Caution - foul language in this one short story

Wilkerson's Tank

Wilkerson drowned of his own doing. Well, of course, he had no plan to do himself in at the beginning, but it was inevitable, once he drove his tank off the pier. In fairness, he was not aiming for the murky deep but was attempting to drive his tank over the brow, to take his newly-won prize aboard ship, so that he could bring the clanking machinery home with him.

Ship's brows are notoriously flimsy; the one connecting the USS Aaron Burr to the pier crumpled like a Budweiser can. The tank toppled over, gouging the Burr's hull as it splashed into the brackish depths, taking the plunge upside down. It had not settled on the bottom in the time it took Big Lou Jones to jump in to try to save Wilkerson's dumb ass. Lou's muscular torso and long dungaree-clad legs torpedoed around the tank, but he was unable to locate the hatch. He shot up, sucking up lungs of air, and treading water. The rest of us scrambled far down deck for safety. We slunk back like a pack of wary rats after seeing Big Lou dive in.

"He ought to let him drown," the new Lt. said, sounding angry. "The idea, bringing a tank aboard a cruiser."

"In all fairness, sir, he would have had second thoughts, once he sobered up," I said, rallying to my fellow sonar man's defense.

"Yeah; remember the goat?" Nichols added. "Of course, the time he bit off the chicken's head when they wouldn't let him have it did seem a bit nutty."

The new Lt. continued to be irate. "Who the hell wagered a tank in the first place? No one can treat the military's property like personal possessions."

"The local soldiers live by a code all their own," Nichols said admiringly.

Meanwhile, Big Lou became increasingly vexed at not having a line thrown to him so he could get hauled out of the bay.

"Throw that damn Good Samaritan a line," the Lt. groused.

Big Lou affected surliness after that, particularly when nobody treated him like a hero. Hell, he had been The Man of the Hour for a similar action only eight months ago, when he had gone in after two sailors who had gotten dragged overboard by a refueling line. In both cases, he had failed to save the men. Where was the difference? Lou stalked off to get a change of work clothes.

I alerted the Lt. to the two Shore Patrollers hauling up to the scene.

The first one jumped out of the Jeep before it properly stopped rolling.

"Awright, where is it? What happened to the tank that was seen coming on this pier?"

He came over to where the brow ought to have been, his hard blue eyes surveying the damage. "Where is the sailor that did this?"

The Lt. pointed into the water. "Crazy bastard went down with it."

At this point, three Army Jeeps full of MPs and an irate General Crowley crowded the scene. The General stood up from the seat and began shouting.

"Where is my tank?" he roared. "What have you G-d-damned swab jockeys done with it?"

The flustered Lt. turned to Lemons, the Officer on Deck, in effect putting the matter in his hands.

"We're sorry, General, sir," Lemons yelled back. "It wasn't the Navy that did it. Wilkerson acted on his own."

"When you pull that son-of-a-bitch up, he's getting court-martialed."

"Yes, sir," Lemons said. "I hope he gets what's coming to him."

"He's dead," Nichols interjected. "What the fuck?"

"I want that man on report," the Lt. said, pointing Nichols' way.

"Yes, sir," Lemons replied.

"Well?" The General appeared impervious to the evidence blatantly laid before him. "I demand an explanation. And I want my equipment, now." He turned to the MPs. "Get out and take back that tank."

Five in number, they scrambled on the pier, uncertainly confronting the two SPs. As the opposing groups milled about, a blue Mercedes stopped next to General Crowley.

"Wow," Nichols exclaimed. "Sure didn't take long for Admiral Dish to find out about this."

Admiral Dish thrust his gray head out a window. "What's that G-d-damned general doing on my base without my permission?"

"Chasing a tank, sir."

"Lemons, is that you?"

"Yes, Admiral Dish, sir. I've been trying to work this out, but I don't know any precedent--"

"You tell that general bastard to get his ass off of my base until he gets proper authorization."

"Yes, sir." Lemons gulped, looking at the general, who seemed like a storm about to spawn a dozen tornadoes. "General Crowley, sir- -"

"I heard what that Admiral Peckerwood said," the general replied firmly. "You tell that bean eating son-of-a-bitch I'm not going anywhere until I get my tank."

"Admiral Dish, sir- -"

"Tell General Crow's Feet to let the SPs escort him to the gate or expect to be put under arrest."

