Phyllis is as good as his word. He shops. He cooks. And he’s right. He is a good cook. He fixes shit you usually get only in restaurants. He even makes his own mayonnaise. Sometimes you forget that mayonnaise doesn’t just materialize in a jar somewhere ready for folks to buy. And you pay him for the food. He didn’t want to take the money at first, using the old I’m-not-a-prostitute argument. But when you pointed out to him that husbands often give wives an allowance, he relented. He liked the idea of you referring to yourself – albeit obliquely – as a husband, his husband.

The problem is that you were short of money. You only had a few dollars in your wallet when you bolted. So you need to get some cash. “Remember this,” Phyllis says. “ATM use is not anonymous.”

“I’ll drive to a mall in the suburbs.”

You pick Northbrook. It’s a good ways from the building. It’s a good ways from Phyllis’s. Nobody knows you in Northbrook. Nobody is looking for you in Northbrook. You can walk around like a normal person, like a person unknown to the police, like the innocent person you are.

Sometimes, until the weight is removed, you don’t know you’re carrying it. In Northbrook, the weight of being hunted is removed, and you feel as if your body stands a little bit straighter, a little bit stronger. The feeling is so palpable, you can play with it. One moment, you can imagine being back at the building, and the weight returns. In the next moment, you can look around at the stores, the mannequins decked out to here, the people decked out like mannequins, and the weight is gone again. Your stride is lighter, surer, freer.

“’Shanti!”

That can’t be for you. Nobody knows you out here.

“’Shanti!”

The call is closer now. You don’t want to turn around, because you don’t want to acknowledge your name. Acknowledging it makes you vulnerable, visible, known. Your hope is that the person is calling someone else with the same name. Somebody. Anybody. Just not you.

The woman’s voice is right behind you now. “Boy, you better stop ignoring me like that.”

Damn! You spin around. It’s Pat Simpson, clown face and high heels.

“Pat,” you say. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“And you didn’t bother to turn around to see if it was me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“So how you been? I hear you’re on the lam.”

You don’t remember Pat being so forthright. “I’ve been away for a couple of days.”

“I’m President of the Board now.”

“How do you like it?”

“I like it a lot. Ha!” She says, “I should have been president a long time ago. Now I can buy stuff for the building. Wallpaper. Carpet. Plants. Earl was so cheap.”

“That’s what Sean always said.”

“He’s here with me, by the way.” She looks around as if wondering where he is. And as if on queue, he comes into view from among a small group of people like a ghost from among the trees. He has a large shopping bag in each hand.

“’Shanti,” he says. “My friend! I just wish I had had the nerve to do it.”

“Oh, hush up, Sean. ’Shanti didn’t hurt that boy.”

“Well, somebody did it. I was just hoping it was somebody I knew.”

“It still might be,” you answer. “It’s just not me.”

“I’m going to give you a word of advice,” Pat says to me, “expect the unexpected.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. I went down to the laundry room the night Earl got hurt, and I peeked into the office. It was a few minutes before midnight. The door was closed. But I saw the light on, so I opened it and looked in. Earl gave me the funniest look.”

“Look?”

“Yeah, like he had been caught playing with himself,” she said. “I was so taken aback, that I looked to see whether or not he had been playing with himself.”

“Had he?” Sean asked, clearly hoping the answer was yes.

“No, but he was hiding something.”

“Any clue what?” you ask.

“No, but it was small enough for him to cup in his hand or along his arm.”

What could Earl have possibly been hiding? “Did you say anything to him?”

“I just said something like ’oh, it’s you.’ He smiled a funny grin, and I went on to do my laundry.”

“How close to midnight was it?” you ask.

“About ten to.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

The time line is funny. She saw him alone at ten to, and at five to, you got the mystery call. It had to have been him. You strain to remember what the voice sounded like, but it’s already beginning to fade. It said, “come down to the office.” But what was the tone? What else did it say? Was he hurt already? The window was only five minutes, but someone else could have come in.

Sean complains about the bags being heavy, and they hurry off. You get your money and leave. This place doesn’t feel safe anymore. A couple of day later, you call Jean. She doesn’t answer. You cruise by the building just to see if the cops are still around. They appear to be gone. You go in and ring Alice’s bell. She buzzes you in. You take the stairs to her floor.

She’s in the bathroom again. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she says. Alice’s place looks different than it did three years ago. Of course, maybe you didn’t really look three years ago. But now the drapes are open, and the morning light was pouring in. The computer in the corner looks new. The shelves of books don’t look new, but they don’t look familiar.

You move to the hallway to see if you can see into the bedroom. The door is closed, but not all the way. You tiptoe closer. You don’t want Alice to know that you are snooping. You ease the door open to look around. The unmade bed is where you remember it. The sheets are different; the bedspread is the same. The dresser is in the same place as well. You remember the oblong mirror with the rounded corners. Reflected in the mirror, you can see a half-naked woman standing in the shadows in the walk-in closet across the room. Her back is to you, but she looks familiar. It’s her hair. From the back, she looks a lot like Jean.

