Sorry this took so long – but I've had a flurry of creativity – there are two more chapters coming after this in the next couple of days, just as soon as I get them polished up.
This chapter definitely did not turn out as expected, but I am much more pleased with it than I was with the original 'plan.' I'm one of those writers who just sits down and types, without an outline – the only thing I know with certainty is the final outcome, but getting from point A to point Z is always full of surprises. ;-)
Thank you again, so very much, to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It is SO appreciated…
Chapter Twenty Eight
The Spanish Inquisition…
When I was a kid and anxious for the arrival of Christmas morning with it's promised booty under the cheap tinsel tree in my mother's living room – or waiting for Easter and a basket full of shredded news paper and waxy-chocolate, Mom would say that if I just shut my eyes and went to sleep, morning would be here before I knew it. Of course that was a lot easier to believe when I had eyes to shut. (Yes, really, once upon a time I did believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny – even the Tooth Fairy.)
These days when I drift off to sleep, without eyes to shut, the lines between reality and dreams blur… over me a mummy stands ominously, gloating over some victory I just don't understand, even if part of my brain tells me that I'm about to understand it and that it isn't going to be pleasant… a beautiful woman tells me that she's his daughter and that just doesn't make any sense either, because – because that means I've been set up – and that's just not possible. I throw shapes. I catch them. I set them up. I watch them fall… and I realize in the vaguest sort of way that I'm watching right now. I'm watching myself fall. And I can see happening.
I've seen too much… I've seen more than I want to… I'll never see again… the high-pitched whine of the drill is quickly drown out by the sound of screaming somewhere in the distance… red fades to black and when blackness takes over I realize that I might be awake, I can't quite tell… I only know how desperately I wish my dreams were as full of black nothingness as my waking world… are those eyes dripping down my face, all hot and sticky? I can't be sure…
I'm lying down. That brings a moment of panic.
I can't see. I should be able to see. (I think. Nothing is as it should be…)
My heart is pounding in my ears.
I've seen too much.
I can't breathe.
Random thoughts and images pop in and out of my head – a Christmas tree, a cowboy hat… cinnamon and vanilla… orange-floral-musk. That's the scent of angels…
Under me… sofa. Pillow. Browning.
My handtouches the familiar worn terry of my bathrobe;. I know where I am.
There's even a familiar big furry animal sitting next to me, panting at me in the dark, waiting patiently for me to come to my senses. I reach out and take a very odd comfort in the feel of warmth and fur beneath my hand. I hear Spencer's tail thumping against the carpet in appreciation of the attention.
I can breathe again.
I can't see.
But that's normal.
And I didn't wake up screaming.
I reach over and find my clock. Cinco y viente y ocho, says the mechanical voice. Five twenty eight. Almost an hour and a half before the alarm was set to go off… oh well, I'm up. Might as well get up.
After taking care of morning necessities and starting a pot of coffee, I grab my robe, smokes and cell phone and step out onto the back deck with Spencer (I replaced the sleeping mask with the shades in the bathroom – no need to frighten the neighbours.)
I'm not what you'd call a morning person, but there is something I do truly enjoy about a chilly autumn morning. The smell of frost on grass and dry, brittle leaves – smells like someone in the neighbourhood has a fireplace going. I love that smell. I love everything about this time of year – I don't know why. I don't get into the usual holiday 'cheer' (I'm with Tom Lehrer on that subject – 'Deck the halls with hunks of holly, fill the cup and don't say "when."'… of course, I'm rather partial Lehrer's assessment of the nuclear arms race too…)
I light up a cigarette and lean back against the siding, thinking cheerful little thoughts and listening to the world around me as I enjoy the first nicotine of the morning for a few moments before checking the cell phone for voice messages. A mechanical voice informs me that there are five. Damn, I'm a popular guy.
