AHMM, October 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Patel's coffee complexion went ashen. He tried to apologize, it didn't matter. The carnie meant to bleed him, I could read the glittering madness in his eyes from thirty feet away. Grinning, he flicked the blade back and forth in front of Patel's face, the knife flashing like heat lightning. I fumbled for the phone to call 911, knowing it was already too late—

  An explosion in the parking lot! Gunshot!

  "Police officer! That's enough of that! Drop that sticker, you piece of shit, or the next round's between your eyes!"

  Thelma, still dressed for bed in her T-shirt and panties, barefoot, hair tousled, eyes wild. With her service revolver aimed directly at the big carnie's head, two-hand hold.

  But he was too drunk to care, or too crazy. Instead of backing off, the big guy yanked Patel in front of him as a shield, holding the knife to his throat. Bad idea. Patel was too small to cover him.

  Thel didn't hesitate. Shot the carnie through the calf, knocking his pins out from under him. Patel broke free, fleeing like he was on fire as the big guy went down, screaming, clutching his bloodied leg. Pandemonium, rednecks running for their campers, tires howling, metal smashing. Pickups bouncing off each other like bumper cars as they raced away.

  Grabbing my suitcase and shoes, I sprinted out the door.

  "Come on!” I shouted, hauling Thelma toward the Mercury. “Time to go!"

  "We have to wait for the police—"

  "Don't be nuts! Fifty drunks will tell one story, you'll tell another, and we'll all sit in the slam for a month while the locals figure it out. Get in!"

  Dropping the big XR in gear, I floored it, roaring out of the lot amid the ragtag vehicle stampede. Found the freeway and headed west with the hammer down. The muscle car lived up to its name, rocketing through the night like a big cat, ninety, a hundred, a hundred and ten.

  "Slow down,” Thelma said quietly. “You'll get busted for speeding."

  I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. She was right. I eased off the gas as she fumbled in the back seat for my jacket, wrapped herself in it. Dead to the world in under a minute.

  Didn't blame her. I was exhausted myself, but buzzed too high on adrenalin to sleep. Glanced at Thel from time to time, but she never stirred. I could smell whiskey, and I wondered how far gone she was. Drinking to sleep, shooting up parking lots. Maybe her mom could straighten her out. God knows, I had no clue. I can barely manage myself.

  What would happen after Taos? If Thel wanted out, I'd certainly given her cause. And from a purely selfish point of view, getting my career back on the fast track would require serious politicking at my next job. And Thel was right, she has no talent for the social climbing that's so crucial in the academic whirl. As a professor's wife, she was a liability. A clean break might be best for both of us. It would be the smart move. And I'm a bright guy. Or so people keep telling me.

  So I drove on, bleary eyed, counting the markers, counting Cadillacs, anything to stay awake. But that only works for so long. Around four thirty I caught myself nodding out. Wasn't even sure which state we were in anymore. Maybe Nebraska, somewhere south of Lincoln.

  Leaving the freeway, I pulled into a deserted roadside park facing a small lake. The sign said closed for the season, but I was too tired to care. Considered climbing into the back seat, but conked out before I made it.

  Woke with the sun in my eyes. So groggy it took me a moment to remember where we were and how we got here.

  We?

  The passenger seat was empty. Fully awake now, I looked around, taking stock. Small roadside park, vacant, picnic tables chained together, a defunct cement fountain. No bathroom, not even a porta-john.

  No Thelma, either. Got out of the car. Maybe she'd gone looking for some bushes to—no. My God.

  The lake wasn't large, only a mile or so across, smooth and bright as a copper mirror, glowing in the morning light. Out near the middle, at least two hundred yards from shore, Thelma. Nothing showing but her face, her shoulders. Floating.

  And for a minute I was afraid—but then she moved, paddling a little, turning to reposition herself across the gentle swells.

  I had no idea what to do. Didn't know what she was doing out there. Swimming? After the night we'd had? Unlikely.

  Suicide? A definite possibility. But if so, she'd managed it well. Because there wasn't a thing I could do but watch. If she wanted to be gone, she could be. No way could I reach her in time.

