"The Odd Couple" excerpt

"The Odd Couple" by Q. Kelly

The following excerpt begins in the middle of Chapter Two.

JOHN PATRICK SUDSBURY, Beloved Son, his grave marker read. Even though it had been nearly three years, Charlene faithfully brought toys and trinkets her only child would like. A baseball, a model car, a cool keychain gadget. No flowers, though. JP would have laughed at that. Mom! What am I gonna do with flowers?

Charlene talked to her son about anything, about everything: her day, a rude customer, or a generous customer who left a huge tip, the burgundy Plymouth Acclaim they had shared, which was on its last legs. JP had named the car Silver because of its silver driver's door. The prospect of cruising about in such a car would have mortified most teenagers. Not JP. Charlene had scored a deal on Silver and saved five hundred dollars, so JP made the best of the situation. He never grimaced at the mismatched door. He never complained or squawked about it. Within days, even JP's wealthy friends, with their BMWs and convertibles, were affectionately calling the car Silver, too. Her son could have made a friend of anyone, Charlene mused. Before the accident.

Sometimes at the cemetery, it was like the old days, before JP's football injury, when they would chat for hours. Of course, JP did not talk back anymore. This Sunday was no different. JP was as silent as ever.

Charlene slipped the airplane from the day before into her purse. She took out a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Sundays were her sole day off most weeks, and she alternately dreaded and relished them for the same reason—more time with her son. She crossed her legs and nibbled at her sandwich. The day was heating up, despite the forecasters' promises that it would stay reasonable. Sweat slithered down Charlene's back, but she did not care. “I should be getting a pay raise soon,” she told her son. “Maybe I can set aside some of it for a new car. What do you think?”

She pictured JP—pre-accident, of course—and imagined his response, “Great idea, Mom. Want to go look at cars tomorrow?”

Charlene's heart tightened. She would miss Silver, that ugly, ugly creature. How JP had loved the damned thing. Charlene decided to wait a little longer to replace her car. Silver would be all right for a few months yet.

After Charlene finished her sandwich, she remembered that she was forty-one years old today. Another year had come and gone, another year without her child, another year of unanswered questions. She stuffed the empty sandwich bag into her purse. Miriam, her best friend, and Miriam's lover, Liz, would likely want to take her out that night for dinner. It was their tradition. And to think Liz had been so jealous at first, all those years ago, at how close Miriam was with an ex-lover, an ex-lover twenty years her junior, no less. Charlene fingered her rainbow bracelet, which had been a peace offering of sorts from Liz when Charlene turned thirty-four.

She traced the letters on JP’s grave marker. “Remember when you took me downtown that day?” she murmured. “You were so proud you could buy me dinner.”

Wind whistled through the treetops and swirled around the graveyard. Charlene closed her eyes, basking in the embrace. JP was telling her he did remember. “I wore my best dress. You were so handsome in your tie and khaki pants. It feels like it was just yesterday."

The wind stopped, and JP, bloody and broken, flashed into Charlene's mind. Her heart caught in her throat, but, as always, she was powerless to resist the abrupt, fractured moment her world changed forever.

The gunshot.

Breaking into his room, flinging herself on him. Shaking him. Move. Please. Open your eyes. Breathe. Please. Make your heart beat. Anything, anything. Please! Having the most absurd, ridiculous thoughts—hoping no one else in the apartment building had heard, praying that nobody would come. Postponing calling Miriam and Liz and 911 for as long as she could because this was the last time he would be in her arms, for her to cradle just so. Holding him until he was cool to the touch. Letting go of him as the sun slipped over the horizon. Calling Miriam and Liz then returning to JP. Miriam and Liz— a policewoman—rushing over, the other police and EMTs arriving, trying to coax her into releasing the body.

The body. Charlene bristled at the memory, but her retort had done its job. This thing you call a body is my child, thank you very much.

Charlene forced her eyes open. John Patrick Sudsbury, Beloved Son, his grave marker still read.

"Remember what you did for me when you were four? No, you probably don't remember. That was such a long time ago. It was my birthday, and you made the cutest little card for me. You were so excited when you woke me up. ‘Mommy, happy birthday!’ you said. You’d combed your hair all nice. You brought in breakfast for us. A big bowl of Lucky Charms with extra hearts on top. A glass of orange juice. And…" Charlene chuckled. "That horrible mess in the kitchen.” She pictured the child, her JP, with his liberally freckled face, pert nose, carrot-red hair and shining blue eyes. They had eaten the Lucky Charms together and then snuggled in bed. In that world, in Charlene's memories and in her sorrow, JP would always live. She could even hear his laughter now, carefree and unburdened. She squeezed her eyes shut again as her son’s giggles continued. What she would give to hear them again, for real.

The laughter continued, and a little voice shouted, “Mommy! The caterpillar tickles!”

Charlene’s eyes flew open. That voice was real. Right across from her, just yards away, there he was. Her son, her JP. Four years old again and risen somehow from the grave. There was no mistaking him. He had listened to her, and he was back. Charlene went weak with disbelief. Her heart wobbled. OhGodOhGodOhGod. This was it, then. This was how she was going to snap and plunge into the valley of the insane. Because JP was dead. The gunshot. The holes. The lifeless eyes.

He was not back. He never would be. But how to explain this boy? Was he simply a figment of Charlene's grief?

The child laid something—a caterpillar?—on a tombstone and chased after a squirrel, coming ever closer. His laughter was music to Charlene's ears. This boy was no figment. Charlene was not going off the deep end. She was hearing JP.

Without thinking, she leaped to her feet. She opened her mouth to call her son to her. JP, JP, you're home, you're alive. How? No, no, tell me later. That doesn't matter. Just come here, come here. Let me hug you.

The boy skidded to a stop. He met Charlene's eyes.

She got a good look at his face, and her heart sank. In the summer, light tan freckles had covered most of JP’s features, but this boy was blessed with a mere sprinkling. Charlene thought once more that she must be going crazy. Then the child cocked an eyebrow, just like JP would have, and hope filled Charlene's whole being again.

“Hi,” the boy said, and he grinned hugely.

Charlene blinked back tears. Freckles or not, this boy was her son. She was being given a chance to redeem herself, to make things right. But a harsh, logical voice cautioned her to take a deep breath, to calm down, to just think a minute, to not say or do anything she would regret later. How could this boy be JP? She had held him for hours, for hours, those lifeless eyes. Still, she had to ask.

“JP?” she ventured.

The child shook his head and flashed another eager smile. “I'm Gareth. Like in the King Arthur story.”

Charlene struggled to reconcile the clash between logic and emotion, between mind and heart. Gareth. JP. Gareth. How could it be? How could this child, this so-called Gareth, have JP's blue eyes, his laugh, his hair, his everything, except for the freckles? How? Was it some cruel trick of fate?

Seemingly out of nowhere, a woman, tall and tan, with dark hair and dark eyes, appeared. She tousled Gareth's hair and offered a shy smile. “I apologize if Gareth was bothering you.”

A faint thread of hysteria washed through Charlene. She fought to keep it at bay. "Gareth. That's a nice name." No. No. That's JP. My son! My son! Why do you have my son?

The dark-haired woman grinned. "I've always loved King Arthur stuff. Anyway. Hi. I'm Morrisey." She stuck a hand out.

Charlene robotically took the hand but let go after a second.

"Are you okay?" Morrisey asked.

Charlene could not bring herself to answer right away. What she wanted to do was fall to her knees and take this other woman's son in her arms. She wanted to inhale his sweet little-boy smell. She wanted to feel him breathe and hear his heart beating. She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, that she was so sorry, so very sorry for having failed him. What she wanted to do was trace his face, look into those familiar, lively blue eyes, and reassure him that everything would be okay now.

She could not do that, though. That would be absurd. JP was dead, and no amount of pleading, no amount of tears and promises and deluding herself about this look-alike boy would change that.

"You okay?" Morrisey repeated.

"It's been a long day."

"I understand. I've had more than my share of long days, too."

"My son," Charlene blurted out. "He reminds me of my son."

Morrisey's eyes narrowed. "Gareth reminds you of your son?"

Charlene's gaze dropped to the grave marker at her feet. "Yes. JP."

"How?"

Charlene looked back at Gareth, into JP's bright blue eyes, and fought to keep herself stiff. "How what?"

"How does he remind you of JP?"

"Oh, just…Nothing, really. I don't know. I'm silly, huh? I'm sorry."

"Don’t worry about it," Morrisey said, but her earlier friendliness had vanished.

"Mommy!" Gareth exclaimed. "Can I go back to Grandpa?"

"Sure," Morrisey replied. "I'll be right there, okay?"

Gareth darted toward a group of graves next to a cluster of trees. Charlene memorized every detail of how he moved, of how he played, and an unbearable wave of loneliness hit her. Her son, her JP, was gone, dead. Here was this bubbly boy, though, a haunting reminder of how JP used to be before the accident.

"Come here often?" Morrisey's voice was cool.

Charlene willed herself to look at Morrisey instead of at her son. "Yes, I come here a lot. Do you?"

"No. I don't like cemeteries. I don't belong here."

Charlene replied without thinking, "Do I?"

Morrisey blinked. She softened and took her time answering. "If being here helps you, then…" She shrugged. "Then you should be here."

Charlene liked this quiet, subdued answer. She was so used to Miriam, in her loud, forceful, no-nonsense voice, telling her to stop visiting JP so often, to stop cutting first dates short, to start going on second dates. Miriam loved to promote the virtues of "moving on,” but this new woman understood.

Or not. Morrisey went on, "Do you belong here? I don't think you belong here, no. This place is for dead people. I see the toys you leave for JP. It just seems…Oh, I don't know."

