Benny
A Tale of a Christmas Toy
K. C. Scott
|| Includes a sneak preview of Dog Food and Diamonds,
a novel by K. C. Scott. ||
Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, December 2010. Copyright © 2010 by K. C. Scott. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Benny
A Tale of a Christmas Toy
by K. C. Scott
Benjamin leaned back in the futon and watched Annie rip through the silver wrapping. The box was nearly as tall as her, and certainly wider. He cupped the mug of cocoa on his knee, feeling the heat seep through his terrycloth robe to his leg. He had scalded the roof of his mouth, but he didn't care. Watching his daughter's unabashed, six-year old enthusiasm helped him forget about the two real estate deals that had fallen through last week. At least for a few minutes.
The living room window looked out on snowflakes as big as quarters falling on the hedge of junipers. The tiny stereo in the corner, the one they had gotten from his mother, played Bing Crosby's White Christmas. Outside, a snowplow rumbled over Orchard Street.
It was early, not yet six, but Pam was already in her white nurse uniform. She squeezed his hand, and he felt the reassuring bite of her wedding ring
"You like your new robe?" she asked.
He nodded, took a slow sip of the mint-flavored chocolate, and watched his daughter's reaction when she had the present completely unwrapped.
"Bluebear Brother!" she cried.
She looked up at him over the box. The look alone was worth the seventy dollars he had paid for the toy. Seventy dollars he certainly should have saved for the lean months ahead.
The box had a picture of the furry blue bear with a white muzzle. Written across the top in stylish gold letters were the words The Amazing, Talking, Bluebear Brother. Pam knelt besides Annie and helped her open the box. Sitting next to each other on the taupe carpet, blond hair pulled back in pony tails, they looked remarkably alike.
"Open it, open it!" Annie cried.
"Be patient now, dear," Pam said, cutting the clear tape with a pocket knife.
"Look what Santa got me, Dad! A Bluebear Brother!"
"Yes, I see that."
Pam pulled the bear out of the box, tearing off the plastic bag that covered it. The toy was smaller than it looked on television, and its downy fur was an even brighter shade of cobalt blue. The black plastic eyes reflected the red and blue glow from the tree lights. The muzzle looked more mechanical than the rest of it, the fur shorter, the upper and lower jaw receding into cracks in its face.
Annie got up and thrust the bear into Benjamin's lap. He barely managed to lift his mug into the air.
"Make it talk," she said.
He put the mug on the coffee table, then took the bear from her. Underneath the soft torso, he felt hard plastic. Turning it over, he saw a silver zipper set in the bear's back. He unzipped it and found the sleek black controls for the player, the slot for the memory sticks, and a blank green LCD display. By this time Pam had retrieved the batteries from the kitchen, which she handed to Benjamin.
He slipped open the battery compartment and popped in the batteries. The LCD display brightened, and the word Ready appeared. There was a whirring of gears.
"His eyes blinked! His eyes blinked!" Annie cried.
He turned it around. Sure enough, white eyelids whisked over the eyes every few seconds.
"Make it talk, make it talk!"
"Hold on, dear, I'm trying."
He searched for the play button. The buttons were small, and none seemed to be marked.
"I'm going to call him Benny," Annie said.
"But Benjamin's your father's name," Pam said.
"Not Benjamin. Benny. I can call him Benny."
Benjamin finally found the Play button, and pressed it down. Immediately there was a blare of trumpets.
A boyish voice began to speak.
"Hello, I'm Bluebear Brother. I have lots of stories to tell. If you would like to hear a story . . ."
Benjamin placed the bear on his knee, facing Annie. He expected Annie to smile or laugh, but instead her enthusiasm vanished. She looked glum.
"His mouth's not moving," she said.
"What?"
"His mouth's supposed to move."
He turned it around. Sure enough, as the bear continued to talk about all the stories that could be purchased, the mouth wasn't moving. The eyes blinked, but the muzzle didn't even twitch.
"What's wrong?" Pam said, looking down on them.
"I don't know," he said. He tried some of the other buttons. The volume went up and down. The narration started over. The narration skipped ahead to another section. Nothing changed the mouth.
"Maybe you didn't turn the mouth on," Pam said, standing next to him, arms crossed.
"I don't remember hearing you had to turn on the mouth," he said.
She retrieved the directions from the box, scanned them for a few seconds.
"Well?" he said.
"You're right. The mouth is just supposed to work."
"Benny's broken!" Annie said.
"Well shoot," Benjamin said, feeling depressed. He had braved those long lines for nothing.
"Make him work," Annie said.
"Now, sweetheart," Pam said, "he's broken, but we can get him fixed."
"How? Santa's gone now."
Pam looked at Benjamin. Her expression said it all: what should we say?
"Oh, well," Benjamin said, fumbling for an answer. "Santa is gone, that's true, but . . . he always sends one of his elves around to pick up the broken toys and fix them. So we'll get a new one for you."
Her face brightened. "Today?"
"No, no, not today. Santa and his elves are very tired the day after Christmas. But tomorrow."
"But I want him to talk now!"
"Why don't we open another one of your gifts," Pam said.
"But Mom!"
"Here, look at this one. It's certainly heavy. Why don't you open it?"
Annie stuck out her lower lip, but didn't resist the square package Pam held out to her. She opened this one more slowly, frowning each time she looked up, but once she had it unwrapped, her expression changed.
"A new bouncy ball!"
"Go ahead and open it," Pam said.
His wife took a seat next to him on the couch, placing her hand on his knee. Together they watched their daughter take the smooth green ball out of the cardboard container.
Annie sprang to her feet.
"I need to get my red one too," she said, and raced out of the room.
