OTUS OTTUS AND ENNUS by Marc Turner

By Marc Turner OTUS OTTUS AND ENNUS

Table of Contents I. The Good Samaritans pg 4 II. Out of Character pg 20 III The Roof, the Roof, the Roof etc. pg 34 IV Quiet Pond on Still Night pg 46 V Otus & Ottus in East St. Louis Nighttown pg 62 VI Arcane Practices pg 72 VII GO-GO ART GO-GO ARTIST pg 82 VIII Mayoral Race pg 107 IX A Lovely Breeze pg 130 X A Purpose Driven Life pg 146 XI Doing Good Deeds Just to Be Good pg 162 XII Charity Begins at Home pg 188 XIII Somewhere Lost pg 197 XIV The Pursuit of Wholesome Goals pg 226 XV Bucket List of ‘What Color Is Your Parachute’ Dreams pg 237 XVI The Grand Finale pg 250 XII Night Music pg 262

For my mom and dad

THE GOOD SAMARITANS Emily Burchen glared at her fifty year old twins Otus and Ottus. Otus sat in a rocking chair. He was sewing cuffs into a pair of his new bib overalls. Ottus downloaded pictures of Foovier (foo-vee-aaa), his cat - his GO-GO ARTIST’S FAMILIAR - on his phone as he relaxed in the red recliner. Ottus’s art was GO-GO ART and he, a GO-GO ARTIST. Foovier lived in Ottus’s GO-GO ART STUIDO, one of the Burchen family’s barns that Emily allowed him to convert into a space where he could pursue his projects without bothering anyone. Ottus stroked his chin. Otus fixed another stitch. The brothers had agreed with Emily when she’d suggested that they go ahead and miss the special Easter service that evening. However, she had wanted them to insist they go, and it riled her that they so easily went along with not going. Oh ye of little faith - that was Otus and Ottus. Of course, she had a real reason for not going, her sciatica, but she hadn’t mentioned that, and they were too happy - jumped at the opportunity to abandon the Lord the first chance they got. Her glare scorched the oblivious heathens, and she said, “If you think that by missing church you’re going to do any fun things, you’re sadly mistaken. If we can’t go to church for one hour of the week, then you don’t deserve to do anything. So no seeing Jenny and working on your fancy recipes in case that’s what you thought you’d be doing, Otus.” Otus looked up from his sewing, shocked at Emily’s tone, but he said nothing. Then she focused on Ottus and said, “And no - no...” What was Ottus doing that was fun? Ottus flipped his hair and looked at Emily, chagrined that she’d already forgotten about HIS NEWEST GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT: Wheel Barrel X. He sighed, frowned, and patted back a long shank of hair. So typical. “He stole the good wheel-barrel. That’s his big project this week,” Otus said, cocking an

eyebrow at his twin. “Says it’s his piece addressing - addressing - oh I forget what all. But he stole the good one, and Benito and Sebastian had to use the old wheel-barrel for the stalls yesterday.” “It’s Wheel Barrel X,” Ottus clarified, peeved. “Well, you can’t do whatever you’re doing with it tonight,” Emily said. Ottus rolled his eyes. “He says its more of his stupid GO-GO ART, and of course he’s not drawing the wheel barrel or painting it, Mom. He just has it sitting in the west barn,” Otus said. He refused to refer to the west barn as Ottus’s GO-GO ART STUDIO. “Drawing it or reproducing the wheel-barrel in bronze or clay or something is just illustration. An object removed from its context, however, is GO-GO ART,” Ottus said. Otus drew in his breath, aggrieved, and busied himself with the hem he was working on. He hissed, “That’s ridiculous. Someone putting a bathtub in the kitchen isn’t art. Or - or, for example, having Moo-Moo stay in the attic - that’s art? No.” He humphed. “Those are some brilliant ideas, Otus. May I use them?” Ottus asked. “No. Mom would never allow you to put Moo-Moo inside even if you could get her in here. You’re crazy.” Otus looked at Emily for help. Emily dismissed Otus’s whittering as well as Ottus’s aesthetic dithering, much in the same way she did her younger son, Ennus’s drug addiction ravings and delusions. She said, “Don’t talk like idiots! Moo-Moo indoors? Please.” This was too much. That Ottus had to defend and explain GO-GO ART was beyond humiliating. In the manner of a patient but weary adult addressing two willful children, Ottus said, “It has a precedent in Duchamp and it speaks to the dichotomy between - “

”I don’t know why you never paint anymore,” Emily said, looking at the paint-bynumbers kitty that Ottus had done as a child and that was hanging over the front room tv. “You forget my new self-portrait,” Ottus reminded her. Someday they’d be sorry that they didn’t care. He scrolled through the files on his phone until he found the picture of himself he’d sketched on a three-by-three sheet of rice paper. He handed the phone to Emily. “Why are you dressed like this in the picture?” she asked Ottus, handing the phone to Otus. “You’re dressed like you’re from the ghetto,” Otus observed. Though he didn’t know, it was the greatest compliment he could have paid his brother. The picture showed Ottus in a hoody, baggy pants and a thick gold chain. “Culturally, Hip Hop nation is the next step after Post Punk, and of course it is my heritage.” “You’re over fifty,” Otus reminded him. “Hip Hop began in the seventies and eighties, and I can’t help but feel an affinity for the OGs,” Ottus replied. Otus shook his head. “The seventies and eighties - the years you dressed like Lou Reed and shaved a Maltese cross into your scalp and whatnot?” Otus said, clipping some excess thread. “You boys quit bickering. We are going to church!” Emily snapped. Ottus wilted. Footsteps bounded up the front porch steps, making Emily and the boys jump, even though they knew who it was. Turbulence fought the doorknob like a chimp trying to rattle his way in. Ennus wanted in. He shook the door open and burst in. Ennus, slightly out of breath, his short mullet sticking out, regarded his family, as they did him. “Why doesn’t he ever have to go to church?”

Otus asked. The unspoken answer - which Emily loathed to acknowledge, preferring blithe denial - was Ennus’s incorrigible drug fiend persona. “Go where?” Ennus boomed, his eyes widening in anger and paranoia. Ottus sighed and played with a tuft of hair. “Go to church. Didn’t I say church?” he said. Ennus gasped. His eyes bulged. “I’ll kill a preacher on sight. With my bare hands,” he declared. “It wouldn’t hurt you to go with us,” Emily said. Ennus went to the window and closed the blinds. “Open those,” she nagged. Ennus peeked through the closed blinds and then bounded out of the living room, through the kitchen and out the back door. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. You’d think he’d robbed a bank. I wonder if - you know - he’s up to something,” Emily said, making the twins raise their eyebrows. “Oh no,” Ottus said. Otus got the old phone from its cradle and said, “I’d better call Jenny and tell her we’ll have to brainstorm recipes tomorrow.” Ottus groaned and rose from his chair. “I’m going to get ready,” he said hurrying upstairs. Otus’s expression brightened at the sound of his long time sweetheart’s voice. “Hewooo, ooo. Oooo busy boo?” Otus and Jenny’s penchant for baby talk when around others made them, as a couple, as popular as stomach aches. Apart they were fine, but put them together, and they would make everyone uncomfortable to a cringing, grimacing degree. Emily tuned out the conversation and shifted on the inflated circular pool toy she sat on to help her sciatica. It needed air. Otus mewled, “Me tan’t coooome ovwer. Gotsy go doo churchy-wurchy - be goo boy.” For minutes the two of them communicated in this way until they’d agreed to meet

tomorrow. Otus would bring his new cookbook, Souffle With Panache. After he hung up, Otus finished sewing the hem on the other cuff. He folded the overalls and said, “I thought I’d wear my wheat colored cambric shirt.” He adjusted his toupee. When Emily shook off the shuddering fantods that oft-times accompanied Otus and Jenny’s baby talk, she said, “Well you better get ready. If it weren’t for me, you boys would never go to church.” That was true with Ottus but not Otus. “I just went along with you because you said we didn’t need to go,” Otus protested. “I love God!” He got out of his chair and went upstairs to get ready.

Otus drove them to the evening service in their big red truck. He wore his wheat cambric shirt, a fresh straw cowboy hat and had a cream colored handkerchief poking from the pocket of his overalls. Ottus glowed in his new poison green velvet blazer, A gelled spit curl hung down the center of his face. His purple jeans were cut like a girl’s, and he wore expensive yellow shoes. The twins rode in the front seat of the truck, and Emily, in black dress and pearls, sat in the rear cab seat. Before they were out of the long driveway, Otus had to stop for Moo-Moo, the giant cow that Ennus had bred during his second recovery when he’d occupied his sobriety with arcane experiments in animal husbandry. Sweet Moo-Moo, Ennus frequently referred to her as America, as in - “Moo Moo, you are America!” She stood in the road, ten feet at the shoulder, all reddish brown and white. Otus pointed to a break in the fence and said, “There’s where she got out. Ottus, why don’t you-“ “You deal with her. If I got mud on my pretty shoes putting that stupid freak-cow back

in the field, I’d have to turn her into a million pounds of hamburger,” Ottus said. “You’ve got your overalls on, though why you insist on wearing overalls to church is beyond me, but since you do, you put Moo-Moo back in the pasture, Otus,” Emily said. Otus pouted. No arguing with Emily even though these were his best overalls and just as clean as their clothes. He got out of the red truck and went up to the cow. Since she was grazing, Moo-Moo’s massive head was close to the ground, and it was easy for Otus to take her by her halter and lead her back through the hole in the fence. He was careful to keep out of the way of her gigantic hooves. Once she was home again, safe in her pasture, Otus propped up the post she’d knocked over. It was an unstable fix, but it was the best he could do. Tomorrow he would tell the farmhands, Benito and Sebastian, and they would do it better. “Now you stay put, Moo-Moo,” he huffed. The gargantuan cow gazed through him. Otus sighed. Life is so unfair. He trudged back to the truck. They went past the Burchen farmland, two thousand acres, the fields where corn, wheat, and soybean would soon stretch to the horizon on both sides of the road after Sebastian and Benito, plowed, prepared the soil, and planted. The property had been in the family for over a hundred years, originally claimed by the first Otus, the boys great great great grandfather. In late March, grass was starting to grow thick, and tiny buds formed on the trees. Otus drove at a slow pace down the road as a cloud covered the moon. Otus tried to help on the farm. Benito and Sebastian always demurred - avoided him. Why? After all, he should be able to help if he wanted. It was his mom’s farm. Emily, however, sided with Sebastian and Benito - told him to let them do their jobs and, and - not bother them. Ennus couldn’t help on the farm - his drug addiction, wild mood swings and all,

but Ottus did not help because he chose not to. Farming interfered with his GO-GO ART as well as his solitary high-impact aerobics workouts and, at one every weekday - so perfectly beautiful and so doomed - the episode of One Life to Live, watched, preferably, with his brother and Emily there to help analyze the proceedings. The red truck went past the Smith farm where Jenny lived. By herself she worked the huge farm she’d inherited. Otus honked. Lights from the house twinkled, the miles of corn and soybean acreage surrounding it like a sea around an island. “I wonder if Jenny is brainstorming without me. I should just call,” Otus said. “If you start talking baby talk, I’ll throw myself from the truck,” Ottus said, twirling his forelock. “Are you just trying to hurt my feelings?” “Take your foot off the peddle,” Emily said. “I’m only going twenty miles an hour,” Otus said, exasperated. Emily wouldn’t abide anyone driving faster than a crawl no matter what road they were on, a problem when on the highway. Although Otus did not mind driving slowly, he resented his driving being critiqued. He did not enjoy driving anyway. “That’s not what I’m saying. How many times do I have to tell you boys that the more you put your foot on the peddle, the more gas you waste.” This was asking too much, and Otus looked over the seat at Emily, his lips a pursed moue. “If I take my foot off the gas peddle, the car will slow down and stop.” “Don’t be smart. You’re a real speed demon - both of you,” Emily charged. Ottus grinned, and Otus shook his head. In the distance were the lights of their small town, Pilsen.

The Great Pilsen Church was in the middle of town, next to the Miller Silos and across the street from McDonalds. Part of the church was the Reverend Bill Keifner’s antique store, Keifner’s Treasures. Cars and trucks filled the parking lot and the street in front of the church. The Burchens, like most of the congregation, sat in the same pew they always sat. Otus knelt in prayer. Ottus, as he did every week, reminded himself that Andy Warhol used to go to church service - well, mass - enjoying the artistic spectacle of it all, and if Andy Warhol could get something out of it, so could Ottus. He tried, as he so often did, and it didn’t work, as it so often did not. Concentrating on the low suspended ceiling and beige paneling depressed him, so Ottus tried to enjoy it ironically. No. He sighed. Emily shifted her haunches on her inflated donut. “We almost didn’t come. My sciatica,” she said to the pale and powdered woman in the orange taffeta next to her, her sister Cheyenne Hall. “Well my doctor said that if I lift my arm higher than my shoulder I could have a heart attack,” Cheyenne said, upping the ante just as the organist, Terry Mallory - a self-described new age Christian - began playing “Someone to Watch Over Me”. Not a hymn, but a tune from the organist’s limited play list, this song having the advantage of suggesting something vaguely holy. Someone to watch over me - God watching over me. The song, signaling the beginning of the service and implying everyone give reverent attention to the spiritual matters commencing, was lost on the sisters. Emily nudged Cheyenne and jerked her head toward a portly bald man two rows ahead of them. “That worthless mayor Tingley,” Emily said, smiling. The mayor, Ralph Tingley heard his name and looked over his shoulder. He smiled and nodded at Emily and Cheyenne, who smiled and nodded prettily in return. As soon as he had turned back around, Emily said, “He does nothing. There are houses

and yards in Pilsen that are a disgrace. People drive the streets like - like there’s no tomorrow. I think it’s some of those hot-rodding FFA boys.” She sighed. “My back is in such agony I wish I’d blown up my inflatable pool toy before I came,” Emily said. “I know,” Cheyenne said. She pointed to an empty spot in the row across the aisle. “Lena Donna isn’t here. I was talking to her on the phone and she said that her leg was bothering her too much and she didn’t think she’d be coming to service tonight. I said, ‘How do you know how you’re going to feel by then?’ She just didn’t want to come to service is all. She can’t fool me.” “Me either,” Emily said. “I didn’t want to come.” Otus gave the two talkers the side eye. Cheyenne countered, saying, “I wanted to come. My doctor was against it though. He said, ‘Cheyenne, you’re taking your life in your hands going out.’ No, it was the doctor himself who did not want me to go out tonight.” The song grinded to an old-time kind of ending. “Well God Himself didn’t want me to come here tonight but Mom did so here I am,” Ottus said, tweaking the back of Otus’s toupee so that his brother’s hairline rose half an inch. Otus slapped his twin in the leg and adjusted his hair. Emily said, “Be quiet, you!” Ottus tuned them out, imagining instead the satisfying sound that slapping the old man in the next pew, Mr. Jenkins, on the top of his bald head would make. The preacher came into the room and stood in front of his congregation. Reverend Bill Keifner, about thirty-five, had grown up in Pilsen. His Uncle Allen had been the previous minister. He’d known Emily, the boys, Cheyenne, everyone in the hall all his life. At some time or another, they had all bought a table, a chair, or a lamp from Keifner’s Treasures. He smiled directly at Emily and Cheyenne, stretching the corners of his mouth and baring his teeth smiling and staring at them. Bill had first seen this tactic used by Uncle Allen. Reverend Bill

forced himself to look delighted as Emily and Cheyenne bantered about their aches and pains until the paler sister noticed him smiling at them. She nudged Emily, who saw the pleased looking man of God. Emily snipped, “Quiet Cheyenne. Reverend Bill is trying to give his sermon.” “I’m being quiet. Why do you think I’m nudging you?” Cheyenne shot back, adding an indignant, “Shhhhh.” In reference to the opening hymn, Reverend Bill opened his sermon saying, “And Who is it that watches over us?” Otus said, “God.” Reverend Billy smiled and nodded. Every week he asked a similar question. The previous week, after the opening song, “Some Enchanted Evening,” Reverend Bill had asked, “And Who is it that enchants us all evening?” Every week a question. The answer, of course - always God. Otus didn’t always pipe up, but he did regularly. At his twin’s earnest devotion, Ottus rolled his eyes. Reverend Bill had not attended theology school. No bishop had appointed him Bill had gotten the position through his Uncle Allen. No one objected or felt compelled to take the job themselves so it was Bill’s by default. He liked being preacher, talking about God to people. It was fun. He’d wanted to be a professional baseball player, but being a minister and antique dealer was great. True, he hadn’t studied the Bible as throughly as some, which might explain why, for Easter Service, he delivered a sermon on The Good Samaritan instead of Jesus’s resurrection. “Yes, Jesus watches over us, but he also wants us to watch over each other. Like The Good Samaritan. He didn’t know who he was helping. He just pitched in when he saw he was needed. The Good Samaritan was glad to do it,” Reverend Bill said. That was one of the parts

of the Bible he had read that he understood and could talk about. Other parts - the long lists of names and the scary parts, for example - those he avoided. He had at least tried to read the whole Bible, but stories like The Good Samaritan spoke to him. And his congregation liked hearing things that made them feel good. “And it made that Samaritan feel pretty darn good after he’d helped that stranger. Imagine if you helped a stranger and that stranger - was Jesus! Huh? Or was an angel who you knew would go back to God and tell him how you helped him even though the angel looked like a mortal stranger. And God would be - like, ‘I know. I was there.’ And maybe God would be happy with you. That would be pretty good, huh?” More talk about helping. Bill loved talking. Enjoying the service ironically hadn’t worked any better for Ottus than enjoying it aesthetically, even when he’d thought of how the scene reminded him of the still photography of Nancy Golden and Diane Arbus. So he sat there and stewed, internally mocking the service. Others, Otus and Emily, his Aunt Cheyenne, they hung on Reverend Bill’s long anecdotes. A stranger had given Reverend Bill’s cousin, who had somehow been stranded in Ohio, ten dollars for a bus ticket to get home for Christmas. Nice. Plus, one time - someone Bill had never met helped him when he’d been lost in Branson Missouri by giving him directions on how to get to his Best Western Hotel. A beautiful thing. He himself had helped a stranger, an old woman. Helped her cross the road, and it had made him feel GOOD. “That, my friends, was a high that was higher than drugs!” he assured his congregation. On and on about helping. After one thousand more stories, Terry Mallory began playing the opening strains of the closing hymn, “I Love You Just the Way You Are”. Reverend Bill said, “So help each other on this Easter Sunday night. And remember, don’t go changin’ to try to please me. Try to please God - because God loves you just the way you are.”

The clouds had thickened and it was even darker on the drive home. “That was a good sermon,“ Emily said. “God loves us just the way we are, and we should always help people.” A sarcastic expression crossed Ottus’s face, as if he thought what she had said was funny in the non-funny way he most loved. Otus, however, said, “It was a great talk, and it’s so true. It’s a cliche, I know, but we should help each other. Not just people we have to help or even people we know, but strangers too. It’s just right. Wasn’t there a movie about that, Ottus? With that Spacey guy? Dress It Down or Hand It Down? Put That Down? What was it?” “I don’t know,” Ottus muttered as if aggrieved. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Emily said. “The important thing is what Reverend Bill said, that we help people. What a better world it could be if we all acted like The Good Samaritan.” They drove in silence. Emily thought of Lena Donna saying she was too ill to go to church. Ha! A likely story. Otus thought of going to Jenny’s tomorrow. In addition to looking over cook books for souffle recipes, he was going to make her a ham and cheese souffle with anise. How much anise? Ottus considered making a GO-GO ART film of himself taking pictures of the wheel barrel. Each of them were lost in their private reveries when in the headlights appeared the perfect opportunity to be Good Samaritans. “Stop,” Emily said. Two cows of normal size and an Amish farmer blinked in the truck’s lights. There was a truck and trailer in the shadowy darkness at the edge of the headlights’ illumination. “Get out and help that poor Amish farmer with his cattle,” Emily said. “And ruin my yellow Meeenoooolo shoes? I’m not even going to be funny about it. No,” Ottus said. Otus chirped, “Why this is...is kismat. This farmer, he is not just a stranger - he is a holy

stranger.” The Amish man shielded his eyes and stroked his beard. The cow looked away. Otus straightened in his seat. “Well hurry up and get out and help him,” Emily said, adjusting herself on her inflated pool toy. “This dang thing is running low on air,” she complained. “I’ll blow it up for you,” Ottus said, trying to make it up for not getting out and helping the religious nut having problems. Otus was out the door, and Ottus was huffing away at the sagging pool toy. These Amish folk are suspicious. This was Otus’s reasoning for the man’s scowling and looking away as he approached. “Can I help? Just here to help. Saw you having trouble,” he said. The Amish man pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and stepped out of the truck light. Otus had to put this poor innocent at ease. “We were coming home from church and we saw you here,” he said in as lilting and comforting a tone as he could manage. “Figured you needed a hand. Be glad to help.” I’m like The Good Samaritan, Otus told himself. Trust me, my friend. For I am here to be of help. Otus smiled in a disarming way and tried to exude goodness. “Okay,” the Amish man grunted, handing Otus the lead rope around the cow’s neck. The Amish cattleman went behind her and pushed. Otus led the cow into the trailer, where three other cows looked at them as if to say, what ho. The cow settled with the others. Otus was congratulating himself as he stepped out of the trailer. While he grinned and awaited thanks, the lights of another car came up, startling the poor, backward Amish, so unused to modern contraptions like cars. Otus felt sorry for him. The prospect of another car so spooked the shy Amish that, without a word, he ran to the cab of his truck. He was trying to leave. Too many un-Amish strangers for him. The truck grinded but didn’t start.

Cherry lights blinked on the car that had just driven up, identifying it as Sheriff Tom. “More help,” Otus called, walking to the cab of the stalled truck, hoping to comfort the poor fellow. How best put him at ease? Otus was about to say, “Don’t worry,” when he saw beneath the beard and clothes - who? Dawning dismay assailed Otus as he recognized the face, now visible in the flashing lights of the police car. “Ennus?” He said. Ennus said nothing. For a few moments, Otus didn’t understand. Ennus wasn’t Amish. He didn’t own those cows. Why was he dressed like an Amish man? And whose truck? Otus looked at the blinking lights of the police car. When he looked back, he saw that the truck door was open and Ennus was running off, vanishing in the dark meadow. Two plus two. “Oh no,” Otus muttered. Officer Tom got out his gun, yelled, “Hold it right there,” and shot in the darkness. Otus jumped where he stood. In the red truck, Ottus, covering his head with Emily’s inflatable pool toy, ducked. Emily, unafraid of flying bullets, watched the proceeding action. Sheriff Tom fired again. Ennus was gone and not coming back. Otus shook as Sheriff Tom walked up to him. “What’s going on, Otus?” Sheriff Tom said. Otus breathed hard. “He - he was Amish and I was helping him,” Otus sputtered. Tom looked at him. Otus had known Tom Yancy since they’d been in kindergarten. “Those are John Miller’s cows. Not that Amish guy’s. He was stealing them. Plus he wasn’t Amish, Otus. Amish people don’t drive cars,” Tom explained. Suddenly, Otus was out of breath from the awkwardness of his position. “Oh my gosh. I - we didn’t know,” he said. Tom said, “Well, come on down to the station and give your statement. Sheriff Tom looked thoughtful. Surely he could see that Otus knew more than he was saying.

“So I was wondering too...” Tom said. Otus felt numb. “Why was Ottus blowing up that pool toy in the truck?” the sheriff asked. “Oh - for Mom’s sciatica. It’s been bothering her something awful,” Otus gasped. Two hours later, when they got home, Emily and Ottus, exhausted from the ordeal and resolved never to do anyone another favor ever again, went to bed. Otus went to Ennus’s room. Ennus was in his bed, softly snoring. “Wake up,” Otus hissed, turning on the night stand light. Ennus didn’t wake up. He moaned. Otus shook him. Ennus moaned but wouldn’t open his eyes. “That was you tonight. Don’t pretend I don’t know it either,” Otus snapped, picking up a pillow and smacking his little brother in the head, which still did not rouse him. “Uhhhh,” Ennus moaned. “You’re pathetic,” Otus said. He left the light on and stomped out. As soon as Otus was gone. Ennus opened one eye and stared at the door, paranoid that Otus, his mom, the police, all of them were just waiting for him to get up. They were outside the door - and spying outside the window as well, even though his bedroom was in the attic over the second floor. They must be on their ladders. He was afraid to turn out the light. If only his mom had left the black plastic taped over the windows, everything would be fine. As it was, if he moved at all, they’d know he was awake. The moon emerged from the bank of clouds. Ennus kept his eye on it, the door, and the shadows from upper branches of the tree outside, dancing across the floor and walls of his attic. Wait them out. He’d fool them all.

OUT OF CHARACTER Jenny lay flat on the dining room floor. She stretched her legs and arms, her middle-aged muscles sore from bouncing on her tractor over the seventy-five acres of corn field she’d plowed that day. Her poor lower back. She heard Otus’s truck approaching. It would have been nice to have showered. She sighed as the truck motor stopped. Otus was punctual. What if he had arrived during her shower? Jenny rolled her hips one way then the other. Otus would bring souffle and his silly book. They would make tea in Jenny’s new tea maker, and they would pour over recipes, not just from his book but from lots of cookbooks, looking for the perfect souffle to enter in the state fair, almost six months away. Jenny pushed herself off the floor. Did she smell? There was a knock. “Hello?” Otus trilled. “Come in.” Otus came in, going through the front room to the kitchen, saying, “Who wants ham and cheese souffle? It’s anise flavored too - that’s my touch,” he said, wagging his eyebrows as he sidled up to her. Once at her side, he leaned over and touched the brim of his hat to her head, making her giggle. “What happened last night?” she asked. “We tried to be good Samaritans and it backfired, and I helped a thief,” he said in a fretful way, putting down the heavy Souffle With Panache, leaving out the detail regarding his younger brother being the thief. When alone, they talked sensibly. Why the baby talk and whispers when anyone else was around? To show the world their love, of course. However, for the sake of brevity and understanding, they didn’t baby talk between themselves.

“Heavens. Poor sweet boy. Well, that’s what you get for trying to do the right thing,” she said and squeezed his hand. “Do I smell?” she purred. Otus sniffed at her neck and shoulders. “Why, no, not at all,” he said. “I was going to shower, but I didn’t have time. I’m hot in these clothes. I could take a whore bath,” Jenny said. “Oh, my. That’s a rather provocative way of putting it,” Otus said. “What were you working on?” He looked at Jenny as if he’d discovered a man’s phone number in her pocket. “I wasn’t working, darling - just laundry, heavy laundry that made me so hot,” Jenny lied, not wanting to hurt poor unhandy Otus, who always wanted to help but who was best kept away from all heavy farm chores. Plus electrical, mechanical, and plumbing chores as well. She always asked him to mend any frays, torn seams, or rips in her clothing. He was priceless at that kind of thing. She stretched her arms high and then touched her toes. Maybe she could have him rub Ben Gay on her after supper. After her whore bath. “I have a new surprise that has to do with tea,” she said. Though he was suspicious of Jenny’s laundry fib, Otus was relieved to not talk of whore baths or his girlfriend’s smells, and his lips formed a delighted ‘O’. He clasped his hands and said, “I love a surprise - well, a good surprise. Earlier, Benitio, Sebastian and I were working on that John Deere, and I bumped my head.” Otus tried to look hurt. “It really hurt, so the guys suggested I take the rest of the day off.” Otus had been observing them rather than helping them, and the reason he’d bumped his head is that he’d gotten too close to what they were doing and had - bumped his head. On the green, John Deere fender. Sebastian and Benito had suggested Otus leave - to get him out of their hair so they could actually get the tractor fixed. He tilted his head so Jenny could examine the bump beneath his toupee. She kissed it, causing him to wince.

“Ouch! It still hurts. Maybe I have a concussion.” “Well don’t fall asleep,” Jenny said. This was troubling. “What if I get sleepy?” he asked. “Go immediately to the hospital,” Jenny advised. She went to the adjoining kitchen and fetched the new tea maker. Jenny held the glass device in front of Otus. “What is it?” “It’s my new Devorok tea maker, see this chamber up here? The tea goes in there and the water here and you heat it so when, well, let’s just brew some to go with the souffle!” “Ooh!” Otus said although he would have been happier if the surprise had been for him. After all, a surprise usually meant something for the person being surprised, but that was alright. Otus was happy for Jenny. Still. “And for the occasion I have some Mimosa Sapphire Flower tea from Shang Bwang Kway,” Jenny said. “We can watch the Devorok in action. And are you up for a bit of brainstorming?” “Of course. So let’s brew a little shall we?” Jenny put the tea in the chamber and the water in the base and placed it on the stove. She and Otus pulled up kitchen chairs and watched the water heat. Outside, a wee Robin serenaded them. “I can hardly wait to taste this tea,” Jenny said. A squirrel and a bunny stood in the window and watched the tea maker with Otus and Jenny. When the water boiled, the animals scurried away, and the bird stopped singing. “That is so smart!” Otus declared. Steam from the water filtered through tubing into the chamber holding the tea and then dripped into another base.

“It’s great isn’t it?” Jenny said. The special tea was a yellow-pink, and Jenny served it in clear, heavy crystal. They sat in the hundred year old heavy wooden kitchen chairs and sipped their tea. Jenny said, “How’s your mom doing?” “Oh, Okay.” “How are your brothers?” “Well, Ootus has to go to the DMV and replace his Driver’s License. Destroyed in one of his GO-GO ART accidents. Even though he doesn’t have a license, he’s driving himself there. Don’t ask. And Ennus is definitely on my - my list.” Otus looked away from his tea cup of tea. As much as he adored Jenny, for her own good, he could not tell her about Ennus’s Amish adventure the night before. “I woke up. So I go downstairs and he’s in the kitchen, chipper as the first robin of spring - beating eggs, cutting peaches, frying bacon, making toast. He’s trying to make up.” “Make up for what?” Jenny asked twirling a finger in Otus’s toupee. Said too much. “Make up for...getting high.” That was a lie. Since Ennus’s teens he had behaved as if it were his God given right to be high all the time. “So he was making breakfast. I didn’t even speak. I could have spit actually.” “Oh dear.” Jenny ran her fingers along the hem of Otus’s hairpiece. “So I went in the front room and talked to Mom. She’s, ‘Isn’t it nice that Ennus is cooking us all breakfast?’ and I’m biting my tongue because she knows he’s back getting high, and it’s not like his little drug things aren’t constantly popping up.” He wished Jenny wouldn’t toy with his toupee. It could lead to an awkward moment. He looked at as much of her hand as he could see.

She noticed. Such a perceptive girlfriend. “Sorry,” she said, letting her hand slip to his shoulder. “That’s okay. So Mom is talking and talking, and pretty soon, we smell something burning coming from the kitchen, so I run in there, and the bacon is burning. The eggs - burning. And Ennus is busy taking the toaster apart.” “Poor Otus,” Jenny said, throwing her arms around him and giving him a squeeze. “Oof! Thanks,” he said.

One Life to Live’s newer Todd Manning, Todd #2, smirked at his current girlfriend, Tia Delgado. “So, you want to marry me?” he asked her. “You only want to marry me - because you’re a bastard,” Tia said, looking at the floor and frowning. “Naw, that’s not it. You’re the love of my life,” Todd said to her. She looked at him. “Todd Manning, you’re the love of your own life,” Ottus said as he both watched the show and wrist-curled two thirty pound hand weights. He gritted his teeth because it hurt, and he said, “Todd Manning, you are too too too!” Tendons knotted on Ottus’s spindly wrists. “If she marries him she’s crazy,” Emily said. Todd #2 took a big ring out of his pocket. “Try it on for size,” he told Tia. She held out her hand. “Pull back that claw,” Ottus said. He pointed at the television. “And cut! End of show.” Ottus finished his curls during the credits. Emily looked out the window as Cheyenne rolled into the front yard from the old carriage path running through a grove of apple trees bordering the corn and soybean fields. “It’s your aunt,” Emily said.

Otus bit his lip as he did the last repetition. “I’m glad our show is over. I guess calling before you visit is just too bourgeois.“ ”Stop it. Stop taking on airs. You’re bourgeois like the rest of us - if that means what I think it does. And we’re proud to be common!” “You own two thousand acres, and you used to have twenty-five hundred but WeeCo paid you a million and a half for five hundred acres. And the subsidies!” “Proud.

Proud and common! Common to be proud!”