Charlene took a step back. "What? You just said that…Hey. I go on hikes, okay? I date. I volunteer at the rescue mission. I try. I try, I really do. But I held him in my arms for hours. He's what I see right before I fall asleep. He's the first thing I see when I wake up. I dream about him. Him, the blood, the holes in his head."

Morrisey squirmed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know you. Anyway, I should get back to Gareth. Again, I apologize that he bothered you earlier."

Charlene regretted her outburst. Now her tiny, fragile bond with Gareth would be severed. Don't let Morrisey leave. "I have a picture of JP if you want to see," Charlene said softly.

Morrisey glanced over at Gareth. He had moved several feet from the cluster of tombstones and was trying to catch a butterfly. "Don't hurt it!" she called.

"I won't!" Gareth scampered back to the tombstones.

JP, Charlene thought. That's JP exactly.

"I have a meeting," Morrisey said, all business-like. "Goodbye."

"No picture?"

"No picture."

Charlene knew there was no meeting, so she bent over and got her purse. She quickly found the photo she'd had in mind. It was one of her favorites of JP and had been taken on his third birthday. He was gazing adoringly at a cake with three candles on it. "They look alike," Charlene said as she held out the picture. "That's how Gareth reminds me of JP."

"I said I did not want to see."

"Please. It's amazing. They could be twins."

Morrisey's eyes darkened. "Fine." She snapped the photo from Charlene's hand. She stared at the picture for a long moment. It was as if she was not quite sure of what she was seeing, as if the picture was blurry or faded, which it most definitely was not. Morrisey's lips parted, and her breathing became shallow.

Unease stirred throughout Charlene. Something really is wrong here. There was something in Morrisey's expression, something more than mere surprise – maybe panic or self-doubt, maybe confusion or recognition. Whatever it was, Morrisey was in a hurry to hand the picture back. "It's amazing. Wow." She mumbled a few polite, trite phrases and returned to Gareth.

Just two minutes later, mother and child got into a red Cavalier that was parked near Charlene's Acclaim. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared.

Haunted

HAUNTED

Haunted people? Sure, they seem to be everywhere.

Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Tales about them are always good for campfire stories.

Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of.

But haunted pens? And I don’t mean pig pens or baby pens (though that sounds ridiculous, too). I mean writing pens.

Yeeeeah, right.

That’s what I would’ve said, too. Would’ve.

Before I found that damn pen.

It was nothing much to look at. It read BIC, SoftFeel, med. It produced black ink. Well, at first, anyway, when it was trying to pass itself off as a good, nonthreatening, nonhaunted pen.

I was out for a jog. It was a crisp fall day; the leaves' colors had just peaked. I rounded my block, and there, right in the gutter, was the pen. It was nice and shiny and looked brand new. The cap was even on.

You probably wouldn’t have picked it up.

You’re you.

But I’m me. Linda Lou. And I picked it up. I’m forever losing pens, and having another around was always nice.

I put it in my pocket and went on my merry jog.

I paid bills later that night and sent out a couple of birthday cards. Got out my checkbook and a whole mess of envelopes and stamps.

And, of course, my “new” pen.

It wrote nice and smooth. There were no inkblots, no choking, no messy swirls.

After I was done, I addressed the envelopes and put stamps on them. I stacked everything really nice on the kitchen counter. I don’t remember where I put the pen. And then I went to watch TV. The shows were good, nothing extraordinary.

And then I headed back into the kitchen for a glass of water before bed.

The pen was on the floor.

I frowned and bent down to pick it up. I put it on the counter, and that’s when I noticed the note, written in beautiful, flowing cursive, no less.

Hello, Linda! Thanks for picking me up. We’ll have fun!

I blinked and re-read the note. And then I got scared. I thought someone had broken into my place, that someone was playing games with me.

My first instinct was to search my apartment but then I realized just how stupid that was. I’m one of those people who yell at the movies: “No! No, you freaking idiot! Don’t run up the stairs!”

And so I scurried right out the front door and into the hallway of my apartment building.

It was near midnight, and I was in my faithful jammies--old, blue sweat pants and a white T-shirt I’d had since my high school softball days.

There’s a big, gold-plated mirror in the hallway, and I studied myself for a moment as I tried to catch my wits.

I’ve always considered myself pretty good-looking, but the reflection greeting me was just as frightening as the note.

I was unnaturally pale. I looked like I’d just seen a ghost. My eyes were big and round. My blond hair was mussed from my evening on the couch.

My gaze fell to my sock-clad feet, and I suddenly felt like a fool. “Go back in,” I coaxed myself.

No, I thought. You know what you saw. Someone’s in there. Or was in there, anyway.

I took a deep breath. What was a girl in my situation supposed to do, anyway? I was 25 and two weeks new in town. Town being Washington, D.C., and me being a newly arrived congressional aide. I lived in a Capitol Hill rowhouse that had been converted into apartments.

And I was shy. Painfully shy. Meeting new people was nerve-wracking for me. I certainly wasn’t going to go knocking on doors at this hour. I considered calling the police. But, somehow, I knew I’d be making a fool of myself. My next thought was to call my sister back home.

But when I heard light footfalls ascend the steps below me, my heart froze.

What if the writer of the note was returning to kill me?

Panting heavily, I stepped back from the mirror and forced myself into the direction of the staircase. No matter what, I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

And then I saw the most beautiful man and woman coming up toward me. They were laughing and giggling like friends or sweethearts do. The man was tall and chiseled. He had wavy brown hair and wore corduroy pants and a white sweater.

The woman was so stunning she took my breath away. She had brown hair too, but hers was so dark it was almost black. Her eyes were green, and her smile somehow managed to be coy, friendly and slightly feral all at the same time. She was wearing a charcoal business suit that hugged her long, lithe body in all the right places.

I know I looked like a fool.

I knew that my mouth was probably dangling wide open.

And that I was in my pajamas and socks.

But I was unable to move.

The beautiful man and woman reached the top of the stairs and looked at me.

The man furrowed his brows.

But the woman smiled at me, and good God ... if I’d thought she was beautiful, now she was just absolutely, impossibly stunning. “Locked out?” she asked. Her voice was so soft, so smooth, so rich ... all at once!

Somewhere, vaguely, in the cobwebs of my mind, I remembered the note.

I decided not to tell them about that. Please. I still had some sense about me.

But, of course, what I ended up doing was not much better. “Kind of locked out,” I mumbled.

“Kind of?” The woman kept grinning. “Well, hey, Byron and I can help you get back in.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “No! But thanks for offering.”

The man’s furrowed brows deepened. “Uh—well, all right. See you.” He turned to leave, but the woman didn’t budge an inch.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Do ... ah, have you been fighting with someone?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “No. I just wanted fresh air."

“Ah.” She nodded. “Well, the fresh air’s outside.”

“Right. Right. I knew that. I was just on my way out.”

“Without shoes?” She glanced pointedly at my sock-clad feet.

The man mumbled something under his breath.

“I’ll be all right," I said. “Hey, thanks. See you around.” I threw them both a little wave and rushed down the steps.

I still had no idea what I was doing. Come to think of it, that’s been true since I was born. So, anyway, I stopped in front of the row of mailboxes at the front of the hallway.

I thought again about calling my sister. But she’d be all grumbly and pissed at being woken up.

“Crap,” I muttered. “Crap, crap.”

And then I heard her come down the steps. I met her eyes, and my heart froze again.

“Hello,” she greeted me. “Come on, tell me what’s really going on. Spat with your boyfriend?”

I looked away.

“What?”

I glanced back at her. “I live alone. No boyfriend.”

“So what is it? You’re worrying me.”

“Oh, it’s ...” I flapped my hands. “It’s nothing. It’s silly. But, you know, uh ... I’m fine. Really.”

"I'm Victoria," the woman said. “Want come up to my place?”

I was horrified. “What? Oh, I couldn’t. I’m sure you and your husband need to get to sleep.”

“Him? Oh, that mean old lug’s not my husband. He’s my brat of a brother. Little brother. He’s visiting. Come on. He’s gone to bed, but I’m a night owl.”

I was not sure how to reply. Like I said before, I’ve never been good at meeting people. And I certainly wasn’t used to perfect strangers inviting me in. And the timing seemed too coincidental. What if this woman and her so-called brother were involved with the note? What if she was luring me in with her big smile and friendliness?

My brain was jumbled with thoughts, but finally I found myself saying, “Have you ever ...”

“Have I ever what?”

“No. Never mind.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“All right. I was watching TV all night, and I think someone broke into my apartment. Maybe he’s still there. I don’t know.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide. “Did you call the police?”

“No."

“Why not?”

“What am I going to tell them? That I was watching TV and went into the kitchen to see a note that hadn’t been there before?”

"Well, yeah!"

I swallowed. You would have called the police. You're you, but I'm Linda Lou. Silly, stupid Linda Lou.

“What did the note say?” Victoria asked.

“Ah ...” I couldn’t remember exactly. “Something about being picked up and doing what I was told.”

Victoria frowned. “Let’s call the cops.”

“No. They’re going to think I’m being silly.”

“Who cares? Come on.” Victoria reached into her pocket and came up with a sleek little cellphone. She handed it to me. “Call the cops. “

“I don’t know the number,” I protested lamely.

“Call information, then.”

#

The minute I laid eyes on the policeman who showed up, I knew I was in trouble. He looked to be close to retirement. He had big, red-veined eyes and a bulging beer belly. He walked with a lazy, shuffling gait. It was nothing I could put into words, exactly, but I just knew he wouldn’t believe me. He’d claim I’d written the note myself and that this was all a ploy for attention.

I led the policeman and Victoria to the front door of my apartment, and he asked me what I had been doing before I saw the note.

