The first thing in the morning I wrote one out for $200 and mailed it off so I would not have to worry about it for a while. I still had around $25,000 left from my $85,000 advance and decided I would take the payments out of that for as long as it lasted. After that, they could just come and get me. Who knows, maybe they would be the first to get blood out of a stone.
And after all, I did have something on them, not that I liked to think that way.
Chapter Fifteen
Oddly enough, as I faced an uncertain future, I did not feel in the least bit dispirited. My rich experiences in Miami Beach and Tokyo had given me a taste of life’s possibilities.
For all I knew, there might be more to come.
As if in preparation, I busied myself with self-improvement and read the novels of the great Canadian, Robertson Davies. One of them addressed itself to the problems of aging and temporarily eased my fears about that phenomenon. I had never felt they had much going on in Canada, but having him up there for all those years was all they needed.
And one night, I attended a lecture by one of our own famous novelists at the Baptist Church. I sat next to a little girl who I took to be about thirteen and wondered why she was up so late—until I realized that she was an adult who happened to be on the extremely petite side. She took notes during the lecture, which led me to believe that she was a student at the community college that I had been forced to leave because of a trumped-up plagiarism charge. (Not that I held it against her personally.) Though we did not speak, we exchanged several pleasant smiles, and I was only too happy to let her have the armrest.
The famous novelist made the point that few people read serious novels anymore, but he was going to keep writing them anyway.
“It’s too late to change,” he said. “And what would I do, write screenplays? Would Beckett? Insult me not.”
I could not help wondering who it was that kept badgering him to write screenplays. His agent? And why was he so dead set against it? Was it possible that he had made a few stealthy tries at that type of work and couldn’t get the hang of it?
He proceeded to read from his least famous novel—one that the critics had scorned—although the audience, myself among them, would clearly have preferred that he read from his most famous novel, since it had cost fifteen dollars to get into the lecture.
After the reading, someone asked why he had chosen to read from a novel that frankly no one had ever heard of.
“One nurtures the sick pup,” was his answer.
The little girl next to me took notes on that, and then someone asked him about the future of the planet, and he said that frankly he didn’t care about it since he was seventy-four. That got a big laugh from the audience, but when he repeated himself a few times—“I really don’t give a shit about the planet” were his exact words—the laughs petered out.
Finally, the superintendent of our school system got to his feet and with jowls quivering said he had a grandson and that he did care about the planet. That got a huge round of applause from the audience, which had obviously been waiting for someone to make that statement. The famous novelist shrank down in his seat a bit, although there was no sign that he had altered his views.
After the lecture, I exchanged some more smiles with the girl who sat beside me. Then I watched her walk off, bravely carrying a briefcase that was almost as big as she was. She was the littlest girl I had ever sat next to, and I felt there had been a connection between us. I thought about her all the way home, though obviously I should have been grappling with the ideas thrown off by the writer in his least famous novel. (If nothing else, to get my money’s worth.) And that may have been the trouble with the novel, incidentally, too many ideas jockeying for attention while the story went out the window. (He was signing books at the church, and I was tempted to run back there and point that out—but I would probably be telling him something that he knew.)
It’s possible that I had developed a false sense of security, but I had plenty of cash, even if, strictly speaking, it wasn’t mine. So money was not of paramount concern to me, although I did feel it was important to keep busy. Still, I did not have much of an appetite for returning to my part-time position of manning the timer at the tanning salon, even if it had been offered to me, which it hadn’t been.
A pharmaceutical company had posted flyers around town calling for paid volunteers to test a new flavored arthritis pill, and I considered the offer, but backed down, thinking there might be some long-term effect on your system that they conveniently chose not to mention.
For all I knew, the pill might give you arthritis when you didn’t have it.
There was one job opening in which you got to wear an apron and hand out free cups of coffee at the mall—and then tried to talk the people who accepted them into buying the coffeemaker. But there was a line around the block for that one, so I didn’t even try for it.
As to the cottage, I became less and less enthusiastic about selling it. It was my foundation, and I thought it possible I might fall apart without it. When Little Irwin first saw the cottage, he had said, in a rare serious moment: “This is the house in which you will die.”
That’s the way I felt each time I sat out on the porch in the evening and looked out on Liar’s Pond.
So I called the real estate agent and told her I had changed my mind and decided to take my house off the market. That is, unless I received a really big offer, which was unlikely. I expected her to say, “You never know,” but she said she agreed with me wholeheartedly.
Still, I was happy I had made the call.
One day I went over to the bookstore to see if I could find a good true-crimer. Though I am not proud of it and generally prefer books that expand my horizons, once in a while I get in the mood for a juicy one that doesn’t. It didn’t take long for me to find a beauty! It had all the ingredients I enjoy, featuring as it did a golden-haired California couple whose affluent life, at least on the surface, seemed to be idyllic. He was a rising young executive in marketing who drove a Porsche, and she was active in community affairs and at the country club. Both were clean-limbed and attractive and had two kids (which is not the part I like).