Milo. Milo sounding panicky. Paula Basil (see, I told you I'd be hearing from her sooner or later and it'd probably be sooner…) Marcus –? Well isn't that interesting (the message itself is fairly innocuous – which is also quite interesting.) Milo one more time sounding like he's freaking right out. And lastly, Paula being pissed at me for not picking up, telling me this isn't a game…blah-blah-didy-blah... Christ on a crutch, does she really think I don't know this isn't a fucking game? This is my life we're talking about here.
Spencer hops back up to the deck and we walk into the warmth of the condo together. I get his breakfast and my coffee – then dial Milo's number. And what do you know, it looks like the boy really does sleep sometime after all. Good for him. "Tag, Sugar Butt – you're it," I say after the beep. He'll get it that everything is fine. Although I am still going to wring his fucking neck.
And hmmmm… I dial that number Paula left for me. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven –
"Hello?" says a very sleepy voice on the other end of the line.
"Hey there Sweetcakes – I didn't wake you did I?" I reply with forced cheer.
"Do you have any idea what time it is, Jeff?"
"Sorry – can't seem to see the clock from here."
There's a moment of silence, than a rather curt, "It's six fucking a.m."
"Well your call sounded urgent," I tell her sweetly, "So I figured I'd better call you just as soon as I got the message."
More silence. I think she honestly doesn't know quite what to say. See, Paula knows what I'm like in the morning, and cheerful isn't a word anyone in their right mind would use... and for some reason most people who know me at all well tend to get a wee bit twitchy when I'm in an overly good mood. I've never been able to figure out why that is…
"Officer Basil?" I prompt, again, maintaining that same sickly sweet tone.
"Yeah. We need to talk."
"Well – my day is already pretty full –"
"This isn't a game, Jeff."
"So you keep saying – oh and ah sorry, though – I seem to have accidentally erased part of that second message –"
"When can you meet me?"
Damn, I don't think I ever noticed what a grump she can be in the morning - probably I was too busy being one myself. "Why don't you get yourself a nice cup of coffee and then we'll chat."
"Cut the crap. What are you doing for breakfast?"
"Sorry. Plans."
"Lunch?"
"Plans."
"Dinner."
"Sorry, Sugar – I have plans."
"I'll bet you do."
I just smirk, "Tell you what – I'll pencil you in for a drink – say around eight – hmmm – if I can find my calendar –"
"You're being an ass. Oh – wait, for a second I forgot who I was talking to."
"Touché." It took her long enough.
"Yeah well, it's early. So - eight o'clock?"
"It's a date, Doll – ten four and out – "
"Hey wait! Where are we meeting?"
"Well it only stands to reason that you got the job of investigating me because someone somewhere thinks you know me better than I do – so I'm sure I'll show up just exactly where you think I will. Tah-tah." I hang up before she can respond… heh. Yes, I'm being an ass – well, did you really expect any less? I'm sure Paula didn't. Besides, if she's smart, she'll hit the right place because this isn't Mexico and I actually do have a favourite couple of watering holes – and she really does know them. If she can remember. It's been a while. Heh.
……………………………………………………………………………….
…I'm just getting up to get a second cup of coffee when I hear familiar footsteps coming down the stairs (and I swear for a few seconds there, I can't quite breathe because even though I knew she was still here, there really is a difference between knowing and knowing.) Beth is in the kitchen by the time I've got her coffee poured. A pair of soft warm arms wrap themselves around my waist from behind, "Morning, Cowboy."
You know what hits me – really hard – right about here? I realize that for the first time in a long time, I think I can actually remember what it feels like to be happy. I stop what I'm doing just long enough to put my arms over hers and really just enjoy this.
"I told you I'd be here in the morning," Beth adds, softly.
"And you never lie, do you?"
"Nope. For me?" she asks of the coffee.
"Almost," I hate to let go – but I know there's honey around here somewhere…it's in one of those stupid bear shaped bottles, you know the ones, where the honey runs out of the bear's head. Personally, I think they should have it coming out the other end, but that's just me…
"I can get that you know."
