Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  I don't think I drooled while I checked out the stock that day, but I must have looked like someone had hit me upside the head with a two- by-four. Doug Lewis was working behind the counter. If he noticed that my bliss-o-meter was running very high, he didn't comment. But Doug was like that. He was quiet... definitely more comfortable around books than people. As long as you weren't one of those perennially clueless folks who wandered into the store asking for geometry textbooks or Jackie Collins novels, he'd generally leave you alone.

  Well, I didn't need any help finding what I was looking for anyway. Doug sold quite a few books that day. And magazines. And Roadkill Press chapbooks. He totaled the sale on the little adding machine he kept at the counter, and we got to talking about fiction. I'm sure he took one look at the stuff I was buying and knew that I was tuned in to the small press horror frequency. I'm just as sure that he also knew that I was an out-of-towner, because Denver's writing community was a tight bunch.

  I'd published a handful of stories by that time, but I definitely wasn't in the habit of walking into a strange bookstore and announcing, "Hi... I'm a writer." But Guignoir and Other Furies was sitting there on the shelf, and I thought that "Guignoir" was the best story I'd written up to that point. And since Doug had mentioned that he liked hard-boiled stuff in the course of our conversation, I thought he might enjoy it.

  I grabbed the book off the shelf. "I’ve got a story in this one," I said. "Give it a read if you get a chance. It's a Jim Thompson kind of thing. You might get a kick out of it."

  We said our goodbyes. I drove back to Boulder. Doug read "Guignoir" that afternoon. If you've read Ed Bryant's foreword to this edition of Mr. Fox, you already know what happened—Doug passed the story on to Ed and practically insisted that he read it. Ed turned around and reviewed Guignoir and Other Furies in Locus.

  In a solid review, Ed singled out my story for mention.[8] George Hatch, the editor/publisher of Guignoir, nearly expired in delight. His anthology hit the radar screens of other people in the business. Ultimately, Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell selected "Guignoir" for inclusion in Best New Horror 3. Then it was my turn— I nearly expired in delight.

  It might be that none of that would have happened if I hadn't walked into Little Bookshop of Horrors that day. I can't say, because I don't know how Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell ran across my story. But I'm betting they first saw it mentioned in Locus, and that set the ball rolling, and one or the other of them decided to seek it out and give it a read.

  How it happened doesn't really matter. What matters is that I'd walked into a lot of bookstores up until that time. I'd bought lots of books. But I'd never had the guy behind the counter take a genuine interest in me as a writer, or turn out to be a champion of my work.

  Doug Lewis did both those things, and he did them right from the beginning.

  I was in Boulder often during the next few years, and I spent a lot of time hanging out at Little Bookshop. I got to know Doug better, and came to appreciate his sly sense of humor. We ate a lot of Chinese takeout from the place next door, and we traded opinions on lots of books and writers. I also got to know Ed, who invariably seemed to find an excuse to hit the store once a day. I can remember many afternoons spent with Doug standing behind the counter, me sitting on a little three-step ladder, and Ed browsing through the stock—he didn't like to sit still—picking up books at random and talking about publishing.

  If I told you it was like going to school, I think you might believe me. But Ed wasn't the only person I learned from sitting on that three-step ladder. I talked to plenty of other writers who were part of the Denver crowd. Steve and Melanie Tem were always a delight. So was Connie Willis. And the camaraderie of the younger writers who'd gather at Little Bookshop was wonderful. I made many good friends there—Gary Jonas, Sean Moore, and Lucy Taylor among them. Not all my friends were writers, though. There was a tight crowd of readers and reviewers, too. I have great memories of talking books with Mark Graham, who had a column in the Denver paper and read just about everything. Each time I came home from Colorado, I'd invariably dig a bunch of notes out of my pocket with Mark's scribbled recommendations.

  There were so many nice folks... I wish I could name them all. Unfortunately, I don't have the kind of space (or the kind of memory!) that will allow me to do that. But there's one very special person I've saved for last... the late Tomi Lewis.

