The Bewdley Mayhem

by Tony Burgess

  “Jesus. Incorrigible.”

  “Yeah. Except, he left: before me. Went right after Marion’s Camry.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. That’s how I remember it.”

  “That’s how you remember it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He left first. Not you.”

  “Right.”

  “Well that’s odd.”

  “Odd? Why?”

  “Well our witness saw him throwing a rock through the window. You didn’t see that did you?”

  “See it?”

  “Yeah, you weren’t there when he threw the rock were ya?”

  “Uh. I guess, I don’t know. He coulda, I mean, I coulda been lookin’ the other way, maybe.”

  “Nah. Nah. You’d have heard it for sure. Shattered a big old window. You’d a heard that, don’t ya think?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know …”

  “Well, that’s strange. I guess we’ll have to go over things with that witness again. Gotta keep that solid. We haven’t found the gun yet, though.”

  “No gun, eh?”

  “Nope. Listen, I should go. I gotta couple more calls to make. This is a very difficult time to be a cop in Caesarea. A tragic day.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Not a good day for Mayors though, either, is it?”

  “Not especially Brent. No, I can’t say that it is.”

  When the officer leaves, Robert slips out the front door and gets his gun from the floor of the car. He runs back quickly. Pressing the weapon against his chest, he slams the door.

  For the remainder of the day Robert watches television. He flips between channels, desperate to see someone without clothes on: people having sex on television. By evening he is willing to wait patiently through an old John Wayne film. He watches closely as women climb in and out of a river, hoping that in the disarray of their heavy clothes a wet breast might appear. He is looking for a way to keep his mind in a tunnel. A tunnel that only has to last one night. Just tonight.

  Tomorrow, I may need something more. God, I can’t think about any of this.

  I can’t think about any of this. Ever.

  TEN

  The Mayor is woken by a knock at his door. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, though he feels the front of his face.

  It’s fuzzy and worn,

  A second knock opens his eyes.

  Where the hell am I?

  The Mayor is sitting on the couch. On television a small boy in a sailor suit is hanging a torn fish into the mouth of a dolphin. The Mayor looks at his watch. It’s three-thirty.

  Another rap. Urgent. Louder. It’s three-thirty in the morning.

  “OK. OK. Hang on! I’m coming!”

  The Mayor swings open the door without looking through the window. A teenage girl, dressed in white cotton shorts and a yellow tank top, is standing with her back to the house.

  “Can I help you young lady?”

  She turns fast, almost losing her balance. Her eyes are pink and swollen from crying.

  “Mister, I have to use your phone.”

  The sound of voices down and across the street gets the Mayor’s attention. He takes a step through the doorway to see better. A group of four teenagers is crouched on the shoulder of the road at the edge of a bright pool of light that’s cast near them by a tall concrete street lamp. A boy stands up and calls out to the girl. She turns, ignoring the Mayor, and yells across the empty street.

  “It’s OK! It’s OK!”

  The boy shouts back. “Call the police! Hurry!”

  “OK!”

  The girl spins around again, almost losing her balance. The Mayor can tell that she isn’t drunk, just overcome. Or, at least, very good at being overcome. She brings fingers to her face and they tremble in the tears on her cheeks. This makes her cry more.

  “Mister! Mister! I have to use your phone!”

  The Mayor opens his mouth to answer, but she falls suddenly against the porch rail and cries out again. This time her voice is hoarse.

  “What’s going on now? Is she still alive?”

  The Mayor steps out further to get a better look. The moment his hand leaves the doorframe, however, he panics. His heart bangs hard against the walls of his neck; his stomach pushes up, and it rips on an imaginary knife.

  Uh oh.

  It’s still the same day. I fired that gun today.

  Uh oh.

  The conversation with that officer this afternoon didn’t go too well.

  The Mayor stops and steps back, swinging his arm and catching the doorframe.

  “Is who still alive?”

  Coincidence. Shooting. Cars. Dying.

  The girl is hopping now. She is excited and impatient, flipping both her hands vigorously. She suddenly stops moving and glares at the Mayor. Can’t you tell? Do I have to spell it out?

  “We saw a car hit a cat. Then it just sped off.”

  She points, roughly indicating an area of the road to the left of where her friends are crouched.

  Witnesses. Coincidence.

  “We have to call the police! She’s dying! There’s blood coming from her mouth!”

  There is something here that recalls the events of earlier today. Still, this is very different: a different place, different people. Things have definitely moved on.

  “Well, that’s awful. I don’t thinks there’s anything the police will do though.”

  There is a large population of wild cats in Caesarea, litters are discovered in practically every garage. Kittens are executed by the hundreds every year. Furtive homeowners drown them in barrels in the woods at the edge of their properties.

  “It’s going to die! Isn’t there an animal rescue number that you can call?”

  “Uh, well, I guess. But it’s very late. I don’t think …”

  “Hurry!”

  The girl turns and leaps off the porch, calling to her friends. She trips in the gravel and falls on her knees.

  “He’s gonna call! He’s trying the number!”

