Casket For Sale Read online

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, it’s not gonna happen, so you’d better get over whatever issues you’ve got with her. You’re supposed to be happy for me. You’ve got a wife and kids. Maybe that’s what I want, too.”

  “I don’t think she has child-bearing hips.”

  “Okay, you know what, you seem pretty determined to be an asshole tonight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Roger pushed back his chair, got up, and walked out of the Java Joint, leaving his obscenely overpriced coffee behind.

  Fine. If he wanted to continue with that fatality-laden train wreck of a relationship, who was I to save him? He could marry her for all I cared. Have six or seven hellspawn. But when he came crawling back to me, shriveled and burnt and coughing up flames, I’d just invite him to pucker up those scorched lips and kiss my-

  “Hi,” said a woman, sliding into the seat Roger had vacated.

  “Uh, hi,” I responded. She looked to be in her early twenties, with flowing black hair draped over her shoulders, lipstick a good six shades too red, and sexy wire-framed glasses.

  “You look lonely.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Just so you know, I’m not here to hit on you. You’re Andrew Mayhem, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Hear me out. I’m willing to offer you-”

  “No.”

  “It’s a lot of-”

  “No.”

  “But-”

  “Nooooo,” I said, singing the word.

  “I don’t think you-”

  “No, no, no, nope, nein, nix, negative, nyet, non, nada, nein… I already said nein, didn’t I?… no, no, no. No.”

  “Nada means ‘nothing.’”

  “Same difference.”

  The woman frowned. “May I ask why you’re turning me down?”

  “You may.”

  “Why?”

  “Because these days I’m a responsible citizen. I no longer accept money from strange women in coffee shops to do things that end up getting me almost killed. Twice I’ve done it, and twice I’ve regretted it. You’re looking at the new, improved-”

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” said the woman.

  I tried to say nada, but the word stuck in my throat.

  “One hundred thousand dollars to deliver a suitcase.”

  Don’t ask what’s in the suitcase, I silently pleaded with myself. Don’t ask what’s in the suitcase. Don’t ask what’s in the suitcase.

  “What’s in the suitcase?” I asked, overcoming my mental pleading on a technicality.

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Where do you want it delivered? Antarctica?”

  ” Arizona.”

  “That’s pretty far.”

  “It’s for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Do not, under any circumstances, accept this offer. This one deserves the big N-O. Run screaming out of the coffee shop with your hands over your ears if you have to, but do not, I repeat, do not, I repeat again, do not agree to deliver this suitfcase. Don’t do it. Really.

  “I can’t,” I said, momentarily surprised that I listened to common sense. It felt kind of neat.

  The woman stared at me for a long moment, and then she shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  “I will. But I appreciate the offer.”

  She nodded and left. I took a sip of my coffee, enjoying the feeling of being an intelligent, responsible—

  Holy crap, I just turned down a hundred grand, what the hell is wrong with me?

  – adult.

  This was the new Andrew Mayhem. The most responsible guy on the block. The guy you’d call if you needed somebody to hold your ladder steady while you changed a light bulb. The guy who always had jumper cables in the trunk of his car. Even my Christmas cards were going to be on time this year.

  Now if only I could talk some sense into Roger, everything would be perfect.

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY, I drove home from work whistling a merry tune. I’d held my job in the mailroom of a heartless corporation run by sinister men in dark suits for more than three months, and today at lunch my boss’ boss had nodded and half-smiled in my direction. My future was looking bright.

  I opened the front door of my two-story suburban home and saw my children crouched on the floor, their backs to me. They were very excited about something. Something that snorted.

  “Is there a pig in the house?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.

  “Daddy!” shouted Theresa, getting to her feet and rushing over to give me a great big hug. She was nine and going through an Affectionate Phase. Now, she’d always been an affectionate child, but these days she’d hug you while you were walking up stairs. She’d even taken to hugging her little brother without the intent of crushing him to death.

  Kyle, my seven-year-old, stayed crouched on the floor, petting what I saw was not, in fact, a member of the swine family but rather a dog. A pug. One of those tiny flat-faced bug-eyed curly-tailed wrinkly-foreheaded things. It snorted happily.

  “Why is there a pug in our house?” I asked.

  “That’s Joe,” Theresa informed me.

  “Hi, Joe. Why is there a pug in our house?”

  “He’s mine!” Theresa said with a big grin.

  “He’s mine, too!” Kyle shouted.

  “Is not!”

  “Mom said you could only keep him if we shared!”

  “We’re keeping him?” I asked. “He’s a permanent pug?”

  Theresa nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Joe snorted some more.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Upstairs. See, Misty is moving, and she said she’d have to get rid of Joe and maybe put him in the pound, and she asked if I wanted him, and Misty’s mom brought him over and Mom said we could keep him.”

  “He’s mine, too!” Kyle insisted.

  “Shut up. I didn’t say anything about that!”

  “Well, he is!”

  “No duh, stupid.”

  “Don’t call your brother stupid,” I said. “And don’t tell him to shut up. And isn’t Misty that kid who always shoved paste in her ears?”

