It’s a month later when Ernie gets a call. It’s seven PM and Ernie’s been driving since seven that morning. That’s become a regular thing for him. He knocks off for half an hour once or twice to grab a bite and read, but otherwise he’s running Logan and Brigham and Massachusetts General like clockwork. He does it for Janine, he says, but when he takes the time to think about it he knows it’s more than just that.
He’s got another regular thing going these days: he tends to take lunch at a particular 7-Eleven. The old guy behind the counter there probably thinks Ernie’s a scatterbrain, what with him always forgetting his change on the counter when he leaves. Ernie would do the same at a particular gas station too, only the girl they used to have got fired. It wasn’t even over Ernie robbing the place. The poor kid was too honest to keep the change he kept leaving on the counter, and her boss canned her for being over whenever she closed out her register. Ernie talked Roberta at dispatch into getting her a job, but the kid hasn’t taken to it. Ernie’ll tell you it just goes to show how hard it is to do right by somebody after you did them wrong.
He’s at home on the sofa reading Sherman Alexie when the phone rings. It’s Ernest; he recognizes the voice right away. He doesn’t know how the kid got his number, but then the kid is wicked smart. “I just wanted to thank you,” he says.
“For what?” says Ernie.
“Returning the device,” says Ernest. “And the suitcase and the journal.”
Ernie laughs. He ended up driving that kid all the way back to the Yard for free that night, but does he get thanks for that? “You don’t have to thank a guy for returning what he stole from you,” he says.
“Yeah, well, thanks anyway.”
“How you doing with those pills?” says Ernie.
“How are you doing with that wife?” says Ernest.
Ernie laughs again, but for once he’s pretty happy on that front. Janine spent the night. They both had a few drinks in them and in the morning Janine said it was probably a mistake, but Ernie liked the sound of the word probably. She let him give her a kiss on his way out the door, and that’s not bad.
The night he came to get the kid’s carry-on he told her the whole shebang. She didn’t believe him. Called him a lying sack of shit, actually, but he was surprised to learn he really didn’t care whether she believed him or not. The big thing was that he told her the truth. It was the hardest decision he’d made in a long time. He still can’t say it felt good, but it felt right.
That’s not much comfort, by the way, and he’ll be the first to say so. He’ll say, You know that satisfaction people talk about? The one you get from doing the right thing? Well, that and a buck’ll get you a cup of coffee.
On the phone he says, “Let me tell you this, kid: it’s not easy to make things right with someone when she don’t believe you. It’s even harder when the true story is the most cockamamie thing you ever heard of. So thanks for inventing that suit, huh? And for leaving it in my cab. You damn Harvard types.”
Now the kid laughs. He says, “You’re the one who put it on. I suppose you’re going to blame me for that, too?”
A memory comes back to Ernie: the image of a skinny drunk in his back seat on the drive back to the Yard, folding that suit over and over in his hands. He looked like he was thinking pretty hard about it. Ernie doesn’t know the kid well or anything, but for some reason he’s got hope for him.
“Hey, you’re not going to believe what happened to me today,” Ernie says. “I’m dropping off a couple of Frenchmen at their hotel and they don’t understand tipping. Fifty bucks they left me. I tell you what, me and Janine are eating steak tonight.”
“That’s great, Ernie.”
The kid’s tone is flat and Ernie knows their conversation is over. “Listen,” he says, “you take care of your girls, kid. Keep ’em close.”
“You too, Ernie,” says the kid, his tone still flat, and Ernie’s not sure he’ll ever hear from him again.
But if it’s the last thing the kid ever told him, at least it was good advice. Ernie’s going to keep Janine as close as he can. He’s already decided he’s taking her to Davio’s tonight if she’s up for it. If not, the next night, maybe. He figures it’ll all work itself out. They’ve got time.
Copyright © 2011 Steve Bein
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NOVELETTES
Purple
Robert Reed
PURPLE
Robert Reed
Of his latest tale, Robert Reed says, “My daughter and I know a barn owl. It lives in the nature center at a local park, and the bird is lucky to be alive. He is blind and one wing is missing, but he handles the visiting children with heroic indifference. So that’s part of ‘Purple.’ A good friend volunteers at a raptor recovery operation outside Lincoln. Through him, my family and I got the full tour. We saw hawks and owls and rats waiting to die. There was a fifty-year-old golden eagle who looked exactly like a very old eagle—no wild bird loses feathers and acts that feeble. There was a bald eagle that had ingested lead pellets and gone crazy as a result. It was a great place, and I’m thankful it exists. But the whole operation depends on one woman who has made it the focus of her life, and while she is in absolute control of her world, I began thinking about those people who collect tigers or horses—big fancy beasts that eventually overwhelm even the most competent soul. The rest of ‘Purple’ comes from there.”
A word of warning: There are scenes in this story that may be disturbing to some readers.
