by D. K. Greene
“I’m not sure...” A lump forms in Peter’s throat. It’s like he’s a kid again, admitting getting a “D” on a book report. Oliver’s eyebrows furrow and he leans forward. The look of fatherly disappointment threatens to whisk his pride away.
“Henry. What did you do?”
“I had the contest. The one we talked about. This guy came in. He’s a piece of work. I gave him the grand prize.” Peter’s thumb twitches and he moves his hands behind his back.
“What did he win?” Oliver moves closer and lowers his voice so the wind’s sure to blot it out. His wiry body is so tense, he rises to his tiptoes as he speaks. “Strangulation? Dirty needle? Bullet to the head?”
Peter’s hand is absolutely jumping now. Even though he grips it at the small of his back, he can feel his elbow jerking from the uncontrolled movement. “Poisoned cereal.”
“You forced him to eat breakfast?” The tension eases and Oliver flattens his feet. “That’s... different. But if you poisoned him, why don’t you know if he died? Did you get the dosage wrong?”
“I put the box in his car, so I know he took it with him. But his name hasn’t shown up in the obituaries yet.” The all too familiar misery of shallow breathing returns to Peter’s chest. He forces the air in and out, willing himself to not faint in front of his father.
Oliver rubs his face with both hands. “What were you hoping would happen? He’d be thoughtful enough to choke on a bite and call to tell you about it?”
“No...” The answer comes out so weak even Peter can’t hear it with the wind howling in his ears. He sets his shoulders and forces his chin up to counteract the blurry sting of his eyes. “I wanted it to look like an accident. The longer it takes for him to eat it, the less chance they’ll connect me to it.”
All glimmers of pride have vanished. “If he never eats it, then you’re definitely in the clear.”
“He’ll eat it, Dad. It’s free cereal,” Peter insists.
“It’s sloppy. I don’t like it,” his father grouses.
“It’s a good plan.” Peter tries to look sincere, even though doubt slithers through his mind. “It’s like waiting for the lady on TV to call the lottery numbers out. Eventually, his number will come up and I’ll hit it big.”
His father laughs, and Peter has the distinct feeling that the guffaw is at his expense. When Oliver looks at him through watery eyes, he wonders if the wetness is from the bitter wind, or from disappointment. “I think there’s something you’re forgetting about the lottery, Henry.”
“What’s that?”
“Most of the time, nobody wins.” Ollie looks toward the building as a small group of officers cart a trio of steel drums out with hand-trucks. Dougy and Mac follow close behind.
“These the ones?” the inspector calls out.
Oliver’s cheeks rise. His thin lips curl up in delight. He gives Inspector Douglas two thumbs up, wriggling his hands in the air with excitement. “Man, oh, man. Look at those beautiful meat buckets. And here I am without a can opener.”
Fifty-Eight
Peter’s morning begins when he bolts awake at four from the sound of the daily paper hitting the welcome mat.
He retrieves the news roll and spends the next hour combing through it. Reading the obituaries and skimming local headlines, he pauses at anything that might be connected to Glen. He reads while he eats breakfast, flips pages as he gets dressed, and holds the paper at an odd angle so he can read one-eyed while he shaves and brushes his teeth.
The rest of the day is a blur of numb activity punctuated by crisp moments of scouring the internet for the story of Glen’s death. By the time he returns home from work, Peter’s despondent, stuck in a cycle of analyzing each step of his failure.
No matter how many sites, forums, or talk radio stations he subscribes to, the satisfaction of Glen’s death never comes.
Two months pass in this way. Days bleed together in an endless merry-go-round of work, hopelessness, and remorse. He can’t eat. Can’t sleep. He’s stopped answering the phone. Considers trying to find a new therapist, but can’t figure out how to spin what he’s going through in a way that won’t raise suspicion.
The agitation builds until he can’t stand the suspense any longer. It’s time to pay the would-be victim a visit.
