Edgar and Lucy

by Victor Lodato

  Something was wrong, though. Conrad wasn’t in the truck. Instead there was an animal with a long snout—or a beak. It was trembling. It made no sense, even when Edgar was just a few feet away. Only when he leaned his face against the passenger window, and the animal’s eyes met his own, did he understand.

  Conrad was leaning back, holding the gun toward himself—the tip of the barrel inside his mouth.

  “No,” said Edgar—though the word was barely audible. He was inside the truck now, kneeling on the seat. Conrad’s thumb was on the trigger, and Edgar traced his hand delicately along the flank of the shotgun until he found the safety. He clicked it—and then slowly, slowly, lifted the gun up and away.

  Conrad’s teeth chattered against the metal.

  When Edgar had the gun at a safe angle, he opened it, removed the last shell and tossed it out the window, onto the pavement.

  The man, who was shaking like a puppet now, began to cry. A horrible sound.

  Edgar was uncertain what to do.

  After a moment, he touched the man’s arm and said what his grandmother always said after a bad dream.

  “I’m here.”

  But Conrad only wept all the more.

  January

  52

  Pilgrims

  The persimmons were lovely, with smooth orange skins bright as Chinese lanterns—each one wrapped in pale blue tissue. Netty had found just the right basket for them: a crafty little thing in which the weaver had incorporated random plaits of silver ribbon.

  She suggested to Henry that they walk to Lucille’s house. The trip, she estimated, would take no more than twenty minutes. And though the day was cold, the sun had come out—and besides, the exercise would do them good. The two of them had been cooped up in the house for days. That miserable storm, and then a frozen pipe had burst at their shop. A new shipment of area rugs, as well as some luxury sheet sets, now had noticeable water damage and would have to be put on discount.

  “I should like to tell Edgar,” said Henry, as they set out on their walk.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  He reminded his wife how the little boy had once asked if everything at the dry-goods store was, in fact, dry. “Not anymore,” boomed Henry.

  “Yes,” agreed Netty. “He’d like that.”

  Then they were quiet for a while. The streets were empty, bordered by huge piles of snow. There were sizeable drifts, as well, on people’s lawns. They walked as if in a kind of maze. It was lovely, but disorienting.

  After five minutes, Netty handed the basket of persimmons to Henry. “Your turn.”

  The drifts of snow were growing larger, as if the worst of the storm had fallen on the west side of Ferryfield, where the Finis lived. When they were just a few blocks away, the sun slunk into gray clouds. Immediately it turned colder. Netty looked at the persimmons for comfort. Fruit was the least she and Henry could do.

  When Edgar had first disappeared, all those months ago, there had seemed more they could offer Lucille. During the first terrible days, Henry had suggested he call his buddies at the VFW. “What can they do?” Netty had scoffed, and Henry had said, “Puuh, they can do a lot.”

  And they had. They’d gone though the woods with sticks and flashlights, like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story. They’d knocked on doors with Edgar’s photo hanging from their necks (Netty had printed the photos with card stock and attached them to loops of string so the old codgers wouldn’t lose them). They’d worn suits on their rounds, like missionaries. They’d stapled posters to telephone poles with their shaking arthritic hands.

  Nothing, of course, had come of it.

  Netty had played her part, as well—sitting in Florence’s chair, waiting for Edgar while Lucille was out. But she hadn’t done that in a while. Truth be told, no one seemed that frantic anymore. It didn’t seem absolutely necessary that someone stay at the house twenty-four hours a day. Not that anyone believed the child was dead—of course not!—but people were simply being practical. Also, Lucille didn’t go out much anymore. She did most of the waiting herself. And of course she now had that Italian man to help her. He had better stick around, that’s all Netty had to say.

  At first, she’d assumed the pregnancy was just a rumor, but then she’d run into Lucille after not seeing her for a while, and, lo and behold, there it was—the pudding-proof of the girl’s belly.

  The persimmons in the silver-threaded basket would be, without having to say it, for both Edgar and for the baby. Fruit suited any occasion.

