Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

By noon I saw a new vista opening before me—a ten million-dollar lawsuit against the drug company. And hadn’t Clint said he’d alerted the doctor to the drug’s effects? Why not include the physician in the suit? Why just ten million? Why not a class-action suit? Dow Corning had settled for billions. The tobacco companies where hemorrhaging money in suits all over the country. I begin thinking Lamborghini instead of BMW.

  What I needed to do was to get to Clint as soon as possible, before some other eager lawyer beat me to him. I was debating the best approach to a grieving husband when I received a visit from Detective Sergeant McCloskey. He quickly explained how Clint had told the investigating officers several people knew about Anna’s threats of suicide, including his doctor, his attorney, several friends and neighbors. To my questions, he informed me the death was probably the result of an overdose of sedatives but that, of course, the actual cause would have to await an autopsy.

  In retrospect, I think I should have wondered a bit more about the reason for the visit, and certainly I said too much, but I guess it wouldn’t really have made much difference in the long run. I begin to share some of my recently discovered information and told him that, “Not only did he tell me his wife was talking about suicide, but he also told me she was on Thanazac, which is already suspected of inducing suicide. That’s what had him so concerned.”

  McCloskey seemed suddenly unsympathetic. It was then he told me Anna had never taken Thanazac, and how she had been reluctant to take any drugs despite her doctor’s prescriptions and her husband’s urging. As a result, no pill prescribed by her doctor had ever been consumed. Every one was accounted for, since she had secretly given them to a close friend who had produced them for the police. He added, though the addition wasn’t necessary for me to see which way the wind was blowing, that Clint had a girlfriend.

  Of much greater significance to me was McCloskey’s next comment. Clint was now in custody, had been read his rights, and I could expect a phone call from him. The phone rang at the very moment.

  I didn’t have to hear Clint’s voice to write off the Lamborghini.

  THE TOREADOR FRESCO

  Vitas Losys, Professor of Baltic Languages, tamped the tobacco down firmly into his pipe and wished for the good old days when he could not only smoke in his office but in any room on campus. At the moment, he was waiting patiently for Leofouros Psalidas to finish his jeremiad so they could go off on their afternoon walk and the pleasures, at least for him, of a pipe-full of tobacco.

  But, today, the Emeritus Professor of Eastern Mediterranean History was more wound up than ever. The stroll across campus might be indefinitely delayed at this rate. “I tell you Vitas,” he was saying, slamming a slender periodical down on his desk, “This Journal of Minoan-Mycenean Civilization is becoming a joke. How the editor could have seen fit to print Skouras’ scurrilous letter is beyond my comprehension.”

  Losys felt the need to protest. “But, Leo, Skouras is recognized as the world’s leading authority on Minoan archaeology.”

  “Archaeology is nothing but digging up old dump piles. I’m sure he is an expert at that, and maybe at putting broken pieces of pottery together—but Minoan civilization? Hah! He knows nothing about it. Can you believe, when my treatise on the Toreador Fresco actually proves bull leapers did exist and Minos was the mother of athletes, Skouras shrugs it all off and claims bull leaping is a fairy tale?”

  Losys looked at the large-size copy of the fresco behind Psalidas’ head and marveled, as he had many times, at the agility and grace of the athlete somersaulting over the massive back of a bull.

  Even the stroll down to the river, on what was a brisk spring day, did little to cool down the monologue. Losys paid only scant attention, immersed as he was in his own thoughts and the pleasant taste and smell of tobacco. Besides, the outline of the feud between these two scholars had changed little over the years. Psalidas, a native of Crete—the land of the ancient Minoans—held to a regional patriotism which Skouras, a mainland Greek, regarded as little more than quaint provincialism.

  “Believe me, Vitas. Those early Greeks, the Myceneans, were nothing more than thugs and pirates before they encountered the Minoans. They learned to read and write from my ancestors, and they learned athletics from them too. Then they desecrated it with javelins and hammers and boxing.”

