“You’ve been doing this for years? Taking these pictures?” I said, looking at the snapshot again. Why had nobody noticed the hole in the wall?
“Oh, yes, indeedy,” he said. “For a long time, it was just a thing I did for my own pleasure. Never thought about a pay-off. Other than the usual one.” He giggled. “But all those years led up to the day I saw you scrubbing that bowl.” He smiled. “And a pretty sight it was. I think they’d have to look into George’s death again, should they see this picture. The cops, I mean.”
I thought in vain for a way out. The snapshot was dated, which certainly left little room for doubt as to when he took it. He’d managed to get almost my entire face into what was essentially a profile shot. I looked deranged, of course. Like someone who’d just murdered her husband. The bottle of Goo Be Gone rested on the floor.
“I must have missed you the first time,” the man said. “Your big moment, I mean.”
“I assume you want something from me or you would’ve gone to the police.”
“Yes, indeedy.” He paused as he put the snapshot back into his pocket, patting it. “Plenty more of those just in case you wondered. You know, George talked about you a lot over the months we shared a pint at Bub’s. Even with my running into the men’s room every so often, he managed to tell me what a fine housekeeper you were. What a great cook. Those are qualities not always valued nowadays. He thought it was all pretty funny, but I thought it was sweet.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Ever since my wife died, I’ve been all thumbs trying to keep things in order. Oh, yes, even perverts have wives sometimes. I hate disorder, but she was the one who took care of such things. You can’t imagine how hard it is to learn to cook at my age.”
I listened to this and a bit more about his late wife’s abilities in various areas. “So you want a housekeeper.” The thought of keeping two houses clean was exhausting. I was no longer a young woman and my standards were high. And I now had the graveyard detail too. It was only natural that my standards would slip given the increase in work. Could I live with that?
“Actually,” he said. “I was hoping we could share a house. Maybe yours? George always spoke so highly of it. Truth be told, I’d be a bit embarrassed to show you mine just now.” He looked at the pristine headstone. It was a work of art. “So, I guess I’m proposing.”
“Proposing what?”
“Proposing we get married. One house would be easier to keep nice than two.”
“You want to marry a woman who just murdered her husband?” I whispered.
“Look at it like this. I have the means to see such a thing doesn’t happen again. It’d be like a contract—although unwritten, of course. My end of it would be to keep quiet; yours to take good care of me.” He paused a second.
I was still dumbfounded.
“It’ll be a lot better than you think. I am a lot more orderly than George.”
“But you’re a pervert.”
He shrugged. “But the harmless kind.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out.”
Stark Raving
Less than year into her career as a mediator, Elsa Scotia saw the unfamiliar names of Mr. Edward and Miss Alice Starkey on the day planner. Mediating was a late career move for her that played well into her talent for problem solving. She assumed the Starkeys were coming in over a dispute about the disposition of a will. Mediation of wills was often contentious, but since it was about possessions rather than people, no swords had been drawn in her office yet. If words could kill, however, there’d been some near misses.
“Husband and wife?” Elsa asked her assistant.
Doris fanned through the papers in the file. “Siblings. Their attorneys recommended mediation rather than a courtroom to settle their disagreement.”
“A will, is it, then?”
“Yep,” Doris said, coming up with the relevant page. “There seems to be only one area of contention. Financial matters, furniture, the house, and cars—all that’s complete.”
“So what’s being disputed?”
Doris paused, scanning the page. “Alma Starkey’s collection of Beanie Babies. Alma’s their deceased mother.”
“Her collection of what?”
“Beanie Babies.” Doris looked up. “Kids collected them in the nineties? My daughter had quite a—”
“I know what they are. But aren’t the Starkeys adults?”
“Edward is fifty-four; Alice, fifty-two.”
“Edward?” Elsa said with a frown. “A grown man who cares about dolls?” She walked over to her computer and googled “Beanie Babies.” She looked up. “Their value’s been declining since around 2000. Practically worthless.”
“Perhaps the Starkeys think differently,” Doris said.
Elsa shrugged. “Should be fun meeting these two.”
“Or not,” her clerk said.
“Or not,” Elsa agreed.
The brother and sister who walked into her office a few hours later could’ve been twins—even twins of the same sex. Both had seen significant declines in the hormones that differentiated them earlier. They were short, nearly the same height, round, and wore bobbed hair the color of hay. Their features were soft, their eyes nearly colorless.
Simultaneously, they thrust out right hands that could have been stamped from the same cast. Without meaning to, Elsa pulled back, a bit repulsed. The Starkeys seemed used to this reaction and slipped into chairs, waiting expectantly. Almost invariably, any group entering Elsa’s office took seats as far from each other as possible, but Edward and Alice Starkey sat side by side. Obviously, their close relationship had survived the issue of the ownership of the Beanie Babies.
“I see the major portion of your mother’s estate was settled without dispute,” Elsa began, flipping through pages.
Alice nodded. “The rest of it was just about things. We’ve always lived in the house, shared the car, and sat on the same furniture: Edward, in the club chair, me, on the loveseat. We will simply continue as we always have. He, in the blue bedroom; me, in the yellow.”
