Almost Eustace

Another story in the Johnny Potter series.

By Bettyann Moore

Let me tell you how I come just a whisker short of bein’ christened Eustace Pitts. Now, can you imagine what goin’ through this life bein’ called Eustace Pitts coulda done to a body? Ever’ time I think on it, the hairs in my ears stand straight out.

Now, I knows that these parts is known for what I heard called “colorful” names. An’ when you knows what folks was up to when they give their children them names, it kinda makes sense in a way. Some cotton to the notion that if you calls a body somethin’ pretty they’s gonna be pretty. And it ain’t too hard to figger out what one preacher had in mind when he called his kids DoGood, Sabbath and Salvation. And it ain’t real hard to figger out what that same preacher’s wife were up to when they done had their fourth young’un and named him Judas. But I done heard of growed folks walkin’ round with names like Fanny Teat (folks just calls her Mama Teat), Crawdad Fisher and Lazy Crisp. And to a person, they were an ornery lot. I woulda gone through this life as Eustace Pitts if Ma Ma had gone and married Grady Pitts like her pa wanted her to.

I be borned in nineteen-aught-four, but back in nineteen-aught-two my Ma Ma, Rebecca Jean Simpson, were gettin’ courted right hard by the onliest smithy in this neck o’ the woods, Grady Pitts. Grady’s biggest dream was to sire a son to carry on his trade, a son he’d name Eustace Pitts, after his grandaddy.

My grandpa, Grover Simpson, were right pleased ‘bout these goin’s on. Besides bein’ the only smithy, Grady were a dang good one, too, and Grandpa were all the time needin’ yokes and wagons and shoes for his mules and horses. He figgered to save a heap o’ cash with a smithy as kin.

Ma Ma used to tell me how when Grady come a-callin’, her pa would set out somethin’ to be mended. If Grady took it and had it back good as new when he come callin’ again, Grandpa’d let Ma and Grady set out on the porch all alone. The bigger the job, the longer the spoonin’. Ma Ma said the night Grady come to find Grandpa’s whole team of mules and a plow horse to be shoed, she feared for her virtue. When she seen the gleam in Grady’s eyes, she were right thankful it’d take a heap of time to finish the job – the shoein’ I mean.

Poor Grady must have been chompin’ at the bit ‘cause he done what he swore he’d never do – take on a ‘prentice to see to the other jobs that needed doin’ while Grady put his whole soul into gettin’ them animals shoed for my grandaddy. Now, the reason why Grady were so good were ‘cause he done everything his ownself – from ridin’ into Hendersonville for the iron he’d be needin’, right down to makin’ his own shoe nails. Givin’ a job to Grady meant you’d be gettin’ mighty fine work, but it meant you’d have to wait for it. Grady were makin’ dang sure this’d be the best he ever done. He didn’t want no mess-ups.

His first mistake were takin’ on a ‘prentice. His second were takin’ on Cotton Cooper’s ol’ man, Stu Cooper, to be that ‘prentice. Stu were just a young’un then, maybe 15 or thereabouts, but he were already stuck fast to the jug. His ma used to say he went right from the teat to the bottle and never let up. Oh, there were some skill hidin’ behind them bloodshot eyes and shaky hands. On a sober day – and they was few – ol’ Stu could swing a sledge with the best of ‘em. Grady were pretty hard up, though, and took who he could get and set Stu into makin’ wagon wheels for a farmer outta Caldoon County whilst he worked on gettin’ into Ma Ma’s petticoats.

Round about this time, a young fella named Seth Potter come back home to the mountain. He been livin’ with some old aunties in Tennessee since he were eight or so and come back to live on his daddy’s farm after the old man passed on. Alvin Potter didn’t like young’uns too much and when his wife Lizzie died of the influenza, he sent Seth off to live with his wife’s sisters. Alvin weren’t a bad sort; he done left the farm to Seth and Seth come back a big, strappin’ man of 19 to work that land and cut hisself a notch on this earth.

‘Fore he could do his own work, though, Seth needed some money, or at least some credit to pay for a team and some seed. He set off walkin’ down the road and stopped at the first place he come to, my Ma Ma’s daddy’s house.

Grandaddy liked the looks of Seth standin’ there in the yard. He looked ever’ bit strong as a horse – and as you may recollect, his own horses was off bein’ shoed.

