by Mark Mueller
“Maybe a twentieth chance,” I blurted. I was hopeful.
“Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Wow, I was just calling to check in and you drop this bomb on me. You must enjoy trouble, you know that?”
“That’s why I’m dancing the Masochism Tango as we speak.”
“And you’re a bum, too.”
“So are you.”
“I ought to join a club just so I can beat you over the head with it.”
“Ouch.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to do this with her?”
“It’s too late to turn back now. I’ve already said yes.” Plus the fact that I wanted to see her again very much. But I didn’t dare tell him that.
“Okay. So how are you doing?”
“I’m alright.”
“How are you really doing? You dry?” I had to hand it to Ducky. He was persistent.
“As a bone.”
“Miss it?”
“Every day.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Okay, then. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will, Duck. Thanks for the call.”
“You bet.” The phone went dead in my hand. Typical Ducky exit strategy.
I looked at the cat. “Looks like I’m going to New York. It ain’t Disneyland, but it’s the next best thing!”
The insolent cat yawned, turned on its paw, and padded away. Typical feline. Always bored. And can’t be bothered with anything.
Chapter Five
Later that day I was sitting at my desk and speculating about why in the world would Maddy’s Aunt Polly put my name in her will. I soon decided it was futile to try to figure it out, so my mind wandered to other things.
I first met Maddy at Kean University, which was in Union, New Jersey and about fifty miles east of Spruce Run. I had gone to Kean for their Journalism program and lived in the dorms because my parents wanted me to experience life away from home. Ducky also went to Kean as a Criminal Justice major, and he was my roommate.
Our first two years were uneventful. But during our junior year, Ducky and I decided to live in an off-campus apartment complex on Elmora Avenue instead of the dorm. The apartment was only four blocks away from Kean, so it made for an easy commute.
We moved in a week and a half before Labor Day that year. I could never understand why classes had to start a week before Labor Day. Summer vacation was short enough as it was, after all.
Two days after arrival I was attending four classes, including a four-credit television production class. I loved that class because it gave me the opportunity to write conversational Journalism—the actual text the on-air personalities would read aloud. It would be a good way to learn and practice writing dialogue.
Labor Day that year turned out to be a day I’d never forget. Ducky and I had decided that day to invite some friends over to the apartment for an afternoon barbeque, and about twenty people showed up. We had a first floor apartment with a sliding-glass door off the kitchen that led out to a back porch, where a lawn separated our apartment building from the others.
Ducky had fired up an outdoor grill on the back porch ahead of time, and we spent most of the afternoon joking around and getting to know some of the guests who had stopped by.
During that afternoon, Ducky and I noticed two girls hanging out on the apartment porch across the lawn from us. Both girls looked about our age. One was sitting on a porch swing and the other was sitting on the stoop. The girl on the swing looked familiar.
It wasn’t long before Ducky, who was very outgoing, strolled over and introduced himself, even though I had asked him not to. I was shy.
Within moments of Ducky’s arrival, the two girls looked at me and giggled. The girl on the swing waved.
I was mortified.
When they stood up a moment later and went into their apartment, Ducky returned to the grill and me.
I asked him what he had said to them.
He said he told the girl on the swing that I said she was cute, and asked her if she would she be nice enough to wave to me.
I could feel my face turn red. I asked him why he did that.
Because, he snorted, I looked all sad and lonely.
Jeez.
“They should be over in a little bit.”
“What?” I snapped.
“I invited them over,” he chuckled. “They’re changing their clothes.”
“What did you do that for?” I panicked.
“This party’s a dog, man. A dog with fleas.”
Oh, no. I was mortified.
The two girls came over a little while later and Ducky introduced us. The girl who was sitting on the stoop was Bobbi Cytrynowicz from Tewksbury, New Jersey. She was a junior at Kean and was very outgoing, just like Ducky. The girl from the swing was Maddy Wuhrer, also a junior from Tewkesbury, and she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She stood about five-five and had chestnut brown hair gathered in a ponytail and poking through the hole in the back of Yankees baseball cap. And she had the most beautiful pale blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life.
I discovered that Maddy was a Communications major and was in my television production class. Now I knew why she looked familiar. I’d seen her in class. I noticed right away that she was almost as shy as I was, but after a while we began to warm up to each other. I learned that Maddy had lived in Tewksbury all of her life and that she and Bobbi were life-long friends.
Maddy and I talked for the rest of that afternoon, and had become friends that day. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her.
It was like a song I’d heard on the radio: When you meet her, say a prayer and kiss your heart goodbye.
One of the first impressions I had of Maddy as we got to know each other was that she was a tomboy. I didn’t mind. In fact, I kind of liked it. Girls who were girly-girl squeamish about everything have always turned me off. It’s very tiresome.
Maddy didn’t seem to be squeamish about anything.
Maddy was interested in becoming an on-air television news reporter. Since I was interested in writing, I joked that one day I’d be writing what she was reporting on the six o’clock news. She said she liked the idea.