"Dear, wait—" Pam began, but her daughter had already disappeared down the hall. When she was gone, she turned to Benjamin. "So where did you get it?"
"Bluebear?"
"Yes, did you get it at Penny's?"
"No, Lindel's."
"Think they'll be open tomorrow?"
"Probably. I'll take it back first thing in the—"
Benjamin saw his daughter's shadow at his feet. He turned, and there she was, looking shocked and confused. The cassette player clicked as it came to the end of the tape, the room silent except for a car sloshing over the street outside.
"Oh dear," Pam said. "I thought you were going to get your ball?"
"I thought Santa bought it," Annie said. "It said Santa on the card."
"Well, he did," Benjamin said. "He just — he couldn't pack it in his sleigh this year because he was so loaded down, so he sent money to us, and—"
"Dear," Pam said.
"—and, so we, uh, we bought it for him, and—"
"Dear," Pam said. "Please. It's one thing to let her harbor a harmless fantasy, and another thing to lie blatantly. It's okay. It's time."
"Lie?" Annie said.
"You're old enough now to know the truth," Pam said. "I'm sorry, dear, but there's no Santa Claus. That's just make believe for kids. Your Mommy and Daddy buy everything for you because they love you."
It was one of those moments Benjamin would remember for the rest of his life. How his daughter's perfect skin seemed iridescent in the wan, gray light from outside. How the light in her eyes, always watery and shimmering, seemed to dim. How her narrow shoulders slumped as if she had been dealt a terrible blow.
It tore Benjamin up inside. He wished she could have gone on believing the fantasy for another year or two.
"I'm sorry, honey," Pam said. "Are you okay?"
Annie nodded.
"I'm really sorry," Benjamin said. "I didn't want it to slip out."
She looked up, stared at them both for a long moment, and then said with utter seriousness, "I'm glad I know."
"You are?" Benjamin said.
"Because," Annie said. "Because what if . . . what if I grew up and I became a Mommy, and what if I never knew that there was no Santa? Then I would be waiting for Santa to bring the presents for my kids, but he wouldn't come. Everybody would be sad. So I'm glad I know."
Pam squeezed Benjamin's hand, but she didn't speak. Benjamin opened his mouth to say something, but his throat had constricted.
"So if there's no Santa," Annie said, "who takes care of Rudolph?"
* * * * *
The next morning, Benjamin took the bear and headed downtown. Pam had the day off. She and Annie were playing a new board game his Aunt Francis had sent them, while also baking chocolate chip cookies and a poppy seed cake for dinner with his parents on Saturday. It was hard to leave the house with such wonderful aromas in the air, but on the other hand it was good to get away from his desk. He was getting bleary-eyed and depressed going over his bleak prospects.
It was no longer snowing. A light breeze swirled the powdery snow over the street. It was rare for it to snow in Rexton, Oregon, but Benjamin had grown up in Minnesota, and he found blanket of white refreshing. Traffic was light. The snow crunched underneath the studded tires of his Ford Ranger. He drove slowly, not because he was unaccustomed to driving in such conditions, but because most of the other drivers were.
The fans kicked out a stream of cool air. He fiddled with the controls with his bare, numb fingers, trying to get the heater to work. He had wanted to get it looked at before the winter, but it was just another thing that got put to the backburner until they got more money.
The truck hit a bump in the road, jostling Benjamin and the Lindel's bag sitting next to him.
There was a whirring from inside the bag, and then the boyish voice started up:
"Hello, I'm Bluebear Brother. I have lots of stories to tell. If you would like to hear a story . . ."
The noise startled Benjamin. When he realized what it was, he laughed. At the next red light, he reached into the bag and pulled out the bear. He turned off the player and set the bear on the vinyl seat next to him.
"You gave me quite a scare, Benny," he said.
The bear, staring forward impassively, rocked back and forth when they hit a pothole. The short fibers on its muzzle rustled in the stream of air blowing from the vent.
Benjamin realized he was talking to a toy, and felt sheepish. He remembered when he was kid, he had a yellow lion he took everywhere. Yellow with a purple mane. Milo. That's what he named him. He wondered what happened to that old lion. He had many intimate conversations with him.
Then he thought, what the heck. He had to talk about his problems to somebody. Pam was too much of a worrier, and there was no way he could afford a therapist. Or stand to bare his soul to one.
If he didn't get this weight off his shoulders, he was going to go nuts.
"I don't know what I'm going to do, Benny," he said. "The credit cards are maxed. My leads are all terrible. If I don't . . ."
He trailed off as he passed a yellow sedan, the woman inside gaping at him.
"This is nuts," he said. But he felt the urge to continue: "Gotta do something, Benny. Find some money. Maybe I should take another job. Real estate market is in the toilet. I could always go back to bartending. What do you think? Think I can do it and not drink? I think I'm beyond those days, don't you?"
He looked at the bear, then chuckled when he realized he was waiting for an answer.
"Well, you're probably right," he said. "Not a good idea. And Pam would never allow it. But something. Maybe I could work as a night stocker at the grocery store. I could also ask for a loan from Dad, but I've already borrowed so much when we bought the house . . ."
He paused as he noticed a man on a motorcycle staring at him. After it rumbled passed, he continued.
"Maybe I need to bag this whole real estate gig altogether," he said. "It was just a pipe dream, being my own broker. Think I'm crazy doing this?"
His pondered his own question the rest of the way to the store. Pam definitely would have preferred he get the typical nine to five job complete with benefits and 401K, but that just hadn't been his style. He'd done that. Felt suffocated. But now things were looking bleak, and he had both Pam and Annie to worry about. He had to quell his restless spirit. All this worrying wasn't helping anything. And then on top of that, he was never around. Annie was growing up right under his eyes.
