None who knew Marjorie Mayfield well (mostly cold-eyed of institutional psychologists in high-security girls’ schools jotting their notes in dog-eared legal pads), would regard her as the literary type.But after she had returned to the surface, belted herself into her black deathmobile, and begun driving to the main gates of Summerfield, Marjorie herself imagined that she could pen one of those little tomes with a flower on the cover, the kind that offered daily reflections, pearls of wisdom to guide the unguided.Some of her personal favorites were “Dead men tell no tales,” “Always get in the first shot,” and “Get them before they get you”.
She was thinking in this sibylline fashion when another text from Marco arrived giving her the exact address of Geoffrey’s house on Vera Lynn Lane.After she had laid on the horn to remind old Marlene crossing to the community center that she had better kick that walker into overdrive, Marjorie tapped out:
this old lady says thank you be right there MM
This of course was to trick Marco into thinking that Marjorie Mayfield was guileless and grandmotherly, innocent of the seamy side of life, and needing a strong young man to guide her along.What a sucker.
After a couple more herky-jerky turns of the steering wheel, Marjorie made her daylight arrival before Chez Cockaigne.Fixing a hat over her bird’s-nest of a coif, Marjorie dug a bit through the cup holders alongside her seat and their mess of spare change, gold teeth, breath mints, and the candy corn of .22 shells.(They made nice worry beads and a weighty little box of them could be smashed against an unsuspecting occiput if the need arose.)At last, she found a tiny tin of camphor-infused muscle rub and dabbed the heady balm under each eye to induce a warm dew of tears.So, leaving the engine running and all the doors unlocked, she reached into her shoulder bag to place her grizzly repellent at the ready then wended her way beneath the kiwis and Madagascar jasmine to the front door and rang the doorbell.
Behind that front door things were a bit crowded.At the doorbell, Elsa the Black Dog opened a red eye to see what was interrupting her nap, while Una and Olga started up an unorchestrated little clarion howls, their warning that a stranger was on the premises.(The reader should wonder why they had neglected this instinct during Marjorie’s first visit…)Andreas was standing armored up in his loosest sweat suit (a relic from ’61, when he had done a cycle of Dianabol on a dare from the captain of the Slovak men’s powerlifting team and had noticeably beefed up.)He gave a commanding glance to Marco and Michael and they dashed around a corner to hide in the kitchen.
Thus huddling just out of sight, Marco and Michael bent their ears to catch every syllable of what came next.
After the sound of the front door opening and closing, Andreas: (Muttering in German, his tone disconsolate.)
Marjorie Mayfield, in standard American English: “Marco Panzi texted me and said that I should come here?What’s the matter?He sounded so concerned.Where’s Marco?”
Andreas, without emotion, getting right to the point: “And where is Geoffrey?”
Marjorie Mayfield: (Silence that might be pregnant, expectant, swelling with potential, or futile.)
Andreas: (Also silence.)
Marjorie Mayfield: (A sound not unlike a long breath, definitely a delaying tactic.Then a kind of rustling or rummaging, with little knocks and clinks, as if emanating from the bowels of a woman’s hefty shoulder bag.)
Andreas, seeing something that Marco and Michael cannot: “Very well.”
Marjorie: “Come along, Adolf.And in this country you do have the right to remain silent.”
Marco and Michael were then privileged to hear the front door opening, two pairs of feet shuffling into the outside world, and the closing of the door.
At this point, Una and Olga, remembering their roles as defenders of empire, but ignorant that their timing was so noticeably off, started yapping and started twirling about, giddy to sink their tiny teeth into an exposed lower limb.Marco and Michael, however, had more focus and like a pair of curious owlets examining the world beyond their mossy old-growth nest, peered as one around the corner.
The main room was empty.The little entryway was unoccupied.The front door was resolutely closed.But the air bore to them the low, efficient growl of a foreign-made automobile escaping with its prey.
And at once Marco and Michael set about tapping on their handhelds, summoning what they hoped would be the forces of light.
