Fer de Lance

8/6/2019 Fer de Lance

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fer de Lance

A crowd had begun to gather outside of Philip fer de Lances house.

Some held signs. Some held candles. Some held an imploring look. Some were

implacid. Some were crying. Some held babies. Most did not. All looked a little scared. All

looked a little confused.

Not many of them talked amongst themselves as they sat on the sidewalk, or in their cars

along the street, or paced up and down. None crossed into Philips yard, none walked through

the small gate that did not quite latch tight in the white picket fence he had a white picket

fence, some thought to themselves when they arrived, how could the house look that innocent?

that surrounded a front yard that was entirely unremarkable. Unremarkable except for the crowd

that had begun to gather and not talk amongst themselves.

The ones who had been there for a day, or a week, none longer than two weeks yet, had

haltingly compared notes on why they were there. Or, more accurately, how they knew to be

there, outside Philip fer de Lances house in a small suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska, on a side street

that did not even really need to exist, a small offshoot of two other side streets. And none were

sure why except they knew somehow they had to be there.

As the crowd had begun to gather they had seen signs of activity in the small Cape-Cod-

style house. This morning Philip had shut the drapes in the living room. He did not appear to

see the 15 or so people who were on the sidewalk and in cars in front of his house; he did not

shut the drapes against them but had appeared to do it because the sun was coming in.

And they had seen the light on in the upstairs window, the one on the left as you faced the

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house from the street (which they all did, most of the time) last night, until shortly after five

oclock. The light had gone on around 4:30 p.m., as the sun had begun going down. The house

faced east, and so the office would get almost no light in the afternoon, and as September passed

into October as it was now, the evenings were gloomy. So the light had gone on and they had

seen it go on and stay on until just after 5 oclock, at which time the light had gone off and they

had seen the kitchen light shine out of the side of the house onto the small side yard that led into

the back of the house. (They could only imagine the backyard. Shrubbery kept them from

seeing into it, but they could see the hickory tree that loomed over the house, three of them in

fact, the type of trees that are always dropping not just nuts but twigs and branches.)

The light on in the upper window past five oclock meant that Philip had worked a little

late, and those among the crowd who knew that felt, depending on why they were there, either a

small shudder, or a yearning to ask a favor.

Now, today, the crowd watched as the blinds were twisted open a little, to allow light to

get in from the midday sun, still bright enough that Philip could probably work without a lamp

for a while, as he settled down after his lunch to his desk. They could not see into the room the

blinds helped protect, Philips upstairs attic office.

Upstairs, in that attic office, Philip sat down to his afternoons work.

He pulled out his yellow legal pad, 8 by 13 inches, with the neatly-ruled lines and a few

slivers of paper near the top where hed torn off previous drafts. He pulled out a few pens and

laid them on his desk alongside the yellow paper, and turned on the small radio that sat on the

desk.

Philip was 67 years old and had followed this routine nearly every day for 24 years. Up

until a few months ago, he had followed this routine at his office a few miles away, and after his


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retirement he had followed it at home. His desk, an old one hed had brought home from the

office many years ago (with the permission of the editor-in-chief and publisher at the time, of

course) was one of the older, massive, wooden desks that used to populate offices, and it dwarfed

Philip. His chair was a wheeled, swivel, arm chair, likewise made of wood and without any

installed padding. He did not use padding; work was not supposed to be padded. The desk and

chair would not have looked out of place in a Superman comic issued in 1947, and were

probably made around that time and served as a model for the desks and chairs drawn in the

comics at that time (and since.)

In the drawers of the desk were the usual office supplies including some more modern

ones likepost-its but nothing too electronic or modern. There were ballpoint pens; Philip was not

so old-fashioned as to insist on fountain pens, not when getting one nowadays marked you not

just as eccentric but also cost quite a bit, too, and he had not liked fountain pens the first time

around and gladly jettisoned them when ballpoints came out. The drawers contained a ruler, and

a small office dictionary and thesaurus, and his files of both work-in-progress and completed

efforts.

On the desk itself were the radio (he did like to listen to music, quietly, while he worked),

a desk lamp, and a pen-and-pencil holder, as well as a desk-calendar/blotter. And, now his legal

pad for rough drafts, and his pens. Philip sat at the desk for a moment, sipped the cup of tea he

had made for the afternoon, and then bent forward.

At the top of the legal pad, Philip wrote in a neat hand a name: Jane Sylvia Ruthering.

He sat back and thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. He underlined it and sat

back again, sipping his tea. What had Jane been like he wondered, and closed his eyes, and

thought and sipped his tea as the crowd outside watched the blinds for a hint of what was going

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on.

Some of the crowd outside had newspapers, each day a few of them would go into town

and get some newspapers. Some of them had laptops, and would go to the coffee shops

downtown where the wireless internet had reached even Lincoln, and would search for

information to confirm why they were there. They mostly did not talk about it.

Inside, Philip opened his eyes and leaned forward. He picked up his pen and

wrote again: born 1947 died 2006. He went on: Jane Sylvia Ruthering passed away on

Tuesday after a short illness. Jane Sylvia was known as Jane or Janey to her friends. She was

born in East Cambridgeshire, England on September 12, 1947, to her parents Thomas and Edna

Ruthering. She lived in East Cambridgeshire until she was 21, when she moved to London and

took a job as a receptionist at a recording studio.

Philip dotted the i instudio and put the pen down again, massaging his hand. He sipped

at his tea, now just lukewarm, and re-read what he had written. He began thinking again. He put

his tea down and began writing. Jane married her husband, Daniel, at 23 after a short

engagement. She had two sons, here he thought for a moment, Stephen and David. She is

survived by her sons, her husband, and her grandchildren. Flowers may be sent to the East

Cambs Funeral Home. Visitation will be from ten to noon Thursday, with the service and burial

immediately thereafter.

Philip again put his pen down. His writing was deliberate and slow and the short

obituary had taken him the better part of an hour to write. He leaned back a little. He was not as

fast as he once was.

