Badlands Journal -- Part Two

Step, step, wheeze. Step, step, wheeze. The deader's feet scraped against the ground behind me. My muscles tensed, ready to spring, twitching with each footstep. Parts of me railed against lying here in the dust, waiting to be eaten, but Helgo's warning kept me in place; running away would assure my death. The skin on my neck itched where I imagine the deader's teeth would bite down. Still I waited.

The worst part of the waiting was Helgo playing AC/DC on the harmonica. The corpse-spinner stamped his feet in lieu of drums while the harmonica took up the rest of the song. It seemed most incongruous that my protector would be playing traditional songs of the Badlands while death plodded towards my unprotected back. I would have rather he drop the harmonica and use the shotgun at his feet, but damaging the valuable deader was out of the question. Maybe the shotgun was for me, I realized.

Rather than examine that line of thought, I began reciting the words of the philosopher Largo the Ponderous, who postulated that reality does not physically exist. I wondered what Largo would have made of a deader at his back, perhaps ten feet away. Its wheezing synchronized to a corpse-spinner's harmonica and stamping foot.

All the world is an illusion, and when we die, our souls inhabit shells within another illusion.

Shuffle, shuffle, wheeze. Eight feet away. The deader's tread pulled at pebbles. A musty smell on the air.

Though illusion, we must act as if it were reality, for we are part of the illusion as it is part of us.

Largo's loophole, as I remembered it though my professor marked me down on my essays for calling it such. The deader's shuffle kicked a pebble into my leg. I tightened my grip on the rope in my hand. Pulling it would trigger the trap, and only then could I move to safety.

We cannot know if we share our illusion with other conscious beings or soulless automatons who imitate thought.

The deader was now very close. The wind carrying the deader's wheeze to my nose. Surprisingly, there was no stench of decay, more like the wet paper smell of mildew. The wheeze seemed loud in my ears. Soon the jaws would close on my flesh. I desperately wanted to pull the rope, but wait, I must wait!

The harmonica's song abruptly changed. I felt the deader jerk behind me, and I rolled away, pulling the rope with all my strength. The deader snarled, and I felt a lash of fire on my back. I fell to the ground, scrabbling on all fours back to Helgo.

“Get the rope, idiot, before it hurts itself!” he said.

“My back --”

“It'll be fine,” he said, “unless Julius doesn't get his prize. Move!”

I ran to the coiled rope stashed behind Helgo's and tossed one end at Helgo. The deader's arms thrashed though the holes in the net. It hissed and swayed under the netting's weight, looking like it would topple over at any second. The corpse-spinner and I ran at the deader with the rope between us. I managed to duck under its grasping arms make a few passes around its ankles while Helgo secured the upper body. He gave the deader a push in the chest and slowly played out the remaining rope to bring it gently to the ground.

Helgo removed a charcoal pencil from his jacket and knelt next to the body. “I'll be a bit,” he said, “clean that scratch on your back as best you can.” He tapped a rhythm on his breast bone, started humming another traditional Badlands song, and began writing symbols on the deader's exposed skin.

*

When he had finished, the deader was free of the net, though still bound at the ankles and wrists. Its skin was covered with the same symbols embroidered in Helgo's hat and jacket. Right-angled line segments and precise arcs crisscrossed across the skin connecting the glyphs in patterns so complex it began to look like a tattoo of tangled fishing lines in an arcane alphabet soup.

“She's ready to go,” Helgo said.

“She?” I said, though on further inspection it was apparent that the deader appeared female.

“They come in both kinds,” Helgo said, “I think I'll call this one Betty.”

“Isn't that just a little sentimental, naming a future engine part?”

“I think she likes it.”

“Oh come on, they're mindless. How can they like anything?”

“You remember the song I played to bring her in here?”

“Some traditional Badlands fare, I couldn't place it.”

“That, my man, was AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill, and she totally dug it.”

“I was too busy trying not to get killed.”

Helgo shook his head. “No, you don't get it. Betty here is partial to AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Mellancamp. A woman after my own heart, at least where music's concerned.” He scratched at that place on his breast bone where he had tapped the rhythm. “She has them rattling around in whatever it is she has for a brain. Necrological engineers like myself hear that in a deader and use it to control them.”

“But do they actually appreciate it, or do they just respond to it? Maybe it's like the snake charmer. The cobra is just following the end of the flute, not caring what the charmer is playing.”

“You're the philosopher, professor. But what's the difference matter?”

Largo couldn't have said it better.

We carried Betty between us back to the 'thoper on a pole. She quickly grew heavy. Helgo said little on the march. I was troubled by his assertion that the deaders had preferences in music. One of the ideas of consciousness was that it could appreciate esoteric concepts such as art and music. If a deader could prefer music, perhaps it actually liked it. Was it more than some kind of affinity, or was there something of a soul behind the limited intelligence? What are the ethical implications of using them as power sources? Did they mind? Did they resent it? Wasn't it the same thing as slavery? The thoughts swirled around in my head to the point that I stumbled over a protruding rock and got an angry curse from Helgo.

“Watch out there, professor.” he said. “One scratch on Betty here, and Julius may decide to see if he can't make a deader out of you in her place.”

“That can't be done, can it?”

Helgo doffed his hat and wiped at his forehead. “I figure they had to come from somewhere. And with all the weird crap out here in the Badlands,why not?”

“Maybe it's exactly right, and the deader has the same tastes in music as when they were alive.”

“Maybe. Come on, we're almost there.”

*

With the deader secured in the back, Helgo began checking over the ornithopter for our flight to camp. My newly found moral dilemma would have to wait until I solved the problem of Julius.The turncoat expedition leader hadn't expected me to survive with Helgo, but now that I had, I wondered how he would react. Could he risk bringing me back to Paradise City, risking apprehension by the gendarmes if I complained? No, I decided, he could not. Does anyone question an expedition leader if one of his charges is lost in the Badlands? Not at all. Happens all the time.Therefore, when Julius pulled his gun on me and forced me into a suicide mission, my death was a foregone conclusion.

“I'm a dead man, aren't I?” I said out loud. “Julius can't take me back to civilization now.”

Helgo looked up from the port fan housing. “Probably not.”

“Then help me. Let me go. Say I was killed.”

“You'd not last more than a few days before you ran out of water, assuming the thousand ways the Badlands kills doesn't get to you first.” Helgo crouched under the 'thoper's wing and frowned at a stabilizer. “Maybe Julius will take you back, or let you buy him off. At least he can be reasoned with. The Badlands can't. Worst case, at least he kills you quick.”

“You take me then. Fly me back in the ornithopter. I'll report Julius and his crew. You can keep the deader to start a new life. “

Helgo's head dropped, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “Can't. If I cross Julius, I won't see the next sunrise.”

“I can protect you.” I didn't know how, but there had to be someone at the university that could, I was sure.

He seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. “It's complicated, but believe me, no matter where I hid, Julius' revenge would find me.”

“What does he have over you?”

Helgo brought out a pendant from under his shirt, a simple silver hoop about the size of a child's fist. I noticed it was attached to a cord such that it hung at the level of his breast bone.

“See this? It's why deaders don't see me as food.”

“Some kind of magic amulet?”

“No, it's an amulet that's missing something. The part of my essence that deaders see as alive.”

“Like a soul?”

“It's a little more complicated than that, but 'soul' will do. Bottom line is I can go maybe a week without being around it, but after that, I'll fade. Either end up dead, or something like Betty back there.”

“And Julius has it.”

