Bev heaved a small sigh. Wheelchairs might not be the best diversion, but it was a big improvement over descriptions of the handicapped child confined to one.
“Jimmy’s Mom had to pick him up and take him to bed one night. His legs are skinny like this.” A small hand with thumb and forefinger illustrating a one-inch circle made Bev cringe. “And she let me try the wheelchair.” Bev didn’t know whether to be glad or fearful at the return to the wheelchair.
“I got to push the buttons.” A hassock became necessary to fully illustrate the joys of an electric wheelchair. “And it goes real fast.” James was completely caught up with hand motions and was even imitating what Bev took to be the purr of an electric motor. She was appalled at how he found being in a wheelchair so much fun. The clock rescued her from further descriptions. It was still well before nine, but washing up and tooth brushing and getting into pajamas would burn up some time and provide a diversion to a more comfortable topic.
James made no protest when they headed for the bathroom, but neither did he curtail what was becoming a more detailed description of the boy next door. “Jimmy’s skin is kinda funny, all tight and shiny.
Oh my God! The poor kid must have been in a fire.
“His mouth’s kinda funny too. His mom has to feed him some awful goop.” James made a face. “He can’t chew or anything.”
Maybe an explosion. What a horrible thing to have happen to a child. Again, she thought back to the psychology section. She had been confused about what the teacher had said about sympathy versus empathy, but James was helping to clarify the difference. His reaction to the food must be an example of empathy. He was seeing himself in the same situation but, at the same time, he seemed to lack sympathy for the invalid. Jimmy, himself, wasn’t important to James. The wheelchair was, and it was soon back as the focus of his monologue.
Peter Pan seemed to stop the flow, but Bev made it a point to skip lightly over Captain Hook’s missing arm. James soon slipped off to sleep, and Bev went out to the other room. But Stephen King couldn’t hold her attention. Jimmy Long was too intrusive. The horror of a child, probably terribly burnt in some explosion, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life, kept coming back.
Turning on the TV and keeping the audio low produced a talk show host going on with mindless patter and interviewing dull guests who chattered equally mindlessly—a brothel madam who managed to make a sinful life uninteresting; an emaciated character whose claim to fame consisted of twenty-seven unsuccessful attempts at suicide. Bev didn’t wait for any more. Switching channels finally brought her into the middle of a Cary Grant movie. It served its purpose and temporarily banished thoughts of explosions, crippled children, and wheelchairs.
The end of the movie came close enough to midnight so that the inability to become engrossed in her book made little difference. The parents were back.
Any idea Bev might have had about asking the cause of Jimmy’s condition vanished at the appearance of the Blunts. The father was far gone, and the mother was at least tipsy. She grinned at Bev, thanked her for sitting, signed the chit without looking and waved her off. Bev reflected she could easily have written herself a good-sized tip.
The following day, the sit began early and was due to end early. “No more partying,” Mrs. Blunt commented, looking much the worse for wear and holding a hand to her forehead, as Bev met her in the lobby. “Neither of us can take another night like last night. I hope we weren’t too impossible.”
Bev reassured her and saw an opportunity to ask about Jimmy Long, since James was outside at the koi pond watching the goldfish.
“Jimmy Long? The boy next door?” The mother responded in a puzzled voice, then laughed in spite of her headache. “We should have warned you. James has a vivid imagination. There’s no boy next door. In fact there aren’t any children anywhere close to James’ age in the whole block.”
The response produced mixed feelings. Bev was relieved to know the hopelessly crippled child was nothing more than a figment of James’s imagination, but she was irked at herself for having been so completely taken in by the young storyteller.
She mulled over these matters as she and James went off to the swimming pool. James was certainly not shy with other children. Voices were loud, play was boisterous, and Bev didn’t need to be involved except as an observer and potential lifeguard.