Lemons gulped real hard. The gift of speech deserted him.

"Do you think my MPs will stand idly by while their General gets manhandled?" Crowley threatened.

The Admiral backed off his threat for the moment, saying, "Besides, there's not any tank to be seen. Lemons, do you see a tank anywhere?"

"No, sir, Admiral, I don't."

"Why isn't there a brow? What if I want to come aboard to train some of my weaponry at these Army dog sons-of-bitches?"

"I'll call for one right away, sir."

A far off beating sound signaled an incoming Army helicopter. No one paid attention to it until it centered low over the pier. The Admiral became apoplectic.

"Get that chopper on the radio and tell him he's not to land," he shouted, his face turning purple.

But Lemons had no chance to call before the helicopter broadcast to the people below it.

"Who's that on the quarterdeck? Is that you, Lemons? Listen here. This is Jefferson, the Gunner's Mate. I just won this sumbitch in a poker game. Make me a place to land it."

Long Shadows

Most of Grandpa's hair had been trampled out by the ages. What was left huddled in nervous fringes about the ears and neck. This I noted anew that sultry July evening when the shadows were lengthening and I and my wife entered the Three Rivers nursing home. We discovered him in a wheelchair, aimlessly poking about the room. His chair cut a corner and caught one of two beds, dragging it more centrally on the floor. 
He rolled into a corner, bumping the walls, backing off, and smacking them again. Observing the half dozen mini-crashes that followed, I fancied him a voyager, piloting a wooden craft through stormy straights, fighting to break into open waters. The metal frame vibrated with the old man's energy, denoting a perfect symbiosis of flesh and machinery. There was ample time to observe and make mental notes, for Grandpa seemed totally unaware we had come in for a visit. I became so focused on the saga unfolding before me that I unintentionally snubbed my step-grandma, a passenger on the bed that traveled. Grandma, who could not sit up on her own, employed a bank of pillows to elevate her head enough to see about the room. She had the wit to summon the would-be Odysseus back from the sea of imagining by calling his name.
"Johnny." 
On the third try, he wheeled around and confronted me. It was a reunion seventeen years in the making. I drank in the bald pate that wrinkled into a sun-ravaged brow, scant eyebrows, prominent Dutch nose hanging like a decayed monument over a mouth drawn in by shriveled tissues, wrapped on toothless gums. His ears were huge because all the rest of him had shrunk. Grandpa gazed up from his seat with eyes wider than an owl's. They made great red circles, with dark, dried-out balls at the center. I detected not a glimmer in those orbs, no hint of recognition. He turned to Grandma for help.
"Clara, who is this?"
"It's one of Sadie's boys."
"I'm Mitchell."
Grandpa was bewildered. His attention fluctuated between me and Grandma, in the end tossing the burden of it back at Grandma.
"Who is this, Clara?"
"He's one of Sadie's boys." 
"Is this someone you knew before you met me?"
"No; he's one of Sadie's boys."
The conversation limped in this vein for several minutes. At last, on determining that he was not going to recognize me, I told my grandparents I had to go, but that we would return the following day. To my wife, Katy, these two were strangers. Through the whole encounter, she stood silently by the door. She now preceded me into the hallway. I bent over Grandma�'s bed.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Her eyes were closing as I passed through the door. With one last glimpse at the old man, who still looked about in utter confusion, I pulled the white slab shut and walked away. Had I not been at a loss how to cope with it, I would right then have completed my mission, which was far more complex than a simple visit. Next time, I intended to pursue it to a conclusion.
We drove the brick-oven hot streets to my Aunt Mary and Uncle Andy's decaying trailer home, where we spent the night. Early enough, we prepared for the grueling ride to Houston, with first a quick looking in on Grandma and Grandpa. Expecting a repeat of yesterday's encounter, we pulled into the parking lot and approached the main entrance. One of the residents, a lanky, grizzled old boy, who reminded me somewhat of Uncle Andy, had come into the sunlight and stepped out of his trousers. One of the attendants flew down the steps, frantic to dissuade him. We were recognized and smiled at as we passed the desk. On both visits, the staff made us feel welcome and reassured as to the quality of professionalism within the organization. I turned the brass colored knob. 
Grandpa sat squarely before me, staring hungrily at the center of the entranceway. It is my opinion he had planted himself there all morning, hoping I would keep my word to return. Over my greeting he piped an important announcement.
"I couldn't talk to you yesterday, but I can, now."
"Hey, I'm glad. Morning to you, Grandma."
"Where's the rest of the boys?" He sounded like the Grandpa of old, referring to my six brothers.
"Scattered everywhere."
His head swiveled to survey the room.
"It costs us five dollars a day to live here. We've been in this place three years. I don't have to stay, but she - I came to be with her."
Perhaps that was true, Grandpa when you were new here. Now, you'd be somebody's burden.
He joined me in examining a collection of family photos thumbtacked to a wall. His crooked finger indicated a young person wearing a suit.
"That's me."
It was in fact his son, Robby, who looked just like him there. 
Grandma took me by surprise. "Is Rusty dead?" 
I regarded her tired features with mixed pity and tenderness. Poor Grandma. Flat on her back, she looked worn and resigned from the world and had been like that since I first knew her, at age fourteen. The several times I saw the woman on her feet she went shopping. What I'm saying is, the present situation was no great change of lifestyle.
