Long, long ago, a rabbi told a story about a selfish young man who demanded his share of his father’s wealth and spent it in riotous living. When the money was spent and hard times came, the young man went home to beg his father for a place as a hired hand. The father was overjoyed that his son had returned and had a feast prepared in the youth’s honor.
But the rabbi did not tell the whole story, for reasons that will become clear…
Keith imagined himself into a castle, a sword in his hand, fighting. His masked opponent wielded a surgically sharp blade that came ever nearer to Keith. Keith’s brother, Stephen, was trying to get away but was hampered by his injury.
The swordsman pressed his attack, laughing behind his mask. “You cannot hold me off, and you cannot possibly escape my steel.” He made good his words; the sword pierced Keith’s abdomen and opened the flesh from front to back. “And your brother is next.”
“Heh? And you call me the dummy!”
The audience roared at the familiar line and the ventriloquist and his dummy both took a bow and skittered offstage.
“Ervin Erskine and Enos, ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Stedman reminded the theater’s patrons. “And now…”
Ervin had no interest in the rest of the vaudeville show. He walked as far as he could and still be in the building and let gravity place him on a chair. He let his dummy fall to the floor, briefly heedless of whether its nose would be damaged. His chin fell to his chest and he stared morosely at the dark floor.
“The applause doesn’t do it for you anymore, does it, Ervin?”
“No, Irene, it doesn’t. I don’t give two hoots about the applause.”
“You’re … what?”
Lonnie had been sitting alone on the park bench, quietly minding his own business, soaking in a little late afternoon sun, and continuing to recover from the excesses of the previous night. He’d come to this part of the park to get away from the old busker playing his trumpet. Still, a few high notes would sometimes drift over. And he’d been alone until an absolutely nondescript middle-aged man came strolling along and sat down next to him. Even at that, the man was so utterly unremarkable that Lonnie didn’t notice him at first, or that he had a cloth bag. Then the man spoke.
“You heard me,” the man said. “I am Satan, and I want you to do a job for me.”
“Look, guy,” Lonnie said. “I had too much to drink last night, too. Go home and sleep it off. I’m not in the mood.”
“Your mood is not relevant to our conversation,” the bland man said. “I need someone killed and you can easily do the job. The target sold her soul to me and doesn’t wish to pay. She’s trying everything she can think of to avoid her fate, and I’m getting tired of it. Even though it will do her no good, she’s holed up in a church, and the priest is sympathetic to her. I want you to go in and kill her.”
“The question before the floor, during this special assembly, is whether to declare former President George W. Bush the worst president our great nation has ever suffered. Joe-Pete, you wanted to go first.”
Joe-Pete walked to the podium next to the leader’s throne.
“Thank you, Your Grand Imperial Exaltedness. As president, George W. Bush was fully complicit in these matters:
“1) lying about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq so as to start a war that has led to the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqis and the execution of Saddam Hussein;
“2) torturing Iraqis in Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq;
“3) holding suspected al-Qaida soldiers in Guantanamo Bay and torturing them and not permitting them access to legal representation and keeping them there for years without charging them with any crimes; and
“4) wrecking the national economy to the especial detriment of the Jewish money cabal and generally bringing the rest of the nation down to our level here in Scratchass County.
"Honey? You really shouldn’t be upset," Alice said on the drive home. "Second place is quite good. I know it’s not as good as being the big winner, but it’s still very good."
"Yes, that’s so," Rodger agreed tightly.
"You should be proud of what you achieved tonight," she continued, lifting his trophy a little and trying to cajole him into a better mood. "I’m certainly proud of you."
"Thank you, dear." He said nothing else, not wanting to take his mood out on his wife, and both were silent as he turned the Packard off Main Street and onto Sixth. Finally, she spoke again, broaching the topic.
"You think he cheated."
Rodger was quiet for a block at 25 mph. "I shouldn’t say that he did because I certainly have no proof of that. It is obvious that none of the judges thought he cheated, and it would be churlish of me to suggest it. ‘Sour grapes,’ everyone would say."
