Buying time, Fields pointed at a series of wooden roundels on the wall. “What do the words on the blue one mean?” He wished Nygaard would leave him alone; he felt one more bite would make him break out in soft, white scales. If only the man weren’t so big. The worst part was that Nygaard thought he was being nice. If this was nice, God save him from whatever Nygaard considered justice — much less the vengeance he was so hopped up on.
Mrs. Draxten looked at the roundels on the wall. “ ‘Smuler er ogsaa brod,’ ” she said, and paused to translate in her head. “That means, ‘Crumbs are also bread.’ ”
Fields frowned at her. “Does it have some other kind of meaning?”
She turned back to him. “It means what it says, Mr. Fields.”
“Well, it seems a trifle obvi—” He broke off and rolled a nervous eye at Nygaard. “I mean, that doesn’t seem to be, er, very significant, considering all the work someone did to hang it up there.” The lettering was fancy, and the roundel was decorated with white and yellow flowers.
She was looking puzzled at his obtuseness. “It means, when we pray for our daily bread, we should be thankful even if all we get is crumbs, Mr. Fields.”
“Yeah, like I may have to settle for just punching you in the nose one time,” said Nygaard, and he laughed his big laugh. Fields looked at Nygaard’s hands and winced. Maybe if he stood and very quickly smashed his chair over the big cop’s thick, stupid, blond head— No, that was his partner sitting right there. Cops tended to carry their guns all the time, and God knew what kind of a shot these two were. Nygaard cast a glance at him, and he took a large bite of lutefisk. Bad as it was, the rutabagas were worse.
“Ah, dessert!” said Nygaard at last, and Fields gratefully put down his fork. Even Norwegians couldn’t come up with something truly awful for dessert, could they?
“Prune compote!” said the irrepressible Hafner.
“Uh—” said Fields, but Nygaard was too quick for him.
“You’ll want a lot of this,” said Nygaard. “Seeing how little of everything else you ate.”
“No, really; just a bit!” pleaded Fields, but Nygaard loaded his plate with a second large spoonful.
Hafner began to laugh. When Nygaard turned a bewildered face to him, he laughed harder. “Too much, too much!” he choked, between spasms, tapping his enormous friend on the shoulder.
Nygaard handed him the bowl of compote and asked, “Are you all right, Jack?”
“I’m fine!” said Hafner, handing on the bowl and going into fresh peals.
“All right, pal, what’s the joke?” asked Nygaard impatiently.
Surprised but still laughing, Hafner asked, “You mean you honestly don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Your punishment for your cheatin’ buddy over there,” said Hafner. “I never would’ve thought you’d come up with something as sneaky as that.”
“What, sneaky?” demanded Nygaard, beginning to sound annoyed.
“Come on, you seriously think all an outsider has to do is taste lutefisk to be converted to the Norwegian way of taste? You’ve been tearing down this poor geek shingle by shingle all evening! Bringing him to the dinner and filling him up with lutefisk, rutabagas, and prune compote, ha, ha, ha! Mean and legal and doesn’t leave a mark, just like you wanted!” He saw the honest bewilderment on his partner’s face and laughed even harder. “Oh, God, you thought you were doing him a favor, didn’t you?”
“What favor?” asked Nygaard angrily. “I made him pay for his ticket!” This set everyone at the table off.
Nygaard turned to look at Fields, and saw, for the first time, the greenish pallor and glazed eyes. “Well, double my IQ and call me a halfwit!” he said, beginning to laugh himself.
When Hafner got himself a little under control, he gasped, “And the best part is, even if he complained, the grand jury would return a no-bill. Every member would be a lutefisk eater and unable to understand what the problem was!” He leaned back and said to Fields, “What about it? Next time you come to town, we’ll treat you to an even better dinner. Have you ever tasted mutton with cabbage?”
“Or gammelost?” added Draxten.
“Gammelost,” breathed Nygaard reverently. “Boy, I wish we had some gammelost.”
Hafner said to Fields, “Gammelost means cottage cheese, old, old, old cottage cheese. You keep it in a jar until it turns grey, and serve it up on bread and butter.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Nygaard, who didn’t disagree with Hafner’s recipe for this treat, either. He caught the look on Fields’s face and grinned. In a mock Norwegian accent he said, “Py Gott, Larry!” He nudged him, nearly knocking him off his chair. “Ve giff you some gammelost next time we see you, yah, shure!”
But in his eye was the savage anticipatory glint of a Viking whose hospitality had been insulted, and Fields, who had been savoring thoughts of a vengeful return match sometime down the road, decided maybe he’d give Minnesota a complete miss next time. He looked down at the remains of his prune compote, nestled against a lump of lutefisk. “Uff da,” he said sadly.
The Wish Peddler
by L. W. Cantrell
The path through Graham Park was lined with aged oak trees that had, over the years, grown to need each other. Their gnarled old branches held hands overhead, and one passing underneath and looking upward could not be sure which arthritic limb belonged to which distended trunk. Despite their antiquity, new foliage was busy emerging, for it was spring and though the trees were old they were not yet too tired to try.
A slippery breeze cavorted between spatters of moonbeams and did surface dives through the balmy air. There was the scent of greenness, of the ripening year, of things new and renewed. The evening wrapped itself languidly on the park and sidled down the path and around the trees. It was a velvet night, a honeyed night, the perfect accompaniment — complete with cricket murmurings and silvered moonlight — to the moment when one Randall P. Wodenhaus became dead.
Not that Mr. Wodenhaus immediately recognized this august happening for what it was (he had declined setting the precise time and place of his demise himself, opting for the added enjoyment of spontaneity). Rather the reverse, in fact, for several moments had passed before the first inkling of what was transpiring tickled the edges of Mr. Wodenhaus’s reverie. By then it was much too late to change his mind (had he wished to), and the faint stirring of rebellion that was his initial response fizzled out. An Epilogue was, after all, an Epilogue and should be greeted as such with dignity and a certain amount of savoir-faire — if, that is, one was getting what one asked for; and that was exactly what Mr. Wodenhaus was getting, for he had bought and paid for twenty-four hours of death.
Mr. Wodenhaus glanced at his wristwatch. Eight P.M. on the dot.
It was mildly interesting to note, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, that so far none of the venerable prophecies had come to pass. Mr. Wodenhaus was unsure whether or not to be disappointed (some forecasts were a bit intense for his taste), and decided to reserve judgment. He had harbored no fear of suddenly finding himself flung into a fiery furnace, as it were (though it didn’t hurt to have this belief confirmed); nor had he expected to be greeted by a heavenly host of angels gloriously in chorus. Mr. Wodenhaus had never suffered from the religious illusions or cultist superstitions that plagued so many.
Yet death had always held a strange fascination for him, particularly as the years advanced and its dark spectre loomed more and more ominously on Mr. Wodenhaus’s horizon. Perhaps its status as the sole inevitability of life (taxes could be gotten around) caused the question of what death would be like to gnaw with increasing voracity at Mr. Wodenhaus’s patience until at last he decided to jump the gun a mite (no pun intended). It was important, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, to be prepared. Mr. Wodenhaus had always liked to know beforehand just what he was getting into and didn’t mind paying for the knowledge. His contract with the Wish Peddler had cost him more than he’d wanted to pay, but once a rider had been attached assuring that no physical harm would come to him during the twenty-four hour period and guaranteeing his safe return at the end of that time, Mr. Wodenhaus had been quite satisfied.