"Rusty was killed in a wreck in 1969."
No need to dredge up the fact my brother got murdered.
"I thought he was dead."
But our focus remained on Grandpa, whose eyes had gotten lustrous. I contemplated his once powerful hands, grasping the rubber of the wheels, withered claws. When young, they wrested homes out of the raw materials of the building trade. I had been with him, once upon a time. He gave me my first job. For seven dollars per day I worked through eight and ten-hour ordeals in the south Texas weather - miserable in cold, rainy winters, broiling in godless summers, often bedding on top of two-by-fours laid across sawhorses. His spine straightened, as he recalled his days in the sun. He continued transforming and reverting to the Grandpa I knew, and he rhapsodized, building a monolog which we were content to harbor in chairs and merely listen to. Because he tended to mumble, I rarely understood much that he said. My voice was like his, and he was hard of hearing, so you can imagine the conversations we had.
"I built over a thousand houses." He grinned, looking at Katy and I as though we were a whole stadium-full of listeners. "That was enough, wasn't it?"
He focused on episodes and issues my brothers and I would remember. And then it started. Interlaced with the tales were barbed references to me. "Mitchell didn't like it …" It would seem he hadn't a clue which of my clan sat before him, freeing him to take potshots - and yet, a glimmer of recognition lurked, covertly, somewhere inside that pea brain of his. Else, why single me out, of all my brothers, and remind me of a whole lifetime of issues? In 1957, the merry old fart borrowed my mom's rent money, two days before due date, without coming back or ever mentioning it again. He formed a habit of blatantly keeping my wages as his own. Four times I worked for him; four times he kept whole paychecks. 
The summer we operated out of Crystal City was when Grandpa crossed the line. Rusty and I, along with three Mexicans, were his crew, throwing together shell houses, laboring a full seven days for weeks on end. After the first couple of pay periods, we got increasingly short-changed. Manuel, a fellow carpenter, insinuated himself into our confidence, ferreting out our discontent. The gossipy asshole passed all information to Grandpa.
"I asked how he was going to pay all that money. He answered, 'I won't. I'll just say I charged it up to room and board.'" 
Once, I strolled past their conversation, as Grandpa told Manuel, "Mitchell thinks he's number one. He ain't number nothin'." I truly believe he spoke without justification, yet I kept quiet. One reason, Rusty was the figurehead in my family. I kept my cool because he was so darned unshakable. No confrontations, no sulking, solely because of him. Rusty had been forced to grow up early, taking on the feeding of our entire family at the age of sixteen. I bided, roiling inside, smooth as a quiet pond on the outside. When big brother told me, "We're going home," I applauded and packed my bag, for it never seemed sweeter. In the old "Gray Ghost", Rusty's �'52 Ford convertible, with the radio blaring, we shuttled home. 
After about a week, Grandpa made a pit-stop of his own, since Grandma lay at home while he pursued the trade. Then, wondering if Rusty or I were interested in coming back to Crystal City, he waltzed into the house, bubbling with good cheer. He effervesced across the room, finally foaming over to me. "Hmm," he grunted, grinning, tapping his feet at mine in a game called "I�'ll make him move." Angrily, I turned away, for, when he did not offer money, forgiveness got murdered. 
"Well, if you want to be that way about it …"
At the moment, I did. From that juncture Grandpa severed the tie of grandfather to grandson with me, for the rest of his life undercutting me at each opportunity, never acknowledging my first wife and children, spreading malicious gossip. "Screw 'im," I figured. Our families drifted apart, not caring who lived, who died. 
In the succeeding years, Rusty became involved with a woman engaged in a bitter divorce. Her husband ran them over with a ¾-ton pickup truck. Mom grieved herself to death over it and I eventually divorced, soon thereafter to marry Katy. Seventeen years beyond my mother's funeral, we found ourselves getting regaled by my grandpa, who was ninety-seven. I had a task to perform, just as soon as the old bastard quit talking, as, eventually, it had to end. 
He wound to a close, then posed as we snapped a few photos.
"Grandpa," I said, standing over him …
He allowed me to hug him - hug a set of bones, really. They were the frame of a big human being, but the human being was slowly abandoning ship. I in that moment accomplished my mission. All the anger, hurt, humiliation, and betrayal went down like a row of palm trees in a hurricane. My hatchet was buried. 
"I love you, Grandpa."
He had not received such a hug in all his years, guaranteed.
"See you Christmas," I promised.
"Bring the rest of the boys," he said eagerly.
During the course of the visit he had seemed to drop thirty years. Now he was reluctant to turn back. We left him there, waiting for Christmas.
* * * * *
I never saw him again. He developed a painful condition that nearly cost him his life several times. Each time the doctors revived him, but could not stanch the pain. So then they let him die to be at peace. We visited Grandma one last time. She appeared to drift in and out of consciousness, not really able to respond to us. At one point she looked up and said to me, "You have a house. Over there?" She shut her eyes then and appeared to be sleeping. I kissed her cheek
"We're going to leave you now, Grandma. I just want you to know that we love you and we're happy we got to see you."

