Bernie “Blaze” Hickman and the Manuscript of Doom
By Shirley Bahlmann
More than the usual number of people had to die for Bernie Hickman to work on Saturday. The Planet Post editor depended on Bernie to squeeze every single dearly departed soul of Chillman County into their allotted column inches before the publication deadline. Bernie made his own job more difficult by insisting that each write-up have as much heart as ink on paper could deliver. Edith Bossman wasn’t just in the church choir, she’d shared her angelic voice with mortals. Zack Underwood wasn’t merely the town’s dog catcher, but a compassionate man shepherding mankind’s lost furry friends from the cold streets to a humane shelter.
The obituaries were very popular.
Bernie had firsthand knowledge of death, having seen two people die, but he never imagined that the third one would be murdered.
All he imagined was making readers see the people in those grainy obituary photos as real, loved, and missed. Perhaps it was because his parents had left him an orphan when he was barely more than a boy. If he didn’t do his best writing for the dead, he couldn’t sleep well, not even after his secret nightly ritual of typing 1,000 words on his adventure novels.
One Saturday evening, Bernie shuffled toward home, studiously avoiding looking across the street, the newest Planet Post under his arm so fresh off the press it might have left ink stains on his old coat.
When a brown dog stalked toward him on stiff legs splayed out as if straddling a pair of train tracks, Bernie called, “Hey, Shag.” Fifty-six years of hunching over a keyboard hadn’t done Bernie any favors, so he pressed a hand against his back before bending down and extending his hand. Shag walked under Bernie’s palm, lifting his snout and closing his faded eyes as Bernie scratched behind his ears. Shag was so old he must have forgotten how to wag his tail, because it spun in a crazy, slow circle of delight. Neither one of them was bothered that Bernie didn’t know the dog’s real name. After a minute of shared contentment, Bernie braced his muscles and straightened. “Bye, now.”
Shag sighed, lowered his head, and continued tracking his way down the sidewalk while Bernie trudged up the gravel walk to his house. He stepped into his front room, dimly lit from heavy drapes purposely hung over the front windows to block the sight of the Sweet Dream Care Center. For Bernie, the place had nothing to do with sweet dreams. It was sure doom.
Dropping the newspaper onto his coffee table, Bernie went into his kitchen at the back of his house where every uncurtained window glowed golden with late afternoon light. Sighing in contentment, Bernie opened his kitchen door to let the warm evening breeze in through the screen. Then he sat at his corner computer table and brought up his newest adventure novel, “Blaze and the Black Curse of Gold Treasure Mountain.” Leaning forward, he skimmed the final page he’d written the night before, immersing himself in the flow of his story. Then he settled in to type the scene where Blaze and his fellow adventurers halt in a tunnel, listening to strange sounds echoing from the deeper darkness beyond. As they turn their lanterns toward the creepy sound drawing nearer, their lights flicker on a shining vein streaked across the wall as if the slash of a giant knife had opened a wound that bled pure gold.
A sudden yowling scream made Bernie jump. Glancing up with wide eyes, he was startled to see that his kitchen had darkened, and that he was surrounded by appliances instead of intrepid adventurers.
The screech sounded again. Bernie sighed and stretched his arms. Scooting back, he stood and made his way to the cupboard beneath the sink. The yowl pierced the air yet again as Bernie scooped cat food from the bag. “Coming, coming,” he muttered.
Smack!
Bernie jumped, sending cat food skittering across the floor. Bernie stared at a red-furred cat with its claws stuck through the screen door’s upper panel. “Get down!” Bernie shouted, “I said I was coming!”
The cat retracted its claws, leapt onto the porch, and bounded away beneath the lilac bush. When Bernie pushed the door open, the top screen panel wobbled loose. “That cat,” he muttered. He’d better fix the screen before it fell off with the cat attached, but for now he just pressed the loose panel more tightly into place.
He turned toward a gray cat with a torn ear staring at him with one round yellow eye, the other eye half-closed, yet hopeful. “There you go, Half Eye,” Bernie said, dumping food into a cottage cheese container. “Leave some for the others, will you? Especially Red. And I’d appreciate it if you’d teach him not to jump on the screen.”
Bernie went inside, shut both doors, and got back to writing about dark shapes lurching up from the blackness deeper in the tunnel. The explorers didn’t hear them coming because they were busy chipping away at the gold vein. Each chop of the pickaxes sent vibrations of air down the tunnel, causing the dark shapes to shiver, their undulating limbs reaching toward the shining yellow metal. Just as Blaze felt something cold as death touch his neck, and turned to see huge shining black eyes reflecting from his lamp light, another screech jerked Bernie out of his adventure.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. He might need a bigger cat food container. Pushing away from his computer, he stood and peered out the back window. To his surprise, there were no cats, and the cottage cheese container was half full.
A shiver rippled down Bernie’s spine. If the cats weren’t screeching, then what was? Images of black figures creeping up his dark basement stairs, cold limbs waving ever closer toward the doorknob, made him step back.
Ridiculous.
But telling himself there was nothing to fear didn’t stop his heart from beating a painful warning against his ribs.
He had to look.
Bernie forced himself to take a step forward, grab the cold knob, and pull the basement door open.
Darkness.
Bernie flicked on the light. Bare wooden stairs descended into a silent basement - no screeching, no footfalls, nothing creeping toward him.
Suddenly, the scream split the air again. Bernie slammed the basement door and whirled toward his front room.
No way.
As much as he cared about stray cats, he wasn’t going to feed them off both porches.
Shuffling to the front window, Bernie pulled back the curtain just enough to see that even though there were no cats yowling on his porch, something unusual was going on. His reluctant gaze skidded across the street, eyes widening at the bright lights glowing from Sure Doom’s day room windows. That wasn’t right. Neither was the bass thump of music.
Bernie glanced at the clock. 12:07 am. There weren’t supposed to be any overhead lights on this late at Sure Doom, or music playing, either. Bernie should know. He’d practically grown up there. His mother let him come to work with her for the first eleven years of his life. Then Bernie spent the last two years of his father’s life visiting Fred Hickman’s small, sterile room. Bernie often slept on a cot beside his father, right across the street from their house. Music he remembered from the care center was classical tunes or old ballads, not anything with a bass beat like the one he could hear from clear across the street.
What was going on?
With his curiosity greater than his painful memories, Bernie cracked open his front door and heard the words that accompanied the pounding bass. “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, night! S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, night! S-S-S-Saturday ni-ight…”
Dazed, Bernie shut the door and headed to the kitchen for a Good Boy Bar to steady his nerves. It was the best recipe that his gentle, overweight mother had ever created. Bernie never noticed Mom’s size, nor cared that she hadn’t married until her late thirties. The love in her warm brown eyes and the girlish sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks made her the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
Bernie never made the treats quite as tasty as his mother’s, but he liked to keep a supply on hand. As he bit into the confection, he closed his eyes to savor the welcome wash of comfort from just the right combination of sweet and salty, chewy and crunchy.
Even though his first bite always conjured a vague memory of one of the most fearful moments of his young life, he managed to override it with a second bite. The apprehension had faded to almost nothing over the years, but Bernie could still recall the day his eight-year-old self dashed from school to the warm comfort of Sweet Dream’s kitchen where his mother worked as a cook. Mom hugged her only child, sat him at the table, and tucked a warm bar into his hand, saying, “There’s my good boy.” Then she trudged to the refrigerator on swollen ankles to get him a cold glass of milk.
Bernie had just taken his first blissful bite when an old lady with canyon-deep wrinkles strode into the kitchen. Shiny earrings as pointed as knife blades swung against her neck. Bernie stared in horrified fascination, wondering if they would draw blood. If so, how much? If she turned her neck enough times, would those earrings cut her head off?
“There he is!” the woman cried.
“Now, Jinny, he just got here,” Lisa said, hurrying toward her son without bothering to close the refrigerator door.
“And none too soon.” Jinny beat Lisa to Bernie’s side, her red nails reaching toward his neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but Jinny interrupted. “Your mother says the nicest things about you, Bern.” Jinny laid one hand on his shoulder and pinched his cheek with the other. Bernie shuddered. “You cold, little man?” Jinny slid her arms around the boy and squeezed until Bernie didn't think he’d ever draw a full breath again.
“Let him eat,” Lisa said, finally reaching Jinny and pulling her arms loose to free her son.
“Of course.” Jinny gave Bernie a fond smile. “There’s just something...I don’t know...magical about your boy.”
“He’s one of a kind, alright.” Lisa put a protective hand on each of Bernie’s shoulders. Safely in his mother’s hands, Bernie finally swallowed the bite of Good Boy Bar that was still in his mouth.
“Is that good, Bern?” Jinny asked, her eyes alight. “May I have one, please?”
“Of course.” Lisa gave her two.
With a confection in each hand, Jinny headed for the kitchen door where she stopped, looked back, and winked at Bernie.
With braveness born of his mother’s nearness and the distance between him and Jinny, Bernie gave a cautious wave. Jinny let loose a laugh, then disappeared, humming “Moonlight Serenade.”
Lisa moved her son onto a chair at the far corner of the table. “She’s new here.”
“She’s scary,” Bernie said.
“She’s just exuberant.” Lisa poured Bernie’s milk.
“Thanks, Mom.” He picked up the glass.
“She means well.”
Bernie glanced at the doorway. “She must be brave, too. Did you see that? She wears knives in her ears!”
When Bernie finished his snack, he went in search of Fackrell, Sweet Dream’s elderly lawn and garden man, and found him kneeling beside his golf cart, pulling weeds. “I’ll help!” Bernie offered.
Fackrell tipped his safari hat back and looked at the eager little boy. “Does your mother know where you are?”
“Yup.”
Fackrell turned toward the kitchen and saw Lisa wave from the doorway.
“She sent you this.” Bernie handed over a Good Boy Bar. Fackrell gave Lisa a salute of thanks. Then he let Bernie pull enough weeds to earn a ride in the golf cart. Fackrell gave the boy an exhilarating ride, making sure to drive all over the grounds to check the furthest perimeters before returning him to Lisa.
Lisa walked her son home to fix dinner for his dad, who’s energetic walk, quick humor, and bright blue eyes gave no clue that he was twenty years older than his beloved wife.
For three more years, Bernie enjoyed the comfort of his mother’s affection until it all ended on a cool autumn afternoon when Bernie hurried into the Sweet Dream kitchen. Although he was nearly as tall as his mother, she gave him a warm hug. Then she stepped back with an odd expression on her face, as if she suddenly didn’t recognize him.
Sharp worry poked Bernie’s chest. “Mom?”
Lisa grabbed the front of her apron bib and toppled over onto the floor.
“Mom!” Bernie screamed, dropping to his knees and trying with all his might to lift his mother. “Help!” he screamed, not caring that he was crying like a baby. “Help! Please! Help!”
Jinny was the first one in the kitchen. “Oh, Lisa,” she moaned. “Hang on, Bern,” and she was gone.
Doctors and nurses swarmed in, pushing Bernie aside, his back pressed against the wall as he watched them surround his mother through blurred tears.
An arm suddenly slid around his shoulders, pulling him in against a comfortingly soft body. “I’m so sorry, Bern,” Jinny said, tipping her head to rest it against his, somehow managing not to stab either one of them with her earrings. “I called your dad. He’s on his way.”
