As Long as I Live
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

(This short story has been published in The Literary Hatchet.)

The precious, leaden moments slipped away. Time was running out. He had five more days. He could see a clock on the wall but tried not to look—he could go mad looking at the clock! And though he was alone, he had nothing resembling privacy; someone was watching him all the time. They thought he might try a do-it-yourself job, which could make you laugh if you thought about it long enough.

They brought him magazines, but he didn’t open them. They offered him tranquilizers (handed through the bars one at a time, of course) to calm his nerves, but he declined them. They brought him cigarettes, candy and chewing gum, but they lay untouched. They brought him writing paper to write any farewell letters, but he had none to write. They offered to bring in a TV to brighten his final hours, but a TV would only remind him of the things he was trying to forget, and he declined it. When asked what he wanted for his final meal, he said he wanted only the Last Rites administered by the prison chaplain.

He had had many confidential conversations with the prison chaplain and had been absolved of his sins. He signed the papers to have his body donated to medical research. He said all the goodbyes he needed to say. Nothing was left undone.

The guard, the one named Finch, told him the best thing he could do for himself in preparation for the Big Day was to clear his mind—let go of guilt, remorse, painful memories—anything that was gnawing away at his mind. It was the best advice he had received in prison—or in life, for that matter.

Five more days; nothing to do but wait. It was all downhill now. He was ready to go, ready for his sentence to be carried out. (I’m ready for my execution, Mr. DeMille!) His whole life, from the very beginning, had been leading up to this moment.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror and thought how soon he would be only a shadow, a shade, a memory to anybody who might have any reason at all to remember him. When he was gone, it would be as if he never existed; he would leave nothing behind.

He lay on his bunk and looked at the ceiling. He turned on his side and looked at the wall. He thought about his body that would soon be a nameless, faceless laboratory specimen. (If there’s anything you can use that might help somebody else, welcome to it!) He thought about the oxygen that kept him alive, no matter how unworthy, and the heart that miraculously pumped blood to every part of his body.

On Wednesday morning, two days before the Big Day, the guards bound his hands and feet and ushered him into a small room in a part of the prison he had never seen before. They set him down at a table with his back to the wall and left.

Four other men were in the room; they were all on the other side of the table, facing him. He knew that one was the prison warden but he didn’t know who the others were. He relaxed in the chair and took a deep breath. He had nothing more to fear.

“How are you holding up?” the warden asked.

“I’m all right.”

“Do you need anything? Anything we can do for you?”

“Nothing.”

“I see from your records that you have no family. You’re forty-two years old, married twice but divorced both times, no children.”

“That’s right. Family all dead. A couple of ex-wives who would love to pull the switch.”

“Your health is good. No diseases, no addictions.”

“You know what they say: health is wealth.”

“Your psych report looks good.”

“That’s because I’m so stupid.”

“That’s not what it says here. Your intelligence is far above average.”

“I’m a good faker.”

“You took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Many wrong turns.”

The warden set aside the papers, folded his hands and cleared his throat. “I’m going to make you a proposition,” he said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Do you believe the earth has been visited by alien beings?”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it’s not a joke. Do I need to repeat the question?”

“No, I got it. It’s just not the kind of question I expected to be asked. Do I believe the earth has been visited by alien beings? I’ve never really thought about it, but I suppose I would have to say yes, I believe the earth has been visited by alien beings.”

“Would you believe me if I told you the United States government has been in contact with an alien race, an alien intelligence, for thirty years or more?”

“Sure, I’d believe it. Why not?”

“They want a small number of men from earth.”

“Who does?”

“The alien race.”

“What do they want them for?”

“That’s the thing. We can only speculate.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we don’t know.”

“They’re from another planet?”

“Let’s just say they exist in another world.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re trying to say to me.”

“As a model prisoner, you qualify for a special program.”

“Yeah? What program is that?”

“You can go and live among this alien race for the rest of your life, if you so choose.”

“What?”

“It’s entirely your choice. You get to choose. Only you, nobody else. If you choose not to participate, your sentence will be carried out on Friday night.”

“I’m not sure I’m hearing this right. I can do what?”

“Your death sentence will be commuted if you choose to go live in another world with an alien race.”

“I must be dreaming. I’ll wake up any minute.”

“It’s no dream.”

“This is for real?”

“Absolutely for real!”

“This is not just another psychological test where you gauge my reaction?”

“It’s not a test.”

“All right. When do I go?”

“Day after tomorrow. Friday.”

“And what will those aliens do to me? Will they cut me up in little pieces? Will they eat me for dinner? Will they make me a slave?”

“They promise humane treatment. That’s all I know.”

“Well, that sounds good enough for me. Where do I sign?”

“You don’t need time to think about it?”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“Once you’ve decided, you can’t change your mind.”

“I don’t want to change my mind. I’ll go. Anything is better than the forty thousand volts.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They removed him to an isolation cell so he couldn’t talk to anybody. No guards, no chaplain, no fellow prisoners, nothing. Complete isolation. Food and drink would be given to him through a little compartment in the door, without any human contact.

He still believed they might be playing a trick on him, but as the hours went by he began to have a different view of midnight Friday night. Instead of darkness and oblivion, he now saw something different, a tiny light at the end of a long tunnel. He wasn’t going to be fooled, though. The world had a way of dashing his brains out at every turn.

In his different cell, he could no longer see the clock, but he knew from the light coming in at the window that it was Wednesday night. Then it was Thursday morning. His breakfast was handed in at the little opening in the door and then, hours later, lunch.

Thursday afternoon and evening seemed interminable. He lay on the bunk, paced the floor, counted the tiles in the floor, counted his breaths. When the evening meal was delivered, he called through the opening that he needed to speak to the warden, but there was no response. He wanted some questions answered before he was going to climb on any old spaceship to the stars.

Finally it was Friday morning, his last day in prison, his last day on earth. He felt brave and almost happy and then his insides quaked with terror. He had changed his mind. He didn’t want to go. What had he signed on for? He wasn’t going to be the plaything of hideous aliens on a faraway planet. There was no way of knowing what kind of tortures they might subject him to. Maybe he wouldn’t even be able to breathe when he got there. He wanted to put a stop to this thing. He wanted to die as scheduled at midnight and let that be the end of it.

He wasn’t able to touch his breakfast, but when lunch was delivered he felt calm again, his hands had stopped shaking, his heart was no longer hammering in his chest and his breaths didn’t choke him. He ate everything on his lunch tray and then he took a restful nap.

He was awakened by the opening of the door to his cell. It was the warden, the doctor and the chaplain. The warden had some “release forms” for him to sign; he signed them without even looking at them. The doctor gave him shots in both arms, checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart. When he was finished, he nodded to the warden to indicate that everything was all right. The chaplain then stepped forward to administer the Last Rites. He spoke a few lines of Latin, made a few sweeping gestures with his hands, and then he was finished.

“Just a few more hours now and you’ll be on your way,” the warden said, smiling encouragingly and touching him on the upper arm. “You have my very best wishes for a safe journey.”

As soon as the warden and the others left, he received his dinner tray. He ate all the food and drank the tea. When he was finished, he lay down on his bunk with his hands behind his head to wait for what was going to happen next.

The next time the door opened, he jumped up expectantly. “Is it time?” he asked. It was two men he had never seen before. They escorted him to the shower room, told him to strip down, wash thoroughly with a special soap they gave him, take care of any personal needs he might have, and when he was finished to dress in a heavy nylon jumpsuit that encompassed his body like a cocoon.

He was then put in a “holding cell.” On his way to the cell, he caught a glimpse of a clock; it was ten minutes after eleven. He had less than an hour.

A short time later, two mysterious “attendants,” faces covered, came to the holding cell and, without speaking a word, escorted him up three flights to the roof of  the prison.

On the prison roof was a wooden structure about twenty feet high, not unlike a gallows. He was taken to the top of the structure and placed on his back on a low platform. A helmet was placed on his head and his arms and legs strapped down. Then, still without speaking, the attendants placed a cover over his body, like the lid of a coffin, blocking out the starry sky. Then the attendants were gone, having completed their job.

He lay still and waited. He hated the feeling of being helplessly tied down and unable to move. His heart pounded and he was sweating. Was he going to suffocate? How long would he have to wait before something happened?

Ten minutes passed and then fifteen and then thirty. He wanted to call for the attendants to come and let him out, but he was sure nobody would hear him. He was scared and ready to call the whole deal off. He didn’t want to go to…wherever it was. He’d rather face the electric chair and have it over and done with. Clean and quick.

It started with a gentle vibration like the rocking of a rowboat, followed by bright lights all around that he could see even with the helmet over his head and the cover over his body. The vibrating intensified, becoming a shaking that he felt in his gut the way he felt a carnival ride when he was ten years old. A low rumbling sound like a car with a hole in its muffler became louder and louder, a gradually rising crescendo, until it was so loud he wanted to cover his ears if only he could lift his arms.

He felt himself being lifted up then—up, up, up into the sky—gently at first and then faster. His fear was replaced by a sense of well-being, a feeling of joy that he hadn’t felt in a long time and maybe never. It was the last thing he knew before he lost consciousness.

He was in the land of oblivion for what might have been a minute, a day, a month, a lifetime, or a thousand years. When he regained himself, he was lying in a brightly lighted white room. He was aware at once of another person standing nearby.

“Where am I?” he asked. “Am I on a Mars?”

“Not Mars,” a male voice said. “You wouldn’t be able to breathe on Mars.”

“Where am I, then?”

“The land where the bong tree grows.”

“How did I get here? Am I dead?”

“We’ll keep you here for a couple of days to make sure you’re not having any serious side effects.”

“Side effects from what?”

“Are you hungry? I can get you some food.”

He lifted his head to see the person he was speaking to. “Are you a doctor?” he asked.

“Enough of a doctor for you.”

After two days of “medical evaluation,” he was taken to his own house, a low structure built into the side of a hill. Two young attendants brought him food, clothes to wear, and anything else he might need. When he tried to speak to the attendants, they looked away and wouldn’t answer.

The house contained every comfort. There were thousands of books (in English and other languages) arranged neatly in bookcases, American magazines dating from the 1940s and ‘50s, a record player with a collection of records, a bed, chairs, couch, table, piano, prints on the walls. Much better than his prison cell. Nothing to complain about.

