by Leo Bonanno
Ida Scribbs proceeded to quash all arrangements made between the two. She said she refused to fund the man’s exorbitant lifestyle a moment longer while she lived in the red. She said her money wouldn’t help him look like a saint when he was no better than the thief he was blackmailing. She said the whole arrangement was over, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it because if he told anyone, he would be implicated as well.
Arnold said nothing at first, but he stared straight at Ida and smiled. He started to laugh, and when he finally did speak, he was outrageously condescending. Arnold said that he couldn’t believe it had taken Ida this long to get up the nerve to have this conversation. He said he knew her attendance at the museum that night would stir something up inside of her, but he didn’t think she would ever get going like this.
Arnold started laughing again and leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head towards the wall behind Ida. She turned and, with a sudden blast of shock, came to realize why Arnold was laughing. For the past decade this man had held her at bay with the help of Susan O’Donahue and her hideous piece of artistic expression. She hadn’t seen it in years, yet apparently it was something Arnold looked at, and laughed at, every single day. He laughed at it, laughed at her and her money making him look like a saint. He laughed at it every goddamn day.
Arnold got up and rounded his desk, sitting on it in front of Ida who had plopped herself down in a guest chair twenty minutes earlier. He looked down at her, smiled, and said that it would be over when he said it was over. He said she still had some repenting to do for her past transgressions. He said her stealing that painting was the best thing that ever happened to him and only an idiot would let go of so great an opportunity. No, this arrangement would keep him in the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed well into the next decade.
With another chuckle and a yawn, Arnold Medley stood up and leaned on the empty guest chair to his right, staring at the source of his inspiration for the past several years. As he stared at The End of Eden, he smiled. He said it grows on you. He said it gets easier on the eyes with time, and you can see the artist’s true intentions behind the repugnant façade. Then he said he guessed Ida would never get the chance to see it the way he does.
In a flash, Ida was out of her chair. He had yawned, and chuckled, like this was all some funny inconvenience for him; like what she said just came out of her mouth and flopped to floor. As Arnold neared the picture with his hands on his hips, admiring his trophy, Ida turned to his desk and saw her golden savior. She grabbed the giraffe and hoisted it up off the desk by neck by its neck. She was shocked at how heavy the small statue actually was. It was awkward and cumbersome in her small hands, but when she turned the giraffe upside-down and held it by its neck, it felt better. It felt…right.
In one swift motion, Ida raised the statue over her head and brought it down on the back of Arnold’s head. She could hear a muffled crunch and crack as it found home, sending the old man to the floor. She stood over him as his hands clawed at the carpet. His leg twitched and toed at the floor, but eventually fell still.
Without letting go of the giraffe, Ida rummaged through her purse with her free hand and pulled out a handkerchief. As she wiped the statue she looked around the room, mainly in the high corners, for any signs of surveillance. Finding none, she placed the giraffe down, not sure where it was before and not really caring. After all, who would notice? She grabbed her purse, stepped over the dead man and came face to face with her demon. The End of Eden stared back at her, its dead birds and trees and dried stream seeming eerily appropriate. Her stomach sank and she felt dizzy, but she forced herself to dash for the door. She slammed it shut and ran for her car. As she ran, she could still hear the echo of the slamming door in her head, and she wondered how many times that echo would bounce around the great room before it fell silent forever.
By the time she was done, Dolores and Emily were crying in each other’s arms. “You sick witch,” Carol mumbled, and walked back towards the fountain. She sat down there, and there her tough exterior shattered and tears began to flow.
“But how did you know the cameras would be out of commission,” Leon asked.
“I didn’t,” Ida said, standing up. “I had no idea.”
“Temporary insanity,” Myron mumbled.
“At the perfect moment,” I added. “No cameras, no witnesses.”
As if the whole conversation didn’t just happen, Ida wiped a finger underneath both eyes and walked towards me. Myron’s eyes followed her. Her mascara was running, creating two scary rivers from her eyes to her chin. She came towards me slowly and calmly, and she spoke the way she spoke to Myron and I that day in her office. She spoke as though she couldn’t be touched. “Well, Mr. Hunt, I suppose you’re more than just a One-Hit Wonder after all. What are you going to do when these fifteen minutes of fame are over?” I stared back at her, heart pounding but holding my ground. I suddenly flashed back to McCune Hall, when the murderous psychopath Cheryl McCune lunged towards me, but Ida didn’t lunge. She didn’t pounce on me and claw at me like a hungry tiger. She just stood there in the great room, a room she probably financed single handedly, and waited for my answer, but I never gave her one.
Four weeks later, I was sitting on a cold examination table in a chilly, sterile room staring at a poster of what my digestive system would look like if I was twenty years younger. Dr. Sellars came in with a smile on her face and a chart in her hand. It was the first time we had seen each other since the funeral two weeks ago. She patted me on the shoulder and sat next to me, putting her hand on my knee. “So, how are things with you?”