  Losys broke out of his reverie long enough to ask, “Just what did Skouras say in his letter? Did he claim it was impossible for anyone to vault across a charging bull’s back the way it’s depicted in the fresco?”

  “Exactly. He claims the mural is strictly a work of the imagination. A ‘superman comic,’ he calls it.”

  Losys became thoughtful. “You know, Leo, there might be a way to prove him wrong.”

  Psalidas grunted. “I’ve already done that.”

  “No. I mean prove him wrong in a way where even he will have to accept the fact the Toreador Fresco represents a real athletic feat.”

  Psaldidas was curious. Losys explained. They spent the remainder of the stroll back to the office making plans for the following fall.

  ***

  Not unexpectedly the crowd at the rodeo grounds was a small one, since no one had broadcast the event. But enough of the word had seeped out, so some of the university faculty as well as several of the townspeople had driven out to watch—along with the crew of the local television station. Socrates Skouras was the guest of honor, since the event had been planned for his benefit. The weather had cooperated fully. There was little wind, and though the autumn had been a rainy one, today the sky was a brilliant blue accentuated by puffs of white clouds.

  Losys suggested he, Skouras and Psalidas take a seat near the television crew, which had showed up unexpectedly on the grounds. His suggestion was based on the sound assumption those experts probably knew the best vantage point to observe what was about to occur out in the circular arena. The drawback to the spot was having to listen to Diantha Morris, Dean of the University Faculty, explaining at length to the television producer how what was going to happen was definitely not sponsored by the university, the university was not liable for the inevitable injuries which would occur, some people should have known better, etc.

  Had she known there were heavy wagers on the event, Morris would have truly exploded. Losys decided he needed a pipe full of tobacco to take his mind off of the tirade, and the concern the hundred Euros he’d ventured might not have been a good investment. Things could go wrong.

  The only concession made to rodeo performances was an earphone-bedecked announcer who was testing out the sound system at the moment, and two rodeo clowns, each behind wooden barricades on opposite sides of the arena.

  The audience stirred as the announcer called their attention to the chute where an animal could be heard attacking the boards. He added, “The chute had to be specially built to accommodate Grazus’ horns.”

  Skouras turned to Losys, “Grazus?”

  Losys grinned. “‘Grazus’ means ‘beautiful’ in Lithuanian.”

  “Why Lithuanian?’

  A slender, graceful figure emerging from a door at the opposite end of the arena was the answer to his question. Albina Gylys, the Lithuanian gymnast who had won a recent Olympic Gold, signaled to the chute handler. Instantly, a massive bull, with horns spanning five feet or more, thundered into the arena heading directly at Albina. She in turn was running lightly in his direction. Losys held his breath and could feel the others around him doing the same. The bull was a terrifying creature. A mere shake of the head could disembowel whoever came within reach of the immense horns.

  The two figures in the arena closed, the bull lowered his horns, Albina sprang into the air, somersaulted between them, touched the bull’s back and landed in full control behind him.

  The clowns rushed from behind their barriers to divert the bull, who ignored them and, spinning on his hooves with the agility of a gazelle, charged toward the figure which now had her back to him. Losys remembered the scream of a woman, perhaps t
he Dean of Faculty, and then Albina turned.

  ***

  At the luncheon gathering, after the wagers changed hands, Losys proudly introduced his niece to the two scholars. “Albina has been practicing for the past six months. She has actually leaped Grazus numerous times.”

  “I can well believe it,” Skouras said, “and I must now admit it can be done.” Then, turning to Albina, he added, “But Grazus is obviously very tame. He followed you into his chute like a family dog.”

  Psalidas looked thoughtful. “Perhaps, in my next monograph, I should point out the Minoans not only developed magnificent athletes but were also superb animal trainers.”

  THE TURNING POINT

  He had heard others at the feed store talking about the election. The feeling had been pretty general about how, if Grover Cleveland got elected president, there would be bad times for sure. Well, Cleveland had been elected, and these were bad times.

