PONCHO'S FORGIVENESS

​

  Finally, he can deep-six his daughter Miniona. He opens the envelope with no return address and pulls out the book "How to Commit the Perfect Murder;" a soft-cover pamphlet printed on pulp, of about 70 pages.  

  In the meanwhile, Miniona’s mother Cherona had her hands full of the little vagabond; what a fight to get her to put away her toys and clothes. The imp half complied, which merited only slinging her into bed. Breathing relief, the mother tiptoes down the stairs. Pausing at the bottom, she impresses the icons on the menu. By the time she staggers into the family room, a carafe of wine waits on the side table.

  She plops into her relaxo-chair and keys in the spine-stretching program. Her husband sits on the divan across from her, feet propped on a cushion. Miniona must have fallen to sleep; the only sound comes from Damn Sam vacuuming the dining-room. “Jerome.” Her husband’s eyes sluice up without leaving the book. “Look at me dammit. I’m talking here. That book ‘How to Commit the Perfect Murder’ ‒ disgusting. Why are you reading trash you pulled from the dark?”

  “Hold on. You’re the one who said we should get rid of her and start over with a new baby. ‘Proper name’, you said.”

  Cherona drains her glass and pours another. “I was upset. She treats her playmates terribly. She's rude. That name we gave her might have something to do with it. ‘Miniona’ derives from minion, and you know who orders minions around. We’ve doomed her.” She nods at a book lying next to the carafe, “The Power in a Name."

  Jerome slams his print-on-demand onto the table, knocking the carafe onto the tile. Shards scatter around their feet. “Damn Sam will handle the mess.” He clicks the call button.

  While Damn Sam slurps up the shards swimming in wine, Cherona’s lips grow bloodless. Her eyes nail Jerome to the divan. "Can't you tell when I'm exaggerating? I didn't mean kill her. You’re always jumping to conclusions. You never understand what I mean. I suppose that book has a section on killing children.”

  Jerome has just picked up his book. He throws it down again. “You’re turning as mean as our daughter.”

With her saliva, she spritzes his reading glasses. He ignores her and picks up the book. He has to read a page before his anger subsides enough for him to understand the text. Then over the top, he peeks at his wife. Hard to understand her, his daughter too.

  “You know that advice blog I read sometimes?" Cherona blurts. “Yesterday it said that if children are given responsibility, they have a chance of growing into successful adults.”

  She awaits his response. No answer; his eyes do not lift off that scandal. Okay, she pushes the never-fail button. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue and runs her right index finger up from the hem of her dress to mid-thigh. A meter-long slit appears. Jerome's eyes flick off his book to flesh promising welcome. Cherona shifts her leg; the slit lengthens. "I have a plan."…

  The plan begins on Miniona's seventh birthday. She wants, oh a lot, a Johnny Jim. The doll winks on cue, has deep eyes, wavy hair, and a wardrobe of action and leisure clothes. Even comes with nanomechanics for mending if it breaks.

When her father brings out the presents, Miniona peeks between her fingers. For sure, Johnny Jim waits for her in that package with the green ribbon. She wishes so hard her eyes hurt from squeezing them shut. Closing your eyes makes wishes come true. Johnny Jim moves inside the package.

  After ages, her mother says, "Open your eyes, honey." She does, stares then gags. Bile shoots into her mouth. Sour cream drips from her nostrils. She gulps. In a cage sitting on the table in front of her, right where she had gobbled up her cake and ice cream, a rat stands on its hind legs, its paws holding some thing it keeps nibbling. A rat! She could die. Her parents have given her a rat.

  "He's genetically enhanced," her father says.

​

  Trying to claw up her arm, Poncho thrashes in Miniona's hand. Her scowls match the ripples in the water. Half a foot below the surface, her pet gerbil, fur splaying, pays for his sins. She holds the animal against the bottom of the tub. Bubbles stream from his nose. His whiskers lie flat. Terror doubles the size of his eyes. He tries to swim.

  She lifts him out of the water, and his eyes turn back into those beads that make her smile. He relaxes in her hand. She has held him 100’s of times. Her hands secure him in a world where every other thing acts the monster. He does not connect this torture to Miniona. He recognizes her as his comforter, protector and savior. She feeds and plays with him.

  His desires impel themselves into her mind. Eat kibbles. Go back to me cage. Run on me wheel.

Turning his plea around, she telepaths her answer, Not until you atone.

  Poncho shivers. Water drips off his whiskers. Miniona hesitates. She brushes a drop from beneath his left eye. Her own eyes turn misty. She sighs. She came to love him after that day when she figured him a rat. Poncho. They talk to each other. They sense each others’ moods. She smooths his fur and pats him under the chin.

  Should I put him in his cage? No, Poncho has been bad. Back under the water he goes.

She holds him down, waiting for the chat that he sorrows for making her angry. He struggles less and less. His paws fold.

  He will say he's sorry. He must. 

  The bubbles from his nose slow, stop. He trembles. His eyes seem to stare at her, then their light vanishes into the water. Why, the little dear's going to sleep. She yanks him out. Wake up. Time for your lesson. A lecture is what you need now.

"Your birthday is next week. You don't want to get crumbs all over, do you?" Poncho does not answer, no chatter, no squeak, no imprint sent to his mistress's mind, no spark in his eyes. He does not move, just hangs in her hand, flaccid as the noodles from last night’s casserole.

