The Last Chapter

Shelly took a last look at herself in the mirror. Looked OK. She dropped her compact into her purse, just in case.

"Today's meeting with Barry should go well," she told Steve. "I'm sure it's all a tiny misunderstanding."

Steve didn't say anything. Steve never said anything, anymore. Steve had died, what, was it now almost ten years ago? It wasn't something Shelly liked to think about, especially since she hadn't told Barry.

"Anyway, I should be home before dark," she said. And, "Bye, honey," as she closed and locked the door to her tiny apartment behind her. What remained of Steve, a silver plated tin jar full of his ashes, continued to sit silently on the small lamp stand by her bedside. It said nothing.

Shelly took the subway downtown, then hurried up into the busy streets, glad to be above ground again, away from the constant taint of urine and body odor that a battalion of cleaning staff never were able to remove, no matter how much bleach they blasted on the dank stone down there.

Barry had told her to meet him at JoJo's. His office was just a couple of doors along the street from the restaurant, so they had met there often enough that the wait staff knew her on sight. Today Raoul was tending reception. She could see Barry sitting at their accustomed spot by the window and waved at him. As Raoul lead her to the table Barry smiled. It melted her heart, the way it always did. She almost smiled back, but controlled herself just in time.

If she lost this account, all would be in vain! Everything at all times must be completely professional. She sat down opposite him.

"Hey, Barry," she said. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Actually, I took the day off," Barry told her. "I was hoping we could enjoy a leisurely lunch and then talk."

Damn. That'd take an entire day, not the brief meeting she'd promised Steve. There was no help for it, though. She forced herself to smile back.

"That sounds nice."

Barry had already looked over the menu. JoJo's served a kinda sorta French cuisine. It was OK, but Shelly had never figured out what was so French about it, besides the prices. But Barry was always paying for both of them, so she hadn't worried about it much. By herself, she could not have afforded it.

Lunch passed with inconsequential chatter over servings of steak and chicken, and she had to be careful not to eat too much, if she didn't want to feel as if she were starving tomorrow.

"Are you still living at the usual address?" Barry asked her.

"Um, yes. Why?"

"I thought you and I needed some time to talk things over. I'll call a cab later to take you home."

That didn't sound good. Shelly realized her work was not as good as Steve's work, but what else could she do? Steve had to keep turning in manuscripts. That was all there was to it. She had found Steve, collapsed in his apartment, arranged for a quiet funeral, and kept his ashes. She supposed someone was collecting the royalty payments. She was just getting her usual share, barely enough to keep her apartment. There was no time to expand her agency. No time with all the writing she had to do.

She gather her courage and asked, "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know how to tell you this," Barry said. "I suppose there's no good way to say it, so I'll just have to come right out and tell you."

Shelly realized she was holding her breath. She tried to calm herself down. Breath, girl. When she didn't say anything, Barry continued.

"I've been Steve's editor for twelve years now, right?"

"It'll be twelve years this June," Shelly said.

"Remember I told you that Steve's books were good, but not marketable in the US?"

"Yes, I remember," Shelly told him. "That's why we were going to your UK partner."

"Well, here's the thing. There is no UK partner."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, we haven't been selling Steve's books in the UK."

"I guess I don't understand. Why would your company... wait. You have been paying Steve royalties, so where are you selling the books?"

Shelly suddenly had the suspicion that Barry's masters had created a huge copyright nightmare, and that her secret was about to be revealed to the world. No, she couldn't allow that to happen!

"Barry, whatever happened, I'm sure Steve will understand. We can work it out," she tried to soothe him.

"You misunderstand me," Barry said. "No copies of Steves books were sold, ever."

"What were you paying him for?"

"I'm sorry," Barry said. "It's all my fault."

Shelly had clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. Now she let go and reached out to pat Barry on his arm. He covered her hand with his, gave it a brief squeeze, and let go. She looked at his face and was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

"Barry, nothing can be that bad. It's just books and money. We'll work it out."

"No, I don't think you understand," Barry told her, leaning forward in his seat across from her, his voice tense and urgent. "There is no publisher. There are no books. I'm not an editor. Shelly, when I first met you I told you I was an editor because you told me you were looking for one, and I was struck madly in love with you from the moment I set eyes on you. Shelly, forgive me for betraying you like this, but I could not bear to never see you again. I had a little money, and I used that to pay for Steve's royalties, and your commission. Every sales meeting we had here was my little piece of heaven. But my money is running out. There were some bad investments..."

