by C. M. Bacon
“I see. Well, you understand I can’t let you in there without more information. Can you provide some details? Does the victim have any identifying marks, scars, things of that nature?”
“He has a birthmark. A pink crescent on his…” Ms. Pewter whispered the rest into the nurse’s ear.
The nurse’s face reddened. “Oh, yes. I noticed that. So unusual. I’ll take you to see him.”
Arvin stuck a finger in his mouth. “Bleh. Gross, Mom.”
“Shall we discuss the pool fence and the locker room now?” Ms. Pewter smirked. “Well?”
Arvin backed away, shaking his head.
“Thought so.” Ms. Pewter turned to follow the nurse. “Tell Kaila I said hello.”
Tim was asleep when we arrived in the emergency room, blankets pulled over his body, bloody stump elevated on a foam wedge beside him. The nurse parted the surrounding curtains and checked the machines. She removed a long clipboard from the end of the bed and scribbled Tim Patterson across the top. Under, she wrote his blood pressure, pulse, and a few others numbers I didn’t recognize. Ms. Pewter and Arvin stood on the stump side. Mom and I stood on the other.
The nurse returned the clipboard. “Poor man. The doctor says here they couldn’t salvage the arm. I’m sorry to say, he has a long recovery ahead of him. Go ahead. Let him hear your voice.”
“Thank you, Nurse.” Ms. Pewter ran her fingers over Tim’s bald head. “Could we have a minute alone?”
“I understand. Take your time.” The nurse slid the curtains around the bed and poked her head through the gap. “When you’re finished here, come to the front desk to fill out some paperwork. The police also want to speak with you.” She pulled the curtains closed, and Mom and Ms. Pewter’s fangs came out.
“Tim? Wake up, Tim or whoever you are.” Ms. Pewter flicked the stump.
Tim grimaced and wiped his eyes. The tubes in his arm snagged on the bed. He grimaced. “Where am I?” He squinted at the Pewters. “Patty? Arvin?”
“You’re in the hospital. Don’t you remember?”
“We’re here, too.” Mom spoke, but it was the dragon’s roar I heard.
I tapped his hand. “You’re missing something, Mr. Patterson. Something important. I’ll give you two guesses, but I think you’re only going to need one.”
Tim rolled his head to the right. Confused, he rolled his head to the left and focused on the stump. “What happened?”
“You tried to destroy the world. That’s what.” Arvin flicked the stump.
He winced. “No, I didn’t. What are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend. We know who you are.”
“You do? Who am I?”
“Not Tim Patterson.” Ms. Pewter flicked the stump.
He winced. “Stop it.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Tim Patterson. I’m a census taker.”
“Ha-Ha-Ha,” Arvin laughed like a comic book villain. “We got you now. The census isn’t for another two years.”
“Pre-census taker?”
Ms. Pewter poked the stump three times. “No. Such. Thing.”
He groaned. “Please stop that. I only wanted to get it back. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Who are you? And don’t say Tim Patterson.”
“Are you Levi Bram?” Arvin asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nurse!”
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
I pulled the coin out of my pocket and held my fist over his hand, concealing the coin inside. “Hey, Snake Boy. I have something for you.”
“Nurse! These people are crazy!”
I pressed the coin into his palm. “TT-Sequencer Revert!”
Bright beams of light shot out of the coin’s holes. The man on the bed transformed from Tim, a stumpy, balding middle aged nerd, into a long, albino snake, widened into a pale, little girl with curly brown hair and brown eyes, melted into a blue jellyfish, stretched into an Asian man in red glasses, shrank into a little bronze knight on the pillow, and exploded into a tall, slim man with blond hair, silver blue eyes, and two long arms. The coin fell out of his hand.
“That’s not Levi.” I snatched it off the bed sheet.
“He’s the census taker,” Mom said.
“The first one who came in the morning.” Ms. Pewter flicked the stump.
He grunted. “Stop it, Patty.”
“Don’t call me Patty. You — You — Who are you?”
“My name’s Logan Bram, and that’s my coin.”
“You’re Uncle Logan, aren’t you? You gave Levi the first magic coin.”