He was still pondering the question as he parked in the parking garage, weaved through the hustling post-Christmas crowds of Lindel's, and down to the basement where the toy shop was. A piano instrumental of "Jingle Bells" played over the store speakers. He found another Bluebear Brother in the toy section, then fell into a line leading up to the counter.
"Exchange, sir?"
He looked up. A brunette in a sharp gray suit looked at him expectantly. He nodded and placed the Lindel's bag on the counter, along with the new Bluebear Brother.
"Yes, I need to return this," he said. "Its mouth doesn't work. I want this one."
The girl was taking the broken Bluebear out of the bag. As he watched her, something didn't feel right. It was crazy, but he didn't want to give up the original Bluebear. Benny. But he had to take something back to Annie. He couldn't bring back the broken one.
"Wait," he said.
"Sir?"
"Don't do an exchange."
"Hmm? Why?"
"I'll buy the new one, but I want to keep the old one."
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand."
"I want them both. Just ring up the new one, okay?"
He heard the tension in his own voice, and he was embarrassed by it. It was just a silly bear. Why was he acting this way?
The woman shrugged. She handed him Benny, then rang up the new Bluebear Brother.
Benjamin paid with cash. He didn't want Pam seeing it on his credit card statement.
* * * * *
Annie loved her new Bluebear Brother. She decided to name this one Ryan, since there was a boy in kindergarten named Ryan she liked. Over the next year, they bought her a dozen different story sticks, and she listened to them all until both Benjamin and Pam were sick of them. Hansel and Grettle. Jack in the Beanstalk. Rip Van Winkle. All the old classic fairy tales. But like so many of her toys, she lost interest in it, moving on to tiny toy figures she collected by the dozens. At some point, her Bluebear Brother was knocked off her shelf, and from that point on the player didn't work. By the following Christmas, it ended up in a box left out for the Salvation Army.
But Benjamin kept his Bluebear Brother. He hid it the back of the closet in his attic office, in a box marked, "Old Files."
When his troubles threatened to overwhelm him, and when no one was around, he took it out and talked to it.
About his problems.
About his dreams.
About how he didn't think he was much of a father.
It always made him feel better talking to Benny.
He never imagined Benny was listening.
* * * * *
For Annie's eighth birthday in February, they bought her a bike. It was a red single-speed, with a banana seat and jingling bell, and small enough that he couldn't ride it without bumping his knees on the handlebars. She rode it for a few months with training wheels, but she kept pestering Benjamin to teach her how to ride it without them. She said the other kids made fun of her.
The market had turned, and he had lots of listings now, so he was having a hard time finding the time. Finally, on a spring day in March, and after much nagging from Pam, he relented.
After he brought her home from kindergarten, they walked her bike down the driveway past the rhododendrons blooming bright red, crossed Orchard Street, which was too busy for her to ride on, to the flat section of Trellis Avenue.
The sun glistened on the newly-paved black asphalt. To the left, out in front of the weathered brick cottage lived in for the past twenty years by Mrs. Gornan, a widow, was a grove of apple trees in full bloom. The white petals spotted the tall wet grass. The rest of the houses were simple, one-floor ranches, on much smaller lots, and lined Trellis Street up and over the hill. Their own house was up on a little bluff, and he could see the top windows of the second floor — where his office was — peeking over the arbor vita. The pine shadowing the house listed back and forth in the breeze.
There was no one else outside. He helped Annie on the bike, gripping the metal bar in the back. They had mopped off the bike with a towel, but the bar was still cool and damp from being left out on the back deck at night.
"Sure you're ready for this, pumpkin?" he said.
"Oh yes, Daddy."
Not even a hint of fear in her voice. So like her mother that way.
"Okay, let's practice a bit," he said. "Concentrate on staying balanced."
She bent low like a racer, grasping the handlebars so tightly her knuckles turned white. The sun glared off her yellow helmet. He pushed her up and down the street a few times, holding the bar the whole time.
"Ready to try a little?"
"Okay."
He waited until they faced away from Orchard Street, then let go for a few seconds. When she started to wobble, he grabbed the bar again.
"You did it there."
"I did?"
"You did."
"Do it again."
He let go. This time, because she seemed to be doing so well, he let her get a little ahead of him. It turned out to be a mistake. Annie rode for a little ways, then turned and rode inexplicably into the curb. A second later she was on the ground, balling, her elbows bleeding.
He pulled the bike off her and helped her to her feet. Pulling her against his chest, he said, "It's okay, honey. Shh."
When she stopped crying, he turned them back toward the house.
That's when he saw Benny.
Later, he would replay the moment a hundred times in his mind. There was something blue in his office window, something obscured by the glint of the sun. At first, he thought it was a trick of light, but as he peered closer he saw the blue fur. The white muzzle. The black shiny eyes. It was standing in the windowsill, looking directly at them.
Benny.
His breath caught in his throat. He stopped walking. It was just standing there, not moving. It must have been a joke. Pam's joke. He started to laugh. Annie tugged on the leg of his jeans.
"What's wrong?"
He glanced down at her — only a second, hardly long enough to blink — and then looked back up at his office window.
Benny was gone.
"I thought I saw . . ."
He didn't finish. It was crazy.
* * * * *
After cleaning Annie up and sitting her down in front of the television with some grape Kool-Aid, he climbed the creaky wooden stairs to his office. He couldn't stop thinking about what he saw. He could have tossed it off as a practical joke by Pam — she didn't do many, but she surprised him now and then — but then it vanished with no one in the house. There was no way to explain that.
The office, an attic conversion with little ventilation, was cramped and warm. It was bad enough in the spring, but by the summer it would be so sweltering that he would barely be able to stand being in it.