Once Upon a Perfect Time

Cold yellow walls, chandeliers like diamonds.
Your body still and silent as a range of ancient tired mountains.
Attend to me, Love; can you feel it; the sadness in our holy mansion?
See, the listless ghost of beauty walks these lonely halls
And the dust of her passing lifts then slowly falls,
Meeting with your flesh and turning gray and ashen.
You look upon her the way any prisoner looks upon the warden,
Then wilt inside your tiny cell, for you know full well there will be no pardon.
Will you sit with me; rise up My Love; come out into the garden.
The sun will be shining there as I comb out your tangled hair
And braid it into a rope the size and length you wore it as a maiden.

Ah, every star's a wishing star;
Dream you're my princess; you are.
It was once upon a perfect time,
Your eyes were cast on mine.
Your hair descended like a Jacob's ladder.
I climbed into your den.
We lay down in perfect zen.
But now the forces of destiny gather.

And your body is cold, though the sun's ablaze like diamonds.
My soul aches for you, My Love, even as it roves to look for future mansions.
We are betrayed by time and death, dear Murdered Rose. I must burn this house of pretensions.
The dogs of loss sniff outside the door impatiently,
Smell your flesh so sweet. Don't feel hate for me
As I spill upon the floor in floods the gasoline, don't mention
How your magic gave to me selfish love, oh bird in detention.
See the flames embrace the timbers and lace, then hug the lovely statue in the garden.
As I haste to leave, Good-bye, My Love, I know a mansion afar that's waiting.
Animals dance without care for the sleeping maiden there
Whose love is a golden award for the one invading.

And every star's a wishing star;
Dream you're my princess; you are,
Every once upon a time,
Every once upon a perfect time.
See her on the bed asleep, My Love.
See; she lies so still and pure;
Our love will be cement and sure,
This one more once upon a perfect time.

Death Came With Gentle Jaws

Death came in with gentle jaws to steal away the life of Billy Delaney.  

The time was minus by a few moments half-past three. The arthritic old patchwork dog on the floor stirred an instant but did not wake up. Mrs. Delaney - Margie - snored ever more loudly, cunningly erecting a palpable wall of sound between herself and the visitor near the bed. 

Death's presence in the room magnified the importance of the clock, in the kitchen ticking, remorselessly, fixing the bigger hand on the six, then toiling on with endless pointless purpose. Billy gently sighed and was no more. 

