Like Glass: Chapter 2

If you’re just barely joining us, catch up with Chapter 1 here.  Remember: there’ll be a random drawing on Wednesday, January 28th for a free digital copy of the novel, so make sure to leave a comment!

 

Rarely was Bill one to try and set Rob up with a date. Occasionally he’d find a girl that might be interested in his younger brother, or that he thought Rob would like, but it invariably became another conquest of his own. Knowing that made this blind date seem all the more interesting as Rob walked in the late April evening to a coffee shop on Los Valles Avenue, tucked away in one of the lower-rent areas of town and only a few blocks from his apartment.

He knew the coffee shop somewhat well; he’d spent a handful of evenings there on the patio outside, sipping the cheapest special they had at the time and smoking while other students came and went. Sometimes he’d sit there with a book or two studying for a test when he got tired of staring at the walls of his apartment; sometimes it was just somewhere to go.

Had it not been for Bill’s insistence that this girl was Absolutely Perfect for Rob he wouldn’t have gone; blind dates were not exactly his idea of how to best spend a Friday night. However, knowing that Bill was hardly one to exaggerate when it came to issues of the fairer sex, Rob set aside his books for the night. He put on the single pair of dress pants he owned and a shirt that was only slightly wrinkled, and made his way in a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and the God-I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this self consciousness that stems from blind dates.

While he walked, he tried picturing the “devilishly hot” girl that would be waiting. It was difficult, as “devilishly hot” had been all that Bill had given him to work with. He tried for a moment to think of past girls that Bill had so designated, and knew it was pointless at the size of the list he made with only a moment’s thought: one-hundred pound brunette waifs, athletic blondes, and even a redhead that had been at least twice Rob’s size had all fit that description from his brother at one time or another. He gave up trying and left Ms. Absolutely Perfect to the fates.

He opened the door to the coffee shop, the aroma of cappuccinos and lattes filling the air, suddenly aware that he couldn’t remember the girl’s name—Missy, Trixie, Kristy, something like that. He wasn’t terribly worried though; he knew he could play it off by looking around stupidly and making it obvious that he didn’t know who he was looking for. She’d come up to him and say “Rob? Hi, I’m…” and fill in the blank for him.

The interior of the shop was deserted, save for one rather large guy about Rob’s own age, staring intently at a text book as though it held the secret to the universe. If the guy in the corner was Bill’s idea of an Absolutely Perfect girl, this would most likely be a fairly short-lived blind date.

Seeing no other patrons and no specials marked on the black board above the counter, he ordered a regular coffee from the barista, and briefly considered between the fancy glass ashtrays with the coffee shop’s logo on it and the plain, disposable tinfoil ashtrays. Knowing he’d do best to keep his risks for embarrassment to a minimum, he chose one of the disposable ones. If he did happen to drop it when she arrived (as of course he would, always the lady killer), he figured the tinfoil was less apt to shatter on the concrete than the glass ones. With his smoking paraphernalia decided on, he took a seat outside to begin what he hoped was a short wait.

After about an hour, as twilight inched onward to full night, he started to realize that Absolutely Perfect was standing him up. He’d already sipped his way through two coffees and was halfway through his third as this thought started to announce its presence more frequently and with a little more insistence. By the time the barista had come out to bring him a fourth one, he’d accepted the fact that this Friday night was better suited to just enjoying his coffee and cigarettes out in the cool April air.

Of course, this acceptance served the fates well, as it gave them an excuse to make him realize he’d only brought half a pack of cigarettes, of which he’d smoked the last one. The barista saw him shaking his pack hopelessly as she sat down his fourth cup.

“Here,” she said, tossing a couple of 100’s-length cigarettes on the table. She grabbed the disposable ashtray and replaced it with one of the glass ones. He didn’t argue; with the chances of his date showing up growing slimmer by the moment, he was no longer worried about it shattering at the most inopportune time.

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Not a problem.”

He looked up at her; she was far from unattractive. The runways of Paris wouldn’t see her any time soon, but she would likewise never be left wanting for a date. Her hair was almost shoulder-length, dark brown or black—the streetlamps didn’t provide enough light to allow him to distinguish—and with a slight wave. She was thin, but not anorexic. He doubted she’d beat him in arm wrestling, but she looked like she could probably take him in a foot race (even ignoring the effects five years of smoking assuredly had wrought on his potential for a spot on the Olympics).

The lighting in the coffee shop did her no justice at all, with the stark fluorescent white stealing all trace of life from her face. While the street lights did little better, they at least gave more shadows, gently highlighting the soft curves and angles of her face.

“So, has it sunk in yet?” she asked, breaking his reverie as she cleaned the table next to his.

“What do you mean?”

She smiled at him, playfully, and not unkindly. “You’re obviously waiting for someone who hasn’t shown up yet. I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I don’t think she’s coming.”

“Yeah, it was starting to. Blind date.” He lit one of the cigarettes she’d given him. Much too light for his taste, but he hadn’t even had to ask her for one.

“Ahh…I always hated those.”

“Me too.” She laughed.

“Obviously. Why else would you be here?” He chuckled a little; she somehow put him at ease, regardless of the comments at his expense.

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but I think your wait’s going to have to end pretty quickly here. We’re about to close up for the night.”

“That’s fine. I was going to leave after this one anyways,” he said, indicating his coffee with the cigarette. “You guys are closing up awfully early for a Friday though, aren’t you?” It was only a little after nine; he’d never been here this late on a Friday before, but it seemed strange to him. She shrugged.

“That’s just when we close. Here,” she tossed a couple more cigarettes on the table for him. “For kicking you out early.” She walked off before he could refuse or thank her. He sipped his coffee as quickly as its temperature would allow, placed the last couple of dollar bills he’d set aside for the night’s entertainment on the table as a tip, and walked out.

Rob had only gotten so far as the next block when he heard a female voice call after him.

“Hey! Stranger! Wait up!” He turned around, curious but cautious—he knew this wasn’t the greatest area of town, although he doubted a woman would be calling at him to take a couple of shots at him.

Instead of a semi-automatic pistol though, the woman calling after him had nothing more powerful than her purse. While it could serve as a handy blunt instrument in the right hands, he doubted she was calling after him to bludgeon him with it for leaving a lousy tip. He waited patiently for a few seconds as she caught up to him, jogging slightly.

“Hey,” she said again as she neared him, panting slightly from the short run. “This’ll sound stupid as I stand here trying to catch my breath, but you know those smokes I gave you?” He nodded, though she continued before she could’ve noticed. “Those were my last ones. Can I get one of them back from you? I hate to ask, but it’s a decent walk home and I could really go for a cigarette on the way.”

“Sure,” he said as he fished his pack from his pocket. The cigarettes hadn’t fit very well, being longer than his normal brand, and so the box had crumpled them slightly when he’d forced it in his pocket. She laughed at the slightly curved cigarette he held out to her, but took it anyways.

“Cute.” She lit it and took a deep drag, then sighed as she exhaled. “Nothing like a good smoke after a long day at work.”

“Very true.” She started walking, and he hesitated.

“Mind walking a girl home through a bad neighborhood? You can think of it as earning the cigarettes if you’d like.” He considered the piles of clothes in his apartment that he needed to carry to the laundromat, the dishes in the sink, the four tests he had next week that he hadn’t even started to study for, and countless other things he should be doing with his newly-opened Friday night. This consideration took all of half a second.

“Sure, I’d be glad to.”

“Do you have a name? Or should I just call you ‘hey you’?”

“Rob. Robert. Or Rob.”

“Okay, Rob-Robert-Or-Rob. I’m Janet.” She put her cigarette in her left hand and stuck her right hand out. He took it and shook it gently.

“Nice to meet you Janet. How about we leave it at ‘Rob’?”

“Works for me.” He lit a cigarette of his own and they started walking. “So, Rob, what do you do when you aren’t waiting patiently for a girl who doesn’t show up?”

“School. Music. You? I mean, other than the coffee shop.”

“School. History major. Why music?”

“Just seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She laughed.

“Sounds like a nice philosophy to base your future on.”

“Well, I’ve played piano for a long time. Never really thought about doing much else. What about you? Why history?”

“The stories. Wars, politics, murder, incest, adultery. Hollywood has nothing on real life.” He laughed again.

They walked in amicable silence for a short while, and he found it both natural and strange that the silence wasn’t awkward. It was a contented silence, the silence of old friends who had long since found the spot where they could be comfortable not saying anything.

This was a part of town he was only vaguely familiar with, and he could understand why she probably wasn’t crazy about walking home alone if she had to. The houses were all low-income rentals, maybe “handy-man specials” to a real estate agent spinning them for a sale. As if reading his thoughts, she spoke again.

“I hate walking through here. It’s just…I don’t know…it’s just ugly.”

“You think so?” She looked at him, surprised, as if he’d just announced his undying affection for all things unholy.

“Well, yeah. Just look at it.”

“Ah, but there’s a beauty to be found in every darkness.” He said this more suavely than he’d ever thought possible, as though he were quoting an old classic movie or book.

“Is that Shakespeare?”

“Maybe; I thought I made it up. I think this is beautiful though,” he said, indicating the worn out houses. Again, she looked at him as though discovering a resident insanity he’d hidden quite well until that moment. He smiled at her. “Well, look at it. That yard over there? It’s freshly cut, even though most of the grass is dead and most of the yard is dirt. There’s some toys laying there—they’ve got kids. The house is falling apart, but you can see where they’re trying to piece it back together, even paint it a little. I’ll bet that car in the driveway wouldn’t make it even just to Riverside, but it’s clean, looks like they might even have waxed it. They probably take better care of it than most people with a car straight off the lot.”

“Okay, and how is that beautiful?”

“Well, in this whole neighborhood, no one gives a damn. No one cares about their house, their cars, nothing. You can tell by the way everything looks. But that house,” he indicated his earlier example again, “they care. They’re trying. While the rest of the neighborhood is a wasteland, they’re trying to pull themselves up, trying to bring a little life to a desert. It’s beautiful.” They walked silently for a few minutes, and Rob started to think it was stupid of him to get preachy, or philosophical, or whatever he’d just done.

“You’re right,” she said finally, confusing him by using the one phrase he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it would’ve been closer to “Okay, I need to turn here and you’re freaking me out so bye-bye” than “You’re right.”

“What?”

“I said you’re right. It is beautiful. In a weird, non-beautiful kind of way.” She added the last almost hurriedly. In later years, amid the countless times he relived that night, he would realize that it was her way of trying to maintain a front he’d somehow sneaked through. Of course he didn’t realize it at the time, and took it as an attempt at another joke. He laughed quietly.

