Marvel and a Wonder

by Joe Meno

  On down the sloping street, he stopped before the parking lot where as a boy he’d always run whenever he had stolen something. There. He might have curled up right there in between those rows of parked cars, the smell of motor oil and gasoline and his own fear as distinct a memory as the taste of the powdery, brittle bubble gum that came with each pack of baseball cards he slipped inside his coat. The gum not at all enjoyable but something which you put in your mouth simply because it was there. It being part of the practice of opening a pack of cards which had been carefully pocketed. The ones he stole always came out to be doubles of players he had already. Carlton Fisk. Dwight Gooding. Reggie Jackson. Even at a young age he learned that crime was something you did simply for its own fun. Because when you stole something, it usually wasn’t worth the trouble you spent.

  When he crossed the street again, back to the saloon a half hour later, he found it was still locked. So. He had a serious coughing fit just then, his chest feeling like it was on fire once more. Until he could bring up the phlegm which looked to contain little pieces of his lungs. He fumbled for another cigarette and again noticed how the tips of his fingers were swelled up. Much too round, like the digits of a cartoon character. A boy he had been fucking back in San Diego, Derek, another ex-con, had said he had Mickey Mouse hands. The boy’s sister was an RN and took one look at them and declared, “You got something wrong with your circulation. You oughta make that cigarette your last,” and he had tried for a week or so, even going out to buy the nicotine patch. But it didn’t last, and neither did the boy. Derek had been the only one he had ever met who did not say no to anything he asked for in bed. But he had given the boy a black eye and the boy pulled a can of mace on him. Then that was the end of that. So.

  When he stopped coughing, he stood on the corner. Watched the traffic go by for a while, then headed back to where his own red pickup truck was parked. He fooled around with the driver’s-side mirror, which was just about ready to fall off. Hung there with banding wire. Would not stay in place, no matter what. Lit another cigarette, searched underneath the bench seat. Found the pistol, a .45 Chief’s Special. He slipped it into the waistband at the back of his pants. Found the pair of black gloves. The black ski mask in the truck’s glove compartment. Shoved the mask and gloves under his left arm, and glanced around to be sure he wasn’t being watched. Coughing once more, he struggled to catch his breath. It took a few minutes before he was breathing right again. He searched in his pockets and found some Nembutals. Took two. Then he popped some caffeine pills. Four of those, their shape odd against his tongue. Looking around again to make sure he had not been seen, he stomped off in the direction of the drugstore at the shady end of the street. Okay. Now don’t forget to breathe.

  * * *

  By three p.m. the grandfather had finished his business at the feed store, slinging the sacks of oats and a few bales of hay into the back of the pickup, holding his shoulder where it was now sore. He did not ask the clerks at the feed store for help with the hay, as he had never needed it before. So he leaned his left arm against the door of the pickup, the metal panel having been warmed by the sun, and soon the throb and ache slowly faded. He groaned with a little relief, closing his eyes, the joint and muscle once again settling into place.

  A shadow fell across his tightened eyelids and so he quickly opened them.

  “That arm still bothering you?”

  It was Doc Milborne, with his round face, gray beard, and craggy mouth. He had to be ninety if he was a day, still practicing, his blue eyes like carnival glass behind a pair of narrow specs.

  “No, doc. Shoulder’s just a little stiff is all.”

  “Why don’t you make an appointment to come by the office sometime next week? We’ll take another look at it.”

  “Much obliged,” Jim said, tipping the white cattleman’s hat. “I’ll call when I have the time.”

  “You either make the time or the time’ll be taken from you.”

  “You go to all those years of medical school just to learn sayings like that?”

  “No. I went for the chance to meet girls. And I still haven’t found the right one yet.” His eyes seemed to fog over with a distant memory before he said, “Now don’t be mulish. You give the office a call. I expect to see you sometime this week.” Then the good doctor stiffly marched off.

  Stepping around the corner, the grandfather walked up the stairwell and found Jim Northfield’s office empty. He trucked back down to the street and discovered the saloon had not yet opened, and so he decided to pay a visit to the Masonic lodge. The door to the lodge—a pair of offices on the second floor of a two-story building, directly above a vacant optometrist’s shop—was slightly ajar.