After a while, he turned his chair to the left and pulled the typewriter on its little cart over


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towards him. He inserted a piece of clean white paper into its reel and rolled it down. He put the

yellow legal pad up on a prop-stand next to him and put his glasses on, reading it over again.

The final typewritten product took him about forty-five more minutes, neatly typed after

several mistakes (and each time he made a mistake he started over, taking out the paper and

crumpling it up) in a one-inch column down the left side of the paper, left-justified. At the end,

Philip typed -30- and pulled the paper out carefully. He read it through one last time for typos

and grammatical errors, pondered for a few minutes whether he should add more detail but

decided against it.

He swiveled his chair again and opened the drawer down on his right side. There were a

series of hanging folders, each tabbed with a letter of the alphabet. He flipped through until he

got to R and then pulled that one out. He then put Ruthering, Jane Sylvia into that folder,

which contained no other documents yet. He tucked the R folder back into the desk drawer,

and looked with a muted satisfaction at the neatly-filed papers before closing the door.

He sat a moment longer until the song on the radio was finished, then clicked it off. At

least today I got a little break, he said, and got up to go downstairs and watch the afternoon

gardening show he usually missed.

The crowd continued to gather without being aware, really, that they were

gathering.

Throughout the afternoon, while Philip watched his gardening show, the people outside

the house milled and fretted and wasted time. They did not, yet, think of themselves as a crowd,

and none of them, if questioned, would have readily admitted why they were there.

Certainly not Tammy Hudson, previously a mother of two from upstate New York.

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Tammy sat in her Hyundai Elantra, parked in front of the neighbors house and watched Philips

window flicker, that night, as the television beamed its light to Philips eyes. She could see him,

through the drapes, sometimes, a small head unsteadily getting up once or twice, in shadow relief

against the drapes outlined in the blue-white glow a television emits no matter what show is on.

Every morning, Tammy moved her car to the opposite side of the street; this town had an

alternate-side parking rule in effect and she didnt want to get towed.

She didnt read the paper each day.

She didnt listen to the radio.

She didnt eat much. She had some groceries in the back of her car, things shed bought

three days ago just after shed first pulled up. When shed pulled up on the street shed known

that she was in the right place, and had gone to get some food and drink that wouldnt spoil. She

hadnt even pondered how long she might want to stay there, but shed known shed want to.

Shed come back and parked her car just up the street, where she could sit behind the wheel and

watch his house. That whole day shed sat there and watched his house, seen the telltale signs of

movement, the lights going on here or there, the lights going out finally. When the last light had

gone out, and when shed watched another half-hour and was convinced that Philip had gone to

sleep that night shed let herself sleep.

When shed woken the next day, there had been a few more cars there. And some people

whod walked up the street and slowed in front of Philips house and then turned around. They

were braver than she was, she knew. She didnt want Philip to notice her yet.

But she wanted to tell Philip why she was there.

She had in her pocket a crumpled piece of paper, a newsprint-smudgy remnant that shed


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clenched in her hand the entire drive from Buffalo to Nebraska. Shed clung to that paper the

entire time. She pulled it out each morning and read it.

Thomas Jon Hudson, age 5. Parents Tammy and

Steven. Thomas Jon was born in Buffalo, New York

on May 20, 200_ and passed away on Tuesday at

Niagara Hospital. Thomas Jon was preparing to

enter the first grade. He is survived also by his

sister Louisa Tamara. No memorial service will be

held. The family requests no flowers. Donations

may be sent to the Thomas Jon Fund, c/o 1stBank of

Buffalo.

She pulled that out each morning and read it and wondered why it had been written, and

how.

She tried not to read the other story that she carried with her. And she sat in her car and

waited, each day, watching to see if Philip would come outside and what she would do if he did.

And she kept her cellphone on the seat by her, plugged into the cigarette lighter and fully

charged at all times. She called nobody.

Now, today, the fourth day she was here, she looked around the street. There were

twenty-seven cars on the road, all parked on the same side, as hers was. None of them appeared

to belong to anyone who lived on this street, not the least because each of them had a person or

people in it, which was quiet and full of big trees and had sidewalks that were cracked and worn

and showed the signs of an aging suburb. The houses were post-World War II houses that,

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although kept up nicely on first glance also showed signs of aging: a number hanging upside

down on the door, a mailbox leaning a little, grass not trimmed around the fences. Most of the

people on this street were probably quite old, maybe all retired, all living in their houses and

trying to keep up and spending time waiting for their children to come and help out by mowing

the lawn or fixing the clothes dryer so it didnt take forever.

In addition to those cars, there were two groups of people sitting on the sidewalk outside of

Philips house. Not groups, maybe. Clusters? One was of four people, and none of them

appeared to know the others and they did not talk. The other was of three people and they did

seem related, a husband and wife and a mother-in-law, maybe.

One was of three girls, each about college age. They held the signs. The cluster of had

the two with candles.

Those people sat there. Others would come up, hang around outside the house for a few

minutes, and then go, or sit further up the street. Sometimes the car people would get out and

look at the house.

Tammy turned her car back off and pulled out a can of soda, warm from sitting in the

backseat. She sipped at it carefully, watching Philips door. It was her fourth day of watching,

and she was not out of food yet.

Inside, unaware that it was Tammys fourth day, Philip awoke.

He got up, and got out of bed. He scratched his armpit under his long nightshirt and

slipped his feet into brown slippers that were cracked and old. He pulled on a bathrobe and

shuffled to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and stared at his face in the mirror for a


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while.

Another big day, Phil, he told his reflection. It was what hed said every day to his

reflection for as long as he could remember. He paused for a second before leaving, and tried a

smile at himself. It was maybe too early for that.

He went downstairs and into the kitchen, where he pulled the towel off of the birdcage

that sat on a pedestal next to the sink. Good morning, Charlie, he said, and peered into the

cage. Pretty boy. Pretty boy? He was supposed to say that to the bird as much as possible.