  “Do you want me to carry that?” she asked Henry.

  “I won’t say no,” he replied, handing her the basket. “Like bowling balls, these things.”

  Within two minutes, they reached Lucille’s street.

  They walked on—the snowdrifts like white hedges along the side of the road. They couldn’t see the Finis’ house in its entirety until they were directly across the street from it, standing in a driveway that had been cleared. When they stepped into the road, Netty began to slip. Henry grabbed her arm.

  “Watch the fruit,” she cried.

  “The fruit?” scolded Henry, once he’d stabilized his wife. “The fruit is not my number one concern.”

  “I’m fine.”

  They stood at the edge of the street and caught their breath. Henry grasped Netty’s hand to lead the way. Not two steps later he began to slip, and it was now Netty’s grip that kept him, just barely, on his feet.

  “It’s that damn basket,” said Henry. “It’s throwing us off balance.”

  But Netty’s eyes were sharper than his. She saw the dull glint on the road, which was covered in a thin layer of nearly invisible ice. “Don’t move,” she said.

  “What? We’re going to stand in the street?”

  As soon as he moved, though, he understood the merit of Netty’s warning. The ice was so slick that he slipped away from her and began to sail forward. He progressed steadily, like a mannequin on a conveyer belt, until he stopped in the dead center of the road. Miraculously he didn’t fall.

  “Oh my God,” said Netty.

  “If we take baby steps,” began Henry—but Netty said, “No. Don’t move a muscle.” At her and Henry’s age, a fall was no laughing matter.

  At the sound of an approaching car, Netty gasped—but when she looked there was nothing, only the wind.

  Henry gazed at the white house they were planning to visit. The porch light was on, though it was only mid-afternoon. The air around the property seemed suffused with smoke—a miasma of winter and palpable defeat. What was the point of going there? Henry closed his eyes against the futility. Florence had been right, getting out of the game. She was lucky not to have to live through another winter, another tragedy. Already she was in the land of forgetting. Sheol. The dwelling place of the dead.

  As soon as he thought this, though, he saw her, sitting on the porch, eating one of the persimmons. As he leaned forward to get a better look, he realized that his eyes were closed. When he opened them, Florence was gone.

  He sighed. All those sheets, ruined. Even the ones with the nice satin trim. He thought of his own daughter, Helen—the lesbian.

  End of the line.

  The words echoed in his head. Helen was their only child and would no doubt sell the store when he and Annette were gone.

  He could hear his wife moving behind him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Give me one minute.” Netty had crouched down on the frozen street. “I’m coming for you.”

  As she began to crawl forward, pushing the persimmons before her, she could feel the cold boring into her kneecaps. Her arms wobbled. When she’d reached Henry, she grasped his ankle and told him to slowly—slowly—get down.

  When Henry was beside her, on all fours, the Schlips proceeded, crawling like toddlers, until they and the persimmons had reached the edge of the Finis’ driveway.

  Henry was breathing heavily. Netty only a little less so. They rested for a moment, and then proceeded in t
he same way, on their hands and knees, all the way to the steps of the porch. From the bottom, they could see the sign on the door. It was more of a plaque, offering, in very neat block print, instructions for Edgar, along with some telephone numbers.

  Henry sighed. “I guess she still…”

  “Of course,” Netty said sharply.

  They pulled themselves up onto the steps and rested again.

  “We’ll knock in a minute,” said Netty.

  “Pull ourselves together,” agreed Henry.

  Netty was glad to have her back to that awful plaque.

  What terrible luck the Finis had. It was like a curse from a fairy tale; it never ended. Suicides and bridges and a child with marble skin. And though Netty never liked to think that anyone had worse luck than she and Henry, the truth was, the Finis did. They had very peculiar stars.

  Even just recently, less than a month ago, someone had broken into Lucille’s house. Luckily the girl and her boyfriend had arrived home before the burglars had stolen anything. Crazy kids, no doubt, hopped up on drugs. One of them had smashed a glass in the kitchen.