Just then, Alice pops out of the bathroom. You spin around to face her.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see . . ..”

At the same moment the woman in the closet turns to face you. It is Jean.

“What are you doing here,” you ask.

She doesn’t answer. You look around at Alice. Alice looks you straight in the eye and raises one eyebrow. Then she cocks her head to one side, squares her shoulders and walks right past you into the bedroom. She sashays directly into the walk-in closet and stands next to Jean. Looking you straight in the eye again, she puts her arm around Jean’s waist, and pulls her close. Jean is stiff at first, almost reluctant. Alice leans over and kisses her in the mouth. Jean stiffens even further. Slowly, she begins to relax. After a few seconds, she melts into Alice’s embrace. Then she begins to warm up. She switches the angle of the kiss, and puts her tongue full into Alice’s mouth. Now Alice begins to stiffen. This is apparently further than Alice had planned to go right now. But Jean is not to be denied. She steps back a step, removes her panties, the only piece of clothing she is wearing, and hops onto the bed, pulling Alice behind her.

Jean is half a head shorter than Alice. So it seems incongruous to you to see Jean taking the lead. She directs Alice to lie face up. Alice does. Then Jean, resting on her knees, straddles Alice’s face, and rocks her pussy back and forth in her mouth. You can nearly smell the pussy from across the room. Jean comes and groans. She unbuttons and unzips the pants Alice is wearing, and pushes them down along Alice’s thighs. Alice raises her hips to help the process. After Jean pushes the pants past her knees, Alice kicks them off and spreads her knees. Jean rubs Alice’s already wet pussy with her finger tips. Alice wraiths in pleasure, arching her back. Jean pushes her two middle fingers in as far as they will go, and works them in and out. Alice comes and moans, and you can hear her pussy begin to smack. Now Jean pushes her index finger in, too. The hair around Alice’s pussy is matted with come. You wonder if she has a yeast infection. Jean adds her little finger to the other three. She plunges all four fingers in and out of Alice’s pussy like a piston. Those little worker hands that she thinks of as chicken claws. You remember how they looked the first night you met her, sitting on the floor fingering a G chord, bony and white with tendons protruding at the back. The expression on Jean’s face looks now like it did then, determined, almost mean, a woman at work. With the agility of a wrestler, she spins off of Alice’s face and straddles one of Alice’s legs. Still resting most of her weight on her knees, she cradles Alice’s leg like a big Teddy bear. She slides the toes of both her feet underneath Alice’s ankle. Alice’s mouth and chin and cheeks are moist with come. As if she knows what is next, Alice braces herself. Her hands clutch at the sheet at both edges of the bed. Her free foot is planted firmly on the bed, and her pussy is angled up. Jean tucks in her thumb, and pushes her whole hand into Alice’s pussy. You’re stunned! You couldn’t imagine a woman’s pussy would open so wide without her being pregnant. Alice’s body tightens as she lifts her hips off the bed. Alice’s pussy lips are pink around Jean’s wrist. The muscles in Jean’s forearm flex. You reckon she must be making a fist inside her. Alice’s body relaxes as Jean moves her fist gently to and fro.

You approach the bed slowly, and put your hand on Jean’s back. Still stroking Alice, she looks up at you.

“I want some, too,” you tell her.

“Of course,” she says, “please, come inside.” She arches her back to expose her pussy.

You remove your pants and straddle Alice’s outstretched leg as you scoot up to Jean’s ass. You rub Alice’s thigh with both hands, then you rub Jean’s thighs. Their skin is noticeably different. Jean’s skin is soft, but Alice’s skin is soft in a different way. You slide your dick deep into Jean’s pussy. You can feel your testicles and rectum rubbing over Alice’s leg. You reach around with both hands and fondle Jean’s tits. You move one hand to Alice’s thigh, and you rub up around her butt. Jean is still stroking her slowly. You slide your fingers over Alice’s rectum. It is wet with come. You go to slide you finger into Alice’s butt.

“No,” Jean says, “no! You can’t fuck her!”

“What’s up with that?” you say. “You two put on this super sexy show in front of me, and then tell me I can’t have any?”

“You can have some,” Jean says. “You can have me.”

“I want you both,” you demand.

“Listen, guys,” Alice says, “this is not the time for a family argument.”

“You are my man, and I don’t want you to fuck her.”

“You are my woman and my lawyer,” you counter, “ and I didn’t want you to fuck her. But you already have. So now what?”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Jean says.

“You won’t lose me,” you tell her. “I’m yours even after I fuck her. It is, after all, only sex.”

“You might like her pussy better than mine.”

“Better pussy does not a better relationship make,” you tell her.

“Besides,” Alice says, “he’s not my type. The three of us can be fuck buddies, but that’s it. So now can we get back to it.”

“You be quiet,” Jean says. “You just want him to fuck you.”

