I wanted to give Harold a proper burial, so I dug down six feet, just like they’d do at a Christian cemetery. By the time I finished digging I was too tired to say any words, so I just pulled him out and flung him in the grave. I did look down at his body and stared for a long time.
“You tried to take the magic away.”
The sun was rising by the time I’d filled the grave. I didn’t take no breaks. I knew that I had to finish before there were folks about. The blood-soaked papers I returned to the glove compartment. I didn’t even think about looking at them. I had to preserve whatever was left of the magic.
I pushed the car back into position, relocked the doors, and threw the cover over the car. Then I headed back to the house to take a much needed shower.
I have watched the snow cover the car and wondered about how old Harold was coping. I have watched them auction off his farm. His name is almost never brought up no more. No one really knows what happened. Sometimes people disappear. Like Jimmy Hoffa.
I know Harold said with his dying breath that the car wasn’t Jimmy’s. That doesn’t really surprise me. I mean it has local tags. I imagine the hit men that brought Jimmy out here have cars in every state for whatever emergency needs to be taken care of. Besides, Harold didn’t look in the trunk, and my guess is that is where whatever secret this car holds is. That is where the magic remains.
They built an interstate nearby a few years back, and my old country road has seen a definite increase in traffic. More and more farmers are selling off their land to real estate people who turn them into tract homes. That type of life is not for me. I look out the window at the car, half covered with a sheet that blows off more times than it stays on, and I keep waiting for someone to drive by and recognize the car.
And I imagine who it will be and how they will recognize it. Will it be the husband of the long missing wife, or some mobster guy in the witness protection program who panics when he sees the car with Hoffa’s body sitting plain as day at the edge of the farm? Sometimes I think that when someone does recognize it they’ll come after me and kill me. And the more I run that play through my mind, the more I don’t think that’s so bad. There isn’t much good on television any more these days, and I miss talking to my friend Harold.
The Net
by Jas. R. Petrin
Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon.
“So what was your main excuse in the first place to go out and buy a computer, of all things, Dianne?” Evelyn Culver, a dubious tone to her voice, skillfully shuffled the cards with first a backwards and then a forwards bend and a long buzz both ways while shooting a sideways glance at the younger woman. “I never can see why a normal human person’d want to own one of them things, any more than I can see them wanting to own, say, a scanning electron microscope, whatever that is.”
“If you don’t know what a thing is,” Dianne Freely returned, one eyebrow cocked in a critical, inverted V, “then maybe you shouldn’t be giving opinions about it.” Her annoyed gaze dropped to Evelyn’s brisk shuffling. “And are you actually going to deal those cards out to us one of these days, or are you going to wear the spots off them first?”
It was Thursday evening in End of Main, and that meant frustration night, frustration being the card game that brought the women together here in Evelyn’s kitchen each week, Mrs. Aird and Winona Delmare completing the foursome.
“It’s not I’m being critical. All’s I’m wondering is, what the heck do you do with a contraption like that?” Evelyn was persistent, dealing the cards. “Sit around and figure out the theory of relativity? Calculate the national debt?” She shook her head, puzzled. “I guess you could play solitaire on it — that’s what I see Rhona Mowett doing at the real estate office each time I pass her window on Burton Street.”
“There’s more to computers than games,” Dianne Freely returned defensively with a toss of her blonde hair. “You can waste time on solitaire with a two dollar deck of cards; you don’t need to fork over three thousand dollars, plus tax, to do it.” She frowned over her hand, finally discarding the queen of spades, then flinching when Mrs. Aird pounced on it with a rapacious grin. Further nettled, Dianne went on: “There’s no end of things you can do with computers. Winona here could type in all her recipe cards, for example. Then, when she wanted to know where that certain recipe was, the one that’s got the custard and maraschino cherry topping, say, she’s only got to tell the machine to go fetch anything with those ingredients, and — splang! — there it is right in front of her.”
“I had a boyfriend would go fetch me anything,” Winona Del-mare replied flatly, “and it didn’t cost me one red cent.”
“Are you sure about that?” Evelyn asked. “What about at ten a.m. when the Netley beer store opened?”
“Well, he might of cost me something. But not no three thousand in one whack, that’s for sure.”
“What are we talking about?” Mrs. Aird wanted to know. Hard of hearing, she had drifted into one of her spells of woolgathering, now resurfacing for a recap of everything that had been said in the last ten minutes or so.
“Computers, dear. We’re talking computers. Pay attention, for pity’s sake,” pleaded Evelyn.
“I do pay attention.” Mrs. Aird frowned haughtily. “But you mumble like you got a three-armed dentist in your mouth.” Her hearing aid gave a whistle, and she poked it.
“I suppose,” Winona Delmare speculated, “if you got tired of solitaire, you could use a computer to hold up a flowerpot.”
“Okay, all of you, keep riding me.” Dianne Freely’s tone had turned suddenly sharp, a fresh note of aggrieved persecution to it. “But if you’re trying to make me feel guilty about spending my own money, you’re wasting your time.” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether or not to deliver her next statement; then, with a quick breath to brace herself, she came out with it. “You might laugh out the other sides of your faces if you knew what I’ve been using it for the last while.”
“Figuring out a square root?” asked Evelyn.
“Counting a calorie?” grunted Winona.
“No. To connect, that’s what. To connect and communicate. To talk with people all over the world and especially to chitchat with the pleasantest and nicest person I ever come across in my life.”
This got their instant attention. “What on earth are you blathering about?” Evelyn asked.
“Who are you blathering about?” demanded Winona.
Dianne became coy. She mused thoughtfully over her cards. “Oh, just someone.”
“Tell us!”
Dianne raised her face to them with arched eyebrows, as if mildly astonished at the sudden interest. “Well, I don’t see what difference it makes. There’s no way any of you would be acquainted with him, not having such a useless thing as a computer in your possession. None of you have been surfing the Net, I suppose.”
Mrs. Aird’s shortsighted eyes narrowed but never left her cards. “Smurfing? What’s she mean — smurfing? That’s those little blue cartoon creatures, isn’t it?”