They turned another corner, and right as Rob was thanking God for letting Janet live so far away as to ensure this night would never end, she stopped.

“Well, this is it. Chez Edwards.” He looked up at the small house and almost laughed again; it was in only slightly better shape than those she had found so disturbing only moments ago. He noticed a slight anxiety in her that hadn’t been there before, and realized she might be thinking the exact same thing.

“It’s nice, just you?”

“And Lisa, my sister. You going to be alright walking home?”

“Yeah, just a couple of blocks away,” he lied.

“Liar. You have no clue where you are, do you?” He laughed; she seemed more at ease now at least.

“No, I don’t, but I’ll manage.”

“Well, thank you for walking a girl home,” Janet said demurely, then stepped over and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth. He stared blankly at her for a moment and she laughed. “Okay, this is when you say ‘you’re welcome.’” He smiled.

“You’re welcome.” She started up the walk to her house, and he called after her. “Hey, wait, how do I get home?” She turned to him.

“Los Valles is only a block that way,” she pointed behind him. “Can’t miss it.” He waved sheepishly at her back as she stepped inside, then turned around and started walking.

As he reached the corner where the street he was on intersected Los Valles, he found that their half-hour walk through the neighborhood had ended less than five minutes away from the coffee shop.

 

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Vanishing Point: The Ravine

Chapter 1

John’s Tale

Part I: The Ravine

I made John’s acquaintance, of all times, during a hiking trip with my wife.  Oh, by the way, John isn’t his real name; at least, I doubt it is, based on the way he smiled when he said it.  It was a kind smile, but also the smile of someone who just thought of a good joke.

Anyways, my wife and I were hiking along one of the usual trails in the Franklin Mountains, when she slipped and fell down a ravine.  I don’t know whether she or I were more scared when she finally hit the bottom, about twenty feet down, but it was probably about even.  I raced down as quickly as I could while maintaining some kind of semblance of balance, listening to her moaning at the bottom.  When I got down there, past all the scree and brush, she lay at the bottom of the ravine, one leg twisted awkwardly behind her and a large gash crossed her other leg.  Blood was gushing out of it fiercely, in bright, angry red streams.  She must’ve sliced it on a rock on the way down, and she sliced it good – the way it was pulsing out of her it was obvious she’d ripped open her femoral artery.

In a moment, I had my belt off and was wrapping it around her bleeding leg as a tourniquet, while she screamed in pain every time I jostled her.  I tried to calm her as best as I could, but it had little effect.  Besides, I was pretty damned nervous about the situation, so my attempts were half-hearted.  How was I going to get her out of the ravine by myself?  I couldn’t keep the tourniquet on her for too long, or she’d lose her leg, but if I took it off, she’d bleed out.  I had to get medical help out here, people who knew what they were doing.  I checked my cell phone, knowing exactly what I’d find: there never was any reception when you actually needed it, and sure enough, a big ugly “No Service” was flashing across my screen.

I heard a rustling above us, and saw some gravel falling from the side of the ravine.  I looked up and saw an older man – or, at least, he looked older, but it was difficult to tell with any kind of certainty.  All I could see was that he had long gray hair, with a gray beard to match.  He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, almost like a cowboy, and the way he carried himself made him seem much closer to twenty than eighty.  Within a second, or at least much quicker than it took me, he was standing on the bottom of the ravine next to us.

“How bad’s she hurt?” he asked, his voice quiet but strong.

“Bad.  Sliced one leg and broke the other.  And that’s all I can see – I don’t know if there’s anything else wrong with her.”

“Ma’am?” he called to my wife.  “Ma’am, does it feel like anything’s broken inside?”  She started to shake her head, then moaned. 

“No,” she panted.  “Just my leg.  I think.”

“We need to get her out of here,” the man said.  I bit back a sarcastic remark; he was trying to help, and it would’ve been pointless to be mean, regardless of how bad the situation was frying my nerves.

“Can we carry her?” I asked, feeling like he probably had a better sense of what to do than I did.

“Your little phone working?”  I shook my head.  “Then we don’t have much of a choice.”

“Well, one of us could go to the road; it’s only a couple of miles away.”

He glared at me, then shook his head.

“You’re not supposed to be here.  Didn’t you see the signs the military has posted all around?”

“The unexploded munitions?  Of course.  Didn’t think anything of them.”

“Yeah, no one does.  We need to get both of you out of here.  ‘Specially with her bleeding like that.  They’ll be all over us in about ten minutes here.”

“Who?” I asked.  He didn’t answer, just leaned down and spoke to my wife.

“Okay ma’am, We’re going to try and pick you up real nice and easy like.  You help as much as you can, but don’t force it, okay?”

“Okay,” my wife whispered.  The man signaled me to come over with his head, and reached for my wife’s arm.  I took the other arm and we picked her up, as gently as we could.

“We’re going this way,” the man said, nodding down the ravine in the direction of the road.  “We won’t be able to get her back up to the top, and this will get us on asphalt a lot quicker.”  I didn’t see any point in arguing with him, so I just started walking, as gently but as quickly as possible, keeping up with the man so as not to move my wife around too much. 

“Who might be after us?” I asked after a couple of minutes of fighting rocky terrain and mesquite bushes.  He looked at me and shook his head.

“No one, no one.”  I could tell he was lying, but I didn’t see the point in pushing the subject.  We needed all our breath to walk as fast as possible; we didn’t need to waste it arguing.

Shortly after that, I heard a sharp cry in the distant – a hawk, by the sound of it.  Our new friend didn’t think so though; he looked around briefly, then started walking even faster.

“Hurry,” he said, hardly panting.  “They found where she fell.  We need to hurry.”

“Who found it?” I demanded, but he still kept quiet on the subject.  I thought about stopping and forcing him to answer some questions, but even if no one was following us, the fact remained that my wife needed medical attention, so we needed to hurry.  And if something was following us, why give it any extra chance to catch up?

We made it to the road, and our companion visibly relaxed.  “Much better now,” he said.  “Sorry I didn’t explain back there, but we needed to get out of there.  Which direction’s your car?”

“That way,” I said, pointing up the road.  I could see it from where we were; it was only about half a mile away.  Thank God for small favors.  “So,” I pushed on, “what exactly was following us?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

“Try me.”

He laughed.  “Let’s just say it wasn’t anything good, that’s for sure.  They smelled your wife’s blood, and they came running.  I’d seen them earlier in the day, sleeping under a bunch of boulders.  That’s how I knew it’d take them about ten minutes – there’s only one thing that’ll wake them up during the day, and that’s fresh blood.  Night time’s a whole different story…”  His voice trailed off, and I could tell he was remembering something he would’ve rather forgotten.

“Why are we safe here?  I’m sure whatever it is can walk on asphalt, right?”

“Oh yeah, they could.  But the military’s better at keeping them in than keeping you out.” 

We were at the car now, and I could tell my wife was starting to drift in and out.  I fished my keys out of my pocket and handed them to him.

“Can you drive?  I want to stay in the back seat and keep an eye on her.”

“Sure,” he said.  Thinking about it now, the cell phone probably had signal by that time, but I wasn’t thinking quite straight – my wife was injured, strange things had been chasing us, and we’d just met someone who seemed to know something that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.  He helped me get my wife stretched out across the back seat, and I crawled in to sit with her head on my lap.  The man climbed in the front seat.

“By the way,” I said.  “What’s your name?”  He leaned back and smiled, that strange, good humored but slightly “off” smile.

“John,” he said.  For the first time, I got a good look at his eyes, too.  They were a strange, silver-gray color, almost metallic.  I wanted to shudder, but there was something oddly calming about him, something soothing.  Not grandfatherly, not at all, but looking in his eyes I felt comforted somehow.  He turned back, and I looked out the window as he drove off.

Perhaps it was just my imagination, riled up by nerves and what John had alluded to – strange creatures (or people, maybe?) drawn to blood that slept all day – but I swear I saw a large, almost reptilian tail slither into the bushes as we pulled onto the road.

Shattered: Chapter 2

“You did what?” Lisa’s voice was near the same volume it had been on the phone as she and Rob spoke outside. He’d wanted to talk about it outside so Caitlain wouldn’t hear; that plan was backfiring though.

“I didn’t do anything. They fired me.” He was trying to keep his voice from sounding indignant, but it was a little difficult under the circumstances.

“Rob, they wouldn’t fire you for no reason. What did you do?”

“I just messed up a couple of projects.”

She eyed him for a moment. “Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bullshit. You didn’t just mess up a couple of projects, Rob. What happened?” Her voice was somewhat calmer now, at least. He sighed.

“I missed some deadlines.”

“How many?”

He mumbled quietly.

“What?”

“All of them.”

She shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Well, I kept telling them they weren’t giving me enough time.”

Lisa sat down on the porch steps. “Rob, you can’t lose your job. What about Caitlain? Jack and I can’t take care of her, we’ve got Mikey to worry about.” Jack was her fiance, and Mikey’s father.

Rob sat down beside her. “Well, there isn’t anything I can do now, just look for another job.”

“Doing what? There’s nothing around here, especially for someone with a tech background.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“We moved down here from Everett so we could help out a little. Like watch her every once in a while and so we could just be closer to you guys and mom and dad. We can’t take care of another kid Rob.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion Lisa. I’ll find another job, no biggie. You won’t have to take care of anyone.”

Lisa sighed and shook her head. “Just do what you can, Rob. I need to get back in there. Shouldn’t leave a six-year-old in charge of an infant, even if the baby is sleeping.” She glared at Rob briefly; he could tell that she was close to changing the statement to match him and Caitlain as well. “Are you guys going to stay for dinner? Jack’s working late, so it’s just me and the kid tonight.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dinner consisted of macaroni and cheese and hotdogs, something that Rob knew he could’ve made himself on a normal night. He was definitely thankful for the offer though, knowing that he would’ve been quite miserable staring at the cupboards and trying to think of how they were going to pay for dinner in a month or two if he couldn’t find a job. In spite of what he told Lisa, he wasn’t very confident that he could find something; she was right, this wasn’t a good area for tech jobs, regardless of how things may be further north around Seattle or down south around Portland.

That was something he’d worry about tomorrow though. For tonight, he was trying to have a good time with Lisa and Caitlain (Mikey was already in bed, having made a thorough mess of himself with strained peas and carrots; the way it was patterned on the kid’s face was, however, almost artistic). And he was mostly succeeding. After dinner they played some board games, which Caitlain won, and then they watched a Disney movie. Caitlain fell asleep and Rob felt his own eyelids starting to get heavy, so he picked her up and carried her to the car. Lisa followed.

