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Martin, Revisited
Chapter Eighteen
HALLELUJAH
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft Two:
Would't it be great if liars' pants really did catch fire?
Draft Three:
Nothing, yet.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
Carter unpacked his overnight bag with little interest in what he was doing. He was preoccupied with Martin and their new friends, missing them and wanting their companionship.
Comforting thoughts encouraged him: It's normal to miss people you like; just work your way through this and try to enjoy some alone time; Martin should be back later with India and hopefully everyone will have a nice dinner and good conversation.
As he put away clothes and toiletries, he thought about everyone else he had met recently.
They're all going to have to earn my trust, he decided. No weirdness, no abuse, no games. And if anyone ever lays one square inch of skin on Martin, I will make a couple of phone calls: one to the police and one to my lawyer. Martin deserves all the best in life, starting with loyalty and joy--
A light scuffing sound interrupted his righteous irritation.
He went into the main hallway and towards the front door.
Something settled above him. There were big wide HVAC pipes -- Pypes exploding came to mind and made him smile -- hanging out of the ceiling, which connected to the roof of the building. He wondered about rats and squirrels, bats and stray small animals. He had researched the possibility of narrowing or sealing the pipes, and was getting closer to a decision. At first, he had liked the simple, huge, loft-like appearance but he did not want pests in here.
His phone buzzed with a message from Martin: “Carter. Any chance you would be okay with India staying with us tonight? She's concerned about dreadful things happening to us considering recent events, and other potential crimes targeting us.”
Carter looked up into the wide pipe, still wondering if there were animals up there. He listened for more sounds, then decided it was just the materials and the building settling. He turned and thought about Martin’s message while heading back to his desk. He stopped and sent, “You don’t have to ask! What you do on your side is your business!”
“No, it’s not like that. She just wants to check out the building and the neighborhood. She'll sleep in the big room. Get a sense of what the place is like, and assess the place for security issues.”
“Seriously. I think this lady has more cojones than the two of us put together.”
“LOL. I do too. See you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
Later, when he heard a key moving in the front door’s lock, Carter looked toward the hallway from his desk in the big room.
Martin emerged from the massive hallway and smiled. “Just me,” he said.
“I I I’m glaaad to seee you.”
“Likewise. Help you prepare dinner later?”
“Yes, please. When will Indiaaa arrive?"
"In a couple of hours."
*****
Martin finished with a small pile of bills. He tidied up his desk, went into the hallway, and looked toward the door. He thought he had heard Carter moving about.
The hallway was empty except for scents of pizza, lettuce and Italian salad dressing. He followed the scents to Carter's kitchen and said, “Okay, I’m here to help.”
“Yes, please. Set the taaable ... I I I mean the bar ... Aaand take out wine aaand glasses.”
Martin put everything on a rolling cart and set up three spaces at a bar across from the cooking area. As he finished, his phone buzzed. India was downstairs.
“Perfect timing,” he said to Carter.
Martin went to the door, opened it, and watched as the elevator arrived. The doorman and India stepped out. “Good evening,” the doorman called to Martin. “I hope you all have a lovely dinner.”
“Thanks,” India said as she struggled with a medium-sized box and a big purse.
Martin took the box. Once inside with the door shut, he said, “Didn’t he offer to help?”
“Yes, but I told him I was okay. When he saw my badge and gun he just nodded.” India looked over the main hallway. “Nice. It’s big.” She engulfed Martin with hugs and kisses.
“What’s in the box?” Martin asked.
“A housewarming gift.”
“Oh, cool.”
They went to the kitchen where Carter said, “Hi, Indiaaa. Maaake yourself at home.”
“Thank you. I brought you two a dinner treat slash late house-warming present.”
Martin and Carter unwrapped the box together. Inside was a coffee bean grinder and several types of whole beans.
“Thanks,” Martin said.
“This is nice,” Carter said. “Thaaank you.”
They sat and ate well, Martin thought. The wine did not reduce their inhibitions; he thought about the three of them, or perhaps more including their other friends, going out at night sometime to a club or dancing or to a play.
India took his hand and squeezed as she and Carter discussed proper ground-coffee-to-water proportions; Martin felt grateful at not being pressured to talk.