  She stands and looks down at her knees. They are pitted with tiny stones and there’s broken skin. She takes a step toward the Mayor and stumbles. He hurries to help her, leaving the doorway. As he sits her on the steps. He feels nauseous and wants to go back inside.

  “Are you OK? Listen, why don’t I call that number.”

  The Mayor walks back through the doorway, holding out a hand to the girl, waving it slowly to tell her to remain seated.

  On television the dolphin wags backward through water beneath a bridge. A man tosses a briefcase as he fires a gun. The dolphin catches the briefcase by the handle on its bottle nose. A child is laughing and applauding.

  Animal. Veterinarian. Animal Hospital. Animal. Here it is: Animal rescue.

  Robert balances the open phone book across his knee and dials a number. After eight rings an answering service picks up.

  “Hello. You have reached the Animal Rescue Mission in Alliston. Our office hours are Monday to Friday nine a.m. to five p.m. and on Saturday from nine a.m. to noon. We are closed on Sundays. If this is an emergency please call Dr. Jane Fergus at …”

  The Mayor hangs up the phone and looks to the door. Not likely. A red light is pulsing in the drapes. It moves out across the floor, strobing pink on the carpet.

  Police. Good, the police are here. Get this outta my hands. Another knock on the door. What now?

  The Mayor makes his way up the hall through a crimson, pulpy light. He swings the door open, again, without bothering to look to see who’s there. A young red boy stands on a red porch; he’s lit by the lava lamp on top of the cruiser.

  “Uh. Mister. Paula told me to tell you that the police are here and everything’s OK.”

  The Mayor smiles.

  “Sure
. That’s great. OK, son. You’re a decent bunch of kids. That cat’s lucky you were there I can tell you.”

  The boy looks back; he’s impatient to return.

  “I got just one question, though. I’m just curious what you guys are doin’ out here at four in the morning.”

  “Well, I just met these guys in town. I don’t know what they’re doin’.”

  “You’re not from here?”

  “Uh, no. I live in Buddy Holly.”

  “Oh. I know who you are. Listen son. There’s some folks back home who are pretty anxious to have you back.”

  “Yeah.”

  The kid is uncomfortable.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Well, I got no place to stay tonight. I wanted to go back, but it got late and …”

  “Hi there. Brent!”

  The officer waves to the Mayor. He has the cat wrapped in a blanket in his arms. As he crosses the street a car screeches around the bend and bears down toward the children and the policeman at a very high speed. The Mayor jumps forward.

  “Look out Brent!”

  The car doesn’t slow; in fact, it appears to speed up as it flies past them, narrowly missing the officer. Brent automatically whips the cat to the side of his body; he holds it like a football as he dashes across the road to his cruiser. He slaps the door open and hurls the cat, with an overhanded toss, into the back seat. His car is peeling out before he even closes his door.

  And then he’s gone.

  Robert stands, his jaw gaping, aware that all the children are looking up at him in shock. Oops.

  They all stand in silence, once again in the dim cascade of streetlamps. Everyone’s uncertain about what to say. Finally, the Mayor speaks.

  “Was that the car? Was that the car that hit your cat?”

  The children are moving now, walking slowly down the road. Paula turns and says, barely audibly, “Nope.”

  Robert looks down at the boy who stands on his porch. He obviously has no intention of following his friends.

  “Well. That’s that I guess. That’s how it happens. These fellas comin’ back from the Beggar all drunk. Hope he gets him.”

  The boy doesn’t respond.

  “OK. I guess you can stay here tonight.”

  The boy wipes his nose with the back of his arm and sighs.

  “You wanna stay here tonight?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Alright. You can sleep on the couch. We’ll get you back to Buddy Holly in the morning.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  The Mayor turns, pushing his back against the doorframe, letting the boy enter first.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Chris.”

  “Glad to meet you Chris. My name is Robert.”

  The Mayor drops the corner of a blanket across the end of the couch and extends his hand to the boy. He takes it and they dip their joined hands in a single shake. On the television there’s a still photograph of a stream running between snowbound banks. A classical guitar is playing. The Mayor lifts the remote and turns off the TV.

  “Alright, Chris. There ya go. It’s pretty late so I suggest we both get some sleep.”

  In his room the Mayor stands at the end of the bed. The covers are curled back like the folds in an ear: an opening, widening. This was where he rose this morning. This was how he left the bed. The Mayor is picturing himself here, this morning, trying to remember what he had been thinking when he got up.

  There had been no plans. He had no idea then.

  Beside the bed, an alarm clock ticks. Robert’s irritated by the appliance. It was here all day, clicking and shifting over everything. Like an accountant it had missed nothing. No, it included everything. Even those few seconds that I can never think about again.

  Ever.