After five days of being left alone, the first “tissue sample” was taken from his arm by a silent attendant.

“What is this for?” he asked.

“I don’t understand your language,” the attendant said.

The next day he was given pills with his food.

“What are the pills for?” he asked.

“To keep you healthy,” was the reply.

It took him a while to figure out the attendants weren’t human. They were human-like machines.

Left on his own as he was, he began taking long walks. There were trees, hills, flowers (profuse and enormous), birds, and small scurrying animals in the underbrush, much like on earth. Unlike earth, though, the sky was more violet than blue. Trees grew to the astonishing height of hundreds of feet. Water in streams sparkled like liquid diamonds, as if the water contained some quality that water on earth was lacking.

And in all his long walks, he never met another human. Had he ever been any place on earth where dozens or hundreds of people weren’t clamoring to be seen and heard? He was convinced at times that he was dead and what he was experiencing was the afterlife.

Far off in the distance from his house, he could see a high wall or fortress, but it was too far away to tell what it was. In the opposite direction, equally far off, was a similar fortress. If he watched long enough, he saw strange silver streaks in the sky going to—or away from—the fortresses. If he looked at the silver streaks long enough, they disappeared.

The next time an attendant came to take a tissue sample from his body, he asked what the fortresses were.

“It’s the Walled Cities where they live,” the attendant said.

“Where who lives?”

“The Sylphs.”

“Who are they?”

“They created all this.”

“All what?”

“I’m afraid I’ve said too much.”

Attendants came regularly and collected tissue samples, to which he readily submitted. Every day they brought pills with his food, which he took obediently; he didn’t want to consider the consequences of not taking the pills. He had the idea that if he rebelled against anything that was asked of him, he might be sent back to prison and the electric chair.

In a dream, on a hill not far from his house, he met an old man dressed in shabby evening attire. The old man offered him a smoke, which he declined.

“Sit down and rest for a while,” the old man said. They both sat on a rock projecting out of the hillside.

“None of this is real, is it?” he asked the old man.

“As real as you are,” the old man said.

“I think I might be dead.”

“A man can think too much, you know.”

“What are those huge walls?” he asked. “Over there and over there?”

The old man laughed and took a draw on his pipe. “It’s where they live,” he said.

“The Sylphs?”

“Yes, you’ve heard about them?”

“Yes. Who are they, anyway?”

“They created all this. They’re the reason you’re here.”

“Why do I never see them?”

“They don’t want you to see them. All they want from you is your DNA.”

“My what?”

“They take tissue samples from you, don’t they?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“They’re making clones.”

“Clones?”

“Yes, they’re very capable. They can do anything, except fight their own wars.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Western Sylphs are at war with the Eastern Sylphs. It’s a war that never ends. The Sylphs are unable to fight on their own, so they use clones. The tissue samples they take from you are used in making the clones to fight the wars. When they’re killed in battle, it’s just so much trash.”

“What’s wrong with the Sylphs? Why can’t they fight their own wars?”

“You haven’t seen them. As smart as they are, they’re very weak. They’re all white and only about four feet tall. They have huge heads and faces like hideous frogs.”

“If I go to the Walled City, will I see them?”

“They’d never let you in.”

“But you’ve seen them?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

And then, after a significant silence, he asked the old man the question that most troubled him: “What is this place?”

The old man looked at him, smiled, and shook his head. “It’s probably not what you think.”

“A planet far from earth?”

“That’s what people think, but that’s not what it is.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s what you call a parallel world. It exists right alongside earth, but, of course, people on earth are not aware of it, because they’re not supposed to be. There are many parallel worlds. Probably thousands. Maybe millions.”

“I’ve never heard of a parallel world! Why me?”

“You are fulfilling your destiny, that’s all.”

He was going to ask the old man who he was and why he knew so much, but the strange call of a bird distracted him. He turned his head to look at the bird and when he turned back, the old man was gone.

Later, he thought of the dream as a “vision.” He didn’t know who the old man was and never saw him again but believed he was a manifestation of God.

The pills he took every day kept him from being older. After fifty years or a hundred years, he still looked the same as when he first arrived. Tissue samples continued to be taken on a regular basis. It was the only requirement made of him. The rest of the time he was left alone.

After two hundred years and more, in the natural order of things, he began to change. His body thickened; he became stooped. His skin lost its color and became white. His hair came out and soon it was as if he had never had any hair at all. His hands and feet became webbed; his nails lengthened and became talon-like. At first he was alarmed by these changes, but then he stopped bothering to look at himself in the mirror and stopped thinking about the way he looked. If he ever had any vanity or pride, it was gone.

His physical transformation complete, he began receiving telepathic communications. Go to the Walled City of the Western Sylphs, he was told.

The trip took two days; he moved slowly and had to make his way through swamps and undergrowth. Large birds constantly circled overhead to help him find the way. When he finally reached the Walled City, a gate opened for him as if by magic and he entered.

The Sylphs received him as one of their own and assimilated him into their millions. He was revered because he came from another realm and was hundreds of years old.

After he had lived among the Sylphs for a time and had absorbed their ways and customs, he forgot he had ever been anything other than a Sylph. He had no recollection of ever being a human man, of ever existing on earth. This too was part of his inescapable destiny.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

When He Saw They Were Dead
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

(This short story has been published in Grey Wolf Publishing Company’s Horror Anthology.)

His name was Edgar Delong and in 1921 he was fifteen years old. He had an accident in his sleep and they wouldn’t stop laughing at him. They called him “baby” and said he ought to be ashamed of himself. They kept it up all day. Finally, he went and got a shotgun they didn’t know he had and, at seven minutes after four in the afternoon, he shot both of them in the chest, his mother first and then his father. When he saw that they were dead, he went up the stairs in the old house to the attic. He found a rope, climbed up on a table and tied one end of the rope to a rafter and the other end around his own neck. After pulling on the rope to make sure it would hold at both ends, he stepped off the table into the void. As he strangled to death he said, “This is the thing I’ve always wanted.”

It was written up in all the newspapers. People loved talking about it, recounting and embellishing all the details. The house where it happened stood vacant for years and was said to be haunted. Weeds grew up in the yard. Small boys threw rocks at the windows. The front porch began to sag. People claimed to hear demonic laughing coming from the house, gunshots and screams.          

Finally, a man bought the house and fixed the sagging porch, the broken windows, the missing shingles and the peeling paint. He lived with his large family in the house for more than twenty years. Then there were other families after that to put their imprint on the character of the house. The day would come when the only people who remembered Edgar Delong and what he had done were the superannuated.  

Edgar Delong still existed, though, in the world the living cannot see. Every day in the house his mother and father laughed at him and every day he went and got the shotgun they didn’t know he had and, at seven minutes after four in the afternoon, shot both of them to death, first his mother and then his father. Every day he heard the startled cry from his mother right before he shot her and the strangled shout from his father. Every day he climbed the creaking old stairs to the attic, tied a rope around his neck and hanged himself. Every day he relived the whole thing, even though he was dead. Every day the same, the days unending.

More than eighty years after the death of Edgar Delong, a writer named Charles Delong rented the house for the summer. He was the grandson of Edgar Delong’s father’s brother and, so, a cousin of Edgar Delong. He had grown up hearing the stories and, when he began researching and writing a book about sensational murders, he knew he had to include a chapter in the book on the Delong double murder and suicide. He believed that by living in the house, if just for a few weeks, he would feel close to Edgar Delong and would understand him a way that no other living person could.

The house proved a wonderful inspiration to Charles Delong. While he didn’t believe in ghosts, he did believe that something of Edgar Delong remained behind in the house. Using newspaper accounts and photos of the day, along with family reminiscences and his own grandfather’s diary, he wrote an inspired and chilling account of the crime, to which he added a personal slant. “I am related by blood to the murderer,” he wrote, “and am writing about his crime in the house in which it occurred.”

He finished his book ahead of schedule and was sure it would be a success. He sent it off to his publisher and began working on his next book, a novel and a complete departure from crime. He still had a couple of weeks on his lease in the Delong house—which technically hadn’t been the Delong house for decades, although he still thought of it in those terms. He stocked up on groceries and planned to spend a quiet time alone.    

Except that he wasn’t alone. Edgar Delong, his murderous young cousin, was there in the house with him, watching him, standing behind him, sometimes touching him on the shoulder or the back of the head. Edgar Delong would make himself known to Charles Delong when he believed the time was right. 

The house had a soporific effect on Charles Delong. He took to taking naps on the couch in the afternoon, hearing only the ticking of the clock, the wind outside rustling the trees or the faraway barking of a dog. One afternoon during one of these naps he was made to see the thing that happened every day at seven minutes after four. He thought he was dreaming as he saw Edgar Delong emerge from the back of the house bearing a shotgun and walk with it toward his parents as they sat in the room they called the parlor. His mother drew back instinctively and gave a startled cry when Edgar shot her. His father began to stand up and emitted a strangled shout as the bullet entered his chest.

After he had killed them both, Edgar Delong turned to his cousin Charles Delong and said, “It’s always the same.”

Still believing he was dreaming, Charles Delong said, “I don’t understand.”

“Every day the same. They laugh at me and I keep killing them but I can’t make them stop.”

“None of this is real,” Charles Delong said. “You’re a figment. You don’t exit.”

“Maybe it’s a figment to you. To me it’s real and I can’t stop. I want to stop. I want you to help me to stop.”

“How can I do that?”

“Let me come into your body so I can have the means to leave this house.”

“No, I would never do that! It’s impossible!”

“I can make you see it every day. Live it every day. As I do.”

“No, it’s out of the question!”

“You wanted to know what it was like to be me.”

“You’re a murderer. I don’t want to be you.”

“We’re cousins. We’re the same blood.”

“No!”

“I’m going up to the attic now and hang myself, as I have thousands of times before. I want you to come along and watch.”

“No!”

“I think we’ve reached the point where there’s no longer a choice,” Edgar Delong said and raised the gun and shot his cousin Charles Delong squarely in the chest.

