Redamntion: Continued

Work in Progress: Redamntion by Lorrieann Russell

(C) 2009 Do not use without Permission

~ * ~

The afternoon had turned chilly, even though the sun was still bright in a perfect sky. Logan pulled the zipper up on his jacket and tucked his hands in the pockets. He wished he’d thought to bring his gloves; he knew how quickly the temperature could change once autumn got a foothold on New England. The breeze was not all together unpleasant however, blowing the stench of the traffic away from him as he crossed square toward the far end of the marketplace.

Autumn always brought crowds to Boston. Tourists wanting to walk the Freedom Trail, and snap pictures of the historic buildings, bunched around markers and maps, pointing out the landmarks around them. Tour guides led groups, patiently pretending that no one had ever before asked them if they could “pahk their cahs at Hahvahd Yaaaahd.”

“Why would you wish to do that?” Logan interjected merrily, startling the young man who had just asked the guide the obligatory question.

“Huh? You know…that’s how they talk, here,” he replied with a smirk. “Everyone knows that.” His own accent was decidedly southern.

“Oh? Who?” Logan asked. “Who speaks that way, I’m sure I’ve never heard it.”

“You know, the locals. Y’all must not been here long.”

“Long enough to know that a car parked in Harvard Yard would most assuredly be towed. So to answer your query, the answer would be no. We do not park there. Good day.” Logan smiled and walked away, leaving the young man red faced amid a chorus of snickers from the rest of the group.

His amusement soon faded as he hurried through the bustling square. A wave of melancholy settled on him as he glanced around at the businesses that had sprung up in the venerated old square. Where once stood open air markets bursting with produce and seafood, goods brought on ships and where tradesman sold their wares, now stood shops bearing names like Starbucks, Borders and Pier One. He hurried by the windows emblazoned with imports and designer clothing, not giving so much as half a glance to the merchandise on display. He quickened his pace until he reached the far end of the market, and turned into a dark and narrow alley, to find the one shop he had come to loyally, every October the 12^th for as long as he could recall; Todd’s Odds.

He pushed the antique door open. The jingle of an old brass bell announced his arrival. Instantly his mood changed as he breathed in the aged and musty smell of the ancient merchandise. Stacks upon stacks of books lined the narrow shop, closing in on all sides. One had to know what he wanted very precisely at Todd’s as it did not lend itself to casual browsing. The books seemed to be arranged mostly by size rather than subject, or author, with the proprietor’s personal favorites obvious by their lack of dust and prominence in the window.

“Todd? Toddy? Are you back there?” Logan called. “It’s me, Logan.”

A shuffling sound and a slight thud, followed by what sounded like an avalanche came from the back room, behind an faded and worn calico curtain. Logan waited a moment, resisting the instinct to rush to Todd’s assistance. After another thud–a crate of some sort hitting the floor–a voice called out, “Logan? Is that Logan? Is it October already?”

The curtain was shoved aside revealing the gnome-like smile of old Todd Franklin, owner and proprietor of Todd’s Odds. His bright eyes widened behind his gold spectacles and he thrust his hand toward Logan. “Come in, come in! It’s good to see you my boy, come, come. Tell me about your year.”

Logan chuckled, grasping Todd’s age-withered hand. He casually pulled a long strand of cobweb off the old man’s glasses, then pulled him close for a hug. “Oh Toddy, what am I to do with you. Still determined to bury yourself in your own stacks are you? When are you going to hire an assistant?”

“Assistant?” Todd scoffed, waving his hand. “When I’m old, and not until then. Uh . . . did you bring any . . .”

Logan reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a silver flask adorned with a red velvet ribbon, and presented it to the old man. “Would I forget?”

Todd’s chubby cheeks lit up in a smile as he took the flask, and went about burrowing under the counter, presumably looking for the two goblets he’d stashed there a year ago, the last time Logan had been there. Logan took off his jacket and draped it on the bell hook on the door, and as was the custom, locked the door and turned the sign to “Closed.”

Todd had since found the goblets and after blowing the dust from them, was filling each with an ample amount of the amber liquid that came from the flask.

Once filled, Logan took his cup and held it up. “Here’s to the way it was. . .”

“And the way it is . . . ” Todd continued.

“And the way it ever shall be,” they said together, clinking the goblets and drinking the contents in one gulp.

“So,” Todd began after a moment, “what will this year be?”

“The last year,” Logan replied quietly, looking into his empty goblet.

“You say that every year, son.”

“A man can hope.”

“A man surely can,” the old man said quietly patting Logan’s hand.

Logan half smiled. “You say that every year, too.”

“I suppose I do. Now, what text will you be teaching from this year? Homer? Plato?” Todd set his cup down and wandered to one the precariously stacked book shelves. “Ah, how about the entire collection of Zane Grey?”

“Zane Grey?” Logan laughed.

“Ah, it was a long shot. I could use the space they’re taking up. Was worth a shot.”

“No, Todd, I’m not even certain you’ll have what I require this time.”

Todd looked over the rim of his glasses, raising a brow. “That’s doubtful. Unless of course you’re looking for something published more recently then 1953.”