  Ed Swanson felt somehow cheated. He hadn’t voted for Cleveland. In fact, he hadn’t voted at all. Voting was intimidating, and he didn’t feel competent to make important political decisions, like choosing a president. Even back in his school days he’d never been one to ask questions or volunteer to answer any. He was a good student, but a quiet one, who knew there were a lot of things beyond him.

  Now, the one thing he did know for sure was something had to change, and soon. Marie was due to have their third child, and they had already been skimping with only two. This time, they’d have to take a chance and not have the doctor out. Maybe Lily Waddel, the midwife, would come out anyway on a promise to pay. But, knowing Marie, she wouldn’t let him make any promises he might not be able to keep. Well, he’d brought calves into the world. Babies shouldn’t be so much different.

  The problem was there wasn’t enough money to see them through the summer, never mind fall and winter. He’d discussed it with Marie and, reluctantly, they’d begun talking about selling the farm. But Ed was too scared to tell her what the neighbor farms were bringing on the market. The only buyers were some big insurance companies, and they didn’t bid against each other. The Wades, two pieces down, had barely gotten enough out of the sale to move their belongings to her folks’ house in Illinois. When he hinted at what might happen, Marie just smiled and said, “The Lord will provide.”

  If only it would rain. He looked up at the sky. Not a drop for six weeks. The wheat was showing the effects. If the rain didn’t come in the next week or so, it would really all be hopeless.

  The only good news was the final arrival of the bank draft for the spring calves. Twenty dollars! Maybe with the calf money, and if he could get a dollar a day working on one of the big farms, and if the heat wave broke, and if they got at least one good rain, and if the birth wasn’t complicated, then maybe—just maybe—they’d make it through until fall. He didn’t even want to think any further into the future.

  Marie was baking bread with the last of the flour. Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of strong black coffee after having finished the morning chores, Ed watched his wife as she put the loaves into the oven. Small beads of perspiration lined her forehead. Her long blonde hair, now tied in a bun, hung heavy above her slender neck.

  He felt an ache in his chest as he saw the lovely girl he’d married just now barely showing the outline of their coming child. If anything, she was more beautiful than ever. Marie turned to catch him watching her, and the color rose in her cheeks. Whatever they were to face together, Marie was convinced her Ed was the best husband in the world, and she in turn was the luckiest woman in the world.

  Ed rose, kissed her and told her he would have to go into town to cash the check and buy groceries for the week. Marie kissed him back. Her smile made him smile, in spite of himself. For a moment he wished he had the strength of her faith, then decided faith was fine, but sometimes it was tested to the limit. He was afraid his limit had been reached.

  Riding into town, he looked up at the sky a dozen times. Clouds were gathering as though to mock him. Time after time in the past six weeks, the clouds had filled the sky, promising rain then, shrugging off their promises, they slipped away over the horizon to leave the blazing summer sun behind.

  The worst part of the day wasn’t the recurring wish for rain when none came, but the trip to the bank and the need to deal with the cashier. His name was Wilber Vogel. Wilber had long ago decided he was far superior to any of the other townspeople, except perhaps for the bank president, and certainly far, far superior to the overall-clad farmers who splattered manure from their boots in the marble lobby.

  Nowhere did Wilber show more contempt, without putting it into those words, than when one of those farmers came in to cash a bank draft. He made it a point never to recognize them. “Do you have an account here?” was his first and invariable question. Even the poorest of farmers managed to maintain the dollar minimum required for an account—something Wilber was well aware of. But the ritual had to be performed.

  Today, though faced with a long line of customers, Wilber still went through his standard routine. “Next! “Do you have an account here? I’ll have to have this item approved by the manager. Next! Your endorsement is illegible. Next!”

  Ed worked his way slowly along the queue, finally arriving at the window and presenting the check. “Do you have an account here?” Ed nodded, but Wilber had been looking at the check. “I asked you, do you have an account here?”

  “Yes,” Ed answered in an almost inaudible voice.