“To you, it’s magic. To me, it’s a toy. Levi’s toy. She had no right to take it from him or give it to you.”
Ms. Pewter crossed her arms. “She? Who’s ‘she’?”
“Leora,” I said. “His sister. Levi’s mother. The coin’s mine. I got it fair and square.”
“What happened to yours?” Arvin asked. “You couldn’t have gotten here without one.”
“I used mine to get here. But, I lost it in one of your shops.”
“Lost it?” Mom said. “You mean you spent it.”
“This world is weird. You people use coins to trade.”
“What did you buy?” Arvin asked.
“Beef jerky and green melon soda.” He licked his lips. “Best combination ever.”
Arvin nodded. “He’s right.”
I huffed. “He means there’s another coin out there. Somewhere. Why a knight? Why not take it and go?”
“I was about to, but her—.” He pointed at Mom. “She walked in on me so I hid as a knight and put the coin in my armor. Then you rolled me up, and my arms got stuck. I couldn’t get hold of it.”
“But you got out and stabbed Sean.” Arvin wound his fist back, ready to punch the stump.
“Admit it, Arvin. You liked seeing that bully get what he deserved. And I was trying to be get out in the open before using the TTS anyway. Otherwise, I could’ve pulled you along.”
Ms. Pewter flicked the stump. “Was it all to get to the coin? Asking all those questions? Wearing my dead husband’s face?”
“I just wanted to get home. And speaking of home.” Logan grabbed the coin out of my hand. “Thanks for the ride.” He pressed his thumbs over the holes. “TT-Sequencer Return.”
Arvin and I shouted, “No!” and reached for the coin.
Logan vanished taking the hospital bed, machines and monitors, a chunk of the floor, and the soles of our shoes. Arvin and I collided and fell in the hole.
“My shoes! I’ll kill him. Where’d he go?” Mom asked.
“Aurabash.”
“He went home.” Arvin clenched his fists. “He won.”
Another nurse parted the curtains. “What’s all the commotion in here? Visitation ended two minutes ago.” She saw the floor. “Where’s the patient who was here? The bed? The monitors? And what happened to the floor?”
Arvin walked through the curtains. “You mean this isn’t the waiting room?” He pretended to look for it. “Ahh. I see the sign. It’s this way.”
I walked out next. “We must have gotten lost.”
“Excuse us.” Mom followed me.
Ms. Pewter hurried behind. “Beautiful hospital. Spotless. Sorry about the bed.”
TWELVE
We listened to news reports on the way home, counting the carnage like a morbid tally of car accidents, broken bones, new psychiatric patients including Officer Larkin, and octogenarians recovering from hallucinations caused by a bad batch of incontinence medication. They reported the Pewter’s house fire, severe damage to Garden Glen, something about a bloody cow hide found at the Shelbyville Science Museum, and my neighbor, Mrs. McGillis had a heart attack under the weight of her buttons - the only knick-knack related death in the city. News was sketchy elsewhere, but any new information would be reported as it came into the station.
Shelbyville radio news dedicated a full segment to Mr. Thompson’s kidnapping,
reporting a small gang had dragged him into the yard of his former home. A young man saved both him and the son of a prominent Shelbyville figure though Mr. Thompson refused to give any names. Later that night, his estranged daughter was dragged into the yard. They fought off the kidnappers and rekindled their relationship. They called it the ‘feel good story’ of the year, to be repeated every twenty minutes until someone could come up with a better story.
Shelbyville’s streets were quiet. Few cars on the road drove over ten miles an hour. Cops on every corner took pictures, and cleaners swept away piles of discarded knick-knacks. We stopped at a cellular store so Ms. Pewter could get a new phone. Mom bought three spare batteries, a solar charger, and an indestructible phone case good for falls from unimaginable heights.”
In the backseat, Arvin and I communicated through nodding and shaking our heads, widening our eyes, and making silly noises. We grunted passing Garden Glen mall, raised an eyebrow watching a man pull a car bumper out of his lawn chair, nodded turning onto Riverside, bit out lips passing Arvin’s crime scenes, and gave two thumbs up at Clover Crossing’s stop light.