“Look, Rob,” she said after Caitlain was stowed in the passenger seat. “I’m sorry I got so upset earlier. It’s not any of my business, I know.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’s your niece too.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have gotten that mad. You’ll take care of her. I know you will.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said with a mock salute and a smile. She smiled lightly back at him.

“Let me know if you need any help with anything,” she said.

“I will.” Mikey started crying inside, so they said their goodbyes.

 

After putting Caitlain to bed he mixed up his routine slightly – he didn’t even wait to get outside to polish off his first scotch. It went down a little rough, but he knew they’d get smoother over the course of the night. And what did he have to worry about now? It’s not like he had to wake up early tomorrow and get ready for work. Wake up at seven to get Caitlain ready for school, come back home and go back to bed.

As he started outside, his eyes caught on the picture on the fridge, the one he normally worked so hard to avoid. And he was reminded of why he tried to avoid it: he missed them both still, terribly. Janet, the woman he’d loved and Bill, her husband and the brother he hadn’t loved. Both dead well before their time, and the brother he’d known and hated had grown into a man he would’ve loved and respected.

They still looked unbelievably happy, as they always had, but he no longer hated seeing Bill in that picture instead of himself. All he felt was a kind of sadness at not knowing his brother better, and at harboring so much hatred and jealousy over the eight years of lives he’d missed out on.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, grabbed the bottle of scotch from the top of the refrigerator, and walked out the door to enjoy intoxicated bliss again.

Rob took Caitlain to school the next morning and, instead of going to bed when he got home, turned on the computer. After wandering around aimlessly on the internet for a short time, he stumbled across a link to a blog about a pianist with an upcoming concert in Seattle.  She was stunningly gorgeous, and out of curiosity he clicked the link next to her image.

At first he almost went back to one of the previous pages he’d been reading, an article on Wikipedia about Japan’s South Pacific campaign during World War II.  After giving the page a quick scroll just to say he’d read the whole thing, he came across a comment by a user with a familiar name.  It seemed that the pianist was a fellow student of Dr. Elaine Bishop, and reading the comment told Rob that the good doctor was going to be in Seattle for the student’s concert.  At this point, he decided it was worth trying to find out if the student was someone he knew, and after scrolling back up, he came across her name: Carolyn Reed.  Not familiar, but he hadn’t expected it to be anyways — surely Dr. Bishop had taught more than a couple concert pianists in her time.  He went back to the comment to get Dr. Bishop’s email address (laughing mildly at the lack of privacy the site offered it’s readers), and went to his email program.

He wrote a brief letter to Dr. Bishop of the "Hey, long time no speak" variety.  He included his cell phone number in the email, and was surprised when she called before he had time to get back deep in his web surfing.

"Rob, it’s good to hear from you again!  How’s everything been going?"

"Fine.  A little bumpy last year, but things are looking up again," he lied.

"That’s good, Rob.  How’s the piano coming?"

"Good, good,” which was at least partly true – his playing was going well, it was just making it feel like music that wasn’t doing so hot.  “Listen," he said, hoping to move the subject to something a little less uncomfortable, "I see you’re coming up here for a concert?"

"Yes, the concert’s Friday, as a matter of fact.  Actually, I was just walking out the door to go home and finish packing when I got your email.  You should hear Carolyn play Rob; she’s probably the second best student I’ve had in thirty years."  Something about the tone of her voice told him exactly who she thought was the best student, but he didn’t ask.

"Well give me a call when your flight lands, maybe we can do something."

"I doubt that; I arrive at six in the morning."

"Yeah, probably a little early.  But we can still get together."

"That’d be great.  And then you can tell me the truth as to why you haven’t been practicing."  He smiled a little at that, then they said their goodbyes and hung up.

After picking Caitlain up without incidence (though not without a couple of stern looks from whom he assumed to be either the principal or her teacher), they drove back over to Lisa’s, who had invited them over for dinner once again. This time, Lisa had made spaghetti, having a bit more warning that there would be company. Again, though, Jack was working late.

“So, does he do that often?” Rob asked, referring to Lisa’s missing fiancé as they cleaned up after the meal. Caitlain was already glued to the television set.

“Yeah. At least, recently he has. They’ve put him on a new project and he’s actually spending most of his days up in Seattle. Sometimes he’ll even stay there for about a week or so, and the company pays the hotel.”

“Oh, that’s neat. Where does he work again?”

“Gregson’s Meat Packing. He’s the main account rep for Washington and Idaho.” She said this with less pride than Rob expected, but it was still noticeable in her voice.

“They wouldn’t be hiring, would they?”

“Sorry Rob, already asked. They’re actually cutting hours in most of their plants.”

“No problem.” His breath caught in his throat as he looked at her. For just a brief second, perhaps because of the lighting, the family resemblance between Lisa and her deceased sister was more than striking. They could’ve passed for twins even. He stared at her as long as he felt he could get away with it, then shuddered slightly.

“We’d better get going,” he said, turning away from her.

“Is everything okay? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, just got a little woozy there for a second. I’ll be fine, we just need to get home. It’s getting late.”

“Well, okay. Thanks for helping me clean up.”

“Thanks for having us. Caitlain?” he called into the other room. “Come on, we need to go.” A mildly resentful sigh could be heard over the television set, but he could also hear her getting up.

That night, Janet was closer than ever, much as he’d expected her to be after seeing her reflected in Lisa’s features so distinctly. It was almost scary, not even like having seen a ghost, but like having seen someone whom you’d personally seen buried walking around like nothing had ever happened.

The scotch was there though. The scotch was killing Janet again, though it was a welcome death this time. He was already on his third glass, and, like the night before, he’d brought the bottle with him to make the night move along a little quicker. He noticed he was almost out, and made a mental note to get some more tomorrow during his time off.

That was something the scotch wasn’t so effective against. What the hell was he going to do? How was he going to pay the bills once their savings were gone? He sighed and took a drag off his cigarette. It would have to wait until tomorrow at least. There wasn’t anything he could do about it tonight. Not that the thought stopped him from worrying about it of course, it just let him put it in the back of his mind instead of nagging so forcefully at the front.

Shattered: Chapter 1

Note: This is the first chapter from Shattered, the sequel to Like Glass.  It does contain some strong language, and it’s also still in the “editing room” — it’s subject to change without warning.  In the mean time though, please enjoy.

This was bliss.  Caitlain in bed, a tumbler of scotch with just enough ice in one hand, a freshly lit cigarette in the other hand, sitting on the back porch under only the stars to light the sky.

Okay, Rob Jackson thought to himself, pulling his jacket in a little tighter, it’s very cold bliss.  The temperature was hovering in the upper thirties, fairly normal for December in Washington, but the scotch would take care of that in another glass or two.  And besides, the cold brought out the scent of the pine trees like nothing else could, made the air fresher and more vibrant.  He smiled, took a drag off his cigarette, sipped some of the scotch, and tried to relax.

It was Sunday, the night he needed the scotch the most.  Sunday nights brought Monday mornings, and tomorrow was worse than normal.  Tomorrow was supposed to see him in Jason’s office with the presentation on where the company was falling behind, a presentation that (and Rob snorted at the irony) was nowhere near complete.  He still needed another week, and he’d told Jason that the deadline was too soon when the task was given to him.  Did Jason listen?

Of course not.

Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, Rob said to himself as he sipped some more of the scotch.  Hell, joke ‘em if they can’t take a fuck.  He laughed out loud and finished the rest of the tumbler off at a draught, coughing slightly at the burn.  He snuffed his cigarette out and went inside to pour himself another glass, careful to keep his eyes away from the picture on the refrigerator door, the one he’d never had the heart to remove.

He sat back down, treading carefully around the pang of guilt he normally felt with his second glass of the night.  Only temporary, he reminded himself.  Just until she’s completely gone.  When he didn’t think of her anymore at night, he’d quit; it was already probably getting out of hand, but she still came to him.  He’d found out the scotch kept her away quite by accident, having had one too many at Marty’s one night and getting the best night sleep he’d had since he’d buried Janet and her son (his son, too; he still had problems thinking of the kid that way, even though it’d been almost a year since he’d found out).

Janet.

Did he think that?  Or whisper it out loud?  He couldn’t tell – and not from the alcohol, either.  Her name came to his mind so frequently, and to his lips almost as often, that he’d stopped paying attention most of the time.

So he drank.

Not too much.  Just at night, mostly, to take the edge off of life, off of her presence.  Just a tumbler or two.  Or five.  It really just depended on how strongly he felt her around.

She was around tonight.  He could feel her, her breath in the cold night air, whispering soundlessly in his ear.  Her fingers played lightly at his hair with each breeze.  Her eyes…

He stopped the thought with another drink, then lit a cigarette to drive the silence home.  He needed something else to focus on, or else he’d drive himself crazy.

Work.  Work was always good to distract himself with.  He could think of work.  He could think of the project that was supposed to be done tomorrow morning – actually supposed to have been done Friday afternoon and presented tomorrow morning.

He took a deep sigh, another drink of his scotch, and shook his head.  He needed to go to bed, it was already getting late – at least ten o’ clock, probably closer to eleven.  He didn’t feel like looking at the clock though.  He wasn’t tired yet, and he needed another drink to get the edge of the night dulled enough so he could sleep.  He looked at his glass, finished it off, and went inside for another.

Monday morning was almost as bad as he’d expected.  Jason was pissed, of course, and everyone else just glared at him during the meeting where he was supposed to be giving his presentation.  Without the presentation, they moved on to other topics and the meeting was quite short.

“You had three weeks to get this done, Robert,” Jason said after the meeting.  His office was much nicer than Rob’s cube, of course; one of the perks of being vice president was you generally didn’t have to stare at gray cloth all day.  “Would you mind explaining to me why we’re talking about this, instead of figuring out what to do about the company’s bottlenecks?”

Rob sighed.  “I told you it was going to take longer than three weeks Jason.  I had to wait to get numbers from each department, and you know that no one ever jumps right up to do stuff like that.  They’re already swamped; they don’t have time for this.”

“That doesn’t matter.  It was your job to convince them that this was more important than day-to-day ops.”  Jason sat down and turned on his computer.  “We only have three weeks before we start the next release and you know that your evaluation is a key part of getting everything ready.”

“I know, Jason, I know.”  Rob fidgeted while Jason stared at him.

