Boo Hiss

by Rene Gutteridge

  “My pleasure,” he said, his blue, grandfatherly eyes sparkling with wisdom. “I can’t help but tell you how surprised I am to see you at one of our conferences. I guess it’s old news about your departure from the horror world, but still …”

  “According to the Star I’ve had three nervous breakdowns after being abducted by aliens.”

  Harry chuckled. “I suspect,” he said softly, “that you were kidnapped by a different kind of adversary altogether.”

  “Former adversary,” Wolfe smiled.

  “Indeed,” said Harry. “And now you’re here.”

  “Yes sir. My agent assured me I would never fit in.”

  “Your agent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he the fellow in the fancy trench coat who earlier insisted on praying over everyone’s coffee?”

  Wolfe laughed. “It makes him feel good about himself.”

  “Hmm,” Harry said. “Sounds like he’s having a harder time of it. Fitting in, I mean.”

  “I give him credit. He’s the one that believed this might be the place for me.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know that I still have a lot of stories in my heart to tell.”

  Harry leaned forward. “What kinds of stories, Wolfe?”

  Before Wolfe could answer, all of Alfred’s suggestions and pages of notes flooded his mind, blocking a single, coherent word from escaping. Impressively, Alfred had been very detailed about what constituted a religious novel. And he’d also lectured him all the way to Chicago about the required and effective formula for these kinds of books, including an actual spreadsheet.

  “I’ve studied the three top-selling religious novels of all time,” Alfred had said. “Trust me. I have the pulse of the industry.”

  Harry was patiently waiting, and Wolfe was trying to remember the exact story line Alfred had suggested for him, being a newbie and all.

  “Listen, Wolfe,” Alfred had said, “you’re not going to get to go in there and just publish any kind of book you want. You’re going to have to present them with an idea that shows them you’re on board with this kind of thing.”

  But right now Wolfe was drawing a blank as to what kind of thing he was supposed to be pitching. Harry looked concerned. “Well,” Wolfe began, “it’s set on a prairie.” “Really.”

  “Yes. And in fact, there is a prairie woman in the book.” “The protagonist?”

  “Exactly.” Things were starting to click. “Life is hard. She is widowed and raising two children. The land is desolate, and they’re trying to make their way west before the harsh winter.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And without warning, catastrophe strikes.”

  “A snowstorm?”

  “The Rapture.”

  Harry looked stunned. That was a good sign. Maybe Alfred had come up with a pretty original idea, which was shocking, since Alfred was hardly ever original.

  Wolfe tried not to skip a beat. “So half the earths population is gone. There are a slew of covered wagons completely empty, the attached horses running wild without anybody to guide them.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “But not violent,” Wolfe said with a wink. Alfred had warned him that violence was strictly forbidden. “So there’s this prairie woman trying to deal with the fact that most everyone she knows is gone, when she suddenly encounters something so scary it brings her to her knees.”

  “A false prophet?”

  “A love interest.”

  “Oh. A cowboy?”

  “A eunuch.”

  Harry looked completely lost. Wolfe was afraid he wasn’t explaining himself very well. But Alfred had thought the eunuch would work well, since the book had to be heavy on romance but light on love scenes. At least this way there would be plenty of room for clever conversation without any temptation.

  Harry asked, “Is there an antagonist?”

  This was the tricky part. In many previous books that Wolfe had written, the antagonist was a heavy smoker or drinker, fond of cussing and more times than not already dead. But again, Wolfe was willing to make a few adjustments to try his hand at this.

  “Remember,” Alfred had said cautiously, “the bad guy is always one prayer away from total conversion.”

  “Yes, there is definitely an antagonist. He’s sort of a well-dressed, mild-mannered kind of guy, who is often seen giving to the poor and has a soft spot for injured animals.”

  Harry’s head had tilted to the side, like he was trying to examine something from another angle.

  Wolfe quickly added, “He has a terrible temper.”

