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Things I’ve Said

No, there’s nothing wrong with your cooking. Everybody likes to pray after eating just to be different.”

“Of course, we’re dysfunctional. That’s what makes us so interesting.”

“There’s something basically wrong in a world where a gallon of gas costs more than a gallon of milk.”

“Man, if I knew that was illegal, I would’ve at least made an effort to get away with it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t the first time somebody’s pants accidently fell down in a thrift store.”

“No, I didn’t get lost. I just felt an overwhelming need to go to Indiana.”

“Emergency? What kind of emergency can somebody have in a cemetery?”

“No, it’s not a good thing that every deputy in the sheriff’s department knows you by name.”

“Yeah, I know where I’m going. If I didn’t, I’d be going someplace else.”

“The pain wouldn’t be bad if it didn’t hurt so much.”

“I’m sure the guy didn’t mean anything by it. He must have thought my name was Jerry.”

　

　

　

“Hey, if the universe is even close to what her school project look likes, we’re all really screwed.”

“I never dated a woman who owned a gun. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be here now.”

“Why don’t you ever lose something that’s not important?”

“If I end up dying for some dumb-ass reason, I’m coming back and haunting the crap out of everybody.”

“I met the girl of my dreams, but I ended up marrying your mom.”

“I can’t stand to see you like this. You think you could go into the other room?”

“If my life had any real direction, do you really think I’d be here now?”

“If it’s true that God always gives you what you need, He must have figured I needed a shitload of grief when He picked out my kids.”

“The mystery of life? I’m still trying to figure out why the Green Giant is so fucking jolly.”

“I don’t know. Somebody putting flowers on their own grave. That’s kind of out there– even for our family.”

“Not everybody can be special. How would that work, anyway?”

“Why is it the end of the world just because somebody can’t find a hair brush?”

“RAGTAG FUCK MONKEY? I thought Campbell’s left out some letters so you couldn’t spell stuff like that in your soup.”

“Aside for mental health issues, our family is really pretty normal.”

“Everybody in my father’s family lives to be very old. Even the alcoholics live to be well into their eighties.”

“I could never see myself shooting a helpless animal. A human being, yeah– especially in the drive thru at Burger King.”

“I actually am pretty sensitive. It’s just that sometimes things shoot out my mouth before going through my brain.”

“Trust me– floor gearshifts have ruined a lot of dates.”

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Happy Reading for a Happy Good Year

tom

Quote Me

Anybody who doesn’t believe evil exists has never been to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

“Cold, Cold Water”

The old man was a creepy feature in our house that summer. Each morning, after breakfast, my mother would wheel him out onto the landing outside our kitchen door, and there he remained for most of the day.

His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. He was nearly blind; supposedly he could see only shadows. His nose was bony and hawkish, jutting out from a face that was just a mass of wrinkles. His pale skin appeared paler under the early morning sun, and no matter how warm it was, a heavy afghan lay across his lap and over the arms of his wheelchair. His lips were always parted, and sometimes you could catch a glimpse of his two remaining front teeth. The only time he ever spoke now was to ask for water. “Cold, cold water,” he rasped softly whenever he was thirsty. It never sounded like a request, but an observation, as though he was seeing in his mind some mountain stream whose crystal clear water was babbling through a formation of rocks. He would repeat the words at almost exactly intervals, never certain anybody was close enough to hear.

I was fourteen then, and every time I had to pass him to enter through the kitchen door, my scrotum shrunk slightly, as if the temperature on the landing was hovering just above zero. “Cold, cold water.” His eyelids drooped a bit, so you could see only a sliver of green and white. I knew he couldn’t see me, but the way his eyes appeared made me feel that he wasn’t blind, but that I was invisible.

That was the summer my brother, Ricky, decided to kill the Greek. I never for a moment believed he would actually do it. He had changed quite a bit in the last year; he had developed opinions– on just about everything, it seemed– started to pass judgment on everything and everybody. But he had not changed that much. So when he told me his plans, I was sure that it was all talk.

We sat on out on the back stairs of our house. He was sitting on one of the higher stairs, as though that somehow reflected that he was older than me and therefore ought to be elevated. On the landing the old man loomed over us, a silent sentinel.

“Why would you want to kill him anyway?” I asked.

He took a moment to answer. He looked over the railing at our small backyard, which, no matter how our mother tried to dress up with annuals each year, still managed to appear sad and pitiful.

“It’s just the way it has to be,” he said. “There’s an order to things, and the Greek is out of order.”

I considered this, but it just didn’t make any sense to me. The Greek had bought the neighborhood candy store last year. It was true that he was not as likeable as Mr. Bellini, the old owner who had dispensed candy to the kids and milk and bread to their parents for about a hundred years. He always seemed sullen, walking around in a dirty t-shirt. His black hair was receding and slicked back, and his dark eyes were somewhat protuberant, as though he was always on the verge of losing his temper. He was not the nicest human being, but I couldn’t see that he was worthy of being killed, and I told Ricky as much.

“He beats his wife and daughter, you know,” he said curtly.

“Oh, his daughter…” I said knowingly. Ricky had had a crush on the Greek’s daughter, Lori, since he first laid eyes on her. I couldn’t blame him, really; she was quite pretty, with long wavy dark hair and the kind of face you’d see on a cameo– and her body wasn’t bad, either. For some reason, though, Ricky, lately, had lost interest in her.

“Don’t give me ‘Oh, her daughter’ like you know everything,” he chided me. “She’s aside from the point.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said in a brooding tone.

“You don’t like her anymore?”

“I like her just fine,” he said, but the way he said it led me to believe that what he was saying wasn’t quite the truth.

“But you’re not interested in her anymore,” I pointed out.

“No.”

“Then you don’t mind if I took a try at her.”

“Yeah, I mind,” he snapped.

“What?”

“You just stay away from her.”

“Why?”

“Just stay away from her– that’s all,” he said. He stared over the railing again. In the yard birds were swooping down, landing in the lawn and pecking at the grass seed our mother had spread yesterday. It was no wonder why the lawn always had the scruffy look, with tiny bare spots here and there. You just couldn’t put down enough grass seed– there were just too many birds. On the landing the old man started to murmur, “Cold, cold water,” but neither one of us took much notice.

“You know I nearly got her,” Ricky said in a mischievous way.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he swore.

“What happened?”

A look of disdain passed over his face. “I’m not sure I should say.”

“Well, I’m not going to beg you,” I told him.

“Cold, cold water,” came from the landing above.