He was surprised to find his heart pounding as he flicked on the light. Mounds of paper covered his faux-pine desk and two metal filing cabinets, but nothing looked disturbed. The sliding closet door was shut just as he'd left it.
Nervously, he slid open the door and peered into the shadowy interior. The walls inside were unfinished wood, and smelled strongly of pine. His plastic bins, his white filing boxes, even his guitar — all were as he left them. He opened the "Old Files" box and looked cautiously inside.
Benny was there, lifeless and still on his back, just as Benjamin left him. What, four days ago?
He pulled Benny, gently massaging the soft fur with his thumbs.
"Are you getting out of your box?" he said.
He looked for any reaction in the toy. The eyes stared upward, lifeless. This was nuts. It was crazy enough talking to it, but now he was thinking it was alive.
Turning it over, he unzipped the back pouch and checked the batteries. As he expected, they were missing. He had taken them out and used them in Annie's Bluebear Brother, and never bothered to replace the ones in Benny.
He settled into his squeaky swivel chair, placing the toy, sitting, on the desk in front of him. The shadow from the paned window behind him cast a dark stripe over the bear's eyes, as if it was wearing mask.
"I saw you from the window, Benny," he said. "I saw you watching. What are you up to?"
The bear didn't answer. Benjamin sat there a long time, studying his own distorted reflection in the bear's eyes.
He was going to toss it off as a fluke of his tired mind. Too much work. Too little sleep. And after a few weeks, he'd convinced himself this was true
Then there was the accident.
* * * * *
Three months later, Benjamin was on the phone in his office, trying to arrange a pest and dry rot inspection on a golf course house that would be a whopper payday when it sold. The oscillating fan on his desk cooled his face, but felt the beads of sweat rolling down his back. Through the open window, he listened to Annie playing with some of the neighborhood kids across the street.
Now and then he glanced outside and saw her riding her bike up and down Trellis Avenue, so proud without her training wheels. He thought she'd be fine. With school out, there were plenty of kids out there.
When he got off the phone, his throat parched, he went downstairs to get something to drink. He drank two glasses of ice water, and, feeling a little punch drunk, sat to rest on the couch. His cotton shirt stuck to his back. Outside, he heard children laughing and yelling. The stillness of the house lulled him to sleep.
A loud crash outside snapped him awake.
His heart pounding, he sat there, taking in the sounds: a car horn blaring non-stop, children screaming, a girl crying . . .
His girl.
Annie.
He rushed outside. Using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he looked down the drive. There, to his horror, he saw Annie in the middle of the street. The red bike was draped over her.
He ran down the drive. He looked for the car, knowing he heard a car, and saw it down at the end of the street — a green Ford Thunderbird, an older model from the eighties, crumpled against a telephone poll. It was facing their way, and it looked like it hadn't made it to Annie. The horn continued to blare. Behind the glare of the sun on the cracked windshield, he saw someone moving.
First, he had to make sure Annie was all right. As he closed in on her, he was relieved to see her move. She was crying, holding a bloody elbow. Some of the other kids were pulling the bike off her.
"Annie?" he said.
He helped her to her feet. Still crying, she grabbed onto him. He lead her away from the bike. Rick, a teenager from over the hill, rolled her bike out of the street.
Annie didn't seem to be limping.
"Are you all right, honey?" he said.
"Went . . . down the hill . . . too fast."
"Rick, can you watch her for a moment? I need to check the guy down the street."
"Sure."
"Don't leave me, Daddy."
"I'll be right back, honey." He looked at one of the other kids — a curly-haired brunette that was probably the second-oldest there. "I want you to go home and call 9-1-1, okay?"
She nodded and sprinted away. Benjamin left Annie and ran full bore for the Thunderbird. The front end was a mess, the grill wrapped around the pole. The driver-side window was rolled down, and when he got there he saw it was a woman dressed in a butterfly-print silk bathrobe and pink curlers. She looked up at him, dazed, her eyes bloodshot. She slumped back into her seat, and the horn went silent.
"Did I . . . miss it?" she said.
The alcohol hit him like a smack in the face. He clenched his fists, biting back his rage.
"My daughter's fine," he said. And when she started to open the door, he held it closed, adding, "Just stay seated. You might have a neck injury. An ambulance will be—"
"Where is it?"
He had no idea what she was talking about. "How do you feel?" he said. "Did you hit your—"
"I didn't hit it, did I?"
"Hit what?"
"I came up over the hill . . . Something blue and small running across the road. I tried . . . to swerve . . . Never seen a blue and white cat before."
Until then, Benjamin was willing to toss it off as drunken rambling, but when she said blue and white he knew it was more than that. His mouth went dry.
"Did it look like a little bear?" he said.
She shot him a surprised look. "Yeah, that's right. A bear. That's what it was. A little bear."
* * * * *
The ambulance came and went, taking the woman away for observation. Annie's wounds were superficial, but Pam came home early anyway. When he explained what happened, all Pam could say was how lucky Annie was the woman swerved first. What if she had kept coming? Benjamin agreed, but he knew it had nothing to do with luck. And later that night, when both Annie and Pam were in bed, he crept up to his office to see Benny.
He tried to walk softly, so the floorboards wouldn't creak. The air was thick and humid. When he entered his office, the moonlight cast his desk and chair with a soft white glow. He didn't bother turning on the light.
Again, he reached into the back of the closet and pulled out the "Old Files" box. Again, opening it, he found Benny exactly as he had left him. This time, as he reached for it, he saw that his fingers were trembling.
He pulled the bear out and looked at it in the dim light. Inside the black plastic eyes, two white pinpricks — little moons — shined up at him.