“Huh? That doesn’t even mean anything.” “Oh, doesn’t it? Anyway, where was your brother today?” Ottus said, “Eating souffle with Jenny. Fine then. If he’d rather baby talk than witness Todd Manning ruin another life, that’s his choice. Anyhoo, I care-eth not, Mom. Have to go anyway and replace my license.” “Did you lose it?” “No, I made it into a Mandela with patterns of pastel, tinted pin pricks that I made with these special ART needles I had to order from Quooozhore,” Ottus informed her. “I bet that was expensive. Couldn’t you have used one of Otus’s sewing needles?” Emily asked, frowning. A troubling thought knit her brow. “Can you drive without a license?” “Of course,” Ottus said. He believed it, and that was good enough for Emily. “Yoo hoo,” Cheyenne called. “Come in! Come in!” Emily cried. Ottus rolled his eyes. “I thought I’d drop by,” Cheyenne said. “I see. What can I get you?” Cheyenne smiled in a special way, and Emily poured her a glass of this spring’s

dandelion brandy. With a merry look, Cheyenne tossed it down. Her white face turned red. She gagged. Looked at Emily, who poured her another. This was Ottus’s signal to go. Go while the going was good. “Well, I’ve got to get that driver’s license now,” he said, watching Cheyenne’s eyes bulge after the next shot. Ottus ducked out. He dreaded Cheyenne’s oncoming rant. Emily, who encouraged her sister’s grievances, said, “So have you seen you know who?” You know who was Charlie Craine, Cheyenne’s insurance adjustor. “Oh, if I knew when Charlie wasn’t home, I’d go in his house and steal something,” Cheyenne said. Emily poured her sister another bolt of the dandelion brandy and poured herself one. “He owes me!” She insisted. “How so?” Emily, who knew very well how so, asked, sipping the strong drink. This year’s batch was certainly potent. Too much could set a person to gushing drool for minutes at a time. Cheyenne, her pale blue eyes bulging in her red face, said, “When my hot water heater leaked all over my carpet and hardwood floor, he wouldn’t pay on the claim! Said it wasn’t covered! I said, ‘What do I have insurance for?’ And family friend or no family friend, I switched agents!” Cheyenne finished her second drink and poured herself another. Perhaps Cheyenne would start drooling rivers shortly. “Has he been around at all? Have you run into him?” “I wish I’d bump into him. I’m done with Charlie.” Cheyenne drank her brandy. “You did right to get another insurance agent. Would you like another brandy?” “Yes I would,” Cheyenne said, adding, “I’m done with him.” Veins in her temples

pulsed. Faint rivulets of spit started at the corners of her frown. She held a paper napkin to her mouth. Emily smiled. “Charlie isn’t so bad,” She teased, pouring her drunk sister another snort. “You’re just trying to make me mad. Charlie Craine was a lesson to me - trust no one! Doesn’t matter. Soon I’ll have made ten times, no, twenty times what I lost on that claim through my investments. As they say the best revenge is money.” Emily said, “It doesn’t go like that, but no matter. What investments?” “I’ve been learning how to day trade stocks. Penny stocks. I sent for this dvd by this fellow, Daniel Shandley, and he explains everything. I’ve already invested in a bunch of penny stocks that I’m expecting will turn over a very tidy profit.” Emily poured them both another drink. She said, “Barry Daye does all our investing. I think day trading stocks and penny stocks are risky.” She drank her brandy and took a paper towel to the corner of her drooling mouth. “Berry put our things in a structured IRA,” Emily said. Barry was in charge of Cheyenne’s money too, but she’d said nothing to him about Daniel Shandley or investing in penny stocks, and she said nothing to her sister about him now. “What about stocks?” Cheyenne said. “Except for Wal Mart and Unilever, and a few other really good ones, they’re risky, Cheyenne. CD’s and some tax-deferred municipal bonds and don’t forget the life insurance that’s a sound approach. Annuities and stretch IRA’s!” Emily lectured. “Not enough interest. Now this guy here, Daniel, he says to make money, you have to be willing to play one thing off another.” “Risky,” Emily sniffed. By now they were both drooling all over the place and were mopping up the spit with paper towels.

Cheyenne frowned at Emily. “So why the stretch IRA instead of Roth?” “A question of the distribution possibly throwing you into a higher tax-bracket and you having to pay more,” Emily said. “Well, you shouldn’t fool with the market unless you know what you’re doing,” Cheyenne informed Emily, whose eyes widened as she smiled. Emily wiped a thick strand of drool that had escaped her paper towel. After daubing it off, she asked - in an ‘are you serious?’ way, “And you know what you’re doing? Oh my, that to a common girl like me - I’ve got to say, that is risky business. It’s like when my husband’s Great Aunt Otticia thought she’d become a financial genius. At first she was talking like you, Cheyenne - all about stocks and, of all things, silver. Next thing you know, she was naked and frothing at the mouth in the Bank of Pilsen lobby.” Cheyene tossed off the last drink and said, “That’s your relative through marriage and has nothing to do with me.” Both women kept the paper towels to their spit-flowing mouths. “I know exactly what I’m doing - thank you very much.” “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Cheyenne,” Emily said, smiling behind her towel. Emily decided she should encourage her sister in her crazy scheme. It could prove amusing in the future. “Oh I do. I do,” her sister said. “Well, that’s all that matters, dear,” Emily said, getting another paper towel.

Ottus spent his time during the drive to the DMV obsessing over his old ART teacher, Mr. Ames. Since his days teaching students from the rural community at George Pilsen Junior College, Mr. Ames had made a name for himself among devotees of performance and conceptual

art. He’d won contests and grants, and now, with commissions from patrons, he lived the artist’s life in New York City. In Otus’s golden junior college days, he had loved Mr. Ames. Such a great guy and such A REAL ARTIST. But since Mr. Ames’s greater success, Ottus had grown disillusioned to the point of despising him. As Ottus navigated the meadow roads, the crop roads, as he passed woods, he vented by phone to his GO-GO ART friend, Cooter Jarvis, just twenty-one and going to George Pilsen Junior College as an art major. “Did I send you the articles and the pictures of Mr. Ames’s latest work?” Ottus asked in a pained way. “Yes. I thought they were funny,” Cooter said. “I wanted to like it, but I don’t like it. I mean, okay, I know what he’s doing, but what is he doing?” “He’s using himself as the medium to -“ ”I know!” Ottus snapped. The new piece was entitled The Fucking Midwest. It consisted of Mr. Ames sculpting his hair into a comb-over and growing a moustache as well as being filmed shopping at Wal Mart. “I mean, he looks like he did in the eighties, like a - a migrant worker.” “Isn’t that racist?” Cooter pointed out. “From most of the yokels around here, yes, that would have been a racist comment, but I meant it in a - a post-racist kind of not-racist way.” “Well, it sounded pretty stereotypical and unironically racist,” Cooter allowed. “Maybe you’re being racist by assuming that I meant Hispanics when I said migrant workers. I didn’t say that.” “Neither did I, so perhaps YOU’RE still really the racist by assuming I meant Hispanic.

Huh?” Ottus lost the chain of logic with Cooter’s last retort, but he said, “Merely the fact that what I said made you think and talk honestly of race makes what I said inherently ten times more artful than Mr. Ames going back to his seventies look, shopping from Wal Mart and calling it The Fucking Midwest. And the fact that our conversation wasn’t recorded and is lost in the ephemeral transience of the moment makes it all the more immediate and visceral than anything Mr. Ames does. Imagine - The Fucking Midwest. He hates the place he came from. I just -“ ”You hate the Midwest too. I do too,” Cooter pointed out. “I wouldn’t run it down like he did.” “We both run it down all the time. Constantly.” “But I live here, and my loathing is closely akin to - to my love of the Midwest. No. What he did is what people do when they go away to college. They come back and disparage where they grew up. So predictable. I never did that.” “We’ve always disparaged where we come from and - while I’ve been out of state you’ve never been anywhere, so how could you disparage this place, even though you do,” Cooter argued. “If I do, it’s not like that. Did I tell you about the interview?” Ottus had several times, and Cooter didn’t want to hear it repeated, so he said, “Yes, you did as a matter of fact. I thought The Fucking Midwest was funny, and I think maybe you’re jealous. And you’re mad because when you tried to contact him, he didn’t answer your e-mail. Oops, I’ve got to go. My pots are done baking. Bye.” “I’m not jealous. I’m not,” Ottus protested to the dead line. Maybe he was. That wasn’t it. It was the way Mr. Ames had changed. Disappointing, that’s all. Two tears in a bucket.

Ottus drove. The massive farms gave way to the outskirts of Pilsen, a Wal Mart, a McDonalds, a truck stop/diner called The Grey Moon, Keifner’s Treasures, some lonely silos, and the DMV. The Fucking Midwest. He turned into the dusty parking lot. Inside the cinder block building, Otus took a number, nineteen, and sat among the people waiting to do their driver’s business. In front of Ottus was Royal Juvers. Royal owned a farm east of Pilsen. He and Ottus nodded. “Number seventeen,” a short, brunette woman behind the counter called. Two rows ahead of Ottus, a lanky young woman in her twenties got up and went with one of the DMV workers who gave the driving tests. Royal grinned at Ottus. Ottus closed his eyes. Mr. Ames - to move to New York and denounce the Midwest was such a cliche. In some interview, Mr. Ames quipped that one advantage the ‘Midwest’ had over New York was that the Midwest had better barbecue. He had quipped that if they, meaning the rubes, were smart they’d sell their barbecue sandwiches for sixty-five dollars a sandwich like they would in his neighborhood. How glib. Mr. Ames had said in the interview that he had despised teaching the rural poindexters, as it turned out. He said that he’d “...hated the prison of little academia - the same mediocre middle class children whose bad art and whining neediness made me think I was going to have to kill myself to keep from killing them.” Lovely. “Number eighteeen,” the brunette called. Ottus heard Royal Juvers push out of the chair and shuffle off. Ottus had been a mediocre middle class child from The Fucking Midwest whom Mr. Ames had been kind to because, well, that had been his job - that’s all he’d been to his favorite teacher. Too bad. The year Ottus had taken Mr. Ames’s class, the teacher had produced the kind of work

that would catapult him out of Pilsen, first to Chicago and soon after to New York. His work had opened worlds then - the big hologram ascot, the oversize stylized eye paintings, the giant concrete vagina blood (red water) fountain sculpture he’d had erected in the middle of the quad, nearly costing him his job. “Nineteen,” the brunette called. Ottus opened his eyes and lurched from his chair to the counter. Time to stop brooding. “Hi. My name is Ottus Burchen, and I’ve lost my driver’s license. I need to replace it.” The brunette typed Ottus’s name in her computer. She frowned at the screen. “Ottus?” “Ottus.” She looked at the screen. Then at Ottus. Is she angry about something? “Your social security number?” “Nine-nine-seven-four-one-five-three-five-eight-five.” She typed in the numbers. More frowning. “Do you have your social-security-card?” “Yes,” Ottus said, fumbling with his wallet. He gave it to her and she looked at it. Then she looked at Ottus, who charmed her with a winsome smile. She frowned more. Mr. Ames good will and helpfulness had seemed - seemed genuine. Ottus’s final project had earned him a standing ovation from the entire class, including Mr. Ames. The gigantic spackle and lint hanging sculptures. Where were they now? Ottus’s reverie broke when the brunette stepped away from the counter and began talking to another DMV worker. Both of them looked at him as they spoke. The woman pointed at Ottus’s social-security-card, then at the computer, and finally at Ottus. He casually leaned over the counter so he could get a glimpse of the computer screen. There with Ottus’s vital information was a photo id displaying the smiling face of Ennus.

“Oh crap,” Ottus muttere

THE ROOF, THE ROOF, THE ROOF IS ON FIRE Ennus looked up from the very important task of taking someone’s motorcycle engine apart on his bedroom floor. It was inconceivable that Ottus bother him like this. Indefensible. Intolerable. Drug-fueled abashed innocence crackled from his eyes as he tightened and relaxed his grip on his wrench. “Well I can’t believe you’d automatically blame me for the DMV’s mistake,” he said. “Give me the license you had made in my name. And even though you didn’t thank me, you’re welcome I didn’t tell that DMV police officer -“ ”DMV police officer. Oh my gosh!” Ennus smirked. “Be glad I insisted it was their fault, which they didn’t believe for a minute, mind you. I had a lot of explaining to do, which I’ll spare you. Just cough up the license. Come on!” “This is too much. I don’t have your license,” Ennus said, turning his attention back to unfastening a bolt. “Where’s your wallet?” Ennus, wounded pride combusting, slammed his wrench on the hardwood floor and glared at Ottus. “Are you just trying to hurt my feelings?” “Not so much your feelings,” Ottus answered, kicking his brother in the side. They punched each other and kicked each other, grappling and wrestling - rolling over the floor. Their flailing and thrashing knocked the parts of the motorcycle engine and Ennus’s tools across the

room, ricocheting off the walls. “Are you boys dancing in there?” Emily yelled from the front room, giving Ottus and Ennus a moment’s pause. “No, Ottus is attacking me,” Ennus cried, throwing a glancing elbow off his brother’s temple, slightly stunning him. Still dazed, Ottus automatically thrust his head forward, connecting with Ennus’s nose, which sprung a flower of blood. “You boys better quit!” Emily yelled. “Ottus is trying to kill me,” Ennus screamed as he tried to engage a headlock on his brother. Otus came in the room. “Oh dear,” he gasped. “Stop it,” he said, putting a hand to the breast of his bib overalls. Otus stamped his booted foot. “You’re going to make my oxtail souffles fall, and then you’ll both be sorry when you’re eating flat, dense, souffle.” Otus picked up a wrench and started toward them. Ottus took the opportunity of momentarily having the upper hand to explain. “ Ennus is being a drug addict again.” He throttled their young brother, whose eyes rolled in his head as he clawed at Ottus. “Am not,” Ennus squawked. “Not the wrench.” “He stole my identity,” Ottus said, giving Ennus’s head one more good bounce against the floor before getting up and stepping away. Ennus rubbed his throat. “Ridiculous,” he rasped. “Oh I don’t think it’s so ridiculous,” Otus said. “I haven’t forgotten the other night. By the way, Amish don’t drive cars.” “What are you talking about? What’s that mean exactly?” Ottus asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Ennus said. “But I ask you, who was it, Ottus, who fed your stupid cat when you were sick?” “It wasn’t you,” Ottus reminded him. “It was me,” Otus said. “I fed Foovier even though I said that I wouldn’t.” “Well, I might not have gotten around to it, but I at least said I would,” Ennus protested. “Said you would and then didn’t.” Ennus got off the floor, rising to his full five-feet-six. He craned his neck back so he could look down his nose at his taller brothers and said, “Even though you wound me every possible way you can, I love you both. You are my brothers. Even though you accuse me and beat me and think I was at some place I wasn’t - in some disguise maybe - I don’t know - even with all this assuming that I’m doing wrong, I still love you, boys. But I won’t sacrifice my integrity to satisfy your own dysfunction!” Every hair of Ennus’s mullet stood on end. He raised an eyebrow at Ottus and Otus, and with a flourish, he stormed out. Otus and Ottus looked at each other. From the other room, Emily said, “Ennus, where are you going?” “I’m going for a little walk, Mom. I’ll be back in awhile.” The door slammed. Otus said, “If my souffles fall, I’m going to kill him.” Ottus straightened his hair. “Oxtail?” He asked. “Spiced with the four C’s: cumin, chili powder, cinnamon, and coriander.” “Mmmmm. So what were you talking about that Ennus said he wasn’t guilty of?” “Ennus knows and the less you know, the better,” Otus said. “Point taken,” Ottus said. “Where do you think he went?” Otus asked.

“I’ve seen him around my studio. I think he likes being around my GO-GO ART.” Otus went across the room. “He’s probably getting high. Here’s his wallet.” He picked it up and pulled out Ennus’s license identifying him as being Ottus. “Voila,” Otus said. “Thanks, brother,” Ottus said, taking the id. “I had to lie like - like - a dog when I was at the DMV. They were so suspicious! Don’t guess he’ll want to go to rehab again.” “The money,” Otus said, shaking his head. Ottus stepped to the window. “There he goes.” “To be near your GO-GO ART,” Otus said and walked over to the window. “There he goes.” “Well, whatever. What are we going to do about him this time. I mean, of course, relapse is part of recovery.” “Too deep for me. What are we going to do? I’m going to finish my souffles. I’m making two” “Fascinating.” “Mom is taking one to Lena Donna.” Ennus was, in fact, quite close to his brother’s GO-GO ART, his drug lab being underneath Ottus’s studio. Perhaps he absorbed the GO-GO ART’S artiness by osmosis from his little niche, where he smoked his pipe and made more drugs. On the southwestern side of the studio was a cellar that Ottus and everyone else had forgotten about. While getting high, Ennus heated some chemical solutions, cooled others, stirred and siphoned from tubes, beakers and jelly glasses. The fumes were like the smell of Foovier’s pee - that and burning solvents. Ennus smoked as he cooked, and a quiet exhaust fan pulled the fumes outside. He took a hit and blew a

plume of his own smoke into the cellar. Really, Otus and Ottus’s accusations, though true, stung. They didn’t understand that Ennus’s drugs were his medicine. What he was on now wasn’t like a real drug, not like shooting heroin or, even better, speedballs (the greatest blessing of Ennus’s life from which, like Adam & Eve from the gates of paradise, he remained banished forever). That was being addicted. Not what Ennus smoked - mother’s milk in comparison - medicine. Nerve medicine. A few hits, and Ennus vibrated with health and confidence for awhile. It wasn’t as if Ennus was ever going to quit partying. Not that. Ennus loaded another bowl. More of what he had made earlier that month. The brown stuff. Clouds of smoke and vapors from the chemicals twinkled in the surfaces of the bubbling glass. Nothing to do but wait for the mix to get ready. It wouldn’t be too long. Ennus did another hit. Right above him, Ottus, who had left the house to go to his studio when Otus took his souffles out of the oven, worked on his new projects, 2nd Law and Power of Placement. Before beginning, from a wire hung from the ceiling, he mounted a digital camera at his work space and hit record. Filming himself working was a major GO-GO ART work-in-progress itself, the movie titled Tragedy of Entropy. As the camera rolled, Ottus opened the forty baggies of rotting baloney, turkey, and ham sandwiches (2nd Power of Placement), placed them on his GO-GO ART table in random order, photographed them with his phone camera, then replaced them in the baggies and put them back under the GO-GO ART table to rot some more. Foovier sniffed at the decay. “Don’t eat any of that Foofy,” Ottus said. He needn’t have worried. In Power of Placement Ottus had made intersecting grids of connecting tubular sculpture based on printouts of random mapping routes generated by a GPS in his Mac. PVC pipe was the medium. After downloading the pictures of 2nd Law, Ottus busied himself airbrushing the

Power of Placement hanging sculpture in varying candy colored enamels. The paint fumes mingled with aromas from Foovier’s poo-vier as well as the rising waves of toxic compounds boiling in the cellar. Foovier, his feline brain cells dying by the hour from paint fumes and brown stuff vapors, brushed back and forth against Ottus’s legs. “Foofy,” Ottus said, pausing to scratch his artist’s familiar behind the ears. Foovier smiled, blinked, and turned his ass to Ottus, who went back to work. Below the GO-GO ART, Ennus quietly smoked, cooked, tweaked, sketched, and spun.

After de-panning the souffles, Otus drove Emily, one of the souffles held on her lap, in their gold-painted golf cart to Lena Donn’s farm. They bumped along one of the older carriage paths that connected the old farms, passing through quiet woods. “You are going too fast. Are you trying to hit every rut? This is going to kill my sciatica.” “Well why did you want to come this way?” Otus asked. “I’m going as slowly as I can. Watch out for this one. See I don’t even have my foot on the gas.” “Why are we even coming this way?” Emily groused. “I thought you wanted to come the shortest way,” Otus said, swerving around a deep gouge in the track. “Not if I need to be put in traction by the time we get there. There’s no way we’re coming back this way. I’ll have my hair fixed by then.” “Why do you go to Lena Donna?” “The only reason is loyalty cause she sure can’t style my hair right. Every week, I tell her, ‘I want a tight, tight perm. I want my hair real short on the sides and the back and not too long on top,’ and she says, ‘I got you,’ and she does the exact same thing. After she washes it

and cuts it the way she likes and does the perm the way she wants to, she teases my hair all over. I say, ‘I don’t want my hair teased,’ and she says, ‘No tease - okay,’ and what does she do? She teases! And she can’t hardly walk any more so she has to work sitting down! Hey! Look out!” Emily cried as they bounced over the deep rut. Otus’s hat bounced off his head. It tumbled out the golf cart and rolled off the path into some weeds beneath the oak trees. They stopped. Otus checked to see if his wig had slipped. He adjusted things. “Heck,” he said. “If you’d slow down! Now hurry up. Get your hat.” Otus stepped out of the golf cart, and from a tree overhead, an owl hooted. He jumped and looked up. “Whoo - whoo!” the owl cried. Spooked, Otus hurried to his hat, and there, in the grass next to it - a ring. “Oh my goodness,” Otus said, picking up the ring as he fixed his hat back on his head. “Hurry up,” Emily said. Otus looked at the ring. “What’s that?” Emily said. “A ring.” It was an old looking gold band with a ruby and an emerald in the setting. “Look what I found,” he said as he got in the golf cart. Emily held the ring close to her eye. “Let me show this to Lena Donna,” she said. “Consider it yours. Do you think it’s old?” Otus drove at a crawl. “Oh it’s old.” He took his eyes off the path for an instant to look at the ring. “Looks old,” he said. “You know, Lena Donna will get out the Ouija board or her crystals or something.” “Ah well. We’ll see what she has to say about it. I don’t take any account in her weird beliefs.” They proceeded, bottoming out a few times where the holes and ruts were too deep.

Otus steered them over another deep spot. “Ooph,” he said, holding his hat and topee. “Whew. Sorry.” “You’re killing my sciatica.” “Aren’t you afraid when she starts with the spirit stuff?” “Why no. It’s funny. I egg her on.” “You had better be careful. I don’t know about that occultism, but it’s scary! Don’t mess with the spirits! Life is hard enough without calling forth ghosts,” Otus warned. “Please. Lena Donna’s crazy notions are funny.” Otus didn’t smile. By the time they got to Lena Donna’s land, where this carriage path branched into some better kept trails, Otus had twice more lost his hat. No more rings though. “Why do you and your brother pick on Ennus?” Emily asked, as they drove on a wider carriage path. “You know very well why,” Otus said. “He’s a drug addict. He’s doing crazy stuff. Ottus was mad because Ennus somehow got the people at the DMV to issue him a license with Ottus’s name and identifying information with his picture saying he was Ottus. And of course, Ennus lied about it.” “He feels picked on.” “He’s a dope fiend - a hopeless drug addict. He thinks just because he isn’t using needle drugs that he doesn’t have a problem.” “He’s seems normal to me,” Emily lied. “He seems perfectly sensible to me.” “Oh really?” Otus asked, tempted to tell his Mom about Ennus’s being the cattle thief in Amish costume from the other night. No, but something ought be mentioned. “I think he needs to go to rehab again.”

Emily examined the ruby ring in the moving golfcart as the carriage path opened on Lena Donna’s barns and her house. “Rehab is expensive.” “That would be the second reason Ennus would give for not going. The first being that he didn’t need to go because he doesn’t have a drug problem, but he needs it even though he won’t want to go. And you do have insurance on all of us.” “Oh he won’t want to go. Good grief.” Emily tried on the ring, holding the souffle with her elbow. “No, he won’t.” “And he probably won’t go, I guess,” Otus said. “Maybe he’s not back on the - the, ummm...heroin and the speed balls.” “To me it’s all dope,” Emily asserted. “Well, who knows. Maybe everything will be okay,” Otus fretted. If Ennus got to be too much, they’d lock him in the attic like they had before. He pulled into Lena Donna’s front yard and stopped at the front steps. “Let me help you with the souffle,” he said. “No. I’ll make it fine. You can pick me up at four,” Emily said, getting out. She held the rail with one hand and cradled the souffle with the other. She had the ring hooked on her thumb as she climbed the steps. Otus waited until she was at the door before he puttered away. “Who wants souffle?” Emily called, peeking in the small door window. “Hold on, kid. Let me get that door,” Lena Donna called from the kitchen. Emily waited. Lena Donna’s knees slowed her. After the two minutes it took her to go across the two rooms, Lena Donna fumbled with the door until she got it open. “Wow, that’s some beautiful food right there. Souffle before hair!” “Sure, sure, I’ll get the plates. And you’ll never guess what Otus spotted on the way

here,” Emily said, going by Lena Donna and shuffling through the white walled front room and going into the kitchen. Emily got plates, forks, a knife, and spoons for coffee out of the cabinet and kitchen drawers. The old electric coffee pot percolated on the gas stove. Emily set two cups and a bowl of sugar on the kitchen table, where the tools for Emily’s hair also lay - combs, shampoos, the home perm kit and the irons. By the time Lena Donna got to the dining room, Emily had the souffle on a deep purple platter, forks next to the plates on one side, and cups of coffee on the other. “Madonna! I didn’t expect you to do everything,” Lena Donna said, although she really did. “It’s the least I can do for you for doing my hair.” The women sat and dug in. “Mmmmm. That taste is so good, you can taste the taste in your nose. What’s your secret, kid?” “Otus. He baked it. He and Jenny got the recipe off a cooking show. They are experimenting with souffles. You’re tasting four spices. They all start with a ‘C’. I think cumin and cinnamon and chili powder. Oh, I forget the last one. Otus is a wonder. Cooks and sews. You should see the way he fixed the collar on my black dress.” Lena Donna had a bite. “Oh my gosh this is good. Ooh, this is good,” she said as she chewed. “I’m going to ask him for the recipe.” “He’ll give it to you. Those kids and their cooking. Someday he’ll make Jenny a good wife. Or what do they call them now - house husbands!” Lena Donna swallowed her cake. “Pepsi-wepsi tinky toooo?” she said. “Oh, them and their - you know, when they think no one is listening, they talk just as normally as we are now.” This prompted Lena Donna to lean toward Emily and cup her hand

around her mouth. She whispered, “Do they still whisper secrets and pretend to laugh at private jokes?” “Not when they’re alone,” Emily said. “Only when they’re around people. I’ve heard them when they’re alone and they don’t think anyone else is listening. Normal as anything.” “This is good souffle. Haka-naka!” “Please don’t start talking baby talk. So what do you think about this ring? It looks old. We found it on the carriage path on our way here.” Emily handed it to Lena Donna. Lena Donna’s face tensed. “Goodness, that is something! Why, this ring has a triple aura - blue, green, and red.” “What does that mean?” Emily said. “Let me get a feel for it. Maybe The Over-Soul will reveal the life of these elements. Let me face East,” Lena Donna said, turning her chair away from the table to the dining room window. She closed her eyes and pressed the ring against her forehead. “This ruby is giving me a strong broadcast. Oh, it is old. I’m seeing it traveling - traveling over oceans. I see wagons.” Emily concentrated on her souffle. “Pioneer wagons?” She asked. “No...gypsy wagons,” Lena Donna revealed. “This ring was worn by a gypsy girl, given to her by her, her young lover, who stole it from a...a lord of some...some.” Lena Donna opened her eyes as if awakening from a trance and focused on something in the far distance. “Oh my gosh. I see smoke,” she said. “Do you think the ring was in some sort of fire?” Emily asked. “No, kid. I mean, I really see smoke coming from the direction of your place.” Emily looked out the dining room window. Black smoke billowed in spreading columns from the direction of her farm.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” she said, but she was afraid it was. Lena Donna put the ring on the table. She said, “I don’t know, kid. I got a bad feeling about this.” She shut her eyes and touched her temples. “I think you ought to call home.” Emily watched the smoke roll on itself as it spread upward. “Yes, maybe you’re right,” she said. “I’ll get the phone,” Lena Donna said, getting up and taking tiny steps toward the front room. “I’ll get it,” Emily said, starting to get up. “No. You sit,” Lena Donna insisted as she took her slow, three-inch strides. Emily sat and watched the black smoke on the horizon. This wasn’t good.

QUIET POND ON STILL NIGHT It took forever for Lena Donna to get Emily the phone. Emily watched the smoke thicken to black floating clouds. When Lena Donna finally brought the phone, Emily called Otus first. “Are you home yet?” she asked when he picked up. “No, but I see the smoke too. Do you want me to turn around and pick you up?” “I don’t know how else I’ll get home.” Lena Donna overheard and said, “I’ll drive you, kid. It’ll save time. You tell Otus to get to your place.” “Lena Donna is going to drive me. You go on,” Emily said. She tried to call the others. Ottus wasn’t answering his phone - he probably wasn’t carrying it - and Ennus had lost his although he might have sold it. It took an even longer time for Lena Donna to get her keys and for the both of them to get to her black and white Cadillac Esplanade. Like most driving septuagenarians, Lena Donna drove almost as slowly as she walked. While Emily was anxious to get home, the thought of Lena Donna driving faster didn’t even cross her mind. In slow-motion they proceeded, cars passing them as if they were still. As they slowly hurried, the smoke grew thinner. “That’s a good sign,” Lena Donna said. Not really. When they arrived, they saw that the diminishing smoke was mostly because there was little of Ottus’s GO-GO ARTIST’S STUDIO left to burn. The Pilsen fire department was there, hosing the ruins. Otus was there, standing in stunned silence. Cooter was there, doing a favor for Ottus by filming him watching his GO-GO ARTIST STUDIO finish burning. Ottus stood in profile near the ruins. He lifted an arm in dramatic farewell.

“Oh my gosh,” Lena Donna said. “That old barn. Well it could be worse. Do you see Ennus?” The women got out of the car. Emily left Lena Donna behind, hurrying to her sons. “Have you seen Ennus,” Emily said. “I saw him peeping out of his bedroom window when I got here,” Otus said. “I did too,” Cooter said, allowing the camera focus to stray from Ottus. “Keep the camera on me,” Ottus said. Cooter rolled his eyes and aimed the lens at THE GO-GO ARTIST. Gazing at the charred remains, Ottus said, “Farewell 2nd Law. Farewell Perfection of Presentation. Goodby Dried Semen Sketch Series and - and Dustpan Universe! Au Revoir. Au Reservoir!” As Ottus said goodby to his GO-GO ART CHILDREN, Lena Donna and Sheriff Tom came up. Ottus said, “You ask me what it is to see your GO-GO ART martyred before your eyes?” “No I do not,” Sheriff Tom said. “With GO-GO ART, catastrophe is benefice. Really, it’s amusing,” and here he chuckled in the way that signified weary wisdom rather than him actually finding something amusing, “Funny that the total destruction of my life’s work would make you think I would despair. But to me, despair is the ash from which my GO-GO ART will rise again. New GO-GO ART! And as for the old, well, that I was the conduit to the work - The Bag of Broken Light Bulbs - My Clean Socks - Burnt Pitchfork, Wheel Barrel X - all of it - that was what was important. And me transcending GO-GO ARTIST to become the medium itself is a good in and of itself. Plus, I have it all documented on my website. So even though it has been given back to the elements, I tell you, today is a day of JOY! The fire has given birth to this artifact, this movie piece

imprinting spontaneous and unintended GO-GO ART.” “Art cannot be unintentional,” Cooter said. “It MUST be unintentional,” Ottus countered. Sheriff Tom looked pained. “Uh huh. So interesting. Sometime you’ll have to explain it all to me, but really, for now - what do you know about the source of the explosion?” Ottus showed Sheriff Tom what his camera recorded. The small screen showed Ottus airbrushing a tubular segment of Perfection of Placement candy blue. Foovier brushed against his legs and raised his tail. Then the explosion rocked everything, shaking the camera and the whole building. Flames shot a foot high through the cracks of the floor boards, making Ottus drop the nozzle of the air brush and leap, as did Foovier. ARTIST’S FAMILIAR ran out of the frame. Translucent fire replaced the blue and yellow flame from the initial explosion, the flames making the air bend. Ottus lingered long enough to grab his camera. “I’m calling this piece, GO-GO ART IN FLAME. It’s being posted as it runs, so if you don’t mind, I’d like for Cooter to go back to recording this, which I really think is my greatest achievement. It’s already had seventeen hits. One from Cal State!” Sheriff Tom smiled at Otus. Otus blushed, self-conscious that this was the second time in less than a week he’d formally spoken to the officer. He said, “I was in the golf cart coming from Lena Donna’s house. I’d dropped Mom off and was coming back when I saw the smoke, and pretty soon, Mom called me.” “I can vouch for that,” Lena Donna said. Sheriff Tom sighed. “That accounts for your whereabouts when the explosion went off, but...Well, are you aware that the barn blew up because of the drug lab in what’s left of the cellar? Do you know anything about that?”

