The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Fahrvergnügen.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stranger danger.”

  “Edger. Am I making you nervous?”

  “Jawa juice.”

  She sighs, pulls the chair back from my desk, and sits.

  “Not to be rude,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “but, why are you in my room?”

  “I’m glad you asked that, Edger,” she says, like her sitting at my desk and wearing my boxers and jersey is the most normal freaking thing in the history of normal freaking things. “I got to thinking. I know you’re worried about your grandmother. And I know you’ve been saving to get her into Pine’s Place.” She leans forward, puts her elbows on her knees, and locks her fingers to rest her chin on top. “I think I can help you. And I think I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Wait—what? How do you know about Pine’s Place? Did Mikey put you up to this?”

  “Would you trust me less or more if I told you he did?” She shakes her head impatiently. “Forget about that. This is important. I think we should move in together.”

  My head snaps back, and my mouth makes that “oo-ee” shape one does when bearing witness to a streaker careening face-first into a glass door. By the way she’s scanning my face, she’s weighing its every twitch. I try to smile, but I think only the left side of my face is complying, so I scrap that, then cup my hand in front of my mouth to catch some blowback. Fortunately, my morning breath doesn’t smell like a Chewbacca butthole. So, you know, a little win for me.

  Mary’s eyebrows come down. This moment we’re having is lasting too long. I suppose some people keep a witty response handy in case they encounter a situation like this. But since I haven’t got one, I just open my mouth and hope for the best.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you said we should move in together.”

  Huh, I think. A complete sentence. Not bad.

  “Well, think, Edger. Once we get your grandmother into Pine’s Place, we can put around-the-clock surveillance on her. And then I will be able to keep an eye on you twenty-four seven. It’ll look like we’re dating. I can change my name, change my hair. Nobody’ll recognize me. More importantly, nobody’ll know you’re keeping odd hours and fighting bad guys. It’s a win for everybody.”

  “Buh…” I say.

  “It’s just a cover, Edger.”

  “Buh…” I repeat, in case she didn’t hear me the first time.

  “I’m trying to help you. Your family’s important. And I know your grandmother wants you to meet a nice girl. I’m a nice girl.”

  “We-ell.”

  “She’ll feel better about moving out if she thinks you and I are, you know…”

  “What?”

  “A couple!”

  “Right! Right,” I say, my cheeks burning. “But how do you know about Gran wanting me to meet a nice gir—”

  “Secrets, Edger,” she says, using a tone like we’re in the car, ready to go, but I’ve forgotten the keys for the hundredth time. “Look. This is what you want. It’s what they want. It’s what everyone wants.”

  I stare at her, unable to process. What I want? Does she mean I want to move in with her? Does she mean I want to have sex with her? No, probably her meaning is innocent. She means I want Gran and Shep in Pine’s Place, and it’s Gran and Shep who want me to have sex with her. Well, that’s messed up.

  “You think Gran wants me to have sex with you?”

  “What?”

  Nope. Nope. Definitely not what she meant.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. I can’t believe I said that out loud. Of course that’s not what she meant. She’s got me so mixed up—but what did she expect? She comes in here digging through my drawers—which, under ordinary circumstances, would be the best friggin’ day of my life—but she could be a serial killer for all I know. Worse, even if I knew she was a serial killer, I’d probably still go along with all this. All of which begs the question: Can hot girls be serial killers? My heart is racing. I blurt the first thing that pops into my head: “Do hot serial killers eat hot cereal in the morning?”

  “Now I’m a serial killer?”

  “Sorry. What I meant to say is, how do you always know so much about me? And you’re very pretty.”

  Her gaze drops to her lap and then flits back up to meet mine. Her pretty lashes are the color of honey in the morning light. “Thank you. But don’t you see? This is why you need me in your life. You’re a superhero now, true. But you don’t think things through. I do. Use me. Take advantage of me.”

  “Really? Really. That’s the best choice of words here?”

  “Look who’s talking, Hot Cereal. Look. Sooner or later, this Zarathustra stuff is going to wreck your grandmother’s life. By moving her into Pine’s Place, we can put a security detail on her without her knowledge. We can install some of our people as Pine’s Place staff.”