“Do you really?  Because I’m beginning to sense a pattern with you.  This is the third time you missed a major deadline – a very generous deadline, I might add – and it’s getting annoying Robert.  That’s not to mention the ‘normal’ projects we give you.”  Jason typed something and stared at the monitor for a couple of seconds, then nodded.  “We’ve already given you verbal warnings, and we’ve written you up twice.”

Rob’s breath caught as he realized where this was going.  “Am I being let go?”

“You’ve left us without a choice, Robert.”  Jason’s voice was calm, almost apologetic now.  “I mean, seriously, how long did you expect us to put up with it?  We invested a lot of man power into bringing you up to speed, and you wasted it.  We gave you several opportunities – more than we normally give people, because we saw a lot of potential in you.  But…” he waved his hands.  “We can only go so far, and you were supposed to meet us halfway.  You didn’t.”

“Look, I can change, I can fix it.”

“Robert, you had lots of chances to ‘fix’ it.  I’m sorry.”

“Seriously, I’ll do better.”

“We’ve already hired your replacement.  I just got the word right now,” he said, pointing at the computer screen.  “We didn’t find much point in letting you know we were interviewing anyone in case you somehow pulled through today.  You didn’t, and Roger made his decision as you were struggling to defend yourself this morning.”  Roger was the head of HR, and not a very pleasant person.  It didn’t surprise Rob in the slightest that Roger had been the one to pull the trigger.

Rob nodded.  “Okay, then.  I’ll um… I’ll clean out my cube.”

“I hope you understand, Rob.  It’s nothing personal.”

“Yeah, I know.  Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Me too,” Jason said, turning back to the computer.

With his newly opened Monday, Rob found himself sitting at Marty’s pub.  He was the only one there, of course, other than Marty himself.

“Man, that stinks Rob.  Sorry to hear that,” Marty said as Rob finished explaining a version of what had happened.  Of course he’d left out most of the details, explaining only that he’d screwed up on a couple of projects – regularly missing deadlines wasn’t something he was going to discuss with pride.

“Yeah, well, it happens.  I was getting tired of the place anyways.”  He sipped the scotch that Marty had given him on the house as a consolation for his poor fortune.

“So what ya gonna do next?”

“Don’t know.  Just keep my eyes open, I guess.”

“Yeah…”  Marty’s eyes grew a little distant.  The jukebox came on and the song it played put Rob even deeper into the poor mood he was trying to hide.  Marty recognized it immediately as well, and knew Rob well enough to get up and turn the volume down before Jimmy Durante had even gotten to explain that a kiss was still a kiss.

“Sorry, I keep meaning to take that damned CD out of there.”

“No problem.”  Rob finished his scotch and stood up.  “I’d better get moving anyways.”

“Sure, sure.  Hey, stop by anytime, you know that.  You want to just shoot the shit or something, I’m here.”

“Yeah, of course.  Thanks Marty.”

“No problem.  See you around.”

Rob sat at the piano, waiting for something to happen.  Like missing deadlines, this was another pattern that he’d started not long after Janet’s accident – sitting on the bench, staring blankly at the piano more out of force of habit than out of actually wanting to play.  He’d try forcing the notes out, but it always sounded lifeless, mechanical.  There wasn’t anything behind the music anymore.

He’d tried playing everything, too.  Rachmaninoff and Chopin.  Beethoven and Mozart.  Jazz standards and ragtime.  Classical music and rock and roll.  Nothing.  The notes were there but the passion was gone.  In fact, he was playing better than ever from a technical standpoint, playing pieces like Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody or Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee almost flawlessly.  Even Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto, touted by some as one of the most challenging concertos around, was almost up to tempo – he had some problems with the first movement cadenza and some of the third movement, but no one would be able to tell that he’d taken eight years away from the piano by listening to him play.

Today he tried to flavor the music with alcohol, a rare event, as the only times he really drank was when Caitlain was in bed asleep and the piano would easily waken the child.  It didn’t bring life to the music, but at least he didn’t care as much.  He played for well over an hour, staring expressionlessly at the keys as his arms and fingers ran through their familiar motions.  When he started to feel his arms getting tired, he closed the piano and went outside to smoke.

The day was beautiful at least.  A rare sunny day in winter, the late afternoon sun casting a golden hue over everything.  It was still quite cold though – he figured it was probably in the upper forties, maybe lower fifties.  He couldn’t smell the trees quite as much as the night before, but the scent of pine was still a light undertone to the soft breeze.  The phone rang as he lit his cigarette and he sighed.  He went inside to get the cordless phone and was surprised to see Lisa’s number on the called ID.  He quickly answered it.

“Hello?”

“Rob?  Where the hell are you?”  She definitely was not happy.

“I’m at home, why?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Uh…” he looked at his watch.  Four-thirty.  “Oh crap.”

“Exactly.  Do you know where Caitlain is?”

“At school?”

“No, she’s not.  She’s here with me.  Can you tell me why I received a call from the school telling me that there was a six-year-old standing around waiting to be picked up?”

“I’m sorry.  I had a bad day, and it slipped my mind.  I’ll explain later.”

“You bet your ass you will.  I have a six-month-old baby to take care of and I don’t need to pack everything up into the car and go pick up your kid because you had a bad day!”  By the time Lisa hung up on him, Rob had the phone almost at arm’s length and was still able to hear her perfectly fine.

The Professor

Hector pulled the gun on the professor, and you could tell by the look in his eyes he finally believed we were serious.  He held his hands up fast and his face went pale.  It was obvious that this was a rare occurrence at the UTEP campus.

“I really don’t know anything at all about the project,” he said, his voice shaky.

“Bullshit,” Hector said.  He nodded at me, and I pulled my gun out and pointed it at the doctor.  Hector set his backpack on the ground and rummaged in it for a moment.

“Dr. Vargas, right?” Hector asked.  “Dr. Emmanual Vargas, Ph. D from Stanford in molecular biology.  Right?”

“I … I … I … yes.  Yes, I am, but …”  Hector threw a stack of papers at the man’s feet.

“These have your name all over them.   We found them in your little ‘lab’ in the mountains.  About five kilometers north-north-west of Transmountain Rd., about seven and a half kilometers due west of U.S. Route 54.”  Dr. Vargas’ expression slowly went from fear to anger.

“That is military land.  I don’t know who you are, but you had no business there.”

Hector chuckled.

“I’m standing here pointing a gun at you, and you think I’m going to worry about some Army brat MP telling me I’m trespassing?”  Dr. Vargas said nothing, but his expression was still quite indignant.

“Leo, take this,” Hector said, handing me a couple of papers from the backpack.  I didn’t pay any attention to what he tossed me; I was just a hired gun here, and the less I remembered, the better it’d be for me after everything was done.  I glanced over — Hector’s backpack was empty now, the papers either in my hand or at the doctor’s feet.

Hector glanced at me briefly; I was only allowed as much information as needed to get the job done, and apparently what he was about to say wasn’t part of that.  Anything I might learn during the course of the mission, the company was fine with.  Hector just wasn’t allowed to go out of his way to break the silence.  We were each fitted with mics and video equipment, so the debriefing team would know all about any slip ups.  That’s the problem with being understaffed.  Damned economy…

“Dr. Vargas,” Hector said, “we believe your presence at that installation is in violation of certain … treaties.  Or ‘contracts’ if you prefer.  I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.”  Dr. Vargas nodded slightly, showing that he did.  “Good,” Hector continued.  “Then you understand our presence here.”

“You don’t understand,” the doctor interuppted.  “We’re on the edge of something phenomenal.  Something that will bring humanity leaps and bounds ahead of where we’re at now.  My research has only just barely scratched the surface.”

Hector looked at the doctor for a moment, considering him.

“You think so?” he asked, his voice sounding honestly curious.

“Yes!  Yes!”  The doctor’s enthusiasm was only barely contained, and I sat and watched with a curiosity of my own.  “Just the other day,” the doctor continued, his voice sounding on the brink of ecstasy, “one of our experiments neared criticality, and our containment field was holding!”  Okay, I admit it, I was lost, but Hector looked intrigued.

“You don’t say, huh?” he said, egging the doctor on.

“It’s true!  And just this morning, we were able to send a test subject both ways.”  The gleam in his eyes meant this was something impressive; even Hector seemed a little shocked by it.

“Really?” he asked, his eyes looking interested for the first time.

“Yes!  Really.  They returned safely, with only minor genetic variations.”

“Hmmmm….”  Hector rubbed his chin.  I stifled a yawn; the moment’s excitement was gone, and I just wanted the mission to be over.  The doctor started to lower his hands.

“Please, let me continue my research; we are so close!”

Hector glanced at me, then nodded at the doctor.

“Okay, I’ll see what we can work out.”

The doctor relaxed visibly, almost collapsing in on himself.  “Oh, thank you, please, you won’t regret this.”

“Oh, by the way,” Hector said.  The doctor looked up at him with a bit of hopeful curiosity.  Without further warning, Hector shot the doctor twice, once in the chest and again in the forehead.  The shots were fired so rapidly and accurately that I couldn’t believe it was from a single person shooting essentially from the hip.

The doctor slumped to the floor, blood and bits of gore splattered against the back wall.  Hector walked over to the doctor and picked up the pieces of paper he’d thrown at the man’s feet earlier.  I barely heard him whisper, “I can’t stand liars,” to the corpse, before he stood up and smiled at me.

“Okay, that’s done,” he said, his voice cheerful.  “I’ll clean up this mess,” he said, indicating the room with his arms.  “You take these papers back to headquarters.  Along with these.”  He pulled open a drawer and started putting stacks of files into the backpack.  I didn’t ask questions of course, though I wondered what was in the papers.  Of course, I wondered a lot on this mission, not the least of which was whether I’d live to get my paycheck or not.  “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said, and that was the last I ever saw Hector.

The next day, after debriefing, I read in the paper about the blaze that destroyed half of one of the buildings at UTEP — I forget what they called it, but I knew it wasn’t the one we’d been in.  That would’ve been too obvious.  Nobody was injured, no remains were found.  Which meant Hector probably took the body out into the acres of desert, and the fire was used to destroy paperwork the company didn’t want anyone to know about.

I got my check though, signed, sealed, and delivered.  Didn’t recognize the name on it, nor the name of the company — certainly wasn’t the one I contracted to — but it didn’t bounce, and, at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.  Right?