  If Doug was the brains of Little Bookshop, his wife Tomi was definitely the heart. I think Ed Bryant hit the nail on the head when he described her thusly: "Tomi Lewis, though younger than I, was the big sister I'd never actually had. Funny, sardonic, and absolutely clear-eyed in her vision of the world, Tomi was somebody I could confide in and get good advice from when I wanted it."

  I think a lot of the guys who hung around Little Bookshop felt that way about Tomi. I was definitely another one of her "little brothers." When you had a conversation with Tomi, you had a conversation. She picked up on things. She noticed, and remembered. She was the kind of person who instantly knew if you were having a bad day, even if you didn't especially want her to know.

  Tomi organized the series of "Night Voices" readings and signings at the store, bringing events off with a relaxed intimacy that made everyone feel like they had been invited to a really good party. Not an easy task—especially when you consider that she was also working full-time as a stylist at the salon next door to the bookshop, and assisting Doug with Roadkill Press.

  We had a lot of fun behind the scenes. One visit I'd do a reading, and the next time out I'd be sweeping up in front of the store while Doug and Tomi scrambled to set up chairs for someone else's show.[9] That's the kind of place Little Bookshop was. It was a real family atmosphere, and egos were properly checked at the door.

  Both books I published with Roadkill were special events for me. Mr. Fox was my first stand-alone book, and it gave me a chance to show what I could do with short stories at that point. I went into the project with an idea of publishing a "calling card" I could use to promote my work, while Doug and Tomi were eager to move beyond single-story chapbooks and see what they could do with a longer book. Mr. Fox turned out great for all concerned, and we followed it up a few years later with a chapbook, "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse." For me, that one really hit the mark. When I look over my own stories, "Bars" is probably my personal favorite. I'm glad I did it with Doug and Tomi.

  A couple of quick stories associated with those Roadkill Press projects: Doug used a local printer to produce his books. The printer was late with Mr. Fox, but he promised us he'd get us enough copies to see us through the Night Voices reading we'd scheduled for the book's release. Well, the guy was true to his word... but just barely. Those first copies of Mr. Fox didn't show up until the afternoon of the reading!

  When Doug opened the box, he noticed right off that there'd been a production problem—all the text on the front cover was white, when it should have been black. Well, there wasn't much we could do about it at that point. I did the reading, and we sold forty or fifty copies of Mr. Fox that night. The next day Doug talked to his printer and had the covers for the rest of the copies reworked. That's why some copies have black lettering and others have white... all the copies with white lettering were sold the night we released the book.

  "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse" was nearly an instant replay, but without the lettering problem. The print-shop guy had a family emergency and showed up with copies of "Bars" an hour before the audience. They were literally hot off the presses. I was afraid I'd smear the ink when I started signing them.

  But those were good times. If I started telling stories, I wouldn't know where to stop. Like spending a long night in a copy shop with Doug and Tomi before a Nancy Holder reading, helping to assemble Nancy's Roadkill chapbook.[10] And post-reading dinners when we'd literally take over half a restaurant and hang out 'til we were kicked into the street, then drive over to the Lewises' house and talk some more while their cats ran for cover. And the moment
I discovered that Doug had started stocking Diet Dr Pepper (my beverage of choice) in his store fridge, and I knew for certain that I'd been accepted as an honorary Colorado writer.

  I remember standing outside a reading in the winter cold, listening to Sean Moore explain how he wrote a Conan novel on spec... and actually managed to sell it to a publisher. And singeing the hair off my arms while I barbequed enough chicken to feed an army in Doug and Tomi's backyard, then sitting in a tilty lawn chair while I talked with Joe Lansdale for the first time. And I'll never forget attending a World Fantasy Convention down in Georgia, sharing a cabin with the Lewises and Ed Bryant at a backwoods resort that reminded all of us of Camp Crystal Lake from the Friday the 13th movies.[11] Or the wild ride we took at another convention, where a whole crowd of writers jammed into an economy car that Mark Graham had borrowed from a relative so we could all go out for a Mexican dinner. I was in the backseat, stretched across Steve and Melanie Tem's laps, telling them how nurtured I felt.