Ma Ma were a shy sort and hid behind her daddy’s back and peeked out at Seth and couldn’t take her eyes off his hands – they was so big and powerful. Grandaddy put Seth to work right off, pullin’ his plow. Seth were right happy for the work. He seen Ma Ma peekin’ out behind her daddy and gettin’ to see her durin’ the day made the work all the sweeter.

Lordy, how that man musta worked! He done had three acres plowed by sundown. Ever so often Ma Ma brung him some sweetwater from the well and Seth always liked sayin’ he wasn’t sure what kept him goin’ – that cool water, or them cool, soft hands carryin’ that water out to him.

Whilst Seth and Rebecca were workin’ on fallin’ for each other, Grady were workin’ like a mad man on them shoes. Stu Cooper stayed pretty much sober while workin on them wheels ‘cept at the very start – it were his birthday and he celebrated for three days. So, when he’s chiseling the mortises for the hub of them wheels, he done forgot to slant ‘em. By the time he sobered up and seen what he done, he didn’t dare tell Grady and he stuck them spokes in anyhow, hopin’ no one’d get wise to it.

Grady’s third mistake were trustin’ Stu to do the job right.

By and by them horses and mules was shod and the wagon wheels done – in their fashion. Grady were so all-fired anxious ‘bout gettin’ them critters to Grandaddy Grover, he didn’t see no problem with them wheels. Him bein’ a fussy type, that’s right surprisin’, but dang lucky for me.

By the time Grady come to see Ma Ma to get his due, she had done forgot ‘bout him, she were so smitten with Seth Potter. Grandaddy seen it comin’, but didn’t do nothin’ to stop it. He liked Seth an’ didn’t see no harm in havin’ two suitors for his Rebecca – ‘long as he got the best farmhand on the mountain and his critters shod to boot.

‘Course I weren’t there, but I reckon when ol’ Grady showed up with them animals and finds some stranger courtin’ his gal on the porch swing, there musta been some sparks a-flyin’. Grandaddy Grover feared both fellas would walk off and leave Rebecca and him high and dry. He figgered the onliest way to work things out was to have some sorta contest ‘twixt the two – a wagon race, he decides – from his place to Hendersonville, the hilliest, rockiest patch of country you ever run across.

“Full wagons,” he says, ‘cause it just so happens he’s got to get a load of hay and corn likker to Hendersonville, “and the first one that gets their wagon over the town line gets the right to ask for my Rebecca’s hand in marriage.”

Ma Ma told me that if it were up to her, she knowed who she’d run off with right then and there. Seth were a righteous man, though, and figgered to have her hand fair and square. Grady didn’t care how he done it, he were feelin’ mighty deflated after shoeing all them critters and comin’ out empty-handed – he didn’t care how he won.

Poor Seth didn’t have no team to pull no wagon and no wagon neither, so Grandaddy Grover loaned him the lot. Everbody thought it right white of Grady to take a look at the team’s shoes aforehand “to make sure they’s up to snuff,” he said.

The race were set for the next day at sun up. Grady had a fine team of horses, of course, but he were hard-pressed to come up with a good wagon. He did have some good wheels, he thought – the very wheels Stu Cooper made – so he worked through the night fixin’ them to an old hay wagon.

That was his fourth mistake.

Grandaddy Grover called the mark and Seth and Grady were off. When they’s finally out of sight, Ma Ma says she were cryin’ buckets ‘cause Grady were out in front.

It were hard goin’. There be only a handful of spots where it were wide enough for one wagon to pass the other. Steep mountain passes made the wagons tilt so far to one side or t’other, they be apt to tip over. Granddaddy Grover had nestled his ‘shine down into the hay to save breakin’, but by the time they was through, there’d be more’n one cow drunk on likkered up hay.

They was runnin’ pretty much neck and tail when they come to the top of the last hill, with Hendersonville spread out below. It’s then that Seth’s horses start to buckin’ and neighin’ like they’s in powerful pain. Seth pulls off and checks their shoes and, sure enough, they ain’t but one nail holdin’ them on – and some come off altogether. Grady done checked them all right.

That devil snickered and slapped his knees as he drove past poor Seth, leavin’ him chokin’ in his dust.