The air that stirred a moment was still. In that perfectly punctuated instant even Mrs. Delaney's snoring subsided. Almost at once a dream opened within her like a luminescent flower conjured out of the night mist. In it, Billy Delaney, once again young, thin and hail, came riding on his bicycle into her yard, pausing, doffing his hat. He rode circles around her, sitting backward on the handlebars, while Margie sat smiling with a lap full of roses, some pink, some red. The dream folded into the darkness and Margie turned a bit but slept on.

She would awaken by about six, needing a bladder empty, but she would not discover her husband's disposition for at least another hour afterward. 

Rising would be slow. She would first sit for a time along the edge of the hard mattress. Then she would slip carefully to the floor and work her feet into some loose old house shoes. She would inch glacially across the carpeting, her shoes scarcely clearing the nap at each step; finally she would hike up her gown and plop herself down backward onto the commode. 

Peeing, she would be taking stock of the coming morning's tribulations: She would insist that Billy call Dr. Foster about the strange sensations he'd been experiencing, though she expected the request to be met with stubbornness. Such a man, Billy was: a thorn in her side anymore, always with the corrosive remarks, the wheedling, the whining. On other topics: She would hope the repairman would finally come to fix the television. (Wiping herself with great wads of tissue). Three days since it went out. She needed also to try to compose a letter to her son. That would be a chore. She should demand a reason why he never answered her back. (Flushing). She would negligently leave the bathroom without washing her hands. And put a battered aluminum pan filled with water on to heat in the kitchen. Then take down two oversize cups from the lower right cupboard. She'd take a jar of coffee crystals from the pantry. Remembering the sugar and going back to the pantry to get it. Remembering the spoon and opening the drawer to take it. Closing the drawer only partway. Then in the living room she would absently turn on the television set and be reminded it was broken.

Say a disappointed "Oh."

Sitting, dejectedly.

Shortly, the water would boil and she would get up to make her coffee. It always took Margie a very long time to transfer the water from the pan to the cup, creating as she did a flow scarcely more than a drip. Then it just took half a spoonful of the crystals and half a spoonful of sugar to make the coffee the way she liked it. Briskly she'd stir and, after, she'd carefully lay the forty-year-old spoon on the saucer beside the cup. The raggedy hair dog, still groggy from sleeping, would stand yawning before her as Margie carefully made her way into the living room and the couch, bringing in the steaming brew and the spoon out of which to sip it. The dog would follow and lie at her feet to sleep some more.

She would first blow gently on the coffee, then sip it gradually from each spoonful, industriously spooning and blowing and sipping until she'd finished all of it. She would arise immediately and take the utensils into the kitchen to wash them out in the sink and lay them out to dry on a dishtowel.

Margie would next look in on the great manatee-like form, beached, covered by a blanket, and contemplate dragging Billy out of his sleep. She would be sorry she had been critical of the poor man a while earlier. "Must be nice and fix his coffee and a toast, with margarine and apple butter," would flit through her mind. She would look at the top of his head, poking out of the closely tucked cover, picturing him fiercely animated as he so often became when discussing trivial subjects he nevertheless held so dear, and she would be taken back to times of whirlwind romance and exciting trips of discovery; a time when Margie was so young and naïve when Billy taught her so much. The night on the porch when he offered her a ring and proposal, when she cried and said, "Yes! Oh, yes." Despite the trials and travails, looking back on over fifty years of being in love and working together, it had all been worth it. She so would want to kiss Billy and to hug him.

excerpt from "Ebenezer's Ghost"

