2005 Version

  “Please be calm. You needn’t be angry with your daughter; she has a heart of gold. It was at my request that she brought me to your home and allowed me to clean up after the day that I’ve had. The years I’ve had, in fact.”

        Marvin stood before them, framed in the opening like a worn out statue of a god in the Pantheon. In his arms he held some of the books he had stolen, and he seemed resigned to certainty that he would be ejected back out onto the streets. There was no fear or apprehension in his face, nor did he appear to be overwhelmed by the stature of the family gathered before him. He seemed, rather, to possess a calm, like the convergence of all of the eyes of every storm on the planet. Maribeth thought, on looking over at him, that he had gained something higher in composure, something mysteriously peaceful. The governor was taken aback on seeing this man standing there dressed in his own clothes, and stammered for a second, quite uncharacteristically.

    “Now look here, Mr….Mr….”

    “Fuster. Marvin Q. Fuster,” Marvin said dropping his gaze slightly.

    "Yes, Mr. Fuster. Well, then, Mr. Fuster…” He suddenly hesitated. “Where did you get those clothes!”

        Marvin dropped his gaze in embarrassment.

         “I gave them to him, Daddy. He was dressed in rags!” Maribeth blurted. Smoke and water-ruined, certainly, but not exactly rags. Governor Harris raised an eye, infuriated with his little Mare.

        “You must understand that I can’t allow a perfect stranger to just waltz into my home on the arm of my daughter, no matter how altruistic her motives. To say nothing of raiding my closet.”

         “I quite understand.”

        “Yes. Well, I’m glad to hear that. We know very little at all about you, and it would be foolish of us to allow you to stay here. My daughter,” he said, motioning across the desk at Maribeth, “is captivated by the idea that she can rescue every homeless creature in the city, and it was merely an annoyance up until now. This is a new, unacceptable departure for her, you understand.”

         “Daddy!”

        “Be quiet, Maribeth. You’ve had your say. Now, sir, I’ll arrange to have a cab pick you up here and take you back to your …er, home, or anywhere else that you desire. You know there are hostels throughout the city for men who find themselves in situations such as yours. I can certainly make arrangements to have you put up in one if you like. A phone call is all it will take. And you may keep the clothes”

       “That won’t be necessary, Governor, though it is kind of you to offer. My loading dock is quite comfortable, even if it gets a bit breezy there at times. In fact, you needn’t even call for a cab, though I thank you for that, too. I’m used to walking and the night is perfect for it. I need to think a bit, anyway. The walk will do me good,” Marvin answered him.

        “Oh, Daddy! You wouldn’t just throw him out. You can’t be so heartless, you just can’t be! How would you feel sleeping under some old loading ramp. It’s inhuman of you to think of such a thing. Please, let him stay in the guest room downstairs for just this evening. I beg you, Daddy. One night won’t hurt a thing, and I did run over him. We owe him that. Just tonight. He’s tired and beaten up, thanks to me, and all he wants to do is read and sleep in a comfortable bed for the first time in his life. Please!”

        Maribeth got up and rushed to the side of her elderly friend and ushered him and his armload of books back to the chair in which she had just been sitting. The governor looked to his wife who stood close beside him, her right arm tucked safely under his, then he addressed Marvin again.

        “My daughter says you have no real formal education, Mr. Fuster, but that you are able to read these books you are carrying at a phenomenal speed. Is this true?”

        “Yes, it is, sir, and many other equally baffling things have occurred today as well. Please don’t ask me to explain them, though, as I don’t have a clue as to why myself. Well, yes I do…but she is correct in what she has said.”

        “What exactly are you reading there?” he asked, pointing to the books in Marvin’s lap.

        Marvin picked up the top book and turned it right side up so that he could read the title.

        “This one is ‘String Theory: The History of Everything’, by Rolf Nieman. I haven’t had time to open it just yet, but I’m certain it will be of great interest to me, and helpful as well.”

