posted: February 8, 2010

Wednesday morning, Davy walked Helen to her shop. Then he returned to their Airstream, took her suitcase of cash, put it in the Lark's trunk and drove to the café, parking around the corner. He got out and sat on the hood, facing Main Street, until he saw Esmerelda Voltaire approaching.

Walking up to her, getting in step with her, he asked, "How're you doing?" His words were firm, the question almost a directive.

"Oh, you're that new guy? You and your girl were in for lunch?"

"Yeah. But she's not my girl. Not really." Davy toyed with the ring in his pocket.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Care to go for a spin?"

"I'm late for work? Pick me up after six?"

"Wait a minute," he said, taking her by an elbow, guiding her back, to the car. "You need to see something." Before she could object very much, he'd unlocked the trunk and opened the suitcase. Knees wobbly, she managed to choke out a whisper, "Where'd you get... that!?"

"It wasn't nailed down. So. A drive?"

"I've met my husband?"

They drove north, leaving all things Brainardville behind.

About a hundred miles later they traded in the Lark and paid the difference in cash for a 2005 Mustang V-8 convertible. With the top down, they motivated ever northward: Naples, Sarasota, St Petersburg, Tallahassee. And farther: Atlanta, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Lexington. He figured that Cincinnati was as good a place as any to disappear, specifically a Cincy suburb: Evandale. Davy liked the sound of Evandale, its softness. Also it reminded him of a pair of cartoon chipmunks he'd loved as a child, Chip 'n Dale. And Dale Evans. These were auspicious omens, all lined up, paving a path.

Along the way he'd learn about his Emerald Queen. The first thing he noticed was a vacant, slightly daft, stare in those green eyes. He found that endearing.

Her mouth was to one side, as if it had once reacted to some dreadful news and had settled into that off-kilter spot.

And that voice! A lilt of French-accented Dixie. She was an odd duck; it'd take a while before she came fully into focus. But he was confident of this much: she isn't a murderer. And she isn't a common thief.

At 30, she's young, younger than Helen's 40, much younger than my 50, let alone Anne's 65. And it's notable: our ages are all so neatly divided by the decade or, in Anne's case, the half-decade, mark. This is a good sign. I wish I knew a really good astrologer; there's something in the heavens regarding all of this. It isn't happenstance. I think it's all part of a greater pattern. Some would dismiss my thinking as superstitious, but there has to be something to superstition. After all, why would billions and billions of us invest so much in superstition if there was nothing to it? This is logical. I wish someone would look into it.

Around five, Helen locked her shop door, feeling the good tired from an hard day's work. But more than that, she was glowing with a secret. She almost raced home, looking forward to making dinner for Davy, then a night in bed holding him close. She could barely wait to break the big news, what the doctor confirmed for her that afternoon: Helen was pregnant.

Her plan was to tell him after dessert. Oh, the look that'd plaster itself on his face! She didn't know how she could keep her yap shut that long, but she'd sure try! The timing had to be perfect. She'd waited so long or this moment. There was no space for flubbing!

Helen Raboy looked at the pavement as she walked, chin tucked into her throat, shaking her head a bit. Her hands were happy fists, so filled with excitement.

There was a bounce in Helen's step as she waltzed into the trailer, the quiet trailer.

Metaphors: A Novel, Noir

posted: February 1, 2010

Helen and Davy left the stolen car in JC Penney's parking lot, lugged her suitcase full of loot and the bags of his new clothes along Main Street, wandered down a side street where they found exactly what they needed: Andy Traver's Used Car Jamboree, festooned with carnival pennants.

Andy was standing out front, thumbs in suspenders, chewing on an unlit stogie, a straw boater shading close-set eyes from the Southland's wicked sun. A gut spilled over the hick's belt. "Howdy, kids! How ya doin' on this fine day? Praise th' Lord!" His octave-jumping voice grated on Davy.

"Not too shabby," said Helen. "We need a car, mister, a good reliable car. And we'd like a mobile home. Whatcha got?"

"Well, chiilun, you are in luck! Just last week my Auntie Grizelda passed away - rest her soul - an' she left me a 1963 Studebaker Lark and an Airstream trailer. I'll bet anything this is just what th' doc ordered for you honeymooners! Am I right - or am I right? You're newlyweds, ain'tcha?" he said, bent forward, hands gripping knees, shaking his head with pup-like glee.