Ricky glanced up at the old man, and seemed disgusted.

“We were alone in the Greek’s apartment, right above the store while the Greek was working,” he said.

“And, what, the Greek caught you trying to do his daughter? That why you want to kill him?”

Ricky snorted. “You don’t know nothing,” he said, and sounded just the way adults sound when they’re talking to kids sometimes. “No, he didn’t catch anything.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you, if you just shut up and let me tell you.”

“All right, all right,” I said.

“She started taking off her clothes,” he said slowly, too slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and her body was– perfect– I mean, perfect. You know? She got down to her underwear and then she takes me into her bedroom. So I’m getting excited, you know, like we were really going to do it and somehow that seemed so unreal– like it was a dream. We were going to do it while the Greek was down stairs, right under us, putting price tags on the canned food. So I start getting undressed. She took off his panties, and that was that– I’ll tell you,” he said with great disdain. “She had this– I never seen anything like it. You know, it wasn’t anything like the girls you’d see in the Playboys dad keeps hidden from mom in the back of the closet.” He leaned down closer, and lowered his voice, as though afraid the old man on the landing might hear. “She had this bush– it wasn’t a bush; it was the whole freaking forest, you know. It was totally gross. The hair went almost up to her navel– I’m not kidding. Well, I just couldn’t deal with that. I could never be that horny– no way. It was disgusting. I was totally pissed. It could have been perfect, but she ruined it.” He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “You know, I went through a lot of trouble to talk her out of her clothes. You’d think she’d have the decency not to show me something like that, you know. I mean, her old man sells razor blades downstairs. How much trouble would it have been– you know?”

I was confused. “So that’s why you want to kill the Greek?”

“No, no, no, I told you she was aside from the point. I was just telling you what happened, because you asked. Can’t you remember anything?”

“Oh,” I said. “Then why do you want to kill him?”

“Cold, cold water…”

Ricky paused to look up at the look up at the old man.

“Why is he living with us, again?”

“I guess nobody else would take him. Grandma and grandpa are getting too old to take care of him anymore.”

“So we get stuck with him?”

“I guess.”

“See, that’s what I mean about people being out of order. Nobody ought to live that long. A person’s great-grandfather ought to be underground somewhere– not put out on the landing ever day, like… like a potted plant or something. The same thing with the Greek; he’s out of order. Old Mr. Bellini was fine; he really liked the kids. The Greek just pretends. He actually hates the kids. He just takes their money– that’s all. He doesn’t care. He gloms money, and beats his wife and daughter. He doesn’t fit.”

“A lot of people like him,” I pointed out.

“A lot of people have eyes but how many of them see? It’s funny. When you’re a little kid, you accept everything you see, whether it’s good or bad. But you get to a point where you see that some things just aren’t right and that something ought to be done about it. So, yeah, the Greek should die. He should die and his wife should get everything. That would restore order–”

“Cold, cold water–”

Ricky finally lost it. He jumped to his feet, and bellowed toward the kitchen window.

“Ma! Ma! Get out here and water your plant, will you please?”

A moment later, our mother walked out onto the landing with a glass of water. She gave Ricky a sour look– I could hardly blame her– and then she held the glass up to the old man’s wrinkled lips. He slurped the water, which started to run off at the corners of his mouth, and dripped down onto the afghan. When the glass was empty, our mother paused to give Ricky another look of disapproval before going back into the kitchen.

He became moody, then– it seemed he was always getting moody these days. He didn’t say anything more about the Greek.

I wondered why he thought he had to do something about the Greek. I was sure other people saw things that they didn’t think were right, but few people ever did anything about it.

I was sure that it was all just talk, and remained convinced of that, until he actually got a gun.

************

He showed it to me only once. It was an automatic– a 9mm– and the handle and barrel were covered with tiny scratches, as though it had been dropped many times. After he showed it to me, he hid it some where in his bedroom. After that, I didn’t have to see it again; it was enough to know that it was in the house.

I should have told my parents then, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. I really still didn’t think he would go through with it. His reasoning for wanting to shoot the Greek didn’t seem sound to me, and I was sure that he would see that, too, and forget about the whole thing. So I just kept my mouth shut.

A few days passed, and nothing happened, and then a few weeks, and still nothing happened. Ricky never said another word about the Greek, and I knew that I had been right– he wasn’t going to do anything, after all.

One day my mother took the old man down the stairs, so that he could spend the day on the small patio in the yard. She wheeled him out onto the landing, and then awkwardly turned the wheelchair so that it faced the stairs. She tipped the chair back slightly, which was easily because the old man was so light, and then slowly lowered the chair down the stairs. Every time the large, rubber rimmed wheels hit a stair, there was a low thump and the wood of the stair would creak, as though it was some kind of warning that something unnatural was occurring. She got him out to the patio, and arranged the wheelchair so that it was facing the yard. She seemed irrationally particular about how the wheelchair was positioned, as though she was unaware the old man was blind and was concerned about him having a good view of her flower garden. At lunchtime, she brought him a bowl of apple sauce and spooned it into his mouth. Whenever some of the apple sauce escaped his mouth and slid down his chin, which was often, she scrape it off it the spoon and fed it to him. After she had finished she retreated to the house, and settled herself in the living room to watch soap operas, as she did every day.

Later, with my father home from work, we all sat down at the kitchen table to have dinner. This was always an oddly quiet time for us; nobody ever spoke, and all you could hear was the soft scraping of folks on our plates. Nobody much looked at each other, either, but I noticed, now and then, my parents pause and frown slightly, as if wondering whether all the windows were closed because it had started raining pretty hard outside. All of a sudden my mother shot up from her chair and said something. It came out garbled, but sounded like “Oh, my God!” She raced toward the back door, and I followed her.

The old man was still sitting out on the patio. He was soaking wet by now. His head– so remindful of a baby bird’s, for some reason– was slightly tilted up toward the gray sky as the rain struck his face. His mouth was slightly opened as though he was trying to catch the raindrops.

My mother tugged him back up the stairs. As she wheeled him through the kitchen, I could hear him murmur, “Cold, cold water.” It was hard to tell if he was thirsty or complaining about the rain.

“I can’t do this anymore,” my mother said in dismay.

“He belongs in a nursing home,” my father said, chewing his food, having never left the table.

My mother took the old man into the small bedroom to change his wet clothes, still moaning that she couldn’t take it anymore.

After all the ruckus had died down, I sat down to finish eating. Ricky looked at me. Like our father, he had not left his seat. He said one word: “Soon.”

