Webpage maintainer's note - the following is a teaser for a story appearing in "Holiday Sensations," published by Shillelagh Press. For ordering information, email NewZine
"This really sucks."
Jim heard the sullen mutter as he entered the loft, his enhanced hearing not only catching the soft words, but locating the source. Blair had shoved the yellow chair part way across the living room and turned it to face the bay windows. There he sat slumped, staring at the wet city of Cascade through rain- glazed glass.
Dropping his keys on the table, Jim shed his soaked jacket. "My day was fine, thanks for asking," he said pointedly.
"Sorry, Jim. It's just that this . . . " Blair included both himself and the world beyond the window in a single sweeping gesture, "This really sucks."
Jim offered a nod of sympathy then sniffed, realizing what was missing. "No dinner?"
"Nothing in the cupboards. I thought about going shopping but--"
"But you knew I'd kick your ass if you did," Jim responded. "We'll order in. How's the ankle?"
"Dandy." Blair tapped the bright blue fiberglass shell that encased his right ankle. He'd broken it five days ago. Five days ago, he'd posted the final grades for his Anthro 120 course, officially freeing himself from the university until the start of the Spring semester on January 6th. On his way to the station to meet Jim and take on Cascade's criminal underworld, he'd slipped on a patch of ice.
Two steps! Blair fumed silently. I slip down two steps and I break my ankle. This sucks!
Jim had insisted Blair stay home. The first two days, the ankle had been painful enough that Blair agreed without complaint, holing himself up in his room with chamomile tea and a shelf full of books to read. By day three, Blair thought he had hobbling down to an art form. Then Jim pointed to the unrelenting rain; pointed, put his foot down, drew a line in the sand, dug a trench . . . Blair was not to go out into the winter wet with a broken ankle.
Blair had had about enough of that. "Tomorrow I'm coming in to the station with you."
"Your ankle--"
"Is in a walking cast; 'walking' being the operative word. See the little heel on the bottom?" Blair lifted his unwieldy leg and pointed.
"It's raining. You'll get the cast wet."
"Hey, it's fiberglass . . ." Blair grinned, rapping the hard surface with his knuckles.
"And the doctor told you not to get it wet."
Trust a Sentinel not to keep his ears to himself, Blair thought. That's the last time I ask you to pick me up at the hospital. Blair knew pursuing the breach in privacy would get him nowhere. He kept his reasonable smile firmly fixed. "So the padding inside will rot if it gets wet . . . twelve weeks of sweat, man. It's going to rot anyway. The process has already started."
"That smell is you?" Jim eliminated the distance between them with three quick strides. His next move caught Blair completely by surprise.
"Jim, let go! Let go of my leg." Blair repeated the instructions again in calm, firm tones. Jim released him, and Blair shoved the chair he was seated in back a few feet to regain some personal space. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to grab other people and sniff them?"
Jim stood back shaking his head slowly. "I thought that smell--the rot--I thought maybe the roof was leaking but I couldn't figure out where . . . . " Jim's expression of relief slowly faded. "Twelve weeks? It's going to get worse, isn't it?"
Blair nodded. He'd broken his arm falling out of a tree when he was a kid. Comparing casts, he felt the new fiberglass was definitely better than plaster; but the padding within was basically the same. He knew exactly how bad it would smell in twelve weeks. Though not a vengeful person at heart, he almost smiled.
"You are not getting that thing any wetter than it has to be," Jim told him.
Blair's inner smile died. Trenches, barbed wire, mine fields, he thought. Considering Ellison's military experience, Blair felt getting involved in a war of attrition with him was definitely a bad idea. They could each dig in and hold onto opposite view points for twelve weeks, at which point Ellison would win by default when the cast came off. Blair closed his mouth and turned away, offering Ellison a dissatisfied shrug to let him know nothing had been resolved. He wouldn't argue, he decided, he'd simply find a way to be where he belonged.
Nevertheless, an hour later as they stared each other down over Chinese food, Blair found maintaining the cease-fire impossible.
"Jim, I need to go out. Yes, you own a gun, so theoretically you could stop me but--"
"No."