        “String theory. Ahh! I have a love of music, myself. Had I not gotten involved in politics, I believe I might have taken up the violin seriously, or perhaps the cello. Have you ever been to the symphony, Mr. Fuster?” The governor beamed; a chord deep inside him began to resonate, and a soft breeze rustled across his face and into his heart, as though nature itself was beginning to conspire against him in order to obliterate his initial assessment of Marvin’s stature in his world. This man of the streets spoke well and had a love for music, and that raised him immeasurably in the eyes of Richard Harris. Perhaps he would allow him to stay for an hour or two so that they could discuss Dvorak and Massenet.

        “No, I believe you are referring to a different type of string, sir. Though I do not pretend to know a great deal about the subject yet, the string this book refers to is a quantum matter, altogether on a different plane than music…though I do like certain types of Bluegrass, and folk music,” Marvin corrected him.

       “Bluegrass? Bluegrass? I don’t think that I’d admit to such a thing. That garbage is a thrown together hodgepodge of tin cans and backwoods fiddles as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather listen to a cow pissing on a flat rock!”

        “Richard!” Trish was not impressed with her husband’s choice of words. “Sometimes I wonder at your manners. I doubt Mr. Fuster hears such language, even where he comes from. Isn’t that right Mr. Fus…oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply…”

        “I take no offense, Mrs. Governor. No apology is required,” Marvin replied in an effort to rescue her. “While it is probably true that Bluegrass is of a quite different mother than the tunes played at the symphony halls, I find it full of life…like a squadron of geese hightailing it north in the late spring, or young boys who have suddenly discovered that there exists an opposite sex, and that they are meant to be kissed. It is raucous, at times, but it is vibrant in a way all its own. I think it has grown out of the very earth itself.”

        The governor sat down, corrected by the humble looking drunk. It seemed they would not be discussing opera or Bach. He reached for a long Cuban cigar in the humidor before him on the desk and carefully eyed the man who pondered physics and mathematics, but evidently preferred tin cans to grand pianos as he moistened the end of the expensive Havana with his mouth. He wondered if Marvin played chess…or was he fonder of checkers?

        “Don’t misunderstand me, sir,” Marvin continued. “The sound of an entire symphony orchestra suddenly erupting to life, as in…well, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capricio Espanol comes immediately to mind. The power and exuberance of that kind of experience must leave one breathless. I don’t know. I’ve never had the opportunity to hear such a thing in person, but I can imagine it, nonetheless. Still, there is much to be said for guitars and banjos and fiddles played with the heart of a hundred children flying about on a playground. I have seen that, and it left me just as breathless. There is an almost godlike majesty in just about any music played with spirit and abandon and honesty, wouldn’t you agree?”

     “Well, yes, I suppose I would,” the governor replied. “As long as you put it that way, I guess a case could be made for your position. But how is it that you are familiar with Rimsky-Korsakov? Only in the world of classical music lovers would a person be as intimately familiar with the Capricio as you appear to be.”

         Marvin had to think about the question for a moment or two, but then he answered.

        “I don’t know. I suppose I’ve heard it somewhere back…no. No, I know it too well. Every note, as though I’ve heard it a thousand times. Strange. I’m sorry, I simply can’t answer your question, sir. I just don’t know.”

        Richard was amazed, in a way. Not that Marvin was correct (he might not be), but that he found himself believing he could be. He imagined he might well be not just a chess player, but a master of that ancient game. And he suddenly liked the man. He didn’t yet want him to become a boarder, but he liked him. Compared to the educated Aldous Bunsmeier, this Marvin Fuster of the streets was a breath of frigid January air, invigorating and refreshing. Though it was still early in their encounter, he perceived no airs in this gentleman, rough and beaten by his own hand though he probably was, and he liked that.

