* * * *
A half-hour later I was sitting in the rec room. The shakes in my legs were finally beginning to subside as Connie Simpson sat next to me, a clipboard in her lap, looking at me with concern.
"Are you going to be all right?” she asked.
I was embarrassed to say that seeing the gun pointed in my direction had caused me to soil myself, so I just quickly nodded and changed the subject. “It happened so quick, I couldn't do anything.... It was like I was nailed to that chair. Could not move."
She gave a reassuring touch to my shoulder. “Happens, facing a firearm for the first time."
I was still holding my reporter's notebook in my sweaty hands, and I thought that when I got back to the office, I would toss it away. “Well, when he put it in his mouth like that and pulled the trigger..."
"Your yells could be heard on the other side of the rest home. Which is how I got called here."
I stared down at the brightly polished linoleum. “Well, how was I supposed to know the damn thing was a toy? ... It sure looked real."
I think she tried not to laugh at me. “This is a good retirement home, Jack. They wouldn't let him have a real weapon. It was just a toy, something his grandchildren would play with when they came. He was just messing with you, that's all. A cranky old man. Look, most of the people who live here and work here are locals, and everyone—"
I interrupted her. “I know, I know, around here, everyone looks out for everyone. Everyone knows everyone's history. Everybody knows damn everything except for those of us who haven't had the good fortune to have been born in Boston Falls."
There was a slight pause there, and Connie shifted a bit in her seat. “Look, you're still pretty shook up. How about I give you a ride? You want to go home?"
"No,” I said. “Back to the office. I've got a couple of things to do."
On the short drive back to the bureau, I rolled down the window of the cruiser and just let the air cool my face. I was embarrassed and humiliated and angry all at once, a deep mix of emotions that outweighed the tiny triumph I had in finally nailing the story down, in learning what had really happened here more than sixty years ago, and in finding out who the mystery caller was.
When Connie pulled the cruiser up next to the sidewalk in front of the bureau office, I turned to her and said, “Space cadet."
She looked confused, and who could blame her. “Excuse me?"
"That's why I got exiled here,” I said, feeling again that squishy, warm feeling that only comes from remembering how thoroughly I had screwed up. “Space cadet. Or, actually, Tom Corbett, Space Cadet. A big hit TV series during the nineteen fifties. A guy came to the Manchester office one afternoon, old guy. Said he had been one of the major characters in the show. Had old photos, scripts, memorabilia, stuff like that. Now lived by himself in a tiny one-room apartment in the West End. Not a very nice place to live. Any other newspaper might have done just a small story, but he talked to my boss, a fan of old science fiction and science fiction TV shows and movies. So I got the story and did it up big. Front page of the Sunday edition, about a hundred thousand readers. Sort of a Where Is He Now?, complete with heart-tugging photos of him living in one room with a fold-out couch and hot plate. A great story."
"What was the problem?"
Funny how that memory still made me wince. “The problem was that it was all made up. The guy had never been west of the Connecticut River in all his life. He had some mental problems, that's all. And I should have done a more thorough job in checking it out. But I didn't. I relied on his word and his memorabilia, and the disaster unfolded from there. Which explains my exile, and why I was working so hard to find a story to get me out of here."
She smiled. “I thought you were going to save telling me that story until I agreed to go out with you."
"I changed my mind.” I got out and stepped onto the sidewalk.
She called out to me as I shut the door, “Are you still going to write that story? Still looking to get out?"
I pretended not to hear her.
* * * *
Inside the bureau Rita was looking at me, as was Monty. Neither said anything as I went over to my desk and pulled out two things. The first was the official town history of Boston Falls that I had bought over the Internet. I walked past Monty's desk and let it drop there with a satisfying thump.
"There, Monty,” I said. “Call it a little donation to the town library. I'm sure your friends there will be thrilled to get another edition of this hard-to-find book."
I think he was going to say something, but instead his phone started ringing and he picked it up, and his voice was sharp and low as he looked over at me. I went over to Rita, whose giggly face was now solemn, her reading glasses hanging from a thin chain around her neck.
"Saw your dad today,” I said. “But he was too busy to send his regards."
"I see,” she said, her voice faint.
I flipped through the second item I had brought from my desk. My phone log, which had carefully noted every phone call I had received from the Phantom Caller since day one.
"But then again, I should have realized right from the start that you knew him. You see, when he called, the first day I was working here, you just said, ‘Oh, hold on,’ and patched him through. And he knew me by name. Asked for Jack Spooner. But you and Monty were the only ones who knew I was coming to this bureau. It hadn't even been announced yet in the paper. But this mystery caller goes to you and asks for me by name, when he shouldn't have known a damn thing. So there you go."
"I ... I...” she started, and I said, “And when I saw him this morning, I saw your photo up on his window sill. Very sweet. I'm sure you and Monty got a big chuckle out of him calling me every Tuesday, getting the new kid spun up. Probably never thought I'd get this far, right?"
"I couldn't stop him from calling,” Rita said, her voice faint. “And I couldn't tell you, either."
Monty glared at me from his desk.