Ricky was spending a lot of time in his room. There were some days I didn’t even see him. I could hear music playing from his stereo, and sometimes he was watching the small black-and-white television that was atop his dresser. It seemed unhealthy. He barely ever went outside. During previous summers he would seldom be at home; he would go to the park to get into a pick-out baseball game, or hang around the street corner with friends, or just go for a walk– anything to be outside. Now he was content to be holed up in his room, with the door always shut. I could picture him lying there on his unmade bed. He never made his bed. His room was always a mess, with dirty clothes strewn on the floor. Once, my mother swore, she found a pair of sweat socks under his bed that were nearly as stiff as a board, they were so dirty. Sometimes, I could hear the springs of his bed squeaking, and I know he was doing push-ups; he always did push-ups off the floor with his feet atop his bed, lowering his face toward the dirty laundry. Other times, there was no sound at all. Then I’d wonder what he was doing. Was he sleeping or did he have the gun out of its hiding place, looking it over, removing and replacing the clip, thinking about his plan? I could never bring myself to knock on his door. To him that seemed to be the ultimate affront. If somebody did that, he would start screaming at them through the door– even if it was my father, who didn’t like that kind of disrespect and wasn’t shy about telling him that.

One evening I noticed his bedroom door was opened. His dirty clothes almost spilled out into the living room. He was nowhere in the house. My mother told me he’d gone for a walk. I felt like searching the room to see if he’d taken the gun with him. But I wouldn’t have known where to start; his room was such a mess, it might take hours for me to determine if the gun was there.

When I looked at the kitchen clock and saw the time, I knew he had the gun with him. It was almost seven o’clock, the time the Greek closed up for the night. I was struck with the buzzy feeling people get when confronted with something otherworldly. He was actually going to do it. It seemed so unreal, but I knew it was true.

The next day the news was all over the neighbor. Even people who didn’t like the Greek were horrified that he’d been shot dead while closing up the store. Nobody saw who shot the Greek, but there were police cars cruising throughout the area all day long just the same.

The old man sat in his wheelchair in the living room all that day. My mother was afraid that he would catch a chill and develop pneumonia if she put him outside. She fed him his lunch, and then took the car to the store to buy groceries.

I sat on the sofa, and watched cable shows. I tried my best to ignore the old man, but sometimes I couldn’t help looking at him. His sightless eyes seemed to be staring at me. I couldn’t concentrate on what was on the television. I kept wondering what the old man knew, how much he heard and understood– if anything. I was sure he didn’t know that the Greek was dead and that his great-grandson had killed him and that his other great-grandson had known that he was going to do it but didn’t do or say anything to stop him. Beyond that, the old man could have been thinking anything, or nothing.

Ricky wandered out of his room just then. It was almost noon– he was sleeping later every day, it seemed. He was wearing sleeveless shirt that showed off his well-muscles shoulders. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his pants, and he seemed to be in one of his broody moods. He looked at me briefly, and then turned to stare at the old man.

“Somebody ought to put a pillow over his face, really,” Ricky said.

I must have given him a look of disapproval– either that or a look of panic at the idea he might actually do it. I just didn’t know what to expect from him anymore.

He shrugged his thick shoulders. “There’s definitely a quality of life issue here.”

“Don’t even,” I said, disgusted. I felt that he had betrayed a trust by actually killing the Greek. He knew I hadn’t believed he’d do it, and when he actually did do it, he made me his accomplice. I couldn’t say anything now, and he knew that– he wasn’t stupid. I didn’t much like the feeling of being put in that situation.

“The guy had it coming,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I didn’t have anything against the guy,” I said glumly.

“Only because you’re ignorant. You don’t see things right.”

“Yeah, he was out of order, but now he isn‘t, huh? I think he just told you to stay away from his daughter– that’s all.”

He snorted. “Think what you want. I explained to you how things were. I can’t do anything if you don’t understand. Some people are just out of line. Nobody does anything about it, and that’s what causes the world to go wrong. You think it’s right for that old man to still be living and breathing? What’s the point of it?”

“Cold, cold water,” the old man croaked just then.

Ricky smirked. “You hear that?” he said to me, then turned to the old man. “Dry up and die, you old fart.”

“Cold, cold water,” the old man repeated.

Ricky gave me a crooked look.

“Don’t,” I warned him.

“Old people go to sleep, and never wake up. It happens. It’s normal,” he said, and seemed to enjoy my discomfort.

“What happened to you?” I asked sincerely, and would regret even asking.

He shrugged. “I started to understand things, I guess. You know, they try to teach you right from wrong, but they don’t really want you to know. They want to keep you stupid. And you know why? Because they don’t want you to know that half the things they do are wrong. Like last year, when I had to go to summer school. Remember? They were all concerned about my falling behind, and, oh, they were going to help, and they were going to take care of me. Yeah, right. Then when you go, they treat you like you’re stupid. They even call you stupid. What?– is that supposed to help? They just don’t know what they do to kids. Not me, of course– I understand what’s going on; I see their faults. But you take your average kid. He’s trusting and all, and listens to everything he’s told, and believes it, and they end up making him feel he’s not even good enough to go to school. It’s not worth their precious efforts. That’s what they do, every one of those teachers who teach during the summer at school. They tell the parents one thing, and then turn round and treat their kids a whole different way– as though they’re burdens the teachers have to endure. Well, that’s what they get paid for, right? It’s their job. But they can’t just do it; they have to mess with peoples’ minds. I wonder how many kids they ruin every summer, how many kids never get to go where they’re meant to go, because they’ve been discouraged, because they’ve been led to believe they’re hopeless. It’s not right, I’m telling you, it’s not right. If I walked into that school tomorrow morning I shot every one of them in the head, I’d be doing everybody a big favor.”

Long before he finished, I had begun to get a sick feeling in my gut. It wasn’t that he was getting excited as he spoke; he showed no passion at all, in fact, but just spoke in a steady, calm drone. That was the creepiest thing about it, really, the way he said the words as though he was reading off the batting averages of his favorite baseball players.

I knew he meant every word he said. The threat was real. He’d already killed the Greek. He was like a tame animal that tastes blood for the first time, and now he was ruined forever. Every time he passed judgment on somebody now, it would not be enough; he would actually want to do something about it. It was madness. I couldn’t understand how this had happened to him, how he’d had turned into himself and got so twisted up. He wasn’t even like my brother anymore, but some stranger that had invaded the house.