  Apparently the incident had stirred up Lucille, who was convinced that the break-in had something to do with Edgar. Unlikely, thought Netty. Still, the police were taking it seriously. A shotgun shell had been found not far from the house—in the same parking lot where Edgar’s clothing had been discovered that first week he’d gone missing.

  Netty didn’t know where to put her heart.

  When she took Henry’s hand, he said, “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “What?”

  After a moment, he said, “We should call Helen. Have her to dinner.”

  When Netty reminded him that their daughter lived in California, Henry reminded Netty that there was such a thing as airplanes.

  53

  The Goofers

  When Toni-Ann saw the old people crawling across the road, she was afraid they were coming for her. She closed the curtains and, after several moments of turmoil, put on one of her Goofers sing-along CDs. The Goofers wore their hair as if it were cotton candy—in towering pastel puffs. They had jumpsuits to match. Their music always made Toni-Ann happy.

  Give me that G, G, G, that O, O, O.

  When the light turns green, you GO GO GO.

  As she sang along, her voice was shaky. It was confusing when the things that always made you feel better somehow made you feel worse.

  The trouble was, the old people in the road were friends of Florence’s—and Toni-Ann had been worried lately that Florence might be angry with her. The police had been at the Finis’ several times during the past few weeks; they’d come to Toni-Ann’s house as well, asking more questions about Edgar. The girl, keeping her promise, had said nothing.

  Give me a YELL, not loud, make it LOW LOW LOW.

  When the sign turns yellow, it’s SLOW SLOW SLOW.

  Toni-Ann locked her bedroom door. From the top shelf of the closet she took down her Magic 8 Ball. It was the size of a Florida grapefruit and made of black plastic. A little window exposed the inky fluid inside. Answers lived in that ink until you needed them.

  “Magic 8 Ball,” she asked, “should I tell them about Ed-guh?”

  She shook the ball and then turned it over. It took a moment—always heart-stopping—for the response to rise to the surface of the dark liquid.

  Reply hazy, try again.

  “Magic 8 Ball, should I tell them about Ed-guh?”

  Shake, shake, shake.

  Concentrate and ask again.

  Toni-Ann groaned.

  “Magic 8 Ball”—and this time she asked very slowly, so that whatever it was that was inside the ball would not misunderstand her. “Should I. Tell them. About Ed-guh?”

  Shake, shake, shake.

  Better not tell you now.

  “Oh, don’t be stupid!” cried Toni-Ann.

  By now the Goofers had circled back to the main verse of the “Rules of the Road” song.

  Now Ss and Ts and Os and Ps.

  When it turns to red, the Goofers say FREEZE!

  It suddenly occurred to Toni-Ann that she’d like to drive a car one day. Maybe a cherry-red zoomer like the one Mrs. Feen had. And since Ed-guh was now married to her, Toni-Ann pictured him in the car, too. The two of them driving home to wherever they lived. Maybe a farm with chickens.

  She held the 8 Ball close to her chest.

  “Should I tell them about Ed-guh?”

  She shook the oracle vigorously, in time to the Goofers’ music, and then peered down at her fate, which was also the fate of others.

  My sources say no.

  Toni-Ann scrunched up her face. What did the ball mean?

  And who were these sources, exactly?

  Toni-Ann suspected it had something to do with Florence. Though how the fat old woman could have gotten inside the 8 Ball was beyond the girl’s reckoning. Maybe dead people shrunk.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked it.

  You may rely on it.

  “But will Ed-guh come back?”

  Cannot predict now.

  The ball was obviously tired. Toni-Ann shoved it under the pink sham of her canopy bed.

  The Goofers were singing about manners now, about thank you and please and excuse me. Toni-Ann grimaced and clicked off the music.

  Anyway, she had to do a report for school.

  It was supposed to be a story about herself, but Miss Hussein said it could be made up. “Nothing shorter than five sentences,” Miss Hussein had said—“but try for ten.”

  My name is Toni-Ann. I have a purple coat.