“No, I’m sure it’s a bit older than that.”

“Name it.”

Logan drew a long breath, then said quietly, “The First Emanation.”

“Are you certain?” Todd whispered, taking a step closer to Logan.

“It’s the last year, my friend. I’m certain of it this time.”

Todd hesitated only a moment then pushed the calico curtain aside and disappeared into his back room. After another round of shuffling and soft crashes, he emerged, holding a small wooden box no bigger than a matchbook in his hand. “Are you certain?”

Logan nodded.

Todd sighed, and with a trembling hand, gave the box to Logan. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

“No,” Logan answered, almost silently. “Thank you, my friend.” He retrieved his jacket from the bell and put it on, then tucked the little box protectively into the breast pocket. “You know, there’s always hope.”

“Of what?” Todd asked.

“I could be wrong.”

He stepped back into the crisp air of the marketplace, and hurried down the alley not wanting to look back. He knew Todd was standing at the window watching him go, and he knew that by tomorrow, no trace of Todd’s Odds would remain at Faneuil Marketplace.

To be continued . . .

Work in Progress: Redamntion by Lorrieann Russell

(C) 2009 Do not use without Permission


~ 1 ~
Boston, Massachusetts
The Present

“Where to?”

“Faneuil Market, please. At North Street.”

“You got it.” The cabdriver flipped the meter without so much as a backward glance as he pulled away from the curb. “Oh geez,” he grumbled as a group of conservatory students crowded the crosswalk in front of him, seemingly unconcerned with clearing the street before the light changed. Two young men, each toting instrument cases the size of sarcophagi stopped mid way across, looking up at the tall buildings around them. The cabby gave the horn a loud blast and stuck his head out the window. “Yeah they’re called buildings! Youse can see ‘em from the curb too!” The students gave him an ingenuous smile and hurried across the street.

“Conservatory kids,” the driver said with a chuckle, glancing into the rearview mirror. “They got more dollars than sense if ya know what I mean.” He turned his attention back to his driving. “I only yell to keep ‘em movin’, ya know? Not every cabby in Boston gives a damn. Run ‘em over as soon as honk, but I figure, they’s someone’s kid, ya know? I got kids, so I know how that would be, ya know? Mine don’t go to no fancy music conservatory, but I they do ok. You got kids?”

“Hmm? I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

“Kids–you got any?”

A slow smile crossed the passenger’s face as he glanced out the window. “Thousands. None my own. All of them, my children.”

The cabby looked at him through the mirror, one brow raised. “Eh?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“Oh, now I get ya. I had a feeling you did somethin’ callin’ for brains–Hey! Bonehead! There’s a reason the little man has an X on him!—you look the type.”

“There’s really no need to worry about the pedestrians. I’m in no hurry.”

The cabby grinned. “Yeah? Good, the meter goes on time, not miles, ya know what I mean?”

The passenger smiled. “Take your time.”

“Your dime.”

“So,” the man said after the light had changed. “How many do you have?”

“Eh?” the cabby asked, looking through the mirror.

“Children. You said–”

“Green means GO on my planet! Oh kids, I have two. Teenagers, boy and girl. Twins. Eighteen next month. Though I swear I put on forty years of gray hair raisin’ ‘em.”

“I’m sure. They can be a challenge.”

“They’re good kids,” the cabby said abruptly. “I ain’t so afraid of them getting’ in trouble as I am them gettin’ in, you know—trouble.” The tires screeched as the car came to a sudden stop. “Damned T buses think they own the street. The lights count for you too!”

“What sort of trouble do you worry about? Drugs? Alcohol?”

“Naaah, they’re good kids. I taught them to stay away from that shit. See I don’t make no big deal about a beer now and then, so they don’t go out sneaking it. And as far as drugs, they seen enough of what it can do . . . and they get that. No I worry about the other guy you know? More worried about what they’ll have to live with out there in the real world once they get out ya know?”

“Ah, I understand. The real world. Away from the hallowed ivy walls of the school.”

“They got ivy at BHS?”

“Metaphor.”

“English right? You teach English.” The cabby turned toward the square. “Probably know real good grammar. High School?”

“No, history. At Standish Preparatory. It’s out near–”

“Standish?” The cabby let out a high whistle. “Out on Gibbons Island?”

“Yes, that’s right. You’ve heard of it?”

“My girl wanted to go. She’s got the brains and the grades for it too, but it’s. . . a little out of my reach if you get me. Nice place if you’re a . . .” he let the sentence hang, and turned the cab onto Congress street. “North Street up a head.”

“I take it you’ve visited Standish.”

“Yeah, I took the kids out on the ferry a couple of summers ago . . . no offence, mister, but that place didn’t exactly fill me with a warm fuzzy glow. I think every brick in the place must have been a million years old. Makes this place look brand new,” he said gesturing toward the old market buildings as he turned onto North Street. “The headmaster said it used to be some sort of loony bin.”

“Asylum. Yes, two-hundred years ago.”

“Yeah. And it’s probably haunted by dead loonies.” He glanced in the mirror. “You ever seen a ghost?”