Peter has reviewed Glen’s prize form entry so many times, he has the street address memorized. He drives across town, checking his mirrors to make sure he’s not followed. He turns into Glen’s neighborhood, slowing to a crawl. Every house looks like it’s in the running for the next homeowner’s association Yard of the Month. Bushes stand at exactly the same width and height. Despite it being a chilly day, the yards practically glow with green grass.
He repeats Glen’s address aloud as he searches the lane for his destination. Pulling around a bend in the road, Peter finds the house. Glen rakes grass clippings in his front yard, oblivious to the stalker creeping by. He wears the same flannel shirt as the last time Peter saw him, along with a pair of metallic silver shorts and open-toed sandals. At least his black knee-high socks appear to be keeping his calves warm.
Parking a couple houses away, Peter watches Glen in his side mirror. He’s very much alive, slowly dragging bundles of grass toward him in a neat pile. Someone calls to him from over the fence along his driveway and he waves.
Exiting the car, Peter checks his reflection. He doesn’t think he looks nearly as flustered as he feels. He pushes a shock of hair away from his forehead and straightens his collar before walking toward the house. He’s casual about it. He looks at a flower and smiles at a kid riding by on his bike. Peter’s just another guy out for a walk. Off to see the man who should be dead.
Peter passes Glen’s yard and waits for a spark of recognition to alight in his eyes. He smiles briefly, the way someone might smile at a stranger in the aisle at the grocery store. But he doesn’t stop raking. Peter makes it to the edge of Glen’s property and stops. He turns, pretending to think for a moment, then forces his best smile. “Glen? Is that you?”
The homeowner looks up when he hears his name. “Yeah?”
“I thought so!” Peter trots over the lawn and thrusts a hand out for a handshake. This time, he grasps Glen’s palm before he complains about measles. The heat radiating from his skin makes Peter’s inner demons come alive. Despite the aggravation of the pulse throbbing against his fingers as they shake hands, Peter keeps a smile pasted to his face.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Glen asks.
“Ted Willard from Alphabet Apes. You, Mister Crookston, were our grand prize winner.” Peter tucks his fists under his arms and dances like a monkey as he sings, “When you want to feel great, try some Alphabet Apes!”
Glen’s face relaxes into a natural scowl. “Oh, that’s right. The guy with the contest. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m surprised you remember me.”
“Three months, actually. How’s that mountain of cereal holding up?”
He chuckles. Peter hates the way the folds of his skin jiggle with the effort. “Oh, man. The first couple weeks, it seemed all I did was eat cereal. But then... too much of a good thing, you know? Had to switch my meals up a bit.” Glen pauses and the look of befuddlement returns. “Say, what are you doing here?”
“Don’t take too long of a break. That cereal won’t eat itself, you know.” Peter pauses, trying to come up with a reason to be trolling the neighborhood. “As for why I’m here, can you believe the contest went so well, I got a promotion? My wife likes this area, so I thought I’d check it out. You know, make sure there’s no riffraff hanging around.” Peter winks.
“It’s a nice enough neighborhood.” Glen looks around at the cookie-cutter houses. “Everyone knows their place.”
Peter disagrees. If everyone knew their place, Glen would be six feet under the turf. “Say, how much cereal have you gotten through, anyway? That second shipment should turn up in a few weeks.”
“Between you and me, I got sick of it. The church down the road was doing
a big food drive, so I donated what I had left.” Glen pets his beard, apparently pleased with his unusual act of charity.
Peter feels his stomach drop to his ankles. “You did what?”
“Donated them. There must have been a good dozen boxes left when I got tired of the stuff. But I’ll be back to craving that sugary goodness by the time the next delivery comes, don’t you worry.”
Peter searches Glen’s eyes. He loses all pretense of a jovial coincidence at their meeting. “When did you do that?”
“I don’t know. A couple weeks ago, I guess.” Glen changes his stance, turning away from Peter’s hard glare. He resumes raking. Peter interprets the shift as a signal he’s ready for the conversation to be over.