Ms. Pewter pointed to a young man walking through the crosswalk. He wore blue shorts and a yellow t-shirt. His jet black hair and sour expression were unmistakable. “Isn’t that Sean Davis?”
He limped past the car rubbing his wrists and muttering “Lesson One” to himself.
“That’s him,” Arvin said. “I’ve never seen Satan wear colors.”
“Doesn’t look so scary.”
“People can change,” I said as the light turned green. “Maybe all he needed was a swift kick in the butt.”
Arvin’s narrow eyes glanced sideways at me, but he didn’t ask.
Mom slowed near Emilia’s house at 34th and Vine. Mr. Wren, one arm in a sling, sawed branches off a dead oak in the front yard while Mrs. Wren, head bandaged, patch over one eye, swept up leaves and tossed everything into a wood chipper. Emilia wiped cleaned a downstairs window. Kaila, one upstairs.
Mom turned down the volume. “Do you want to stop and say hi?”
“Not today. I’ll see Emilia at school on Monday.”
“Arvin?”
“I’m with Perry. Let Kaila do something normal.”
We had our own Saturday chores to do at home, but even my best, most vigorous sweeping and dusting couldn’t bring things back to normal. Arvin and Ms. Pewter cleaned and rearranged rooms upstairs while Mom and I worked downstairs. Mom patched Mr. Happy Face’s wall hole and ordered new living room windows. They’d arrive from Albuquerque in a week, and our new couch would arrive on Monday - a big, cushy one like Arvin used to have.
Mom applied more lip balm as she paced over the spot where Dad’s recliner had sat. She was one layer of Candy Apple balm away from making balloon animals at birthday parties. “Martin has a nice, leather recliner. Did I tell you?”
“Does he?”
“I bet it’d be a good fit.”
“Would it? Does it swivel like Dad’s?”
“Of course.”
“What about the foot rest? Is it springy?”
“You betcha. With nice, thick padding and a handle release on the side.”
“I prefer button releases.”
“Oh.” Mom gazed at the floor, rubbing her left ring finger.
“But I guess I could get used to a handle release.”
“You could?”
“Sure. It’s easier to open the footrest. You know, for old people.”
Mom snickered. “Hardy-har-har.”
“Mom, can you make horchata tonight?” I blurted.
“What brought this one? You haven’t asked for that in years.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately. It’s time.”
Mom nodded. “Okay. I’ll try my best.”
“Me, too.”
Arvin came bounding down the stairs. “All finished. Like we’ve always lived up there. Minus Mom’s knick-knacks.”
Ms. Pewter stepped off the last stair. “What Arvin means to say is thank you. We won’t be here long. The insurance company will pay for a rental until we can rebuild. Which reminds me, I need to find a contractor.”
“I’ll help you with that, but you’re welcome to stay,” Mom said. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure thing.” I punched Arvin’s shoulder. “If he promises not to fart in my sleeping bag.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Boys.”
KNOCK-NICKETY KNOCK KNOCK
“Mom?”
“Perry, get your bat.”
I ran up the stairs, two at a time, and searched for my little league bat in the hallway closet. Gone. But there was another in my closet. I returned to the front door carrying my eighteen-inch Minnesota Twins souvenir bat, its sides scraped and stained green when I had tried playing backyard golf a decade ago.
“What’s a toy going to do? Where’s your regular bat?”
“How should I know?”
“It’s your bat.”
“Hand it over.” Ms. Pewter snatched my bat, gripping it hard enough to turn her knuckles cotton ball white. She opened the door and jumped onto the porch. “Show yourself. Tim? Logan? I’ll mash you like turnips.” She beat the bushes for half a minute before she realized they were already dead. Little leaves blew across the yard.
Arvin removed and unfolded a small square of brown paper wedged into the door frame. “Mom, it’s for you.” He gave her the paper.
“Me?” She read it, “Dear Patty, Sorry about the dragons. Just wanted them to scare you away. Tell Arvin I’m sorry,” and passed it to Mom.