In spite of all the life-saving measures at their disposal before the ambulance arrived, the trained staff couldn’t save LIsa.
The day after the funeral, Bernie used his mother’s recipe to make Good Boy Bars for his father. Fred thanked his son and took a bite. They ate their bars in silence. Then Bernie went to bed and curled up as small as he could.
It wasn’t long before a knock sounded on his door. “Son?”
Bernie didn’t dare answer for fear Dad would hear that he’d been crying.
Fred cracked the door open. “May I come in?”
Bernie nodded.
Fred walked into the room and sat on the chair by Bernie’s bed. “Son,” he said slowly, “I know things are different around here. It’s not the way I want it. To tell the truth, I don’t really know what to do.”
Bernie’s tears dried up. His big, capable father didn’t know what to do?
“Your mother was a special lady.” Dad’s voice was more forlorn than Bernie had ever heard before. “It’s hard to imagine, but all I can figure is that God needed her more than we did.” He gave his son a sad smile. “We can’t change what happened, and I can’t raise you the way she would have, but I hope you turn out alright anyway.”
Fred sounded so lost that Bernie uncurled himself and reached out to take his father’s hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll be alright.”
Fred cocooned his son’s hand in both of his. “I believe it will, my boy.” Then Fred let go and leaned back in his chair. “You know what? I saw the darndest thing on the highway today. A three-wheeled motorcycle. Can you believe it?”
Bernie laughed. “Like a tricycle?”
“Yup. A giant tricycle with a big grown up man riding it. What’s the most interesting thing about your day?”
The nightly discussions about their days morphed into adventure stories about a boy named Blaze. Fred told of Blaze nearly dying of thirst while riding camels in the desert, until he used his wits and let the camels follow animal trails to locate an oasis. Blaze bungee jumped from the Eiffel Tower in a daring escape, and turned out to be as adept at swimming the Amazon River as he was hunting African lions or driving a race car that nearly crashed, pulling it back on the track just in time to cross the finish line and win the gold trophy.
When Bernie was twelve, Fred quit working to better care for his motherless son. “Hey, how about we make us some secret agent equipment like Blaze’s?” Dad asked.
“Sure!” Bernie said, and enthusiastically worked on dead drop devices for leaving secret messages. They experimented with hollowed out pens, books, a walnut, and even a lipstick tube. They made secret sleeve pockets in their jackets, a waterproof message capsule, and a periscope. When Bernie thought of putting a camera in his old teddy bear’s eye, his father said, “That’s going to take some take some electronics. I don’t have a job anymore, so you’d better get a paper route.”
Bernie looked at his father in surprise “A paper route?”
“Sure.” Fred picked up the Planet Post. “Earn yourself some money for our next spy gear project, get some exercise, and see people besides me.”
Bernie didn’t mind spending time with his dad, but the idea of earning enough money to build a hidden camera was irresistible, so he got himself a paper route. Every morning at dawn, Fred’s cheerful voice sounded up the stairs, “It’s time to blaze through your route! Great adventures await!”
Bernie thought his dad had too many expectations, but Bernie got up, dressed, and took the toasted egg sandwich Fred made for him to eat while peddling to the newspaper drop-off spot. Bernie rolled his papers, stuffed them in his canvas newspaper bag, and made deliveries around town beneath the rising sun, taking note of any possible adventures he could share with his father. “I threw the paper so far it went clear over the roof.”
“That’s quite an arm, son.”
Bernie’s chest puffed out. “Yeah, I had to knock on the door and tell them where it was.”
Another day, Bernie said, “A ferocious dog chased me for two whole blocks.” When Fred’s eyes lit up with interest, Bernie didn’t bother mentioning that it was a small dog with a bark about as scary as a wind-up toy.
When Bernie had enough money, Fred helped him build the tiny spy camera and insert it into the teddy bear’s eye. On the day of their amusement park adventure, Bernie set the bear on the windowsill to record any possible mischief while they were away.
Bernie hadn’t counted on the kind of amusement his father had in mind. “C’mon,” Fred said to his 13-year-old son, “ride the Blazing Dragon Looper with your old dad.”
Chest tightening, Bernie stared at the wild antics of the slender cars that obviously weren’t securely fastened to their spindly metal arms.
Heading for the end of the line, Fred looked over his shoulder at his son without breaking stride. “Well?”
“Wait, Dad!” Bernie hurried to catch up, ready to confess that he’d much rather ride the merry-go-round.
Before Bernie could speak, Fred slung his arm around his son’s shoulders in comfortable camaraderie. “That’s my boy.”
Bernie bit back his protest. If his father was determined to ride the Blazing Dragon Looper, then Bernie had to go, too. What if Fred had a heart attack and ended up slumped over dead in a narrow ride car turned coffin, just because his son wasn’t there to save him?
When Bernie was fourteen, Fred took him horseback riding, and didn’t say a word about his son gripping the saddle horn for the entire ride on a mild old horse named Lightning Blaze.
On their river rafting trip during Bernie’s fifteenth summer, Bernie tried to figure out any possible way to put on two life vests before climbing into the flimsy raft that heaved and sank with every ripple of river water. Since he couldn’t see his way to doubly fortifying himself, Bernie ended up hanging tight-fisted to the ropes drawn across the name, “Blazing White Water Tours,” stenciled on the wobbly rubber raft. He didn’t let go, not even through the calm stretches. Beside him, his old dad yelled, “Yippee!” like some invincible kid.
When they finally reached land alive, Bernie stumbled out of the raft, dripping wet and sore-fisted, determined that the only water he ever wanted splashing over him again was the shower.
When Fred went rappelling, 16-year-old Bernie stood on the edge of the cliff, wondering how his father had gotten him up here, and how in the world he was actually expected to walk down over the edge. How could Dad possibly think this was fun?
“Yep, he’s brave as blazes,” Bernie heard Fred boast to the rappelling guide. “He does everything with me. Next year, we’re going hang gliding.”
Bernie nearly swallowed his tongue. Hang gliding? Running off the edge of a cliff without any ropes at all? Suddenly, rappelling seemed safe and comforting with its harnesses and rope cradles.
Just before Bernie’s high school graduation, Fred took him on an adventure to the nearest college campus. They strolled around the ivy covered buildings, Fred telling stories about the great escapades students experienced while earning their degrees. Although Bernie shuddered at the thought of leaving his father alone, he didn’t say anything out loud.
It turned out he didn’t have to.
One week after high school graduation, Fred suffered a stroke. It didn’t happen at the Sweet Dream Care Center, but to Bernie’s horror, that’s where Fred was sent after his release from the hospital.
Bernie hadn’t crossed the street since his mother died, but for his father’s sake, Bernie requested a room furthest from the kitchen with a clear view of the Hickman’s house. Bernie moved from paper boy to full time obituary columnist at the Planet Post, spent hours with his father every day, and kept up the house and yard under Fred’s watchful eye.
One day as Bernie neared his father’s room, he had to step around an unattended cart with a couple of bottles of pills in plain sight. Bernie picked one up and read, “Sleep-Eze.” Sleeping pills? Were they giving his father sleeping pills?
Glancing down the hallway, Bernie noticed a middle-aged nurse about three doors down. “Hey,” Bernie called.
The woman looked up.
“What’s this?” Bernie held up the bottle.
The nurse sighed, plucked a clipboard of papers from beside the nearest door, and walked toward Bernie, flipping the pages to show him how busy she was. When she reached his side, she glanced at the bottle. “Sleeping pills.”
“Why are they just sitting here?” Bernie asked, uncharacteristically brave at the thought of his father somehow taking too many sleeping pills and never waking up. “Anyone could take them.”
The nurse flapped her hand. “Oh, no, they don’t.”
“But they can,” Bernie insisted, shaking the bottle so that the pills rattled.
The nurse leaned a little closer to Bernie as if sharing a secret. “The caps are childproof.”
Astounded, Bernie replied, “But the people here aren’t children.”
The nurse tossed her clipboard onto the cart and grabbed the handle. “They might as well be.” She held out her hand and Bernie dropped the pill bottle into it. Watching her wheel the cart away didn’t make him feel any better about the situation.
Bernie sat beside his father. Fred gave him a half smile with the side of his face that he still had some say over. Bernie sat patiently for as long as it took to have a conversation. Dad’s language wasn’t quite words, but through questions, hand gestures, writing on paper, and guesswork, Bernie could make out most of what his father was trying to say.
Bernie tried to hold up his end of the conversation about what his day was like, uncomfortable telling his father about the obituaries he’d written. He didn’t want Dad getting any ideas.
One day, Bernie began telling an adventure story about Blaze. Fred relaxed against his pillow, eyes closed, and listened with a quiet satisfaction that Bernie hadn’t seen since the stroke stole his gregarious father. Even though it was a re-telling of one of the tales Fred had spun for Bernie years before, Fred listened with his half smile. A couple of times he opened his good eye to gaze at his son, a surprising tear rolling down his rugged cheek. Without pause in his narration, Bernie lifted a tissue from the bedside box, reached over to gently wipe the tear away, and then surprised himself by talking Blaze into a new and even more dangerous situation than his father had ever created for the adventurer to fight his way out of.
Fred twitched his hand. Bernie reached over and held it, looking into his father’s bright blue eyes, one open, one at half mast as he gazed lovingly at his son. Bernie didn’t need any paper, pen, or hand signals to interpret that look.
After that, Bernie told his father a new Blaze adventure every day. The last one was of Blaze bailing out of a crippled airplane over the frozen Alaskan tundra. Blaze fashioned snowshoes out of brittle-cold willow branches. As Fred closed his eyes, Blaze crept into the shelter he’d constructed against the bitter cold beneath dark evening skies. He’d just kindled a fire to roast the rabbit he’d snared, unaware that a polar bear was creeping up on him, when Bernie noticed something terribly wrong. His father’s hand was cold.
“Dad?” Bernie called. He cocooned Fred’s hand in both of his, willing it to warm up. “Dad? Are you cold?” Bernie gave his father’s hand a little shake. “Do you need another blanket?”
Fred didn’t respond. Both of his eyes were half closed, and his chest was frighteningly still.
“Help!” Bernie called, turning toward the door without letting go of his father. “Help my dad!”
As Sure Doom’s personnel poured into the room, Bernie was pushed out of his seat and backed up against the wall until he could only see his father’s body through a blur of tears.
Truly alone now, Bernie walked through the cold tundra halls toward the exit. With each step, his heart set deeper in icy determination that he would never enter this care center of doom again.
Once he was safely in his own house, he pulled the front room drapes closed. The next day he got heavier drapes to block out the sight of the place where he’d suffered his most painful losses.
Bernie’s obituary column soon grew to such popularity that several neighboring newspapers paid him to moonlight for their dearly departed sections. In spite of the extra work, one spring day turned out so fine that there weren’t enough people leaving the world to keep Bernie at work.
He arrived home earlier than usual, fed the stray cats, then put on his apron and pulled out the mixer, ready to make a fresh batch of Good Boy Bars. Before he measured his first ingredient, he noticed that the cookie jar was already full. Leaning against the counter, Bernie took out a bar, bit, and chewed, his gaze wandering to his desk. He swallowed the last of his treat and sat down. Tapping the familiar keyboard made the screen light up like a cheerful friend. Bernie eyed the glowing screen, then began to type.