Later, Carter said goodnight and retreated to his room.
Martin raised his eyebrows at India. She reached toward him from one of the big, wide recliners in the main room. He joined her and they looked out the tall windows at the lights of lower Manhattan.
“I'm going to sleep in my bed,” he said.
“I'll miss you.”
They kissed; as they pulled away she said, “Something seems familiar about this.”
“That's weird. Because my mom told me about some dream she had about my dad. And the arrangement was something like this.”
“How is she?”
“She's well.”
“Is she dating yet?”
“No.” He tried on his father’s best joking voice. “Arrrre you ... interested?"
She playfully shook his shoulder. “No. Just thinking about what that must be like. Being widowed. From a woman's perspective.”
“You women. You're strong. She's strong. She will be okay.”
“I think men are strong. Look at you ... in another relationship. It hasn’t been that long for you.”
“It’s only been ... well ... what. Not even six months.”
The kissing started up again. Martin thought about all of their decisions and conversations, including those about intimacy. They had decided to wait on that, and to date as long as possible.
At a stopping point he said reluctantly, “I better go. Text me if anything unusual happens. Which is rare. Carter is usually quiet as a mouse in his room. It gets so quiet at night that I can hear all kinds of things: bats, squirrels, seagulls, owls--”
“Bats?”
“Yes. They make this staticky sound that messes with my ears.”
“I gotta listen for that.”
*****
Carter moved in the dark, almost silently.
He opened his bedroom door and looked into the hallway. That scuffing sound had been bothering him yet again: like a shoe or a claw scraping the inside of the pipes.
The doorway led to shades of black and gray. He moved into the hallway and closer to the front door.
Something waist-high moved toward him and said in a loud whisper, “Say one word and I will shoot you in the thigh.” A hard object poked against his pajamas and pressed against his upper knee.
Carter deliberately dropped his crutches as loudly as possible, leaned against the wall, and pressed a security button on one of his necklaces. He slowly slid to the floor as the voice said, “Well. You made noise but you did not say anything. You're not as much of a dumbass as they said. Now why don't you tell me why you continue to insist that you were attacked when you were five?”
The lights all over the penthouse brightened slightly, casting a grayish-gold through to the hallway and onto a little person: a tiny man who was wearing all black. He held a pistol.
He nudged Carter's right shin with a little foot. “You're making everyone look bad. You're the one who started all of this--”
Carter continued to look directly at the intruder, but he could see, peripherally, that India had gotten out of her chair and had slipped into Martin's kitchen area. Carter’s mind wandered: No matter who found and harassed him, they all had the same message about lies, lies and more lies. He was tired of it.
“--stupid allegations that others are responsible for your misery. Dumbass.”
Carter was glad that he oiled all the hinges regularly because the south door to Martin's side of the place opened without a sound and Martin peeked out, followed by India. They both popped back inside and shut the door.
“Get ... Out ... Of ... Here,” Carter finally said.
“No. You ... Explain ... Why ... You insist ... That ... You ... Were ... Attacked.” The man mimicked Carter's pitch and tone and speed.
“Get OUT of here.”
“You stupid dumbass--”
The door right behind the man opened and India shouted, “NEW YORK CITY POLICE. Put the GUN DOWN.”
The man turned only his head and said, “Hey there, little lady. You wouldn’t--”
India flattened him with one hand and sat on him, took his gun and put it aside, and read him his rights.
“Help!” The man said. “Police brutality! Jacob! Help me!”
Carter watched without emotion or sympathy, absolutely certain he had never met this individual. He looked up and saw a rope and rappel items hanging out of the HVAC pipe near the front door.
India finished handcuffing the man just as someone banged on the door and shouted, “POLICE. Open up!”
India grabbed the man, stood him up, and allowed him to walk to the door. She opened it and handed the dude over.
Carter waited as patiently as possible through giving yet another statement to the police. When they gave him permission, he went to the roof to view evidence that the stranger had camped out for a few days and then cut his way into the pipes.
An officer said, “The man is a rock climber among other things, and seems to be among those who enjoy this latest craze of climbing buildings. Looks like everything here is up to code but it could be more secure.”