  Playing dead gerbil to get a kibble won't work, Miniona telepaths him. “Maybe you'll listen now when I tell you not to pee on my bed.”

  The lesson done, she forgives him. Kisses his speck of a nose. She layers the bottom of his cage with fresh shavings, puts kibbles in his tray and filtered water in his bottle. Gently she lays the limp rodent on the shavings. Poncho loves excelsior. With his nose underneath, he will plow for hours.

  She holds her breath, willing Poncho to take his pleasure, but not even a shiver rises from the bottom of the cage. For 10 minutes she hunches over, all the time sending wishes into the lump beneath the shavings. Her anticipation turns glum. She nudges his body. Nothing. He must not feel well. She says a prayer over him then goes downstairs to watch the global.

 Golf has preempted anime. She watches even though she does not understand the game ˗ smack a tiny ball then go searching for it. The camera recording the action pans away from the golfers to a chipmunk that seems like Poncho. The chipmunk darts across the fairway to where a golf ball skitters along.

  Miniona cannot stop laughing. The chipmunk has turned into her Poncho. She sends him a command, Run Poncho, run. He runs and runs and runs, chasing the ball….

  Two days later at supper, her mother says, "Miniona's gerbil died in its cage. She took such good care of it too."

Nose in a site, her father mumbles, "Too bad. Would you like another one, honey?"

  Miniona whimpers, "No." She does not cry as she normally would. No tear forms as a prelude. She has murdered Poncho. She used to cry for things less traumatic. She has decided that she must grow up. No longer a baby, she does not need to share secrets. I'm my own person.

  She does not tell her parents that she will become an animal trainer when she grows up. She will make sure pets behave properly.

  And of course, she does not tell them about the guest who came to her the night after Poncho stopped moving. She, he, it, whatever, hails from a planet with an unpronounceable name in galaxy Numferriegan (sounds like), so far away that entities must travel through mind space to reach here.

​

  The chief wraith summons Xethropia. “Your time has come. As usual, woe lies before us. A youth struggles after killing what she loved. Go to her, play tribulation, turn her away from redemption.”

  In a snap, Xethropia slides into the mind of a small girl on the grid an unfathomable distance away. Miniona's eyes flutter under the sheet. She shifts her body onto its stomach. Auburn hair flows over her cheek onto the pillow where the fairies waltz. She sighs, drops into the zone that will take her through the night.

  Xethropia spends time with her charge. Linkages reveal themselves more clearly in sleep. The wraith adjusts synapses. Defects of attitude erased, Miniona's brain becomes a receiver. Anything leading to redemption, the wraith views a defect, for she has learned that redemption, or even the desire for it, constitutes a mistake of character. A wraith allows no redemption ever. Xethropia’s mantra: accommodate your sins.

  Redemption common, wraiths busy themselves with stamping it out, and, from her group of planets, trillions of wraiths foray out caring for young beings, saving them from redemption road. They treat every situation as urgent, for redemption penetrates its victims with the power of belief, the wraiths’ greatest enemy. Sometimes wraiths arrive too late. The box already crafted; the sinner has staggered onto redemption road. To forestall this wrong direction, Xethropia works feverously.

  She entered Miniona just in time. Just a few minutes later, all hope would have fallen. Miniona sleeps, unaware of the keys played by the wraith. Phantom sweat drips from Xethropia's brow as she makes the last adjustment. This must work. Failure here will send her back to another eternity of training and disgrace.

​

  Comes a day when Miniona’s best-friend-ever whispers behind her hand to a girl Miniona hates. She runs home. "Give me six cookies and a glass of chocolate milk right now dammit." Her mother sends her to her room.

  Xethropia senses all that her charge experiences. The wraith adjusts a few linkages, shunting sincerity away so Miniona can pretend a sweet "thank you.” Sweet gets you what you want; bitter gives you nothing or the opposite.

  Politeness becomes Miniona's way. Usually she gets what she desires, or lacking that, some substitute. Teachers, friends of the family, neighbors, remark, "What a polite little girl."

  Parents set her as an example before their unruly children, "Why can't you act like Miniona?"

  Of course, those children hate her. They tease: "Little miss goody goody." They play tricks on her, get mud on her dresses, make her scrape her knees, cause her to scream sometimes. They chide, "Say thank you, thanky, thanky, thank you, little miss polite."

  After months of this torture, she decides that people, not just animals, need training whether they want it or not.

​

  Now, Miniona drives to work in an electro-tank appointed with made-to-order armor, bullet-proof windows, and collision chassis. Even on this drencher of a day, the perm of her shoulder-length hair retains its set. She primps it to make sure. Satisfied, she strokes the Kashmir nap of her suit from Pierre’s. It falls to mid-gam as proper livery should.

  As she passes a wreck in the left margin where a lady spasms on the pavement, she sighs at the mess. Of course, Xethropia sighs too. Not proper behavior. Definitely. If the woman had driven with consideration for others, she would not find herself laying in her gore waiting for an ambulance.

  The tank-sedan speeds along Zoroaster River Road toward her clinic. Fir trees channel the way although she does not note them. They might as well have dissolved in the murk surrounding the road.