When he finally looked up to see 11:36 pm on the clock, he ‘d written over 8,000 words of “Blaze and the Nile Adventure.” He’d missed dinner, but he didn’t care. He was satiated with ideas.
From that day on, Bernie worked on his adventure stories after work, no matter what time he got home. When they were done, he printed them out and stored them alphabetically in his filing cabinet.
He’d written all of his father’s stories that he could remember, and was thinking up some of his own when he opened up the life information of a man who’d died in his 90’s while racing pocket bikes. Bernie leaned forward, the Planet Post office fading from his awareness as he marveled at the numerous adventures the nonagenarian had experienced through his lifetime - kayaking Congo’s Inga Rapids, hiking in Bhutan, surfing in Australia, and biking along canyon rims in Utah’s wilderness, just to name a few. “Yeah,” Bernie murmured, his eyes alight, “I could use these in my books.”
“You write books?” his coworker asked in surprise.
Bernie looked up, blinking. Had he spoken out loud?
“Can I read ‘em?”
“Uh, no.”
His coworker moved closer, genuine interest in his voice. “When are they gonna be published?”
Bernie stared at the man as if he had a pencil growing out of his nostril. Bernie didn’t write Blaze stories because he expected anyone else to read them. He wrote them because they made him feel better, almost as if Mom and Dad were still there. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Bernie finally replied.
His coworker tipped a pen in Bernie’s direction. “You’d better.”
Bernie intended to dismiss the notion of publication, but once planted, the idea was difficult to uproot. What would happen if he really did put his stories out there for others to read? His father loved them, but would anyone else? Bernie squirmed at the thought of rejection. A tightrope walk across the Grand Canyon would be easier to bear.
Another screech from across the street pulled Bernie back to his dim front room and the strange lights at Sure Doom. Lights glowed on the back patio, too, colorful paper lanterns swinging in the night breeze. Moving shapes beneath them appeared to be people engaged in conflict while the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” thrummed through the air.
What was going on? This wasn’t like anything Bernie had seen in all his years. As he carefully opened his front door and stepped slowly out onto the porch, a cool breeze lifted the hair on the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine as he watched the shadowy figures grapple.
Suddenly, two figures in a clench tipped over, as if dead or dying. Another scream rocketed across the street, a death cry.
Bernie jumped back inside the safety of his house, slammed the door, and locked it with shaking fingers. They weren’t getting away with murder over there. He was a witness.
When Bernie reached for the phone to call the police, the Beatles suddenly stopped singing. The sudden quiet scraped against Bernie’s nerves.
What would he see if he looked now?
What would happen if he didn’t?
A sudden spasm of fear shook Bernie’s old bones as he edged the drapes aside and peered out at a dark, silent Sure Doom. Had the murderer seen him and turned out all the lights so he could sneak across the street and deal with the sole eye witness? Was the murderer waiting in the bushes outside his house right now, ready to grab him and kill him as soon as he stuck his head out the door?
Bernie wasn’t willing to take the risk. But if he called the police now, there was nothing for them to see. If the murderer saw them coming, he would just fade into the darkness. The police would think Bernie was just a senile old man, which he most definitely wasn’t.
Let Sure Doom take care of its own problems.
Checking the locks on his front and back doors, Bernie sat down at his computer again, squeezing his hands together to stop their shaking. Then he pulled them apart, opened a new document and typed, “Sure Doom.”
For the next week, all was quiet at night as Bernie built his story of a care center with a couple of shady attendants, intent on murdering an old spy who lay dying in one of the beds with all his secrets intact.
But the spy wasn’t as close to death as the workers thought. At night, he snuck out of the building and waged war on crime in the city. He returned to his bed before dawn and drowsed through the day with plenty of people around to stop any death threats. Then he woke up the next night refreshed and ready to fight more evil.
This worked fine until one of the attendants caught the spy sneaking in through the window one morning. He agreed to keep the spy’s secret for a substantial financial payoff. Now he could add that to the money the spy’s enemies would pay as soon as the old spy was dead.
The attendant went in search of his cohort and found him holding the spy’s next meal, a dish of tapioca pudding. The two henchmen grinned at each other. The first didn’t bother telling his partner of his newfound wealth, while the second kept quiet about the newly emptied bottle of poison in his pocket.
What neither of them knew was that the spy flushed all tapioca pudding down the toilet.
The next Saturday night, Bernie was typing furiously on his Sure Doom story when he was interrupted by a strange sound. Without even sparing a glance for his back door, he headed straight to the front room curtains. He could hardly believe that several pairs of headlights, spaced as close as only golf carts can be, spun and spiraled around the grassy yard behind the care center. Tinny beeps sounded as one of the golf carts peeled away from the others. It rolled through the wide open kitchen delivery gate. With headlights shining in his eyes, Bernie couldn’t see who was driving like a maniac, but he gasped in dismay as the golf cart accelerated toward his house.
Dropping the curtain, Bernie headed for the front door, intending to shout at the crazy driver. Fortunately for him, he hadn’t gotten the door open before a barrage of ammunition slammed into his front door.
He froze in terror, then hit the floor. Was that a shotgun blast? Was someone actually shooting at him?
Bernie crawled a few feet to crouch behind the sofa. Now he could call the police. They’d believe him when they saw the bullet holes.
Bernie reached for his phone. A cheerful “beep beep” sounded from outside as he picked it up. The sound of gravel crunching under golf cart wheels faded to nothing as he dialed with trembling fingers.
Had the driver dropped off the murderer to wait in Bernie’s bushes before roaring away?
Bernie reported the assault, then assured the emergency call operator that he would remain in his house. No, Bernie wouldn’t open the door until the officers identified themselves.
It seemed like hours before Bernie saw the officers park in front of his house and walk toward his door. Dropping the curtain, Bernie hurried to let them in. “They’re trying to kill me!” he told the two startled policemen.
“Who?” asked the older one.
Bernie pointed at Sure Doom. “Someone drove a golf cart over here and shot my door.”
“Zippilli,” the older policeman said, “go check it out.”
The young officer trotted across the street while the older one, whose name badge read “Falchetta,” shone his flashlight on Bernie’s door, revealing fresh pockmarks in the white paint. Bernie’s chest tightened. This was proof of murderous intent.
Then Fachetta lowered his light beam to the porch, illuminating bits of gravel spread across the concrete. “Hm,” he said. “While walking to your door, I noticed a spot where it appears that tires spun out on your gravel.” Falchetta took Bernie down the path to see for himself, then questioned him about his occupation and enemies.
Approaching footfalls made them both turn toward Zippilli jogging toward them from across the street. “The staff reported that all residents are in bed, and they don’t know anything about missing golf carts. They’re all accounted for.”
“There now,” Falchetta said to Bernie. “It must be some kids playing a prank with a pellet gun. No one’s trying to kill you.”
Zippilli cleared his throat. “Uh, Falchetta? One more thing. I had to wake up the staff before I could get any information.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Every single employee I saw in Sweet Dream was fast asleep.”
Falchetta glared at his companion. “That information is on a need-to-know basis, and he doesn’t need to know.” He jerked a thumb at Bernie.
Bernie put on a smile to hide his trepidation. “Thank you for coming,” he said, then closed and locked his door. He walked to his kitchen, back to the front room, then back to the kitchen, then he sat at his computer and typed until he was calm enough to crawl into bed.
The next Saturday, Bernie was prepared for trouble. As soon as the sun set, he hunkered down beside his sofa and put up his periscope, his sole surviving piece of spy equipment, and watched in horror as half a dozen human silhouettes tip-toed across the street from Sure Doom. Their supple movements and toned outlines gave away that they were young adults, not elderly residents.
Were they employees? What were they doing? He wanted to call the police, but no crime had been committed yet.
Most of the invaders stopped at the curb, where the unusual floodlights from Sure Doom backlit them with halos, shadowing their faces. Bernie’s throat tightened as a young man started toward his front door with something round and heavy dangling from his hand. Bernie couldn’t make out what it was, but it appeared to be some sort of incendiary device.
A bomb?
Bernie’s muscles tightened. He had to be ready to flee his burning home in case the fire engines didn’t arrive in time, but would an assassin be waiting in his backyard to finish him off?
Bernie thought about yanking his door open to confront the ruffian and force him to stop his nefarious plan, but he had a lot of friends to back him up, and there was only one Bernie, so he quickly dismissed the idea.
But this was his home. How could he just crouch here like a frightened child while someone attacked the only place he’d ever lived? Bernie suddenly clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Blaze would never stand for this. He’d defeat the bad guys and save the day.
Bernie stood, his old legs trembling from crouching for so long, and took an unsteady step toward his front door.
Swish, swish, swish. Pause. Swish, swish. Pause. Swish, swish, swish.
What was that? Bernie rushed back to his periscope, but it wouldn’t turn far enough for him to see what was going on at his front door.
It was time to call the police.
Bernie hurried as fast as his stiff knees could move to the phone, where he reported the suspicious activity and suspected bombing. He carried the phone with him to his periscope just in time to see the fellow at the front door trotting away, carrying the heavy cylinder with him.
As the group hurried back across the street, Bernie crept to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything ticking. Perhaps the murderer had left a silent bomb. Bernie retreated to the relative safety of his kitchen in case an explosive went off before help arrived. Desperately in need of comfort, Bernie reached into the jar for a Good Boy Bar, but his fingers scraped smooth walls. The jar was empty. Stunned, he tried to remember the last time there hadn’t been even one treat in that jar. He couldn’t remember one.
A knock on his front door made him jump. When he pulled the door open, Zippilli’s fist was raised, his splotchy white knuckles facing Bernie. “Is this some kind of joke?” Zippilli asked.
“No, I assure you, officer, this is no joke. Some kids came over from Sure Doom carrying something heavy, and then I heard suspicious noises at my door.”
Zippilli narrowed his eyes as Falchetta emerged from the care center’s entrance and headed toward them. “Sure Doom?” Zippilli asked, quirking a brow at Bernie.
“Sweet Dream,” Bernie corrected himself. “I couldn’t see what he carried, but I feared it was a bomb, or fire starter, so I called you.”
Zippilli gave his knuckles a glance. “Could it have been a paint can?”
Falchetta shone his flashlight on Bernie’s door as he climbed up the porch stairs. It was plain to see that the door was shiny with paint except for a spot smudged by knuckle marks.
Bernie stared. “Why would anyone paint my door?”
“I don’t know,” Zippilli answered. “Could I come in and wash my hands?”
Bernie stepped back and both officers entered his house. As Zippilli used the kitchen sink and plenty of soap, Falchetta said, “Nothing amiss at Sweet Dream.” He glanced at Zippilli. “Sleepy night staff, though. I had to shake the nurse at the front station awake.”
After the officers left, Bernie locked his front door, sat at his computer, and wrote the spy trapped in Sure Doom onto the roof where he hung by his fingers while the two workers searched for him, one clutching a knife, the other a taser set on “kill.” After two hours of moving the old spy from one near disaster to another, Bernie shut off his computer and went to bed.
The next Saturday afternoon, Bernie had Good Boy Bars in the oven. The back door was open with only the screen door between him and the great outdoors. The pages of his freshly printed “Spy of Sure Doom” were stacked on the table. Wind gusted around his house with just the right amount of restless energy he’d needed to read through his adventure one last time to make sure it had the proper blend of danger balanced with life-threatening traps and emotional heartache.