Well, now, this here part be a might hard for a body to swallow, but I tells it like I heard it and my Ma Ma ain’t never lied.

Seth were so crazy with love, he done strapped hisself to that wagon and set off down that hill, fixin’ to win hisself a bride. Grady looked back and cackled mightily to see such a sight and whipped his horses all the more. He weren’t laughin’ for long.

See, if the mortises of a wheel ain’t slanted, the wheels ain’t dished. And if the wheels ain’t dished and the load shifts to the downhill side of the wagon, it are certain them wheels are gonna bow out and split apart – it just be a matter of time. And about a hunnert yards out of Hendersonville, Grady Pitts’ time were up. Them ol’ wheels started to bowing and Grady hears a sickenin’ crack and there she goes, in a dozen pieces.

While Grady’s scratchin’ his head at the side of the road, here come Seth round the corner, sweatin’ and puffin’, and passes him, crossin’ that town line first. He were right grateful Grandaddy Grover never said nothin’ ‘bout gettin’ them horses there, too.

Grady didn’t have no cause to raise a fuss, given what he done to them horses. Seth sure coulda raised a stink, but he were just happy to have his Rebecca.

Truth be told, Ma Ma woulda never married ol’ Grady anyhow. She said she woulda talked Seth into runnin’ off sooner or later. She said she couldn’t wrap her head around the notion of one day havin’ a son named Eustace Pitts.

Ground Control

Miami. South Beach. Back to the beginning.

She brought the car to a stop in front of an arrangement of square boxes with a red tile roofs called the Mallory Seaside Resort. She carefully applied the stage putty to her cheekbones, glued on a bulbous nose, and set a black curly wig on her head. Foundation and blush covered the latex seams, and Jackie Onassis sunglasses finished the ensemble. She looked at herself in the window’s reflection as she got out of the car. She was glamorously mysterious; no one would recognize her now. The image in the window smiled and patted a camel-colored pocket with a heavy bulge.

She threw her shoulders back and walked into the lobby. The mousy receptionist asked her a question, which was only responded to by a wave. Let the staccato of her heels tell everyone she was a woman of purpose. The receptionist reached for a phone, probably calling in a tip to the paparazzi that a celebrity had checked in. After all, what else could she be mistaken for?

The Shrink

By Bettyann Moore

The shrink’s office is pretty fancy: signed and numbered abstract prints on pearl-grey watered silk wall treatments; highly-polished mahogany desk, étagère and bookcases; Turkish carpet on hardwood floors; large, well-placed sculptures, including a hand-carved set of jade miniature figurines – endangered animal species – on the corner of the étagère.

I’ve seen fancier.

A handsome, well-dressed receptionist ushers me into the room where Dr. Jeffrey Young awaits. When he stands to shake my hand, I notice his expensive pinky ring and manicured nails. I’m pretty sure there’s at least one layer of clear polish on those nails. I can’t see his feet behind the desk, but I’m willing to bet they’re clad in Moroccan leather or, worse, alligator.

“Please have a seat, Julie,” he says, waving vaguely in the direction of a corner in which a leather couch and two chairs sit. He will, of course, analyze my seating choice. “You don’t mind me calling you Julie, do you?” I head for one of the chairs.

“It is my name,” I say, settling into the soft leather. “And I’ll call you Jeffrey.”

“As you wish,” he says, taking the chair opposite me. As he crosses his legs at the knees, I note the shoes: alligator-skin loafers.

I hate loafers.

“So,” he says, getting right to it, “what brings you here today?”

“It’s a condition of my parole,” I say, watching his reaction, which is to look down and scribble something in the leather-clad notebook on his knee.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“Yes,” I say, not giving an inch.

There’s an almost imperceptible sigh. I hear it, though.

“Well, let’s start there, then, shall we?” he says, looking up at me.

“Okay.”

“You’re on parole.”

“Yes.”

“I assume, therefore, that you were found guilty of committing a crime.”

“Yes.” You can’t get anything by Dr. Jeffrey Young. He’s sharp.

“And the crime was ...”

I smooth my skirt over my thighs and cross my legs before answering. “I stole a pencil.” Dr. Jeffrey Young is not an eyebrow raiser. If he were, he would have.

“You stole a pencil ...”

“Yes,” I answer, then give him a little more. “From a blind man.”