Helgo nodded. “I got in a bit of trouble a while back, and Julius bought my way out of it. Until I repay him, he keeps my stone. As long as I stay close enough, like in camp, I'm fine. But if I run or cross him, he'll destroy it.”

“And how many deaders do you owe him?”

“Fifty, plus one every year as interest.” Helgo spat. “I wasn't in much of a position to bargain.”

“And you get how many deaders a year?”

“Two or three.”

“I'll make you a deal. I'll get your soul back from Julius, and you fly us back to Paradise City.”

Helgo slipped the pendant back under his shirt, and his pale eyes stared at me. It seemed like a long time before he spoke.

“If you can stay alive long enough, and get it, you have a deal. But I've been looking for Julius' hiding spot for five years with no luck.”

“Just leave it to me,” I said. I hoped that I sounded more confident than I felt.

*

As Helgo landed the 'thopter, we were met by Julius and and several of his armed crew. He rested his hands on his belt, near the wood-grained pistol butt sticking out from its holster.

“Well, Helgo,” Julius said, “I see you managed to bring one back alive this time. I guess I owe Marco a beer,” he said, turning to frown at a small dark-haired man who shrugged despite the ammunition-heavy bandoleers strapped across his chest.

“Had to happen sometime, boss” Marco said.

“Yeah, I guess it did.” Julius said. To Helgo: “Did we get the deader?”

“She's in the back, prime condition.”

Julius grunted and turned to me. “Well, Nelson, no worse for the wear?”

“Apart from the sliced hand and lacerated back?”

Julius waved a hand. “All easily fixed.” Marco's mouth curled up in a small smile that set my stomach churning. Time to put caution to the wind.

“Still,” I said, “on the whole, the experience was quite edifying. If the opportunity arose, I might like to tag along once more.”

Julius narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Helgo here says that deaders have individual tastes in music.”

“So?”

“Well, as you recall, I hold a doctorate in applied philosophy. The implications of deaders having individual preferences are staggering. It would turn the department upside down if they found out.”

“Really?” Julius' hand moved almost imperceptibly toward his pistol.

I put on my best abashed face. “Well, perhaps not. The senior faculty is a rather stuffy lot. But at the very least I could present a paper.”

“A paper.” Julius' tone didn't change. Marco's thumb hooked under his rifle's sling. I wondered if they would shoot me before I got out of the ornithopter or wait until I was somewhere that wouldn't make such a mess. I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Well, you know what they say about academia: it's publish or perish.”

Julius stood still for a moment before bursting out laughing. Marco's hand eased from the rifle sling.

Julius said, “Publish or Perish! Indeed, professor, indeed! Go see those scratches are dressed.” He walked off to his tent, chuckles erupting like aftershocks.

I looked at Helgo, who was unloading Betty from the 'thopter. He wouldn't meet my eyes, but gave a slight nod.

Helgo told me to look for a stone the size of a child's fist, a lump of white marble shot through with blue and green. Julius seemed to be allowing me my status as a guest without any camp responsibilities. I took advantage of this status to play the obnoxious university professor, passing off my nosing around as gathering information for my paper, though I always felt either his eyes or Marco's on me at all times as I made my rounds.

Much like Helgo had feared, I couldn't find any place that made sense for Julius to hide the stone unless it were somewhere on his person or in his tent. The camp was too accessible to all for Helgo not to have found it in the common tents or the vehicles. Julius' mistrust of his crew made it unlikely he would have someone else stow the stone in their personal gear. That night, I approached Julius' tent, racking my brain as to how I would be able to search it without being too obvious.

I opened the flap to Julius' tent. Inside were a few low canvas chairs, a footlocker, and a cot. Julius was reclined on the cot, reading a book with a faded cover by lantern light. He set the book aside as I entered, and I noted that even here he kept his hand close to the revolver on his hip.

“What can I do for you, professor?” he said.

“It occurred to me that Helgo is the only necrological engineer I've ever been in close contact with, and perhaps his methods are different from others. It could, I would suppose, undermine my paper if this were the case.” My speech was starting to come out in a rush. “I was wondering if you could tell me if you've ever used other necrological engineers out here in the Badlands? Do they always use music? Has anyone tried anything else?”

I tried to keep my eyes on Julius, and away from the footlocker. He stared at me for several seconds while the fingers on his gun hand drummed on his stomach.

“I don't know, professor. Fact is, most corpse-spinners work in the Paradise City factories and power plants. It's not often you see one out here in the Badlands. Helgo's the only one I know of that's been available for hire.”

“Oh, how much are his services?”

“Trade secret, I'm afraid,” Julius said. “And before you ask, he is under exclusive contract for the forseeable future.”

I tried my best to look disappointed. I found myself wondering if Julius slept with Helgo's stone under his pillow.

“You know, professor, now that we're alone, I've been meaning to ask you about something.”

“Yes?”

“It's about me putting this revolver in your ear,” he said, patting his gun. There suddenly didn't seem to be enough air in the tent.

“Yes. I recall that most vividly,” I said.

“Well, it seems to me that you would have grounds to hold a grudge for that, plus all the other – ” he waved a hand in the air. “...inconveniences involved with helping Helgo capture the deader.”

He rose from the cot and stepped towards me.

“Now most men can't let that kind of thing lie. Most men out in that camp there would be waiting for me in the dark with their Sunday-best pig-sticker. But not you, professor.”

“I – well I – ”

My mind raced. Again the words of Largo came to me. When others in the world show you hardship, thank them, for it is only through hardship that one can break through the veil of illusion in the world.

“The fact of the matter is, Julius, you did me a favor.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm embarrassed to say that I have always been known as, uh, well, not brave.”

“Mm.”

“Yes, well, while your methods were certainly unorthodox, you didget me out into the wastes and I faced the terrors of the Badlands and lived to tell the tale. And in the process, I have something new to advance my career with this music-deader phenomenon. You sir, made that happen. Thank you.” I stuck out my hand.

Julius looked at my hand for a moment before he smiled. His rough palm grasped mine. “You're one weird duck, professor,” he said.

“That notwithstanding,” I said, “you won't mind if I leave out the part about the gun when we get back? It would cause me nothing but embarrassment.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Julius said. He let out a gruff laugh. “In fact, I say we drink on it. Care for a snort?”

“Love one,” I said not even lying.

Julius went to his footlocker and opened it. He took out a pile of clothing and some ledgers before withdrawing a corked green bottle and two glasses. I peered over his shoulder into the footlocker, but saw nothing but a few more glasses, and some papers. Unless the footlocker had a false bottom, Helgo's stone wasn't in there either.

Julius handed me a glass with some brown liquid in it.

“To fine brandy, and fine lies,” he said.

I swallowed liquid fire, and doubled over as I coughed several times.. I hoped my lies were better than the brandy.

“Don't worry, professor, it'll grow on you.” Julius pounded on my back, right where Betty had scratched me. My body struggled with the dilemma of sorting out which hurt more, the liquid eating at my esophagus or the re-opened wound on my back.

“Ah-” I went down to one knee against the pain. My vision blurred as my eyes welled up. I reached out to steady myself, and my fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. AC/DC's Heatseekerflooded through my head. Then suddenly stopped as Julius slapped my wrist away.

“Watch what you're reaching for, professor,” His voice held an edge, “some men would kill you for touching their gun.”

I shook my head, unable to get my throat working at first. “Deader got my back,” I managed, “sorry. Thought I was going to fall.”

“Better you let yourself fall next time. Here,” he reached down to pull me up.