Without sound and without motion, the master arrives. The only sensation feels like moving air, like someone close breathing softly into his face. But real breath should be warm or perhaps cool. Real breath requires a mouth, and the master has no mouth. What Tito feels is a surge of electricity teasing the gullible neurons in his scarred cheeks and around his blind eyes. He smiles and stands, his surviving arm pushing at the floor until his legs can take charge. Then he tucks his hand into the belt, knuckles against his back as he dips his face in a reverent fashion. The master won’t ask him to take this pose. But it feels expected, and he never considers doing otherwise.
He waits.
“Hello, Tito.”
“Good morning, Master.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Very well, thank you.”
The master’s voice has no gender, but that’s the only quality it lacks. Each word is clear and strong, and despite being quicker than human speech, it is easily understood. This is how stone would sound, given the capacity for conversation. This is a great mountain speaking to a little man, and it is a blessing to be noticed by a life as special and vast as the master’s.
Tito should feel honored.
“You’re hungry,” the master observes.
“I am, yes.”
“What do you want for your breakfast?”
“Frosted flakes,” he decides. “With cold milk and hot toast and plenty of butter. And soda pop, please.”
The meal appears instantly.
Tito’s quarters are small and familiar. He knows where the chair and table wait, and after sitting, he picks up a spoon with the smooth handle designed to fit no hand better than his. He has used the same plate and bowl for the last five thousand mornings. The master has an aptitude for judging portions. He eats his fill, nothing left. Then Tito rises and walks three steps to a toilet that exists only when needed. Life is composed of rhythms, and his body’s rhythms are obvious to the master. Once finished, the toilet cleans his privates and vanishes, and his morning filth is examined for signs of disease or unusual decay. The master cares deeply for him, and evidence of that feeling comes with the endless attention to details.
“You didn’t sleep well, Tito.”
Found out, the human dips his head.
“What’s wrong, my friend?”
Tito is “my friend” only on special occasions. The master is concerned, and those words are a signal.
“I
had a bad dream, Master.”
“Tell me.”
“I was a little boy again. I was standing on the street corner, waiting for the bus. The bus on the purple line was going to take me to my school.”
“You’ve had this dream before,” the master says.
Tito sighs.
“But there’s more,” the voice guesses.
“I waited and waited, and a bus finally came around the corner. It looked like mine. It was yellow and loud, and there was a big white card in a side window. I saw the word, ‘PURPLE’ written out. But after the bus stopped . . . stopped in front of me, and the door opened . . . I realized that this wasn’t my ride.”
“What did you see?”
“The bus driver. Nothing else.”
“Who was the driver?”
Tito takes a deep breath and lets it out again.
“Did you recognize the person?” asks the master.
“She wasn’t human,” he says.
“What was she?”
“I can’t describe her,” he explains. “Other than to call her alien, I suppose.”
“This is different than usual,” the master agrees.
Tito waits a moment. “Where will you put me today?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He says nothing.
“This driver,” says that voice of stone. “Can you guess who she might have been?”
“No,” he lies.
The master can’t read thoughts, regardless what some people think. But it sees anxiety and can make shrewd guesses about what is true.
Tito bows again. “Who today, Master?”
“Brenda has been asking for you.”
“Very good,” he says, as if he means it.
What isn’t a hand picks him up, and what isn’t muscle and bone carries him away. Hundreds of citizens live inside the compound. Only a few dozen are human. Brenda has lived in the compound since she was nine. Like every resident, she is crippled, but her wounds are deep and invisible, tied to a childhood that she never mentions. A big loud woman who can talk for hours about any subject, Brenda always sounds confident and self-assured. Yet her noise and bluster are balanced upon a horrific past. What happened to her was not her fault. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. But her soul holds the capacity for sudden, savage violence—cruelties delivered without warning, each incident followed in turn by loud, enthusiastic apologies.
Tito knows what those meaty arms and legs can do. After the last incident, she was warned that another mistake, no matter how minor, would mean she would never see Tito again. The master was explicit, and she has behaved ever since. As much as she can love anybody, Brenda loves Tito. Nothing helps a person feel good about her own miserable prospects than sharing the day with a small and blind one-armed man.
Every visit to Brenda begins with a description of the master. “Like a great shadow, only bright,” she says. “More brilliant than fire, and gigantic too. He has a thousand arms and a million fingers but his touch is too light to feel, and he is gorgeous. No, better than gorgeous. If only you could see him, darling. If only you had your sight back, for just one moment. I swear to you, there’s nothing more beautiful than the master.”
Tito stands where he was set and nods, listening to very little, thinking about another beauty.
When he was brought to the compound, Tito didn’t know anybody and understood nothing. He was scared and hurting, even when the master assured him that he was safe and would always be safe. Days and nights full of medicine and kind touches did their best. His ruined body recovered as far as possible, and when he was strong enough to ask questions, the master carried him to another home, introducing him to one of the resident children.