The Baby

My wife screamed, though in pain or fright I couldn’t tell.  It didn’t matter a whole lot anyways — I was trying to get her to the hospital as quickly as I could, and I’d just cut across three lanes of traffic to make the exit.  Horns blared behind me, and I knew it was stupid, but I had to hurry.  Her contractions were really close together now, to the point where she almost couldn’t talk to me.  That was the main reason I’d even taken the chance of crossing traffic like that, because I knew she couldn’t really say anything about it.  She tried though.

“You stupid son of a — oooohhhh!”  Another contraction ripped through her, and I patted her leg.

“We’re almost there, sweetheart, don’t worry.  Almost there.”

“Shut it,” she said, gritting her teeth.  She sounded like she was going to say something else, but I interrupted her with the horn, trying to warn off some of the upcoming traffic.  It didn’t work, so I pulled around them and cut across two lanes again to make my turn.  More horns blared, but we were only a couple of blocks from the hospital.  Even if we got into an accident now, at least medical attention was just seconds away.

I screeched into the emergency drop off, scattering some pigeons, turned off the ignition, and jumped out of the car before the engine had completely died.  I could hear my wife cursing loudly through the windshield, and was thankful it’d be over soon — she was normally such a sweetheart that it was almost embarrasing to hear her swear like a sailor.  A nurse came out as I was opening the door for her.

“She’s in labor.  We need a wheel chair,” I said, trying to sound calm.  The nurse nodded and ran back inside as I helped my wife out of the car.  She grabbed on to my shoulder with superhuman strength, and hissed in my ear.

“I am going to kill you for doing this to me,” she said.  I wanted to laugh, and probably would have if my eyes weren’t tearing up from her steel grip on my shoulder.  I silently thanked God she’d recently taken up chewing her nails, or else I’d probably be getting stitches while we were here.

The nurse came back and we helped my wife into the wheelchair, comforting her as much as two men possibly could.  Once inside, two more nurses helped her up again, then onto a gurney.  A doctor came over and examined her briefly, then motioned one of the nurses to take her back deeper into the hospital.  I started to follow, and the doctor held me off.

“We need to make sure she’s stable, first, then we’ll come out and get you,” he said.  I nodded, then started pacing.

I don’t know how long it was before they came and got me, but it felt like forever.  By that time, I was a nervous wreck, countless scenarios playing through my mind.  None of them were close to what was going to happen though, and in some ways, even the worst I’d imagined would’ve been a little better.

After cleaning up and putting on some blue cover-alls, they led me back to where my wife was delivering our child.  I could hear her cursing and yelling long before I got there, and when I entered, her volume rivaled an operatic singer.

I took her hand, and she crushed my knuckles as she pushed.  I tried telling her to breath (because I couldn’t think of anything else to say), but no words would come out.  In fact, I was finding it difficult to remember to breath myself.

“The baby’s coming!” the doctor said, waving at me to come over.  I walked to him, thankful that my wife let go of my hand; it would take some time before I had enough feeling in it to see if she’d broken anything, but it certainly felt like a possibility.  “Push!  Just a couple more pushes and it’ll be out,” the doctor egged my wife on.

“I am pushing you assss—aaahhhh!”  I heard the moan in her voice take on a different tone, one of relief, and I knew the baby was out.  I hurried the short distance to the doctor to see my new child — we didn’t even know if it was going to be a girl or a boy, because the ultrasounds never seemed to come out just right.  I looked back at my wife, and she was laying there with her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath.

The room was suddenly quiet, much more quiet than I’d expected it to be.  I looked at the doctor, and over his mask, I could see his eyes looking at me in confusion.  He shook his head softly, and I could tell it wasn’t good news.

“Let me see, please,” I asked him, my voice muffled by my own mask and by the fear that was welling up inside.  It couldn’t be…  We’d been waiting for this for years, for her to finally get pregnant, and we’d been so ecstatic when we finally found out.  Now…

I could tell he wasn’t very willing to hand the baby over, but I held my ground and reached my arms out.  I took the limp infant in  my hands and pulled it close to my body, rocking it gently.  It was most definitely dead, I could tell that just by the weight and feel of it.  I choked back a sob; I couldn’t let my wife hear me cry.

It’s head rolled back in my arms, and I almost dropped it for fright.  It’s eyes opened as it’s head moved, and I saw two dimly glowing, red orbs glowing back at me, with elongated pupils like cat’s eyes.  The eyes closed again, and before my curiousity got the better of me and I opened them again myself, the baby moved.

It cried like every baby I’d seen born in a movie, wailing fiercely and struggling in my arms.  It looked at me again, and this time, there was no glow, and it’s eyes seemed perfectly normal, blue like it’s mother’s.  It’s, I thought to myself, and did a quick check; his eyes.  It was a boy.  And, in the relief of hearing my son cry, I forgot about the glowing eyes and I smiled.  The eyes were probably just my own imagination, from emotions run ragged with my wife’s labor and thinking that he’d been stillborn.

I carried him over to his mother, who was waiting with outstretched arms.  She smiled as she took him, such a beautiful smile that I completely forgot any remaining fears I had.  I knew in that moment what happiness really was, seeing the mother of my child, holding him closely to her chest and smiling down at him as he fell silent and started to sleep.

The Thing in the Backyard

After I got home that night, I hear the scratching at the back door that meant Chip wanted to come in.  He wasn’t really an outside or an inside dog, kind of a mix.  I kept him outside while I worked, and (most of the time, at least) let him back in at night when I got home.

He was a good dog, a mutt a little smaller than a golden retriever, and probably deserved to be let in more often.  Most of the time it was nice enough outside to where it wasn’t that big of a deal though.

Anyways, I let him in and went about my business — dishes needed to be washed, I think I even put a load of laundry in.  It wasn’t long before Chip needed to go back outside to do his own business, so I let him out.  It was awfully warm for December, probably about fifty degrees even at night — not terribly unusual for early in an El Paso winter.  I thought about just leaving him out for the night, and figured I’d decide later.

After I let Chip back out, I sat down and turned on Jay Leno.  It was about halfway through his monologue when I started it, and it was during the commercial break before he went to his desk that I heard a dull thud  from the back of the house.

Of course, like an idiot, I had to investigate.  I’d never understood why people in movies always had to go see what that strange sound they’d heard was, the sound that normally meant a killer was in the house with a machete or something.  Well, that night, those movies were the farthest thing from my mind, or else I probably wouldn’t have gone.  No, that’s a lie.  I’d have gone anyways, I just probably would’ve taken a knife or something with me.

I opened the back door, and at first I didn’t see anything at all.  Then some movement caught my eye — only briefly, before whatever it was moved deeper into the shadows.  I stepped outside — again, displaying a higher level of stupidty than I’d like to admit — and that’s when I saw poor Chip’s head laying on the back porch.  I stood there in shock for a moment; that’s what I figured made the sound I’d heard, given the splatter of blood on the wall.

I looked back to where I’d seen … well, whatever it was, and saw two gleaming eyes in the darkness.  I couldn’t make anything else out though, just the eyes.  They were lit like a cat’s eyes in headlights, but I couldn’t see any light that would be reflecting off of them.  They stared at me for a moment, then started to move towards me, into the light.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything I’d seen before.  It looked mostly human, or perhaps like some kind of ape or something.  It’s skin was a dull gray, and it’s face was smeared with blood.  It looked like it was chewing something, and I could only guess what it was (as much as I hated to).  It moved hunched over, which probably was what gave me the impression it was an ape of some kind.  It seemed bald, and had teeth that protruded over it’s bottom lip, like fangs almost, sharp and glistening red.

It takes a lot of time to explain this, but the thing was only there for a moment.  It moved as fast as lightning, and jumped over the fence into the neighbor’s yard before I could even try and get back inside.

Once it left, I stood there, still in shock, looking at Chip’s head.  His tongue lolled out on the porch, and he had what almost looked like a grin on his face.  I knelt down and rubbed the top of his head, getting some of his blood on my hand in the process, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t know what to do.  What if that thing came back?  Should I call the cops?  They wouldn’t believe me.  I thought about doing it anyways — maybe they’d at least keep an eye out in spite of how crazy it would sound — and decided not to.  No one else in this town would’ve cared enough to call them, why should I make myself look crazy?  They’d probably think I was the one who killed Chip, and just lock me up.

I thought about burying Chip right then, but decided it’d be best to wait until morning, so I could see what I was doing a little better.  I kissed Chip’s head one last time, and went to bed, though I did have the sense to lock the door and take a knife with me, just in case.

The next day, I called in sick to work.  I wanted to bury Chip, and I didn’t think I’d be able to focus on the job anyways.  When I went out to the backyard though, Chip’s body and head was no where to be found.  The blood was still on the wall — obviously I didn’t dream about it.  But, apparently, whatever had killed him decided to come back and finish the job.

Furious, I punched the wall, sending a sharp pain up my arm.  Why couldn’t that thing have just left it’s kill alone?  It just had to come back, and finish dinner.  I walked back inside to get some paper towels — at least I could clean the wall off — and noticed an envelope sitting on my kitchen table.  Curious, and more than a little angry (not to mention scared) that someone had been in my house, I opened it.

Inside was a note, and a large wad of cash.  I set the cash off to the side, staring at it — it looked like large bills, and lots of them.  The note was short, and either typed or printed on a computer: “We apologize for your loss; a subject of ours got out of control.  Please accept this as a token of our regret.  Tell no one of the dog or of this gift.”

I counted out the money; there was about twice as much as I made in a month.  It wasn’t going to bring Chip back, but it took the edge off of it a little.  Not much, as I could still hear a phantom scratching at the back door, the ghost of Chip wanting to be let in.

The Cop

It had been a weird night even before we stopped that guy.  Damn, I wish we wouldn’t have; Diego would still be alive and I wouldn’t have had to face his wife.  I could almost hear her heart break when I told her Diego wouldn’t be coming home anymore.  I know I could’ve gotten away with pawning it off on someone else, but that didn’t seem right.  Besides, I’m the one who saw what the guy did to him, so if she had any questions…

No, that’s crap.  I wouldn’t have been able to explain it better than anyone else, even though I was there.  It still doesn’t make sense to me; the guy wasn’t armed or anything.  Don’t know how he … did what ever it was that he did.  I still can’t explain it.  And I still don’t even really know exactly what happened, just … wow.

We responded to the first call of our shift, some heroin junkie wigging out because he found a dead body.  We didn’t think anything of it; we knew who the caller was, even though it was anonymous; there’s only one needle freak downtown who thinks he’s on our good side and would call us for anything.

