Stymie Magazine
Spring & Summer ‘11
too.” “You can’t,” their father explains for the fifth time. “You weren’t invited. It’s one of Horatio’s friends.” He turns to his older son. “What did you say his name is?” “Jughead. I mean it’s really Alex, but that’s what we call him.” “I meant his family name. What’s his family name?” “Leven.” “Leven, Leven?” He is searching for a connection. “Yeah, my coach, Mr. Leven; he’s Mr. Leven’s son.” “Yes, Leven. He’s an insurance man, isn’t he?” “I don’t know.” Horatio really doesn’t care, but he doesn’t say that. He feigns interest because he needs something. He needs money for the game, and he needs money for a present. “He used to play second,” he adds as if the information will mean something to his father. “Yes, I’m sure he’s in insurance.” Horatio clears his throat. “Dad?” “What?” “I need to get Jughead a present.” “What?” “He’s right, Dear,” his mother adds. “Yeah, sure. What are you getting him – a game, a model?” “What about a nice sweater?” his mother suggests. “No,” Horatio answers emphatically, “I want to get him something he’ll really like.” Albert snickers in the way seven-yearolds can, in the way that says, “You’re just stupid.” “I’m going to get him a box of baseball cards,” Horatio says triumphantly.
Things that Go Poink
T
Ramon Collins ________________________________________
he black sedan did bumps and grinds up the Wilson Hill Road, then skidded to a stop in a cloud of gray-clay dust. A well-dressed young man climbed out, gave his suit sleeves a couple of quick brushes, reached back into the front seat and emerged with a briefcase. He opened the gate and hurried up the path toward a weathered house, where an older man sat on the front porch and whittled on a stick. "Cyrus Sloan?" He stopped whittling and gave a suspicious squint out of the corner of his eye. "Could be." "Name's William Mason. You can call me Bill." Sloan stopped whittling and looked at the stranger, then fished around in his left nostril with a broken-knuckled finger and deposited the find on his pants leg with a slow swipe. Mason looked away and grimaced as Cyrus went back to whittling. "Mighty warm today, Mister Sloan -mind if I take off my coat?" "Yer coat." Mason stood, removed his suit coat, folded it and placed it on the brief case, next to the porch post. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, folded the cuffs up two turns and sat back down on the upper step, just out of the shade from the porch. "Man, it's a hot one. You wouldn't have a spare drink of water, would you?" Cyrus nodded toward the side of the house where the hound scratched an ear with a hind leg. "There by Roamer." Mason looked over at a rusted tin cup wired to the pump, flinched, then looked back. "You played a lot of baseball in your day." "Some." "You're being modest -- baseball records show you had several close contacts with a product I represent."
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