"Still…"
"I’m not accusing him of anything. It just seems … convenient. That’s all."
Another block went by silently.
"Amy’s birthday is in three weeks," Alice said. "She had wanted him for her party. Now, though…"
"Get Buttons the Clown, instead. She’ll like him."
"I’ve heard Buttons is a lush."
"Oh, I’m sure that’s just a nasty rumor started by a rival clown." He paused. "But if you’re concerned, we could have the party in the morning, just to be safe."
"All right, dear."
He turned another corner and pulled into their driveway. Amy was across town with her grandparents for the night and the house was dark. Rodger made no move to get out and Alice waited patiently.
"Alice, it’s just that … well, am I the only one who thinks it’s just a little strange? After three years of winning, I just lost in the city bridge competition to a man who entered for the first time. A man who, in his day job, bills himself as ‘Myron, the Magician Magnificent’ and whose specialty is sleight-of-hand card tricks."
Pvt. Richard Graham was eager to get aboard the ship, as were the others in his company. The trip home wouldn’t be pleasant, of course, but staying would be far worse.
They stood silently at attention, waiting their turn to embark. Graham’s eyes kept straying to the various residents of the town who regarded him with hatred and disgust. Some few smirked at him and his fellow soldiers, and on occasion a youth – or an old man – would hurl a taunt in their direction.
Graham’s heart was heavy. He had been sent across the ocean by his government to do a job. It was in the vital interest of the nation, and he was proud to wear his country’s uniform.
But the job hadn’t turned out well. The enemy was supposed to have been easy to deal with. Instead, the foe showed himself far more clever and deadly than anyone had expected. He hid behind anything and everything that could give cover, launching sneak attacks, shooting, maiming, and killing, and then running away. Graham had seen both friends and respected officers die.
Then the letters came, making it clear that back home the political situation had changed. There were protests in the streets over the mission Graham and his fellow soldiers were on; it was costing too much money and too many lives, and what good was it doing? The government was in turmoil. Soldiers returning home were openly criticized for having done their duty.
Graham sighed quietly. He denied the war had been lost; the government simply discontinued it. But he was going home in disgrace to a civilian populace that would jeer at him – both for having fought the war and for not having clearly won it. There seemed to be no justice.
Finally, Graham’s company was called. He boarded the Royal Navy ship, turning his back for the last time on the city of New York and the independent United States of America.
“The Thurlow family New Year’s Eve party is certainly at full boil,” Will said to his little sister.”When is any Thurlow family party not at full boil?” Laura asked.”Want to escape for a while?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll go out first. Meet me at my Toyota in five minutes. Don’t grab your coat; it’ll be too obvious. I’ll turn on the heater.”
There had not been the slightest chance anyone in the rented Knights of Columbus hall had overheard them. The hall was filled with Thurlows and their children and those who married into the Thurlow clan and their children and those who were good friends of the family and their children. Will and Laura’s mother, Catherine, and their older sister, Ingrid, had spent hours directing the decorating of the hall.
Nash had hoped everyone would just leave the subject alone. They all knew what day it was and where they were and there was no point in talking about it.
“Sarge, it looks like ol’ Santy Claus has forgotten us,” Williams said.
“Yeah, again,” Borgerz agreed.
“Leastwise, there wasn’t a beautiful girl or any discharge papers in my foxhole this morning,” Williams continued. “Not even so much as a drop of holiday cheer.”
Nash cursed to himself, but as the sergeant he felt obliged to do a little something for morale and talk to his men. “Do I have to be the one to break it to you guys about Santa Claus and Christmas miracles?”
When a guy gets laid off, he gets to be pretty familiar with the bedroom ceiling. Anything you want to know about mine? Didn’t think so.
You also get to know all the sounds the house makes. Sounds you didn’t know about because you were at the job site all day. But three or four days into unemployment and I know every sound my house makes.
And just for the record, my bedroom closet doesn’t generally make a sound like a hundred AA batteries falling on the floor. But sometimes it does. Like when a time traveling historian uses it as a continuum portal. His words, not mine.