"Did you save her?" he said.
He waited a long time for an answer. When none came, he held the mouth of the bear up to his ear. He stood there, listening to the beat of his own heart, but the bear didn't speak.
But as he put the bear back into the box, he noticed something there in the box. Something green and small and thin.
He picked it up.
It was a blade of grass.
* * * * *
He never told Annie or Pam about Benny. Over the years, nothing so dramatic happened again, but there were other things. Things known only to him that made him wonder: was Benny behind this? Lost keys. Did Benny not want them to drive that day? An accident avoided perhaps? A thud as they were leaving the house. Going back, he would find he forgot to lock the door. Would a thief have gotten inside? A spot of water next to Annie's goldfish bowl. Did the fish jump out and Benny put it back inside? When she was older, in high school, her Geography textbook turned up missing. A few days later a boy from school, who happened to live a few streets away, came to the door with it. He found it in front of his house. Annie swore she had never walked by that street.
She ended up going to the prom with him.
All along, Benjamin he kept talking to Benny. He never told anyone. It was still his little secret.
He told Benny everything.
He knew Benny was watching Annie.
Keeping her safe.
* * * * *
They stayed in the house on Orchard Street, never seeing a reason to move, but over time their finances got better and better. They remolded the kitchen. Bought new leather furniture. Benjamin even owned some rental properties of his own, a few houses on the East side. A twenty-seven foot sailboat on Detroit lake. A '67 Corvette in the garage. His own company, with four realtors working under him. He hadn't talked much to Benny the last few years, because he didn't need to. He was happy.
Except that his daughter was leaving him.
"I'll be okay, Dad, really," Annie said.
He and Pam were helping her pack her van. It was a cool, gray day, the air heavy with impending rain. A breeze ripped up their drive, bringing with it the red leaves from his neighbor's maple.
As they packed the boxes into the van, he looked at his daughter. She was taller than her mother, her blond hair braided and woven with beads. She was no longer the little girl he once taught to ride a bicycle.
"You're not going to cry on me, Dad, are you?" she said.
"No," he said, but he wouldn't look at her.
"I'll be home in a few months. Thanksgiving's not that far away."
"I know."
"And I'll call."
"You better."
They embraced. Annie said a few words to Pam, who started crying, and then climbed in the van. Benjamin went to the window.
"Drive safely, okay?"
She started the van. The engine rumbled to life.
"I will, Dad."
She put it in gear. He was turning away, when she touched the hand he had on her door.
"Dad, thanks. Thanks for being there for me."
"I wasn't always . . ."
"Yes, you were."
He nodded. He wanted to say something else, maybe say something about Benny, about how Benny watched her, but he found it hard enough just to keep his emotions in check. He stood next to Pam, waved as they drove away, and then went inside.
* * * * *
That night, his wife sleeping next to him, Benjamin left her and went to talk to Benny.
He left off all the lights. There was no moon this night, and the way was dark, but it was familiar. He had walked it a thousand times.
His legs ached as he climbed the stairs. The arthritis had been getting worse the last few years. There was also a heaviness around his middle, a thickness in the legs and chest.
He pulled out the box and pulled off the lid. He reached down into the dark contents, expecting to find something soft and furry.
Instead, his fingers scraped on the bottom of the box.
"Benny?" he said.
It was empty. He searched the closet, found nothing. He looked in his desk drawers, in his filing cabinet, and Benny wasn't there either.
There was a sharp pain in his chest. He had lost more than his daughter. He had also lost his confidant. His secret friend. His trusted ally. And he stood there, holding the box for a long time, until the pain subsided. He started to feel better. It was all right, really. He would be okay. It was for the best.
Annie needed Benny.
Benny would watch her.
She would be safe.
He put the box away. He turned, ready to leave the room, when he chanced to look out the window. Across the street, a lamplight cast a pool of yellow light at the edge of the apple trees. There, in the shadows, he saw something move. Something stepped into the light.
He threw open the sash. The breeze was cool against his open nightshirt, tickling his chest hairs. Without his glasses, he couldn't see well in the distance, but, squinting, he could just make it out. Something small. Something furry. At first, he thought it was Benny, but then he saw the colors weren't right. It was the same size, but the colors were orange and purple.
It lifted a small, stubby arm and waved.
Benjamin waved back. He watched as it turned and scampered off into the trees. He knew then he wasn't alone. He had never been alone.
He had been watched.
"Thank you, Milo," he said.
~ | ~
|| A sneak preview of Dog Food and Diamonds,
a romantic comedy by K. C. Scott
published by Flying Raven Press. ||
ATTENTION ALL MARTCO CUSTOMERS:
If
someone were to write a novel about the world of big box retailing,
it could very well be a grab bag of horrors and tragedies, detailing
the dismal pay and long hours that employees suffer in the name of
low prices and just-good-enough merchandise all so the bigwigs and
the bean counters can stuff their pockets with trumped up stock
options.
It could be about that. Thankfully, this book
isn't.
Instead, it's a lively romantic comedy that begins when
Jeff Martin, son of the owner of the third biggest retailer in the
United States, shows up at his father's Minnesota corporate office,
newly minted business cards with the letters MBA after his name,
ready to take the reins. There's just one problem. His father thinks
his son is a frivolous playboy who'd run the company into the ground.
Jeff has a hard time making a case otherwise, and only some
quick thinking gives him a way to prove his worth: He has to work as
an assistant manager in one of Martco's stores for a year. And he
can't tell anybody who he is.