“And this blind man,” he says, making another notation, “what was he doing with a pencil?”

Whoa! Nice catch there, doc, I think.

“He was selling it. Them, actually. He had more than one. In a cup. On a street corner. Two for 50 cents.”

“And you stole just one?”

“Well, I took one. But it was for that old lady.”

“Old lady?” Jeffrey asks, cocking his head to one side.

“Yes, she was running down the sidewalk yelling ‘1-2-S-H-H-H!’ over and over again.” I let the shoe on my right foot drop to the floor, ease out of the second and tuck my legs under myself, getting more comfortable.

“1-2-S-H-H? Why?”

“No, 1-2-S-H-H-H. Three H’s. She was trying to remember them. It’s easy to forget that third H.”

“But what were they and why was she trying to remember them?”

“The license plate number,” I say, “of the man who grabbed her purse and took off with it.”

It’s almost like I can see the little light go on over Jeffrey’s head.

“So you took the pencil so you could write down the letters and numbers,” he says, impressing me.

“Oh, no,” I say. “So she could write them down. I try not to get involved in other people’s lives. Besides, I already knew the car belonged to a local librarian. Pretty obvious, when you think about it.”

“And this librarian,” he asks, “you know him?”

“Oh, certainly,” I say, adding, “intimately.”

Jeffrey scribbles furiously on his pad. “Intimately, meaning ...”

“Yes, that,” I answer. “In fact, I had been on my way to meet him at his house when the woman came screaming down the street.”

“So you took the pencil from the blind man and gave it to the woman to write down the number. What then?”

“I hailed a cab. Say, Jeffrey, do you think I could have a glass of water?” I say, nodding to a pitcher and glasses in the corner.

“Certainly, certainly,” he says, rising. He pours me a glass of water and when he returns, I’m settling myself on the couch.

“Thank you so much.” I take a demur sip.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. He sits in the chair I recently vacated as it’s closer to the couch. I sense that he’s a bit surprised, and perhaps a tad uncomfortable, by its warmth. He crosses his legs again, running the razor-sharp crease in his slacks between two fingers.

Razor-sharp creases annoy me.

“And you took the cab to the librarian’s house?” he takes up where I left off.

“Yes.”

“Was he there when you got there?”

“Of course. We had a ‘date’.”

“And did you say anything about the woman, the license plate?”

“Well, I tried, but he just pooh-poohed it, poured us a drink, and then we went to the bedroom.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

Jeffrey writes some more, frowning ever-so-slightly.

“But I was curious,” I add. “So when he fell asleep, I did a little checking.”

“Checking how?”

“Aside from a few nightlights here and there, the house was pretty dark, but I’d been there before, so I got up and started opening things … drawers, cabinets, closets. His wife keeps things very tidy.”

“His wife.”

“Yes, she was away that night.”

The pen starts scribbling again.

“Down the hall,” I continue, “I opened an enormous closet, one of those kind where the light goes on when you open it, like a refrigerator?”

“Yes?”

“And inside, besides all the coats and shoes, are dozens, maybe hundreds, of purses.”

Jeffrey almost arches an eyebrow.

“So, I slip inside, but I have to keep the door ajar because the light goes out if you shut it.” I stretch my legs out the length of the couch and lean up on one elbow.

“What did you do then?” Jeffrey prompts.

“Well, I opened the first purse I came to and took out the wallet. The picture on the driver’s license was of that old woman.”

“You must have had quite a shock.”

“Not half the shock I got when I looked in a bunch of others and saw that nothing had been taken from them … at least it seemed that way to me. There were keys, wallets, makeup, money, credit cards … if this guy was taking purses, he wasn’t taking them for what was inside, you know?”

The doctor merely nods.

“And since it was obviously his wife’s closet – all the coats and shoes were hers – she had to be in on it, too.

“The biggest shock, though,” I continued, “was when his wife came home.”

“What did you do then?”

“What could I do?” I said, swinging my feet to the floor. “I closed the door and pushed my way to the back of the closet to hide. And I waited.”

“Waited?”

“Yes. Obviously, I needed to get out of there … I was pretty creeped out by what I’d learned about this guy, but I had to hope that he would at least take care of the clothes, to save his own skin.”

“The clothes.”

