The Vagary Tales

by Robert Michael

way you are dead, right?"

  "If you say so."

  "Go on then, get your head right. Maybe the shower will shake off this funk you are in. Maybe you can redeem yourself, Christian."

  He shuffled off toward the bathroom, his spirit deflating. Some people get a last meal. His only concession may be that he would die clean and refreshed.

  Then it came to him. The rush of memory was almost overwhelming. Christian grabbed the edge of the couch as he passed by. He had his back to her. He hung his head low as his hands shook. He wasn't sure he wanted to turn around. He didn't want to turn and see her eyes again.

  "Ruby? Why would you want to kill your own brother?"

  He could hear her behind him. She caught her breath.

  "So you do remember? Then the answer should come to you pretty quickly, Christian."

  "Did I kill Steve?"

  "Bingo. Now, once I get the money you two embezzled, I will return the favor."

  With some effort, he moved off toward the bathroom. A bright light shone in there. He never looked back. He understood what he needed to do.

  He closed the door, the memories of who he was and what he had done flooding back to him. He remembered the apartment. He remembered his old job. He recalled this very bathroom, the white subway tiles covered in mildew. He saw with great clarity the rubber duck, the little toothbrushes. He saw a past he had forgotten.

  He reached through the flimsy plastic shower curtain and turned the knob for the hot water. Then, he reached over and pulled the latch for the bathroom door gently. He stepped into the shower, just as the hot streams of water trickled over him, stinging his skin.

  Soon, the water ran red as the blood from his cuts ran in a whirlpool pattern into the drain. The razor in his hand shook. His vision blurred and he sat unceremoniously into the tub. Blood ran down his elbow and pooled behind him. The water spray hit him in the face.

  As he drifted toward a permanent sleep, he whispered to himself.

  "No one will have it, Ruby. Steve wanted it that way, after what you did to your children."

  He died smiling, knowing that for the first time in his life, he had done the right thing.

  The Man in Black

  I hung my head. It was scorching in my cell. I looked out onto the grounds, watching the guards through the haze of the California heat make their rounds, casting lazy looks at the other inmates. I noted the sweat in dark rings under their arms and at the small of their backs.

  I saw Jack Vance smoking a cigarette and talking quietly to Oney, their heads bent low, their elbows on their knees. I wanted out. Not out into the world, but out of that hot cell. Hot under the sun was one thing, hot inside in a concrete and metal dormitory was another thing entirely.

  I remembered the lazy days of summer back home, sitting with my feet in the water sitting on a dock on the banks of the Ohio River. It was a big river. Deep and wide and when the four winds began to blow--four strong winds--the water would ripple up and my pa would toss the bread or the Cheetos into the froth and we would watch as carp and catfish pummeled them, the sun glaring on the foaming water. It was a long way from Belpre, Ohio to Represa, California. Home of Folsom State Prison. I was in the jailhouse now.

  I heard a yell down the corridor, dark as a dungeon.

  “Pete! You got twenty-five minutes to go! Just be patient. I know it’s hot. All you ever do is cry, cry, cry!”

  “But, I’m just flesh and blood, sir. I need to get out in the fresh air. I wasn’t designed by my God to be here in this cell.”

  “Your God didn’t tell you to shoot a ten year old for taking your drugs either, did He? Well, this is whatcha get. That’s all I’m sayin’. You got twenty-four minutes left. Just sit tight, now.”

  I heard the guard walk farther away as he spoke. I was in this round. Twenty four minutes felt like forever. I tried to remember it as the length of one of Billy’s cartoons. I thought that maybe that would make the time go by faster. Dexter’s Laboratory. Phineas and Ferb. I couldn’t remember them all.

  Oh, lonesome me, I thought. I should never have gotten busted. Ok, maybe I should never have tried to chase Harriet down and get Billy back. Maybe I should never have taken the kid and tried to make it to California. Harriet’s sister had convinced her that Reno was the best place for them to start over. Problem was, Reno was a long way from San Diego. That was a mistake.

  I could hear Trejo complaining again. First it was just some mumbling. I don’t think two minutes had passed since Mr. Cordon, our guard, had left us. Trejo was still talking to him. I had heard the metal gate clang shut, had heard the buzzer sound. But Trejo was getting louder. He was shouting some hymns, calling out to Cordon.