“Must be from Tim. Logan. Whoever he was, he might have truly cared about you.”
Arvin snatched the note, tore it into tiny pieces, and threw them into the breeze. They scattered among the tumbling leaves. “She can do better,” Arvin shouted into the wind.
“Martin.”
“Martin’s taken,” Mom said. “Get your own.”
“No.” She pointed toward a black sedan coming down Shelby Lane. “I mean, Martin’s back.”
Martin pulled into the driveway in his new G37. “Debbie, I’m relieved you’re all right.” He waved to Arvin and Ms. Pewter and turned off the engine.
Mom jumped off the porch. “There’s my Soft and Gentle.”
My stomach turned inside out and exploded out my eye sockets. Martin ducked out of his car, and I had the urge to check for stilts under his paisley ankle socks. His thick, brown hair was far too stylish for any normal human, wavy on the sides and poofy up top, a blinding sheen covering it all. I put my hands in my pockets and sank my teeth into my bottom lip.
“Welcome back.” Arvin nudged my foot.
Martin’s eyes locked with mine. Another staring contest? A battle to the death? Nuclear war? I rose the white flag and lowered my gaze. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Thank you, Perry. I brought two boxes of those famous Japanese Matcha candies for you and Arvin.” He handed them to Mom. “I would’ve brought another knick-knack for your collection, but you know.”
“I understand. Thank you for the gifts.” Mom gave one box to Arvin and one to me. “What do you say, boys?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t stand outside. Come in.” She put her arm around Martin’s waist, leading him into the house.
Martin ducked, avoiding the top of the door frame. “I see what you mean. It’s a war zone in here.”
“We’re almost finished,” Ms. Pewter said.
Mom gave Martin a brief tour and led him upstairs. “Arvin’s going to stay in here with Perry, and Patricia’s going to take Perry’s room until they can get their living predicament straightened out.”
“You told me on the phone, but I don’t understand. I drove past the Pewter residence on my way, and it looked fine to me. Brand new almost. The car, too.”
“It burned down,” Arvin said. “There’s nothing left. No house. No car.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Martin lumbered to the door
. “Come on, I’ll take you.”
Martin was right about the house. The Pewters’ home was back. White siding. Blue trim. Polished car in the driveway. Manicured, green lawn. A Bur oak tree bursting with bright orange and red leaves. Inside, everything was back, but somehow new again. Arvin and I circled the living room, explored the kitchen cabinets, went up and down the stairs, and examined the house inside and out. Movie set perfection. The furniture, curio cabinets, and plush couch. Clothes, shoes, and books. A fridge full of green melon soda and beef jerky. Coffee and tea on the counter. And knick-knacks - over a hundred thousand. The week had rewound and nothing had happened to the house. It was perfect.
“Maybe you should find that note.” Arvin chucked, and Ms. Pewter slapped the back of his head. “Ow, Mom. I was just kidding.” But he wasn’t kidding. If Logan Bram walked into the house right then, Ms. Pewter would’ve taken him back despite what she said. And if he had done all this for her and only her, one thing was certain.
“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of the Brams.”
“What makes you say that?” Arvin sat beside me in his new porch swing.
“A feeling. An awful, horchata and spicy chicken burrito kind of feeling in my gut.”
“That’s not good.”
A beige car halted at the house and reversed into Arvin’s driveway, and a plump man in an ill-fitting suit got out of the driver side. He stomped across the yard. “Aren’t you,” the man fumbled through the pages of a small notebook, “Percy Derby?”
“Perry Dobbs.”
“Indeed.” He scratched through the name and wrote the real one above it. “I was on my way to touch base with you and your mother. Do you remember me? My name is Detective Jim Masters. I came with Officer Larkin to your house after the burglary.”
“I remember. How is Officer Larkin? I saw the news. Is he all right? Still rambling about the shadow government?”
“He’s getting better. Mental illness is no laughing matter, son. But it’s not why I’m here.” Mom, Mrs. Pewter, and Martin came out of the house. Mom and Martin held hands, smiling and giggling until they saw the detective.
“I take it, this is Martin Wexler?” Detective Masters stepped toward him.