“Terrible,” I mumbled. “The phone won’t stop ringing, the news people won’t leave me alone. My entire life is ruined. And now I have this constant stomach pain. I feel like I’m falling apart.” Emily smiled and stared at the poster of the digestive track with me.
“Do you know what’s not on that diagram?” I shrugged my shoulders. “The melancholy muscles aren’t there.” I turned to her, bewildered.
“The what?”
“You know that pain you feel when you hear bad news, or when you know you’re about to hear it? That sinking you feel when you realize you’re about to spend another night alone? That heaviness in your shoulders when you look at your own cold bed and realize you’d rather sleep anywhere but there?”
“Yeah, I know those pains.”
“Well,” she said, sliding off the table and facing me, “that’s what you’ve got and I think you know why.” I looked at her, then rolled my eyes and looked off to the wall. You know what she is going to say Little Reevan said. I sighed. Emily came close and put her hand under my chin. She turned my head to face hers, and came nose to nose with me. “You have to talk to him,” she said softly.
“No, absolutely not!” I shouted stubbornly.
“Fine,” she said, standing straight and heading for the door. “There’s nothing I can prescribe for you to take the pain away, Reevan. There’s only one man who can help you now, and you know it.” She opened the door and stepped outside. I watched her as she walked out and then quickly stepped back in again. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. She reached inside her lab coat pocket and pulled out a closed fist. She came closer and spilled the contents onto the examination table; a dried up orchid with five petals attached, and a sixth that was not.
I looked at her, dumbfounded. “You still have that?”
“Of course,” she said. “I found this little bugger stuck to the bottom of my purse after you left that day,” she said as she held up the one brown petal not attached to the rest. “I figured you’d get a kick out of that.” I took it from her, stared at it, then dropped it next to the others.
“So where did the other one come from? The one in Arnold’s office?” I asked. She shrugged indifferently.
“I have no clue. Could have been dropped there any time, I guess.”
“Well,” I said with a trembling lower lip. “Well, I’m sorry about,
you know…”
“I forgive you,” she said before I could finish. “Now was that so hard?” I thought about the question for a moment.
“No, it wasn’t. In fact, it feels pretty good,” I replied.
“It can feel better,” she said, and walked out. I looked down at the dead plant sitting next to me. Then I grabbed my coat and ran to my car.
“I’m not leaving until you open the door!” I shouted. His car was in the drive, so I knew he was in there. “Come on, Leon! Open up!”
After a good five minutes of pounding, Leon finally opened the door. I assume it was Leon, because the door swung open even though there was no one standing on the other side. I stepped in and stared at Leon’s back as he walked into his living room and stared at the television. “Say what you came to say and get out,” He sniped.
“I’m fine, thank you, and you?” He didn’t reply, and he didn’t laugh.
I sat down on the couch next to him and looked at his hairy left ear. “I’m sorry, Leon. I really am.” He promptly turned off the television and twisted, showing me more of his back.
“For what?” He said. I rolled my eyes. After a moment, I mumbled something inaudible. “I’m sorry? They can’t hear you in the back.”
“I’m sorry I accused you of killing your boss,” I finally said. Leon turned to me and looked me in the face for the first time in weeks. I anxiously looked back at him, looking for some sign of forgiveness. “Don’t tell me I was the first,” I said, and instantly regretted the sarcasm. How inappropriate! Little Reevan barked. No wonder no one likes you.
Leon didn’t turn his back to me again. He didn’t hoist me up by my collar and toss me through his front door. He just stared back at me, his eyes twitching in their sockets. “If I only had a nickel for every time that happened,” he finally said, and I started to laugh. My heart was pounding, but it felt so good. I could feel my melancholy muscle pains easing, and then disappearing altogether.
Leon stuck out his hand and I gladly shook it. “It hasn’t been the same not hearing you bitch about something every ten minutes,” he said.
“It’s not the same bitching to the dog every ten minutes, either,” I retorted. “Did you see me on TV down at town hall last week? Mayor Ruskin thanked me for my service to the town and gave me the k-”
“The key to the town, yeah, I know.” He stood up and smiled. He walked around me towards his kitchen.
“So you did watch it.”
“Nope!” He said flatly as he disappeared behind me into the kitchen. I sat there, perplexed.
“But if you didn’t see me on TV then how did you kn-”
“I was there,” he said, poking his head around the corner. Butterflies threw up somewhere in my stomach. I felt so happy and so overwhelmed; it was the best feeling I had felt in a long time. Leon disappeared again. I dropped to his couch and stared at the black screen on the television. Leon entered and handed me a can of store brand soda. He took his place next to me and we sat in silence for a few moments, each sipping our respective pops. “So, what’s next for The Great Reevan Hunt?” He asked. I turned to him. Then my eyebrows eventually perked up and I replied with a smile.
“Watcha got?
Two months later, Leon and I were sitting at my kitchen table, and there was a For Sale sign in my front yard. “California?” Leon asked.
