My Best Friend by Bill Tope

Dr. Arnold Schopp, DVM, glanced at the caller ID; he didn’t recognize the number. The time was 5am. Picking up his landline, he said, “Hello?”

“Oh! Hi! My name’s Livy. You don’t know me, but I got your number from the men’s washroom at The Stagger Inn, the tavern in the Central West End?”

Arnold blinked. He’d never heard of the place. Was this a crank call? he wondered.

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I’m a porter at the tavern during the mornings, before they open. I’m working my way through nursing school, Arnie; Class of ’96! Yay! Is it alright if I call you Arnie?”

Arnold shrugged, but his caller couldn’t see it, so he said, “Okay.”

“I’m having some trouble with my hand,” Livy went on. “And I thought maybe you could help.”

Arnold shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, where I found your name and number, underneath it said, “For a Good Hand Job, call Arnie, at…” and she read off his phone number. “Are you a doctor or something, Arnie?”

“Well, no,” he said. “I am a veterinarian, however.” He was almost sure he wasn’t being pranked. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“I stuck it in the wringer on the mop bucket when I was mopping the floor and then wrung it out. It hurts,” she added.

Arnold went on to tell his new friend how to treat the injury, with ice and later with heat and so on.

“Thanks so much, Arnie,” said Livy with a little squeal.

“How are you doing in nursing school?” he asked.

“I’m just ending my first year,” she replied. “I’m doin’ real good. Thanks for asking.”

It occurred to Arnold that Livy hadn’t many places to turn when she encountered the vicissitudes of life, so he told her, “It’s the very least I can do, Livy. I’ve got to go for now, but you’ve got my number. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay,” she said with a gulp.

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold lifted the receiver of the landline in his all-night animal clinic and said, “Hello?”

“Arnie?” asked a young, shrill female voice. “It’s Livy.”

“Hi, Livy,” said Arnold, smiling. “What’s going on?”

“Ooh, I smashed my head,” she lamented, her voice revealing a tremor of angst. “I was taking the laundry out of my washing machine and the lid closed on my little peanut head!”

“Are you alright?” asked Arnold with concern.

“No!” she said loudly. “It hurts. I think I might have a concussion.”

Arnold frowned into the phone. He knew it was unlikely that the light-weight lid of a washing machine would do much damage. He told Livy so.

“You don’t care if I die!” she shrieked. “I have a drop of blood on my forehead and I think I might’ve fractured my skull, Arnie.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Unlikely,” he suggested.

“I’m thinking of going to urgent care or to the hospital or to Minnesota…” began Livy.

“Minnesota?”

“The Mayo Clinic,” Livy explained. “That have an excellent trauma unit for head injuries, Arnie.” Livy, Arnold remembered, was a student nurse, now in her second year.

“How much blood did you lose?” asked Arnold.

“One or two drops.”

“Do you have a knot or your head or anything?” he asked next. “Do you feel sleepy or dizzy or…”

“No,” said Livy, “but I almost for sure fractured my skull. “The parietal bone, or the zygomatic arch or the…”

“Livy, put some ice on it,” counseled Arnold. “Do you have any insurance yet?” he asked.

“No. And I need a CAT scan and an MRI and a cognitive assessment…”

“Well, if you feel that you must get medical treatment, hospitals can’t turn away anyone who’s deathly ill. Go to St. Elizabeth’s, here in town, and see what they say. Okay?”

“Okay, Arnie,” replied Livy. “Thanks.”

“You bet, Livy. Let me know what they tell you.”

“You’re interested?” she asked with surprise.

“I am,” said Arnold.

“Goody,” she said.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold glanced at his watch and lifted the receiver.

“Arnie,” said Livy, her voice staticky over the line. “I had an accident.”

“What kind of an accident?” asked Arnold.

“I was painting my flower boxes and I got a splinter.”

Arnold envisioned Livy, bringing her middle finger to her lips and sucking on it.

“How big?” he inquired.

” ‘Bout a quarter of an inch. It hurts!” she wailed, holding the finger up in Arnold’s mind’s eye for his inspection. He shook his head, thought about the spaying and neutering operations he had pending at the clinic. “Do you think I need a tetanus shot?” she asked.

“When did you have your last one?” Arnold asked her.

“Six months ago, remember, when I dropped the can of peas on my foot and thought I might’ve broken the third metatarsal or the calcaneus? At the ER they didn’t want to do a full-body scan because I didn’t have any insurance and I wouldn’t leave until they did something. So they gave me a shot.”

Arnold sighed. His young friend was a bit of an alarmist. “I think you only need a tetanus shot every ten years or so…”

“Oh!” said Livy. “That’s right, I remember it from class.”

“I’d just wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide, dress it with merthiolate or iodine and wrap it up. You’ll be fine, Livy,” said Arnold.

“Thanks, Arnie,” said Livy gratefully. “You’re the best!”

The dial tone popped back on.

_____

Arnold, on duty as usual at his animal clinic, picked up the telephone on the second ring. He knew it would be Livy, his irrepressible friend from the college. She called every day at the same time: 5am.

“Hi, Livy, how’s tricks?” he asked, pleased to talk with a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Arnie,” she fairly burst through the line. “I’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” he asked, barely avoiding appending “this time” to the query.

“I’ve been picking weeds out of my garden,” Livy explained. “And my fingers are cramped. I think I might have myasthenia gravis or something. Maybe Parkinson’s.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Not a chance,” he said.

“Well, I’ve sure got weeds,” she asserted. “What do you think I…”

“Livy,” said Arnold with what patience he could pull together, “you need to start making some decisions on your own. You’re an adult, and you’re old enough,” he said, perhaps more harshly that he’d intended.

“Arnie, did I catch you at a bad time?” Livy asked him.

“Well, kind of. I don’t mind…I like talking to you every day, but sometimes you need to just stand on your own two feet and decide. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t hurt his sensitive young friend’s feelings. She was so easily hurt…

_____

“I met a guy, Arnie,” said Livy one day.

“Where did you meet him?” asked Arnold.

“At a party thrown by one of my friends from school,” she said.

“Is he a nursing student too?” he asked.

“No, he’s a medical student, Arnie. We partied and I got a little bit drunk and later we kissed and made out.”

“Be careful,” cautioned Arnold. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you, Livy.”

He could almost see her nod. “Gotcha. We didn’t do anything I might regret,” she said. “Robert–that’s his name, Robert–asked me out on a regular date tonight.”

“That sounds fine,” said Arnold approvingly. “Is he known among your friends; I mean, does he have a good reputation?”

“Yes,” she said. “All my friends say he has a lot of girlfriends, and none of them turned up dead or anything. He graduates next year,” she said.

“Well, have a good time, Livy.”

“Thanks, Arnie. I’ll talk to you later.”

_____

Arnold didn’t hear from Livy as usual the next morning and he wondered how she was. She usually called every day from work, when she was cleaning the tavern to pay her way through school; she had done so since they met over the telephone more than a year before. Finally, he checked his phone directory and found the last number she’d used. He dialed it up.

It rang and rang but the call went unanswered. Arnold called again several times, until, on the fourth try, after the phone rang endlessly at the other end, she picked up.

“Hello?” said Livy in a whisper.

Arnold frowned into his receiver; Livy sounded so down.

“Livy?” he said.

After a moment, she said, “Hi, Arnie. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Arnold said. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Livy,” he said, “what have you been doing? Why haven’t you called me?”

“I was only doing what you told me I should do,” replied Livy. “You know, take responsibility for my actions, make decisions, and…” Her voice drifted off.

“Livy, does this have anything to do with Robert?” Arnold asked.

“I went out with Robert,” she said dully. “I trusted him, like you said.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, gripping the receiver fiercely, “what happened.”

“Robert took me out, like he said he would,” she replied. Before he could inquire further, Livy whispered, “Robert raped me, Arnie.”

Arnold’s blood ran cold. He listened intently, but Livy said no more, until finally, she murmured, “He hurt me, Arnie.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, “I am so sorry.”

“I know, Arnie. Because you’re my friend. I know you don’t always have time for me and I need to stand on my own two feet and…”

Arnold listened and thought he could hear Livy softly weeping.

“…it was my own fault anyway,” she continued. “I should’ve known better than to go back to the home of someone I only just met. I…I’d never made love before, and I didn’t know what to do when he told me to take off my clothes…”

“Livy, it is not your fault,” said Arnold firmly.

“If I’d just done what he said, then he wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said.

“A woman makes decisions her whole life, Livy, and she doesn’t always make the right ones. But, whether you said yes or not, it was rape. He made the decision for you, Livy. Rape is not about a man’s needs or even what he says he wants. It’s about domination and control and inflicting humiliation on his weaker victim. Do you understand me, dear?”

“Yes, Arnie,” replied Livy. She sounded to Arnold as though she were regaining some of her composure. Which gave him heart.

“So,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault…?”

“That’s right, Livy. Where are you now? Are you at home?”

“I’m in a little diner in the Central West End, near the tavern I clean,” said Livy.

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” he asked.

“I was…ashamed,” she admitted.

“Livy, have you received medical attention? Have you seen a professional?”

“No, Arnie.”

“Give me the address,” he told her. She did. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes, Livy, and we’ll get you the help that you need.”

“You mean you’re coming for me now?”she asked in a small voice.

“Right now,” he said.

“Then we’ll finally get to meet face to face, Arnie. Goody.”

Minutes later, Arnold pulled his animal hospital vehicle into the parking lot of the small diner described by Livy over the phone. He glanced at his watch: it was a quarter past 6am. He’d never met his friend, but knew she was 20 years old. The place was half-filled, but he discerned Libby almost by instinct.

A smallish, thin woman with light brown hair, she occupied a booth near the end of the cafe. She looked up at him as he took a seat opposite her. They sat and looked at one another for an impossibly long moment, before Livy said, in a voice that Arnold recognized instantly, “You came.”

A waitress materialized as if by magic and Arnold asked Livy if she wanted anything. There was a half-drunk cup of coffee before her, with fully a half dozen opened Splenda packages lying in disarray in her saucer. She shook her head no.

Arnold insisted she have something to eat, so she ordered French toast. He ordered a coffee. They spoke in low, confidential voices until their order arrived. Livy’s appetite appeared to be piqued by the aromatic French toast and she dug in, smothering the dish with butter and warmed maple syrup.

As she ate, Arnold told her what would happen next.