  “So much for secrecy,” Jim mumbled, slipping off his white hat. The walls of the lodge were now bare; the outlines where Egyptian-motif banners had recently hung were all that remained of the baroque decor. Everything had been packed into boxes, which stood piled in a corner. The three senior officers, all old-timers, Jim Northfield, Jim Dooley, and Jim Wall, were sitting around a table, tipping a fifth of bourbon. At the center of the table was a framed photograph of Burt Hale, the lodge’s longtime treasurer. The officers all muttered their salutations to Jim, conducted their secret handshakes, and managed to find a fourth chair somewhere among the debris. Jim took the seat, swallowed down the shot of whiskey that was quickly placed before him, and felt his left eye begin to water.

  “So what’s all this?” he asked, looking around.

  “We come to say goodbye,” Jim Dooley said. “So to speak.” Jim Dooley’s forehead was shiny with sweat. Before he had retired, he had been both a soybean farmer and a schoolteacher. “We were expecting you last week with everyone else.”

  “What was last week?” he asked.

  “We’re closing it down,” Jim Wall, the former groceryman, announced, pouring himself another shot. “Everything must go.”

  “There ain’t enough names in the roster,” Jim Northfield explained, his bushy eyebrows adding a comical counterpoint to his dignified lawyerly expression. “We don’t have any new members. And the old ones we have,” and here he surveyed the room, not gazing at anyone particular, though slowing before the grandfather, “they either don’t show up to the meetings or they haven’t paid their dues.”

  Jim Falls went a little red in the face.

  “Northfield’s right,” Jim Dooley added. “We was meant to be a civic organization. But what’s a civic organization without a town?”

  “First we lost the manufacturing plant . . .” Jim Wall started.

  “Then we lost the knife factory . . .”

  “And after that, the hospital . . .”

  “And the creamery . . .” The men’s voices began to blur together.

  “Now that it’s all gone, nobody growing up here has got a reason to stay.” This was Jim Dooley again. “That café has been closed for almost ten years now.”

  “God bless Ruthie, that poor girl. I can still see the way that blood was circling her head on the floor. Looked like a halo.”

  “God bless.”

  “And if they ever find the villain . . .”

  “God knowing they will . . .”

  “If they ever find him.”

  “Which they will.”

  “The problem is we ain’t got nothing left to point to. To hang our hats on, so to speak,” Jim Dooley said. He was getting maudlin now, his wrinkled forehead creased with regret. “All the kids, they get bused over to school in Dwyer. You got to drive an hour south for a job. We can’t even get the chain restaurants interested.”

  “Those folks at Hardee’s wouldn’t even take our call,” Jim Wall confided, his wide face tightening.

  “All we got left is that statue in the square. And a few family farms. And that don’t make a town,” Jim Northfield said, pouring another shot.

  “It’s happening all over,” Jim Dooley said. “Every part of the country. All those jobs, factories, going overseas. And we
let it happen. We got no one to blame but ourselves.”

  “America,” one of the men muttered.

  “Here’s to a good run,” Jim Northfield toasted, holding up his shot glass. “When it’s all over, all said and done, we can at least say we had some times up in here. It saved my marriage and kept me from murdering my boy.”

  “That boy is a lawyer now, if you don’t happen to know,” Jim Dooley whispered.

  The four downed their shots in silence, one of them coughing, one of them rolling his eyes, one of them humming, one of them groaning.

  “Before we say goodbye, let’s all drink one more to Burt,” Jim Dooley suggested, nodding at the rectangular framed photograph.

  “Old Burt Hale.”

  “Old Burt.”

  “That fella was lucky. He didn’t have to live long enough to see this place shut its doors.”

  “It was only a few months ago.”

  “It was two years, last June.”

  “Why, I’ll be.”

  “Oh, you will be, all right. Sooner or later, all of us will.” Jim Northfield was quicker with the bottle this time, spilling the amber liquid a little, his hands liver-spotted, white-haired, and rusty with rheumatism. “To Burt Hale. A better, more even-tempered fellow I’ve never met.”