"Hard hard man. You are not afraid to die, miserable, and alone?"
"With my money I will buy comfort. That is in the end all that's worth hoping for. If I die alone, so what? We reside in the grave alone. What harm an early start?"
At that the ghost howled, a horrific sound of anguish and pain, lasting ten times longer than mortal breath could sustain. Hurting throughout his skull, becoming deathly afraid, Stony broke for the door.
The underside of the cottage trembled, sending a footstool roving into his path. He tripped over it as a hole erupted in the oaken planks. He plunged into the void, falling through darkness, the spirit floating beside him.
"It feels like the real thing," he said aloud.
He slipped along by a curtain of stars, the Earth rapidly approaching, the specter in his face.
"You surely will die, unless you take my hand and allow me to bring you down in a gentler fashion."
Stony grabbed for the hand. It eluded him. Strive as he might, the hand could not be caught.
"I am trying," said Stony, passing through a thin layer of clouds. "Why can I not take your hand?"
"It's because you don't believe in me. You don't believe in anything, do you, Stony?"
"I believe in reality, not fairy tales. If one's flesh gets burned, one avoids contact with fire in future; if become ill from eating too much, approach the offending culinary spread with moderation, henceforth; need knowledge of calculus to secure a job, learn calculus; crave sociability, become married; become old or ill, die. All of this without the benefit of clergy, ghost, or Lassie, except when one opts for it. I cannot believe in you as more than a dream or delirium and that, you old fool, is that."
Stony folded his arms, shut his eyes. Having done all there was to do and saying all that could be said, he was ready to die.
They plummeted by an airplane, then a sparrow. The sidewalk rose as the flyswatter to the fly. Pedestrians, once dots, became as ants, next doll-like, then nearly people-size.
Scrooge's ghost became energized. It gripped Stony so tightly both grimaced. Dangling him a mere inch above the concrete, the specter set him gently down.
The bluff had failed.
"You see?" Stony gloated. "I knew it was a delusional dream. I am dreaming still, else I should not see you."
"I won't go away. Count on seeing me every minute of each day until you believe in something."
"Santa too?"
"Especially he."
Stony's lips curled derisively.
"I may see you, but I will proceed to ignore you. My mind has produced you. Meaning, I have to tolerate you until my mind has played its game. I shall not moderate my behavior to suit you. You shall be the unnecessary appendage I learn how to ignore."
And with that Stony marched up to the Children's Protective Service and marched in. He introduced himself to a Ms. Screwnie Jones.