“I ... I’d been watching TV all night. And then I was about to go to bed. I went into the kitchen to get some water, and right on the counter was a note. A note that hadn’t been there before.”

“What’d it say? You recognize the handwriting?”

“It was ...” I paused a moment, marshalling my thoughts. “It was beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy. Flowing cursive. And, uh ... it said something like ... ‘Thanks for picking me up. Now do what I say.’ Something like that.” I shrugged apologetically. “I don’t remember it word for word.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” the cop said, and he went into my apartment.

I stayed behind, in the building's hallway.

Foreboding washed over me.

He’s not going to believe me. He’s not going to believe me.

“Show me where the note is.”

“Shouldn’t you go through the place first, see if anyone’s there?” I suggested.

The cop growled. “Let's do this my way, lady. All right? Where’s the note?”

“On the kitchen counter. I ... can you find it? I don’t want to go in the apartment.” I glanced at Victoria, and she gave me an encouraging smile.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to go in, either.”

The cop sighed and disappeared from view.

He was back a minute later. “There’s no note, and nobody in the apartment.”

My jaw fell open. “What? No note?"

The cop scowled. “Lady, we’re busy people, you know. I could write you up for this. Making a false report.”

“You’ve got to believe me!” I protested. I whirled to Victoria. “Don’t you believe me?”

She nodded. “Linda’s telling the truth," she informed the cop. "Look, whoever wrote the note must’ve taken it with him. We’ve been downstairs a while. There’s another way out of the house, another staircase down that hall. It would’ve been easy enough.”

The cop barely glanced at Victoria. “Like I said, we’re busy people. We don’t have time to deal with the likes of you. Consider this a warning.” He shuffled his way to the staircase, and his heavy footfalls reverberated in my ears for a long time after he had left the building.

“No note,” I whispered. “There was a note.”

“I know, I know,” Victoria said soothingly. “I believe you.”

I looked at her, fear almost choking me. “What do I do?”

“Stay with me tonight. Byron’s sleeping on the couch, but we can share my bed.” She flashed me a reassuring smile. “I won’t bite.”

My chest tensed, and all of my earlier suspicions of Victoria came flooding back.

What if she was involved with the note? What if Byron was the one who had removed the note?

She arched a fine, delicate eyebrow. “Well?”

I couldn’t think. She seemed nice. But something about her was off. Something about her gave me the willies, especially now that she had invited me to stay with her.

And she was so beautiful. Beautiful women have always scared me. I’m not sure why. But beautiful women always seem to get their way.

This one would not, at least not tonight.

“I couldn’t do that,” I mumbled. “I couldn’t impose on you.”

She waved her hand. “It’s no imposition. Or ...” A thoughtful gleam entered her eyes. “You stay in my apartment. I’ll stay in yours, keep an eye out.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“I ... I ... I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. But thank you for the offer. Yeah.” My confidence increased with each word I spoke. I was taking charge, finally. “I’m just going to go in and get my things. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do.”

Victoria watched me intently, and my stomach tingled as her eyes bored into me.

Beautiful women always get their way.

Victoria flipped back her hair. “All right. That’s a good idea. Uh ...” She gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I can see you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. You’re smart not to.” Her lips formed an approving smile. “But, uh ... well. I hope I’ll see you around. Want to do dinner tomorrow? Byron and I will cook for you at my place.”

I had the most overwhelming urge to say no.

But at the same time, I wanted so badly to say yes.

However, the thought of just sharing dinner with this gorgeous woman sent my stomach into knots. This wasn’t something shy, timid, nervous me could handle.

My indecision led to a long, awkward moment of silence.

“All right,” Victoria said finally. “Come by at 7 if you want to. I hope to see you then. I’m in 504.” She gave me a smile and a wave, then she was gone.

I stood in place for quite a while after Victoria returned to her apartment.

504.

Only three doors down. It was a shame I didn’t already know my neighbors. But that’s how it had always been with me.

I turned to my own apartment door. The cop had left it halfway open, and I took a small, mouselike step.

There had been a note.

I had seen it with my own eyes!

I swallowed and crossed into my apartment. The lights had been on when I’d scurried out earlier, and they were still on. Holding my breath, I made my way to the kitchen.

There was no note.

Just like the cop had said.

Another kernel of suspicion wound its way into my mind. Had the cop taken the note himself, figuring its convenient disappearance would save him a bunch of trouble?

No. Now I was truly being ridiculous!

“Calm down,” I told myself. “Get what you need, then get the hell out of here.”

My first stop was my bedroom, where I planned to change out of my pajamas. I flicked on the lights, and there, in the middle of my neatly, perpetually made-up bed, was a stack of yellow post-it notes. On top of it was the pen I’d found earlier.

The post-its and the pen had not been there before.

I froze.

And I stared.

504. That was where Victoria was. All I had to do was turn around, and I could be at her place in five seconds.

But.

But.

I couldn’t trust her. Couldn’t trust her brother.

As if I were in a trance, I stepped toward the bed. I shifted the pen aside. Sure enough, on the top note, was a message in that beautiful cursive.

Here is the first thing I want you to do, Linda. I’ve been lonely. Get me some more Bics. I want friends.

I blinked. I re-read the note, the words blurring in my confused brain.

And then the pen moved. It rolled itself over to the note.

It righted itself and wrote, Please. Please, do this Linda. We’ll have fun!

“Oh, God,” I gasped. I stepped back, my eyes widening in horror. “Oh my fucking God.”

The next thing I knew, I was rapping frantically at Victoria’s door.

#

Byron answered first, and his eyes were full of sleep. “What is it?” he grumbled. “Quit making that racket.”

I ran past him into the living room. “Oh God, oh God.” My breaths came in heavy pants. “Where’s Victoria?”

Just then, Victoria appeared in the doorway of the living room. She wore a white T-shirt and plain black boxers. Her hair was tousled, and she rubbed at her eyes.

But when she saw me, she became instantly alert. “Linda! What is it?”

“The pen, the pen!”

"What?"

“The pen’s the one who wrote the note!”

“Well, uh ... ah.” Victoria gave a little, confused cough. “The pen?”

“I went into my bedroom! And there was a note. Another note! And then the pen ... it just started writing on its own!”

“Victoria.” Byron’s weary voice sounded on my left.

Victoria threw her brother a smile. “Hey, go sleep in my bed, all right?”

“Yeah, OK,” he mumbled. He made his way past Victoria and into her bedroom.

Once Byron had gone, Victoria clasped her hands together. “Now, what exactly happened?”

I told Victoria my tale, where I had found the pen, everything, my words tripping over one another. Two minutes later, I was out of breath, and she was studying me with ... I don't know.

It was as if she believed me.

“Take me to the pen,” Victoria said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I just want to see what’s going on.”

“Uh huh.” I ran my horribly dry tongue over my lips. “I’m not going back there.”

“OK. I understand,” Victoria said, and her eyes gleamed. It wasn’t an evil gleam, or even a menacing one-just ... spooky. It sent chills up my spine.

She was curious. Genuinely curious. Not afraid. That unnerved me.

“Stay here,” Victoria told me. “I’ll be back soon.”

Off she went, walking tall and strong, with nary a trace of apprehension.

I wasn’t sure what to do while Victoria was gone, and I prayed she would be back soon. But what if the pen got her?

Impossible. How does a pen “get” a nearly 6-foot-tall female who seems as strong as an ox?

But I knew there were ways. Pens made good weapons. I imagined that little grayish-black Bic stabbing Victoria through the heart, and I shuddered. What had Victoria been thinking, going off by herself?

I remained rooted in her living room. I wasn’t going after her. No way, no how. I was not setting eyes on that pen again if I could help it.

Several painfully long minutes passed, and no sounds reached my ears.

Then Victoria was back.

Somber.

Not frightened, but not happy, either.

One of her hands was behind her back, and she brought it in the open to reveal the pen.

I shrieked. “Why’d you bring that back here?”

Victoria furrowed her brows. “Linda, don’t be scared. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s just lonely.”

“He? He?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “The pen is a he?”

Victoria frowned. “Well ... maybe not. The writing is feminine.”

I gaped at her. “This is just a game to you. You think I’ve gone crazy. Fine. Fine. Whatever. Just, please, humor me. Destroy the pen. Burn it. Make sure it’s gone forever!”

Victoria stared at me. “Destroy it? I couldn’t. Just because it’s different--”

“Destroy it!” I screamed. “Please. Just do it.”

“Linda. Calm down and listen to me.” Victoria held her hands up, and she had a rationality in her voice that was sorely missing from mine.

I didn’t care. There was nothing she could say that would make me listen.

“Linda, he wrote to me,” she pleaded. “He just wants someone to write back.”

I laughed to cover my growing disbelief and confusion. “This is a dream,” I muttered. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve fallen asleep watching TV on the living room couch. You don’t exist. Byron doesn’t exist. And that’s just a normal pen, not a crazy, haunted pen.”

The pen tumbled from Victoria's hand and found a sheet of paper. It wrote industriously.

Despite myself, I had to see what it had to say.

"Forget Linda," the pen wrote. "She's a party pooper."

I gasped indignantly. "Am not!"

"You should write your answer," Victoria chided me. She jotted: "Just give Linda some time. Please? I really like her."

I stared and blinked at Victoria's words.

I really like her.

"Do you like me, Linda?" Victoria asked.

Yes, yes, yes.

"I do," I squeaked.

"This pen brought us together. The least we can do is get it some friends, hmm?"

I thought a long, long moment.

If I said yes, would that be crazy?

Maybe so. Probably.

But was being crazy so wrong? It was better than being some boring congressional staffer.

I could have Victoria. And a ...

A haunted pen?