  But wait—that was true. Maybe it would be better to make something up.

  She crossed out the words and started again.

  54

  The Farm

  My name is Toni-Ann. I live in the farm with chickens. The chickens lay the eggs, it’s a lot. You can’t put chocolate chips in a omelet but on the farm it’s allowed. I make it for Edgar. One chicken is black but he’s not the bad chicken. The bad chicken is green. That’s the shut-up chicken.

  Edgar and I live here a long time.

  This is the tenth sentence.

  We have tomatoes and corn on the cob in the garden. If someone planted a gun we don’t find it. It never snows. This is in the future. Edgar stays small but he’s a man now. Everyone is happy for me when he comes back.

  February

  55

  The Golden Rectangle

  Edgar sat at the table, drinking chocolate. He’d used two packets of mix, so the liquid was thick as mud and blindingly sweet. With each sip he closed his eyes.

  More trees. Inside, outside—it didn’t matter; even his mind was overgrown with pines. He walked through them as best he could. The path was dark. The sugar helped.

  Today, something moved among his thoughts like a snake. A flash of greenish gold weaving in and out of the boy’s larger concerns. This snake-thought—always the same color—had plagued him all his life, surfacing at intervals, but moving too quickly for Edgar to catch or understand. Sometimes he saw a golden rectangle floating on water. Saw it clearly, the gold against the blue—but then the rectangle would always vanish, swallowed by the blue water. Certain thoughts, it seemed, had minds of their own; they wandered away from their thinkers and lived wild unchained lives.

  Edgar tilted back his head to drain the last of the sweet mud. He knew it was wrong to have used two packets of mix. He promised himself that, tomorrow—and from then on—he’d only ever use half a packet.

  He set the cup on the table and looked at the clock. It was nearly two, time for Conrad’s pill. He’d also bring some crackers and jam, which always looked nice on a plate—and besides, it was the sort of thing that went down easy when you were sick.

  Of course, lately, no matter what Edgar fixed, Conrad refused it. Nearly eight days had gone by, during which Conrad had taken no food. Edgar decided to put some peanut butter on the crackers. There were only so many days a person could live withou
t eating. Water was even more important. Edgar ran the tap and filled a tall glass. He put everything on a tray—the crackers, the water, a paper napkin, and a pinecone. The pinecone only because it was winter, and there weren’t any flowers.

  * * *

  Conrad had been very sick after they first got back. The hole in his chest had become infected, yet he’d done nothing to take care of himself, even after the wound began to resemble a swollen eye with a slimy yellow pupil. It had been left to Edgar to clean it. Of course, every time he’d done this, Conrad had said to leave it alone. He’d consistently pushed Edgar away. But Edgar had pushed back. The idea of Conrad being sick terrified him. Edgar couldn’t afford to be squeamish.

  Besides, much of this was his fault. Though it hadn’t been his intention to hurt Conrad, he had—and perhaps seriously. The first time he’d wiped some cotton across the wound, he’d discovered a sizable shard of buckshot still lodged there. He’d immediately gotten the tweezers, and—as Florence had once done when Edgar had stepped on some broken glass—he’d pecked gingerly into the man’s flesh. It wasn’t easy to get the shard out—Conrad’s skin seemed to have grown around the metal; it was like pulling a tooth. It came out bloody—strangely shaped, and sharp—less a tooth than a fang.

  Edgar had already taken the guns and buried them in the backyard, behind the woodpile. He’d dug nearly two feet down—and once the hole had been filled back in, he’d used his boot to cover the grave with pine needles. As for the fang he’d removed from Conrad’s flesh, he’d stuck it into the bark of a pygmy, a warning against whatever it was that was trying to hurt everyone.

  But none of it had worked. Because afterward came the fever—Conrad sweating and shivering and babbling, crying sometimes, even shouting. And though Edgar had been frightened, he’d proceeded without hesitation. He knew exactly what to do. All his years of exquisite care at Florence’s hands had made of him a mirror, in which the old woman still lived, and through which he reflected her spirit back into the world.