The lyric “Same as it ever was” ran through Elsa’s head.
“Our last argument over household matters was when I wanted to paint my room apricot,” Edward said. “Back in 1995, I think.”
“It’s always been blue,” said his sister, “and still is.”
Elsa took a cleansing breath as she imagined their life. “So what makes the Beanie Babies a particular source of friction?”
The siblings looked at each other at length. Finally, Edward said, “We have different plans for the Beanies.”
Perhaps one of them wanted to pass them along to a charity and the other to younger family members, Elsa thought. Dispositions could be fractious.
“I intend to play with them,” Alice said. “I want to cut those darn tags off and put the Beanies in chairs, beds, a dollhouse. I’ve made clothes for them over the years, collected appropriate furniture.” She paused. “The Beanies have been Mother’s prisoners for twenty years. I was never once allowed to handle one.”
Edward bristled visibly. “And I plan to maintain them just as Mother did. With their swish and tush tags intact, with their fur completely blemishless. That’s what Mother expected when she bequeathed them to us. That’s what we promised her,” Edward added, glaring at his sister.
“It was a promise she extracted under duress,” Alice said.
“How many Beanie Babies are we talking about?” Elsa asked, reminding herself that they’d been adults even when the craze began. It was much like her experience with Barbie dolls. Regrettably, she’d been a teenager when Mattel introduced them.
“Over five hundred,” Alice said. “Every Beanie that Ty made. In triplicate at least.”
“Ty was the name
of the manufacturer,” Edward said. “Mother has—had—five Garcias, the bears, for instance. And ten Princesses. She was extremely intuitive about which ones would increase in value.”
“Mother even collected the counterfeit ones,” Alice said. “She had quite a thing for Tabasco the Bull.”
“But they have no value now, right?” Elsa said. “None at all?”
“Exactly right,” Alice said. “So why not play with them? I’ve been yearning to hold one in my hands for twenty years.”
“Piffle,” her brother said. “You were far too old even then to play with toys.”
“And you’re off the rails if you mean to stare at them forever. They’re worthless, Edward. Mother made the wrong decision in collecting them.” She looked at Elsa. “She did the same thing with Cabbage Patch Dolls. Her intuition, such as it was, was extremely fallible in the long run.”
“But if there’re five hundred, why can’t you both do what you want? Divide them in half.” It seemed obvious to Elsa.
“They all want—or should want—to be played with,” Alice said. “How would we decide which ones to keep encased? Or should I say imprisoned.” She looked at Elsa. “The glass was even tinted. You could hardly get a decent look at them.”
“Very few children were allowed to play with their Beanies. That’s why so many still have their tags and are pristine. Beanies would be nothing more than a pile of dirty fur otherwise.” Edward’s sniffed. “If playing was all you wanted, ordinary toys would suffice.”
“Beanies are ordinary toys. They always were.”
“Things come back into vogue, Alice,” Edward said. “And why does a woman of your age want to play with stuffed animals?”
“Why does a man of your age want to stare through glass at them?”
“Do you have any idea about how to settle this?” Elsa asked. It was suggested in her manual that she put this idea on the table. Let the contentious parties offer ideas.
“Indeed, we have,” Edward said. “We want you to come to the house, build a bonfire, and burn every last one of them.”
“It’s the only thing to do,” Alice said. “I can’t bear seeing them in those dreadful cases and Edward can’t bear seeing me handle them.”
“I’m not sure Beanies will burn. Aren’t the beans in plastic sacks?” Her five minutes worth of googling had netted her this information.
The siblings looked at each other and shrugged.
“Look, I’ll send someone to pick them up and dispose of them in an environmentally friendly way. Is that acceptable?” Both of the Starkey children nodded.
“It’s only fair that Mother paid a price for her obsession,” Alice told Edward a few days later. “For the last twenty years, she used those Beanies to drive a wedge between us. Playing us off one against the other. Interfering with our relationship.”
Edward nodded. “Watching that man carry the boxes out the door was one of the best moments in my life. That mediator will see that they are disposed of correctly. Even if they can’t be burned.”
“Yes, it was nearly as satisfying as watching Mother swallow that cup of tea.”
Alice watched as Edward smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt, his hand lingering familiarly. “Every sip was a step on the path to freedom. She could’ve outlived us both on pure vitriol. Evil woman.”
“Speaking of tea, shall we have some? It’s Oolong today,” Edward lifted his cup and Alice tapped it lightly with hers.
Three weeks later, five hundred Beanie Babies, their tags cut off by Doris to prevent future hoarding, were on their way to Afghanistan where Elsa’s nephew handed them out to waiting village children. No one once considered putting them behind glass.
“My aunt says the people who owned these toys wanted to burn them,” said the soldier.
“Some people should be thrown in jail,” said his companion, watching two little girls wrap their beanies in keffiyehs. “Look at those smiling faces.”
Old Friends
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Henry swore through clenched teeth, “You’re sure this is the right road, Gillian?” He grabbed for the sheet of directions, peering blindly through the tangle of green.
