“I think there would be signs if you were on the brink of extinction,” said Don Pond, shocked out of his modesty by her outburst. “Think about it, Melba. There would be special protections. You wouldn’t be allowed to just come and go, all day and all night, riding around Dan on a bicycle, springing animals from traps. You’d be kept in a special facility until you reproduced, and not with just anyone, with a family member, Melba. I don’t mean biological family,” said Don Pond quickly as Melba recoiled. “I mean a person who shares your most jeopardized quality. Do you even know what quality that would be?”
“I am psychic,” said Melba Zuzzo.
Don Pond whistled. He had a very nice, full whistle, so nice that his whistling might be considered a quality in its own right. But Don Pond did not stop to comment on his whistle. He was focused on Melba. Melba stood with her arms straight at her sides while he admired her.
“Well, that’s it, then, Melba,” said Don Pond. “Psychic. Wow.” He shook his head. “I don’t suppose anyone knows about that, or I’d have heard. It’s only fair that I tell you my secret, not because of intercourse, just because you told me one of yours.” He shut his eyes. For a long time he didn’t speak.
“There was no splinter in my classmate’s foot,” he said at last. “Oh, I showed her a splinter alright, but it was a pencil shaving from my own pocket. I dug in her foot purely for my own gratification. I’ve slapped people, too, Melba, hundreds of times, during mosquito season. ‘Hold still,’ I’d say. ‘There’s a mosquito.’ Then bam! But do you think the mosquitoes were really there?”
“Not always,” said Melba, generously.
“That’s right,” said Don Pond, slowly. “Not always. So you see,” he continued, “I don’t deserve anything, not compared to people who’ve never slapped for no reason. I don’t know why I’m so favored in this life. It’s not in reward for my sterling character! I suppose, Melba, we were all of us given paths to walk in life, and some paths are lucky paths that lead you where you want to go in advance of the hordes. Shortcuts, if you will.”
“Your house is very close to the bakery,” Melba agreed.
“I don’t know if it is,” said Don Pond. “But my path is shorter. Luck has nothing to do with where a man builds his house. That’s a zoning issue. I’m talking about getting from A to B. What if there’s an ocean between A and B? It would take you a little while to cross that ocean, wouldn’t it Melba?”
“It would,” said Melba.
“Well there is no ocean between me and the bakery,” said Don Pond, and let the matter rest there.
Now Melba almost cried out with relief as Don Pond strode across the bakery. To face Don Pond across the counter — surely this was normal! He did not look at all tentative in his dark knit cap and earring.
“Thank you, Don!” gasped Melba extending her hands. Don Pond grasped them. His hands were ice cold and Melba noticed that his wrists, which extended past the cuffs of his dark jacket, were a vivid pink.
“You’re cold!” she observed.
“The temperature’s dropping out there,” said Don Pond. “I almost turned back several times.” He paused, perseveringly. Then he tightened his grip on her hands. Melba braced herself for the outburst.
“Officer Greg was here!” cried Don Pond, a catch in his voice.
“He didn’t buy anything,” Melba said loyally. “He didn’t come in the capacity of a customer. There haven’t been any other customers, I swear it, Don.”
“He left holding a bag …” Don Pond’s large, glaucous eyes began to shine. “He had what could have been a Danish in his hand …”
“Evidence,” said Melba. She realized Don Pond was trembling. His teeth chattered within his trim beard.
“Hold on.” Melba pulled her hands free and hurried through the swinging door into the depths of the bakery, turning all of the ovens as high as they would go. Then she opened the back door, and, returning to the front of the bakery, opened the front door as well, propping it with a gallon can of chestnuts.
“We’ll see what that does,” she said with satisfaction. “I don’t expect it will warm the whole of Dan, but, then again, it may. For now, come around the counter. We’ll go into the back and stand in front of the ovens.”
“I couldn’t,” said Don Pond. “Even as the first customer, I don’t deserve that kind of privilege. It isn’t authorized.”
“Oh,” Melba blinked. She found his attitude provoking and didn’t like this newly revealed aspect of his character. It seemed to her that Don Pond couldn’t be resisting out of modesty alone. What if Don Pond wasn’t simply modest? What if he was, in fact, some kind of stickler?
Melba tried not to hold it against him, but it was difficult. Zeno Zuzzo loathed sticklers and Zeno Zuzzo was an influential man, a man with whom it behooved Melba to share beliefs. Zeno Zuzzo did not like to name names but he did enjoy speaking knowledgeably about types, or worse, maintaining an ominous silence about the type in question.
Melba remembered a particular episode.
“Look!” Zeno Zuzzo had exploded, pointing out a large and a small woman loitering outside the town hall, perhaps eager to be viewed by a passing committee. Melba followed his finger, straining to make out details but only reconfirming the relative largeness and smallness of the figures, which struck her suddenly as very funny.
“They’re different sizes!” She giggled and Zeno Zuzzo glanced at her approvingly, then gave a brief hard guffaw.
“Do you see the ears?” he asked. “Those women are conspiring, always conspiring. Why else would they need ears set so close to their mouths? They’re whispering things to themselves, Melba. They’re stirring themselves up. They won’t be satisfied until they assassinate, someone, anyone. If you can drop a person like that with a well-aimed rock, you should do it, before they have a chance to attack. If you don’t notice the ears until they’re upon you, prepare for close combat. Soap in a sock is handy.”
Melba nodded, fingering her own ears. The earlobes were not attached, but then again, they were not nearly as long and loosely formed as her father’s. Zeno Zuzzo had extraordinarily long earlobes and his ears were set far back on his head. He was very proud of his ears and emphasized their shape and position with his signature haircut, the Belmondo. No other man in Dan was as well-suited to his Belmondo as was Zeno Zuzzo.
“Someday somebody should write a book about me,” Zeno Zuzzo often remarked. When Melba was a student at Dan Elementary, Zeno Zuzzo would say it while reviewing Melba’s report card, which always indicated satisfactory performance in the literary arts: penmanship and spelling. Zeno Zuzzo would nod meaningfully at the report card and wink. Zeno Zuzzo was very good at winking.
“A wink is a friendly gesture with a little something extra,” Zeno Zuzzo explained to Melba. “A little oomph. Like when a man calls another man ‘sweetheart’ then riddles him with bullets between the groin and knee.” Before leaving Dan Elementary, Mrs. Burr had told Melba’s class that a wink was a wizard’s kiss, but Melba knew better than to repeat anything Mrs. Burr said to her father. Besides, in this case, it was irrelevant. Melba Zuzzo could not wink.
But on the subject of sticklers, Zeno Zuzzo maintained a chilling silence.
“Don’t get me started about sticklers,” was all he would say, then he would sink onto his haunches, stroking his lower lip with his thumb, his dark brow beetling, and Melba would back away, sensing the restrained malevolence and understanding implicitly the lowliness of the stickler, his lack of all human worth, and, worse, his inability to contribute to the natural world, the vegetable and mineral kingdoms to which all beings who are not sticklers tithe.