Shelly managed a little laugh.

"This is a joke, right? A joke in very poor taste, right?" she asked him. Then she got up, slapped his face, and walked out of JoJo's, her back held straight.

On the way home she felt curiously calm. Her world, destroyed. Nothing was left. Steve, gone. Not that he'd ever amounted to much. Her career, stillborn. Because of Barry. And Steve, of course. Her life, over. It wasn't until she was turning the key in her apartment door lock that she began to sob. By the time she had closed the door behind her and shot the bolt she was bawling like a child. Wailing, she sat at the small table in her kitchen, across from the second-hand laptop she was using for her writing, and let the tears run down her face. They washed her waterproof mascara into blueish black runnels that collected under her chin and dripped unheeded onto the table.

When morning came she woke, still sitting at the table. Her face had gummed itself to her arms, pulling like some kind of glue when she sat up.

"I must look a sight," she said. Then she realized there was no one to say it to. She walked into the bathroom, used the toilet, and ran the water in the sink until it was scalding hot. Then she scrubbed her face until it glowed. After combing her hair into some kind of presentable shape, she went into the bedroom to fetch the silver plated tin that contained Steve.

"Sorry, lover boy," she told him. "It turns out you're not the only one." On the way to the door she paused, went back into the kitchen. She unplugged the laptop and wrapped the chord around it. After she put on her shoes, she clamped the laptop under her arm and carried it and the tin down to the trashbin. They made a satisfying thunk.

Back in her apartment, she gathered up some clothes, stuffed them into a small day bag, and added her cosmetics. Fourty minutes later she was waiting on the stoop of Barry's brownstone. She rang the bell.

"Yes?" came Barry's voice, after a few moments.

"It's Shelly. May I come up?"

"What? Oh, sure, sure, just a moment," and the door buzzed. Shelly pushed it open and hurried up the stairs. She'd felt committed earlier that morning, but now it seemed that something was trying to turn her back. Determined to see it through, she pushed herself forward.

Barry was waiting for her beside an open door. He didn't give her day bag a second glance but invited her inside and lead her into a small office where he asked her to have a seat. Then he sat down next to her.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked her. That took her a bit by surprise.

"No. Yes. I don't know," she said. "You know, I have a secret, too." Then she told him about Steve, how he was dead, and how she'd been writing all of his books these past ten years, desperate to keep people from finding out he was gone.

"He's the only author I ever was an agent for," she told Barry. "I never had time to do anything else after he died. So when you told me you never sold any books, I thought at first everything was gone. But then I realized, if you never sold any of his books, then they're still there to be sold. So you will now help me sell them. You will put me up here in your apartment, and I will keep an eye on you to make sure you do your job this time. We can sell them under Steve's name, if that sounds good. Or under my name, since I wrote most of them. Or under your name, if you think that'll work better. I don't care. But I want them published."

She looked at Barry expectantly. Please say yes, she thought. Because you're the only reason I did any of this. The only reason why I stuck with Steve, so that I could keep shopping books to you. I've loved you for twelve years, and I'll be damned if I let that end now.

Fancypants

Fancypants Wilson had to be the strangest kid in fifth grade. "Call me Fancypants," he'd told everyone. We'd looked at his perfectly ordinary jeans. Mark had to ask the obvious question.

"Why?"

"Cuz everyone calls me that," he'd said, and kinda grinned. Mrs Jacobs didn't like the entire business.

"Jimmy," she'd said - that was his actual name, Jimmy Wilson - "Jimmy, that's not a nice thing to call people, so I don't want anyone calling you that."

Apparently that was news to Fancypants.

"Why isn't it nice?" he wanted to know.

Mary started to giggle.

"Mary, settle down," Mrs Jacobs said. "Jimmy, it's not nice because..."

I think at this point Mrs Jacobs realized she was about to say something potentially hurtful, and, miracles of miracles, she shut up. After a moment she recovered.

"...because you have such a nice regular name, and I think people ought to use that, instead," she said. And smiled. A bit forced. Some of us knew from experience what that smile meant: a call from Mrs Jacobs.

Fancypants didn't argue with Mrs Jacobs, and he continued to introduce himself as Fancypants. Me and my friends often made fun of him behind his back, but something about him kept us from teasing him openly. Some of the other kids, however, regularly tried to get a rise out of him.