“I just don’t think it’s fair to tease him,” Alice says. “I mean, you did start this in front of him.”

“I didn’t start this,” Jean says, “you kissed me first.”

“Yeah,” Alice counters, “but I hadn’t planned on eating you with him around. And I certainly was not going to take my clothes off. Like him, I thought everything was fair game when you took my pants off.”

“Take your hand out,” you tell Jean. She does. “Now crawl on top of Alice.” She hesitates. “Do it,” you say. Her eyes grow watery. She sniffs, then brushes the tears away.

With you still in her, Jean crab-walks onto Alice’s body. To keep from slipping out, you walk on your knees behind her. Alice puts her arms around Jean’s neck; Jean slides her arms under Alice’s armpits, and cradles her shoulders. Alice comforts her. “It’s ok,” she says, “it won’t mean a thing.” They kiss deeply. Alice lifts and spreads her knees to offer up her pussy. You push into Jean a few times, then you slide out of her and push deep into Alice. Her pussy is not as tight as Jean’s. She’s a little deeper, too. She rocks her pelvis up to meet you. You push in, barely getting to the back. You don’t remember her pussy being this big. Having just had Jean’s whole arm inside her probably didn’t help. You rub her legs, then you rub Jean’s legs. You reach around and fondle both sets of breasts along the sides. You can’t reach the nipples. You slide out of Alice and back into Jean. You stroke four times and switch, four times and switch, four times and switch. You’re in Alice now. This switching back and forth isn’t working. Any build up towards an orgasm is lost during the switch. So you slide out of Alice, and position the head of your dick between both pussies. Using short, steady strokes you bring them both to near orgasm. Then Jean comes. You reach around and rub Jean’s pussy with your fingers. She keeps coming as you sink your dick into Alice. Alice comes. Then you come in Alice. For one magic moment, all of you are coming at the same time. You wonder if this is what it is like to be a pimp. Alice and Jean cling to each other and rub each other.

You open your eyes, and they’re still there. You are in the spoon position behind Jean; Alice is in the spoon position behind you. You’re reaching around fondling Jean’s tits; Alice is reaching around fondling your nuts. Feeling your dick getting hard, she scoots under the cover and puts it in her mouth. You can feel her rubbing her tongue over the slit. Her technique is good, but not as good as Phyllis’s.

There’s no talking now, just shifting bodies. Everybody knows what to do. Jean begins to stir as she feels you stirring. You shift her hips up toward your head, and she knows you want to eat her. She sits on your face just as she had earlier sat on Alice’s. She rocks to and fro, her rectum bumping your nose. You can feel as she reaches over to fondle Alice’s face as Alice sucks your dick. Then she gestures for Alice to shift around so Jean can eat her. Alice shifts around, Jean lies to one side in order to get to Alice’s pussy, you shift over to keep eating Jean. It’s spontaneous and it’s perfect. The three of you form a triangle on the bed. You’re eating Jean; Jean is eating Alice; Alice is eating you. No one is coming now. You’re all simply in the zone fucking.

Presently, you ease your dick out of Alice’s mouth. You scoot to your knees, and switch around. You put your dick in Jean’s pussy and your tongue in Alice’s mouth. Then Alice shifts around and puts her pussy in your mouth. She sits up. You roll onto your back and Jean follows you until she is straddling your hips with your dick still inside her.

Alice says to you, “This is called a Feast of Peonies. Do you like it?” She rubs her pussy hard on your face, then comes in your mouth. Her fluid has a delicate saltiness to it, and the taste of it makes your dick seem to get harder, which, in turn, you push deeper into Jean, and she comes, too. A pussy on your dick, and a pussy in your mouth. You feel like Superman. A feast of peonies! Two beautiful flowers! Suddenly, the image of Superman plucking and eating red and pink flowers flashes into your mind, and you chuckle into Alice’s pussy. Then, just as suddenly, another thought comes to mind. A question really. How come? How come you? Every man on earth wants this, but you got it. How come? Is there a reason? It’s not like you went after it, planned it out, worked the plan, and bingo! No. You stumbled into it. You didn’t even as much as conceive the notion. Yet, here it is. The bossest sex you’ve ever had in your life. So why here? Why now? Why you? Is it luck? Some folks would call it luck. Some folks would call you a degenerate. But fuck ’em. Fuck what people think. This is the bossest sex in the world, a pussy at both ends, and people think you’re a freak if you want it. Fuck ’em! People will think anything.

So why Phyllis? He gives good head, but his ass ain’t as good as this. People would think you’re a freak for fucking him. But fucking Phyllis don’t make you no punk. In a way, Phyllis ain’t no punk. It took balls to walk into the Latin Club dressed like that. It took balls to put the dress on in the first place! But he had the courage to do it. Is that why God sent him to that faggot priest in the first place? To give him courage? He wanted to be God’s instrument, but God’s instrument fucked him in the ass. Did the priest have courage? Did Reggie?