They went downstairs and made arrangements to secure the roof. As Carter made phone calls, he saw that Martin was being observed by paramedics as he had what appeared to be a minor seizure: Martin’s eyes were open and he was slurring his words while insisting he felt fine, but his arms and head were twitching. India watched with tears in her eyes.
Carter thought: Nothing new in the life of Carter. Or Martin. And poor India. Then he raised the bar: We all deserve better than this. We’re going to sue this idiot for everything he did, including any medical bills Martin might have.
He watched everything with little emotion, wondering what it would be like to have more good days than bad. He checked a chart he was keeping on all of this. There did not seem to be a pattern other than that the crimes happened yet again when he thought they might have finally stopped.
But isn't that the point? The voice of reason nudged him. They want you to think they've forgotten you so when they start up again it’s as annoying as possible.
Oh yeah, Carter argued with himself. I'm well aware of that tactic. But if they have so little regard for me why don't they just piss off?
He grinned at the image of a variety of people standing naked near a canyon, urinating over a ridge, sighing and yawning out of boredom over all that was beautiful and wonderful and joyful about life.
He quickly texted his business partners a description of that image, asking, “You think we could get that into a Leera level?”
Someone was awake late and answered, “Carter, your humor level has regressed a few notches lately ... But it is hilarious. However, we all agreed no nudity in our games.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll think of something else.”
One of the officers called to Carter. “Sir?”
He pocketed his phones and rejoined the investigation.
The officer said, “So far, the evidence points toward the one pipe. The rest of the place looks secure. Do you have any questions?”
“Nooo. Thank you for aaall your help.”
“Yes, sir. India over there is a great lady and an excellent detective. You're in good hands.”
Carter saw everyone out, and so did Martin, who assured everyone he was fine.
After the last person left and the door was shut, Martin stood outside the narrow room to the north of his side of the place. India did too.
“I did not know there was a room here,” Martin said.
Carter looked around at the semi-clutter of the crime's aftermath, not looking forward to cleaning the mess, then said, “It’s aaa personal room, but I I I feel comfortable with both of you going in. And I I I’m glaaad there was no evidence he waaas in here.”
He went first. After making sure everything was in its place he turned to his friends.
*****
Martin entered next.
The room was about seven feet wide, and fifteen feet long from the hallway to the thin window.
He looked to his left. A massive portrait at first appeared to display individuals of varying heights and ages, sitting in a playroom.
Further study of the image revealed separate components of the individuals: small black and white drawings labeled, sequentially, from side to side and up and down, “Incident Number One, Incident Number Two,” and so on.
A thick black binder beneath the playroom portrait had a label: “The Incidents -- Or Are They Lies?”
"What is this?" Martin said. "Did these things happen to you?" He reached for the binder, then glanced at Carter.
"It's okayyy. You aaare welcome to read it. And Indiaaa too. It mayyy be disturbing."
Martin squinted. "Are you okay?"
"No. I I will probaaably have aaa delayed reaction to aaall of this.”
India said, “Oh my gosh, Carter. Who painted this?”
Martin turned to his right. On the other wall was an even larger portrait that stretched the entire length of the room; it was much bigger than his own flat screen TV. The portrait featured a life-sized, upright Carter from the back: standing with his crutches, shirtless and wearing jeans, dirty and slightly bloody, looking down the length of the entire penthouse which was at a stage halfway between renovation and completion: gray granite and old rusty things being replaced with cheap light tan tile and wooden frames and plaster and bargain golden wallpaper.
Carter said, “I I I painted both.”
“You have a great talent. They're wonderful.”
“Thaaank you.”
Martin returned to the binder. He opened it and found a table of contents. He noted the page number of ‘The Lift’ then continued to look at the first few incidents.
To the right was ‘Incident Number One: My Conception -- the serious version.’
Martin scanned the paragraphs: a graphic, speculative, X-rated description of how Carter came to be.