The pen wrote, "I'm pretty cool."

I stared at its words. Beautiful, flowing calligraphy.

Maybe if it could teach me to write like that ...

My heart pounded, and I told Victoria, "Yes, we should get it some friends."

Somehow, I managed to invite Victoria back to my apartment. The pen came with us.

Now, many months later, I still wonder if I am dreaming. I hope not—-I love Victoria, our growing brood of pens, and being crazy.

THE END

Guardian Angel

GUARDIAN ANGEL

My name is Gabriel. I’m a guardian angel who watches over children. Not to toot my own harp, but I’m good. Really good. I’ve been doing this for seven years, and not once have I failed in my mission. You can’t say that about most guardian angels, bless them.

I love my job, and I consider myself truly lucky to have watched over and taken care of all these wonderful children. I only handle one—-well, OK, sometimes two or three-—at a time. My current charge is a 5-year-old boy named Billy. I hate to play favorites, but, well, I’ll admit this: Billy’s my favorite thus far. There, I said it.

I’m not sure what it is about him, but there’s some ethereal quality that sets him apart from the other kids. Billy’s a darling little cherub. He has golden, tousled blond hair, and his eyes are clear blue. His voice is so sweet, so innocent.

He suffers, though, and it kills me. His father treats him so badly. I don’t know how his kindergarten teacher can ignore those telltale bruises on his arms and legs. Maybe she’s like Harlan, too. An abuser. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit. The horrors I’ve seen over the years from all sorts of people, rich and poor, young and old… But Billy is a truly brave boy. He keeps smiling and going and laughing. He’s a fighter.

I haven’t been able to do anything substantial about his situation, but that’s going to change today. This is Billy’s big day, and I’m so excited-—both for him and for me. I know he’ll be confused at first, maybe sad, even, to be away from his abusive home. It is the only life he has known. But like all the other children, he’ll come to love his new home and his new playmates. His life will truly begin, and no one will lay a hand on that innocent child again.

That’s right-—today, Billy ascends to Heaven.

What is Heaven like for children? Well, in a nutshell, it is wonderful! Completely wonderful, at least when the confusion of being in a new place wears off. There is food (pizza! candy! cake! chips!) aplenty and all the TV anyone would care to watch. But, don’t worry-—Heaven is educational, too. The kids take classes and put on plays. They participate in sports. Their brains don’t rot, and they become astounding physical specimens. There is no pain and no suffering. I couldn’t be prouder of the role I play in bringing the children to their eternal place.

I’ve spent the past few hours getting Billy’s spot in Heaven ready. The other kids helped, too. I’ve tried so hard not to betray just how much I care about Billy, but I think the other children sense it. I’m going to have to figure something out-—like I said, I hate to play favorites. I know, I know—-I should stop worrying. I’m probably being paranoid for no reason. But, hey, I’m a guardian angel. I have to worry, hmm?

Right now, I am watching Billy wake up. Most mornings, a fight between his parents starts his day off with a bang, and this chilly December morning is no different. His father has just slapped his mother because she forgot to sew a loose button on his shirt.

“I can’t go to work like this!” Harlan roars. “Fix the button now!” He is a big, tall man, teetering on obesity. His skin is pasty pale, like it’s never seen the sun. His hair is limp brown, and his eyes are stupid and thick. He has a piggish nose and a high voice. I don’t know how he got Donna to marry him. She is dull and washed out now, but she used to be beautiful. I’ve seen the pictures. She could’ve been in movies, even. There’s one photo that particularly haunts me. It’s of Donna, when she was 15, with her mother. They’re on a boat at the lake. They’re laughing. They’re carefree. They’re beautiful. They’re full of spirit and promise.

The Donna I know is not the same person in that picture. I am glad I will save Billy from Harlan's curse.

“I’ll fix the button now, Harlan,” Donna whispers.

Harlan jams the shirt in Donna’s face. “Hurry,” he hisses.

Harlan is a banker. He is a big, important banker used to giving orders. Donna starts on his shirt, and he thunders to the bathroom.

Billy stirs. His long, light eyelashes tremble, and his lids flutter. His blue eyes peek out. He’s awake.

He lies in bed for a few moments. He is silent. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking.

I wish I could reveal myself to him now and tell him everything will be all right.

But I cannot, not just yet.

Billy hears his father tear into his mother. She hasn’t finished her task in time. Harlan slams Donna against a wall, and Billy winces.

It’s something no child should ever have to hear, and my heart breaks for this beautiful blond boy.

Harlan thrusts Donna against the wall again, and Billy reaches for his teddy bear. A sad smile steals across my face. Billy loves that bear. His name is Moe, and he’s old. He used to be Donna’s. Moe is missing one ear and patches of fur. Still, his face is serene, and he’s soft and comforting. I think Billy will miss Moe most of all when he ascends. I’ve considered coming back and getting Moe once Billy is in Heaven. It’s against the rules, big time. Still, I just might do it. We’ll see.

Billy kisses Moe and climbs out of bed.

I look at the clock on Billy’s nightstand; it’s a big digital clock with red numbers. Billy’s known how to tell time since he was 4; he’s an incredibly smart child. He’s also running late. He seems to realize this too, and he frowns. He won’t have time for breakfast—-it’ll be another hungry morning for him.

Billy's frown turns into a little smile.

I can't help but grin. Perhaps Billy is thinking that he will run into that nice man. That nice man, of course, is me. On mornings when Billy doesn’t get breakfast, I sneak him a Pop-Tart or a granola bar during his walk to school. For those occasions, I make myself visible and dress as a businessman.

Billy pulls off his pajamas and throws on sweat pants and a T-shirt with practiced ease. He grabs his little blue backpack from a chair.

The bedroom door flies open, and Billy jumps straight up. He gives a little cry.

“What you doing, boy?” Harlan hisses.

“Getting ready for school,” Billy whimpers.

“Did you brush your teeth, huh, boy?”

Billy slinks back and shakes his head.

“Then do it!” Harlan yells. “Jesus Christ, do I have to tell you to do every little thing?”

A blackness swells within me. I don’t like it when the Lord’s name is uttered in such a way.

Billy winces too. He averts his eyes, and my heart fills with love for him. Billy has never said the Lord’s name in vain. Billy is such a good, pure boy.

Billy disappears into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and kisses his mother goodbye. He and Harlan leave the house together. Billy gets into Harlan’s car, and my heart thuds.

This has never happened before.

Billy always walks to school. Greenfield Elementary, in this quiet residential neighborhood, is four tiny blocks away. Why is he riding with his father? Billy was supposed to ascend to Heaven during his walk to school.

No matter. This does not rattle me. I simply just misunderstood God's instructions. Billy will ascend after school.

#

I am not the stereotypical white-robe-wearing, halo-headed, winged angel that has become a part of popular culture. Most angels aren’t. Sure, some like to have a little fun, and they dress up in that garb. But it’s rare.

Being an angel is a pretty isolated job, too. We get our orders and follow through. We have little contact with one another. We each live in our little part of Heaven. Our missives from the boss, from the big man, from God, whatever you call him, usually come in the form of phone calls. Yep, phone calls. Cellphone calls, to be more exact. Sometimes, we’ll see the boss in Heaven. Not often, though. He’s out and about a lot.

He handpicks all of the angels. Some of them are old as dirt, and so is he. Others are new and young, like me. I don’t know exactly how old the boss is, but he’s older than the universe, right?

There’s something about him, some vibe he gives off, that puts me at ease. Whatever questions I have don’t matter.

I grew up reading the Bible and going to church. When it came my time to ascend, I was only 15 years old. I accepted my calling with grace and dignity. The boss was so impressed that he offered me the opportunity to be an angel right on the spot.

Wow!

The memory, the honor of it, still sends chills up my spine. People, including my own parents, always thought I wouldn’t amount to anything. My teachers said I was slow, and I was always bullied in school. Through it all, I sought refuge and comfort in the Bible and in God.

I always imagined God as a huge man, perhaps 7 feet tall, with long, flowing locks and a snow-white beard. I wasn’t disappointed. He is all I imagined and much more. He has lively, twinkling blue eyes and a mischievous grin. He made me feel right at home, yet he made it clear he wasn’t my friend, if you know what I mean. He was a parent figure. I had rules to follow, and as long as I obeyed them and kept doing so, I would be rewarded.

One of the angels, a wiry fellow named Jamal, told me what happened to Azrel, who disobeyed the boss. What Jamal said was so horrible, I blocked it out. The boss doesn’t need to worry about disobedience from me. He never will. Still, I’m tempted to grab Moe, Billy’s teddy bear. It would really help ease Billy’s transition. I could have Moe waiting for Billy in Heaven! How awesome would that be? God wouldn’t mind too much, would he? But of course he would. He views all sins equally.

Still, as I wait near Billy's school for his dismissal from kindergarten, Moe weighs on my mind even more.

Maybe God will call soon, and I can talk him into it ...

Yes. That’s it. He’ll call. All I have to do is wait and have faith.

#

But God does not call. At 2:30, the school bell rings. Seconds later, children, many of them laughing, stream out of the sprawling, red-brick building. A line of school buses awaits them, and an even longer procession of yawning housewives and scowling househusbands wait in their cars. I’ve already eyed the vehicles, and there’s no trace of Harlan or Donna.

Billy will be walking home as he always does.

He sets off, a small, lone figure weighed down by his blue backpack. And this child is only in kindergarten! The schools are giving out too much homework.

There is no spring in Billy’s step, and why should there be? For all he knows, this afternoon will be like all the others. He’ll arrive home to his bruised mother, whose dull eyes would only see the people on the TV screen. She’ll barely acknowledge Billy. He’ll have to fare for himself until his father clomps home from yet another draining day at work and takes out his frustrations on his wife and son.