"Or you can just sit down and let me be a gentleman."
"And I'm betting things will go a lot more smoothly if I just do it your way, right?" She asks – but I know she's smiling.
"You better believe it." (I wonder if she's on to just how much of a control freak I really am – yes, I can admit to that, thank you. I like having things my way.)
Beth just laughs and sits down while I fix her cup. Honey in coffee – that one still boggles my mind (I take mine black with two to three teaspoons of sugar, just in case you're wondering.)
"You sleep ok?" I ask her as I putter with the coffee.
"Yeah. You?"
"Better than I have in a while," I admit; I start another pot before joining her. "Cicily still asleep?"
"She woke up with me – she'll be down in a few minutes. Looks like you've been up for a while, though."
I'm guessing the empty pot gave me away. "I'm really not a morning person," I assure her. I light up a couple of smokes and pass one over; I really do feel so normal, being with her like this, like we're just any two people, going about the business of the morning. I wonder if Beth will ever realize how much I dig that.
"You know, you're going to spoil me if you keep this up."
I just shrug. I kind of dig the idea of spoiling her, too. However… "Do you have any plans for the day?" I really hate to ask Beth to do what I'm about to ask her to do, but adding Paula to my day has made it just that much longer.
"I hadn't even thought about it yet – is there something you need me to do?"
"I don't know how much Milo told you about the situation with Emma –?"
"He didn't tell me anything – and neither did she really, just what you and I talked about last night."
Figures. I give Beth the real quick and dirty version of what happened with that school Ally and Roscoe sent my kid to.
"And you want me to see if I can find a school that will take her – in November? You realize it's barely three weeks until Winter break – which is usually the end of the semester."
"Don't public schools have to take anybody at any time?"
"Yes – but – if you can avoid it – "
"Right now I just want to avoid having to shoot a truant officer."
Beth chuckles – but I'm pretty sure she realizes that I would do it.
"I'll see what I can come up with. Maybe it'll give Emma and I something to work on together. I mean – I'm assuming – that – you didn't change your mind over night – that you still really want us to stick around –?"
I'm about to show her how much I want her to stick around when we both hear Cicily's footsteps bounding down the steps – so all I can do is tell her that yes, I really do want her to stay.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"If you change your mind –"
"Never," I tell her again. I like having her right here…
"Morning!" Cicily says as she joins us… ah yes, the sound of a child in the morning. Why is that they are such morning people at that age?
"Good morning, Sweet Pea," Beth's smile is truly audible (and it really amazes just how much love I can hear in her voice when she talks to Cicily. I'm trying to remember if my mother was ever like that – I don't think so, but it was an awful long time ago...) I hear what sounds like a hug being exchanged between them and can't quite help but smile. I really do like having them here.
Then Cicily turns in my direction and I find small arms wrapped around my neck – and I really can't do anything except hug her back. When she lets go, I announce my plans to get in a shower – Beth says she's going to start seeing about breakfast.
"You really don't have to –"
"I have to do something to feel useful," she tells me.
I just sigh – I suppose I should just let it go. I'm just not real used to being taken care of… "Um – I really hate to ask, but could your help me with something first?"
And I swear, I can just about hear Beth's eyebrow raising, "Yes?"
I just chuckle a little; I don't have to be psychic to know what she's probably thinking I want (well, I would like Beth to come in and scrub my back – or front – but that really isn't what I'm about to ask…) "I – need to find a particular t-shirt and I'm afraid I'm a little – um –impaired in certain areas."
"I can help," Cicily offers cheerfully.
"Um –" I hear Beth's hesitation.
"Ok," I agree – and try to give Beth what I hope is a reassuring smile – she's seen my t-shirts.
"Are you sure?" Beth queries – yes, that is definitely trepidation in her voice.
I just keep smiling and head towards the stairs with Cicily beside me – and I'm very conscious of the slow easy pace she takes. "So what do you think of Washington D.C. so far?" I ask her as we go.