“Yes, my clothes. They were all over the bedroom. I was naked, after all.”

“I see.” Jeffrey uncrossed his legs and recrossed them again.

“But I guess he didn’t hide them fast enough or something because they had a terrible big row. Seemed to go on for hours. I was freezing, so I grabbed the first coat I could feel, which turned out to be a lovely mink. It felt amazing against my skin.”

“How long did you wait?”

“Hours, I think, until the fighting stopped and they fell asleep or something. When all was quiet, I groped around for some shoes, but all I could find were CFM pumps.”

I could tell that Jeffrey didn’t want to ask, but he couldn’t resist.

“CFM pumps?”

“Come Fuck Me pumps,” I said, grinning across at him. “You know, seriously sexy shoes. That’s all the woman had in there, but it was better than going barefoot. I’d be hoofing it, after all. No car.”

“So, at this point you had on nothing but a fur coat and the, uh, shoes.”

“Yes, though for some reason I also grabbed the first purse I’d found, the old lady’s purse.” I didn’t say “the old bag’s bag,” but I thought it. I doubt Jeffrey did.

“Then you left.”

“Yes, then I left. I opened and shut the door as quietly as I could and sneaked down the stairs and out the front door.”

“How were you feeling at this point?”

Oh geez, I thought, analysis time.

“Seriously, Jeffrey, at this point I was so pissed off I could barely see straight. The nerve of that guy! I had a good mind to march back into that bedroom and throw a hissy fit right in front of his wife. It had not been a good day.”

Sometimes, I was a master at understatement.

“So you walked ... in what I surmise are not the most comfortable shoes.” Jeffrey wasn’t bad at understatement himself.

“My dogs were killing me before I’d gone a block!” I said. “And my apartment was a good mile, mile and a half away.”

“Surely you didn’t ...”

“Surely not!” I interrupted. “I got a ride.”

“A friend came by ...?”

“I wish! No, this gorgeous red Porsche pulled up alongside me and this guy – I thought I recognized him, but I didn’t – offered me a ride. I could feel my feet swelling and even in a mink coat, it was none too warm. So I did what anyone would.”

“You took a ride with a complete stranger in the middle of the night.”

Jeffrey could be positively droll sometimes.

“Presumably it all turned out well,” he said, “you’re here now, after all.”

“Yes and no,” I replied. “Yes, I’m here, but as for turning out well … better for me than for him, I can say that at least.”

Jeffrey had long ago dropped any pretense of making notes in his little leather book.

“How so?” he asked, both feet on the floor at this point.

I threw back my hair and slid down the couch, assuming the typical “therapy position,” ankles crossed, hands folded on my stomach.

“The jerk must have thought I was a hooker or something in that get-up I was wearing. He started saying all sorts of crass things and, before I knew it, we were parked in a dark alley somewhere and he was groping me.”

“You must have been extremely frightened.”

“Hell no, I was still mad! Madder! I hauled off and belted him right in the nose!”

“Then you ran away in the, uh, shoes?”

“Not right away,” I said quietly. “He was just a little guy and his nose was gushing blood all over the white upholstery. He was leaning over, holding his hands over his face and I, well, I gave him a karate chop right in the back of the neck. I felt like Bruce Lee or something.”

“And then you ran?”

“No … not yet. I must have hit him in just the right spot and he sort of went limp.”

“He lost consciousness?”

“Yes.”

“So you stayed to help him?”

“Not exactly … in fact just the opposite.” I admitted. “He had this car, see, and my feet hurt so bad! So I went around to his side and pulled him out and rolled him away from the car … so he wouldn’t get hurt when I drove away.”

“Julie, you’re telling me that you knocked a man out, dragged him from his seat and then stole his car?”

“Sort of. See, when I was dragging him away from the car, his shirt rode up and his back was showing. It gave me this idea.”

“Which was?”

“He had some sort of presentation case in the back seat (if you call that a seat, it’s so tiny) and there was one of those big, indelible markers in it. I was worried that he’d wake up, so I popped the trunk and found a couple of those bungee things.”

“You tied him up?”

“Just his hands.”

Jeffrey was too professional to roll his eyes, but I could feel him doing it anyway.

“Then what?”