For the first time in his life, Bernie couldn’t quench an intense desire to mail his story to a publisher. His newspaper publisher’s literary agent friend was willing to read the manuscript on Monday. As soon as the baking was done, he had time to get it to the post office for late mail pick up tonight. This story had to be told.
The only thing he wasn’t sure about was the last page. He pulled it from the manuscript stack and stared doubtfully at the description of Sure Doom exploding into ruin behind the old spy racing away in a golf cart he’d fearlessly commandeered from a band of vandalizing teenagers. The ink had printed lighter than the other pages, because his printer was running out of ink. He didn’t have a replacement cartridge, and wouldn’t be able to get one until Monday. He wasn’t willing to wait. He’d never missed a deadline, so this would have to do.
The timer on the oven dinged. Bernie put the manuscript page down and took the bars from the oven. As he set them on the stove top, he heard a terrible screech that sent his heart climbing up into his throat. He dropped to a crouch in front of the hot stove and whipped his head toward the sound.
Two bodies, one gray and one red, hung on the back screen door. Bernie watched in horror as the screen gave way, crashing to the porch with both cats still attached, yowling and spitting. The wicked breeze swirled in through the sudden opening, attacking his manuscript, sending pages flying across the room.
Bernie leapt into action as the cats leapt into the bushes. Moving as fast as he could, Bernie grabbed pages with one hand and pinned them under his other arm while reaching for more flying papers. He made his way to the door and shoved it closed, ending the paper storm and letting the airborne pages drift to the floor.
Bernie stacked his manuscript pages, feverishly arranging them by counting numbers until he discovered that the last twelve crucial pages of an imprisoned care center resident triumphing over his evil caretakers were missing.
Oh, no.
As a last resort he could send the story electronically, but he was ready to mail the pages, just like a real book. It was dedicated to his parents, who’d never owned a computer. It just didn’t seem right to send it any way but in print.
Bernie darted to the back door and stared out into the windswept yard, but there were no pages in sight. Leaving his precious manuscript beneath the safe weight of the Good Boy jar, Bernie trembled as he pulled on a dark jacket and black knit hat as a disguise. It wasn’t cold outside, but since he was old, he could get away with pretending to feel cold. He hurried outside to look under the lilac bush, then continued around his house’s corner, eyes widening at the sight of white rectangular pages skimming over Sure Doom’s lawn.
This was worse than he could have imagined. If anyone over there recognized themselves in the story, they might come over to finish him off in the fading light of day. But if he walked over there now, they might see him coming, overpower him, strap him to a golf cart, and cover him with paint.
Bernie shivered. No matter what, he couldn’t wait. He had to get those pages now.
Keeping his eyes on Sure Doom, he watched for any shadowy figures headed his way, but there was no one in sight as Bernie crept across the street toward the flower bed that had trapped his errant pages. As he reached out to grab the nearest paper fluttering between two rose bushes, he experienced a wave of triumph, just like Blaze when he saved the day.
Suddenly, something cold and hard pressed against Bernie’s leg. He whipped around, startled to see a wrinkled old woman with sharp, pointed earrings grinning at him, her walker blocking his escape. He gaped in astonishment. It couldn’t be her. It had to be some other woman who looked remarkably like Jinny.
Bernie turned away from her only to face two old men brandishing canes. Another grim senior citizen sat in a wheelchair, leaving Bernie no room to run into the gathering dusk.
“Let me go,” Bernie commanded in a voice that was too thin and high to be taken seriously. His captors cackled, shook their heads, and herded him toward the kitchen door.
No, no, anywhere but the kitchen! Bernie tried pushing his way through the ring of old people, but only earned a thwack on his shin for his efforts.
Then he heard the sound of salvation. Shag’s rough bark made everyone turn. The dog stalked toward them with his wide stance, legs as stiff as four furry crutches.
“Shag!” Bernie called, his courage lifting. “Sic ‘em!” He pointed at the doddering people who weren’t even able to hold themselves up without assistance.
Shag approached the group with another warning bark, his furry tail whirling in its crazy circle. The Jinny-like lady gasped. The man in the wheelchair stuck his hand out toward Shag. Shag sniffed, then licked it.
“No!” Bernie shouted, dismayed that his rescuer was no good at his job. “I said sic ‘em, boy!”
Then Bernie forgot all about Shag, because the impossible scent of freshly baked Good Boy Bars wove its spell from inside the open kitchen door. Who was copying Mom’s recipe? Bernie had to know.
He dashed ahead of his herders into the kitchen that he hadn’t visited for more than fifty years. A plate of Good Boy Bars sat on the table in the corner, exactly where Mom used to put them for him. Bernie hurried over and picked one up, surprised to find that it was warm. Biting into it, he closed his eyes and chewed the familiar treat, his heart warming at memories of his mother moving comfortably around the kitchen, making food to nourish the residents and make their final days a little sweeter.
When Bernie opened his eyes, his captors stood between him and the kitchen door. “Head down the hall,” the Jinny lady said. “They’re waiting for you.”
Who was waiting?
Bernie’s senses sharpened with sudden bravado, keenly in tune not only with the sounds and smells around him, but also the people watching his every move. Bernie grinned. This dangerous Blaze-like situation was suddenly familiar territory. He could do this.
Bernie strode into a hallway filled with a brassy tune lilting above deep waves of drum beats. His footsteps slowed. Could it be? Was that Moonlight Serenade? As he neared the door of the recreation room, Bernie passed two people in care center uniforms sound asleep in armchairs. They didn’t even twitch an eyelid as Bernie’s entourage clunked along behind him.
Bernie stared at the young adults swirling around in time to the music, far more than had crossed the street to his house last week.
Who were they?
A tap on his shoulder made him turn to see a young woman with luscious black curls and shiny red lips smiling at him. “Dance with me, Bern.” She held her arms out in dance position, her red fingernails gleaming in the muted light. Without a second thought, Bernie moved into her arms and guided his pretty partner in and out among the other couples as if he’d been dancing every night of his life.
When someone bumped into them, Bernie frowned, but ignored it. On his next circuit of the floor, another bump hit him harder.
That was it. Bernie turned to scowl at a disturbingly familiar face, but it was unfamiliar, too. Where would he have met this young man who was grinning at him with such delight? He knew those bright blue eyes and set of jaw, but he couldn’t quite place the man. Confused, Bernie mumbled, “Excuse me,” even though the other man was at fault.
“No need,” the young man said. “Way to shake a hoof, Blaze!”
Blaze? No one had ever called him Blaze but his father.
“Don’t look so surprised, son,” the young man said. “Your mother’s hoping you liked the Good Boy Bars she made for you, but you can’t tell her what you think of them unless you close your mouth.”
“Wha…” Bernie’s eyes slid to the pleasingly plump young woman holding onto his youthful father’s arm. The lovely lady’s brown eyes filled with tears that spilled over her freckled cheeks. “M...Mom?”
“Oh, Bernie, it’s so good to see you again!” Bernie heard his mother’s love in the pretty young lady’s voice.
Was he going mad?
“How?” he sputtered.
Young Lisa wrapped Bernie in a familiar hug, and he responded automatically, embracing her with arms that he suddenly realized were young and strong, like a twenty-year-old’s.
“Hey, that’s my partner!” Fred said, tugging his wife out of Bernie’s grasp. “Come on, babe, let’s finish this dance. We can hang out with this young ‘un later.”
Lisa giggled, blew Bernie a kiss, and whirled away in Fred’s arms.
Bernie’s partner tipped her head to one side until her black hair shifted enough to reveal a shiny knife blade earring. His eyes widened as he glimpsed an abandoned walker inside the doorway, keeping company with an empty wheelchair and a couple of canes. “I don’t understand,” Bernie said.
“I thought you knew,” the beautiful young woman answered playfully. “I’m Jinny.”
“How can you be?”
“I’ll only answer your questions while we’re dancing.” Jinny said, lifting her arms. Bernie guided her back among the dancers. “Dying is not an end,” Jinny explained. “It’s simply a shift in matter. It was Fred’s idea to come back on Saturday night to liven things up around here, because he wanted to let those who are close to death know that it’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just another adventure.” She gave Bernie a sweet smile. “It was my idea to use the sleeping pills on the staff.”
“So you’re… dead?”
His partner pirouetted. “Do I look dead?” She leaned closer to Bernie. “I don’t feel dead. I’m just different. I can go places you can’t, but I still like to smile and have fun.” She laughed. “It was so funny to see you watching us dance that first night you noticed us. You looked like you were watching a crime.”
“That was dancing?”
“Yes, silly. We couldn’t stop laughing during our dip-your-partner contest. Unfortunately, Mabel’s laugh sounds more like a dying cat.”
“I thought it was a fight that ended in murder.”
Jinny giggled. “It was just a fight against gravity. A couple of us got dropped, but we bounced back.”
“Well, if I’m not dead yet,” Bernie’s eyes grew wide in alarm. “I’m not dead, am I?”
Jinny shook her head.
“Then why am I so much younger?”
“That’s how you really are. Everyone is young in their hearts. Your dad arranged it so that for a couple of hours every Saturday night, we can all be the people we truly are inside.”
Bernie raised his eyebrows. “Are you one of the vandals?”
“What? No! We only rode the golf carts over to your house because we noticed you watching us dance, and wanted to invite you to have fun with us. But you shut yourself in the house.”
“Hey, Bernie!” Called a young man in a safari hat, his black eyes bright with mischief.
“Fackrell?”
“Yeah, it’s me!”
“You let them use your golf carts to vandalize my house?”
Fackrell held his hands up, palms out. “No, they just took them without my say so.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “You ought to take one for a spin. You’re old enough that you could give me a ride for a change.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Later,” Jinny said.
“See ya.” Fackrell clapped Bernie on the shoulder before heading for the refreshment table.
“We didn’t vandalize you, Bern,” Jinny insisted. “We got worried when we peeled out and accidentally shot gravel at your door, so we just took off. Then last week, your dad insisted on repainting the door for you. We couldn’t figure out why you called the cops on us.”
“I didn’t know what you were doing.” Bernie looked around the room, which was beginning to empty. He caught his father’s eye across the floor. Fred gave his son a little salute, then waltzed his wife out onto the patio and out of sight.
“Well, it looks like the party’s over,” Jinny said with a sigh. “Your parents always dance out onto the patio and disappear.”
“Well, then,” Bernie said, bowing over his partner’s hand. “I’m going home to do some rewriting, and then submit my story electronically on Monday.” He gave her a wink. “Got to keep those deadlines, but you can bet your earrings I’ll be back next week.”
THE END
About the author:
Shirley Bahlmann is a prolific writer who’s confident that with all the different genres she writes, you’re bound to find something you like to read! She can be found at various points around the Internet. Just check her website for anything you want to know about her, and if it’s not there, just ask!
[email protected]
Have a good day, a happy day, a reading day!
About the author:
Shirley Bahlmann is a prolific writer who’s confident that with all the different genres she writes, you’re bound to find something you like to read! She can be found at various points around the Internet. Just check her website for anything you want to know about her, and if it’s not there, just ask!
Her blog is updated weekly. CLICK HERE TO READ!