The pet store man had said that was how you taught them to talk. He also said this every

morning to Charlie:

Another big day, Charlie. The bird chirped and Philip reached inside to pull out the

seed cage. He busied himself with feeding Charlie and cleaning the cage, as he did everyday,

taking his time over it because he had plenty of time. Then he prepared his own breakfast, and

turned on the radio to the talk radio station he listened to. He sat at the table, listening to the

morning news while he ate oatmeal and watched Charlie hop around.

He lingered over breakfast but finally had no choice but to admit it was over. What

should we do today, Charlie? he asked his friend, and got a chirp, to which he responded

Pretty boy. The pet store guy had said most birds could say that. Philip washed up the bowl

and his glass and set them on the towel on the side of the sink to dry.

He spent another hour of the morning showering, and shaving, and getting out his

clothes, and getting dressed in a white button-up shirt and black pants, and his socks and shoes,

the outfit he always wore to work. Because it was Friday, he wore one of his funny ties.

When hed talked to the retirement counselor at the VA, the counselor had suggested

varying his routines. Youre retired now, Phil, hed said. Philip wished he would not be called

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Phil. You should take advantage of that. Break out of the old routines. Do some gardening.

Maybe take a trip. Do you have some family or friends somewhere you could visit?

He didnt. He hadnt had family to visit in at least ten years, but he didnt tell the

retirement counselor that. He didnt listen to the rest of the suggestions, either. Philip fer de

Lance had gone to work every day for 50 years, and had spent the last forty of those at the

obituary desk. He knew how to do that, and so he did that.

And so he did that today, again, walking up the stairs to his desk in the upstairs office,

where he went through the ritual again: legal pad, pens, radio, thinking, writing, listening to the

radio, writing more, typing, and filing.

He wrote this:

Anessa Eva Wedford, 200_-200_. Anessa Eva was the daughter of James and

Ella Wedford, both of Portland. Anessa was born with a congenital heart defect

and passed on after an unsuccessful surgical intervention. Memorial services

will be held at the St. Thomas Church Monday afternoon.

It always made Philip sad to write about the babies, and this one took him longer than

usual. He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief which he carefully folded and tucked into his

suitcoat pocket then, and filed the manila folder away.

He began down the stairs and thought he should perhaps get in a little gardening this

afternoon. It did not occur to him that it was unusual for him to be writing obituaries for people

in Oregon, or England, or New York. He just did his job, and when it was done, as it was now,

he changed out of his work clothes and into an older outfit, never shorts and never jeans, jeans

were for factory workers, and an older shirt not a t-shirt and always with a collarand pulled


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out his work gloves from the cabinet under the sink.

He stopped a moment, pulling on the gloves, and looked into Charlies cage. Pretty

boy? he asked. Pretty boy have a big day? He glanced at the clock. Little later than usual,

right? Pretty boy? Charlie? Charlie edged closer on his perch to the old man, eyeing him from

one side of his beak, then the other. He chirped, but did not talk. One of these days, I bet,

Philip said, and went out the side door of his house.

A slight shudder went through the collected people out front of his house

when they heard the door open.

Tammy sat up a little straighter when she heard the murmur. Crowds, or small groups,

have their own language: buzzes, murmurs, a tensing, a loosening, they become something

organic and organized whenever people gather together for a reason, and just like flexing a

muscle in your back causes a reaction in the rest of your body, one member of a crowd doing

something causes all the others to react. So Tammy noticed that the side door opened, but there

was a lilac bush on the side of the house and she could not see who (what? No, who, she was

sure) came out. She looked and saw the door close and watched but whoever came out (Philip

fer de Lance had come out, she knew but her mind was not, about this adventure, going to make

things simple or accept them at face value, since accepting things at face value meant that she

would not even be here, so her mind had to complicate things and think that maybe there was

something other than an old man living in a small house in Nebraska who was responsible for all

this, because the actual truth made no sense, right?) whoever came out had gone around the side

of the house into the backyard.

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Tammy got out of her car. She opened the door and stood up and stretched her back and

her legs and felt muscles which were used to the carseat position rearrange themselves slowly,

flowing like pudding. She shut the car door quietly but not quietly enough for the others around

to fail to notice.

The husband-wife-mother in law group was nearest her, and the husband and wife turned

towards her. She met their eyes, each in turn, and nobody said anything. Nobody ever said

anything to anyone out here. They could not talk, yet about why they were out here.

Tammy remembered Godzilla movies. She was just in between the ages of people who

would remember them well, would remember them because they saw the originals (for people

older than Tammy) or would remember them because they had made fun of them in newer

movies (for people older than Tammy) but shed watched a Godzilla movie, once, the one that

had been in theaters in her lifetime, and had wondered, as she watched it, how people could have

reacted in real life to that. Here and there, in crowd scenes, there would be an extra who would

see this giant lizard walking through a city, New York she thought, and that person would look

around at the others onscreen but would not say anything. That extra would not point, or shout,

or scream, or duck, or do anything, but would just stare. Tammy thought that was how you had

to react to Godzilla, because Godzilla could not happen, and so if Godzilla did happen, it was

best to not let others know that you saw it because you might not be sane. What did they do, in

real life, to people who said Theres a giant lizard terrorizing New York!, after all? They

locked them up, because giant lizards do not terrorize New York in real life.

And in real life people do not gather outside Philip fer de Lances small house. And if

they do, they do not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or scream. They just stand and stare because


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nobody wants to be the first to admit that things have gone awry.

So Tammy did not talk to the husband and wife, and mother-in-law, and they did not talk

to her, and nobody around intruded on the little tableau as Tammy stood there. Her opening her

car door alone was excitement enough. First Philips door opened, then Tammys. Not that

anyone there knew Tammys name, but they all knew Philips. Or she assumed they did. She

knew it, and she was there. They were there, so they must know it.