Apparently some homeless guy met up with a bad night.  That’s the story that came out over the radio, at least.  Diego and I just looked at each other when we heard it break through the static, and he just shook his head.  Didn’t say a word, just shook his head.  I knew what he was thinking; some new poor sap bit it, and we’d have to track down (if we could) whatever family he had and break the news if we could find them.

Luckily, we weren’t the first ones on the scene.  In fact, they had everything pretty well sown up by the time we got there.  Even had the guy in a body bag, and they were loading him up.  I saw one officer coming back from the alley, looking white as a ghost.  I started to flag him down, but he shook his head and ran back to the alley.  I recognized him in that brief second though; he was a rookie, only on the force for a couple of weeks.  I smiled.  I’d been the same way the first few times I saw a body.

Diego was talking with one of the other officers on the scene, so I figured I’d go over and talk to the paramedic who was loading up the body in an ambulance for a ride to the morgue.  He didn’t look like he was doing so hot either, but I’d seen him on more than a few accident scenes.  He definitely wasn’t a rookie.

“That bad?” I asked, a little surprised by how sick he looked.  He nodded at me.

“Worst I think I’ve ever seen.  You want to take a look?  Maybe it’ll make some kind of sense to you.”

“Sure, couldn’t hurt,” I said.  Kinda regret it now.

But, I said it, and he unzipped the bag.  It took me a minute to realize what I was looking at, but when it did I felt my own dinner start to rise up in my throat.  There was a gaping hole where the poor schmuck’s face should’ve been, and it continued on all the way down to the guy’s chest.  Maybe further, but that’s all I could see.

And I do mean a hole.  Nothing there.  No brain, throat, lungs, heart.  Nothing.  If I wanted to, I could’ve reached to the guy’s backbone without getting my hands dirty.

It was clean, too.  The edges weren’t ragged, like they’d be if someone had used a regular knife (not that I can think of a knife that would do that).  The edges were smooth, the bone almost polished.  There wasn’t much blood, either; it looked like something done in an operating room, where they cauterize any bleeders they find.  Only difference, was doctors don’t do as clean a job as this – there’s still some raw edges and a hell of a lot more blood.

Besides, doctors don’t normally remove everything like that either.  Even in the morgue, they’d at least put them back.

I had to look away after a few minutes or else I’d be joining the rookie in the alley.  I waved at the paramedic to zip it up, and I heard him oblige as I walked back over to Diego.  We started walking back to our car.

“What happened?” I asked him when we got in.

“Pretty much what they said on the radio.  Our junkie found him on the bench, swore he didn’t know nothing about it.  They’re taking him down to the station for questions anyways.  What’d you see?”

“You don’t want to know,” I said, but I told him anyways.  He looked at me in disbelief for a moment, then shook his head.  He knew I wouldn’t bullshit him.  Not about that, at least.

“Wow,” he said.  What else could you say?  “Wow” summed it up pretty good.

We made our way back to I-10, and before we even got up to the speed limit, we saw this car, a late nineties BMW, flying down the freeway.  He was definitely over the limit; we didn’t need a radar gun to tell us that.  I turned on the lights, and sped up to catch up with him.  We were doing over eighty before we caught up to him, and he didn’t look like he was slowing down at all.  Suddenly, though, he pulled over to the side, stopped, and put on his hazards.  I shook my head at Diego.  Stupid kid, I thought.  Getting in trouble with his daddy’s car, more likely than not.  See a lot of that around here, so that’s what we were expecting.

Diego stepped out of the car, and I stayed inside, ready to come out if he needed a hand.  It looked normal at first; I could read his lips to know he was asking the usual questions:  Do you know how fast you were going?  Have you had anything to drink?  Run of the mill stuff.  He came back to the car with the man’s license and registration, and I took a look at it before he ran it.

That’s when a flag went off.  I’d heard earlier about a waitress that had gone missing, last seen with a guy who kinda matched the picture on the license.  It was a long shot, I knew that, but I figured we’d at least harass the guy for a bit and see what happened.  So, I told Diego what I was thinking, then stepped out.  Diego and I walked back to the guy’s car; I stood on the driver’s side, Diego across on the passenger’s side in case the guy did anything stupid.

“Sir, could you please step outside of the vehicle,” I said; it wasn’t a question.  He smiled at me – definitely a lady-killer smile if I’d ever seen one, and stepped out.

“What seems to be the problem officer?” he asked.  Before I could respond though, everything hit the fan.

It happened a lot quicker than you’d be able to believe by reading it, I know.  It was a blur, but it was the last I saw a living Diego standing around me, so it stuck with me pretty good.

The guy moved his hand; thinking about it now, I think he was just trying to straighten his tie or something like that, but I saw Diego flinch.  In a heartbeat, the guy spun, and stuck his hand out.  This is where it gets weird, and I hope you’ll take me at my word.  Lord knows I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it myself.

The guy’s hand started … glowing.  Or flashing.  Like it was a light bulb, or it was electrified or something like that.  Then there was a real bright flash, then something shot from his hand and hit Diego.  Diego’s head … it … it just exploded.  I think.  I don’t know; his head wasn’t there anymore.  I didn’t see little … ugh.  I didn’t see little bits flying, so I don’t know if it really did explode, but they never found it.

Of course, I drew my weapon and started firing at the guy.  Point blank, I shot at least five rounds right into him.

He turned at me and smiled, that lady-killer smile, and put his hands up.

“Officer,” he said, his voice as smooth and calming as silk.  “You can put that down.  I’ll come freely.”  He put his hands behind his back, and just on instinct I cuffed him.  I know – now, I know – they wouldn’t have done a damned bit of good if he wasn’t willing, but that’s the only thing that seemed logical at the moment.

I called into my radio that there was an officer down, suspect in custody, and the words sounded dead to my ears.  I still couldn’t believe that Diego was dead.  I looked up at the guy.

“What did you do?” I asked him, and I didn’t like the way my voice sounded but I couldn’t do anything about it.  He just laughed.

“Your friend wasn’t a very nice guy,” he said.  “He was going to try and attack me, unprovoked.  I merely defended myself.”

I wanted to defend Diego, but I couldn’t bring any more words to my throat.  I wouldn’t have gotten a chance anyways, as he continued speaking.

“I know you think I took that woman,” he said.  “I didn’t, though.  She came with me, willingly.”

“Where is she?” I asked.  Where was the damned ambulance?  Where was the backup?  I didn’t want to be with this guy alone anymore, in case he decided to give an encore performance.

“She’s … safe.  She’s out of your … jurisdiction now.  She’s safe,” he repeated.  I could hear sirens in the distance now though, and wished they’d hurry up.

Thankfully, he said nothing for the rest of the time I saw him.  The ambulance came, and I kinda lost it.  I don’t really remember too much, just arriving at the station, sitting in the car in the seat that was still warm from Diego sitting there all night, some officer I didn’t recognize (or didn’t take the time to recognize) driving me.

Of course, the night couldn’t just end there.  No, that would’ve been too easy.  Instead, of course the damned military wanted in on the action.  I heard the MP’s come in, talking to one of the officers out front, demanding to see the suspect we’d brought in.  I was back in the locker room, trying to block everything out, but it wasn’t working.

Eventually, for whatever reason, the MP’s got their way, and I heard them walking back to the holding cell.  That’s when everything hit the fan for the second time that night.

In between the time they brought him in and the time the MP’s came to see him, our suspect disappeared.   And I mean he disappeared.  I saw the footage from the cameras we have watching the holding area.

He’d been pacing for a few minutes, then looked at his watch.  He gave another of his lady-killer smiles – right at the camera, too.  Then he picked up his hands, still cuffed together, waved once at the camera, and disappeared.  Instantly, just gone.  No noise – we have a mic in the room, and it didn’t pick anything up.  No flash, or smoke or anything.  Even played it frame-by-frame.  One frame he’s there, the next, the handcuffs are floating in mid-air, and they’re on the ground in the next couple of frames.

I don’t know what bugs me the most, the fact that this guy killed Diego and got away with it, or the fact that he knew something about that waitress that disappeared, and got away before we could get anything else out of him.  I mean, it’s bad enough to tell Diego’s wife that her husband isn’t coming home, but what about that woman’s family?  They’re going to be wondering what’s going on until that guy gets tired of whatever game he’s playing.  And it looked like he quite enjoyed that game, too – I don’t think she’ll be coming home any time soon.

The Naming Ceremony

The Naming Ceremony

The arrival of a new puppy brings many rituals that the new pet owner must perform, but these are always done with love and a near-holy reverence.  There’s the ritual of the New Toy, where the owner purchases various plastic bones or stuffed animals that the puppy will chew on briefly and then ignore.  There’s the ritual of the New Bed, where the owner will purchase adorable bedding that the puppy will sniff occasionally before deciding the owner’s favorite chair to be the most comfortable spot in the house.  There’s the ritual of the New Food, the purchase of multitudes of bags of kibble in hopes that it will like one (and rarely does it choose any but the most expensive brand).

One ritual undertaken with each new pet – the most important one of all – is the Naming Ceremony.  This ceremony is the beginning of the bond between pet and owner, a bond cherished for the lifetime of both, and it must never be taken lightly.  With luck, the owner will instantly know the perfect name for the animal, a name found through instinct or divine intervention, a name that fits both of them like a well tailored glove.

If the Fates don’t directly hand the perfect name, it may come through intense planning and several hours spent scouring books and web sites of names.  The owner will sit at a desk or table with lists several pages long, crossing out names as they compare them to the new animal.  They’ll speak the names softly, with differing inflections and tones, trying each name until they find one that rolls off the tongue perfectly, the name created specifically for their animal.  With solemn adoration they ordain their new puppy, and life continues.

There is the Personal Naming Ceremony, and as any pet owner will tell you, it is a good thing.  The owner and the pet begin their bond together, and are destined for a happy life of drool and backyard landmines.

More often, however, the unfortunate owner becomes party to the Public Naming Ceremony.  This is an unplanned and dreadful event, forced upon the unwitting owner by friends and relatives who don’t have pets, and therefore fail to understand the importance of the animal’s name.

It starts innocently enough, a phone call, or perhaps a chance meeting in the supermarket.  “Hey, we just got a new puppy,” the owner states, beaming with pride, hope, and lack of sleep.  (This is part of another ritual, known as the Display, where the proud owner wishes to share their joy with all who are willing or unable to get away quickly enough.)

The invitee is excited, as baby animals are enthralling to those uninvolved in the animals training, the purchase of its necessities, and the disposal of its waste.

“Oh really? When can I come over and see it?” they ask with a vicious excitement.