He turned the page and found “Incident Number One: My Conception -- the funny version. Well ... A couple of organisms found their ways to each other, united, and formed me. Many years later I was asked rudely and snottily, ‘Why did you allow yourself to be created?’ Naturally, no one else was around. So when I went to collect, I was accused of making things up. Let me see if I understand this: if someone is rude to me and there are only the two of us, does that mean it never happened? Is that kind of like the tree in the forest? Does the accusation negate the incident so that it never happened? Does that erase the lie? What if there were a special type of spray you could direct at liars and every time they lied, they turned purple? Also, how could I allow myself to be created? Was I once two separate entities simultaneously? But would those two really be me? The organism that I am right now is me. How could I be those two other entities AT THE SAME TIME and make that decision to mate? That would be like me effing myself, in both a female and a male body. I could hear it now: Oh, Carter, please, do it. Thanks, Carter. Like that, Carter? Yes, like that, Carter. Carter effing himself to bring himself about. Isn’t that what we really are? Two separate people at some point in time, creating ourselves? Are we in essence creating ourselves? I still say if I were them, I would not be me. Well, the rude snotty incident did happen. Just because I was accused of making it up, that doesn’t mean it did not happen. I know it did. I was there."
Martin turned to ‘The Lift.’ He scanned the serious version, which made him feel sick to his stomach. He flipped to the funny version, read for several paragraphs and snorted. “What the hell?” He said, laughing.
He checked out Carter, who said, “Read it out loud, Maaartin.”
Martin read some more, then started giggling in a high-pitched tone. “This is getting better and better. No. I'll be laughing too much. I nominate Lydia.”
India turned away from examining the renovation portrait and said, “Martin. I swear. That Lydia name is going to get you into trouble one day. What are you nominating me for?”
“Well ... Carter has written a series of incidents in this book. Each incident has two versions: the serious ... and the humorous. This one is about a meeting with a social worker, and what seems to be a mixture of what happened and what he wish had happened. Read it silently down to the first mention of the horn."
India took the binder and started reading. She suddenly stopped, laughed and said, “Okay. May I sit? No, why don’t we all sit on the floor. I can see you two laughing so hard that you lose your balance, fall, and hurt yourself.”
They all sat in a big circle, and India put the binder on her lap.
Martin watched with affection. India wore her hair back in a long, slick, dark blond ponytail. Without makeup, her face was pale with faint dark circles under her eyes. Her alto voice was usually prim, so he was looking forward to this. She wore a fitted burgundy turtleneck sweater and black leggings. She still needed to gain weight, but she was looking good.
Carter sat well, having moved his legs into a crossed position. He wore light blue flannel pajamas. He seemed okay, despite the chaos, with a relaxed face and less twitching than usual. He smoothed back dark curls and squinted with big dark blue eyes at the binder.
Martin looked down at his own fisherman’s sweater and jeans. He had fallen asleep after washing up, without changing.
India said. “Okay. Is everyone comfortable?”
Carter said, “I I I hope youuu both think it is funny.”
She looked at each page of the incident, smiled, then began.
* * * * *
Fourteen-year-old Carter arrived back at the place where he lived, after a long, happy day at school.
He entered the foyer and checked his mail slot.
For the fourth time in as many days, he found no mail in his slot, but he found what appeared to be his own mail sticking out of three other slots. He withdrew the mail that was sticking out, and found his name on all three envelopes. He also found one of his magazines in the trash beneath the set of household mailboxes.
Noise erupted. A voice shouted at his back beyond maximum volume, into a range that made the voice go hoarse after a few syllables: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING GOING THROUGH EVERYONE ELSE’S MAIL?”
Carter wondered where the dangerous fire was. Or perhaps an ax murderer was loose. Or maybe an international terrorist had entered the building and was about to stage a public execution. Whatever had caused the noise -- it must have been truly dreadful. No ... wait a minute. It was just the mail. Just the mail had brought on the noise.
He shoved the mail inside his shirt, turned around and said calmly, “Why is someone going through my mail and not putting it in my box?”
Hesitation. Too smoothly: “I don’t know anything about that.” Taunting and sing-songy.
“Buuullshit.” He had been saving this word for years. He was not buying it anymore: not the words, not the actions, not anything.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Please stop hiding my mail and my magazines.”
