On the final evening of their honeymoon, they sat side by side on the beach and watched as the darkening ocean consumed the sun.
“Everything has a purpose,” she said, resting her head against her new husband’s shoulder.
“Yes,” he whispered. He placed his hand on the tight mound below her breasts.
His son.
“So, Jones,” said the boss as he seated himself behind his desk. “What do you do for fun when you’re alone?”
“Well, sir, I enjoy fishing…”
“No Jones, I mean when you’re alone.”
“Um… well, I sometimes go down into my basement…”
“Yes,” the boss said eagerly.
“…and work on my train set. It’s a 1:160 scale…”
“Jones?” the boss interrupted.
“Yes, sir?”
The boss leaned across the desk, close enough so Jones could see the pores in the man’s nose. They were deep and dark.
“What I want to know,” he wiped his brow, “is what you do for fun when you’re really alone. I mean, completely and utterly alone. Can you share that with me, Jones?”
“Well sir,” Jones blushed, “it’s rather personal. That’s why I do it when I’m alone.”
The boss sat back in his chair, clasped his hands across the expanse of his belly, and twiddled his thumbs. He smiled like a man satisfied that he was about to receive precisely what he wanted.
“I, um…” Jones swallowed. “I like to, um… dress up in my wife’s clothes, sir.”
A grin spread across the boss’s face, lifting his jowls and creasing his eyes. It wasn’t a malicious smile, nor was it meant to mock. It was merely a smile.
Jones relaxed a little.
“Jones, I have something for you.”
“You do?”
The boss reached under his desk and Jones expected him to come out with a gift bag, perhaps with a nice pair of heels or a frilly dress. Instead, a small device rested in the palm of the boss’s hand that looked like a tiny silver doughnut.
Jones leaned forward to have a closer look. “What’s this, sir?”
“It’s a listening device.”
“And what would you like me to do with it?”
“I would like you to break into Kramer’s house and plant it in his bedroom.”
Jones studied the boss’s face. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“Why should I do that, sir?”
“Well you see, Jones,” the boss placed the item on the desk and sat back again, “this is the very listening device we retrieved from your house this morning. I need it put into the next employee’s house to help us determine what he is doing when he is alone. The next one on the list, alphabetically is Kramer.”
“But… why?”
The boss leaned his elbows on his desk and regarded Jones seriously. “We’ve heard rumours, Jones.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t have you telling anyone this. Can I trust you, Jones?”
“Of course, sir.”
“All right. We have reports that say someone in the organization,” he whispered, “has been masturbating.”
Jones’s bottom jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”
The boss shook his head, as grim as night.
“I don’t need to tell you what that means for our company, do I Jones?”
“Of course not, sir!
“Harry Palmer Sterile Products would never be seen the same again!”
“I told you not to put it off.”
“I know.”
“And now look where you are.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You could have arrived home on time…”
“I know.”
“And safe…”
“I know Dad!”
“But here you are with me in the hospital.”
“Hmph.”
…
“Wait, I know my tire flew off on the highway and I crashed because I didn’t take it to the mechanic on time, but why are you here again Dad?”
“I broke my pelvis.”
“Your pelvis? How?”
…
“Dad?”
“You remember that step your mother asked me to fix three weeks ago?”
Let me tell you a secret. It’s a naughty secret, a nasty secret. It will chill you to your bones.
Let me whisper it softly in your ear. Come on, you can’t resist. Can you?
Now remember, this is an important secret. If you tell, it will change the world as we know it. Yes. It’s that important.
And trust me, only you will know.
I have faith in you, my friend, to keep this secret to yourself, forever more.
Are you ready?
Are you sure?
…
…
…
The tooth fairy is Santa Claus in drag.
I always think of you, when I stand among the daffodils. The way their heavy heads bob on the breeze reminds me of when you agreed with me that one time. Do you remember?
I think we were driving to Niagara Falls. It was the first really warm day and the humidity was rising out of the ground from the rainfall we’d had earlier that morning. I remember that little detail, because, as I got into the car I stepped in a puddle and soaked my left sock… or was it the right one? No matter.
Anyway, we were on the QEW, approaching Burlington and the sun was coming up. It shone in the rearview mirror and just about blinded me and I said, “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”
That was when you nodded, and I thought of the daffodils.
And then we hit the patch of oil on the bridge. It was a long drop.
I miss you, mostly because it ended so perfectly.
I spend all my time stepping over boxes. I’m always on the move. Packing and packing some more, stepping over boxes to get to other boxes – organizing what goes in here and which part goes in there.
The ones with the heads leak a lot.
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Sitting by the fire, you work your fingers to the bone, but your mind is ages away. In your head you hear music; it sounds so foreign as to make you believe you could be insane. But it doesn’t stop. In your mind you compose symphonies in crashes and whines like the screams of frightened livestock. You want to tell me of these auditory ‘visions’ but there is no way to explain them. Instead you hum as you work, wishing there was at least some way to record what you compose.
Perhaps in another lifetime…
Ah, your screams are music to my ears. That is to say I love to frighten you outta your erps. What does that mean, exactly, you ask?
Well, some may say I’m trying to scare the fear out of you. “E”xposure and “R”esponse “P”revention, like. Meaning the more I expose you to having your wits jump right outta your skull, the more you’ll come to expect it and therefore, not be so fearful.
On the other hand, when my dad used to say it to me, many years ago, I don’t know if that sort of therapy was in practice. Maybe he just thought it sounded funny.
So I’ll keep doin’ it. Scarin’ you outta your erps. Just for laughs.
What’s a momma for, after all?
I am walking along a deserted street. It is daytime and inside the houses, dogs whine, expectant; the driveways empty of cars that instead are offhandedly whiling away dollars in dirty parking lots. The autumn wind blows beneath an overcast sky and the remaining leaves rustle like bones turning to dust in drafty mausoleums. I think that you are following me.
Footsteps plod along behind me to the rhythm of my own and your icy stare crawls up my spine like an eight-legged ghoul. I increase my speed, unwilling to look over my shoulder. To envision you there is horror enough: to see you there will turn me to mortar.
In my dreams I am unable to run fast enough and I awake with a film of cold sweat coating my skin. I turn and see the silhouette of your shoulder under the covers in the bed beside me, framed by moonlight and I awake yet again, relieved to find I am alone.
But now I am sure. I feel static in the air as your hand reaches out. Your dry palm scratches against the fabric on the shoulder of my coat. I crumble, screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs. I awake.
I glance at the dog. He whines, expectant.
Sarcasm drips so easily from your palate to your tongue that it’s hard to keep up with you. But I try.
“So you’re saying you don’t want broccoli for dinner tonight?”
“Oh yes, I love broccoli. I love to look at it and smell it and do all kinds of naughty things with it.”
I slow my speech. “So, you’re saying, you don’t want broccoli, for dinner tonight?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
“I’ll do beans.”
“NO! NO! I don’t want beans, I want broccoli, you stupid bitch!”
I long for you to grow out of the terrible twos.
Linda G. Hill 