  And I'll always remember seeing Doug and Tomi—neither of whom ever wanted to be the center of attention—take the stage to accept a well-deserved World Fantasy Award for Roadkill Press. That was a proud moment... not just for Doug and Tomi, but for me, and Ed, and a whole bunch of other people who'd been lucky enough to work with the Lewises over the years.

  Those were special times, and special people. But like all good things, it didn't last forever. Cancer took Tomi at 44. Sean Moore also died much too young, just as he was hitting his stride as a writer. Other people drifted away, as people do. Life moves on. I drifted away too.

  It's a funny thing, though. Some memories fade, and some linger. Others sneak up on you with startling clarity when you give them a chance, even though you haven't thought about them in years.

  Sometimes that's a very good thing. Sometimes you can still hear the laughter, just over your shoulder. And sometimes, you don't realize how lucky you were until you take a good, long look behind you.

  I know I was lucky.

  I think we all were.

  MR. FOX

  Mr. Fox was in love for the first time in his life, and he found that being in love heightened his senses. Eyes closed, he could smell everything.

  The lake.

  The morning.

  The smoke curling from the chimney of the summer house — pine smoke, seasoned pine ripe with dry slivers and cracked knots and bark as hard as the frozen dead of Korea, circa December, 1951.

  And the living pines that surrounded his hiding place... yes, he could smell them, too. They secreted not just a single scent, but fragments of scent that he dissected and identified while he waited: sweet, sweet sap; spicy cones; the heady perfume of needles melding with the damp stink of bark. Not just a simple smell, but a complete atmosphere that was as satisfying as the mingled odors of cigarette smoke and beer and harsh perfumes and gook beaver found in a Pusan whorehouse.

  God, yes. Memories to rouse the senses.

  And when he opened his eyes he could see for miles. Squinting over his shoulder he glimpsed the rising sun, gold and magnificent, shining on the mist-blanketed lake, shining on fishermen in tiny silver boats that seemed to float on shimmering cotton candy, not water.

  He smiled at the scene, appreciating the little things that let him know he was home. Sportsmen with segmented poles and whispering reels and lures of chrome and plastic, not scrawny gooks with hunks of bamboo and lengths of demolition wire and twisted shrapnel hooks.

  No, he was home now. He just had to look and he could see that. Men in warm vests — bacon and egg sandwiches in hand, thermoses of coffee at their feet —not peasants huddled like pitiful animals on the edge of a goddamn puddle in the miserable Korean countryside, glad for the jab he could deliver with his rifle butt that would put them out of their misery....

  Christ, no. He wouldn't think about Korea. He'd see only what was in front of him. Only that. And he'd turn away from it when the sight brought him home, finally, and his memories were shoved far away. Only then would he allow his gaze to fall upon the summer house.

  Calm down, Mister Fox, a voice inside him warned. Clam up, Mister Fox.

  Relaxed, his breathing steady once again, he turned to face her window. Saw her there in the distance as the morning breeze puffed the lace curtains. Admired the sway of her naked breasts as she stared out over the golden lake and brushed her golden hair, not seeing him at all.

  His lovely Mary.

  Saw the sheen of her golden hair. Could almost smell those delicate curls. Watched the gleaming silver brush....

  Heard something padding over dead pine needles.

  He backed against the nearest tree, his hand wrapped firmly around the bayonet he'd brought back from the other side of the world, the bayonet that came out of its sheath without the slightest sound. Okay, lieutenant, wait for the moment... wait for just the right moment...

  And then the cat passed by, belly to the ground as it glided under a shrub. White and pure it was, but for jet black paws and one other spot of color. And quiet, even with a bell on its goddamn neck. Completely silent, that silver bell. Not one jingle. Only the sound of the animal's little Puss 'n' Boots feet.

  His lovely Mary's cat.

  A spot of blood on its face. A dead sparrow clamped between its jaws.

  Christ, he was hard now.

  Calm down, Lieutenant Fox. Clam up, Lieutenant Fox.

  He smiled, running the bayonet along his crotch. Yeah. Okay, now. Little gook sparrow. That's all.