        Marvin sat back in his chair. Maribeth and Trish stood looking down at him in silence. Trish was somewhat awed by what he was saying to her husband, who was no fool and possessed an uncanny ability, sharpened by years in the political barrooms, to cut through even the most adept liar’s baloney. Her husband, she thought, seemed to be impressed by him.

        “I am a fool, but I am thankfully alive. Sir, my future has not yet unfolded before me, but I am confident that every good thing is in it. Every good thing that can be dreamed of,” Marvin said out of the blue.

        “I beg your pardon?” Richard asked.

        “Stay or leave, a course has been charted for me by whom I do not know for certain, but a course that will draw me near to the one I love, and into a future holding an even grander purpose, perhaps. I have a thousand years to accomplish whatever it might be. Ten lifetimes!”

        With that he rose from the chair, quietly arranged his books into an orderly fashion under his right arm, and smiled deeply, and somewhat forlornly, at his hosts.

        “Well, I must go. It has been a pleasure to have met you, Governor.” Turning to Trish, he added. “You have a lovely daughter, madam, with a heart and spirit given to scale lofty heights. Continue to cherish this child, she is going to make you very proud someday.” To Maribeth, he offered his free hand, a smile, and a gentle kiss on her cheek.

        “With your parents’ permission, I’ll come often to visit you, dear Maribeth. How fortunate for me that you ran me over, eh? But I am beginning to suspect that that, too, was ordained by the spooks. What else are they up to, I wonder? Well, no matter. Today was the finest, craziest day of my long life, and your presence in it made it all the more remarkable and pleasant. Thank you.” He turned and walked toward the doors of the study, having said all that he could think of to be important.

        Maribeth was a tough young woman, not given to outbursts of tears or emotional displays, but she found herself near to crying. It was as if Marvin had been her most beloved grandfather, and had just announced he was leaving this life forever. Of course he had just announced the opposite, but with a sincerity and eloquence reserved for scenes in wonderful movies and great plays. She was moved ever more deeply than she could imagine, and she turned to her father for a consoling touch of his hand, or a look of empathy. She received both. As if to emphasize his action, the governor spoke out as Marvin reached the doorway.

        “Mr. Fuster, please wait a moment. My daughter might be right. Your presence here in our home for one evening would certainly not put us out,” he looked to his wife, “Would it dear?”

        “Well…I don’t know,” she answered. “We…he…”

 
        Maribeth, who was standing near to her mother, now, took hold of Trish’s arm and interrupted. “Oh Momma, please. You must. Look at him!”

        The governor continued. “I haven’t any idea what this grand plan is that you’ve alluded to, but there is enough of the evening left for you to tell me a bit more about it. You’ve gotten me very curious. One evening in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable house. Tomorrow, you can have breakfast with us, then leave. Tonight, our home is yours. What do you say?”

        Marvin turned back to them, but did not answer for a moment. He looked first to Maribeth, who had folded her hands to her mouth. Grandfather was not dying at all.

        “I think I could find a job. I suppose I could, and pay for the books, if you think I should. I don’t know about the other store, but who knows?”

        Looking, then, to the governor (who did not have the slightest idea what he had just said), he stated, “It would be a great relief, to be honest, to stay here tonight. I have already fallen very much in love with the bed in your basement, and a hot shower first thing in the morning would be a blessing, to be sure. Are you certain, though? I might be a thief in the night, for all you know…or worse.”

        “I think that you are not, but I will know by the end of the evening, be certain of that. The Governor’s Mansion is a fortress, and where it is nearly impossible to break into without many eyes seeing you, it is more difficult still to escape from with a bundle of silver…or blood...on one’s back. In any case, I believe that despite whatever you may have been in the past, you can be trusted tonight. Have you eaten yet?”

        Thus, Marvin’s banishment back to the street was stayed, and in the process he was able to fill his belly with cold (but delicious) roast beef, hot rolls, potatoes and corn, and a gallon of milk. He told the governor, who listened with rapt attention, the entire story of what had happened to him that day. Everything, that is, except the ill-fated mission to acquire a new suit of clothes. That, he hoped, might be saved for the ears of a priest.