"I don't know – I haven't seen much of it. But I liked the movie – we don't get to go to the movies very much at home – Mama doesn't like the theatre there. And I like Emma, too," she adds quickly.
"So what movie did you guys see?" I don't quite know what else to ask about…
"Brother Bear. It's about an Indian boy who gets turned into a bear so he can learn to be nicer to bears."
Nicer to bears? Right.
"He was really mean because he didn't understand what it was to be a bear," she explains. "So the Spirits turned him into one so he could find out."
Whatever it was about, I think I owe Emma big time. "So, maybe I can show you guys around the city, a little later," I suggest. (Yes, enough about bears already…)
"I don't know if we're gonna be here that long. Mama said you had lots of important stuff to do and we probably wouldn't even see you much – and that we weren't really staying very long anyway."
"Well – I do have some things I have to do," I admit – we reach the master bedroom (I feel so freaking hoity toity when I put it that way – 'the master bedroom' – insert cheesy English butler accent here... Christ.) "But I think you guys'll be around long enough to get to see a few things," and because I gave my word, I won't tell her that they're staying – indefinitely? Forever? We really don't know what the fuck we're doing, do we? And I suddenly realize that Cicily has gone all quiet on me – she hasn't even come into the bedroom. "What's the matter?" I ask – I know she's not afraid of being alone with me…
"Nothing."
Right. "You sure?"
"Uh-huh."
"Come on – talk to me – don't you want to see the rest of the city?" I ask, kneeling down to her level. I really don't know how to talk to children; it doesn't help that all I'm getting from the only child I want to talk to is silence… and it feels to me like frightened silence. But I know she's not afraid of me… "D.C. is the capitol of the United States you know," I am so out of my fucking element here…
"I know."
"Have you ever been here before?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Well there's lots to see – the White House, the Lincoln Monument – come on, what's wrong?"
I hear – movement. My best guess is that she just shrugged at me. Swell. I believe I have just come to the conclusion that women are impossible to figure out no matter what age they are. And now I'm living with three of them… I'm fucking doomed. All the same, I refuse to be stymied by a seven year old. "How about the Smithsonian?" I ask next, because ok, maybe seeing the White House would sound a little dull to a kid…
"What's that?"
Ah-ah – she sounds genuinely curious… see, all those interrogation skills do come in hand in the 'real world'. "A really big museum. They have – well they have just everything there."
"They can't have everything, silly – then there wouldn't be anything anywhere else."
Ok, I refuse to be stymied by a precocious seven year old. "Ok, maybe not everything – but almost everything."
Cicily giggles.
Hah. I have conquered the situation. (Great, the mighty Sheldon Jeffrey Sands has fallen so far that his greatest conquest is besting a seven year old. Christ on a crutch.) "So – is it a date? Maybe Saturday?"
"If we're still here." (And the giggle has vanished; so much for my victory. But I'm not down for the count yet…)
"I think maybe I can talk your mother into staying that long. It's only a few more days."
More movement – I'm guessing it's another shrug.
I really thought I had her there, too. "Don't you want to see the Smithsonian?"
"Uh-huh – but – you – don't really have to – to take us. Mama and me can go by ourselves."
Ok, game over, I've had it. )And so have my legs – shit kneeling is not a good position when one's been fairly recently shot.) My ass finds the carpet and I cross my arms over my chest, "Don't you like having me around?" I ask. (Even though I'm really just trying to provoke her enough to level with me I am honestly a little hurt here, because… because I really do like this kid and I thought it was mutual… was I wrong?)
"Oh no! No, I love having you around!"
Oops… miscalculation, sounds like tears starting… fuck… I really don't know how to talk to kids. Beth is going to storm in at any second and rip me a new one, I just know it (although I don't hear footsteps on the stairs. Yet.) Softening my tone considerably, I manage to coax Cicily over to me – and find her in my lap. Oh boy. Ok, Sheldon, just breath. She's only a kid …never mind that you've never had a kid in your lap before...