  Half a mil. That's what her death would be worth to me as a surviving spouse. Half a million dollars. More money than my father'd earned in his entire life. Or that I was likely to, after the muck I'd made of my career.

  A lot of money. And money always matters. Especially when you don't have it.

  But I wouldn't be collecting today. As if reading my thoughts, Thel rolled over and started swimming strongly for shore, knifing through the swells, coming on like Jaws.

  Splashed out of the water, hugging herself, shivering, wearing only her panties and bra, both transparent from the water. The first time I'd seen her nude in months. Since Ion. She'd lost weight. Looked spare, almost gaunt.

  I loaned her my coat.

  "Where are we?” she asked, her lips blue, teeth chattering.

  "In Nebraska, I think. I'm not sure where. Are you all right?"

  "No. I feel like absolute shit. I'm going to quit drinking. It doesn't help and it's making me crazy."

  "You think? You shot a man last night."

  "He deserved it."

  "Even so—"

  "Know what, Cray? I think when I'm old and tired, my biggest regret will be the jerks I didn't shoot. I'm freezing, let's go."

  We drove through the morning, stopped for brunch and gas at an IHOP in Grand Island, cleaned up as best we could in the restrooms, then settled into a silent flight out of Nebraska. Leaving 80 at the Colorado line, we swung south on 76, heading for Denver, the last leg of our run. And the last of us.

  Southern Colorado by evening, rocketing down 25, the sun dying in a blaze of glory amid the Great Sand Dunes. And I was beginning to burn out myself. Nearing the border, the Cougar was low on gas and so were we. Decided to pack it in for the night in Pueblo.

  Found a better motel this time, Ryder's Hacienda. And it really was. A three story adobe inn, its horseshoe shape enclosing a charming courtyard with open-air dining. Wrought-iron railings and a winding staircase decked with hanging vases. Airy, elegant, very Southwest, very welcome after the long ride.

  Separate rooms again. But we agreed to meet in the courtyard for dinner, eightish. Our last? Probably.

  My room was dark, with heavy Spanish furniture, a fruit basket, and a small wet bar. None of which mattered. I barely managed to kick off my shoes before I fell on the bed and swept off into the darkness.

  Woke a few hours later, feeling surprisingly fresh. Took a long shower, dressed carefully, tweed sport coat, striped rep tie.

  Found a quiet table in the dining room, ordered coffee. Thel was late, but not by much. And it was worth the wait.

  She came down the winding staircase alone, lost in her own thoughts. Dressed western casual, jeans, boots, a fringed blouse. Hopelessly provincial by Hancock U standards. But corny or not, a lot more appealing than the drab, bag lady styles of the college, where dressing to please was as déclassé as shopping at Wal-Mart.

  But she wasn't out of place here. In fact, I was the one dressed like a misfit. I was the only man wearing a necktie, sensible shoes instead of tooled boots. Thelma looked right for the room.

  And people noticed. It was a long staircase and she's a very handsome woman. A bit haggard, perhaps, with wounded eyes. And grace. Not temporary, teenaged perfection. The kind of bone-deep beauty that can only be earned with time. And pain.

  I recognized it the way I appreciate an elegant design. And it began to dawn on me just how badly I'd screwed up my life.

  I rose when she joined me at the table, a courtesy I'd noticed other men offering, again, provincial by academic standards. And a w
asted effort. She didn't notice.

  We ordered drinks before dinner. Jack Black for her. A double. Gone before the appetizers arrived. She looked distracted, distant. Last chance.

  "I don't know if you want to talk, but if we're going to, it has to be now."

  No answer, but at least she was looking at me.

  "You asked me to be honest, but there's something I haven't told you."

  "Give me some credit, Cray, I already know more than I care to."

  "Then treat it like a joke. Stop me if you've heard it already. I didn't leave Hancock because of you. I didn't get tenure, I got suspended. Fired."

  "Over that girl? My God, what a waste. I hope she was worth it."

  "She wasn't. Nothing has been worth it since we left Notre Dame."

  "What are you saying? Back in college, being a teacher was all you talked about."

  "Right. Being a teacher, which is not the same thing as teaching. I like being the center of attention, the perks, the money, lifetime security if you win tenure. I admire good teachers, know them when I see them. And I'm talented enough to know I'm not talented enough. I don't have the gift."