Afterwards, Bev was torn between hoping the subject of Jimmy Long wouldn’t come up again, and feeling the need—however irrational—to confront James with his lengthy prevarication. It was more than a little annoying to think she’d been so thoroughly conned by a six-year old. And then the psychology section of the child-care class came to mind. “Imaginative children are not intentionally lying when they tell stories. They are being creative, and creativity is something to be encouraged. Don’t cut them off!”
Bev shrugged at the thought as James went on at length about his earlier visit to the dolphin pool. No flights of imagination showed up in the narrative. No riding on the backs of the amiable creatures. Merely a straightforward narrative of his own reluctance to go into the pool with them, and a description of the trainers throwing fish to the eager mammals.
Even as she spoke, Bev wondered if she’d regret her next move. She justified it as giving the child “a chance to express his imagination.” During a lull in the monologue, she asked “Do you often go next door to play with Jimmy?”
James picked up the conversation without missing a beat. “Uh-uh, but my favorite is Sally at the house on the other side. She has to stay in bed all day, like this.” He illustrated by putting his hands down at his sides and standing rigid. “She can’t ever leave there. Her mom has all the curtains closed, and you can hardly see anything in there. Sally has this tube in her nose to give her air, and her mom has to feed her though another tube in her mouth.”
The description continued, with a Sally who made Jimmy Long look like a successful athlete. Bev was convinced she was babysitting a future Steinbeck or Hemingway. Maybe even a Stephen King.
THE CHEST
At last! A chance to show up know-it-all Syd. Brad Bradbury had long ago decided he’d had it—right up to the eyeballs. It was bad enough when Sydney Woolcraft had practically stolen a Kentucky rifle from under his nose in the Biloxi second-hand store, but Syd’s arrogance—when he found Robert E. Lee’s letters to his niece—was the last straw. Today would finally reveal the self-styled expert in Civil War memorabilia for what he was—a dumb patsy.
The occasion for Syd’s defrocking was going to be the annual Natchez Confederate Days auction. Brad had gotten there early and had made all the arrangements. An old beat-up chest with a monstrous rusted padlock and a not-too-bright twelve year old were all he needed. The chest was coming up for auction. Junior Wilson, son of auctioneer Mouth Wilson, was one of the goffers on his father’s auction floor.
Pure chance had created the opportunity. The day was one of those incredibly hot Mississippi August days, and the warehouse was a suffocating furnace. Brad had been inspecting the bric-a-brac Mouth had accumulated for the auction, just as Junior was wandering aimlessly through. “Hey, Junior, did you know old man Hatfield?” Brad nodded toward the display of decrepit household furnishings the Sheriff had hauled from the deceased Hatfield’s shack, where it had lain unclaimed for a month.
“Uh-huh.”
“Any idea what’s in the trunk?” Brad asked, pointing at a small and badly battered chest with an ancient lock hanging from the hasp.
“Sure.”
“What?”
“Money. Lots of bills.”
Brad’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know?”
Junior grinned. “Dad picked the lock.”
Brad was totally unbelieving. “And he left it all in the chest?”
“Yup.”
“But why?”
“He said the money warn’t worth nothin’. It’s all Confederate stuff.”
And that was when Brad saw his chance to put Syd in h
is place.
“Would you like to earn ten dollars, Junior?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Here’s what you do. Syd Woolcraft will be in this afternoon. You know him, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“When he comes in this afternoon and starts looking over this pile, you come over and talk to him. Tell him you know the chest is full of money because you saw it open in old man Hatfield’s shack. But don’t tell him it’s Confederate money. And don’t tell him your Dad opened it.” Several rehearsals had the scheme down to perfection.
An hour later, Brad, from the other end of the warehouse, could see his young protégé in deep conference with Syd, both of them pointing animatedly at the chest. Brad could hardly wait for the afternoon auction to begin. He was even more impatient as Mouth droned on, trying to squeeze a few additional pennies out of the crowd for items which were seldom worth the price he was getting.
Finally, the chest. “And here, folks, is a genuine antique chest, going back to way before the War Between the States. Now, I know it’s gone through a lot, but you can’t expect something that old to still be bright and shining. After all, when you’re over a hundred and fifty years old you won’t be looking so good neither. Do I hear one hundred dollars?” A loud snicker and several hoots greeted the question. No one bid.