My eyes cleared and I had a look at the revolver, still in the holster. The pistol's butt appeared to be wood, but close up, I could see there was something odd about the grain in the middle. Julius turned away as I regained my feet, and put his long coat on, hiding the pistol from view.

“Best you go get that checked back out, professor. It's about time I made the rounds.”

“Right,” I said, “thanks for the drink, for everything.”

“Don't mention it.”

As I crossed camp, I replayed the vision in my head. But for the color, Julius' pistol butt was just about the size of a child's fist.

Helgo came up to my tent later as I was re-wrapping my bandages.

“Any luck?” he said.

“He painted it and made it into a pistol grip.”

“Are you sure?” he said.

I told him what happened in Julius' tent. “It sang Heatseekerwhen I brushed it.”

“All right. So now what?”

“Now, I need you to find us another deader.”

To be Continued...

Badlands Journal -- Part One

Exerpt from The Cursed Treasure:  Poetics of Reclamation in the Badlands, by Nelson Conrad 

"While gasoline, high-carbon steel, canned food and other refined artifacts lure many to brave the dangers of the Badlands, it is the possibility of capturing a Deader that brings a gleam to the profiteer's eye. Creatures of the wastes, deaders appear from a distance to be human, though it soon becomes apparent they are little more than mindless animated corpses. The flesh is putrefied, consistent with an expired body of five to ten days. However, the decomposition is somehow arrested from progressing any further. It is unknown how long a deader can remain in this state, but several specimens have been in service for over fifteen years. The deaders, like the pavement of the Endless Highway, seem to be immune to the ravages of time.

The interesting part of the deader condition is that the energy that sustains the quasi-dead state can be harnessed. Necrological engineers have the ability to subdue deaders and bind them to necrodynamic engines, which in turn power our airships, generators, and other assorted machinery. The efficiency, energy output, and reliability of the dynamos are outmatched only by the rarity of their power source."

The college's operations office had assured me that my berth with Julius McMurtry's Expeditionary Reclaim and Salvage was the safest option for a trip into the Badlands.  Would I need to bring a gun? Why not at all the owner said with a smile. I was assured that all security precautions were taken to ensure my safety, and my status as noncombatant observer underwritten by a hefty chunk of my department's grant. One week into the trip, the click of his revolver's hammer told me my money's guarantee had run out.  

Julius pressed the pistol to my ear, the sun-heated metal searing against my skin.

"Now you see, Nelson," he said, "we gotta send someone with Helgo to go get the deader, and I can't spare anyone else."

"And what about my retainer?" I said. "It was enough so you could have hired on someone else to go with your corpse-spinner."

"Yeah, I could have, but I didn't." Julius scratched at his beard, sending little puffs of dust flying in the air. We were all coated in dust, fine red particles that found its way into all conceivable crevices. Julius looked like he had been dipped in rust. His pistol was immaculate.

"Without that deader, I don't make my payroll. I don't make payroll, then I may as well throw myself onto a prop blade; it'd be less messy by the time the crew was done with me. Tell you what, if you survive, you can have your retainer back."

"Thank you." I could have told him that any more payments on my part were over, but I thought it best not to argue with a searing gun barrel in my ear.

"Excellent, Helgo is waiting for you." Julius withdrew his weapon, but kept it free of the holster as I walked across the camp to the corpse-spinner's ornithopter. The other men looked on with a mix of amusement, pity, and relief. Julius' crew hadn't struck me as superstitious or cowardly, but it was well known that Helgo's partners had the unfortunate tendency to die.

Helgo, a thin man with twisted dreadlocks and black braided beard, sat in the ornithopter's open cockpit, grinning at me with blackened teeth and a knowing smile.

"Drew the short straw?" he said.

"The only straw there was," I said, climbing into my seat.  

"Don't worry, they only die when they forget the rules. You're a good learner, aren't you? Know anything about deaders?"

"I hold doctorates in anthropology and applied philosophy from St. Yingwe's," I said. "I read several papers about the Badlands in the department archives that mentioned deaders, among other things.

Helgo shook his head and started up the ornithopter's fans. "That's two strikes against you. Can you play the harmonica?"

"No."

"Three strikes then." Helgo lowered tinted goggles over his eyes and pulled his bandanna over his nose. "But I'll hold out hope nevertheless."

The howl of the fans and their kicked up sandstorm swallowed my protests.

The noise of the airstream made conversation impossible, which suited me fine.  What should have been a simple, relatively low-risk trip into the badlands for my field research into the Endless Highway had taken a turn for the worse.  I was definitely going to file a grievance with the Administrative Board when I returned. Assuming I returned, I reminded myself.

From high up, the badlands looked almost beautiful with its red cliffs and striated hoodoos. The black ribbon of the Endless Highway wound its way as though the canyons as though it had cut through the rock itself. Occasionally, we found greying remains of buildings, flying around such ruins to avoid any chance of a bandit raider with a rifle taking us down with a lucky shot.

Helgo's black beard and sun-bleached dreadlocks whipped in the slipstream. Red dust coated his long black jacket, obscuring the silver runes stitched in columns down its length. He kept one hand on the control yoke, and tapped some kind of rhythm on the air with the other. Occasionally, his free hand would stop in mid-tap, and he would alter our course. After four such corrections, he put the 'thopter into a stomach-clenching dive. He pulled up just as I was certain we would make a rather spectacular crater, and landed the craft with a bounce.

"This is the place," he yelled as he shut down the fans, "get out."

I rubbed feeling back into my knuckles and alighted from the 'thoper.

"What now, corpse-spinner?" I asked. Maybe the man would see reason. "I'm hardly suited for this kind of thing. I'm not even armed."

Helgo held up a finger. "One, it's 'necrological engineer' not 'corpse-spinner.' " He extened a second finger. "Two, weapons won't help us collect the deader. Three, you're probably the most qualified man Julius ever sent. So go get that crate tied to the back, and stop it with the questions already."

As I untied the crate, Helgo put his tinted goggles into a pocket of his duster and withdrew a black felt hat covered in the same silver runes as his coat. He reached under the pilot's seat and withdrew a sawed-off shotgun that went somewhere under the folds of his jacket.

"I thought you said weapons wouldn't help with the deader."

He shrugged. "Won't hurt either. Nobody but a fool goes into the Badlands unarmed."

Another point to bring up with the Administrative Board. At least I had my field notebook. I began composing my opening statement for the inquiry.

We hiked in the afternoon heat, Helgo leading and humming some kind of melody.

"Where is the deader?" I said.

"Close, pretty close," Helgo said. "We need to find the proper ground."

It turned out that the proper spot was a dead-end slot canyon. Helgo directed me to open the box. As I flipped the catch, an edge sliced into my hand. I let out a yelp. Blood flowed from my palm and was greedily sucked up by the red dust at my feet.

"Here, take this" he said, holding out a rather dubious scrap of stained grayish cloth.

"I'll get tetanus from that -- or worse," I said.

"It's either that or keep on bleeding over the ground. Julius will have a thread and needle at camp to fix it up right," he said. After a pause, "He may not even charge you for it if I put in a good word."

I was creating a rather ghastly circle of dark spots around myself. I wrapped the least stained portion of the dirty rag around my hand as tightly as I could, trying to tell myself that it would be better to die of tetanus in a few months rather than bleeding to death in the next few minutes.

Helgo upended the crate. Wooden poles, cording, and hemp net clattered to the ground. Helgo quickly assembled what I assumed was to be the trap, though I doubted its efficacy.