The body of Charles Delong wasn’t found for five days. When the police were called in to investigate and were unable to find a murder weapon or a motive, they deduced that the murderer was somebody that Charles Delong knew and had willingly admitted into the house.

And so it continued. Every day at seven minutes after four in the afternoon, Edgar Delong shot and killed first his mother and then his father, after which he climbed the stairs to the attic and hanged himself from a rafter. The only difference now was that he had his cousin Charles Delong there to experience the whole thing with him. Without end and ad infinitum.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

Freya Badgett
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

Her name was Mrs. Hoffenecker, first name Alma. She told people she was a widow, but the truth was she was a divorcee, which she didn’t like to admit. Her husband left her for another woman when she turned a bitter forty, but that’s another story. She got as much money as she could out of him in the divorce settlement and was able to live comfortably on her own. Luckily, there were no children.

At age sixty-two, she saw how shut off she was from the world. She wasn’t lonely or lacking, exactly, but the years were passing her by at an alarming rate and she saw herself dying in twenty or twenty-five years without ever having made a mark on another person’s life. There would be no one to mourn her or even to remember her after she was gone. She might enrich someone else’s life, and they hers, if given the chance.

She had always liked children or at least she thought she did. She was a college graduate and very well-read. She saw herself as a reading tutor to disturbed, underachieving high school students—nothing was more important than being able to read well—but the words disturbed and high school in the same sentence bothered her. People had changed so much since she was in school. She didn’t want to get herself into a situation where she felt threatened by hulking teenage boys.

Younger children seemed to be the thing. Over five years, but younger, say, than fifteen. She placed an ad in the local newspaper: Dependable widow with lovely home and plenty of love to give will babysit older children at agreed-upon hourly rate. Days or nights, weekdays or weekends. 

The first call she received was from a Mrs. Badgett. She had to go out of town on a business trip, Mrs. Badgett did, and had no one to leave her thirteen-year-old daughter with. The daughter’s name was Freya and she was really no trouble at all. Just a quiet, clean, orderly and well-mannered girl.

Mrs. Hoffenecker asked Mrs. Badgett to bring Freya around at five o’clock so they could all meet. If they all liked each other, Mrs. Hoffenecker saw no reason why they couldn’t make a go of it.

After ten minutes of strained, getting-to-know-you conversation, Mrs. Badgett laughed nervously and jangled her bracelets.

“I don’t really like leaving my daughter with strangers,” she said, “but I don’t have much choice. We’ve been her less than a month and we don’t know hardly nobody at all.”

“No family?” Mrs. Hoffenecker asked sympathetically.

“No, we don’t know nobody worth knowing.”

“You’re a business executive?”

“Yes, I travel frequently with my job.”

“That must be interesting.”

“Not so wonderful when you have children to take care of. You can’t take them with you and you can’t go off and leave them by themselves.”

“I understand.”

“What do you think, Freya?” Mrs. Badgett asked. “Do you want to stay with this nice lady for two days while I’m gone?”

Freya had been sitting on the couch the whole time, looking straight ahead, hugging her arms. At the sound of her mother’s voice, she raised her eyebrows, puffed out her lips and shrugged her shoulders.

“Good!” Mrs. Badgett said. “Then it’s settled! I’ll drop her off Friday afternoon after school.”

“I’m looking forward to it!” Mrs. Hoffenecker said, but what she was really feeling was nausea at the thought of a stranger, a surly teenager, living in her house for two days.

On Friday morning she cleaned the guest bedroom, even though it wasn’t dirty, and changed the towels in the guest bathroom, even though they hadn’t been used. She went to the store and bought food she wouldn’t ordinarily buy, such as frozen pizzas, chocolate ice cream and soda.

At the appointed time on Friday afternoon, Mrs. Badgett let Freya out in front of the house and drove off. Freya knocked timidly and Mrs. Hoffenecker opened the door with a bright smile. She couldn’t keep from noticing that Freya looked unhappy. She didn’t particularly like—and who would?—being dropped off at the house of a stranger for a weekend.

“Welcome to my home!” Mrs. Hoffenecker said.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Freya said expressionlessly.

Mrs. Hoffenecker took Freya upstairs and showed her the room where she would be staying. Freya threw her suitcase on the bed and went into the bathroom and relieved herself without even bothering to close the door.

“There’s clean towels in there for you if you want to wash up,” Mrs. Hoffenecker.

She waited until Freya was finished and then took her back downstairs.

“What would you like to eat?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Freya said.

“You don’t want any dinner?”

“Naw.”

“I think it’s customary to say no thank you.”

Freya looked closely at Mrs. Hoffenecker as though seeing her for the first time. “I don’t really have time to eat now anyway,” she said. “I have friends waiting. I’ll grab something later, when I get back.”

“What? You mean you’re going out?”

“You don’t think I’m going to sit around this dump for two days, do you?”

“I’m supposed to be in charge of you and I don’t think your mother would like it if…”

“My mother doesn’t give a shit what I do as long as I don’t end up in jail or on a slab in the morgue.”

“Are you wearing eyeliner? At your age?”

“I know my mother told you I’m thirteen, but she’s full of shit, as usual, which you’ll find out as you get to know her. I’m sixteen and I’m not a virgin, either.”

“I don’t think I care to hear about that!”

“She’s not supposed to leave me unattended. I’ve been in trouble before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You name it. Say, do you think you could lend me twenty dollars? Ordinarily I’d ask for fifty but on such short acquaintance I’ll make it twenty.”

“I’m not giving you any money.”

“Just add it to your babysitting fee when we tally up. My mother won’t even think to question it.”

“I’d feel better if I talked to your mother first about this.”

“Yeah, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it? She’s gone off for two days and nobody knows where she is. She does that on purpose, you know? She’s the world’s worst mother. She doesn’t want you calling her or anybody else. She’s gone off on a wild weekend with her latest boyfriend. She doesn’t want to be reached, believe me!”

“I don’t believe it. She’s on a business trip. Why would she lie to me about such a thing?”

“Because she’s a damn liar, that’s why! She never tells the truth. She doesn’t even know how!”

“She brought you into my home under false pretenses!”

“Whatever you say, lady! I don’t have time to stand here and gab all night. If you could just give me that twenty, I’ll be on my way. On second thought, could you make it thirty?”

“I’ll make it fifty if you promise not to come back.”

“What? I have to have some place to sleep tonight, don’t I?”

“That’s no concern of mine.”

“Just make it thirty and I’ll be back by about midnight.”

“If you were my daughter…”

“Say, do you have an extra door key you could let me use?”

“I’m not giving you the key to my house!”

“Suit yourself. I’ll have to ring the doorbell and wake you up. It might not be until two or three in the morning.”

“You said midnight!”

“Well, you can never be too sure about those things, can you?”

“Just where is it you’re going?”

“I don’t think it’s any concern of yours. I told you I’m meeting friends. We’re going to a party.”

“Your mother expects you to stay here.”

“You really are naïve, aren’t you?”

She gave Freya three ten-dollar bills and spent the evening watching banal TV fare. At bedtime she triple-locked the doors and turned off all the lights and went upstairs to her bedroom.

She took three sleeping tablets instead of the usual two and went to bed and slept soundly, except for disturbing dreams toward morning in which she thought enormous rabbits with knife-like teeth were trying to get into the house. God told her to get out of bed and stand against the wall in a certain place to protect herself from the rabbits, but she didn’t seem to be able to move her limbs.

At seven-thirty she woke to birds twittering outside her window. She arose with an anxious feeling, forgetting at first what it was she had to be anxious about, and then remembering Freya. She went down to the hallway to the guest bedroom and listened at the closed door. Hearing nothing, she quietly opened the door. Freya’s suitcase was still on the bed, but except for that nothing was any different. She took the suitcase downstairs and put it in the coat closet until someone came and picked it up.

At nine o’clock she was in the kitchen eating her breakfast when the front doorbell rang. She was going to ignore it, until it rang a second and then a third time. When she went and opened the door, there stood Freya.

“Jesus, lady!” Freya said. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you let me in last night? I rang and rang!”

Mrs. Hoffenecker was speechless as Freya barged into the house as if she belonged there.

“That’s a kind of child abuse, you know that? I could call the cops and have you arrested!”

“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” Mrs. Hoffenecker said lamely.

“I had to spend the night in your garage, sleeping on the cold concrete floor. I might have given myself TB or something.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t come back.”

“I told you I’d be back! What kind of a monster are you? My mother would just shit if she knew the way you had treated me!”

“I was hoping I’d seen the last of you.”

“I’m hungry! Could I have some breakfast?”

“You might try saying ‘please’.”

“Might I please have some breakfast?”

“If you promise to leave after you eat it.”

They went into the kitchen and Mrs. Hoffenecker cracked some eggs into a skillet. Freya sat down at the table. “I don’t eat bacon,” she said.

“Good, because I don’t have any.”

“I’ve invited some people over. I didn’t think you’d mind. They’re on their way out west and they need a place to stay tonight. They can sleep on the floor or anywhere. They won’t be a bit of trouble, I promise.”

“No, they won’t be any trouble because they’re not coming here.”

“What?”

“They’re not coming here and if they do, you won’t be here.”

“What are you saying?”

“After you’ve had breakfast, you’re clearing out.”

“You can’t do that! You agreed with my mother to keep me here until ten o’clock Sunday night.”

“That was before I knew what an inconsiderate pig you are. I thought I was getting an innocent thirteen-year-old girl and what I got was you!”

“You can’t talk to me that way! You can’t call me names like pig.”

She set a plate of eggs and toast on the table and said, “You have about thirty minutes to eat your breakfast and then you’re leaving.”

“And where am I supposed to stay tonight?”

“You might try the park.”

“I’m not leaving. You can’t make me leave.”

“I have a gun in my desk drawer. It’s always loaded. While I probably won’t kill you, I will shatter your ankle bone. I’m sure that’s bad enough. And, just so you know, I’m a terrible aim. I might try for your ankle bone and hit something more vital.”

“You’d shoot me?”

“Do you want to stick around and find out?”

“My friends will be furious when I tell them the way you treated me! They’ll come here and hurt you! They’ll do some damage to your house!”

“Yes, I would expect you to have friends like that.”

“How much is it worth to you for me to leave and never come back?”