“No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“No? I sure do.”

The passenger smiled. “Good. Keep believing. We need more believers in the world.”

“If you say so.” He pulled the cab to the curb, and flipped the meter off. “Well, here’s your stop. Fourteen-fifty.”

The man handed the cabby a twenty. “Keep the change, and thank you for the ride.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, keep the change.”

The cabby smiled. “No, I meant . . . you’re welcome. I don’t hear a lot of thank yous. Hope to drive you again.”

The man leaned toward the driver’s window before walking away, slipping a card out of his breast pocket. “There are scholarships available. Give me a call. My name is Logan. My number is on the card. I’d be happy to see what could be done for your daughter. I promise, if there are any dead loonies lurking about, they are all very well behaved.”

The cabby took the card, staring at the man’s face, then down to the card, then back to the man, a slow smile brightening his face. “Thank you!” he tucked the card in his pocket. “And be careful crossing the street. The cabbies in this town are nuts–I’m goin’! Keep your shirt on!—thanks again, Mr. Logan!” With a honk and squeal the cab disappeared into a herd of other similarly colored taxi cabs that crowded the square.


To be continued . . .

Red Sky in the Morning

It didn't seem at all like the best of situations, but they were
determined to get out to Gibbon's Head before the sun came up. Jack
checked his equipment, tapping lightly on the display of his electronic
barometer, shaking his head.

"What's wrong?" Donna asked.

"This thing can't be right. It says there's nothing out there."

"Nothing? As in weather nothing, or nothing nothing?"

"Nothing. No clouds, no atmospheric pressure, no. . . anything." He shrugged and tossed the thing into his rucksack.

"So why take it? Look up there, does that big black swirl to the west really seem like 'nothing'?"

"I'm taking it so you have proof that we set out in a storm by accident." He
chuckled nervously, looking toward the west. "You know, you can say you
were going on instruments and didn't see the lightning. That way you
can claim my life insurance."

"That's not funny, Jack." She grabbed the binoculars and took a closer look at the western sky. "It's moving fast. And it's low. I've never seen that color at dawn. It's
practically purple."

"Good thing we're headed east then. It's pretty over there. Nice and red."

She turned to him in surprise. "Jack, you ass, that's a red sky in the morning!"

"So?"

"Duh, red sky in the morning? Sailor take warning? We're nuts. Can't we wait another day?"

"The boat's ready now, Donna. We only have three days before we have to fly home. It's today or never."

"It's getting windy. Check that damned thing again. You probably hit a reset on it or something."

He pulled the little electronic weather station from the rucksack with a
sigh, and flicked on the power. "There happy? It says. . . "

"What?"

"Well . . . it didn't say that before." He tapped on some dials. "Uh, nothing."

"Again with the nothing! Can I remind you that I don't have any life insurance, and you'll be screwed when I drown?"

His look was near comical. "You don't?"

"Not a cent."

"I thought. . . never mind. Come on, let's get going. We can be out to the island before the storm."

"What? Are you crazy? I'm not getting in that damned boat! The sky is getting blacker by the minute!"

"Not according to this." He tossed the weather station to her.

The display flickered into life, showing a little icon of a smiling sunshine. "Fair weather?"

"See? All is well."

"That's not what it said a minute ago and you know it."

He smiled down at his hands and looked up at her from under his tousled
hair. It was that 'I'm too cute to be in trouble' look that he knew
would disarm her. It did. "It's our only opportunity to see the
island. We'll get there, dig around the caves for a little while. . ."

"What about getting back here, Jack. Did you forget that part?"

"I packed fruit bars."

"Jack!"

"And a tent, and provisions for three days if we need it." He smiled again. "See? Everything is under control."

"I hate camping."

"The sleeping bag is for two."

"Is it . . . soft?"

"Like a rabbit."

He traced his hand on her cheek and smiled that cute smile again. "It's going to be fine."

THREE MONTHS LATER

". . . in closing I would like to remind the jury that my client was
unaware of the approaching storm. It was not a case of. . . intentional
negligence at all. The decision to venture out was made on good faith
based on the faulty equipment manufactured by the defendant. Therefore
I believe full damages should be rewarded."

There is a pause in the courtroom as the judge considers the testimony. The jury is
weary, having listened to hours of arguments from the zealous lawyers defending the manufacturer and the impassioned rebuttals from the plaintiff. The judge gives his instructions and sends them to deliberate. Two of the jurors are holding tissues to their faces. Women. The council for the plaintiff counted on there being sympathetic women on the jury. Women who could be moved by the sorrow of losing a loved one in such a dramatic way. Women who could empathize with a poor decision based on love.

It only takes a hour and they are back in the court room.

"Have you reached your decision? "

"We have, Your Honor. We find in favor of the plaintiff in the amount of five million dollars."

The court is dismissed, and all file out. The lawyer takes the plaintiff
aside. "That was touch and go for a while, congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Well, this judgement on top of the life insurance should set you up for quite a while."

A slow innocent smile crossed the plaintiff's face. "She had no insurance."

"No?"

"Not a cent. Thanks again, you've been a tremendous help."