  “It was Play-Doh.”

  Joe continued to snort.

  “Is he supposed to be that ugly?” I asked.

  “He’s not ugly, he’s cute.”

  The pug, released from Kyle’s petting grip, trotted over and sniffed my feet, snorting all the while. I reached down to scratch his head. I’d always liked dogs, although my tastes ran in the direction of big manly dogs instead of tiny little porcine ones.

  “I’m going upstairs to talk to your mother,” I announced.

  “She doesn’t feel good.”

  “Obviously.”

  I walked upstairs and down the hall into our bedroom. Helen was sitting in bed, on top of the covers, propped up against a couple of pillows.

  “There’s a pug in our house,” I told her.

  “I know.”

  “The kids said you said they could keep it.”

  “I know we should’ve discussed it first, but it’s okay, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “It’s fine. I just kind of figured we’d consult each other in pug acquisition decisions.”

  Helen was looking somewhat pale. She’s an adorable, petite woman with long brown hair and freckles, who despite her small size has an aura of scary strength about her. But at the moment that aura wasn’t present.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking as if she were near tears.

  “No, no, it’s fine. No big deal. I mean, you usually make the parental decisions anyway. Theresa said you’re not feeling very good… what’s wrong?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  What could it be? The flu? Guilt? Menopause two decades early?

  “Are you okay? Do I need to call a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “Actually, it’s not hard at all to explain. A
ndrew, I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter Three

  “AH,” I SAID.

  Let me give you more information than you probably want to k now about the creation of my offspring. Theresa was conceived during our honeymoon. Forms of birth control used at the time: The Pill and condoms (ribbed, but without spermicidal lubricant). The condom broke while The Pill was on its lunch break, and whammo… Helen was pregnant with our daughter.

  Kyle was conceived two years later, when Helen’s parents took Theresa for the weekend. We had a lovely, romantic dinner where we discussed how nice it was just being the two of us for a change, a comment that obviously had Fate cackling with malicious glee. Forms of birth control used at the time: The Pill, condoms (with spermicidal lubricant), a diaphragm, and through coincidence, the rhythm method.

  After the birth of Kyle, Helen decided that perhaps she was remarkably prone to pregnancy, and suggested a more effective solution than all of our previous attempts at birth control combined. I spent three weeks whimpering, coming up with excuses, and keeping my legs defiantly crossed, but finally relented and underwent the dreaded V-word.

  “I swear I didn’t cheat on you,” Helen said, a tear trickling down her face.

  “I know.”

  “There’s a less than one percent chance of a vasectomy failing, but it does happen. And you know there were complications…”

  “Please don’t talk about the complications.”

  “We could do a test if you really wanted to be sure.”

  I climbed onto the bed and sat next to her. She leaned against me and put her arms around me, now crying openly.

  “Sweetie, I trust you completely,” I said, meaning it.

  “I just got so scared when I found out… I thought maybe you wouldn’t believe me…”

  “I believe you.”

  She looked up at me, eyes glistening. “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  We sat there, holding each other for several minutes. Helen’s sobs subsided, and she wiped her eyes on her shirt. Then she smiled. “So are you happy about it?”

  Now we had entered the ultimate danger zone. The mother of all trick questions. I had voluntarily allowed somebody to slash at my testicles with a scalpel, and now I was being asked if I was pleased it had been for naught.

  However, it was the same question I’d been asked when the birth control pills and condoms failed, twice, and though I’m far from the most intelligent guy on the planet I’m also not usually a complete idiot.

  “Of course I am.”

  She hugged me tighter. “I’m so glad. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, since it was a smarter thing to say than the Oh, shiiiiiiit! I was thinking.

  I knew what had caused this situation: Roger’s sudden desire for children. That bastard’s brain waves had infiltrated my scrotum, reconnected my vas deferens and caused me to impregnate my wife, allowing him to vicariously experience the joys of new fatherhood. I was going to kick his ass the next time I saw him.

  “How far along are you?” I asked.

  “Five weeks.”

  We were silent again, each of us lost in thought.

  Andrew Mayhem, father of three.

  Dear Lord.

  “So,” I said, “do you think the pug will like the new baby?”

  ***

  WE WENT DOWNSTAIRS to find Kyle and Joe playing tug-of-war with one of my best clip-on ties. “Hey, knock it off.”

  “Joe started it.”

  “Don’t blame the pug.” I tried to get my tie back, but Joe wasn’t about to give it up without a fight, so I let it go. Joe looked at me, clearly annoyed that I’d ended the game after such a feeble attempt, and barked.

  “Zip it,” I told him.

  Joe snorted some more.

  “Your mother and I have a family announcement to make, so everybody gather on the sofa.” We all sat down on the sofa, joined by Joe.

  “Are we going on vacation?” asked Theresa.

  “No.”

  “Aw.”

  “I wanna go to Stinky Blinky’s World,” said Kyle.

  “Too bad, that’s not what this announcement is about. Are you ready?”