"How could ya tell!?" asked Helen.

Slapping his thigh he said, "By th' love beams comin' out of your eyes, sister! Anyhoo, come 'round back, lemme show ya th' car and trailer of your dreams!" Davy hated this baloney-slinging cracker a little, but if he offers a good deal...

Under tall willows sat the tan Lark sedan. "It's got a 100% standard issue six-cylinder engine, not a speck of rust, nary a dent, hardly 8,000 miles on it, more horsepower than a team of wild horses," declared Andy, hands on hips, head tilted. Davy wanted to knock the grin off his fat face.

Several steps back from the yammering salesman and Helen, Davy ran his hand along the aluminum hull of the 27-foot Airstream. Then he got in the car, behind the big white wheel, pretended he was driving. It wasn't an XK120, yet somehow this vehicle spoke to him, it was perfect for their new life. From the extended side-view mirror he saw the fat man approaching. Andy stuck his sweaty face up to Davy's and, waving his see-gar to the heavens, said, "Them four whitewalls is brand spankin' new, friend!" Davy could count the pores on the Andy's snout.

Andy gave them a tour of the Airstream. It was in pristine condition, Grizelda had treated her things with care. Helen said, "Oh Davy! Doncha just love this cute kitchen? I'll fix you the finest meals! And just look at that cozy bedroom! Perfect for makin' babies!" The men laughed, nervously. "What? What'd I say? I love my hubby! Is that a crime?" she said, feigning a pout, twisting a toe.

Davy said, "How much are you asking for the entire rig? If we pay cash on the barrelhead, sir?"

"Well, lemme see here, lemme think... Cash? How does five grand sound? And I'll fill th' tank, t' boot!"

"Sold!"

They motored south, along the seaboard, windows rolled down for the Atlantic's salt air. In South Carolina they spotted Granny's Olde Gun Shoppe. Parking their car and trailer in the sandy lot, they went in, the door snapping behind them. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they found the place to be empty except for Granny behind the counter. On the walls: pistols, rifles and shotguns of all descriptions climbed right up to the ceiling twenty feet overhead, ladders on wheels to gain access to the upper reaches. In the center of the room, a Confederate cannon trained on anyone stepping in the door.

"Don't be bashful! It ain't loaded! Least I don't think so," hooted Granny. "What can I do for you young uns?"

"We need us some guns, ma'am," said Davy. "I'd like a .45, nickel-plated, and my wife would like a pair of six-shooters, complete with holsters, like on the old TV Westerns."

"Well, that ain't no prob! Not at Granny's, b'gosh!"

Helen posed with a pair of Smith & Wessons, looking quite the Hollywood cowgirl, while Davy hefted the automatic, loving its weight, just right, the same gun Anne owned. Anne: he'd forgotten all about her until he held the .45. Love is funny, isn't it? Here today, gone tomorrow. Where does it go? The feel of the gun turned him on like a gas stove's burner.

Helen crouched, pistol-packing fists extended, spraying the room with imaginary bullets, slaying phantom bad guys. "Pow! Pow! Pow! Gotcha, ya varmints!"

They paid cash for the arms and several boxes of ammo, kept driving south, to Florida, the land of eternal sunshine and sweet juicy oranges and ever-hungry gators, until they came to Brainardville, population 612, not too far from the Everglades.

Main Street Brainardville was short, a Baptist church at one end, a police station at the other. Between the the two: Brainard's Five-and-Dime, Brainard's Café, Brainard's Dry Goods, Brainard's Guns & Ammo, Brainard's Real Estate & Insurance Company, Brainard's Barber Shop, several bungalows, a storefront for rent, The Hotel Brainard and Brainard's Market. Around the corner and down the hill stood Brainard's Hardware & Lumber and Brainard's Service Station.

A village green ran down the center of Main Street, in its gazebo a couple of codgers frittered away their final days betting dimes on checkers.