"It's no more than a frame with a net on top. Won't the deader just step around it?"

"Deaders are basically stomachs with legs," Helgo said. "They don't notice much around them once they get the scent. Besides, you're going You'll also need to lie down on the ground, and stay still until the last second. Deaders sometimes spook if their targets seem too lively."

I was the bait. Of course I was bait. So obvious, really. Next time, I'm sending a graduate student out for the field work. More details assembled themselves in my head. 

"I take it deaders are attracted to blood."

"You guessed it."

"Why my blood and not yours?"

"Someone's got to play this." He held up a harmonica.

"You jest."

Helgo shrugged. "They respond to music."

"That wasn't mentioned in any of the papers I read."

"That's because I doubt anyone writing them ever bothered coming out here."

"So what are you going to play, a lullaby or something?"

"You need to play the right kind of music, or it won't work. You gotta know what they're going to respond to." Helgo waved the harmonica. "I'll be playing this to keep you safe."

 "I'd feel better if you were hanging on to the shotgun instead."

"Deaders full of slugs aren't worth anything. We need 'em intact."

"What happens if I don't get the net on it right away?"'

Helgo shrugged. "Just don't let that happen."

 "I won't do it," I said, "Take me back."

"I could, but Julius would shoot you and use your corpse as dead bait, even though it doesn't attract deaders all that well. Either way, you're going to have to lie under that trap. This way is better, isn't it?"

I stepped toward  him, ready to pummel him and take my chances flying home in the ornithoper. But he anticipated my move, jumping back as the shotgun magically appeared is his hands.

"Hold on there, professor," he said, "I'll hobble and stake you if I need to, but I swear you can do this and come out alive if you just do what I say."

"Your history around camp says otherwise."

"They panicked, and dropped the trap too early. Deaders can be deadly quick when spooked."

More details snapped into place in my head. "Deaders are too valuable to risk damaging," I said, "and Julius can't trust any of his hired guns not to have a weapon stashed if they're used for bait."

"Just so. We usually have convicts for bait. Bad idea, really. Have to tie them up so's they can't get away, and they're usually dead by the time I can open the trap. Death Row was empty this month, so Julius improvised."

Helgo held the shotgun on me. Through the opening of his coat I could see the manacles I had assumed were for the deader would fit my limbs just as well. 

"The only way out of this is with a captured deader?"

"Just so. Your best chance is to do this my way."

I stared at him, his pale eyes seeming to glow under the shade of his hat. They didn't waver, but neither did they seem cruel.

"Fine," I said, "What do you want me to do?"

Helgo lowered the shotgun. "The rules for luring the deader into a trap and surviving are simple."

So it was that I found myself lying face-down in the dust as Helgo played AC/DC on the harmonica.  My eyes glued to Helgo's rules in my field journal, I fought the urge to run as shuffling footsteps approached.


To Be Continued...

T

Our good friend Nikki Kallio shares two stories this week created from a Three Word Wednesday writing prompt   (http://www.threewordwednesday.com). If you like them, please let us know by leaving a comment, or by visting her blog. (http://morepurplehouses.blogspot.com)

T

The words are advance, pander, shuffle.

Mornings came earlier and night came sooner and people seemed more tired, hungry. Truckers wedged themselves into vinyl seats and made her feel important. She was the go-between, the pander for their addiction to coffee and stale danishes. Old men with crossword puzzles, young men with want ads. The old men wanted to chat, the young men didn’t. Times were tough but people still ate out. They saved money by not tipping. She saved money by not paying her bills. If her phone got turned off, so what? She only heard from creditors and her ex. They sounded the same. She’d pin the phone between her ear and her shoulder and say, yes, I know, and shuffle through her deck of dollar bills – once fifty-two of them, exactly – and think about how quickly they’d be dealt. Hospital, credit card, electric. Babysitter, phone, gas. Rent, groceries. Every month was a test: All of the above, none of the above, or choose A and B? Maybe she’d “borrow” another bag of bread, another giant can of vegetables from the diner. If Emil noticed he never said. Maybe he knew that the deck was stacked against her. Once he advanced her a check when her car wouldn’t start – something with the transmission, the mechanics told her, and then handed her an estimate for seven hundred and some. No car, can’t get to work. No work, no rent money. Pay for the car, rent goes unpaid anyway. Sleep in the car, lose the child. She smiled through it, smiled at work, because if you didn’t smile and pretend then you made even less money. She was an actress paid to perform. A tight-wire act. 

Charlene and the Chocolate Factory

The words are pulse, shard and weary.

Another time or place she would’ve made other choices but she found herself chasing one weary day with another, stacking time and building hours while other people lived better lives.
The shakers continuously pulsed, ridding the chocolate pieces of excess covering. Perfect pieces for perfect people in perfect houses. Sweetness all around her but all for someone else.
She turned and felt her elbow bump something that shouldn’t have been there. The bottle hit the cement, broke into a couple of large pieces and a few chips, some of them sharp.
The chocolate skittered by on the shaker. Pieces of glass on the floor, dangerous.
She bent, touched the imperfect pieces.
One sliver, tiny but strong. A little pressure would break skin.
Just one shard, pressed hidden in a perfect piece. It traveled down the line on its way to a pretty box, to a lovely store, to some perfect someone.
Licked her fingers. Hummed.

The Pastor

by Colleen Sutherland 

(Note: "The Pastor" is the last of the depressing Christmas stories this season, to the relief of many of our readers.  It will also be the final story in the collection I hope to publish next summer.  It pulls all the other stories together.  Refer back to "The Rapture," "A Candle in the Window", "Shades of Green," and "The Cat".)

Reverend Peets hid, rubbing his aching knees. Through a crack in the curtains that covered the glass windows in the secretary's office, he peered out at the congregants assembling in the narthex for Christmas morning services, shaking hands and wishing each other a not so enthusiastic “Merry Christmas.” They were tired and so was he.

A Sunday morning Christmas was the worst thing that God could inflict on a Methodist pastor. When Christmas fell on a weekday, all he had to worry about was Christmas Eve, mostly music and very little sermon. No one listened anyhow, so absorbed in their holiday. It was all lights, carols, schmaltzy tradition and no theology on this pagan holiday dreamed up by the Romans and carried on by the barbarians. There wasn't much for him to do. The choir director, Sunday school and the organist took care of the inspiration. On a Sunday Christmas Day, however, he was in charge of his flock, mostly the old faithful who would show up no matter what the occasion, from baptisms to funerals. Yes, they were all out there, leaning on canes and walkers as they took off their cloth coats. Mostly women, their white hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights at the entrance. They seemed to be missing one or two of their chirpy group. But there were also a few others. Family members from faraway places had been dragged in, hungover and grumpy, there only to make sure they were still included in the will.

If it weren't for the money Christmas services brought in, he would have had a theological discussion with the church council, suggesting cutting back to bare bones services. But there were those out-of-towners, big city people who liked to flash bills as they threw them into the collection plate.Christmas was a budget balancer.

There was Fran, already gearing up for the city's primary election in February, haranguing anyone who didn't move past her through the narthex and on into the church. Pastor Peets had tried setting off a non-political area but Fran was above any rules, above any sanity when it came to political matters. He was thankful that Christmas fell nowhere near the November elections. It slowed Fran down a bit when the congregations were smaller.

The pastor had already asked the ushers to steer Democrats and other liberals to another part of the church.

“Where?” the head usher asked.

“Anywhere but next to Fran.”