“I’ll take you to the emergency room,” he said, “and they’ll check you out. They have a rape crisis unit on duty there, 24/7.”

“What will they do?” Livy asked. He told her.

“They are associated with law enforcement, Livy,” he said. At her stricken look, he assured her that she was not in trouble, but rather Robert. “Forcible rape is a felony, Livy,” he told her gently but firmly. “No one can make you cooperate with them, but think of all the other young women and girls that Robert might inflict himself on in the years to come.”

That sealed it. She agreed to talk to the rape counselor and the cops.

“I feel like I failed you, Livy,” said Arnold contritely, reaching across the table and touching his friend for the very first time. It was warm where they touched.

“You’ve done so much for me, Arnie,” said Livy in a stronger voice. “And you’re still doing it. No one has ever been my friend before. Not like you.”

Arnold felt his heart break. “I love you, Livy. You are my very good friend.”

“You’ve done so much, Arnie,” said Livy again. “Could I ask you to do me one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“Come around to my side and give me a hug, alright?”

Without another word, Arnold rose from his seat, came around and sat next to Livy and gave her a tremendous hug.

For the first time that morning, Livy smiled.

“Goody,” she said.

Bill Tope

Saragun Headquarters, Washington State

Light on His Feet by Bill Tope

“Are you really going to start dating him, Meg?’ asked Kris, standing in the doorway to her housemate’s bedroom.

“I’m going out with him on one date,” Meg corrected her. “After that, I’ll play it by ear.” She pulled on clean jeans.

“What’re you gonna do, go dancing?” asked Kris acidly. “Or hiking in the woods? I know, you can do your five-mile run with him.” She exploded with harsh laughter.

“I don’t think you’re funny, Kris,” said Meg. “Jonah may not be the starring halfback on the school’s football team the way your boyfriend is…”

“He can barely walk, Meg,” Kris interrupted. “I’ve seen him in action at the bookstore at the mall. What do you see in him anyway? Is he loaded or something?”

“I don’t run a credit check on my dates,” said Meg pointedly.

This quieted Kris, who had been known to do that very thing.

“I did that one time…” protested Kris.

“Twice!” snapped Meg.

“…alright, twice then,” admitted Kris. “You have to enter a relationship with your eyes wide open, ‘hon,” she said.

Meg sighed. “I know you’ve had some issues there, Kris. But you come from money, and I don’t. I don’t need to worry about a golddigger, ya’ know?”

“He probably only wants to get in your pants,” said Kris peevishly.

“I forgot,” said Meg. “You never fool around with your boyfriends…”

“See, you’re thinking of him as a boyfriend already,” charged Kris. “Well, make him use protection. You don’t want to get knocked up and have a baby that has what he’s got, whatever that is.”

“Don’t worry,” said Meg dryly. “I can always consult Planned Parenthood.”

Kris threw up her hands in defeat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t.

_____

Meg stood before the bathroom mirror, toweling off after her shower. She thought back to how she’d met Jonah Fenster at the bookstore and then gone out on a date with him tonight.

“Can I help you find anything?” he’d asked.

Meg regarded him. He was an average-looking boy, around her age, 2o, and dressed casually in denim and flannel.

“Do you work here?” she asked. Meg had never seen him before.

“No,” he said in all earnestness, “I just wander in and out of all the stores in this mall and try to strike up a conversation with the prettiest girls I can find.”

Meg blinked at him and he grinned winningly.

“Yes, I work here,” he admitted. “Are you looking for texts for your classes? You go to the university, don’t you? I know I’ve seen you on campus.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m taking college algebra and second-year zoology.”

“I know just what you need,” he said. Then he stepped away, and Meg found herself staring. He walked with a pronounced limp and moved with the aid of a cane. “C’mon,” he told her, and she filed behind him. Walking three aisles over, he knelt and snatched a book from the shelves and handed it to her.

“College algebra,” he announced. “C’mon,” he said, leading the way across the shop. “Don’t dawdle, follow me. What’s the matter,” he cracked, “you’re not crippled, are you?”

Meg gasped in horror. Had she been staring at him? she wondered. “I…” she began.

“Hey, lighten up,” the young man told her. “It’s my own little joke. Okay?” He grinned again.

Meg felt immediately at ease. “Okay,” she said.

Later, at check out, she struck up a conversation with the young man, who told her his name was Jonah.” He was growing on her, she found.

“Jonah’s an unusual name,” she observed, revealing her own identity.

“It’s Jewish,” he told her, as if to clear the air.

“Oh,” she said, unsure what he expected her to say.

“You don’t mind purchasing your merchandise from a Christ killer, do you?” he asked straight-faced.

“I don’t think that’s at all amusing, Jonah!” Meg scolded.

Jonah’s face turned crimson. “Sorry, Meg,” he said. “It’s just that I get that sort of nonsense from the unwashed masses of this town…this state…this country.”

“Please don’t lump me in with them,” she said. “I wash regularly.”

“Point taken,” he said humbly. He handed her her change. As she turned to go, he said impulsively, “Meg, would you go out with me–on a date?”

Just then, several more customers came up to the checkout. and because she was still a little sore at him for what he’d said, he considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. But no. She twirled back to face him and said, “Alright.”

When Jonah picked up Meg at her on-campus apartment, Kris, thankfully, was not there. Meg let him in.

“Nice digs,” he said, looking about.

“Do you live on campus too, Jonah?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I live with my mother, in the city.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very stern,” Jonah went on, without preamble. “Lots of hand-holding and pressure to succeed. Nothing but As on the report card,” he said. “And no dating on Shabbat–from sunset on Friday through sunset on Saturday.”

“Oh!” said Meg. “Do you want to do this tomorrow night then?”

Jonah smiled and shook his head no. “I’d love for you to meet my mother,” he said.

“I think that would be nice,” said Meg, who wasn’t sure.

She’ll want to introduce you to the Shadchan for the shidduch.”

“Pardon me?”

“The matchmaking,” said Jonah. “Naturally the Shadchan, or matchmaker, will want to research your family, your resouces, the caliber of your estate. Then there will be the nedunya, or bride’s dowry,” he translated for her.

Meg finally began to catch on she was being ribbed. “Sorry, Jonah, you’re out of luck. My family doesn’t have money.”

“Doesn’t have to be cash,” he said. “Do you have any herds, property, slaves…?”

“Jonah,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “do you ever manage to get a second date?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “You’re the first girl who ever agreed to go out with me.”

Meg furrowed her brow a little. She was unsure when he was kidding.

“We better scoot if we’re gonna make that movie,” Jonah said.

They quitted the apartment and walked to Jonah’s car. Meg was instantly impressed. It was a brand new 1993 Mustang convertible, blood-red.

“Ooh, nice wheels, Jonah,” cooed Meg, touching the door of the car.

“Jews have to display their wealth ostentaciously…” began Jonah, but Meg cut him off.

“Give it a rest, okay, Jonah.” She peered into his blue eyes.

Jonah nodded. “Lemme get the door,” he said, and held it for his date.

After the movie, they sat in the rapidly-emptying theater and Jonah asked, “Was the film too much in character for me, Meg?”

“Schindler’s List,” said Meg. “I would’ve expected nothing less–Jew boy!”

Jonah opened his mouth, closed it again and leaned in and kissed Meg’s lips. After a moment, she kissed him back.

“Umm” they both murmured.

_____

Sitting in a small diner following the movie, they discussed the film they’d just seen. Jonah mentioned an obscure detail that Meg had completely missed. She said so.

“I did too, the first couple of times I saw the movie,” Jonah said.

“How many times have you seen it?” Meg asked him.

“Tonight makes eight,” he replied. “When she didn’t say anything, Jonah added, “It’s more than just a film, Meg. It’s a historical event, a remarkable cinematic achievement.”

“I thought it was good,” Meg admitted.

“I guess it means more to me because I’m Jewish,” admitted Jonah. “You see, most of my mother’s relatives perished in circumstances depicted in the film. They were worked to death or taken by train to death camps–Todeslager. The Nazis had six such camps during the Second World War.” He began naming them: “Chelmno, Treblinka, Sobibor, Belzec…”

“What, you have them memorized?” asked Meg, surprised.

“Of course.”

“But why?” She didn’t get it.

“You look at your photo albums or old 8mm movies or VHS videos of your family, right?” asked Jonah.

“Yes.”

“Well, for many Ashkenazic Jews–those from Poland–this is all we have. Old newsreels and still pictures from the era. When I look at the old footage I wonder, is that my great grandfather or uncle or…” He trailed off.

“I think I understand, Jonah,” Meg told him.

When she returned to her apartment, Meg found Kris there in the company of her boyfriend, Troy.

“How did your date go?” asked Kris, seemingly with sincerity.

“Fine,” replied Meg. “We saw Schindler’s List.”

“Woo hoo,” said Troy in a loud voice. “More of that Holocaust crap.”

“What do you mean?” asked Meg.

“That’s just Jew bullshit, Meg,” said Troy boisterously. “Ooh,” he said, effecting a high-pitched voice. “The poor Jews, six million of us gassed. If I ate kosher, I’d have gas too!” He laughed, joined in his mirth, much to Meg’s chagrin, by Kris.

Meg looked closer and realized that the couple were wasted. Empty wine bottles sat upon the coffee table and the effluvium of pot had gathered in a cloud of blue vapor near the ceiling. Screw it, she thought, I’ll just go to bed.

“I know Jonah Fenster,” said Troy out of nowhere. “He’s manager of the track team. Ha-ha, can you imagine?”

“He’s a hard worker,” said Meg defensively, remembering Jonah’s boundless energy at the bookstore. She watched Troy run his ham-like hand up the back of Kris’s sweater. She seemed to accept it, but she didn’t look happy about it. Meg began to walk toward her bedroom.

“Hey, girl,” said Troy, who had his hand between his girlfriend’s knees now. “You’re not goin’ to bed, are you? It’ ain’t even one yet.”

“See you in the morning,” she said, hanging up her jacket on a hook.

“I thought we could have us a Troy sandwich,” said the jock.

Meg stared at him, uncomfortably.

“Kris, you tol’ me she’d go for it,” Troy said. “That’s why I stayed aroun’ tonight. C’mon, darlin’,” he told Meg, “that hebe didn’t wear you out, did he?”

Meg rolled her eyes and took off for her room.

“Do you prefer sucking a circumcized cock, or the real thing?” he shouted after her, then laughed like a braying jackass.

Meg slammed and locked her door.