“Do you think I’m going to pay you and your friends to leave me alone?”

“How much is it worth to you?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“Oh, come now! I think we can do better than that! You offered me fifty last night to get rid of me.”

They settled on two hundred dollars. Freya seemed quite content with that amount.

“That’s the most money I’ve ever had at one time before,” she said, eyes sparkling.

“I knew you could be bought,” Mrs. Hoffenecker said.

While Freya sopped up the last of the egg yolk with the last of the toast, Mrs. Hoffenecker stood by patiently and watched her. When she was finally finished, she belched into her napkin and wiped her mouth.

“Do you have any donuts?” she asked. “I like some dessert after I’ve had breakfast.”

“No,” Mrs. Hoffenecker said. “I think you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to go.”

She escorted Freya to the door and held it open for her. “Do you have everything you came with?” she asked. “Bag? Jacket? I could search your bag to make sure you didn’t steal anything, you know.”

“Hey, man!” Freya said. “That’s an insult! I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a thief.”

“May I look inside your bag?”

“No!”

“What are you hiding?”

“Okay, I took a bottle of sleeping pills out of your bathroom. That’s all, I swear!”

Mrs. Hoffenecker held out her hand and Freya reached into her bag, pulled out the bottle and placed it in her hand. Before any more words could be exchanged, Freya turned and ran out the door, as though afraid Mrs. Hoffenecker might retaliate in some way.

Mrs. Hoffenecker watched Freya Badgett all the way down the street. When she faded into the blurry landscape and Mrs. Hoffenecker could no longer see her, she closed the door and triple-locked it.  She felt a little wiser than she had the day before; she had learned her lesson and it had cost her plenty. She would never again open her door to unpredictable strangers.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

Demon Copperhead
~ A Capsule Book Review by Allen Kopp ~

Charles Dickens’ 1850 novel, David Copperfield, is a venerated classic of English literature. It has charmed generations of readers with its story of an unfortunate orphan boy in Victorian England. Charles Dickens, having written many novels, claimed that David Copperfield was his favorite.

Now, for some mysterious reason, novelist Barbara Kingsolver has written an American version of David Copperfield called Demon Copperhead. It is a “re-imagining” of David Copperfield, set in the section of American called Appalachia, in the 1990s.

His real name is Damon Fields, but he goes by the name Demon Copperhead. (Don’t ask why.) His mother is a self-destructive drug addict, very young, naïve and uneducated. His father dies before Demon is born. (Wise choice.)

After being born to a drug-addled mother, Demon’s life definitely takes a downward turn. Demon and his mother live in a trailer. (What else?) They are so poor they have to depend on the kindness of strangers to survive. Not surprisingly, Demon is looked down upon at school by the other kids and is not a good student. He doesn’t practice basic hygiene, so he has a funny smell that people can’t help noticing. His troubles really begin, though, when his mother acquires a tattooed, shaved-headed boyfriend known as Stoner.

When Demon’s mother marries Stoner, it’s more bad news for Demon. Who could be a worse stepfather for an adolescent boy than Stoner? Before you know it, Demon’s mother is pregnant and, before she can give birth, she ODs on “oxy.” So, Demon is left alone with his hated stepfather.

Demon ends up in foster care, which is no better than living in a trailer with Stoner. He finds himself on a “farm” run by a crazy old man, who drives Demon and the other boys like slaves. This old man is paid by the Department of Social Services for taking in orphan boys, so it’s a lucrative arrangement for him, not to mention the free slave labor he gets.

When Demon makes it to high school age (miraculously), he is taken in by a kindly (and drunken) coach who nurtures him as a football player. He shows real ability in the game of football, but he shatters his knee in a game, ending his football career. More hard luck for Demon. He becomes addicted to pain pills and other drugs. Drug use is pervasive in this time and place. After all, Demon was born to a drug abuser. The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Demon meets a pretty girl named Dori and instantly falls in love with her. Instead of getting married, they live together. They are both drug addicts and soon their lives are consumed with getting and using drugs. Drug use is the overriding theme in about the last third of the novel.

Mr. Dick, Mr. Micawber, Peggotty, Steerforth, Agnes, Uriah Heep, Aunt Betsy Trotwood Mr. Murdstone, and other beloved (or odious) characters from David Copperfield have their counterparts in Demon Copperhead, but, except for similar names, there is little resemblance to the Dickens novel.

Demon Copperhead is a long novel (548 pages). While I was reading it, I thought it would never end. I didn’t hate it, but it is, in my humble opinion, an unnecessary book that leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. If you want to read a really good book, read David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. You can’t do much better than that.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

November Night
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

Saturday night after Thanksgiving was a cold one but people were out celebrating anyway. America was one year into the war. Soldiers were on furlough, showing off their uniforms, in the highest of spirits, hopeful for the future. Cars lined the streets. Horns honked. People called to each other and waved. Who would ever imagine the evening would turn out the way it did?

Inside the club, the tables were close together without much elbow room but nobody seemed to mind. A girl in a white evening gown with a big lipsticked smile and a camera passed among the tables and booths offering to take pictures. Only one dollar, please, payable in advance. Oh, well. What’s a dollar? You only live once.

At Lorraine’s behest, Gerald ordered a bottle of champagne. The waiter brought it to the table in a bucket of ice, just like in the movies. He opened the bottle and filled the glasses, but when he started to pour Linda’s glass she smiled and shook her head. “I’m underage,” she said.

“Are you sure?” the waiter asked.

“Last time I checked!” she said.

The picture girl stopped at the table and was going to take a picture of all three of them but Lorraine stopped her. “Just the two of us!” she said, moving closer to Gerald and gripping his arm and smiling her brightest smile.

Gerald paid the dollar and wrote down his address so the picture could be mailed to him.

“This is so much fun!” Lorraine gushed. “I’ve always wanted to come here!”

Gerald smiled at Linda. “I hope you don’t mind the Coke,” he said.

“Oh, no! It’s perfectly all right.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for champagne later, when you’re older.”

“Sure.”

Gerald and Lorraine stood up and went out to the dance floor. The orchestra finished Moonglow and melded deftly into Imagination. Linda knew that Lorraine, as always, was enjoying having people look at her. Her dress was expensive and lovely, a diaphanous, pale yellow, the perfect complement to her auburn hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. She might have been a movie star a long way from Hollywood.

Linda herself hated the black dress she was wearing. It was the best she owned, but it made her body look lumpy, like an old lady on her way to church. It was the kind of dress that Lorraine would never be seen dead in.

She tugged at her front and smoothed her lank brown hair on both sides of her head. She believed that people were looking at her as she sat there all alone, but the truth was that everybody around her was having a good time and nobody even noticed her. She let out her breath in a long exhalation and relaxed the clenched muscles in her abdomen and legs.

The number ended and Gerald and Lorraine came back to the table, but before she sat down again Lorraine made Gerald admire her ankle bracelet with her name engraved on it, for the third time already that night. Gerald had given it to her as a gift on Thanksgiving night and she couldn’t stop admiring it. “Oh, it’s just the sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen!” she gushed.

Gerald looked tired and pale. He was uncomfortable in crowds and didn’t like dancing, but he was a good sport usually willing to go along with whatever Lorraine wanted. He offered to dance with Linda, but she declined. “I’m afraid I’m a horror on the dance floor,” she said.

The waiter brought another Coke for Linda and it was time to order dinner. Lorraine wanted roast beef and Gerald a steak and Linda fried chicken. When the waiter went away with the order, Lorraine regarded Linda across the table.

“Thank goodness one of us inherited mother’s fashion sense,” she said. “That dress is unbelievably dowdy.”

“I know,” Linda said. “I hate it.”

“Then why did you wear it?”

“It’s the only thing I have that’s appropriate for a place like this.”

“I think she looks very nice,” Gerald said.

“You think everybody looks nice and, compared to you, they do.”

“I’m wearing a new suit.”

“Yes, and it looks just exactly like your old one. It looks like something your father would wear.”

“Most of the men not in uniform are wearing dark suits,” Linda said.

“People are probably looking at Gerald and wondering why he’s not in uniform.”

“You can’t say I didn’t try,” Gerald said.

“Oh, yes, it was a tiny heart murmur, wasn’t it, dear, that kept you out of the service?”

“You know it was.”

“Did you pay the doctor to fabricate a heart murmur so you wouldn’t have to go off to the bad old army and leave your poor little Lorraine behind?”

“Yeah, that’s it. You guessed my little secret.”

“I would so have liked to have gone stepping out on the arm of dashing war hero.”

“Why don’t you see if Robert Taylor is available?”

“I would marry Robert Taylor in an instant. All he has to do is ask me.”

“I think he’s already married to Barbara Stanwyck,” Linda said.

“Well, we’ll just have to get rid of little Barbara then, won’t we?”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Gerald said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re married to me.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m inclined to forget.”

Gerald lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward Lorraine, knowing how much she hated it.

“Put that cigarette out and let’s dance again,” she said.

“I don’t want to dance again just yet. My feet hurt.”

“Must you always be an old fuddy-duddy?”

Seeing that Gerald and Lorraine were about to engage in more bickering, Linda sought to change the subject by saying, “This is my first time ever in a night club. Isn’t it exciting?”

“The first of many for you, I hope,” Gerald said, lifting his glass and taking a big gulp of the champagne.

“Don’t drink too much of that stuff, dear,” Lorraine said. “You have to get us home safely, you know.”

“Aye, aye, captain, sir!”

The waiter brought the dinner and they began eating. The fried chicken was the best Linda had ever tasted. Lorraine picked around the corners of her plate and didn’t seem at all interested in food.

“I’d hoped we could have a little talk tonight,” Lorraine said to Linda. “Just the two of us.”

“What about?”

“It’s about money, I’m afraid, that most hated of topics. Now that mother’s dead and I’m paying all the bills, I’m trying to plan ahead for the future and I see there isn’t as much money as I thought there was. I’m afraid we’re going to have to economize.”

“Can’t you wait for a more appropriate time to talk about this?” Gerald asked.

“I wasn’t addressing you, Gerald!” Lorraine said.

“Economize in what way?” Linda asked.