"Well, here's a helpful suggestion,” I said, leaning over the counter. “Us out-of-towners, we're not all as dumb as you think."
Then I left.
* * * *
That night I was alone on the back deck of my apartment, looking out over Tony's Towing and Auto Salvage. It had been a quiet night at the junkyard, and instead of gazing at the crumpled cars and trucks, I looked up to the hills and mountains surrounding Boston Falls. Funny thing about that. In all the time I had been here, not once had I gone up those trails, explored those woods. Not once. Just commuted between here and the bureau and the town halls and police stations of the surrounding towns.
I suppose I should have felt triumphant at what I had just done, in uncovering a story that would get me out of this town. But all I could think about was the old man alone in the last room of his life, still agonizing over something he did more than a half-century ago. What a way to live, with such burdens on your mind. And my job was to make that burden even worse, with an hour or two at the keyboard.
"Hey!” came a voice from the dirt parking lot beneath me. “Hey, Jack Spooner! You up there?"
"Nope,” I called down, and there was a chuckle, and the sound of feet on the stairs. I looked over and nearly dropped my beer bottle. Police Chief Connie Simpson, in tight jean shorts, flat black shoes, and a white pullover top that looked mighty fine. It was the first time I had ever seen her out of uniform. In her hand she carried a plastic bag with handles, and I could smell cooked food.
"What's this?” I asked.
"Dinner,” she said. “If you're hungry, and if you're interested."
Luckily for me there was a spare lawn chair on my deck, and the chief—okay, at this point, especially the way she was dressed, I was having a hard time thinking of her as the chief—sat down in it, dropping her plastic bag between us.
She eyed my open bottle of beer and said, “Interrupting anything special?"
"Nope, I was just sitting and thinking. And drinking. Just a little.” I raised my b
ottle in the direction of the hills and mountains. “Thinking that in all the time I've been here, not once have I really explored this town. Just my place and the newspaper office and various police stations and town halls in the neighborhood."
Connie said carefully, “There are some wonderful trails up there with great views of the valley. I'll tell you more but we should eat before everything gets cold."
Dinner was barbequed ribs and French fries and lots of grease and fistfuls of napkins, and a few laughs along the way. Eventually we washed up in my tiny kitchen and reemerged onto the deck with small mugs of chocolate ice cream, and as we ate, Connie extended her long, tanned legs to the railing of my deck.
I tried not to stare and said, “Ask you a question?"
"Go right ahead."
"Didn't we just have dinner here? And haven't you always said no when it came to dinner? What's changed?"
She laughed, scooping up a dripping mess of ice cream to her mouth. “Yes, this was dinner, and what's changed is that you moved first. You told me that story about how you got in trouble with your editors. It seemed fair. And to hell with any gossipers out there."
"If I had known that, I would have confessed all the first time I met you."
She eyed me with amusement. “Then it probably wouldn't have worked. Now, time for a couple of questions from me."
"Fair is fair,” I said, knowing pretty well what was coming up.
"The story about the PW camp and Paul Gagnon. Are you going to send it south to your editors?"
I suppose I should have felt insulted that a town official was trying to interfere with my work, but I was tired and said, “I haven't started writing it."
"You're not answering the question."
"Sorry, that's the best answer you're going to get. And here's a question for you."
"Go on."
"The whole town knew about him and what he did back then?"
She paused for a moment, and said, “There've always been rumors here and there. But only that. Tales that no one really wanted to look into.... It was so long ago, Jack, and at such a different time."
"I see."
"If you did do a big story that got you transferred back to Manchester, would you get paid any more?"
The cold mug of ice cream felt good in my warm hands. “Nope. Though working out of such a large office would give me more opportunities to pad my expense account."
"Then why try so hard to go back? Just to run faster to stay ahead, is that it?"
I was going to launch into my usual explanation of stagnating in a small town versus the excitement of working out of the biggest city in the state, in a newspaper office that was the hub of the news media in the region, but with her looking at me and the quiet stillness of the night air, well, I just shrugged.
"Tell you the truth, Chief, I don't rightly know."
She nodded. “You know, this is a nice place. If you give it a chance. You ever think of that?"
I didn't reply, and we sat there for a few more minutes, and then we both put our empty ice cream mugs on the floor of the deck. I looked at her and she looked at me, and I spotted her hand, softly resting on the armrest of the lawn chair. I reached over and grasped it, and in a very confused few seconds, she ended up in my lap.
Long, long minutes later, we both came up for air, my lips tingling and my skin so sensitive I swear I could feel the rise in temperature around us.
Both of my hands were around the back of her neck, and I gently pulled her down towards me. “Not to sound too forward or anything, but is there a chance I might pay you back for dinner with breakfast anytime soon?"
"Mmm,” she said. “How does tomorrow sound?"
* * * *
Which is what I did that morning, and for many mornings after that. Along the way Rita and Monty and myself actually started talking to each other again, as if nothing had ever happened between us. It felt fine, though I found I did miss those Tuesday-morning phone calls, which had immediately stopped. Over the summer and through the fall, I did a lot more stories for the Granite Times, but none that would have been as exciting as the PW camp story.
