“I loved her just like she was,” he told the door. “That’s why I didn’t want her to grow anymore.” The girl on the other side grunted. The woman was dead and the blood clung to her legs like a demanding toddler. He went over to the phone on the wall and it rang, one sharp signal before he lifted the receiver.
The call came from far away, a sea of static and a male voice drowning in it. “Is this Mrs.—?” The phone line chewed up bits and pieces of his voice. “I’m sorry to disturb this early in the morning. I’m Chief Inspector—and I—” There was a wind howling, tossing the man’s words here and there. “Your name and address were found in a notebook that we believe—and it’s of the utmost importance that—”
Notebook, he thought.
“This man is a highly disturbed individual and—ran away from a mental institution on November 10th.”
The wind tore through again. The thin line of waves and wires between the policeman’s voice and his own auditory canal swayed and shivered like a skipping-rope slapping the asphalt, thud-thud-thud.
“He is very dangerous. I don’t want to scare you, but—his own little sister—”
The girl had stopped with her noises, but there was a different sound now. Slow, unsteady knocks on the door. Bang, bang, little fists.
“Keep your door locked, and don’t invite any strangers inside,” the Chief Inspector continued. “And if you notice anything out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate to give me a call. My number—”
“Thank you.” He pressed the receiver to his mouth, blowing hot, stale air into the transmitter. “It was nice of you to call, Chief Inspector.” He saw Cassie in front of him, her wings glowing in the sun. She was smiling. The banging on the door continued, but it wasn’t important. He would take care of it in a while.
The Chief Inspector shouted something, but that wasn’t important, either. The girl made a sound like that of a dog drowning.
“I’ve got something to attend to now, if you’ll excuse me. When you’re done with my notebook, can I have it back?”
Winnebago Indian Motorhome by Tonka
Eddie Generous
The silver bell jingled from the top left corner of the heavy wooden door of Cooper Collective as Josh Dolan hipped his way back to the sidewalk, the two-foot box held against his chest, hands pinching the nine-inch wide ends. His eyes bounced up and down from the street to the Winnebago images on the box. He shifted the box to his left forearm and dug his keys from his right pocket.
The box slid into the passenger’s seat and he hurried around the front end. He’d left his cell phone stuffed in the cubby behind the shifter, auxiliary cord attached and music still running on random. He turned the key, but not far enough to jog the starter into life. For a moment, there was no music, only the ominous rustling of paper before the piano and horns picked up in David Bowie’s Dollar Days.
The song was an ode to the eventual and a dying man’s recognition that conclusion was beyond his control. Like the lines of Bowie’s bucket list could go unticked, no trouble.
“But not this one,” Josh said and touched the wrinkled and soft Winnebago box, thinking of his own bucket list. He’d inherited a 1974 Winnebago Indian Motorhome by Tonka as a boy, played with it for three summers before his father dragged him from bed, shouting that the house was on fire and they had to get out.
Strangely, he’d forgotten all about the toy until a few years back when he and Claire admitted they’d been facing down their own eventual. He moved into the den and she said nothing. They ate no more than three meals together a week. They hadn’t had sex since she went off the pill.
She wanted a baby—not a child, a baby—of that he was certain. A cat didn’t fill the void and the one they’d taken in lasted only a year before a Honda Civic made crow food of the thing. The book club, the knitting, the yoga, the tea outings, nothing scratched that particular itch. He’d tried to get her into other hobbies and in the process, got himself into nostalgia. There were posters and records. He had a small collection of reissued horror movies from his childhood—available for the first time since their VHS releases.
The Winnebago was better than perfect. As a kid, he didn’t have either the husband or wife dolls, didn’t have the box, and his Winnebago had been rusty with paint nicks and chips. This one had the husband and the box and was showroom mint.
He turned the key and the music silenced for a second before reconnecting. The blinker clicked, but before he could pull into the Sunday afternoon traffic, the music silenced again while his phone trilled a ring.
Claire. She had a work thing in Vancouver for a few days. That she was calling suggested abnormality. Typically, it was a single line of text that came with no expectation of response.
The shifter went back to park and the blinker ceased blinking. “Hey?” he said.
“Is this Josh Dolan?”
The voice was that of a man and Josh sat up straighter in his seat. “Yeah?”
“Your wife is Claire Dolan?” The voice sounded every-man normal, not aggressive or snobbish, no out of place accent.
“Yeah, why?”
“She collapsed this afternoon during a…conference, I guess. At the Radisson.”
“What?”
“I’m a nurse at Vancouver General. She collapsed shortly after lunch and hasn’t regained consciousness. We need to know if she’s on any medication.”
The world beyond the windows of Josh’s Chevrolet Sonic darkened to nothing and the atmosphere in the cab grew harsh. “No, I don’t think so…not since she went off the