She looked away from husband, wife, mother-in-law. She looked towards the side door

that had opened and closed. She looked at the lilac bush that had blocked her view, saw that it

would have blocked the little trios view, also, and looked at the treetops over Philips small

house. She looked at the neighbors house, as the sun began to set. No lights on, and nobody

had come home today or left this morning or the day before. Maybe nobody lived there, or

maybe they were away.

She looked again at the top of the side door, again at the treetops, as though they could

tell her something. In her hands, she held the two newspapers. She had come here for a reason,

and now that she was here she did not want to admit that reason.

Nobody home at the neighbors, right? So she stepped around her car, and onto the

sidewalk, and walked over to sidewalk in front of Philips house, paused at the little gate that led

through the picket fence. All eyes were on her. As she stood there, all eyes stared at her,

wondering what she was going to do.

She paced back along the fence, in front of husband and wife and mother-in-law, and

stopped at the edge of the fence, where it served as a border between Philips yard and the absent

neighbors yard. She stood there for a few minutes. There was no wind.

She had come here for a reason even if she did not want to think about that reason. She

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needed to see a monster. She stepped onto the neighbors grass. The crowd tightened up a little

bit, the crowd-equivalent of the hair on the back of your neck standing up. She walked slowly

across the grass, barefoot, under the tree spreading across the yard, alongside the white fence.

Her hand trailed along the fence but did not touch it, floating above it, leveled and fingers

extended and slightly spread apart. She leaned slightly forward, peering along the fence and the

lilac bushes that began at the edge of the house and overpowered the fence which continued

along to Philips backyard.

She walked up to the first bush. She was almost even with the neighbors house and

ordinarily would have shot a glance at the picture window, hoping that nobody was inside to

come out and yell at her, but she did not do that right now. Her entire attention was focused on

Philips backyard, on listening for sounds. She took another few hesitant steps, and was past the

front edge of the neighbors house, was now in between the two houses and next to the beginning

of the lilac bushes. From the road, they were an impenetrable barrier. Up close, they were

sparser, with gaps and holes to see through.

Her other hand now, too, was spread-eagled out. The left had pulled back a little, was

still reaching out as though to caress the fence. The other, now, stretched to her right, fingers

splayed, and she put one foot in front of the other, carefully, standing more upright but knees

bent.

To those at the road, watching, rapt, she appeared to be on a tightrope or balance beam.

Tammy took three more steps and heard a small chunking sound. She stopped. She held

her breath. Her head bobbed a little as she tried to see through the cracks. She had driven all

those miles, had driven across the country, had driven through the Great Plains, too see this, and

she held her breath and stood in her tracks.


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She saw Philip, kneeling down on an old cloth, wearing a pair of khaki work pants that

were somewhat threadbare. He had a white button-up shirt on with the collar undone and the

sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had black socks on and a pair of loafers. The chunking

sound was of a hand-claw, a small garden tool, that Philip thrust into the dirt between two rose

bushes, pulling at small tufts of grass and weeds that were growing there.

Tammy did not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or scream. She just stood and stared.

Philip continued working for some time, and then backed up a little. He had a small pail

with him and he was putting the weeds into the pail. When he backed up, he stood up creakily.

He picked up the pail and walked slowly back to the separate garage behind the house. He

emptied the pail into a garbage can and put the tools into it. He went into the garage.

Tammy still stood and stared.

Philip came out of the garage and locked the door behind him. He brushed off his gloves

and took them off as he walked towards the side door. Tammy could not move. But Philip

walked right by her, never looked her way, and she was not moving or breathing, so he would

have heard nothing anyway. He made his way up the stairs, three of them, and opened the screen

door. There was a groan from the metal spring that kept it from slamming shut, and Philip went

inside as Tammy watched, and Philip stood there as Tammy saw him, piecemeal through the

gaps in the bushes, and Philip watched as the door slowly slid closed. Tammy heard him lock it,

a slight click!, but did not see that. The inside wooden door was then closed, and she heard a

chain slide.

She still stood and stared.

The kitchen window was open. Through the window she heard a low voice, then a chirp,

then a low voice, and then, in a chirpy singsong: Another big day.

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Tammy finally ran back to her car.

On Saturday, two things happened almost at the same time.

Nobody had come and talked to Tammy when shed run back to her car and gotten

inside and locked the door. Theyd stared at her for a while, then had gone back to staring at

Philips window.

Overnight, the crowd had grown. By the time the sun rose on Philips house on Saturday

morning, there were 20 new people. About ten of the new ones were sitting on the lawn or were

pacing. Two were in a new car on the side of the street. Then there were four each by

themselves in their own cars. They had all traveled different distances to be there, judging by the

license plates on the cars and in one case the sweatshirt a young man was wearing.

One more would arrive a little later in the day. He would arrive too late for the early

morning excitement, excitement being a relative word.

At 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, the front door to Philips house opened. He came

outside dressed in his Saturday clothes.

Hed woken up early today, excited by the prospect of a new development and a

weekend. The new development was that Charlie had learned to talk, and that alone had him

ready to hop out of bed. He wondered if maybe it was that he did not get many conversations

these days, and the voices on the TV were not realvoices, they were broadcast voices. That

might be, he thought, but he didnt spend a lot of time pondering it because he wanted to

celebrate and that meant getting an early start. Charlie deserved a treat for his first trick, and

Philip would have to do that before grocery shopping, hed have to go to PetCo and get a treat, or

a few toys. He could pamper Charlie.

He went downstairs and before beginning preparations for breakfast, stood outside


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Charlies cage a moment, its towel hanging over it. Charlies day had not begun, did not begin

until Philip pulled the towel off, just as it did not end until Philip put the cover back on each

night. Philip stood there a second, and slowly crossed his bony fingers. Then with his other

hand he pulled the towel off, trying to do it with his usual flourish but too nervous to do that.

Charlies head perked up and Philip looked at him. There was a silence. Philip crossed

his fingers tighter.

Another big day Charlie chirped, and Philip almost fainted, realized hed been holding his

breath. Good boy, pretty boy, another big day, another big day, he kept saying, over and over,

unable to stop smiling. He gave Charlie food, fresh water, kept saying over and over another

big day, and pretty boy, and Charlie treated him to the phrase twice more as he ate breakfast:

another big day.