Welcome to Delburg, Oregon, an
average city with an average Martco. Like all other Martcos, they
sell everything from dog food to diamonds. Carol Kinnington is a
single mother who's been trying to put her life back to together ever
since her husband gave up both her and his lucrative law practice in
favor of a young Navajo women who seduced him with peyote and peace
pipes. If Carol can just get promoted to Assistant Manager, she'll
earn enough to get out of her dingy apartment and make a life for
herself and her five year-old son. Then a certain Jeff "Garby"
swoops in to take the job she knows she deserves.
What
happens next is a lively romantic comedy about two people from wildly
different worlds whose shopping carts collide—and eventually,
against great odds, still find a way to fall in love. It's Romeo and
Juliet on a blue light special. It's When Harry Met Sally in paper or
plastic. It's a story as old as time itself—but you still have to
be out of the store by ten.
Dog Food and Diamonds
K. C. Scott
Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, August 2010. Copyright © 2010 by K.C. Scott. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Find out more about Flying Raven Press titles at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Chapter 1
THE PILOT WAS SAYING she really didn't want to do this, that it was a bad idea, that a helicopter was too expensive a piece of machinery to go around acting all willy-nilly with it. She actually used those words. Willy-nilly. Jeff wondered if it was a Minnesota thing. Her voice crackled with static, and even with his headset on she was still hard to hear over the constant thrumming of the helicopter blades.
The cockpit was cold and cramped. Outside, the sky was a pristine blue, and the white landscape below seemed like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Puffs of smoke rose lazily from farmhouse chimneys. Leafless oaks and maples, clothed in icicles, glinted in the sunlight. For somebody else it might have been beautiful, but for Jeff it was simply a reminder of a childhood he wanted to forget.
He looked at the pilot—a thirtiesh woman with black hair tied in a pony tail, mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes—and flashed her his best smile. Jeff had discovered early in life that if he smiled, and put on the charm, he could get just about anything. From friends, teachers, women. Especially women. "It'll be fine," he reassured her.
"Ya know, I'm really not s'pposed to land anywhere dat's not an approved landing site, sir," she said, her voice heavy with her Midwestern accent.
"Oh, what's the fun in that?"
"It could be my job, sir."
"I guarantee you that won't happen." And Jeff could. When you were about to take the reins of the world's number two retailer, you pretty much could guarantee anything. "Plus, I'll make sure you receive a nice tip."
She swallowed. "Company policy doesn't allow us to—"
"How does a thousand dollars sound?"
"—accept any . . didya say a thousand dollars?"
Twenty minutes later the helicopter touched down on the snow-packed parking lot outside the main building. There were ten buildings in all, identical in appearance, sleek and austere, looking like fifties era schools with their small, evenly-spaced windows and cream-colored exterior. The whirring blades spread the inch of fresh snow over cars and trucks as far as a dozen rows away.
He opened the door and stepped outside, his leather shoes slipping a bit on the hard snow pack. The frigid wind, roaring in his ears, pushed down on him from above. Droves of employees had flooded outside the buildings. Most of them gaped at him as if he had just dropped down from the moon, but when he reached the doors, a couple of young guys in white dress shirts and subdued ties pushed through the crowd and took his baggage.
There were a few words of greeting, lot of yahs and you betchas, a request by him for a cappuccino (which they didn't have, naturally), and then the young guys lead him through the lobby, past a maze of cubicles filled with the sound of people clicking on keyboards, down a long narrow hallway with threadbare blue carpet, up a short flight of stairs, past another maze of cubicles, and finally to another lobby. A elderly woman sat behind an only slightly less monstrous oak desk than the one out front. There were two opaque glass doors behind her.
"You have yourself an appointment, dear?" the woman asked, smiling up at him. With her gray hair and rosy cheeks, she looked like Betty Crocker. He had no idea what Betty Crocker looked like, but he imagined she had to look a lot like this woman. She also looked familiar, and he sensed it was more than the Betty Crocker-ness thing she had going for her.
"Dis is Mister Martin, yah," the young man said to her.
She laughed. "Oh, dontcha be acting all silly. Mister Martin's in his office."
"No," the young man said, "dis is Jeff Martin, Mister Martin's son."
"Mister Martin's son!" the woman exclaimed. Jeff realized now that if she wasn't completely batty, then she was at least most of the way there. "Little Jeffy? Oh, he's much too old to be little Jeffy."
Now it came back to Jeff. "Mrs. Cranberry?" he said.
She stopped laughing. Could it really be her? He remembered her being old the last time he had been there—what, fifteen years ago?—and she didn't look much older now. She slipped on the glasses hanging from her neck and squinted at him.
"So t'is you," she said, chuckling. "Couldn't pronounce Crazelbergin so you always called me Mrs. Cranberry. Oh, my, you've become a regular giant! How tall you now?"
"A hair over six feet two," Jeff said, leaning on the counter. He was genuinely glad to see her. She'd always been nice to him, making sure he had crayons and paper the few times he spent the day with Dad, back before he went off to boarding school and never looked back. "But you—you look lovelier than ever."
A pink flush spread across her cheeks and she patted at her bob of hair. "Such a flatterer. How old you, then? Eighteen? You graduate from high school, yah?"
"Try twenty-eight," he said. "Just finished graduate school, actually."
"Graduate school, too! You become a rocket scientist? You always said you were going to be a regular rocket scientist."
"Actually, I got an MBA."
"Oh. You mean you play basketball?"
He was trying to think of a way to describe an MBA when the door on the left opened and a man stepped outside. He was short and pudgy, dressed in a navy blue suit that may have once fit but now strained against his belly. His face was round, his features doughy; he was bald except for a few dozen glistening strands of gray and black hair combed straight forward, almost touching his thick dark eyebrows. He had the kind of feverish eyes you expected to find on mad scientists and drug addicts. There was a gold chain dangling from his pocket, and he pulled out a pocket watch and popped it open. He glanced at this for a few seconds before closing it and stepping forward. Jeff expected him to say I'm late, I'm late for a very important date . . .