  He looked to his love's window, but now she wasn't there. His lovely Mary was on the expansive porch, wrapped in a warm robe, a cup of coffee in one hand, the New York Times in the other, and he smelled bacon frying in the kitchen, heard the tinkle of ice cubes in a Bloody Mary glass and the steps of Mary's maid, Alma Reilly, before the woman even emerged from the house, nearly tripping over the black-booted cat that skittered beneath her feet and presented its bloody trophy to its mistress before the Reilly woman could chase it away.

  The bayonet nearly slipped from his sweaty fingers as he studied the sudden brightness that shone in his lady's clear blue eyes.

  Love. Now, that’s love.

  The maid shooed the cat away and swept the dead bird from view.

  Fox closed his eyes. Heard: sensible shoes scuffing over the pine deck.... gook sparrow dropping onto a bed of dead pine needles... the shivery whisper of a cat bell... little black paws padding past his hiding place....

  The cat brushed against his ankle.

  Sweet love. Pure love.

  Calm down. Lieutenant Fox.

  He opened his eyes. Alma Reilly was gone. Mary was eating breakfast now.

  She had a good appetite, his Mary did.

  Clam up, Lieutenant Fox.

  He slipped the bayonet into the converted shoulder-holster. Put it away, he warned himself All of it. The gook fishermen. The gook sparrow. Just like you put away the bayonet. And put away Lieutenant Fox, too. You're a civilian, now. You're Mr. Fox, friend of the rich and famous, a man on the move, a man with a future.

  And he was, and he wanted to be, until he smelled the aroma of bacon mixing with the flowery scent of his love's golden hair, until he heard her whistling for her beloved Puss 'n' Boots, until he saw her slip beneath the porch and place a greasy reward upon the corpse of the gook sparrow.

  A delicious shiver capered up Fox's spine.

  Sweet love, pure love, perfect love....

  Mary clipped the article and pasted it into her scrapbook, a proud smile creeping across her face. Her hunter had finally made the New York Times. Today there was a feature article concerning the disappearances at the lake, the lack of clues, and the local police department's complete confusion as to how to handle the investigation.

  Mary reread the article slowly, appreciating every hint that signaled the killer's genius. Six murders — disappearances rather, for no bodies had been found as yet — zero evidence.

  He was a smart one, her hunter.

  Determi
ned. Strong. Successful.

  And certainly alone.

  Just as she was. Not just alone in her room and her bed, but alone everywhere. With her family, and even with the quiet man whom she was going to marry. Always alone, within herself. Always alone with that secret self she refused to share. Was kept from sharing, for that self was determined and strong. And, to date, extremely unsuccessful and extremely frustrated.

  Quiet, girl, quiet.

  Old wounds are best buried deep, she thought as she closed the scrapbook. She closed her eyes as well and imagined the secrets locked within her hunter's heart. She imagined him standing here, in this room, with her.

  No, not with her. With her secret self.

  Tiny claws scraped the windowpane.

  Mary opened her eyes and saw the cat. Puss 'n' Boots, its whiskers slick with bacon grease.

  Thankful for the smallest attention, Mary raised the window and let the fierce hunter in.

  Not alone, she thought as she stroked the cat. Not alone, after all.

  After Mary's brothers had caught all the fish that they were going to catch, they came slogging up the road that led to Mr. Fox's estate. Fox studied them from the single window of his most secret room, secure in the knowledge that they couldn't see him through the one-way glass.

  The brothers hadn't invited Fox to join their morning expedition. He was glad of that because he'd had plenty of work to do in preparation for the bachelor party, and besides, he certainly hadn't wanted to skip his morning vigil at the family's summer home.

  Not that Bobby would have invited him, anyway. Bobby hadn't asked Fox to go fishing since the time Fox had pulled a grenade from his tackle box and tossed it into deep water, killing half the fish in the lake. Well, maybe not half the fish, but it had sure as hell looked that way. And Bobby had said so, his voice a wary hiss, his head swiveling as if he expected a game warden to pounce on their silver boat at any second.