The Brummie Con

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  I turn around to leave, throwing off the growing, smothering blanket. I don’t have the heart to explain it to him, to make it real, to make it final.

  “Where are you going?” Puo asks, his words devoid of tone or life.

  “To get dinner,” I say over my shoulder, hurrying now that I’m moving. I want to get out of there before Puo starts explaining it to Winn.

  They watch me leave like two statues awkwardly placed, unsure what to do and unable to do anything even if they knew what did.

  It has to be a bluff.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I POP AWAKE. Five a.m.

  Blood pulses against my ears. My eyes are wide open, parsing the dark shapes in the unfamiliar darkness, searching for the threat.

  Twenty-nine hours, I can’t stop thinking. Twenty-nine hours.

  I can’t catch my breath.

  Twenty-nine hours. My father’s beaten face floats in front of me.

  My hands are trembling. It’s like someone is sitting on my chest.

  I throw the covers off of me that feel as heavy as stones.

  It doesn’t help. Is there a ceiling fan in here? I’m burning up. Parched.

  Water sloshes around in the clear glass as I try to take a sip. A relief of microseconds. Water dribbles down the sides of the glass, reminding me of the club soda with cranberry juice on the train to Northampton.

  Panic attack. It’s another damn panic attack. Can that even happen when you’re sleeping?

  Breathe, I remember. Focus on breathing.

  I shakily bring up an internet video on my tablet to guide me through some diaphragmatic breathing exercises.

  “Close your eyes for me now,” an annoyingly soothing voice intones from the video. “Begin to feel relaxed and calm. You may even fall asleep during this video ...”

  Has this jackass ever even had a panic attack? Fall asleep? Double jackass.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  I hate this.

  ***

  An hour later, I’m up making a bowl of porridge—fall asleep my ass. Porridge is not oatmeal, but it’s all the owner had that interested me. We didn’t get any groceries—we weren’t supposed to be here this long.

  There’s no going back to sleep after what happened this morning. The worst has passed, but the unseen threat still lingers on the periphery, ready to charge in and bring the jackknives to a fury. It still feels like I could sprint a mile and have energy to spare.

  The clinking of the spoon sounds excessively loud against the white porcelain bowl as I mix in honey and chocolate chips (again—little choice). It sounds like I’m ringing a church bell in the dead of night to ward off evil spirits. Christmas morning isn’t so much quiet as it is devoid of sound, as if sound itself were mourning—like the pause between when an officer shows up at the front door and regretfully informs a family their loved one was killed in an accident.

  I sit at the opposite end of the large wooden kitchen table from Puo’s empty electronic nest. The porridge is gritty—I wonder if I cooked it long enough—but the honey and melted chocolate chips take the edge off.

  Puo’s electronic nest hums, down at the other end of the table. Little fans whirring. Lights blinking. Who knows what those screens show right now.

  Twenty-eight hours.

  Stupid thought. Very stupid thought. The jackknives thrive.

  I push the bowl of porridge away, its flavors eviscerated.

  I can’t just sit here. The Cleaners have my father. The countdown is expiring. The authorities are onto Ham—maybe onto us if it was that lying piece of shit Ty that tipped them off. And I still have no gift for Winn!

  I shoot out of the chair and start pacing. Breathe. Just breathe.

  I briefly consider going through the breathing exercises again back in my room, but chuck the idea of lying still right now. How do people live like this? How is this helpful?

  I need something to do.

  Cinnamon rolls. I’m going to make cinnamon rolls. I have no idea where the thought comes from, but I latch onto it like a lifeline.

  I search on my tablet for a recipe—whoa, that’s a lot of sitting around time for the dough to rise. I search for “easy cinnamon rolls.” Much better.

  I check the ingredient list against the stock—fortunately there’s nothing exotic beyond cinnamon. Flour. Eggs. Milk. Butter. Sugar. All staples our thoughtful bachelor has left behind for me to use.

  I get to work.

  ***

  I think I may have found a new hobby. Baking is incredibly peaceful. By the end, the jackknives have subsided and the unseen threat has receded. I even reheat my bowl of porridge and manage to eat half of it.