“Do they still have the food at the church?” He swipes at beads of panicked sweat collecting on his forehead. He’s not sure how he’ll convince a church to let him sort through their donations, let alone walk off with them.
Glen’s beard waves as he shakes his head. “No. They were sending it all to the city. They told me they’d collected five thousand pounds of food in one weekend. Isn’t that something?” His focus slips, and he looks at Peter. “Ted, you aren’t looking too great. You okay?”
Peter draws his fist back and punches the bastard square in the mouth. They’re both surprised by the action. Peter’s knuckles throb in time with his racing heart. “No. I am absolutely not okay.”
Glen tilts off balance, but catches himself with the rake so he doesn’t tumble to the ground. He massages his jaw with his free hand to make sure it still works, then spits out a trickle of blood. “What the hell, man?”
“What part of, ‘prizes are non-transferrable,’ do you not understand?” Peter stomps off the property, loudly cussing the entire way back to his car. He swings the door wide and slams it shut again as he cranks the key in the ignition. He screams at the top of his lungs as he fights the seatbelt into place. The second it snaps in the buckle, Peter shoves his foot against the gas pedal. His tires chirp on the pavement as they launch the vehicle forward.
Peter tears through the neighborhood, leaving the disaster of Glen’s continued life behind.
Fifty-Nine
There are six churches “right up the road” from Glen’s house. Peter ditches out on work to figure out which one held a food drive. As he scrolls through evangelical websites, he wishes he’d asked Glen what the name of the place was before he clocked him. He could call, but the way Peter’s knuckles throb, he doubts Glen would answer.
He lucks out on the fifth website. The community church has a staff that’s slow on event updates. A banner advertises the former food drive across the top of their calendar. He digs the AA phone out of its hiding spot and pounds the church’s number in.
“He is risen!” a shaky female voice announces. “This is Betsy, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, Betsy. I was calling to find out about your food drive.” Peter crosses his fingers, hopeful she’ll know what he’s talking about.
“We’re happy to take donations Monday to Friday from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon,” she parrots.
“So, the food drive is still going?” Heart pounding, a thrilling electric feeling shoots through him.
Betsy’s voice takes on a grandmotherly tone. “The church food pantry is always going, dear. It’s how we support our disadvantaged members. Are you bringing in donations, or do you need groceries for your family?”
“Oh, well... neither. I’m calling to find out about some donations made a couple weeks ago during the event you have listed on your website.” Peter clears his throat. He looks around the apartment at the chaotic riot of newspapers. “I’m writing an article about local food banks for the paper.”
“I see! In that case, I’ll transfer you over to Pastor Mike. He was head of the event and will know much more about it than I do. Please hold.” The line clicks and orchestral hymns fill Peter’s ear.
A few minutes later, the line clicks again. “This is Pastor Mike. I understand you have some questions about our community work?”
“Yes. I was wondering, where did you send the food you collected at your event a couple weeks ago? Was it for your local pantry, or someone else?” Peter grabs a nearby sheet of paper and a pen.
“Nice to speak with you. I’m happy to share what we’re doing here. Four times a year, we do a huge collection for a network of food banks, pantries, and home-delivery non-profits all over the Portland area. I’m pleased to tell you we raised over five thousand pounds of non-perishable foods at the event. The angels in our community are feeding families in four counties.”
“Four... counties?” Peter asks. His drumming heart stops cold. A boulder of dread forms in his gut.
“Amazing, isn’t it? We sent a portion of our collection to churches and community centers in Multnomah, Washington, Clackamas, and Columbia counties. We estimate we disbursed enough meals to help more than a hundred fifty families.” Pastor Mike’s voice is upbeat as he speaks. It does nothing to placate Peter’s misery.
Emotions churning, Peter feels the phone vibrating against his face. He passes the phone to his steady hand, pressing his trembling thumb under his thigh. “Do you have a list of all the places the food would have gone?”