Chapter Nine

Agnes saw Stony fall from the sky. She had looked from the window from the time the plane lifted off the runway and steadily climbed above the wispy clouds, as it settled into a bright and steady air-lane. The buildings below had grown small and the cars less distinguishable as they went sailing over the downtown. He was a glitch on her vision, of the sort one passes off and rarely remembers. She pressed her face to the glass; when nothing memorable presented itself she leaned back to rest.
The valiant craft toiled onward. In a few hours it would land her on a strange unfamiliar coast. There would be lodging; she would be safe. Stony's money would see to that.
Stony's money. She wondered if Edwin would still love her on learning she had taken it. The check in the brown envelope would pay for Evie's operation. The note left on top of it stopped short of revealing that Agnes would come home at the end of three weeks, part of the stipulations. She prayed that time would pass quickly. She shut her eyes as tears squeezed out like pearls.
Forgive, Edwin! Oh, Evie! Missy!
* * *
Brimblestone Heights, the place the Blooms called home, had not always been this run-down. Standing among clusters of houses and apartments now languishing in poverty, the old girl still wore its gown of bricks and bonnet of slate in a proudly tattered fashion. Evie and Missy had forgotten the well-to-do neighborhood where they had been born; they loved "the Heights" with all their hearts. As they came up the cobbled entry with Aunt Stephanie, the twins rejoiced to be within the secure confines of home.
They went upon the walk with Missy bustling, happy as a lark, and Evie with Mr. Snuggly following alongside her old tired aunt. Missy tinkled the wind chimes at Mrs. Cramden's patio, cuddled the stray cat that lately hung around, and finally rushed to unlock the door as the slowpokes dawdled.
She skipped into the room, intent on finishing off a soda when her attention was caught by the note on top of the table.
Evie plopped Mr. Snuggly on the couch as Stephanie paused near the entry, removing some mittens.
Missy shrieked then. It was a scream of agony and fear, startling Stephanie into tossing away her mittens. Evie lost some balance and sat back next to Mr. Snuggly.
It could not but be argued that Stephanie was simple. She was a middle-aged girl, with few resources. She gaped until Missy came over and pressed the scrap of paper in her hand. She stared at it stupidly, without deciphering a word. Her eyeglasses perched precariously, accentuating the look of a simpleton.
Evie stoically waited, knowing Missy would explain.
"What does it say," Stephanie wanted to know.
"Mom is not coming home."
"Has she got an emergency, then?"
"Not coming home perhaps ever."
"Nonsense. Nonsense. Nonsense," Stephanie droned.
Evie, torn between panic and outrage, shouted, "You ought not say that."
Missy dissolved into tears, with Evie following suit.
Stephanie refused to accept the note at its word.
"It's nonsense. The note didn't mean to say that. You will see. When Edwin gets here he will explain it. Everything will be all right."
"Then she'll come home? And everything will be just the same?" Evie said hopefully.
"We will just sit quietly until he does."
And so they waited, Evie lying against Mr. Snuggly, eyes half-closed; Stephanie in Agnes's soft chair, humming and shifting her crossed legs; Missy about to open her favorite book.
A booming knock resounded like a first volley of a war.
It was up to Stephanie to laboriously haul herself out of the chair and coax her protesting bones to answer it. About midway there, a second knock rattled the door in its hinges. Too thickwitted to be fearful, she attained her goal and pulled the battered portal open.
It was a ham-fisted sergeant with a crew of jackbooted officers in brown jackets and riot helmets. Her spirit immediately lifted, for lawmen correct injustice when they come, do they not?
Her joy was squelched by the officers falling back and the opening getting filled with the overbearing presence of Ms. Screwnie Jones. Screwnie wearing riot gear herself. The voice of the rat-faced agent of Child Protection was nasal, shrill and grating,
"Stephanie Bloom, step aside, please. The girls are to be seized, the father being in jail and the mother being a deserter. Surrender them or be in contempt of the law. Resist and feel the weight of the law."
"Seized? Take them? No; I will care for them."
"No, Stephanie Bloom, you will not. You have no means to provide for them. From what I understand about yourself from my research, which is always thorough, you ought long ago have been confined in an institution."
Stephanie moved to bar the jackboots but was brushed past. She held on to the arm of one and was dragged until she fell off.
Evie clung to Mr. Snuggly, who (or which, at the reader's whim) was becoming wrenched free as she writhed and scratched at the officer. At last the poor bunny fell. In the fray that followed a heavy boot trod upon the hapless Snuggly, causing one eye to get ripped from the fabric, left to dangle from a single long thread.
Missy did the most damage, kicking one ankle repeatedly and biting three hands.
Captured, the girls were popped out the door, held as in a vise, squealing and bleating. Tossed inside Screwnie's minivan and shut in, they were.
The rodent-faced agent remained a moment to reassure Stephanie, who sat in the spot where she had fallen, wheezing for breath.
"Don't fear for them, my dear. I will personally get Esther and Minnie processed right away so that they can share Christmas love with their foster family."
"Foster family? Esther and Minnie? But - but - but -"
But, Ms. Jones turned on her heel and marched away to drive off with the children.
Still reeling, Stephanie pulled herself into Agnes's chair and rocked herself.
Edwin will know what to do. Edwin will sort it out.
Across the floor Mr. Snuggly sat with his remaining eye fixed upon the brown envelope on the table.
Looking at him, Stephanie was certain the bunny just wanted to cry but could not get the tears out.
"Don't you worry. Edwin will sort it out."
* * *
But jail is no place to be when things are in need of sorting out. Edwin Bloom, having no bond money, having already borrowed to the hilt from his friends and acquaintances, besides being shy in this instance to ask, the nature of his transgression being what it was, was held over for trial. He longed for the time he would get a court-appointed attorney. At least then he would have someone fighting for him from within the system.