Looking back on that day, it seemed she always knew just what to say.
When the barbeque began to break up at sunset, Maddy and Bobbi returned to their apartment across the lawn. As Ducky and I cleaned up the aftermath of the picnic, he couldn’t resist teasing me about Maddy and how she and I talked all afternoon and ignored everyone else at the party.
* * * *
I looked at the digital clock on the desk. Cinderella time was almost upon me, so I headed off to bed. My bedroom was next to the living room, so it wasn’t a long journey. Of course, my bed wasn’t thrilled that the living room was encroaching on its personal space, but what could I do? Sacrifices had to be made. And I hoped the bed would understand.
I slid under the blanket and fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
My last image before nodding off was of Maddy Wuhrer.
Chapter Six
I was hearing bells, and wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from. They sounded as if from a distant church. They kept ringing, which irritated me to no end. Bells often do that to me. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because of some traumatic event I had experienced as a child, and needed to go on the Dr. Phil show and talk about it. Or maybe it was because I don’t like being disturbed while I’m sleeping. Either way, the bells weren’t going to stop until I woke up.
I opened my eyes and skidded out of bed. I caught myself before I fell to the floor and then goose-stepped to the desk in the living room. Both phones were ringing as though the house was about to blast off into space.
Or maybe it was the White House calling.
I picked up the blower on the right.
“Start talkin’.”
“Do you always answer th
e phone like that?” Maddy asked. .
“I can’t help it,” I replied.
“You should change your tune.”
“I’ll think about it. So to what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call so early in the morning?”
“It’s eight forty-five, Mac.”
I looked at the digital clock. “Wow, time flies when you’re having fun.”
“I have an answer for you.”
“An answer for what?”
“I found out when the will reading will take place.”
“That was quick. I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few days. If the neighbors hear about this, they’ll gossip.”
“I’ll take the chance, at least for now. Are you still interested in going with me?”
“Of course. My gotchies are already packed.”
“You are so odd.”
“I yam what I yam.”
“Anyway,” she pressed forward. “The will reading is on Friday at ten in the morning. How about if we leave about eight?”
“Works for me. It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date, buster. It’s a will reading, that’s all.”
“I know.” My heart sank so fast it made that whistling sound. “So why are you doing this, Maddy?”
“You’re named in the will, remember?”
“I don’t mean being in the will. I mean you inviting me to go to the reading when I don’t have to be there. Why?”
“I thought you might be interested.”
“After six years of no contact? I don’t know what to make of it.”
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“Trust me, I’m intrigued about this will and why I’m in it. But I always assumed you didn’t want to see me ever again.”
“I thought it would be nice to catch up.”
“I can’t figure you out.”
Maddy ignored my comment. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Alright. Talk to you later.”
I cradled the blower and looked at the cat. “That girl’s got me scratching my head. Does she really just want to just visit with me? Or is there something more to it than that?”
The cat, of course, said nothing.
I got up from my desk and got showered and dressed. Realizing I was hungry, I headed for the front door. I dined out a lot because it was rare for me to shop. What little food I kept in the refrigerator was probably spoiled from neglect and needed therapy.
Better the food than me.
Still, I fed the cat and then left it in charge.
* * * *
As I fired up the car, I recalled one of the funniest memories I have of my childhood, which involved watching an episode of the Dukes of Hazzard. My family was visiting my grandparents one summer, and during that visit I discovered that my grandmother was a fan of the show. My grandmother, you see, was a Southern belle who had grown up in Gaffney, South Carolina. She had a proper southern accent and was a school librarian for many years before she retired. She had moved north after college where she had met my grandfather.
Anyway, one evening when we were watching a summer rerun of the Dukes, my grandmother turned to my brother and me during a commercial break.
“I love them Duke boys,” she said in her perfect southern drawl.
My brother and I locked eyes for a split second and then diverted attention from each other to keep from bursting out in laughter. If you knew my grandmother, you’d understand why we found it so funny. She was such a prim and proper southern woman—and a librarian—that her words didn’t fit her character. It was hilarious.
I became a fan of the Dukes of Hazzard thanks to my grandmother, and in particular I coveted the car they used in the series—a bright orange 1969 Dodge Charger they called the General Lee. And ever since that time, I had always wanted one.
True to my word, I did, in fact get myself a Charger. I wasn’t bold enough to get a bright orange one; mine is black. I’ve had it for a couple of years, now, but I haven’t given it a name like the Dukes boys had given theirs. Mine is just “the Charger” and it’s fast as a rocket because it’s got a 6.4 Liter 392 cubic inch Hemi engine. And when I ordered it from the dealership, Ducky had pulled some strings to get me one with police car options. As a result, my Charger had, as Elwood Blues once recalled in The Blues Brothers, a cop motor, cop tires, a cop suspension, cop brakes and a cop transmission. It was the most amazing piece of Detroit engineering I had ever driven in my life. It was nice to have high friends in places.
Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.
I pointed my Charger toward town and motorvated.
Chapter Seven
Ten minutes later I pulled up to Mattoon’s Deli, which was one of my favorite dining establishments. Mattoon’s was open six days a week for breakfast and lunch and will make you anything you ask for. I’ve been going there since I was a kid. I grew up with Sam Mattoon, the current manager, whose great-great-great-grandparents opened it for business as a general store during the Civil War. Mattoon’s continued in various forms ever since, from a general store, to a grocery store, and to its current incarnation as a delicatessen. Sam’s parents are the current proprietors.
People I had known all my life occupied several of the tables. I spotted the county medical examiner, Jack Laraby, chatting up Mrs. Hayes, the local busybody. Several seasonal workers from Duckworth Farm were ordering take-out.
Of course, Ducky was there and schmoozing as usual. He waved me over to his table as soon as he saw me.
He looked at his watch. “You’re up before noon. Aren’t you worried about turning to dust or something?”
“Nah,” I replied. “I’m on daylight savings time.”
Ducky chuckled and I went over to the deli counter to order my usual breakfast sandwich: pork roll, a fried egg, and American cheese on a hard roll, and a bottle of diet Dr. Pepper.
Pork roll is a New Jersey breakfast institution. It looks like Canadian bacon and tastes like a cross between bologna and ham. It’s referred to as Taylor Ham in some parts of the state because a company called Taylor Provisions makes it. Either name, it’s always pan-fried and served in a sandwich along with eggs and cheese. I liked mine with a little ketchup on it, too.
After placing my order and then grabbing a diet Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator case, I sat down at Ducky’s table. I was about to say something when everyone in the deli went quiet. We both looked up.
A huge, muscular woman had walked in. A few of us made eye contact with each other but no one uttered a word. No one made a sound for that matter, either. And no one greeted the woman as she headed for the deli case. Everyone kept silent, and their distance.
Her name was Gertie Machine and she was a loner with a reputation for violence. Most people believed she was some kind of psychotic monster, motivated every now and then by the desire to protect those she felt needed help. Gertie was huge and muscular, and even had a cyst between her eyes that made her look almost demonic. Needless to say, people feared her.
When Gertie Machine was nineteen years old, her mother and younger sister were both raped and murdered by her mother’s boyfriend, a bastard named Deke Snyder. Gertie had survived the massacre only because Snyder was too drunk to notice that she wasn’t home.
The day after the rape and murder, Gertie found Snyder fishing at his secret cabin along Spruce Run Creek, a cabin he was convinced no one knew about. Gertie had found the cabin two and a half years earlier while on one of her many hikes through the woods. She hiked a lot.
As usual Snyder was schnockered, which made coming up behind him easy and unnoticed. And Gertie Machine wasted no time. She swung a crowbar at Snyder’s head like a baseball bat. He never knew what hit him. The first swing bashed in Snyder’s head and killed him. Blood gushed everywhere. The second swing broke his neck. The third almost decapitated him. Once she was sure Snyder was dead, she rolled him over on to his back. Still using the crowbar, she butchered his face by trying to pry it of
f. What was left was a bloody, pulpy, unrecognizable mess. Snyder’s face looked worse than that lady in Connecticut who was attacked by her friend’s chimpanzee. It was sickening.
There was a coroner’s inquest into the tragedy, and no charges were filed, but Gertie Machine was committed to Hagadorn Psychiatric Hospital in Glen Gardner for four years, and then unceremoniously sent home. It wasn’t that anyone said she was justified in what she did, but I think most people in town believed that Snyder got what he deserved. In any case, Gertie Machine was left alone to live a solitary life on her family’s dairy farm and had withdrawn from any social life whatsoever.
It was reputed that Gertie had received some insurance money from a policy her mother may have had, but I had been unable to confirm it when I researched the story. It was also reputed, but so far unsubstantiated, that she was a moonshiner. Either way, no one wanted to find out. Gertie Machine kept to herself and people were terrified of her.
“That broad gives me the creeps,” Ducky whispered after she was gone.
“Me too,” I agreed. “But she lives here and she’s one of us.”
“I know. But she still gives me the creeps anyway.”
“How so?”
“It’s like when I see a big white man pick up a banjo. My cheeks tighten.”
I snorted and did everything I could not to laugh.
My sandwich was ready. I paid for it and sat back down.
“So,” I began, changing the subject. “Is there anything going on I should know about for the Bugler?”
“Nah,” Ducky grunted. “It’s always quiet on the western front. You know that.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. But it can’t hurt to ask.”
“I’ll keep you posted if anything comes up. I always do.”
“Thanks, Duck.”
“So, when are you going with Maddy to New York?”
“Friday morning.” Even though I was uncertain as to Maddy’s real motivation for wanting to see me, in secret I couldn’t wait to see her again.