Otus, Ottus, and Emily had an idea, as did Lena Donna, Sheriff Tom, and the firemen putting out the smoldering planks. “So, where’s Ennus?” Sheriff Tom asked. “He’s in his room,” Otus said. Sheriff Tom nodded and looked up at Ennus’s bedroom window. “Maybe I should run up there and say ‘hello’,” he said. Otus and Ottus exchanged looks. The dismantled motorcycle engine. Oh well. Consequences of drug addiction and all. Otus sighed. “I wonder where Foovier is?” Ottus said. Actually he knew where his ARTIST’S FAMILIAR perched, and he watched the kitty as he spoke. “I think I’ll look for Foofy,” he said, stepping away from Sheriff Tom and the others. Cooter followed him, filming. Otus, Emily, and Sheriff Tom went to Ennus’s room. Lena Donna toddled in slow motion, used to being left behind. She didn’t even try to go up the steps but sat in the swing in the front yard. Otus’s heart pounded. Sheriff Tom would see the motorcycle parts all over the room. “Hmmm, whose is this?” he might ask. The stolen motorcycle, the drug lab - there would be, as Ricky Ricardo would say, a lot of ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy. But the motorcycle parts as well as the tools (also stolen) were out of sight. Ennus, however, lay in his bed, pretending to be asleep. “Ennus,” Sheriff Tom said. Ennus opened his eyes. “Sheriff Tom, Mom, Otus - is something wrong?” “Yes, Ennus, as a matter of fact, it looks like you blew up your drug lab and like to blowed yourself up too,” Sheriff Tom theorized. “What are you talking about?” Ennus’s eyebrows had been burned off and his mullet bore scorch marks. The lack of brow gave his innocent expression a particularly alarming

aspect. Ennus said, “I’ve been lying here in bed since Otus and Ottus beat me up a little earlier. They can vouch for me.” Ennus pulled his bed sheet to his chin. Sheriff Tom looked at Otus, then back at Ennus. Tom said, “They must have punched you pretty hard to have knocked your eyebrows off. And what’d they do? Tie you up and burn your hair? Plus, you smell like a drug fire. Has he really been up here all this time, Otus?” “I drove Mom to Lena Donna’s, so I don’t know.” Otus, of course, did know that Ennus was to blame for the smoldering heap outside. Ottus, outside climbing the tree to dramatically get Foovier while Cooter filmed - he had guessed as much too. Emily had her suspicions. Everyone, Lena Donna, the firemen, people who would hear about the fire later, everyone would figure it was Ennus’s fault. “Why’d you and Ottus beat your poor little brother?” Sheriff Tom asked. “Well, you know,” Otus muttered, shifting from foot to foot. “They’re just jealous of me. Still, after all these years. Because I’m The Golden Boy of The 4-H Club!” Eyes widened. Seconds of awkward silence passed. Otus said, “Do we need to call Barry Daye?” “You mean Very Gay?” Ennus said in a fond way.

Barry Daye, the Burchen’s lawyer and financial advisor, did not like being called Very Gay, a middle school nickname. He had not thought it funny then. Summoned by Otus, in the Burchen living-room, Barry did not laugh now, being called Very Gay by Ennus, as in, “Why, hello. Very Gay.” Satisfaction about what Barry had to say burned in his gut. “First of all, don’t call me

that,” he said, taking a blue chintz chair. He frowned as he opened his laptop and brought up Ennus’s file. “Sowwy,” Ennus kidded. “Ennus, please!” Otus said. Foovier pranced into the room and jumped into an empty lavender love seat. “It’s okay, Otus, Emily...Ottus. You have my sympathy,” Barry said. “And what is that supposed to mean,” Ennus demanded, blazing with outraged innocence. He leaped from the yellow couch he’d been sitting. “Sit down,” everyone shouted. Ennus sat. Barry’s frown deepened. “Here’s the deal I’ve arranged. Now whatever you were making wasn’t the usual drug, and you weren’t using ingredients that are illegal to have or use in any manner, including whatever you were up to. What I’m saying is that there is no drug law that they can get Ennus on here. What he was making was some sort of designer drug.” Barry sneezed. Everybody glared at Ennus. “Why are you all mad at me? I think you all owe me a big apology. You heard him. It wasn’t even a drug. More like a vitamin or something. What he said was good news just now. So do we even need to pay Very -” Emily gave him an open-handed swat on the back of his head, and Ottus balled his fist. Otus shook his head. Barry made his expressionless lawyer-face, looking straight through Ennus’s eyes, and he said, “You have your little laugh and make your little joke that no one finds amusing. I hope you’ll be chipper in rehab, because that is the deal I made with the Danny Berruti and Sheriff Tom.” He sneezed. Danny Berruti was the district attorney for Pilsen.

For moments, Ennus gaped at Berry like a fish out of water gasping for oxygen, and when he could speak, he said, “What kind of lawyer are you? It wasn’t illegal and you get me thrown in rehab? For what - a drug that isn’t against the law? Anyway, I don’t know what was going on in that cellar - and I’m not owning up to anything! Oh, Lord, if it wasn’t against the law, then why do I have to go to rehab? I - I was up here sleeping as my family can testify.” His brothers and mom smirked, shook their heads no. Barry smiled. “Berruti and Tommy want to put you in the county lock-up for reckless endangerment and for arson. They could have you in jail for a year, maybe more.” Ennus looked at his family for some sign of sympathy but he only saw wistful, distant expressions at the mention of his being gone for a year. Berry tapped Ennus on the knee. He said, “In exchange for their not pursuing this course of action, you must go to rehab. So - laugh, clown, laugh!” Ennus, not laughing, said, “Good!” He leveled a blistering look at his family. “You know, I would gladly go to jail to get away from the lack of support, not to mention that stinking cat.” “Of course, it’s Foovier’s fault you’re messed up on drugs. Really, you’re pathetic, Ennus,” Ottus sneered. “Your precious cat pees on my clothes,” Ennus said. “Foofy was commenting on your fashion choices in a pretty kitty prank,” Ottus suggested. “That cat is spraying,” Otus said. “You’re kidding!” Emily said, outraged. She didn’t know. Barry sneezed. He said, “Let’s not get off track. That’s what a drug addict counts on, manipulating people by getting them off the subject. Ennus must go to rehab to escape going to

county jail.” “I’ll go! I’ll go tomorrow,” Ennus bitterly lied. “The arrangement that I was able to make was that you go tonight,” Barry said. Ennus blanched. “Right, but first I’ve got to see someone.” Otus, Ottus, and Emily each withered a little inside, for they knew what was ahead. The twins blocked the doorway as soon as Ennus got up. Otus stood straight as a soldier with his hands at his sides, staring ahead in a stern and purposeful way. Stoic. Ottus crossed his arms and stared Ennus in the eye, daring him to try and leave. Ennus said, “I have to help my friend. He’s in a bad way. I’ll be back in an hour or two I swear.” Barry said, “Emily, could you please pack Ennus a suitcase. Be sure to go through everything.” “I know.” “I can pack my own bags,” Ennus protested, casting his eyes to the heavens in a show of desperate drama as Emily hurried from the room to get him ready and make sure his clothes didn’t hide drugs. Unnecessary, however, because on him he carried enough of his ‘brown stuff’ as well as the more predictable devilish substances to keep him continuously high for twentyeight days. But of course that wasn’t enough. “They won’t take me if I haven’t detoxed for forty-eight hours,” Ennus blurted. Barry pointed out, “And if you haven’t been using drugs, why would you need to detox?” “The herbal supplements I take for my health might cause me to have some sort of...of positive test.” “Doesn’t matter. I’ve arranged for everything, Ennus. You’re going to the Rose Glen

Hospital in East St. Louis tonight as soon as your mom gets back down here. We’re driving you.” “Fine. They’ll just find out that you’re all wrong. What then?” “Gee I don’t know,” Barry said, smiling and shrugging. He sneezed. Emily came down with his clothing. Everyone was ready, standing at the front door. Ennus said, “It’s two hours to East St. Louis. I’ve got to pee.” No one believed this. “You want to get high in the bathroom,” Otus said, arching an eyebrow and pursing his lips at his little brother, who looked away. “You can go to hell you stupid baby talker.” Otus gasped. Foovier left the room. Barry drove, Emily next to him. In the back, Otus and Ottus sat on either side of Ennus. He was very high, having managed to smoke and swallow some drugs during a hard won trip to the bathroom right before they left, ostensibly to pee, which he also managed to do while getting ripped to the tits. “Mom,” Ennus said with great affection, “did you pack my toiletries? My electric toothbrush and electric razor?” Emily’s silence told her answer. Ennus sat up and said, “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go back. I have to have those things.” This was because Ennus had drugs hidden in them. Otus wore a blue checked shirt under his overalls. He said, “You must have drugs hidden in them.” “You are a master of the obvious,” Ottus said. Ennus took umbrage to a savage degree. “I don’t! I just need those things. They expect you to shave and brush your teeth in rehab,” he yelled. “Be quiet. We’ll get what you need - other than drugs - once we get there,” Ottus said.

Otus, eyes fixed straight ahead, elbowed his little brother in the ribs. “Ouch! Mom!” Emily turned in the seat and squinted as if she were Clint Eastwood at Ennus. Through clinched teeth, she said, “If you do not start behaving right now, I will tie your portion of your inheritance in a trust so tight that you won’t see a penny until you’re older than I am now.” Ennus contained himself. He sat back and enjoyed his buzz. One good thing about drugs, no matter what your circumstances - even being an addict facing rehab - if you were high, you felt happy. Ottus sulked. Gone was his GO-GO ART; plus, stuck here on this grim drive to East Saint Louis. Life was too much to cope with. Otus thought of the pulled pork souffle he and Jenny would make tomorrow. Would she talk of whore baths? Flounce about in a languid way? “Jenny sure has been acting funny sometimes,” he said. “From someone for whom baby talk is the norm, I just can’t imagine what you would consider funny,” Ottus said, adding, “I thought she’d gone through menopause ten years back.” Otus leaned forward and stuck out his lower lip at his twin. “Jenny is still a viable woman!” he cried. A moment of silence in the car. The sound of cars going by. Drone of the wheels on the highway. “I do not even want to try to imagine what that could possibly mean. Whatever. I care-th not,” Ottus pronounced. Emily slapped the back of the seat. “Stop bickering,” she commanded, and they did. She turned back around in her seat. “I cannot stand that rock-and-roll,” she said, reaching for the radio button. The song playing was “Afternoon Delight” by that long forgotten hard rocking outfit, The Starland Vocal Band. Emily pushed the button until she came to “Moon River”, the

Guy Lombardo version. “Now that is real music,” she informed everyone before humming along, her voice quivering with too much thin vibrato. The word Rose Glen conjures images of bucolic recesses where patients can begin recovery in groves of flowers - roses, for example - roses and old red brick buildings, but Rose Glen was not pastoral - was, in fact, separated from the frightening East St. Louis neighborhood where it was situated by a ten foot chain link fence, topped with three strands of razor wire. As Barry pulled into the parking lot, Ennus’s eyes widened at the sight of the junkies, dealers and prostitutes so close by. His people. The Burchens and Barry Daye got out, and Emily said, “Help me.” She handed Barry her inflated pool toy, sagging and almost out of air. He held it between two fingers as if it were a sardine and handed it back to Emily as soon as she was out of the car. Ottus noticed the urban ambience too, and he said in a yearning way, “I belong in the city.” He focused the camera of his phone on a hooker, who responded by exposing herself. “Oh my heavens,” Emily cried, averting her eyes. “I hate the city. This place is like - hell,” Otus shuddered. He got Ennus’s suitcase. They walked toward the entrance of the hospital until Ennus veered off the sidewalk to meander into one of the shrubs next to the building. “Where do you think you’re going?” Barry said. “Come on, Ennus,” Otus said, peeved. “Really, do you have to do things in the same old way and put us all through this miserable ordeal again? Your suitcase is heavy.” “Put it down and take a rest,” Ennus said from inside the wall of shrubbery. “If I have to come in there after you and snag my blouse, I will break your jaw,” Ottus warned. He and Otus looked at each other, both of them smelling the familiar odor of their little brother smoking drugs. “The brown stuff?” Ottus said to his twin.

“I’m more thinking crack,” Otus mused. “More that burning plastic jug smell than those other weird drug smells.” “Coming,” Ennus croked. “Just give me a moment.” He coughed, and the shrub hiding him shook. “What are you doing?” Emily said although the acrid smoke snaking from the greenery told all. Ottus kicked at the shrub. “Damn you,” he said. Emily said, “Think of poor Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee (a foot tall bull), and Poo-Poo and Pee-Pee (a giant hen and a wee cock respectively). You have abandoned them. Don’t think they don’t know and feel your absence.” From inside the bush, Ennus sobbed. Emily’s words brought Ennus out. “I know. My poor babies. Come on, let’s go,” he said, waving to the people outside the fence. Three more prostitutes flashed them. The dealers and junkies stared. More people were arriving outside the hospital fence as evening fell and the streetlights blinked on. If only they could have dropped him off at the reception desk. At Rose Glen, registering patients waited for up to an hour before a nurse might admit them. A man in his late twenties paced, his eyes in pain. No one was with him. He wore a bathrobe. Another man in a suit babbled to his silent, angry wife. Otus signed Ennus’s name. They joined the other waiting patients in the room. “Boy, I really need to use the bathroom,” Ennus said. “No,” everyone said, but Ennus bolted from his chair, zipping straight to the men’s room. “Oh, great,” Ottus groaned. “Crapstasy!” “Language,” Emily warned. Otus sighed.

“He is taking drugs in there,” Otus said.” “Oh really? Do you think he would do that? Surely not,” Ottus said. “Sarcasm is an ugly ugly quality, brother,” Otus said, removing his hat and balancing it on his knee. Ottus looked at his brother - the rube - and shrugged. Otus ran his finger along the brim of his straw hat. He said, “I guess we should try and do something.” Emily banged on the bathroom door. “Ennus, get out of there! Think of your animals. Think of how once - you were the golden boy of The 4-H Club!” A sob echoed from the bathroom. “Why must you torment me as I’m trying to use the bathroom,” Ennus cried. “You’re not baking biscuits in there. Do not make us come in,” Otus threatened. “I am so dying in the country. If I’d grown up around here or in, say, New York City, someone would have noticed me,” Ottus mused, wishing Cooter were here to record his musings. “Just being in a city. I mean, even as we were getting out of the car, I could feel it, taste the city. Smell it even!” “That was stale pee,” Otus sniffed, adjusting his toupee as he looked at a greenish man in a bathrobe who was shuffling in place in front of the nurses station. Two nurses oversaw the registry, a large African American Woman in her forties and a large, muscular, white man in his forties. The woman frowned and the man smirked. “Now you sit, Mr. Leroy,” the male nurse commanded. “I...” the young man muttered. He looked at the floor. Otus did not want to drag Ennus out of the bathroom. He fumbled with the hip pocket of his overalls and got his phone. His fingers trembled as he called Jenny. “Oosie poosie woogy woo,” he whimpered. That got everyone’s attention. The nurses stopped fussing with the

greenish Mr. Leroy. The pre-registered patients waiting to get in so they could begin fiending in earnest, they all looked. Ottus buried his face in his hands. “Oh boy,” Emily sighed. Inside the bathroom, Ennus shrieked. “Eeki peeki peeki pee. Izzzeee me snookies? Teedy tee mi piddy poo! Keekee teeky tee coo cooo, mi bebies!” Otus cupped his hand around the phone and stage-whispered, “Oooosss mi coosy coosy cooo? Psssss Psssssy cooosy doo doo dooosy mi pssssy pidey twee!” Otus kept this up until Mr. Leroy clutched his hair, screamed and collapsed, busting his head open on the hard tile. Blood was everywhere. The man in the grey suit who had been provoking his wife was clacking his teeth in a psychotic manner and glaring. The nurses tended to Mr. Leroy’s bloody mess, but they too shot angry glances Otus’s way. Misinterpreting all this, Otus said, “Gots to go, sweety-poo-poo. Sweety-eaty poody doody doody doosy doo.” He hung up and smiled at the many witnesses to his love for Jenny. There was a collective sigh of relief when he put away his phone. When the blood was mopped up, the nurses approached them. The male nurse spoke to Emily, jerking his head in Otus’s direction, saying, “Are you checking him in? What is his problem?” Otus smiled in a simpering way. The problem was that he was addicted - to love for his girlfriend Jenny - and everybody loves a lover! Emily said, “Not him. He just talks baby talk to his girlfriend. Our problem, my other son, Ennus, is in the bathroom and won’t come out.” Ennus bunkered in the restroom stall and smoked hit after hit, sampling all the drugs he’d brought: the brown stuff, smokable ecstasy, crack, ice, and heroin (just to keep his heart rate under control). He marveled at the field of translucent hand prints in faded pastels pulsing over the walls and ceiling, everywhere he looked. He saw new colors and knew their names. Ennus

blew out another hit of ecstasy and said the name of each new color. “Galoom. Zerzabob. Flamon. Crooshin,” he murmured, loading a hit of heroin into his stem. The hollow ringing in his head felt like blood pulsing out his ears. In a good way though. They, meaning everyone, didn’t understand the concept of medicine. The hand prints became less transparent, more solid, the bathroom fading as the hallucination strengthened. Ennus named more colors. “Varhue. Bleal. Clavacord,” he whispered. The hospital was gone. Only the hand prints and the rapturous ringing The nurses entered the bathroom. “Honey, I’m one of your nurses. My name is Nash. Look, you’re going to have to put down the pipe if you’re going to give up the drugs,” Nash said. Honey? “You better come with us now or we’ll drag you out of here. Now you come out before that farmer makes another call and starts baby talking. If I have to hear any more than that, you’re going to spend the next seventy-two hours in restraints,” The woman nurse, whose name was Jane, advised. Ennus came out of the bathroom without argument. The nurses took all his drugs and his pipe. He was very high, so he didn’t care. They walked him out. When he saw his family, Ennus beamed. “This is where we say goodbye. You know, you’re all right about me needing to be here. I’m going to get well,” he called. Ennus hugged his brothers and his mom, even Barry, the nurses flanking him all the time. After the hugs, the nurses escorted him down the hall to a room where a doctor would evaluate how high he was and how best to wrest him from the grips of the drugs. Ennus smiled as he looked back over his shoulder at his family. “Goodbye all! Goodbye! Tell my animals I’ll be back and make everything up to them. Tell Moo-Moo I love

her,” he called. “Who Moo-Moo?” Jane asked. “Moo-Moo is my big cow. She is America,” Ennus explained. Emily, Otus, Ottus, and Barry waved goodbye in a less enthusiastic manner. They were tired. For them, it was late, and there was a long drive home. They were, however - all of them very relieved to be rid of Ennus for awhile. Very relieved - but not trusting their relief. They were still waving goodbye when Ennus broke away from the nurses and sprinted across the lobby toward the entrance. “I’ll be back,” he called to his family, their waves fading as he vanished out the door.

OTTUS AND OTTUS IN EAST ST. LOUIS NIGHTTOWN The nurses came up to the Burchens and Barry Daye. Jane said, “He is slippery. One second he was talking about Moo-Moo - some giant cow and the cow was America or something else crazy, then mid-sentence, he skated right out from under us.” Although unapologetic, she and Nash were sympathetic. Nash said, “Legally, we can’t force him to stay, even if he is under a court order, which if he breaks, he goes to jail.” “We’ll get him back,” Otus said with a weary air. Ottus looked angry enough to spit. His phone rang. Ottus checked his caller i.d. and the lines in his face lengthened. He handed his phone to Emily and said, “It’s Aunt Cheyenne.” Thirty extra pounds wouldn’t have made Emily’s shoulders sag as much as this bit of news. As if handling a fetid lump of puke, she took the phone. “Yes Cheyenne,” she droned. “Yes, that’s right. We’re at Rose Glen now. He’s getting the help he needs. The tools to...um... Maintaining his sobriety and all. Lena Donna phoned you about this? So nice of her, and so nice of you to show concern.” Emily’s face tightened. “Yes, he is your nephew.” She rolled her eyes. Cheyenne’s voice chattered for half a minute. Emily interrupted her sister, saying, “No, the cat wasn’t killed in the fire. What? Could you repeat that?” Emily listened, a grim smirk taunting the corners of her mouth. She said, “Lena Donna told you she wants to have a cleansing ceremony in the house? My house? Oh, you said that you were sure I’d never go for that? Well, you’re wrong, Cheyenne. I think it might be fascinating. Yes I am. I’ll have to ask her to explain about the Ouija Board and The Sacred White Fairie Candles, but why not? It’s harmless.

I’ll get back to you about when I’ll have it. I need to go right now. Yes, I need to - I need to hang up now, Cheyenne. Goodbye. Yes, I’ll call you back later! Goodbye!” Emily, red of face, handed the phone back to Ottus. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but you might want to find your son. This neighborhood is awful,” Nash commented. “By all means. Get him back here or there’s no telling,” Jane said. Barry Daye opted out, so Otus and Ottus left Rose-Glen to look for Ennus.

Outside the chain link fence, even more people transacted their shady sex and drug business. The wan, skinny denizens looked at Otus, in his bib overalls and straw farmer’s hat, and Ottus, in what appeared to be a tight woman’s bouse with ruffles at the cuffs and down the neck. Otus was scared. Ottus found the atmosphere enchanting. He stepped up to one of the women who had flashed them earlier, and he said, “Excuse me, could you tell me which way that fellow we were with went?” “Blowjob?” she asked. She was thin and wore a black nylon windbreaker that served as a kind of miniskirt. “Let’s go,” Otus hissed to his twin. “No, just hold on,” Ottus replied. To the girl, he said, “The fellow I’m asking about is our little brother and he is supposed to be admitted to the hospital, but he ran out. Isn’t that wild?” Ottus chuckled as Otus rolled his eyes in horror. “Blow job forty dollars,” the woman said. She mimed performing the act, exposing her toothless maw.

“Let’s go,” Otus gasped. “Give me twenty dollars,” the woman told them. A man standing nearby mumbled incomprehensibly and sneered at Otus and Ottus. Everyone around them was looking at them and either sneering, frowning or otherwise making some sort of angry face. Perhaps the blatant show of animosity triggered Ottus’s street smarts. He said, “Okay, let’s go. I guess no one saw him. Should we split up? You go down that street. I’ll go down this one.” “No, let’s just go this way,” Otus squeaked. As if he were leaving a bohemian party, Ottus waved in a jaunty way and chirped, “So long.” None of them responded. Some looked through the twins, some looked away. Ottus walked ahead of his brother, who tried not to faint as he gasped for breath and his heart pounded A young man sidled next to Otus and said, “You want some blow? Rock?” Otus could not find his full voice. “Ah, no thank you,” he whispered. “We’re looking for our brother,” Ottus said. “Give me five dollars and I’ll tell you which way he went. I’ll take you there,” the young man said. Otus’s eyes widened in panic, his eyebrows lifting like tufted flags of alarm, but without a moments hesitation, Ottus gave the lad five dollars, delighted to have struck up the acquaintance of an authentic city person. Perhaps he was an ARTIST too like Ottus. This young lad would doubtlessly know about the underground hip-hop taggers and poetry slams. And Ottus could tell his new sophisticated friend about GO-GO ART. There could be a burgeoning new GO-GO ART scene in East Saint Louis with Ottus as the founding father. The three of them walked on the semi-dark street, passing gaunt men and women. They turned at one scary corner, walked several blocks, made another turn. Ottus said, “So my street

name (bestowed upon himself just then) is Hell. What’s yours?” The young man made an ugly face. He said, “I do not have a motherfucking street name, niggahhh! My name is Pumpkin!” Another corner, another streetlight where people lounged, darting in and out of shadows and darkened windows. Otus, wishing he could sink through the pavement, pushed his hands into his overalls. Pumpkin stopped in front of an empty tenement building and said, “This is where he is.” He started toward the burned out husk, and Ottus stepped with him. Pumpkin said, “No, you better stay here.” “Oh, of course,” Ottus said, embarrassed at his street-gaff. He smiled at the blank eyes and faces sizing him up. “I’ll be back,” Pumpkin said, disappearing into the building. “Let’s go,” Otus said. “We can’t leave Pumpkin,” Ottus said. “He’s not coming back,” Otus insisted, blinking like a new born baby seal in a tiger’s den. “Oh, don’t be such a bumpkin,” Ottus said, but his twin was right, Pumpkin was gone. They stood on the corner being watched, Otus horrified and Ottus grinning with confidence. After five minutes a very large drug dealer came up to them. “Hi,” Ottus said. Although he was filled with cheerful bonamie, brother Otus bit his lower lip as he stared straight ahead, not daring to look into the dealer’s eyes. “You want some dope? Some Pussy? A blowjob?” “Oh no. We’re out here -“ ”If you don’t want any dope or pussy or a blowjob then you need to get the fuck out of

here. Understand?” Ottus, apparently not understanding, smiled at the large unsmiling man. “Let’s go, Ottus,” Otus gasped. Despite being a bumpkin, he understood. “Come on. Let’s go.” Ottus continued grinning at the man as if he expected him to quit glaring and slap him on the back in a jolly show of camaraderie. Instead, the drug dealer said, “What the fuck is wrong with you - you motherfucking faggot. Step on, bitch.” Ottus understood that, and they proceeded, strolling down the promenade past people buying dope, doing dope openly, and getting high and having sex in the shadows and in plain sight. A skinny prostitute joined the twins. “Blow-job? DP? I like two dicks - two for the price of one - or party favors. I just want to smoke a hot rail, you fuckers,” she rasped. Otus tried to control his breathing. The prostitute smelled like ripe cheese and rotten fish. He said, “No thank you. I have a girlfriend.” In a fried voice, the prostitute said, “Well does she have this kind of swinging meat?” A quick lift of the skirt revealed that the courtesan was, in fact, a man. “No. I am straight and have a girlfriend I’m faithful to,” Otus gasped. Ottus said, “I am very pro-gay but I’m straight. I have a gay friend, a noble gay, Cooter Jarvis.” “I loves straight men. You can both do me for five dollars - or some party favors. Where are the party favors?” Smoke a hot rail? Party favors? Otus understood. Ottus did not and grinned in a stupid way until the prostitute punched him hard in the arm. “You’re a trip. Go back to the farm with your funny-looking self, homo,” the prostitute growled, tossing his hair as he stomped away on his skeletal legs.

Ottus rubbed his arm. They were at another sketchy corner. “Oh, no! We’re lost,” Otus said. Ottus rubbed his arm and said, “Maybe you are, but I know where we’re at. Let me lead the way.” He did not know the way. They were lost. “We’re not lost!” Ottus said, irritated at his brother, not just the fear radiating from him but his appearance as well. Where could you take Otus where he didn’t stick out like a radish in the plum patch? Ottus viewed his twin as an embarrassing appendage, and he thought the junkies, dealers, and prostitutes looked at them and laughed because of Otus and his bib overalls and straw hat. “Would you hurry?” Ottus said. “We don’t know where we’re going,” Otus cried. “Aren’t there any police patrolling?” Ottus laughed in an uncharitable way and was about to comment on his quaint brother’s naivete when he noticed, not ten feet away from where they stood, a neatly dressed young man. Ottus waved to the young fellow, who smiled back in a friendly and encouraging manner. “Hey,” Ottus said. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t do this,” Otus whispered. Ottus went up to the boy. “How are you today?” Ottus said. “I’m doing pretty good. Are you fellows looking for something?” The boy asked. “This is my corner? Are you looking for rock? For dope?” A dealer - dressed for success! He was young, about nineteen, and wore brown khaki pants, a white button down shirt and a tie. “We’re looking for our brother. He was supposed to check into Rose Glen Hospital, and he ran out,” Ottus volunteered. The Ivy League dealer smiled sympathetically. “A lot of people come by this way,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. What’s his name?”

“Ennus,” Ottus said, adding, “I must say, you seem a little...different, if I may say so. I mean the way you’re dressed and the way you’ve stepped up to try and help us, like a good Samaritan.” “I grew up around here, but I’m working my way through college,” the dealer said, his smile broadening. “I want to be a marine-biologist.” “You, my friend, are to be commended,” Ottus said in a reproachful way, looking at his brother, who was so quick to judge. That was the way with bumpkins like Otus. They were conditioned to generalize and worry and always jump to the worst conclusions! Otus still looked scared enough to pee green. A tall thin man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes came up to them. He wore a musty grey hooded sweatshirt and stained baggy jeans. “Hey, that rock you sold me wasn’t shit,” he barked. His blue veins pulsed in his temples and along the ridge of his nose. Otus shrank back. Ottus stared at the smelly fiend with curiosity. The dealer’s face grew wistful, and he looked at Ottus as if he wanted to apologize for the intrusion of the dissatisfied crackhead. The addict’s clothing swam on him and he yelled, “I want my money back!” A flash of metal caught the streetlight. “Yeeeeeeahhhhh!” screamed the junkie when the working-his-way-through-college dealer responded to the complaint by slashing him in the face with a long razor that appeared to spring from his college-boy’s hand. Otus, Ottus, and everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped what they were doing to watch the junkie writhing on the ground. “Oh, Lord, protect us,” Otus whispered, turning deathly pale. The dealer who had sliced the junkie looked at his once disgruntled and now screaming customer, regarding him with malevolent, silent disdain before quieting the bleeding

junkie with a kick to the head. “No refunds. So sorry,” the dealer said to the unconscious drug addict. He stepped a few feet away, looked at Ottus, smiled in a shy way and shrugged. For once, Ottus did not know what to say. He stood, mouth agape, watching blood spurting from the still body until Otus, too pole-ax stunned, too much in shock to react in his usual way to something violent and deathly - by swooning - pulled Ottus away by the sleeve. They quick-stepped away, going several blocks, making a turn or two. Otus said, “How did we end up here?” Ottus sighed in an aggrieved way and rolled his eyes. “Look at that skyline,” he blathered. “A million lives twinkling.” “What skyline? We’re in East Saint Louis! We just saw...Oh, look! A police car! Thank God a police car!” Otus cried. He whipped off his hat and began waving it at the patrol car, which slowed, the officers surprised to see a farmer and a gay pirate. The car pulled to the curb and Otus ran to it. The police officers, assuming Otus and Ottus to be rural junkies, looked at them in a suspicious manner, half-lidded eyes and frowns. “We’re lost!” Otus cried, out of breath. “What are you two fools doing here?” asked one of the officers, a large African American man. “Yeah, you guys looking for dope? A blowjob?” the other officer asked. He was a large white man and was behind the wheel of the patrol car. “No, no, no! We’re looking for out brother. We were checking him into Rose Glen Hospital and he ran out before we got him checking in.” The policemen’s grim expressions softened. The white officer said, “You guys are

twelve blocks from Rose Glen. Get in and we’ll run you back.” Once in the car, Otus blurted, “We witnessed a crime awhile ago.” Ottus, who lived by the code of the street, frowned at his twin. The African American officer turned and looked at Otus. He said, “That is surprising. This is such a quiet neighborhood. So what did you see?” “One man was complaining about drugs to another man, and that guy stabbed him, or, rather, slashed him with a razor, and then he beat him very savagely,” Otus said, to his brother’s chagrin. When Otus tried to direct them to the spot, he couldn’t though. “I thought it was here,” he said at once corner. Maybe it’s this way.” The white policeman who was driving said, “So, pirate, do you remember where this assault took place?” “I think so,” Ottus replied, because although he ascribed to the code of the streets, he wanted to show the officers that he, unlike the frightened Gomer next to him, was street smart. He decided to impress them with his coolness and savvy, so he said, “Another day in paradise.” Ottus chuckled in a conspiratorial way with the officers, who didn’t return the civil laughter but instead furrowed their brows in tired dismay. “Turn here, left at the next corner,” Ottus directed. He could not lead them there either, so after another fifteen minutes of aimlessly driving through the neighborhood, the now irritated policemen took Otus and Ottus back to Rose Glen. “Thanks, fellas. Sorry about -“ Ottus began. “Yeah,” the white officer cut him off. “You saved our lives,” Otus declared. Their blank faces were his answer. As soon as the twins walked in the doors of the hospital, they saw Ennus sitting between Emily and Barry. The nurses hovered over him. He was adding air to Emily’s donut. His face

was purple but he was curiously enervated. High. He stopped blowing to say, “Don’t either of you ever check Mom’s donut?” Otus and Ottus’s abashed expressions prompted Ennus to add, “I told you I’d be back. Where have you two been until now?” Ottus said, “While we were looking for you, we witness what was probably a bloody murder!” Otus fainted, keeling over into a chair that broke his fall. They had to revive him with smelling salts.