“Then I wrote a little something on his back. I figured a whole lot of people would see it before he did. His wife, I hoped.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. Before Jeffrey could ask, I said, “I wrote: ‘I am an evil asshole who thinks he can get away with rape’.”

“Attempted rape perhaps ...”

“Perhaps, my ass,” I cried, sitting up. “The only reason he didn’t succeed was because I was bigger than him and mad. Besides,” I added, lying back down, “he was a small guy – ‘attempted’ wouldn’t have fit.”

I definitely heard Jeffrey sigh.

“So you took the car, drove home and that was that.”

“I would have been,” I said, “except I remembered that Felix was out of food.”

“Felix?”

“My cat. Trust me, one doesn’t want to let Felix go too long without food and he was plumb out. There’s a convenience store a few blocks from my apartment, so I thought I’d pull around behind the place, duck in and get some kibbles and just leave the car where it was. What could go wrong?”

“Indeed, what could.”

“First of all, there was this crazy old guy buying lottery tickets. He had ‘lucky numbers’ for every single ticket he bought … he couldn’t just let the machine pick for him. Naturally, there was only one checker.”

“Naturally.”

“I have to admit, I thought about just grabbing a can of 9 Lives and shoving it into the old lady’s purse, but I didn’t need that kind of hassle in my life.”

“You still had the old lady’s purse?”

“Of course! Mine was back at the librarian’s house with all my clothes. When I looked in her wallet before, I saw she had a few dollars in there – enough for cat food anyway.”

“So, you bought the food ...”

“Well, I was going to. The old man finally had his last lottery ticket and I stepped up to the counter, reached into the purse and pulled out … a gun.”

“What??”

“I didn’t know it was a gun! I just pulled out the first thing I felt and it was this cute little pistol … you know, an old lady’s gun. It was pink, for cripessake!”

“They still shoot.” Jeffrey’s good at stating the obvious.

“The clerk must have thought the same thing,” I said. “He freaked and threw his hands up in the air and the old guy? He dove for the floor. I figured he’d encountered that sort of thing before.”

“You explained to them ...”

“I tried, really I did! But the clerk kept shouting ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, take the money!’ and the old guy just kept his head covered with his hands. Like that would stop a bullet!”

Jeffrey had gotten up at that point and was pacing.

“The little weasel clerk must have hit a panic button,” I went on, “because pretty soon I could hear sirens. I thought it would be a good idea to get out of there, so I made a run for it out the back.”

“In those shoes?”

“That’s just the thing, Jeffrey! I couldn’t very well run in those shoes, the cops would be looking for someone in a mink coat, and there’s no way I was going to take that car again, so I did what I had to.”

“You didn’t.”

“I had to! I stripped off that coat and those shoes, and left the whole mess in the alley; I didn’t even take the cat food. And I ran.”

“Naked.”

“As a jay bird, though I’ve never understood that saying. What’s so naked about a jay bird anyway?”

“I ...”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, waving him off. “I was just blocks from home, the streets were deserted, so I took my chances.”

Jeffrey stopped pacing and sank into the chair behind his big desk.

“I’m afraid to ask,” he said. “You made it without incident?”

“Almost.”

Poor Jeffrey actually did a face-desk. I almost felt like getting up and patting him on the back.

“It was that pervert’s own fault!” I cried. “He’d still be alive if he wasn’t such a sicko.”

Jeffrey raised his head. “You killed someone?”

“Only indirectly.”

Down went his head again.

“Everyone in the neighborhood knew about him,” I went on. “He liked to peek in windows late at night. Most people just kept their shades pulled. It just happened that he was peeking into Mrs. Shaunnesy’s place on the first floor … I think Mrs. Shaunnesy was soft on him. She always kept one shade up a bit. I don’t think he actually ever saw anything … until he saw me, that is. I think the shock killed him.”

Jeffrey was quiet for a long time.

“Jeffrey?” I said, standing. “Doctor?”

“Go on,” came the muffled reply.

“Oh, I’m done,” I said. “I found my key – good thing I always hide one outside – opened the door on the apartment that Felix had completely torn up, took a shower and went to bed. And here I am.”

“Because you stole a pencil.”

“Yes.”

Jeffrey raised his head and sat back against his chair. For the first time, he looked at his watch.

“Julie, we’ve gone way beyond our 50 minutes. Let’s go back over this from the beginning next time, shall we?”