I suppose I could have brooded over that, but I was too busy during those months, working in my apartment, unpacking all of those boxes, putting things away, sometimes with Connie's help.
I finally felt good. Like I belonged. Like I had made the right call.
Copyright © 2006 Brendan DuBois
[Back to Table of Contents]
ICE CUBE TREY by Terry Lerdall-Fitterer
Trey and his cronies went fishing
On ice that was thickened by cold;
An auger, a saw, and some liquor
All help as this story unfolds.
* * * *
All four of the gents had the passion—
They entered the contest that morn
Convinced they would win the top dollar—
Proceeding to toot their own horn.
* * * *
Now, Trey, he excelled in maneuvers,
Could jiggle his line with finesse,
And never stopped boasting the trophies
Or mountings he came to possess.
* * * *
The other three winced at his bragging
And warned him to keep a tight lip,
So Trey went ahead with his fishing
And opened the jug for a nip.
* * * *
By noon, the poor man was plain tipsy,
Let's say he was feeling sublime,
When suddenly jerks from down under
Had tightened the slack on his line.
* * * *
A walleye the size of a Buick
Proceeded to burst through the ice;
The others were seething with envy,
Aware that this catch had a price.
* * * *
As Trey was no longer coherent
(The brandy had taken its toll),
The friends could dispose of the braggart
Along with his tackle and pole.
* * * *
The plot for the murder came easy—
A chunk of thick ice to the head—
For the evidence soon would be melted
And their rival most frozen and dead.
* * * *
They chopped out a hunk and then bopped him,
Then measured his shoulders across,
Sawed into the lake with a fury,
And gave the dead body a toss.
* * * *
They divvied the winnings between them,
No guilt did the blood money bring,
But each hooked a snag when Trey's body
Resurfaced the very next spring!
Copyright © 2006 Terry Lerdall-Fitterer
[Back to Table of Contents]
WHITHER COLUMBUS by Gary Alexander
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
A native of Washington state, Gary Alexander has the kind of imagination that takes him all over the world. Having spent a year in Viet Nam, he decided to invent a Pacific rim country for a series of novels featuring a police superintendent, the inimitable Bamsan Kiet. Like this new story set at a conference in Spain, the Kiet books are full of humor.
I had a hunch that the Christopher Columbus Symposium wasn't getting off to a real nifty start when one Ph.D. splashed a glass of perfectly good wine in the face of another Ph.D.
"Did you see that?” I asked Darla.
She shrugged, as ho-hum blasé as everybody else at this cocktail party. They'd also seen the two eggheads square off, voices rising, then tsk-tsked after the wine toss and went back to their gossip. This was normal college-professor behavior? Jeez, you'd think we were at a hockey game.
Where we were was the banquet room of our Madrid hotel. This get-together was the kickoff of the symposium. Yours truly and my Darla and a dozen others are gonna hop an ultra-high-speed train to Seville in the morning, to investigate whether ol�
�� Chris's bones actually are at their big cathedral. The rest of the symposiumites are joining us down there.
Get this. Darla and the gang are attending on grants. Free cash money. Yeah, no kidding. They're being paid to hang out for a week, then go home and write long-winded papers saying, well, uh, er, maybe they're his bones, maybe they ain't.
"Do you have a problem with that?” she'd asked me.
Since I was able to tag along on cut-rate airfare, and my grub and booze was on the house, my answer had been a resounding, “Hell no, I don't. Research has gotta go forward in order to make the world a sweller place."
Darla said, “A confrontation at some level between Chandler Bryce and Riley Neil was inevitable. Bryce is adamant that Columbus's bones are at the Catedral de Sevilla and Neil is equally convinced they aren't. They're fanatical on the issue and there isn't an ounce of compromise in either man."
Riley Neil and Chandler Bryce, wine slinger and wine slingee. Two overeducated pointy-heads with last names for first names and first names for last names. That's some heavyweight baggage to begin with. They were in their forties and had wire-rim glasses. They wore beards and those pants with the pockets up and down the sides. They could've been twins, except that the guy who tossed the wine was thin and short. The one with red stains was pear-shaped and a head taller. He'd gone stomping off out of the room, while the smaller guy took his empty glass to the bar for a refill, a little smirk on his face.
"Which one's been shooting off his mouth that he has these rare—whatchamacallit—documentationals?” I asked.
"Riley Neil. He claims to have conclusive proof that Columbus's bones are no longer in the Seville cathedral. He's going to present his evidence at the symposium. He claims that Francisco Franco, Spain's dictator, gave the bones to Benito Mussolini during World War Two. Christopher Columbus was Genoese. He was born in Genoa in 1451. Mussolini wanted his bones home. Franco was rewarding Il Duce for his support in the Spanish Civil War and for fending off Hitler's efforts to make Franco side with the Axis in World War Two.
"Neil boasts to have been paid a large advance from a publisher for a book on the subject. He has a lot to lose if his assertion is refuted. The consensus is that the documentation is a bluff and/or a fraud. Nobody's taking him seriously. The symposium hopes to clarify whether Columbus's remains are in the cathedral, regardless of Riley Neil's con game. Whither Columbus? That is the question."
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