It is, indeed, he said, and he began to think what type of surprise to get Charlie. He

pondered that happy question while bathing and shaving and getting dressed in his weekend

outfit, an ensemble that looked like his gardening outfit without the ground-in dirt and grass

stains.

Dressed, armed with his list, and having heard Charlie chirp another big day once more,

Philip went out the front door of his house and blinked in the sunlight.

A cluster of eyes locked on him and he paused.

There were people just outside his picket fence. There were cars up and down the street.

All of the people looking at him.

These people over here, this little group of a man and a woman and an older woman, they

stared at him, they actually leaned towards him. They did not say anything.

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Philip only used the front door on the weekends. He tried to think back to last week.

Had they been there? His memory strained. Maybe someone, but not that little group of three.

What did they all want? Nobody was saying anything.

Inside, he heard chirping, and remembered Charlies surprise today. He took a few steps

forward. He kept a watchful eye on the people as he came off the porch. They all just stood and

stared.

Two on the right held candles, shielded from the breezes by plastic cups. They wore

clean white polo shirts and khaki pants and while he watched they crossed themselves and their

lips began moving. Praying, he realized. Praying at him. Why?

The group of three just sat. As he looked back at them the older woman shrank back a bit

and leaned into the younger woman whom she resembled. He looked away from the look in her

eyes, which he did not recognize. He looked ahead of him, where a small group of people stood.

They were not necessarily together, he realized, although they were a group. They had not come

together, maybe, but were here together.

Philip was afraid. He could hear Charlie chirping and if not for the need to get Charlies

surprise would have turned around to go back inside and call the police. But he could not miss

the bus. The bus left in 10 minutes and that was what it took to get him to the end of the street.

He walked forward again and looked down at the ground instead of at the people.

Nobody was doing or saying anything. Maybe they werent here for him, he tried to convince

himself, but he knew they were.

At the gate, he put his hand on the latch and stopped. He didnt want to open that gate.

The people, as they saw his hand tense, tensed themselves. His hand clenched, and they


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clenched, and his hand loosened and they loosened.

There were signs. Placards. He remembered the protests hed seen, and the placards

those people had held. Those were larger groups, theyd had chants, there had been a reason

theyd been there. Why were these people here?

He looked to his left, saw a woman sitting in a car, her fingers on the steering wheel.

Under her fingers were folded, crumply pieces of paper. He looked to his right. The praying

duo were there, and clusters of people. He unlatched the gate. He swung it open.

The people stood there, looking at him. They did not point, or run, or shout, or duck, or

scream. They just stood and stared. He moved out into them. He kept his head down. He put

his hand to his chest pocket where his grocery list was. He moved as quickly as he was able to

move through the crowd and around them and breathed a sigh as he got past the edge of his yard,

where they were the thickest. The people behind him, he knew, were turning to watch him go.

He heard their feet shuffling, the sussuration of the simultaneous movement of groups, but he did

not look back.

He walked up the street, keeping his feet moving. The people did not follow him, but

they did not stop watching him as he stood at the bus stop. He watched them out of the corner of

his eye and they watched him back. They did not approach but they did not leave.

The bus came, and he got on and sat down in the sideways-facing seats for the elderly,

showing his monthly pass to the driver, the same driver that was on the bus every Saturday, and

Philip leaned back and felt thankful for the return of the routine. He glanced at the people in

front of his house, but grew scared again, and when the bus turned the corner he lost himself in

the familiar route he took every Saturday, watching the drivers expressions, the ones he made

every Saturday, and the traffic that was more or less the same every Saturday. He hoped the

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crowd would be gone when he got back and that he would not have to deal with them.

Back at Philips house, a cab pulled up and an angry-looking man got out. It

was not, Tammy thought as she looked at him, that common that people actually looked angry.

What shed previously thought were mad or upset looks on peoples faces paled in comparison to

this mans face. The cab had pulled up not long after Philip had left, turning the corner just after

the bus had pulled away, in fact, and Tammy had seen them both. Shed noted the cab because

they were not common in this little subdivision. The cab slowed as it approached and stopped in

front of the house. The back door on the drivers side, facing Philips house, swung open hard

enough to rebound back and the man got out. He paused as the door moved lightly into him and

pushed it back more, and began walking across the street.

Hey, yelled the cabdriver, and the man stopped. He did not take his eyes off of Philips

house, but he stopped. The fares fifty-three dollars, the cab driver said. Tammy wondered if

that was a lot. It seemed like a lot. She looked at her small change purse sitting among the

crumpled plastic bags and coffee cups that were the containers her food had come in lately. She

only had about twenty dollars left and had no idea what shed do when that ran out. Fifty-three

dollars just for a drive to this house seemed like an awful expense.

Tammy did not think that she would be concerned about money for very much longer.

Not given what she planned to ask for.

The man backed up, but stayed staring at the house. He pulled out his wallet and glanced

through it. The cab driver held out his hand and the man finally had to look down as he fumbled

around with money, seeming confused for a moment. The reason for that became obvious when


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he spoke.

Sorry, mate. Dont know your money. He had an English accent, Tammy heard. He

handed a few bills and looked at the cabdriver. sat enough? he asked. The cabdriver looked

at them, at him, and then pulled out one of the bills. Tammy could not make out what it was.

Gave me too much. Ill keep a little for a tip, but thiss too much. Cant take advantage

of you, can I? Not with what youve been through. The man took the bill and stuffed it into his

coat pocket carelessly, having turned his attention back to the house. The cabdriver watched his

gaze, then looked from the man to the house to the man. Sure hope youre wrong, he said,

and drove off.

The man stood in the road for a few second, and then without glancing around marched

up between the people on the sidewalk and to the picket fence. He pushed on the gate, staring at

the front door, and only took his eyes off the door when he had to look down and figure out how

to open the gate, which he did quickly. He strode forward again and up to the door and peered in

through the small square windows scattered across the solid door. He put his face right up

against the screen door, and Tammy could see it pushed in from his nose.