“Well, you’re not going to like this, but we’re going to have to sell mother’s house.”

“But why? It’s my home. It’s where I’ve always lived.”

“I’ve already told you why. It’s too expensive to maintain with just you living in it. I mean, really, how many high school girls do you know who have a big nine-room house all to themselves.”

“Mother said right before she died that she wanted me to be able to go on living in the house through the end of high school and for as long as I wanted.”

“I know, dear, but, as you know, mother was never very practical.”

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Gerald said. “We’ll work something out.”

“As I’ve already said, Gerald, none of this concerns you!” Lorraine said.

“But if we sell the house,” Linda said, “where am I going to live?”

“You’re can move in with Gerald and me.”

“But I don’t want to move in with Gerald and you. It’s too far away from school. How will I get back and forth?”

“I’ve already looked into all that. There are buses running every day. It would be a simple matter of a twenty-minute bus ride each way.”

“But I have my own home. I don’t want to live with you and Gerald.”

“Don’t you think that’s a selfish attitude? After all, I’m paying all the bills. I’m your guardian and I have to do what I think is best.”

“I’ll get a job and pay all the expenses on the house,” Linda said.

“You’re a baby! What could you possibly do? Who would hire a high school girl with bad skin and unmanageable hair?”

“I can read and write.”

“So can everybody else. I’m afraid that doesn’t make you employable.”

“I can operate a babysitting service.”

“Yes, for fifty cents an hour. I’m afraid it takes more than that to run a household.”

“I’ll get the money somewhere!”

“Oh, please! You don’t know what you’re talking about! Do you think you’re going to find a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?”

Linda began crying. Gerald gave her his handkerchief.

“Now see what you’ve done, Lorraine!” he said. “We came here to have a good time and now you’ve spoiled it for all of us.”

“I’m just trying to be practical. She’s not a child anymore. She needs to face reality and know where she stands in the scheme of things.”

“Maybe you and I need to face reality too,” Gerald said. “Where do we stand in the scheme of things?”

“Oh, you make me sick!” Lorraine said. “You always have to make everything about you, don’t you? I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

She threw down her napkin, stood up and faded into the crowd.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Gerald said.

“You didn’t do anything,” Linda said.

“She could have chosen a better time to bring up the subject of money.”

“It just took me by surprise, that’s all. I’m going to have to get used to idea of living somewhere else, I guess.”

“You must have some champagne,” he said, “underage or not. You need to at least taste it.” He took an empty water glass and filled it halfway and pushed it toward her. “If nothing else, you can look back on this night and remember it as the first time you tasted champagne.”

She smiled, wiped her tears and drank her first taste of champagne.

The orchestra ended one number and began another. Gerald and Linda watched the swirl of dancers, what they could see of them, while they waited for Lorraine to come back.

What sounded like a woman’s scream came then from far away, or maybe it wasn’t a scream at all; it might have been a police car going by on the street. Not everybody heard it, but those who did turned their heads to see where it was coming from. Then there was another might-have-been scream and then another, closer this time and unmistakable. The musicians stopped playing and the dancers stopped dancing. Those sitting stood up and looked around in confusion.

And then came the unambiguous words that everybody feared: “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

There was a lull then, a gathering of time, no more than three seconds—one-two-three—in which everybody stood perfectly still and silent. When the three seconds had expended themselves, everybody began moving at the same time, controlled by one impulse.

Gerald grabbed Linda’s wrist. “We’ve got to find Lorraine!” he screamed. “Which way to the ladies’ room?”

“I don’t know,” Linda screamed back, into his ear. “We’ve got to find the exit! Wherever Lorraine is, she’ll find her way out!”

With Gerald holding Linda’s hand, they began moving slowly through the crowd. Pushed violently from behind, they managed to stay on their feet. Others weren’t so lucky. Those who fell would never get up again.

“Everybody calm down!” a booming voice commanded. “Just make for the fire exits!”

The lights went out. The far wall, fifty feet away, was illuminated by an eerie orange glow. This was perhaps the most frightening sight of all. People panicked, lost whatever decorum they had, and began pushing blindly forward.

Some of the fire exits were obscured behind curtains or fake palm trees while others were locked and wouldn’t open. People pushed helplessly against them to no avail. When they saw one door wouldn’t open, they moved on to the next one.

Gerald held tightly to Linda’s wrist. They could see nothing now except the glow of the flames. They had no other choice but to move forward upon the wave of humanity that bore them. Where was it taking them? Was it to safety or to a blind spot where they would be crushed or burned to death?

Soon a door opened in front of them, miraculously, like a gate into heaven, and they found themselves outside in the freezing air.

They stood there, dazed and gasping for air. A crowd of about twenty other people made their way out at the same time. Most of the women were crying and screaming. The men stood helplessly, rubbing their eyes, stunned into silence. Finally a man came along and told them to move as far away from the building as they could.

Other groups came out in other places, three or twelve or twenty or sometimes more at a time. They were all herded around to the other side of the building, away from the smoke and flames. Gerald ran frantically from group to group, searching for any sign of Lorraine.

The next few hours were like a tableau out of hell, with chaos, confusion and disbelief; sirens, screams, billowing smoke, walls of flame, ambulances coming and going, fire engines roaring, hoses like tentacles going every which way on the street, men trying to battle the flames but repeatedly driven back by the heat and smoke.

Firefighters began bringing bodies out and, having no other choice, laying them side by side on the street or on the sidewalk, until a temporary morgue could be set up. Police kept onlookers back until the proper time for identification.

Every time Gerald went away and came back again to the spot where he had left Linda standing on the street corner, she asked him if he had spotted Lorraine yet, but she already knew what the answer was going to be.

Six hours after the fire broke out, Gerald found Lorraine’s body in a row of bodies on the sidewalk. Her face was covered, but he knew it was her by the ankle bracelet with her name engraved on it and by the yellow dress. He started to pick her up but a policeman stopped him.

“She’s my wife,” he said. “I have to take her home.”

“You have to leave her here for now until positive identification can be made,” the policeman said.

He wrote down Gerald’s name and address, along with Lorraine’s name, and put a tag around her wrist with a number on it, indicating that she had been identified by a family member.

The night that seemed without end finally came to an end.

The next morning, newspaper headlines screamed the news: Worst Nightclub Fire in American History. 500 Dead. Many More Injured.

Gerald and Linda both were questioned by police and reporters to get their version of what happened. To Linda it all seemed too unreal, too unlikely, to be true. Her beautiful older sister, whom she had always idolized, was dead and never coming back.

An overflow crowd attended Lorraine’s funeral, many of them curiosity seekers. They wanted to see what a body would look like after it had been through such a hellish ordeal, but the casket was kept closed. Gerald knew it’s what Lorraine would have wanted.

Linda returned to school after two weeks, something of a celebrity. People who never noticed her before now wanted to be her friends.

Gerald remained a good friend to Linda. With Lorraine gone, he was the only family she had left. He became Linda’s guardian and allowed her to stay in her mother’s house, paying all the bills and providing whatever was needed without complaint.

Lorraine was lying about the money. More than eight hundred thousand dollars came to Gerald as Lorraine’s surviving spouse, more than he ever imagined. He quit his job (which he despised anyway), made some wise investments, and planned never to work again. As a young widower with money, he could have married again but preferred to remain single. There would be only one wife for him in his life. He would never ask for anything else.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

Brother
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~ 

Patricia Crippen, age three, stood beside the bed and looked down at her three-week-old brother. He waved his arms and legs like a bug upside down on its back. He was all pink and already beautiful, with abundant blond hair and full, rosy cheeks. He made little gurgling sounds with his mouth; his eyes were roving but expressionless.

His name was Benjamin; they would call him Ben for short. Mother chose the name out of a book. Patricia hoped to be able to persuade mother to give him back to the hospital where he came from. What did they need him for? They had her, after all, and wasn’t that enough? She absolutely did not want or need a brother, or a sister for that matter, but it’s funny how nobody asked her.

She had seen people killing other people on TV. She didn’t exactly want to kill Ben or even hurt him, but she did want him to go away, to disappear, to no longer exist. Maybe they could find a family that would take him and pretend he belonged to them from the start. Nobody would ever know. It would be as if he had never happened. Everybody would be happy, including him.

But Ben didn’t go anywhere. He stayed and stayed. By his first birthday, he was walking and even running. He spoke in complete sentences. He sang songs and recited poems. He could change channels on the TV and bathe himself. He could get the cookies out of the upper kitchen cabinet without help from anybody. He put himself to bed at night and got himself up in the morning.

And he was blond-haired, blue-eyed perfection. His body and head were perfectly proportioned. People would stop mother in the grocery store and tell her, “That is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.” “You can have him if you want him,” mother would say, and they’d all laugh.

When he started to school, he was teacher’s favorite. He was smart and bright and no trouble at all. He took to reading and writing almost faster than anybody else and when he was in second grade he was reading at fifth-grade level. At the end of third grade, the school recommended that he skip the fourth grade and go on to fifth. He was the school’s champion speller and got his picture in the paper. He started learning the trumpet and could sight-read almost any piece of music that was put in front of him. When it came to athletics, he could score more baskets, run faster and jump higher than anybody else. And, on top of everything else, people liked him. He was polite, considerate, humble, helpful, kind, the righter of wrongs. Even the most vicious bully in school was diminished in his presence.

You might say that everybody loved Ben except his sister Patricia. She didn’t hate him but she didn’t love him, either. More than anything else she was jealous of him. He was always the favored one, always the one people noticed and admired, while she was the little brown mouse over in the corner that nobody cared about or looked at, except maybe to throw a shoe at when it suited them.

And when the gifts of beauty and intelligence were being distributed, she clearly had been left far behind Ben. Her hair, no matter what beauty treatment was applied, always managed to look lusterless and chewed-off. Pimples took up residence on her long nose and sad face when she was eleven years old and seemed reluctant to leave, despite all the most up-to-date pimple treatments.

In first and second grade, she had trouble learning to read and had to spend a whole hour several evenings a week with a tutor, a retired schoolteacher with bad breath and a wooden leg named Miss Eye. Patricia was sure that Miss Eye was a bonafide witch but was never able to prove it. Miss Eye would pinch Patricia on the arm for being lazy and not trying hard enough.