On a side street, Philmont Road, they found Brainard's Trailer Park, a respectable and trim affair surrounded by scrub pines, geraniums decorating front yards, mockingbirds singing their tail-feathers off. Twisty lanes were dotted with mobile homes, everything neat as a pin, in apple pie order. "Oh, Davy! This is just picture perfect! Let's settle here! Gosh, if they have an opening for us! Let's see!"

"Okay."

Inside the front office, they met Bob Brainard, a slight man of 47, rimless specks sitting before beady eyes. His tentative smile revealed a gold front tooth. Spindly arms poked out a pale-yellow Sanforized short-sleeve shirt, his reddish hair was thin and slicked straight back. Before sundown Davy and Helen signed the papers, paid cash for a year's stay and were hooked up to utilities. So dazzled by their new spot in Brainardville, they were been blind to the cottonmouths and diamondback rattlers slithering about flower beds and such.

Windows open, a cross-breeze caressing, Helen stood behind their trailer's screen door, looking out. She slapped a skeeter on her forearm, flicked away it's red smudge and told Davy, "I wanna go legit, now that I'm a married woman and soon to be a mom. Let's take some of the money and start a business. I was always good with sewing. I'd like to open a dress shop, right in town. You can help, you can run the cash register and do the books and deliver the finished products. It'll be wonderful! I just love this little town, everything about it! I think we've found paradise!" She went quiet for a minute, fantasizing about Raboy's Dress Shop, a hint of a smile crossing her face.

Her reverie was broken by the sight and sound of an old woman's, "OWW! Gosh darn it all to heck!" as she hit the ground, hugging a leg to her bosom, her floral print dress hiked up to her waist revealing old lady underwear. Her husband bolted out of their trailer, coming to her aid, as quickly as an arthritic geezer's able. She'd been bit by a venomous viper. Knowing the drill, he sucked poison out of the calf wound, spat it on the grass, muttering, "Jay-zuz! Fuck it t' hail!"

Maizey kicked at him with her free leg and said,"Watch your filthy language, Horace, or you'll burn for eternity!" as a gator crawled from bushes. Their tiny white poodle yipped at it, a brave attempt to protect his masters before the big lizard swallowed him whole.

"God DAMN!" yelled Horace.

"Watch your language, sinner man!"

"But Frenchie just got ET!"

"He's in heaven now! Focus on the living - focus on ME! Call Reverend Quimby! I've been bit by a minion of Satan, in case you forgot, you lummox! I'm filled with sin! Call Reverend Quimby! MOVE, MAN!"

"I should feed YOU to the damn gator, woman!" He was about to slap her face, when she kicked him in the nuts and shrieked, "FETCH REVEREND QUIMBY, YOU MANGY SWAMP RAT!"

Clutching his crotch, Horace limped into their blue and white trailer, hobbled to the phone and did as ordered. Then, sitting on the sofa, he held his groin with both hands, it hurt so bad he could hardly see straight, the agony coming in waves.

And he wept thinking about poor Frenchie. "Damn fuckin' gators! Damn 'em all t' HAIL!" he thought, not daring to voice the sentiment: even a wounded Maizey more than he could handle.

On the teeny lawn, Maizey lay fuming, waiting for the preacher. Pained like the Dickens by her poisoned leg, she screamed, "HORACE! GIT OUT HERE AN' HOLD MY HAND UNTIL THE REVEREND GITS HERE! COME ON! GIT OUT HERE! KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR MORE DEMON SERPENTS!"

Around the corner from the trailer park, Bob Brainard was home for the evening, in his bungalow's den, sitting under a lamp in his La-Z-Boy, puffing on a corncob pipe, reading "Mein Kampf" for the third time. At certain passages, he'd take the pipe out of his mouth, holding its heat, nod knowingly and squint into space as if viewing Valhalla. His bookshelves are stocked with a wealth of white supremacist volumes: works by or about Nazis, neo-Nazis, The Confederacy, The KKK, etc. A Civil War-era Florida flag hung from one wall. Enshrined behind glass doors, his pride and joy: a collection of Third Reich memorabilia, including a few loaded Lugers with SS insignias. Under an army cot in Bob's bedroom, a steamer trunk filled with child pornography and runs of ACG comic book titles: Unknown Worlds, Adventures Into the Unknown and Forbidden Worlds, more than enough Ogden Whitney panels for any one man. Above, framed photos of Hitler and Himmler; on his nightstand, framed photos of General Robert E Lee and Bob's parents, Mam and Pap Brainard. Every night before lights out, Bob threw an adamant Nazi salute to der Fürher, then flipped the bird at his folks.

