Sweets heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Are they in your bedroom? I’ll go and get them. What drawer are they in?”
I rolled my chair across his path.
“That’s not necessary. I have them in a box somewhere in the closet. Tell you what. You come by tomorrow and I’ll have them out to show you. We can call Sis on the phone from here. It will pave the way for your visit if I tell her you’re coming to see her.”
“Good!” Sweets rubbed his hands together. “I’ll bet little Hester is a livin’ doll.” He gave me a good view of pink gums and a tip of tongue wetting his lips.
“And, Sweets, as long as you’re coming over tomorrow, could you bring a load of wood in your pickup for my Franklin stove? Do you still have the old pickup? It’s getting toward fall and I could use some firewood.” I added, “I just got my disability check. I’d pay you well for some wood.”
He stood by the door with his hand on the knob. “Well, I don’t know. The brakes ain’t so good on the pickup.”
Sweets paused while the cold coil in my belly turned slowly.
“I guess if I’m your friend I can haul a load of wood for you. After all, we’re almost family.” The quality of reeking old motor oil was back in his voice.
“Good, then. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to his back as he walked out the door.
As soon as he was gone, I rolled down the front ramp to the sidewalk and on out to the narrow blacktop road. I live around a bend on this dead-end highway, the last house on the road the town extended a quarter of a mile some years ago to a small picnic area. It’s beside a scenic view that looks out over Heron Valley and the mountains beyond. I’m about the only person who goes there any more. Every day, weather permitting, I wheel down to the overlook, poking here and there among the grass and weeds with the stout walking stick I always carry across my lap. It’s like an extension of my arms.
The seclusion and beauty of the place have been my joy, and the exercise has given me tremendous arm and shoulder development that makes getting around in the house easy. Even swinging on the bars in the bathroom seems like play to me.
The town paved a turn-around area at the end of the road and erected posts and crossbars around it. The dropoff at the ledge is perhaps six hundred feet. It’s so abrupt no trees grow on its face to obscure the view. Grass and weeds grow in the cracks in the amesite. The wood posts are rotten at the base. They cracked ominously when I set the brakes on my wheelchair and pushed against them.
When I got back to the house I had a sandwich. A little later I drank a glass of scotch over ice before I went to bed. I slept well.
This morning I brought the bottle and a couple of glasses into the living room. I think Sweets and I should have a few drinks to celebrate our renewed friendship. Today I feel calm and at peace with my narrow world as I wait for Sweets. Surely he’ll be so happy at the prospect of seeing Hester that he won’t mind giving me a ride in his truck down to the scenic overlook where we can admire the view across Heron Valley.
While I wait, I’ve been jamming my stick against the baseboard by the front door. I’m certain it’s just the right length to reach a pickup gas pedal.
Pure Rotten
by John Lutz
May 25, 7:00 A.M. Telephone call to Clark Forthcue, Forth-cue mansion, Long Island:
“Mr. Forthcue, don’t talk, listen. Telephone calls can be traced easy, letters can’t be. This will be the only telephone call and it will be short. We have your stepdaughter Imogene, who will be referred to in typed correspondence as Pure Rotten, a name that fits a ten-year-old spoiled rich brat like this one. For more information check the old rusty mailbox in front of the deserted Garver farm at the end of Wood Road near your property. Check it tonight. Check it every night. Tell the police or anyone else besides your wife about this and the kid dies. We’ll know. We mean business.”
Click.
Buzz.
Snatchers, Inc.
May 25
Dear Mr. Forthcue:
Re our previous discussion on Pure Rotten: It will cost you exactly one million dollars for the return of the merchandise unharmed. We have researched and we know this is well within your capabilities. End the agony you and your wife are going through. Give us your answer by letter. We will check the Garver mailbox sometime after ten tomorrow evening. Your letter had better be there.
Sincerely,
Snatchers, Inc.
May 26
Mr. Snatcher:
Do not harm Pure Rotten. I have not contacted the authorities and do not intend to do so. Mrs. Forthcue and I will follow your instructions faithfully. But your researchers have made an error. I do not know if one million dollars is within my capabilities and it will take me some time to find out. Be assured that you have my complete cooperation in this matter. Of course if some harm should come to Pure Rotten, this cooperation would abruptly cease.
Anxiously,
Dear Mr. Forthcue:
Come off it. We know you can come up with the million. But in the interest of that cooperation you mentioned we are willing to come down to 750,000 dollars for the return of Pure Rotten. It will be a pleasure to get this item off our hands, one way or the other.
Determinedly,
Snatchers, Inc.
May 27
Dear Mr. Snatcher:
I write this letter in the quietude of my veranda, where for the first time in years it is tranquil enough for me to think clearly, so I trust I am dealing with this matter correctly. By lowering your original figure by twenty-five percent you have shown yourselves to be reasonable men, with whom an equally reasonable man might negotiate. Three quarters of a million is, as I am sure you are aware, a substantial sum of money. Even one in my position does not raise that much on short notice without also raising a few eyebrows and some suspicion. Might you consider a lower sum?
Reasonably,
Dear Mr. Forthcue:
Pure Rotten is a perishable item and a great inconvenience to store. In fact, live explosives might be a more manageable commodity for our company to handle. In light of this we accede to your request for a lower figure by dropping our fee to 500,000 dollars delivered immediately. This is our final figure. It would be easier, in fact a pleasure, for us to dispose of this commodity and do business elsewhere.
Still determinedly,
Snatchers, Inc.
May 29
Dear Mr. Snatcher:
This latest lowering of your company’s demands is further proof that I am dealing with intelligent and realistic individuals.
Of course my wife has been grieving greatly over the loss, however temporary, of Pure Rotten, though with the aid of new furs and jewelry she has recovered from similar griefs. When one marries a woman, as in acquiring a company, one must accept the liabilities along with the assets. With my rapidly improving nervous condition, and as my own initial grief and anxiety subside somewhat, I find myself at odds with my wife and of the opinion that your 500,000 dollar figure is outrageously high. Think more in terms of tens of thousands.