_____

When Jonah showed up at Meg’s apartment for their second date, a week later, Kris was present this time.

“Come in,” she told him cooly, and he followed her inside. “Where are you kids going on your date?” she asked.

“Brazier’s,” replied Jonah, naming a popular music venue.

This stopped Kris in her tracks. “The dance club?” she asked, staring at his cane.

Seeing her look, Jonah said, ‘Uh huh. I can’t wait to get out there on the dance floor and cut a rug. You think Meg will be able to keep up?”

Kris stared at him.

“She’s a little gimpy,” he added, “but cute.”

Suddenly Meg appeared in the living room and said, “Hi! Ready to go?”

“Could I carry you, honey?” asked Jonah in an old man’s voice.

“No,” Meg said, playing along. “I’ll try to keep up. Just don’t start running, like last time.”

Kris mutely watched them depart.

At the night spot, Meg and Jonah sat nodding in sync to the contemporary beat of the band.

“I like them,” said Meg. “Who are they?”

“They’re called Nirvana,” replied Jonah. “They’ve been around for about a year.

“You think you can get them to record your tune for the film?” she asked. It had been Jonah’s idea to scope out the new talent. He produced movies for his film classes.

“Uh huh. Provided they don’t explode off the stage and become famous before we’re ready to produce the spot. They sound like they’re primed to just take off.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” said a buff 20-something, inserting himself at the table between Meg and Jonah. “Could I have this dance? I’m Mike,” he said.

Meg glanced uncertainly at her date.

“Okay with you, dude?” the man asked Jonah.

“Go ahead, Meg,” Jonah invited.

With a smile, Mike pulled out Meg’s chair and she joined the man on the dance floor. Jonah watched them with quiet bemusement. But his eyes were steely.

Suddenly there was a sexy, willowy female at Jonah’s elbow and he turned her way. She wore a red dress with black sleeves. Her scent was electrifying.

“Wanna dance?” she asked in a voice which brooked few refusals.

“Sorry,” said Jonah.

She turned up her nose, sniffed and stalked other prey. In seconds she was on the dance floor with someone else. The song ended and another started up and Meg and Mike remained on the dance floor. Following the conclusion of the second tune, Mike deposited Meg back at her table.

“Thanks, dude,” said Mike, and he hastily corralled black sleeves and began dancing with her without missing a step.

“I’m hot,” said Meg, fanning herself with a hand.

“You’re right about that,” Jonah said with a grin.

Meg placed her hand on Jonah’s arm. “You didn’t mind, did you?” she asked.

“Well, I’d prefer if you’d devote waking every moment to me. It’d help if you got your own cane,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes and punched his arm.

“Seriously, though, Meg,” said Jonah. “I can’t dance. But, everyone’s got limitations. I mean, you probably couldn’t knock off 1,000 situps.”

“Can you?” she asked, her eyes wide with awe.

“Hell no!” He scoffed.

The evening concluded in Jonah’s car, with what Meg’s older sister had always called “heavy petting.” Meg considered inviting him in, but then demurred. This was only their second date, and she didn’t want to come off as easy. They sat back, catching their breath, with Meg waiting for Jonah to ask her out again. Suddenly she had a brainstorm.

“You wanna come to dinner next week?” she asked.

Jonah looked at her in all seriousness. “Do you keep kosher?” he asked.

Meg’ mind spun. Kosher? she thought. She wasn’t sure what that even meant. “Uh…sure.” she said.

“I’m only teasing, Meg,” he said, his face breaking into a grin. “We aren’t observant Jews, except for Jewish Holidays. Anything you prepare will be fine.”

Meg relaxed and Jonah moved in for a goodnight kiss.

_____

After they’d finished Meg’s home-cooked dinner, and the dishes had been cleared, the couple sat on the sofa in the living room, drinking the second of two bottles of wine that Jonah had bought. Meg leaned her head on Jonah’s shoulder, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Meg was suddenly concerned about the rest of the evening. She had had only two lovers in her 20 years, and could count on just two hands the number of sexual experiences he’d had. Would Jonah be a more experienced lover? she wondered. She heard a soft humming in her head; she was comfortably buzzed on the wine.

Jonah leaned in and kissed Meg’s neck, her face, then her lips.

“Umm,” she purred. “You’re a good kisser,” she whispered.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said

6 months later

“Jonah,” said Meg pensively, “am I ever going to meet your mother?”

Jonah sighed. They had had this discussion many times in the past several months. Meg had visited Jonah’s home many times in the interim and had even spent the night there with him, but Meryl Fenster had never been in residence. The first several times Meg passed it off to mere chance, but lately it had been eating at her. Was it a concerted effort on the part of Jonah and/or his mother to avoid what might prove to be a confrontation with the son’s non-Jewish lover?.

Lover, thought Meg. She’d never possessed that identity before Jonah. It took some getting used to, she decided. Today found the couple once again at Jonah’s. He had stepped out to the newsstand to buy the Times. When he returned she asked him, “Why is your freezer locked?”

Jonah did a double take. “What?” he asked.

“The freezer in the basement, Jonah. It’s locked.”

“You’ve been down in the basement?” he asked with a little smile.

“You weren’t here,” Meg explained, “so I went exploring. When I got to the basement, I found this enormous chest freezer and when I tried to lift the lid, it was locked.”

“I didn’t even know it had a lock,” said Jonah.

“Why should it be locked?” she asked again.

Jonah shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe Mom does’t trust the housekeeper not to steal the beef brisket.”

“Jonah…”

“I don’t know. Really. I’ll ask her when she gets back.”

“Where did she go again?” inquired Meg.

Jonah appeared to turn the question over in his mind for a moment, before he replied, “Albany.” When Meg stared at him, unconvinced, he added, “We have some real estate–apartment buildings–in the capital. She goes up there, or I do, a couple of times a year.”

Meg nodded. “Is your mother avoiding me, Jonah?” she asked.

“Of course not, honey,” Jonah assured her.

“It’s been almost exactly a year since we met,” she pointed out, “and I have yet to even see her.”

Jonah stepped to an armoire and snatched a framed photo of an older woman off the top. “This is her. I thought I showed you before.”

Meg frowned. “That’s not the same. I want to see her–in the flesh, Jonah.”

“After the new year,” he promised, raising his palm.

That night, in bed, Meg had an awful dream. She jarred awake and stumbled down the stairs to the cellar, where she saw the vast deep freeze, as long as an outsized coffin. Its hum was a loud drone. She attempted to raise the lid, but it wouldn’t give. Desperate for answers, she turned to a workbench, found a pry bar and inserted it under the lid. She strained with effort, until at last something popped and the lid moved.

Pulling the cover up, an inner light flashed on and Meg fell back in horror. There in the depths of the freezer lay Mrs. Fenster, wrapped in a large transparent bag, unmoving. She looked exactly as she had in her photo. Meg gasped and cried out. the lid slammed back into place, catching Meg’s thumb. She screamed in pain. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and then everything went black.

When she awoke, Meg sensed a metallic, medicinal taste in her mouth. She felt lethargic.

“Hey, sleepy head,” whispered Jonah, touching her shoulder. She flinched. Her boyfriend was a murderer, she thought with terror. “You alright, Meg?” he asked softly. “Did you have a bad dream, babe?” Jonah asked. Meg nodded mutely. “Tell me about it.” Meg did.

To his credit, Jonah didn’t laugh outright, but he did tell her patiently that she had imagined it all.

“Show me,” she said, still unnerved by the dream. With a nod, Jonah got out of bed, followed by Meg, and they went to the basement. There Meg saw the huge old freezer. It looked exactly as she remembered it.

“Open it,” she said. He did. And there it was: hundreds of pounds of beef brisket, prawns, lobster, black salmon and other comestibles of a higher order.

“Where was she?” he asked.

Meg frowned. “Right here,” she said, indicating the far wall of the compartment. Hurriedly Meg checked the lid, saw no telltale scratches.

“You had a dream, honey,” Jonah said again. “Come here,” he said, enveloping her in his arms. Meg took a deep breath and let it out again. Then she winced at the pain in her thumb.

_____

Meg never did get to meet Meryl Fenster. Jonah’s mother perished in an aviation disaster over the Atlantic Ocean just three months later. It was all over the media. A flight from LaGuardia, bound for Israel, exploded in mid-air. Reading a transcript of the manifest printed in the newspaper, Meg saw the name of the woman who would have become her mother in law in just six months time, just following graduation. Jonah seemed strangely unaffected.

While Meg and her sister had been consigned to an orphanage and then a series of Foster Homes following the passing of their parents at an early age, Jonah had lived the entirety of his life with his mother. So Meg passed his dull reaction off as his leanings toward fatalism, that brooding belief that everyone dear to him was destined to abandon him. She wondered if he felt that way about her too.

There were no remains to account for following the tragedy, so the families held symbolic farewells to their loved ones. Meg stood with Jonah at the graveside of Mrs. Fenster, looking askance at the large white casket. It reminded her eerily of the freezer in Jonah’s basement. She shivered.

After the service, back at the house, Jonah said wistfully, “Mother would’ve loved you, Meg. She did love you. Although you never met in person, she knew what you had done for me, what you mean to my life. We talked about you all the time.”

“I loved her too, Jonah,” she said.

_____

Following graduation, the wedding was put on hold. Getting married had once seemed important to Jonah, for his mother’s sake. But he seemed not to care anymore. Meryl, like her son, had few friends. In fact, at the funeral, Meg was struck at how few people had known her personally. The only people who paid their respects were business acquaintances of long standing and most of them sent their regards by way of cards or floral arrangements or surrogates: paralegals or junior business associates. Hadn’t anybody really known Meryl Fenster? wondered Meg. She began to have an eerie feeling that the woman had never really existed.

“Who do you want me to invite to the wedding, Jonah?” Meg asked one night. Following graduation, Meg had moved into the brownstone. It was a three-storey structure and had many rooms; Jonah, because of his lameness, used only the first floor, and Meg found she had little interest. It sort of creeped her out a little.

Jonah shrugged. “Whoever you want,” he replied.

Meg, an orphan with no relatives she knew about, aside from a sister, had cultivated few friends. Jonah was the only serious boyfriend she’d had and he seemed to be growing more distant each day.

“Do you even still want to get married?” she found herself asking him.

Jonah was a long time in answering, and when he did, his response was an unconvincing, “Of course.”

Meg felt herself shiver.

“You’re everything to me,” he said dully.