When Reverend Quimby arrived, Maizey said, "Oh! Oh, Reverend Quimby! It's SO good to see you! Please, pray for me! Hold my hand! Join me in humble prayer to our Lord and Savior!" Tom Quimby, a 35-year-old square-jawed man, knelt next to her, knees on cool green, nauseated by her smell, her old lady clothes. He didn't like old women; teenage boys were his thing. Nevertheless, he knelt and held her old lady hand, looked to the sky and called upon the Good Lord to bestow His blessing upon His poor little lamb, Maizey Martin.

Maizey fluttered her eyes, conjuring up the come-hither stare she'd used to trap and sap Horace lo those many decades ago, and said, "Oh, Reverend Tom, how you soothe my troubled soul..."

A tight fist to his taut mouth, Quimby fought back his gorge.

Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr and Mrs Raboy, welcome to Brainardville: population (now) 614.

The next morning Helen was making flapjacks while bacon sizzled when she stepped out for a little air. From the stoop she saw seven or eight cottonmouth hatchlings wriggling in seven or eight directions, eyes gleaming, ready to take on the world. Then she saw a full grown rattler essing across their patch of grass. "Holy moley!" she cried. "Davy! This place is just lousy with snakes!" In bed, still dreamy from lovemaking, Davy covered his head with a pillow, he didn't want to worry about anything. Last night they were up late, in bed. He'd heard much of her story.

"...I hated my father, we were always at loggerheads, for as long as I can recall. So when I was sixteen and could get a job, I just split, got a room at the Y, a job at a hat factory, on the assembly line, putting the bands in place. To hell with school. I hated school almost as much as I hated my dad. Show me a teacher  and I'll show you a loser. Eventually, I wised up, realized that factory work, any sort of job, was a road to nowhere. So I started to steal. I was good at it - a natural..." Lying on their sides, he held her close, his front to her back, his arm around her, an elbow on her stomach, a hand on a breast. He whispered in her ear, "I'll love you forever. You're safe now, baby." Helen practically radiated in the dark; she'd never been so happy.

The two did some research at the local library and found that their Airstream was snake proof, nothing would come crawling through the floors. That settled, they decided to venture out armed from here on in, prepared for attack: Helen with her six-shooters and Davy with his .45, holstered and ready. In town that afternoon to see about renting a storefront, they noticed that the local population was, by and large, packing, even kids had guns. On a corner, a ten-year-old girl in a plaid dress twirled a pistol on her index finger. She raised the gun overheard, stuck a finger in one ear, closed her eyes tight and fired a shot in the air. No one bustling by flinched: business as usual in downtown Brainardville, just a patriotic display of Second Amendment rights.

In Brainard Real Estate & Insurance, pale green linoleum underfoot, the Raboys met the local patriarch, Pap Brainard, again signing papers, paying cash, roots growing ever deeper into Brainardville. The wall behind Pap was decorated with framed portraits of Gen. Douglas MacArthur, Henry Ford, Thomas Jefferson, Charles Lindbergh, a blonde Jesus, Jefferson Davis and certificates attesting to his good standing in The Concerned Citizens Council and The Sons of the Confederacy, all yellowing, just about the same shade as the walls. On his desk, a family shot, maybe thirty years old: Mam, Pap and teenage Bob. A clunky black dial phone with a straight cord was within reach. Pap left an arm and an eye in Korea; a patch covered the empty socket; his right suit sleeve jacket safety-pinned up. If he didn't hate the Reds before going to Korea, he sure did after. Pap's face, twisted like taffy, was testament to the pain, the humiliation, the frustration. Most nights he lay awake, thrashing about, firecrackers exploding in his head as he cursed Truman for not just dropping some goddam A-bombs on the commies. Pap'd had excellent penmanship as a rightie. He'd never gotten the hang of using his left.