  Poets might write of extraterrestrial wraiths swimming in ether, but Miniona realizes that her mental construct dredges up reality. She learned that in medical school. Genes make her great, expand her world, present her with options, and preserve her superiority. Constantly aware of them, she could flaunt importance, but does not. Not polite to discuss the edge they give her over minions.

  She dispenses with titles. "Miniona Evers," suffices. She frowns, shakes her head, or otherwise shows displeasure when introduced as "Dr. Evers." She does not need a lesson in what that implies ‒ she owns the Evers Private Clinic. Of course, her patients call her "doctor." From them, bending the knee imports some of the cure.

  A traffic-sign control stops her tank at a cross walk. Delinquents jive across in their challenge clothes. She turns up the tint so they cannot peer in. Still, they squint. From the intensity of their scrutiny, Xethropia loses some synapse control, and for Miniona, the road, sidewalks, lawns and buildings temporarily blank out.

  Eight thirty A.M. The crosswalk a blur, Xethropia invades the sedan's computer. The car accelerates to calm to Miniona's genes. Although her steel-gray eyes no longer fix on the center of the road, they still cast hypnotically. A car fifty meters ahead holds her gaze, although not because of sleek lines; a man loping beside the road like a Kenyan marathoner draws her next, however not to the grace in his stride; forest-green Governor Park beckons, but not to its bushes dimpling through sun-kissed mist.

  As the road climbs nearer to the Dahlia Country Club, her heart beats faster. Her head swivels left to take in what only angels could have planned. Emerald stretches into the deep-blue sky. In that lush grassland, the right people, cultivated, cultured, elevated people (the polite rich) play golf. She belongs with them.

  Xethropia records Miniona’s whine: Three times, three times, I've been voted down for membership.

  The wraith slides her a once-learned instruct: Recall 30 years ago? Sweet trumps bitter. Remember?

  Miniona remembers another datum too: when one reaches the top echelon, she earns the right to a smidgen of bitter. She gargles some rose-infused water then jerks her head back to the road. It curves around to nestle couple-style with the dogleg of the 17th fairway. Fog smears the end of the hole.

  Out of the mist, creeps a building, quivering, growing until it occupies all of Miniona's universe. The structure contains narrow windows punched out of dirty rock. The lower part of the fortress hides behind magnolias that pour out an odor of stale grandfathers. The building's black roof streaks with slime that might have resulted from the defecation of giant birds.

Miniona has never noticed the building. The view drives a chill into the base of her neck. She stabs at the drive button. Breaks a nail as the sedan shifts into manual operation. The freeze knifes through her shoulders, then cascades down arms, making her hands too numb to control the steering lever.

  Her tank crosses over the center line. The cold rips up her sides to clutch her chest with icy fingers. She hits the curb at a thirty-degree angle. The engine stalls. Smoke snakes out from under the hood, she figures, although in searching closer, she spots it spewing from the building's chimney.

  She blames the coffee she drank at breakfast for her imperfection. After buttoning her collar and jacket, she pulls back onto her side of the road. Not until four blocks beyond the golf course does her mind come back on track ‒ those people who voted down her application ‒ they have no right to keep her out.

  Her car speeds up to a crosswalk. She jerks to a stop to let several delinquents cross over. Fortunately, informants (our first level of defense) watch them. The more active kids have to cope with adjustments. Small cretins do grow up to infect society, foisting their delusions of self-worth on normal people. They will not fit in; they will disturb life with their dreams; they will set their own agendas and rude incursions.

  Why doesn't that crossing guard hurry them on? Miniona's forehead sweats. Her legs go weak. Chiseled teeth of some small animal ravage her stomach.

  The guard waves her on, but still the animal chews her innards. When she pulls into the parking lot on the back side of the Evers Clinic, she says "open" in a voice that quavers like Parkinson's.

  The garage door slides into its recess. Already winding down in this familiar element, Miniona drives into her stall. Before she enters the corridor, she flips into her professional self. Her eyes stop darting. The small animal ceases to engorge her flesh. She enters the door. Her breathing steadies. She waits a moment for the air handler to cleanse the dollop of air that slipped in behind, then she opens the inner door.

  She braces herself in the antiseptic smell and strides in. Jumping from her mouth like blasts of frost, her "good mornings" sting. Comfortable backs stiffen as if her greetings condemn. The staff begins busying itself with tasks. Miniona's viewpoint permeates the clinic. Her workday has begun.

  The receptionist acts as if she works in a people-oriented business. She smiles and asks about Miniona's drive to work. Miniona slams the chatter. With stern politeness she says, "Save that palaver. And, put those kid drawings in your desk. This is an office."

  Snap, snap, snap, she makes her rounds, checks the vacuum area and its dilation equipment, visits recovery with the medication robots whirring about, scans charts, drills the staff on using politeness to get more patients. She meets with the techs. Everything meshes. Schedules filled out a week ahead, people waiting for their interviews….

  "Mr. and Mrs. Jed Rialto" states the form. She strides through reception with a nod that cuts the air. Covertly, she examines the couple. The wife, a thirty-something, blooms with the beauty of a fecund mate.

  Miniona compares herself: thirty-eight-years old, never married. She tells the receptionist to send in the couple. After they sit, she attempts to undermine their bond, "Now, which one of you is the problem?"