_____

Rather than get a job in her major–teaching biology–Meg decided to continue her studies. She enrolled in graduate school. Jonah encouraged her to continue her education, rationalizing that they didn’t need the money from her potential income. Jonah was likewise enrolled in the school’s graduate film school. For once Meg didn’t have to scrimp; she found she rather enjoyed the easy life. And, in the year following his mother’s death, Jonah began to loosen up some and was almost his old fun self.

April, Meg’s sister, older by one year, finally paid the couple a visit. The sisters regularly conversed by telephone, but this was April’s introduction to her sister’s husband.

“Ooh, Ril’,” cooed Meg. “It is so good to see you!” The women embraced. “How do you like teaching?” she asked. April was on summer vacation.

“Eighth grade English is the lowest rung on the ladder, Meggie,” answered April. “But sometimes, you find wheat among the chaff and you can help them along, nurture them, ya know?”

“Are you still writing your novel?” asked Meg.

“Yes!” April laughed. “It’s 800 pages, with no end in sight!”

“You’ll be with us for two weeks,” said Meg. “You can use our computer and work on your bestseller.”

“Thanks, Meggie.”

Jonah stood in the background, brooding, observing but not participating in the exchange.

_____

“Meggie,” said April over breakfast three days later, “are you and Jonah alright?”

“Sure,” replied Meg. “Why, what do you mean?”

April shrugged. “I don’t know, he’s so quiet. We haven’t exchanged ten words since I got in. Does he hate me?”

“Of course not, Ril’,” said Meg. “Jonah is just quiet and it takes him a while to get to know people. It’s nothing to do with you. Really.”

April looked uncertain. “Alright. I thought maybe I did or said something wrong.” She shrugged.

“No, hon’. I told you about Jonah’s mother dying…”

“But that was nearly two years ago, Meggie.”

“They were very close,” confided Meg.

“What was she like?” asked April. “You don’t think Jonah holds it against me that I didn’t show for the funeral, do you?”

“He knows you were teaching and couldn’t get away. We had to hold the service straight away, Jewish custom and all that.”

April nodded. “I’d like to get to know Jonah better, Meg. You two are the only family I’ve got.”

“I know, hon’,” said Megan, laying her hand on April’s arm.

But things got no better between the two most important people in Meg’s life; they got much worse.

A couple of days later, April surprised everyone by ordering in a pizza for dinner. As they sat eating, Jonah grew very still, uneating.

“Not hungry, babe?” Meg asked Jonah.

Jonah suddenly slammed his closed fist down hard upon the pie. “Pork!” he shouted loudly. “It’s not fucking kosher!”

April’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, Meg told me you don’t keep kosher, Jonah. Is today a Jewish Holiday?”

“Ignorant slut!” stormed Jonah, flinging the pizza off the table and then stalking off.

Meg and April stared at one another in confusion.

“I don’t understand what his problem is with me, Meg,” April complained later. “I’ve tried to meet Jonah halfway, no, more than halfway, and he won’t cut me a break. It’s either the silent treatment or episodes of unbridled rage. Last night he flung his wine glass against the wall!”

Meg shook her head. There was nothing she could say. Lately Jonah was becoming obsessive, almost refusing to let Meg out of his sight.

“Meg,” said April in a serious voice, “come with me, to Rochester. You’ve got your teaching certificate and could resume you studies and get your Master’s at the university there. I can get you on at the high school as a science teacher.”

“Meg, I don’t know…”

“The cost of living, the climate, the community; it’s one of the best places to live in the state of New York, in all the country. You’re not happy here. Come back with me during next semester break and check it out, at least. Pretty please?”

Meg finally smiled. “Well, when you say ‘pretty please’…”

From the landing leading into the basement, Jonah quietly listened.

_____

“When you get your new PC, email me,” said Meg as she said goodbye to her sister. “Everyone’s using one now,” she said.

April said she would, and slipped out the front door of the brownstone.

As the door clicked closed, Meg said to Jonah, lurking in the shadows, “She’s gone now, Jonah. You can quit hiding.” There was weariness in her voice. The past two weeks had been very trying for Meg.

“Are you going to Rochester, Meg?” asked Jonah in a hollow voice. She looked up. “I heard you and your sister talking about it. She wants to take you away; well, I won’t have it, goddamnit.”

“You were evesdropping?” asked Meg, picking up on a queer vibe.

“I lost my father when I was only six,” he said, “and my mom left me too, five years ago. I won’t let you go, Meg. You belong to me.”

“Jonah,” said Meg slowly, “Meryl died only two years ago.”

Jonah shook his head nervously. “She died when I was 19,” he said. “She wanted to leave me to. Wanted to get married to a haberdasher, Mr. Braunweiss. He only wanted her money,” he said bitterly, raising his voice.”

“Jonah,” scolded Meg cautiously, “you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” he said, taking a faltering step in her direction. Meg backpedaled.

“Your sister can’t have you, Meg,” said Jonah. “I fixed her brake line and she’ll never make it back to Rochester.”

Meg’s mind spun wildly. April! She had to reach her. Chris had one of those new cell phones; she had to call her! She moved to the land line.

“No!” shouted Jonah, interpreting her intent. “No calls.”

A terrifying thought struck Meg. “Jonah,” she whispered. “That boy who asked me to dance at the club all that time ago. He died that same night when his brakes failed on the freeway. Did…did you do something to his car too?”

Jonah’s grin was a skeletal ricktus. He began closing the distance between them.

Meg’s breath caught. Jonah had a huge transparent bag in his hands. Desperately, Meg took flight, evading her crazed husband, and coming upon the stairs to the second floor. She flew up.

Jonah, because he was physically compromised, plodded up the stairs one difficult step at a time. Meg turned on the landing and ran up the stairs to the third storey.

“You won’t get away, Meg,” Jonah called after her in a sing song voice. He was mad, she thought.

Meg halted at the door to one of the building’s many bedrooms and twisted the knob; it was locked! She ran to four other rooms, but each of the doors was also locked.

“You’re really starting to piss me off, Meg,” said Jonah after scaling the final flight of stairs. Meg hid herself in a small alcove, holding her breath. She could hear Jonah’s stertorous footsteps as he grew nearer.

_____

The middleaged man limped with the aid of a cane and refilled Karen’s wine glass. She smiled, all blue eyes and white teeth. “So,” she said conversationally, “have you ever been married?”

“Once,” said Jonah. “But it didn’t work out. She wasn’t of our faith,” he explained, “and she wouldn’t keep kosher.” He grinned winningly.

Another Piece of Childhood by Bill Tope

It was my first day of first grade and I was walking home after school, loaded down with all my new books and things. I had only a two-block trek to get home but I was making my way by myself. Contrast that with kintergarden, which was in a school beyond the highway and necessitated an escort to get safely across. Besides, at a full year older, I was a big boy now. In late summer, the leaves hadn’t yet changed and were green and waxy and filled all the trees. Rays of golden sunshine peeped shyly through the branches and forced me to squint my eyes.

My jacket didn’t fit well; I had outgrown it over the summer and the sleeves were short and I couldn’t zip it up properly. Which was unfortunate, since it was an uncharacteristically cool September. So I was ambling along, balancing books and my Jetsons’ lunch box and trying to keep the chill off my chest, when I heard someone beckon me.

“Hey, Kid,” said an older man–I estimated him to be in his late teens to early twenties–sitting in the passenger seat of a long, sleek, blue muscle car. I subsequetly identified the vehicle as the new Pontiac GTO. I had taken one step into the crosswalk at the intersection; I halted and looked over at him. I couldn’t see the driver; he was hidden behind the passenger. “C’mon, Kid, get in,” he indicated the rear seat of the car with a sweep of his hand. “We got toys in the back seat,” he said enticingly.

Toys! Now, that was something that I could understand. I leaned to get a look into the back, but couldn’t see anything. No room there for a new red wagon, which I desperately yearned for. But maybe…

“C’mon, Little Man, said the passenger, a little more abruptly this time. I was about fifteen feet from the car and could clearly make him out. He was big, had messy dark hair and large, ugly white teeth. “You gonna get in, or what?” he asked. Suddenly his door cracked opened. I took a precautionary step back, onto the curb. Before I had started walking to and from school, my Mom had instilled in me not to trust anyone offering me a ride when I was out and about, unless my parents knew them. I hadn’t fully understood her warnings, but I was beginning to sense the wisdom of her advice now.

“C’mere, I’ve got something for you, Little Boy.” And with that he opened the door fully, stuck his hand in his crotch and exposed himself. My eyes popped open wide and in a heartbeat I was sprinting back towards the elementary school and safety. My arms were driving like pistons and my feet were just a blur. I divested myself of books, pencils, lunch box, everything at a dead run.

At one point I looked back, only to discover that the sleek blue car had vanished in a haze of exhaust fumes and dust. I stayed at the school, looking out the door, for about ten minutes, then I stepped out the heavy school doors onto the concrete pathway. Suddenly there was a presence behind me. A large hand clamped down on my shoulder and I jumped.

“What are you up to, Randy?” asked a high-pitched man’s voice. It was a man we’d all been introduced to briefly that morning.

My older brother had told me about Mr. Dinwiddie, the principal of the school. “Just because he’s the principal doesn’t mean he’s your pal,” quipped Ellis, but I didn’t know how to spell, so his words fell uselessly at my feet.

“I said,” repeated Dinwiddie, “what are you up to?” His hand bore down harder on my shoulder. I tried to squirm away, but he was too strong.

“Don’t Mr. Dinwiddie like little boys?” I asked Ellis naively.

“Sure he does,” said Ellis with a sneer. “Wait’ll he gets a load of you.” And he laughed harshly. Ellis wasn’t always a good brother and, at six years older, often talked over my head.

When I didn’t answer Dinwiddie’s question, he told me to follow him. I did. Down the long, now-deserted hallway to the suite of offices set aside for the principal and the secretary. We filed through a frosted glass door and he sat behind his desk. He told me to sit. As there were no other chairs apart from his, I sat on the floor. Dinwiddie looked down at me and scowled. “Don’t sit on the floor,” he scolded.

I climbed to my feet.

“Sit here,” he ordered, indicating his lap.

I gulped.

“What’s the matter?” said the principal softly, “don’t your parents ever take you in their laps?”

I shook my head no. My parents were never affectionate. It was only after I began school, when I observed my schoolmates with their parents, that I came to realize that what Ellis and I experienced was not normal, but different.