"Well, yes indeedy, Mrs Raboy, we do have a few of them slimy critters crawlin' about. But like anything else, you learn to live with it, you get a sixth-sense. Right here in town you won't find 'em. Your dress shop will be fine, little lady, just fine! You can take my word for that - and a Brainard's word is his bond! Yes, indeedy!" Davy hated his false good cheer, but Helen went for it, anxious to believe.

After clearing some junk out of the shop-to-be, the couple went to Brainard's Café, its old wood floor squeaking as they walked to a window table covered with a red and white checked cloth. At the counter, Sheriff Corley Brainard smoked a Pall Mall while poking at a plate of franks and beans, sipping an ice-tea. From the kitchen a bakelite radio played Buck Owens & His Buckaroos. Helen leaned forward and whispered to Davy, "There's something peculiar about this town..."

"Yeah, but I can't quite put my finger on it. You mean besides everyone having guns, right?"

"Yepper..."

Their waitress, a tall cool brunette, brought them menus. A name was sewn above her heart on the salmon-colored knee-length dress: Esmerelda.

That night, around 2:30, Helen got up to pee. From the bathroom window she noticed a glow in the distance, but had no idea that it was a night rally, a cross burning in a field, pickup trucks scattered about, a gathering of two strains of local white supremacists: an old guard of robed Klansmen and a younger generation of neo-Nazis in regalia. Although their passions overlapped, there was a schism between those who pledged their fealty to Christ and blamed America's problems first and foremost on blacks versus those who worshipped Norse gods and blamed America's problems first and foremost on the Jews. It was a generation gap, one that caused Mam Brainard untold woe, fretting about the soul of her pagan son. Rev. Tom was something of a stealth free-agent: an outsider - born and raised in Louisiana, as well as the only one with a college degree - he was ostensibly a man of the cloth, but surreptitiously he worshipped Greco gods, appreciating their allowance of frowned upon sexual practices. A Boy Scout troop leader, he was constantly tempted by a smorgasbord of tender flesh, able to resist, so far.

On a flatbed truck, The Brainardville Boys swaggered bluegrass, acoustic guitars and banjos sparkling like a country brook, a washtub bass thumping time, do-sa-dos called out with a high-pitched effeminate twang by a clapping Sheriff Corley. The swampbillies kicked up their heels. On the sidelines, ladies auxiliaries dished out blueberry pie and sarsaparilla for winded revelers, barbecued gator steaks and diamondback fillets for the famished. "Step right up, sugar! Plenty for everyone!" Whatever their ideological differences, tonight wasn't for fussin' an' fuedin', it was a time of tribal cheer and community spirit! Many here weren't official Klansmen or Nazi Party members, just sympathetic neighbors ripe for a good hoedown and some right tasty victuals, eager to unleash the squirming hyper-paranoia seething in their skulls, spiking their sodas with grain alcohol. "Grab yer partner, do sa do! Hold 'em tight, never let 'em go! Let 'em go now: one, two, three! Stomp on a rattler: A-B-C! Promenade, now! Circle left! Circle right!"

Volatile as a jar of nitro, especially when alcohol enhanced, the Scotch-Irish Johnny Reb psyche routinely races down Tragedy Highway: offense too easily taken, guns drawn, shots fired, a corpse tossed in the swamp for gator feed, a family on relief. Tonight though, folks were feeling an autumnal mellow. So nothing worse than a few fist fights worth of cracked ribs, blackened eyes, a busted nose.

The night's climax was a fifteen-foot cross set afire, blazing a furious orange against a silent ebony sky, the constellations blotted out.

The cross reduced to collapsing embers, families headed to trucks as the church ladies' choir sang a fare-thee-well, "Look away! Look away! Look away, Dixieland!"  

The next day, returning home with groceries, Davy and Helen passed Bob coming out of his office, looking haggard. It'd been a rare late-night out for the frail fellow. He was carrying a magazine-size bundle, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. Without a hello, he looked up at Davy and Helen, then quickly away, scooted past, his forehead too sweaty for today's cool November afternoon.

Helen said, "He seemed so friendly the other day. What's up?"