Instead of being able to skip fourth grade and move on to fifth as Ben did, Patricia failed fourth grade and had to do it all over again. So, when people always asked the inevitable question, “What grade are you in?”, she was forced to admit, two years running, that she was in the fourth grade. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” they’d asked. “I’m going to be a garbage collector,” she’d answer.

At Christmastime, half the presents under the tree were for Ben. Patricia was sure the most elaborate packages, the ones with the prettiest bows, were for Ben. His presents were taking up the space where her presents should be. If he had never been born at all, all the presents under the tree would be hers. Why did life have to be so unfair?

Patricia took Ben’s little white underpants out of the dryer and folded them with the rest of the laundry, the way mother showed her, and when she was finished and had a neat little stack of ten or twelve pairs, she took them up to Ben’s perfectly ordered bedroom and put them in his neat-as-a-pin underwear drawer. Before she left the room, she always had the impulse to mess up the books on his desk or take a few shirts out of the closet and scatter them on the floor. The only trouble with that was there was no one else she would be able to blame it on.

When Patricia’s girlfriends gushed about how gorgeous Ben was and what an interesting older boy he was sure to be, Patricia always wanted to slap them in the face and twist their arms out of their sockets. It was a sign of incivility and disloyalty for anybody to praise Ben in front of her. After all, hadn’t she been hearing it all her life and wasn’t she awfully tired of it?

So, in the fall, Ben was ten and in the sixth grade, the youngest and most precocious person of either gender in his class. Patricia was thirteen and in the seventh grade, only one grade ahead of Ben. If she wasn’t careful, she might fail another grade, and if that happened she and Ben would be in the same grade, even though she was three years older. She was sure she would never survive the humiliation if that came to pass.

On a crisp Saturday morning in October, Patricia wanted to go downtown on the bus to do some shopping. She still had some birthday money and wanted to spend it. Mother would only allow Patricia to go if Ben went along, too; it was no longer safe for children to ride the bus alone, she said. Ben was looking for new shoes and readily agreed to go along with Patricia. After breakfast the two of them set out to catch the fifteen-minute downtown bus.

Ben and Patricia had different ideas about how to have fun downtown. After Ben bought his new shoes, they couldn’t agree on where to go next, so Patricia said they should split up and meet later in a designated spot. Then they’d have a hamburger and a milkshake and go back home on the bus.

They parted on a busy street corner and agreed to meet at the same spot in an hour and a half or so. Whoever got there first would wait for the other. Ben went off to do his boy things and Patricia to do her girl things.

Fur collars were all the rage that fall. Patricia went to three different stores but wasn’t able to find one she liked. She bought herself a romance magazine (which she’d have to keep hidden), a pair of shoelaces, a half-pound of English toffee, a pair of toenail scissors, some stretchy gloves and paperback novel that she had to read for English class.

When she went back to the corner an hour-and-a half later to meet Ben, there were people everywhere. It was the busiest time of the day. She saw Ben standing near the stoplight, surrounded by other people, and then she saw he was with someone, or, rather, someone was with him. It was a grown man who had his hand on Ben’s shoulder. Patricia didn’t know who the man was but thought he might be one of one of Ben’s teachers or maybe the swimming coach from school.

She was about thirty feet away, walking toward Ben, when she saw another man.  He had hold of Ben’s other arm, lightly, not forcefully, by the elbow as if he were leading him. A green car stopped at the corner and the back door opened. The first man got into the back seat of the car, followed by Ben and then by the second man. The door closed and the car sped away. It all happened in just a few seconds.

Patricia stood on the corner for a few minutes, wondering what to do. Maybe the green car just went around the block for a spin and would be back in a minute or two. Should she wait?

Wait a minute, she thought. Why should I worry about Ben? Isn’t he the smart one? Isn’t he the resourceful one? Isn’t he the problem solver? He’s gone, isn’t he? Isn’t that what I’ve wanted every day and night of my life from the moment he was born?

She waited on the corner for about fifteen more minutes but still saw no sign of Ben or the green car. She was getting cold. All she could think to do was take the bus back home, tell mother what happened, and be absolved of all responsibility. Mother would yell at her, of course, but really, how was she to be blamed if Ben wanted to leave with somebody else? She wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

While she was waiting for the bus, she happened to run into two friends from school, Janey Jones and Helen Whitney. They asked Patricia if she was in any hurry to get home and when she said she wasn’t, they suggested they do a little shopping and find some high school boys to stare at and giggle over.

They walked around in the stores for a while, pretending to be grownup women out on the town. They tried on some lipsticks at the cosmetics counter in Pascale’s Department Store until the woman behind the counter came and stared at them and made them feel uncomfortable, so they left. They went to the dress department, where Helen Whitney tried on clothes while Janey Jones and Patricia waited impatiently for her.

After they split a pizza three ways and after many rounds of Coca-Colas, Patricia told her friends she’d better get home, as it was getting late and mother would begin to wonder what had happened to her. The whole time she was with Janey Jones and Helen Whitney, she never once mentioned Ben’s name.

When she got home, it was nearly five o’clock. Mother was waiting at the door.

“Where’s Ben?” mother said.

“Isn’t he here?” Patricia asked.

“No, he isn’t here. Why isn’t he with you?”

“We got separated. He wanted to do some shopping on his own. I figured he came back by himself.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“Well, isn’t that funny?”

“Yes, it’s hilarious. When did you last see him?”

“I told you we were together and then decided to split up. He went his way and I went mine. I met some friends and then I guess I just forgot about him.”

“What friends?”

“You don’t know them.”

“I think we’d better get in the car and go downtown and try to find him,” father said.

“I’m not going to bother with that,” mother said. “I’m calling the police. Do you think he could have got lost somehow?”

It was so typical of them, Patricia thought. They only thought of Ben. It was just further proof, if she needed it, that they preferred Ben over her. After they found out what they wanted to know about Ben, they left her standing in the middle of the room as if she no longer existed.

She went up to her room and locked herself in, sat down on the bed and looked at herself in the dresser mirror, not failing to notice how ugly and sad she looked, with a new pimple right on the end of her nose. It had been a good day, until she came home and there was this big uproar over Ben. His highness Ben. Everything was always about Ben.

Her feelings were terribly wounded. She could work herself up into a good cry if she let herself go. And wouldn’t it be just like them not to notice, when she sat down at the dinner table, how red her eyes were?

They were sure to find silly old Ben, with or without her help. He was probably on his way home now. Nothing bad would ever happen to precious Ben.

She had seen this awfully cute coat in Patterson’s window downtown with a real fur collar and fur trim. She had already given up on the coat because mother would say it was too expensive. And it was expensive, a hundred and forty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents, but what difference does money make when you find the coat of your dreams?

If they took her downtown and bought her that coat, right now, it might go a long way toward refreshing her memory. If they threw in the hat and gloves that went with the coat, she might even be able to remember the license number of the green car. Wouldn’t it just be too fabulous if she ended up with all three—the coat, the hat and the gloves? She’d look like a movie star. Her friends at school would simply die with jealousy!

After dawdling in her room for what seemed like an hour or so, she went back downstairs to see if there was any news of Ben. Two men from the police department were sitting with mother and father in the living room. They all turned and looked at her as she walked into the room.

“Did they find Ben?” she asked mother.

“Sit down, Patricia,” mother said.

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

“We were just telling these two gentlemen everything we could think of about Ben,” mother said. “I wasn’t sure if I remembered right, but I thought he was wearing his green corduroy pants and his brown coat with the hood.”

“That’s right, mother,” Patricia said.

“You were with him?” the older policeman in the suit asked.

“I had been with him, but we didn’t stay together. We had different stores we wanted to go to.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

“Like what?”

“Did you see anybody talking to him? Did you see anybody trying to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do?”

“There were lots of people around. I can’t be sure of anything. I did see…”

They were all looking intently at her, the two policemen and mother and father. They hoped she would say something that would help them know what happened to Ben, but she developed a bad case of shyness and couldn’t go on.

She was about to make a blunder. The beautiful coat with the fur collar hung in the balance. If she said the wrong thing, they’d be mad at her and she could kiss the coat goodbye.

“I want you to tell me everything you saw,” the policeman said.

“In Patterson’s window I saw the coat I’ve always wanted. It was light brown with a fur collar and fur trim. I’m not sure what the fur was made out of it; it wasn’t mink or anything like that, but I don’t think it was dog or monkey.”

The policeman wrote down every word. When she stopped talking, they all looked at her, waiting for her to continue. The policeman held the pen in his hand, poised over the paper. She blushed to the roots of her hair and thought she was going to cry. They would think, of course, that she was crying over Ben.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

The Hair of Her Head
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

(This short story has been published in AHF Magazine.)

The queen was at the forefront of every fashion trend. If she painted her face the color of chalk, every lady of the court with any fashion sense ended up with a face the color of chalk. If she wore a ruff collar to a court function, ruff collars became the rage before the sun rose again. If she wore platform shoes under her gowns to make herself a few inches taller (taller than the king), shoemakers were working round the clock by the end of the week to satisfy the sudden desire for platform shoes.

When the queen decided she wanted a new coiffure, she summoned Alphonse, the court hairdresser, and his retinue of lackeys and assistants. She was getting tired, she said, of the same old curls, fluffs and puffs. She wanted a new style of dressing her hair that nobody had ever seen or imagined before. She wanted to hear people gasp with surprise and envy when she entered a room.

The court hairdresser propped the queen up in an elaborate swiveling chair, stuffing pillows all around her to make her as comfortable as she could be. He knew he was going to have to create something different, and fast, if he was going to keep his job. He was under a considerable amount of strain but he had been in the same situation before and he knew he would get through it. To keep the queen calm and to soothe his own frazzled nerves, he called a small ensemble of court musicians into the room to play softly the music that was known to put the queen to sleep. In no time at all, she was snoring.

She slept for three hours. She woke up only because her little pet monkey Marcel was blowing bubbles with his pipe and one of his bubbles, a very large one indeed, landed on her nose and popped. It couldn’t have happened at a better time because Alphonse was just then putting the finishing touches on the royal coiffure.