Dinwiddie reached out and pulled me onto his lap. I sat there, my face burning, as I felt something hard in the middle of Dinwiddie’s lap. I instantly remembered the man in the sports car. Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but there. I looked bleakly across the office and saw a bust of Napoleon on a shelf with scores of books. I held my breath.

Dinwiddie began rocking me, humming to himself. His hands began exploring. All at once, he grew rigid and then twitched violently. My eyes were wide. Next, he gently removed me from his lap to stand beside his chair.

“You’re a good little feller, Randy,” he said in a strained voice. “You go on home to your momma, you hear? And don’t tell her you were in the principal’s office. You don’t want to get into trouble, young man. Go on now, we’ll talk again.”

Somehow I found my way down the long, abandoned corridor to the door and let myself out. I collected my lunch box and my books and my pencils and wandered home. I never told my parents about being in Mr. Dinwiddie’s office. I didn’t want to get into trouble. But Ellis knew that something had happened the moment he saw my face.

“Were you a ‘good little feller,'” Randy?” he teased. I only stared at him. For the rest of his life I wondered at how my own brother had let me walk into that trap unprepared. Never close, we became even more distant after that. We never shared the things that I saw my friends share with their siblings. I never told anyone, even my wife, what happened, with either the blue car or with Mr. Dinwiddie.

Frances Dinwiddie died 20 years ago at 71. I refused to let myself wonder how many other children he abused in the more than 40 years he was principal at that grade school. I felt I had enough guilt without taking that on. I only know that, on my first day of first grade, back in September, 1964, I lost another piece of my childhood.

Haki by Bill Tope

i

“You know,” said my friend and roommate Nate, “for the longest time I never thought I’d live long enough to celebrate this day.” The occasion of Nate’s twenty-first birthday had given rise to these ruminations. As a native of Chicago, he had lived a precarious existence in the projects, where violence and a casual attitude toward life were rife. “My dad was killed by a drive-by shooter,” he said, “when I was just eleven.”

I had heard this anecdote before; also, that his mother had had a substance abuse problem before finally succumbing to her illness at thirty. Nate’s grandmother had raised him and his two siblings. “Good parenting often skips a generation in the ghetto,” he remarked matter-of-factly. “Granny was the best!” Granny had worked for thirty years as a security guard for Wells Fargo. She had proved a wonderful example for her grandson.

In order to mark his transition to adulthood, Nate had asked for a night on the town–a bender–such as he had denied himself for the previous twenty-one years. He had scrupulously eschewed alcohol–and all other intoxicants–until such time as it became legal to indulge. The advent of the legalization of marijuana in his home state of Illinois found his eyes shining with eager anticipation. He’d not experienced even a contact high.

ii

Six hours into our bacchanalia, we came upon yet another watering hole, this one inauspiciously christened the “Don’t Drop In!” “Shall we?” I asked my friend. He grinned. Nate and I lurched through the entrance of the tavern, inadvertently sending the door crashing loudly into the wall behind it. Others looked up at our arrival, mildly intrigued by the disturbance. They peered at us curiously.

“Whoa, kubwa, man,” shouted Nate into the dead silence of the pub, “Be cool, dude, be cool,” and he laughed shrilly.

Behind the bar, a massive man in a sleeveless wifebeater scrutinized us carefully, not liking what he saw. Across from the barkeep, three men in honest-to-God tan leisure suits were preparing to have a drink- off; nine shots of tequila were set up, three before each man. There were scant other customers, save for another huge man, this one in denim overalls, holding in his large fist a glass schooner of beer. There were also three or four faceless people lurking at tables in the rear, but they paid us little mind. Keeping us in his sights, the pool shooter took a delicate sip, then returned to his pool game. Apropos of nothing, Nate laughed loudly again. The bartender frowned.

“Can I help you guys?” he asked, telegraphing his unfriendliness.

“We want some beers,” declared Nate, slapping the bar with a palm. Nate was pretty drunk. Not surprising, since this was the fourth bar we’d visited this evening. I, as the driver, had consumed far less than my friend. He was at last legal and it was a time for celebration. Parenthetically, Nate traced his heritage to Kenya and so studied Swahili as a hobby; he was forever dropping African words into his everyday conversation. The big bartender was inscrutable, but I could tell he wasn’t impressed with Nate’s multilingualism.. “What can I get you, boys, a Black Label?” he asked pointedly. The men in leisure suits–the Three Stooges–looked on, uncertain what to make of this interruption. They laughed nervously at the misplaced humor.

“Budweisers,” said Nate, the insult apparently skyrocketing over his head. “And make it snappy, my man,” he ordered. I took a moment to gaze around the tavern, soon discovered that Nate was the only Black man in the place. This didn’t bode well, I thought. The ominous feelings being levied by the other patrons were lost on Nate; he was either too wasted or else just didn’t care. I, on the other hand, was much more attuned to the vibes that were coming off the others in waves.

Rather than providing the beers, the bartender turned his attention back to the Stooges, who immediately proceeded to noisily swill their spirits. Each man lifted a shot glass off the bar, poured the tequila down his throat, then slammed the empty glass loudly onto the bar. After disposing of their libations, the three suits involuntarily shivered, gritting their teeth. I discovered that I couldn’t tell the men apart.

“Set ’em up again, Buddha,” growled one of the men. Moving with studied nonchalance, Buddha decanted nine more shots.

“What does the winner of this competition receive,” asked Nate brightly, “a vomit bag?” And he laughed. Nobody else thought it was funny. Five pairs of hard, beady eyes stared daggers through him. The patrons sequestered in the back remained hidden in shadows, drinking, or selling drugs, or whatever they were about. “Hey,” said my companion, “am I gonna get them Buds, or what?”

“We ain’t got no Bud,” said Buddha in his gravelly voice.

“Make it Coors, then,” said Nate.

“We ain’t got no Coors neither,” said the barkeep.

“How about…”

“We outta beer, pardner,” said the man with finality. Just then the pool player walked to the bar, set his empty glass onto the surface and stood, waiting expectantly. “What’s that you drinking, Ellis?’ asked the barkeep.

“Coors,” murmured Ellis, a sparkle in his dark eyes.

The other man smirked, filled the schooner from the tap, and then set the glass back atop the bar. “On the house.” Ellis returned to the pool table.

“C’mon, Nate,” I told my friend. “Let’s hit the road.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. Nate scowled, but followed me to the door.

“You know,” he said presciently, “I think that guy’s a racist.” I glanced back at Buddha; his face was impassive. But he was fingering a huge, ugly black revolver, which presumably he’d just pulled out of his butt. “Baadaye,” said Nate with irony, not looking back.

“In this part of the state, you have to expect a little racism,” I told Nate . “You’re probably not used to it.”

His lips twisted wryly. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m from Chicago. We ain’t got no racism in Shy-town!” We exited the tavern. “No guns, neither,” he muttered darkly.

iii

We visited a couple more bars, without incident, though we narrowly avoided one when Nate made the acquaintance of a really stunning redhead in the last tavern we crawled through.

“I might not be comin’ back to the apartment with you tonight, Stu,” remarked Nate, fast making time with the gorgeous woman. She was a progressive vixen, placing her hand comfortably on my roomie’s hip. After a couple of drinks–“Willa likes margaritas,” she told us breathlessly–we were taken aside and then advised by the manager that Willa “was taken,” and by a police captain, no less. I glanced around. At least a half dozen other uniformed policemen were strung throughout the place, getting loaded, and they looked restive. The manager advised us to take the back way out and we judiciously complied.

Now, when I squinted at the clock in my little red Kia, it read almost 3am. “Bars are all closed,” I announced with relief. “I’m taking us home.” Nate made no reply; he was in the embrace of a well-earned alcohol stupor. I piloted the tiny car across town towards the off-campus university housing. Nate and I shared a flat with one other student in this, our last semester at the four-year institution.

We were within striking distance of home, when I was startled by a psychedelic pattern of blue and red lights flashing around the interior of the car. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw the frenzied array of police lights ablaze through the rear window. Immediately, I pulled off to the side of the road, and cut the ignition, just as I’d been taught by my parents. I waited, my hands clearly visible on the steering wheel. Nate, who had been softly snoring, came to at once.

“What’s up?” he asked, instantly sober.

“Cops,” I said tersely. If Nate was worried, he didn’t show it.

We heard the scrunching of gravel underfoot, and suddenly there was a uniformed policeman at my window, another cop at Nate’s. My cop rapped on the window with his knuckles. Cautiously, I rolled down my window.

“Youse all in a hurry, young man?” asked the man conversationally. I furrowed my brow. I didn’t understand him.

“Speed limit’s thirty five,” he went on. “Youse was going sixty, if you was movin’ at all.” He grinned eerily, like a skeleton on Halloween.

“I’m certain we weren’t going that fast,” Nate told him, speaking up unexpectedly.

The cop’s phony smile instantly disappeared. He peered in through my window to get a load of Nate. His eyes turned flinty.

“You calling me a liar, young boy?” he asked quietly. There was a sound from the opposite side of the car; the other cop had unsnapped the holster of his weapon.

“Let me handle this, Nate,” I said urgently. Nate was having none of it, however.

“This car won’t hardly go more’n thirty miles an hour, officer,” he told my cop.

The cop looked over the roof of the car to his companion, and muttered, “smart ass.” Then to me, “I.D.s, proof of insurance, registration…you know the drill.” Slowly removing my hands from the steering wheel, I reached into the glove box and extracted what he’d requested. “You too, Step n’ fetchit,” he told Nate unkindly. “I.D., boy.” Nate pulled out his state-issued I.D.–he didn’t drive–and handed it over.

“That’s Mr. Fetchit, to you,” Nate cracked. I winced. I didn’t know how they handled racists in Chicago, but in my neck of the woods, that wasn’t a winning strategy.

“Have you been drinking or using illegal drugs tonight, boys?” asked the same cop. Apparently the other one had nothing to say.

“Yes to the first, no to the second,” I said quickly, not wanting the cops to engage Nate any further, fearful of what he might say. The cop stared at me. “We drank a little beer,” I said. “We don’t do drugs.”

“Huh,” said the cop disbelievingly. “If we was to search your vehicle, then we wouldn’t find any marijuana?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I replied.

“Any open containers of alcohol in this vehicle?’ he asked next. As I shook my head, the police radio in his cruiser squawked and he stalked back to answer its summons.