  The husband stammers, "Angela just had a baby, our first. She suffers post-partum, I guess. Anyway, she cries at trifles. The baby's fine." He gives his wife a worried smile.

  How insipid, Miniona nearly says out loud. Relationship disorder is obvious. I should refer them to a counselor. However, her mantra kicks in: Always diagnose toward the clinic's treatments.

  Why not what the husband volunteered? Her eyes moisten. "Post-partum is serious because of its hormonal basis. Unfortunately, I can't promise anything, although I and my staff will do our best for you."

Miniona softens up to the man. Such a rocker with his pug nose and whimpering lips. She doe-eyes him.

Jed Rialto's countenance grows stern. He gazes at her as if she has no redeeming qualities. He becomes the epitome of a man observing rather than participating.

  A shiver rocks Miniona; she has vanished into his alienscape. She becomes his blind fool. Tries to recoup some professionalism. "If you'll set up the next several appointments with my secretary, we'll get started. By the way, Angela, please bring your things. We'll need to observe you for twelve hours after your treatment."

  Jed and Angela thank her several times as they head arm in arm for the door. "Maybe this will help," the wife says. Her curves ripple, but Miniona does not track her sway. Her glance sticks to Jed's waist and neck. When the door clicks shut, she sighs, kicks off her spikes then enters her plan in the wife's compufile.

​

  She has disrupted glands. Yet, after dilation treatments, stimulants and hormone shots, Angela has become placable. She details her faults, realizing that she has copied her parents’ imperfections. These have come in to prick motherhood, and she cannot cope.

  Having completed the warm-up treatments, Angela begins the deep. Five weeks later, she wants to quit. Miniona politely agrees, but "just to make sure" convinces her to undergo more.

  Perhaps, I should explain how dilation works, Miniona decides. "I will not go into how our machines function, but I will mention the effect they produce. When an eye doctor uses eye drops, it is for the purpose of expanding the pupils so he can better examine the interior of the eye. Similarly, our machines expand the unconscious so the professional can examine what it contains and pull out those events, which when addressed, give the patient a view resulting in mitigation."

  Although she does not care what happens, Angela agrees to go on with the treatments. She loses weight, which makes her hips bony. Her rosy skin has turned sallow. She wanders the house listlessly. Jed has hired a nursemaid because she cannot take care of her infant by herself. No longer does she consider herself sexy. One child makes one too many. She arrives at the clinic slouchy.: she has changed from sandals, from whence her toenails had glistened, to flats and faded socks.

  As she usually does with patients who do not appreciate her help, Miniona handles with noble dismissal. She does not second guess herself because always she chooses the right decisions, emotions and actions.

  "We're done. Check in with the clinic only when you run out of medication." After this last meeting, Miniona walks Angela out to where Jed waits in the car. She breathes in his ear, "Call me about anything."

​

  Blood dribbles on the tile. She has slit her wrists. When he awoke, Jed found her, cheeks still wet with tears.

  The goal of the clinic's policy to palliate, mitigates complaints. "That's such a terrible thing for you after all we did. Please accept my condolences." After Jed hangs up, Miniona tells her secretary to send the office's standard floral.

When Jed Rialto next phones, he says, "This statement seems high compared to others I've paid."

  "Here's the thing, Mr. Rialto. That bill was a reconciliation of undercharges. You were billed less several times during your wife's illness. We always catch those things up with the final billing. Unfortunately, the bill had already gone out when Angela did herself in, or I should have reduced it. Tell you what. I'll cut the bill in half. How's that?"

  Miniona taps her foot. Breath of the dying comes over the line. The small animal noshes on her stomach. The tapping of her foot becomes slow. She presses the phone chip under her temple. No sound except static. Then abruptly, Jed resumes. "Thanks, doctor. I won't forget what you've done for us."

  What dominated that call? His moment of silence consumes her. What did it mean? The fear when he paused surfaces in every cessation of noise. Even hints of silence bother her. When the state's highest court rules in favor of allowing children a minute of silence at the start of each school day, she pens a letter of complaint to the newspaper editor. She begins to dislike her sound-proof electro-tank. On the way to work, she fills the quiet with broadcasts and music.

  One morning, she arrives at the clinic to find Jed Rialto waiting in reception. He stumbles toward her rolling a copy of High Society magazine. He manifests a secret, and his eyes disarm her; she freezes.

  Did he always have that black wart on his nose? Were his eyebrows that bushy? Did his teeth gnash? As he surges hunched over, Miniona’s muscles jelly. Her heart rate turns jackhammer. Yet, desire for him struggles deep inside. She cannot move and waits for him to reach her.

  When he speaks, he apes the mortician who undertook her father. "How nice to see you again. Reflecting on my wife's death, I was impressed by the way you handled her illness. There was no helping her, I'm sure. How could you bare any blame for her shortcomings? But that's not why I'm here. You see ‒ I hope this won't embarrass you ‒ the club has reconsidered your application."

  "What?"

  "Oh, excuse me. You probably didn't know I'm a member at Dahlia, on the board. Last year you applied for membership. Are you still interested?"

  She must have made a mistake. He smiles.

  Miniona's muscles and skin firm. She gasps pleasure. Elation builds until she finds herself one step short of bedazzled. This man asks her to become a member of the Dahlia Country Club. About to blurt out, Yes! she bites the exclamation, recouping her ego. Politely she says, "Perhaps, I might be interested."