Jean shifts, and now she is sucking you dick. Her technique is rougher, but it, too, falls short of Phyllis’s. After about twenty minutes of this, you roll over sated.

“You know, guys,” you say, “I came to pick up some of my stuff. I don’t know how we got so sidetracked into this.”

“Your stuff is at my place,” Jean says. Her voice is mechanical. She pulls herself up slowly to get dressed. “I’ll get it for you.”

She pulls on Alice’s panties and pants and bathrobe. She closes the front door behind her.

After a few moments, you ask, “How long have you two been seeing each other?” That expression again!

“Only this last week or so,” she answers.

“So how did it go down?”

“Well,” she says, “you know we have been friends for a long time.”

You didn’t know it, but you nod your head yes.

“She stopped by last week because I had called her and told her that I needed to talk. That’s what we do. Even living in the same building, we might not see each other for months. But then one of us will call the other, and we will sit up until three in the morning talking girl talk. She usually complains about work. I usually rant about being alone. She came by, and as soon as she walked in, I began to cry. I don’t know what happened after that. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing for real. Then she had my t-shirt and bra off and was sucking my breasts, and I was liking it. It all went so fast. She had a dildo in her pocket. I don’t know where she got that thing, but it was wonderful. It was just what I needed. She knew my need, and she was there for me.” She pauses a moment, then asks, “Are you done?”

“Almost,” you answer. You move closer to her and put your hand between her legs. “I want to put my hand in you.”

“It’s not going to work,” she says pulling her knees up to her chest and spreading them wide. “Jean has small hands, and her wrist is only a little bigger than your cock. Your hand is too big.”

You push your middle two fingers into her, and work them around. She isn’t as wet now, and you can tell the friction is uncomfortable to her.

You try to put your index finger in, too, but she closes her knees.

“Stop.” She says, “you’re hurting me.”

“Open your legs,” you tell her.

“But you’re hurting me,” she whines.

“Then go get some of that jelly stuff.”

She gets up and fetches a tube of lubricating gel from the bathroom. She walks back to the bed slathering it on her pussy.

“That’s better,” she says lying back down. “Now let’s try it again.”

Lying aslant her body, you push your middle two fingers into her again in order to spread the gel all the way around. Then you add your index finger. There is less friction, but the squeeze is tight. You force them in. You can feel her flesh expanding. She catches her breath, and writhes. You don’t know if it is from pleasure or pain. You don’t care which it is. You never realized how satisfying it was to put so much of your hand into a woman’s pussy. You take your hand out and, sliding the rest of the way onto her body, you stuff your barely hard dick in. You can’t do it. It hurts, and it is tired. You roll off and lapse into a dream.

You’re underwater swimming. You must be in a large aquarium, because the light overhead is bright like flourescent tubes. There are Angel fish swimming around you, but they ignore you. They must think you are a fish, too. Then Tiger Barbs attack you, nipping at your fingers and toes. It isn’t painful, just annoying. They make it hard for you to move through the water. Sounds in the water echo. There’s a thump, thump, thump. You look around, and you can see Phyllis knocking on the glass to scare the Barbs off you. Thump, thump, thump. You’re awakened by a knock at the door and a voice.

“It’s the police. Open up.”

Alice hops up and scrambles to get something on. You grab your clothes and run to the bathroom. Why did they think you were a fish? She opens the door. “Can I help you, officer,” she says.

“Where . . . is he?”

You recognize Middleman’s voice and his theatrical cadence.

“Where is who?” Alice asks.

“Don’t dally with me.”

“I assure you, officer,” she says, “the last thing I want to do is dally with you.”

“Then tell me where he is before I have to come in and tear this place up.”

“He’s probably in the bathroom.” Its Jean’s voice.

“Do you have a warrant?” Alice asks.

“I don’t need a warrant.”

Having dressed yourself, you step out of the bathroom. You’re no hero, but you know cops think nothing of tearing a place up if they have to, even a little shit like Middleman who is standing in the center of the livingroom wearing a neck brace. It looked like a piece of ice around his neck, cold, white, clean, new. Why couldn’t he have died like that young kid in the truck?

“Ashanti Ra,” he says, then pauses, “I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Earl Gilbert.”

“Attempted murder?” you ask.

“He didn’t die,” he says, “and you are the one he fingered.”

That must be the new development you heard about. “He’s lying.”

“It’s your word against his.”

You think quickly. “So,” you say, “have you talked to Phyllis lately?” The Barbs are nipping at you.

“Leave Phillip out of this.”

“You should talk to her.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“She’ll talk if I tell her to.” You don’t wait for him to respond. You pick up the phone and dial the number.

“Who is Phyllis?” Jean asks.

Alice shrugs.

“Phyllis, baby, I got a problem. The big bazooka just arrested me. Talk to him.”