One of the worst was Reggie. He should have been in sixth grade, but he had been held back. My mom told me that he'd probably have been OK, that he was just upset about being held back, but I thought he probably would have been mean in sixth grade, too. In fifth grade he was worse, because he was bigger than most of us.

I had been going back to class from the cafeteria when I noticed that some boys had formed a small crowd off in a side hallway. They were laughing and jeering. Out of curiosity I went over to see what was going on. Reggie had cornered Fancypants, and he was giving him a wedgie.

"Let me go!" Fancypants yelled. He shoved at Reggie, but Reggie was too strong. Reggie had Fancypants in a kind of choke hold, and already had a hold of Fancypant's waistband and was pulling with all his might.

"Don't look so fancy to me," Reggie jeered. "Let's see how fancy they get if I pull harder."

There was a tearing sound. The waistband had ripped from Fancypants' shorts. With another laugh Reggie shoved Fancypants to the ground.

"They sure tear easy," he said. "Not so fancy, are they?"

Fancypants didn't say anything. He sat on the ground, his head down. He endured another shove from Reggie's foot, and then Reggie left. With him the drama was gone, and the rest of us left, too, leaving Fancypants sitting on the floor in the corner of the hallway.

Fancypants didn't come to class after lunch that day. Mrs Jacobs didn't say anything about it, so we all figured he'd told her what had happened. However, when Fancypants came back to school the next day, and Reggie's abuse continued unabated, we realized that he must have come up with a different excuse.

It went on like that for weeks. We wondered why Reggie had it in for Fancypants, but none of us came up with a plausible reason. None of us dared tell Mrs Jacobs or our parents, either. There was something about this confrontation, something primal, that warned us off.

Mary Sawsworthy Elementary School is built on a rise overlooking the Nenderplat River, named by some Dutch pioneers, according to our civics lessons. It was a wide, shallow tributary of the Missouri, and every winter by Christmas it froze over solid. This year had been warmer than usual, and it wasn't until well into January that the ice was finally thick enough that Sheriff Ryder removed the "Danger! Keep off!" signs. After school saw us all out on the ice that evening. Some of us had brought skates, because we'd watched Achin Jones pull his home made ice polishing machine up and down a stretch just above the freeway bridge.

Even Fancypants was out there. He was a good skater, but he skated by himself. I don't think he had any friends. Reggie was the closest to a constant companion he had, but Reggie didn't skate. Perhaps Fancypants thought that this evening he'd be spared the petty torments Reggie thought up, but eventually he showed up at our impromptu rink, together with some of his pals. They first tried stealing the hats of kids skating past, but then Reggie noticed Fancypants.

"Heyyyy! It's Fancypants!" he shouted and pointed. Fancypants stopped his skating, as if he noticed Reggie and his band for the first time. Then he seemed to panic. He took off running, digging the tips of his skates into the ice until he had speed, and then rapidly made distance up river. He was fast! Reggie took off after him, like a dog might chase a fleeing rabbit.

"Get him!" he shouted. His crew followed him, loyal pack animals they were.

The river runs straight by the town, but after the wide and shallow part it narrows quickly. We knew not to go there, but Fancypants soon reached the dangerous part. He skated to the edge of the ice, climbed on shore, and looked back. Reggie and his friends were far behind, but kept running, yelling curses. Reggie was far in the lead.

Fancypants took off his skates and ran up the hill. Behind him Reggie had reached the unsafe ice, and we all watched from the distance as he seemed to stumble to a halt. Then he just disappeared. His friends stopped, threw up their arms and started yelling.

"He fell in!"

Up on the hill, Fancypants stopped and looked back. Then he came running back down the hill. We watched as he ran out on the ice, yelling at Reggie's friends. As we watched, the boys formed a chain, Fancypants at the lead, lying on the ice. Then Reggie's head appeared, and the boys inched back, pulling Reggie out of the water.

At this point adults were running out to the scene. They collected the soaking Reggie and rushed back up the hill. Fancypants also returned up the hill, where he collected the skates he had dropped. The rest of us also went home. Somehow it didn't seem right to continue skating after that little drama.

The next day school was abuzz. What would happen between Fancypants and Reggie now? All of us agreed Fancypants had saved Reggie's life. So when Fancypants walked into class, and Reggie was still standing by the door chatting with some friends, the entire room fell silent, watching to see what Reggie would say.

Reggie stopped his conversation. He walked up to Fancypants and stood before him.

"Hey, Fancypants," he said.

"Hi," Fancypants said.

Then Reggie stepped forward, grabbed Fancypants' pants by the belt loops, and yanked down.