Have a good day, a happy day, a reading day!
By Shirley Bahlmann
More than the usual number of people had to die for Bernie Hickman to work on Saturday. The Planet Post editor depended on Bernie to squeeze every single dearly departed soul of Chillman County into their allotted column inches before the publication deadline. Bernie made his own job more difficult by insisting that each write-up have as much heart as ink on paper could deliver. Edith Bossman wasn’t just in the church choir, she’d shared her angelic voice with mortals. Zack Underwood wasn’t merely the town’s dog catcher, but a compassionate man shepherding mankind’s lost furry friends from the cold streets to a humane shelter.
The obituaries were very popular.
Bernie had firsthand knowledge of death, having seen two people die, but he never imagined that the third one would be murdered.
All he imagined was making readers see the people in those grainy obituary photos as real, loved, and missed. Perhaps it was because his parents had left him an orphan when he was barely more than a boy. If he didn’t do his best writing for the dead, he couldn’t sleep well, not even after his secret nightly ritual of typing 1,000 words on his adventure novels.
One Saturday evening, Bernie shuffled toward home, studiously avoiding looking across the street, the newest Planet Post under his arm so fresh off the press it might have left ink stains on his old coat.
When a brown dog stalked toward him on stiff legs splayed out as if straddling a pair of train tracks, Bernie called, “Hey, Shag.” Fifty-six years of hunching over a keyboard hadn’t done Bernie any favors, so he pressed a hand against his back before bending down and extending his hand. Shag walked under Bernie’s palm, lifting his snout and closing his faded eyes as Bernie scratched behind his ears. Shag was so old he must have forgotten how to wag his tail, because it spun in a crazy, slow circle of delight. Neither one of them was bothered that Bernie didn’t know the dog’s real name. After a minute of shared contentment, Bernie braced his muscles and straightened. “Bye, now.”
Shag sighed, lowered his head, and continued tracking his way down the sidewalk while Bernie trudged up the gravel walk to his house. He stepped into his front room, dimly lit from heavy drapes purposely hung over the front windows to block the sight of the Sweet Dream Care Center. For Bernie, the place had nothing to do with sweet dreams. It was sure doom.
Dropping the newspaper onto his coffee table, Bernie went into his kitchen at the back of his house where every uncurtained window glowed golden with late afternoon light. Sighing in contentment, Bernie opened his kitchen door to let the warm evening breeze in through the screen. Then he sat at his corner computer table and brought up his newest adventure novel, “Blaze and the Black Curse of Gold Treasure Mountain.” Leaning forward, he skimmed the final page he’d written the night before, immersing himself in the flow of his story. Then he settled in to type the scene where Blaze and his fellow adventurers halt in a tunnel, listening to strange sounds echoing from the deeper darkness beyond. As they turn their lanterns toward the creepy sound drawing nearer, their lights flicker on a shining vein streaked across the wall as if the slash of a giant knife had opened a wound that bled pure gold.
A sudden yowling scream made Bernie jump. Glancing up with wide eyes, he was startled to see that his kitchen had darkened, and that he was surrounded by appliances instead of intrepid adventurers.
The screech sounded again. Bernie sighed and stretched his arms. Scooting back, he stood and made his way to the cupboard beneath the sink. The yowl pierced the air yet again as Bernie scooped cat food from the bag. “Coming, coming,” he muttered.
Smack!
Bernie jumped, sending cat food skittering across the floor. Bernie stared at a red-furred cat with its claws stuck through the screen door’s upper panel. “Get down!” Bernie shouted, “I said I was coming!”
The cat retracted its claws, leapt onto the porch, and bounded away beneath the lilac bush. When Bernie pushed the door open, the top screen panel wobbled loose. “That cat,” he muttered. He’d better fix the screen before it fell off with the cat attached, but for now he just pressed the loose panel more tightly into place.
He turned toward a gray cat with a torn ear staring at him with one round yellow eye, the other eye half-closed, yet hopeful. “There you go, Half Eye,” Bernie said, dumping food into a cottage cheese container. “Leave some for the others, will you? Especially Red. And I’d appreciate it if you’d teach him not to jump on the screen.”
Bernie went inside, shut both doors, and got back to writing about dark shapes lurching up from the blackness deeper in the tunnel. The explorers didn’t hear them coming because they were busy chipping away at the gold vein. Each chop of the pickaxes sent vibrations of air down the tunnel, causing the dark shapes to shiver, their undulating limbs reaching toward the shining yellow metal. Just as Blaze felt something cold as death touch his neck, and turned to see huge shining black eyes reflecting from his lamp light, another screech jerked Bernie out of his adventure.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. He might need a bigger cat food container. Pushing away from his computer, he stood and peered out the back window. To his surprise, there were no cats, and the cottage cheese container was half full.
A shiver rippled down Bernie’s spine. If the cats weren’t screeching, then what was? Images of black figures creeping up his dark basement stairs, cold limbs waving ever closer toward the doorknob, made him step back.
Ridiculous.
But telling himself there was nothing to fear didn’t stop his heart from beating a painful warning against his ribs.
He had to look.
Bernie forced himself to take a step forward, grab the cold knob, and pull the basement door open.
Darkness.
Bernie flicked on the light. Bare wooden stairs descended into a silent basement - no screeching, no footfalls, nothing creeping toward him.
Suddenly, the scream split the air again. Bernie slammed the basement door and whirled toward his front room.
No way.
As much as he cared about stray cats, he wasn’t going to feed them off both porches.
Shuffling to the front window, Bernie pulled back the curtain just enough to see that even though there were no cats yowling on his porch, something unusual was going on. His reluctant gaze skidded across the street, eyes widening at the bright lights glowing from Sure Doom’s day room windows. That wasn’t right. Neither was the bass thump of music.
Bernie glanced at the clock. 12:07 am. There weren’t supposed to be any overhead lights on this late at Sure Doom, or music playing, either. Bernie should know. He’d practically grown up there. His mother let him come to work with her for the first eleven years of his life. Then Bernie spent the last two years of his father’s life visiting Fred Hickman’s small, sterile room. Bernie often slept on a cot beside his father, right across the street from their house. Music he remembered from the care center was classical tunes or old ballads, not anything with a bass beat like the one he could hear from clear across the street.
What was going on?
With his curiosity greater than his painful memories, Bernie cracked open his front door and heard the words that accompanied the pounding bass. “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, night! S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, night! S-S-S-Saturday ni-ight…”
Dazed, Bernie shut the door and headed to the kitchen for a Good Boy Bar to steady his nerves. It was the best recipe that his gentle, overweight mother had ever created. Bernie never noticed Mom’s size, nor cared that she hadn’t married until her late thirties. The love in her warm brown eyes and the girlish sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks made her the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
Bernie never made the treats quite as tasty as his mother’s, but he liked to keep a supply on hand. As he bit into the confection, he closed his eyes to savor the welcome wash of comfort from just the right combination of sweet and salty, chewy and crunchy.
Even though his first bite always conjured a vague memory of one of the most fearful moments of his young life, he managed to override it with a second bite. The apprehension had faded to almost nothing over the years, but Bernie could still recall the day his eight-year-old self dashed from school to the warm comfort of Sweet Dream’s kitchen where his mother worked as a cook. Mom hugged her only child, sat him at the table, and tucked a warm bar into his hand, saying, “There’s my good boy.” Then she trudged to the refrigerator on swollen ankles to get him a cold glass of milk.
Bernie had just taken his first blissful bite when an old lady with canyon-deep wrinkles strode into the kitchen. Shiny earrings as pointed as knife blades swung against her neck. Bernie stared in horrified fascination, wondering if they would draw blood. If so, how much? If she turned her neck enough times, would those earrings cut her head off?
“There he is!” the woman cried.
“Now, Jinny, he just got here,” Lisa said, hurrying toward her son without bothering to close the refrigerator door.
“And none too soon.” Jinny beat Lisa to Bernie’s side, her red nails reaching toward his neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but Jinny interrupted. “Your mother says the nicest things about you, Bern.” Jinny laid one hand on his shoulder and pinched his cheek with the other. Bernie shuddered. “You cold, little man?” Jinny slid her arms around the boy and squeezed until Bernie didn't think he’d ever draw a full breath again.
“Let him eat,” Lisa said, finally reaching Jinny and pulling her arms loose to free her son.
“Of course.” Jinny gave Bernie a fond smile. “There’s just something...I don’t know...magical about your boy.”
“He’s one of a kind, alright.” Lisa put a protective hand on each of Bernie’s shoulders. Safely in his mother’s hands, Bernie finally swallowed the bite of Good Boy Bar that was still in his mouth.
“Is that good, Bern?” Jinny asked, her eyes alight. “May I have one, please?”
“Of course.” Lisa gave her two.
With a confection in each hand, Jinny headed for the kitchen door where she stopped, looked back, and winked at Bernie.
With braveness born of his mother’s nearness and the distance between him and Jinny, Bernie gave a cautious wave. Jinny let loose a laugh, then disappeared, humming “Moonlight Serenade.”
Lisa moved her son onto a chair at the far corner of the table. “She’s new here.”
“She’s scary,” Bernie said.
“She’s just exuberant.” Lisa poured Bernie’s milk.
“Thanks, Mom.” He picked up the glass.
“She means well.”
Bernie glanced at the doorway. “She must be brave, too. Did you see that? She wears knives in her ears!”
When Bernie finished his snack, he went in search of Fackrell, Sweet Dream’s elderly lawn and garden man, and found him kneeling beside his golf cart, pulling weeds. “I’ll help!” Bernie offered.
Fackrell tipped his safari hat back and looked at the eager little boy. “Does your mother know where you are?”
“Yup.”
Fackrell turned toward the kitchen and saw Lisa wave from the doorway.
“She sent you this.” Bernie handed over a Good Boy Bar. Fackrell gave Lisa a salute of thanks. Then he let Bernie pull enough weeds to earn a ride in the golf cart. Fackrell gave the boy an exhilarating ride, making sure to drive all over the grounds to check the furthest perimeters before returning him to Lisa.
Lisa walked her son home to fix dinner for his dad, who’s energetic walk, quick humor, and bright blue eyes gave no clue that he was twenty years older than his beloved wife.
For three more years, Bernie enjoyed the comfort of his mother’s affection until it all ended on a cool autumn afternoon when Bernie hurried into the Sweet Dream kitchen. Although he was nearly as tall as his mother, she gave him a warm hug. Then she stepped back with an odd expression on her face, as if she suddenly didn’t recognize him.
Sharp worry poked Bernie’s chest. “Mom?”
Lisa grabbed the front of her apron bib and toppled over onto the floor.
“Mom!” Bernie screamed, dropping to his knees and trying with all his might to lift his mother. “Help!” he screamed, not caring that he was crying like a baby. “Help! Please! Help!”
Jinny was the first one in the kitchen. “Oh, Lisa,” she moaned. “Hang on, Bern,” and she was gone.
Doctors and nurses swarmed in, pushing Bernie aside, his back pressed against the wall as he watched them surround his mother through blurred tears.
An arm suddenly slid around his shoulders, pulling him in against a comfortingly soft body. “I’m so sorry, Bern,” Jinny said, tipping her head to rest it against his, somehow managing not to stab either one of them with her earrings. “I called your dad. He’s on his way.”