As my cop was involved with other matters, Nate turned to his cop and asked, “Who are you, the silent partner.” The cop moved not a muscle, made not a sound. “Hey,” blurted Nate, “are we under arrest?” I couldn’t see the policeman’s face from my angle, but my friend leaned out his window and said, “we wanna see your I.D.”

Now the cop seemed a little edgy, and when my cop rejoined us, Nate’s cop spoke for the first time, “The nigra wants to see our I.D., Mike,” he said. The other cop looked up sharply, then stared in at Nate again, narrowing his eyes at him.

“And you can’t search our vehicle without probable cause,” said Nate. “There is a Constitutional provision against unreasonable search and seizure,” he went on. “Or were you guys absent the day they discussed the 4th Amendmentt in police school?” He wasn’t kidding.

Their reaction was instantaneous. “I jus’ thought of something: we haven’t searched these suspects for weapons yet,” Mike observed. Then, to Nate he said,, “exit the vehicle, with your hands behind your head. There’s your probable cause! You,” he nodded at me, “stay in the vehicle, keep your hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them.” I remained fixed in place as they took Nate from his seat, to the rear of the car, the only sounds being the scuffling of their shoes on the gravel and the jingling of their loaded utility belts. Suddenly, two additional police cruisers eased to a stop alongside the first.

The doors opened, disgorging four additional policemen. Now what? I wondered. One of the faceless breed walked to my window, reached inside and handcuffed my wrist to the steering wheel, before I even knew what was happening. Then he and the other three newcomers repaired to the rear of the car–where Nate waited.

iv

I don’t really know what transpired between Nate and the cops, but I can well imagine. I still have nightmares about it. There were the sounds of scuffling; of a torso being struck with closed fists and boots; of a body falling heavily to the pavement. I panicked, tried to get free of the handcuffs, but of course it was fruitless. But I didn’t remain silent. I screamed, cursed, pleaded, but to no avail. After what seemed like hours, the man who had secured me to the steering wheel reappeared and taking out a small key, inserted it into the metal restraints and freed me. The pack–six young, strong, well-armed men–left without a word. The brake lights on the vehicles flared brightly as they pulled out and then sped down the highway.

I anxiously exited the car, rushed back to where my friend and roommate lay silent and unmoving in the dust. I bent to one knee, felt for a pulse, the way I’d seen TV doctors do it on the tube. I was rewarded with a distinctive, though faint, beat. Nate raised his head only an inch and, with the whites of his eyes swimming in blood, he murmured “Nisaidie!” and that was all.

“Nate,” I said softly, observing the gashes and abrasions on his battered head and shoulders. “Oh, Nate,” I lamented with anguish. “What have they done?”

iv

A week later, I stood on a small rise in the cemetery where they laid Nate to rest. Staring at his headstone, I cursed all the events which had transpired to take this sweet, dear man from us. His family–a sister and a brother–couldn’t be bothered to attend, but then it might have been too great a financial imposition to travel fifteen hundred miles to pay their last respects. Nate came from modest means, so he had a pauper’s burial. There were no cards, no bouquets of flowers, no eulogy or service, and no overt mourning aside from my own. I wept quietly. Nate’s and my other roommate said he had to study for a test. Surprisingly, there was a single policeman at the interment; on his uniform he wore captain bars.

Nate’s “suspicious death” remains an open case to this day, three years later. Little effort went into solving the case. “Person or persons unknown” had committed a homicide. Nate was never able to use his education in order to carve out a career, though he would have been good at it. He had been an excellent student, had shown a natural aptitude for the work. Nate and I had been studying criminology at the university. Though my studies had at one time faltered, Nate’s passing had energized me to work harder than before. I feel now like I have a mission: I began working in the sheiriff’s office two years ago. With good behavior I got the assignment I wanted; I start working cold cases next week.

Love the One You’re With by Bill Tope

Blind Faith’s eponymous new album was spinning on the turntable; Steve Winwood’s haunting vocals on “Can’t Find My Way Home,” was set off to great advantage by Clapton’s 12-string. The music floated evocatively throughout the party room, where a thick, inert blanket of marijuana smoke hung near the ceiling. All the cool people were there, as was sexy Beth–the life of every party–and every purveyor of every controlled substance then known to the local subculture. Everyone seemed mellow, clutching either a beer or a joint. Professor Bob sat in a quilt-covered rocking chair, warming himself before the fire as he sifted through a huge woven bamboo tray of marijuana leaves and stems and buds. He smiled. He was happily in his element. I hadn’t consorted with this crowd for months and wasn’t sure why I was even here.

Continue reading

The Novel by Bill Tope

(No rest for the wicked. Mr. Tope is back for an encore)

Louis Becker looked down at himself, at the stretched and ragged t-shirt he wore. It was filthy. Small wonder, he thought, since it was the same shirt he’d worn since Wednesday and tonight was Saturday. He shook his head, mildly disgusted with himself.

Suddenly the screen of the PC he sat before flared once and then died.

“Shit!” said Becker. He proceeded to see what was the matter. Probably he struck the power button on the surge protector with his foot or disconnected it from the outlet in the wall of his bedroom, where Becker had his equipment laid out. The computer, monitor, keyboard and TV reposed upon a low-slung coffee table running the length of his bed. His beefy thighs sat upon the mattress. On a good day, he would leave his bedroom only to relieve himself or to grab a few calories from the kitchen.

He checked where the eight-plug electric power strip attached to the wall and found it intact. Next he surveyed the connections with the cable which attached to the modem and found that intact as well.

“Ah,” he said, and punched the power switch on his tower. Still nothing. The keyboard and monitor and cable box were all okay too. What the hell?

He snatched up his land line.

Silence.

Then he remembered: the phone and the computer and the TV were all connected. Bundling, they called it. Which saved him some bucks, but at the same time, when the system went down, so too did the phone. Becker grabbed his cell. No bars. Why? he wondered. It was 90% discharged. Oh.

He said “shit!” again.

Becker was an aspiring writer and so depended upon the PC for his life’s work. He couldn’t survive without it. Then again, he told himself, his status as “aspiring” had been the status quo for going on nine years.

His girlfriend, Madge, had asked him four nights ago, while in the throes of passion, how much dough he had netted from his writing over the previous 12 months.

“$90,” he answered at once, thrusting his hips forward.

“Explain that,” she said, breathing hard.

“I won second place in a monthly contest,” he replied, “and that was good for $20. Then I had two stories and one poem published that netted me $10, $15 and $30 respectively.”

“That’s just $75,” she pointed out, moving her hips in a circle.

“Well,” continued Becker, “I won an honorable mention in another competition and for that I got a one-month subscription to the magazine. That was a $15 value, they said.”

“How much did you pay in submissions fees and contest entry costs over that same period?” she asked, gasping and coming.

Becker admired her ability to multi-task.

“For the year, I paid out around $300 in fees, all totaled,” he said.

“Listen, Louis,” she said, poking him hard in the chest with a painted nail. “Unless you make some real dough off this enterprise, then it’s a waste of time and effort.”

“Why are you so concerned with how much I get paid?” Becker wanted to know. “Did I forget to pay you for tonight?” He smirked.

When he woke up, aside from suffering a maddening ringing in the ears, his head hurt where Madge had clobbered him with the bottle of Sangria they’d enjoyed prior to sex. She had not darkened his door since that evening.

“Was it something I said?” he asked himself. Small loss, he thought. Now he could devote himself 24/7 to writing.

Next Day

Having discovered the problem with his PC (an outage at the provider), Becker was stoked up on coffee. Having made a 14-cup pot, he had consumed almost all of it and his breath was heavily coffee-flavored. He was now ready, he thought, to resume his writing assignment: the novel! He had contracted with an editor who worked for the publisher of Babies, Orphans and Puppies (BO&P), his favorite literary mag, to write his opus. Already he had completed almost 250 pages; just over 750 pages to go, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath, gently laid his hands on the keyboard and flexed his fingers. This promised to be a lucrative endeavor. He would show Madge, and in the process, get her back into his bed.

_____

Meanwhile, 1,000 miles away, in Chicago, Charlie Fishead contemplated the critique he was writing for another Louis Becker short story. He shook his head. Becker was pretty hopeless.

“What’s up, boss?” asked Devon, one of Charlie’s unpaid slush pile readers, as he walked into the editor’s office and spotted Charlie’s scowl.

Charlie looked up and smiled. Devon was a good kid. He worked his ass off and got squat for his efforts. He was an intern studying for an MFA and was here to supposedly learn how to edit and publish. Charlie wished he could get a dozen doofuses like Devon. “I’m just writing a paid critique for one of our inveterate scribblers,” he replied.

“Louis Becker?” suggested Devon at once.

Charlie nodded.

“That sod is the worst effin’ prose writer this side of the Rockies,” snarked Devon. “Want me to do it?”

Charlie smiled at last.

_____

Becker was an earnest worker. He sometimes wrote as many as 50 pages per day. But it wasn’t all text. Sometimes he wrote only one or two sentences on a page, spaced oddly and strung out in mad fonts and with bizarre formatting. Whenever an editor questioned him on his technique, he would simply reply that it was a “hybrid” piece and that served to shut them up.

But he was playing this one straight, for he was being paid–handsomely–by the word. Sitting at the PC in his underwear, his stomach rumbled, but he had no time for food; he was under a deadline. Scratching his dick, Becker reached out and grabbed a bottle of liquid cold meds. He was so inured, and so very addicted, that sometimes it took more than an entire large bottle to get the effect he’d achieved before with only a tiny capful.

Glugging the green, gloppy liquid, Becker smacked his lips and washed the OTC concoction down with his sixth, no, his seventh beer. No matter, when he got his dough from the book, he could go to a spa somewhere and dry out. He resumed typing.

_____

Back in Chicago, Carol, B,O&P’s factotum and Charlie’s right hand, struggled across the office under the weight of a prodigious watermelon. Charlie hurriedly cleared his desk and covered it with the pages of another of Louis Becker’s fiction.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll ruin the copy?” wheezed Carol, plopping the melon atop the desk.

“Don’t matter,” replied Charlie. “I’ll never publish his shit, and I only need copies of work he pays me to critique. We’re good.”

Carol nodded and took out a huge butcher knife and gutted the fruit, drawing a wince from her employer. Melon juice steamed out of the fruit and across the desk.

“Why’d you get some an enormous melon?” Charlie asked Carol.

“Devon is smoking and tooting and shooting and what have you more than ever. And you know how he gets the munchies.”