  “I’m sorry. Some of ‘our people’?”

  Mary scowls. “God, you’re dense sometimes. It’s not that hard to understand. Maybe you need some coffee.”

  I shake my head. “Look, even if I wanted to move in with you—not that I don’t want to move in with you—I mean, you’re nice. And sexy—and professional! So, so professional.”

  I shake my head again, because the last two didn’t take, and because the coffee is downstairs. I take a deep breath and release it. Her lips twitch, then go still. Her eyes are wide and round. Is she laughing at me?

  “What I mean is,” I say. “Pine’s Place. I need about six more months. I don’t have enough saved up yet.”

  “Actually, you do,” she says, sitting up straight and brightening.

  “I do?”

  “Well, you didn’t think you’d be superheroing for fifteen bucks an hour, did you?”

  “Are you saying I’ve been given a raise?”

  Mary smiles. “Mm-hm. And I’ve drawn an advance off your first paycheck to pay the deposit. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Wait-wait-wait. My first paycheck? You paid the deposit? At Pine’s Place. My first paycheck covers the deposit? Holy hell. How much are you paying me?”

  Her eyebrows flit up and down. “A lot. There’s a bungalow already reserved for your grandmother. She can move in today.”

  “Today!” I throw the covers back and scramble out of bed, not even caring that I’m pitching a tent in my boxers. “What the kumquat!? Mary. Don’t you think our pretend relationship is kind of moving too fast?”

  Her eyes widen at the spring-loaded complication in my boxers. Her gaze zooms in, zooms out, then zooms in again before it snaps up to meet mine, then goes higher to meet Luke Skywalker on the ceiling. We blush. She spins around and gives me her back.

  “I mean… Do you think it’s moving too fast?” she asks from over her shoulder, pressing her hands below her belly button.

  “Ooh…” I cast around for a pair of pants, and there’s a knock at my door.

  “Edger?” says Gran.

  “Ah—just a minute!”

  Pants! Pants!

  Mary spins back around. Let her in, she mouths. She bites her bottom lip and nods at the door emphatically.

  I make a waving gesture that encompasses her, all of her—Mary, in my room, Mary, wearing my boxers and shirt—but she’s eyeing me like I’m attempting complex and forbidden sorcery.

  “It’ll look like you slept here last night!” I whisper.

  Her eyes narrow. “That’s the point.”

  Slumping, then straightening, I hastily repeat the forbidden hand sorcery around the mutant zucchini in my pants. She bites her lip and tilts her head to the side, then shrugs and nods as if to say, Not bad.

  I cup my hand and shield my eyes, but a glimmer of movement in my peripheral vision makes this short-lived; the door is opening. I lunge for the pair of jeans on the floor near my dresser as—too late—Gran and Shep enter the room.

  “I heard voices and—oh my!” Gran exclaims, averting her eyes and turning to leave. “Oh, I am sorry… I am
so sorry.”

  “No, wait,” says Mary, reaching her hand out, then dropping it to her side. “It’s okay. Everybody’s decent. I mean—” She blushes. “Mostly. Come in, please.”

  “Well, goddammit, boy,” says Shep. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Shepherd!” says Gran.

  I snatch my pants, stuff in a leg, lose my balance, and tip between the bed and the wall. My shoulder slams into the floor, rattling the downstairs chandelier.

  “I’m okay!” I shout.

  “Mrs. Bonkovich,” says Mary.

  I get another leg in, pull my jeans up over my butt, and stuff myself in as best I can before zipping up, banging my elbows on the wall and the bed in the process. I spring up from behind the bed. Mary and Gran are shaking hands. Gran’s forehead wrinkles deepen as she peers into Mary’s eyes.

  “My name is Mary Thomas,” says Mary. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Bonkovich. I think there’s something Edger wants to say.”

  All heads slowly turn to face me. I swallow a lump desperate to escape like an alien through my mouth. “I’m okay,” I say again, this time waving so everyone can see my hand and arm are attached and operational.

  “Edger?” says Gran, her features crumpling in confusion.

  I clear my throat and look at Shep. His look is plain: Boy, you’ve got a personality problem.