  “Here here.”

  “And a wife as good-looking as an ice-cream sundae,” Jim Wall added.

  “Without the nuts.”

  The men chuckled at that one. Jim Northfield’s hand trembled, holding the shot glass aloft, pleased at his own joke.

  “Here here!” someone else exclaimed.

  “One of the best treasurers we ever had,” Jim Dooley remembered. “One of the few who didn’t rob us blind. We bought new books for the library with what he saved.”

  “And got the coffee shop built at the old hospital.”

  “A man who could quote from the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.”

  “And knew nearly everybody in town.”

  “With a wife as good-looking as a peach pie,” Jim Wall said.

  “Without the nuts.”

  This time no one but Jim Northfield smiled.

  “And a better sheep farmer this state has never seen.”

  “Burt Hale.”

  “Old Burt.”

  “Old Burt Hale,” Jim Northfield repeated.

  They held the glass cylinders before their lips, each of them closing his eyes, remembering better days.

  “Here’s to swimming with bowlegged women,” Jim Falls mumbled, speaking finally, and then quickly downed the shot.

  _________________

  A red stop sign. A green lamppost. A rounded water tower, dulled from powder blue to white. A faded town, fading, harried with dusty light, midafternoon.

  * * *

  Gilby was teasing the albino python when Mr. Peel came in. There was definitely something wrong with it, because it still would not eat. The pinkie—its small, nude body—lay curled up beside the snake’s angular head, breathing heavily. “He won’t eat,” Gilby called over his shoulder. “It’s been a week already.”

  “You might have to kill it for him and see if he goes for it then,” Mr. Peel responded, moving behind the cash register. He was wearing a white T-shirt, so old and washed so many times as to appear nearly see-through, and green canvas shorts. His black-rimmed glasses caught the light coming in from outside and made it look like he had no eyes. Gilby, kneeling there on the dirty tile floor, wondered what Mr. Peel was doing here so early on a Saturday afternoon. Saturdays he usually didn’t come in until five, when the store closed. “How’s it been today, Gil?”

  “Pretty slow. We sold a couple newts and that was about it. Some lady called to say she was looking for a caiman but I told her we don’t got any. I told her I’d talk to you and said she could call back later if she wanted.”

  “I’ll have to call that redneck from Florida, I guess. He’s the only one I know still dumb enough to sell ’em.”

  Gilby carried the pinkie over to the counter, reached beside the cash register, and found a long, plastic-handled flathead screwdriver. He placed the small pink mouse on the counter, holding it there with two fingers, and raised the handle of the screwdriver above the tiny creature’s head, measuring out the blow.

  Mr. Peel looked over his black-rimmed glasses. “Gilby, don’t do that here. The counter’s made of glass, son. Use your head.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Gilby carried the squirming animal over to the floor in front of the python’s cage. He held the shivering mouse in place with his two fingers, then lifted the screwdriver’s handle once more, measuring out the proper distance and force.

  “Gilby, don’t do it on the floor there. What did I build that feeding table for?”

  “Right.” Gilby stood, walking a few short paces over to the feeding table—an unsquare construction of wood and metal that leaned precariously to the left, slapped with a tacky coat of black housepaint—Mr. Peel’s ingenious solution to the problem of where to store and prepare all the reptile’s medicine and food.

  The mouse, being relocated a third time, let out a tiny squeak as Gilby inched his fingertips over its narrow body, pressing it against the tabletop. Once more, Gilby raised the screwdriver’s handle, squinting so as to better approximate the distance and torque, imagining it was his older brother he had pinned to the tabletop in the mouse’s place. Before he could follow through with this fantasy, delivering the deadly blow, Mr. Peel called out, “Gilby, why are we thirty dollars short?”

  The screwdriver handle hung suspended in the air, only an inch or two from the trembling mouse. Gilby sniffed, closing his eyes for a second, wondering if he had miscounted or if by chance had borrowed more from the register than he should’ve. “Huh?”

  Mr. Peel finished counting through the bills a third time. “We’re thirty-four dollars short, Gil. You pay any bills today?”

  “That black boy came in with pinkies.”

