt.; he was close to home, but no closer to figuring out how to do this. Maybe he could find a new girlfriend real fast and let Jennifer see them together … he banged his head down on the steering wheel; it was a totally classless idea.

He raised his head slowly and caught sight of a couple of teen boys pointing and laughing at him – or his car, he wasn’t sure which. He realized, finally, that there was no good way, that there would be hurt and recriminations and all sorts of un-fun things no matter how it was done. And, really, did he have to do it now? It wasn’t like they were fighting or anything … yeah, okay, Jennifer did get her knickers in a twist whenever he dressed up like Mr. Sulu and went to a Trek convention, but she always got over it. The fact that he flew all the way out to LA for the last one seemed to stick in her craw a little longer, though.

Porpoise pulled the car away from the curb, new thoughts coming fast and furious. Maybe he was darn lucky to have her. Didn’t she dust his collections for him? Make and serve Wookie Cookies to his friends last month during their Star Wars marathon? What the hell had he been thinking? Was he just taking her for granted? Maybe they just needed a little vacation, together. White sands, a beach, someplace romantic. The next Trek convention was in Miami … Porpoise pressed on the gas; now he couldn’t wait to get home.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he pulled up in front of the apartment. Jennifer’s car wasn’t in its usual place; he’d still made it home before she did. Good, Porpoise thought, I can surprise her with dinner. Fish sticks, she loves fish sticks. He’d make them special by melting cheese on top. He took the stairs two at a time, raring to get started.

Porpoise raced into the apartment and threw his backpack on the kitchen table. First, he’d change into his sweats … no, tonight was important, he’d leave on his chinos and button-down shirt and wear one of Jennifer’s aprons to protect them. Odd, though, that it wasn’t hanging on the back of the door like it usually was. He rummaged through the dish towel drawer … no, not there. Porpoise stopped and looked around. The place was eerily quiet. And empty. Where was Jennifer’s mother’s rocking chair? Her good pans that usually hung over the stove? Porpoise ran to the bedroom and flung open the closet. All of Jennifer’s clothes were missing. He checked the bathroom … her toothbrush and toiletries, gone.

“What the hell?” Porpoise wondered as he wandered through the apartment, his hand rubbing the top of his head. When he got to the display cabinet, he dropped to his knees in front of it, afraid to look. He moaned when he saw what she had done.

All of his pristine figures (Jennifer always called them “dolls” he recalled now), had been ripped from their packages – rendering them worthless – and dumped onto a shelf. Ewoks mingled with Tribbles. Solo was locked in a suggestive embrace with Captain Kirk. And, on top of them all, sat Princess Leia holding a sporting blaster.

Porpoise sat there for a long time, staring at the obvious. Soon, though, he started to smile. It wasn’t one of the “fifty ways,” but it was darn creative.

*50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, Paul Simon