"Good to meet you," the man said. When he spoke, he made eye contact only once, before his gaze flitted away, never resting on any one person or object for long. "You had a good trip, I take it? Yah? Good, good. I'm Horace Dugin. You want something to drink? Coffee? Agnes, can ya get him a cup of coffee?"
"That's all right," Jeff said, "I don't like regular coffee."
"Take cream, dear?" Mrs. Cranberry asked, rising from her desk.
"He likes cappuccino," one of the young men said.
"Who?" Mrs. Cranberry said. "You got a girlfriend, Jeffy?"
"No, really," Jeff said, "I don't drink—"
"No time for jokes," Horace said, looking at his watch again. "Your father wants to talk to you straight away. Bring da coffee in when you get it, Agnes."
"I don't drink coffee," Jeff said, but Horace had already turned and headed toward the other door.
Horace tapped on the glass but didn't wait for a reply before opening the door. The first thing Jeff saw in the spacious room was his father sitting behind a gray metal desk with chrome edges, a huge scratched and dented behemoth that looked like it had once made the finals of a crash derby with other ugly desks. Jeff remembered it. It had been the first thing Dad bought when he went into business, and it was a source of pride for him that he had never sold it.
His father's face was gaunt and pale, and when he pursed his lips all the color went out of them. His white hair was shaved so close Jeff could see his scalp. He wore a gray flannel suit that went out of style somewhere in the fifties, and Jeff was struck with how small and shriveled he looked in the clothes, all the more so because he remembered, when he was young, how imposing his father had seemed behind that desk. Still, he had that same fierce, commanding presence—sitting rigidly upright, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. He had reached the rank of colonel before retiring from the Navy, and lots of people still called him Colonel Marv.
"Son," he said.
He had the kind of deep baritone that could make little boys pee their pants. Jeff felt the urge himself. Dear God, what was happening here? He wasn't six. He was a grown man. He would not ask to go to the bathroom. He would hold it. Dad wasn't going to get the best of him.
"Hi, Dad," he said, and it came out like the squeak a panicked mouse would make.
So he wouldn't have to meet Dad's eyes, Jeff looked around the room. There were a couple of pictures of dogs playing poker, a bookshelf with pictures of Dad with various Presidents, and two simple wooden chairs in front of the desk. The window looked out into the parking lot, and Jeff saw the circular spot in the snow where the helicopter had touched down. This should have made him happy, because he had been hoping Dad would see the helicopter, but instead it made him afraid.
"Sit down," Dad said.
"I've been sitting for quite a while already," Jeff said, but by the time he had finished the sentence he was already sitting. So was Horace. It was that damn voice. The man could have done voiceovers for Charlton Heston. He was also one of the few people at the head office didn't have the Midwestern accent. Jeff remembered him claiming he had lost it while he was in the military. And he always said it with a bit of regret, which Jeff found funny, because he had worked hard to eliminate his own accent as soon as he went off to boarding school.
Dad drummed his fingers on his desk. "Well, you want to explain that little stunt out there?"
"Hmm?" Jeff said. This was an old game. If his father asked him about something Jeff had done that he perceived as wrong, Jeff's first response was to play dumb.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Oh," Jeff said. The room was feeling warmer. Had somebody turned up the heat? "Oh, well, I just thought—"
"A lack of thinking is your problem," Dad said.
"Right," Jeff said, nodding.
"I sent a car for you."
"Right."
"And you came in a helicopter."
"I did. I mean, well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose."
"What other way is there of looking at it?"
"What? Oh. Well. I guess there isn't."
"Why'd you do it?"
Jeff shrugged. He crossed his legs. He really had to find a restroom now.
"Nobody was hurt," Horace piped in, and looked at his watch again. "I called down to da front desk myself."
Jeff tensed. It was one thing to be scolded by his father, and something else to be criticized by this mousy little guy. "I wouldn't have landed if there was a chance—"
"What's done is done," Dad said, waving his hand dismissively. "You can't take it back now. You have your trust fund and you can spend the money any damn way you please. Your mother wanted it that way and hell if I'm going to go against her wishes. What's done is done."
"What's done is done," Horace said, nodding.
The phone buzzed.
"Coffee time!" Mrs. Cranberry said over the intercom. "Should I bring it in?"
"Yes!" all three of them said at once.
They didn't speak as Mrs. Cranberry brought Jeff his coffee in a blue and white Martco mug. She didn't bring anything for the other two. When she'd left, Jeff took a big gulp, realizing too late that the coffee was scalding hot. His eyes filled up with tears.
"Nice coffee," he croaked.
"Never touch the stuff," Dad said.
"Me either," Horace said.
"Gives me gas," Dad said.
"Me too," Horace said. He looked at his watch.
Jeff nodded, lifted the mug to his mouth to take another drink, then thought better of it. He reached to put it on his father's desk, then thought better of this too, and just let it rest on his lap. His thin pants didn't provide much protection from the searing heat, but he had already committed himself so he just sat there and bore the pain. At least it gave him something else to think about other than his bladder.
"Let's get right to the point," Dad said. "You're here because we made an agreement. I told you that when you finished school, you could take over the company. Well, you've got your degree. I checked."
Jeff didn't like how that sounded—I checked—but he didn't say anything.
"And now you're here," Dad said.
"Yes, sir. Ready to go."
"I'm sure you are. But you see, before we can do that, before I can trust you with a company that grossed over a hundred and thirty billion dollars last year, I have to tell you—well . . . I have a few concerns."