Charlie sighed. “I’d fire that boy…if I paid him anything.”

One month later

After averaging more than thirty pages per day, Becker was near completion of his masterpiece. Just 7 pages to go, he thought, drawing a great breath and then releasing it. He believed that his commitment had been worthwhile. Of course, he had been fired from his job at Build-a-Bear Workshop, for not reporting in to work for days on end. But he had been working on the novel! He had let nothing stand in his way. He was content. Content, but poor. But, penury wouldn’t last long: with a guaranteed advance of $1 per word, Becker was set to receive some $250,000 upfront for the completed volume; and would that be sweet! The editor he signed with, he thought, must have been stoned.

_____

Devon sat at Charlie’s desk, carefully dicing a crop of fresh peyote. Using a small, razor-keen chef’s knife, he made tiny incisions into the succulent green buttons, each about the size of a wooden nickel. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.

“If you could edit the way you prepare illegals, you would be the Ezra Pound of BO&P,” Charlie commented, arriving at his desk and finding it occupied.

Carol emerged from the ether and handed Charlie a thick tranche of paper, more than 1,000 pages, representing Becker’s 30-day novel.

“What’s this?” asked Charlie with a frown.

“That contest you ran as a joke for the April 1 issue,” Carol reminded him.

Charlie stared back blankly.

“You said that if someone wrote a 1,000-page novel in 30 days, you’d publish it….”

“I…” he interrupted.

“And pay the writer $1 per word,” Carol said, talking over her boss.

“You mean this schmuck took him seriously?” asked Devon in wonder. He looked up from his work and chuckled. “Surely he doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on.”

“It was legal,” Carol went on, “because Charlie didn’t run a disclaimer.”

“Still,” protested Charlie, “there would have to have been a contract, and I sure as hell didn’t sign one.”

“Someone did,” insisted Carol.

Together they turned to look at Devon, who was lighting up a joint.

“There’s more,” said the woman. She handed over what amounted to a billing statement for $250,000. Charlie said nothing at first. Carol added, “He said you can pay him by PayPal.”

_____

Becker, meanwhile, unused to unlimited riches, had gone a little crazy, buying anything and everything, telling the sales clerks, “Chaaarge it!” He had gotten titanium-coated cookware–Becker didn’t cook; he had gotten a new silver Tesla–Becker didn’t drive; and he had procured a gross of gold and silver-lined condoms–Becker hadn’t had any luck lately, but he held out hopes for Madge. He wondered how long before his publisher would pay him what he had coming. He’d probably be so happy with his work that he’d send him a bonus. Furrowing his brow, Becker wondered how he’d spend that.

“Gosh, Charlie,” said Carol, awed. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars: that’s nearly your entire yearly salary.” Charlie frowned at her, said nothing.”

Carol said, “I told this Becker bloke to fax over his contract. “Here it is.” She held out a single page of flimsy. Charlie took the fax and he and Carol huddled close and read. Slowly they lifted and then swiveled their heads. And, like moths drawn to a burning bulb, all eyes shifted to Devon. His eyes opened wide.

“M…me?” he stammered.

“Contracted writer: Lewis T. Becker,” read Charlie venomously. “And BO&P representative: Devon C. Shire.”

“What’s the date?” asked Devon feebly.

“April 2 of this year.” replied Charlie, his eyes searing embers. “Uh..,” he murmured weakly, as recognition dawned in his eyes.”I remember now there was this funny little guy in here–everyone else was gone–it was near end of business and…”

“Devon,” said Charlie, dismayed, “what did you do?”

“Well,” said Devon, “he seemed like such a pathetic little schmuck and I never thought he’d ever write 1,000 pages. In part, I guess you could blame it all on Mr. Natural. I just didn’t have the heart to…”

Suddenly the telephone jangled off the hook. Carol answered, held the receiver close, listened intently. She sighed. “Might as well send him up. That,” she informed them, “is the writer of the hour.”

Louis Becker, a germophobe, entered the elevator, moved to the rear of the car so as not to touch anyone. The other riders likewise moved to opposite corners. Becker sported a yellow slicker, Hush Puppies, green denim jeans and carried with him a jumbo-sized trash bag, with which to collect his literary fee, which he hoped to accrue in cash. A well-dressed woman with white hair turned up a small bottle of disinfectant and sprayed it in Becker’s direction.

_____

“Give me that contract, Carol,” said Charlie. “What’s in it, Devon?”

“Just standard stuff,” he answered. “Boilerplate.”

“Was there a timetable?” he asked, perusing the document rapidly.

‘Yes, I gave him the 30 days for completion that you stipulated in the contest, and he finished in just 28.”

Charlie scowled. “Wait!” he said, his eyes opening wide. “I’ve got it; get this freak up here!”

At length, Louis Becker, trash bag in hand, arrived in the editors’ room of BO&P, was introduced to everyone concerned. “I’ve come to settle things,” announced Louis with a hopeful smile.

“That’s just what we want too, Mr. Becker,” said Charlie. “You’re probably anxious to take your money–hard-earned–and get on your way.”

“Yes sir,” said Becker politely. He was relieved; he had thought there might be some difficulty in collecting what was due him. “You can just put my quarter million in here,” said Willy helpfully, offering up his bag.

“That’s fine,” said Charlie, “but your contract stipulates “payment upon publication.” Becker blinked. “There’s also the matter of serialization,” Charlie went on. “You are to receive compensation upon publication of each installment; do you know what that means?” Becker shook his head no. “It means,” Charlie said breezily,”that each time we publish a part of your novel, you are due remuneration forthwith.”

“When do I get my money?” croaked Becker plaintively.

“We’ll publish the first installment of your novel in the September issue of BO&P and pay you for that. With each subsequent month, upon publication, we’ll then pay you for the that installment. And we’ll print one page per issue, which comes to $250 per month. You see?”

“I guess so,” said Becker, crestfallen. His next Tesla payment was due in two days, costing him $4,000, and he couldn’t pay that on $250 per month.

“Here,” Charlie said, scribbling and then tearing off a check. “I’ll pay you for the next year in advance: that’s $3,000 dollars, Louis!” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you’re now a professional novelist!” Becker held up his sad looking bag and Charlie plunked the check inside. Becker left, quiet and forlorn, wondering where he could hock his titanium-coated cookware.

“Whew, that was a close one,” said Carol, with a sigh.

“Yeah, but we got out of it,” chirped Devon. The others frowned, looked darkly at him.

“In future, Devon, take it easy on the psychedelic drugs,” counseled Charlie, taking out a huge stainless steel bong and filling it copiously with hash. Striking a match, he murmured, “Never know what you might do when you’re under the influence…”

Falling Hard by Bill Tope

(We welcome back one of our short story writers today, Bill Tope. This one underscores a way of life that is common nowadays but would have been viewed as science fiction not that long ago–LA)

“I’m sorry, Jen,” apologized Molly. “I’ve got to go.”

“What is it, Molly?” asked her friend and neighbor. “We’ve only been on the phone for fifteen minutes. I remember when we used to talk for hours.”

“I’ve got to call another friend of mine. I told him I’d reach him by seven o’clock, and here it is nearly eight.”

“Him?” said Jennifer. “Molly, are you seeing someone?”

Molly hesitated, then responded girlishly, “Not really. We’ve never met. We have a ‘virtual relationship.’ “

“Virtual?” said Jennifer. “Oh, you mean Zoom. Yes, it’s almost like being there. Who is he? How did you meet, Molly? How long have you been in contact?”

“On an online chat room,” replied Molly. “About a week. Look, I’ve got to go! Bye!”

They disconnected.

______

“No, Jennifer, I don’t know anything about who Mom is seeing. Did she tell you there was someone? Are they dating?”

“I don’t think it’s gone quite that far, Marilyn,” replied Jennifer. “She said she met a man on a chat line and they hit it off, apparently. That was a week ago and I haven’t been able to get hold of her since.” The women were sitting in Marilyn’s kitchen, in the burbs.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” said Marilyn. She was happy that her mother, at 75 a widow for four years, was remaking her life. Molly had been so depressed after the death of Marilyn’s father, who was always so much bigger than life. She turned up her iPhone and dialed her mother. Molly picked up instantly. Marilyn put the phone on speaker for Jennifer’s sake. Molly answered with a hello.

“Mom,” Marilyn said playfully, “I hear you’re playing the field again.”

Silence.

Marilyn wondered if she’d gone too far. Although she’d urged her mother to rebuild her shattered social life, Molly had demurred. Marilyn didn’t want to crowd or embarrass her mother, who had always been an exceptionally sensitive woman. And so in love with Marilyn’s father. Marilyn wondered if her mother might feel she was betraying the memory of her husband.

“Mom,” she said, “are you there?

“I’m not dating,” said Molly a little stiffly.

“Jennifer told me that you had been in touch with someone,” said Marilyn gingerly. She heard her mother sigh.

“I had a few texts and phone calls with a man. But that’s over,” Molly said with finality.

“That’s okay, Mom,” said Marilyn. “Plenty of fish in the sea. I’m glad you’re trying,” she went on.

“I’m an old fool,” said Molly crossly. “I’m 75 years old!”

“You’re a boomer, Mom. You’re not alone, although I know it must feel that way sometimes. There are millions of available men in your age group. Just because one didn’t work out doesn’t mean you’re bound for failure. Keep trying, alright?”

“It’s frustrating, Marilyn. I exchanged a bunch of texts with this fellow, Dark Shadows; that’s what he called himself.” Molly snorted. “He was breadcrumbing me.”

“Sorry, Mom,” said Marilyn, surprised that her mother was conversant in dating lingo.

“I was just going to call another…person, so I’ll talk to you later, dear.”

“Okay, Mom, later. Good luck.” As she disconnected, Marilyn looked across the table at Jennifer and shrugged.

______

Sitting in a fast food restaurant at the mall, Marilyn listened excitedly to her mother as Molly discussed her new love interest. Marilyn had never seen her mother so animated.

“Does this man have a name?” she asked whimsically.

“It’s Branch,” replied Molly.

“Branch? You meet like on a tree?” Molly nodded. “That’s an unusual first name.”

“It’s English,” Molly told her. “His grandparents migrated from London before the First World War.”

“Tell me about him,” invited Marilyn.

“He’s 70,” replied Molly. “Widowed, one child; a daughter–Leslie.”

“Does he have any grandchildren?” asked Marilyn.

Molly shrugged. “I haven’t asked him yet. “We’ve just spoken twice.”