"I wish we never had to go away," Cicily tells me – her voice is somewhere between a whimper and a whine – and those are definitely tears I hear in there. Swell.
But – ok, maybe it's a starting point. "Is that why you're upset? You don't want to leave?" I put my arms around her – but I feel really fucking awkward here. Hugging her when she's standing up – or I'm tucking her in – that's one thing – but there is a seven year old sitting in my lap. This is a really new experience. I don't even like kids, remember?
"No – I mean – I don't wanna leave – but – you don't have to take us anywhere, honest. We're fine right here. I like being right here. We don't have to go anywhere."
Now I'm really confused. Did Beth tell her not to bug me or something? She was awfully convinced that they wouldn't be staying but – I really don't know. Cicily is clearly upset about something and I just will not be stymied by a kid. Besides, this isn't just a game any more. I want to know what the fuck is the matter here. (And I want to fix it.) "What if I want to you guys out?" I ask as gentlyas I know how.
Cicily sniffles, "But you don't have to, really."
"Well – no – I don't have to," I concede. "But – what if I want to?"
"I just don't want you to be sad," she tells me.
Okie-dokie. I am officially lost. "Sweetie, the only thing making me sad right now is not knowing what's going on inside that pretty little head of yours."
"You said – even after you got better – you still wouldn't be able to see. And – if you take us someplace where the only thing to do is to see things – that'll make you sad. I don't want you to be sad."
My Christ – all these years without a soul to care whether I lived or died – and suddenly – suddenly I've got a pair of angels worrying about me… a pair of angels and one very uncertain teen aged daughter. I really am doomed. I wrap my arms securly around Cicily, bringing her in close. "Taking you and your Mom sight seeing won't make me sad. I've already seen the Smithsonian – so I wouldn't be going to see stuff anyway. I'd just be going to – to hang out with you guys. And that would make me very happy." And that's the truth. But when did I turn into – into a guy who honestly would love to spend a Saturday afternoon at the Smithsonian with… a family… ok… I really need to stop this train of thought right here. This – this is getting a little too real – and too real is just too fucking scary… but this is what I want, isn't it? When I asked Beth to stay, this is what I wanted… it's just that I am really realizing that this is more than just that happy little feeling I get when Beth is in the room. This is… this is me needing a cigarette.
I feel Cicily turn her head so that she's looking straight up at me, "It would really make you happy to take us to the – Mithonian?"
"Smithsonian," I correct her gently, trying desperately to reign in my panic – yes, being happy is really fucking scary, ok? In my experience happiness truly is a counterfeit emotion.It's full of all this promise but at the end of the day all you wind up with is a whole lotta hurt, so you learn not to believe that anything good can ever happen to you. Good things only happen to other people. However, I really do not want to try explaining that to a seven year old. She's just young enough to hold onto a few fantasies yet – and as near as I can figure, Cicily hasn't exactly had a peachy little childhood. I don't want to be the one to make it worse. "It would make me happy to show you guys around," I tell her. "If you want."
I feel Cicily nodding against my chest – and I'm still freaking out, I'm just keeping it locked up tight where she can't see it. I'm real good at that. "Ok, I'll talk to your Mom – and we'll see what we can do. Meantime – how about you help me find something?"
"Sure – what?"
I describe the t-shirt in question and get into the bathroom as fast as I can without rousing suspicion.
And I stand under some very hot water for a very long time.
I am not Ward Cleaver. I am not Mike Brady. I'm not even fucking James Bond. I'm the Bad Guy – the cowboy. The lone gunman. The only thing that I have waiting for me at the end of my life is a shallow grave and one way ticket on the express elevator down to see ol' Hob. I have no illusions. I know who I am. What I am. I made my choices – I have no regrets. No going back. No fucking apologies. This is my life.
And my Christ – there's a woman out there – within my grasp – who – who wants – what? What can I give her? I'm a fucking menace, remember?