The man looked to his right, saw the doorbell button and pushed it several times.

Without waiting, he then began to knock on the glass above the screen in the outer door. Then

he opened his hand and slapped the glass harder, one, two, three times.

Ey! You! Out here! he yelled. He continued slapping the door and yelling for the

occupant to come out.

Hes gone, someone from the sidewalk said, quietly during a pause for breath. The

man stopped, hand in mid-air. He turned around, looking at the people gathered around the

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house and then to the cars with people in them and it looked to Tammy like hed actually not

noticed them before that moment. He stared at them all.

What do you mean, hes gone? he asked. His accent was not heavy at all, but it gave

his voice a strange quality, like the man did not belong here. We all shouldnt be here, Tammy

thought to herself. Hes died?

He left this morning. He went out.

Out? Out? This bloody this hes gone out?

The speaker, the mother in the group of three, just nodded, pulling back within herself.

The man looked around.

And you all saw him go?

A few others nodded. Most just watched.

And nobody stopped him?

At that, the people gathered round reacted in one of several ways. A few looked at those

near them, those people being mostly those who had come with someone else. Some, like

Tammy, looked down, suddenly finding interest in their own shirts or shoes. Others looked off

into the distance.

Whered he go? The man still stood on the stairs, elevated above them. He had the

podium, as it were. Nobody answered. Do you know? Nobody answered again. Tammy had

not been there long enough to know where Philip might have gone. She wondered if the people

that had been here before her knew.

The man turned back to the door, looked in through it. He revolved around, took in the

crowd again, and then took a step down off the porch, contemplating the house. He walked over

to the large front picture window, stood up against it and peered in, shading his eyes. When he


23/34

stepped away, Tammy could see the outline of a smudge where hed breathed on the glass. The

crowd felt to her like it was holding its breath, more in suspense than when shed gone to look at

Philip in the backyard. She kept glancing from the man to the street, to see if Philip would come

walking back and see the man. She wondered what he would do.

The man then walked over to the other side of the house. He turned the corner and she

watched as he went to the side door, or so she imagined because she lost sight of him for a

second. Just as she wondered if hed go into the backyard the man came walking back out. He

walked to the front porch again and then turned to face the assemblage again. He did not talk,

though. He looked at them. He looked at the candles, the signs, the faces, and then walked

down the path. He still looked angry. His jacket looked bulky. Tammy wondered if he was

armed. He looked angry enough to be armed.

He let himself back out through the picket fence but did not bother trying to latch the

gate. He walked up to the college-aged girls with the signs. He did not talk to them right away,

and they did not talk to him. He took the sign in his hands and held it up to them.

Stop The Killing, he said. He put a question mark on the end of his comment, one that

was not on the sign. You really think he can do that? The girls just looked at him. He stepped

back and looked at the other two signs: No more death. Celebrate life. The last one he snorted

at. The girls looked offended but scared to say anything. The man turned around, looked at the

small family group.

What bout you? You here to try to stop him, too? They shook their heads.

We want to ask him a question, the older woman said, after a moment. The man

cocked his head at her. She went on: I want to know if Im going to go into remission again.

The man just looked at her. Or if this time it will kill me, the woman said. The man was about

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to say something, it seemed, but he turned away. Then he paused and turned back and looked at

the woman.

Howd you find out? he asked her sharply.

The woman bit her lip and answered quietly. There was a man who comes in for chemo

the same time as me. His wife told me. The younger woman by her touched her hand. The

older woman was crying. His wife told me, she repeated I dont know how she knew.

Was. The man said. So thats how. The woman nodded. The man lost a little steam,

then, looked as though he was thinking. His mouth pursed and he looked around and he turned

back to the house. Ive come to kill him, he said.

Tammy sucked in her breath.

The man heard and looked at her. She sat there, in her car, hands on the steering wheel,

and met his gaze. Under her left hand was the obituary, under her right was the other article.

The man looked hard at her, and walked over, stood in front of the car. Met her eyes. Then he

turned around again and walked away. Tammy breathed out.

So whatre you all doing here, then, just sitting? Just doing nothing? Just watching him

come out and go off to the movies or to get a burger, and you dont stop him? Nobody stops

him? Nobody said anything. Nobody in the cars rolled up their windows, either. Nobody

walked away. They looked at the man, and looked at Philips house, and looked down at their

hands or their steering wheels. But nobody answered him. You all know what the hell hes

doing in there, right? Thats why youre all here, isnt it? Because he did it to you well not to

you but to someone you knew.

The man was stalking from group to group and getting louder and more excitable.


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To someone you knew, maybe someone you loved and didnt want to go. Maybe to

someone like your mum, who has the flu, the fucking flu, just a bug that everyone gets in the

world and they throw up once or twice and then they take some pills and theyre fine, only your

mum this time she wasnt fine, was she? He had passed back over the little group a few times

and was standing at the picket fence, back to the crowd now, hands clenched on the fence the

way that Tammy gripped her steering wheel. She saw his hands clench as he said again This

time she wasnt fine after the pills, no she wasnt.

And as he started crying looking down at the fence Tammy abruptly got out of the car

and moved up to him. His shoulders shook as he cried quietly, the way large men do, his chest

heaving up and up and up and then down all at once into his belly, and repeating that. And

when she doesnt get better she says Maybe Ill go see the doctor tomorrow, Stewart, and before

she can she dies.

Tammy hugged him from behind, still clutching her papers. He wouldnt let go of the

fence. She hugged her head into his back, thinking that he did not remind her at all of her ex-

husband. She hugged him so tightly she barely heard him say And when you watch her die,

suddenly you see this fucking house in your mindand you know.

He pulled away abruptly and looked down at her. You know. He said again. She

nodded. He backed away from her.

