Floodlight

by Reba Birmingham

  Then his face turned to a frown. “He was so mean! After the incident the other night with Fiona doing another Floodlight thing and Juniper’s friends being arrested—I got there about the time everyone was leaving—I found him there and followed him out onto the greenspace. Maybe I’d had a few drinks, I don’t know, I was yelling about him not appreciating what Juniper Gooden had done for the museum.”

  Tears welled in his eyes. “I wasn’t going to tell him he was my biological father, but he laughed at me and called me a faggot. He told me the board was on his side, and Juniper was as good as gone. I got in his face and said, “You think you’re such a big man. Well your board’s not around now. I wonder what they’d think of you having a faggot son?”

  A tear rolled down Garcia’s face. “He sneered at me and said, ‘I don’t have a son.’”

  The young man pointed a thumb at his chest. “I said, ‘Do you remember Elena Garcia from Art School? I’m her son. And yours.’ Garcia wiped at his cheeks. “At first, he looked puzzled, then I could tell by his face that he’d put two and two together and didn’t like what it meant.”

  Garcia finished drinking the water. “He called me a faggot again. I said, ‘Then you have a faggot son, and I deserve to be acknowledged.’”

  Garcia mangled the Dixie cup in his hands and set the crumpled remnant carefully on the table. “He blew me off and tried to walk away and I grabbed his coat. He turned around and hit me in the chest with both his hands. ‘You’ll never be my son,’ he said. I shoved him back. I don’t know what happened, maybe he slipped, but he went over the bluff.”

  He covered his face with both hands and broke down into tears. “He was a bastard to my mom, but I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear. I didn’t mean it.”

  Potts didn’t do the judging, only the arresting. But he figured the kid had a good chance to beat a murder rap.

  At the Bar

  ALEX HAD A glass of white wine at an outside table, watched the street, and waited for Potts to arrive. She dug through her purse and came across what she had thought was an invitation chucked in there earlier. It was in strange script, and read:

  Dear Ms. Stephanovsky,

  It is with deepest gratitude that we thank you for your recent service for the Hercynian Garden. We are building you a retreat in payment and hope you find it satisfactory. Whenever you need to recharge, come to see your old friend. Ehren.

  She smiled, lit it on fire in the ashtray, and watched it burn like flash paper in a little green wisp. She sat musing and watching traffic until a meaty hand scraped a wrought-iron chair noisily away from the table and Charlie asked, “This seat taken?”

  Alex looked up to see Charlie Potts in, what she gathered, was his church best.

  “By you.” She bestowed her electric smile. “How did it go?”

  “Sang like a bluebird, though it sounds like an accident. And guess what? That cop at the restaurant? It was Garcia’s boyfriend, who works...or worked, in security at the precinct. That’s who was at Denny’s. He risked his pension to make me think there was a conspiracy of our officers, and it almost worked. It was a conspiracy of exactly two—him and Garcia—to hide Garcia’s part in it. We’re still checking out whether Councilman Smithers was in on it, but I don’t think so. We caught up with Smithers, and he claims the money he gave the cop was for a charity the two had been involved with. Right.”

  “It still doesn’t explain why he would call 9-1-1 about the Fowlers.”

  “No it doesn’t, does it? He says he didn’t do it.”

  “He probably needs a good defense attorney,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  Charlie lit his cigarette and gave Alex a side glance. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  At the Vanderhooven-Mortimers

  THE SCENE WAS surreal. After a trip to St. Boniface’s E.R. and some stitches, the ladies had time to talk. Beatrice poured herself another vodka and tonic.

  Although maybe not drunk, they were definitely loosened up.

  Bea fixed Linda with a gimlet eye. “You hired that man who killed my husband.”

  “We said we weren’t going to do this.” Charlotte dabbed at what was sure to be a hell of a shiner.

  Linda waved her away. “No, let’s get this all out. Dick was my friend—only,” she said with the vehemence that comes with alcohol. “He was a good man. It makes me sad, too. I’m so sorry.” Linda played with the olive in her glass. “Now the museum is in the hands of that woman.”

  “Why aren’t you taking your friend’s side?” Charlotte asked.

  “Now who’s stirring shit,” Beatrice asked and laughed. Beatrice had come out best of the three, but red marks were still visible on her neck.

  Linda looked startled. “Garcia? There is no side to take. It happened. Whether it was a mistake or on purpose, it never should have happened.” She looked down at her bandaged hand. Blanca retracted her head almost all the way into her collar in a parody of guiltiness. Bea stared at her little doggy.

  The women sat in silence until Beatrice blurted, “I hated you because I thought Dick was cheating on me with you.” Her words slurred.

  “I know. I know, and I didn’t know what to say. That picture of me and Dick hugging? It was like, after I told him about my sister’s final days. I really liked Dick, but he was so proud. He was honorable to give me a job at the museum. He didn’t cheat. I don’t even think he knew Garcia was his son until that night.”

  Charlotte uncorked another bottle of champagne. “So you see, you both lost someone you loved.”