ARCANE PRACTICES “Otus, I need you,” Jenny said as she beat the egg whites to clouds in the blue bowl on the hundred year old wooden block table in the Burchen kitchen. Otus tried to multi-task, both searing scampi, whipping egg yolks, and repairing the burst seam of his yellow cotton shirt. He tied off the last stitch and said, “Be there in a sec.” As he stepped back and regarded the mend, his brother’s cat, Foovier, strutted through, ignoring both Otus and Jenny. The cat disappeared behind an old cabinet where he sprayed. Otus sniffed. “I just hate that kee-kee,” he said. “Can you smell how he’s made the house smell? Stupid Ottus can’t be bothered with a silly chore like emptying the beast’s litter box. Oh, how I loath it!” He stamped his foot, tossed the shirt over the back of a wooden kitchen chair, and went to Jenny. Jenny looked up from the egg whites. “I didn’t want to say anything,” she said; then, noticing the troubled furrow in her boyfriend’s forehead, added, “Really though, you can barely barely notice it.” “You don’t have to sugarcoat things. The odor speaks for itself. I could just - Ottus is such a jackass.” He looked into the blue bowl. “Oh that is lovely,” he said. “You inspire me, lover, but I need you to hurry with the yolks, my egg whites are peaking and ready to be folded. I so need you, lover.” Otus brought his yolks to her and, side by side, they folded the beaten yolks and the whipped whites into each other. “I’d like to run naked through a meadow of whipped egg whites, or maybe take a bath in them,” she said, leaning her hip and buttock against Otus. “That would take ten thousand egg whites. How funny!” Otus said, pulling away from her to get the cooked scampi, ready to be introduced to the souffle mixture. Otus sniffed again.

“The smell is stronger,” he said. “It’s a male cat. It’s spraying,” Jenny explained. Foovier walked from behind the cabinet, not deigning to look at either of them. Otus’s forehead wrinkled under his toupee. He said, “I think the smell is stronger.” Foovier strolled into the dining room where he had another spray in another secret spraying spot. In the kitchen, Otus and Jenny worked the scampi and toasted saffron into the souffle mixture. Otus said, “You can’t tell Ottus anything about his precious GO-GO ARTIST’S FAMILIAR. How pretentious. How did I get such a pretentious twin?” “You are nothing like either of your poor brothers. I feel sorry for them. And Ottus is still calling Foovier his familiar?” “Oh, yes - Ottus and his remarkably empty-headed GO-GO ART and his ARTIST’S FAMILIAR. I said, ‘Your cat - your familiar is peeing -’“ ”Spraying.” “Whatever. So I tell him his cat is spraying, ruining our home, spraying all over the place and poo-pooing too, pardon me mentioning it, and THE GREAT GO-GO ARTIST actually laughs. He says that his cat staining everything and making everything stink is a natural function. He says it’s no big deal. It’s such a bore to deal with! Tarsome” Otus got the souffle pan. Jenny tilted the blue bowl and began pouring it into the pan. She said, “How is Ennus?” Otus rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. “It’s all standard operating procedure if you ask me. He’s done this so often. Seventeen hundred dollars a day and he whines and whines about how awful it is and how he doesn’t need it, and pretty soon, he’ll change his tune and embrace his sobriety, or at least say he has. Then he’ll get really weird and obsessed with something or

other, and just when we start to think he might be getting normal - he’ll relapse! But everything is going to be okay because Lena Donna is having some sort of weird ceremony to cleanse our house of Ennus’s bad vibrations or something equally strange. They’re going to do it in the dining room. Ouija boards and candles. Probably crystals I imagine. Do you think there will be chanting?” “That sounds adventurous,” Jenny said. “Well, I’m against it. I think those spirit type things should be left alone. We believe in God! And as far as bad spirits or sour spirits, it’s Ottus’s darned kee-kee making evil bad smells and that’s what that is! Mom is only doing it because Aunt Cheyenne said it was a bad idea. Just to spite her sister, Mom is willing to dabble in the occult, something that is not meant to be messed with - It’s just not! Oh, I’m sorry to be such a complainer.” Otus leaned over and kissed Jenny on the ear, which made color rise in her cheeks. “Poor baby,” she cooed, turning to him, looking into his eyes. “I don’t know which brother I hate more - the drug fiend or GO-GO ART BOY. Oh, I don’t hate them. They’re my brothers, and I love them. But I hate them too!” Jenny kissed Otus on the lips. He sneezed. “Oh, you love ‘em. You think you could rub my back? I think I pulled something when I got out of bed today.” Actually, she had pulled a muscle changing a tractor tire, but she didn’t dare tell Otus. “It hurts right here,” Jenny said, taking Otus’s hand and placing it on her tailbone. “I bet you were working on something and just don’t want to tell me,” Otus whined. The reason was the same one, unspoken, that Benito and Sebastian shared with Jenny. Otus was unhandy to the point of being a hazard both to himself and whomever he was working with. Plus, with him there helping with a mechanical chore, things got broken. It was said of Otus that

he could break a hammer, which he had on more than one occasion. Jenny rubbed his hand on her large buttock and cooed, “I wasn’t doing anything, sweetie.” Otus took his hand from his girlfriend’s butt and said, “Obviously you were because now you’ve pulled a muscle. I could feel the tension in the muscle just now. Pulled it getting out of bed? Sure. You and Sebastian and Benito don’t want any help at all. I’ll rub that knot out later, I suppose, but next time -“ ”When I have something around here that I can’t do, you know I’ll call you,” Jenny said, putting her head on his shoulder. She was thinking of her massage as she churned the scampi in the egg mixture. “I’m handy,” Otus insisted, Jenny nodding. He was not. As Otus and Jenny put their scampi souffle in the oven, upstairs, Ottus and Cooter prepared a collaborative GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT, this one involving the upcoming cleansing ceremony. This project, unnamed, involved a hidden microphone and camera connected with Ottus’s computer. At Ottus’s directive, Cooter, adept with electronics, had wirelessly miked the downstairs dining room so they could broadcast sound as well as film and watch it all on the computer upstairs. “So,” Cooter said, “Why are we doing this?” “It’s so simple,” Ottus said, “This will engage not only an imagined audience who are, by definition , already at a very real ‘remove’ from THE GO-GO ARTIST, who in his immediacy is in ‘the know’, but this will also shock the ‘unknowing’ participants in the piece by the transgression of models, the upsetting of expectation in context -“ ”I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Oh, Cooter. It’s just like, like - say - the gay.”

“Huh? The?...Watch it, Bub.” Ottus shook his head as Cooter finished working. Ottus said, “You don’t know that you know this; therefore, you intuitively understand the, the, the transmorgification of codes!” “Transmorgification is not a word, and I don’t know either intuitively or in any other way what you’re yammering about.” “Then maybe you’re not really gay,” Ottus speculated. “But you really are a nitwit ass-blossom. No maybe’s about it. Well, the mike and camera are all working.” The project, the CONSTRUCT, the installation, whatever, it was ready. “Ottus said, “Let’s see if we can pick up the dining room.” Cooter flicked a switch, turning on the set up. On the computer screen, they could see a bird’s eye view from the camera, positioned with the microphone in an overhead light fixture. For seconds - silence. “Meow.” From behind a china cabinet in the dining room, where he had just sprayed, Foovier appeared. “Foofy,” Otus said into his microphone and the cat looked up in a confused way. “It works,” Cooter said. Ottus said, “I’m going to go downstairs. I want to see how it sounds, but talk softly. And don’t speak until I give a signal. I’ll say a password, and when you hear the password, you say -“ ”I’ll say something back. I’ll say, ‘Roger Wilco’,” Cooter suggested. “Yes, that will be great,” Ottus said as he left the room. Although he didn’t need to, Ottus tip-toed downstairs. In the living room, Emily snoozed in her chintz chair in front of the television. He crept into the dining room. Foovier was

stretched out on the dining room table, asleep. “Foofy. Foovier,” Ottus whispered, continuing through the dining room until he could see Otus and Jenny in the kitchen, washing bowls and dishes. Side to side, Jenny was pressed against Otus. When she looked and caught his eye, Ottus moved. “Hi, Ottus,” Jenny called. Ottus did not answer. “You are rudeness itself,” Otus called. Ottus’s back pressed against the lime green wall. He waited until he was sure they were back to washing dishes. He looked at the camera and realized that he hadn’t told Cooter the password; in fact, hadn’t thought of it yet. He’d just have to say something meaningful that Cooter would pick up on. It would have to be short and spoken in a rather low voice. He couldn’t wake his mom, and Otus and Jenny couldn’t hear either. What could he say. It came to him in an GO-GO ART EPIPHANY. “Chris Burden,” Otus said. Cooter, not sure what he heard, remained silent. Ottus made a plaintive face. “Chris Burden,” he hissed. “Oh, Roger Wilco.” From the kitchen, Otus said, “Who are you talking to?” “Just talking to Foofy,” Ottus lied. The cat got up and jumped at his leg. “Stop talking to that horrible kee-kee,” Otus cried, so peeved that he dropped an old iron pot. “To think I shared a womb with that selfish so-and-so. It’s a wonder he didn’t bore me into being stillborn!” Jenny rubbed her knee against the back of Otus’s thigh in solidarity. Ottus paid no attention to their carping. Cooter’s voice had come through in a most stentorian and crisp way. The piece was ready.

On the day of the cleansing ceremony, Lena Donna wore her white cleansing smock. She placed the giant white cleansing Fairie candle, purchased at the Pilsen Wal Mart, in the middle of the dining room floor on a white ceremonial place-mat, also bought at Wal Mart. With Lena Donna were two spiritual fellow travelers. Roses Rosemary’s real name was Helen Groves, but Roses Rosemary was her white energy name, given to her by an ancient spirit named Romo Pagano in a Solstice dream. Roses Rosemary, happily large and in her sixties, wore her mu-mu of many colors - a magnet for positive vibrations. She carried bongo drums, the heads painted with suns. The other student of the arcane was Terry Mallory, the organist for Reverend Bill Keifner’s Sunday sermons - the new age Christian. Terry, a forty-three year old bachelor, lived in Pilsen’s one SRO boarding house, the Hart Hotel. Terry wore what he always wore, khaki pants and a white shirt, dingy from being washed with his colored clothes. He carried a bundle of sacred parsley and dried sage. Otus and Jenny spied on the proceedings from the kitchen where on this day they were making a souffle with Italian sausage, black olives, and Portobelo mushrooms for after the ceremony. Terry sniffed and said, “You can actually smell - no - you can actually taste the corruption of spirit entities permeating the atmosphere.” He walked around the dining room, looking at the walls and ceiling in a knowing way. “The defiled souls lost to fiendish addiction, we’re breathing them in,” Roses Rosemary said, covering her nose and mouth with her hand. There was a knock at the door. “Has the housecleaning party started?” Cheyenne

chirped, letting herself in. “My goodness. And not a moment too soon. I can smell the evil spirits from poor Ennus’s addiction. They smell like cat-nastiness!” Emily smiled through her pain. “That is Foovier.” “That cat! You have Ottus’s cat in the house? I would never let a cat live in my home,” Cheyenne crowed. Emily’s own face looked catlike as she cut down her sister with a piercing gaze. “It’s not forever. Ottus has had him in the house since his studio burned down.” “Oh you mean when Ennus’s drug laboratory blew up?” Cheyenne asked, tilting her head in a pantomime of innocent concern. Emily’s angry smile flattened. “Yes, that. So heard anything new about your insurance claim?” Cheyenne’s white face pinkened and she started to say something, but Lena Donna butted in, saying, “Before we can get started, I think Terry should light the cleansing herbs. Emily, you, me, Roses Rosemary, and Cheyenne must clasp hands to make a holy circle.” From the kitchen, Otus clicked his tongue at the sacrilege. Jenny pulled his arms around her waist and pressed her back against him. “It’s all so frightening,” she said, trying to sound small and vulnerable while grinding her backside on his crotch. “It’s nonsense.” “Why is your Mom going along with it?” “Satisfying her curiosity of the Satanic I guess. No, remember, this is all just to spite Aunt Cheyenne.” Jenny nuzzled herself against Otus, and she said, “But Cheyenne is here.” “Yes, she would not miss this for anything,” Otus said.

Terry marched around the women and waved the bouquet of smoldering herbs. “As powerful as these tools are, they’re not coming close to dispersing these evil entities,” Terry said. Otus whispered,” “I can’t believe they’ve never smelled Kee-kee poo-poo before. Idiots.” Lena Donna let go of the other women’s hands and threw her head back. “It is time,” she intoned and reached in a hip pocket to get a foot long match. As she struck it, her eyes rolled back in her head. “Roses,” she said. Roses Rosemary let go of Emily’s hand and picked up her bongo drums. She began thumping one and then the other. As she drummed, Terry lowered himself until he was on his knees and elbows, his forehead and nose pressed against the floor. “This is too too too! This is beyond the beyond,” Otus hissed. “Hold me, Darling,” Jenny said pulling him tighter around her and clenching her buttocks against him. “Oof,” Otus gasped. “I have goose pimples everywhere!” Jenny squeaked. “Do you think God is smiling on this?” Otus whispered. As if channeling some ancient demigod, Lena Donna crooned in time to the pock pock pock of Roses Rosemary’s bongo rhythm. “Looooo Looooo Laaarooon. Pooo Pooooo Padoooooo,” Lena Donna wailed, her eyes rolling back in her head so that only the whites were visible. On the floor, the white Fairie candle flickered. “Kaboooocheeee,” Lena Donna moaned. “Kaboooochoooo,” she cried, her voice wavering. Emily, tired of standing, sat on her inflated pool toy on a dining room chair, still holding Cheyenne’s hand. With a fixed smile she watched Lena Donna and her fellow travelers,

occasionally glancing at her sister, maintaining her smile. Cheyenne’s face reflected triumphant abashment. Terry said, “I’m feeling the pull of a great energy vortex right here. This spot, this area draws me to the portal between our world and the invisible realms.” “Coooo Shaloooooo. Spirit or spirits - give me a sign for as to let us know - entity or entities - reveal yourself or your many phantom faces.” It was at this point that Ottus decided to reveal himself via the broadcasting network Cooter had wired to the dining room. “I AM THE DEVIL!” he bellowed in a low, stern voice. Everyone in the dining room jumped and froze in horror. From the computer screen in his room, Ottus and Cooter watched the terrified folk below. The drumming had ceased. Roses Rosemary had dropped her bongos. They were all too petrified to move. From his spot on the floor, Terry had jumped and was standing straight as a rail. Emily stood. She and her sister Cheyenne clung to each other as did Otus and Jenny. “BOW TO YOUR DARK PRINCE!” Ottus commanded. “Let’s get out of here!” Lena Donna cried, shuddering. She grabbed the cleansing white Fairie candle and mat. They all hurried out of the house to escape THE DEVIL, Emily, Cheyenne, Otus and Jenny carrying slow old Lena Donna as Roses Rosemary and Terry Mallory sprinted ahead without giving a thought to helping Lena.

GO-GO ART, GO-GO ARTIST “Good grief,” Cooter said, wrinkling his nose as he watched Foovier, with casual insouciance, spray the bedpost of Ottus’s bed. The corners of Cooter’s mouth twisted in disgust. “You know, I haven’t said anything, but this is really bad. When I leave here, my clothes smell like - like worse than a bar, or rather like a bar filled with cats pissing and shitting and coming all over the place. How can you stand it?” Ottus and Foovier looked at Cooter as if he were an alien they could not grok, which in Foovier’s case was the truth, unless Foovier understood Cooter’s tone of disapproval. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?” Ottus asked from his chair while reaching down to stroke his ARTIST’S FAMILIAR. “No, I do not. You can smell that horrible animal’s stink down the driveway outside. And we’re on a farm! I can see, just sitting here,” Cooter said, taking a moment to count, “eleven piss or sperm stains or turds. Why is he shooting cat sperm on the walls? I thought he was fixed.” “Please get your mind out of the gutter. That is not Foovier’s sperm. He has been fixed. Those little stains are called ‘spraying’.” “And the turds - have you given up on the litter box?” “Foovier is helping with our project. Remember, they think the smell is from the devil or some demon spirits of Ennus’s disease. So stop complaining about poor Foofy. The world would be a better place if there were more cats spraying.” Ottus had a faraway look in his eyes. “And I think you must have your head so far up your ass that you can’t smell this beast’s filth.”

“Anything for GO-GO ART.” From the front yard, Otus yelled, “Ottus! Ottus, are you there? Are you okay?” Ottus got up from his chair and looked out the window. “I’m fine,” he yelled. Otus stood by the gate, nervously looking around for the devil or some ghosts or something. “Come out,” he yelled. Behind him, the fields of corn, soybeans and wheat were beginning to grow in earnest, knee-high rows of green stretching as far as Ottus could see. Ottus turned and said to Cooter, “What a fool my twin is.” To Otus he yelled, “You come in.” “No, come out.” Ottus snickered in an uncharitable manner. “No,” he called, “come in. Why are you so afraid?” Otus shifted from one foot to the other but didn’t come in. “I’m not afraid,” he lied. “Don’t be such a twat-flower. Go see your brother,” Cooter urged. Ottus relented. “I’ll be down,” he yelled. Ottus met his twin at the gate in the front yard. He smiled at Otus, whose straw hat had, along with his wig, ridden high, revealing a glimpse of white forehead. If only Cooter could be here filming. Cooter, however, was upstairs tinkering with the microphone, making sure it worked with the computer and the camera. Ottus slapped Otus on the shoulder and teased, “Stop this nonsense and come on inside, Otus. It is our house. Why won’t you be normal and come on in?” “If you had heard what I heard - what we all heard,” Otus said. He gaped at the farmhouse. “As crazy as it sounds, Lena Donna and those other two kooks somehow woke something up.” He shuddered, sighed, and rolled his eyes. He fanned himself with his red

handkerchief. “So why are you here again?” Ottus asked. “You need to leave the house,” Otus implored. He tucked his handkerchief in the breast pocket of his bib-overalls. He put his hands on his hips and adjusted his stance, his feet planted, one pointing forward, the other to the side. He meant business. “You and Mom are never living in our house again? Does that mean - I can make it into a giant studio for my GO-GO ART.” Poo-Poo, Ennus’s enormous hen, ran across the yard, making Otus jump. When he collected himself, he said, “Mom is having Reverend Keifner come over and exorcize whatever Lena Donna, and that weird Roses Rosemary and that odd Terry Mallory awoke in our house. We all heard it...They actually summoned the devil! So Reverend Keifner said he’d come over, and Mom says that you should come stay with us at Aunt Cheyenne’s house.” “Better to live in our house with the devil than stay at Aunt Cheyenne’s,” Ottus quipped. Otus crossed his arms and bit his lip, considering. “She’s on a new thing - trading penny stocks!” “Penny stocks? That’s interesting,” Ottus said, the notion of his aunt as an investor sparking the beginning of his own idea, an impetuous, mad idea that would have upset Emily even more than if she’d known he’d been the one to scare them out of the house. Probably more than if their house were actually possessed by THE DEVIL.

Careful to walk on the vinyl floor paths that led from one long chamber to another, Otus tiptoed through Aunt Cheyenne’s front room, where his aunt and mom were busy watching one of The Laurence Welk shows Cheyenne had recorded on old videotape. Emily’s

inflatable pool toy squeaked as she shifted on the plastic covered, stuffed purple recliner. She expected Ottus to be with Otus. “Where is he?” she asked. “He wouldn’t come. He said he’s not afraid,” Otus said, omitting the remark about preferring infernal companionship to Aunt Cheyenne’s hospitality. “He’s not afraid of anything. In that way, he takes after me,” Cheyenne declared. Emily said, “What you’re not afraid of, you worry about. Put that Laurence Welk on pause.” “Why, I don’t know what you are talking about. I have more courage. Why - what am I afraid of?” Emily looked at the vinyl pathways on the carpets and the plastic on the chairs. “Germs,” she said. “Strangers. The dark.” “I’m afraid of nothing!” Otus stared out the window at the antics of a merry little squirrel on the tree branch. It’s eyes made him nervous however, so he looked away. “This is like living a horror movie,” Otus cried. “The devil in our house. Nonstop Laurence Welk, or - or Matlock, and I love Laurence Welk and Matlock. Just. Not. All. The. Time.” “And I will have you know that I don‘t worry about a thing. I’m as carefree as the birds!” Cheyenne insisted. “You worry about your health.” “Not any more than any other sensible person.” “Your medicine. The weather frightens and worries you. Let’s not talk of your fear of cities or even other small towns but - going to a different hairdresser or a different supermarket

would scare you to death. You worry about people who aren’t white. You are afraid of homosexuals,” Emily charged. “Just concerned about these things is all. Just keeping aware of everything, and as far as those homosexuals, I’m concerned for them,” Cheyenne corrected, looking at Otus in a significant way. Perhaps she couldn’t be entirely blamed for her assumption about poor Otus, for if Ennus had been the Golden Boy of the 4-H Club in high school, Otus could have been the Golden Boy of the Home Economics Department. Back then he had delighted in the manly arts of baking delicate petit fours and sewing floral print curtains out of vintage fabric, only developing a latent interest in farm chores when in his thirties - when it was too late for him to become handy. Otus missed Cheyenne’s meaningful look. “Aunt Cheyenne, could Jenny come by today? Four-o-clock?” Although Cheyenne said that her house was their house, Otus knew better than to behave as if he were at home. Experience. An eight year old, a broken Hummel Chimney Sweep Lad, and tears - furtive tears. “Why dear, you have to ask? My house is your house,” Cheyenne assured him, baring her big teeth in a frightening smile. She kept smiling as she spoke to Emily, saying, “I have concern for all people, that’s all.” Emily laughed. “That’s not true. You are a closed person. You should be more Christ like or, at least, more like a good Samaritan.” “Like you and Otus when you helped that criminal?” “We thought he was a poor Amish man having trouble.” “And you really did not know that Amish folk do not drive?” “I will err on the side of trying to help, of being common and good to my fellow man -

not like you, Cheyenne.” “I love all people!” Emily’s eyebrows raised and the corners of her mouth turned up. “Charlie Craine,” she said. Like Pavlov’s dog, Cheyenne reacted. “I hope he rots in hell!” she spat. “Don’t hold back,” Emily said. Cheyenne, realizing how what she said contradicted what she had said before that, merely gnashed her teeth. Emily kept prodding. “Gosh, I thought that with all the money you were raking in with your online day trading, your empire of penny stock, you’d have forgotten all about poor Charlie Craine. What did you say, the best revenge is making lots of money?” Cheyenne, who had been losing money with Daniel Shandley’s ‘system’, did not reply. “So I would think you would have risen above poor old Charlie Craine, Emily said brightly. “By the way, I am so curious. How much have you been making?” Cheyenne’s face turned purple. Otus sensed that his mom prodded a very sore spot, so, he jumped in, saying, “I heard that Charlie Craine has lost his insurance practice to another agent. They retired him or fired him, “Otus said. “I guess all your ill will toward him paid off,” Emily said. “Congratulations.” “It isn’t my fault,” Cheyenne protested. “Of course not,” Emily trilled. Otus said, “Thank you, Aunt Cheyenne, for letting my girl come by.” Her scary snarl curled into an equally scary smile again as she turned her attention back to Otus. In a syrupy voice, she said, “You do not have to ask! Even though I never understood people coming by at supper time.”

Emily chimed in. “Afraid of company! Don’t you remember when we used to bring everyone to our house any time of the day or evening - before nine of course. We were common people and proud of it. Not frightened snobs. Not aristocrats who are content to say, ‘Let them eat cake - for I cannot be bothered!’” Emily looked around the long room, the other long rooms, the chambers and sunlit halls all covered in plastic. “I am still common. Common and proud!” “I’m as common and proud as you,” Cheyenne said. She sat up, straight backed. Otus tried to soft-foot out of the living room, sliding his stocking feet over the vinyl pathway. He sidled but not fast enough. “So are you ready for your cooking lesson?” Cheyenne asked. Otus wilted inside. “Oh...yes,” he said, forcing a smile. Cheyenne launched out of her chair. “What do you think I’m going to teach you to make today?” “I don’t know.” He did know. Chicken and dumplings again. Did his aunt know how to make anything else? Cheyenne gave her sister a couldn’t care less kind of look and said to her, “If you will excuse us, Otus and myself have more productive things to do than aggravate me!” Emily’s quiet smile was her victory. Cheyenne took Otus by the hand and led him down the expanse of the front room. They turned into a beige corridor and made another turn toward the kitchen. “We’re making chicken and dumplings,” Cheyenne revealed. The chicken is already boiling. Cheyenne’s signature dish was one that Otus would never make or eat because it was too heavy. Still, it was good to reach outside one’s comfortable limits. Otus would learn to make dumplings again and be glad about it.

It would have been easier if Aunt Cheyenne hadn’t fretted so much about the flour being such a mess, and the eggs being so messy. Mixing prompted her to say, “Otus, can’t you keep from getting dough everywhere?” “Well, we are mixing dough.” “I don’t care. We have to keep it on the wax paper.” “I am, Aunt Cheyenne,” Otus said. He pounded the dough into a pyramid. “You are certainly clapping up the flour dust,” Cheyenne lamented. “Afraid of making a mess in the kitchen. We used to call Cheyenne, Prissy Briches,” Emily yelled from the distant front room. “Don’t call me Prissy Briches,” she said to Otus. She flounced to the cabinets and got out a rolling pin. Shook it at Otus. “I would never dream of doing that, Aunt Cheyenne,” Otus took pains to assure her. In a tentative way, when he decided she wanted him to take the rolling pin, he reached out, took the tool from her. She watched, making him nervous nervous nervous as he pushed the wooden cylinder into the dumpling dough. “You have to roll it out pretty thick, about an inch-and-a-half.” “I’ll have to roll the dough out then, understand, Aunt Cheyenne. Really roll it out, no holds barred without worrying about making a mess,” Otus said. “That’s what I told you. You can be neat about it though. That’s why I’m here, Otus. This is a long lost art.” “Really?” Otus stifled a sigh. “Well, the chicken is boiling,” he muttered. With a sudden slashing motion that made Otus jump, Cheyenne brandished an ancient knife. “Time to cut the dumplins’,” she said. “Watch and learn.”

Otus rolled his eyes. How many times would he have to endure this? The devil or Aunt Cheyenne? Which was more tolerable? Probably Aunt Cheyenne. Maybe. “Emily,” Cheyenne screeched. Otus flinched. “Supper will be ready in ten minutes. Can you get the tea?” Cheyenne cut the dough into dumplings - dumplin’s rather. Otus dropped them into the boiling broth with the chicken. In minutes there were dumplin’s. Iced tea beaded condensation on the McCormack Ware glasses and the dumpling steamed in the big white ceramic serving bowl, and Cheyenne presided over the table. She stood, her arms spread in benefice as she said, “Let us enjoy this good food, chicken and dumplings, simple food. Some might call it common, but it’s what I like and what I pride myself on. Help yourselves everyone.” Emily drummed her fingers on the table, her smirk a fixed answer to Cheyenne’s grand swanning. When the bowl reached her, she ladeled a modest portion. “I’m sure this is delicious, Prissy Briches,” she said. Cheyenne bit her lip and turned to Otus. She said, “I choose to rise above your mother’s petty jabs because of the love I have for her and for you.” Otus winced. “Thanks,” he said. The doorbell rang, an echo from the far away front room. “That’s Jenny,” he cried. Cheyenne’s fair face turned a dark wine color. Company at suppertime bothered her, but a glance at Emily kept her from making her comment. She could not give her sister the satisfaction. Forcing a smile and a cheerful tone which gave her a panicked expression, Cheyenne cooed, “Jenny is here? Hurry and bring her on back! There’s plenty of dumplings for whomever comes by. I’d like her opinion of my cooking.“ Emily studied a corner of the ceiling.

Otus rushed to the door. He flung it open and said, “I am so glad you are here. Aunt Cheyenne is killing me!” “My poor dear boy,” Jenny said, hugging him close. “And you’re just in time for chicken and dumplings. They are good. I had to make them with Aunt Cheyenne. That was an ordeal.” “I can smell the food from here. It sure smells good,” Jenny said, stepping into the front room - stepping off the plastic footpath. “Please stay on the vinyl paths,” Otus said. Jenny stepped back on the plastic and they went to the dining room, Jenny goosing him. “Whoo!” Otus said, jumping into the room so Emily and Cheyenne looked at him in a curious way. Otus pulled out a chair for Jenny. Cheyenne gushed, “Welcome, Jenny. Hope you like good old chicken and dumplings. We made enough that’s for sure. Enough for whomever comes by. A dozen people could drop by. It would be no big deal.” “Thank you ma’am,” Jenny said. Everyone ate. For a solid ten minutes, not a word was spoken. There was only the sound of dumplings being slurped and spoons clanking against the bowls. “I’m in no shape for that meeting with Reverend Bill,” Otus said, finishing his third bowl. “I’ve eaten so much I’m sweating,” he said running a finger beneath the hairline of his wig. “Good old fashion fare,” Cheyenne blathered. “Nothing fancy here.” She fought post supper drowsiness. Her lids fluttered. “Hope you learned how to make dumplings today, Otus.” For seconds she rested her eyes. “Yes, thanks, Aunt Cheyenne.”

Emily pushed her plate away and said, “Otus, we’ve got to go see Reverend Bill. Cheyenne, are you coming with us?” Cheyenne sat, shoulders slumping and slack-jawed. “Huh? Uh uh. I don’t think so.” Her eyes shut, the sounds around her like a lullaby. “Let’s clean up before we leave - and, of course, coffee,” Emily said. “And after Reverend Bill, we’re still going to see Ennus.” “Sure,” Otus groaned. They quietly cleaned the table, put away left-overs, and Otus and Jenny washed the dishes, nearly finished them by the time Cheyenne woke. Emily pushed a cup of coffee to her sister as she finished her own cup. Cheyenne’s eyes were swollen and a line of drool hung from the corner of her mouth. “Who cleaned off the table before everyone was finished eating?” she demanded, taking a sip of coffee. “Elves, common salt-of-the-earth elves. They were wanting our shoes to mend but they settled on clearing the table and doing the dishes. Are you going to Reverend Bill’s with us?” Cheyenne nursed her coffee. Roses Rosemary, Terry Mallory, and Lena Donna were already having coffee and lemon pastries in the part of the barn that served as the reverend’s antique store. Reverend Bill sat at a blue mahogany victory table, and he gazed at them in, he hoped, a thoughtful way. “I talked to my bishop,” he said, meaning his Uncle Allen, the previous Pilsen Pastor. “He gave me the okay to go in the house and pray and, uh...ask God to clean out the spirit.” His uncle had said he didn’t believe what had happened. They exaggerated or someone tricked them. Bill’s uncle told him to go ahead, go to the Burchen farm and pray. And watch out for tricks.

“We should light candles of white energy,” Lena Donna said. Roses Rosemary perked up. Terry Mallory said, “The white Fairie candle might have opened the conduit for the demon or the demon spirit bundle.” “Well, I don’t know about all that gibberish, but I do not need a candle. I’ll pray and I’ll have a Bible, and that will be enough.” “What role will you be wanting us to play? Any special prayers we should be practicing?” Roses Rosemary asked. “Each of us could be a ‘voice’,” Lena Donna suggested. She reached for another lemon pastry. “We could enter the cursed house in a special - cleansing procession,” she said, picturing herself bearing a large cross and chanting as she led them in. “No. You are all welcome, but I’ll want you quiet. I’ll do the praying, and I don’t need any weird rituals. I believe in God, so that’s enough. So no more suggestions. Understand? If any of you are going in there with any of this spirit magnetism energy stuff, I do not want you there.” “We need to be there to free our karma- I mean our memories of the horror of that moment and we’re going as Christians, humble Christians,” Lena Donna said, speaking for her fellow travelers as she envisioned a tableaux starring herself as Saint Christopher. “Coming in the spirit of humble Christians is what we need,” Reverend Bill allowed. “But all this stuff you’re talking about, forget it.” “Well, whatever you want us to do,” Lena Donna said, reaching for another Danish. Emily, Cheyenne, Otus, and Jenny came in. “Good,” Reverend Bill said. “Tomorrow we’ll meet in front of the Burchen place. I was just saying that I want to be the one to do the

praying when we’re there. No calling on a hoo-doo or anything.” Reverend Bill sighed. “Where’s Ottus?” “He says he’s not afraid. Says we’re being silly, but he said that he would be with us tomorrow.” “Could he be right in any way? Would you by any chance have misheard?” “No! No! No!” they all cried. Reverend Bill gulped some coffee. He silently agreed with Ottus. Somehow, they’d all suffered a mass delusion. “Like I said, I’ll conduct a prayer, and I have faith things will be set right.” “That will be good,” Emily assured him. Otus and Jenny nodded. Jenny held Otus’s hand. “Ootsie pootsie weekie woo,” she whimpered. “Eeki peeki peeki pee,” he muttered. “And none of your lovey-dovey goo-goo talk tomorrow,” Reverend Bill said. “Would you like me to sing a hymn?” Cheyenne asked. “No I would not, but thank you anyway,” Reverend Bill said. Cheyenne, Emily, Otus and Jenny made themselves coffees. They were too full from the dumplings to take any of the pastries. Reverend Bill said, “So we meet at your place tomorrow at three-thirty.” “That sounds fine,” Emily said. Otus scratched his ear. “The boys are going to break the lower basin tomorrow afternoon while it’s dry. I was hoping to be there and help,” he said. No one said anything. Finally Emily said, “They’ll be disappointed, Dear.” “I’ll be with you tomorrow,” Jenny said, taking Otus’s hand. “You’re going with us to see Ennus after we leave here aren’t you,” Otus said. They

looked as if they were going to say something in baby talk. Before they could, Reverend Bill said, “Very good then tomorrow it is. Now, I must apologize, but I’m expecting a man to come by and buy a nineteenth century Hepplevicter Leevolette, so if you don’t mind.” “We have a drive ahead of us. We’re going to see Ennus,” Emily said. A few more gulps of coffee and she was ready to go. The others hurried to finish their coffees. Lena Donna said to Roses Rosemary and Terry Mallory, “We could go to my house and have a Bible reading.” Reverend Bill looked at them. He didn’t trust them. They would probably read the Bible on some sort of new age neo-pagan ghost catcher and try to contact Jesus through their Ouija Board, which they’d be unable to do because in their haste to escape the devil, they’d left it at the Burchen farmhouse. On the way out, Emily said, “We still have to pick up Barry Daye.” He went because, as Ennus’s trustee, he was charged with monitoring his progress in rehab. When they got to Barry’s house, he took over the driving, with him, Jenny, and Otus in the front seat. In the rear cab were Emily and Cheyenne, who snipped about whether to listen to easy listening music, which Emily wanted, or country music, Cheyenne’s favorite. “Listen to what you like,” Emily insisted in a practiced passive aggressive way. “Otus, put the radio on that country station.” “No. Please, let me accommodate my sister. Otus, don’t you dare change this glorious Perry Como song,” Cheyenne insisted, taking up passive aggressive gauntlet. “Otus!”