You hand the phone to Middleman. His whole demeanor changes, especially his voice. His voice is higher, more effeminate. He turns his back on the three of you to try to get some privacy. “Hi, Phil.” Alice and Jean stare at his back in complete disbelief, their mouths hanging open. Seeing your opportunity, you slip out of the door, and bump smack into Jesus. You bounce off of each other like two Sumo wrestlers.

“Shit,” he says. You hope and expect him to lapse into silence. But he sees that it is you. “’Shanti,” he says. “I was just looking for you.” Has talking become his new vocation?

“Shhh,” you say, “I can’t talk now.” You step to your right, and he steps to his left to get your attention. You step to your left, and he steps to his right. “Damnit, Jesus, I have to go.”

“I want to thank you, man.”

“Thank me later.” You slip by him.

Just then, Middleman bounds out of the door and runs right into Jesus just as Jesus is turning his body to let you through. The force of the collision knocks Middleman against the wall. He bounces off and freezes. The pain in his neck stops him dead in his tracks. He looks at you backing towards the elevator, but he can’t even speak. You push the button to go down.

The elevator doors open. You duck in and push the button for the lobby.

“’Shanti.”

It’s Sean.

“Fancy seeing you again.”

“I can’t talk now,” you say.

“I know, I know. Just be careful.”

The elevator doors open at the ground floor. You’re just about to dash out when it occurs to you that Middleman might not be alone. “Sean, can you . . .?”

“Sure, buddy,” he says, “I’ll check for you.” He looks like a buzzard leaning over to see without being seen. “There’s someone in the front lobby.”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he doesn’t live in this building.”

“Like a poster boy for the Marines?”

“Yeah!”

Shit! “Do you have your storage room key?”

He gives it to you. You tell him you will leave it on the windowsill by the north lockers. By now, the elevator doors are trying to close, and you have to hold them open with your foot. The warning buzzer goes off, and the doors begin to force themselves closed. The two of you step off.

Jack has just been buzzed in the inside lobby door, and he sees you fumbling with the storage room key. “Stop that man,” he shouts to Sean.

Sean shrugs and puts his hands in the air. The gesture implies that he’s not getting involved. Jack runs up the couple of stairs from the lobby floor to the main landing. You open the storage room door, slip in, and slam it behind you. Jack is outside pounding to get in. You limp for the window. You can hear Jack asking Sean if he has a key. You hear a smack and Jack demanding Sean to give him the key.

You crawl out the window just like before. This time, instead of lowering yourself as far as you can then letting go, you lower yourself at the very edge of the door and use the cracks in the bricks of the garage wall to create friction against your body as you fall. It works only marginally. You still hit the ground pretty hard, but you don’t damage you ankle any further. Sugar Baby would not have approved.

You hobble back to the car as fast as your ankle will let you, and drive straight back to Phyllis’ place.

“The bitch turned me in! My own lawyer!”

“He was really pissed when you left,” Phyllis says.

“Why would she do that?”

“He says you humiliated him.”

You pause a moment. “She did it to get even.”

“For what?”

“For not loving her.”

“Do you care to flesh that out any?”

“We had an argument the night you and I met. She wanted to know when we were getting married. I laughed. I almost laughed in her face. The woman lies too much. She lives that lawyer shit day and night, like a politician. She has a real problem with honesty.”

“Don’t we all,” he says.

“I told her she had great pussy, but that I didn’t love her in that way. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say. She said something about being good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry. I tried to clean it up, but she was right. I thought she was good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry. She felt like shit and cried. I felt like shit and went out to get drunk. I went to the Latin Club. The rest is history.”

“A woman scorned and all of that,” he said.

“Yes, and all of that.”

“So now what?”

“It’s over.”

“And?” He looks at you with eyes blinking with mock innocence. “Am I your only woman now?”

You look to the right, then to the left, then to the right again. “Don’t do this to me, Phyllis.”

“Do what?” He is sitting on the floor at your feet.

“Why couldn’t you be a real woman?”

“I am a real woman.”

Minutes before Big Ma died, she told you something. She said, in substance, it’s a funny thing about death. You fear it all your life. You hear stories about it. You talk about it at parties. But looking at it standing there looking back at you, the first thought that hits you is, why me? Why is it my turn? Is this really the way it goes down? And in a split second, you process about a hundred thoughts at one time. The first one is a wonder. Could you have avoided this moment? Did you see it coming? Why now? Why here? Why this way? How does it fit into the whole scheme of things? Could you have done a better job of living this life?

The second one is coming to grips with it. It’s not so bad. It’s no worst than falling off a bicycle. The moment happens so quickly, you almost don’t have time to fear it. You only fear it when it isn’t there.

The last one consists of looking around at the setting as if somehow it is important to memorize the event. As if memorizing it will somehow preserve your life, will somehow give your life added meaning. But it doesn’t help. The search for meaning in life is a curse on mankind because there is no meaning. Life simply is what it is. The meaning it has is the meaning we give it. The strongest don’t always survive, and the best ideas don’t always win out. In fact, they rarely do. Those that survive are those that are picked to survive. Those that win are those that are picked to win. How do you measure best anyway when it comes to ideas? The search for the measure of best ideas ends in an ethical quagmire.