“Too many weird people,” I replied, tossing Niki a bit of sausage.
“New York?”
“Too many rude people.”
“Oh, I know. Florida?” Leon said with a smile.
“Too many old people,” I answered. Leon gave me a have you looked in the mirror? look. “I’m old, but not Florida old.”
“Are you sure you want to move, Reevan? You’ve been in Pendleton a long time.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Leon. The past few months have taught me a lot about myself, and I found out I don’t like a lot of it. I’m tired of spending my days on a couch in front of a TV, reminiscing about the days when I was a valuable member of society. I need a change.”
“But you have changed!” He exclaimed. “For God’s sake, Reevan. You’ve been walking Niki two miles every morning. You’re up at nine o’clock trimming your hedges or sweeping your garage or pruning your fig tree. You’re doing great, Reevan. You’ve changed your routines, isn’t that enough?” I looked at my friend across the table, and I sensed that he already knew what my answer would be. I said it, if for no other reason than I thought he really needed to hear it.
“No, it’s not. I’m not content cutting my grass, and I’m not content spending my days alone. I’m also not crazy about news people going through my garbage. Pendleton has been good to me, and I’ll miss it very much, but I think this chapter of my life is over. For the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to the next one.” Leon finally smiled, and by doing so proved I wasn’t insane.
“Texas?” Leon said after a while.
“Too many people with guns.”
“Canada?”
“Too many French people.”
“France?”
“Too many American-hating French people.”
“Reevan, this is ridiculous! There must be one place you’ve always wanted to go, isn‘t there?” I looked at Leon then, the way Niki looks at me when I say the words or cookie or sausage. I finally smiled and answered him.
“Actually, there is.”
That night, for the first time in who knows how long, I slept in my bed. It was weird at first, like when you tell someone you’ll call them and you never do, only to bump into them somewhere else. It felt like I was having an affair with my bed behind my recliner’s back.
I walked through my entire day as I lay there staring up at the ceiling. I replayed my walk with Niki, and then my trip to the library to return some books and then my trip to Dunlowe Caterers. Simon’s father encouraged me to stop by anytime for a free meal, and I was in downtown, so I did. Simon looked well, and his dad was wearing a smile I didn’t think father’s like him possessed. I remember that when I got home and could smell mom’s sauce.. The whole house was filled with the smells are mom’s triumph over the culinary arts. I threw my coat over a chair at the kitchen table and hugged my mom from behind as she stirred something in a pot on the stove. “Wash up,” she had said. “You’re just in time.” I did as I was told and headed for the bathroom.
Moments later, I heard my mother scream in terror, and something heavy hit the ground. I rushed back to the kitchen to see my mother on the hardwood floor, flat on her back, still in her apron. Something small, black and furry was crawling its way up her arm. I ran to my mother and clutched at the tiny beast, grabbing it and flinging it across the room. It felt so weird, fuzzy but rubbery like a tire with hair. I put my mother’s head on my lap and called her name. I looked across the room to see her attacker, a tiny bat, stumbling its way across the floor. Bats in the New England weren’t uncommon, but I guess finding one in your son’s pocket isn’t as common as you might think.
My mother awoke slowly to my smiling face. She sat up and clawed at her own arm, as if she could still feel the small creature on her skin. She immediately turned to me and slapped me across the face. The feeling of red hot pain was a first. I covered my burning cheek with my hand and stared at my mother who was breathing heavily.
We both sat there on the floor, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I didn’t cry; the pain was there but not the emotion. My mother finally turned to me, and I thought she was going to slap me again. Instead, she put her arm around me and pulled me close. She put her hand on my cheek and I put my head on her shoulder. There, on the floor, we began to laugh. My father walked in a few seconds later and looked at us both like we had lost our minds.
I helped my mother off the floor, and minutes later my father was laughing at the dinner table as we told him the tale. Somewhere in the living room, a tiny, harmless fruit bat had gotten comfortable underneath our couch. We wouldn’t think about him again that day until my
sister Madeline came home from work and screamed when something tried to climb up her leg.
I woke up the next morning with an irresistible smile. I rolled over to find myself face-to-face with Niki, who was apparently completely on board with my new plan of sleeping in an actual bed. She licked me across the face, and I laughed out loud as I wiped away a layer of slimy love. I started scratching her tummy, and she plopped her head atop my pillow. “Big move coming up, girl,” I said to her. Her tail flopped against my legs. “Big move, big drive, at least two days on the road, I figure. The good news is I have a great story to tell you on the way.”
Not long after that, I was on the road to my new home, and my new lease on life. With my only friend next to me and all of my worldly possessions hitched behind me, I couldn’t help but think of something I had read years before. Then I couldn’t help but think that Arnold Medley would have appreciated it very much:
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.
It is the source of all true art and science.
Albert Einstein
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Part 1 Houseguests and Homicide
Part 2 Curator Conundrums