So you can chose a different life… maybe your nothing is my everything…. nothing worth while is ever easy…
But we're not talking 'easy' or 'not easy', we're talking 'impossible'. My life doesn't fit trips to the zoo or Girl Scout meetings. My life is – it's just what Holly said it would be. It's built on lies and deceit; nothing is real. Well, the guns are fucking real enough, so are the bullets – but the rest of it? The rest of it is manipulation and mendacity. (Leave your dictionaries where they are, kiddies, that's just a fancy word for lies. And I'll bet you didn't know they call it 'consonation' when you put two words that start with the same consonant right next to one another… yeah, I'm meandering – but can you blame me?)
Even if I get out of this in one piece – even knowing that there's no way the Company would ever take me back – do I really expect the rest of my life to be so differentfrom what it's been so far? I am who I am. A leopard can't change is strips... a bad guy will always be a bad guy.
(And yes, I do realize that at the core of my little freak-out what's really going on is that I'm scared out of my shorts, because here it is – right here – that 'all' I wanted so bad when I was younger. All I have to do is to have the guts to see it through – and not screw it up. Right. Do the words 'fat chance' mean as much to you as they do to me? I don't know how to make this work. I – I can't. I'm going to screw it up – you know it as well as I do. And, see, that's freaking me out too, because I know I could have it, really have it – and then lose it all again to my own fucking stupidity. I'm not real sure I could live through that.)
I finally pull myself out of the shower long abouts the time the water is getting cold. I don't feel any closer to 'an answer' – if there even is one. Realistically, the choices are pretty simple. Either I have the guts to try – or I don't. Either way, I'm sure it's going to end badly, it's just a matter of degree.
I locate my razor and shaving cream – and I remember the first time I tried to shave blind, sitting in Beth's tub, after she'd coaxed me into trusting her enough to let her help me wash my hair… I still wonder if she has any idea how easy it is to kill a man in the bathtub. She could have hurt me – she could have killed me. She could have sold me out to any number of people for quite a lot of dough. It wasn't like I gave her any kind of reason to help me – Christ, when I really think about it, I was truly a fucking asshole. But she held onto me in the dark anyway – she chased away the nightmares just by being there. She took care of me in a way that I honestly don't think anyone else ever has. (Milo is the only other person who's ever seen me vulnerable.)
I wonder if he's right – if there have been other people who would have cared about me if I'd given them half a chance… I may never know the answer to that question. There haven't been any other people I've wanted to let in.
But I do want this. I want her. I want 'it all'.
I just know I'm going to screw it up sooner or later – probably sooner.
Trying very hard not to think about what it's going to feel like when it all comes crashing down, I get myself dressed. I'm going to just enjoy this while it lasts – that's my motto, right? Take what you can, when you can get it and just enjoy the Hell out of it – then move on. This situation isn't so different… except I'm not so sure about that moving on part. But hey, who knows, maybe somebody will put a bullet in my skull before I have to worry about it. It's not like I can't think of at least a dozen people who would like to see me dead…
…Emma is just coming out of her room as I exit the 'master bedroom'.
"Shelly – you can't be serious."
"About?"
"The wardrobe."
I'm wearing a clean t-shirt (I gave it the sniff test) with a nice silk screen image of Michael Palin, and Terrys Jones and Gilliam, dressed up in red Cardinal frocks – one of them has goggles on his head (I think that's Jones). Bold red letters across the top of the picture proclaim that NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Smaller less bold black print on the back reads: Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency... Our three weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope... Our four...no... Amongst our weapons... Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear, surprise... I'll come in again. The print is accompanied by the image of a comfortable looking arm chair… Of course I'll be wearing a suit coat with it, so no one will see the back, unless I take it off… and doing that will also reveal the heat I'm going to be packing…
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I ask, managing a grin. I really am looking forward to this meeting with her school… sometimes it's life's little pleasures that make all the difference in my world.