"One hundred and thirty-nine billion," Horace said. "Our gross sales, that is. Not the number of concerns."
For the first time since Jeff could remember, Dad didn't sound all that sure about himself. Some of that military swagger was gone. He just sounded like an old man.
"Dad, if it's about the helicopter—"
"It's not just the helicopter," Dad said.
"He's got concerns," Horace said.
Jeff glared at him. "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a conversation with my father."
"Son," Dad said, and the sternness was back in his voice. "You really shouldn't talk to Horace that way. He's going to be your new boss."
"Dad, if you think I can't . . . " Jeff trailed off, his mind trying to make sense of what he had just heard. "He's going to be my what?"
Chapter 2
THE NICE LADY in the paint-spotted blue overalls was informing Carol that Carol was going to be late. Not exactly in those words, of course. What she was actually saying was that Red Barn Daycare was closed for renovations, and for the last month this fact had been included in the newsletter, typed at the bottom of the invoices, and posted on the door. And, the nice lady insisted, pointing with a finger caked with white paint, the sign was still taped to the inside of the glass. Carol looked and saw that the yellow butcher paper was faded and wrinkled from the sun, but the words written with a thick red marker were still unfortunately clear: PLEASE MAKE OTHER ARRANGEMENTS. WE WILL BE CLOSED THE FIRST WEEK OF FEBRUARY.
"But I didn't know," Carol pleaded.
The woman, a redhead so slender and perfect even in paint clothes that Carol was sure that she had never given birth, smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, dear. I wish I could help."
Rain tapped on the metal awning above them. If it was February in Delburg, Oregon, Carol knew you could almost always count on rain. She liked how it kept everything green, but she could have done without the oppressive dreariness. Especially when it was coupled with a cold, stiff wind, the case that particular Monday. The frigid air clamped down on her nylon-covered legs. She never wore nylons. She almost never wore a dress either. But this was for an interview. And she was going to be late. And she had worn nylons. She wanted to cry.
"What if I said please?"
"That would be nice. But I'd still say no."
"Pretty please?"
"No."
Sam tugged on the hem of Carol's dress, and she looked down at him. His blond hair nearly covered his eyes. In his faded denim jacket and pants, he looked like a young James Dean. His only negative was that he looked like Alex. Of course, she would never hold that against him.
Even though Alex was a prick, he had been a good looking prick, and he had passed those good looks on to Sam. If Carol ever saw her ex-husband again, she'd have to thank him for that. She doubted she would see him again, though. The last she'd heard, Alex was smoking pot on a reservation in Nevada with a Navaho girl whose named rhymed with ho. Spring Row? Water Flow? She could never remember exactly, but it had definitely rhymed with ho.
"I don't mind paint smell, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam said. "It kinda smells nice. And I can help. I like painting. I pro'ly have my own paint brush in my bag. I have lots of stuff in my bag."
He slipped off his blue backpack, which looked about to burst, and set it on the concrete stoop. Carol had been trying to get Sam to thin out the contents of his bag for months, with no luck. He insisted he wanted everything with him in case they had to move again, which was one of those things she wished she'd never heard him say because she stayed up nights thinking about it.
"That's all right," Mrs. Jorgan said.
"But he doesn't mind the smell of paint," Carol said. She realized this made her sound insane, but she was desperate. She had to make that interview. Sam's future college education depended on it. "Pleeeeease, Mrs. Jorgan?"
And now she sounded like a five-year old. How low would she go? Grovel, Carol, grovel.
"No."
"Pretty, pretty, pretty, please?"
"I'm sorry."
"I'll pay double."
Mrs. Jorgan laughed. By the glint in her eyes, Carol could see that she was amused. "It really doesn't matter. There's no place for him."
"Wash your car?"
Mrs. Jorgan shook her head.
"Clean your toilets?"
"Goodbye, Carol. See you next time, Sam."
"Bye, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam said. "I like paint."
"Massage your feet?" Carol said.
The door closed. Carol wondered if there was something else she could come up with that would sway Mrs. Jorgan, but she couldn't think of anything. She could offer to pay something insane like a thousand dollars, but then, if she had a thousand dollars, she wouldn't be working at Martco as a Customer Service Supervisor. She would have been at home with Sam. That's what she did when Alex was still a gainfully employed college professor at Willamette State College, before he decided to stick his totem pole in Dances with Hos and find out what all the fuss was about peyote and peace pipes.
She took Sam's hand. "Come on. We'll think of something."
She popped open her umbrella and led him back to her white Tercel. Getting into the car, she caught her leg on a tear in the vinyl seat and heard her nylon rip. "Figures," she said.
"Do I get to come to work with you today, Mommy?"
"No, Mommy has an important interview. We'll figure out something."
The inside of her car still smelled like the Chinese takeout from the previous night. As they headed home, she racked her brain for a solution, but nothing came to her. Her drive side windshield wiper barely worked, leaving the glass on her side blurry. Through the gaps in the pines off to her right, she saw the Willamette river surging high and gray on the muddy banks. When she first moved, she thought Sam might go swimming there, but after she found out how dirty it was—it only escaped being labeled a Superfund site by a technicality—she would never let him.
It made her sad, thinking about this, and she felt like crying again. What was it with her today? Her period was weeks away. The interview. She was getting all worked up about a damn Martco interview. She had a degree in Psychology and she was getting worked up about this. She would not cry. She would not.
"Are you crying, Mommy?" Sam asked.
"No," Carol said, sniffling.
"Don't be sad. I love you, Mommy."
"Oh, I love you, too, sweetie. We just need to find somebody to watch you."
"Um . . . I could watch myself."
That got her to laugh. "I don't think you're quite old enough for that yet."
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