They all laughed. Easy for them, once Sunday was over, they could avoid her for another week. He had to listen to her in committees, Bible Study, and finance meetings.

Oh God, there was the Dreadnight family. They usually attended The True Gospel Church but it wasn't having services today, because their so called minister with his degree from some strange theological college in North Dakota was a circuit rider who had another church. So Miranda came with her three children, and Argyll came along to instruct people, especially Peets, about the Bible, on which he thought he was the ultimate expert. There would be no escape from him after services. The children seemed exceptionally happy so Miranda must have worked one of her miracles. They wore clothes that looked new but probably came from a thrift store. Argyll didn't believe in spoiling the children. He watched as the ushers conferred. If he knew Jimmy Ellsworth, Argyll would be seated next to Fran. Jimmy had a wicked sense of humor.

There was the choir's best alto, charging in late. She was always late. Time was something she didn't observe. He suspected she had never gotten around to changing her clocks after daylight savings time shift, but wouldn't that make her early? Never. The choir director would like to give Agnes the heave hoe in a polite Christian way, but Agnes could read music and rarity of rarities, could stay in tune. No Agnes, no choir.

There was the worst soprano. Abby was usually off key but she was faithful. She looked harried and where was that precious son of hers? Ah yes, she had some of the Avery Gazette's with her. She was handing them out to some of her son's customers, who shuffled the flyer-heavy papers from hand to hand and finally stacked them on top of the coat racks. Charles must be sick. She wore wet running shoes and jeans, but once in a choir robe, it made no difference, as she often pointed out to him. He figured that was why she sang in the choir at all. Poor Abby had so little and singing in the choir meant she could attend church without having her clothes commented on. She usually arrived early, the last to leave, her body encased in the olive green choir robe for the duration.

Who else? Oh yes. Byron. Dressed in a sparkling jacket, a green tie and underneath that a shirt with homoerotic naked Santas chasing each other. Why be so obvious? Especially at Christmas? But Byron looked like he had been up all night. Perhaps it was his way to finally come out to his elderly mother and father. Yes, that was it. They were there, all right, their lips pursed tightly, their wrinkles even more wrinkly than a week ago. Oh God, they would want to talk to him after the service to ask for an intervention and to convince their darling to seek treatment. He would be lucky if he could get away with a brief prayer.

In his own prayers, he had taken to praying a simple “Thy will be done.” Why did these people think they could tell God what to do. As if God cared, one way or another.

At this point in his life, the Reverend Peets had taken to believing only on odd days, leaving even days open for his own mental debates and Sundays as work days to be slogged through. He thoroughly hated Christmas. His depression began just before Thanksgiving, coinciding with his last hunting trip of the season. It lasted through February and his mood never improved until Easter, the resurrection which was theologically so satisfying, especially when it fell just before the opening of trout season.

His wife was as dutiful as the minister's daughter she was, but she told him two years ago that though Christmas used be her favorite holiday, filled with lights, music, presents and Santa, he pulled her down with him. She took Ralph and Jennie and went to visit her parents for the holidays, coming back mid- January. One of these years, they wouldn't come back at all, he knew that, but he was too old to start a new career. So he went on, hating his profession, despising the people in the congregation, even kicking the cat on bad days.

He rubbed his knees again. Last night, after services, he had opened a bottle of whiskey. Someone gave him the first bottle years before, though Methodists were known to be teetotalers. Most of his flock drank, but as their shepherd, he had to set an example. He carefully put it in the back of the kitchen larder. “You never know when someone who is not in the congregation might have a need for it,” he told Janey. She rolled her eyes and said nothing. Whenever he was at an out of town conference he shopped in liquor stores. He had replaced the bottle several times, always finding the exact same brand until the manufacturer changed the label. He carefully refilled the old bottle from the new bottle and hoped Janey didn't notice the torn neck label. He suspected she did, but always dutiful, she said nothing, but that bottle might have had something to do with her holiday escapes.

Last night, after services, he had a drink...maybe more than one...and he slipped going upstairs and landed on his knees. They hurt like the blazes of hell, probably what he deserved.

He leaned back in the secretary's chair. In a minute or two, he would have to put on his robe. They all knew he was in there. His car was outside and every one knew that.

There was a knock on the door. Reverend Peets waited for a brief second, sighed and got up.

“Yes?” he asked.

“We're running out of grape juice, Pastor.”

Dammit all to hell, thought Pastor Peets, knowing that the thought was as bad as the word and the word as bad as the deed. He had forgotten it was a communion service. In a moment of pastoral enthusiasm, he had agreed with the worship committee that it would be a good idea to serve communion to those who only came to church once a year, as if that would do much for their immortal souls. He knew that what had probably happened that long ago passover was just Jesus having a drink or two with old friends before going off to be killed. How was that any different than young soldiers going off to war?. How many of them left for their wars hungover?

He opened the door to talk to Scott, the head usher.

“You'll have to thin the grape juice out with water,” he said.

Scott's mouth fell open. “Is that OK? Will that work?”

“We're Methodists. It isn't the blood of Christ in our tradition. It's a remembrance,” Pastor Peets said. “You can remember with just a touch of grape. Or tell you what. Put it all in one cup and we'll have everyone dunk in the bread.”

“Isn't that what Catholics do?”

“No. They use wine.”

“OK. But I think we need to keep better track of the grape juice in the future.”

“I'll put you in charge,” Peets said, but Scott backed away. There was nothing like asking someone to volunteer to make them shut up. At least to him. Scott was already heading in the direction of Fran, who loved to stir up complaints against anyone in power. It was her specialty.

Peets was about to turn back when he saw Fred, the lonely old solder come in. He liked Fred, who had never harmed anyone since he came back from Vietnam. No one but himself, Peets amended. There had been those drinking years. Fred always sat on the other side of the church from his neighbors, the Barneys, whose son was off in Afghanistan. Or was it Iraq? And where were they anyhow? He hadn't received their usual prayer request.

Fred caught his eye and shook his head. He slid sideways to the door.

“No prayer request today from Frank and Alice. Johnny didn't make it. He's coming home the hard way.”

As Peets closed the office door, he cursed the Deity. He cursed the war. He cursed the government. Poor Johnny. Poor Frank and Alice who would never again have a happy Christmas. He thought about the whiskey bottle. He would have a drink in remembrance of Johnny tonight.

He put on his robe and draped the green Christmas cowl over it, the one Janey had embroidered with the flame and the cross. Out of habit he went to the little altar in his office and knelt to say a before service prayer, but couldn't find the words.

Never mind he thought and tried to push himself up. He couldn't. He found his legs wouldn't straighten. He could not get up. His knees had finally given out in this last act of faith.

Skinny Ray

Skinny Ray always said that between the suicides and fires, he'd just as soon skip December all together. After reading Ray's obituary, Mike felt a quiet anger growing in his stomach. From the way the obituary was worded, highlighting the fire fighter's distinguished service awards and all the lives he saved, but tiptoeing around the actual cause of death, Mike knew Ray had killed himself. The bastard had finally found a way to skip December, and no one had bothered to let Mike know.
 
In fact, Mike had missed the funeral altogether. He had only found out about it all by clicking the wrong link on the computer, getting the obituaries instead of the hockey scores. Now Ray's body was on the way to some cemetery in Kansas of all places, and it would be a bugger to find out where the place was. Not that knowing the exact location would help him now, Mike thought, it would probably be a few more days before they put Ray in the ground, so there wasn't anything for him to go visit, now was there?