  "Nonsense. You're the brightest guy I've ever known. The first college boy who ever talked me out of my jeans—and it's not like you were first one who tried. Kids love you. They tell me so."

  "That's because I'm easy and entertaining. But I don't have the passion for it, Thel. Or the patience."

  "Then what will you do?"

  "Don't have the vaguest. How's that for honesty?"

  "Pretty fair,” she conceded. “Okay, my turn. I didn't adopt Ion to give him a better life. We were falling apart, and I wanted something for comfort after you left. So I badgered you into buying him for me, like a puppy."

  "Thel, he would have died even if he'd never come here. He had a happier time with you than he ever could have had in that orphanage."

  "It doesn't matter now. Thank you for telling me about losing tenure. It's nice that something wasn't my fault."

  "None of it was your fault. Look, I know I've behaved badly, but—"

  "Puh-leeze, Cray, my mom's been married four times. I've heard every sorry-ass excuse there is. We crashed and burned. It's normal, happens about half the time no matter who's to blame. How about we split the guilt, fifty-fifty?"

  "I just want you to know I'm sorry. For all of it. I truly am."

  "Yeah, I believe you really are. Funny, I always thought you were so bright. You told me about the different kinds of intelligence once...?"

  "Academic and functional. I can ace tests, Thel, I'm not so hot at acing life."

  "And people thought we had nothing in common,” she said, smiling for the first time in a long time. “Well, here's to us,” she said, raising her glass, “the unlikeliest match since Porter and Dolly."

  I had no idea who she was talking about, drank the toast anyway. And a few more. And the mood of the Last Supper lightened considerably. I'd feared confessing my sins might be the final nail, but it had the opposite effect. Thel seemed to revert to her raucous roots, showing more spirit than she had in a year. The liquor helped, but I thought the truth had worked a minor miracle.

  Until I snapped awake just before dawn. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. A dream. A bad one. But an important one. I concentrated, trying to remember...

  I was back in college. Not at Hancock U, at Notre Dame, sophomore or junior year. Sitting at the rear of a classroom. Psych 101. Listening to the professor expound on an odd aspect of suicide. Just before it happens, the victims become more cheerful. Because the decision's been taken. Their worries are over.

  And I knew. Jesus!

  Pulling on my jeans, I sprinted down the balcony to Thel's room. Hammered on the door.

  "Open up!” No answer, no sound from within. Could I kick it in? Not barefoot. Looking around desperately for a weapon, I spotted the big Cougar rumbling through the Hacienda lot.

  Charging down the steps, I tried to intercept her at the street. Too late! She was already in traffic. But not moving very fast.

  I chased after her, running barefoot down the centerline, dodging traffic, losing ground with every step but too crazed to care. She couldn't get far. The big Merc was nearly out of gas and she knew it. She'd have to stop. I could see an Amoco station a few blocks ahead ... Please, please, please slow down...

  And she did! Swinging into the center lane to turn left, she paused to wait for oncoming traffic, just starting to turn when I caught up.

  Yanked the door open. “Stop!” I roared. “Give me the gun!"

  "What? What the hell—"

  "I know what you're planning, Thel. Give me the damned gun!"

  "Let go of the door, Cray!"

  "No!"

  "Let me go or I swear to God I'll blow your brains all over your dream car."

  "You'll have to!"

  "Why? You don't give a rip about me!"

  "No? You're worth a half million dollars dead. Did you know that? As a surviving spouse, that's what I'd get. And I don't care. Please, give me the gun—"

  Too late! I read it in her eyes. Grabbing her purse, she came up with the gun as I dove headfirst into the Cougar, grappling desperately for it. Managed to clamp my hands over hers, trying to wrestle it free—the blast rocked the Cougar like the end of the world.

  * * * *

  "Take a look at this machine, a Shelby Mustang GT 350. Pure poetry in streamlined steel. Looks like its doing a hundred and forty sitting still. In engineering we call it an exquisite design. Everything precisely where it has to be for maximum efficiency."

  "I don't know,” the young stockbroker mused. “It's very expensive."