        Maribeth and her mother sat quietly all the while, and listened intently. Marvin was able to relate the story with an analytical eye for detail, which astounded even himself. It was a far more interesting tale than he had been able to tell Maribeth only a few hours earlier, filled with descriptions of the angels and the buildings and the wakening mood of the city itself, as though he were Shakespeare or Dickens, and he was dictating to a scribe. To the further amazement of the family, he gave a very short, but fact-filled explanation of the probable link between the fourth and fifth dimensions, and the causes of cellular degeneration which were impacted by the connection of those realms. They found themselves at a loss to even inquire about any of it, but were nonetheless in awe of his obvious brilliance. It was Maribeth’s suspicion, and hope, that her parents would be infected, and adopt him by evening’s end, and if the debacle at the clothing store could be kept secret, there was every reason to expect that the three of them would be caught up in Marvin’s fantastically impossible journey and find themselves coming to rest on a cloud, somewhere high above the stratosphere.

        At the end of the tale, Marvin sat back in his chair, delighted by his newfound narrative abilities. Maribeth smiled and looked to her father for some reaction. His eyes were stretched wide open and his mouth drawn tightly shut. The only comment came from the lips of Trish.

        “Oh dear.”

2012 Version-Final

Partially hidden by a column separating the rooms, Maribeth shot Marvin a questioning look. He stood frozen, the color in his face drained.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He replied, “Not a good time to meet your folks, dear. I’m getting out of here.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What’s the matter?”

“No time to explain,” he whispered. He bent down on weak knees and began to collect the books hurriedly. “Here,” he said thrusting “Mitochondrial Mutations In Primates” at her. “Just say you dropped this. Don’t mention me.”

“But…”

“Maribeth? Is that you, darling?” Trish Harris’ voice whirled down the length of the entrance hall and round the corner where her daughter stood, newly in possession of a book Marvin never expected to lay eyes on again (and which she had no inclination to ever read). He had turned by then and was on his way back to the rear hall. The question in his mind was, should he even bother to go downstairs, or simply continue on to the rear door, the garage, the driveway, and then to the street beyond? At the far end stood Anselm. He wondered nothing at all.

Maribeth shouted, “Wait!”

The sheer volume of her statement—the announcement to the first family and their visitors because of it— answered Marvin’s question. He bounded the distance to the door, balancing the weight and mass of the books in one arm, extending the free hand toward the knob when he drew near it. The hand met Anselm’s midsection. Quickly then, Marvin’s full body. He bounced backward, landing on his rear, dazed and confused, his wrist nearly broken when the hand it carried met the angel’s unseen body. He sat for a moment watching the multi-colored stars whizzing in front of his eyes.

“Ohmagosh! Marvin!” Maribeth was at his side by the time Betelgeuse fell below the horizon, and the sun began to brighten the old man’s eastern hemisphere. She fell to her knees and put a hand to his cheek. “Oh, when will this knocking yourself out come to an end?”

Soon, hopefully. The brain, even the super-brain, can only take so much abuse. He wasn’t thinking this, however. He really wasn’t thinking much of anything at all this time around. Marvin’s brain in the space of less than a week had been spilled out onto the ground, stuffed back into his fractured head by the best and most expensive doctors in town, been packed with two or three gigs of the world’s greatest literature—and now this.

Anselm waved a finger over him. He hadn’t intended for Marvin to meet a stone wall, forgetting momentarily that he was indeed that wall. Even angels are capable of miscalculation.