“Frances says it’s a very narrow lane.” Gillian whipped off her sunglasses and lowered the window. The pungent smells of midsummer flooded the car.
“Blair Witch territory is more like it.” Henry groaned as the Subaru pitched rightward. Seconds later, both ducked instinctively as a branch scraped menacingly across the windshield.
“Can you picture those two living out here?” Henry reached out the window to remove forsythia clinging stubbornly to the wipers. “What were they thinking?”
“And what in the world do you do here in winter?” Gillian shook her head in disbelief.
“Nothing. Dan said it’s strictly a summer place.”
“I’m not sure I’d survive here any time of year,” his wife said. “Do you think they have Wi-Fi?”
“They should have warned us if they don’t. I need to be able to contact my editor.”
“Oh, they must have it. He has departmental duties, right?”
They continued to creep along until, quite dramatically, the trees cleared and the Liebold house appeared. Frances came rushing through the door with Dan a step behind. They were wearing swimsuits, brave apparel for people in their fifties. Neither face was visible beneath gauzy beekeeper hats.
Gillian swatted Henry with the map. “Not a word,” she warned as he choked back a laugh.
“Welcome, friends!” Frances called out, yanking the car door open. “Breaking news! We have our own pond now. Dan found it a few days ago when he was picking berries. We’ve spent two days clearing away the undergrowth and picking up beer bottles and condoms. Must have been a lover’s lane once.”
Henry had already noticed the red welts and deep scratches etching their upper bodies. “You always hope that phrase speaks to flowers and tender letters. But it never does.”
“We’ve just had a dip,” Frances said. “Yikes.” Her feet danced impatiently on the gravel path as she swatted a mosquito. “Uh-oh, they’re out already! Never mind, it’s just a scout. You’d better hurry if you want a swim before the serious invasion.”
For the last hour, Henry had been hoping their arrival would coincide with cocktail hour. Instead, he’d now be forced to strut about in a swimsuit. His only suit was from the late W years, and he wondered if the elastic would hold. Obama had not been kind to his waistline.
Wearing an ankle-length terrycloth robe lifted from the Marriott Marquis in Chicago, Henry headed for the pond. Screams revealed their location. He guessed it was a pond, although mud hole might be a more accurate description. Nasty things would ooze between his toes. Probably there’d be glass and metal fragments to cut him too. Steeling himself, he headed in, his predictions immediately met.
Frances bobbed around him like an air-filled water toy. Was her splashing, clearly directed at him, an expression of hostility or did she intend it as flirtation? He splashed back finally, with the heavy-handed push of the rough middle school boy he once was. She fell over backwards, Dan turning just in time to witness her plunge.
“Steady, Lovage. She can be an annoying old thing, but she’s harmless.” Dan’s tone was jovial, but a hint of menace filtered through. Frances came sputtering up, uttering what was surely a curse.
Embarrassed, Henry swam off—or would have if his trunks hadn’t refused to go along. Gripping the waistband, he climbed out of the water where Gillian handed him his robe.
“Told you to buy a new suit,” she hissed. “Quite a display out there.”
It was hard to take her reprimand seriously when pieces of rotting vegetation climbed her legs like tattoos. Her skin was slick, a look he didn’t associate with potable water, and her hair was plastered to her scalp, oozing a gelatinou
s substance.
“Yuck,” Dan said, coming up on them. “Franny’s having the water tested, but we haven’t received the lab report yet. I’m not optimistic based on what I’ve seen today.”
How like Dan, Henry thought, to offer this information now that the damage was done. Who knew what species of bacteria was making its way to his lungs, his stomach. A gentle burble brought their attention back to the pond where Frances floated serenely on her back.
“She only sees the good in it,” Dan said in a solemn voice. “Ponds, that is.”
After they showered, Henry got his long-awaited drink. Glass in hand, the two old friends circled the cottage, taking in its construction.
“It’s first rate on insulation and windows,” Dan told him, “triple this, and quadruple that. But it’s rather characterless, isn’t it? And I loathe the way no two rooms are on the same level. I’m always stumbling up the steps, or putting my foot down on air.” He pointed to a fading bruise on his shin.
“What’s there to do here?” Henry asked him. “Do you have any neighbors? Where’s the next town?” He couldn’t remember passing one in the last hour of the trip. “What about a library or a bookstore? A restaurant?”
“Oh, there’s a town of sorts about eight miles from here. Franny says we can do it on our bikes, but we haven’t tried yet. Too busy sorting things out.”
“You mean the Citgo station and grocery store where I turned off the interstate.”
“That’s it. There’s a post office there and a DVD red box. Not too up to date, right? We’d have to drive ten more miles to a real town.”
Taking pity on him, Henry said, “Still, the fresh air and leisure time will do you good. You’ve been working too hard on that book.”
Dan had been working on the book for the last decade. It was a comparison of Richard Nixon and Richard III. Others had written on the subject in the interim, but Dan didn’t let this deter him.
“Did I tell you I’m to be chairman next year, Henry?”
I Bring Sorrow_And Other Stories of Transgression Page 20