The queen was impatient to be handed a mirror, but Alphonse wanted an unveiling of sorts. When he pulled her to her feet, he had one of the ladies-in-waiting tie a scarf over her eyes. Then he walked her to an enormous mirror that went from floor to ceiling with two side mirrors tilted out at angles. He took the scarf away and stood back, heart pounding. If the queen didn’t like the royal coiffure, he might be sent packing with only the clothes on his back.

She blinked her eyes several times and regarded her reflection without expression for what seemed a very long time but couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes. She turned this way and that to see herself from the back and from both sides and from every oblique angle.

The royal coiffure was, indeed, unlike any coiffure her majesty had ever seen before. Instead of the customary white, it was a slightly pinkish color, like a cloud at sunset. The color was not the most salient feature, however; the one thing that made this coiffure so much different from others was its size. It was at least a foot high of gorgeousness—elaborate rolls and twists adorned with shimmering precious stones and ostrich feathers. On the sides and in the back, hanging about the royal neck and ears, was a profusion of sausage-like curls that seemed to have been spawned by the puff of pink rising above. It was truly a coiffure befitting the queen of the land.

However restrained her majesty might have been in showing approval, she was most pleased with the royal coiffure. She touched the court hairdresser lightly on the shoulder and passed from the room with a tiny smile on her lips. The court hairdresser collapsed into a chair and ordered a bottle of wine and a plate of sausages be brought to him.

That evening the queen wore a magenta gown and her ruby jewels to complement her pink hair. On the arm of the king, who always managed to look like an unhappy frog in a powdered wig, she entered the dining salon where her court was assembled. As she and the king passed in their stately procession from one side of the enormous room to the other to take their places at table, all eyes were upon her. She heard gasps, whispers, exclamations, but the looks of envy and jealousy were the most gratifying to her. All the other ladies present looked like laundresses and milk maids beside their queen.

They, the ladies of the court (and this included some of the men), were all delighted by the queen’s new coiffure. While they couldn’t run the risk of being seen as trying to better the queen, they were free to emulate her as much as was fitting. They could copy her coiffure if they so desired, but they had to be careful not to have hair higher than the queen; this could incur not only the disfavor of the queen but also of the king and the royal offspring. The queen was above all considerations of competitiveness. She was without peer. She was the queen.

So there followed a frenzy of high hair at the court. When all the ladies had hair as high as—but no higher—than the queen, the queen herself went a couple of inches higher each time they saw her. And if the queen appeared with blue hair, all the ladies the next day had hair the same shade of blue, but no bluer; the same for green, lilac, yellow, orange and every other color imaginable.

When the queen and all the ladies of the court had hair higher than about three feet, special accommodations had to be made. They had to sit on the floor in carriages because ceilings were just not high enough. A special section at the opera had to be designated for them because nobody ever wanted to sit behind them. Many of them had to sleep sitting up in a chair or flat on their backs on the floor, as they could no longer sleep in a bed with three-foot-high hair. These were all minor inconveniences, however, in light of what was to come.

The pomade the ladies used to keep their hair malleable was made of apples and other organic materials. At all times of the year, but especially in hot weather, the pomade was likely to turn sour and create a smell. This situation resulted in the ladies using overpowering scents to mask the smell of the pomade. Some of the gentlemen of the court, including the king, became sickened by the strong, unnatural smells. The king was forced to require the women to sit downwind from him and to have lackeys fan the air. The queen complained to the king that his behavior toward the ladies was insulting but he paid her no mind.

As if the smell wasn’t bad enough, some of the ladies began to be infected with all kinds of vermin. It seemed the very high, elaborate coiffures attracted unwelcome visitors. One lady died while eating a dinner of roasted squab. When her body was examined, it was discovered she had a family of poisonous spiders nesting in her hair that were feasting on her scalp as they saw fit. Another lady had a couple of enterprising bats take up residence in the upper reaches of her coiffure; the bats decided to vacate the premises at a very inopportune moment. Still another was infested with a rare kind of beetle that heretofore had been found only in the Orient. Other of the ladies complained of lice and fleas.

Outside the walls of the palace, more serious events were taking place, of which the king, the queen, and their court of aristocratic sycophants and hangers-on were largely unaware. The common people, many of whom were starving and dressed in tatters, were disenchanted with the king and queen and with royalty in general. There was a movement afoot to revolt, to bring down the government and put in place a fairer, more equitable system of running the country. Who needed a king and queen anyway? They were bleeding the country dry and enjoying themselves while they were doing it.

When the revolt finally came, the king and queen were preparing to decamp to their summer palace in the mountains with their enormous retinue of servants. The king immediately had the palace secured, but he knew that he and the queen and everybody else in the palace were not altogether safe from an angry mob.

Some members of the court assumed false identities and fled for their lives. The ladies with high hair dismantled their coiffures and washed out the dyes, as it happened that their coiffures had become hated symbols of excess and indifference to the plight of the common people. Some went so far as to shave their heads to disavow who they were. A few of the ladies were found to have been men all along.

The king and queen decided to stay in the palace, an act of defiance if there ever was one. When the mob came for them, they were standing at the top of the staircase of the grand salon as though posing for a picture. The king was dressed in his sumptuous robes of state, powdered wig and crown. The queen wore her loveliest gown and most elaborate jewels. Her coiffure was a grand, four-foot-high creation of defiant flaming orange, adorned with her many-jeweled crown proclaiming to the world that she was queen and none other.

The monarchy was abolished and a provisional government established in its place. The king and queen never saw each other again after the day they were taken and they never saw their children again. The king’s head was severed from his body and placed on a spike in front of the palace that had been his home. When the queen a few weeks later met the same fate as the king, it was a grand event for the common people. Everybody crowded into the city to see the old girl get what she had coming. And when her head was finally severed from her body a great cheer went up, but there was something else, too: all the bugs, mice, vermin, spiders and small birds living in her hair scattered throughout the land to tell their tale of life and death at the court.

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp

Buses Boarding
~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp ~

Mrs. Schuble and her daughter Boothie went into the bus station. It was crowded for a Saturday afternoon, with nearly all the seats taken, but Boothie spotted a space on a bench where they both might sit together and steered Mrs. Schuble toward it.

“What is this place?” Mrs. Schuble asked as they sat down. “Why are we here?”

“It’s the bus station, mother. You know perfectly well.”

At eighty-one, Mrs. Schuble couldn’t always remember things that happened five minutes ago, but her memory of events of sixty years ago was nearly faultless.

“I’ll go and buy your ticket, mother. Don’t budge an inch. Don’t get up.”

“Where is it we’re going?” Mrs. Schuble asked. “I don’t remember.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to visit your nephew Heaton and his wife Beatrice at their farm in Arkansas.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Wait right here. Don’t get up for any reason. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mrs. Schuble wasn’t used to being alone in crowds. She eyed the people nearest her with suspicion, but when she realized that nobody was even looking at her and so meant her no harm, she relaxed and smiled a little. It did feel good to be going on a trip, although she would never want to admit it to Boothie.

In a few minutes Boothie came back. “My goodness, they’re busy today!” she said. “All those people buying tickets!”

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Mrs. Schuble said.

“I said I was going to buy your ticket. Don’t you remember?”

“Am I going to St. Louis?”

“Not this time, mother. You’re going to Arkansas to visit Heaton and his wife Beatrice on their farm.”

“We used to go to St. Louis for Christmas shopping.”

“Not this time, mother. You’re going south. To Arkansas. You’ll be there in about three hours.”

“Why aren’t you coming with me?”

“Now, mother, we’ve been all through this at least a dozen times. Heaton and Beatrice don’t want me. They want you. You’re going for a lovely visit. I talked to Beatrice on the phone last night. They have a lovely room all ready for you. You’ll be so cozy there and you’ll just have the best time you’ve had in a long time!”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“It’s too late to back out now! You’ve been planning this trip for months.”

“I know but I don’t want to go on the bus by myself. I’m scared.”

“What’s there to be scared of? You’ve ridden the bus many, many times before.”

“I don’t want to go. I’m not going.”

“You can’t back out now, mother! Heaton and Beatrice are expecting you. They’ve made plans for your visit.”

“Find a pay phone. I’ll call and tell them something came up at the last minute and I’m not coming.”

“But that’s not true, mother! You don’t want to lie to Heaton and Beatrice, do you? They’d be heartbroken.”

“Oh, what do I care?”

“Why didn’t you say a month ago or a week ago that you didn’t want to go? Why did you have to wait until just minutes before your bus leaves?”

“Oh, all right! I know you want to get rid of me for reasons of your own. I can tell by the look in your eye.”

“You’re going to have a lovely time, I just know it!”

“I expect to be perfectly miserable.”

“Well, here’s your ticket, already bought and paid for. Hold it in your hand and don’t lose it. All you have to do is wait for your bus to be announced to Claiborne, Arkansas, and when you hear it, pick up your suitcase and go over there to those blue doors where the sign says Buses Boarding. If you get confused, just ask anybody for help. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, dear, I think I can remember! I haven’t completely lost all my marbles.”

“Heaton and Beatrice will be there to take you off the bus.”

“How will I know them?”

“You don’t have to worry about it. They’ll know you. Now, your bus leaves in about twenty minutes, so if you need to use the restroom, there’s still plenty of time.”

“I know that!”

“You get on the bus here and you get off the bus there. That’s all you have to remember. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”

“It might be simple, if I wanted to do it!”

“I’d wait here with you for your bus, but I have an appointment downtown and I’m already late.”

“I know you can’t wait to get away from me!”

Boothie sighed, gave Mrs. Schuble a peck on the cheek and then she was gone.

Mrs. Schuble was a little apprehensive now that Boothie was gone and she was really all alone. She checked her ticket and then her purse and then her suitcase, making sure everything was in order. She moved the suitcase from the left side to the right and then back again. She finally held the suitcase between her feet. She may be old but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to give anybody a chance to rob her.

The people around her were noisy and seemed more so with every passing second, grating on her nerves. They spoke loudly to make themselves heard above the din and sometimes one of them screamed or laughed like a crazed hyena. How was a person supposed to think?