Carter turned and went to the lift. He sat, buckled in, placed his crutches on his lap and pressed the power button. He rose almost halfway up the stairs when the voice’s owner turned off the lift, ran upstairs, yanked the crutches out of Carter’s hands (and he let go just in time), jammed one crutch into the framework of the machinery, threw the other crutch upstairs, ran downstairs and shouted, “WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS TAKING ADVANTAGE OF PEOPLE? WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT? HOW COME YOUR STOMACH HURT -- AGAIN!!! AGAIN!!! -- LAST NIGHT DURING DINNER? YOU WERE NOT ... SICK! ... STOP ... FAKING ... THESE IMAGINARY ILLNESSES. WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS CAUSING SO ... MUCH ... TROUBLE??? WHY?”
The owner of the voice ranted away into the outer regions of the wooden and brick structure, yanking at its hair and shrieking.
Carter said to the empty stairway, “Thaaat would beee the definition of hypocrisy.”
He swiftly unbuckled the belt, removed the crutch from the lift and threw it upstairs, used his upper body strength to stand up and lean against the stair railing, and started pulling himself laboriously, step by step, up to the second floor.
As he struggled toward the top of the stairs, he heard the lift come to life. The lift went up and down the stairs several times to his left as he did his best to stay far to his right. He had no idea who had turned it on, and refused to look. This kind of thing had happened at least once a week, and sometimes twice a week. He wanted no part of it. He just wanted to go to school and get back and have a healthy afternoon and evening ... not this rubbish.
He reached the top of the stairs, grabbed his crutches, maneuvered them so he could use them, and went to his room. Once inside, he locked and barred the door. He called his social worker on his cell phone and explained the situation.
As he waited for her to arrive he could hear a muffled exchange of lies through the vents: “That stupid idiot fell as he got into the lift and almost broke it. One of his crutches got stuck in it.” “What an idiot.” “Is he coming out tonight or will we have a peaceful wonderful meal without him.” Laughter. “You have to do everything for him.” “Stupid idiot.”
The doorbell rang. There was a lot of loud protesting, followed by quick footsteps climbing the stairs. A bit of silence. A knock at his door. “Jacob? It’s Esperanza.”
He moved the dresser away from the door and opened it. A tall, slim Hispanic woman smiled at him. She had short black hair, olive skin, and pleasant features. She said, “Let’s go downstairs and resolve this.”
“Okayyy.”
He got into the lift. She accompanied him, step by step.
In the dining room he sat at the head of the crowded table, and she sat to his right.
Esperanza said, “Silence! Pay attention.” She pulled a pretty, small, golden musical horn out of her bag, placed it on a golden stand on the table and said, “This is The Horn Of Truth. Every time you lie, it will make a loud objectionable sound accompanied by an unpleasant smell. The only way to get the smell to go away is to tell the truth. Let the proceedings begin.”
“Double-U, Tee, Eff. Not The Horn Of Truth,” someone groaned.
“Again?” another voice cried out.
“Can’t you put that STUPID thing away and have a NORMAL conversation with us?”
Other voices whined.
Esperanza said, “Quiet, folks. I’d like to know why Jacob’s mail is being misfiled or thrown in the trash.”
Nobody spoke.
“Answer, please,” she said.
“You said you would be fair,” a peeved voice said. “You said you would listen to both sides.”
The Horn sprouted arms that appeared to be judging the veracity of this statement by tapping a finger against its circular opening. The Horn said, “Woohoo!” and bowed.
Esperanza said, “I will be fair by flat out telling you that I don’t believe you. If you want to talk about being FAIR it is not FAIR to Jacob if you are deliberately doing this. Once again: why is this happening?”
After a long silence she said, “Please do not do this. You say he does not misfile your mail. Show him the same courtesy. Now: who stopped the lift and damaged his crutches?”
“He FELL into the lift.”
The Horn let out a long depressing foghorn of a fart. Noses sniffed and wrinkled. Eyes widened.
Esperanza said, “He fell? Were YOU there?”
Silence. Then gags and coughing.
“Who did this to Carter?”
“Ma’am, this boy is a liar. He’s been lying for a long time. Why do you believe him?”
The Horn let out a solemn, musical, trumpet-like fart that sounded vaguely like “Taps.” The scent grew worse.