"Pantsed!" he shouted gleefully. He turned around and high fived his friends, all howling with laughter. As they went laughing to their seats in the back of the class, Fancypants pulled up his pants, his head down, but he couldn't hide the red of his ears.

Nonsequitur with cold medicine

Outside it was snowing again. I pulled my jacket closer around my shoulders. The thermostat was turned up to 80, but it still felt cold. My nose seemed to be running again. I got a precautionary tissue from the dispenser, drank some more tea, and blew my nose. After popping a couple of day-time cold capsules, I got back to the task at hand.

A distributor in Wisconsin was complaining that his order hadn't arrived. Why didn't he check the tracking himself? I sighed, looked up the number, and checked the status. The shipment was stuck in Nebraska, and judging from the weather reports, it wasn't budging today. I emailed Mark, the fellow waiting in Milwaukee.

"Too much snow in Omaha," I said. "Have a beer on me."

"Thanks, I'm LDS," Mark emailed back.

Last Day Sober? Liver Disease Sickness? Did he misspell LSD? I wasn't sure what Mark meant, so I left it at that. I hoped he was taking a taxi home. My nose was running again, and I went for another tissue. My waste basket was looking pretty full.

While I was rummaging in the closet for a new waste basket liner, the phone rang.

"AAA Shipping, this is Mike," I answered.

"Mike, did you get my note about today's meeting?"

It was the boss. Did he read my email this morning, the one where I told him I was too sick to come in, and that I'd be working from home today?

"Yes, I did," I said.

"Well, it starts in 30 minutes. Where are you?"

He'd called me at home, not on my cell phone, so that obviously was a rhetorical question.

"Sorry, Jim," I said. "I'm in line for the Dead Horse lift, and I don't want to lose my place."

Jim isn't stupid, so he caught on right away.

"I know it's nice weather for skiing, but you could have picked a better day," he told me.

"And miss all the pretty girls?" I asked. A sneeze attacked out of nowhere, and I barely managed to grab a tissue.

"Well, take pictures," Jim said. "I'll make up some excuse for you."

"Thanks," I told him. "I owe you one."

After I hung up I noticed three more emails had arrived. The waste basket liner had somehow ended up on the floor under my desk, and I crawled after it before dealing with the new messages. The cold medicine was kicking in, and my sinuses drained with an audible flush.

"Enter Subject" was the subject of the next message. I assumed it was sent using some kind of smart phone, where it was too much trouble to enter a subject.

"12 crates on loading dock, 10 ordered," was the entirety of the text. I had no way of knowing which order that was referring to. The message came from robx3255 at a generic mobile provider's address. He wasn't in my contact list, either. Past experience said that asking for an order ID would result in endless frustration as a variety of random character strings would be sent, none of which matched an actual order. I flagged the email and skipped to the next message, hoping inspiration would strike in the next ten minutes.

This time it was my mom. I should have never let her know my email address.

"Michael," it started. She always calls me that.

I like Mike. All my friends call me Mike. But to Mom I'm Michael. She hates the name Mike. "It's barely better than Mickey," she'd told me once. I didn't tell her that my fondest dream had been to have my friends call me Mickey. Mickey Mouse. Mickey Spillane. Mickey Mantle. That was a cool name. I never had the guts to tell my friends, though, so I was Mike. I often wondered what she'd have said if I had managed to get people to call me Mickey.

"Your dad wants to ask you about Sunday evening. Are you at home or at work?" She doesn't like to call my cell, ever since I told her about minutes.

"I have a thousand minutes in my plan," I told her. "Most months I use less than half." But Mom still worries that she'll use up all my minutes.

"I'm at home," I replied.

Next was a short confirmation from Jay in Albuquerque. The shipment was complete and signed off. I made a note in the database.

My dad called.

"Are we still on?" he wanted to know.

"Sure. Is there anything you want me to bring?"

"No, I think I've got all we need. Just be careful. It's supposed to snow again."

I knew that. I told him so and after we said good bye I hung up.

No new messages, and one waiting for inspiration. I emailed Jim.

"Do you know someone who sends smart phone messages as robx3255?"

His reply came immediately.

"Sorry, I'm in a meeting. If you need immediate assistance, email Mike."

That's right. The meeting. So much for having him check his contacts.

I opened the email from robx3255 again.

"Thanks for your note," I wrote. "I'm currently away from my desk. If you need immediate assistance, email Jim."

I'd have to owe Jim twice.