Though they were obviously living over their heads, racking up all kinds of charges on credit cards, they seemed to have it all. Yet beating up against the surface of their supposedly perfect life (there has to be something beating up against the surface for me to enjoy this type of book), there lay a whole vortex of kinkiness and depravity. Some of the ingredients in that vortex were arson, blackmail, adultery, incest and tax evasion, to name but a few. And it all culminated in a brutal axe murder.
This was all described on the flyleaf.
There were also pictures of the couple when they had just gotten married and had the whole world at their fingertips—and others, taken later on, of the husband in police custody, handcuffed and looking gaunt and unshaven. (I try not to look at the pictures before I finish the book, but that’s a tough assignment.)
Needless to say, the book had my name on it, and I could hardly wait to tear into it.
I was on my way to the counter to pay for it when I noticed a customer who looked familiar to me. Then I remembered why. She was the little girl who had sat beside me at the lecture in which the famous novelist said he didn’t give a shit about the planet. You could hardly see her head above the New Arrivals counter, but it was unmistakeably her, since there weren’t too many girls that short in our community. (Many are stocky about the legs because of their farm background, but of medium height.)
The fact that we had attended the same lecture at the Baptist Church gave me a perfect excuse to say hello and to see if I could get a conversation going. If she showed a lack of interest, it would hardly count as a rejection since she was so little. (I am not proud of that type of thinking, but what can I say.)
My fears, however, turned out to be unfounded.
“Sure I remember you,” she said after I had introduced myself. “You were the one
who asked about the planet.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, refusing to take credit for someone else’s achievement. “But I wish I had.”
“Oh,” she said softly, and seemed a little disappointed that I was not the fellow who had asked the excellent question. But after we had paid for our books (she bought Moo and Mistress to an Age: A Life of Madame de Staël), we ended up having a cup of gourmet coffee together at the literary-style cafe next door. (To heighten the bookish atmosphere, there are pictures on the wall of Anais Nin and Kurt Vonnegut.)
She said her name was Beth and that she was indeed an English major at the junior college that I had to leave after being humiliated.
“I hope to be a teacher some day,” she said.
I saw no reason to tell her that I was a contract killer, so I said I was between shows at the moment, and left it at that.
“At times like this, the only thing that keeps me going is a good book.”
“You can say that again,” she said.
She had soft brown hair, a pleasant face and a friendly easygoing style. In other words, her personality did not seem to have been adversely affected by her size. I got more and more interested in her and said that although I was somewhat tied to the house, I’d like to see her again. Evidently, and without knowing it, I had been anxious to have a simple and straightforward person in my life. I told her where I lived and maybe she could drop by sometime. She said that she would try.
I thought that was probably the last time I would see her. Therefore I was pleasantly surprised one rainy afternoon when she knocked on my door. She wore a raincoat and carried a wet briefcase and had a career-oriented look about her.
“I finished up my classes early,” she said, “and thought I’d drop by and pay you a visit.”
I told her I was happy to see her and to come on in.
“All I was doing was reading that true-crimer book you saw me buy.”
She took off her raincoat, sat down on the recliner, crossed her sturdy little legs and smiled at me.
“How did your books work out?” I asked.
“Moo was great, but I’ve been having trouble getting into Mistress to an Age: A Life of Madame de Staël.”
“Maybe it will pick up.”
“I certainly hope so.”
And with that, we seemed to run out of conversation.
I thought of asking her if she wanted a cup of coffee, but it didn’t seem necessary. We just sat there, smiling at each other, as we had at the Baptist Church—and didn’t exchange a word.
After a little more of that, I got up, took her hand, led her into my room and undressed her. It seemed like the most simple and straightforward thing in the world to do. She smiled throughout, as if she’d known all along that I had been curious about what it would be like to make love to a little person.
Little as she was, she was perfectly proportioned, except perhaps for her breasts, which were heavier than you would expect. (There they were again, those unexpectedly heavy breasts.) She also had perfect white skin and a clean powdery smell around her neck. And I could not help noticing that she had a rich profusion of ink-black pubic hair.
She let me twirl her overhead, which is something I had always wanted to do. (Glo would have been only too happy to oblige me, but her heftiness made it out of the question. And Cindy felt it was too close to her line of work as a stuntwoman.) Beth was light enough so that I could hold her upside down by the ankles and lower her up and down on my penis. And all she would do was chuckle. I thought it might be a tight squeeze—so to speak—down there, but that did not turn out to be the case. When I came inside her, she gave me the biggest hug, as if she appreciated my interest in making love to such a little person. I felt it was the other way around.
We held hands for a while and looked at the ceiling as lovers are apt to do. Then she got dressed, picked up her briefcase and we said goodbye.
Though clearly we had both enjoyed the experience, there was an unspoken agreement between us that there was no need to repeat it. For one thing, we looked ridiculous together. What she needed was someone closer to herself in size. It was a shame that Little Irwin was not around, although he was not bookish. (And all he ever cared about was one thing.)