Esperanza said, “You’re gonna have to speak only the truth or it’s going to get really bad. I don’t like your tone of voice, or your choice of words. I believe this boy and I believe he tells the truth. If you can prove to me that he fell, then do so.”
“Why don’t you prove that he did not.”
“No. If he fell, why doesn’t he have any injuries?”
“That’s how he operates, ma’am. He lies skillfully and wastes the taxpayers’ money by making you come out here. Nothing happened. He fell. His crutch got caught. Why don’t you listen to reason.”
The Horn said, “So sorry,” leaned forward, let loose with a popping sound, and the scent grew stronger.
Everyone tried to cover their noses. There were random coughs, and Carter heard retching sounds.
Esperanza said, “The scent will not go away until you tell the truth.”
A voice said desperately, “FINE!!! He did NOT fall into the LIFT. Please make that smell go away. We take great pride in having a clean house that smells good.”
About fifty percent of the scent dissipated.
After a great deal of coughing, another voice said, “Jacob tells the truth most of the time.”
The Horn evaluated this. After long consideration, it bent over and blatted a small fart.
“It’s true!!! Most of the time! What’s wrong with that?”
There was a great deal of confused whispering.
Finally a voice said sarcastically, “I BELIEVE that Jacob tells the truth most of the time.”
The Horn stood up on two legs that appeared out of nowhere, shouted, “Hooray!” and blasted pink confetti into the air. The scent disappeared.
Esperanza held up a cell phone and pressed a button.
The room filled with sounds of the altercation: silence; the shouting at Carter; his pleasant gravelly tenor; the lift; the shouting at him.
Esperanza said, “Once again: who did this and why?”
After a long silence: a voice sounded more disappointed at getting caught than remorseful; a voice that emphasized odd syllables, as if trying to disguise itself. “It was JUST a STUpid GAme. It got out of HAnd. It won’t HAPpen again.”
The Horn said, “Oh no,” and let out a genial little fart.
The voice said, “It was a game. I swear.”
The Horn said sweetly, “On a Bible in a court of law?” then raised one leg and emitted a squeak. The room filled with a strong sulfurous scent.
Another desperate voice: “Why doesn’t Jacob say something?”
“Yeah, why not him?”
Esperanza said, “Jacob? Okay. Jacob? A response to this being a game?”
“I know nothing about a game,” Carter said easily, pleased that he was not struggling to speak. “I came in, and looked for my mail, and thought it might be the items sticking out of the other boxes. I was right. No one ever told me we would be playing a game with my mail. I know nothing about a game.”
The Horn clapped; each clap released tiny pink hearts and flowers. “Well said.”
An aggravated voice: “Stop lying, Carter. You’re an intelligent boy. Why are you smirking and insisting on perpetuating this chaos and drama?”
The Horn tapped its opening again. It said, “One lie phrased as an accusation. One truth. Three lies posed as a question. That means ....” It made four freight train sounds.
“Must we deal with this aggravating nonsense? Put this stupid toy away and speak to us properly.”
The Horn said, “Tsk, tsk. I am a guest in your home. You should be more polite than that.”
The desperate voice whined, “It smells REALLY BAD in here. Negate the negations, somebody ... please.”
Another desperate voice: “FINE then! It was not a game; the incident happened for many reasons that I don’t want to share right now. Jacob was not lying just now. Jacob is not responsible for perpetuating the chaos and the drama.”
The Horn said, “And the smirk?”
The aggravated voice became exhausted. “There is no way I would know if Jacob is smirking because I don’t know what he is feeling. It would be a smirk if he were saying or doing something to indicate that he is. The fact that I think he is smirking is okay for me to think, but not to say, because that would be an unsolicited comment and socially awkward. If I had prefaced the smirk comment, that would have been better, but ultimately not the best thing to either say or do because the comment was presumptuous. Also, it might not be a smirk. It could be Parkinson’s disease, a seizure, a stroke or any of a number of neurological disorders. I said this offensive thing for many reasons that I would rather not share at the moment.”
The hornn said, “Bravo!” and spun around in a circle. The scent went away.