“Look folks. This is a sheriff’s consignment. Everything is as is, just as it came out of the Hatfield house. Why, this chest might be stuffed with money. How about seventy-five?
“Do I hear fifty?” Junior and another goffer stood on either side of the chest as though guarding an open coffin. “Do I hear twenty-five?”
Brad, from his front row seat, was amused to hear Syd’s familiar voice from somewhere several rows back in the stand above him, “Five dollars.”
“Five dollars. Now, do I hear twenty-five?”
Brad shouted out, “Fifty!
Mouth grinned approval. “Fifty, do I hear sixty?”
“Sixty-five.”
Brad was almost beside himself. The crowd had quieted, Syd was digging himself in further and further. “Seventy-five.” Brad’s voice was much lower now. He didn’t have to shout, as Mouth simply looked in his direction for the signal.
Then, “Eighty.” “One-hundred.” Then, “One-hundred and five.”
The tension was mounting. Brad noticed how even the usually uninterested Junior was feeling the pressure. He now had a visible tic. Every time Brad bid, his left eye would close. “Two hundred,” Brad silently indicated to the auctioneer.
“Two hundred! Do I hear two-fifty?”
It suddenly struck Brad how Junior had spent an inordinate amount of time talking to Syd about the chest. Was there a possibility of a double cross? Could the tic be a wink alerting Syd the bids were coming from Brad? Junior kept staring out at the crowd, the tic having magically stopped following Brad’s last bid.
The paddle fans over the stand no longer provided any relief for Brad. The sweat began to form on his back and under his arms.
“Two hundred. Do I hear two-twenty-five?”
Brad was drenched in perspiration.
“How about two-hundred and five?” Brad had to physically restrain himself from turning to look up at Syd.
“Two hundred, going once.”
Brad was sitting in a puddle of water.
“Two hundred, going twice.”
Brad closed his eyes as the salty sweat rolled over his eyebrows and down into his eyes.
“Two hundred, going to Brad Bradbury.”
“Brad opened his eyes just long enough to see the gavel lifted high in the air, and then, “Two hundred and five,” from Syd.
Brad’s shoulders sagged. He was still mopping his brow with a sodden bandana handkerchief when the next item after the chest sold. Satisfaction begin to surge back. Syd had gotten a worthless pile of Confederate notes for two hundred and five dollars. He would never, but never, live this down, and Brad wasn’t going to miss out on the revelation.
Watching Syd leave the auction house, he followed him out to see him back his van up to the rear entrance and go in to claim his prize. Brad sauntered over as Syd opened the van’s rear doors and carefully lifted the battered chest into the back of the vehicle.
With a straight face, Brad asked, “Aren’t you going to open it up, Syd? You may have a big surprise in there.”
Syd shrugged. “I’m not much concerned with what’s in it,” he said, as he reached into his pocket to pull out a couple of photographs. One showed a man in old-fashioned dress standing in what was probably an office of equally ancient vintage. “Recognize him?”
“Sure thing.” Brad couldn’t hide his puzzlement. “About every Mississippian would. That’s Jeff Davis.”
“Right. picture was taken just before he left home to become president of the Confederacy.”
“So?”
“Notice the chest in the background? Here’s a close up of it.” Syd showed him a grainy blow-up of the photo showing the chest with a black, grease pencil arrow pointing at letters stamped into the metal band. There was no mistaking the two large “J. D.” initials. Syd pointed at the chest in the back of the van. The initials, now rust-covered, were still visible and clearly identical with those in the photo.
As he locked up the van, Syd said. “Got a Civil War buff who’s offered me ten thousand dollars for the chest, sight unseen. I reckon there’s no need to open it.”
Junior came running out of the auction house as Syd was climbing up behind the wheel. Without another word, Syd handed him a twenty-dollar bill, got into the van and drove off.