I take a deep breath and peek around. I am on a sidewalk, invisible as always. No one’s watching, so I make myself visible. I am dressed as the sharp businessman who sometimes slips Billy breakfast. I have black hair, spiky and ultra-cool. My eyes are green, so dark sometimes they appear black. I am tall and muscular and handsome. No one from my pre-angel life would recognize me.

The Gabriel they knew was short, pudgy, ugly.

The crossing guard waves Billy across the street. I keep an eye on the boy and take a roundabout path to meet him. Once the school and the guard are out of sight, I am ready.

“Billy!” I call out.

The child stops and cocks his head. He turns toward me, and light floods his face. “Mr. Arch!” he cries. He is so happy to see me. “Do you have a Pop-Tart?”

I go over to him. “Not now, sorry. Hey, how was school?”

Billy furrows his brows and pushes a mop of blond hair out of his eyes. “Hey, I’ve never seen you after school before.”

I grin. Didn’t I tell you this was one smart kid? “I got out of work early. Hey, I have an idea. Wanna hear it?”

Billy bobs his head eagerly.

“My car’s right over there, at the curb.” I point toward a red Cavalier. “I’ll take you for some ice cream. Isn’t that better than Pop-Tarts?”

Billy hesitates. “I’m not supposed to go with strangers.”

“But you know me. I’m not a stranger. So, how about some ice cream?”

Billy contemplates some more. I do not rush him. He will say yes.

And he does. “Okaaay,” he answers. “Chocolate?”

“Whatever you want, my boy."

Off we go. “You’ll love Heaven,” I tell him as we get into my car.

Billy doesn’t hear. His eyes are closed, and he’s already dreaming of chocolate ice cream. His ascension has started.

#

Days pass, and Billy is still distraught. He has not calmed down like the other children did after their ascensions. They and the other angels tell Billy that Heaven is a great place, that he’ll live like a king and be able to do anything he pleases.

Billy says he pleases to go home. The oldest child in my group, Chas, a red-haired boy of 14, frowns. “Anything except that,” he clarifies.

I ask if having Moe will help. Billy just stares at me and trembles. He’s scared of me now, and it breaks my heart. I do love this boy so.

Word about Billy's difficulties gets around to God, and on the seventh day after Billy’s ascension, the big man glides in, his hair and beard flowing behind him. He heads straight to Billy. “Child,” God says. “What’s wrong?”

The tears in Billy’s eyes evaporate immediately. His face is pale with fear. “You’re not God,” he whispers, defiant.

The boss arches an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know,” he admits.

I do not understand this. The big man has always put me at ease, from the moment we met, from the moment I ascended. He puts everyone at ease. Except this little Billy.

I can tell this unsettles God, too. He strokes his long beard and stares at the little boy under him.

“Billy,” the boss finally says. “You read the Bible, don’t you? You say prayers with your momma. You go to church with her.”

“Momma says Heaven is nice and cool, and everyone flies around and no one’s hurting. Momma says Grandma and Grandpa are in Heaven. This isn’t Heaven! Grandma and Grandpa aren’t here!”

“Your momma was wrong,” God replies evenly.

Anger flushes Billy's cheeks. “My momma wasn’t wrong!”

The boss snickers. “I think you need to go to that other place, where the bad children go.”

A cold fear grips my heart. I want to tell God to give Billy a few more days. He’s just a boy. A scared, confused little boy who wants his teddy bear.

The boss is looking at me. “Gabriel,” he barks. “Something on your mind?”

“I think ...”

“Yes?”

“Let me get his teddy bear. It’ll help him feel right at home.”

“No,” God growls. He crosses his arms. “I’m not going to break the rules for this child.” He snaps his fingers, and a dark, hooded figure rushes in. “Take Billy to that other place.”

“No!” I cry.

“Don’t you dare challenge me,” God hisses.

My stomach churns as the fire of truth overtakes God’s eyes. He has tested me, and I have failed. God knows what is best. Always. Always. I will pay the price for questioning him.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper.

“Take Billy and Gabriel to that other place,” the boss commands.

I wet myself. I am so scared.

“God, no, please, God,” I beg. “I don’t want to go to Hell!”

#

Now I am strapped into a gurney. In minutes, I will die from lethal injection. There are curtains around me, but in my mind's eye, I see what is happening just outside. People file into the room and sit. They stare at the black curtains, wondering when they will get to see me. Their faces are big, curious and fearful. Some have hate in their eyes. Others have love and compassion. I wonder if Billy will come. I wonder if Harlan and Donna are still together.

I am not sure how many years have passed since I last saw God, but I still feel him with me. I hope I’ve done enough to regain his trust.

The police said I kidnapped Billy. They also said I killed Chas, that beautiful red-headed 14-year-old boy, and 18 other children, over seven years.

The police said I kept the children in my basement without food or water and that I starved them to death. What rotten nonsense. I explained to the police that I was a guardian angel and that my mission was to bring Billy to a better place. I told them about my fall from God’s grace. The police just laughed. They asked me to identify God and the other angels from a book of pictures, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

They also said they had a witness who saw Billy get in my car. At my trial, Billy testified, and he had Moe in his arms. Doctors and scientists also testified about DNA and blood matches from the other children. Newspapers said I was the furthest thing imaginable from a guardian angel.

I have looked in the mirror many times since I was sentenced to death. I am no longer handsome. I am the pudgy, ugly Gabriel of old.

I have prayed to God every night since he banished me. I have called out to him to forgive me. “Please, God,” I begged night after night, my hands clasped together as I kneeled at my bed. “Dear Lord, forgive me. I did not mean to question you.”

He has yet to answer me.

I will admit I am confused. I thought I had already ascended. Why am I about to ascend again, then? Why did God breathe life back into my mortal body? I try not to dwell on this. God works in mysterious ways, and I certainly will not challenge him again. I only hope that after I take my last breath, I find myself back with him, this wise man who puts me so at ease. I do not want to find myself with the red-faced, horned man.

I refuse to allow myself to think about what happened to Azrel.

Now, big needles poke my veins. I keep my face still. I do not look at the men who are doing this to me.

If this is what God wants, I shall do it without complaint.

The curtains fall away, and I allow myself to scan the people who have assembled.

Billy, Billy. Is Billy there?

A group of red-headed people is up front. I remember them from the trial. Chas’ mother weeps pathetically. My heart goes out to her. This woman, in the name of God, pleaded for my life during the penalty phase of the trial. She said the jury was wrong. They should have found me insane. She said I was sick and that I did not know what I was doing. Even now, she weeps for me. She will go to Heaven, I am sure of it. She has a kind heart. Chas will be so happy to see her.

And then my gaze locks onto Harlan. He is squinting at me from the front row. I stifle a cry. I don’t know how I overlooked him before. He is as big and as mean-looking as ever. Donna, little and frail, sits with him.

Billy, Billy!

Where is my favorite child?

There is a young man at Donna’s side. He is rail-thin. He seems to be barely out of his teens. He has dirty, limp blond hair, and acne chokes his face. He isn’t Billy, is he? Not my beautiful, innocent Billy.

The young man meets my eyes for just a second. I know those blue eyes, even though there is no fight in them.

My heart falls. Yes, this young man is Billy. He has come to say goodbye, just as I hoped he would. But he is distorted now. Harlan has killed Billy, like he killed Donna. Even though they breathe, they are dead inside.

The air around me changes. The process of putting me to death is about to begin. I squeeze my eyes shut before anyone can see my tears. My beautiful Billy.

A thick, gravelly voice asks if I have any last words.

I dare not speak, lest anyone discern that I am crying. I do not want people to think I am crying for the wrong reasons. I am not crying because I feel sorry for myself, or because I finally accept whatever guilt they are trying to foist upon me.

I am crying for Billy, the beautiful, pure, sweet child who is dead inside.

He should have stayed in Heaven.

THE END

The Doctor

THE DOCTOR

Light glared off the doctor’s bald head. He was a short, sallow man with beady dark eyes. His white lab coat was much too large for his small frame and nearly spilled onto the sterile white floor.

The doctor was in possession of not-so-good news.

The girl had been bad, very bad indeed. She flinched when the doctor knowingly narrowed his eyes at her.

He tingled in anticipation of giving this news to the girl and her mother. Perhaps to compensate for his shortcomings or to give him a handful of power in a world where looks are so important, the doctor liked pointing out to people just how bad they were and just how many grievous sins they had committed.

And the girl in front of him was as naughty as they come.

She was only 12 years old. Her hair was mostly the color of strawberry, but it would probably be more blonde than red in a few years. Her eyes were an emerald green, and baby fat gave her face an innocent, angelic look.

But she was no angel.

She was pregnant.

And there was her mother, standing anxiously behind the girl.

Poor mother.

She had been so worried about her only child; why was Ashley throwing up so much? Why was Ashley fainting every other day? Why was Ashley so pale?

The doctor didn’t much like Karen, the mother. For one thing, her fingernails were so long and sharp that they were true claws. And they were painted such a garish, blinding red the doctor could hardly see past them. No, the doctor could not imagine himself with the mother.

But he could see himself with the girl. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure he’d be thinking about her when he got in bed that very night, and his hands would crawl into his boxers. He would groan with pleasure…

“So?” asked the mother, and she squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “Did you find out what’s wrong with Ashley?”

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, as if he was not able to bear the burden of his knowledge any longer. “I did. I found out what’s wrong.”

The girl's eyelids fluttered. She wanted to disappear.

The doctor smiled.

The poor, clueless mother.

Karen spoke in an impatient rush. “Well? What is it? Will Ashley be all right?”

The doctor frowned in pretend thought, all the while enjoying the moment.