You think you should have planned your life better. Then you realize that more planning wouldn’t help. You realize that you should have lived your life as if you were on the verge of dying at every moment. And in fact, you were. We all are. Life is like that. One moment after the next. And the next. And the next. Until they run out. And make them count! It shouldn’t be Carpe diem, seize the day. It should rather be seize the moment. Seize the moment, and the day will take care of itself.

Phyllis moves to unzip your pants, but you stop him. Your dick is already tired. You cup his face in your hands, and you kiss him. You put your tongue deep into his mouth.

* * *

It’s morning. The next morning. Phyllis is up already, and you can smell coffee brewing. You look at the picture of Mom looking out at you with those branding iron eyes. You look at young Phillip sucking his thumb looking up at her, and you look at Dad staring off at the guild frame. You look back at Mom, and for the first time you notice the hint of a smile on her lips. Her mouth is set, but the corners are turned up ever so slightly as if she is stifling a smile. And Dad is looking away to keep himself from breaking out into uproarious laughter. How come you never noticed that before? The background is blurry, but you can make out the peak of a roller coaster. This can’t be Riverview! Phyllis isn’t that old. You get up and shower and dress. You meander down to the kitchen. The table is set with fresh-cut flowers, fresh squeezed orange juice, blue berry pancakes, and a whole platter of bacon and sausages. You sit down at the table and begin munching a strip of bacon.

Phyllis comes around and pecks you on the lips. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” you answer.

He gives a self-satisfied chortle. You don’t bother to tell him that it was not his love that knocked you out last night.

You grab another strip of bacon. “Earl didn’t die.”

“And?”

“And he told the bazooka that I was the one that did it.”

“When did he do that?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, “maybe as soon as they got him to the hospital. Maybe the next day.”

“There is something wrong with this scenario,” he says turning pancakes on the griddle. “Why would he cut his own throat just to implicate you? And why has he been in there so long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he . . ..”

“I’ll bet he tried to kill himself and fucked it up.”

“Wouldn’t the bazooka know that?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“I’ll bet he’s trying to get back at you for dumping him.”

Phyllis poses for a moment with one hand on his hip. “That bastard.”

“I need to talk to Earl,” you say.

“No,” he says, “you need to see his chart. He’s at County, and I’ve got friends at County.”

He reaches for the phone and dials some numbers. “Hi, girl,” he says, “I need a favor.” He tells whomever it is he is talking to what he wants. They put him on hold for a couple of minutes. Then he says um-hum a few times, nods a few times, then says, “Thanks, baby, ’bye.” He turns to you, “We’re out of luck. The chart is still in his room.”

“What room is he in?” you ask.

“You’re not going up there, are you?”

“The fuck I’m not.”

“I’m coming, too. You won’t know what to look for.” Along the way, you stop at a florist’s and buy a huge bouquet of flowers, white lilies. You want it to look like you’re being friendly, bringing flowers to an old buddy. Who knows? Maybe he’ll fall for it. The two of you take the elevator to his floor and find his room. He’s in the old building where they still have wards and what seems like fifty beds flanking a long aisle. You’ve been told many times over the years about the hard time your mother had delivering you here at Cook County Hospital, and you catch yourself trying to conger up a memory. An image comes to mind of your mother and father smiling down at you, and you realize that it’s not a memory at all. Rather, it is the recollection of the image you always get upon hearing the story. Still, you look around for something familiar. Was it this drab back then?

You step into the ward and stop cold. Phyllis runs into the back of you.

“Damn, baby,” he says, “what you do that for?”

You step back trying to hide behind the edge of the wall, glad now for its drabness hoping it well help you be unnoticed.

“Baby,” he says, dancing around to keep from being stepped on, “what’s up?”

“Middleman is in there.”

“The bazooka?”

“He’s talking to Earl. Shit!” you say.

Phyllis wants to take a look, but you push him back. “Don’t look,” you say, “I know it’s him.”

“We’ve got to do something,” he says, “visiting hours will be over in a few minutes.”

“Call him,” you say. “Call him on the phone.”

“You can’t use a cell phone in here.”

“Then find a fucking pay phone!”

Phyllis disappears around the bend towards the elevators. Earl is about half way down the isle. His small body looks like that of a child under the sheet. The bandages at his throat are barely visible. Middleman is explaining something to him, making wide arm gestures. Finally, the phone by the bed rings. Listening to Middleman, Earl ignores it. On the fourth ring, he picks it up. He hands it to Middleman. There is a short conversation. Middleman checks his watch. He hangs up. Instead of leaving, though, he begins gesticulating with his hands again. He’s still there when Phyllis comes up behind you.

“What did you say to him?” you ask.

“I told him there was an emergency on the first floor that he needed to deal with right away.”

“He didn’t buy it,” you say.