“Don’t, Otus!” Otus turned the radio off and said, “I really feel changed by this awful devil thing.” “Well, you didn’t have to turn off the radio,” Emily snipped. “Turn it back on,” Emily said. “That’s alright, Otus. You go ahead and talk. Talk it out. I know it’s hard to keep feelings in. Secrets. Talk all those fears and secrets out. Just bring them out of the closet,” Cheyenne encouraged, making Emily shoot a sideways glance at her. In the front, Barry’s brow wrinkled, and Jenny looked at Otus as if to ask what Cheyenne was going on about. Otus, oblivious to Cheyenne’s insinuation that he was homosexual, said, “I’ve been so nervous that I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll hear that voice say, ‘I am the devil,’ again.” He shuddered. Jenny slipped her arm around his waist. “Goosey goosey goo?” “None of that,” Barry said. “Reverend Bill will say a prayer tomorrow. It will be okay. We’ll have to have the carpet cleaners out. The smell of Ottus’s filthy cat. Something must be done,” Emily said. “If it’s a male, it’s going to spray no matter what,” Barry said. “You will never get the smell out,” Cheyenne sniffed. “Yes we will,” insisted Emily. “The cat spraying will not continue.” “You sound more concerned about getting rid of the cat smell than getting rid of the devil,” Cheyenne observed. “I’m more scared of that voice - the devil,” Emily shuddered. Otus adjusted his hat and wig. He said. “Don’t even talk about it. I will never forget the sound, booming out of nowhere, the devil’s voice. ‘I am the devil!’ That will haunt me the rest of

my day!” “Coosy-coo. Why won wed dad appy do ooh,” Jenny said. “You stop that or I will turn this truck around and go back to Pilsen,” Barry threatened. “Ooh,” Otus squealed. “Sowwy. I’s so nervous nervous nervous!” “Poor Prince,” Jenny said, “Gaa gooble sooo capootle tee-doo.” Barry cringed. Cheyenne smiled, abashed. Emily ignored them. Otus sighed and rolled his shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean,” he confessed. “Duss wetting umm’s nosy iiii wuv oooh,” Jenny said. “Didn’t you kids hear what Reverend Bill said about doing that?” Cheyenne said. “Yes, enough is enough. It’s really annoying. No more,” Barry pleaded. Afterward, it was a quiet and uncomfortable drive. Berry drove thanking God for the silence. Emily looked out the window as Cheyenne dozed, breathing heavily but not breaking into snores. Otus worried about the devil as well as going back to Aunt Cheyenne’s house. Jenny ran her hand back and forth over Otus’s thigh, thinking how nice it would be if they were making a road trip by themselves to some quaint bed and breakfast. Cheyenne woke in East Saint Louis. “Where are we?” she asked, alarmed and groggy. “We’re two blocks from Rose Glen,” Emily said, adding, “You might want to wipe the sleep out of your eyes and the spit from your chin. Cheyenne, I’d forgotten how loudly you snore.” “Huh? I do not snore. You are making that up. If it were not for the great love I bear for Ennus, I would not subject myself to your cruel teasing. Are you just trying to make me feel bad?” Cheyenne groused as she fished a handkerchief rom her purse and wiped her eyes and her chin. She looked outside at the neighborhood. “This does not look anything like a Rose Glen.”

“Well, it’s a hospital in a city neighborhood, so I do not know what you expect, sister,” Emily said. The crowd of dealers, prostitutes and junkies loitered on the streets in the early evening. Streetlights twinkled in their hollow eyes. “I don’t know what I expected,” Cheyenne said, slinking down in her seat. “You are afraid,” Emily said. “Oh, I’m not,” Cheyenne said in a timid, mouse voice. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re here,” Barry Daye said, turning into the hospital parking lot. Otus’s eyes widened at the sight of two woman prostitutes flashing them as they walked in. They laughed at his expression in an unkind manner, and Jenny clasped his hand. “Oochi pookie poo wuver boo,” he muttered. “Kee kee wee wee wookie woo, picky peedy,” she answered, neither of them knowing what the other had said. The street people turned away and shook their heads in disgust. “What’s wrong with you?” a skeletal addict cried. A drug dealer in a silver track suit threw a Coke bottle at the fence, smashing it so the pieces sprayed over the concrete. In the streetlight the beads of glass gleamed. Otus, Jenny, Emily, Cheyenne, and Barry skedaddled to the entrance of the hospital. Ennus sat at a table waiting for them. He looked better. When he saw them, he smiled and got up to hug everyone, including Barry, who tolerated the contact with an unhappy smile. Ennus said, “Thanks for coming. You know how much it means to me to see you all. Anyone want some coffee?” “Let me think about it a second,” Jenny said. “If I have any more coffee, I‘ll start vibrating,” Emily said.

“I’ll have some,” Cheyenne said. Jittery from being away from home, waking from a car nap to find herself in a bad neighborhood of a city, and now in a hospital where drug addicts were kept, she didn’t need any more coffee. “I’ll have some too,” Barry said. “I need a bathroom, and no coffee,” Otus said. Ennus pointed to the men’s room across the visitors’ room. “I wouldn’t mind a little,” Jenny said. Coffee made her frisky. “I’ll get you some,” Ennus said to Cheyenne, Jenny, and Barry. He walked Otus to the bathroom. “I really am glad to see you, and you should know I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you all through.” “That’s nice but you left the house haunted - by the devil no less.” Ennus, who thought his brother spoke in metaphor, sighed. “Drugs are the devil,” he said. “But now I’ve reconnected with the necessary tools for my recovery. It’s like this dream I had last night where this choir of bums were singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Moo-Moo, and I thought - this is America! This is what I knew that I knew but thought I’d forgotten.” Otus needed to use the bathroom, and he danced from foot to foot. He said, “I have no idea what you just now said, but I’m talking about the real devil. Satan I’m telling you. He spoke - said, ‘I’m the devil.’ I’ve got to pee.” Otus toddled into the rest room. “I know you’ve heard it before, but I just want you to know that there will be no more drugs from me,” Ennus called. “And that devil stuff - that might be the police or the FBI or the CIA or the DEA or someone who bugged the house because - because I used to hear them say things too.” That was certainly true, however, the things Ennus used to hear in the house were auditory hallucinations.

From the bathroom urinal, Otus said, “Right. I do wish your wickedness hadn’t opened a portal for the devil to get through.” His voice echoed. “No, it can’t be the devil,” Ennus yelled, not convinced - those voices he had heard could have been devilish. He had always dismissed them as being drug hallucinations (they were), but now it was clear that he hadn’t imagined all the things he had, in fact, imagined. Ennus stirred sugar into the coffees. He would have to tell his poor family. He went back to the table carrying the three cups of coffee. “Otus says that you all heard a voice coming out of nowhere, saying, ‘I’m the devil.’” “Yes, that’s right. We all heard it,” Emily said. “I did not hear it. I was not there,” Barry Daye emphasized. “Lena Donna was there with her flaky friends,” Cheyenne volunteered. “It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. Poor Otus, it was a terrible terrible shock to his nervous system,” Jenny said. “Reverend Bill is saying a prayer to get rid of the devil tomorrow,” Emily said. Barry Daye checked his e-mail and sent some texts. Ennus said, “Listen, that voice you hear, that wasn’t really the devil I don’t think. I have heard voices in the house, and - well - it’s the police, or the FBI, or the CIA, or the DEA or, or some agency that broadcast that stuff to scare you. They used to do the same thing to me until I thought I was losing my mind or...something.” Ennus chuckled at the absurdity of his having fancied the voices being in his head. He knew how shattering those voices were. “I never was able to find any of the stuff they used to spy on me, to tape and say stuff and whatever. But it’s there somewhere. It’s not the devil.” “That’s food for thought,” Jenny said. “Poor Otus - poor poor Otus.”

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Barry looked up from his Blackberry. “Don’t you dare say anything to him in baby talk when he gets back here,” he warned her. She pouted. Emily seemed disappointed that it might not be the devil. “We’ll let Reverend Bill know,” she said. “I don’t think it was some agency. You had to have been there,” Cheyenne said. Otus came back from the bathroom. Jenny scooted a cheek off her chair and patted the spot next to her. Otus sat, sharing the chair, which sagged beneath their weight. “I also wanted to apologize for all my drug taking behavior, my lying, my manipulation. You should know that I’ve not only rediscovered my tools for sobriety but have totally reembraced them. So, no more drugs. You don’t have to worry about them and me anymore, and I know you’ve heard this from me before,” Ennus rambled. “So true. Many times. Why, I’ve lost count,” Otus said. “We’re happy for your recovery,” Emily said, wondering how many times she’d said that before. “I don’t blame your resentment and suspicions and can’t expect you to believe me. Who knows if I’ll be able to maintain. You know?” Ennus said. “You’re here to get well,” Emily said, and to Otus, she said, “Ennus told us about the police trying to get under our skin.” Seconds passed as this possibility sunk in before Otus said, “You took that seriously - no offense, Ennus, but I always thought those ‘voices’ Ennus heard sometimes were things he heard from being whacked to the tits on whatever mind bending drug he was on.” “Well, I don’t know. Maybe it was the police, or maybe Lena Donna and those other people unleashed the devil,” Emily clasped her hands as if in prayer.

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“Yes,” Otus concurred. “Please, be realistic,” the drug addict urged. “It’s not the devil, and the house can’t be haunted. Listen to yourselves. It’s like I said - the police or someone like that. So don’t worry. And don’t worry about me being back on drugs.” “At what this is costing, I don’t want to worry,” Emily said. “It’s not the money that’s a measure of the value of practicing sobriety and being in recovery,” Ennus blathered. “It’s not a matter of dollars.” Otus rolled his eyes. “Just remember. It’s money well spent because this has given me back to me!” “Oh good,” Emily said, thinking of another problem. “After Reverend Bill tomorrow, we’ve got to get the house cleaned and have something done about that cat.” Ennus would have been disappointed by his family’s jaded attitude toward his recovery, but he was too involved in his new sobriety that he didn’t notice. “It’s like this dream I had last night where I was in these shiny plastic hot pants and thigh high boots - all yellow and red and cut out like flames and I was running down the street,” he said, completely losing everyone but Jenny’s interest. “I love dreams,” she said, slipping her hand down the back of Otus’s bib overalls. Ennus glanced at her before he continued, saying, “While I was running down the street, a bus that was really a Chinese Dragon came floating down the street like you see those big Chinese Dragon puppets in those Chinese parades, and the kids were on the bus and I could hear their voices really faint. They were saying, ‘Golden Boy! Golden Boy!’ And I felt such a connection with everything.” Ennus was too choked up to continue. Everyone else was thinking about leaving and relieved that he was staying.

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Ottus stood next to the mailbox and waved to Reverend Bill, who pulled up in the yard. “You’re the first person here,” Ottus said. “Uh huh. How are you doing?” Reverend Bill asked. “I’m fine. I don’t think you need to do all of this, Father,” Ottus said. “I’m sure the devil isn’t in there.” “I’m inclined to agree with you, but saying a prayer isn’t going to hurt anything.” “Of course not. I believe in God.” “I would hope so,” Reverend Bill said, looking askance at Poo-Poo. The four foot tall hen tilted its head and eyed Reverend Bill, who looked away and said, “That’s unnerving.” In the next fifteen minutes, the rest of the party arrived. Lena Donna drove up in her golf cart. Roses Rosemary and Terry Mallory came together in his rusty old Taurus. Reverend Bill gathered them at the door. “Remember what we talked about yesterday,” he said. Otus raised his hand. “You don’t need to raise your hand, Otus, but what?” “Yesterday evening, Ennus said,” Otus began, but he had to stop because of his nerves. Jenny rubbed his back until he calmed enough to speak. “Ennus told us that he thought the voice was a police agency or something, and that it was one of them who said he was the devil.” Anxious, Otus pressed his hands to his chest and counted breaths. Jenny hugged him, but he gasped, so she let him go. Reverend Bill shrugged. “Who knows?” he said although he favored Ennus’s insane theory over Lena Donna accidently summoning the devil. “That would make sense,” Ottus said. “Well, let’s go in then, and I’ll go first,” Reverend Bill said. The group proceeded. Poo-

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Poo pecked and watched them. Otus would not meet the chicken’s eye. Ottus was at Reverend Bill’s side. “The door is unlocked,” he said, pulling it open. They went in. After them, Jenny pulled Otus along by the wrist while Emily and Cheyenne pushed him from behind. In back of them came Lena Donna, Roses Rosemary, and Terry Mallory. When they were all in the front room, Reverend Bill said, “Lord bless this house and this room. Protect us from sin and vanity.” Reverend Bill was big on vanity, having recently reread Ecclesiastes. Terry Mallory sneezed and everyone else except Ottus sniffed at the smell of Foovier’s filth. “Ottus, you haven’t changed the litter box one time have you?” Emily charged. Ottus shrugged. Cheyenne was radiant. “Oh, do you really think your house smells all that bad?” she asked her sister. “It’s just a little kitty cat.” “If you like the smell so much why don’t you get a cat?” Emily snapped, pleasing Cheyenne immeasurably. Ottus said, “I’d think you’d be more worried about banishing the devil from our house.” Reverend Bill said, “Which room did the voice come from?” “The dining room,” Roses Rosemary said. Reverend Bill led them to the dining room. “Oh Lord,” he began. “Perpetual God-Spirit,” Lena Donna cried. “What did I say yesterday?” Reverend Bill snapped. Lena Donna looked at the floor. The reverend said, “I told you that I would conduct the prayers. I guess by that I meant that - I would say the prayers - me - not you. Am I getting through?” “Yes. Sorry Reverend Bill. I got carried away is all. Carried away with the spirit of the

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moment.” “Whatever,” Reverend Bill sniffed. “Okay then let me do this. Oh Lord protect us from evil. We pray for your will to protect us from sin and evil. Let this house be pure again we pray.” This was when, upstairs in Ottus’s room, Cooter broadcast the second phase of their GOGO ART CONSTRUCT. Trying to make his voice sound like a beautiful baby angel, Cooter hooted, “Your prayers are answered!” Everyone except Reverend Bill jumped. Ottus jumped so no one would suspect him of having orchestrated things. Lena Donna genuflected, and Terry Mallory fell to his knees. Roses Rosemary started to cry silently. Otus sought the protection of Jenny’s arms, and she held him tightly. The sisters looked as if they were going to both have strokes. “Who are you?” Reverend Bill said, looking at the ceiling in the vicinity of the light fixture. “I am Saint Michael,” Cooter said in his strained falsetto. Cheyenne folded her hands in a prayerful attitude and hyperventilated. Jenny squeezed Otus even harder, and Emily fanned herself. Ottus tried to look suitably impressed, making his mouth into an ‘O’ as he winked into the camera. Reverend Bill peered at the light fixture. He took off his shoes. “What are you looking at?” Cooter said. “Look not upon Saint Michael and be grateful that the devil has been cast out! Look away!” Reverend Bill scooted over the dining room table and moved one of the chairs so it was beneath the light fixture. “Do not approach the holy space!” Cooter commanded in his highpitched voice. Reverend Bill stood on the chair and examined the light fixture. Ottus’s eyes were as wide as the others’. Reverend Bill pulled the microphone and camera from the fixture

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and held it for all to see. Reverend Bill looked into the camera and spoke into the microphone. “We found you, Saint Michael.” Cooter answered not. “Ennus was right,” Otus said pulling away from Jenny’s iron grip. “I wonder if it’s really some police agency,” Emily said. She took the microphone and camera from the reverend and examined it. “I think it was probably someone playing a trick on you,” Reverend Bill said. “I agree with Reverend Bill,” Cheyenne said. “I didn’t think it was the devil or some angel at all.” “You did,” Emily said. Reverend Bill took the rig back. He dropped it to the floor and stepped on it. “Too bad we’ll probably never know,” he said grinding the camera and microphone under his shoe. Ottus flinched.

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THE MAYORAL RACE Emily reigned serene in Kroger’s Supermarket. She pushed her cart along at a stately pace, smiling at all in her benign way. No one could accuse Emily of snobbery. Her motto: proud to be common! Not so Ottus. Ottus burned with hatred for the slow pace and easy smiles of the common people. Even the day-glo colors of the supermarket wept a dreary song to him. He sneered at everyone his mom smiled at. Let Emily take pride in thinking herself common. Otus, in a black fishnet tank top and tight white stretch pants, spat on ‘common’. Emily crossed carts with Mayor Tingley in the cereal aisle. “Hello, Ralph,” Emily said. They smiled and nodded. “I see everyone at Kroger’s it seems,” Emily said pleasantly. The mayor’s smile faded when he saw Ottus roll his eyes and mouth the words, “Fuck this,” so Emily could not hear. But the mayor picked up on what Ennus had said. Still Mayor Tingley prevailed in being nice. “Ah, it’s a beautiful day for shopping,” he said, working up another smile for Emily, who beamed at the man she so despised. “I was just telling Ottus on our way here what lovely weather we’ve been having, a perfect balance this year between sun and rain, and if you’ve noticed, most of the rain has been at night, so we really can’t complain.” She kept talking. Ottus glared at the mayor and mouthed the words, “Balls to this,” before wandering to the cereal aisle, the stacks of bright rectangular boxes usually making him feel better. Emily did not notice, but the mayor felt better with Ottus gone. He said, “Say, did you

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see they have a sale on pork chops?” “No! Really?” The mayor held up a package. “Beautiful,” he told her, and she gave the pork chops a good look. “I’d better get over there and get some before they’re gone,” Emily said. The mayor nodded and smiled. They pushed on, and when the mayor saw Ottus standing in front of the sugary cereals, he went the other way.

Cooter and Ottus aimed the camera lens of their phones to shoot themselves at the table of Ottus’s newly cleaned room. Cooter wore jeans and a polo shirt as always. Ottus wore his black velvet jumpsuit. In the center of the table, a small blue Tiffany lamp shone on the Ouija board, discarded by Lena Donna during the cleansing ceremony. Without a word, Ottus and Cooter sat on opposite sides of the table. In front of him, Cooter had spread a page from the newspaper. In a solemn voice, he read from the stocks page. “Ablemach Corp,” he intoned. Ottus’s fingers were on the heart shaped Ouija board placard. It twitched, then stuttered across the board to the word, NO. Cooter picked another stock. “Kali-Ever Inc,” he sighed. The placard moved to YES. Ottus and Cooter looked at each other. “Put a check by that one,” Ottus said. The new GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT was on. The germ of the idea came from Cheyenne’s adventures in the stock market as well as Andy Warhol. GO-GO ART as MONEY. That was beyond Warhol. “Flanto Corporation,” Cooter said. The placard skittered to YES. Another check.

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Being sober was not so bad. Not so bad after a day or two or a week or two, or a couple of months as it had been by now. Twenty-eight days had come and gone, but despite Ennus’s fervent wish to leave, Emily, Barry Daye, Otus, and Ottus wanted him there longer - as long as possible in fact. When Ennus had been younger, stopping drugs had been harder to do. Not as much now. Quitting was more like shucking a shell. Desire to get high came in impulsive waves, but not very much, especially now. Yearning lessened. And emotions emerged, real feelings characteristic of Ennus’s long standing emotional problems, which - in the throes of addiction - were regulated to a degree by what he was taking and if he were coming down or had taken too much. The libido, what there was of it at his age, died. His dreams filled every night with swooping images. Dreams and moods. Restlessness anger depression and periods of manic euphoric happiness. And crazy dreams. Ennus sat at the window in his room and worked on an art project of his own. Wouldn’t Ottus be jealous. Ennus would show his fellow residents during a group therapy session. The glass in the window was opaque and had metal wire running through it. Ennus’s art materials were a piece of brown hopsack, a chunk of paraffin, and a lighter. He melted the paraffin onto the cloth - a smiley face over his drug motto, Straight and Simple. Ennus chewed his tongue as he held the flame to the block and tried to melt the paraffin into a recognizable smiley face. Ennus focused, not hearing the two nurses, the large, gay, white Nash and the large African American Jane come into his room. “I thought I smelled something,” Jane said. Ennus jumped. “Okay, give up the dope, Queen Baby,” Nash said. Queen Baby. Just another of the

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daily humiliations on the string of sorrow beads that Ennus endured. “What dope?” Ennus asked and was about to explain his little project to them, perhaps ask for some help with things. Ennus wanted to show them the smiley face. They, however, did not give him the opportunity, believing the worst. Without further word, they scooped up Ennus, put him in restraints and carried him to the lock-down unit of Rose Glen, where addicts were sent when they became too fast and loose with the rules. Ennus protested. He said, “I’m not getting high. There is no dope.” The nurses did not believe Ennus. They thought he had gotten rid of whatever drug they had smelled. Ennus tugged at the ‘vest’ binding his arms at his sides and restricting most leg movement. The nurses left him in lockdown. Nash turned in the doorway and said, “You you think about what you did, Queen Baby!” Lovely. And where did he get this ‘Queen Baby’?

Emily sat on her donut which was on the plastic cover of the large green chair in Cheyenne’s living room. Her feet rested on the vinyl floor mat that made pathways throughout the house. Cheyenne, in her purple chair, poured small glasses of dandelion brandy. “So how is the day trading going?” Emily asked. “Well, it’s harder than you might think. It takes nerves of steel. Daniel Shandley says sometimes you have to lose money to make money.” “Lose your money to make money. How brilliantly quaint. I always thought losing money was a good way to, well, lose money, but I’m just a common girl content with what I have and not a financier like you, dear.” When Cheyenne did not respond, Emily dropped it for the time. She shifted in discomfort and said, “My doctor wanted me to take pain medication, but

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I told him, ‘No - none of that for me. I do not want to become addicted.’” Cheyenne, relieved to be off the topic of day trading penny stocks, smiled. “I’m in constant pain, but I won’t even take an aspirin or a Tylenol. In fact, when I go to the dentist, Dr. Manfredini tries to get me to take something when he fills a tooth, but I tell him, ‘Nope, don’t need it.’ He says he’s never seen anybody who could tolerate pain like me,” she lied. She pushed a glass toward Emily. “Both physical and emotional distress all the time. Constantly. This helps,” Cheyenne said and gulped down her glass in one swallow. The spirits brought tears, filling her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Her nose trickled, and bright red patches mottled her ultra-white skin. Emily drank her glass. She had to wipe away tears also, and as she blinked and daubed, Cheyenne poured them both another. Emily panted from the strong drink. She said, “You’ll never guess who I saw?” “Charlie Craine?” Cheyenne said, lifting the glass to the summer afternoon sunlight. “No, I saw our worthless mayor.” “Oho, I ran into him not long ago, and did I give him a piece of my mind,” Cheyenne lied. When she had driven through Pilsen last week, she had seen him buying gas, and rather than stopping and ‘giving him a piece of her mind’, she had waved and smiled. Cheyenne tossed back her drink, gasping and shuddering afterward. As Cheyenne recovered, Emily said, “Well, I told him off because of those houses!” “What houses?” Emily drank her brandy and coughed. She fanned herself and slapped her bosom. When she could speak, she said, “You know the ones. Like the one near the cemetery. The houses that trashy people allow to trash up. Those are the houses that should be torn down. Gosh it’s hot.”

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“Oh those places. If you ask me, it comes down to poor people not being brought up right so they don’t know any better and what can you expect?” Cheyenne said in a magnanimous manner and poured them another drink. “I can expect people no matter how rich or poor they are to keep their lawns mown. To keep junk and old cars and broken toys out of their yards. And to maybe paint the outside of their poor old homes instead of letting them fall apart!” “It is tragic, like the old Linden home,” Cheyenne said. “These places should be bulldozed,” Emily insisted. “Anybody could be a better mayor. I told him, ‘If I had your job those people would keep up their places or they would be razed to the ground by bulldozers. And pretty flowers would be planted in the empty lots.’” “We agree that anyone would be a better mayor. When I saw him outside Reverend Bill’s Antiques, I gave him a piece of my mind. I told him about our needing a new library. If I were mayor, I would have a new library erected toute suite!” “A new library would be nice, of course, but our city treasury doesn’t have the money,” Emily said, adding, “It would be a waste of funds.” She knocked back another bolt of liquid fire. This one triggered her drooling reflex. She held a hanky to her salivating pie-hole in a dainty way. “A waste? Building a library a waste? A library - a place of books,” Cheyenne mused. She downed her drink and began drooling with her sister. “Everyone knows what a library is, but our poor little town cannot afford a library, as nice as thinking about building one might be. It’s a childish notion. How would you pay for it?” “I would tax the rich!” “Are you crazy?” Emily gasped from behind her handkerchief.

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Cheyenne’s lip trembled as she drooled, still managing to state her case with upmost dignity. She said, “Dreams like mine are only childish or crazy or foolish to foolish, shortsighted people. And for your information, you can’t just tear down someone’s house just because they don’t keep it up to your standards. This is not Nazi Germany!” “You hate those horrible houses and yards just as much - no - more than I do,” Emily said. “But I respect the constitution,” Cheyenne clarified. “I do too!” A line of drool stretched from the corner of Emily’s chin to the floor. “I think - I think I’ll run for mayor,” she said, wagging a finger in the air. Cheyenne shook her head, throwing a rope of saliva to the vinyl pathway. “You? You would - we would need the governor to call out the militia if you were the mayor!” “They’re called the National Guard these days, dear,” Emily corrected. “The Marines would be needed to protect anyone who made you mad from bulldozing your way through the neighborhoods, leveling any house and making people homeless.” Cheyenne waved her free arm, a thread of viscous drool extending from her lip to the plastic covered arm of her orange chair. “You know what? I should run against you,” she said, pointing at her sister. Emily laughed in the way people do to express scorn. “I’m going to run,” she reiterated, pouring both herself and her sister an extra-dangerous glass of the dandelion brandy. She held her full glass to toast. Several lines of drool webbed both sisters to the furniture and floor. Cheyenne raised her own glass. “I intend to to - to beat you, Sissy,” she insisted. The women clicked glasses and tossed back their last cordial. To keep from vomiting, Emily had to breath on her hand - low, measured breaths she concentrated on. For nearly ten

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minutes she breathed, focusing to keep from puking. Cheyenne chose to rest her throbbing head between her knees and count her pulse, beating behind her closed eyes. When she was certain that she would not puke, Emily clutched her inflated donut and staggered toward the front door. “May the best woman win. Me!” she said to her sister, still doubled over in her orange chair, head between knees. Cheyenne waved, either waving goodbye or dismissing her. Probably both.

Otus and Jenny sat side by side on the living room couch going over recipes. “Hmmm, what do you think about this tamarind infused brain souffle,” Otus mused. Jenny pushed her denim encased leg under Otus’s own stocky leg. She said, “Brains yuck. Grandma made me brains when I was nine. She called them sweetbreads. I was fine with them until she told me what they really were. ‘You’re eating cow brains, Jenny,’ she said. I’ll never forget the smile on her face. No brains. The tamarind infusion sounds fascinating.” She put her head on Otus’s shoulder. Earlier she had cleaned stalls. She had not asked Otus to help. “Is that the smell of horsey?” Otus asked, sniffing her hair. “Oh this new shampoo - it has a bad reaction to my body type,” Jenny said. “A shampoo that makes you smell like a stall. Novel. Well, what about this Hawaiian pork cheek souffle?” “Please, I’m for exotic experimentation.“ Jenny looked deeply into Otus’s eyes. “Just nothing too - kinky- no brains or cheeks or eyeballs.” She lay her head in Otus’s lap. “Can you see?” Otus asked. ]

“Sure, sweety. If I can’t I’ll have you tell me.” She wiggled the side of her head,

nuzzling against his crotch. Otus’s eyes got big.

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The sound of the gold-leaf golf cart puttered into the front yard and stopped. “There’s Mom,” Otus said. “So, what about a tamarind infused venison souffle?” Jenny sat up as Emily clomped up the steps. “Your mom sounds like she’s walking funny,” she observed. Emily threw the front door open and staggered in. She tossed her donut in her yellow chair. Jenny smiled at the disheveled drunken spectacle. Otus pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “Have fun?” he asked his mom. “I decided something important while I was at Cheyenne’s today. I’m going to run for mayor. Then, when I beat her and the worthless mayor we have now, I’ll get one of our bulldozers and make those dirty, white trash people pay!” she thundered, plopping on her donut in the yellow chair. Otus and Jenny knew not what to say but they did not need to worry because as soon as Emily sat, she ‘rested her eyes’. Her breathing became honking snores. “Mayor? She’s going to run for mayor? She really tied one on,” Jenny said. “I hope that’s all it is,” Otus said. Is it ever, ‘all it is’? “I cannot tell you how ill advised I feel this to be,” Barry Daye said from behind his desk. Sitting opposite from him, Ottus pushed the money order from the loan he had secured using as collateral his cd’s, bonds, and an annuity Emily had put in his name. It was by most peoples’ standards, quite a bit of money. Barry Daye picked up the money order as if it were a poisonous weed. Blood drummed in his temples. “Your mom -” “My mom hopefully will never know one way or another. This is a GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT that is - like - a marriage between commerce and the fight against entropy,

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specifically man’s fight against dissolution using money as the medium, so either whether I make money or lose it, there’s a workable aesthetic,” Ottus explained. “I got the idea from my aunt who has been day trading online.” “I handle her trust, and I can assure you that, without going into details, she no longer throws away her money doing that,” Barry argued. He put down the money order and rubbed his eyes until he saw sparks on the inside of his eyelids. “And you say you picked these stocks because you - you saw them in a dream?” Barry asked, his voice a melange of weariness and disbelief. “No, I didn’t get the names of the stocks in a dream. Sheesh!” Ottus snorted. “I used a Ouija board.” Barry took his hands away from his eyes and looked at Ottus as if he were a space alien. “I’m going to do this,” Ottus insisted. Barry shook his head. Ottus added, “And remember, shhhhh!” (Space) Emily woke from her post-dandelion brandy nap, still in the yellow chair. Her head was tucked under her arm and her face pushed in the cushion. As she unfolded her sore limbs and straightened her shoulders, back and hips, Otus said, “So how do you feel?” He knew better but could not resist. “Why wouldn’t I feel alright?” Emily hissed, irritated and groggy, her head sore, her sinus swollen. She gave Otus the evil eye. Otus, feigning innocent concern, said, “I thought you might have ‘slept’ wrong.” “I wasn’t asleep. I was just resting my eyes,” Emily snarled. She rubbed her shoulder and winced. “Are you hurt?” Jenny asked.