Marvin shook the remaining stars away, and realized what had happened, at least in the preceding moment. To him. From his perspective he’d simply run into the door. Something similar had happened a few years back when he had lifted a turkey from the frozen section at the Piggly Wiggly Market, and then made a mad dash for the rear door leading to the alley. That time he’d wound up out cold for twenty minutes as a result, and soon afterward spent a month in jail for shoplifting. Sitting in jail he wondered why he’d been so stupid to have stolen a turkey to begin with, having no way to cook it. Couple that with the fact that it was mid-January, colder than the hubs of hell, he was sleeping beneath the loading dock (colder than the hubs of hell), and that the frozen turkey would remain frozen until May at the earliest…

Just a crazy impulse. A genetic predisposition to steal.

“Are you okay?” Maribeth asked him.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think. Help me get these books…”

“Just lie still for a minute. You might have suffered a concussion,” she said, forgetting for the moment that her father and mother, a Major from the Salvation Army Mission, and an officer of the law were likely…well, there they were before she had time to forget.

“Maribeth! What on earth is going on?” Mums.

Time for a bit of creative thinking, Maribeth was thinking. She rose to the occasion as the Major prepared to offer appropriate biblical verses, and the cop scoured Marvin’s vaguely familiar face with his eagle-sharp eyes.

“Who is this?” Richard Harris demanded. “What’s going on here?”

Maribeth addressed them. “Daddy, Mums, I want you to meet Mr. Marvin…”

“Fahl-graf…stad,” Marvin blurted. Professor Fahlgrafstad. Forgive me. I fainted. The heart, you understand.”

“Oh dear,” Trish Harris said, bringing a hand to her mouth. She knelt quickly beside her daughter, readying to help the stricken man. The Major had long ago forgotten all about Marvin Fahlgrafstad-Fuster, and fortunately for the then-naked Marvin, the incident at the Mission had gone unnoticed. The cop narrowed his eyes. Something was terribly familiar about the face.

“What is he doing in our home?” Richard took the reins.

Maribeth was cooking by then. “He came by with his books to…umm…show me what…he’s been reading. Up. On. Oh, it’s wonderful, Daddy!” She spoke more quickly, now, with confidence, having gotten past the clumsy part of her lie. “He’s exploring the mysteries of the human gene. Stuff. I don’t really understand it as well as he does, but he wants me to be his…lab assistant over at the university. Isn’t that a kill? Me? Your only daughter?”

This seemed to excite Trish. “Oh my, yes. But I had no idea you were studying science, darling. When did this come about?”

The cop crinkled his mouth, stepped forward, and peered more closely at Professor Fahlgrafstad. “You look awful familiar. Have we met somewhere?” His tone was anything but pleasant; in point of fact, downright suspicious-sounding. Marvin smiled dumbly, as if his encounter with the door still had his brain rattled, and then turned his attention back to the first family’s exchange.

“Yes,” Richard added, “when did you get interested in science? A professor? At Denver University?”

It was not unheard of for a perverted university professor to bedazzle a beautiful female student with twenty letter-long words of praise, and then charm her into bed. Not that many years ago Richard had been a student too, but with a keen future politician’s eye. Men never change, essentially, he knew. His premature assessment of Marvin’s M.O. was, however, at least one beautiful girl off the mark. Marvin was deeply indebted to Maribeth, but interested in her body he was not. Further, though the governor had no way of knowing anything at all about this, it was never Marvin’s intention to wow the woman of his dreams with heady words. His intention was simply to win her with his youth.

“Oh Daddy, please. You know very well I’ve always watched The Science Channel. But to answer your question, I met Mist…Professor Fus-fahlgrafstad a few semesters ago on campus in Biology. His area of research astounded me. He…well, maybe he could explain it better than I could.” Maribeth looked imploringly at Marvin the scholar to rescue her. Marvin thought hard on his coming dissertation for a second or two.

“Certainly, my dear. Sir,” he said looking up at the governor, “I intend to unravel the mysteries of the human gene and then reverse my age. Quite simply.”

Richard stumbled backward in shock—or anger—and glowered at his nit-wit daughter. He regained his composure and replied to Marvin with a scowl.