Adola wasn’t much older than Tito, but she was already familiar with the compound. Her patient pretty voice tried to explain what could never be explained. Humans weren’t smart enough to understand more than a sliver of their surroundings, but she promised this was a special place and every one of its citizens was fortunate. Everybody brought here was mangled and too weak to live with their own kind, but being broken wasn’t all they had in common. Each of them was defined by what was good that was left behind. There was quite a lot left behind for Tito. His new friend touched him softly, praising him for everything he did well. Adola said that he had an excellent memory. Better than the other blind people, Tito could navigate his way across any home, even if he had visited just once. She also liked his humor and his fun sweet honest smile, and she loved what she would always call his “good heart.” So of course he loved that girl in turn, and he loved her as a woman, and this will never change.
Besides the master, only Adola knows what happened to Tito as a boy. That was another reason he loved her. It has been four hundred and seventeen days since their last conversation, yet Tito still hears her voice and feels her face and her breasts and how she had held him close, his good heart pounding inside his aching, very sorry chest.
* * *
Brenda interrupts his thoughts. “What did you do for breakfast?”
He describes his meal.
“I had eggs,” she tells him. “Scrambled, and with one big pancake.”
“You like that breakfast,” he observes.
“Tomorrow might be cereal. Or it might be French toast. I haven’t decided.”
He listens as much as he needs to track the conversation. When she pauses, he says, “Yes.” And if the pause continues, he tells her, “Please, go on.”
“I was just thinking,” she says.
He knows where this is moving but pretends innocence. “What were you thinking?”
“About you and me,” she says.
He remains silent.
She stands behind him. Damp hands touch him, working to remain on his shoulders. He listens intently, feeling at the air. She moves even closer, mouth near his ear, and he thinks he can feel her soft ample body tensing up. Then with a quiet and patient and understanding voice, he says, “Later.”
“Later?”
“Not yet.”
“All right.” One hand drops, brushing the side of his little body. She never touches the stump where an arm should be, though she’s quick to claim nothing about him disgusts her. What she wants to grab is off-limits until he says, “Yes.” That’s one of the master’s central rules. Sex is forbidden so long as one person says, “No.”
“Not yet,” Tito repeats.
And Brenda pulls her hands away, lying to herself when she says, “That’s for the best. Build up the anticipation, and all that shit.”
Memory is never perfect. Even in a life wrapped inside ritual and small circumstances, each day’s experiences erode what remains of the days that came before. The best memory is sloppy. To hold what it can, the mind invents stories that are practiced and told to others and told to the teller, polished by hard use until it all feels smooth and familiar. Yet in subtle ways, the wrong creeps into the right. Tito cannot count the times that he has visited Brenda or most of the other companions, and there is no way to recall what they talked about when, much less their actual words. Yet he knows each of them as a friend and sometimes as lovers, and even the most difficult people give him moments of pleasure.
With Adola, he remembers everything.
After his first visit to her house, he started to count. The master carried him to her three fingers more than three hundred times, and she came into his house two dozen times. Her quarters were roomier and full of furniture, and there was much more to do. That was because she still had her eyes and could enjoy the space. Or it was because luck smiled on her, and she arrived when a large space was available. Or maybe it was because she was being rehabilitated to live on the Earth again, and her special machines needed long floors. Different days brought different explanations. But other people had one simple, reasonable explanation: Adola was the master’s favorite, and didn’t the prettiest sweetest human deserve the best?
Adola was younger than Tito when she arrived. The master had
visited the Earth at the right moment, and the master happened to find her broken body lying in a ditch with other dead and dying people. She was brought here and died twice that first day. But the master revived her heart and put bandages into the bullet wounds, and her pain fell away, and she could see her surroundings and the machines that kept her alive and the master that she couldn’t describe, even to herself. From the beginning, Adola said, “Don’t think in normal ways. Don’t think about bodies and faces, no matter how strange you imagine them to be. Nothing about the master is that simple.”
Some claimed the master was a god. Not a big god, perhaps, but an entity endowed with magic and wisdom.
And when Adola was a little girl, that’s how she referred to the master. “The Master,” she said with a loud, reverent voice. But later, seeing more and listening to others, she came to a rather different opinion.
“The master isn’t alive,” she told Tito. “Not even as a god-creature. What it is, I think . . . I think it’s a set of emotions made bigger than anything we can imagine. It is the urge to do good for those who suffer. It is empathy and kindness. Somewhere, maybe millions of years ago, those emotions could have lived inside a real organism. But they grew huge and immortal, and that’s what rescued us and what keeps us safe here.”
Tito used to find that answer appealing, though he wasn’t sure why.
Humans are rare here. What are common are winged aliens—three unrelated species—and a thoughtful beast that looks something like a cat. Each has its own collection of languages and its own special, carefully maintained homes. The species rarely interact with one another, but Adola asked questions and more questions, and since she was a favorite, the master eventually introduced her to the aliens, letting them answer what they could. That’s where her strangest ideas came from. “And the master only seems big,” she told Tito. “To go where it goes and do everything it does, size would be a liability. Mass would slow it down. So the master might really be too tiny to feel in your hand, if you ever should hold it.”
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