“Next time?”

“Why, yes! There are several issues I can help you work on. I’m sure that in six, maybe nine months we can have a handle on most of them ...”

“That’s crazy, Jeffrey!” I said, then giggled at the words. “I only have to see a shrink once as a condition of my parole, but it was very nice to meet you.” I reached across the desk and shook his hand, though it was pretty obvious he didn’t want to see me go. I think he had a crush on me. Very unprofessional, if you ask me.

On my way out through the receptionist’s office I heard him tell her to cancel his next appointment. I gave her a little wave, then stuck my hand in my coat pocket; the miniature jade figurine felt cool against my fingers. It was time for lunch; I was starving!

.

William

By Colleen Sutherland

The following is based on the third chapter of the novel I plan to publish by January, 2014. It began as a dream sequence exercise and expanded as I learned more about William Arden IV.

The day passeth, and is almost gone,

I know not well what is to be done.

To whom were I best my complaint to make?

What if I to Fellowship thereof spake?,

And showed him of this sudden chance?

Everyman

William Arden IV caught sight of his face in the mirror behind the Heathrow airport bar where he was drinking coffee and researching morality plays. He teased his neat, white mustache. He trimmed it himself, using a silver mustache trimmer. It was a slow process of snip here, snip there, to prevent mistakes. He should shave the whole thing off or have it trimmed when he got his monthly haircut . . . but he’d read too much medieval history to allow anyone near his throat with a razor. He could think of no way to direct his barber to trim the mustache without getting a shave as well.

He enjoyed his shaves, the ritual of them. He used a porcelain mug his grandfather and great-grandfather had used before him, re-filled with a soap bar purchased on his yearly trips to England. His pride was his brush of badger fur and an Italian polymer handle. He expertly applied the foam to his face is if he were brushing on oils. Then the safety razor, nothing plastic, but safer than a straight razor. He abhorred blood, quite squeamish really. Like Lady MacBeth’s guilt, blood spots wouldn’t wash out. It made him think of death.

He picked up the paper cup with his coffee and left the bar. He had been sitting there for two hours and the bartender was as bored with him as he was with the bartender. But what else should he do? The plane he was waiting for was already three hours late. It had been held up at O'Hare Field in Chicago because of a terrorist threat.

He wandered down the terminal to the place he was to meet the students he was to lead on a tour of England. He found one of the more comfortable chairs and settled in. He put his briefcase on one side and piled some paperwork on the other side to keep people away from him. There weren't that many but he hated making polite conversation with strangers . . . and there were always travelers that wanted to talk.

He held his book on medieval and Tudor drama, and tried to concentrate on Everyman, but distracted by the terminal noise, finally put it down. Surreptitiously, he glanced around and pulled out a popular magazine from his briefcase to read about a current celebrity scandal he had heard about on Entertainment Tonight. A flight arrived with people pouring out of the plane’s silver canister. He hastily dropped the magazine back into his briefcase. No, it was the wrong flight. He watched the passengers pass through, first class, business class, tourist class, finally the people put in wheelchairs, each headed to the luggage area. He fingered the pass that would allow him to join his students there when they arrived, to help them through the process. The arrival board gave no good news. The flight had been delayed another hour.

            He put on his glasses and pulled out his book again to read about the Crucifixion in one of the medieval mystery plays they would see in Lichfield, a village near Birmingham.

My sorrow it is so sad,

No solace may me save;

Mourning makes me mad

No hope of help I have.

           How depressing. He had to bone up on the mystery plays for the upcoming tour but wondered why he bothered. It wasn't like the students would pay that much attention. He glanced at his watch again. What difference did it make, after all? The time wouldn’t make the plane arrive any faster. Soon he would meet the dozen graduate students that he would chaperone in a tour of medieval sites. They had paid a pretty penny for this tour, thus paying for his own trip. All he had to do was get them to the hotel, and next morning, they would all board a bus. The guide would do most of the talking. He merely had to add the informed voice of a history professor to the proceedings from time to time. He intended to take digital photos of the mystery plays at Litchfield to use in his medieval history classes, making the trip not only free but useful. He only took graduate students so he had no worries about their drinking or sexual flings. They were of age so they could do whatever they wanted. This was his fifteenth tour. He had it all down pat.