Esperanza said, “Listen up. I want all of you to stop talking to him this way. Stop calling him names. Stop TELLING him what he is doing. Stop evaluating him and giving him a score. He is not a project. You are supposed to be ... LISTENING. He has asked you not to call him these names, and you have promised not to, and yet you continue to do so. We have had this same conversation three times now. If I have to come out here again to investigate--”
“Are you threatening us?”
“Let me finish.”
Silence.
“You are not to prevent Jacob from using his crutches. You are not to prevent Jacob from using the lift. You are not to restrict his mobility in any way. We gave you a list of rules last time. Please review them.”
Esperanza stopped and looked around the table. No one would make eye contact except Carter.
She nodded at him and said, “Now. About the food. Last time, we gave you a list of foods that Jacob is allergic to. Once again, and I hope this is the last time I have to tell you people: ALLERGIES. CAN. KILL.”
“But he’s NOT ALLERGIC--”
The horn let out a menacing bumblebee-buzz of a fart.
The scent returned.
The horn said “But seriously, folks,” and pretended to hit several cymbals.
The peeved voice: “That smells even worse than before. Somebody, please.”
Another voice: “Whatever. The stupid dumb--”
Esperanza said, “Every single one of you verbally agreed to stop calling him any form of the words ‘dumb’ or ‘stupid’ or ‘idiot’ to his face or behind his back. Use his name, please--”
“JACOB ... HAS ... ALLERGIES.”
The horn spun around and shouted, “Hooray!” and emitted a shower of miniature white doves.
Esperanza took a stack of papers from her bag and said, “Enough with the denial. Everyone gets a copy of this. This is a list of Jacob’s food allergies. He is highly allergic to all of them. He is not to be given these foods, or anything that contains these as ingredients. ALLERGIES CAN KILL. Do you all UNDERSTAND?”
“Ma’am.” The peeved voice had turned too reasonable and too smooth. “He was just having some kind of panic attack last time. That’s all.”
The Horn evaluated this, bent over, said, “Liar, liar, pants on ... whoops!” and let out a big ugly fart.
The peeved voice said, “I have ... I HAD ... no idea what happened when Jacob appeared to be ill at dinner several months ago.”
The Horn tapped its opening. “Please express that with more clarity.”
“You must be kidding.”
The Horn bent over--
The peeved voice spoke quickly: “Okay! I was watching Jacob, not understanding why he appeared to be ill. I wondered what was causing him to have stomach pains and shortness of breath and big giant red round hives on his face and arms. I wondered if perhaps he might be faking it. I realized that it might be impossible to fake those symptoms. But even though logic told me that might be impossible, I decided, for many reasons, to force him ... to think ... that I believed ... that he did not have allergies ... and decided to force him ... to think ... that I believed ... that he was faking the illness.”
The Horn said, “And?”
“Are you serious?”
“I am as serious as a life-threatening food allergy.”
“Well I believe that it cannot get any smellier in here.”
The Horn said, “Finally. Now you’re cooking with gas. Finish your answer. And don’t you effing challenge me. I will perfume this place with nastiness.”
“What else is there to say?”
The Horn placed its hands where its hips might be.
After a long smelly silence the peeved voice said, “I continue to choose to believe that there is nothing wrong with Jacob, and choose to pretend that he is not in pain or suffering when, in fact, he is. And I know he is suffering. Because I have proof.”
The horn clapped loudly and sprayed the room with tiny pink flowers.
And the scent went away. Again.
Esperanza said, “Finally. We appear to be on the same page. He was having an allergic reaction. He passed out at the kitchen table. Remember? In your words: ‘He fell forward into his dessert.’ He could not breathe, and had to be revived and treated by the paramedics, who transported him to the hospital, where he was treated for anaphylaxis. Here is the doctor’s report, which I want you to memorize. ALLERGIES CAN KILL. Do not hide these foods in foods that you give him. If this boy ends up dead, there could be serious lifelong consequences for anyone found responsible.”
For whatever reason, nobody spoke this time.
The Horn started humming something that sounded like “Time Passages” by Al Stewart.
Esperanza said, “Now, how can we make sure that we interact in a more pleasant, positive, truthful manner?”