  Theresa and Kyle nodded.

  “I’m going to have a baby,” Helen told them, beaming.

  “Yay!” Kyle shouted.

  “I thought Daddy was snipped,” said Theresa.

  Helen looked simultaneously horrified and way-too-amused. “Theresa!”

  “You said he was, that one time when I asked why I couldn’t have a baby sister.”

  “Why are you telling her these things?” I asked Helen. “What’s wrong with the stork?”

  “Daddy, I’m nine,” said Theresa. “Duh.”

  “What was snipped?” Kyle asked.

  “Nothing,” I told him. “They’re both crazy in the head.”

  Kyle twirled his index finger in a circle around his ear.

  “I thought that since Daddy was snipped, you couldn’t have a baby,” said Theresa.

  “The doctors didn’t snip hard enough,” Helen informed her.

  “Were their scissors dull?”

  “All right, enough!” I demanded. “You kids go walk the dog. I don’t like the way he’s sniffing the carpet.”

  Finding the leash and putting it on Joe was a tremendous but unsurprising ordeal, but my children finally went out the front door. I sank back into the couch. My stomach hurt.

  “Are you sure you’re happy?” Helen asked.

  “Quite.”

  “You know, taking a vacation isn’t a bad idea. We haven’t taken a family vacation in over a year, the kids are out of school for the summer, and this may be our last chance for a while. We could rent a motor home and do some camping.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “If you wanted we could invite Roger and Samantha.”

  I stiffened. “What do you mean, Roger and Samantha?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Why is Samantha automatically included? You make it sound like they’re a couple.”

  “Aren’t they a couple?”

  “No, they’re just dating. There’s a difference. They aren’t ‘Roger and Samantha’ yet.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t like her.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked. “Here, let’s chat about my failed snipping again. Remember that one time I had a vasectomy and you still got pregnant? I thought I was gonna laugh myself into a seizure over that one.”

  Helen stood up. “If you don’t want to do the vacation thing, that’s all right. I just thought we could use some fun, that’s all.”

  “No, you’re right, you’re absolutely right. Let’s do it. We’ll camp out, roast marshmallows and weenies, sing campfire songs, feed our children to bears if they get out of hand… it’ll be great!”

  Helen grinned. “Why don’t you give Roger a call to see if he can get the time off?”

  “Sounds good.” I kissed her, went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed Roger’s number. He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked.

  “Hi,” he said, sounding distant.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I frowned. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Do you see what she’s done to you? You’re still mad! You never would’ve still been mad before!” Roger and I argued all the time, and the extent of our reconciliation had always been an exchange or two of the word “Dude.” This vile menace needed to be stopped. Roger’s sanity depended on it.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said.

  “No, no, hold on a second,” I said. “I was calling to invite you on a camping trip. You and Samantha. Both of you.”

  “Really? When?”


  “Soon. Whenever you can get off work.”

  “I can get off work anytime, but I’ll have to check with Samantha.”

  Maybe everything would work out. Maybe Samantha wouldn’t be able to take time off from her job (she did something with clothing, or maybe it was seafood) and Roger would be free of her foul tentacles for a week or so. That might be long enough to break her mental grip. Perfect!

  ***

  AS IS TYPICAL in my life, things did not work out perfectly. Samantha was willing and able to take a few days off from whatever she did with clothing or seafood, and a week later I found myself behind the wheel of a gargantuan motor home, Roger in the passenger seat, Helen, Samantha, Theresa, Kyle, and Joe in the back. Helen and Samantha were playing cards. Theresa and Kyle were playing “Strangle the Sibling.” Joe was snorting.

  We’d left early in the morning and were on our way to Wreitzer Park in Georgia, which Samantha had highly recommended. I could only assume this meant it was laden with rattlesnakes, tarantulas, locusts, and second-tier demons, but both Helen and Roger thought it sounded great so I relented.

  Helen and I had originally decided to wait until after the camping trip to share the news that she was pregnant. However, we then realized the secret was already known by Theresa and Kyle, two individuals with a poor track record in the secret-keeping business, and so we told Roger and Samantha as soon as we’d finished packing the camper.

  Samantha squealed with delight and threw her arms around Helen. Roger looked confused.

  “I thought you had a vasectomy,” he whispered.

  “I did. It didn’t take. I’m so darn masculine that even a ghastly medical procedure can’t stop my tadpoles from swimming.” I flexed my muscles and growled.

  As we crossed the border from Florida into Georgia, we stopped the camper at a rest area and each had a ceremonial peach. The kids went off to walk the pug while the women headed for the restroom.

  “This is nice,” said Roger, cracking open a Mountain Dew. “I don’t know why we don’t take vacations like this more often.”

  I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. “You’re right. I think we need to schedule at least one non-psycho-killer-related vacation a year.”

  “Deal.”

  Roger was silent, and I was sure he was going to make some unwanted comment about his relationship with Samantha. But he didn’t, thank goodness. However, a couple of minutes later his eyes lit up as he saw her walking toward the camper.