Yet making love to that little watchfob of a girl was one of the most satisfying experiences I ever had. Why was that, I wondered. I could hear some critic saying oh sure, she was little so you could control her. But if that was the case, how come I enjoyed making love to my wife from time to time (and may she rest in peace) when it would have taken a freight train to control her. And couldn’t it be argued that when Beth was up there being twirled, she was the one who was controlling me. Otherwise, why all that chuckling! So maybe it was just a case of two adults getting together on a rainy day and doing exactly what they wanted to do—which may not happen as often as we think.
At the same time, it was like a book you enjoy but know you will never read again. The way I felt about And Silently Flows the Don.
On the other hand, I just might give her a ring someday, to see how she was getting along.
It did cross my mind that my two romantic encounters—since becoming a widower—were with a bald girl and one who was height-challenged. (No disrespect to either one—both were fine individuals in their own way.) But would a normal-sized girl with a full head of hair ever come my way? I certainly hoped so.
Chapter Sixteen
As brief as it was, the affair with Beth put a little bounce in my step. And my good fortune continued. Out of nowhere, I received a call saying there was an opening at my old poultry company, although not in distribution. What they were looking for was an experienced de-beaker in the fast-growing turkey division. Additional responsibilities would include candling out infertile eggs in the hatchery and some de-snooding. Early in my career I had done some de-beaking, but I had never candled or de-snooded. Nonetheless I did not see why I could not pick up both techniques quickly, and I presented myself as being qualified. The work was a comedown from my previous position, but I was not about to stand on ceremony.
Each morning, after taking Lettie to school, I drove the Trooper out to the range, feeling that once again it was nice to have some place to go.
It had been some time since I had worked with turkeys, and I’d forgotten their unique traits. As an example, you must never back away from one. Should a Tom run up to you in a hostile manner—and they will always challenge a newcomer—it’s important to hold your ground. Most of the time it will be the Tom who has second thoughts and will turn away. (We used to say the same thing about our enemies in the Pacific, and how wrong we were. But it is true of most turkeys.)
Once you’ve demonstrated that you are not afraid of turkeys—even if you secretly are—they will follow you around and get under your feet, which can be a nuisance. Another thing is that you can’t get upset when the poults peck at each others eyes. It may seem barbaric, but it is just part of the turkey scene.
And you have to remember to dry them off quickly when it rains or they’re liable to drop dead on you.
I had the range pretty much to myself except for two female co-workers. One was stocky and had close-cropped curly blonde hair and nicotine stains on her teeth. Her name was Edna. The other, Caroline, was dark and slender and much more feminine in style. She looked like an attractive librarian. They stuck together and held hands when they felt no one was looking, which led me to believe that they were a lesbian couple—not that it affected my feelings about them.
I did wonder, however, who it was that ran the show in these situations. I had heard that often, and surprisingly, it is the outwardly feminine one who has the upper hand. That seemed to be the case with these two. Every once in a while Edna would walk over to the fence and unaccountably start to cry. And Caroline would go over there and comfort her. And never once did I see the more sensitive-appearing Caroline break out into tears. So you never knew.
One day I made the mistake of asking Edna how long sh
e had been a Poultry Maid. I almost got my head handed to me. Though the term had been in use since time immemorial, it no longer was, as I learned to my great discomfort. Hatchery Technician was the new designation, and as far as I was concerned, the change was long overdue.
After that one gaffe, we all became friends and worked together as a team on our one day a week in the slaughterhouse. That demonstrated to me that people of all kinds can get along if they will only learn not to pry into each other’s personal affairs.
I have no use for those talk shows in which they do.
One night, my new friends invited me to have dinner at a roadhouse restaurant that specialized in vegetarian-style food, which does not happen to be a favorite of mine. But I went along anyway, just to be in their excellent company. The restaurant was called Fran’s, and it appeared to cater to lesbian types. There were half a dozen such couples sitting around who seemed to fit that description, although you have to be careful here. Just because two women are holding hands and having a cozy candlelit dinner, you can’t jump to the conclusion that they are lesbians. Yet the ones I was looking at probably were. We listened to some country music on the jukebox, which was probably lesbian-slanted but that someone like myself who is not a lesbian could enjoy all the same. Since I was out of my depth in a restaurant of that type, I let my friends do the ordering. They asked for a variety of tofu dishes that weren’t half as bad as I thought they’d be. I noticed that some of the couples had brought along their own little bags of nuts and berries, as if they didn’t trust the restaurant food to be natural enough. But the mood was casual and the restaurant didn’t seem to mind.
During dinner, Edna and Caroline confided in me that they were indeed lesbians.
“It’s an honor for me to hear that,” I said.
Then they told me about the troubles they had and how hard it was for them to find a place to stay when they were traveling, except for Greece. But they didn’t want to keep going back and forth to Greece, and I couldn’t blame them. Edna showed me a special lesbian magazine that addressed these very problems, giving its readers a list of inns where they could probably get in. There were also heartbreaking personal ads sent in by lonely lesbians who were seeking other lesbians who were just as lonely and wanted to get together for mountain climbing and things like that. I said I wouldn’t mind subscribing to a magazine of that type, although in truth I had a feeling my interest would taper off after a few issues.
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