Just how would Karen react?

They were so unpredictable, these hillbilly mothers. But the doctor got the feeling he would enjoy this particular scene.

“Well.” He cleared his throat.

He slowly ran a finger over his clipboard.

And finally, he had wrought all he could from the moment.

He opened his mouth, not caring that he was exposing crooked little brown teeth. "Ms. Jones, your daughter's pregnant."

The girl’s eyes went wide, as if she couldn't believe the doctor had actually said it, that it's true, yes, yes, it's true, she was pregnant.

The mother’s mouth fell open. Shock paralyzed her whole being. She was quite comical-looking, actually, and the doctor was tempted to laugh.

Yes, the poor woman really had no idea.

Finally, the mother clamped her jaw shut. “Ashley is not pregnant. Don’t be ridiculous! She’s 12 years old! Redo the tests.”

Gravely, the doctor shook his head. “We ran them twice to make sure. There’s no doubt.”

The mother stared and stared at the doctor, and it was all he could do to keep his expression serious.

Finally, the mother turned to her child. “Tell him, Ashley. Tell him you can’t be pregnant. You know how people have babies, right?”

The girl, so small and white and trembling in her chair, cowered under her mother’s probing gaze.

“Well? Tell him.”

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“No? You won’t tell him? What? What?” The mother took a small step back. “Oh, my God. You are pregnant.” Anger began to burn in her eyes. "Pregnant? Pregnant! Oh, I ought to--Who’s the father? Is it that kid Mark you hang out with all the time?”

The girl would not look at her mother.

She steadfastly refused to. She glued her gaze to the floor, her breaths frozen in her chest.

Karen was not having any of it, and she dug a claw into the girl’s shoulder.

The doctor grinned. Now this was more like it.

Ashley yelped in pain, but her high, whinny cry died away quickly.

“Who is the father?”

The girl answered, but barely.

And still she looked at the floor.

The doctor frowned. He could not hear her. That was no good. And so he took a step forward.

The girl’s mother hadn’t been able to make out the mumbles, either, and she kneeled, ever so slightly.

"Bob. Bob," the girl whispered. Pure terror filled her voice, and she shuddered just saying the name.

The doctor held his breath in mouth-watering anticipation.

“Bob?” Karen repeated. And still the doctor held his breath; this would indeed be a day to remember always, for Karen’s voice had suddenly become cold, like little sharp shards of ice. “Bob? You mean my Bob?”

The girl nodded slowly, and she ventured a pleading look at her mother. “Momma, he made me ... he made me.”

“Oh, my God.” Karen fluttered a talon-tipped hand over her heart. “Not my Bob. My Bob! How could you? How could you?” Karen’s face contorted into a grotesque mask. "How could you? How could you? Oh my God, Ashley, how could you?"

The doctor stood, completely stunned, as the mother’s rage grew.

The girl was just as stupefied, for she, too, could only stare, her eyes big, round and fearful, as her mother exploded into a monster.

Suddenly, the doctor wished he was far, far away. He was not enjoying this scene, after all.

He wondered if the mother would ever look at her daughter in the same, loving way she did when they first came in.

Somehow, he suspected not.

And the doctor began to feel sorry for the girl. Maybe he would not think about her in bed that night, after all.

THE END

The Interview

THE INTERVIEW

Debby notices the booger immediately. How can she miss it? It’s right there, out in the open, swinging merrily from Mr. Thomas Hayden III’s nose.

The booger is green and lumpy.

Debby can hardly shake Hayden’s hand, but she manages. She has to. She’s been looking for a reporting job for months, and she is determined for this interview with The Mackarel Times to succeed.

Hayden motions for Debby to sit across from him. He has an expansive, shiny cherry wood desk in a huge corner office that overlooks the blue Mackarel River. Hayden is the editor of the newspaper. Later, Debby will be interviewed by others. But now she’s with Hayden, dark-haired, swarthy, bulky, boogery Hayden.

Debby has no idea what to do. She can’t ignore the booger any more than she could ignore a singing elephant.

But she takes the seat Hayden indicated. She flashes him a big smile.

Does he really have no idea?

Good God, how could he have no idea? Can’t he feel it? It’s pulsating! Debby squints to make sure. Yes, it’s pulsating. How long has this booger been around? Surely long enough for others to have noticed!

Debby catches herself staring. Luckily, Hayden is blissfully unaware. He launches into some introductory spiel.

Debby wonders if she is being tested. The booger has to be fake. Maybe Hayden does this in all of his interviews.

But.

It can’t be a test. That would just be ... Debby can’t find the right word. Idiotic? Absurd? Pointless?

The booger has to be real. Maybe she should indicate to Hayden that there’s just a little something dangling from his nose. Hayden will chuckle and excuse himself. He would return with a clear nose. Then they could both move on.

But what if Hayden is too mortified to face Debby again? She really needs this job. She’s interviewed at more newspapers now than she can remember, and she had to fight to even get in for this one. On the flip side, though, if she keeps quiet about the booger, Hayden will find out later. He’ll know she knew and that she said nothing.

Debby slowly becomes aware that Hayden is gazing at her. His eyebrows arch in expectation.

Debby tucks a strand of thick dark hair behind her ear. She puckers her lips. What kind of question could Hayden have asked? “Well, ah ...”

Hayden grins. “It’s not that tricky, is it?”

Debby forces a laugh. “Of course not.”

Hayden’s waited long enough. He brings his manicured fingers to his desk for an impatient dance. “Well?”

Debby takes a deep breath. She has to tell him, or she’ll go crazy. “Mr. Hayden, uh ...”

Hayden frowns. “Yes?”

“You have, well, ah, see, you have a ...”

“Oh! So you disagree.” Hayden’s eyes widen, and his lips twist into an approving smile. “Well, that’s fine. Fine! That’s good. We at the Mackarel Times like independent thinkers.”

He looks, sounds so pleased.

Debby is more torn than ever. How in the world is she supposed to tell him, this powerful man who possibly holds her future in his hands?

Hayden’s booger slides even farther down. In just a couple of seconds, it is clinging by a thread. It is fighting for its life.

Good God, Debby thinks. I have to tell him before it goes splat on his desk.

“Just a moment now ...” Hayden ruffles through a stack of newspapers. “Where is it ... ah! This clip from your college paper.” He holds up one of Debby’s favorite pieces, in which she uncovered an embezzling scheme by the student body president. “This took balls, Miss Smith. This took good, hard, dogged work. That’s the kind of work we like here.”

Debby grins. Her heart leaps in joy. She’s drawn to the shine in Hayden's black eyes. She even forgets about the booger for a moment. Hayden likes her. He likes her!

Debby has a real shot at getting this job.

The intercom at Hayden’s side crackles to life, and he sighs. He gives Debby a look. She knows that look--it’s the “I’m sorry about this, but I’m a big, important person, and this is part of my job” look.

Debby nods sympathetically.

Hayden speaks crisply into the intercom. “Just a moment, Arlene. I’ll be right with you.” He flicks the speaker off.

Debby takes this as a good sign. He’s turned the speaker off to focus on her, on inexperienced, bumbling, indecisive Debby Smith, who apparently has made a good impression on him.

“Miss Smith, ah ...” Hayden suddenly has trouble meeting Debby’s gaze. His booger starts to drip.

Debby’s stomach roils. Hayden knows. He had just realized. And he’s embarrassed beyond belief.

Hayden brings a finger to the general area of his nose. He smiles gamely. “If you’ll excuse yourself, Miss Smith.”

Debby pushes her chair back. “Of course, Mr. Hayden.” She can’t escape his office fast enough. She trots past Arlene, the secretary, and into the hallway.

Debby lets out a huge, relieved breath once she’s alone. She sees the ladies’ room at the end of the corridor. It wouldn’t hurt to go in there, freshen up a bit. That should give Hayden enough time to fix his problem.

Debby strides to the bathroom. When she returns, it’ll be water under the bridge. She won’t make Hayden feel self-conscious. If he brings it up, she’ll laugh. She’ll say she hadn’t noticed, or that it had been so small. Everything will be fine.

She’s feeling pretty good about herself as she opens the bathroom door and steps inside. The bathroom is white and sterile. There are four stalls, with no telltale feet peeking from below. Debby reaches into her purse for her lipstick. She glances into the big mirror above the sinks.

Her heart stops. Her life flashes before her eyes.

What is that? What in the world is that?

Debby’s jaw drops. “No, no, no,” she mutters.

Good God!

Right there, swaying from her left nostril, is a monster that puts Hayden’s to shame.

Panic chokes Debby.

If you’ll excuse yourself, Miss Smith.

Debby has never been more horrified in her life. She reaches for a paper towel and makes quick work of the ghastly creature.

This booger has cost her the job, she is sure of it. She can’t go back to Hayden now, no way, no how.

Debby slinks to the elevator. Yet another botched interview. Maybe journalism isn’t for her, after all.

THE END

Every Day

EVERY DAY

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he doesn't.

So, as the moon shakes its head in disapproval each night, he thinks tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. Really.

Tomorrow becomes today at 6:37 a.m., when the alarm wakes him. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then he lumbers to the toilet. After he pees, he washes his hands and tries to avoid looking in the mirror. Most mornings, though, he catches a glimpse of himself, and he winces. He is uglier every day. His head is watermelon-odd, his hair is scarce, and the bags under his eyes are moving toward suitcasehood.

After the bathroom trip, he goes back to his bed and sits.

He thinks about Vicky, his wife, his childhood sweetheart. How he misses her. How he can’t bear to pull the plug on her. The guilt would destroy him. So he’ll kill himself first. With no one left to make decisions on Vicky’s behalf, the hospital will be forced to pull the plug.