“Hell with it,” Mike said to a shaggy brown dog resting in the corner, “We're going Christmas shopping.”

Grizzly thumped his tail against the floor, and headed for the foyer. Mike grunted as he got up from his chair, pushing off with his left arm to ease the ache in his leg. The dumb dog didn't know Christmas from Mickey Mouse, otherwise he might have started asking his owner questions. But all the dog knew was that he was going for a ride. Grizzly was already dancing at the door, looking between it and Mike as Mike got his coat on. Damn dog is always ready before me, Mike thought.

“Must be good to be a dog,” Mike said, opening the door,“let's go.”
 
Mike flipped through the channels on the car stereo. Christmas music, switch. Holiday sale, switch. More Christmas Music, switch. Another Holiday sale – off.

“Damn airwaves are cluttered with crap,” he said to Grizzly, who looked briefly at Mike before going back to stare at the waving kids in the next lane over. Grizzly let out a soft woof.
 
“Let them be, Griz,” Mike said, “They're probably doped up on candy canes on the way to Grandma's house.”
 
Grizzly didn't seem to care. His tail twapped the seat and dashboard, making a sound like a boxer pummeling a canvas bag.
 
“Ai!” Mike said, slapping the dog's haunch. Grizzly slid down the seat and looked back at Mike.

“You're better off, Grizzly,” Mike muttered, “in their condition they're as liable to try riding you like a reindeer as blast your ears out with off-key caroling.”

Grizzly thumped his tail twice, and settled down for a rest.

The Fleet Farm parking lot was full. The store smelled like perfumed cinnamon sticks, and you couldn't escape it even if you were in the middle of the tire racks. He had to maneuver around carts three abreast in aisles only wide enough for two. He and an woman wearing a Santa hat exchanged four letter words over a box of silver bell ornaments. Mike had to wait twenty minutes while some guy who had only been hired on last week went to the loading dock to try and find more. There were no more.

He went to three Christmas tree lots and scowled at the Douglas Firs, Norway Spruces, Blue Spruces, and White pines. He finally found an eight-foot Noble Fir, and grudgingly paid seventy dollars for it. The tree was the only one he saw that actually looked the part of a proper Christmas tree: tall, symmetrical, good stiff branches, and actually smelling like it came from the woods. Grizzly gave his approval by trying to lick the pitch oozing from the trunk.

“Ai!” Mike said, pulling at the leash, “I don't want pine-scented dog puke in the car. Let's go home.”
Mike surveyed his tree. Fifty dollars of LED lights in blue, red, and green slowly winked. Thirty dollars of glass bulbs in silver, gold, and red hung secure in the tree's stiff branches. Mike decided the silver bells wouldn't have added much. Tinsel garland crisscrossed the tree like a princess's bodice. And at the top, a stained glass angel blew a golden trumpet.

“Look okay to you, Grizzly?” Mike said.

Grizzly looked up and wagged his tail. Mike reached down and mussed the shaggy fur on the dog's head.

He owed something to Skinny Ray. While hunting, the man had showed Mike where his femoral artery was by way of plunging his thumb in the hole left by some jackass's stray round. The thumb had hurt worse than the bullet, but it had kept enough blood inside him to make it to the hospital. Two weeks in the hospital, Christmas laid up on the couch in a cast, and six months in rehab to start the new year. And every day since then, an ache to remind him what had happened. Still, Mike thought, better than bleeding out in a backwoods swamp.

Starting around each Thanksgiving, the dreams would come. The bullet taking him in the in the upper thigh. The impact throwing him onto his back. A pale sky, bare branches, and a fountain of red spraying up from somewhere below him. Twigs cracking and popping behind him. Skinny Ray, pulling a knife and cutting away at his pant leg. The gaping red hole, blood pulsing out as if through a garden hose. Skinny Ray jamming his thumb into the wound, sending fire through Mike's body. Waking up in bed, clutching at his leg.

Skinny Ray had told Mike to forget about it when Ray tried thanking him. Ray acted like he was embarrassed about the whole thing, mumbling something about how he could now write off the paramedic training on his taxes that year. After that, they hung out less often, eventually reaching the point where they only nodded at each other in passing.

“Ready, Grizzly?” Mike said. He pointed at the ground. “Stay.”

Normal Rockwell himself couldn't have improve his tree. The lights reflected off the tinsel and ornaments perfectly, sending small sparkles of light into the snow. The angel at the top glowed with a kind of warm light that reminded Mike of candlelight services his grandmother's church used to have every Christmas Eve. The glow lit up the whole back yard like a beacon, blotting out the smaller stars in the cold night sky. He stared at it and raised a glass of egg nog.

"To you, Ray."

The nog tempered the whiskey well. He closed his eyes until the warmth of the liquor seeped its way to his fingertips. He set the glass down and picked up a red jug sitting next to him in the snow. As he walked to the tree, Mike hummed a song to himself, a song that just today had been passed over on the radio. He anointed the tree's branches with gasoline, some of the excess melting the snow revealing old ash and coals at the fire pit's bottom. Mike took in a deep breath, savoring the petrochemical fumes mixed with sharp herbal pine.

He hummed louder in the back of his throat as he brought out the lighter and lit the kindling. He leapt back as it went up with a foosh and a crack, and hobbled back to the patio where Grizzly and the whiskey bottle awaited. Thick black smoke rose in the air, and brought with it a stench of plastic, noxious pine resin, and sharp tang of metal. Tiny pops and sighs filled the air as the fire breached lights and ornaments. Sparks flew out like fireworks, reminding Mike to unplug the extension cord.

The loss of the electricity didn't matter. The whole tree seemed lit from within, yellows, greens, and oranges limned the dark branches. A few moments later, the fire spread to the outer branches, and the tree seemed taller as a wind came up to whip the flames. Heat washed over his face. Mike dumped more of the whiskey into his half-full nog glass. The angel's glass cracked, then shattered. Its wings blackened. The angel tipped back like a jazz trumpeter taking a solo. The music in the back of Mike's throat burst out.

"Noel, Noel!" Mike sang at the top of his lungs, thrusting his glass into the air, "Noel, No-el-el!"

Grizzly barked and ran around in circles. While they sang, Mike's leg didn't bother him a bit.

The Cat

by Colleen Sutherland 

     The cat crouched under the Victorian settee. His eyes gleamed golden in the darkness of a late night in December. The white tip of his otherwise black tail flashed back and forth, back and forth in the only light in the room, the television playing yet another version of A Christmas Carol. He was half beginning to understand the words. He stared at the human on the floor, contemplating his next move.

     The old woman was flat on the floor. The stroke had thrown her backwards, almost in a perfect line, the rolls of fat sinking into the floor. She was alive, barely. Her eyes moved from side to side, but the rest of her was frozen. Even if she had one of those emergency button devices to push it would be useless. Her hands were dead. All she had left was her brain and her senses. And that damned cat. She could hear him moving around the house.

     This was not the way her life was supposed to end.

     Elinor never wanted a cat or any other pet. Cats were sneaky. Dogs required too much upkeep. Birds scattered seed all over the floor. She remembered all that from her childhood. Her brothers and sisters always had pets and that had meant messes that she, the oldest girl, had to clean up. Her parents brought the babies into the world. Elinor had to raise them. It was one diaper after another in that Catholic family. A pet was just     another chore, nothing but that. The children were enough trouble.

     “Preparation for the nunnery,” her father joked once to his friends. “She's the plainest of the lot and none of them are lookers. When she's old enough, we'll ship her to a convent. No expensive wedding there. She'd be good taking care of brats in an orphanage.”