Davy hadn't noticed Bob, didn't hear Helen, his mind was on another planet in another galaxy, he was with the waitress from the café, Esmerelda. She was so sweet - that accent just slayed him - he couldn't stop thinking about her, her raven hair. And there was something about Helen that was beginning to bug him, something about getting mired in a dress shop in this crummy town. And back in a stinking trailer! That's not what he'd bargained for in Bridgeport. The hunger in Esmerelda's green eyes: she wanted out, too. Of this he could tell. After all, his vision is perfect: 20/20.

Metaphors: A Novel, Noir

posted: January 25, 2010

The next day, Davy recited his brand new poem for Anne:

Pretty clothes,
And Broadway shows,
And sweet kisses,
All in a row.
Do I know thee?
Yes! I know thee!
Sweet kisses,
All in a row!

Of course, she loved it. And of course she rewarded him with sweet kisses all in a row, sending him on his way, at noon. Down the steps, he was swept into the Upper East Side tide, unaware of undertows. Anne remained home to ready their Spain and Denmark foray.

Whistling absentmindedly, wandering for a half-hour or so, hands a-pocket his Harrington, Davy came to a small coffee shop. At the counter he ordered a coffee. Three seats away, a blonde, about forty, nursed a coffee: black, like Davy's.

"Hi!" she said, looking over, then away, shrinking, just a bit, into her pea coat.

"Hi!"

Staring at her coffee as if it were a crystal ball, she said, "Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothing. Just drinking a coffee."

"Yeah. Me too." She smiled at him, then focused on her cup. He liked her smile, the way her nose crinkled. She looked up again and, staring ahead into the mirror, said, "Wanna share a booth? And a slice of apple pie?"

Meeting her reflected gaze, Davy said, "Okay." He liked her optimistic eyes, they were like freshly-minted pennies, or the dots on a pair of exclamation points. Davy took pride in his judge-of-character ability, and this woman was right on beam, a good egg. He could tell.

By the plate glass window, their two coffees refilled, the couple a shared an apple pie a la mode. Davy glanced up to see Mona walk by. He waved, but she didn't see him.

"Do you know her?"

"Yeah."

"Cute."

"Yeah."

"She didn't notice you."

Davy flipped through the pages of their table's mini-jukebox until he came to "Over, Under, Sideways, Down," dropped some coins into the slot and punched its code. Stillness was ripped by the throbbing beat, a searing mid-Eastern style riff, a snotty vocal.

"I like The Yardbirds, too," she said, looking at the formica. "They were pretty wild!"

"Yeah."

She asked if she could pick the next song and without waiting for his permission, reached over and selected The Ronettes', "Be My Baby," Hal Blaine leading the charge for three Spanish Harlem roses.

Holding her cup in both hands, leaning forward a little, she said, "My name's Helen, Helen Foont. What's yours?" Her stare was intense yet gauzy.

"Davy Raboy."

"Let's order hamburgers!"

"Oh... oh no. I'm a vegetarian, almost a vegan, really..."

"Oh, stop it! Garcon! We'd like two of your very finest hamburgers! And the hugest platter of French fries... And two Cokes! Merci, beaucoup!" Davy insisted his hamburger be very well-done, hopefully exterminating the filth crawling and swimming about some doomed creature's decomposing remains.

When the food arrived, Davy added a mound of catsup, mustard and relish to his hamburger and ate it with a knife and fork. Helen rained salt on the fries, squeezed a dab of mustard on her burger.

"See? Not so bad!"

"Mmm." She was beautiful in a funny way, very different from Anne: shorter, a little heavier, curvy, her eyes a devilishly dark shade of blue, almost violet. He wanted to see her naked, he wanted to sink his teeth into a shoulder.

As they were exiting, Davy sensed some odd sort of movement as Helen passed a table of seniors arguing the pros and cons of Obama, octogenarian spittle flying.   

On the sidewalk, she yanked his elbow, "C'mon!" To his amazement, she'd swiped an old lady's purse. Grabbing his hand, Helen led the sprint, dashing, breathless, shoving people aside if they were too slow, up two blocks, down a flight of stairs to a train on the verge of closing its doors.

"C'mon! C'mon!" In an instant they were onboard and barreling to Grand Central Station. Manhattan above, they had a car to themselves.

"When we get to Grand Central, I'm gonna go home from there, to Bridgeport. Wanna come along, see my place?"

"Okay."