Before he walked back into his room, and shut out the rest of the world, he paused to look at the old man.

“You’re on the list, too, Methuselah,” he said coolly, and then closed the door.

I listened to the hush in the house, then, and wondered what to do.

“Cold, cold water,” I heard the old man say. At the moment they seemed like the saddest words in the world. For a change, I went to the kitchen to get him a glass.

**********

During the following few days, Ricky didn’t mention anything about the school or the teachers or about shooting anybody. He seemed pretty cheery, actually, and whether or nor it was all an act; I had no doubts that he was still dwelling on some new plan.
At night I had dreams about him. I couldn’t rightfully call them nightmares, because they lacked the terror that true nightmares evoked in me. The content of the dreams were disturbing enough, but it presented itself in such a matter-of-fact way that I barely found the dreams disturbing. In one of the dreams Ricky had been wounded by the cops. He was holed up in one of the abandoned factories that were plentiful in our lower-middle class neighborhood. It was bringing him food in a large open room that had once been filled with machinery used in the manufacturing of bicycle parts. Everything appeared in black and white. He was wearing a sleeveless white tee shirt and the large splotch of blood that showed at the side of his stomach appeared in dark gray and not red. The beat-up 9mm poked out from the top of his jeans. He paced around slowly, but not as though in pain, eating a tuna salad sandwich that looked dull and tasteless. Between bits, he droned on how the world was filled with wrong that he planned to make right. He would give his life if he must. He painted himself as some heroic figure on a noble quest. Then, just as the last crumbs fell from his lips, he pulled the 9mm from the front of his pants, aimed at me, and fired. The 9mm bucked in his hand, but made no noise. That was when I’d wake up. I wouldn’t be soaked in sweat. I wouldn’t feel fear or even dread. I wouldn’t feel anything, in fact, as though it all had been of little importance. Maybe I felt this way, I thought, because it all seemed so unreal to me. Maybe Ricky had been right to suggest that I was blind to things that he could see. I suspected I would be better off to go through life so unenlightened.

The Last Long Walk Home

John Townes had no hobbies. He had never been much interested in gardening, and assembling jigsaw puzzles usually gave him a headache. Any other hobbies seemed either unappealing or tedious or just plain stupid. So when he retired, he found that he had much time on his hands.

Between lunch and dinner each day, he started to take a walk. At first, this, too, seemed rather pointless. But in time, he learned to enjoy his walks; the exercise kept him fit, and seemed to help his digestion, which had been troublesome at times. It seemed he walked more and more each day, until he was away from the house for two, even three, hours. At first his wife thought that this was a bad idea. What if something happened to him? How would she know? But after he had returned each day, like clockwork before dinner, her worries faded away, and she was actually able to enjoy the peace of not having him around the house, through which he was prone to prowl like a caged animal if he had nothing to occupy him.

One spring day, he was walking down a main street. The sun warmed his back, and a soft breeze played with a wisp of his gray hair.

It was a fine day.

He stopped at a red light at the corner, and waited while cars passed this way and that before him. He wondered that there were so many people and that all of them seemed to have a purpose. And the cars passed in such an orderly way it was hard to imagine that accidents were possible. They were so quiet now– so different from his first car, a Nash.

The light turned green, and he started across the street. He was struck by a strange feeling, then, just before he reached the opposite curb– a sudden feeling of out-of-place-ness– and he stopped in his tracks. He looked around. Nothing was familiar. The small deli on the corner he’d been approaching, the gas station he had just passed– everything seemed foreign. He was still puzzling over it all, when the driver whose path he was blocking blew his horn.

John quickly shuffled to the safety of the sidewalk.

He briefly considered the possibility he had walked too far, that he had crossed over into one of the suburbs.

Whatever the case, he was completely lost and wasn’t sure which way to go. Any direction was as good as any other, he reasoned at length, and so he turned to his right and continued walking.

Sooner or later, he would see something he recognized.

 

　

***********

 

　

The houses looked all the same– blocks lined with brick bungalows that seemed familiar and strange at the same time.

Draperies in the front windows were drawn shut. His wife would never have that. If the sun were shining brightly, like now, the draperies would always be open. “Let the light in,” she was fond of saying. “After you die, you’re in the darkness for a long, long time.”

At first he was panic-y, but soon he forgot that he seemed to be lost. The act of walking was somehow reassuring. If you’re moving everything is all right; it’s when you’re stopped, like a sitting duck, that you have to worry.

He shuffled along the newly laid sidewalks, murmuring to himself, remembering streets whose walkways were cracked and uneven and the sudden sharp impact of flesh on stone the time he’d fallen and broken his wrist and bloodied his forehead. The memory seemed so new he had to wriggle his wrist to assure himself that it had been a couple years since it had been in a cast.

“Yeah, years ago,” he muttered, and a woman who was watering her front lawn heard him and stared at him as he moved down the street.

Looked like Gene’s mother, that one, he thought of the woman. Oh, gosh, when was it she got killed? Just after the war– that’s right. Hit by a drunk driver. Gene and I were wearing our uniforms at the wake, sure. Heck of a thing– a guy coming back from the war– not home a week yet– seeing what he saw– and thinking everything is going back to normal, then, bam, your mother gets run down. Sad– so very sad.

He thought about the war often these days. Even now he glanced at the clear blue sky, and remembered the times he had seen the bombers, huge, hulking, gray, threading through the wispy white clouds. When the bombs hit the ground, it seemed the entire earth would shake. The tanks used to hop a meter off the ground, and when they fell back down their tracks would be embedded in the earth. Where had that been? Sicily? North Africa? No, that was Sicily, he was sure. North Africa– that was different. It had been hot– so very hot. And the bugs! You had to eat meals with one hand, and swat the bugs away with the other. He had been a cook then, and hadn’t marched much but rode in the cook wagon. He remembered, with great pride, the time he had made whipped cream in the desert so that the guys could eat it with their canned peaches. Imagined that, he thought. Whipped cream in the desert!

He must have said it out loud, too, because man, who had just parked his car at the curb, stopped to stare at him curiously, as though he’d hadn’t quite heard right.

“I made whipped cream,” John said, and the man frowned and shook his head, not understanding. People seemed so stupid these days. It irked John that more and more often people didn’t appeared to understand him. “Oh, mind your own business,” he grumbled at the guy, and continued walking.

 

　

　

　

　

　

　

He came to another intersection. Small storefronts lined the streets, and people streamed down the sidewalks.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” he said to himself, and though he didn’t recognize any of the stores, he was encouraged by the sight of a large blue object sitting on the sidewalk just off one of the corners. It was a landmark, sure enough, a sign he was going in the right direction.