"You're seriously going to wear that to see Mr. Harrison?"
"Harrison – principal?"
"Yeah. And he has absolutely no sense of humour."
Oh goodie… "Come on – it smells like breakfast down there – " (eggs – bacon – can't tell what else from up here – although I think I smell a fresh pot of coffee brewing and I could really use another cup of that... )
"Maybe we can talk – later?" Emma asks – is that trepidation I hear in her voice?
"Sure," is the only thing I really can say…
In the living room, Cicily is watching television – nothing I recognize, but I'd hazard a guess that if I could see it, there would be talking animals and brightly coloured puppets. Emma walks with me into the kitchen, but she only stays long enough to get a cup of coffee and ask Beth if she can lend a hand with anything (I do give my kid credit, whatever her problem is – and I'm assuming she still has one, why else would she want to talk to me later – she's being more than civil.)
"You could set the table," Beth suggests.
Emma doesn't say anything, but I listen to her getting dishes down from the cupboard – silver from the drawer – and she heads towards the dining room... I pour my own coffee and slid up next to Beth (she's at the stove), and rest one hand on her hip. I really need to feel her warmth right now.
"That good, huh?" she asks.
"Do you really know what I'm thinking?"
"It doesn't work that way. I just know something's wrong – and I hope it's not me."
Christ, she's the only thing that's right… even if I don't know how long it's really going to last… I just shake my head, I don't want to think about it, I just want to enjoy her company. "Emma wants to talk to me later – and I have no idea what it could be about. And I really do not do well with uncertainty."
"I'm sure it's not that bad."
I just shrug – I don't really want to talk about it. "So what smells so good?"
"Nothing special – potatoes, bacon – how take your eggs?"
"You tell me," I manage a grin.
Man, I love her laugh, even when it's directed at me –
"Hmmmm… over easy," Beth opins after a moment.
"Freaky, Ange. Just plain freaky."
"You do realize that I had an almost fifty percent of getting that one right. Most adults take their eggs over easy – after that it's scrambled."
"I don't care. You're still freaky."
"Uh-huh. Eggs are on the counter behind you, in the carton – be useful and hand 'em over, Cowboy. And I love the shirt, by the way."
I just grin at her, "It seemed appropriate."
And I am very sure that Beth is shaking her head at me…
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
… The last time I was in a high school was when I was in high school. I can't say they've improved much. The joint Emma attends (attended? Well, whatever, it reeks of old sweat socks and industrial cleaner.) At least by the time Emma and I arrive (with Spencer) all but the most delinquent of her classmates are in class so the halls are mostly empty. I don't like people and the younger they are, the less I like them.
Emma gets me to the main office but tells me she has to grab a few things from her locker, "Assuming you're really serious about pulling me out of here –?"
"If I keep you here, will you actually attend classes?"
"What do you think?"
"Right. So don't take too long getting your stuff." I really don't intend to give these people too much of my time.
"I won't – I pack light everywhere I go."
Right. She kinda reminds me of me… which is just too damned scary.
I listen to the sound of Emma's retreat – and into the office, I go. And I am immediately greeted by a very familiar scent – which sets my nerves right on edge… it's my sister's cologne.
Locating her isn't difficult – Alison actually stands up to greet me.
"What are you doing here?" I demand just loud enough for her to hear (there seem to be five or six other people in the office – but other than one conversation that I heard come to a halt as I entered, it seems as if I'm being ignored. Good.)
"How are you? I had a great weekend, thanks for asking," is Alison's response.
(Behind me I hear the conversation that stopped start up again – sounds like someone talking on the phone…) "Cut the crap and answer my question," I snap back at her.
(A little further in the background, I hear someone typing on a computer, and papers are being shuffled.)
"I'm here because the principal called me, after you called to say Emma wouldn't be in yesterday. Since I'm the one who registered her for school, they're still trying to figure out who you are."
