Absolute Zero

The silver box was a six-step pattern. They’d wait on the eight-step box because, Trudi explained, la crasada-the crossover step-would only confuse him at this point.

Still no music.

Three moves into his tenth silver box, Allen felt his pager vibrate against his hip. He excused himself, checked the number, and his heart skipped. It was synchronicity. It was Jolene. He walked over to the window with the cactus fringe, flipped open his cell phone, tapped in the number, and suddenly the dull day came up keen as the cactus needles.

“Allen, it’s Hank, please hurry,” Jolene shouted into the phone. Full-blown panic. Dammit, he must have stopped breathing and she caught it late.

“Call nine one one.”

“It’s not like that, just hurry, okay?”

“I’m on my way,” Allen said.

Allen ignored stop signs and ran two red lights. Coming down the snaking driveway to Hank’s house he jammed the brakes and fishtailed and dented his rear left bumper on a tree trunk.

Couldn’t be helped. He grabbed his medical bag and sprinted for the door.

Jolene met him in her robe. And although her eyes were bright with alarm, they were also very clear and vital. In fact, she looked much better than he’d seen her in a long time-rested, color in her cheeks, even her short hair had a plush spring to it.

She led him through the house toward the studio. Garf was there, of course, unshaven, looking barely awake but amused, in a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He spooned a bowl of cornflakes close to his chest and rolled his eyes. There was a damp spot on his shirt where’d he’d slopped milk.

“And then,” Jolene said, “just as I was waking up, the TV came on in Hank’s room. And I went in and he was looking right at me.”

“Gee, you mean like he knew you did something,” Garf said, defying Jolene’s furious glare with a mild grin.

“Just relax,” Allen said. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

“Earl thinks it’s funny to leave the TV clicker in Hank’s hand. He turned the TV on and off.”

“Earl did,” Allen said, getting a little perplexed.

“Hank did,” Jolene said.

Hank resolved that this-his last story-was one time he couldn’t afford to screw up. This time he intended to do justice to his characters. And here they came. He couldn’t reach out and touch them but he’d heard their confessions. All the ingredients were present for them to start fighting among themselves.

He just had to figure out how to get the party rolling.

He could move one finger a half inch and he could control his eyes. So he could communicate. He took a chance contacting Jolene, but her reaction had been to call the other two. He had to control himself; what he did was spite after seeing the tape.

He’d have to think out the next move. Make it count.

For now he was going to lay low and be the best vegetable in the garden. So his eyes rolled. His fingers, with their mighty new muscles, were as motionless as white banana peels on the TV remote. They drew near the bed. Allen and Jolene stood on the right, Earl was on the left, munching cereal.

* * *

“He was just like that with the clicker,” Jolene said.

Allen leaned over the bed and carefully inspected Hank’s eyes and his hands.

“This is exactly the way he was?” Allen asked again.

Jolene bit her lip. “No, actually, now that I think of it, Ambush was on his lap.”

Garf giggled and backed away, gamboling like a jester and humming the jangled Twilight Zone theme.

“The cat?” Allen said. Confounded, he moved his hands in a jerky pantomime, acting out a miniature drama. “Cat on lap,” Allen said slowly, sounding like Dr. Seuss.

“No, no; it wasn’t like that. It was him.” She pointed at Hank.

Allen steepled his long fingers and raised them slowly to his lips. With the attitude of a thoughtful prelate, he stepped closer to Jolene.

“Jo, I think the strain is getting to you.”

She shook her head. Allen started to place his hand on her shoulder, saw the swell of her bare throat and collarbone, and, hearing a rush of the tango music Trudi never played, held it back.

“Why don’t you get dressed, let’s go sit down in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee,” he suggested gently.

“Good idea,” Garf said, chewing with his mouth open. “I’ll watch Hank and make sure he doesn’t jump in the river.”

“You’re not helping things,” Allen said, a little testy. He turned back to Jolene and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Jolene dropped her shoulders. “Okay.”

“Good,” Allen said. “I’m going to go wash my hands.” He walked through the bedroom into the bathroom and shut the door.

Garf moved in and nudged her shoulder. “Better take a shower, girl.”

“What’s that?” Jolene narrowed her eyes.

Garf smiled. “You don’t want to be staring into Allen’s eyes talking about the meaning of life and have Broker trickle down your leg, now do you?”

Jolene swung her right hand to slap Garf in the face but he caught her hand easily. She narrowed her eyes, questioning.

Garf winked. “Hank told me.”

“Oh, yeah?” she shot back. “What he told me was that Broker copied your whole hard drive, especially your ambitious banking records.”

“Bullshit.”

Jolene smiled sweetly.

“When?” Garf squinted when he saw she wasn’t kidding.

“Last night.” She hunched her shoulders like a starlet and let them drop. “Afterward,” she said coyly, “he made a duplicate copy off your Zip Drive.”

They glared at each other. Then, as Earl backed off, he said ominously, “Broker’s ass is grass.”

“Don’t be selling me wolf tickets, and if I were you I’d be real nice to Broker to make sure those disks don’t wind up in the wrong hands,” Jolene mocked.

Allen and Jolene traded places in the bathroom and, while Jolene showered, Allen paced back and forth in front of Hank’s bed. He was aware of Garf, leaning against a bookcase next to the doorway, eating the last of his cereal, watching him.

Garf crossed the room, finished the bowl, placed it on the writing desk, ran his hand along a shelf of video movie cassettes, and asked, “You really kind of dig her, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Allen said. It wasn’t the right word, but then he resented the direct question coming from someone like Garf.

“I’m going to give you a little advice,” Garf said.

“Really,” Allen said.

“Really.” He pulled a rectangular movie container from the shelf, came across the room, and handed it to Allen.

The film was entitled The Blue Angel. On the cover, Marlene Dietrich wore a top hat at a rakish angle and a skimpy cabaret girl’s costume. She sat in a provocative pose, hands clasped over one carved knee.

“I’ve heard of it,” Allen said.