  "Well then, why don't you meet with the board tomorrow night, say 8:00? Just drive up to the entrance. The doorman will direct you. Don't be put off by him. He’s a bit, well, you know."

  "Okay." She wants to come on haughty, to crush Rialto. However, she will not blow off this endowment of luck.

  "See you there.” He walks away slow, silence moving toward the door. What is he thinking? After he goes out, she clutches her shoulders.

​

  The gloom of the place oppresses her. At 8:00 sharp, she approaches the portico. The doorman takes her arm then guides her inside where the receptionist takes over and pilots her to the anteroom. She sits in a mahogany chair, which she does not like because it makes her small. The upper regions hide in the ceiling. At any moment, she expects Poe to swing down.

  She checks her boots and satchel, her slacks, her jacket. Sedate. Dahlia.

  In the silence of the room, the door at the far end opens. Jed Rialto comes through on a puff of stale air. "Come in, Miniona. We're all here."

  Dimness adumbrates everything in the room. It reminds her of a tomb. Carpet clasps her soles. The glass covering the ebony table glows as if something lives within it. Red-velvet blankets the windows. Ghouls ooze from their pictures.

She shivers in this too-hot room.

  Jed ushers her to a chair at the end. To the side of her, a boneless man glides his hand toward hers, but pulls it back when she reaches for it. He smiles with lips the color of blood. Miniona tells herself that consanguinity must come through the drapes. The man indicates the eleven sitting around the table. They smile through blackened teeth.

  "We've reviewed your application, How could we not have admitted you last year?" A withered Japanese man to her right slavers. A matron to her left delicately touches her hand and gazes into her eyes with the restraint of the mega-rich.

  Then, they congratulate her becoming a member.

  The board invites her to play after the pro gives her a chit. He will help take the kinks out of her game, will get her playing to capacity and will teach her how to avoid traps.

​

  She doesn’t reveal her pretense; however, after two days working with this maestro of golf, she becomes expert at protocol. As well, she can hit straight down the fairway with any club. He says she should score 90.

  Under a leafless sycamore, she stands beside the board. Her tag hangs there like a target. A seventy something, blotchy and gray veined, edges over. The sound of his scuffle does not match his steps; the grate of them on gravel seems to slip out of the past behind his motion. He would stick out tall if not slouched. His green shirt and yellow slacks drape formless. Under his eyebrows, lie orbs flickering. He whispers, “I’m William, president of the Sixth National Bank. We service estates. If you dare, join us for a round Saturday.” A chuckle dies in his mouth.

  She staggers her breath to lessen the smell of moldy paper. Shows him her chit from the pro. “I’m Miniona Evers. I own a clinic ten kilometers from here.” Under her politeness, worries tumble: Is he safe? How do I get him in for dilation? He’s old money, I bet. “What time Saturday?” ...

  Saturday, 7:00 A.M. ‒ “I'll show the way," says the president of the Sixth National Bank. His drive goes down the right side of the fairway, threading a path between two sand traps 200 yards out. The second to tee off, the matron from the board, strokes smooth as syrup. No power ‒ straight out 130 yards. Next, a muscular salesman strides up. His swing, a herky-jerky medley, pounds the ball down the left side of the fairway, 250 yards out.

  Miniona takes her cue from the matron and approaches the tee with confidence. She lines herself up with the same aplomb she exhibits with her patients. Keep your eyes on them throughout their procedure and follow through. Splits the fairway, 180 yards out. She stows her driver and, with her eyes still on the ball, strides off down the fairway as if she has done the same thing thousands of times.

  At the end of sixteen holes Miniona's score stands at five strokes per hole, heading for a round of 90. Her drive on 17 must have gone 220 yards. The lie perfect, she strokes a three wood. The ball rolls to the center of the fairway only 70 yards from the green. The greens keeper has placed the pin dead center. During the day, her wedge has saved her several strokes. She pulls it out of her bag then motions for the banker to hit first. His ball stops on the right side of the green twenty feet from the pin.

  Miniona addresses her ball by opening her stance to the correct degree. She double-checks her grip. Her tucked-in right elbow guides a compact swing into a perfect groove. Her head stays in position during the follow-through. She does not need to raise it. The ball flies straight for the pin. She glances only to soak up the pleasure, to experience the glory, to gloat.

The overhead sun adds to the brilliance of the shot carving the sky. "Good if it holds true," says muscle man. Miniona will not let the jerk's comment spoil her moment. The ball peaks, then descends with her eyes guiding it toward the waiting cup.

The first hint of curve only adds to the thrill, enters chance into perfection. The air stills, yet the ball curves more to the left. Miniona begins to doubt the power of her eyes. Disbelief lines crease her brow. The ball slides as if the plane of its path has tilted. For a moment, the ball hangs like a bird suspended on an updraft, then streaks to the left edge of the green and disappears. A puff of smoke lifts from the ground where it vanished.

  "Turned your wrists over," Sam says. Miniona pictures herself driving the wedge into his skull. She struck the ball perfectly.

  "Oh, dear," the matron says. "Death-trap blues."

  The president of the Sixth National Bank grins like a baboon.