  Linda said, “Garcia has always been high strung. He started hating Dick because of his conservative views on art and other things.” She began to cry. “It’s all so pointless. I’m so sorry you lost your husband. I’m sorry Garcia was involved.”

  “Gay-as-a-goose Garcia,” Bea added. They all knew Richard wouldn’t have wanted the world to know he had a homosexual son.

  Blanca started sniffing Linda’s bandage. Linda looked so miserable, it pulled Bea out of her nosedive.

  “Blanca’s sorry she bit you, aren’t you, Blanca?” Bea said it in the little baby voice she used for her four-legged darling.

  A knock on the door brought sympathetic visitors to Beatrice. While they were shocked to see Linda there, it was only a matter of time until they got the real story. Knowing Merryville, it would make the rounds by noon the next day.

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, a line snaked out of the front of the museum and trailed down the block. Hawkers were selling “Art should be Fearless” T-shirts in bright yellow, and more than a few were putting them on over their regular garb. Juniper was on the second floor, looking out at the crowd.

  Maribel, her new, fully green-haired assistant stood next to her. “You miss Garcia, don’t you?”

  “I do. But you, missy, are a wonderful help.” Juniper put an arm around her. “Look at that crowd.”

  MITZI, PUDDLE, AND I were in the first group to be let in. After watching the Fiona video, we entered into an area with live cats for adoption, mixed in with pictures of the plight of the feral kitty. Puddle was all about animal rescue and soon found a bearded millennial to walk around with. Interspersed with the pictures were faces of locals with their words about the problem and suggested solutions. It was wonderful and interactive and healing for those who had felt slammed by the earlier exhibit.

  Farther into the museum, the “Founding Fathers” story had been tweaked until it was merely a framework for the real story. This was what Mitzi had been so excited about. Interspersed with the original “Founding Fathers” pictures were subversive interstices, recording the same events from the views of the original indigenous people, the Spanish land-grant family, and commentary about manifest destiny. Even though the museum would remain in the hands of the board, this history made this land untouchable for any other commercial purpose.

  Finally, before exiting, a “talking head” of Richard Mortimer played from a 1950’s Zenith television. It clearly showed his views
were old fashioned, but a clip was chosen from earlier days when he was fresh on the art scene. The three phases of the installation were well received, and even the mayor showed up, once he was convinced it was safe.

  BACK AT THE Fowlers’ house, Ekk and Elsa sat on the couch watching television with Brutus. Ekk had put on Turner Classics, and was enjoying “Darby O’Gill and the Little People.” There was a knock at the door, and Ekk put down the popcorn, his favorite food, to answer it. The knob was pretty high for him, but he managed. Looking up, he was surprised to see Gary Smithers, councilman for the district. Elsa sensed all was not well and hid behind the couch. Gary pushed his way in and closed the door.

  “You can come out from behind the couch, Elsa.” From the moment he spoke, they knew he was part of Wolfrum’s crazy religion. Both of the elves, caught unawares, had relaxed their vigilance. Smithers put up his hands, forced them both back to the couch, and turned up the TV.

  Ekk said, “It’s over, Smithers. The ritual is complete.”

  Gary sat, face expressionless. “Not exactly.”

  Elsa tried hard to bring flowers into the room, but she was bound by some kind of dark magic. She focused with all her might on Brutus and pictured the museum.

  “If you recall, the ritual was imperfect. You made some gains, but Wolfrum’s still a force to be reckoned with.” Brutus, ignored by the intruder, slunk out the back door, hopefully heeding the magical call.

  “What are you going to do with us?” Elsa asked.

  “When your friends return, they will find their protectors strewn about the room in pieces. That should do it.” If he had laughed a villain’s “bwahaha,” the scene couldn’t have been more terrifying.

  Ekk was so brave and stood in front of his Elsa. “Take me, not her. There must be some decency in you, man.”

  Smithers laughed. “You both have managed to do quite a bit of damage. I would’ve thought your little girlfriend would get the message when we just let her starve instead of killing her. No second chances.” He reached into a briefcase and brought out a sharp-looking machete. “I think I’ll put your little heads on the bannister. Cute, yes?”

  AT THE MUSEUM, Puddle, Mitzi, and I were walking out, arguing about Peru. “Are you really going through with this?” I asked Puddle, for the twentieth time.

  She replied, “Done talking about it. Done!”

  I opened my mouth to answer but instead was shocked to see my cat running toward us in a gallop, meowing loudly.

  Mitzi and I said in unison, “Brutus?” The poor guy was exhausted. Mitzi said, “Take the car. Something’s wrong.” I was about to ask her how she was going to get home, but her wings sprang forth with great force. It was a good thing we were outside. Her blouse ripped at the shoulders, but she had a sports bra on. Funny what we seize upon in times like these.

  Puddle just stared. “Holy...”