I know, she said. He looked at her. She stared back. The rest of the crowd, the rest of

the people, did not say anything but they had all moved a little closer, drawn to the man, maybe.

What happened with you? the man, Stewart, she guessed, asked.

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Tammy looked down at the article and the obituary. She shook her head. She just stared

at her fists. Her lip quivered and she dropped her head lower, closed her eyes against the tears.

After a moment, even though she knew she could not cry anymore, she kept her eyes closed.

Her chest sunk in and her hands shook and her nose sniffled, but there were no tears left. She

stood there shaking her head slowly back and forth, felt the man pry out the obituary. He read it,

quietly, but loud enough that she could hear the words, the words she saw constantly and could

recite by memory. No memorial service will be held.

The man looked at her. He did that? She nodded. A kid? A little boy? She nodded

again. She kept her eyes closed. In a moment, she felt him take her other hand. She kept it

balled tightly into a fist. The man held her hand. He didnt pry. He just held his large hand

around her small one, gently, cupping it. Finally, she opened her hand. She could feel others

around her, a little closer. The man read again, and this time his voice trailed off near the end

but she still knew this one by heart, too.

Police seek area man and daughter. Buffalo police issued an Amber Alert late

last night for Molly Hudson, age 3, and her father, Steven Hudson, age 33.

Hudson is described as stocky, 55, with shaggy black hair, a beard and a tattoo

of a parrot on his right forearm. Hudson is believed to have fled after assaulting

his ex-wife in her home two days after their divorce was finalized. An arrest

warrant has been issued for him on charges of first degree murder.

Police found Hudsons son Thomas at the house after they were called

The mans voice trailed off as Tammy found her tears. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

Christ, Stewart said. He did all that and she took the stories back from him, clenched

them in her hands. So whatre you going to do to him? Stewart asked her. You must want to


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kill him.

Tammy looked up in surprise. She sniffled and spoke through a mouth that was clammy.

That story was written more than a week ago. Ive had my cellphone with me the whole time.

Stewart just stared at her. She had to finish the thought. Im not going to do anything to him,

she waved one hand, the one with the newspaper article, at Philips house. I want him to do

something for me. I want him to kill my ex-husband.

Stewart seemed a little taken aback at that. You want to use him?

Its been over a week. Nobodys heard nothing. Ive heard nothing. I know what

happened to Tommy Jon. And I know what happened to Molly she paused. And Ill know

what happens to that bastard, too. She said that last quietly.

There was silence. They all stared at her. Nobody moved until there was the sound of a

shuffling footstep behind them. When Tammy looked up, Stewart stepped back and Philip was

standing there.

Philip was carrying a small paper bag, with handles, in one hand, and a

plastic bag in the other.

Tammy could see some celery sticking out of the paper bag, and in the plastic bag she

saw round shapes, little play-balls. When Philip took another step there was a tiny, tinkling

sound from the bag. As the crowd turned towards him, Philip pulled the paper bag up to his

chest, protecting himself with it. No, Tammy thoughtprotecting the bag.

They stood like that for what seemed an absurdly long time, Philip just to one side of the

gate, clutching his plastic bag of pet toys to his chest. Tammy and Stewart in front of a semi-

circle of people all staring at him. Philip just kept looking from one to the other. Finally, he

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moved. He edged towards his gate, put one bony old hand onto the latch.

Stewart roused himself. None of that, then, he said. Youre not going anywhere.

Philip looked at him, and said in a soft voice I dont think all of you should be here.

All of us? Why do you think were here?

Philip looked at them, at each of them that he could see, and then back to Stewart. I

honestly dont know.

You say you fucking dont know? Stewart yelled, suddenly. You dont fucking

know? He was hollering, and advanced a step towards Philip, who took a step back and put the

plastic bag behind him. He dropped his grocery bag, too, and Tammy heard a clank that sounded

like glass.

She hoped, for some reason, that nothing had broken. Maybe it was the way Philip stood,

or the way Stewart seemed to loom over him. Maybe it was just that shed been crying. Or that

she neededPhilip. Maybe more than anyone here. She said Stop.

Stewart looked at her.

I will not, and I wont let you talk to him.

You cant stop me from talking to him, she said. Dont you try, she added.

Youve certainly done a right job of it so far, he said, sitting here for a week. And its

wrong what hes doing, there was a squeak and Stewart whirled around, grabbed Philips hand

on the latch that had squeaked and Stewart hissed Dont try to get away,

Philip tried to puff himself up then, and pulled at his hand, which Stewart kept clamped

tightly to the gate. Philip tried, though, Tammy could see, to be tough, and said in a louder

voice, Let go of me or Ill call the police. He very obviously had to pause to think what it

was one does when a stranger in a crowd wont allow you to let go of your gate. What are you


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all doing here?

Doing here? What are we all doing here? You know perfectly well what were doing

here, old man. Were all here because you because you Stewart faltered.

Tammy knew why. Tammy knew hed faltered for the same reason nobody had talked

earlier. The same reason theyd all avoided contact with each other up until now. The same

reason Stewart had veered away from it in his rant earlier.

Because you are killing people with your work, she said, calmly. Stewart turned to her.

They all did. They were surprised. They were surprised that someone would actually cross that

line, say what they were all thinking, because (Tammy felt and knew they felt) saying it out loud

meant that your old life, your old world, was gone, and you were now part of something new,

something horrible. Part of a world where a man could write some words and kill people. Or

part of a world where you were crazy and did not even know it. But how much worse could her

life get, she thought? Maybe Im the only one crazy enough to have said that, but I dont care,

she told herself. Maybe that makes it real or horrible, but I dont care. She looked straight at

Philip.

You write things down and the people die. We all know it.

Philip looked around at them, shook his head. Youre all wrong, youve got it

backwards. People die and I write about them. I write obituaries. Thats what I do. He smiled

at her, encouragingly. Whoever youve lost, Im sorry, but I dont cause that. I just report it.

Im a reporter.

No, youre not, Tammy said. You make it happen.