  Miniona becomes retrospective. She does not believe in miracles, yet, in her mind, she replays the shot as if denial could change its course. Her inner eye coordinates the scenery as the ball flies again. It lands in the middle of the green. But she cannot hold the sight. Solidity casts out evanescence. The ball lies in the trap.

  Xethropia ticks off another item from her list.

  From the trap, a copse marches past the green and up a rise to a building encrusted with soot. The edifice leans toward Miniona, sucking her mind into its crevices. She crumples against her cart. "Wha … what's that building?"

  "Oh, that's our crematorium," the matron says. Rumbling a throaty laugh, she pats Miniona's buttocks. Miniona does not notice the liberty, for the crematorium has zoomed into her mind like a psychic hole.

  She circles the trap to where a ladder extends from the edge down three feet to a ten-yard diameter pit of gray sand. A crooked path runs from a service road up to the trap. Over the lip, Miniona perceives her ball lying near the trap’s center. She takes the sand wedge out of her bag and descends.

  Ordure of decaying magnolias impregnate the air. She sinks to her ankles in the greasy sand and wiggles her shoes to anchor. Despite her care, her left foot slides on the downswing. The balls plops a foot to her right. She sets herself again and misses entirely. Her lessons forgotten, she flails.

  Five strokes later, her ball rests on the far side of the green. She climbs out of the trap a gray ghost. Sand has crept into her socks and bra. As she doffs her cap, a cloud forms around her head. She coughs. Sweat cakes grit to her skin. She snaps her arms akimbo. "An unfinished trap open on the course?"

  Her three partners say nothing. The dust clings to her eyelashes; she cannot tell if they smile or if their sneers have polarized. "Too late now," the banker says. "Better face up to fate, my dear, and accept it."

  They finish the hole. Miniona regains her form on the 18th. Final scores: banker, 84; muscle man, 88; matron, 93; Miniona 98.

  Each time Miniona plays the 17th hole, her ball dies in the trap. Usually, she has a good game going and does not sense the approaching doom. Not flashing on a thing, she becomes incredulous when her shot to the green begins to curve. As if space warps around to clone the experience, the ball falls away from its trajectory to bend into the trap. Her partners never remind her of the last time she played the hole.

  The copse behind the hole draws her gaze to the crematorium. No one acts surprised when she stammers, "Wha … what's that building?"

​

  The phone chip’s vibration, startles her. "Miniona," says Jed Rialto, "the board is meeting at 8:00 tonight. Your proposal to upgrade the trap near the 17th green is up for discussion. We'll need you here. Don't bother eating dinner. The meeting's being catered." ...

  "Now we're going to take up Miniona Evers's proposal to upgrade the trap on 17." Laughs circle the table. Miniona joins in as if her mirth soothes some longing.

  As soon as the laughter dies, the matron says, "Upgrade the death trap?" The board members chuckle again.

  The chairman reads Miniona’s proposal, then shakes a finger at her. "You are not the first to recommend this. The Dahlia has been in existence for 356 years. That trap has been around for at least 150."

  Miniona squirms.

  The chairman stands and flings out his arms. "Surprise, we are just like you. No doubt of that, is there?" Heads nod. "Of course, the trap on 17 will continue its purpose. Taking up your proposal was just a ruse to get you here. The real reason is to tell you that we've voted you onto the board."

  Heads bend toward Miniona ‒ old money, acceptance, preservation falling from the sky.

  The chairman continues, "Just one task before you share the board. Then, no more green fees for you. Jed, why don't you brief Miniona on what she needs to do?"

  Bodies shift, breaths pause. The board members re-characterize themselves. Old age clabbers the air. The matron floats out of her chair and beams a Cheshire grin. She pulls her dress up. Her varicose-veined legs tap a fugue on the table.

  Behind her, smoke sifts through the walls. Settling on the floor, it deepens until the table submerges. The board members drive the smoke toward Miniona by sweeping their hands to the rhythm of the matron's dance.

  The fumes cling to her like ectoplasm. Jed's words lose themselves in Miniona's perceptions. She views things. I hit a four iron. The ball drags the 17th green over the trees into the hands of a ghoul. It flips the ball into death. 

  "Here, here, good show," resounds.

  Jed Rialto's words regain their timbre, "and there are other properties we own." His words grow sullen. "You just need to handle a problem with the crematorium."

  Miniona's skin clams up. "The what?"

  "You're perfect for the job. Your favorite sand trap grapples with it.” The members chortle. “We've had people come to us. They felt that their departeds’ ashes mixed in he flames. Silly really, how could they tell? Some sort of communication from the dead? Anyway, we don't believe a word. Still, we told them we'd investigate. We need you to inveigle the director of the crematorium and see what you can find out. For you, that should be easy. You can pretend to be arranging your dealings. Take out a cremation or burial policy. All Dahlia members must do that anyway. That will give you a reason to be there. Then, all you need do is keep your eyes open and ask questions designed to elicit incrimination.”

  The next afternoon she phones the crematorium and sets an appointment. The secretary greets her as if they had expected the call, “How nice to hear from you at last.” ...

  Miniona parks her electro-tank in the lot alongside the crematorium. From there, a winding path pulls her toward the entrance. Oaks leak so much shade that she cannot see her way; she stumbles off into a tree. Her nose takes over; a scent, which reminisces her father’s casket, aims her toward a door.