“A list?” The pastor’s voice shifts upward an octave. “What would you need a list for?”
“Facts, Sir. I only need the facts.” Peter presses his eyes tight, flustered at the stupid cliché. “For the paper.”
“Oh, of course.” Pastor Mike’s voice sounds small. He pulls away from the phone and shouts to ask Betsy if she has a list of places they send donations. “We can get that information for you. I can have our office attendant send a list over to you, if you like?”
“Yes, please,” Peter responds. He doesn’t have an anonymous e-mail setup, and he bashes himself over the head with the phone when the pastor asks where to send it. He glances at the cracked screen before he presses the phone to his ear and asks them to send it to his personal account.
He paces the apartment until the e-mail from the church appears in his inbox. The tremor in his thumb has grown to encompass his entire body, and he shivers as he opens the missive. Betsy’s listed thirty-five organizations.
Monstrous panic consumes Peter’s entire being. He shuts the lid of his laptop and casts a glassy-eyed stare out his front window.
The cereal could be anywhere.
Sixty
Peter bounces his knee while he waits for his father. Families are scattered through the visiting area, chatting somberly with loved ones. Fighting his shortened breaths, Peter forces them to ebb and flow in counts of four instead of the rapid-fire pace of hyperventilation. He stands when Oliver arrives, but the nervous bouncing merely moves from his knee to his toes.
Oliver frowns as he sits down. “No work today?”
Peter shakes his head and returns himself to his seat. He clasps his hands together, spreads them across the table, then clasps them again. He watches the guard move to the side of the room. He leans forward to whisper to his father. His eyes won’t stop flitting from corner to corner. “It’s gone bad.”
“What’s gone bad?” Oliver looks worried. “Did someone figure your experiment out?”
“No.” A rush of panicked air escapes Peter’s nose. He claws his scalp, further tangling his wild hair. “No, that would be better than this. Much better.”
Taking Peter’s hand in his own, Oliver is sincere. “Tell me what happened, Henry.”
“The box.” Peter’s voice is coming too loud, but now he can’t make himself quiet. “He donated it.”
A confused grimace appears on Ollie’s face. “What box?”
“The box. The special one, Dad. He gave it away.” Peter fidgets, the impulse to run flooding every muscle.
It’s not hard to see his father’s disappointment. Ollie lets go of Peter’s hand and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I told you I didn’t like the way you did it.”
Narrowing his eyes, Oliver knocks his balled fist on the table. “How should I know? This never would have happened if you’d done it in person.”
“I know!” Peter’s exasperation erupts, causing his voice to waver. “Tell me how to fix it. Please.”
Waving a guard over, Ollie stands. “This is your mistake. I can’t get caught up in it. I’ve got too much going for me to let your mess drag me down.”
Betrayal pierces Peter’s heart as his father tells the man in uniform he’s ready to go back to his cell. Peter remains seated, the trembling of his limbs ceasing. He’s frozen in place. Ice fills his veins as his father walks out on him yet again.
While he waits for the door to open, Ollie turns back. His expression is hard. His tone ruthless. “Don’t come back until you fix this.”
Sixty-One
After calling the first five food pantries on the donations list, it’s clear that where food distribution is concerned, the non-profits are a disorganized mess. Though they’ve all confirmed they received bundles of foodstuffs from the church, none of them know what they received, or whether any of it remains on their shelves.
Peter stays home from work again, but this time doesn’t bother calling in sick. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Not while a cloud of despair follows him like an eclipse blotting out the world’s happiness.
Bleary-eyed and too nauseous to notice he’s starving, Peter drops to the sofa like a rag doll. The news is on. He’s kept it on day and night since he visited Glen’s house. He stares at the lively newscaster as she babbles about the latest political scandal.
His eyes are heavy for the first time in days. The back of his head tingles as he dozes off. A loud blast of intense music startles him. Suddenly he’s awake, looking at another reporter standing on a corner. His flawlessly chiseled face marred by a somber expression.