  Harry scratched his nose and said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’ve got a story about a woman who is left behind on the prairie after the Rapture takes place, who then falls in love with a humble eunuch, who is little help against the frightful temper of the good Samaritan?”

  Wolfe frowned. Oddly, it didn’t sound that good when summed up in a single sentence.

  Harry asked, “She wouldn’t happen to be hiding dark family secrets, would she?” He chuckled and glanced at his watch. “Wolfe, what are you doing right now?”

  “Bombing?”

  Harry laughed. “Maybe it’s time I familiarize you with this strange new world you’ve entered.”

  “Okay. And how will you do that?”

  “Let’s go find your agent and see what happens when I suggest we meditate’ over some new ideas.”

  Wolfe laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ALFRED HAD THE BODY LANGUAGE DOWN. There was a lot of arm patting, which was taking some getting used to, and apparently nobody did the Euro-kiss here, but other than that, he was feeling a little more relaxed.

  With dinner over, thirty minutes of free time took the evening to some sort of special night session that Alfred was scared to even ask about. It was tided Cutting Out the Bad Parts: Exercising Your Redactor Arm, and though there were hints that the topic might be self-editing, Alfred wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t talking about exorcism.

  The room was still swollen with eager and talkative conferees, but Alfred stood on his tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe. Ordinarily, he was easy to spot in a crowd due to his height. But Alfred hadn’t seen him since early evening, and though he’d never felt very imaginative, he had dreamed up all sorts of scenarios, including the idea that a group might have hauled him off to another building to “pray over him.”

  “Alfred?”

  Alfred turned to find Ellie. “Oh, hello.”

  “You look a little stressed. Are you okay?”

  “I can’t find Wolfe. Have you seen him?”

  “I saw him earlier. He was speaking to Harry Rector.”

  Alfred smiled. That was a good sign. Mr. Rector was one of the most highly regarded editors in this business. Through his research, Alfred had actually uncovered the fact that Mr. Rector’s father was responsible for some translation of the Bible. Now if that doesn’t get you in the door, what will?

  “How is the conference going for you?” Ellie asked. “I’m making all kinds of contacts,” Alfred lied. “Of the nonphysical kind.”

  “It’s all about the business card.” And with that, she slid one into his hand. Alfred looked down, and there was Ellies pleasantly round face frozen in time next to her name in nearly unreadable calligraphy.

  “If you push the back, it actually sings you a tune,” Ellie said. Then she laughed. “I’m just kidding. But I have seen those. Who would spend that kind of money, though?”

  “Exactly how long have you been an agent?”

  “I’m in my fifth year.”

  “Good for you.” Alfred grinned.

  “Are you finding your way around okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “This must be a lot different than New York, huh?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve never once prayed over my caviar.”

  “Well, Wolfe has just been a complete delight. He doesn’t look
at all like the picture on the back of his book.”

  “Yeah, that’s been digitally enhanced.”

  “To make him look younger?”

  “Scarier.” Alfred tilted sideways, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe, but he just saw more people. He looked at Ellie. “Let me ask you something. I’ve been doing my share of observing today, and I have to say, I’m nothing short of impressed. You have quite a strategy.”

  “Strategy?”

  “Yeah. It’s a little laid-back for my taste, but I’m willing to bet you score on charm alone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He stepped closer to her. “Which author are you trying to steal here? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” “Steal?”

  “Yeah. Surely you’ve got your eye on someone.”

  Ellie turned to him. “I’m not trying to steal anybody.”

  He snorted. “Right. You’re trying to tell me there’s not a big name here you’d love to draw your twenty percent from?” He scanned the room. “I once heard a guy promise an author he didn’t even represent yet to the editor of a competing house!”

  “I’m not trying to steal anyone,” Ellie said. “I’m happy with my clients. I’m actually here to find fresh, new talent.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You never know when you’re going to discover the next Wolfe Boone!”