“I’ll fix that,” he says walking over to a door marked ’Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound.’ He pushes it open, and a siren sounds. You peek into the ward. Middleman is running towards you looking back over his shoulder at Earl. Earl spots you and tries to alert Middleman, but Middleman is turning towards you now. You duck behind a screen as Middleman races around the bend towards the elevators.

You step into the ward heading towards Earl. You don’t know where he was hiding, but Phyllis is right behind you.

You know you need to be careful. Earl is already frantically pushing the buzzer for the nurse. You saw a tractor and trailer once that had hit a bridge over the highway. The clearance under the bridge was eleven feet. The trailer was thirteen feet high. The truck was carrying a load of steel rods and sheets, and it had to have been moving way over the speed limit. When it hit, the bridge didn’t move. The truck stopped cold caught by the front edge of the trailer. The rods kept going. Six of them. They punctured the front wall of the trailer, the rear wall of the cab, and the driver who had just slammed into the steering wheel and was probably dead from that impact anyway. One of the rods went through the driver and crashed through the windshield. The person you were with said that the driver simply wasn’t careful enough, that he forgot what he was hauling.

Earl looks up at you. “Oreo shit, aren’t you in jail, yet?” He’s still pressing the buzzer.

“I brought you some flowers.”

“Keep your fucking flowers, and get the fuck out of here.”

You drop the white lilies on his chest.

“You hoping for a funeral, you bastard,” he says.

“I guess I knew you were disappointed with the way I voted, but this is a bit much.”

“I said, get the fuck out!” He presses the buzzer even harder.

You look around to be sure no one else can hear you, then whisper through clenched teeth, “listen, you pathetic little shit. You don’t know who the fuck you are messing with. I will hurt you more than you have already hurt yourself.”

“I hate you,” Earl says. “And get these flowers off me.”

You see two nurses running down the aisle. You leave the flowers on his chest, and grab the clipboard at the foot of his bed. You head out of the ward. The clipboard is yanked from your hand by the brass chain tethering it to the bed. You grab the board up, snatch the charts from beneath the clip, and head out. Phyllis trails closely behind. The nurses block your way. Phyllis jumps between them and you, and pretends to stumble into them. In the split second you gain, you whip around them and out of the ward. Looking back, you can see that Earl wants to shout, but he can’t. One of the nurses looks at you, but you brush him off by looking away. The other one rushes straight to Earl. You and Phyllis head for the staircase at the opposite end of the hall. But as you approach it, you can hear Middleman lumbering back up. Then Phyllis and you duck through the emergency door. You pull it behind you, but it won’t close. You look around to see why. It’s Maria Santos smiling sweetly at you.

“I really want to thank you for . . ..”

You grab her and snatch her into the stairwell. “Not now, Maria.” You slam the door, and the alarm stops.

Maria is wearing green scrubs. The shirt is huge and the pants are tiny. She’s wearing shoes!

“You have made Jesus and me so happy.”

You and Phyllis are bounding down the stairs. “Name your first child after me,” you toss over your shoulder.

You can hear in her voice that she thinks it is a great idea. “We will,” she says, “we will!”

On the main floor, a security guard shouts, “That’s him! Search him.”

They grab Phyllis. Looking the other way, you walk by with the file. As you approach the revolving door in the front of the building, the elevator doors open. You hear Middleman’s voice, “Not him you idiots. Him!” You look over your shoulder. Middleman is pointing at you, and Phyllis has broken away towards you at a full run. Middleman can’t chase him because of his neck.

You scramble through the front doors, and, because you’re looking over your shoulder at Middleman, you run smack into someone. You feel yourself falling to the ground. Phyllis picks up the file and blasts off down the street. You recover quickly. You look over to see who you ran into so you can at least say you’re sorry before running on. Oh, shit! It’s Jack. You pick yourself up and head off in the other direction at top speed. The ankle hurts, but you run through the pain. Jack shakes his head clear. He sees that it is you, and scrambles up. He gives chase.

You run to the intersection and out into traffic. Jack is right behind you. You jump some hedges, and your injured ankle buckles. You hit the ground again. You can feel Jack over you so you roll back to your feet, and all in one motion, swing a right cross. You catch him on the side of the head, but you wrist folds, and the punch has little power. He’s only stunned. You lunge for the alley, but Jack recovers too quickly. He grabs your sleeve. You swing wildly with your left, and miss.

“I told you it wasn’t over,” he says.

You’re panting hard, and you can hardly spit it out. “Fuck you.” You have got to get back in shape.

He hits you with a right over-hand punch. You sprawl into a garbage dumpster. He comes down beside you on one knee, and starts drilling you with his right hand. He jams you in the face about six times. You feel yourself fading out when you hear the pop. You know you’ve been shot; you just don’t know where. You can’t feel the burn of an entry wound. Who was it that told you being shot feels like scalding hot water? All you can feel is Jack’s weight resting heavily on your chest. He must be sitting on you.