And here I didn't think my day could get any worse… "And?" I prompt.
"And – here I am. And oh, my marriage may finally be over, thank you."
"You're not losing out on much. That guy's a total fuckmook."
"Well that total fuckmook is the only person who ever took care of me, Shel. He was there for me when Mom was sick – he was there when I needed someone. You, as usual, had no interest in anyone but yourself."
"You're fucking adult – when are you going to stop needing someone to hold your hand through every little crisis?"
"You call Mom's bypass surgery a little crisis?"
"What could I have done for her anyway – I'm not a doctor."
"No. Doctors save lives."
And I don't know why, but her words really cut right through to the bone today. Maybe it's just because I've already had a fuck of a morning... "I did my best, ok? All the while we were growing up I did the best I could – I gave you everything I had – I took care of you – "
"In what dreamland? Mom took care of us – she raised us, she gave us everything we had – you were – you were a kid, just like me."
"What about Chet Wheaton? That was me – "
"Jesus Christ, Shel – you almost killed Chet Wheaton with that little 'stunt' of yours. You actually expect me to be grateful to you for that? Mom had to quit the first good job she had because of it – because of you. Or do you really think you're so good she didn't know you were behind the 'accident' that landed Chet in the hospital?"
And – fuck me, but she actually sounds like she feels sorry for that little twerp. I don't believe this – he knocked her down and stole her bike – and she's upset that I put him in the hospital? I think I need a cigarette.
"The last few years Mom and me got real close, Shel," Alison goes on. "Did you know that every time a neighbour's pet went missing, she honestly expected to find it buried in our backyard."
"Christ on a crutch," now I know I need a cigarette. I hate bullies – and Alison knows it. "If I need to prove how tough I am, I'll take out somebody bigger than me – not someone smaller – or somebody's fucking pet." Yeah, it takes a real tough guy to gut a cat. Shit. Shit, fuck, damn and Hell. I do not need this crap right now.
"She told me how she and Dad used to fight about you all the time –"
"Oh, now I'm the reason they split up, not little Miss Hot Pants?"
"I didn't say he didn't end up marrying Gloria –"
"Gloria – you mean it has a name now?"
"Yes, Sheldon. She has a name. She always had a name, you just refused to use it. Even Mom called her by name."
"Um – excuse me," says a voice behind us – female, middle aged, perfume that smells like floral air freshener, "Mr. Harrison is ready for the parents of Emma Dawson –?"
It's not even ten o'clock in the morning and already I have a fucking migraine…oh yeah, and I really wanna kill somebody, I'm just not sure who. Yet.
Just then, Alison catches my arm (I'm pleased by Spencer's low, warning growl. Good dog…) "Sheldon – there's something else we need to talk about."
"Fine. Then will you go away?"
"Nothing could make me happier."
"Swell." I'll deal with the principal – talk to my sister – and then get the fuck outa Dodge…
…………………………………………………………………………….
A Christmas Carol By Tom LeherChristmas time is here, by golly,
Disapproval would be folly,
Deck the halls with hunks of holly,
Fill the cup and don't say "when."
Kill the turkeys, ducks and chickens,
Mix the punch, drag out the Dickens,
Even though the prospect sickens,
Brother, here we go again.
On Christmas Day you can't get sore,
Your fellow man you must adore,
There's time to rob him all the more
The other three hundred and sixty-four.
Relations, sparing no expense'll
Send some useless old utensil,
Or a matching pen and pencil.
"Just the thing I need! How nice!"
It doesn't matter how sincere it is
Nor how heartfelt the spirit,
Sentiment will not endear it,
What's important is the price.
Hark the Herald Tribune sings,
Advertising wondrous things.
God rest ye merry merchants,
May you make the Yuletide pay.
Angels we have heard on high
Tell us to go out and buy!
So let the raucous sleigh bells jingle,
Hail our dear old friend Kris Kringle,
Driving his reindeer across the sky.
Don't stand underneath when they fly by.