At 7:25 a.m., he finishes thinking and nods in satisfaction, having reassured himself that everything is in order and that he isn’t merely passing Vicky on to another helpless oaf. He does not even have a loud, indignant, overbearing mother-in-law.

He dresses and eats breakfast, always four Krispy Kreme donuts, because it’s his last meal. He deserves a good last meal, doesn’t he?

At 9:00, he is in the hospital and at his wife’s side to say goodbye. To, in raspy little whispers, beg her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, Vicky,” he says. “I’m sorry I can’t let you go. I’m a coward. But we’ll meet again soon. Yes ...”

He takes her brittle, dusty hand and kisses it gingerly so it doesn’t crumble in his fat, clumsy grasp. “Goodbye.”

By 11 a.m., he is at his apartment again. He has no job to go to; he quit two days before he decided to kill himself. Of course, he still lives.

But today is the day. It always is.

He gets the gun from a drawer and sits at the kitchen table. He stares at the gun. Nothing to it, really. Disengage the safety. Bring the gun to his head and fire. Die.

It’s child’s play. Easy ducky.

He likes easy ducky. Such a cute little phrase. It always makes him think of the bathtub ducks from his childhood. And then he gets to remembering. Splashing in the tub, in the pool, his mother’s mouth-watering cookies, throwing baseball with his father, meeting the little girl down the street and falling for her instantly. Vicky. He always knew he’d marry her. How could anyone resist the auburn curls and devilish green eyes?

Now Vicky is faded wallpaper, and so is he.

At this point in the day, he pays less attention to the time, but usually about 6 p.m., he prods himself to get a move on. Some days, he even brings the gun to his temple.

And then he tells himself to go on, go on, go on, finish the job. What is he dawdling for? Thanks to quitting his job, he has no insurance and little money. Every day, his stockpile dwindles, and Vicky’s bills mount.

His stomach gurgles. He’s hungry. So he fixes himself a nice big sandwich-—usually roast beef. Why not? It’s his last meal. He deserves a nice last meal, doesn’t he?

After dinner, he gets the gun, goes to his bedroom and curls up on his bed. He does not crawl under the sheets, nor does he change into pajamas. No sir. He won’t have people finding his body in pajamas. He has more class than that. No, they’ll find him in this nice suit he’s worn all day, even if it is a bit wrinkled ...

He sighs. He really ought to iron the suit. And why is he in bed, anyway? When people find his body, he ought to be on the couch. More dignified. So he pulls himself out of bed and changes into housework clothes. He irons his suit and surveys the apartment. The place is spic and span from the previous day’s cleaning, but still ... is that dust he sees? A speck of dirt? He won’t stand for people finding his body in a dirty apartment. So he mops the floors and scrubs the bathroom and dusts and vacuums.

After this exertion, he is filthy, and he stinks. So he showers. Afterward, he smells like raspberries and cream. He dries himself off and struggles into his freshly ironed suit.

He gets the gun and sits on the couch. Another staring match ensues. Going to do it, he thinks. Right now. But sleep threatens to overwhelm him. He thinks tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. Really. So he goes to bed.

He usually sleeps well, and most of his dreams are happy movies, in which Vicky is laughing and singing and twirling again.

#

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he doesn't.

But on the 366^th day, at 9:03 a.m., the hospital woman, pale, blond and without personality, tells him Vicky’s time is just about up. He’s behind on her bills. He needs to pay up or ... wellyouknow.

He manages a stoic nod for the hospital woman. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.”

She smiles and goes away.

He grasps Vicky’s dusty skeleton hand again and whispers his traditional goodbye. He goes home. He cries. He gets his gun. He brings it to his head.

He swallows. Easy ducky.

His apartment is clean. His suit is fresh and wrinkle-free. Nothing to worry about now.

Easy ducky, easy ducky. Boy, those were the days, huh, playing in the tub with his ducks and boats and frogs. The good old days, a child’s life.

His hands shake, but he presses the gun to his temple. He isn’t dropping the gun, no way. He has a job to do, and maybe it’s taken him a while longer than planned, but damn it, he is going to finish what he started.

If only he weren’t such a coward! If only he had the strength to let Vicky go ... but how can he? She is his wife, his best friend, the love of his life. He can’t pull the plug on her. No way.

He will die first.

Maybe one more donut? No.

He is about to pull the trigger, but then he realizes he has never celebrated Vicky’s life. Sure, after the accident, he always remembered her birthday by bringing two cupcakes, one for him and one for her ... and eating both. And he recalled their wedding anniversaries by bringing her roses and lilies and reminiscing with her still body about her walking down the aisle in her long, flowing white gown and then ... and then tripping, and laughing ... her rich, golden, honeyed tones erupting ... but ... Why? Why has he never celebrated his wife’s life? If any life ought to be celebrated, it is hers.

He nods in determination. This he shall do first.

He places the gun on the end table and drives to the grocery store for a cake. Vicky loved chocolate cake; to him, chocolate cake is eh. Vanilla is better. But he’ll get chocolate.

He spends a couple of minutes scrutinizing the assorted cakes before a pimply, plump girl waddles from a back room to the counter. She asks if she can be of any help. MARY says her name tag.

“Ah,” he says to Mary, and he indicates a rather tiny, round cake with white frosting. “I like that one. Could you write a message on it? In blue. Dark blue. Vicky’s favorite.”

“Of course.” Mary smiles-—her teeth are yellow, and he tells himself to ignore it, that it doesn’t matter how often she brushes her teeth. She is just a cake girl. “What do you want me to write?” she asks.

He considers for a long moment. “In honor of a wonderful woman and a wonderful life.”

Mary sighs regretfully. “That’s too long. But if you want a bigger cake, it’s only $4 more.”

"What do I need a big cake for? OK. In honor of a wonderful life?”

“How about great? Means the same as wonderful, but it'll fit better.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Fine, fine. Great it is.”

Mary goes in the back to work on the cake. Five minutes later, she proudly presents her work to him.

IN HONOR OF A GRATE LIFE.

He stares. And stares.

Grate? Grate? What the hell? Vicky deserves better than this. He sure isn’t going to celebrate his wife's life with a misspelled word.

But he looks into Mary’s brimming pimply-pizza face, into her eager-to-please eyes. Puppydog.

He can’t do it. He can’t scold her. He knows instinctively that she has few bright spots in her days as it is.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “It’s lovely.” And it is--other than GRATE.

She exhales a nervous breath. “Really? It’s my first cake. Oh, I’ve done lots at home and for friends’ parties-—that’s how come the lettering’s so fancy, but, see, this is my second day here, and ... you like it? You really like it?”

His stomach clenches. “It’s great, Mary. Just great. Thank you.” He forks over a wad of $1 bills and turns to leave.

"Was Vicky your wife?"

He freezes at the sudden question and slowly faces Mary again. "Vicky is my wife. Not was. Thank you."

Mary blinks stupidly. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought that, well ..."

He holds up a hand. "It's fine."

"Did you used to work at the McDonald's near the civic center?"

"Huh?"

"Feel like I've seen you before. What's your name?"

He grins wryly. "Mary, my name doesn't matter. I'm Vicky's husband. That’s who I am. That's all that matters."

He leaves the store, tosses the cake into the trash, and drives to another grocery. This time, he makes sure to write in clear, neat handwriting the message he wants.

He ends up with a great cake. Then he goes to pick out candles. How many to buy? He isn’t sure. He’s celebrating Vicky’s life-—her life—-the years when she laughed, sang, danced. But should he count the years she lay bedridden in that horrid coma? Those twelve long years still going on?

He finally decides yes. Yes. He will. Vicky is his wife, not was. So her cake gets 60 candles.

#

He goes home and lights the candles. He blows them out one by one. It doesn't take long. He eats the cake for both him and Vicky.

When he is done, he is very full.

He recites a quick prayer and gets the gun. He brings it to his temple.

His heart is hammering, and he is sweaty and numb all over.

He takes a deep breath. This is it, really it.

Now it is time for his last thought. What should it be?

Vicky, I love you. I'm so sorry. See you soon.

He fires.

Easy ducky.

THE END

First Day At Work

FIRST DAY AT WORK

The setting: A fancy bank building in downtown Anywhere, USA.

8 a.m.

People in smart, dapper business suits stream into the bank building. Most know that the security guard for the past 10 years has retired. But nobody bothers to say hi to the new guy until ...

JOHN

John Wilson, 40, stops at the security desk, surveys the new guard--slightly plump, gray-haired. Would be easy to beat up in a fight but still better than fat old Walt had been.

"You the new guy?"

"Yep."

"How's Walt doing?"

The guard shrugs. "Didn't know him."

"Well, welcome to the bank."

"Thanks." The guard smiles, exposing stained, old-man teeth. "Today's a happy day for me, actually."

"Yeah?"

"My twin girls turned 18 right at 4 a.m."

"18, huh."

The guard gets his wallet out of his pants pocket.

John stifles a groan.

This is why you don't say hi to the new guy. He makes you late for work.

The guard offers John a picture. John takes it.

Woo baby.

18.

A good age. Primo age.

This guard has identical, blond knockout twin daughters. Tight red T-shirts, great racks, dangerous curves.

Tan.

Ten years ago, John Wilson could've nailed a girl like them. Now ... well, he isn't much better looking than the guard.

John hands the photo back. "Very pretty. You must be proud."

The guard beams. "They're great girls. Have you got kids yourself?"

"Nah. I like the single life."

Truth is, John has not liked being single for many years, but he is not about to tell this to some lowly security schlub.

"I've been with Alice 25 years." The security guard offers yet another picture.

John takes it--woo baby again.

This woman must be 50 years old, but she is just as beautiful as her daughters.