“Get out, you idiot.”

“Daddy!”

“Be quiet, Maribeth. You must be insane.” Richard turned to the cop.

“Get this nincompoop out of here.”

The cop came alive, the look of recognition rising like a star bursting in his eyes. “I KNEW I’d seen you somewhere! You’re the drunken bum that flipped me off this morning. Get up!”

“Oh dear…”

“Mama! It’s true. Mister Fuster is a genius, I swear it. I saw him read an entire book on the way home from Araby’s.”

“Fuster! I remember you,” the Major exploded.

“Get up,” the cop ordered again. Marvin sat quietly, disobeying the law for the thousandth time in his adult life.

“I thought he said his name was Fahlgrafstine,” Trish said, the look on her face betraying her growing confusion.

“Get him out!” Richard ordered the cop once more with force.

“Mama, he can’t leave! He’s been hurt…through no fault of his own. In our home! If you let Daddy throw an injured genius out, I’ll simply die! If I don’t keel over dead, I swear, I’ll starve myself to death instead. He’s done nothing wrong…” And on Maribeth went as the cop disregarded her pleading threats. He grabbed Marvin by the collar—the collar of one of Richard’s cashmere sweaters—and yanked his frail body to its feet as though the wasted carcass encasing Marvin was a plastic trash bag filled with crumpled paper. Marvin coughed as the collar cut off his air supply.

“You beast! Leave this poor old man alone,” Maribeth screamed. She launched herself at the cop, pounding on his back. The cop diplomatically paid no attention to her pummeling and began to read Marvin his Mirandas. Marvin coughed more.

“He’s nothing more than a God-forsaken alcoholic derelict,” the Major advised anyone who might care to listen. “I can attest to that first hand, with God as my witness.”

Maribeth continued to engage the cop’s back with both fists as she turned her head and snapped at the Major. “Oh shut up you old fart. Why are you here anyway? Begging for money? Get out!”

“All right, all right! Stop,” Richard said, wading into the fray.

  Marvin’s face was contorted and turning purplish in the death grip of the v-neck. The officer released him from his grip, at which Marvin collapsed onto the floor for the second time. Maribeth and her mother, hands of mercy extended, came quickly to his aid.

“’… And, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that…’ What…what was it he said?” Marvin sputtered. “I have seen eternity staring at me this evening.” He sat slumped and staring forward, mumbling at his hands that lay palms-up on his knees. Maribeth and Trish fussed over him, but it was as though he had left the hallway and the mayhem slowly fading around him.

Richard motioned the officer to move back, but paid no attention to the Major, who had only come, uninvited, to ask the governor to attend a gala dinner at the Mission, which was to be prepared in its entirety by the residents, none of whom could he possibly know had ever cooked anything more complex than a hard boiled egg. The Major had complete confidence in the hand of God in the matter at any rate. His God who had urged the saintly man in a cathartic vision to personally visit the state’s dignitary and request his and his family’s presence week after next. In the long run (the Major failed to admit to himself) the attendance would draw the interest of hundreds, perhaps, of the wealthy, along with their well-oiled pocketbooks. For his part, six foot-five Officer Daniel O’Reilly had simply been walking by when he spotted the Major, an old acquaintance. In the short course of their congenial conversation he found himself rambling up the Mansion steps beside the major, unaware that within the hour he would have personally met the beloved governor, his Florence Nightingale-like wife, and the sodden bum he had rousted earlier that day. He would later recall, mostly, having met Maribeth with her viper’s tongue and John L. Sullivan fists.

The governor looked down on the now blue-tinted gentleman wearing his sweater, trousers, argyle socks and comfortable loafers, being mothered by Saints Nit Wit and Trish of Avila. He set aside his urge to throttle Maribeth for the moment and turned to the Major and Officer O’Reilly. Over the Major’s shoulder he spied Consuela and Robert peeking round the corner at the kitchen. Richard spoke to the Major and O’Reilly.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.