  It takes me close to an hour to get the cinnamon rolls ready to cook. The recipe said prep time should take thirty minutes, but that assumes you’ve baked before and you’re in your own kitchen. By the end, I feel worn out, pressed through a ringer—not from the baking, but from the panic attack, like I had run from the cops for hours and was finely safe—like I was back in the sewer waiting to see Charlie.

  I set the cinnamon bowls in their glass baking pan in the spring-green refrigerator to be baked after everyone wakes up, then I go to lie down again. I fall asleep in minutes.

  The good kind of sleep. The dreamless, restful, dead to the world kind of sleep. The kind of sleep you wake up slowly from, not pop awake with your eyes wide open and heart racing.

  Hours later, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door down the hall pulls me from a light peaceful sleep into consciousness. I lay there for a few minutes longer, appreciating the soft bed, the bright morning sun illuminating the bedroom, coaxing me awake.

  It’s not so quiet in the flat anymore—the boys are up. I can hear their voices talking with each other, but not what they’re saying. I find myself looking forward to seeing them.

  I wander out to the living room, drawn to the empty kitchen by the earthy smell of freshly made coffee. I stop briefly to take the cinnamon rolls out of the refrigerator and set them on the counter to bring them to room temperature, eschewing for the moment a cup of coffee—I’d rather see the boys first.

  Puo and Winn are sitting on the cream-colored couch, still in their pajamas, each with a mug: coffee for Winn, warmed water for Puo (no apple juice). There’s a dancing fire in the gas fireplace that casts a warm glow over them.

  “Hey, there she is!” Winn calls out excitedly, turning to see me.

  “Merry Christmas!” Puo says, and raises his mug at me.

  It all looks so normal. “Merry Christmas,” I say, letting the domestic scene wash over me, wash away the last vestige of that awful eye-popping start to my morning. And with the two of them sitting there, looking so peaceful and excited in their pajamas, I decide on the spot not to give Puo the bag of charcoal even as a joke. Today is going to be a good day.

  “Coffee’s in the pot,” Winn says. “No espresso machine—sorry.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say, genuinely not miffed at all. I head back toward the kitchen. The fire warms the room to perfect pajama wearing temperature. The sun outside shines through the clear morning; the shadows have no place to hide. I can already taste the cinnamon rolls. “Hey,” I say, turning back toward the boys briefly. “For the rest of the morning at least, no shop talk. Okay?”

  “You got it.” Winn smiles.

  “I love it!” Puo says, holding up his mug in salute.

  I pop back into the kitchen to retrieve a mug of coffee and turn on the oven to preheat. When I come back I cozy up between the boys, sitting cross-legged. The mug is warm in my hands. The creamy brown liquid is a little burnt from being left on the burner, but I don’t mind.

  As soon as I settle in, Puo announces, “Gifts!”

  Turd. But then I think, what else are you going to do on Christmas morning? And then: Oh, shit! I still don’t have anything for Winn! Fuck!

  Puo reaches down and grabs a present at the base of the couch that I missed seeing before. He hands it to
Winn. “To Winn,” he says. “You haven’t been a member of our team for a year, yet it feels like five already.” He holds up his finger. “But I’m still not used to your stink.”

  I shake my head at Puo as Winn opens the gift and I frantically think of something, anything I can give Winn. Winn’s gift is a bottle of cologne.

  It’s a cologne Puo knows I’m partial to, but isn’t the cologne that lingered in my room after Winn left. I glance at Puo who gives me a small, secret smile.

  Winn promptly squirts some into the air. It smells like a crisp night, fresh and inviting. “Nice,” I say.

  “You like it?” Winn asks.

  “I do.”

  Winn regards the bottle a little more thoughtfully before setting it down in front of him on the stone coffee table. He fishes around the end of the couch and produces a small wrapped package—my stomach flutters at its sight, but he hands it to Puo. Maybe I can get lucky and Winn didn’t get me anything.