He walked up to it, placed his hand on the shiny blue surface. It was cold. He looked around, beyond the people passing by, but nothing else looked familiar.

He couldn’t have said how long he stood there like that, but when he looked down, he saw his hand was still resting on the mailbox. He snorted. “Sure,” he muttered, thinking, Of course you know a mailbox. They all look the same, no matter where you go.

Which meant he was no closer to getting home.

 

　

　

After he left the busy shopping district, he decided to stay on the side streets. This was where he lived anyway, right?

The streets here appeared older. The cement of the sidewalks showed many cracks, like starbursts or spider webs. He remembered the old rhyme from when he was a kid– step on a crack, you break your mother’s back. What a horrible thing to say, he now realized, but he couldn’t keep the rhyme from replaying itself in his head.

And he remembered wearing old shorts that showed the skinny legs and scabby knees, and walking down the street trying to avoid all the cracks in the pavement and cobblestones. And he remembered placing an Indian head penny on the rail of the train track, and how the penny was paper thin and smooth after the train rumbled past. And he remembered his mother yelling at him for wasting money that could be spent on food or something around the house. And he remembered the workers laying the tracks for the streetcars…. Yes, he could see it in his mind as though it had happened only yesterday…. The street was all dug up, and all the workers were black, and they were sweating under the sun as they dug, and they were always nice to him when he walked by, pausing in their work to smile at him, or wave, or ask was he going to the ball game? For some reason they always thought he was going to a ball game, although his parents could never spare the money. Well, maybe they were just kidding him– who knew. And he remembered the day he mother said that he couldn’t go outside; all the workers were making trouble because there was a strike. And he didn’t know what a strike was, but it didn’t sound too good, and his mother wouldn’t explain it all. So he sneaked out of the house to see for himself. He was walking to the place where the street was all ripped open, like a giant wound in the ground, when he heard the loud popping. Pop-pop-pop– it echoed through the neighborhood, and then pop-pop-pop again. And he heard the screaming and the yelling, and after a moment one of the workers ran down the street and past him without noticing him. His eyes were wide and wild, and he was holding his hand, and blood was spilling off his fingertips as he ran down the center of the street. And he thought that must be what a strike was– it was where somebody could get struck and hurt, and that had been why his mother hadn’t wanted him to go outside today, so that he wouldn’t get struck. But he couldn’t stay away now. He had to see what was happening. When he reached the work area, the policemen were all over, wearing their dark blue uniforms that were buttoned up the front with shiny brass buttons. They only workers he saw were laying on the ground, bloody lifeless lumps, and then a while later other workers arrived. These workers were white, and they helped the policemen drag the bodies over to the large gouge in the ground and let them fall into it. Then the new workers started to shovel in dirt until the old workers were covered. And the policemen stood by and watched. And the neighbors who had wandered over to see what had happened stood by and watched. And he, little Johnny Townes, who wasn’t supposed to be outside, stood by and watched. And when there was nothing more to see, everybody wandered away. Then next day, the new workers returned and finished filling in the earth, so that the timber could be laid, so that the rails could be put down, so that people could take the street cars to go to work or shopping, so that little kids could flatten pennies on shiny new steel rails.

He wondered that he could remember it all so clearly while his home address now seemed somehow to evade his mind. The only thing he was sure about was that there was a nine in the number– one-oh-nine or one-nineteen– or was it a seven?

The sun was by now starting to set, and the shadows of the trees he passed lay preternaturally long across his path. He felt a stab of pain, realizing he was very late, his dinner was getting cold, and his wife was probably peering through the front window of their house, wondering whether something had happened to him.

Again panic surged inside him, and to make matters worse a police car cruised by slowly. He felt a stab of guilt. Why should he feel that way? He had never in his life done anything illegal, but there it was– the dull knife-edge of guilt grinding away in his gut. He cast a dirty look after the police car, watching its driver craning his neck as he looked in the rearview mirror.

“Ought just leave people to their own business,” he mumbled to himself. “Have to go looking for trouble where there is no trouble at all.”

The police car turned on the cross street ahead and vanished. But John knew it would return– it was just going around the block.

“Well, what’s it all about,” he wondered. “Do I look like a purse-snatcher? If I do, I’m making the worse get-away in the history of crime.”

He tried to walk faster, hoping against all reasoning to elude the police car, which he knew would return.

The squad reappeared before he could even reach the cross street. It crept slowly next to the curb, keeping pace with John.

“John Townes,” the cop called out.

John glanced at him, only briefly but long enough to see that he was young, too young to be a cop, too young to be taken seriously. He kept walking, trying to quicken his pace.

“Oh, come on, John,” the cop whined.

“I don’t know you,” John said, refusing to look toward the squad car. His eyes remained focused on so distant point, and his jaw muscle bulged as though he was trying to crush his dentures together.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the cop assured him.

But John did a convincing job pretending the cop didn’t exist.

“I’m right here with you,” the cop added, the squad car crawling along at a painfully slow pace. “You’re not gonna get away.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” John complained.

“Who said you did anything? Did I say you did anything?”

“Just leave me alone!” John cried, now losing his patience.

When he finally reached the cross street, he had to pause at the corner. It felt as though he had run a mile. A pain flared in his side.

The squad car stopped, too, the cop regarding John with a bored expression.

When John looked toward the squad car, he seemed startled that it was still there.

“Remember me?” the cop asked.

“Oh, go away,” John said.

“John, just get in the car.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything. I’m a law-abiding citizen–”

“Yeah, I know–” the cop tried to calm him.

“–Why, I pay your salary!”

“Oh, you’re the cheap guy,” the cop murmured.

“What?” John demanded. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Get in the car,’” the cop said, trying to make it sound reasonable.

“But I didn’t do anything,” John protested.

“I didn’t say you did anything. I’m not arresting you. I’m just taking you home.”

“I can walk. That’s what I was doing– walking. No law against that.”

“So you know the way? You know where you are, then?”

“Yeah,” John said, but his voice sounded weak, hollow. He stared at the cop, and saw the cockiness on the guy’s face. It wasn’t the kind of cockiness you could take off and put on like a mask, but the kind that was always there, as though the guy had known from birth that he would always be right. John felt like punching the guy in the face.

“So where are you?” he insisted, and seemed to delight that John couldn’t answer. “Just get in the car, John. It’s going to be dark soon– then you would really be lost.”