     But Elinor put her foot down. She had other plans. She saved towards that college education. It meant saving every penny including the lunch money she was given at school. Two precious quarters each week. She set them aside and didn't eat the school lunch. Her small allowance went into the bank as well. There were no malts at the dairy store. There were no movies either. She spent a childhood depriving herself so that she would have a golden future.

     There were occasional dates, farm boys looking for hard workers... and breeders, her father said. But her father was right. She was plain. Her clothes were hand-me-downs from cousins, or things the nuns gave her in pity. She didn't care. She kept putting the money aside and studying as if her life depended on it, because it did. The boyfriends grew up, gave up, and found other plain women to marry.

     There wasn't enough for a big university but there was a business college. That would do. She won a scholarship and worked through the two year course. Typing, shorthand, business machines, she excelled at every course. In the end, she had a degree and finally, a job. At first, no one wanted to hire a plain, chubby girl with no clothes sense, but then she interviewed with a woman trying to find the perfect secretary for her husband.

     “He has roving eyes,” the wife said. “He doesn't need an attractive secretary.”

It was a cutting remark, but Elinor knew exactly what she was, and it was a job. She stayed in the company, moving from one office to another, always the perfect secretary that no wife could complain about. She never let those women know that a plain secretary meant nothing when the men had mistresses on the side. She kept the secrets and the jobs. In time she found herself in the human resources department, working for the man who hired and fired. She delivered the pink slips to the fired and called the lucky new employees. It was only a job either way.

     And she saved, as she had always saved. Some day, when she retired, all her investments would pay off. She would have a pension, all she had earned in the stock market, and oh, the fun she would have traveling. Until she could do it right, she wouldn't do it at all. Her vacations were usually spent in her little house, something of an investment, her banker had told her, sure to be valuable one day. On her free days, she scraped paint, caulked tiles. It was lonely, but she saw her pension grow and rejoiced when the mortgage was paid off.

     She never meant to include a mean spirited cat in her home. Yet there he was. The old cuckoo clock on the wall behind her went off again. She wondered how many hours it had been since she had been able to move. The lights on the Christmas tree were unblinking. Wouldn't they cause a fire in time? Then someone would come, or she would burn to death. Better than this.

     The cat twitched his tail. The woman was late with his supper. He had been here a little more than a year and that was all the two had in common. She fed him and changed the litter. He hid in the dark until she left for some errand or other, then he found a sunny spot, often on her bed, but usually on the couch. He waited for excitement. He wanted to be outside. He was meant for adventures. In his previous life, he was a wanderer, a proud tomcat who spend his nights serenading the ladies and catching rats. He knew his place in the world. He survived cold winters in dumpsters. He found what he needed to eat behind the best restaurants....until he was captured by some stupid well meaning humans and had his private parts cut off. Then he was put into a place with similar cats. They were a scruffy lot. All ex-toms who fought whenever they were let out of their cages, so there they stayed. He hated the people who thought they were being kind by taking him off the street.

     Then he was brought to this place to be company for the old lady.

     Once, just once, there was a romance for her, though it was unrequited. She noticed the young man in the elevator, and he noticed her. “Have a pleasant day,” he said to her when she saw him in the morning and “Have a pleasant evening” as they rode the elevator down. As the weeks went on, he added a smile and once when she was preoccupied, a little hug. “I'm Ronnie,” he said. “And who is this stranger who passes me by?” So it began, a bit of flirtation in the hallways, a handsome man charming a much older woman. He seemed to be everywhere. Sometimes, he would stop at the door of her office and give her a wave. At the yearly Christmas party, he made sure she had a good plate of food and a bit tipsy, flirted with her.

     Curious, she checked his file in the human resource department. He was married, of course, but that meant nothing in the corporate world. Wives came and went.

     When it came time for Ronnie's file to be reviewed by the head of human resources, she doubled checked it, threw in some good comments she gleaned from other files and took out any adverse comments. Over the course of five years, she steered his career, floor by floor, until he managed pensions in the finance department. He expressed his gratitude, telling her it was the best place for him. He would stay there for a while.

     The cat was hungry. She fed him cheap kibbles and the only treat he got was an occasional dose of hairball remedy, and she didn't even know enough to get the salmon flavor. He pawed at the cupboards. The lower ones only had clankypots. He pulled open another. Things in cans. He jumped up on the top of the cupboard and nosed at the can opener. He stared down at the old lady. She was watching him, but doing nothing about it. Yes, her eyes moved from side to side. But she wasn't screaming at him and she screamed at him all the time. She didn't like him, but more than that she feared him. He considered that. Yes, she was afraid.

     That damned cat. She could hear him prowling around. He had been neutered, but he was still a tomcat, like all the men she had worked for, each one worse than the last.

     Ronnie was different, or so she thought. “My angel,” he said whenever they were alone together on the elevator. He told her about his family. His wife had never understood him, he told her, but he was a Catholic, so he would not get a divorce. That would mean leaving his religion and he would never do that. He crossed himself often whenever they were alone. He didn't seem to have mistresses like the rest of the officers. He never took his ring off. He had photos of his wife and children on his desk and always touched them gently. She loved him more each year, each month, each day.

      She would soon retire, she was too old for him, she knew that, but he was her first and only love, this gentle   young man. She changed her will. Her family had never paid any attention to her, except to send her a Christmas card and occasionally visit to double check on her money. They would be surprised to find out it would all go to Ronnie. He could use it to send his children to college.

     But that was years in the future. She was going to travel first, enjoy the world. She had been saving brochures for years. Every wall in her house had carefully framed photos of every place she had dreamed of. An outdoor bistro near Sacre Coeur in Paris. The statue of David in Florence, carefully posed so his genitals weren't exposed. Cancun, the Great Wall of China, the Grand Canyon. They were all there. She looked at them fondly, dusted them daily.

      As her retirement approached, she called a travel agent and began to discuss plans. Which place would be the first? Money would be no object. A lifetime of saving for a few years of total pleasure. She would be someone in the neighborhood, the woman who traveled, an interesting soul. She would buy fine objects to put around the house. When guests came over, she would show them off and talk about her travels.

      But who would those guests be? She had no friends outside of her work. She began to plan that part of her retirement, too. She started paying more attention to her clothing, finding flowing styles that hid her belly fat. She even tried makeup.

     For the first time since she left her family, she joined a church and soon, the women's group. Fran was the leader of the older women in the congregation by dint of arguing the loudest and longest. Elinor was used to bosses and was able to tolerate her. She went to church meetings and began to make friends. She went on planning.

      She daydreamed sometimes that Ronnie would leave his wife and would come to live in her little house.

She had a spare bedroom with its own bath. He could have that rent free. She would cook his meals, do his laundry. Oh, to have him by her side forever. She would make him happy, she knew she could do it.

     The cat put out a paw and batted her arm. The old lady didn't move. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling. He pushed in closer and tried out a purr, but it came out more like a growl. She lay on her back. He climbed up on her chest and stared into her eyes that stared back. Her eyes never moved. How did she do that? He stared. She stared. She never turned away. He finally backed off slowly and slipped off her body.

     The cat watched. She still lay on the floor, her eyes staring at the ceiling. He admired the stare. She wasn't blinking much at all. That was a stare a cat could admire. He twitched his tail. He considered her again. It was long past his supper time.