What a rack.

Lucky security guard.

John realizes he is staring and hastily hands the picture back. "I need to get up to work."

"Of course. Sorry. See you later."

"Yeah. Have a good first day." John heads for the bank of elevators.

Gets into an elevator with a whole crowd of people. They stink--too much perfume, cologne, body spray.

John wonders what the guard's wife and daughters smell like.

Those twins… wow. What if they kissed each other, with tongue and they got naked really hot and heavy, and…

And the mom walked in? Joined in?

Whoa.

When John Wilson gets off on his floor, he is smiling broadly, even as a kernel of guilt gnaws at him, calling him perv perv perv. Twin sisters and their mother. You can't get any better than that.

MARY

Mary says hello to the security guard a few minutes after John goes up. The guard seems nice enough, maybe a little bland. He isn't wearing a name badge, but neither did fat old Walt.

The security guard smiles, says hello back.

"Welcome," Mary says. She notices a framed photo on the guard's little desk.

View from what seems like the top of the world.

"That's from a hike I took last month at the peaks," the guard supplies.

"It's beautiful." Mary tries not to feel too jealous. "You hike a lot?"

"Oh, yes. With the wife and daughters. All the time."

Mary is 35 years old. She is overweight and not very attractive. She's tried so hard all her life to get thin, but when it comes right down to it, she'd rather be in front of the TV, munching on Cheetos. Gallivanting outside is not for her.

As a result, she does not have many beautiful pictures.

Or much of a life.

The guard shows Mary photos of his gorgeous, statuesque wife and perfect daughters.

Lucky man, this lowly security guard.

When Mary gets to her floor, she detours to the vending machines and buys some potato chips.

Time to wallow in depression again.

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher is a handsome, cocky young buck.

25 years old, thinks he knows it all.

Blond hair, blue eyes, six-pack abs.

He started working at the bank one year ago exactly.

He strides into the lobby, full of purpose, ready to attack the start of a new work week.

He is used to Walt greeting him with a hello.

No Walt. It's some pudgy new dude instead.

Right, Walt retired.

The guard's writing on paper or something, doesn't notice Christopher.

Christopher's seen him before, though.

Somewhere.

When?

He goes to the elevators and struggles to remember.

Can't.

Maybe the guard's just one of those average Joes you see in lots of places.

No. Damn it, Christopher has seen the guard before.

Christopher, deep in thought, gets off on his floor.

It's going to bother him all day if he doesn't figure it out.

Fine.

He goes to his desk, tosses his briefcase aside, shrugs out of his suit jacket.

Trots back down the five flights of stairs, says "Hey" to the guard.

The guard smiles, says "Hey" back.

Then, with a thud in his chest, Christopher remembers where he has seen the guard before.

The picture.

That old picture. The guard has changed, that is for sure. He's gotten pudgy. He's aged.

But the nose… no denying it.

The security guard is Christopher's father, the man who abandoned his mother and him when Christopher was just a baby.

Christopher swallows, scurries back upstairs.

His long-lost father, James Ellington.

A lowly, unattractive security guard.

Didn't even recognize Christopher.

The bastard.

JOHN

At noon, John breaks for lunch, takes the elevator down to the lobby. The guard's not there--bathroom break?

The guard's there at 1:15 when John returns, though. John's been thinking about those twins and that wife all day.

"Your kids," he asks. "What are their names?"

"Alyssa and Marie."

"And your wife?"

"Liza."

"Nice family. Really. You're lucky."

The guard beams. "You'll find the right woman someday, don't worry."

"What are the twins doing for their birthday?"

"Partying with their friends. Isn't that what all the kids do nowadays?"

John grins. He is going to the gym after work, for the first time in weeks.

Time to get back in shape. He wants those girls, that wife.

MARY

When Mary returns from her lunch break, the guard shows her more pictures he took from various hikes.

The guard has been ALL over.

Literally.

Grand Canyon.

Appalachian Trail.

The Alps. Yes, those Alps.

Where has fat lazy old Mary been?

The grocery store.

McDonald's.

Burger King.

Pizza Hut.

She goes up to her office, sniffles.

Gets more potato chips.

She regrets ever saying hello to the security guard. She won't talk to him again.

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher fumes all morning. His father! His very own father. How could the man not recognize him?

Christopher is distracted, doesn't get much work done. Breaks for lunch late, at 1:30. Says hello to the guard on his way out.

Still no recognition.

Christopher grabs a burger, some fries.

He ought to call his mother.

Tell her, "I found him, Ma. The dirty old bastard. I found him."

No. He'll spare her that pain. His ma is doing well. Remarried, to a dream man.

Christopher won't call her.

But he can't let his biological father get away with what he did to him and his ma.

Dear old dad should be knocking off work at 5.

Christopher will follow him home.

JOHN

John finishes work at 5 and heads to the gym. He jumps on the treadmill. Sees plenty of fine chicks. Plenty of ugly lardasses, too.

Tomorrow he will ask the guard (subtly, of course) if he, his wife and daughters belong to a fitness club.

Perhaps something like, "I'm not happy with the gym I go to. You belong to one? What do you recommend?"

That'll do very well.

John finishes with the treadmill, decides he'll lift some weights.

Then he sees her.

The wife.

The guard's wife!

She is even more beautiful than in the picture.

And she is making eyes at him, at John!

John puffs his chest out. He still has some charm after all, some swagger.

He goes over to the wife. She isn't wearing her wedding ring.

Her name is Carrie, which isn't what the guard said it was.

Whatever. John does not care if she's lying--he just wants to nail her.

They flirt, agree to meet for dinner later that week.

When John gets home, he is about to burst.

That poor old security guard. His wife runs around on him!

John isn't complaining, though. No sir.

MARY

Mary goes to McDonald's after work, gets supersize everything.

She hates that security guard. Really hates, hates him.

No, she doesn't hate him. She's jealous.

Fat, ugly old Mary.

She munches on her hamburger. The restaurant is nearly empty, but at a nearby table are two young women. Identical twins, blond hair, blue eyes, tan, the whole shebang.

Lucky bitches.

They are everything Mary always wanted to be but never could be.

She has recognized them as the security guard's children and hates him (and them) even more.

Right when Mary is about to leave, one of the girls comes over to her. "I really love your necklace," the girl says.

"Really?"

"Yes. Ohmigod. I just love pearl."

Mary can't help but smile. "I've always had good taste in jewelry," she admits modestly.

"Your earrings! Wow. I love them too. Hey, my sister and I were about to go shopping. Would you like to come with us?"

Mary cannot reply for a moment. She is supposed to hate this girl and her sister.

But.

But.

"Sure," Mary chirps. "Lead the way."

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher follows the guard to a dumpy apartment building in a gray part of town. At least his father, good old James Ellington, isn't living some carefree life.

The guard goes inside the building, and Christopher scowls in his car for some time.

A long time.

He's got to call his mom. Get her permission to… to what? Confront his father? Beat the old man up?

Christopher calls, but no one's home.

He drives to his own house, grabs the picture of his father just to make sure.

Yes. The guard is his father.

Christopher takes the picture back with him to the guard's apartment.

Damn it.

He can't wait any longer. He calls his mother again, leaves a message on the machine.

Then he gets out of his car. Time for a touching, fist-filled reunion.

THE SECURITY GUARD

The security guard, when he gets home, lays his wallet on the kitchen counter. He makes himself a bologna sandwich. He sits in front of the TV.

It's been a pretty good first day at work. Lots of nice people. Bit boring, but oh well. That's what happens when you're a security guard.

After the bologna sandwich is gone, the security guard gets his wallet. Glances through the pictures.

Ahhh.

If only.

The security guard has no family. He made Liza, Alyssa and Marie up.

He does not hike, either.

The hike photos he printed from the Internet with his good high-quality printer. The photos of his "wife" and "daughters" he snapped at a park a few weeks ago.

He got so tired at his old job of people looking at him in that sad way.

Lonely old man.

This new job is better, so much better.

A knock sounds on the door.

The guard frowns. No one ever visits. He goes to the door, peeks through the peephole. It's a young man, and he seems angry. Huffy and pacing.

Kinda looks familiar, too.

Against his better judgment, the guard undoes the chain latch and the door lock.

Opens the door.

The guard remembers who the man is now. One of the bankers from the new job.

"I can't believe you didn't even recognize me," the young man hisses. "It's me, Christopher. Your son! Your Christopher. Remember me, huh? And my ma? Alice. Who you married then up and left!"

The guard swallows. He has never been married. Never dated anyone named Alice. He has never been confident enough to date a woman, really.

Thank goodness for prostitutes.

"I'm sorry," the guard whispers, hoping the young man will not hit him. "I've never been married."

Christopher shoves a photo in the guard's face. "Tell me this isn't you, good old James Ellington!"

"My name's not James Ellington, and that's not me."

A ring pierces the air, and Christopher snaps a cellphone out of his pocket. Barks into it: "Yeah?" He stiffens. "Ma? Ma, I'm--what? What? What?"

He listens for a long time, clicks the phone shut. All fight leaves him.

"Sorry," he says to the guard. "I'll go now."

"What happened?"

A muscle clenches along Christopher's jaw. "Ma just said she doesn't know who my father is. She snapped a picture of some random guy one day."

The security guard reaches for the picture, studies it carefully. "That could be me," he admits. The irony of the matter does not escape him.

Christopher is about to cry. "Why did Ma have to make up that story?"

"Who knows," the security guard murmurs. Then: "Do you want to come in?"

Christopher sniffles. "I don't want to bother you."

"No bother. No one's here but me. And you."

Christopher looks around a long moment. "Yeah. Yeah, all right. I'll come in."

THE END