  Suddenly a small woman was standing in front of Alfred, looking up at him like a needy child. Her thick glasses magnified dark circles and deep creases on either side of her eyes. She was trying to smile.

  “She’s nervous,” Ellie whispered.

  That was strange, because Alfred was also growing nervous at an alarming rate, especially when he noticed the thick stack of papers in her hand.

  Ellie said to the woman, “Go ahead. Introduce yourself.”

  “I’m Rosalinda Barrington-Glauchmeier.” She shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Actually, that’s a pen name. My real name is Doris Buford.” She held out a hand. Alfred slid his forward, and she grabbed it with the strength of a man twice her size. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

  “Likewise,” Alfred said.

  Ellie smiled. “Likewise. That’s cute.” She looked at Doris. “He’s from New York. They say things like that.”

  “I was wondering if you had some time to talk with me,” Doris said. “I’ve got a manuscript.”

  Alfred’s hand found his face as he tried to look pleasantly agreeable. “Oh, um …”

  “He’d love to,” Ellie interjected. “For the sake of new talent, right, Alfred?”

  He glanced sideways at Ellie. “Sure.”

  Doris’s small frame wiggled with excitement. Before Ellie could add any more suggestions, he said, “Doris, why don’t we sit over here, out of the way? You can tell me about your novel.”

  As they sat, he couldn’t deny the strange feeling that was creeping around his entrails. Was that charity tickling his fancy? A sense of goodwill toward men and short mousy women?

  Was he actually being a good person? He glanced back at Ellie. She had a tight-lipped grin on her face that seemed to show a certain pride in his willingness to pay attention to Doris.

  Alfred gave Doris a reassuring smile, which seemed to do wonders for her fidgeting. She took a deep breath and tried to settle into her chair.

  He spread his arms wide and, with a delighted grin, said, “Doris, what can I do for you, my dear?”

  Alfred took a third tissue from Doris, and blew his nose with reckless abandon. “There, there,” Doris said.

  Alfred couldn’t stop the waterworks. And in a matter of minutes, he’d become touchy-feely. This had drawn more than a few stares, but he really didn’t care. He hadn’t felt this much emotion since he’d received that forty-thousand-dollar bonus nearly a decade ago.

  “So?” Doris asked, ready with a fourth tissue. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Alfred exclaimed. “Look at me! I’m dribble!”

  “I’ll admit, I’m not as familiar with the New York scene as I should be, but usually when someone likes a manuscript, they just say so. However,” she added quickly, “I’m all for men expressing their emotion. It really is quite a sight. What do they call you? Metrosexuals? The last time I saw my husband cry was twenty-two years ago when he got his arm cut off.”

  Alfred sighed, slumped, and wiped away his tears. “Doris, you don’t understand. Your story … did something to me. I can’t really explain it. But it … it …”

  “Touched you?”

  Alfred hesitated, the sexual harassment seminars he’d attended causing him to choose his words carefully. “I guess so.” “This has taken me four years to write.”

  “It’s a powerful story, Doris. And those first chapters are amazing. I’m not one for love stories, but you’ve managed to win me over, and without a sex scene by page twenty-eight.” Alfred sniffled. “Truthfully, it’s a little hard to believe a man would go to such great lengths to save his bride, and then end up dying anyway, but you sold me on it, Doris. You sold me on it. You’ve raised the bar. I recently read a manuscript where I thought the protagonist was heroic because he was willing to give up his mistress, so this is quite a leap for me, as you can see.”

  “So does this mean you’ll take me as your client?”

  Alfred stared across at the woman, who was nearly swallowed by the leather chair on which she sat. He looked around the room for his only other client, who’d seemed to vanish into thin air. There he was, across the room, getting chummy with an old woman who looked like she was half a day away from her coffin.

  He threw up his hands. “Why the dickens not?”

  Ainsley pulled a sweater over her pajamas, buttoned up her coat, and got in her car. It was way too late to be out, but she wasn’t going to sleep much anyway.