John tipped his head up to look at the darkening sky.

“I must be late for dinner,” he said fretfully.

“You better get in,” the cop said mildly.

John shuffled round the front of the squad car, and climbed into the passenger seat and awkwardly shut the door.

“You better put on your seatbelt,” the cop suggested.

“Of course I will,” John snapped, already fumbling with the shoulder strap. “Never met a cop than knew how to drive worth a darn. I’m in the death seat, you know,” he said, a bit too loudly, and finally snapped the lock on the safety belt.

The cop started to cruise down the street.

“My meatloaf is probably cold already,” John complained. “Always meatloaf on Tuesday– I look forward to it.”

“It’s Friday, John,” the cop noted.

“Friday? That would be fish– I hate fish. You sure it’s Friday?”

“Yup.”

John made a face, and mumbled, “Fish.”

The squad car approached a major intersection that seemed familiar to him.

“Hey, I know where I am, now,” he said, looking ahead at the corner strip mall that had the small store where he had many ties bought vacuum cleaner supplies. “Sure, you have to take a left at the light up here.”

But when they came to the corner the cop turned right.

John was outraged. “Hey, hey, I said left! What’s going on?” he demanded.

“You don’t live that way anymore, John,” the cop said calmly, almost bored.

“I know where I live, and it’s back there,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s your name and badge number?”

The cop almost smiled at the demand. His mouth didn’t move, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Mathias. Two-three-oh-four-seven.”

“Mathias, huh? Well, I’m gonna file a report on you, Officer Mathias,” John seethed. He sat icily for a moment, and then his expression softened. “Mathias?” he said, now wondering. “I had a friend named Mathias. Old Jimmy Mathias– I grew up with him. You wouldn’t be any relation, would you?”

The cop nodded.

“You’re not his son. I know that. His son was a nancy boy– you don’t look like a nancy boy.”

Here the cop burst out laughing. When he calmed down, he said, “ No, grandson.”

“Grandson, you say! That’s impossible. Jimmy only had one son,” John said, trying to figure out the discrepancy. “Well, I guess the guy wasn’t a nancy boy, after all…. At least for a little while,” he added, and sounded somewhat annoyed.

“I’m sure my father would appreciate the thought,” the cop said, not unkindly.

John peered out the window, placidly watching the apartment buildings and small storefronts they passed.

“Where are we going again?” he asked, as though it had never been an issue.

“Home.”

“I think you’re going the wrong way,” he said.

“You’re new home,” Mathias said.

“My wife will be worried.”

Mathias glanced over at him. A pained looked passed over his young face.

“Your wife died,” he murmured.

John was about to respond, but whatever he was going to say caught in his throat. His mouth remained slightly opened, and his lower lip quivered. “Dead?” he whispered, as he seemed to start the grieving process over again.

“Nine years ago,” Mathias said. “You remember, don’t you?”

John shook his head vaguely.

“No– well, I don’t know. It seems so unreal somehow.”

“It’ll all come back to you. You’re just having a lapse, is all. You have them from time to time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said as though not listening. With a hand gnarled with age and arthritis, he wiped away a tear that was forming in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t remember his wife dying, couldn’t remember her being in a hospital, couldn’t remember a funeral, but, still, something deep inside him told him that it was all true.

Mathias turned down a side street, and after driving a couple blocks, pulled up to a stop at the curb.

John looked around with little interest, looked at the tall old trees that lined the tree, looked at the houses, which were of widely varying styles.

“Why did you stop?” he finally asked.

“This is were you live.”

John peered through the side window at the large frame house. The aluminum siding had once been bright white, but now appeared faded and somewhat gray. The front porch was screened in, and he could see a vague figure, like a wraith, moving around just behind the front door.

“You must be mistaken,” John said. Dread started to flutter in his stomach, a strange, source less dread. “I would never buy a house like that. It looks– shabby. Why, it’s not even brick.”

“It’s your son’s house,” Mathias said.

“Oh, sure,” John said, as if that explained everything.

Just then the front door opened, and a woman stepped onto the stairs. She was wearing jeans and a light blue t-shirt. Her hair had obviously been dyed blond, and looked wild.

“Your daughter-in-law,” Mathias said.

John grunted, staring at the woman, not much liking the looks of her. She looked like a boozer, he thought– the type that lays about the house all day, drinking and not doing any housework.

Two kids, a boy and a girl, about seven- or eight-years-old, squirted past their mother and ran down to the walkway to goggle at the police car.

“Kids?” John muttered. Already he could hear their squalling over any little thing. He knew there had to be some mistake; he couldn’t possibly live under the same roof as a couple kids– no way would he be able to tolerate that!

“Your grandchildren,” Mathias explained. “They’re twins.”

All John could do was release a dejected moan. “They probably trample anything I’d plant in the garden, I bet.”

“They have a nice little basement in-law,” Mathias continued, sensing already the old man’s reluctance to leave the car.

“Basement apartment,” John muttered. “Damp basement– must be wonderful for my arthritis. You’re sure you’re not making a mistake.”

“Positive,” Mathias said. “We’ve been through this before.”

“Have we?”

“More than once.”

“Oh,” John said, the utterance hanging hollow in the hush of the squad car.

“You better go now.”

Mathias watched as John fumbled with the door handle. It was as though he couldn’t get a grip on it, his deformed knuckles not letting him close his hand enough to grip the handle.

Mathias suspected it was just a ruse– an excellent acting job. He had seen his kids do the same; as soon as bedtime arrived, suddenly, inexplicably, doorknobs didn’t work, toothbrushes vanished, and bellyaches began.

“You need a hand with that?” he asked.

“No, no,” John said irritably. “I got it– it’s just stuck a little. You know, a bit tricky. But what do you expect from a city vehicle, huh?”

Mathias watched as the old man struggled out of the squad. As soon as he had shut the door behind him, the two kids rushed toward him, and, each clutching a hand, towed him forward faster than his legs wanted to allow. The old man grumbled and griped something as he was tugged toward the house, but soon he seemed to accept his fate. They guided him down the gangway that led to the white picket gate that opened on a tiny yard. The old man was looking as though fascinated up at the side of the house, at the cracked walkway, at the flowers that bordered the house. Everything must seem new to him now, Mathias figured, the good and the bad, the happy and sad.

After the old man disappeared from sight, Mathias started the squad. Before he pulled away from the curb, he noticed that the woman was still standing on the front stairs. She raised her hand and gave him a weak, embarrassed wave– the way she had every other time he had returned the old man home. Every time there was an unspoken promise that this would be the last time, but it would only be the last time until the next time.

