A Puff of Orange Smoke
by Lael J. Littke
Bill O’Connell knew all about the way his wife Alice liked to have Paul Newman in the kitchen with her when she washed the dishes. He didn’t mind. After all, didn’t he sometimes have Raquel Welch snuggled by his side as he drove home from work?
Everyone was entitled to his own private fantasies, and certainly a pretty girl like Alice must occasionally yearn for something a little more spectacular than an ordinary, slightly homely, not-very-tall guy who made an adequate but not fancy living in an insurance firm, a guy who was totally untalented except for a real flair for emptying the garbage.
Bill knew he was neither handsome nor suave, and definitely not the dashing romantic type. But Cortland Marshall was, and, confound him, he was coming through Los Angeles on his way to Washington, D.C. from his most recent diplomatic post in Thailand, an exotic spot if Bill ever heard of one. He couldn’t blame Alice for being all agog over the fact that Cortland was coming to dinner. Cort had never married and liked to keep in touch with Alice, even though she had married. When he wrote that he was coming through L. A., Alice had written back insisting that he stop and visit.
So now the kids were packed off to Grandma’s, the house was shining with wax and polish, the rib roast in the oven was giving off an aroma which could tempt any man to give up his bachelorhood, and Bill was cautioned to “be nice to Cort.”
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Cortland had been a plumber or a grocery clerk; but a man with a glamor job like his could set a girl’s heart to thumping even if he was bald and hollow-chested, which Cortland was not. It had never been quite clear to Bill why Alice had married him — Bill — when she could have had Cort. But then she was the type who yearned over stray kittens and wept for starving dogs, and she said she fell in love with Bill because he looked as if he needed someone to take care of him.
The big question was, could that kind of love withstand the strain of Cortland showing up once or twice every year still obviously smitten with his old flame? Certainly Alice seemed perfectly happy — but what was it then that made her cheeks glow when she ran to open the door in answer to Cortland’s knock?
“Cort!” she cried, and then giggled happily as Cortland engulfed her in a bear hug. Right in front of Bill. As if Bill did not exist.
“Alice, honey,” he said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you, Cort,” Alice-honey said.
Bill had to admit she was right. He had been away almost a year this time, but his well-tailored clothes and close-cropped dark hair were as attractive as ever. And he absolutely oozed charm.
Finally Cortland noticed Bill. “Well, Bill,” he said affably, “howza boy?”
Bill wanted to snap his teeth and snarl, but instead he pasted on a wide silly grin and said, “Fine, Cortland. How are you, buddy?” Immediately he felt like a clod, which was how Cortland always made him feel.
His duties to his host taken care of, Cortland turned back to Alice. “Tell me what you’ve been doing to stay so beautiful,” he said.
Alice giggled again. “Oh, Cort, I’ve just been a housewife. Come on out in the kitchen and talk to me while I finish fixing dinner.”
Cortland put his arm around Alice’s shoulders and they walked into the kitchen, leaving Bill alone with his bad thoughts. He wished that Cortland, in the time since Alice last saw him, had lost his teeth or his hair or something so that he didn’t look like every housewife’s dream of romance.
Not that he was afraid Alice would run off with Cortland or anything like that. Or would she? Even if she didn’t, she might start imagining it was Cortland standing by her side each time she washed the dishes. Bill could put up with Paul Newman in the kitchen. But Courtiand Marshall — NO!
“Oh, Bill,” Alice sang out, “come on in and join us.”
You bet he would join them. He’d go in there and sit and watch and if Cortland got fresh with Alice he’d poke him in the nose. Or at least he would think about it hard.
“Bill,” Cortland said as he walked into the kitchen, “we’ve just been going over old memories.”
Bill wished viciously he could wipe out those memories. Or better still, wipe out Cortland. Just a flick of the magic finger, folks, and poof, he’s gone!
Bill flicked his fingers at Cortland and said aloud, “Poof, you’re gone!”
There was a poof of orange smoke and Cortland was gone.
Bill stood in rigid silence for almost two minutes. Then Alice said in a matter-of-fact voice, “All right, boys, that was a nice trick. But dinner is almost ready. Come on back, Cortland.”
Bill swallowed. “Alice,” he said. His voice was a high squeak.
Alice went on stirring the gravy. “Bill, show Cort where he can wash his hands.”
Bill tried again. “Alice,” he squeaked. “I think Cortland is gone.”
“Where’d he go?” Alice asked. “This is a fine time for him to go somewhere.”
Bill collapsed on a kitchen chair. “I think I made him disappear.”
“Well, make him reappear.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t know how, I don’t even know how I made him disappear.”
Alice stopped stirring the gravy. “Bill, are you sick?”
“I sure am,” Bill groaned. His scalp felt tight and his eyes were so large he didn’t think he could close the lids over them. “I’ve got to call the police,” he whispered.
Officers Magee and Smithson were big, burly, and jaded. They had heard everything. Many times. Bill noticed, however, that they still had spirit enough to glance appreciatively at Alice.
“Sure,” Officer Magee said when Bill had told his story. “You just flick your fingers and some guy disappears.”
Bill gave them a sickly grin. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened.”
Officer Magee sighed. “Maybe we better search the premises,” he told Smithson. “See if there are any signs of a struggle. Maybe he really did do away with this guy.”
Magee looked again at Alice, who gave him a warm smile. Bill could almost hear the wheels in the officer’s head grinding out, “Pretty wife, jealous husband, so goodbye, boy friend.”
The two policemen conducted a thorough search of the house and back yard, poking around in the flowerbeds — for signs of digging. Bill thought.
“Okay,” said Officer Magee when they returned. “Now tell us the truth. We’re busy men, Mac. Our next call is a complaint about a billygoat who whistles Yankee Doodle.”
Officer Smithson guffawed.
Bill stood up and drew himself to his full five feet seven inches. He glared straight into the eye of his own reflection in Officer Magee’s shiny buttons. He slumped down again. “I did tell you the truth,” he mumbled.
“Well, tell us again,” boomed Officer Smithson.
Bill licked his dry lips. “You see,” he began, “Cortland was standing just about where you two are now. All I did was flick my fingers like this.” He flicked his fingers. “And I said, ‘Poof, you’re gone!’ ”
There was a poof of orange smoke and Officers Magee and Smithson were gone.
Bill gulped. “Aw, come on back, you guys,” he said weakly.
“Bill,” Alice said. “Is that all you do? Just flick your fingers and someone disappears?”
Bill scarcely had the strength to nod as he sank onto a chair.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Alice said with admiration. “You’re quite a guy. No wonder I love you so much.” She kissed him on top of the head. “I think I’ll put dinner on now. Or maybe I should wait until Cortland gets back. When will he be back?”