  I look at Mary. Her look is plainer: I am Victoria’s Secret’s best-kept secret.

  I clear my throat again, figuring situations like these must be worth a twofer.

  “Gran,” I say, pausing to lick my lips. “You know how I said it’d be six more months till Pine’s Place? Well, I wanted to tell you before, but…there’s a bungalow there with your name on it. I’ve got the deposit down and everything. It’s ready and waiting.”

  Mary’s shoulders slump in relief; Shep’s eyes widen; Gran claps her hands over her mouth. Her eyes are glassy. She totters around the bed to fling her arms around me and bury her face in my chest.

  “Oh, Edger. Oh, Edger.”

  I squeeze her gently. Tears leak down my cheeks. The rims of Mary’s eyes are red. I stare at Luke Skywalker. Seconds tick by. I breathe in Gran’s powdery scent and reflect on how my whole life has come down to this moment. This great woman who loves me, raised me, and kept me on the pod racer track all those times I could’ve flown into a canyon wall; she doesn’t feel like I’m pushing her out, even if I feel guilty over the way it’s going down. This is what she’s wanted. Me with my future, her with hers. This is her happy ever after. And after so much meticulous planning, here we are. We’ve just kind of crashed into it. Gran and Shep are going to Pine’s Place. They’re actually going to Pine’s Place. And what’s more, I’ve got myself this weird—though incredibly out of my league—pretend-girlfriend thing developing. That’s not so bad. All I need are Dad and my booster, and then, for once in my life, it’ll be like I’m actually winning.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The display, though simple, was perfect. It had:

  A white picket fence.

  A plot of plastic, lime-green grass.

  A real cow—which meant, of course, soon-to-be-dropped drug possession charges.

  “Well, that ought to do it,” says Judas, clapping an exhausted and bleary-eyed Sheldon on the back, and sending him stumbling forward by three feet. Judas dusts off his hands to give the impression he had participated physically in the setup work, and then returns his attention to the Cluck-n-Pray food truck behind the cow display. “Okay, Blake, tell me you brought enough Cluck-n-Pray Nuggets, Cheezin’ Spiced Fries, Spicy Wrath of God, and the New Testament Cool Ranch Cluckin’ Deluxe—”

  “Yes, sir.” Blake comes out from inside the truck, removes his visor, and clutches it against his chest. “It won’t be like last year, sir. We’ve got the whole menu this time. Old Testament and New Testament.”

  “You have the Shroud of Turin Wrap and the Cluckin’ Manna Wrap?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have the Cluckin’ Goliath Club and the Cluckin’ Slingshot?”

  “Yes, sir. All the Book of Samuel menu items are present and accounted for.”

  “Catsup with Jesus? The Holy Toast?”

  “Yes, sir. The crust is risen and accounted for, sir.”

  “Sauces?”

  “Even the Colosseum Christian Barbecue sauce, sir.”

  “Good, good.” Judas scratches beneath his nose superfast and racks his brain. “Napkins!” he blurts. “Straws!”

  “Napkins and straws!” calls Sheldon, who has taken his position inside the truck at register one and is holding up a napkin dispenser overfilled to the point where it is impossible to retrieve one napkin without ripping at least fifteen others to shreds, and a straw dispenser that, until Sheldon had grabbed it, had been sitting directly beneath a pound of slowly defrosting frozen chicken.

  “Don’t let me see that happen again,” snaps Judas, pointing at the defrosting chicken. Health code violations like that were expensive to make go away. He knew from experience.

  “Yes, sir,” says Sheldon. “I will not let you see it if we ever do anything like that again.”

  “Perfect,” says Judas, pride swelling in his chest. “Gentlemen. You’ve done me proud.”

  “Ah—sir,” says Blake.

  “Yes, Team Member Blake?”

  “Did we need soft drinks?”

  Judas laughs. “Did we need soft drinks. Ha! Good one.”

  “Ah, no, sir. I mean, well, that is—we don’t have soft drinks.”

  “What?” snaps Judas. “Shut up. Sheldon—?”