The old man would never have a last long walk home.

 

 

My Fav Actors on Twitter

Wil Wheaton @wilw

Levar Burton @levarburton

Brent Spiner     @BrentSpiner

Danny Glover @mrdannyglover

Peter Facinelli @peterfacinelli

John Cleese @JohnCleese

 

William Shatner @WilliamShatner

Donnie Wahlberg @DonnieWahlberg

 
Eliza Dushku  @elizadushku 

 

Jane Fonda  @Janefonda

Justine Bateman @JustineBateman

Lucy Liu @itslucyliu

 
John Larroquette @JohnLarroquette

 

Corbin Blue @CorbinBleu

Melora Hardin @MeloraHardin

Ralph Macchio @ralphmacchio

Gary Busey @GBusey

 
Kevin Pollak @kevinpollak

Kat Dennings @OfficialKat

My Fav Writers on Twitter

This is a list of some of my favorite writers on Twitter. It is in no way a complete list. I’m sure I will return to add more names later. Please fill free to make suggestions.

 

Meg Cabot @megcabot

Steven Johnson @stevenbjohnson

Neil Gaiman @neilhimself

Very Short Story @VeryShortStory

BittenbyBooks.com @BittenbyBooks

Michael C. Cordell @SoCalVillaGuy

Lisa Kessler @LdyDisney

Paul Levinson @PaulLev

Jessica James @jessicajames

Bill M. Tracer @billmtracer

Barbara Boyer @beboyer

Malcolm R. Campbell @MalcolmCampbell

Elyse Draper @AuthorElyseD

Jon F Merz @jonfmerz

Toni Andrews @toniandrews

D.B. Grady @dbgrady

Barbara Delinsky @BarbaraDelinsky

Jeremy Robinson @JRobinsonAuthor

Charlotte Hughes @Charlottehughes

Kaza Kingsley @kazakingsley

Joe Hill @joe_hill

Jude Stringfellow @jlstringfellow

Harlan Coben @harlancoben

Ann Douglas @anndouglas

Holly Black @holly black

James Rollins @James Rollins

Marshall Karp @MarshallKarp

Maria Schneider @Maria Schneider

Susan Orlean @susanorlean

Terry Pratchett @terryandrob

Tina-Sue Ducross   @APABlog

 

 

Excerpt from Just Plain Weird

 

I. ELIZA

 

　

 

Raffles was probably right. It wasn’t human nature to leave things alone. It was normal for people to try to fix things that didn’t need to be fixed; or, infinitely worse, trying to fix things that were broken, because some things are meant to be broken– and that is all there is to it. Raffles also said that half the time when you didn’t leave things alone it led to some kind of trouble. I wasn’t convinced of that, though, because if that were true, then it would seem you’d be hearing about trouble all the time– unless, of course, most of the trouble in the world were kept hidden in closets, or something, and the public in general never finds out about it all.

Raffles had always been acknowledged as the smartest kid in school, and when we let out of school last June, he announced that he wouldn’t be returning to public high school in the fall. He would be going to Thomas Edison Academy, which was a private school that accepted only very smart kids. It was a very hoity-toity institution. You had to be about as smart as Albert Einstein to get into the place (which left me out of the running from the get-go); also, it was very expensive, which led me to believe Raffles had got some kind of scholarship, since his parents were by no means rich.

I couldn’t say exactly when Raffles became my best friend. I only knew it had nothing to do with me. It seemed as though he’d shown up at my house one day, and assumed the position of my best friend. I’d often think, Buddy, if I’m your best friend, you got problems. Still, throughout my middle school years I somehow managed to tolerate his presence while we did mainly normal things, although I believed Raffles was far from normal.

We would spend endless hours each summer in the tree house my father built a few years ago. I hadn’t asked him for a tree house, but he’d built it out of some belief it was his parental duty. His job required him to go on the road for long periods of time, so guilt, too, might have been involved in his decision to build the tree house. It was a trade-off for all the times he wasn’t around, all designed to make him feel better, as though he had said to himself, “Sure, I’m not home as much as I’d like to be, but at least the kid has a tree house to play in, right?” For weeks I’d watched as he grunted and groaned, lugging lumber on his back up the ladder and into the tree. What I remembered most about him building the tree house was how he seemed to lose one of his tools every three or four minutes. That was the way it had always been with him; his tools seemed to vanish magically now and then, and he could never figure out how. Then, about two minutes after the tree house was finished, he magically vanished….

 

 

Burning Bridges

Again I call Sarah Anne, but still the answer was no.

Usually, by now, we would be sitting closely on the bench beneath the tree in the Burnwoods’ front yard. It was a tradition, Sarah Anne once told me, that had gone back generations. Her great-grandfather had planted the tree when he was a boy, and ever since then every couple who had sat under the tree had fallen in love and got married.

I was only seventeen at the time, and knew little about traditions. As far as I could tell there were no traditions in my family, unless you counted my Uncle Jeff, who for many years, stole hubcaps and car stereos. That, as I understood it, however, wasn’t so much a tradition as what was known as “recalcitrant criminal behavior.”

So I bowed to Sarah Anne’s superior knowledge of traditions. I totally believed everything she claimed, which was why it took a full month for her to cajole me to go near the gnarled old tree. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her– I liked her just fine. She was smart but not snobbish about it. She was pretty with long wavy blonde hair and green eyes and a face that could have been the inspiration for cameos. She came from a good old family, which seemed to still mean something to people. It meant little to me, though, other than her parents on a daily basis wore the same clothes my parents wore while going to a wedding or funeral. No, I liked Sarah Anne pretty much, and in the end let her talk me into sitting under that old tree.

On summer nights we would sit out there and hold hands while her mother pretended she wasn’t peeking through the front window at us but a pesky raccoon that often visited the home to scavenge through the garbage, I would kiss her now and then, and she would rest her head on my shoulder. It was all very enjoyable, comforting to know that you weren’t all alone in the universe, as it sometimes seemed when you were a teenager. I don’t think it was love, really, not unless you defined love as only a strong dependency on another’s presence. Whatever it was, it was pleasant enough, and after I kissed her for the last time each night, I would walk home each night warmed by the thought that tomorrow we would be together again.

But when I called on her one day, she said, “No, not tonight.” She said it simply, as though, no, she didn’t care for the Brussels sprouts somebody was trying to pass her at Sunday dinner. To make matters worse, she actually shut the door on me before I could ask why.