  “How many?”

  Gilby closed his eyes and tried to figure it quick, but under duress, all he could come up with was the truth. “Two dozen. No, three.”

  “That still leaves thirty-one dollars that’s missing.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Flustered, Mr. Peel counted through the bills and coins a fourth time. The final bill he laid down on top of the rest with an exhausted air, staring down at the short pile of cash, lowering his head, as if steeling himself for something.

  “Gilby.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is the third or fourth time this has happened this month. Now, did anyone else come in to sell anything?”

  “Nope. No, a wait a minute . . .” He scratched his unshaved chin, tugging at the hair growing along there. “No.”

  “And no one else came in with a bill? What about Paul? From the town council? Or the guy from the woodchip place? Was he in here?”

  Gilby bit his lips, figuring it might be better to try to be creative with some outrageous lie. An imaginary bill that had come due. Some unfamiliar pet food salesman. A suspicious character lurking near the cash register while he had been busy feeding the animals.

  “Gilby?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was there anyone else in here today?”

  The sore spot beneath his eye began to throb, from Mr. Peel and his whited-out glasses. “No. Nobody else was in. There was a guy and his daughter, they bought the newts. And the black kid selling pinkies. That was it.”

  Mr. Peel peered back down at the stack of bills on the glass counter. He lifted the black-rimmed glasses from his face, pinched the space in between his eyes, groaned, then replaced the frames, turning his eyeless stare back in Gilby’s direction.

  “Gilby?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you see we have a problem here?”

  Gilby wondered if maybe this was a trick question. Did Mr. Peel think he was an idiot? “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I guess.”

 
“Gilby, how long have you been working for me?”

  “Three years.”

  “That’s right, three years. And how I am supposed to keep trusting you with the store if I come in and find the count off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Well, neither do I. Can you give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you right now and call Sheriff Burke and ask him to come down and search you for my thirty dollars?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. Except I didn’t take it.”

  Mr. Peel pulled the glasses from his face. “Gilby, I don’t want to have to fire you. I like you. I do. But Jesus. Do you want to be fired?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Is that it? Do you think I’m too dumb to notice?”

  “No. I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”

  “Well, I appreciate it, Gilby. I do.”

  “No problem.”

  And here, for a brief second, hearing the young man’s reply, Mr. Peel couldn’t help but smile. “The way I figure it, you’ve stolen about five hundred dollars from me over the last three years. And we got enough troubles trying to keep the place open as it is. I mean, I can’t have somebody in here that I can’t trust. I can’t. I mean, that’s like . . . that’s like stealing from my kids, you know? Jeez. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to, Gilby, but I guess I’m gonna have to fire you.”

  Gilby stood, his face now red with embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t steal anything from you, Mr. Peel.”

  “I wish that was true, Gilby.”

  The younger man nodded, found his baseball cap beside the register, fitted it over his head, and walked slowly out, glancing behind him to see if Mr. Peel was on the phone with the police. He wasn’t. He was staring down at the mismatched pile of currency, and then, shaking his head, he began counting it once again.

  * * *

  Edward came up to the pharmacy counter. His teeth were itching; they felt like they were made of fur. Something was all wrong with the light in this place. It was too much. It was actually a plot to make everyone feel sick. Vis-à-vis supply and demand. Vis-à-vis sick people. Meaning more profits for the drug companies. Or something like that. There was more to this thought but he could not get himself worked up about it. Because right now. Right now. Right now. He was doing something. What? His veins felt like they had calcified. The pharmacist, a stiff with a lab coat and glasses, asked him what he could do for him. What a question. Where to begin. How about a million dollars? Would that make anyone happy anymore? No. How about an operation? The one where you remove my heart? So I am just dick and guts. Because that is all I want anymore. Is there a pill back there that has the same effects? I would like to be an animal. All I want is to roam in the woods. Civilization has become too intelligent. What do you prescribe for that? Then he remembered the .45 at the back of his pants. Ah, yes. But he was sure he was being videotaped right now. There was a camera right above the counter. “Tell me where, good sir, where your pseudoephedrine products are, and be quick about it, as I am in a bit of a hurry.”