  “God is gonna cut you down, Cordon! God is gonna do it! Just you see. Come on and get me out of here!”

  The door buzzed again. I was getting my hopes up. I thought maybe I had fallen into a trance and more than twenty minutes had passed. I could hear Cordon’s boots, his shiny jack-boots with the steel toes coming towards us.

  “Who’s making that racket? If you don’t cool it, I will add twenty more minutes to your time.”

  I could make out his baseball cap and his mustache in the dark corridor, his flashlight shining into Trejo’s cell, his right hand on the pistol at his waist.

  “It ain’t me, babe. It’s George over there in cell 802.” That was me. I had a few names lined up for him, maybe some redemption come chow time. Trejo would wish he hadn’t done that. He would hurt.

  “Ok, but all that God stuff only comes from your trap, Trejo. So, if I don’t hear some peace in the valley, I am gonna make you walk the line.”

  “Fine. But how much longer, Mr. Cordon?”

  “Long enough. Now sit tight. I will be back.”

  I stood by the small window again, hoping for a breeze. Any old wind that blows would do. I always had a hard time focusing after lunch. I wanted to get out and stretch my limbs, feel the sun on my face, get the rhythm of life back in my bones.

  I felt so lonely. I still missed someone. Harriet? No. Billy some. My mom, mostly. She died two years ago, after I had been arrested. She had come to see me before the trial, her eyes sad and her body frail from the cancer. I was a solitary man, now. No friends in prison. No friends in life. So doggone lonesome. Even Billy looked at me with contempt. I guess at nine, with your daddy in a California prison and your mom working two shifts at a casino, it would be pretty common to be disappointed.

  I felt a tear run down my cheek again. I thought I had beaten that out of me. I was ashamed. I wiped it away before anyone could notice. I looked up at the sun, a ring of fire in the sky. I waited, not patiently. Twenty five minutes or twenty five years. Same amount of patience, in my mind. All that misery for a class C felony. That was the truth. After what I had been through, I wondered, “What is truth?”

  It didn’t seem like long then, Cordon came back and begrudgingly led ten of us out into the sun, squinting. I was relieved, after so long inside that oven of a cell to finally bake in the open. I could sure use the tan.

  I made sure to give Trejo a stern look as we passed through the last door, the exit out of our rusty cage. He cringed, even though he was at least four inches taller than me and his arms were the size of melons. One of his tattoos would give me a run for my money. But there is something to be said for a stern gaze and a quiet man. I watched him as we shuffled out onto the sandy yard.He was scared, and I was pleased, a satisfied mind.

  Without a Trace

  I sat back, my arms crossed, a satisfied smile creeping across my face. The rest of the gang of kids were shouting and screaming, "oo's" and "ahh's" filtered among "What happened?" and "How'd he do that?" I knew, but wasn't going to tell anyone. It was an absolute hoot (my mom's word) to watch our friends freak out, though.

  One minute Charles was standing on the milk crate and the next, the crate toppled over. Charles seemed to fall backwards and then disappeared, his blue make-shift cap
e fluttering in the June wind. Charles was gone. No footsteps, no music, no dancing girls, no smoke, no mirrors. I had seen magicians who couldn't have pulled it off better. Except this was no trick.

  Sally Whisenhunt had her mouth open, her hand covering it. Her eyebrows were hid by her prominent bangs. Matt was smiling and smacking his leg.

  "Dude! That was incredible! Show me how he did it!" No one could figure out how he had disappeared without a trace. It wasn't magic, really.

  Everyone has heard about invisible capes, hats that turn you invisible, shoes and even jackets. Charles and I had discovered the world's first Invisible Underwear. Yep. Those unique tighty whities were going to be the tool we used to finally get back at Coach Sylvester. A glorious year it would be.

  The only thing I didn't know at the time, though, was that Charles had other ideas about how to use the Invisible Underwear. Charles was what most people would call a hoodlum. I always gave Chuck a pass. His parents were tough on him, especially his pa.

  Charles was always talking about running away. That was, until we discovered the Invisible Underwear. Our lives changed that day.

  At first, we believed that it would make a great prank. I mean, as twelve year olds, the height of hilarity was to embarrass someone. It was more fun to insult others, prank them, or make them feel bad than to have a girl kiss you or to get an "A" on your report card.

  After the joy of seeing everyone's slack jaws and