Then you hear a voice. “Wake up, baby, we got to go.” It’s Phyllis. He’s trying to lift your shoulders off the ground. You look around, and see Jack lying on the ground, shielded by the dumpster, blood running from his ear, a lot of blood. There’s a gun in the blood.

“What happened?” you ask.

“That’s Arnie’s gun. I told you I knew the combination.”

You stand up wobbly. Phyllis dusts you off.

“We got to go,” he says.

The two of you exit at the far end of the alley just as Middleman approaches the near end. You hobble around the corner to the car. He puts you in the passenger seat, and tosses the file in your lap. He starts the engine.

“So what does it say?” He can’t keep the anxiety out of his voice.

You flip through the file.

“Here it is,” you says. “’Multiple trial cuts before nicking the windpipe. No major blood vessels cut.’ The doctor reckons it was a botched suicide.”

“That’s all we need,” he says, “let’s go home.”

It’s odd the way life leads a person around by the nose. It was never your intention to become a computer programmer. You started out wanting to write poetry like your parents. But the die was cast on the very first day of registration at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Back then, it was still called Chicago Circle. You were a veteran going to college on the G.I. bill, and the amount of money you received per month was determined by the number of class hours you enrolled. You had to enroll in at least twelve quarter hours in order to get the maximum benefit. That translated into at least four three-hour classes. The problem was that all the good English classes were already closed except by consent of the instructor. You had a small collection of poems and stories that you showed to a couple of the teachers hoping they would be good enough to gain you entree into the classes you wanted. It didn’t work. The first instructor you showed your work to was polite. He was a tall man with horn rim glasses, baggy jeans and a tread-bare tweed sport jacket. His speech and hand gestures were precise as if they were all rehearsed. Is it possible that he knew the Bazooka?

“Your work lacks imagination,” he had said.

His colleague, a frumpy woman in her forties who walked with a stoop and had what appeared to you to be beet-red skin and dandruff on her nose and cheeks, was less gracious. “You have about as much talent as a toad stool,” she said, “sans the toad.”

Naturally, you were crushed. As you stood waiting for the elevator just around the corner from Miss Frumpty-dumpty’s office, you could hear her laughing into the telephone. She was probably talking to that pedantic clown with the corncob up his ass. “Fuck these folks,” you murmured to yourself.

But you still had to register, and Formal Logic was open. In fact, only three students were signed up. As you signed your name to the roster, you could hear footsteps approaching behind you. They stopped just as you finished filling in your social security number. “Oh, wow,” the woman behind you said. “Are we in luck or what?”

“Only four people signed up,” the other one said. “This is going to be a great class.”

“Ashanti,” the first one said as she signed her name below yours. She was short and round with long blonde hair that reached nearly to her waist. “That is such a cool name.”

“Is that your name?” the second one asked in near amazement. She was less short and less round. Her waist-length blonde hair wasn’t really blonde, yet something about her smile made her feel like the friendlier of the two. The smile was genuine.

“That’s my name,” you answered.

“My name is Mary,” the first one said. “She’s Victoria.”

“They call me Vicky.”

“So are you two sisters or something?” you asked.

“What?” Mary retorted, “Do all fat, white girls look the same to you?”

“W-well, no,” you stammered, “but you sort of look like you could be from the same tribe.”

“We are sisters,” Vicky said. “She’s just pulling your leg.” The three of you studied together for the entire quarter. All three of you got A’s. The only A’s in the class that finally ended up having fifteen students. You took Mary and Vicky as signs, signs that you should major in philosophy rather than English. The three of you took several classes together over the next year, and the three of you always headed the class.

After graduation, you got a job working for a bank as a programmer trainee. That was the beginning. Back then, there were no degrees in Computer Science. Now, some years and many, many projects later, you are some richer, some heavier, more tired, and still at a loss to explain how it all happened.

Compound that with having almost just lost it all because of some asshole trying to pin a crime on you, and life seems like one big crap shoot. And maybe the man was right. It all seems to signify nothing.

In the car heading back home, you ask Phyllis, “What the fuck is the point of it all?”

“There is no point.”

“I mean . . ..”

“I know what you mean,” he cuts you off. “You mean what is the point of life.”

“Exactly!”

“The answer is the same.”

“Then why do we keep trying?”

“Why do lemmings run to the sea? It’s what they do.”

“You mean we do it ’cause we do it?” you ask.

“Right,” he answers. “No good, no bad, just life.”

You can see the sun sliding behind a bank of clouds in the western sky. You cruise along the expressway looking at the neighborhoods you pass through. Slums give way to middle class houses, and they eventually turn to mansions and estates.

“That sucks,” you say, “that . . . really . . . sucks.”

The End

Copyright (c) 2003 by Obi

For information about A Feast of Peonies, click here: www.penknifepress.com/Shownovel.cfm?NOVELNUM=1

– The Publisher

Copyright (c) 2003 by Penknife Press, Ltd. 7544 S. Phillips Ave. Chicago, Illinois 60649