In spite of all the life-saving measures at their disposal before the ambulance arrived, the trained staff couldn’t save LIsa.
The day after the funeral, Bernie used his mother’s recipe to make Good Boy Bars for his father. Fred thanked his son and took a bite. They ate their bars in silence. Then Bernie went to bed and curled up as small as he could.
It wasn’t long before a knock sounded on his door. “Son?”
Bernie didn’t dare answer for fear Dad would hear that he’d been crying.
Fred cracked the door open. “May I come in?”
Bernie nodded.
Fred walked into the room and sat on the chair by Bernie’s bed. “Son,” he said slowly, “I know things are different around here. It’s not the way I want it. To tell the truth, I don’t really know what to do.”
Bernie’s tears dried up. His big, capable father didn’t know what to do?
“Your mother was a special lady.” Dad’s voice was more forlorn than Bernie had ever heard before. “It’s hard to imagine, but all I can figure is that God needed her more than we did.” He gave his son a sad smile. “We can’t change what happened, and I can’t raise you the way she would have, but I hope you turn out alright anyway.”
Fred sounded so lost that Bernie uncurled himself and reached out to take his father’s hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll be alright.”
Fred cocooned his son’s hand in both of his. “I believe it will, my boy.” Then Fred let go and leaned back in his chair. “You know what? I saw the darndest thing on the highway today. A three-wheeled motorcycle. Can you believe it?”
Bernie laughed. “Like a tricycle?”
“Yup. A giant tricycle with a big grown up man riding it. What’s the most interesting thing about your day?”
The nightly discussions about their days morphed into adventure stories about a boy named Blaze. Fred told of Blaze nearly dying of thirst while riding camels in the desert, until he used his wits and let the camels follow animal trails to locate an oasis. Blaze bungee jumped from the Eiffel Tower in a daring escape, and turned out to be as adept at swimming the Amazon River as he was hunting African lions or driving a race car that nearly crashed, pulling it back on the track just in time to cross the finish line and win the gold trophy.
When Bernie was twelve, Fred quit working to better care for his motherless son. “Hey, how about we make us some secret agent equipment like Blaze’s?” Dad asked.
“Sure!” Bernie said, and enthusiastically worked on dead drop devices for leaving secret messages. They experimented with hollowed out pens, books, a walnut, and even a lipstick tube. They made secret sleeve pockets in their jackets, a waterproof message capsule, and a periscope. When Bernie thought of putting a camera in his old teddy bear’s eye, his father said, “That’s going to take some take some electronics. I don’t have a job anymore, so you’d better get a paper route.”
Bernie looked at his father in surprise “A paper route?”
“Sure.” Fred picked up the Planet Post. “Earn yourself some money for our next spy gear project, get some exercise, and see people besides me.”
Bernie didn’t mind spending time with his dad, but the idea of earning enough money to build a hidden camera was irresistible, so he got himself a paper route. Every morning at dawn, Fred’s cheerful voice sounded up the stairs, “It’s time to blaze through your route! Great adventures await!”
Bernie thought his dad had too many expectations, but Bernie got up, dressed, and took the toasted egg sandwich Fred made for him to eat while peddling to the newspaper drop-off spot. Bernie rolled his papers, stuffed them in his canvas newspaper bag, and made deliveries around town beneath the rising sun, taking note of any possible adventures he could share with his father. “I threw the paper so far it went clear over the roof.”
“That’s quite an arm, son.”
Bernie’s chest puffed out. “Yeah, I had to knock on the door and tell them where it was.”
Another day, Bernie said, “A ferocious dog chased me for two whole blocks.” When Fred’s eyes lit up with interest, Bernie didn’t bother mentioning that it was a small dog with a bark about as scary as a wind-up toy.
When Bernie had enough money, Fred helped him build the tiny spy camera and insert it into the teddy bear’s eye. On the day of their amusement park adventure, Bernie set the bear on the windowsill to record any possible mischief while they were away.
Bernie hadn’t counted on the kind of amusement his father had in mind. “C’mon,” Fred said to his 13-year-old son, “ride the Blazing Dragon Looper with your old dad.”
Chest tightening, Bernie stared at the wild antics of the slender cars that obviously weren’t securely fastened to their spindly metal arms.
Heading for the end of the line, Fred looked over his shoulder at his son without breaking stride. “Well?”
“Wait, Dad!” Bernie hurried to catch up, ready to confess that he’d much rather ride the merry-go-round.
Before Bernie could speak, Fred slung his arm around his son’s shoulders in comfortable camaraderie. “That’s my boy.”
Bernie bit back his protest. If his father was determined to ride the Blazing Dragon Looper, then Bernie had to go, too. What if Fred had a heart attack and ended up slumped over dead in a narrow ride car turned coffin, just because his son wasn’t there to save him?
When Bernie was fourteen, Fred took him horseback riding, and didn’t say a word about his son gripping the saddle horn for the entire ride on a mild old horse named Lightning Blaze.
On their river rafting trip during Bernie’s fifteenth summer, Bernie tried to figure out any possible way to put on two life vests before climbing into the flimsy raft that heaved and sank with every ripple of river water. Since he couldn’t see his way to doubly fortifying himself, Bernie ended up hanging tight-fisted to the ropes drawn across the name, “Blazing White Water Tours,” stenciled on the wobbly rubber raft. He didn’t let go, not even through the calm stretches. Beside him, his old dad yelled, “Yippee!” like some invincible kid.
When they finally reached land alive, Bernie stumbled out of the raft, dripping wet and sore-fisted, determined that the only water he ever wanted splashing over him again was the shower.
When Fred went rappelling, 16-year-old Bernie stood on the edge of the cliff, wondering how his father had gotten him up here, and how in the world he was actually expected to walk down over the edge. How could Dad possibly think this was fun?
“Yep, he’s brave as blazes,” Bernie heard Fred boast to the rappelling guide. “He does everything with me. Next year, we’re going hang gliding.”
Bernie nearly swallowed his tongue. Hang gliding? Running off the edge of a cliff without any ropes at all? Suddenly, rappelling seemed safe and comforting with its harnesses and rope cradles.
Just before Bernie’s high school graduation, Fred took him on an adventure to the nearest college campus. They strolled around the ivy covered buildings, Fred telling stories about the great escapades students experienced while earning their degrees. Although Bernie shuddered at the thought of leaving his father alone, he didn’t say anything out loud.
It turned out he didn’t have to.
One week after high school graduation, Fred suffered a stroke. It didn’t happen at the Sweet Dream Care Center, but to Bernie’s horror, that’s where Fred was sent after his release from the hospital.
Bernie hadn’t crossed the street since his mother died, but for his father’s sake, Bernie requested a room furthest from the kitchen with a clear view of the Hickman’s house. Bernie moved from paper boy to full time obituary columnist at the Planet Post, spent hours with his father every day, and kept up the house and yard under Fred’s watchful eye.
One day as Bernie neared his father’s room, he had to step around an unattended cart with a couple of bottles of pills in plain sight. Bernie picked one up and read, “Sleep-Eze.” Sleeping pills? Were they giving his father sleeping pills?
Glancing down the hallway, Bernie noticed a middle-aged nurse about three doors down. “Hey,” Bernie called.
The woman looked up.
“What’s this?” Bernie held up the bottle.
The nurse sighed, plucked a clipboard of papers from beside the nearest door, and walked toward Bernie, flipping the pages to show him how busy she was. When she reached his side, she glanced at the bottle. “Sleeping pills.”
“Why are they just sitting here?” Bernie asked, uncharacteristically brave at the thought of his father somehow taking too many sleeping pills and never waking up. “Anyone could take them.”
The nurse flapped her hand. “Oh, no, they don’t.”
“But they can,” Bernie insisted, shaking the bottle so that the pills rattled.
The nurse leaned a little closer to Bernie as if sharing a secret. “The caps are childproof.”
Astounded, Bernie replied, “But the people here aren’t children.”
The nurse tossed her clipboard onto the cart and grabbed the handle. “They might as well be.” She held out her hand and Bernie dropped the pill bottle into it. Watching her wheel the cart away didn’t make him feel any better about the situation.
Bernie sat beside his father. Fred gave him a half smile with the side of his face that he still had some say over. Bernie sat patiently for as long as it took to have a conversation. Dad’s language wasn’t quite words, but through questions, hand gestures, writing on paper, and guesswork, Bernie could make out most of what his father was trying to say.
Bernie tried to hold up his end of the conversation about what his day was like, uncomfortable telling his father about the obituaries he’d written. He didn’t want Dad getting any ideas.
One day, Bernie began telling an adventure story about Blaze. Fred relaxed against his pillow, eyes closed, and listened with a quiet satisfaction that Bernie hadn’t seen since the stroke stole his gregarious father. Even though it was a re-telling of one of the tales Fred had spun for Bernie years before, Fred listened with his half smile. A couple of times he opened his good eye to gaze at his son, a surprising tear rolling down his rugged cheek. Without pause in his narration, Bernie lifted a tissue from the bedside box, reached over to gently wipe the tear away, and then surprised himself by talking Blaze into a new and even more dangerous situation than his father had ever created for the adventurer to fight his way out of.
Fred twitched his hand. Bernie reached over and held it, looking into his father’s bright blue eyes, one open, one at half mast as he gazed lovingly at his son. Bernie didn’t need any paper, pen, or hand signals to interpret that look.
After that, Bernie told his father a new Blaze adventure every day. The last one was of Blaze bailing out of a crippled airplane over the frozen Alaskan tundra. Blaze fashioned snowshoes out of brittle-cold willow branches. As Fred closed his eyes, Blaze crept into the shelter he’d constructed against the bitter cold beneath dark evening skies. He’d just kindled a fire to roast the rabbit he’d snared, unaware that a polar bear was creeping up on him, when Bernie noticed something terribly wrong. His father’s hand was cold.
“Dad?” Bernie called. He cocooned Fred’s hand in both of his, willing it to warm up. “Dad? Are you cold?” Bernie gave his father’s hand a little shake. “Do you need another blanket?”
Fred didn’t respond. Both of his eyes were half closed, and his chest was frighteningly still.
“Help!” Bernie called, turning toward the door without letting go of his father. “Help my dad!”
As Sure Doom’s personnel poured into the room, Bernie was pushed out of his seat and backed up against the wall until he could only see his father’s body through a blur of tears.
Truly alone now, Bernie walked through the cold tundra halls toward the exit. With each step, his heart set deeper in icy determination that he would never enter this care center of doom again.
Once he was safely in his own house, he pulled the front room drapes closed. The next day he got heavier drapes to block out the sight of the place where he’d suffered his most painful losses.
Bernie’s obituary column soon grew to such popularity that several neighboring newspapers paid him to moonlight for their dearly departed sections. In spite of the extra work, one spring day turned out so fine that there weren’t enough people leaving the world to keep Bernie at work.
He arrived home earlier than usual, fed the stray cats, then put on his apron and pulled out the mixer, ready to make a fresh batch of Good Boy Bars. Before he measured his first ingredient, he noticed that the cookie jar was already full. Leaning against the counter, Bernie took out a bar, bit, and chewed, his gaze wandering to his desk. He swallowed the last of his treat and sat down. Tapping the familiar keyboard made the screen light up like a cheerful friend. Bernie eyed the glowing screen, then began to type.