  ELEVEN

  The Mayor doesn’t think he’s fallen asleep. He believes he’s fitfully awake, laying on his side with his fingers digging into his knees. His body snaps every once in a while at the hip and he hums — he’s calming himself automatically after every little seizure. Robert is dreaming that he is standing at the kitchen counter, carefully setting dirty dishes into a sink filled with hot soapy water. He squeezes a small yellow sponge and feels the water flow over his fingers. It warms his hand like a glove. And when the sponge is empty the Mayor lays it on the soft white surface of the water to fill it again. As he repeats this, the dishes laying hidden below the suds slip out through some hidden portal and appear, spotless and gleaming, in the rack to the left. He is aware, as he plunges his hands into the water, that this activity is psychological. A thin machine made of water breaks off and distorts what is available. The Mayor shrugs, feeling the thick warm towel on his shoulder: at least I’m getting some dishes done. Then he wakes.

  He squeezes his knees. I haven’t slept. Oh God. I need to sleep. He hears a sound in the next room. That boy. Chris. He’s crying.

  The Mayor lays listening to the high squeaks. Wow. He’s really going at it.

  Robert finds that he likes the sound. It’s a good sound for now. He drifts off imagining the mass production of little boys who cry on strangers’ couches. They are assembled in Markham and lain in long cardboard boxes, with a plastic window over their miserable faces.

  The Mayor imagines a man climbing out of his bed. His wife rolls over, “What is it?”

  Her husband, standing in the doorway now, has reached his hand around the frame to turn on the living room light. “The Crying Boy stopped. I think it’s the batteries. I’ll go change them.”

  “Honey, it’s five in the morning, come back to bed.”

  “No. It’ll just take a second. Can’t sleep properly without him.”

  Of course, a number of the Crying Boys will be used sexually by their owners. It’s a use that was always implied by the advertisements.

  The Mayor wakes again. The light is on in the next room. Oh Jesus. What’s wrong with this kid?

  “Hey there Chris, what’s going on?”

  The boy is sitting up with the blankets wrapped around his waist.

  “Nothin’. Nothin’.”

  “Come on now, buddy, something’s going on.”

  “No. I’m OK.”

  “You can tell me. Who’s your new friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I … I can’t.”

  Robert walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator.

  “Let’s have some juice, hmmm? Do ya like grapefruit juice?”

  Chris has stopped crying and his head is bowed.

  “Not really? OK, what else have we got here? You want a glass of milk?”

  “Some Coke, please.”

  “Coke. I got a cola of some kind back here. Now, where is it? Ahh. There we go.”

  The Mayor drags a large plastic bottle from the back of the shelf and presents it to Chris.

  “The choice of presidents. OK with you?”

  Chris takes a deep breath then exhales jumpily.

  “OK. Well, here’s yours.”

  The Mayor places the full glass on the table.

  “I think I’ll have a bit of grapefruit juice.”

  Chris takes a large gulp of cola and brings the glass down with both hands to rest on the blanket across his lap.

  “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Why do you think that, Chris? Are you?”

  “I don’t know. But I think so.”

  The Mayor sits down at the far end of the couch and swallows the contents of a small glass in a single swig. He smacks his lips loudly and holds the empty glass on his knee cap.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me all about it and we’ll figure out what kind of a problem you got.”

  “OK.”

&nb
sp; The boy takes another gulp, this time watching the black fluid as he drinks it. He stops before completely draining the glass.

  “Well, son, what is it?”

  “I saw something yesterday.”

  Saw something yesterday? No. No you didn’t.

  “Saw something?”

  Can you tell? Can you tell me?

  “Ya. I saw somebody shoot somebody.”

  The worst place on earth. The quietest place on earth. The Mayor says nothing.

  “I saw somebody shooting a gun at some people.”

  “Uh … where?”

  “In town. Right in town.”

  The boy is growing excited. He lets his glass fall upon the blanket and a little river of cola runs along a gully of fabric.

  “I heard it first. It sounded like a popgun. I thought somebody was playing with a popgun. Then I looked up and I saw a guy in a car with a gun in his hand and he was shooting into another car. I saw the bullet hit somebody in the car.”

  The cola has pooled and sunk into a bowl of fabric by the boy’s foot.

  “Did you see the person shooting?”

  “Yeah. I saw him. I could see him.”

  “Who was it? Who was shooting?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face.”

  “No?”

  “No. I couldn’t see his face. Then he drove off.”

  “Did you see the car?”

  “Yes. Sure I saw the car.”

  “The, uh, license plate?”

  “No, I didn’t look.”

  “What about the car? What kind of car was it?”

  “I don’t know. A small car. A red car.”

  Didn’t see anything. Didn’t see me. Me? Me? Not me. Whoever.

  “Well this is good, Chris. Good that you told me. We’ll have to talk to somebody about this in the morning.”

  The boy is visibly relieved. He lifts the glass from his lap.

  “I spilled my Coke.”

  “That’s OK, that’s OK. Why don’t you go sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

  “OK.”

  “Well, you go to bed now. We’ll figure all this out in the morning.”

  Chris gets up and goes into the Mayor’s room. He says nothing and feels nervous. He can tell that something is wrong. Robert, on the other hand, is certain that this couldn’t be better. He has the witness in his own home. The only witness. A kid who saw nothing that could identify him. No license plate. No face. And in the morning small red cars will be sitting at every intersection of every town for miles around. The Mayor arranges the blanket on his body so that the spill is on the lower corner, then he tucks the moist edge under the couch cushion.