“Robert,” he said raising his eyes, “please escort our visitors to the door. Major,” he said dropping his gaze, “we will check our calendar to see if the night of your dinner is open. Thank you.” To O’Reilly, “I think the situation is under control. Thank you for your help. We’ll see to the professor, or whatever he is. Goodnight.”

Robert had stepped forward, halfway down the hall, and waited quietly until both men offered their valedictions to the family, and then retreated toward the exit behind them. At the corner he glanced back over his shoulder quickly at the bum who had weaseled his way into the sanctity of the home. He could not help but notice Maribeth sitting on her haunches caressing the indigent’s face as though by doing so she could somehow erase what the interloper truly was in his heart.

Marvin found his voice as the tempest subsided.

“’It shall be so: Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.’”

“Is he speaking to the Major?” Trish asked her daughter.

Maribeth turned to her mother. “I think about himself. Mamma, we simply have to help him,” she whispered.

                                                     *

“Have they gone?” Marvin asked, the color in his face returning to its normal sallow hue.

“Oh my goodness, he’s going to live,” said Trish.

Maribeth smiled and answered her guest-pet. “Yes, Marvin. Daddy threw them out.”

“I did no such a thing.” He stood close to the trio and looked down on Marvin and his daughter. The handful of books still lay strewn about on the hardwood floor like so many cards tossed by a naughty child. Marvin blinked as his heart pumped precious blood back into his brain.

“Now, who are you and what are you doing in my home?” Richard demanded.

“Daddy, please. We’ll explain every…”

“Quiet, Maribeth. I’m asking him.” Richard waited. Marvin considered what fabrication he could devise that would make at least some sense to a man who was no doubt used to hearing bullshit from men dressed in thousand-dollar suits, and agendas that ranged from purely public-minded to insane schemes involving millions of taxpayer dollars.

Marvin began to rise shakily to his feet. Maribeth and Trish took one of his arms each. When between them they'd gotten him up and steadied, he looked at the governor. The hall lights washed across Richard Harris’ face, devoid of the desperate wrinkles that marked his own. His brown, expertly-trimmed hair shined, with the salt and pepper relish dappling his temples. The governor’s blue eyes were penetrating and steady.

The governor waited.

“Sir, it will do me little good to lie to you, and so I will tell you the truth, I swear by all that’s holy. It will take a moment or two, though. Is there someplace we can retire to where I can sit and relate a story that will positively astound you? I only half-believe what has happened myself.”

“Yes there is,” Richard answered. “Out on the curb while we wait for a van from the asylum to take you away.”

“Oh Richard! For the love of Jesus, don’t be so cruel. Mister Fahlgrafstine has been hurt. He can sit in the study while we listen to whatever it is he has to say,” Trish corrected her husband. She took Marvin’s arm and gently urged him to accompany her, ignoring the sour upturning of Richard’s nose. Richard sighed in exasperation.

“This way, professor,” Trish said.

“Just Marvin, Mama,” Maribeth said, following at Marvin’s side. “Come, Daddy. You won’t believe what you’re about to hear.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” he said.

A moment later, the governor, Trish, Maribeth and indigent Marvin entered the comfortable study. Richard took a seat at his desk, in a black leather chair worthy of her majesty, the Queen of England. Trish stood at his side. Maribeth ushered her charge into another comfortable chair facing her father, and then seated herself beside him. A second or two of silence ticked by, and then Marvin began his oratory.

“My history is probably unimportant, sir, up until the events of nearly a week ago, that is. I am not a madman or a demon, though, and public records will confirm the same. I invite you to scrutinize them at your convenience. While I am not among the city’s more glorious lights, I’ve…”

“Get to the point. I don’t have all night,” Richard cut in.

“Yes. Yes.