  "Nothing worthwhile in this life is ever cheap,” I said, smiling at the minor truth. I wasn't worried about making the sale. He was hooked hard on the Mustang, just needed time to talk himself into it.

  I have twenty-six cars in stock now, purchased with my Hancock severance pay. My father-in-law helped set me up with my own small car lot and restoration garage on the west side of Taos. He thought I was crazy. He was wrong.

  The lot mints money. New Mex is yuppie country now, the haven of choice for Internet millionaires. I market classic muscle cars in impeccable condition, show them by appointment only, and demand double the going price. Young professionals gobble ‘em up like hors d'oeuvres at an art fair.

  Working twenty easy hours a week, I make five times my old salary at Hancock. When I get restless, I choose any car that suits me and take off to hit auto auctions and estate sales all over the country, hunting up orphan machines in need of rescue and rehab. Find them new lives in a new country. Haven't come across Red Bauer yet, but maybe I will.

  There's only one part of my old life that I miss.

  Thelma.

  After dropping me at the emergency room, she took the Cougar and her share of the money and fled to Florida. Has a job managing a day care center in Fort Meyers. Caring for kids, doing well. Sober now, working her way out of the darkness. Sometimes, when business takes me that way, we go out to dinner. And we're such an obvious mismatch it's hard to believe we were ever married.

  But we will be again. Someday. Eventually, she will come around. Partly because I'm not the same man anymore. Partly because I am. I can still make her smile. And a spark of whatever drew us together back at Notre Dame is still smoldering.

  Besides, she owes me. Big time.

  When people comment on my limp, I tell them my ex-wife shot me. It always gets a chuckle. And sometimes in the office, away from their families, men ask me why she did it. Was she trying to slow you down? Or was she just a bad shot?

  "No,” I say. “She was trying to kill me. And she did.” Which gets an even bigger laugh.

  I smile too. But I'm not joking.

  I'm not the surviving spouse. Thelma is.

  The man I was died in that car when Thelma shot me.

  And Red Bauer was absolutely right.

  If you tell people the truth, they'll laugh every time.r />
  Copyright © 2006 Doug Allyn

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  AHMM CLASSIC: SHATTERPROOF by Jim Fusilli

  John Frolic pounds his desk, stands and swears, and his voice rips the night's stillness. In her office, separated from her partner's by a wafer-thin wall, Sheila closes her eyes, puts down her pencil, and readies for another argument.

  "What is it this time, John?” She moves down the dark corridor and stands in the door frame, left hand on her hip, yellow legal pad in her right.

  Frolic sits in shadows. A small lamp, not unlike the kind used by diamond cutters, shines on a stack of papers on his sprawling wood desk. Sheila knows he can't read a balance sheet without the harsh spot, even with his heavy bifocals. Across the small room, the Empire State Building, its top red and green for the holiday season, dominates the window above the credenza.

  "Sheila, I am not tired,” he begins. “It is nine thirty. I've been here since ten o'clock this morning. For lunch, I had a chicken salad sandwich. Took me ten minutes to find a piece of chicken. No dinner yet, neither. But I am not tired."

  Sheila, redheaded, forty-six years old, looking maybe fifteen years younger, enters and sits on Frolic's leather sofa. He looks at her long legs. After twenty-two years, she is no longer embarrassed; with her, he is a harmless lech.

  "I envy you, John,” she says. “I'm ready to fall out right here."

  "See? You agree with me. Here, we are wasting our time.” John, after forty years near the fur district, likes to affect the patois of his Jewish neighbors to cozy up to an unpleasant subject.

  "Oh, John, please not again. We are not wasting our time.” She nods at the spreadsheet on his desk. “Kepler Glass is a profitable business. Maybe not as profitable as—"

  "As ten years ago, five years ago, last year,” he barks.

  "Rough times,” she says sadly. In 1980, they employed two hundred and twenty people. This year the entire staff Christmas and Hanukkah card list amounted to eighty-five. Rough indeed: their decorative glass operation, to quote accountant Rosenburg's memorable 1981 assessment, “kaput"; tableware shut down for almost a dozen years now; lens systems for digital computers beyond their imagination, as was photochromic glass. Commercial glass orders, from his friends in construction in New Jersey and Connecticut, kept them alive. But for how long?