So, confused, I started to wander back home. Oddly it was like going to the drug store for cough syrup but finding the store was sold out, leaving you to return empty-handed to home, where you would be sick for the rest of the night.

I passed through town square, and saw a crowd gathered round round the statue of Sterling Oland, the civil war hero after whom our town had been named (Sterling Oland, I believed, had been labeled a hero not because he’d done something to win a war, but rather because he hadn’t done something to lose it.) Since crowds of people usually formed in Oland only at times of disaster, curiosity forced me to see what was happening.

Mayor Lockwood was addressing the people. I stood at the rear of the crowd, and soon learned that he was talking about the Russians. (This was 1961, when all the rich crazy people in California were having bomb shelters built in their back yards.) As in all times of global tension, small-town people turned their attention from pork prices to exaggerated notions of their place in the world. At first I thought the mayor was just exercising his right to free speech, but in a moment I discovered there might actually be a point to what he was saying. He announced gravely that Oland would certainly be a Russian target if hostilities broke out. How could it not be? The railroad cars that passed through Oland County weekly transported titanium west, where it was used to make ICBMs and warplanes. The crowded nodded in agreement, apparently not wondering at what the mayor claimed. They shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. Someone shouted up at the mayor, asking what we could do? The mayor shrugged hopelessly, and you could feel panic grow in the crowd, as though Oland might actually be a prime target, one of the first cities to have its population vaporized. One man suggested that the town obtain a court injunction, but he was shouted down by several others who believed there wasn’t enough time and that the tracks east of town ought to be “disabled,” so that no kind of war materials could pass anywhere near the town. But a shop-owner complained that necessary stock and supplies wouldn’t be able to reach Oland– not by train, anyway, but only by truck and because of those damned teamsters the prices of everything would go up. The mayor suggested that the best way to save Oland from a nuclear holocaust was if the bridge by which the trained crossed the river east of town was somehow destroyed by a natural disaster. Damned the price of tomatoes– at least everyone would be alive. Many people cheered agreement, obviously not realizing it would have to be a mighty co-incidental natural disaster.

I decided they were just spouting off hot air, and that nothing would ever happen to the bridge; the river hadn’t even run over but twice in the last hundred years.

I was about to resuming walking home, when I felt suddenly empty. I had no one to talk to about all this nonsense. If I went home and told my parents, they would have just run down here to support whatever the mayor proposed. Sarah Anne, with whom I discussed everything, was unavailable for some secret reason. That began to rankle me to no end. I felt that she was letting me down, really, and for nothing that I’d done.

I decided to return to her house. I would demand an explanation. I had never wanted to sit with her beneath that old tree from the start, and now that it had worked some magical on me, she was going to start playing games.

When I reached the house, it appeared to be empty. All the lights were out and the family station wagon wasn’t in the driveway. I moved up the cobblestone path, past the tall old tree and toward the front door. It was a long time before she answered my knock, and while I waited I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being avoided.

The door opened a rack, and she peeked out at me with watery blue eyes. It looked as though she’d be crying.

“Richie,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing back.”

“I came to make sure you’re all right,” I lied. I knew now she was up to something.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” she cooed.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Then why won’t you come out tonight?” I demanded.

“I can’t, Richie,” she said sadly.

“There must be a reason.”

“There is, but I’d rather not say.”

“Oh?”

“Please, Richie, don’t bother about it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” I asked suspiciously, already sensing the answer.

“I’m not sure,” she said, and she hedged and made a big show how it all was so important to see me again.

“What do you mean?” I think I really started to hate her, then

“Well– maybe in a few days– I don’t know.”

Maybe in a few days! I was outraged

“Please,” she pleaded, “just go home and I’ll call you.” And she quickly shut the door.

I stared at nothing for a moment. It all made such little sense, like playing a cruel joke on someone just because they trust enough to let you do it. I finally turned away to leave.

When I saw the tree, then, anger really flared inside me. It had all been some stupid lie, with me falling for it completely. I suddenly hated that tree and all those who had ever sat under it before Sarah Anne and me– assuming that, too, hadn’t been a lie. My anger took hold of me, then, and I rushed to the rear of the house, behind which was an old tool shed. From inside I took gasoline can that the Burnwoods’ used to fill their lawn mower. I doused the trunk of the tree and the wooden bench with gasoline. When I tossed a lighted match on the bench, there was a low fruuump sound as the blaze flared. The flames slowly rose upward and spread out onto the lower limbs. As I walked away, the fire was burning so brightly I could see Sarah Anne’s horrified face peering through the front window. I saw the tears running down her cheeks, and I felt a delicious sense of satisfaction that I had harmed her as much as she had harmed me.

I started down the road and the cracking of the fire faded behind me. I had not walked far before the Burnwoods’ station wagon slowed down and pulled up next to me. The back of the wagon was filled with grocery bags, and Mrs. Burnwood pushed her face out the side window.

“You see Sarah Anne?” she asked. She was being her usual, pleasant self, and facing her now was difficult; in a short while she would reach her house and discover what I’d done.

“Yeah,” I said meekly.

“It’s too bad you two can’t see each other for a while.”

“Yeah,” I said, acid creeping into my tone, starting to suspect her mother of this sudden separation.

“These things happen now and then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The poor dear is suffering so.”

“Suffering?” I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you, did she? Well, I’m not surprised. She always was sensitive about these things, about what you would think. It’s silly really. When you get older you never think twice, because it’s all so natural. But when you’re young, you want everybody to think you’re perfect.”

“What things are we talking about?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you. She would just kill me if I said a word. Well, maybe, if you promise not to say anything.”

I promised.

“It’s really silly.”

“What?”

“She just has the stomach flu.”

“Pardon?”

“Silly, right? She just didn’t want you to know, let along see her sick– you know, vomiting and such.”

“Oh, vomiting,” I said; it sounded like a good idea at the moment.

“And other things– you know. What did she tell you, anyway?

“She told me not to bother about it.”

“Well, don’t then,” she said cheerfully. “In a couple days, everything will be back to normal.”

She shifted back into drive, and the station wagon headed down the road. I watched after it until it was out of sight. I stood in the middle of the road, not sure what to do. Then I heard the distant explosions, like rumbling thunder that warns of a coming storm, and I realized what had happened. I could see in my mind the fiery ruins of the bridge falling into the river, hissing, steam rising off the water.

“Idiots.” I shouted. “Idiot.”

But no one was around to hear me.