This is where the horror of the Public Naming Ceremony begins.  The owner cheerfully tells the invitee that anytime would be great, bring the kids, we’ll have drinks, I’ll set out some finger sandwiches, and make a day of it.  Occasionally, the original invitee will invite others as well: mutual friends or coworkers, community religious figures, political appointees.  With a voraciousness that only arises with new found wealth or a new puppy, friends and family come out of the woodwork to join in the new owner’s delight.

At the time of the Display, the Ceremony will lurk in the shadows for an indefinite duration.  People will coo over the new puppy as it staggers around the rooms playfully.  They’ll force upon it toys that it’s already tired of.  They’ll try to get it to sit or roll over (because, as any pet owner will attest, all puppies are born with those commands genetically ingrained; it is obviously through a lack of pressure in these vital first days that it loses these abilities and must be re-taught).

Then it begins.

The Ceremony starts innocently enough, and always with variations of the exact same question: “So, what have you decided to name it?” The wise pet owner will smile graciously at their guests and proceed to end the Ceremony at this point, before it has truly begun.  It is possible to end the Ceremony politely, but social graces are immaterial when someone asks this question.  In extreme cases, murder is not entirely unwarranted; most judges with a full understanding of the situation will show some lenience.  However, most new pet owners, still in the daze of adoration and affection, make the mistake of responding to the question: “We haven’t come up with anything yet.”

From that point forward, the room is filled with a barrage of names, most offensively cute, some exceedingly pointless, and many quite cliché.  Names such as “Rover,” “Buttons,” “Baby Girl,” “Flower Patch,” and similarly disastrous choices are thrown carelessly in every direction.

The pet owner who already has one or two other pets, especially animals of the same species and breed, fares much worse.  It becomes a matching game, where the new animal’s name must coincide with or play off of the existing animal’s name; to do otherwise would be sacrilege.

Animals that are closely associated with a certain stereotype – an ethnicity, for example – often face the toughest hardships during the Ceremony: Chihuahuas are inevitably bombarded with poor attempts at Spanish; Pugs have vaguely oriental words and syllables thrown dangerously close to them.

The owner will watch in horror as the group finds the name the unknowing animal feels it wants.  This is a very noticeable event: the puppy, previously occupied with a shoe or other delicious article of clothing, jerks its head up at the sound of its new name and runs over to the vile fiend who had spouted the words.  This is irreversible; once the puppy finds the name it wants, it will never answer to anything else.  The owner is stuck calling it “Hotdog,” “Whippy,” “Mrs.  Flugelhorn,” or whatever foolish words were chosen.

It was not long ago that I found myself caught in this ritual, though I had sworn to avoid it at all costs.  I had promised – even before my wife and I decided our house needed a new puppy – that I would give any pet I would own the respect it deserved by avoiding the embarrassment and brutality of the Public Naming Ceremony.  After seeing the ritual performed on many others (and, I am afraid I must admit, taking part in it as well), I pledged to take it upon myself to find the perfect name for a new pet before it could know such horrors.

Soon after John, our son, moved away for college, my wife and I found the house quite empty.  Only months before, the noises of a teenager filled it at all hours – loud music, obnoxious but well meaning boys laughing, the sounds of his mother and me chiding him for keeping his room only marginally cleaner than the set of a disaster movie.  After he left, we found ourselves staring at each other in expectation, waiting for the sound of cars to pull up, brakes squealing and engines revving.

It did not take long for us to see that we needed something extra to fill the void, and we decided a new puppy would be a delightful addition.  We knew better than to merely go to any breeder at random, or to just walk into a pet store and take the first one we saw.  A dog is a special addition to the family, and we knew we needed to find one that would suit us perfectly.

We scoured the internet for many minutes looking for the right breed.  We needed something that was neither too big nor too small, eliminating many breeds immediately – the Great Dane, the Chihuahua, the Pug, the St.  Bernard.  All beautiful animals in their own rights, but we wanted neither an animal capable of towing small cars, nor one we might accidentally vacuum when we cleaned the house.

Soon we found the animal that suited us perfectly: the Beagle.  The web sites we visited assured us that the Beagle was an excellent hunter, quite playful, and a loyal pet to a good master.  The animal’s temperament was irrelevant though; my wife’s heart audibly broke when the first images of Beagle puppies came on the screen.  There was no need to search further: the Beagle was the breed for us.

A week later, an ad in the paper directed us to a local breeder with new puppies.  A small, whining box greeted us as we arrived.  We held each adorable pup in turn, my wife inspecting them carefully to determine how their coloring would match the carpeting and furniture.  My wife picked up the last one in the box, a mostly black and tan female with a strip of white down her nose, who stared at us with her big, pleading hound-dog eyes.  The mother Beagle came and went, and each of the puppies cried out for her except the one, who kept staring at us, wagging her tail when she noticed we were looking at her.  My wife saw this, and knew that we had been chosen (luckily by one who would complement our living room perfectly).  Moments later, we had written the owner a check and were driving home with our new puppy.

As I said, I had sworn to avoid the Public Naming Ceremony at all costs.  I reiterated this pledge to myself as we drove from the breeders, trying diligently to find a suitable name as soon as I could.  My wife, however, had made no such pledge, for (bless her heart!) she had never understood the embarrassment the Ceremony holds for both animal and owner.  To a mild degree, I hold myself accountable for not informing her.  I can, however, only take so much of the blame; she must be held responsible for some of her actions.  We had traveled less than a mile from the breeders before I heard her talking to her sister on her cell phone.

“It’s just the most adorable thing, Tracy! You and George just have to come see it! Today? Yes, that would be perfect.  No, I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind, would you honey?” She glanced at me, but continued before I could say anything.  “No, Jack doesn’t mind.  Yes, of course! I’m sure the kids would love it.  No, if you think Pastor Williams would like to come, bring him along too.  Maybe I’ll put out snacks, you know, finger sandwiches or something.  We’ll just make a day out of it.  Okay, we’ll see you then Trace.  Buh-bye.”

My own, dear wife had betrayed me.  I knew there was relatively little time, nowhere near the days I’d expected to have to name the puppy at my leisure, and my mind raced.  It was no use though.  As we pulled into the driveway, I still had yet to find a suitable name for the beautiful little pup that sat peacefully in the lap of my traitorous wife.

To further aggravate my mood, my neighbor was standing in his yard, waving at us cheerfully.  By most other accounts, Richard Jameson was probably a great guy.  Probably a loving father, devoted husband.  Maybe even the kind of friend you could count on to change your tire at three in the morning.  I give him the benefit of the doubt in those instances.

Personally, I despise him.

For the past fifteen years he succeeded in antagonizing me at every possible opportunity.  I’d plant a new tree; he’d plant two.  I built a small deck in my back yard; he built a bigger one, with a roof and mosquito netting.  Every year, my family and I would have a small fireworks show on the Fourth of July.  His were always bigger, more dramatic.

One year, he hired a live band to drown out the large stereo system we had set up during our barbecue.  Half of the friends and coworkers I had invited had eaten their ribs, hamburgers, and hot dogs, and walked over casually, “out of curiosity” they claimed.  By night fall they had yet to return, and the fireworks display I had purchased – one of the bigger sets of rockets, fountains, and roman candles we’d ever bought from the nearby Indian reservation – was ooo’ed and ahh’ed over by only my wife and my son.  Of course, until Jameson started setting his off.  Then, even my dear family turned their attention away from the best fireworks display our house would have ever seen.

If you have never had such a neighbor, I’m sure you find my distaste for him petty and childish.  At one point, I would have agreed with you.  But fifteen years of succumbing to incessant one-upmanship puts even the slightest detail into a different perspective.

I smiled and waved back it him, however, because for once I was actually ahead of him.  Not the puppy – a pet is too dear an item to use in such childish games.  No, I had something that I knew he would never attain, something he could never best.

A close friend of mine happened to own a small nursery not far outside of town.  Days before the arrival of the puppy, I was visiting the nursery and I happened upon a beautiful, elegant rose bush.  Its petals were such a delicate pink-red, with slight veins of lavender and violet, so soft and fragile that it nearly broke my heart to touch it.  I asked my friend about it, as I had never seen such a wonderful work of nature’s art before.

“Ah yes,” he responded, setting down three large pots he’d been moving.  “That’s a very rare rose from Africa.  Only grows natively on one side of a mountain in Kenya.  I was very lucky to get that one bush – they aren’t exported much nowadays.”

I had to have it.  It was beautiful, yes, but it was also something that Jameson couldn’t have.  He would just die of jealousy! I purchased it, and my friend offered to have it delivered due to its fragility and rarity.  I declined, not wanting to waste his staff’s time for a single rose bush.  I drove it carefully to my house, and planted it proudly in the center of my yard that very day.

So I waved back at Jameson as my wife and I exited the car with our new puppy, then hurried inside to avoid any of his attempts at neighborly small talk.  I had much more important matters at hand: I had a puppy I needed to name, and time was growing short.

Quite short indeed, as it turned out.  No sooner had I set my keys on the kitchen counter when a knock came at the door.  I grimaced.  This was too soon! The poor darling had barely gotten her feet on the kitchen floor, and my family was going to pelt her with obscene attempts at a name.  There was nothing I could do about it however, only brace myself and hope for the best.

“Watch her while I get the door honey,” my wife said.  The little puppy looked up at me, wagging its tail as though knowing of the coming travesty and hoping I could prevent it.  It stumbled towards me, stepping on its long, Beagle ears and tripping itself.  I pledged right then I would not allow anyone else to name it but myself.  Perhaps my wife, as it was hers as well, but most certainly it would not fall prey to the Ceremony at hand.

No sooner had I made my promise than the sound of children filled the house.

“Puppy? Puppy!” High-pitched voices rang through the living room.  The puppy cringed, but still wagged its tail, frightened but trying hard to be brave.  The children found us and fell to the ground in playful admiration.  Their parents and my wife joined us shortly.  Unfortunately, the Pastor had been unable to attend; his presence would have been useful as a reminder that avenging any name chosen for the darling animal would have eternal consequences.

After my wife had served drinks and forced me to ensure our grill was in working order, the Display began with its usual questions: When did you get her (though my wife had told them over the phone)? How old is she? What breed is she? Is she full blood or mix? They circled close around the question I knew was coming, but like vultures they bided their time.  We talked weather and work, sports and celebrities, politics and other crimes, waiting for the question to arise.  The children played with the puppy, tugging its ears and its tail, laughing as it tried to chase them and stumbled or walked on its ears.  They told it to sit, roll over, and lie down, disappointed to see the puppy wag its tail and stare at them, the commands already faded from instinct.