When he finally looked up to see 11:36 pm on the clock, he ‘d written over 8,000 words of “Blaze and the Nile Adventure.” He’d missed dinner, but he didn’t care. He was satiated with ideas.
From that day on, Bernie worked on his adventure stories after work, no matter what time he got home. When they were done, he printed them out and stored them alphabetically in his filing cabinet.
He’d written all of his father’s stories that he could remember, and was thinking up some of his own when he opened up the life information of a man who’d died in his 90’s while racing pocket bikes. Bernie leaned forward, the Planet Post office fading from his awareness as he marveled at the numerous adventures the nonagenarian had experienced through his lifetime - kayaking Congo’s Inga Rapids, hiking in Bhutan, surfing in Australia, and biking along canyon rims in Utah’s wilderness, just to name a few. “Yeah,” Bernie murmured, his eyes alight, “I could use these in my books.”
“You write books?” his coworker asked in surprise.
Bernie looked up, blinking. Had he spoken out loud?
“Can I read ‘em?”
“Uh, no.”
His coworker moved closer, genuine interest in his voice. “When are they gonna be published?”
Bernie stared at the man as if he had a pencil growing out of his nostril. Bernie didn’t write Blaze stories because he expected anyone else to read them. He wrote them because they made him feel better, almost as if Mom and Dad were still there. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Bernie finally replied.
His coworker tipped a pen in Bernie’s direction. “You’d better.”
Bernie intended to dismiss the notion of publication, but once planted, the idea was difficult to uproot. What would happen if he really did put his stories out there for others to read? His father loved them, but would anyone else? Bernie squirmed at the thought of rejection. A tightrope walk across the Grand Canyon would be easier to bear.
Another screech from across the street pulled Bernie back to his dim front room and the strange lights at Sure Doom. Lights glowed on the back patio, too, colorful paper lanterns swinging in the night breeze. Moving shapes beneath them appeared to be people engaged in conflict while the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” thrummed through the air.
What was going on? This wasn’t like anything Bernie had seen in all his years. As he carefully opened his front door and stepped slowly out onto the porch, a cool breeze lifted the hair on the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine as he watched the shadowy figures grapple.
Suddenly, two figures in a clench tipped over, as if dead or dying. Another scream rocketed across the street, a death cry.
Bernie jumped back inside the safety of his house, slammed the door, and locked it with shaking fingers. They weren’t getting away with murder over there. He was a witness.
When Bernie reached for the phone to call the police, the Beatles suddenly stopped singing. The sudden quiet scraped against Bernie’s nerves.
What would he see if he looked now?
What would happen if he didn’t?
A sudden spasm of fear shook Bernie’s old bones as he edged the drapes aside and peered out at a dark, silent Sure Doom. Had the murderer seen him and turned out all the lights so he could sneak across the street and deal with the sole eye witness? Was the murderer waiting in the bushes outside his house right now, ready to grab him and kill him as soon as he stuck his head out the door?
Bernie wasn’t willing to take the risk. But if he called the police now, there was nothing for them to see. If the murderer saw them coming, he would just fade into the darkness. The police would think Bernie was just a senile old man, which he most definitely wasn’t.
Let Sure Doom take care of its own problems.
Checking the locks on his front and back doors, Bernie sat down at his computer again, squeezing his hands together to stop their shaking. Then he pulled them apart, opened a new document and typed, “Sure Doom.”
For the next week, all was quiet at night as Bernie built his story of a care center with a couple of shady attendants, intent on murdering an old spy who lay dying in one of the beds with all his secrets intact.
But the spy wasn’t as close to death as the workers thought. At night, he snuck out of the building and waged war on crime in the city. He returned to his bed before dawn and drowsed through the day with plenty of people around to stop any death threats. Then he woke up the next night refreshed and ready to fight more evil.
This worked fine until one of the attendants caught the spy sneaking in through the window one morning. He agreed to keep the spy’s secret for a substantial financial payoff. Now he could add that to the money the spy’s enemies would pay as soon as the old spy was dead.
The attendant went in search of his cohort and found him holding the spy’s next meal, a dish of tapioca pudding. The two henchmen grinned at each other. The first didn’t bother telling his partner of his newfound wealth, while the second kept quiet about the newly emptied bottle of poison in his pocket.
What neither of them knew was that the spy flushed all tapioca pudding down the toilet.
The next Saturday night, Bernie was typing furiously on his Sure Doom story when he was interrupted by a strange sound. Without even sparing a glance for his back door, he headed straight to the front room curtains. He could hardly believe that several pairs of headlights, spaced as close as only golf carts can be, spun and spiraled around the grassy yard behind the care center. Tinny beeps sounded as one of the golf carts peeled away from the others. It rolled through the wide open kitchen delivery gate. With headlights shining in his eyes, Bernie couldn’t see who was driving like a maniac, but he gasped in dismay as the golf cart accelerated toward his house.
Dropping the curtain, Bernie headed for the front door, intending to shout at the crazy driver. Fortunately for him, he hadn’t gotten the door open before a barrage of ammunition slammed into his front door.
He froze in terror, then hit the floor. Was that a shotgun blast? Was someone actually shooting at him?
Bernie crawled a few feet to crouch behind the sofa. Now he could call the police. They’d believe him when they saw the bullet holes.
Bernie reached for his phone. A cheerful “beep beep” sounded from outside as he picked it up. The sound of gravel crunching under golf cart wheels faded to nothing as he dialed with trembling fingers.
Had the driver dropped off the murderer to wait in Bernie’s bushes before roaring away?
Bernie reported the assault, then assured the emergency call operator that he would remain in his house. No, Bernie wouldn’t open the door until the officers identified themselves.
It seemed like hours before Bernie saw the officers park in front of his house and walk toward his door. Dropping the curtain, Bernie hurried to let them in. “They’re trying to kill me!” he told the two startled policemen.
“Who?” asked the older one.
Bernie pointed at Sure Doom. “Someone drove a golf cart over here and shot my door.”
“Zippilli,” the older policeman said, “go check it out.”
The young officer trotted across the street while the older one, whose name badge read “Falchetta,” shone his flashlight on Bernie’s door, revealing fresh pockmarks in the white paint. Bernie’s chest tightened. This was proof of murderous intent.
Then Fachetta lowered his light beam to the porch, illuminating bits of gravel spread across the concrete. “Hm,” he said. “While walking to your door, I noticed a spot where it appears that tires spun out on your gravel.” Falchetta took Bernie down the path to see for himself, then questioned him about his occupation and enemies.
Approaching footfalls made them both turn toward Zippilli jogging toward them from across the street. “The staff reported that all residents are in bed, and they don’t know anything about missing golf carts. They’re all accounted for.”
“There now,” Falchetta said to Bernie. “It must be some kids playing a prank with a pellet gun. No one’s trying to kill you.”
Zippilli cleared his throat. “Uh, Falchetta? One more thing. I had to wake up the staff before I could get any information.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Every single employee I saw in Sweet Dream was fast asleep.”
Falchetta glared at his companion. “That information is on a need-to-know basis, and he doesn’t need to know.” He jerked a thumb at Bernie.
Bernie put on a smile to hide his trepidation. “Thank you for coming,” he said, then closed and locked his door. He walked to his kitchen, back to the front room, then back to the kitchen, then he sat at his computer and typed until he was calm enough to crawl into bed.
The next Saturday, Bernie was prepared for trouble. As soon as the sun set, he hunkered down beside his sofa and put up his periscope, his sole surviving piece of spy equipment, and watched in horror as half a dozen human silhouettes tip-toed across the street from Sure Doom. Their supple movements and toned outlines gave away that they were young adults, not elderly residents.
Were they employees? What were they doing? He wanted to call the police, but no crime had been committed yet.
Most of the invaders stopped at the curb, where the unusual floodlights from Sure Doom backlit them with halos, shadowing their faces. Bernie’s throat tightened as a young man started toward his front door with something round and heavy dangling from his hand. Bernie couldn’t make out what it was, but it appeared to be some sort of incendiary device.
A bomb?
Bernie’s muscles tightened. He had to be ready to flee his burning home in case the fire engines didn’t arrive in time, but would an assassin be waiting in his backyard to finish him off?
Bernie thought about yanking his door open to confront the ruffian and force him to stop his nefarious plan, but he had a lot of friends to back him up, and there was only one Bernie, so he quickly dismissed the idea.
But this was his home. How could he just crouch here like a frightened child while someone attacked the only place he’d ever lived? Bernie suddenly clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. Blaze would never stand for this. He’d defeat the bad guys and save the day.
Bernie stood, his old legs trembling from crouching for so long, and took an unsteady step toward his front door.
Swish, swish, swish. Pause. Swish, swish. Pause. Swish, swish, swish.
What was that? Bernie rushed back to his periscope, but it wouldn’t turn far enough for him to see what was going on at his front door.
It was time to call the police.
Bernie hurried as fast as his stiff knees could move to the phone, where he reported the suspicious activity and suspected bombing. He carried the phone with him to his periscope just in time to see the fellow at the front door trotting away, carrying the heavy cylinder with him.
As the group hurried back across the street, Bernie crept to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything ticking. Perhaps the murderer had left a silent bomb. Bernie retreated to the relative safety of his kitchen in case an explosive went off before help arrived. Desperately in need of comfort, Bernie reached into the jar for a Good Boy Bar, but his fingers scraped smooth walls. The jar was empty. Stunned, he tried to remember the last time there hadn’t been even one treat in that jar. He couldn’t remember one.
A knock on his front door made him jump. When he pulled the door open, Zippilli’s fist was raised, his splotchy white knuckles facing Bernie. “Is this some kind of joke?” Zippilli asked.
“No, I assure you, officer, this is no joke. Some kids came over from Sure Doom carrying something heavy, and then I heard suspicious noises at my door.”
Zippilli narrowed his eyes as Falchetta emerged from the care center’s entrance and headed toward them. “Sure Doom?” Zippilli asked, quirking a brow at Bernie.
“Sweet Dream,” Bernie corrected himself. “I couldn’t see what he carried, but I feared it was a bomb, or fire starter, so I called you.”
Zippilli gave his knuckles a glance. “Could it have been a paint can?”
Falchetta shone his flashlight on Bernie’s door as he climbed up the porch stairs. It was plain to see that the door was shiny with paint except for a spot smudged by knuckle marks.
Bernie stared. “Why would anyone paint my door?”
“I don’t know,” Zippilli answered. “Could I come in and wash my hands?”
Bernie stepped back and both officers entered his house. As Zippilli used the kitchen sink and plenty of soap, Falchetta said, “Nothing amiss at Sweet Dream.” He glanced at Zippilli. “Sleepy night staff, though. I had to shake the nurse at the front station awake.”
After the officers left, Bernie locked his front door, sat at his computer, and wrote the spy trapped in Sure Doom onto the roof where he hung by his fingers while the two workers searched for him, one clutching a knife, the other a taser set on “kill.” After two hours of moving the old spy from one near disaster to another, Bernie shut off his computer and went to bed.
The next Saturday afternoon, Bernie had Good Boy Bars in the oven. The back door was open with only the screen door between him and the great outdoors. The pages of his freshly printed “Spy of Sure Doom” were stacked on the table. Wind gusted around his house with just the right amount of restless energy he’d needed to read through his adventure one last time to make sure it had the proper blend of danger balanced with life-threatening traps and emotional heartache.