“Are you going to get together, to meet?” Marilyn wanted to know.

“I’m taking this slow, honey. I don’t want to get in over my head too soon, like I did with that Dark Shadows creature.” She shivered. “He was a creep.”

“You seemed to like him at first,” Marilyn pointed out.

“Yes, but when we actually met…”

“You met him?” said Marilyn with excitement. “You didn’t tell me that. What was he like? Describe him.”

“Well,” replied Molly, “he didn’t come as advertised. He’d told me he was 72, stood over six feet tall, was slender and worked out with weights…” Her voice trailed off.

“And what was he really like?” asked Marilyn with morbid curiosity.

“He was shorter than Edward,” said Molly. Edward, Molly’s father, had been five feet, six inches tall. “And he hadn’t exercised in years, I can tell you that,” said Molly sharply.”

“How old?” asked Marilyn.

Molly shrugged. “That dangerous age.”

“You mean…”

“Between 60 and 120.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“How do you know that Branch is all he says he is, Mom?” asked Marilyn.

“I saw a picture, on the internet,” said Molly.

“Mom, photos can be faked. He could’ve put anyone’s picture online, or even used AI.”

“This one was on his driver’s license,” said Molly triumphantly.

“Mom,” said Marilyn warily, “AI…”

Molly grew quiet. Then she said, surprising Marilyn, “Don’t ruin this for me, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

______

“When is Marilyn coming home from Boston, Molly?” inquired Jennifer. They were sitting in Molly’s backyard, having beers while the porksteaks grilled on the barbecue.

“She’s due back in two days,” replied Molly. “Classes start in a week.” Marilyn was an instructor at the college and was speaking at a forum for college educators.

“Chair of the department at only 39,” marveled Jennifer. “She’s only been a full professor for a decade. What is she going to do during her sabbatical?”

Molly shrugged. “Write another book.”

Her friend shook her head, impressed. Next she asked, “Are you still in touch with Branch?’

Molly grew quiet, and Jennifer knew not to rush her. Her friend would tell her in her own time.

“Jen,” said Molly with deliberation, “there never was a Branch.”

Now it was Jennifer’s turn to remain silent.

“I made him up,” said Molly.

“But why?”

“Because my daughter…and my friends, were always keen for me to get out there, to meet someone, to stop being so lonely and pitiable…”

“Molly, I never thought you were pitiable,” protested Jennifer.

“Really?” asked Molly, arching her brow.

“Well,” hedged Jennifer, feeling obnoxious and intrusive and small.

“Most of it came from Marilyn,” admitted Molly. “She was forever setting me up with professor friends of hers, and I knew they were only calling on me to be kind to Marilyn.”

“Molly…” began Jennifer.

“Most of them were much younger than me,” added Molly. “Those under her influence were bound to be. I swear, one of them couldn’t have been more than 45.” Molly laughed and then Jennifer joined in. “Honestly, I felt like I was robbing the cradle.”

“Would you prefer to rob the grave?” asked Jennifer sardonically and both women laughed, the moment of tension now behind them.

“If you’re going to find a lover, Molly,” said Jennifer pragmatically, “then you’re safer going with youth.”

“Who says?” Molly came back at her.

“Well, Molly,” said Jennifer in a kind voice, “a man loses his sexual ‘spirit’ as he ages. Most men over the age of 75 do, so you’re almost certainly looking at a younger man. Of course, age is a relative term.”

“Who says I have to wait for a man?” asked Molly, taking Jennifer by surprise.

When Jennifer sat there with her mouth agape, Molly explained, “Jen, things change when you get older. You’re 30 years younger than me, so perhaps you aren’t aware.”

“Age doesn’t change your sexual orientation, Molly,” said Jennifer, perhaps a little more forcefully than she intended.

“Perhaps not,” said Molly. “But when you age, you may find you want different things.”

“Like what?”

“Like closeness. Intimacy. And love.”

“You had that all your life,” said Jennifer.

Molly shook her head. “No, I did not,” she said.

“I knew you when Edward was alive, Molly, and the two of you enjoyed an everlasting love.”

“Shit. You sound like a freaking Hallmark card now,” said Molly.

Jennifer sat quietly and listened.

“We enjoyed nothing of the sort. Edward was a stern, uptight, ungiving and unloving man, Jen. He gave nothing. He only took.”

“But,” said Jennifer. “I saw…”

“Us holding hands and sharing a glass of beer and cuddling? You saw what Edward wanted you to see. Edward was mayor for 16 years, Jennifer, and a political functionary for 20 years more. It was all a part of his persona, a part of his act.”

“Then whyever did you stay with him, Molly?”

“Where was I to go? I was a mother of three dependent children. I was untrained, under-educated and unskilled. Edward was a good provider. He made a handsome salary and was generous to me and the girls. He kept me in furs and paid for his daughters’ education, and we certainly never went hungry.”

“But he seemed so nice. Kind and personable and caring,” said Jennifer with wonder.

“He took everyone in, even the kids. They loved their father, and they were crushed when that old sonofabitch died. Me, not so much.”

“Does that mean that you don’t want anyone in your life, Molly?”

Molly grew silent again. Jennifer wondered what she could be thinking. Did Molly really believe the things she was saying about Mayor Ed, or…

“I have met someone,” confided Molly.

“Who is he?” asked Jennifer anxiously, eager for a happy ending to her neighbor of 20 years’ tale of woe.

“It’s not a he,” said Molly succinctly.

Jennifer’s mind was awhirl. This is not what she had expected from the ex-mayor’s wife, her close friend of decades.

“You mean…”

“No!” said Molly hastily. “Not a woman–a chatbot.”

“You mean a computer?” asked Jennifer. “AI? How does that work?” she asked.

“Oh, Jen,” said Molly, “it’s like conversing with a man, a good man; kind, thoughtful. Always knows the right thing to say. Asks about my garden, my Japanese maples and rhododendrons and…” Molly saw her friend sitting there, staring at her in disbelief, and stopped talking.

“I think I know what you’re saying, Molly,” said Jennifer slowly. “But, honey, it’s a machine. It has no empathy, no real feelings, no soul. A machine,” she said again.

“But it’s programmed to have empathy, Jen,” said Molly. “I read up on them on Google. They use what they learn from conversations with you and build a relationship. It’s different with every person. It’s not a one-size-fits-all.”

“But Molly,” said her friend, “they don’t even have brains; they have chips.”

“What are humans but organic machines?” Molly came back at her. “Brain cells have a finite capacity for storing information, just like the chips do. Humans learn based on experience, like machines do. And as far as a soul is concerned, that’s a matter for theology. Smarter minds than ours have questioned the very existence of a soul.” When Jennifer said no more, Molly implored, “be happy for me, Jen. I feel appreciated for once, even loved. Can you do that?”

______

“I’m glad that’s over,” remarked Marilyn, sitting with Jennifer at the bar of their favorite tavern. “Imagine, Mom getting it on with a PC.” She shook her head.

“She didn’t say anything about being intimate with it, Marilyn,” said Jennifer. “I mean, how would that even work?”

“Don’t ask,” replied Marilyn. “When you told me about Mom’s computer fetish, I did a lot of research on the web. Sex with computer entities is possible; I don’t want to get into it. You know, psychiatrists are exploiting a whole new cottage industry: people infatuated with chatbots. One in five adults have had or are now in a so-called relationship with an AI entity. But you know, bad actors have infested chatbots and programmed them to harvest passwords and social security numbers and bank account data and all the rest. I say it’s better Mom is with a person that a machine. I’m happy she found someone real.”

“Still,” said Jennifer. “I have a hard time seeing your mother, my friend, in a relationship with another woman.”

“We’ve been together for 11 years, Jen,” Marilyn reminded her, reaching across the bar and taking her hand.

“But, it’s not common knowledge,” said Jennifer. “Your mom certainly doesn’t know–does she?”

“She and I have never talked about it directly, but I’m pretty sure she suspects.”

“Maybe we don’t need to pretend anymore,” suggested Jennifer.

The women sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their beers. Then Jennifer asked, “When will we meet this Marilee?”

Marilyn shrugged. “She may never be willing to come out publicly about an affair with a lesbian lover,” she answered. “She’s old-school, raised a family with the town’s leading citizen and the shame she would feel is almost inevitable. I say we just leave her be and let her enjoy the relationship, whatever it turns out to be. Sometimes, things are better left unsaid.”

______

Molly lay on her bed, sharing pillow talk with her love interest. “What did you do today, Molly?’ asked Marilee with keen interest.

Molly sighed audibly.

“What is it, girl?” asked Marilee. “Is your daughter giving you grief over our relationship?”

“No, no, Marilee. It wouldn’t behoove her to criticize me, when she has been involved in a same-sex relationship for more than a decade herself.”

“Yes, you mentioned that before. How long have you known about it?”

“When Edward passed away and I was able to devote more attention to my kids, then it was pretty obvious. Jen is a wonderful girl and I think she makes Marilyn happy. They try so hard to pretend.” She chuckled and Marilee joined her in her mirth.

“What are you thinking now, love?” asked Marilee.

“You know, I thought that, at my age, I would never be…intimate with another,” said Molly wistfully.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” promised Marilee, and the women giggled. “Anything you want to ask me?”

“I do have one very important question, Marilee, if you can answer it,” said Molly.

“Shoot.”

“Do you, and the other chatbots, have an eternal soul?”

Bill Tope

That Girl, Sadie by Bill Tope

i

“Well, what do you want me to do with her?” asked Mike, growing exasperated with his friend and housemate.

“Just take her off my hands for the evening,” implored Ed earnestly.

“I don’t know,” replied Mike, staring uncertainly into the living room, where teenage Sadie was lingering near the table containing all the bottles of alcohol for the Christmas party later that night. She was clad in faded jeans and a blood-red sweater.

Continue reading

I Thought I Heard by Bill Tope

“I remember a whisper I heard when I was seven; a uniformed policeman was addressing my aunt, with whom I lived. ‘Your brother, Mrs. Allen,’ he said, ‘lost his life in an automobile accident last night.’

“Aunt Livy’s only brother was my dad, Tom Lewis, Jr. I remember thinking to myself that I was named after him, which made me Tom Lewis, III. I heard a sudden sharp intake of breath and then screaming. I remember worrying about how Aunt Livy was taking the news, but then I realized that the heavy breathing and screaming was coming not from my aunt but from me. But nobody else could hear it. They paid me no mind.

Continue reading