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“Oh, it’s this sciatica,” Emily groaned, her head pounding. She pushed a fallen lock of her white hair out of her eyes and rubbed her swollen eyes. “My sister,” she murmured. “How is Aunt Cheyenne?” Otus asked. Emily stretched her sore arm and craned her neck. “Your aunt has some very radical ideas for someone as - as closed as she is. She wants to run for mayor and build a library,” she said, as if that were tantamount to opening a whore house. Confusion danced over Otus’s face and he dared not ask what was wrong with wanting a town library. Jenny, however, asked, “What’s wrong with Pilsen getting a library?” “She wants to raise the taxes on - people like us, the middle class (the upper-middle-class or the lower-upper-class really), the common people to pay for the library,” Emily said. Jenny and certainly Otus understood the ramifications of having taxes raised on their large farms. “Oh,” Otus said. “Hmmmm,” Jenny said in a thoughtful way. “Yes, hmmm! She would tax me and build a library while not even doing anything about the trashy houses in Pilsen. That’s the platform she’s running on,” Emily said, fighting the butterflies in her stomach. Otus said, “So that’s what you were raving - I mean talking about. Except you said that you were running for mayor. I knew you had more sense than that, Mom, although I’m not surprised that Aunt Cheyenne would choose to.“ ”I am going to run. I was not raving. Someone has to take the job over from Ralph Tingley, and it can’t be my wild sister.” “Well, you can’t run on his party ticket, and the opposite party sounds more like Aunt Cheyenne. But Pilsen is a one party town. Are you going to run against Ralph on his own

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ticket?” “I will run as an independent party candidate,” Emily declared. “I will represent the common man!” Otus rolled his eyes because from what she had said as well as everything Otus knew about his mom, Emily, in fact, was representative of the wealthiest citizens of Pilsen. “You can stress how moral you are and how religious you are,” Otus advised. Emily pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her nose and considered strategies. “I’ll support you, Mrs. Burchen,” Emily said. She was a die hard member of Pilsen’s political minority despite her wealth, but loyalty to Otus’s mom trumped her commitment to her party. “I know I can count on you,” Emily said, her eyes closed against the dull pain in her sinus. She opened one eye, fixed it on Otus and said, “What about you?” Her baleful stare unnerved Otus. He stammered, “W-w-well of course.” Like a war weary general, Emily, head hanging, schemed. She said, “I’ll get Ottus to make me some flyers. Maybe he can put them out.” Emily sighed. “Otus,” she said, “do you still have your old Mr. Microphone?”

In his sober condition, Ennus dreamed all night, every night. A dream town, regular streets and buildings where Ennus roamed, either moving to the city or leaving or simply walking. Always in transit. Walking or driving. Frequently Moo-Moo materialized. Ennus saw himself walk from the town to the fields in the country, crossing a lighted bridge. The fields undulated in the breeze, golden wheat rippling over the land. Moo-Moo appeared with silver wings, long yellow curls around her horns, and a blue ribbon pinned to her

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shoulder. She flew across the sun and blew Ennus a kiss. Moo-Moo, so very lovely. When Ennus blinked awake, he knew he had to get back home and groom Moo-Moo, get her ready for the State Fair. Moo-Moo.

It took him two weeks to get around to it, but Ottus drew Emily the flyer she asked for. He did it without complaining and whining as everyone expected. That was because he was nervous and guilty about his latest GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT, even though the Ouija board investment picks had cut remarkable and immediate dividends, which Ennus rolled over through Barry Daye, who was as pleased and astonished at Ottus’s profits as a new father. He was transitioning most of the high risk stock investments into more low risk instruments. It was all documented and with Cooter’s help, presented in a web-cam showing the accelerating portfolio, figures and names and titles in changing colors against backdrops of changing color and pattern. GO-GO ART. So to assuage his fear of being caught at gambling some of his inheritance, even though the risk had parlayed into rocketing profits, Ottus turned out a flyer and had three hundred copies printed. The flyer was a cutout photo of Emily riding a cutout tank and making a heap of rubble of a cutout wrecked home. Cutout pitiful children stood nearby. Under the caption in red letters, the flyer said, “Vote Emily Burchen for mayor and clean up the trash of Pilsen!”. Emily would have wanted the children edited out, but she didn’t look at it, trusting Ottus when he told her, “Cooter and I will put the flyers up. Don’t you worry, Mom.” Pilsen village counted two-thousand citizens, many of them living on the surrounding farms. So the town was small - seventeen blocks in all. Ottus and Cooter stuck the flyers everywhere. They papered the flyers all over the streets, buildings, and even some of the houses.

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As they worked, they took pictures with their phones and posted the footage online - spontaneous GO-GO ART. Ottus couldn’t help being who he was. He made a circle out of five flyers on the window of Harpers Feed Store. Cooter stood back and admired Ottus’s work, filming THE PROCESS. “This is going to aggravate a lot of people,” Cooter predicted. Ottus, in a pink gauze angel shirt, held up one of the flyers and scrutinized his work. He said, “Mom tanking down the house next to the poor little kids is a dramatic and polarizing image, but - as you know - it was meant to be.” “I meant that people are going to be mad about all this paper,” Cooter clarified, sticking up a row of flyers across the wall of a white clapboard house. “The first rain we have and there will be enough soggy flyers to paper-mache all of Pilsen.” Ottus stopped what he was doing to envision a paper-mached Pilsen. “So where are the ads for you mom’s opponents?” Cooter asked. “Aunt Cheyenne hasn’t put out any ads. She wants to have a debate in the town square next Saturday. Oh well. Ralph Tingley figures he’ll be re-elected no matter what, which he will, so he doesn’t bother. I don’t think he takes Aunt Cheyenne or Mom seriously. Ha!” Ottus stuck up a dozen more flyers on The Pilsen Bakery.

Emily enlisted Otus and Jenny to help her campaign in the street. Jenny did not mind. To her, it was a fun time, going with Emily and Otus as they drove at a sick snail’s pace up and down the streets of Pilsen blaring an instrumental loop of the song, “Happy Days Are Here Again” with her man at the wheel. In the back of the truck, Emily held on to the roof as she babbled on Otus’s old Mr. Microphone, begging for votes. The dear old Mr. Microphone.

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Memories of high school: Otus declaiming over Mr. Microphone, the talk-over bridge of the song, “Never Been to Me,” by the immortal Chanteuse Charlene, to the enthralled young Jenny. Curly long-haired Otus intoning - by memory, “And do you know what paradise is? It’s a lie! A - a fantasy we create about people and places as we’d like them to be. But you know what truth is? It’s that little baby you’re holding! And it’s the man you fought with this morning - the same one you’re gonna make love with tonight. That’s truth! That’s love!” That was the moment Jenny knew she was truly in love. Ah - memories. Otus would blush if he could see himself back then, but his face was already red as a beet. Although Jenny didn’t mind helping Emily broadcast from the truck, Otus was embarrassed. The adhesive to the flyers had been wanting, and by now, as Cooter predicted, paper littered the streets. Otus lowered himself in the driver’s seat and pulled his hat and wig over his eyes. Emily maintained her balance like a filly - broadcasting with Mr. Microphone in one hand while still holding on to the roof of the truck with the other. “Vote for me, Emily Burchen. You all know me. I’m a common woman. Common like you, and I promise I will get the trashy houses cleaned up and the junky yards tidied up, or so help me God, I’ll tear them down.” Emily pointed at a poor looking house. “There’s one I’d tear down right now - fix your place up! Emily Burchen for mayor. I will not raise taxes that we, the common men and women, can’t afford and do not want to pay. And Otus, slow down! We’re not in a race!” she blared. Up and down the streets - on and on in this vein Emily campaigned, espousing her platform of cleaning up Pilsen. Otus shrank. Jenny snuggled up to her shrinking boyfriend, enjoying herself. That the Pilsenites, most of whom Emily had known all her life, stared in anger at her did not register at all. Otus and Jenny knew, however. When the town’s people shook

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their fists and held up the fallen fliers, Otus looked away. Misinterpreting their aggravation at her for friendly hellos, Emily waved. Jenny did not care a whit. She sat tall, her hand wedged between Otus’s upper thigh and his groin. In the bed of the truck, Emily said, “And there’s another house I’d level. Get that broken-down car out of your yard, whoever you are. And listen - a vote for me will be a vote for enforcing the speed limit. Think of the revenue I’ll generate from all the speeders. And there’s another thing - hey, you there, cut your grass!” (Space) “Look, I don’t want to use drugs now. Don’t you see - I need to get home to do the chores,” Ennus explained to his therapy group, who weren’t buying it. “You really want to get high. Using work as an excuse of avoiding the work you have to do to stay sober isn’t going to wash,” Samuel, the long time old fashioned speed freak insisted. He was a living anomaly -an overweight amphetamine addict. He scratched his grey and black, four day stubble and said, “Just what chores do you have that are so important?” How could he explain his vision in terms the alcoholics and junkies would understand when Ennus didn’t understand his reasons himself. The dreams told him. Ennus looked at the hostile faces around him. “I’m supposed to do some excavation on my mom’s land,” he said, leaving out the detail from the dream where long dead people came back to life and emerged from the hole Ennus dug on the green and yellow John Deere. In the dream, the resurrected had filed out, staring in the middle distance like dead people would if they were able to look around. Through sleepy looking faces, they’d sung, “Gonna be a happy star today. Gonna be a sad star today. Gonna be a happy star today. Gonna be a sad star today. Gonna be a sad star today. Gonna be a happy star today,. Gonna be a sad star today. Gonna be a happy star today.”

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Ennus awoke happy. “Excavation?” Jocelyn Geener, pill-head-alcoholic mom snorted. “Excavation of what?” Time to lie. “Coal,” he lied. “Liar,” they charged. Ennus shrugged. He was never going to get out of Rose Glen. No point in even trying to tell them about Moo-Moo and the importance of entering her in the stock competition of The State Fair. (Space) Cheyenne did not make flyers nor broadcast her candidacy, and while she did not anger Pilsenites with her litter, few knew she was running. Lena Donna knew. Reverend Bill knew. That was it, so to generate some political steam, Cheyenne suggested the candidates have a debate on the town square. She, Emily, and Ralph Tingley. How could she lose? Emily was all for it, but when Cheyenne called the town hall, she couldn’t get hold of Ralph. It burned her. She told the mayor’s secretary, Milissa Howard (what a joke) to tell His Highness when and where the debate was to take place. Emily and Cheyenne met at the pavilion in the town square on a hot afternoon. The debate, not having been advertised, saw no one there except Lena Donna, whom Emily had told on the phone, Roses Rosemary, and Tom Mallory, there because Lena Donna called them, Of course, Ottus, Otus, and Jenny were there. Emily and Cheyenne stood behind a podium and shared Otus’s Mr. Microphone. On this humid June afternoon, few were out. Emily held the microphone and she began the debate by saying, “How can you, the voters, rely on the judgement of a woman who covers her furniture in plastic and has vinyl pathways running through her house? Heaven forbid she catch you walking off the vinyl. She would cry, I tell you.”

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“I would not cry! For that matter, how can the voters trust someone whose son burns down a barn with his meth lab?” Cheyenne countered. “It wasn’t a meth lab. It wasn’t any kind of illegal drug at all. Ennus was... ‘experimenting’.” “He’s in rehab for drugs right now,” Cheyenne pointed out to the people there, all of whom already knew. “My son is facing his problems with courage and regaining his sobriety, and for that I am thankful, and while he might have issues with different things, my sister is the one who is acting as if she’s been using some sort of dope. She’s not - it just that old devil ‘bad judgement’ rather than any substance that makes her ideas seem like those of a drunken insane drug addict who cares nothing about things dear to our hearts - common peoples’ concerns. She wants to raise your taxes to - to build an unnecessary library.” Cheyenne grappled with Emily over the Mr. Microphone. She said, “Not everyone’s taxes, only those who can afford it. And instead of dreaming of ways to improve our town, Emily wants to punish people for not keeping their property up to her exalted standards.” Emily grabbed back the Mr. Microphone, bodily edging her sister to the side. She said, “Cheyenne, your hope of paying for a new library is a dream - a dream that cannot come true.” Otus buried his face in his hands as Jenny and Ottus listened, both of them attentive but one of them amused. Lena Donna and the other two watched wide-eyed. Jenny said, “Imagine the two of them in a race together.” Otus, face in hands, groaned his reply. “As fast as they’re sniping at each other and poor Ralph Tingley, I’d say they’re running the 100 yard ‘dish’,” Ennus quipped. Otus shot his twin a dirty look then once again hid his face

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in his hands. Cheyenne sidled her way back behind the podium and wrested back the Mr. Microphone. She said, “If Emily is so concerned about our town, it’s mighty odd that everywhere I’ve looked in Pilsen for the last couple of days, all I’ve seen is her garbage blowing down the street.” They bickered, scoring and counter-scoring on each other and Mayor Tingley until Sheriff Tom arrived, ambling right up to the podium. Cheyenne thrust the Mr. Microphone in his face, and Emily said, “Who do you intend to vote for?” “And where is Ralph Tingley - our mayor?” Cheyenne chimed in. Instead of committing his vote or saying where the mayor was (he didn’t know or care), Sheriff Tom smiled and said, “Do you all have a permit?” “No,” Emily admitted. Sheriff Tom knew they didn’t, but he gave them the benefit of a doubt. Emily and Cheyenne, adrenaline flowing from broadcasting their fuss, turned their rancor from each other to Sheriff Tom. “That’s mighty convenient!” Emily spat. Cheyenne leaned into the Mr. Microphone to declare, “You cannot silence the voice of the people.” Sheriff Tom sighed. He said, “You have to have a permit to make speeches and arguments like this in the pavilion.” “This is Ralph Tingley’s doing. You know what? This is a Clint Buchanan move if ever I saw one.” “Or a manipulation worthy of Todd Manning number two,” Cheyenne added. The sisters smiled in a sour way. “The mayor isn’t behind this (he was). I saw you gals, checked to see if you have a

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permit and you don’t is all it is,” he explained. “So unfair,” Cheyenne huffed. “As Americans we have the right to assemble.” “True, but please get the necessary permits,” Sheriff Tom said, smiling at the women’s indignation, their self-righteous posing. He added, “It’s the law.” “And where is the law to - to make people keep their grass cut and their properties well kept? And where is the law to ticket all the speeders who blaze up and down the streets at all hours like it’s Las Vegas.” “You are talking about Pilsen?” Sheriff Tom asked. “I’m sorry if you think it’s unfair, but you have got to stop what you’re doing until you get a permit.” Cheyenne looked down her nose at the sheriff, which forced her to cock back her head since he was a foot taller. She said, “This seems like a chance to exercise our right to civil disobedience. What if we make a stand?” Sheriff Tom rolled his eyes. He said, “I’d have to take you to that building over there.” He pointed to the courthouse. “I would have to arrest you.” “What would bail be?” Emily asked. “One hundred dollars and a five-hundred dollar fine.” Cheyenne grabbed the Mr. Microphone from her sister and declared, “It would be worth it.” “ It would not be worth six hundred dollars. See how my sister is with her own money? ” Emily said. “Even if we got a permit, would Ralph join our forum?” Cheyenne asked. Sheriff Tom shrugged and said, “Probably not. Who knows?” “I’m going home then - so I don’t get arrested for stating my opinion!” Emily said,

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adding, “I think I’ve made my point. Now I hope all of you who aren’t lackeys for our mayor out there remember me at the polls and tell everyone you know to vote for me. Vote for Emily Burchen, salt-of-the-earth Emily Burchen.” She took the Mr. Microphone. Cheyenne yelled, “No, tell everyone to vote for Cheyenne Hall, true friend of the common man, who acts from the courage of her convictions!” Cheyenne held her hands to Sheriff Tom. “Arrest me,” she demanded. Tom looked at Otus and Jenny in a beseeching way. “A little help?” he said.

Emily and Cheyenne readied for the election by doing nothing else, both of them thinking everyone was talking about them. They nurtured delusions of themselves as populist heros. In those last couple of weeks before the election, one of Ottus’s stocks, Invacatt, an Asian software company based in California, created a program called a Osi-qui-filter, which tested and safeguarded existing corporate security systems, a kind of fail-safe safety net. Invacatt took off, so much so that Cooter was moved to invest, using money his grandmother had left him, and he began garnering preposterous profits also. Cooter’s investment became incorporated in Ottus’s GO-GO ART installation. Cooter enjoyed his profits, giving himself a handsome allowance while reinvesting the rest of his dividends - what Ottus called a demonstration of new-money aesthetic as opposed to Ottus’s model of eternal perpetuity, old-money conservatorship. The two GO-GO ARTISTS sat in Barry Daye’s office, both of them presenting him money orders to be reinvested in lower interest, safer instruments. Ottus, in character with this new GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT, had taken to dressing normally, today wearing a white polo shirt, khakis, and funny little tasseled loafers. Cooter wore a dark blue blazer and tapered Italian dress slacks. He wore silly little expensive shoes also and opaque blue hose.

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Barry Daye waxed poetic. “This is a mystical dream of genius which I will never understand how you did,” he gushed. “I never thought I would appreciate art but when I think of this accomplishment - the risk.” “You know I did this as -“ Ottus began to pontificate. “As an art project,” Barry enthused. “A crazy, beautiful money symphony, the classical lines of your foundation built on the rash, primitive intuition of - of a Ouija board! Oh my gosh! I thank you for letting me help structure your portfolio and get commissions on the instruments I’ve humbly provided.” “Not an art project. It’s GO-GO ART,” Cooter corrected, brushing his buffed nails on the sleeve of his blazer. “Of course, GO-GO ART. Wait until your mother finds out about the incredible job you’ve done,” Barry babbled. Ottus and Cooter smiled. Ottus said, “You’d better let me tell Mom in my own time.”

It should be no surprise that neither Emily nor Cheyenne unseated - or even challenged Ralph Tingley. Emily got two votes - her own and Jenny’s. Neither Otus nor Ottus voted, though they lied and said they had, which made explaining away how Emily got only two votes rather awkward. Cheyenne voted for herself, so she got one vote. The results did not overly disappoint. Cheyenne anguished more over five strands of her hair that got caught and were pulled out in the hinge of her glasses the morning after the election. Those hairs were right from her hairline. That ruined her entire day. Emily pretended to brood, but she was glad she did not have to serve as mayor. She fumed more over a deer eating her favorite sunflower. Ralph Tingley remained in office. Cheyenne continued to dream of a library. Emily kept

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right on complaining about the shameful condition of some of Pilsenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s houses as well as about the reckless speeding cars zooming the streets. They were dreaming and bitching as Ottus made money and Otus and Jenny cooked. Meanwhile, Ennus merely stewed. .

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A LOVELY COOL BREEZE At Rose Glen’s grey visitors’ tables, each centered with a plastic grey lamp, Emily, the twins, Jenny, and Barry Daye sat with Ennus, who was agitated and wanting to leave. “You need to get me out of here,” Ennus stressed. The nurses, Nash and Jane, busied themselves at the desk. “No, Dear. You need to stay here as long as possible,” Emily said. “Gosh it’s funny how this conversation is exactly like the conversations we have about this time every rehab, and the answer, as you know, is, NO. NONONO!” Ottus asserted. “Of course we’re not taking you out early,” Otus agreed. Jenny pushed out her lower lip in sympathy. “I’ve been here nearly four months! It’s going on August! You don’t understand. I’m well. I’m back in touch with my tools for sobriety. What I want to do is sue Rose Glen. Listen, they put me in restraints and said I had been smoking drugs!” Not an unreasonable assumption. “You mean you weren’t?” Otus asked in amazement. “No! I was in my room burning a piece of waxy thread because I was making a poster that said, ‘just say no’ or something, and, and -“ ”And they dropped a net on you when you wouldn’t cooperate,” Ottus finished. “I was making a poster. I wasn’t getting high. They said I was and started going through my things.” “I think you were getting high,” Barry Daye said. They all thought that, but they were wrong. When you’re used to someone lying, you might not believe them when they’re truthing. “They’re not going to get away with this. And Nash insists on calling me Queen Baby.

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Is that right?” Ennus cried. “You shouldn’t think about leaving this place,” Otus said in an emphatic way. If he had his choice, Ennus would live at Rose Glen fo-evah. Perhaps he could eventually be a drug counselor if he could ever stop getting high. But Ennus wasn’t high and by this point in his recovery, his mood disorders had burst to the forefront, trumping his desire to get high. He was very happy and manic or very sad or very angry by turns. Sharp dipping turns. “All I do is think of leaving this place. I don’t need to be here anymore. I have plans. I’ve had this dream three times now - it’s about me digging with one of our John Deere tractors.” Otus sighed and Ottus made a yawning gesture. Emily looked at the curtains. Vivid dreams that lasted all night were another occurrence attendant with Ennus quitting drugs. “Gosh what a meaningful dream,” Ottus said. “Why don’t you bore us to death telling us about this one,” Otus suggested. Jenny said, “Dreams are interesting. Really interesting.” Unlike the twins, Jenny spoke sincerely. Ottus, deciding to further make fun of his poor younger brother, said, “Dreams are wonderful windows to the soul and the collective unconscious. Does anyone remember this recurring dream Ennus had? ‘I dreamt of a big cow and a little cow’.” “And he saw a big hen and a little bitty wee rooster too didn’t he?” Otus continued. “And they were on a yellow field of grain waving in the wind!” Ottus cried, and he and his twin smiled at each other in a grim way. Emily said, “And the result of those dreams were our dear animals Moo-Moo and MeeMee and Poo-Poo and and - what is that tiny rooster’s name?”

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“Pee-Pee,” Ottus said, pained. To the table at the left, a barbiturate addict sat with his wife. He wanted to leave too. “I don’t have a problem,” he insisted. “I’m too smart to be among these people. My doctor said so,” he explained to his poor wife. The heroin addict to their right wanted to leave too. “I’d be able to quit drugs better if I were at home. You could keep an eye on me,” she whined to her boyfriend, who nodded throughout his visit with her. “The staff here are intolerable,” Ennus said, frowning at the nurses. All of the addicts’ complaints, however, fell on deaf ears. None of the visitors believed anything their addicts said. “The nurse who called about this incident said you were smoking in your room,” Ottus pointed out in an uncharitable way. “She said you are a big baby,” Otus said. “You mean Queen Baby, and please don’t call me that. This is a sore spot. I’ll sue them for that too.” “No you won’t,” Barry said. “Not only won’t I represent you, I’ll testify against you.” “For this you’re getting lots of money from my family?” Ennus asked. “This is where you need to be so you can find yourself again,” Emily assured him, trying some of the recovery psychobabble she’d heard Ennus say. “We want you home as soon as possible, but we want you well.” Everyone did want him to be well again - yes, but as far as having him home, not so much. Not at all, in fact. Time away from a drug fiend is a vacation. Only Ennus wanted himself home, back on the farm, digging. Emily said, “You’ll be home before you know it. We do miss you.” “That’s true - we do miss you,” Otus lied. He looked forward to his and Jenny’s next

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souffle, a cardamon scallion oyster concoction that they would be making tomorrow. Jenny ran her finger on his wrist. She kept joking about the effect the oysters would have on him - she was so funny! “You shouldn’t think about suing or leaving this place right now. And by the way, I forgive you,” Ottus said, referring to the GO-GO ART consumed in the fire. Ennus said, “Huh?” Typical - the drug addict didn’t even know what he’d done. Ottus rolled his eyes. It was like talking to a cognitively challenged individual. Ottus said in measured tones, “I. Forgive. You. For. Burning. Down. My. GO. GO. ART. STUDIO.” “Your studio. Okay. You forgive me? Great! Thanks! Sorry to set fire to all that stuff the rotting food GO-GO ART PROJECT and the piles of lint GO-GO ART PROJECT. What a terrible - terrible loss to the world. I should kill myself,” Ennus said. The people at the other tables looked at him. Nash looked up from his station and said, “Keep it down, Queen Baby.” “Yes, of course, sorry,” Ennus said raising his hands in supplication. In a quiet voice, he said, “I forgot - my favorite - the snot stalactite sculpture! Sowwy!” Ottus squinted and frowned at his younger brother. Ennus’s willful ignorance and denial of responsibility for what he’d done did not phase Otus. He said, “Even if it takes much longer, much much much longer - even if you have to spend a year in a halfway house after you leave here, we’re rooting for you, brother. We miss you!” They did not. “I love how the house smells. Pine and sage and peppermint. And that owl!” Jenny said.

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After returning to the farm, Emily banished Foovier to Ottus’s new studio - an old dairy barn which now only housed Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee. Ottus enjoyed the presence of Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee. Foovier did not. In the house, the cleaners steamed the carpet and walls, disinfecting every square inch, infusing the air with the smell that Jenny found so appealing. They had found a large, stuffed white owl which Otus mounted over the kitchen sink, It glared with fierce glass eyes at Jenny, as if reading her mind. Jenny wore blowsy balloon pants that, in the light, were semi-transparent and a short sleeve peasant blouse of the same cloth. Otus wore freshly pressed bib overalls. He fried the spices in hot oil as Jenny readied the souffle batter. Otus said, “It took the cleaning men ten hours to get that horrible cat smell out. At least they found the owl and brought it to our attention. I’m going to ask Reverend Bill if it might be an antique.” Emily came in, and right off, she said, “Otus, when are you going to take that depressing vulture out of here? I told you I do not like it.” “I think it gives the kitchen a heroic feel,” Otus protested in a feeble way as he stirred the sizzling cumin, coriander, and Chinese all spice. “More like a flea-market-at-a-truck-stop kind of feel,” Emily said touching her chin with her fingertip and arching a brow. “When I get back, I’ll take it down,” she said, meaning that she expected Otus to take it down. “Where you going, Mom?” Otus asked. “Going to torment my sister over coffee. I’m taking the cart,” Emily said flouncing out. The stove beeped, signaling its pre-heat temperature had been reached. “The batter is ready for the oil, my Hercules,” Jenny teased, giggling as Otus poured the hot, spiced oil into the batter.

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Cheyenne sat on her front porch and readied the coffee maker, the cups, and condiments for her sister’s visit. Her laptop lay next to the coffee cups. Emily puttered onto the front lawn, parking right next to the stone lions flanking the old stone steps. “What are you doing?” Emily called. “Just preparing myself for you, dear,” Cheyenne said. Emily toddled up the steps carrying her inflated pool toy, which she placed in one of the wicker chairs next to her sister on the front porch. As the coffee brewed, Emily said, “Been going over your Daniel Shandley dvd? Getting more tips on how to invest?” Cheyenne ignored Emily’s passive aggressive barb and turned to her laptop and clicked to TMZ. “Let’s take a dip with the celebs,” she said., scrolling to a clip of tennis pro Jai Kilborn, who was in the middle of a scandalous divorce. “His wife is so pretty.” Emily snorted. “He sure ruined her life,” she said. “How embarrassing for her.” “Poor wife? Emily, don’t you understand, these people, their worst day is a thousand times better than our best. If Jai never plays another match, he still never has to worry about money.” “His wife left him, and I don’t blame her!” “He’s already dating some new beautiful gal,” Cheyenne countered. “Feh, I’ll take my regular old life any day. I’d rather be poor, common, and have to work every day and be me than be one of those people for one minute,” Emily declared, sipping her coffee. When she got married, for several years, she had cooked and kept house, but as soon as the twins were old enough, they started doing the bulk of the household chores. Otus had done the cooking and sewing since he had been in middle school. Now, except for trying to work

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Cheyenne’s nerves, Emily did not work. “I’m proud to be common. Do not doubt that for one minute, but I think part of being common folk is being able to look at the lives of the rich and the famous and -“ ”Be envious?” “Sometimes. What’s more common than to dream of not being poor and having to work?” Cheyenne asked. Like Emily, she had never held a job or worked actively on the farm, and although she cleaned her own house, to her, cleaning was a neurotic pleasure. Plus, both women could afford to have had people clean their homes. That, however, would not be common.

Cooter found Ottus in his new studio, the dairy barn. The GO-GO ARTIST was doing aerobics in his spandex leotard. Mee-Mee stood on Moo-Moo-‘s shoulder, and they both looked away. Cooter averted his eyes. Foovier lay in a corner of the white interior and watched Ottus jump and prance like a woman. “Watch out for my kicks,” Ottus yelled over his music, a medley of KC and the Sunshine Band and Peter Allen. “Five more minutes and I’ll be done,” he said. Cooter went to Moo-Moo’s stall and petted the cow on her massive nose. She looked at Cooter and blinked her gigantic sad eyes as her tiny husband, Mee-Mee, stamped in jealousy, glared, and snorted at Cooter. At the end of the last song, “When My Baby Goes to Rio,” Ottus collapsed on his GOGO ARTIST’s chair. The sight of sweaty Ottus staining a chair earned disapproving looks from Moo-Moo, Mee-Mee, and Cooter. Foovier padded over to Ottus, sniffed a sweaty heel in a disdainful manner, and hurried back to its corner, where it lay back down, keeping its eye on the

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scene. Ottus stretched his scrawny legs, hairless, pale, and ashy. He was quite the withered prune in his spandex. Cooter grimaced and exchanged looks with the bovines, looking up to meet their brown eyes. Cooter said, “Wouldn’t you feel a little more comfortable with a robe on?” Ottus obliged, getting up from the chair, leaving a body sized sweat stain and pulling on a pair of his twin’s discarded overalls. “Sometimes I forget you’re gay and are probably ambivalent about seeing something like my body,” he said. “No ambivalence here - put your clothes on. And being queer has nothing to do with wanting you dressed. Your flesh is old and withered, Ottus. I would not call you a handsome man,” Cooter said. Ottus’s face fell. Because he did not want to see Ottus cry, Cooter shifted gears, saying, “What’s new with GO-GO ART?” Then Ottus’s face went from hurt to wistful. “I think the portfolio may be my final construct. I’m making a conscious effort not to produce any more art. I mean - I started a project-“ ”The porno project?” “Yes, but I pulled the plug on Behind Nude Eyes,” Ottus said. “Interesting word choice. Why did you pull the plug?” “Moo-Moo disapproved although I think Mee-Mee found it to have merit,” Ottus said. Moo-Moo took a bite of hay, displacing Mee-Mee from his perch. The teeny bull made a squeaking sound as he tumbled from Moo-Moo’s massive shoulder. “So what now?” Cooter asked. “I think maybe the next project is to do nothing at all,” Ottus sighed. “And record it like a reality television format?” “No. No documentation. What for? And really, what greater testament than a statement

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which addresses the vanity and the final unimportance of all artistic endeavor. Like the last pulse of a quasar.” “Your GO-GO ART project is to be like everyone else? Does that mean you’ll get a job and go to work like other people?” Cooter asked, running his hand over Moo-Moo’s expanse of forehead. She had raised her head a bit and was chewing hay. At her hooves, Mee-Mee bleated in frustration. Ottus said, “I think I’ve always been like everybody else. Always. I don’t need a job to be like everyone else.” Never having a job, wearing funny clothes, and creating sanctimonious GO-GO ART proclamations and stunts aside, in addition to a life led like an aristocrat, maybe Ottus was like everyone else. “Common?” Cooter asked, tracing the line between brown and white on Moo-Moo’s catcher’s mitt sized nose. She exhaled the smell of hay mulch, and the force of her breath blew back Cooter’s hair. “Of course. I’m proud to be as common as salt,” Ottus insisted. “That is wild,” Cooter said, recalling a series of velvet capes Ottus had worn for several years. “You knew that Mr. Ames is going to be in Saint Louis didn’t you?” “No,” Ottus said. “I thought you would have heard and, well, because of the way you feel about him and his work now, I figured you probably didn’t care.” Ottus threw an arm in the air. “I don’t care,” he said. “I could care less!” Oh, he cared.

They all laughed at Ennus in the unfunny way the mean-spirited have. It was because they were stupid, locked up here in their little shared world of recovery. How could they be

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expected to grasp the importance of what he, Ennus, was telling them? They could not. “You’re spiraling. This is all stuff that you’re bringing up to avoid dealing with the real issues that got you here. The reasons you use drugs,” Joe said. He was a lawyer addicted to cocaine. “Oh my gosh. Do I have to give the reasons again?” Ennus wailed. He needed to talk about the recurring theme in dreams he’d had about Moo-Moo. In addition to the digging dreams, he’d been dreaming about her every night. She had been singing that song to him. In the dream, she had been floating through a meadow, and - like the resurrected people in Ennus’s previous dream, she had sung, “Gonna be a happy star today! Gonna be a sad star today. Gonna be a happy star today! Gonna be a happy star today!” It meant that he needed to show her at the state fair this year. He was sure of it. That is what Ennus needed to talk about. He needed to impress this upon these assorted addicts and alcoholics. But they didn’t care. They just wanted more recovery talk. And they wanted to fuss.