  Puo rips off the paper with great flourish. Inside is a box of some electronic device.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A diction machine,” Puo says slowly.

  “For your stories,” Winn says. “Whenever you’ve got a story, use that and it’ll automatically transcribe it and email you the file—that way it’s not hooked up to the rest of your system.”

  Puo’s eyes light up. “Awesome!”

  Winn adds slyly, “I thought you could set it up to email Isa—”

  Puo grins at me.

  Winn continues, “—that way she can ponder your wisdom long after the story’s over.”

  I punch Winn on the shoulder for the crack.

  “Mmm ...” Puo says, “yes. Yes, I like this very much.” He sets it down in his lap, and with a smirk still on his face reaches down to grab and hand me a heavy box slightly smaller than a shoe box, covered in a shiny red wrapping paper and tied with a gold ribbon.

  I set my coffee down and take the gift and start to open it, a little wary of the smirk still plastered on Puo’s face. I go slow, trying to give myself time to think of something for Winn. Toiletries? I have some in my bathroom.

  “Whoa,” Puo says. “Read the note. What were ya? Raised on the street?”

  Now fully wary, I read the note: To Isa to give to Winn, From Puo. My mouth falls open and I look at Puo to see if it’s genuine.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says, his face smooth and relaxed, a light smile on his face.

  I burst over and give him a hug. He smells like my Puo. Strong. Solid. “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “Thank you for the drone.”

  I sit back in my seat. “I’m not going to regret giving him this, am I?”

  Puo smiles. “No, I don’t think so. I was tempted—oh, man, was I tempted. But no. No tassels.”

  I give Puo another smile and then turn to Winn and hand him the gift. “Here you go.”

  Winn takes the gift, not a lick of surprise on his face, but only the pleasant demeanor of a father watching his children play.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I ask.

  Winn opens his mouth to answer, but Puo talks over him, “We both came up with the idea independently. We figured you had a lot going on and were likely to strike out.” Puo raises his fist and extends out his pinky and forefinger and says, “Scouts’ honor.”

  “You know that’s not the scout sign,” I say, thinking of Nix.

  “It is, if I say it is,” Puo says. “Now let the poor man open his gift. We may have hit on the idea independently, but he doesn’t know what’s in it.”

  Winn tears off the shiny red paper of the long side and then stops to stare at it. “No way.” He hurriedly rips off the rest, tossing the paper aside.

  Inside is a deep green box and on a smooth cloth label it says, “The Macallan, Fine Oak, 50.” A very expensive bottle of whiskey.

  “You bought this?” Winn asks.

  “Welll ...” Puo demurs. “It is a gift from Isa, and do we really think Isa would pay for her gifts?”

  “No,” Winn says, running his fingertips along the box, “of course not.”

  I’m about to object on principle, but shrug instead. They’re probably right. I didn’t pay for that drone. It’s more thoughtful to reappropriate a gift, requires more effort, but I keep that nugget of wisdom to myself lest I break Winn’s trance with the whiskey.

  Winn opens the box, breaks out into a grin and lifts out a pair of garish socks lying in the bottom. Each one has a flying falcon embroidered on them.

  “Nice,” I say.

  Winn promptly puts them on. He then lifts the bottle out with both hands. “Oh, we got to have some.”

  “Now?” I ask. “It’s nearly ten in the morning.”

  “But,” Winn stutters, “It’s Macallan’s. On Christmas.”

  “Two fingers neat, please,” Puo says, ordering his drink.

  Winn bounds off the couch, still clutching the bottle in both hands.

  “One finger for me,” I say.

  Before I can say a proper thank you to Puo, Winn has already retrieved three tumbler glasses and poured the requested amount.

  “To family,” Winn toasts, his face still lit from the excitement about the fancy whiskey.

  The image of my father’s face bubbles up, his eyes scared, the edges warped, the ever-decreasing numbers beneath his beaten face.

  Twenty-four hours.

  “To family,” Puo says, bringing me back into the present.

  “To family,” I repeat quietly. We are, at that.