Philip opened his eyes wider. Young lady, but Tammy thrust her hand forward. She

held out the articles for him. You wrote one of these, she said. You wrote one of these and it

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appeared in my newspaper, but you live here, you live thousands of miles away. You live

thousands of miles away here, and that didnt stop you from doing it! It didnt stop you from

doing what you did, from saying what you said!

Do you know what you did? She grew louder, and her mouth opened wider. She

continued to shake the newspaper articles at Philip, who did not shrink back but stared at her.

Do you know how my son died? Do you?

I dont, Philip said, but Tammy didnt hear him because she was screaming. Shed

pulled the articles back, clutched them in her hands as her hands pushed at her cheeks, pressing

in on her face as though to try to stop the words from coming out.

He died when he walked into the room where my fuck of an ex-husband was beating me

up, hed come in and he was drunk and had walked into the house and I should have fucking

changed the locks but I never had any money to do that and he was beating me up and the kids

heard Tammy was not even stopping for breath now and poured ahead and Tommy Jon came

in and I was on the ground, and Steve was going to step on my neck, he had those great big work

boots on that always smelled like oil and he was going to put it on my neck and kill me and

Tommy Jon rushed forwards and Steve turned and he kicked him! He kicked him, he kicked

him, he kicked him across the room and I heard his neck break it just snapped and then Steve

kicked me and I was knocked out.

She gasped, and collapsed onto her knees, articles folded in her hands, and pressing her

hands into her stomach.

I woke up and Tommy Jon was dead on the floor and people were putting me on a

stretcher and Molly was gone. She was gone and all I hear now is the clicking of Tommy Jons

neck. And they cant find her, they havent found her and I know they wont.


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The husband, there with the mother and law, bent down and touched her shoulder.

Theyll find her, he said.

Tammy laughed. It was so incongruous, so startling, so frightening, that the crowd and

even Philip stepped back a pace. It was not a laugh of happiness. It was the wail of a hyena that

is lost in the woods.

They wont find her. Its been two weeks. It was too late by the time I could get out of

the hospital. I couldnt find him and they cant find him and they wont find Molly. But I had

one thing I could do. I had one thing I could do, she looked towards Philip Because I knew

what all these people know, and what all the people know who will come here the longer you do

this. I dont know how you do it or what you do or why but I know you can do it and I came

here to have you do it one more time at least. I dont give a fuck about stopping war or saving

lives or anything else. I cant even close my eyes without seeing Tommy Jon fly across that

room.

Philip looked around at the crowd. He looked back at Tammy, who had reached out a

hand and now clutched Philips pants just above the knees.

Youve got to do this for me. Ill pay you whatever I can, Ill do whatever you want.

Philip looked down at her hand. I dont know what it is you want me to do.

Tammy looked him in the eye. Dont play dumb with me. Ive been waiting and

waiting, and Ive been watching these other people and watching you. I want you to write

Stevens obituary. I want you to kill him.

Now Philips eyes grew wide. Thats not I cant you dont mean to suggest.

You know what you do! You know what it is that you do, Tammy said, and pulled at

his legs. You have to know. Nobody comes into your room, nobody calls you, nobody gives

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you assignments. What do you think, each day, when you go up to that roomyes, we see you

and you write these things she waved Tommy Jons obituary again What do you think youre

doing? Where do you think you come up with these things? Youre doing it!

Philip took the obituary from her, unfurled it, smoothed it, and squinted at it. He clutched

at his small bags more tensely as he did.

Im not doing anything, he said.

Yes, you are! Its you! None of these things would happen if you didnt write about

them. None of these things would occur, Tommy Jon would still be alive if you hadnt written

this! You write them before they happen!

Philip stood there looking at her, blinking. Thats preposterous, he said, finally.

Just please, you know you do this, just please, write one about Steven, Tammy begged.

Philip backed up a step. Tammy clung to him and he shook his leg. Please, do that. Hes

killed my baby boy and hes killed my girl and why should he go on living?

Philip finally shook her hand off and stepped back to the gate, sidestepping Stewart, who

simply looked at Tammy as Tammy implored Philip, repeating why should he go on living.

Philip slowly slipped the gate open and began to back into it, and said to Tammy,

It doesnt work that way. I dont do these things you think I do. I dont.

You DO! Why wont you just but Tammy broke off and lunged at him, clawing at

Philips shirt, and now she was the one that was angry, and Stewart had to pull her off and the

others stood and watched and Philip flailed at her and swung his arms and slammed the gate

shut, a small trickle of blood appearing on his cheek as he backed slowly up the path.

Tammy was smothered in Stewarts arms, lifted off the ground, kicking and screaming


33/34

and shouting, and after a series of obscenities in the midst of her sobs she could finally be

understood, saying Dont know why you wont do it, dont know why, you can take a little

fucking boy and a little girl and you can kill them but you wont even think about getting rid of

the one who should be dead and the people around heard a door slam and Philip was back

inside his house.

Tammy went on like that for a while until she wore out and Stewart set her down, where

she crumpled on the ground. Her hand loosened on the other article and it began to slowly blow

away down the road in the intermittent breeze. The obituary was gone.

Tammy sat up, after a long time, and wiped her tears. The rest of the crowd had pulled

back but they all looked at her, some straight on, some sideways. She stared at the house.

Feeling better? Asked Stewart. She shook her head.

You sure gave him hell, Stewart told her.

Im not done. Im going to get him. Im going to make him do what I want, or Ill kill

him.

I wouldnt try anything, Stewart said.

Why? Tammy asked, but before Stewart answered, they were startled by the light in

Philips attic office coming on. They stared at it for a second; everyone outside the house stared

at it. They saw the curtain move slightly, and some thought maybe they could actually see Philip

fer de Lance peer out.

Stewart, after shaking his head, looked at Tammy. I wouldnt try anything more

because now he knowsyourname.

The light stayed on. Philip was working.

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Briane F. Pagel, Jr. 3011 Elm Lane, Middleton, WI 53562. (608) 831-8220

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