by Mike Ramon
Chapter Eight
Atlanta, Georgia
May 28 -- 17:01 UTC/1:01 pm local time
Greg Toland wiped the lenses of his glasses clean on his shirt as he walked up the street he had lived on for the past fifteen years. He was on his way home after a light lunch at the Full Moon Café. Though it was spring the day felt like full summer--hot even by Atlanta standards--and Greg wiped away a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. He slipped his glasses back on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose.
As he came closer to the house he saw a young blond woman pacing around near his stoop. She was tall, wearing a light summer dress that barely came down to mid-thigh. The woman was excruciatingly beautiful. Greg wondered what business she could possibly have with him, or if she had any business with him at all--perhaps she was waiting on a friend, and had just wandered in front of his stoop by chance. As he came closer the woman seemed to notice him, and she walked towards him. She wore an exasperated expression on her face.
“Excuse me, mister,” the woman spoke. “Do you live around here?”
“Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, I live right there.”
He nodded to his house just a few steps away.
“Oh,” she said with a giggle. “Small world, huh? Listen, I’m sort of in a bad spot and I was wondering if you could help me out.”
Greg almost groaned; he had come across people like this before, always with a sob story--their purse had been snatched or their wallet had been stolen, and if you could just give them a few bucks for a cab ride home they would be ever so grateful.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s kind of embarrassing, actually. I got into this huge fight with my boyfriend--which he started, by the way--and he, well…he sort of threw me out of the car. Not physically, but you know, he made me get out, and he left me stranded here. I don’t even know where the hell I am right now.”
He was right; this was where she would ask him if he could maybe spare twenty bucks, swearing to mail it back to him later.
“I’m sorry, miss; I really don’t think--”
“If you could just let me use your phone, that would be great. I need to call my friend Shirley to come and get me. It’ll only take a couple minutes of your time, I promise. I can wait out here for her once I’ve made the call.”
Greg considered this for a moment.
“Pretty please,” she said with a hopeful smile.
“Well, I guess that wouldn’t really be a bother,” he said. “Come on, let me show you in.”
The white-haired man led the blond woman up the steps, and she followed him into his house. He showed her to the landline phone that was set on a table beside the couch.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he told her, and left her alone.
Greg went to his bedroom and kicked off his shoes, then slipped off his socks. He massaged his feet one at a time, rubbing the aches away. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, washing away the sticky residue of sweat before drying off with the towel hanging on the wall rack. Then he went back into his bedroom and fished a clean shirt out of the closet, putting it on after stripping off the lightly sweat-stained shirt he was already wearing.
When Greg came back into the living room the woman was just finishing up her call.
“I’ll be waiting for you. Please hurry.”
She hung up and spun around to face her Good Samaritan. She flashed him a bright smile.
“My friend is coming to pick me up, but she said that it may take a while; she has some errands to run first. Thank you for your help…sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Greg,” he replied.
“My name’s Vera,” she said. “Thank you for letting me use your telephone. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
She moved toward the door.
“Not so fast,” Greg said.
She stopped short of the door.
“It’s all right with me if you want to wait in here,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to wait out in the hot sun.”
“Are you sure that it won’t be a problem?” she asked. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Not at all. Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have any lemonade?”
“I have some powdered stuff that I can mix with some water. Is that all right?”
“That would be just fine. Thank you.”
“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be right out with it.”
She sat on the couch and Greg slipped into the kitchen. He grabbed a blue plastic pitcher down from a cabinet and left it filling up under the tap. He searched in another cabinet and found the canister of lemonade powder, and took it over to the counter near the sink. The pitcher was filled up by then, so he shut off the water and set the pitcher on the counter. He opened the canister and scooped out four spoonfuls of the pungent yellow powder into the pitcher, mixing it with a big wooden sauce spoon. He grabbed two glasses down from the cupboard and poured just a bit of lemonade into one of them and took a taste--it didn’t taste nearly as good as fresh-squeezed lemonade, but it wasn’t half bad.
He took out an ice tray from the freezer and dropped a few cubes into each glass, then filled both glasses with lemonade. He carried them out carefully to the living room, the ice twinkling as he moved, and handed Vera her glass before taking a seat beside her on the couch. Vera took a sip and smacked her lips.
“It tastes great,” she said. “Thanks, I needed something to cool me down.”
“You’re welcome.”
He took a sip himself; it tasted better now that it was chilled.
“So, what do you do, Greg?” Vera asked.
“What do I do? I don’t do anything anymore. I’m retired.”
“You look way too young to be retired,” she said.
He smiled.
“That’s kind of you,” he said.
“No, really; you do.”
She took another sip of lemonade as she looked around the living room, her gaze stopping briefly on a row of framed photographs on the mantel.
“What did you do before you retired, then?” she asked.
“A little of this, a little of that; nothing that would interest you much.”
Vera took a big swig, finishing off her glass of lemonade.
“Whoa. I guess I was even thirstier than I thought. Would you mind getting me a refill?”
“Sure thing.”
Greg set his own glass down on the coffee table and took Vera’s empty one. He hurried to the kitchen and filled it up again. Back in the living room he handed her the glass and seated himself once more at her side, picking up his own glass and taking another sip.
“So, what do you do?” he asked his guest.
“Oh, same as you--a little of this, a little of that; nothing that would interest you much,” she answered
Greg smiled and emptied his glass in three sips. He set the glass back down on the coffee table.
“Are you from around here?” Greg asked.
“Not really. I’m originally from Wisconsin, but I move around quite a bit.”
Greg’s tongue felt funny, sort of thick and fuzzy.
“What are you doing in Atlanta?” he asked.
His tongue was starting to feel a bit numb. He worked his tongue around his teeth, trying to get some feeling back into it.
“I’m here on business, actually,” Vera said.
“Bithneth…bithniz…”
His whole mouth had gone numb. He looked at Vera and saw a small, knowing smile spread across her lips.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said. “It’s just ‘bithnith’,” she said.
“Whuh…?”
He tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him and he fell forward, hitting his head against the coffee table. As he lay on the floor he felt blood running down his face from the spot where his head had made contact with the table. The sensation felt strangely distant.
“Help…help…help…”
<
br /> He saw her stand up and fish a cell phone out of her purse. She dialed a number and held the cell up to her ear.
“Ben? He’s ready,” she spoke into the phone. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Whuh…hap…happening?”
And then Greg Toland fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.