  I scooped up our little Paul Revere, grabbed Puddle’s arm, and dragged her to the car. Traffic leaving the parking lot was heavy, and I went up on the sidewalk in my little car. Where were the cops when you needed one? A siren whooped behind me. I put the pedal to the metal in my little three-cylinder car and hoped we would get to Thistle Drive in time.

  A minute later, I rounded the corner and stopped in front of our house with the police in hot pursuit. Everyone jumped out of their cars. The front door was open, and Puddle and I pointed inside. “In there!” A policewoman grabbed me, and I struggled to get free. Puddle, always faster, had made it in, and she told me later what she saw.

  “It was like a scene from a Renaissance painting, man. That city council guy was advancing with a machete, and your wife was flying in the living room with these huge-ass wings spread between him and the little ones. She looked like an angel. There were roses flying everywhere, too.”

  “Once Mitzi showed up,” Elsa said, “I was able to generate some of my flowers, and we were able to slow him down.” She was still trembling.

  What I saw was two cops run into my house and, moments later, lead Gary Smithers, in handcuffs, to a waiting car. By now, the neighborhood was lit up with red, flashing lights. I held Brutus and kept telling him what a good boy he was.

  The police accepted that somehow I had gotten a message that my friends were in danger, although they looked askance at the cat explanation. I think some of Elsa’s magic rubbed off, because they finally left without arresting any of us. As I held Mitzi, whose wings had retracted, Puddle asked Ekk and Elsa if we were safe now.

  Elsa took her hand gently in both of hers, and said, “I think we need to make sure Ekk’s cousin joins you in Peru.” She turned to all of us. “It may be over for a while, but not forever. I hope you don’t get sick of us.”

  I started crying, and we ended up in a group hug. Brutus meowed loudly again, and I immediately became alarmed. Ekk and Elsa giggled. Mitzi said, “Purple bag?”

  They nodded yes. Elsa told them, “He said hurry up, he’s earned it!”

  Epilogue

  A PARTY WAS in progress, both a “Going Away” for Puddle, who was headed for Peru, and a celebration for our brave Brutus who had saved our elfin friends from death by machete.

  “Our ride is going to be here soon.” Puddle put her glass down. “Sis, it sure has been great, and I really mean great, visiting.” I looked at my dreadlocked and beaded sister—Mitzi had added the beads to her hairdo.

  As if on cue, a horn honked in front of the house. We helped Puddle and Ekk and Elsa with their luggage, and all said their goodbyes as the sun hung low in the sky.

  Ekk took me aside. “I just got word Ehrenhardt is sending Twyla, his late husband’s niece, to watch over you while I’m gone. She should be here any day.”

  “Is she an elf, like you?”

  “No, a fairy.” He sighed and looked at his little Doc Martens.

  We knew each other too well to hide things, and time was short. I stared into his little blue eyes that I’d come to love and said, “What is it, Ekk?”

  “Well, fairies are...fairies. You’ll see what I mean when she gets here. She’ll have been properly trained, however, so don’t worry. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks for us to settle Puddle in and make sure she’s in capable hands for protection. We’ll be back.”

  The car honked again as everyone else was now inside the vehicle. Valerie reached through the window. “Puddle, here’s our address, email, and cell phones.”

  “Thanks, I’ll send you pictures!” Puddle was always happy when traveling.

  Mitzi added, “Promise you’ll send us an alpaca sweater, oh, and some of that tea they give you when you get off the plane for altitude sickness. Coca leaf!” As a tour guide, Mitzi was very curious about South America in general. I could tell she had been reading.

  Puddle laughed. “I better make a list.”

  I put my arms around Mitzi. “We’ll go someday, baby,” I said and kissed her on the cheek.

  Before ending our goodbyes, Ekk said, “In any event, it’s good Elsa and I are getting away. Our apartment isn’t working out. Finding a new place is number one when we get back.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “People stare, the upstairs neighbors must wear tree trunks on their feet, and a collection of little things.” He grinned at that, becoming quite the pun master.

  The driver honked yet again.

  Holding Ekk at arm’s length, I said, “I’m sorry about that, and, Ekk, please be careful.”

  “I will, Panda.” We hugged one last time. I leaned in and kissed Puddle’s cheek and waved to Elsa in the backseat, all but lost in the overflow of Puddle’s “jungle gear.”

  As they pulled from the curb, Valerie said, “I’m going to miss them.” She had put into words what we were all feeling.

  About the Author

  Reba Birmingham is a native Southern Californian, born of a Tennessee father and Arkansan mother. Good things have always come to her through the South, and her writing. As an example of this, she met her Tennessee born wife i
n California as a result of winning an essay competition in law school. Since 2012, Reba has been the poet for the Lesbian News, writing under the name of Morag Hillsinger, and handles a busy law practice out of a renovated gas station in Long Beach. A sign in the office points to a mythical lawyer who lives in the attic, and it is easy to see how her fertile imagination populates Merryville, the setting for her “Panda and Mitzi Fowler” series. Reba is very excited to join the ranks of Regal Crest authors, and looks forward to introducing everyone to the characters she loves.

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