  She walks the twenty feet to a porch sticking out from the building and lets fall a knocker, which booms as if she hit the door with Charon's pole. Five times she thumps before a barefoot teen, wearing scarlet peppered with black crosses, half-moons and figure eights, opens the door.

  Her lips, fingernails and toenails painted black and streaked with gray. She ushers Miniona into a corridor lined with candlesticks dripping red wax. Smoke from the candles vanishes above her. Their flames cast the two women into dozens of shadows. "Steals your breath," Miniona says.

  The secretary's double-entendre unnerves. "Oh, yes. Our clients expect the best. We'll take care of you, but then you won’t notice whether we do or not, will you?"

  At the end of the corridor a door opens to a room with a vaulted-arch ceiling. A portly man of indeterminate age sits at a desk in the middle. Miniona blinks, and the slug flops over. She blinks again, and the man’s hair lies flat like an oil slick. He limps forward and shakes her hand. "Delighted to make the acquaintance of one with foresight. I’m Mr. Brown.”

  He nods to the teen. She retreats to another door and stands there with her arms folded like a guard at temple gate. Mr. Brown shows Miniona to a chair frayed from a thousand seatings. His hands linger overlong on her arm as he places her.

She quivers and crosses her legs. A draft cuts through her jacket. Somewhere a door opens and closes. The air shifts direction and becomes warmer. Mr. Brown says, "You'd like to make arrangements for an imminent departure?"

  His sideburns twitch. He sniffs the air. Out of his forehead a thing scampers across the desk. "No, I’m not even 40. How outrageous to suggest that.”

  Brown’s lips curl halfway between sneer and smile. He centers his tie to the middle of a shriveled neck. He waves for her to continue.

  Miniona’s words spew, “I should like to buy one of your cremation policies. Could I see where the cadavers are processed?”

  Mr. Brown puts his hands against his cheeks and purses his lips. "Ah, you are brave. Most of our clients are squeamish about facing that finality. Let me make sure nothing's in progress. Families insist on privacy in the handling of their loved ones. Miss Jones, please see if we're clear to bring visitors into the depth."

  The secretary fades into the dark of a stairwell that clouds her going. Sounds of squeaking, scurrying, scratching and ratcheting ascend into the room.

  Miniona trembles. The chair smothers her and holds her down.

  Mr. Brown speaks in a voice that keens, "Some persons want their ashes placed in a vase or other container, and some have a special place where they'd like them spread. Spreading costs more unless families handle it. What’s your preference?"

  Will the rats eat me first? piles into her mind. She says, "I'd like to preserve my options. Let's not discuss the details until we’ve gone over your methods."

  Xethropia slides in an alternative: I have to get out of here before the death trap at 17 politely slithers through the window.

A frown rumples Mr. Brown's forehead. "Highly unusual. The options are included in the contract. Besides, who’s to say what will happen after you’re gone?"

  Miniona cannot explain her anxiety. Her genes have gone wild, causing her to pump out another idea: Ghouls, ghosts, goblins crunch the bones of drumsticks. Crunch, rrrrip. Blood drools. Drip, drip, drip. I’m drowning..

  She grits her teeth. "Show me your candidness. I don't consider my plans frivolous. Have you had any complaints about your service?" She does not say, Like garbage scattered on the lawn, like ashes blown on the wind, like gerbils chomping half-cooked flesh?

  Mr. Brown shrugs. The cracks in his face smolder red. His smile freezes the space around Miniona. He raises his right hand. On his little finger, a black ring grins. The finger moves toward her, then away, toward, away, like a divining rod. "Well, just the usual. The bereaved are touchy. I don't think you will find us any less careful than other crematoriums. If I may say so, we've taken below a few of your profession."

  The cold draft returns. Miniona’s pores shrivel. She falls through a hole in mind-space. Where lays my rest? In foam, in dusty bubbles? She grabs her shoulders and blurts, "My profession? What do you mean, 'my profession'?"

  "Oh, it's nothing. We have call-trace on our lines. Always check on our potentials. I have respect for dilationists. By the way, I'm a student of people too. Come over to this window for a moment. I'll show you something that might interest one of your ilk."

  Xethropia inserts more conundrums: Fascinating. Something on which to chew. Like guts bubbling. Like greasy sand smeared over my body. A half-lover. Half nose. Half a body. Half a squeak.

   Miniona does not want to go over to the window. She does not want to stay in this place at all. She yearns to return to her condo, slurp pasta, guzzle wine and play. But, to become a board member of the Dahlia Country Club I must finish this. She walks over to the window where a telescope sits on a tripod.

   "Right over there is the golf course. Have you ever studied golfers at their game? There's a study, I tell you. Let me adjust the focus, and I'll show you what I mean." He points the scope out the window, makes some adjustments, then says, "Here, have a look."

  Miniona scans the 17th green of the Dahlia Country Club. She can visualize the foursome clearly. She has played with two of them. One stands on the verge of the death trap.

  Xethropia goes crazy with zeal, out does herself: Oh, death-trap blues. Quicksand dragging me into the pit. Moles pulling my toes. Down, down. Breathing grit.

  "I make it a habit to watch out there at least once a day. How people relate over those balls amazes me. I love to see them get into that hazard. Not a soul around, and here comes a ball bouncing along, ka-bounce, ka-bounce, right into that trap. You should see the faces of golfers as they look down hoping their balls aren't in it. Oh, my, tickles me, it does. Corpses jump out of the furnaces to have a look. Do you play golf?"