“What have you been trying

to escape from?” Sandra, a marketing manager on Oxycontin, said. Ennus sighed, closed his eyes and pictured Moo-Moo, her mild gaze and softball-size brown eyes. “I’m trying to get away from my shame,” Ennus lied, gulping more coffee. “Bullshit,” several of the addicts yelled. “Okay, what do you want me to say?” Ennus asked. Alicia, a teenage heroin addict with very rich parents, said, “We just want you to be real with us and with yourself.” Ennus buried his face in his hands. Be real. What a treat. “We think, for one thing, we think you have a thing. We think you have a thing about guilt and shame and entitlement. This feeling of entitlement I sense from you,” the poor twenty

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year old unemployed meth addict Beatrice said. “Is this the royal we?” Ennus asked. No response. “Oh well, maybe you have a point. I’ve behaved badly and yet I resent everyone. I hate all of you, and I truly hope none of you take that personally.” The other members of the group perked up. This was more like it. “And I resent my family even though I’ve treated them worst of all. Like - I’m mad that Mom is taking the twins somewhere today for some kind of surprise, but I’m not there. A big surprise and I’m not there.” “You’re not there because you’re here,” the seventeen year old crack addict named Joey rather obviously pointed out. “Oh really?” Ennus said. “Well, just so we’re on the same page, I hate you too.” By the time Emily got home from Cheyenne’s house, Jenny and Otus had eaten their souffle and Jenny had left. Otus napped on the couch. Cooter had gone home, and Ottus had come to the main house to shower. Otus’s eyelids fluttered when Emily puttered on the front lawn in her golf cart. She came in. “Get up. It’s time for you and your brothers’ surprises,” she said. Otus jumped. His wig had slipped during his sleep, his hairline edging the tops of his eyebrows, giving him a chimpanzee aura. “Is it time for the surprise? I’m ready,” he said, adjusting his toupee. “Ottus,” Emily yelled, her voice making Otus wince. “Ottus, it’s time to go.” Ottus strutted down the stairs wearing an old pair of khakis and a nice green sweater, disappointed when neither Emily nor Otus noticed how regular he looked. Still, he and Otus were excited, even though Ottus resisted giving himself over to the idea of a surprise. Otus drove, his twin on the passenger’s side and Emily in the back. Ottus said, “We’re

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on our way to the big surprise. What do you think it is, Otus?” Otus fixed his red neckerchief around his neck just so and tilted his light straw cowboy hat at a daring angle. “I’m sure I do not know,” he replied. He hoped they were getting a new giant, wall sized screen to replace the one channel wonders that were their televisions. Ottus joked, “I think Mom is getting us a nice shredder from Wal Mart.” He couldn’t envision Emily taking them out and spending lots of money on them under any circumstance. Ottus too wished it would be a wall size screen. Now that he wasn’t busy with GO-GO ART, he had lots of time. Time and no direction. “I told Ennus that you were surprising us, and he was so jealous,” Otus said. “I felt bad about telling him.” That was not true. “He’ll get one too,” Emily said, straightening her neckline. Otus said, “How’s Aunt Cheyenne?” “I don’t think her stocks are doing well.” “How surprising.” Emily snorted. “She wouldn’t talk about it. What does she know about the art of making money?” At the mention of art, Ottus paid attention. Money as art was nothing new, that particular aesthetic worked perhaps most conspicuously by Warhol, but the connection between the two still hinged on the work as a commodity. Maybe using actual financial instruments such as stocks, cd’s, municipal bonds, IRA accounts, annuities, life insurance etc. - maybe the act of commerce itself could be a kind of new metaphor. Building a sound financial portfolio could be a symbol of perpetual motion, or time, or eternity or any other abstraction involving perpetuity. New forms of expression. Exciting as it had been at first, Ottus ached with a sense of ennui.

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Even though he had his PORTFOLIO GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT, and - at least financially - it was successful, he still missed being an active GO-GO ARTIST with something big percolating. A new iron on the fire. Oh well. Emily was more concerned with Otus’s driving. “Slow down. We’re not in a race here,” she said. Otus decelerated to ten miles an hour as they came to the outskirts of Pilsen. They passed Wal Mart, and the twins waited for Emily to tell Otus to turn into the big parking lot. She did not. Otus slowed to a crawl, and cars behind them honked. “Are you wanting to stop here?” he asked. “No, I have nothing to get here,” Emily said. She frowned at the cars passing them. She said, “They’re in a hurry to go nowhere.” “You really need to speed up a little,” Ottus urged, hopes of big screens flying away. Otus cried inside, but Ottus braced himself with the lie that he didn’t care. Still, all wasn’t lost; after all, there were places in Pilsen to spend money beside Wal Mart. The Pilsen diner, for instance, or even Keifner’s Treasures, but Emily had them drive past the little restaurant, and the antique shop. Otus and Ottus wondered with every passing store. What could Emily buy? Black strap molasses at Harper’s Feed Store? Groceries at the Kroger Supermarket? Pies? Maybe Emily would get them some floral arrangements from Nancy’s Flowers. No. They were at the other end of town when Emily directed Otus to park at Fredrick’s Stone masonry. “Right here,” Emily said pointing to the spot where she wanted to park. They got out of the truck, and Otus carried Emily’s inflatable pool ring. “Are we getting fancy marble statues like the lions at Aunt Cheyenne’s?” he asked.

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“Are we getting columns? Doric or Ionic?” Ottus asked. Emily said, “You’ll see,” and she led them inside Fredrick’s front office. The room was still as death and covered with a film of rock dust. A silent and still little woman sat behind a desk. Her eyes flashed on seeing familiar Pilsen faces. “Why hello, Emily,“ said Bernice, Fredrick’s wife, secretary, and bookkeeper. “Hi, Bernice,” Emily said. Otus smiled. Ottus frowned. Both of them stood stiffly. “How’ve you been, hon,” Bernice asked. She was a thin, drawn woman in a black polyester pant suit that looked as if, on others, it would stifle, but on her it was fine. “Oh, it’s been pretty exciting out our way. You don’t want to know.” Betty gestured for Emily and the boys to have a seat across from her. “I heard,” she said in a sympathetic way. The Burchens sat in the canvas camping chairs that were for the customers. Emily said, “We thought the devil was in the house, but instead it might have been someone playing a trick.” Betty nodded, her plucked brows creased. She said, “People are mischief makers. That is just awful. An intrusion is what that is.” Otus and Ottus stared at the floor. “It’s as if some people think anything is funny,” Emily sniffed. Isn’t that the truth. “A cruel intrusion,” Betty lowed, and after a few seconds, “So is this about what we talked about on the phone last week?” The twins looked at their mother. Maybe this would not be a total disappointment. Stone lions, stately columns, and baroque Chinese dragons danced through their minds. Emily said, “Yes. I’ve been meaning to come in here and get this done, spend the money while we’re all here and can enjoy seeing the things. And even though Ennus isn’t here, I’m going to get him one too. He just won’t have any say.” What could she be getting for each of them? Otus and

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Ottus looked at each other. “You’ll find we have quite a collection of tombstones and markers,” Betty said rising from her chair. Otus paled and clutched his throat, fumbling with his neckerchief, trying to loosen it a bit. Ottus smiled at his brother’s discomfort. “I’m feeling hot,” Otus moaned, getting out of his chair. I’ve got to get a breath of air.” He lurched out of the office. Otus stayed outside Fredrick’s, his back against the wall, concentrating on his breathing as Ottus and his mom looked at gravestones. After ten minutes, Ottus stuck his head out the door. “Aren’t you coming in to choose your headstone?” he asked. “No,” Otus gasped, lifting his eyes to the heavens in supplication. “You should see mine - I got an all black oblesque with - like - a red racing stripe! I don’t think I’ll have my name or anything on it. No script - so my life will be a cipher. Come on, Otus, or Mom will pick something for you, and you know the kind of thing she’ll get,” Ottus said, meaning she would get a bargain. Otus didn’t care. The very thought of - of picking his own tombstone made him nauseous. “That’s okay. You pick something for me. I’m - surprised by Mom’s surprise. Didn’t expect...” Otus put his head between his knees. “Hey, we’re lucky she didn’t drag us to price-check air-conditioner filters or something. You’re just not looking at this in the right way,” Ottus said. Otus waved his brother away. “I’d never have come if I’d known Mom was taking us here to get these. Thinking about this horrible business makes me sick.” “You mean thinking about DYING?” Ottus asked. His brother groaned his answer. “Well, I guess knowing you wouldn’t want to come is why Mom didn’t say anything although I

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don’t think she figured you falling out like this. I’m not surprised.” Also true about Emily choosing a bargain for Otus and Ennus.

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A PURPOSE DRIVEN LIFE “Even thinking about it now makes me want to be sick and weep,“ Otus said, watching the egg whites froth and then turn to whipped peaks in the processor. “So awful! I couldn’t go in there and pick my own tombstone - so now. Tombstones! Oh my gosh - sickness and death!” Otus turned off the processor and put his hands on either side of the kitchen sink. He breathed deeply and looked out the kitchen window at the broad fields of corn waving to the horizon. Benito and Sebastian were spraying the fields. The corn was high now. The soybeans dark green and vibrant, and the wheat yellowing and tall. Otus had tried to join Sebastian and Benito, pretending to come up on them as they were getting ready. They tolerated him until it was time to drive the tractors away. Then they ditched him. Their loss. He hated being around pesticides and fungicides and synthetic sprayed fertilizers anyway. Still. “My poor man. Would you like to rest your head in my lap for awhile. We can put the egg whites and the yolks and everything in the refrigerator,” Jenny suggested. “No, the show must go on. I can’t stop picturing what my gravestone must look like.” “So you haven’t seen it?” “No! Ottus told me what Mom chose for me, and I didn’t believe him, so I asked her myself.” Otus slumped, his face a mask of pain, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Are the yolks ready?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Yes. So what was it?” Otus looked at the top of the window. He muttered, “A granite elk’s head that the Pilsen Elk’s Club contracted and then didn’t want, so Fredrick’s gave Mom a good deal. She got a great deal on Ennus’s too. They’re already out there. They’ve been set up without names and

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birth dates - oh it’s too awful. I can just picture Ottus’s ostentatious monument to his narcissism, my big moose head, and Ennus’s - Ennus’s concrete lawn jockey.” Otus focused on taking slow deep breaths as he stared at the peaceful fields. Far away the tractor passed high over the splendid August corn crop, spraying industrial concoctions on it. Block the specter of death from his mind - sad old death with its promise of a moose head tombstone. But the beautiful fields would always be there. Time would be there. Something would be there, maybe woods or maybe a town or mall someday. Perhaps a desert. And what did it matter? “The quail meat is ready to go in I think, dear boy. We need our onions and garlic. It’s chopped isn’t it?” Otus forced himself to shake off his malaise. “Of course, Dear,” he said and tilted the platter of shredded quail meat, caramelized onions, and garlic into the souffle mix. Jenny threw her arms around him and kissed him. “Don’t brood about your moose head,” she told him. “You chopped everything wonderfully.” “Thank you. I have to not think about dying.” “No one is going to die. I won’t let you die,” Jenny told him, letting go to stir the ingredients into the egg mixture. Otus tilted his wig a bit. “At least I didn’t get the lawn jockey,” he said, putting his head on Jenny’s shoulder. Ennus missed being home. Every night, all night, he dreamed of farmland and meadow, Moo-Moo and digging dirt with the Caterpillar bulldozer. If only he were back home, he’d be content to groom Moo-Moo for the state fair and dig dirt somewhere on the property. He’d know where. Every day, he would take time to watch One Life To Live, with his family, even though he’d never liked the program, and every night, he would sit with Emily by the radio and

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listen to music from the forties and fifties - Benny Goodman and Bobby Daren. That would be enough to be happy. Of course, deep down - subconsciously - Ennus missed drugs - all the drugs. The merry mix-up - from opiates to the brown stuff to pills to the stimulant devils in all their crimson splendor - they all screamed for Ennus to come back. Good old drugs. Oh how he missed them. They were his best friends, even though he didn’t know it. He did not fiend or scheme or even dream of them, but beneath his abandonment of them was still a ringing love. An bottomless, screaming abyss of need. Something other people might mistake for loneliness. In their absence, Ennus’s moods, rather his mood disorder, flowered, blossomed into a steel engine with a broken carburetor. He ran red hot and freezing cold. Mostly, because he was in a place he hated, doing things he couldn’t stand, among people he despised, he veered from angry to depressed, but frequently enough, regularly and inexplicably the sunshine broke into his heart, usually when he thought of digging with the bulldozer or Moo-Moo. And odd things could make him cry - a Charmin’s commercial, a torn sheet of newspaper blowing across the parking lot outside. Or the innocuous might fill him with fury. A television show featuring linedancing threw him into a blind rage that took an entire day to shake off. Maybe it was the coffee. Ennus, like many of the patients, drank lots of coffee. He resisted taking up cigarettes, which many patients did. He’d taken them up during his second rehab, but had given them up once he was out. But coffee - he drank about fifteen cups a day, guzzling it with sugar and milk in his helmet sized mug. Maybe it was the caffeine that made him mad, sad, and glad. His dreams exhausted him, and he awoke every morning sore from twisting and thrashing in bed, going places and doing very little. At his group meeting (something he couldn’t stand in

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the place he hated etc.) Ennus spoke of the previous night’s dream. Since he’d given up on trying to figure out what they wanted him to say, he told them about his dreams. “I was driving my tractor, and I had the blade to move earth attached and the digging bucket on the back and I was - like - excavating from the side of a hill. And from this patch I was digging, these old time people started coming out.” Nobody cared. They had heard too many of Ennus’s dreams and far too many versions of this particular theme. “Do you think this has anything to do with your addiction?” Bill asked. He was an old alcoholic with a bulbous nose. Ennus shrugged. Renee, another fan of methamphetamine, said, “Maybe the people coming out are people you’ve hurt.” She went on and on about how maybe Ennus was ashamed of the way he had lived. Ennus forced himself to look affronted, then thoughtful. To him, the dream meant that he needed to get on his bulldozer and dig into the side of the hill he’d dreamt of. Moo-Moo appearing at the livestock show at the state fair and Ennus digging that hole were at the heart of his recovery. “I think you’re right. I hate to admit it, but, yes, all those old fashioned types - people from my past, even though I didn’t consciously know any of them.” “We are all each other,” Dennis, a heroin philosophy major, revealed. Ennus nodded, forcing himself to smile in a rueful way as if to say, you’ve got me there. That was true enough; they did have him there. (Space) Otus recovered from his death thoughts long enough to assist Jenny in de-panning the quail souffle. With orange and blue pot holders he’d knitted in seventh grade, Otus held the pan upside down as Jenny ran a thin blade between the metal and the food. In seconds, the souffle

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eased onto the platter, steaming and fragrant. Ottus and Cooter came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Ottus, in white pants and a navy blue shirt, placed Lena Donna’s forgotten Ouija board in front of him, and next to it, he spread out the stock page of the Pilsen Daily. Jenny smiled at Ottus and said, “I like your new look.” Although pleased, Ottus pretended ignorance. “I just had to get new jeans is all, and this is an old sweater. Thanks though. Boy, something smells really good.” “It sure does,” Cooter, in a black serge suit, agreed. “What is that?” “Quail, onions, and garlic,” Jenny said. Otus froze at the sight of the Ouija board. He had just gotten over thinking sad thoughts, and now this unpleasant reminder of when they’d thought their house was possessed by Satan. And who had played the trick? He gave his brother a look. “What?” Ottus asked, his fingertips on the placard. “Those boards are nonsense!” Otus shuddered and turned to the window, the restful fields and the distant dot that was either Sebastian or Benito or both of them. What were they up to? Otus sighed. It was his right to play a role in the farm work if he wanted - or it should be. But what do you do when you’re just not wanted? You go away. Ottus looked at the lists of stocks before closing his eyes. He randomly picked a stock, one called Rendling Copra Products, and, in a solemn voice, said the name of the company. The Ouija board went to, NO. “I would not let Mom see you fooling around with that thing,” Otus said. “Lena Donna doesn’t want it. This is how I’ve been deciding what companies to invest in.” Ottus looked down the list of stocks until another one struck his fancy. “Leverheiver Inc,”

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he intoned and the avatar went to, YES. Ottus put a check next to it. “This is his latest GO-GO ART piece,” Cooter explained. Cooter was dressed in dark blue dress slacks and a white button down shirt. “You’re using the Ouija board to decide what stocks are good? I’m sure that works,” Otus jeered. He then did a double take. “You’re investing in stocks?” “I think it sounds interesting Have you made any dividends yet?” Jenny said. Ottus and Cooter smiled at each other. “As a matter of fact, I have,” Ottus said. He had, in fact, made a great deal of money in a short time. And when Cooter followed suit, investing in what Ottus did, he made big money too. “Where did you get the cash to invest?” Otus asked, piqued. “I borrowed against my annuity and a bunch of cd’s originally, but I’ve since paid that back.” Otus’s eyes bulged. “You did not,” he said. “Did you not hear? I paid it back. The dividends are reinvested in different financial instruments. I’m just going to pick one stock today. I’m pretty much done with that type of speculation. Barry Daye has been structuring lower interest low risk instruments, more secure investments like tax free mutual funds, He’s set me up with a stretch IRA - well, one besides the ones Mom set us all up with.” “If Mom knew that you gambled with your savings,” Otus gasped. He looked at Ottus as if he were leprous. “When it comes to stocks, Mom says, ‘If you don’t have the money to lose, don’t risk it!’ And that Ouija board is what started all that other trouble in the first place.” “Oh, I don’t know. It just picks up nerve impulses on a subconscious level. Don’t be silly.”

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“You have chosen stocks using a Ouija board, and I’m the silly one? As far as I’m concerned, Ottus, you have officially lost the right to call anyone anything bad. Not that you ever had that right,” Otus snorted. Jenny put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “This was - is a GO-GO ART piece. It didn’t matter whether I made money or not. It so happens that I did and was able to expand the piece into something I hadn’t even conceived at the time.” Otus folded his arms and arched an eyebrow. “Oh, your vision. Well I’m not asking,” he said. “My hope is that it realizes a kind of new aesthetic, or a real twist to the art as money metaphor. With my piece, the money making instruments are the medium - a metaphor for perpetuity,” Ottus enthused. “You will notice that I said I was not asking. Not asking, Otus, because what you did was stupid stupid stupid!” He huffed and stood. Jenny’s hand slid from his shoulder to around his waist. “Plus, part of the piece is the natural excitement that money causes,” Ottus added. “That does sound different and exciting,” Jenny, the diplomat, said. Otus gave her a side-look. He said, “Are you being a traitor?” “Never,” Jenny said, her hand squeezing Otus’s buttock, making him jump a little. She kissed the side of his neck, making him fidget and giggle. “Ooky deedeem,” she baby-talked. “Pook peeky poo,” Otus fussed. Ottus rolled his eyes. Cooter smirked. Ottus said, “Thank you for the compliment, not the baby talk though, Jenny.” Otus focused back on his twin. “And Mom knows nothing of this?” he asked.

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As if in answer, the sound of Emily’s golf cart drew into the yard and was silent. Otus’s eyes widened in glee. Ottus and Cooter grinned at each other. Ottus said, “I’ll tell her now. But I’ll get my last monthly statement from Barry Daye so Mom can see what’s what.” He left to get it. “Have you made a lot of money too?” Jenny asked Cooter. “Yes, I have. When I saw his success, I used what Grandma left me. I’m planning on spending some of my profits though.” Emily entered. “That smells so good,” she said. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Burchen. We got this recipe off the internet. You can have some. It’s ready,” Jenny said. Emily looked at the Ouija board and said, “Someone please remove that.” “Ottus brought it down here, and you will not guess what he’s been doing. You won’t!” Otus assured Emily, his cheeks reddening. Ottus came in with a folder bearing the current balance of his portfolio. Emily looked at Cooter and said, “I like the way you’re both dressing these days.” “I think they look nice too,” Jenny said, serving souffle all around. Otus pouted “Thanks,” Cooter said, twisting his toe a few degrees to strike a mod pose. Emily turned to Ottus. “Why is this infernal board on our kitchen table?” Ottus put the balance sheet in front of Emily. “I’ve used it for investing.” Emily’s expression was one of both understanding and ignorance. Ottus explained, saying, “I borrowed against my annuity and some cd’s to play the stock market.” Emily’s eyes widened in terror and her mouth dropped. When she could finally respond, she said, “Your Aunt Cheyenne is losing money. She

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won’t admit to it or say how much she has lost, but if she had made a penny, she would have been crowing about it like Mark Cuban. And she had a system. I mean a real system. I cannot believe this,” Emily raged, examining the print out in front of her. “I made a bunch of money. A bunch. Look at my portfolio. Barry Daye has been helping me. It’s my new GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT. I paid back what I borrowed.” “Barry Daye helped you?” “I didn’t do anything illegal, and if you’d look at the portfolio I’ve built, you’ll see. Everything was in my name, so he couldn’t tell you, and I wanted to wait until a time like now.” “You already have a portfolio,” Emily pointed out. Ottus indicated the balance sheet. “This is really just a GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT,” Cooter explained, trying to buffer Emily’s astonished anger. “Look at the profits,” Ottus insisted, pointing right at the figures, and though Emily was still flustered, she took the time to examine the portfolio,. The longer she studied it, the less angry she was. Rueful astonishment softened the lines of fury in her face. She looked and looked. Jenny said, “My gosh, Ottus, how much have you made.” This question launched Ottus into another monologue about his portfolio. He said, “That’s another thing - the relativity of economics. To the really rich, the old rich, the secretive rich - a few hundred million is just that - a few. And to those people who have accumulated a couple of hundred million, someone worth a few million, like me or Mom or, I suspect, you, dear, a few million are worth...feh! Nothing.” At the mention of her own finances, Emily said, “Ottus, you hush. You don’t know what I have, and it’s not (actually it was) that much. And - and - it’s vulgar to talk about money!” “Very true, which opens another facet of the portfolio as GO-GO ART, as a metaphor for

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decadence, or the suggestion of overabundance - like the overabundance which is found in nature! Pied beauty and deformities and whatnot. Beautiful cleft lips for instance.” At this point they were all, including Cooter, at sea regarding Ottus’s aesthetic. Emily understood the printout, however, and was impressed, finally, though in a grudging way. She borrowed Ottus’s phone and called Barry Daye. “Barry, what has Ottus done, and why did you let him do this?” She listened to Barry explain what Ottus had told her, further explaining how he had structured the initial investments bought with the stock dividends in a way so that they would mature year after year. He bragged in a most un-Barry Daye like manner, gushing about Ottus’s brilliance and courage as an investor. Ottus could tell, and he puffed up. Finally, GO-GO ART that his mom could understand and enjoy. Otus hovered, glowering, as he and Jenny served everyone portions of souffle. So absorbed by Barry Daye’s raving, Emily ignored the savory and steaming dish in front of her. She put a hand on Ottus’s shoulder in quiet pride as Otus’s heart sank. Emily hung up. “This is surprising. I really cannot approve of - of using a Ouija board. Still...And I do not approve of stock except for our Wal Mart, our Unilever, and our Apple, but Barry verified what you said, and these figures do not lie. You made a very foolish and high risk investment no matter what Barry says, but you were lucky. It turned out good. Very very good.” Ottus was happy his mom was mollified, but he had to make his purpose clear. “Making money was not the point initially, but now the focus has shifted to growing the principal as its own entity. Perpetuity forever.” Everyone except Cooter looked as if Ottus was speaking a foreign language. “What do you mean? What plans do you have for what you say is all this money?” Otus asked as he dabbed a fleck of souffle from the corner of his mouth.

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“The dividends will roll into a money market for Barry to use when buying different instruments whether they’re cd’s, mutual funds, whatever.” In other words, the money was never to be touched. “This also is a metaphor for the way old money preserves itself.” “Well, as long as you aren’t going to use that infernal Ouija board to pick anything else out,” Emily said. “I was, but I don’t have to.” “Well don’t,” Emily told him. Exasperated, Otus said, “Mom, your souffle is going to get cold.” Emily ignored Otus, but his brother tucked in. “I think this is your best yet,” he patronized. “Don’t,” Otus hissed. “It is good. The squab and corn is my favorite though I think,” Cooter said

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massaged the back of Otus’s head, under his wig. “And you really used the Ouija board?” Emily asked, and it sounded as if there were a note of admiration in her voice. “Of course, my subconscious mind was causing the placard to move, but you have to realize that this wasn’t done with the express intent of making money any more than it was to throw it away.” “It is GO-GO ART,” Cooter said. “This is Ottus’s greatest GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT!” Cooter was especially happy because this project had set him up comfortably. He turned to Otus and Jenny. “You know, I think I take back what I said about the squab and corn being my favorite. I think this is.” “My favorite is whatever he’s made that day,” Ottus patronized.

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“I hope you choke,” Otus declared. Ottus went further. “I always said (he hadn’t) that I wish I’d learned to cook instead of having gotten involved in this little GO-GO ART business because, you know, something delicious is something that you get immediate positive feedback on, whereas, with GO-GO ART, you just never know if people are going to care (they never care). I do think this new piece is progressive on so many levels, not the least of which is the considerable monetary value. I do wonder if it will be accepted in THE ART COMMUNITY. But this souffle, it is a joy forever,” he condescended. “I cannot thank you enough,” Otus sneered. Jenny knew not to comment. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I profited although I had no idea it would be on a scale larger than I thought, but it helps develop and perpetuate THE CONSTRUCT,” Ottus blathered. “Get rid of the Ouija board. That is no way to pass time,” Emily said, her mouth a grim line. Otus smiled, popping his eyes at his twin. Ottus looked away from his mom, a bit uncomfortable. “Glad also because you, I guess would have been really mad if I’d picked some losing stock,” Ottus allowed, prompting his brother to nod and Emily to roll her eyes in horror at the thought. “That doesn’t discount the part of the aesthetic that doesn’t care whether we made a profit or not. And the reason the outcome isn’t important is because I will never benefit from the money. It’s there to perpetuate itself for as long as, I guess, the U.S. or the global economy exists (oho!). I’d like to think that will be forever. That’s one of the metaphors,” Ottus whittered. “For all the use it will have as far as buying stuff, I might have just as well lost it. It will never be touched, just continued, rolled over, reinvested.” “Okay, we get it,” Otus said, so exasperated.

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Emily slapped Ottus on the forearm “It will be reinvested, but not using the Ouija board. I think it’s a good idea not to touch your principal unless you really need it.” “Not even then. I could be starving. We could all be homeless and this GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT will remain pristine, you know.” “Just thank God that you didn’t lose your money or - or.” She shook her head. “I have to keep telling myself that things turned out well, but really!” Emily wasn’t the only person troubled. Otus said, “What do you mean you never intend to touch the principal. Than what use is it?” Jenny pinched the soft back of Otus’s arm. “Ooh,” he cried, jumping. He looked at his girlfriend as if to ask her why. Otus’s sibling rivalry embarrassed Jenny. She talked baby talk. “Goosey poo-goosey goo goo goo.” “Oh poopy poo poo,” Otus retorted. Emily, Ottus, and Cooter grimaced and eye-rolled in response to baby talk, and they sighed in dismay like a chorus of sorrowful poets. The doorbell rang. Benito stepped in. Otus said, “Is the work already done? You and Sebastian need help?” “No, Sebastian need a doctor.” Benito approached the table and looked at the plates of souffle. He said, “We finish spraying and was taking that big cow out her stall, and she lean too far against the wall. Benito got pinned, and I think he crack a rib, so I’m taking him to the doctor.” “Need me to drive?” Otus hated to drive and was terrible at it if he had to go the regular speed limit because he was too used to going at a snail’s pace to please Emily. He offered

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though, mournfully hoping Benito would tell him to come on but knowing that probably wouldn’t happen. “I going to drive him,“ Benito said. “I wanted let you all know that what happen and that where we going.” “Goodness, you should have brought him inside,” Emily said. The only indication of how lame her suggestion was to Benito was the slight tightening of the corners of his mouth. He said, “His rib hurt too much to come up the steps if he don’t need to.” “Of course, but he’s always welcome here,” Emily lied. “I’ll call the doctor. You have your insurance cards?” “Yes,” Benito said. There were moments of silence, when any of them at the table could have volunteered to go outside and check on Sebastian, see him off to the hospital, but none of them, no, not even Jenny, thought to do that. Nor did Benito expect them to. He knew them. “Tell him we’re with him in spirit,” Emily lied. “When you get back, if he feels like it, have him come up so we can see how he is, but only if he feels like it,” she said. Benito scratched his head. “He going home after the doctor,” he informed them, resigned to the ways of the Burchens and their ilk. Emily smiled. “Of course. Why of course,” she sputtered. “He must take the day off. Clumsy old Moo-Moo.” “That big cow a menace-ment,” Benito said heading out the door. “Sure you don’t need me to drive?” Otus tried. “No thanks.” Otus sulked, looking at the door swing shut. Jenny tickled his ear and murmured, “Oinky

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wanky tweedy doo.” She put her head on his shoulder. Otus smoothed his wig and said, “Wook wooky herfaddle jedooo.” After they all winced and grimaced, Emily said, “Benito and Sebastian hate Ennus’s animals. Poor Moo-Moo.” “I’m just glad Barry Daye talked you into insuring the hands. I keep forgetting their names,” Ottus said. “I love Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee and Poo-Poo and Pee-Pee, but they are, even for barnyard animals, they are, well...” Otus said. “Dumb,” Emily said, Ottus nodding. “What they have in freakish size they don’t have in wit,” Otus sniffed. “The same could be said of you,” Ottus said. Jenny distracted her man from his brother’s cruel taunts. She said, “The animals are all sweetie-pies “ Then, in his ear, she whispered, “Don’t be disappointed, Mr. Disappointed. Sowwy they din’ wan’ you’s to dwive-dwive.” Her lips brushed his neck. Otus shivered and responded aloud in baby talk. “Peteeee soookie snooty dooder weddle dorffer,” he chirped. Ottus covered his ears. Emily flinched but forged ahead. “Well,” she blurted, “they say all that Ennus talks about at rehab is entering Moo-Moo in the state fair and moving dirt in the one of the John Deeres.” Though they all knew that, the thought gave pause. Mystified.

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DOING GOOD DEEDS JUST TO BE GOOD Reverend Bill was back on his ‘be good to folks’ horse. It had been a good week for him, having sold a Phuetenborg-Kisher enclave at one-thousand percent profit, and he stood before the congregation alight with an inner glow. Story after predictable story, building up to his best ones. He walked out from behind his podium to the lip of his pulpit. “When we help other people, why - we help ourselves, folks. It’s karma. Right?” Reverend Bill put it to his congregation. “One time my daddy needed a job. On his way to the interview, he sees a car with a flat on the side of the road, a middle-aged lady sitting in the driver’s sear. Now, Daddy knew if he stopped to help this woman, he’d get dirty and be late for his interview.” Reverend Bill looked his people in the eye as he paced back and forth. “What do you think Daddy did?” “Helped the lady,” Otus said. Ottus blew air out his cheeks, drawing an elbow to the ribs from Emily. “That’s right. He stopped to help.” Reverend Bill nodded to Otus, who beamed. He touched Jenny’s hand with his pinky. Otus tilted so his wig touched Jenny’s black mesh veil. “Shicky-mo-shay,” he whispered. Ottus blew air through his cheeks, and Emily poked him in the temple. “Eeky-kee-kee,” Jenny whispered. Emily and Cheyenne pretended to ignore them. Ottus covered his ears. Reverend Bill said, “Daddy, knowing he was going to make himself late, knowing he’d get dirty helping this lady, he still helped her. It was the right thing. Daddy didn’t think about it. Didn’t think he deserved a cookie for doing right. He did it automatically because he knew. He knew. When you help folks, you help yourself. Things might not work out the way you expect.

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You might think you lost, but you haven’t. I’m not lying. “Now Daddy helped that woman, He got her car fixed and watched her drive away. Then he went to his appointment, late, sweaty, his white shirt smudged and sweaty, but he went. And when he got there, guess who interviewed him for the job?” “God? No, I mean the lady he’d helped a little earlier,” Otus volunteered. His twin bit his lip and closed his eyes, earning a nudge in the kidneys from Emily. “The lady herself who he’d helped. That’s right Otus,” Reverend Bill said. Emily and Cheyenne looked at each other and nodded. Otus and Jenny did too, as did other folk in the pews. Reverend Bill had a point. He’d made the exact same point four times in the last two months. “So help yourself by helping someone,” he urged them. Terry Mallory creaked out the opening strains of “See the Pyramids Along the Nile”, and people started to leave. As usual, Cheyenne and Emily walked out together, neither deigning to look at the other. Dignity above all. Cheyenne said, “Reverend Bill is right about helping others.” “Of course he is. Are you just now aware of this rule of life? I mean, he’s spoken on it half a dozen times I know of, and long before him, his uncle - you don’t remember?” “However many times I hear the message, I always get something new from it,” Cheyenne said in a lofty manner. “What is there to relearn? Help people? It’s a simple message for a common person like me - someone who doesn’t understand the shades of meaning in the rule: help others. But then I’m common.” “I’m common too,” Cheyenne protested. “I’m just not superior like some people, but Reverend Bill is right about helping others.”