      Her last day of work finally came. She had mentioned it to several of her new friends. She thought there would be a cake, and mementos from her years at the company. She took a morning coffee break, unusual for her, but no one was in the break room. She heard giggles down the hallway and waited for the cries of “Surprise,” but none came. Lunch came and went. She ate her sandwich as she always had. No one stopped by her desk. She didn't bother with the afternoon break, and spent the time packing up her belongings. She had been taking things home all month, so there was very little to pack. She called a temporary agency and ordered someone to take her place on Monday. Then she said to her boss, “Well, that will be all then.”

     “See you on Monday,” he grunted.

     “No, you won't. I retired today.”

     He looked at her in surprise. “Today?”

     “Yes, I gave you a memo to remind you.”

     “I must have misplaced it.” He looked around the room. “Here,” he said, “ and handed her a vase of fake gardenias. “I'll have to contact the pension people and get that in order. Sorry about that.”

     Forty-five years, and Elinor was going home with her only farewell gift, fake flowers from the Pottery Barn his wife had brought in to decorate the office. As she went past a large bin, she dropped them in. No tears, she was far too strong a woman for that. There would never be any tears for this damned company. But at least her dedication would give her enough to live on for the rest of her life. When she came down the elevator, she saw Ronnie, her dearest friend and secret love. He was talking quietly to a young man.

     “Ronnie,” she called out to him.

     He ignored her.

     “Ronnie,” she repeated.

     He turned to her frowning, then smiled a little.

      “I wanted to talk to you before I left.”

     “Can it wait until Monday, dear?”

     Dear. He always called her dear. The darling man.

     “I won't be here on Monday. This is my last day.”

     Ronnie glanced at his companion and then looked back at Elinor.

     “Your last day?”

     “Yes, I've retired. I thought you knew but you know Ogilvie, he messed up. He forgot to get the paperwork up to you. You'll get it on Monday if I have to come back and take care of it myself.”

     “The paperwork,” he looked at her doubtfully.

     “Yes, for the pension.”

     “The pension.”

     “Yes, the money you've been investing for me for over ten years now. I've been looking forward to it. I have plans...”

      She stopped as he took a step backwards into his friend, who steadied him.

      "Not a good time to retire. The economy is bad, you know that.”

      “But the stocks you bought for me have done well in spite of that. I read the last report you sent me.”

      "Oh, yes, yes....I'll see to it. But how about Wednesday, or even better Thursday.....”

      “Thursday will be fine.” She smiled. “And Ronnie, I still want to see you from time to time.”

     So she went home, cleaned, organized her files, talked to her lawyer, talked to a travel agent, picking Italy as her first destination. The days sped by, and then it was Thursday and she found herself once more taking the elevator to the 14^th floor to the finance department. Odd, people who had ignored her for years were now staring at her, whispering. Had they missed her after all?

     Mr. Ogilvie was standing at Ronnie's desk, talking to a man she didn't know.

     “Where's Ronnie?”

     “God, Elinor, I'm so sorry.”

     “What? Did something happen to Ronnie?”

     “He's gone.”

     “Gone? Where to?”

     “No one seems to know. He didn't come to work on Monday, never a call to say where he was.

We thought he might be sick or something so we finally had someone in personnel go to his apartment to see what was wrong.”

     “Apartment, he lives in a house.”

     “No, a two bedroom condominium in Glen Oaks. A very expensive place, I gather.”

“Two bedrooms? That wouldn't be enough for his family. He has two girls and a boy.”

     Mr. Olgivie coughed. “He's not married. You didn't know?”

     It took the police investigators hours to convince her that Ronnie had been embezzling, getting signatures from older female employees that allowed him to take their pension money and gamble with high risk stocks. They all called him Ronnie and thought of him as a son, just the way Elinor had. For a while, the police had questioned HER, wondering who had doctored his employment records. But she was so obviously a victim, they left her alone. My God, his name wasn't even Ronnie, he was a con artist who had assumed an entire different persona to get the job.

     He was gone. So was her pension. She couldn't sue the company because her signature was everywhere and then the company would find out she had forged his recommendations. She could have gone to prison. All she had left to live on was social security, her house, and a few savings. Her dreams of foreign travel evaporated.

     A few weeks later, she had her first stroke. The women from the church took charge of her, took her to doctor's appointments, found her a walker, brought her food. She put on weight from all the food. With nothing to do, she ballooned up and took to wearing long mumus. Then Fran brought her the cat. That damned cat.

     The cat walked across the living room, crossing her by hopping on her breasts, stopping to stare at her and smell her lips. He suddenly leaped off and tore around the room, jumping up on furniture that he didn't belong on. He was testing her in every way and he was having fun doing it, too. He skidded to a stop in front of the little Christmas tree.

     Elinor could hear the ornaments smashing on the floor. She didn't care. The Salvation Army had dropped the tree off, something from a store display, she thought, a store that took down Christmas a week before the holiday and donated the remains to charities for the tax discount. It was an ugly blue tree The cat batted at the pink ornaments and in the end toppled the little tree. If she were capable of laughing she would have. She didn't give a damn and would have laughed at the cat's panic stricken flight away from it. She hated the tree. She hated the cat. Let them have at each other.

     After that first stroke, she had to put up with Fran. Fran was a loud mouthed, ignorant woman but Elinor knew there was no point in disagreeing with her because she only got louder and angrier. If Fran stopped visiting, there would be no one else.

     Fran would be at midnight services tonight. Would she stop by tomorrow? Probably not. Fran only played Lady Bountiful when it fit into her schedule. And what about the Salvation Army? Would they bring her Christmas dinner or was she supposed to go down to the center? She couldn't remember. She had written it down and put it on the refrigerator. She thought about that for a while.

     Fran had brought her the cat.

     “You need company, dear.”

     Dear, Ronnie called her “dear”. She hated being called dear.

     “I don't want a cat.”

     “You need company. It's no good living alone and obsessing. It will give you something to love. Look, I've brought you everything you need. A litter pan, litter, kibbles. Give it a try. If it doesn't work out, we'll take him back to the pound.”

     But the cat had stayed. When she called the pound to take him back, she found out that she would have to pay a fine for his return. She found out that the litter, litter pan and kibbles had come from the pound. Fran had paid nothing out of pocket. But she said nothing because no one else visited her except for annoying Christians who felt sorry for her. Forty five years working and people felt sorry for her. It was awful, yet worse were the days when no one stopped by.

     She warred with the cat who wanted to leave the house. She changed his litter and thought about all the diapers she changed when she was young. Forty five years. Forty five years and she was back where she began, taking care of something else, having nothing for herself.

     She could smell the cat feces. The litter box needed changing. Another day and the place would reek.

     The cat pawed at his litter box, throwing his turds in the air in abandon. No one could yell at him, he would do what he chose. He hovered close to the door. If anyone came through, he would be out of there in a flash of black and white fur. Once out, he would go back to his old life.

     He crawled around the counter tops, prying open doors, searching. Glasses smashed to the floor. Nothing. The old bitch had hidden the kibbles where he couldn't get at them, in a metal canister with a latch. Nothing to eat. He looked down at the old lady. He jumped down and walked over to her. Food, he wanted food. He pawed at her. She watched him, her eyes moving slowly as he walked over her body. Pay attention, he meowed. He gave her a nip. Nothing. No screaming, no swatting. He bit her arm hard. Nothing but the salty taste of blood. He had forgotten how he liked the taste of blood, but now he remembered his days of catching rats and the joy of chewing their heads off and disemboweling them.

     He backed off . He would give her another six or seven hours. 

     By morning, he would begin his Christmas feast.