She rummaged the purse, finding nearly a hundred bucks in its wallet. At Grand Central she tossed the purse, with wallet and all its credit cards and ID, in a mailbox. "She'll get her important stuff," Helen smiled. "And we got us some bread!"

Helen's rented room, bathroom down the hall, was on the second floor of a two story house on the outskirts of Bridgeport, the solitary home for a few blocks, rubble and tall grass and debris fanning out from three sides. Across the street, an out-of-business auto repair shop, weeds cracking the tarmac. Helen's building was covered in faux-brick tarpaper. Her room was the only one occupied; the other doors padlocked.

Davy stared out a grimy window onto November trees and blocks of empty lots and crummy houses and sidewalks that looked as if they'd suffered a mild earthquake. In the distant haze, corporate buildings, alien gods designed to intimidate the local populace.

Davy knew he wasn't going to make it home tonight, or any other night. Anne, if she ever caught up to him, would kill him - literally - for this. But he liked Helen, liked her a lot. In fact, all his love and adoration for Anne had skipped over, in a heartbeat, to Helen, as if he'd withdrawn all his dough, every last cent, from one bank and deposited it in another. Was this unbalanced? He pondered, then showed that ponder the door, closed his eyes, Helen's cute little nose swimming before his mind's eye. It was a round nose, such a cute round nose. And her overbite? It drove him crazy... He was the mongoose to this blonde's cobra.

The small room was spare and threadbare, furnished with a worn easy chair, a bed and an AM clock radio atop a dresser. Overhead, a bare 60 watt bulb. Helen sat in the center of the bed, flats kicked off, feet tucked under her. Davy walked over and sat on a corner of the bed.

"I won't bite. Come a little closer." Davy moved only a little closer.

"Whatsa matter? Doncha like girls?"

"W-well, yes. I like 'em j-just fine..."

"Then kiss me ya big dumb dope!" As their lips met, a church bell struck the six o'clock hour.

Morning was gray in that especially gray neighborhood of gray Bridgeport, a gentle rain falling well into evening. Davy and Helen rose late, around 1:00. He loved the way she looked first thing in the day, eyes a little puffy. Davy cleaned up and shaved, twice, in the hallway bathroom. After breakfast at her favorite greasy spoon, they went for a walk, a long walk through the slums, no umbrella. She hugged his arm and said, "Gee, I really like you, Davy. I've been waiting for you for, like, forever!"

Back in the room, Helen went to the closet and pulled a big suitcase down from the top shelf. She said, "Wanna see something that'll knock your socks off?"

"Sure."

She sat the suitcase on the brown rug, squatted before it, flipped the latches and lifted the lid to reveal the contents: it was packed tight with bundled fifties.

"Holy fucking shit! Where'd that come from?!"

"I stole it! It took years of dedicated work, but I done it! Not too shabby for a high school dropout, huh?"

"I'll say!"

"My favorite philosopher is Oscar Wilde. Do you know what he said?"

"He said a lot of things..."

"But the most important one? Do ya know that?"

"Let's hear it."

"If it ain't nailed down, it's mine. And if I can pry it loose, it ain't nailed down."

Davy thought, "Ain't?"

Standing, Helen said, "I'm a thief," emphasizing the point by giving herself a sharp slap on her fanny.

Davy pulled her to him, bent her across his knees, lifted her skirt and gave her a few solid whacks. She loved it; they were a match made in heaven.

That night, in the wee hours, Davy woke and stared at the ceiling for about an hour and thought. He thought about Anne, about something she'd once told him, about how any jerk could pull themselves up by their bootstraps, happens every day. "But, Davy, the real trick is to be born with a silver spoon in one's mouth!" That'd made a certain opiated sense. But now, after meeting Helen and seeing how she'd come from nothing, a Bridgeport backstreet girl, he had to admire her spunk. Maybe it was because his senses were running on a keener plane due to a mild opium withdrawal - he'd been smoking dope with Anne long enough to develop a slight dependence - but he saw life clearly now, as if for the first time, especially as he tumbled the murders over in his mind.

Of the four crimes, right off the bat: he hadn't decapitated John, he'd had nothing whatsoever to do with the slaughter. That was entirely Anne, acting out of the blue. So, scratch that one.