"I'll drive myself."
"With that leg?" Jim shook his head and helped himself to the last of the noodles.
"I'll take the bus."
"You'll have to."
"I will," Blair insisted.
"And if I'm not at the station, if I'm out interviewing a suspect?"
"I'll find out where you are."
"And bus there?"
Blair shoved his chair back and stood. Pointing a finger at Jim, he opened his mouth--then stopped himself; arguing was pointless. He hobbled to his room. "Unreasonable, son of a bitch . . ." he said under his breath as he closed the door behind him.
Jim heard Blair as clearly as if he'd yelled. He shook his head and began to clear away the dinner dishes.
The next morning Jim awoke to the distinct smell of an omelet--not just any omelet, an omelet containing bacon, onion, two types of cheese and a few slivers of green pepper. He breathed deeply. That was the smell of a 'perfect' omelet. Ah, ha! A peace offering, Jim thought as he descended the stairs. Blair was humming in the kitchen. He was fully dressed, his clothing layered for outdoor weather. Jim re-evaluated the situation and sighed, Sandburg, bribery will get you nowhere.
"Looks good, Chief," Jim commented as he padded past the kitchen on the way to the bathroom. "I'll just be a couple of minutes."
He was pleasantly surprised. Blair didn't hostage the omelet, threaten it with pepper, or even suggest that he expected anything at all in return for the dish. He casually brushed aside Jim's attempt to bring up last night's argument. The next thing Jim knew, he'd finished breakfast, and the kid hadn't even made a single sidelong comment about coming in to the station. Relieved, Jim thanked Blair and ascended the steps to his room. As he shed his robe and pulled on clothes suitable for the day, a strange grating noise reached his ears. He stopped for a moment and listened . . . shriiik, shriksh, shrika, shriiik . . . what the hell was that?
He returned to the living room to find Blair sitting, scissors in hand, looking positively gleeful. That can't be good, Jim thought, still buttoning his shirt. "Blair, what are you doing with . . . my socks!"
Blair looked up, his expression free of even the slightest tinge of guilt. In his hands were a pair of Jim's thick wool socks or, rather, what remained of them. Blair was part way through pulling one of the socks over his cast, the heel of the cast already poking through the hole he'd cut in the base of sock.
"I thought we agreed--" Jim protested.
"Look out the window, man. No rain, no sleet, no snow. The sun is shining."
Jim suddenly realized Blair was right. Light was blazing in all the windows, and closer inspection of the outside world revealed a cloudless, blue sky. He couldn't help but feel he'd made a major tactical error basing his arguments on foul weather rather than the fact that Blair's hobble, however 'artful", was still slow and obviously painful. Jim realized he was standing there with his mouth open. If he was going to restart the argument, he'd have to do it soon, but now he couldn't even make it sound reasonable to himself.
"Alright, okay, you can come," Jim conceded, looking forlornly at his abused socks. "But did you have to--I mean, both of them?!?"
"What? You'd feel better if I'd left you one?" Blair pulled the second sock over the first, again arranging it so that the heel of the cast found its way free through the freshly aerated wool. "Besides, this way my toes will be extra toasty."
"I don't believe this," Jim shook his head. "You slow me down, I send you home."
"No problem," Blair answered, shouldering his backpack. "Lead on."
"No, you first." Jim responded holding the door open. Following Blair out, he took his time locking the door and the deadbolt. Then swinging his keys around one finger, he turned, moving on, his gait measured so as to fall into step behind Sandburg. It wasn't easy, long legs made matching Blair's limping speed awkward. The stairs were even worse. He swore Blair was three shades paler by the time he reached the street, nevertheless, the kid stepped out into the sunlight sweating and smiling.
Nothing more stubborn than a Sandburg, Ellison thought. How the hell's he going to get himself into the truck?
.......
Find out how in "Holiday Sensations!"
Hey! This was the Meek's idea, not mine! I just maintain the pages; I don't censor them. ....... (Of course, I suppose I could have been kind and put in the *whole* story instead of just a teaser...... Nah!)
Please send all comments to Shelagh I'll forward them to the author.