  Xethropia has Miniona ramble incoherently under her breath, “Danger, doppelganger sludge.” Shakes her head. "No."

"That's odd. I could have sworn, but enough of that. Here comes my secretary back from the deep."

  "All clear, Mr. Brown. You can take Dr. Evers on her tour."

  Miniona follows the director through a door into a dusty stairwell. The walls squeeze out space; air sticks, refuses to enter her lungs. Her desires seem from another world. Pockets of air spurt up out of the seventh hell, brushing her skin with omens.

  Mr. Brown says, "We use pine for the burn. We tried pressed shred, but people complain when they find out. It must be wood. Containers won't do, oh no."

  Miniona's shoes scrunch in the dust. Mr. Brown's smile creeps through the air. "The furnace temperature is.... Nothing remains but the minerals, the ash you would call it. For those who favor us dumping the leftovers, we have a venue. One more firing, then we bank down for the night." He sighs like Quasimodo when he found no love in life.

  Suppose rodents combust, can I drown their fire? Miniona means one thing, says another, "Why do they call that hazard the death trap?"

  "No clue. Does the pressure of burning disturb you? Would you like to poke your head into the furnace to see the system?"

Paws grab her neck, push her into the furnace. Images of death rise from the ashes, grinding, tearing, shredding. Her feet leave the floor. Her nose brushes the grit. Ash puffs up, sticks to her cheeks, submerging her in burnt flesh. She struggles to breathe.

  “I believe that will do,” Mr. Brown says as he puts a hand on her back and edges her out of the furnace....

  That night, she apes a cadaver decaying in her sleep. Having long since given up trying to understand her dreams, she traverses them as if they belonged to someone else. But tonight, to the crackle of hellfire, plates grind her up. When she reduces to pieces, a shovel tosses the detriment onto the pillow.

  Her heart races; gasping, she rolls over a tiny animal struggling in slobber. "Poncho, Poncho." Poncho grows out of the flotsam to fill the bedroom. He melds with her until she can smell his wet fur. He chatters then shrinks to the size of something you can hold in your hand.

  She plunges the tiny animal under the water in the bathtub. He must pay for his sins. His bubbles slow. He relaxes in her hand. She pulls him out of the water, and his eyes change back into the beads that make her laugh. "I love you, Poncho. "Do you want some excelsior for your cage?"

  Poncho squeaks, runs around her bed twice, then setting his hind feet on her pillow, lunges into her eyes. Miniona twists her hips. Inside her head, lightning flashes on the thunder of battle. Rips fall into her consciousness. Politeness soothes her for a moment, then rage boils up to coat her emotion. After what seems hours, a calm comes in her that she has not experienced since a child.

  Poncho exits her mind like an arrow into the present. Shreds hang from his mouth. His claws streak in and out of her dark place. His squeaks rend the air. With his teeth bared, he dives again into the depths that surround her. Each emergence ends in gerbil shrieks.

  They stop. He sits on his haunches, ears hanging by strings of flesh, fur torn out, two legs askew, bones jutting through ruptures.

  In a sweat, Miniona awakes to the whoosh of something going. Her eyes flutter under the sheet. She shifts her body onto its stomach. Auburn tresses flow over her cheeks onto the pillow, where in another bed fairies used to waltz. She sighs, drops into the deep zone that will take her through the night.

​

  The alarm blares. Sleep flees. Morning bursts through the window. Her pillow and her cheeks feel clean and dry. Thursday should mean another day of loathing, but does not. Instead, eager, she listens to the news while getting ready for work. Traffic Report: Zoroaster River Road remains closed for pavement repairs in the vicinity of the Dahlia Country Club. She drives an alternate through neighborhoods burgeoning with families. Overpopulation usually makes her edgy. This morning though, she smiles at the antics of mothers piling kids into Humvees.

  At the clinic, she asks the receptionist about her children. She interviews three patients and tells them they do not need treatment or dilation. Mild stimulants and some modification should do. She puts out a directive reducing the protocols for dilation. During staff meeting, she dirties up a joke.

  That evening, out of habit, she primps before the mirror in her black-lace panties and bra. She gazes at her toys sitting bedside. They laze there nondescript. She tosses them into the trash. She does not want to lie on the satin sheets. She plops on the chaise lounge. Flips the Jacobi slippers off her feet. Takes a sip of the claret in crystal. Sighs like a drama queen who realizes she means more than that.

​

  OMG, Jed should hit the tee at seven. She calls in sick. Draws a bath. Soaks. Towels off. Dons her golfing finery from Angeline’s.

  She speeds through the dawn, running lights and caution signs, giving the bird to any driver or pedestrian who holds her up. Her electro-tank screeches to a stop in the Dahlia parking lot at 6:55. Leaving her vehicle taking up two spots, she runs up to the first tee.

  Jed, the matron and the president of the Sixth National Bank stare at her. The matron says, "We're waiting for our 4th. Sam should be here soon."

  Miniona struts by the 3. "Out of my way,” she buffoons. “Sam can find some new partners. I'm hitting first."

 

  A new tale from the book Eve of Valor will post on or about 1 Nov.

​​

  To get the book Eve of Valor: click here.