THE DESHREDDER
You should have seen the look on old Cranston’s face when he saw the almost perfect copy coming out of the deshredder after he, himself, had stuffed the shredded pieces into it.
But I’m getting way ahead of my story. My name’s Mary. My husband’s is Joseph. And I know what you’re thinking. But we have two children, and even though they’re nice kids and I love them dearly, neither shows any sign of growing up to be a saint, let alone a savior. Now, it’s a different story with Joseph.
When I first met him, back when I was a young au pair, fresh from Ireland, taking part-time classes at Georgetown U., I couldn’t believe it. Right from our first date I knew he was the sweetest, kindest, lovingest, most honest man you could ever imagine. And, on top of that, he’s an electronic-mechanical genius. Oh yes; he’s handsome too! When we flew back to my home to get married there, Mother, who’s a shrewd judge of character, said, “He’s too honest for his own good.”
Well, I guess if anyone has to have a flaw, an overabundance of honesty is probably the best one to have. It’s caused us—or at least me—some grief, though. Joseph likes to invent things and his inventions have given us a comfortable home here in Arlington, Virginia. Also, we now have a nice nest egg put aside for retirement and for two sets of college expenses, which aren’t too far off. So I guess I really shouldn’t complain. But Joseph has been terribly naïve in dealing with people. He trusts them.
When we were first married, I worked as a secretary and spent most of my spare time hunting down material for Joseph to turn into something patentable and saleable. Two clothespins and a handful of paper clips are all he needs to come up with a new heart valve or heat pump. With his kind of talent in the family, I soon quit my job because we needed a full-time marketing agent. And it has all worked out well.
Now, some of the things Joseph comes up with aren’t especially practical. For example, he rigged up one of those metal coils that walks down stairs so it would actually climb back up. It was cute, but—as I told him—it was too high tech. Adding an expensive sensor and some other electronic equipment to a simple spring sent the cost of production sky-high, much too high for any kind of successful marketing.
But the worst of it is that, until I was able to rein him in, he would practically give some of his ideas away, and could get badly cheated even when he didn’t. The worst incident was
with a fantastic selective voice amplifier he developed. He made the mistake of trying to sell it before getting a patent on it. I had the flu at the time and didn’t know he was off acting as his own salesman. The result was a disaster.
The amplifier could work wonders. A whisper in the vicinity of a jackhammer was sorted out loud and clear. So, what does Joseph do? He finds a buyer, all right. A buyer no one in the nation’s capital would ever trust—Old Cranston of Cranston Investigations, Inc. He’d started his business raiding trash cans outside of embassies and hasn’t changed much since, only he’s doing it on a much larger and more remunerative scale these days.
Anyhow, Joseph goes to Cranston’s office, shows him the gadget and then goes on and on about how it works. An unidentified bystander—who later turns out to be one of Cranston’s top electronics experts—asks Joseph to open up the amplifier. Would you believe it? Joseph actually does! It isn’t long before the expert has it figured out, so Cranston loses interest in the invention. Joseph packs up and comes back home. A few months later the rumor’s around about how Cranston is using a miraculous new voice amplifier in the course of his nefarious work, and his stock keeps going up and up.
So I decided about then that we needed a lawyer, and Sid Gold has turned out to be ideal. He’s a perfect complement to Joseph. Shrewd, hard nosed, and he knows patent and contract law backwards and forwards—plus being a really nice guy.
So we’ve prospered.
Now, to get back to my story. As usual, Joseph picked up the idea for a new invention from the most unlikely source. I was working over the books one day when I found I’d torn up a note I shouldn’t have torn up, so I fished the pieces out of the mess of papers in the wastebasket and was trying to put them back together, when Joseph said, “You know, there’s no reason why a machine couldn’t do what you’re doing a whole lot faster. In fact, all the stuff coming out of those paper shredders could be put back together.”
I raised an eyebrow at that—two, in fact. I’d done enough work with shredders to know there’s a limit to how well Humpty-Dumpty can be put back together again.
Expect the Unexpected Page 32