Chapter Ten

To Screwnie Jones, red tape was a dirty word. She set her goals and went right at them, making the paperwork keep up as best it could. Through devotion beyond the mere call of duty, she got Evie and Missy assigned to a foster home that same evening, keeping them together.
In the dusk of gathering night, Screwnie ushered the withering girls into the mansion of Nope Parliadge, a self-described kindly man, who gave "his" kids more than nourishing food and comfortable digs. He gave them moral and temporal guidance. He gave them a lifelong philosophy. No matter their age. For, even if too young to understand, the child will by rote absorb sufficient of the teaching by the time they are old enough to think independently. The child following the path has no time to investigate in the alleys and dens of corrupt thinkers and social do-gooders. The child becomes an important societal cog as a preteen, eager to remain free from every source of aid and welfare. So Parliadge taught; so he lived.
The house rested high up, like the lone survivor of King of the Hill. It gloated threateningly over the lesser houses down the slope, wearing a coat of paint like an undertaker's jacket. Most foreboding, the grounds, though neatly groomed at the street level, were a disheartening tangle the rest of the way, of thorny vines, untrimmed shrubs, and trees. The unwary would be lost just seconds upon entering. Small wonder the estate inspired tales of ghosts and dead bodies. None of it had been substantiated; just the wood owls and the guilty would know for certain.
Prior to being seated to dinner, the dozen or so of his wards were assembled in the great playroom, there to be lectured to and challenged before a morsel be seen. Stood at ease like small soldiers, they were not to turn in the direction of the grand Christmas pine off to the side. No time could be allotted for the dreamy child to ponder which gift beneath the glittery boughs be marked for whom. They were in the playroom for but one purpose: to listen; to learn.
It was quite the ragtag line they made, with long gangly Walt bending next to pudgy Mikey; Mikey bumping an elbow with energetic Angie; Angie annoying Chris; Chris older and taller than the rest, stepping on Rosie's toes; Rosie falling against Tina; Tina trying with all her might to keep silent; Arnold with his green eyes fixed on the visage of Nope Parliadge; Becky holding the hand of toddler Sergio; then, red-haired, freckled, bashful Robert; lastly, Cory, the one orphan in the group.
He faced away from them, a pointing stick clutched behind his back. The wife, Jane, timidly policed the line by tapping this shoulder, setting that body straight, cupping a hand over the working set of lips. After fully ten minutes of this, he faced them and began speaking.
"Good evening, children. We have a wonderful meal for you, all set up in the dining room. Before we go in there, I have something to say.
"You all are here by circumstances not of your choosing. And, yet, the truth is, you are wards of the state and you are takers. Soaking in our good taxpayers' money and no dime of it for your own labor, not one cent contributed by blood relations. It is a truism that welfare begets helplessness and dependency." His eyes roved the captive, uncomprehending audience. "But, you will learn self-reliance, I warrant it, and not take a bit more once you have matured enough to become productive. Any person that takes taxpayer money is not a free person, but a sneak, one who would perpetuate the situation were it not for concerned citizens such as myself. That is a truism and I warrant it."
As he studied the faces one at a time his attention became fixed on the soft babyish features of Mikey. Mikey was three years old. He had come into foster care straight from a hospital bed and Mikey's parents went up on charges. Pummeled by they like a punching bag, the authorities said; starved by they like a fever; half the normal size of a three-year-old; he grinning sheepishly, wishing only to please; he a criminal in circumstance, albeit an unwitting one and yet a criminal nonetheless. Parliadge became incensed by the grin. He waved the stick.
"You by your demeanor are admitting to being a compromised child of want, a taker with nothing to give in return."
The smile, encompassing the whole of the child's face, faltered. Although Parliadge shifted his attention and moved on, giant teardrops rolled off Mikey's cheeks and splashed on the parquet flooring. He looked with futility for a sympathetic face.
At the same moment everyone's attention became diverted by the infusion into the room of Ms. Screwnie Jones, shepherding the twins. Mikey broke ranks and ran straight into Missy's arms, hugging her, openly bawling. The startled girl immediately began comforting him.
Jane, an inconsequential person in the eyes of all, attempted to disengage them.
Screwnie, smiling through ratty teeth, hailed Parliadge with great familiarity.
"I hesitated to bring these to you, you having twelve, but I also remembered your saying, 'How many is too many?' So, here's Esther and Minnie.
"Girls, you are lucky to be given a home so warm, so nice, as this one is. And lucky you are to be given a parent figure so caring, so understanding of the unloved unwanted children, as you are and as Mr. Parliadge is, respectively speaking. It is a truism, is it not, Mr. Parliadge, that grateful is a term for what they should be expressing?"
"It is, Ma'am."
"And what do we say to this fine gentleman, and dear Mrs. Parliadge, for giving so much kindness?"
The diminutive sisters hid their faces, striving to sink into the Earth and be removed from the goodness of these benefactors. But no way it was going to happen. Missy choked on her sobs. Evie seemed carved of chalk, slightly blue at the edges.
"Be polite and greet your foster parents. Say, 'Pleased to meet you.' You must -"
And she slipped a hand beneath the chin of the blue-edged waif and tilted her face until her eyes must meet those of Nope Parliadge, behind whose smiling features lurked an insidiousness born of that hard fundamentalism that never yields, even at the tender moment.
"Easy, Ms. Jones," Parliadge cautioned, discovering the look of sickness about the creature. "You have not brought disease upon us have you?"
"Why, no. I would be devastated if you really thought I could be guilty of an action so thoughtless. I would be humiliated and embarrassed."
"But, look at her."
Evie made a strangling sound. Without further warning, she swooned.
"She hasn't took her medicine!" Missy shouted.
"Medicine?"