  I take a deep breath, expelling the sudden angst and fighting down the frightening image. One morning without shop talk, without acknowledging the heaping pile of shit bearing down on us. I get one morning.

  Winn and Puo drink their toast unnoticed.

  The dark-golden liquid is silky, the edge of alcohol expertly smoothed over with a taste of smoke and aged oak. It makes me think of a bonfire on a cold night.

  “Okay,” Winn says, savoring the drink. “It’s your turn.” He hands me a cube-shaped present wrapped in the same shiny red paper, tied this time with green ribbon.

  There’s a low cackle from the gas logs—designed to sound like wood-burning ones. With a different feeling in my stomach all together, I slide my forefinger underneath a fold of wrapping paper on the side. Puo and Winn are staring at me. Now that I’m in the spotlight, I suddenly worry how I look. Can they tell I thought of my father?

  My fingers tingle as I slowly unwrap the present. I hope I react well.

  “Whoa,” I breathe. I put my hand to my beating chest. It’s a digital collection of classic American television shows: Leave it to Beaver, Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, and more. It’s perfect.

  “Thank you,” I say, tension bleeding out of my body. I suddenly realize I was worried it was going to be jewelry or some other girlfriendy type gift. But this, this is great.

  “You’re welcome,” Winn says.

  I suddenly want to give both of them a hug and spill out everything that happened this morning. Tell them how I feel. Tell them, tell them ... what exactly?

  I’m just emotional from this morning. It must be a part of the aftermath of a panic attack. I make a mental note to look that up.

  I get ahold of myself with a deep breath and say, “Well, if we had to drink whiskey at ten in the morning, then we need to binge watch—” I flip over and look at the list of shows getting excited—they’re the perfect escape. So many good choices! “—Mr. Ed.”

  Puo whinnies “yes” like a horse.

  “You know Mr. Ed can talk, right?” I ask him.

  “We need popcorn,” Winn cuts in.

  Puo stubbornly whinnies his excitement again.

  “Oh! And I need to put the cinnamon rolls in.” I bounce off the couch to do that.

  Once those two things are taken care of we all settle down on the couch again. I snuggle up between the boys with a bowl of popcorn in my lap (the cinnamon rolls need another twenty minutes), leaning up against
Puo and resting my feet on Winn’s lap.

  The popcorn is warm and soft, little bits of sea salt coat the otherwise unadorned kernels. Tasty.

  “What is it with you and old black and white shows?” Winn asks as the opening credits play.

  “I don’t know,” I say thinking about it. “They’re just nice. Everyone is decent. Even the—” I make air quotes. “—‘bad people.’ They’re just a shade less decent than everyone else, but still fundamentally good.” I think about it more, about my father, about growing up, then I add more quietly, “No one is ever trying to kill you. No one is ever in any real danger.”

  Twenty-four hours.

  It has to be a bluff.

  ***

  Morning drifts away into afternoon, the air shifting to that feeling when summer is over, morphing into autumn. The day itself remains clear, God’s own angels reigning down light on His son’s birthday. We even crack a window to let in the cool air into the warming flat—none of us suggesting turning off the fire.

  Our pajamas stay on all through season one episode nine, but now showers are in order and we break upon mutual agreement to reconvene.

  The shower is peaceful. I keep the water cool, feel the heat bleed off me. I think about the morning as the water hits the top of my head and cascades down my long black hair and down my back. I think about the gifts. About how perfect the television shows are. I’m not sure I would have gotten Winn the bottle of whiskey (and I’m still not ready to give him back his caduceus necklace). The whiskey is a good gift, but not quite right either. It doesn’t communicate where we are, where we might be going.

  I run my hands through my hair, feel the water wash over my face. There’s only one thing that comes to mind that fits that mold. I finish showering, then dry myself and dress quickly, lest I lose my resolve. Puo is showering now and Winn should be alone getting dressed.

  I tap softly on the closed French doors to the office that doubles as Winn’s bedroom, keeping an ear out for changes in the splashes of Puo’s showering.

  Winn whips it open, causing me to cringe.