Technically, he may've aided Anne with Veronica's death, but he wasn't the one who'd throttled the girl, he wasn't even upstairs at any time. For all he knew, Anne hadn't even killed the girl. Maybe she'd simply left her there trussed and gagged, another party coming along and strangling Veronica? Who knows? Regardless, the number diminishes precipitously from four to two, a 50% cut.

The detective's death: was that actually murder? Fisher had chosen to take those backward giant steps. Granted, he was under duress. But ultimately, wasn't this really a suicide, wasn't he responsible for his actions? Or was it a game of Simon Says gone horribly, dreadfully, awry? Either way, I'm off the hook. Besides, that bastard was begging for it.

Now down to a single case, Davy scoured his conscience searching for an honest answer, the unvarnished truth. At length he seemed to recall aiming above the golfer's head, or at his leg - something just to scare or injure the poor fellow, not kill him. But he'd been shaking like a leaf, what with Anne breathing down his neck, egging him on, calling him a girl. This wasn't murder, it was accidental homicide. Or just an accident, like dropping a glass jar of honey. A mess, for sure, but it could happen to anyone; it doesn't make one a criminal, just a butterfingers. We all goof up, for Christ sake.

Absolved, but just to be on the safe side, Davy said an Our Father, a Hail Mary and an Act of Contrition, adding an improvised prayer: Dear God, if You really do exist, please forgive me and have mercy on me, Your humble servant, Davy Raboy. PS: I realize this isn't the official way to confess, but since I've done nothing wrong, I have nothing to confess. This is more of an extra-credit sort of thing. I'm sure that You, in Your infinite wisdom, understand. Amen.

He thought about Anne some more, coming to view her as evil, as a bad influence on him, exactly the sort of woman Mother had always warned him against. Not that it's Anne's fault, per se. She's the product of a broken family. And a sick society - all those influences that permeate our consciousness from toddlerhood: TV, movies, comic books, the news, etc. It was all, sort of, out of her hands. I'm better off without her, yes, but I wish her well, I really do. Anyhow, Helen's the gal for me, and that's that, end of discussion.

Feeling much better, Davy turned on his side, hugged Helen close, and shut his eyes as "The Blue Danube Waltz" rolled around his brain until he fell into a sleep of the dead, profound dreams dancing.

The next morning, after shaving, Davy got down on one knee in that grim room and proposed to Helen. She accepted. The lovebirds bought rings at a pawn shop, filed papers and, by the end of the week, tied the knot before a justice of the peace in Bridgeport City Hall.

A few days later, standing up, using Helen's dresser as a table, Davy wrote a letter to Anne, on a legal pad, with a Papermate, the kind with twin black hearts on the clip. It read:

Dearest, darlingest Anne,

I'm sure you've been anxious regarding my sudden and unexplained disappearance. Have no fear, sweetheart, I'm alive and well. Please dear, allow me a moment of your time to explain.

I met someone. And we've married.

I wish you the very best on your journey ahead. Of course, I will always cherish our precious weeks together.

Your pal, Davy

PS: Please, as a token of my eternal esteem for you, keep my XK120 and all my other stuff.

Feeling that'd mollify her to a large extent, he neatly folded the page in three, put it in an envelope, addressed it to the East Side manor, while blotting out a teeny-tiny voice, way in the distance, on that far horizon, warning otherwise.

Davy and Helen stole a car and headed south for the winter, for sunny F-L-A. Once there, they'd plot their next moves. Along the way, they stopped at a JC Penney on the main street of a small North Carolina town to get a new wardrobe for Davy.

"Don't you look sharp in that plaid shirt and chino combo, Mister Love of My Life!" Helen gurgled in the parking lot, fussing with his collar, removing a stray thread, golden sunlight blessing them.

"It's gonna be so much fun to see The Everglades! Boy-o, Raboy-o, I've always wanted to do that!" She was so happy she could just burst.

Him, too.

Metaphors: A Novel, Noir

posted: January 21, 2010

My latest for Patrick JB Flynn at Rethinking Schools Magazine.

Recent Articles

Topics

Archive

Musical Instruments (12)

Editorial Work (28)

Fun & Far-Out (24)

CD Covers (3)

Poster Designs (11)

Imaginary Magazines (7)