After a brief silence the peeved voice said, “Follow the instructions.”
The Horn hummed, “Another One Bites The Dust,” and tooted, leaving behind a faint smelly residue.
“This is so ... freaking ... stupid,” the peeved voice said. “What? You want me to say that we as a group will do our best to support Jacob and include him in our activities--”
The Horn bent over and let out a sonic boom.
Everyone hunched and covered their ears.
Then the coughing and the retching started up again.
After the boom passed, the peeved voice said, “You cannot possibly believe that is a lie.”
The horn said, “At this point, TMI would be recommended. Give it your best shot. Actually, go beyond that. Pretend that you’re gonna get everything you ever wanted by telling the absolute truth. Because, believe it or not, the truth will set you free.”
There was a long silence, during which The Horn skipped around the table, humming bits and pieces of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” then Metallica’s “Sad But True.”
An exhausted voice spoke for the first time: “Oh, hell. Let’s summarize it succinctly and plainly: Jacob ... is NOT WANTED HERE. When is he going to LEAVE?”
The Horn stretched out its arms and began belting out Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” in a strong, operatic voice. The golden book melted and swirled around the room, turning everything into a shimmering, silvery-golden mist.
The song filled Carter’s world. He sang along happily, reaching to the sky.
* * * *
Carter and Martin were on the floor, laughing, holding onto their stomachs.
Carter could not stop. He had been up until four a.m. the first time he wrote that summary, and had suffered for days.
Now, he was lost in laughter.
India was still imitating The Horn Of Truth: “I will PERFUME this place with nastiness.” She poked her butt in the air and spread her arms out.
Carter said, “No ... no ... nooo, Indiaaa.” He sat up and said, “Youuu have to shake one finger. Like aaan irritated schoolmaaarm.” He demonstrated.
She put her left hand on her hip, shook her right index finger, and said it again.
Martin said, “Oh, gosh. My stomach! Someone help me! Sonic boom!”
Carter laughed. “Can youuu see a giant wave of aaa boom, and everyone ducking?”
More giggling and laughing.
India held on to her own stomach. “And ...” she bowed and said in a tiny voice: “Oh, no!”
Carter said, “For thaaat one, you haaave to be surprised by youuur own bodily functions.”
India blew a raspberry and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no!”
Carter nodded and held up one thumb.
“Sonic boom,” Martin almost whispered as he continued to laugh. “Bumble-bee buzz of a fart.”
Carter said, “Dooo the Bible one.”
India stood on her tip-toes and said in a sweet, gentle voice: “On a Bible in a court of law?” She lifted one leg and blew another raspberry.
“Perrrfect,” Carter said.
Martin started singing “Hallelujah.”
India said softly, “I will perfume this place.”
Martin continued singing; his pleasant tenor grew louder and louder.
Carter held on to his own stomach, listening. He said, “You know aaall the words?”
Martin nodded.
India watched him with so much happiness that Carter had to look away.
Martin sang sweetly. India joined in. Carter hummed along.
The three of them sang together, getting louder, then fading away.
“I I I love youuu guys,” Carter said. He left out the surprised words: I have not felt this way in a long time. Probably never.
India smiled and stroked Martin’s hair. He said, “We love you, too.”
Her face widened into a grin; she laughed and said, “Sonic boom.”
Martin lost it again.
Carter said, “Thaaat one would be performed the way Jim Carrey used to bend over in his older movies.”
“Oh, gosh,” Martin said again, gasping for air. “Not Jim Carrey with the physical comedy. That would be too much.”
Carter fell asleep on the hardwood floor, in his pajamas, still giggling and laughing, listening to the other two reading and re-reading the incident with different voices.
Much later, a blanket settled over him. There was Martin’s voice: “We can sleep in here. Let him be.”
Carter fell into a deep comforting sleep. Later he was aware of dreaming it, yet still fully enjoyed watching the black binder turn into a huge, thick golden binder full of happy, healthy, fun joyous moments, and the last page was entitled “This Is Only The Prologue.” The book stood near a canyon, took a long time relieving itself, said “Thanks, dude,” and rock-climbed down into a beautiful valley.
TO BE CONTINUED
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