Nearly an hour of distracting them had passed, and I was starting to gain hope that the dreaded question would die before it was born.  Then one of the children spoke.

“So, what are you gonna call it?”

Never before has the murder of a child seemed like such a pleasant idea.  I grimaced, but no one seemed to notice; the Ceremony had begun, and all of them, my dear wife included, were beginning their parts.

“Call him Fluffy!” one of the other children cried out, much in character with the Ceremony: as anyone who has suffered through it will affirm, the first few names suggested are clichés like “Fluffy”, “Rover”, “Rex”, etc., and most often the gender is wrong, as the puppy has yet to establish itself as male or female in the common eye.

“She isn’t very fluffy though,” I corrected, trying to sound patient and calm, knowing I failed miserably at it.

“How about Princess?” one of the other children said.  The child looked at the dog and bellowed: “Princess! Are you ‘Princess’?” The dog did not reply, other than sniffing at the ground and wagging her tail.

Thus it began.  Someone suggested “Cookie,” which started a barrage of food names – “Cream,” “Milk,” “Candy,” “Cookie” again for some reason.  My wife’s sister saw a CD of classical music lying on the table and that started a short battery of composers names, with the prefix “Ms.” thrown in front when they remembered it was a female puppy: “Ms.  Beethoven,” “Ms.  Mozart,” “Ms.  Bach.” Similarly they approached the names of past political leaders, with the same prefix thrown in where appropriate: “Victoria,” “Ms.  Churchill,” “Cleopatra,” “Elizabeth,” “Ms.  Lincoln.” There was no true logic behind the name choices, as there never is during the Ceremony.  Someone would find a subject that might suggest several words to name a puppy, and the group would exhaust the list as it came to mind.

I had nearly given in to homicidal urges when there came a knock on the door.  I hurried to answer it, hoping that the Ceremony would dwindle before I would find myself in need of legal counsel.  They continued as I walked, now harassing the animal with floral names: “Rose,” “Violet,” “Blossom.” I opened the door with hope that it would be someone able to engage me in a more pleasant situation, perhaps an IRS agent or door-to-door salesman.

A young man stood at the door, wearing a light green uniform and a name tag indicating his name as “Chip”.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Chip, from the nursery.  I have…” He looked at a pad of paper in his hand.  “Eight rose bushes for a Mr.  Richard Jameson.”

My heart stopped.

No, I thought.  He couldn’t have.  He wouldn’t have.

I knew better though; he likely could have, and he most certainly would have.  I took a deep breath to steady myself.

“I’m sorry, Chip.  He lives next door.” The boy stepped back, looked at the number on the side of the door, and then smiled apologetically.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he said.  “They gave me the wrong address.”

“Not a problem,” I said, then watched him walk down the side walk.  I stepped outside the door, hearing the ceremony continue from inside – “Jewel,” “Ruby,” “Emerald.” Even shutting the door behind me I could hear them bludgeoning the dog with names.

Perhaps he bought regular roses, I told myself, hoping against all hope that it was true.  Chip climbed in his truck, drove it forward the short distance to Jameson’s house, and stopped it as Jameson walked out to greet him.  I watched impatiently as they discussed something I couldn’t hear, and my impatience turned to horror as Chip pulled out a rather large rose bush from the back of his truck.  The delicate pink-red of the blooms and the lines of lavender and violet that I could only barely see from my porch told me what I already expected.

Jameson waved at me as Chip unloaded more of the “one-of-a-kind” rose bushes.  I forced a smile and a slight wave, then walked back into the house.  The sounds of the Ceremony greeted me like the buzzing of a mosquito that will not die.

“That bastard Jameson! He’s done it again!” I shouted, forgetting the presence of children in my anger.  I started back to where I had left the poor puppy with our family, and took only a couple of steps before I realized that the Ceremony had stopped.  I looked up, and my eyes fell on the puppy.

It was running to me.  Its tail was wagging, and though it was still tripping on its ears as it came, it was showing more excitement than it had since we’d gotten it.  My family looked at me, stunned, and I shook my head in disbelief.

No, it can’t be, I thought to myself.  It must be a mistake.  The puppy looked up at me, wagging its tail with fierce happiness.  Someone had finally stumbled across the collection of syllables the puppy had decided was its name.  I looked at my wife, she looked at me, and I looked back down at the puppy.  The room was utterly silent, save for the swishing of the puppy’s tail on the carpet.  I tried random words from my previous sentences again, hoping that the puppy would not react to any of them in particular.

“He’s? Done?” The puppy sniffed my shoe.  “Again? It?” Nothing.  I started to sigh in relief, and my wife stopped me.

“No, dear, you said something that caught her attention.  Say it all again.”

“That-bastard-Jameson-he’s-?” The puppy’s head jerked.  I looked at my wife and shook my head again, as though I could negate what that simple motion declared.  “You try it honey,” I said, hoping it was my voice and not my words that she responded to.

“That Bastard Jameson? Come here That Bastard Jameson.” The puppy turned and ran to my wife.  My wife’s sister tried with the same result.  Her husband tried, and the puppy ran straight to him.  One of the children started to try, but a stern look from his mother reminded him that the name was hardly polite.

I could not believe it.  Had the puppy been a boy, the name could be considered humorous.  I would still despise such light heartedness in the naming of the animal, but I would have felt somewhat more at ease.  For a female puppy, however, it was far from ladylike.

It was decided though.  A name that is forced upon an animal can be changed at an owner’s whim, but when a new puppy decides for itself what word or collection of words it will answer to, that is what it will ever be named.

The Naming Ceremony thus complete, my family left my wife and me with our new puppy.  Life continued on much as we expected (save the name, of course) with all the trimmings of life with a new puppy: midnight bathroom walks, shoes and valuables discovered half-chewed, bags of food discarded after a single bowl served and left sitting for hours.  My wife, That Bastard Jameson, and I are well on our way to a happy, pet-filled life.

If you are of a curious heart, you may be wondering what happened to the rare, “one-of-a-kind” rose bush I planted with such pride in the center of my yard.  It died.  In spite of daily watering, trimming the dead blooms and branches as necessary, even giving it top-of-the-line rose food, it has become little more than a collection of thorny sticks decorating the grass.

That bastard Jameson – the human one – has had no such luck.  His are blooming beautifully, all eight of them.  I can see them perfectly out my window, every day, and if the breeze is right I can even smell them as I take my That Bastard Jameson out for her morning routine.

The Waitress

Yeah, I was the last one who saw Yvette that night.  We’d just finished our shifts, and she left with … well, this guy.  Never seen him before, but he was nice.  Didn’t think anything of it.  God, I hope she’s alright, and she just decided to quit her job or whatever.  But I don’t think the police would’ve come by if they didn’t think something was up.

It’d been a long shift, one of those ones that just drags on and on.  Both of our stations were slow as hell, but the boss wanted there to be two of us on the floor until after the holidays.  We weren’t complaining; we both needed the extra money.  Yvette more than I did, because her slob of a husband just quit his job.  Can you believe that?  Only a couple of weeks until Christmas, and he decides he’s better than the company he works for, and just leaves it.

So anyways, she needed the money, I always needed the money, so we were working.  About half an hour before we started closing up and doing our sidework, this guy walks in.  Looked like a real nice guy, too: suit, tie, short black hair and the sweetest smile you can imagine.  He sat at the counter, which was Yvette’s station, and ordered a cup of coffee.  Even called her “ma’am”.  You don’t get that much these days.  You’re lucky to get a tip most of the time, and forget about a “please” or “thank you.”

I went on about my business, and I could hear them talking, Yvette laughing and this guy, his voice was just as smooth as silk.  And not like used-car-salesman smooth, either.  He seemed genuine, at least.  I could see the way she was standing by him too, she looked like a school girl talking to the head quarterback of the football team.

Yvette’s not stupid, let me say that right now.  I mean, except for staying with her deadbeat husband for so long, but I can kinda understand why she’d do that; he’d started out good, but things just went downhill.  She probably expected him to go back to how he used to be, and that would’ve been great.

But, other than that, she wasn’t stupid.  She wasn’t the kinda girl who would just jump all over someone who showed her a little bit of affection.  So when I saw her smile touch her eyes that night – the first time I’d seen that since she’d gotten married, actually – I knew something was up.  I knew there was something about that guy, and she’d be stupid to let her chump of a husband get in the way.

So, when she came up to me later, when I was counting out what little I’d made in tips that day, I knew what was on her mind.

“What do you think?” she asked me.

“About what?” I said, playing stupid.

“About him.  He wants me to go out and have drinks with him after work.  Do you think I … no, I couldn’t.”

I smiled at her.  She’d told me all about the problems she was having with her husband, and it wasn’t just the money either.  The guy didn’t beat her – not with his hands, at least – but he was hardly nice to her.  And forget about time in the sack; he’d stay up all night watching TV, and she’d be long in dreamland by the time he came to bed.  Never let her do anything with her friends – well, me; he didn’t let her have any friends to speak of.  Always got mad at her for working late and not having the house all spic-and-span, or not having dinner ready for him.  I knew exactly what she should do.

“Girl,” I told her, “you only live once, and I don’t call what you have going on with that jerk you call a husband ‘living’.  I say go for it.”

She looked at me and smiled, but I could tell she was torn.

“Listen,” I said, setting down the ten dollars I’d made that day.  “You know what feels right and what doesn’t.  Do you think you’d regret going out with him – it’s just for drinks, remember? – more than going home to get yelled at for working late?”

She nodded as I talked, and I could tell she’d made up her mind.

“You know what?  You’re right.  I’ve been thinking of filing for divorce from that son of a bitch anyways.  I think I’ll do it.”

I hugged her.  “I knew you’d come along some day,” I said to her, probably a little too proud that she’d finally started making a bit of a difference in her own life.  She took off her apron and went back out to the counter and sat down next to her new friend.  I poured them each a cup of coffee, and tried not to eavesdrop.  I succeeded, for the most part; all I heard was that he was a recruiter for some company, sounded middle eastern and definitely not a company I’d heard of before.  Other than that, I stayed away from them as much as I could.

Finally, they left and I locked the door behind them.  That was the last time I saw Yvette or that guy – didn’t even catch his name.  The cops came by a couple of days later, saying that her husband reported her missing and they were just following up.  She never called to quit or anything.  I’m worried about her, but, at the same time, maybe she finally just had enough and left that asshole for something better for her.  And I say more power to her.

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