even years ago, two weeks after his Arctic Night, and after S he’d learned his job was secure, Manny had finished four night-shifts and went on a three-day break. He had gone home that morning and slept from seven until noon. He had lunch, showered, and went shopping near Art’s home. He had taken the weird book with him, and he had stopped at Art’s place. He could still recall the conversation word for word when Art had opened his door…
“Hey, Manny. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Bet ya weren’t expecting this,” Manny said, and handed the book to Art. Looking at the front cover, Art displayed only curiosity, at first. After a few seconds, however, his brow knitted up. He turned the book over, and his face turned ashen. “How… Where?”
Manny told Art how he’d found the book, how he’d tracked down the daughters of the author, and how the one named Bell had called him. That was all he knew, he told Art, except for his part in a four-foot hole in Arctic ice. He told Art he’d like to know the rest of the story, if Art was willing.
“You may regret it,” Art said, “but…” He looked up, and nodded his head, as if he’d made a decision. “I’m a fast reader. You got something to do for a couple hours?”
Manny finished his shopping and returned to Art’s house about four PM. He found Art and his wife, Celia, sitting at a table on their front porch. As Manny approached, Art plucked a bottle from a washtub filled with ice and Corona, twisted the cap off, handed it to Celia, and then got one for himself. “You’re on your three-day break?” he asked, when Manny stepped up to the porch.
“I am.”
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“And your wife won’t mind if you crash on my couch tonight?”
“She’s at a trade show,” Manny said, “out west. Look, I didn’t mean to put you to so much trouble.”
“He’s retired, Manny. It’s no trouble,” Celia said. “Pull up a chair, twist off a top.”
“So, you know this story too?” Manny asked Celia, as he pulled a chair to the table.
“Most of it,” Art answered. “The rest, she’ll hear now.” He got a far-away look in his eyes then, and said, “An old friend promised to sit on a porch just like this, and tell me his part of this story… a long time ago…” Then he refocused on Manny and said, “But that didn’t work out, so now I’ll tell you the tale. Sit back, and understand I won’t take offense if at any point you just get up and walk away.”
Art had told his tale, about his young friend, Casey, his diversion to Dallas, his ending in Nam, the woman named Bell, and the incredible events she described that had happened in Dallas. They had talked away the afternoon, and much of the evening. They’d taken a break, about six PM, long enough to put a frozen pizza into the oven, and without saying it, they all knew they needed to stay inside until the pizza was done, or they’d risk burning it to a crisp.
About nine PM, they had finished the tale and most of the beer in the washtub. Manny had crashed on Art’s comfortable couch for the night, and by seven the next morning they had all stumbled to the breakfast table for a cup of something strong Celia had brewed up in the coffee pot. They’d spoken of weather, politics, but not the past night’s tale, until Manny’d stood to leave.
“So, if Bell is really… gone, that means you’re the only one who knows all of this,” Manny had said to Art.
“Kennedy must know. Probably more than me.”
“Still, seems like you should write it all down somewhere.”
“I’ve thought about it. I figure Kennedy has that base covered already. He’s been on top of everything else.”
When Manny’d left Art and Celia that morning, he left the story there as well. To whom could he tell such a tale?
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