  She’d spent the evening fretting. Wolfe had told her he might be home late, and though she let him leave without an argument, it was difficult. After all, she’d changed her mind about being pregnant in the spring. She realized that if she waited much later to get pregnant, it might interfere with holiday plans next fall. Who would want to try to plan Thanksgiving with pending labor? And then there was the idea of being huge and pregnant in the hot summer months, when she normally would be out fertilizing her grass.

  So according to her calculations, calendar, and temperature charts, her whole plan could be blown if Wolfe didn’t get home soon. And it didn’t look like he was going to make it. With a huge huff, she backed out of the driveway and headed toward Melb and Oliver’s.

  Oliver had phoned, sounding frantic. “I’ve called the doctor!” he shouted.

  Ainsley mustered up her calm voice. “Oliver, that’s good. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

  “No! I’ve called the doctor, and now Melb is about to come unglued. She hates doctors!” Ainsley realized he was shouting because of all the wailing Melb was doing. “Can you please hurry over and talk some sense into her?”

  Ainsley was at their house in less than five minutes. As she got out of the car, she could see Melb’s figure silhouetted against the curtains, her arm gesturing angrily at Oliver’s silhouette.

  She hurried to the door and knocked. It swung open, and Oliver said, “She’s lost her mind!”

  “Haven’t you read the statistics?” Melb shouted from her vertical position on the couch.

  “The ones about how many wives drive their husbands crazy?” Oliver shouted back.

  Ainsley stepped into the living room and between the two lovebirds. “What’s the matter?”

  “She’s been sick for four weeks now, and she refuses to go to the doctor. But she’s getting worse, Ainsley. Today she could barely get out of bed.”

  “Yet,” Melb retorted, with a finger flying toward the ceiling, “I managed to scrub every floor in this house with vinegar!”

  Oliver shrugged. “It’s true. In under two hours. But despite how ill she is, she is refusing to eat anything healthy.”

&nb
sp; “He’s lying!” Melb shrieked. “Oliver! What did I have for breakfast this morning?”

  He rolled his gaze toward Ainsley, and in an exasperated voice said, “Cantaloupe.”

  “That’s right. Cantaloupe.” Melb crossed her arms. “With chocolate slivers on top.”

  The doorbell rang, and Oliver rushed to the door as Melb burst into tears.

  “Dr. Hoover,” Oliver said, pulling him in by the arm.

  Dr. Hoover had been retired for twenty years, but still made house calls to anyone nearby, usually at any time of the day or night. He lived twenty minutes away in the next county. He was a pretty good doctor by all accounts, except he had shaky hands, which, in some doctorly situations, could put terror into even the bravest soul.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Melb whimpered. She was carefully eyeing the doctor’s bag.

  “Melb, Dr. Hoover is here to help you. Don’t you want to get better?” Oliver asked.

  “What are her symptoms?” Dr. Hoover asked him.

  “She’s completely irrational, crying all the time, blaming me for everything yet wanting me at her beck and call. Her fuse is the length of my thumbnail, and if I mention anything that can be construed in any way other than its original meaning, she lets me have it!” Oliver slapped a harried hand against his forehead.

  “Her symptoms, not her behavior,” the doctor suggested quietly.

  “Oh.” Oliver shifted his eyes and body away from Melb. In a more controlled manner he said, “And then there’s the nausea and the fatigue. She’s not running a fever, but she does have frequent headaches. And”— Oliver swallowed and looked hesitant—”and she seems to have developed a healthy appetite. And by healthy I mean humongous.”

  Dr. Hoover cautiously approached Melb. “Not one more step,” she said.

  “Melb, don’t you want to know what’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to feel better?” Dr. Hoover asked.

  “No,” she said, shuddering. “I just want to be left alone.”

  Ainsley stepped forward and sat on the couch with her, taking her hand. “We just all hate to see you this miserable. Dr. Hoover is a great doctor.”

  “And I promise, no shots,” he said.