For the first time in his life, Bernie couldn’t quench an intense desire to mail his story to a publisher. His newspaper publisher’s literary agent friend was willing to read the manuscript on Monday. As soon as the baking was done, he had time to get it to the post office for late mail pick up tonight. This story had to be told.
The only thing he wasn’t sure about was the last page. He pulled it from the manuscript stack and stared doubtfully at the description of Sure Doom exploding into ruin behind the old spy racing away in a golf cart he’d fearlessly commandeered from a band of vandalizing teenagers. The ink had printed lighter than the other pages, because his printer was running out of ink. He didn’t have a replacement cartridge, and wouldn’t be able to get one until Monday. He wasn’t willing to wait. He’d never missed a deadline, so this would have to do.
The timer on the oven dinged. Bernie put the manuscript page down and took the bars from the oven. As he set them on the stove top, he heard a terrible screech that sent his heart climbing up into his throat. He dropped to a crouch in front of the hot stove and whipped his head toward the sound.
Two bodies, one gray and one red, hung on the back screen door. Bernie watched in horror as the screen gave way, crashing to the porch with both cats still attached, yowling and spitting. The wicked breeze swirled in through the sudden opening, attacking his manuscript, sending pages flying across the room.
Bernie leapt into action as the cats leapt into the bushes. Moving as fast as he could, Bernie grabbed pages with one hand and pinned them under his other arm while reaching for more flying papers. He made his way to the door and shoved it closed, ending the paper storm and letting the airborne pages drift to the floor.
Bernie stacked his manuscript pages, feverishly arranging them by counting numbers until he discovered that the last twelve crucial pages of an imprisoned care center resident triumphing over his evil caretakers were missing.
Oh, no.
As a last resort he could send the story electronically, but he was ready to mail the pages, just like a real book. It was dedicated to his parents, who’d never owned a computer. It just didn’t seem right to send it any way but in print.
Bernie darted to the back door and stared out into the windswept yard, but there were no pages in sight. Leaving his precious manuscript beneath the safe weight of the Good Boy jar, Bernie trembled as he pulled on a dark jacket and black knit hat as a disguise. It wasn’t cold outside, but since he was old, he could get away with pretending to feel cold. He hurried outside to look under the lilac bush, then continued around his house’s corner, eyes widening at the sight of white rectangular pages skimming over Sure Doom’s lawn.
This was worse than he could have imagined. If anyone over there recognized themselves in the story, they might come over to finish him off in the fading light of day. But if he walked over there now, they might see him coming, overpower him, strap him to a golf cart, and cover him with paint.
Bernie shivered. No matter what, he couldn’t wait. He had to get those pages now.
Keeping his eyes on Sure Doom, he watched for any shadowy figures headed his way, but there was no one in sight as Bernie crept across the street toward the flower bed that had trapped his errant pages. As he reached out to grab the nearest paper fluttering between two rose bushes, he experienced a wave of triumph, just like Blaze when he saved the day.
Suddenly, something cold and hard pressed against Bernie’s leg. He whipped around, startled to see a wrinkled old woman with sharp, pointed earrings grinning at him, her walker blocking his escape. He gaped in astonishment. It couldn’t be her. It had to be some other woman who looked remarkably like Jinny.
Bernie turned away from her only to face two old men brandishing canes. Another grim senior citizen sat in a wheelchair, leaving Bernie no room to run into the gathering dusk.
“Let me go,” Bernie commanded in a voice that was too thin and high to be taken seriously. His captors cackled, shook their heads, and herded him toward the kitchen door.
No, no, anywhere but the kitchen! Bernie tried pushing his way through the ring of old people, but only earned a thwack on his shin for his efforts.
Then he heard the sound of salvation. Shag’s rough bark made everyone turn. The dog stalked toward them with his wide stance, legs as stiff as four furry crutches.
“Shag!” Bernie called, his courage lifting. “Sic ‘em!” He pointed at the doddering people who weren’t even able to hold themselves up without assistance.
Shag approached the group with another warning bark, his furry tail whirling in its crazy circle. The Jinny-like lady gasped. The man in the wheelchair stuck his hand out toward Shag. Shag sniffed, then licked it.
“No!” Bernie shouted, dismayed that his rescuer was no good at his job. “I said sic ‘em, boy!”
Then Bernie forgot all about Shag, because the impossible scent of freshly baked Good Boy Bars wove its spell from inside the open kitchen door. Who was copying Mom’s recipe? Bernie had to know.
He dashed ahead of his herders into the kitchen that he hadn’t visited for more than fifty years. A plate of Good Boy Bars sat on the table in the corner, exactly where Mom used to put them for him. Bernie hurried over and picked one up, surprised to find that it was warm. Biting into it, he closed his eyes and chewed the familiar treat, his heart warming at memories of his mother moving comfortably around the kitchen, making food to nourish the residents and make their final days a little sweeter.
When Bernie opened his eyes, his captors stood between him and the kitchen door. “Head down the hall,” the Jinny lady said. “They’re waiting for you.”
Who was waiting?
Bernie’s senses sharpened with sudden bravado, keenly in tune not only with the sounds and smells around him, but also the people watching his every move. Bernie grinned. This dangerous Blaze-like situation was suddenly familiar territory. He could do this.
Bernie strode into a hallway filled with a brassy tune lilting above deep waves of drum beats. His footsteps slowed. Could it be? Was that Moonlight Serenade? As he neared the door of the recreation room, Bernie passed two people in care center uniforms sound asleep in armchairs. They didn’t even twitch an eyelid as Bernie’s entourage clunked along behind him.
Bernie stared at the young adults swirling around in time to the music, far more than had crossed the street to his house last week.
Who were they?
A tap on his shoulder made him turn to see a young woman with luscious black curls and shiny red lips smiling at him. “Dance with me, Bern.” She held her arms out in dance position, her red fingernails gleaming in the muted light. Without a second thought, Bernie moved into her arms and guided his pretty partner in and out among the other couples as if he’d been dancing every night of his life.
When someone bumped into them, Bernie frowned, but ignored it. On his next circuit of the floor, another bump hit him harder.
That was it. Bernie turned to scowl at a disturbingly familiar face, but it was unfamiliar, too. Where would he have met this young man who was grinning at him with such delight? He knew those bright blue eyes and set of jaw, but he couldn’t quite place the man. Confused, Bernie mumbled, “Excuse me,” even though the other man was at fault.
“No need,” the young man said. “Way to shake a hoof, Blaze!”
Blaze? No one had ever called him Blaze but his father.
“Don’t look so surprised, son,” the young man said. “Your mother’s hoping you liked the Good Boy Bars she made for you, but you can’t tell her what you think of them unless you close your mouth.”
“Wha…” Bernie’s eyes slid to the pleasingly plump young woman holding onto his youthful father’s arm. The lovely lady’s brown eyes filled with tears that spilled over her freckled cheeks. “M...Mom?”
“Oh, Bernie, it’s so good to see you again!” Bernie heard his mother’s love in the pretty young lady’s voice.
Was he going mad?
“How?” he sputtered.
Young Lisa wrapped Bernie in a familiar hug, and he responded automatically, embracing her with arms that he suddenly realized were young and strong, like a twenty-year-old’s.
“Hey, that’s my partner!” Fred said, tugging his wife out of Bernie’s grasp. “Come on, babe, let’s finish this dance. We can hang out with this young ‘un later.”
Lisa giggled, blew Bernie a kiss, and whirled away in Fred’s arms.
Bernie’s partner tipped her head to one side until her black hair shifted enough to reveal a shiny knife blade earring. His eyes widened as he glimpsed an abandoned walker inside the doorway, keeping company with an empty wheelchair and a couple of canes. “I don’t understand,” Bernie said.
“I thought you knew,” the beautiful young woman answered playfully. “I’m Jinny.”
“How can you be?”
“I’ll only answer your questions while we’re dancing.” Jinny said, lifting her arms. Bernie guided her back among the dancers. “Dying is not an end,” Jinny explained. “It’s simply a shift in matter. It was Fred’s idea to come back on Saturday night to liven things up around here, because he wanted to let those who are close to death know that it’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just another adventure.” She gave Bernie a sweet smile. “It was my idea to use the sleeping pills on the staff.”
“So you’re… dead?”
His partner pirouetted. “Do I look dead?” She leaned closer to Bernie. “I don’t feel dead. I’m just different. I can go places you can’t, but I still like to smile and have fun.” She laughed. “It was so funny to see you watching us dance that first night you noticed us. You looked like you were watching a crime.”
“That was dancing?”
“Yes, silly. We couldn’t stop laughing during our dip-your-partner contest. Unfortunately, Mabel’s laugh sounds more like a dying cat.”
“I thought it was a fight that ended in murder.”
Jinny giggled. “It was just a fight against gravity. A couple of us got dropped, but we bounced back.”
“Well, if I’m not dead yet,” Bernie’s eyes grew wide in alarm. “I’m not dead, am I?”
Jinny shook her head.
“Then why am I so much younger?”
“That’s how you really are. Everyone is young in their hearts. Your dad arranged it so that for a couple of hours every Saturday night, we can all be the people we truly are inside.”
Bernie raised his eyebrows. “Are you one of the vandals?”
“What? No! We only rode the golf carts over to your house because we noticed you watching us dance, and wanted to invite you to have fun with us. But you shut yourself in the house.”
“Hey, Bernie!” Called a young man in a safari hat, his black eyes bright with mischief.
“Fackrell?”
“Yeah, it’s me!”
“You let them use your golf carts to vandalize my house?”
Fackrell held his hands up, palms out. “No, they just took them without my say so.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “You ought to take one for a spin. You’re old enough that you could give me a ride for a change.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Later,” Jinny said.
“See ya.” Fackrell clapped Bernie on the shoulder before heading for the refreshment table.
“We didn’t vandalize you, Bern,” Jinny insisted. “We got worried when we peeled out and accidentally shot gravel at your door, so we just took off. Then last week, your dad insisted on repainting the door for you. We couldn’t figure out why you called the cops on us.”
“I didn’t know what you were doing.” Bernie looked around the room, which was beginning to empty. He caught his father’s eye across the floor. Fred gave his son a little salute, then waltzed his wife out onto the patio and out of sight.
“Well, it looks like the party’s over,” Jinny said with a sigh. “Your parents always dance out onto the patio and disappear.”
“Well, then,” Bernie said, bowing over his partner’s hand. “I’m going home to do some rewriting, and then submit my story electronically on Monday.” He gave her a wink. “Got to keep those deadlines, but you can bet your earrings I’ll be back next week.”
THE END
About the author:
Shirley Bahlmann is a prolific writer who’s confident that with all the different genres she writes, you’re bound to find something you like to read! She can be found at various points around the Internet. Just check her website for anything you want to know about her, and if it’s not there, just ask!
[email protected]
Have a good day, a happy day, a reading day!
About the author:
Shirley Bahlmann is a prolific writer who’s confident that with all the different genres she writes, you’re bound to find something you like to read! She can be found at various points around the Internet. Just check her website for anything you want to know about her, and if it’s not there, just ask!
Her blog is updated weekly. CLICK HERE TO READ!
Have a good day, a happy day, a reading day!