“I suppose it all began—let me see—sixty years or so ago, in Globeville, a small community north of the city…”

“I know where Globeville is.”

“Of course. Forgive me. Since this strange transformation I’ve been given to Dickensian narration. I will cut to the chase. Five days ago I had just retrieved my dinner from a filthy dumpster behind…”

And so Marvin laid down the canvas of events, painting it with words that would have silenced the organ at a High Mass. His audience sat and stood in rapt near-disbelief the entire three hours it took him to adequately describe who he really was and what had happened.

The governor sat lock jawed, unaccustomedly lost for words.

Trish spoke up, clutching Richard’s shoulder.

“Dear me. An angel?”

“Sir, Madam, I only ask for lodging for the evening. I have much more reading to do before the morning, and the sturdy desk in the bedroom below us, with its perfect lighting, will enable me to accomplish the task. Tomorrow at daybreak I can and will gather my books and clean clothing, and then retire back to my humble home not far away—beneath the dock.”

Maribeth sat quietly, a smile the size of Gibraltar stretching across her delightful face. The fact that her father had not picked up the phone to call O’Reilly back in, or a white van with a padded interior, gave her hope concerning the brilliant derelict and his heaven-inspired mission.

“You shall have the bedroom,” Trish said. “Tomorrow after you’ve awakened you will sit with us at breakfast and tell us what you’ve discovered. I don’t know how you think you can reverse your age, I truly don’t, but you have captured my imagination.”

Maribeth clapped with glee. “Thank you, Mama!”

Richard relented against his better judgment. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering the dreadful possibilities this insane old man could inflict on the household, larceny being the least damaging among them.

“We have security cameras…”

“Daddy!”

“…positioned strategically everywhere.” He reached across the desk and picked up the landline phone, quickly keying in a number. A second or two later the recipient of his call responded.

“Chief Johnson, sir. What can I do for you?”

Richard spoke. “Hi Dan. I want two officers stationed at the front and rear entrances to the Mansion this evening.”

“Yes, sir. Any problem there?”

“None at all. Just a precaution. I’ll explain later. How are Judith and the kids?”

“They’re fine, governor. Are you certain everything’s okay?”

“Couldn’t be better. Have a good evening.” Richard ended the call and gazed at the guest.

“Any questions, Mr. Fuster?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Do I look mad to you? I’m not at all certain how you’ve come to be able to speak like Cicero—if anything of what you’ve said is true—but I will accede against my better judgment to my wife’s request. For one evening. Be advised, someone will be outside your bedroom door, wide awake, this entire night as well. Read, if that is what you intend, but remember that this mansion is a fortress. Many eyes will be watching you.”

And then he turned his eyes to Maribeth.

“Take Robert and show Mister Fuster to the bedroom, and then come back upstairs to ours for a moment. Tell Robert to stay down there. If the knob turns, tell him to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Back to Marvin. “Welcome to the Governor’s Mansion, Mr. Fuster.”

“Oh Daddy, thank you so much. You’ll see, you’ll see. Marvin will become the brightest star in the sky, thanks to you.”

“Only for the evening, Maribeth. One night.” He rose, keeping his gaze fixed on Marvin.

“I must be as mad as you. Goodnight, and ponder well what I’ve just said.” He left the study.

Trish began to follow him, all aglow with visions of Marvin’s impossible task spinning like a centrifuge in her head. She turned briefly at the glistening wood doors and spoke to their overnight guest.

“Have you eaten, Mr. Fahl…Fuster? Darling,” she directed this comment to Maribeth. “Ask Robert to have Consuela prepare something for Mr. Fuster. If he’s hungry, that is. One cannot study very well on an empty stomach. Goodnight.” She left, humming the notes of a tune Marvin recognized from his Anselm-inspired tutelage: “Chances Are”. 

Impressum

Texte: (c)Patrick Sean Lee 2011
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.09.2011

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Widmung:
To my beloved Pammy, my Maribeth.