  Wilber glared and slammed the money down in front of him. “Next!” Ed only knew he wanted to get away as fast as possible. Scooping up the cash, he almost ran out of the bank.

  He didn’t even take time to count the bills until he reached the sidewalk. “One, two, five, ten, twenty,” he shook his head in disbelief and looked at the bills in his hand. Wilber had misread the check. The money came to two hundred dollars. There was only one thing to do. Return it immediately.

  The queue was shorter. So was Wilber’s temper. Ed started to explain, as he held out the cash for inspection. “You made a mistake, you….”

  The interruption was quick and final. With a gesture of dismissal Wilber said, “We do not make mistakes in this bank. If you had any questions, you should have asked when you were here before. Next!”

  Pushed aside by yet another farmer, who didn’t want to bear any of the brunt of Wilber’s bad temper, Ed left the bank in bewilderment, going home without even stopping for groceries.

  Marie, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, listened carefully to his explanation of what had happened.

  Finally, Ed said, “There must be some way I can get the money back to the bank. It’s not ours. It belongs to them.”

  Marie leaned forward and took his face in both of her hands, saying, “No, Ed, it belongs to us. Wilber told you the bank doesn’t make mistakes. Besides, I’ve been praying to the Lord for weeks now, and I knew He’d come through. He gave us the money. It’s ours,” she declared with finality. “Besides, listen!”

  For the first time Ed became aware of the rain on the roof. Big, rich drops. It was going to be a downpour.

  TRANSMISSION BEYOND INSTANT

  Rick Meyers had stopped listening to the two physicists arguing. His attention was completely caught by the message which had flashed on to the empty screen.

  “Transmission completed at 2:04:17

  “Transmission received at 2:03:14”

  Rick guffawed. “I knew it, I knew it,” he exclaimed jubilantly. “The Mars base ramped up the G80X to where it’s sending the message so fast, it gets here before it’s sent.”

  Clayton Wing snorted. “Ridiculous. Your timing mechanisms are faulty.”

  Georgina Karnov broke in, “Not necessarily.” She was scribbling away formulae with an old-fashion pencil and notepad.

  “Of course it’s ridiculous,” insisted Wing, as Meyers stored the message, cleared the screen and waited for the next communication. “It’s logically impossible.�
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  “What may be logically impossible, may not be physically impossible,” Karnov answered as she turned the notebook with its formulae to face her fellow scientist. “We may have to stop thinking of time as an endless series of nows, and more as a linear continuum which can turn on itself. We could be in an endless loop right at this moment.”

  “Utterly ridiculous,” Wing retorted.

  Rick Meyers had stopped listening to the two physicists arguing. His attention was completely caught by the message which had flashed on to the empty screen.

  “Transmission completed at 2:03:17

  “Transmission received at 2:03:14”

  Rick guffawed. “I knew it, I knew it,” he exclaimed jubilantly. “The Mars base ramped up the G80X to where it’s sending the message so fast, it gets here before it’s sent.”

  Clayton Wing snorted. “Ridiculous. Your timing mechanisms are faulty.”

  Georgina Karnov broke in, “Not necessarily.” She was scribbling away formulae with an old-fashion pencil and notepad.

  “Of course it’s ridiculous,” insisted Wing, as Meyers stored the message, cleared the screen and waited for the next communication. “It’s logically impossible.”

  “What may be logically impossible, may not be physically impossible,” Karnov answered as she turned the notebook with its formulae to face her fellow scientist. “We may have to stop thinking of time as an endless series of nows, and more as a linear continuum which can turn on itself. We could be in an endless loop right at this moment.”

  “Utterly ridiculous,” Wing retorted.

  Rick Meyers had stopped listening to the two physicists arguing. His attention was completely caught by the message which had flashed on to the empty screen.

  WUNDERKINDER

  The room at GeneShare, Ltd. left less of an impression on Romily than did the man behind the large Herculite desk. Dessaint Lowry was probably tall, but it wasn’t certain since he had remained sitting when Romily and Tia came in, waving them to two chairs immediately across from him.