  “He’s right, sir.” Sheldon reaches beneath the counter to retrieve the line that should’ve been attached to their beverage machine and lifts it so the unattached end is plainly visible.

  “But that should be…attached to…a thing. Right?” asks Judas. “I mean, dammit! Of course that should be attached to—where is our beverage machine!?”

  Giggling, sweating, and leaving in her wake a greenish vapor trail of spiritually enlightened aromatic chicken molecules, Christine races down the still-empty mezzanine level of Qualcomm Stadium, pushing the trolley with the stolen beverage machine in front of her. She rounds the north bend, and the El Cerrito food truck comes into view. Consuelo spots her, sounds the mouth-fart alerts, and jumps up and down, pointing. Brad rushes out from behind the counter, his shoulders raised.

  “Open the thing! Open the thing!” yells Christine, winded and hysterical.

  The four Apostles, who are schlepping a large black tub, run out next. Mark struggles to remove the lid.

  “Hurry!” yells Christine. “Hurry!”

  The lid comes off. Christine slows her pace, heaves back on the trolley handle, skids. John and Mathew grab two sides of the cart and ease it to a stop. The drink machine slides forward by one foot. Brad and Consuelo close in. They lift the drink machine and set it into the black tub.

  Luke is on lookout.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” yells Christine.

  Mark pops the lid back onto the black tub. Brad and Consuelo push, scoot-scoot-scoot. The tub vanishes behind the food truck as Mark and Mathew lift the trolley and run it over to the custodian’s closet. Christine tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear, then fetches her purse from the counter. She reaches inside, pulls out her deodorant, and applies through the neck hole of her shirt.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!” hisses Luke. “And you still smell like chicken!”

  Christine whips around in time to see Mathew and Mark duck inside the custodian’s closet. Brad and Consuelo are on the registers. Luke kneels to tie his shoe. Christine flips Luke the bird, caps her deodorant, and jams it back into her purse before chucking it into the truck and grabbing the platter of sampler nuggets inside the window.

  She releases a slow exhalation and turns around to stand nose to nose with a sweaty, out-of-breath, and red-faced Judas Christian, cokehead owner of the Mission Gorge Branch, and Dickwad
Supreme.

  “All right,” snaps Judas. “What the hell?”

  “Language, Christian!” snaps Brad.

  “Hey, Judas S. Carryout,” says Consuelo. “It’s eleven o’clock. Do you know where your cow is? Thbbbt!”

  “Consuelo!” hisses Brad. “Be quiet!”

  A stricken expression flashes across Judas’s features. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, but we did,” says Christine. “Cow-vert operations happen to be our specialty. Good luck outselling us this year, Judas!”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Mary’s got one hand on the wheel, the other in her lap. The top is down, and her dress is riding up. I concentrate on studying the sky. Specifically, how the clouds don’t look anything like Mary. Her eyes, or her lips. An unbidden mental snapshot forms; her in my room, biting her fingernail and staring at my—

  “I really appreciate you doing this,” she says.

  “You do?” I stammer.

  “Yeah. I mean, after this morning and everything, I kinda got to thinking. You know, I don’t know if anyone has said thanks. I mean for what you’re doing. Turning your life upside down. Risking your life. It’s amazing.”

  “Yeah… I mean—not, yeah, like, I’m so amazing. I mean, yeah, like, I don’t know, thanks-for-saying-thanks-yeah yeah.”

  Mary smiles. “I knew what you meant. And you’re welcome. It’s very selfless. What you’re doing.”

  I consider that; discovering Dad is out there and I’m on my way to meet him and get my booster at the game isn’t too bad a price for risking my life. Neither is getting Gran into Pine’s Place. Neither is me moving in with Mary. All things considered, it doesn’t feel all that selfless.

  “I should be thanking you,” I reply. “It’s pretty cool about Pine’s Place.” I stare out at the traffic streaking by, daydreaming about a time when maybe Mary and I are together like we are now, but with the needle on this romance moved a lot further. “Which reminds me,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Mikey’s taking the whole me-going-AWOL-through-his-window thing pretty well.”

  The corners of her eyes tighten as she lowers her chin and glues her gaze to the road. Her hands are at eleven and one.