She became aware for the first time of the voice on the loudspeaker. It was a male voice with a grating nasal quality. She heard only every third of fourth word. She thought at first that it wasn’t even English, but, if it wasn’t English, what could it be? Had she suddenly been transported to a foreign country? If she couldn’t understand what was being said, how was she supposed to know when it was time for her bus to leave?

Every time the voice squawked over the loudspeaker, Mrs. Schuble emitted one short, sharp scream like a little bark and leaned forward in her chair, but the sad truth was, no matter how hard she tried, she was not able to understand one word of what was being said.

How long had she been sitting there waiting, anyway? It seemed like a long time. Shouldn’t her bus be ready to leave by now? Why did she ever agree to go on such a trip anyway, alone, and without anybody to help her if anything went wrong?

She had never been much for crying, not even for effect, but now, not knowing what else to do, she let loose her tears. She covered her face with her handkerchief and sobbed with the pitifulness of the situation. She was in trouble and she didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t long until someone came to her rescue. She felt someone touch her on the arm and saw a large woman with a painted-on face inches from her own.

“My goodness, honey!” the large woman said. “Are you alone? You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, I’m not sick,” Mrs. Schuble gasped. “I think I’ve missed my bus, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s nothing to cry over. You can catch the next one.”

“My daughter is going to be very mad at me for not doing what I was supposed to do.”

“Do you have your ticket? Let me see what it says.”

The large woman took the ticket and squinted at it and then looked up at the clock on the wall. “You’ve got just about five minutes to catch your bus, honey, but you need to go right now!”

“Oh, Lord! I forgot what it was I was supposed to do!”

“Well, come on then, honey! We’ll help you find your bus! Careful now, but hurry! You don’t want to fall down, now, do you?”

With the large woman was a young girl of about twelve. She stood behind the large woman and eyed Mrs. Schuble with bug-eyed curiosity.

“This is my daughter Chiclet,” the large woman said. “She’s kind of shy until she gets to know you.”

Chiclet looked at Mrs. Schuble without expression and stuck two fingers into her mouth as if she had a troublesome tooth.

The large woman took hold of Mrs. Schuble’s arm as if to help her to stand.

“Just a minute!” Mrs. Schuble said. “Before I go to the bus, I need to use the ladies’ toilet.”

“You’ll have to hurry! Do you want me to come along and help you?”

“No, I can manage, if you’ll just stay here and keep an eye on my suitcase until I get back.”

“I’d be glad to, honey!”

“It has my lucky hundred-dollar bill in it, my Bible, my clothes, my magnifying glass that I need for small print, and some important papers I’m taking to my nephew.”

“Two minutes, honey! That’s about all the time you’ve got left!”

She didn’t like hurrying, but she was happy now that she had somebody to help her. She was in the ladies’ toilet for no more than a minute, not even taking time to wash her hands, but when she came out the large woman with the painted-on face and the young girl were gone.

Mrs. Schuble turned all the way around, thinking they were there—they had to be there!—but she just wasn’t seeing them. Where could they have gone? Did something happen while she was in the toilet? Was it some kind of a trick? How can somebody be there and then not be there?

It was plain as day. That horrible woman with the painted-on face and that ugly little girl had stolen her suitcase with her lucky hundred-dollar bill in it, her Bible, her clothes, her magnifying glass, and the important papers that she was taking to Heaton.

If she thought she was in trouble before, now she really was in trouble! Her trip that she had planned for so long was ruined. She had lost her money, clothes, Bible and everything, and probably stood no chance of ever getting them back. She should have known better than to undertake such a long trip on her own at her age. Life teaches some bitter lessons sometimes! From now on she would just stay at home.

Finding it difficult to believe that somebody would just flat-out steal from her that way, she walked all over the bus station looking for the large woman and the girl. She looked at every face in the place, but logically (she told herself), if they had taken her things, why would they still be there?

If they weren’t still in the bus station, that means they had left. She would go walk the streets to find them if she had to. They had no right taking advantage of a poor old woman like her and they ought to be behind bars before they had a chance to do it to somebody else.

She went outside to the sidewalk in front of the bus station and stood there. She looked first in one direction and then in the other. She didn’t recognize anything; nothing looked familiar. It might as well have been a foreign country.

To the left the middle-distance looked murky and dark, while to the right it seemed to glimmer with something like hope, so she began walking to the right. Maybe she would come across someone who had seen the large woman and the little girl. She would find someone who would take pity on an old woman and lend a helping hand. There were always good people, but sometimes they were not so easy to find.

It was street of old brick buildings, some of them abandoned. There was a dry cleaner, a package store, a hair salon, a coin-operated laundry, a tavern, but no people in sight. She would keep walking as long as it took, even though she was very tired, until she got her suitcase back. She was, and always had been, very determined.

She passed a number of sinister-looking alleyways, some of them dark or with a foul smell. From one of these alleyways a bum emerged. He wore a filthy overcoat and a knit cap on his head. She walked faster to get away from him, but he was young and had no trouble keeping up. She felt him behind her, dangerously close, and when she had no other choice but to turn and look at him, he smiled with surprisingly white teeth.

“I see you walking by,” he said. “I think you look like lady in need of help.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said. “Just get away! I’m looking for someone.”

“Who you looking for?”

“A woman who stole my suitcase in the bus station. I mean to get it back.”

“She stole from you?”

“Yes, my money, my clothes, everything!”

“I help you find her. Get suitcase back.”

“No, thank you! I don’t any help from you!”

“Give me a dollar?”

“I don’t have a dollar! My money was stolen. I just told you.”

“You look kind of old to find robbers. I come along and help you.”

“Go on now! Get away from me! I’ll scream for help!”

“Scream for help! Hah-hah-hah! That’s a good one!”

She was relieved that in another half-block the bum dropped out of sight and was no longer following her.

A little farther along, she came to a hotel with a lobby where people were moving around inside. Maybe one of them would be able to tell her something about the large woman and the little girl.

She approached the desk clerk timidly. He was a short bald man with suspenders and glasses.

“Yes?” he asked, pushing up his glasses.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A big woman with a made-up face and drawn-on eyebrows and a young girl of about twelve or so.”

He smiled and then laughed as if he couldn’t help himself. “Do you know the woman’s name?”

“No, I don’t know her name, but the girl’s name is Chiclet. I remember that very clearly. How could I forget?”

“That would be Miss Georgette and Little Chiclet. Miss Georgette is not a woman. He’s a man. Chiclet isn’t a little girl. She’s about thirty-five years old.”

“You know them?”

“Yes, indeed, I do! They’re stopping right here in this very hotel.”

“They’re here?”

“What did you want with them? Let me guess! You met them at the bus station and they took your suitcase!”

“Why, yes! How did you know?”

“They pretend they want to help you and when you begin to trust them they rob you. It’s the oldest trick there is.”

“They took my suitcase with all my money in it, my Bible, my clothes and everything else. Everything I own! And, on top of that, they’ve made me miss my bus!”

“I could perhaps try to get Miss Georgette on the phone for you, but I’m not sure she’s in.”

“Oh, could you?”

“Well, I can try, but it’s going to cost you.”

“What? How much?”

“Fifty dollars. I think that’s fair, don’t you, for the return of stolen property?”

“I don’t have fifty dollars! I don’t have any money at all! My money was in my suitcase!”

“Don’t you have any jewelry? A ring, maybe.”

“No, I don’t have anything!”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you, then. You don’t get something for nothing. Not in this hotel.”

“If that woman is staying here…”

“She’s not a woman. She’s a man.”

“Well, if she’s staying here, can’t you just tell me what room she’s in and I could go speak to her? I won’t press charges if she’ll just return my property.”

“I can’t give you her room number. That would be against hotel regulations. Our guests don’t like that. I could lose my job.”

“Maybe if I could just…”

“I’m sorry, madam! I can’t help you! Why don’t you just go back to the bus station and file a complaint?”

“Might I use your telephone?”

“I’m sorry. The phone is just for our guests. You have a great day now!”

She began crying then, for the second time that day. She was so tired she wasn’t sure she could take another step. She needed a drink of water or just a place to sit down and rest her feet. Why did the world have to be such a hard place?

She went back out to the sidewalk again and began walking in what she thought was the direction of the bus station, but after a couple of blocks she realized she was lost. Nothing looked the same. She couldn’t remember where the bus station was; she wasn’t even sure she’d know it if she saw it again.

Walking on, she believed she might just fall down and die right there in that filthy neighborhood, and she didn’t even have any identification. An unknown, nameless old woman. Dead wandering the streets alone. Looking for what was lost.

She was thinking about how furious Boothie was going to be at the turn the day had taken, when someone stepped out of a recess between buildings and startled her. It was the bum from before with the knit cap and the filthy overcoat.

“Hello again,” he said.

“Please leave me alone,” she said. “I’ve already told you I don’t have any money.”

“Look for suitcase?”

“It was stolen. I mean to get it back.”

“Woman with big eyebrows took it at bus station. Only, she not a woman. She try to fool you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know woman. I know where she is. Only she not a woman.”

“Where is she, then?”

“I take you. Only five dollars.”

“What? You expect me to pay you?”

“For you, a special price. Only five dollars.”

“I told you before I don’t have any money. My money was stolen. I don’t even have a coin to operate a pay phone.”

“I take you any place you want to go. Only five dollars!”

“Take me? How? Do you have a car?”

“Car? Hell, no, ain’t got no car!”

“I’m not going to stand here all day talking nonsense with you. Just leave me alone!”

She tried to get away from the bum, but he walked up beside her and took hold of her arm.

“I help you,” he said.

“It has been an awful day!” she sobbed.

“You nice lady,” he said. “I wish you was my mother.”

She stumbled then and nearly fell. He put his arm around her shoulder and steadied her.

“If you help me get my suitcase back, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How much?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“I think I know where woman with big eyebrows is. Get suitcase back.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Sure. Take you any place you want to go.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, smelling his smell that was really not so bad after a while.

“I’m so tired,” she said. “I need to rest.”

“I know good place,” he said. “To rest. Not too much farther. Just a little bit more. Almost there. Woman with big eyebrows there.”

“You’re the only person I’ve encountered all day who has shown me any kindness,” she said. “I wish to Christ I had met you sooner.”

Copyright © 2023 by Allen Kopp