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“It’s true,” Emily concurred. “We’re lucky to be able to help others.” Cheyenne sniffed, “It’s a sin that we don’t do more to help.” Or, in fact, anything, for neither sister had ever volunteered time or given to charities, with the exception of putting a few dollars in Reverend Bill’s collection plate, which they didn’t like. Why pay him for - what - an hour of his time a week? So, though neither thought of herself as uncharitable, they were not The Philanthropists. Emily said, “For common folk, it’s often hard just to make ends meet. My estimated tax is higher than ever.” “That’s because your distributions and dividends put you in a higher income bracket,” Ottus said. His mom and aunt ignored him. “You heard Reverend Bill - when we help someone else we help ourselves,” Cheyenne whanged. She looked over her shoulder at Ottus and said, “What do you intend to do to help others?” “Nothing,” the GO-GO ARTIST replied. “Well, as for me, I think I’m going to do something for the elderly, for some of the poor old people,” Emily said. “You’re going to do something for yourself?” Ottus asked. “No,” Emily said, looking over her shoulder and staring razor blades. “I mean some of the old folks at Shady Gardens Nursing Home.” “That’s really something,” Otus said. Once outside of church, Jenny had slipped her hand in the back pocket of Otus’s overalls and cupped his buttock. “That is the most noble thing I’ve heard anybody doing ever,” Jenny said. “What a noble thing to do. Noble.”

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“I think the poor, the economically poor in our town could use our help and support more than the people at The Shady Gardens, who, after all, have families who might resent strangers. They might be suspicious of our motives,” Cheyenne argued “The poor?” Emily said. “You’re forgetting, we’re pretty poor ourselves!” “There are people poorer than we are and no matter how poor we are, we should share what little we have. They deserve help too. I will be their - what is the word?” “You will be their dancing floozy?” Ottus asked. “She’ll be their advocate,” Jenny said. She pressed her side against Otus and, with no one looking, licked the inside of his ear. Otus all but thumped his foot on the ground. “Izzzeee me snookies?” Jenny whispered. “Yes, advocate, that’s it. I will proudly be the advocate for the poor,” Cheyenne said. Emily tossed her head. She said, “Well, as for me (meaning her, her twins, and Jenny) I will be helping make the lives of the old people a little brighter.” “You want us to go too?” Ottus said. Jenny and Otus exchanged sly looks. Ottus frowned as his mom and aunt looked over their shoulders at him. “I expect you would to want to go. I expect you to look at the chance to help someone as an opportunity, no, a privilege,” Emily charged, running her hands down the sleeves of her saffron blouse. “What do you expect me to do for any of the fossils at The Shady Gardens Nursing Home?” Ottus asked. “It will do you good and open your world,” Cheyenne - of the closed world - blathered. “As for me, I shall be a light unto the poor!” Emily rolled her eyes. She said, “Ottus, didn’t you say that you saw Charlie Craine

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paying for a loaf of day old bread with food stamps last week?” Ottus stung from Emily’s volunteering him, and he answered in a sulky way. “Yes. And not only that, there was a sign in his yard saying the place was going to be auctioned. So that ought to make you happy, Aunt Cheyenne,” he said. Cheyenne suppressed a smile, opting for a prim, pursed lip instead. She said, her cheeks coloring, “I can’t think of anyone who more deserves ill fortune, but I wish no one harm.” “How charitable. You are the queen of Christian charity,” Emily said, seeing her sister’s pleasure at another person’s hardship. “You are Mother Teresa,” she chided. Cheyenne turned up her nose and said, “Ye reap as ye may sow! And if ye reap the wind-eth, so shall-est it be!” “The gospel according to Rasputin,” Emily said. “It’s in The Bible, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t know about anyone else,” and here Cheyenne stared from under her brow at Emily, “but I do not question The Scriptures. Then, I’m not a sophisticated woman of the world who thinks she understands everything! No, I’m a simple and common woman.” “Well, you’re half right,” Emily said. “So, what do you intend to do for the poor, or should I say those poor whom you judge to be deserving of your kindness?” Cheyenne looked past her sister and past Ottus to her more sensible nephew Otus, whom she thought to be gay despite the constant presence of Jenny. Cheyenne said, “Did I ever tell you how your mother invented sarcasm? It was before I was born, of course. In the 920's I believe.” “I know what, Cheyenne,” Emily suggested, “You should give them one of your inspirational talks, perhaps about reaping the wind and The Bible. Then send them on their way. Perhaps you could present each of them with a penny stock. You can afford it with all those

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profits.” Cheyenne grinded her teeth. “The poor will be grateful for anything I do. And I won’t just harangue them like you so meanly imply. That’s not me.” “I’m sorry, sis. I know of what you speak. Poor Charlie Craine, for instance -“ ”To hell with Charlie Craine. I hope he rots in hell!” Cheyenne cried, drawing looking from the scattering Sunday congregation. “This is going to be a fun ride home,” Ottus said. Emily smiled at him. His aunt, whom they were driving home, ignored them. Otus and Jenny looked at each other, their mouths forming big ‘O’s. “Za-molly Patolly,” Otus uttered in Jenny’s ear. “Oh crapstacy,” Ottus said in his own type of baby talk. “Everyone is cursing now that church is out. What would Reverend Bill say?” Emily said. “Mousey zoo-zoo,” Jenny cooed, nuzzling her nose into his toupee. Ottus groaned. They were at the big red truck, the young folk in the front and the sisters in the back. As Otus and Jenny slid in next to Ottus, who was driving, he said to them, “Don’t you dare baby talk, or -“ Ottus humphed in frustration and rage. Baby talk! Good Samaritanism! The Shady Gardens Nursing Home! The one time GO-GO ARTIST and investor turned the key in its hole, and the truck fired to life, rumbling and vibrating. “Slow down,” Emily said even though Ottus had yet to back out of the parking space. Cheyenne, her mouth a puckered wrinkle, hunched her shoulders and stared straight ahead.

Mr. Ames was speaking and showing slides of his latest work, The Fucking Midwest at

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The Carlton Theater in Saint Louis. Ottus and Cooter got ready to go. They sat in Ottus’s studio, the old dairy barn. There was little GO-GO ART lying around, most of it having been consumed in the fire. Not that it mattered to Cooter, but what was Ottus without GO-GO ART? “You could make GO-GO ART at the nursing home. Think of Duplex Planet. Try an interview format where you could milk their left brain,” Cooter suggested, sitting in Ottus’s studio. Cooter wore tailor cut slacks and blazer, both in indigo. His shirt, a light blue, provided a restful backdrop for the flat silver tie. Moo-Moo, in her iron stall, ate hay and looked at Ottus and Cooter. Mee-Mee, free, worried Foovier, strutting and prancing around the cat, the teeny bull’s intentions unclear. Uncomfortable with the mixed messages from Mee-Mee, Foovier climbed on top of the wooden block table. Ottus smirked. “Good idea, except, as you pointed out, David Greenburger already did it in Duplex Planet. Working in a nursing home - there’s a problem avoiding bathos, unless it were presented ironically. I want to give up anyway.” He scratched Foovier behind the ear, which the kitty did not acknowledge. The cat watched the wee bull, now bucking at the toe of Ottus’s running shoe, now attempting to snag Cooter’s expensive slacks. Cooter stamped his foot, and the bull skedaddled, stopping a short distance from him to shake his horns and tweet his defiance. Cooter said, “But irony can be tired. What if the irony was hidden - like - you do something bathetic but seemingly in earnest. Nothing zany at all.” “As if I loved the old people,” Ottus said. Foovier bolted from the caress of Ottus’s hand, jumping off the table to land on the head of the smaller bull. The cat batted his clawless paws about the tiny bull’s ears. Mee-Mee bucked Foovier off and ran through a mouse hole in MooMoo’s pen. “Foofy!” Ottus exclaimed. He held up a copy of his portfolio, constantly updated and always online in neon changing colors and backdrops. It no longer mattered if anyone - if

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Mr. Ames himself - ever viewed Ottus’s rolling portfolio. “You should document your visits with the old people,” Cooter urged. The setting, the recording of real action - that was more Cooter’s GO-GO ART speed, even if it did make him more the traditionalist. Cooter’s participation in Ottus’s portfolio installation - his own investments - allowed him new freedom. The abstract nature of clocking and posting the principal and never using any of it bored him, and he wondered if the portfolio actually opposed GO-GO ART AESTHETICS. Essentially, it was a scroll of deeds, numbers, and abbreviations representing the progress of Ottus’s financial instruments. Appealing to whom on what level? “The old people thing has been done to death,” Ottus said. “I think it could be fulfilling. A different approach,” Cooter said. “In fact, don’t do it in any way that makes the old people look quirky. Don’t have any kind of hidden agenda or be sardonic or ironic or - or - for once, you wouldn’t have to be mean.” Though Cooter was not yet aware of it, he was as tired of art just as he was tired of living in Pilsen. “Fun and in earnest? Old people? Listen, I do not trust anyone over thirty,” Ottus said. “You’re fifty-five,” Cooter pointed out. “I look like I’m thirteen, so I don’t count. Don’t trust anyone over thirty who doesn’t look as if he were thirteen as I do,” Ottus qualified. Cooter sighed. “The only thing you’re never sarcastic about is when you say that you look like ‘a thirteen year old’ or something ridiculous about yourself like that. You look your age. Okay? Listen, Ottus, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings (he was, actually), but you really are a little old dried up fart every bit in his fifties! Elderly people aren’t so bad are they? So much worse than you? You’re not that far behind them. Do you not realize that?” “The old are ugly,” Ottus reasoned. And his feelings weren’t hurt because he didn’t

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believe Cooter. Though wizened and shrinking, in his mind, he remained preternaturally and eternally youthful. A GO-GO ART BOY without the GO-GO ART. “It’s like old people just don’t care how they look anymore,” he said, mystified. Cooter resisted further argument. Why bother? Two tears in a bucket and all. He took in the dairy barn, the painted white steel walls, the big cow and wee bull, the cat on the table. Cooter jumped when he looked at the window and saw Poo-Poo looking in. “Good heavens, that chicken is big!” Poo-Poo cocked her yellow feathered head and drew her eye closer to the window. “Poo-Poo,” Ottus said, noticing the hen, who tapped a pecking hello on the pane.“Scary,” he uttered. “Ennus was like Dr. Frankenstein during that post-rehab. I think he was trying to recapture his days of being the Golden Boy of the 4-H. Now we have Poo-Poo and Moo-Moo. We can’t keep them in pens or pastures or coops. They break out of everything - well, Moo-Moo can’t bust out of her steel stall here, but she can’t be in a stall all the time.” The fantastic cow chewed her pretty yellow hay. “You should do a GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT at Shady Gardens. Old people lose everything, and still find life worthwhile - doing that with grace takes bravery.” “Good grief! What old people have you ever known?” Ottus asked. “My grandma, you dumb-ass. She lived with me and my folks before she died,” Cooter said. “I don’t know. You are a sentimentalist,” Ottus said. “What next? Representational landscapes in oils or pastels? Walter Keene paintings of, instead of big eyed children with one tear trailing down their cheek, old people with big eyes and one tear trickling down their withered cheeks?”

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Cooter waved to Mee-Mee, sitting on the shoulder of Moo-Moo. Cooter said, “Do you think Mr. Ames will see your new installation?” “Probably not. It’s not that I don’t care - wait, actually it is that I don’t care,“ Ottus said. “You’re jealous,” Cooter said, hoping to push Ottus’s buttons. “Probably. I used to think the world of him - now - it’s probably jealousy, sour grapes on my part, instead of my being offended by what seems to be his aesthetic - that of a wart.” “At least you’re not bitter,” Cooter said. “Are you ready?” Ottus blew a kiss to his kitty, no longer GO-GO ARTIST FAMILIAR. “Bye, Foofy. Leave Mee-Mee be,” he called. Cooter drove because of Ottus’s fear of driving over The Mississippi River. They took Cooter’s new black Saab, which he was more comfortable driving than the huge red Burchen truck. On the way over, Ottus spoke of his old mentor. “With every new project of his - I feel more and more dismay. I don’t want to, but I have to,” he said as Cooter drove them through the late afternoon countryside. “When you hone your sensibility to the degree I have, you see the manque behind the facade of ‘work’,” Ottus said watching the tall corn waving in the wind and beginning to tassel. “Bloated grinning monkey, so very pleased with himself,” he said. When they neared the big bridge, Ottus scrunched down in his seat. “I always give him the benefit of a doubt and then he comes up with The Fucking Midwest, and he hasn’t been to the Midwest in years.” Ottus closed his eyes as they crossed the Mississippi River into Saint Louis. They drove in silence for awhile, then, well into the city, Cooter said, “I don’t think you’re jealous of him at all. I think you’re in love with him!”

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“Thanks so much,” Ottus said, curling his lip. “That’s what it is. Love. Ecstatic love.” “All you have talked about -“ ”Oh look! My people,” Ottus cried, pointing to a group of dealers, prostitutes and junkies. He waved, and they did not notice him. “ARTISTS,” Ottus informed Cooter, who sped past them and ran a red light at the next corner in order to avoid being car jacked or propositioned by Ottus’s ARTISTS. Ottus waved to every crowd and was pleased when a couple of prostitutes said ‘hi there’ by flashing. “I missed out being born in a city,” he sighed. Cooter said, “I hope my car is safe at the theater.” It was safe because they parked in an enclosed lot. Ottus and Cooter walked to the red brick building, its lights twinkling amid the street lights of downtown Saint Louis. “What are you going to say when you see him?” Cooter asked . “Oh, I don’t know. I rather doubt that he even remembers a common Midwesterner like me. Maybe I’ll laugh in his face!” At the door, a life-sized cutout of Mr. Ames smiled in greeting, next to the title, The Fucking Midwest. Ottus shook his head. “Don’t get us kicked out of here,” Cooter said. Two dozen fans of conceptual art, mostly students, gathered in the lobby of the theater. They ate and drank from an imagined Midwestern menu of barbecue, corn dogs, cheese logs, and a salad consisting of marshmallows, mandarin orange slices, and Cool Whip. Everyone drank Mountain Dew from plastic cups. Mr. Ames installation was set up to be seen, even interacted with as the audience noshed. Red and white checkered tablecloths covered foldout tables on which were bags of pork rinds and Cheetos. A bank of television screens broadcast various stations in front of an array of recliners. The audience were invited to sit in the recliners and

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channel surf. Ottus and Cooter got paper plates and filled them. They sat at one of the tables and ate. Ottus said, “This is all so cliche. It’s off-base too.” He took a bite of corn dog and waved it around. “Do corn dogs not exist in New York or in Los Angles?” Mr. Ames saw Ottus waving his corn dog, and he went over to him. “Ottus Burchen! How great to see a familiar face,” he said slapping Ottus on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss one of your shows if I could help it, Mr. Ames,” Ottus gushed, unable to hide his pleasure at being recognized by THE ARTIST in front of the dozen or so patrons of conceptual art. Ames had used other conceptual artists to portray red necks, highschool football players, and obvious white trash stereotypes. Mr. Ames was part of the installation as well, dressing in a flannel shirt, boot cut jeans and cheap cowboy boots. “You still look the same, except for the way you’re dressed,” Mr. Ames said to Ottus, making him puff up even more. “You’re dressed - normally - is this to help out and be a part of The Fucking Midwest?” A note of uncertainty crossed Ottus’s smile. “Actually, it’s in keeping with my own, my last GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT,“ Ottus began. “You’ll have to show me! I saw the installation where you reenacted your ARTIST’S DEATH AND REBIRTH through the fire ritual,” Mr. Ames said, clutching his chest. “I admired the courage, the heroism of the act.” He grasped Ottus by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I understand,” he said. “That being said, I could never have done that. Set my archives on fire. Just amazing. So what do you think of The Fucking Midwest?” “Wicked,” Ottus said, smiling. “Subversive - a blueprint of our hell, of which you are well acquainted,” he added, seeing that Mr. Ames expected him to say more

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Mr. Ames smiled wider. He said, “Do you think it’s derivative?” “It blazes its own new horizon,” Ottus lied. What do you say when someone has just been nice to you? Cooter stuck out his hand and said, “Since Ottus won’t introduce me, I’m Cooter Jarvis.” He and Mr. Ames shook hands. “So pleased to meet you. Sharp, sharp suit,” Mr. Ames said, his eyes shining with genuine pleasure. “Thank you. I bought it with profits from following Ottus’s financial lead in his latest GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT,” Cooter said. “You? I don’t quite understand,” Mr. Ames said. Cooter said, “Ottus should tell you about THE CONSTRUCT. I just wanted to introduce myself because I’ve followed your career from the flan sculptures on.” Mr. Ames looked at Ottus and said, “Now I’m really curious about what you’re doing?” Ottus showed Mr. Ames his GO-GO ART portfolio site online on his phone. “This is an ever-expanding, at least in theory, principal. It’s a constant monitor of my investments. Think of it as a symbol of current string theory, or if you imagine what real money represents, this shows the epiphany of decadence, money entirely removed from humanity; well, humanity as consumerism. A perfect metaphor for the inversion of entropy.” Mr. Ames stared, fascinated at the numbers and titles. “This is powerful,” he said. “It throws what it is into the kind of relief with which we look at money, or the rich.” “Not to mention the relativity and meaninglessness of ‘rich’.” “This is both weird and, and strong because it’s dealing with money. People love, covet, despise money...” Mr. Ames grinned like a monkey musing.

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“Thanks. It’s going to compound and be reinvested in perpetuity. I will never touch it, nor will any beneficiary. It’s GO-GO ART,” Ottus prattled. Mr. Ames gazed at the everchanging page of numbers and deeds. “I invested too, but I use my dividends to buy stuff,” Cooter said. “Magic,” Mr. Ames said. He popped his eyes at Ottus and said, “You’ve made ART for a thousand years!” He handed the phone back to Ottus. “Still the nice guy,” Ottus gushed. “And your body of work is a treasure and a legacy, a testimony to your genius.” Ottus and Mr. Ames hugged. “It’s so great to see you, Ottus. I was afraid people might take this installation and personalize it.” “Small minds. You create to sting them from their complacency. I get it,” Ottus assured Mr. Ames, and they grinned at each other, pleased, so pleased with themselves.

Emily, the twins, and Jenny went to The Shady Gardens Nursing Home the next day. Otus and Jenny were happy to go. Otus drove them in the big red truck, his sweetheart curled at his side as they went along at twenty-five miles per hour. Ottus hated being volunteered for the imposition. The Shady Garden was off highway 148 near Peachtree Crossing. To take his mind off where he was, he looked at an online catalogue on his phone. “I need some of this YouthCode 479,” he informed everyone. “What is that?” Emily asked. “A skin revitalization system,” Ottus said. “I’ve seen commercials for that,” Otus said. “How much is it?” “It is two-hundred-thirty-dollars an ounce,” Ottus said. Emily gasped.

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“You could afford that,” Jenny said, as could they all have. “No one can afford that!” Emily snapped. “To throw away money like that is a terrible sin,” she declared. “I will never touch my principal,” Ottus said. “Not even for a product that would give me the skin of a fetal lamb - which happens to be the main ingredient.” “My Wal Mart Rosewater Creme keeps me looking young,” Emily claimed. When no one said anything, she sniffed. “People say I don’t look my age,” she added. A discreet silence prevailed for a respectful amount of time. “I would love to have YouthCode 479,” Otus sighed, glancing at his face in the rear view mirror. Jenny grasped the steering wheel and corrected him when the truck veered into the other lane. “Watch where you’re going instead of looking in the mirror, Elvis Presley,” Emily said. “Something in my eye,” Otus lied, turning off the highway onto Peachtree Crossing. Emily drew another comparison with One Life to Live. “I think you boys are as vein as Clint Buchanan. I cannot wait until David gets out of that Moroccan prison, and they discover all Clint’s many shenanigans!” “I know he’s evil, but vain?” Ottus said. “Oh he’s always posing and preening. You can tell he’s the type who can’t pass a mirror without looking at himself,” Emily stated. “Well he doesn’t do that on the show,” Otus said. “And he is a character, so who knows.” “Then the actor is like that. A good looking man like that. I can see what type he is.” “Here we are,” Jenny said as they pulled into The Shady Gardens parking lot. Unlike

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The Rose Glen Hospital, the nursing home parking lot was not fenced in. No need to in the country. Sweet-gum trees shaded the lot. Otus and Jenny exchanged goofy smiles. Jenny said, “I’m so glad you thought to let me go with you, Mrs. Burchen.” “When we help others, we help ourselves,” Emily said, nodding in a regal manner. Ottus groaned, earning a squinting frown from Emily. Shady Gardens was, indeed, shady. In addition to the trees, the long porch held dozens of empty rocking chairs. “It must be lunch time,” Emily said, standing with the others at the front door. She rung the bell, but no one answered. “I know they’re expecting us,” she said. “Oosie coosy,” Otus said, squeezing Jenny’s hand. She stood on her toes and said, “Whoopy zazurazz.” “Oh hell,” Ottus moaned, opening the door. “Watch your language,” Emily warned him. They went in. As soon as they entered the foyer, a buzzer sounded and a white haired woman in her fifties appeared. She looked at Emily and the others and said, “Hi, may I help you?” Emily stepped in front of Ottus and, smiling, said, “I called here the other day about me and my kids possibly visiting the old folks, and I think we’re expected.” The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Do you have someone here?” she asked. “No, we’re coming out here to keep the old ones company. We could read stories to them or talk to them. We’re here to help,” Emily explained. The nurse said, “That’s nice. Sure, come on in. You’re welcome to visit. I’m Hailey.” She led them through a short hallway lined with bookshelves. “It’s after lunch, so a lot of our residents are in their rooms napping right now, but there are a few people in the recreation lounge,” she said.

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“Should I read to them?” Emily asked. “If you have a book, I guess,” Hailey said. “I don’t,” Emily said. “Then I don’t think you can,” Hailey reasoned. When waiting for Hailey to offer suggestions became awkward, Emily said, “I could have a chat with them.” “Good idea,” Hailey said. Otus stepped forward and said, “I thought my girlfriend and I would get some of them cooking a little something. We have this one recipe that is both simple and ele -“ ”I am so sorry. We can’t allow either our residents or any visitors in our kitchens because of the law, so any cooking lessons would be impossible,” Hailey said. “Well, we could talk to them too,” Jenny said, rubbing between Otus’s shoulders. “You’ll find that they’re very talkative,” Hailey said. Otus was disappointed. Plus, what was he going to say to the very old people? To Jenny he murmured, “They don’t seem very outgoing.” None of the residents were talking to each other. All of them watched the local news but one, whose chair faced the window looking on the inner courtyard where there was a garden and a birdbath. The area weather-woman, Cheryl Smothers was on, describing a storm in Missouri that dropped basketball sized hail. None of the elderly people seemed surprised. Jenny touched the brim of his straw hat with her forehead and murmured, “Keemeechy malookee pallaboo.” Hailey gave them a funny look before turning her attention to Ottus. Everyone looked at him. Ottus said, “I hadn’t thought about it, but I’ll take a cue from Mom and I’ll read to them from my phone Bindle,” he said.

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“Very good,” Hailey said, nodding to them all. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, shuffling away. “How can you read from your phone?” Emily asked, frowning at the thought. “Mom - so quaint! I have a Bindle in my phone. Gosh, Mom, catch up. It’s a new world.” “This year it’s one thing, and next year it’ll be something else, but I’ll keep my world just the way it is,” Emily declared. “What are you going to read?” “Maybe an excerpt from what I’m reading now. It’s a classic.” “Sounds fascinating,” Jenny said. Otus rolled his eyes. “Oh it is,” Ottus assured her. “We’ll listen to your reading and mingle ourselves among the poor residents gently,” Emily suggested. Ottus shrugged summoning his bindle software on his phone. It would have been nice had Hailey introduced them to the residents, but she had disappeared to her duties. Emily had to take charge. She walked to the center of the room. “Hello,” she said, smiling. Most of the old people gave Emily their attention, looking away from the television screen. The man facing the courtyard continued gazing at the inner garden and birdbath. Emily said, “My name is Emily Burchen. This is my son Ottus, who is going to read a selection from some edifying book he’s reading. A classic. This other boy is Otus. He and Ottus are twins, and this young girl is Otus’s girlfriend, Jenny.” An old man wearing a C.A.T. cap nodded. In addition to his cap, he wore a maroon bathrobe. His name was Howard. Shirley, a woman in matching pink rinsed poofy hair and

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gown said, “Nice to meet you. The others stared at Emily, the twins, and Jenny in a blank manner. “We are here to make friends. We are just common folk like yourselves,” Emily whanged, spreading her arms in an open way. “Speak for yourself,” Shirley suggested. Emily smiled. “I am just speaking for myself and my family. We’re here to talk and, more importantly, to listen to you, so now, to get things going in a real and positive way, Ottus is going to take over and read from that very special book I mentioned. Come on up, Ottus. What book is it?” “It’s a forgotten classic from the French literature of the nineteenth century by the genius Compte de’ Lautremont, whose real name was Isadore Ducasse. The surrealists called him one of their own. The dadaists claimed him, but, as we all know, he remains an ellipsis, a cipher about which little is known aside from his two works, Posies and, what I’ll be reading from tonight- Les Chants de Maldoror, or, as it’s known in English, Songs of Evil!” The residents kept their excitement well hidden. “That doesn’t sound very - “ Emily started. Ottus began. “Oh, shark my love, our fuck-bed the eternal ocean - oh, shark, open for me the infernal abyss, the abscess of your womb that you may devour me as we fuck on the watery vapors of maggot lice graves inside the floor of eternal scum!” “Awp!” Otus gasped, clutching Jenny by the elbow as she pressed her hand against his thigh. “I think that will be enough of that,” Emily said. “We are common folk here, not the sophisticated French.” The residents faces expressed the eternal nothingness of the ocean.

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“Ottus, are you trying to be disgusting?” Otus huffed. He turned to Jenny and said, “Wee ootsy tootle dee dee.” “Dorfle doody,” Jenny said in a reassuring tone. Sal, her hair rinsed blue, said, “Baby talk! I love baby talk. Kee kee wee wee.” She stamped her lavender slippered feet on the linoleum in merriment. “I don’t like baby talk,” Howard said. Jenny and Otus looked at each other and silently agreed not to baby talk any more until after they left Shady Gardens. “This is what I get for trying to be helpful,” Ottus said, putting away his phone and throwing his hands in the air as he plopped into one of the overstuffed chairs between the thin woman with blue hair and the silent man, who looked familiar. Though he faced the courtyard, he did not seem to be looking at the flowers, a spectrum of lilies and petunias blooming as gladiola, hollyhocks and sunflowers flexed vegetatively in the sun, waiting for their time. The man did not appear to even be in the room mentally. Outside, a dozen birds splashed and played. Where had Ottus seen this man? “It’s cold in here,” Shirley complained. Howard said, “It’s always cold at dialysis. I wear two pairs of socks, two sweaters, my long johns - a hat and gloves. Still cold.” “At my doctor’s office, I think they’re trying to drum up more business by making people sicker than they are by keeping it frozen.” Beverly, a large old woman with iron grey helmet-hair, agreed. “It’s cold in here,” she whined. “Are you joking?” Ottus asked. “It’s got to be ninety in here. You people must be half

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dead.” His observation earned frowns from all. Shirley pointed at the television screen. Instead of commenting on the oversized hail, she said, “I think all those television news girls except that sweet little Diane Sawyer - that Cheryl Smothers who says the news on channel 3 for example and, and - all the rest of them are a disgrace, always tossing their hair. They all have the same hair style, always falling in their face and they’re pulling it out of their faces. And that one gal, she’s not a news girl but she has a cooking show - Rachael something - she pulls her hair than touches the food! I wouldn’t eat anything she cooks and the girls on the news are all trying to show themselves. I’m going to write a letter to the station. It’s going to say, ‘Dear WSIL, why do you let your girl newscasters present themselves like whores, keeping their blouses unbuttoned so they’re showing half their bosoms? And their hair in their eyes.’ It irritates me to no end.” Shirley continued in this vein for fifteen minutes, Cheryl, Rachael the cooking show queen and the wanton sloppy-haired news broadcasters being her launching point. She marveled on various disgraces of modern culture. She did not approve of single mothers, unmarrieds living together. “They think nothing of it,” she pointed out, going on and on. Emily would have said something, but there was no place to jump in. Shirley did not stop speaking long enough. Howard said, “I like it when Cheryl is on because that means I only have one more hour of dialysis. Of course, you can’t count on the bus to pick you up from the clinic on time. People who have been going through dialysis are tired and don’t need to have to wait. But you sure have to anyway!” Howard shook his head. And as Shirley had done, he went on, addressing no one in particular, without pause, for what seemed like twenty minutes, all about his dialysis and the other patients and the nurses. “Larry knows how to put the needles in the best, and when he does it I don’t bleed very

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much. When Sue does it though, she always messes me up. I think she’s scared,” he said. Howard looked at Otus and Jenny, speaking directly to them. His voice sounded so low that, even leaning toward the couple, it was hard to hear what he said. “Yes, the worst thing is waiting for the bus to pick you up. After four hours on dialysis, you don’t want to be at the clinic anymore. You want to be home. Home!” Howard’s eyes glistened with rheum and, maybe, tears. Otus and Jenny nodded. Howard said. “You want to go home and rest. You’re tired. Then you have to wait for the bus. Today, I didn’t get home until after lunch.” Jenny didn’t mind Howard repeating himself. Otus wanted to be sympathetic and patient, but he was genetically inclined to be neither. The best he could manage was a fixed and pained smile. Thank God his sweetie was there. He touched Jenny’s thigh with his pinkie, and she slipped her arm around his waist. “And Dee Dee is good, but she wants to talk to everyone, so that makes her slow. She’s slow as steam off manure,” Howard said, goggle eyed. Shirley sneered at Emily and said, “Some people brag about their kids. That one,” she said, nodding at Sal, “that one, she says to a sales clerk, ‘My boy is in his forties, trim and handsome. You think he’d look good in this shirt?’ What’s the sales lady going to say? ‘No?’ Fat chance. We worked together, both of us tellers - her forty-seven years, me for fifty-nine!” For all Shirley’s talk about Sal, with her repeatedly jerking her head in the woman’s direction, Sal didn’t notice she was being talked about. She was too busy talking to Ottus and unaware or indifferent about speaking to someone who wasn’t listening. She said, “Me and Shirley, over there by your mom, me and Shirley worked in the bank together. I consider her my best pal, but boy, were we up against it. Our bosses, who are still

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there - they are exactly like Clint and Bo Buchanan.” Sal was tiny and what there was of her hair was teased into a blue puff, that went with her aquamarine house dress. At the mention of Clint and Bo Buchanan, Ottus perked up. “Clint and Bo from One Life to Live?” he asked. “Yes! Me and Shirley’s bosses were exactly like those two. Mr. Fred Ross, the bank president, is like Clint Buchanan, and Danny Ferrine, vice president is like good old Bo Buchanan.” “I love One Life to Live,” Ottus gushed. Disregarding his comment, Sal continued. “Full of schemes, like a spider that’s going to get caught in his web - just like Clint!” she declared. Then, in a surprisingly strong voice, she yelled to Shirley, “Hey, wasn’t Fred Ross like Clint Buchanan and Danny Ferrine like Bo Buchanan?” Shirley rolled her eyes and said, “You got it half right, but Danny was like Clint, and Fred was like Todd Manning, the pretty Todd, not the old ruggedly handsome one who’s back now to have it out with the new Todd over who gets to be Todd. At our bank, there was no Bo Buchanan. There were no fair men! Not like Bo. Bo Buchanan always does what is right. Well, except when as police commissioner, he let his son Matthew get away with murdering Eddie Ford.” “And when he got back together with Nora while she was married to his brother Clint. You could argue that he didn’t do the right thing in that case.” “What he did, he did for love,” Otus put forth, but no one took notice of him except Jenny, who leaned against him. “Oh we love One Life to Live,” Emily interjected to no notice.

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To Emily, Shirley said, “Sal has a lot of room to think that. It’s amusing. They liked Sal, but me they treated like crap - crap on a cracker. Her they liked. They loved. She got all the breaks, and she ends up a vice president under Danny. But me - I was never a suck-up. Never a brown-nose. Couldn’t be.” “You’re just common folk like me, I’m proud to say,“ Emily said, hoping to ingratiate herself but unheard by Shirley. “Mrs. Sal Russel, Vice-President. Ever see that movie, The Devil Wears Prada?” Shirley said. “I loved that movie,” Emily said to deaf ears. “Amanda,” Shirley said, her head ticking toward Sal, her blue hair bobbing as she chatted away to Ottus in a sunny way. Sal explained things to Ottus. She said, “The president of the bank, Fred Ross, him, him and - see, he’s in the banking game just for the money and the glamor. Like our worthless mayor. He’s just in the game for the power!” “Are you talking about our mayor having power? Over what may I ask?” Ottus asked. “I am talking about our mayor,” Sal said, acknowledging Ottus’s presence. She waved to Shirley. Sal said, “Shirley, tell them about our mayor.” Without missing a beat, Shirley fixed her stony stare at the middle distance and said, “Our mayor does nothing. Have you seen some of the run down houses around Pilsen. They make our town like - like a damn ghetto.” Happy to have common ground, Emily jumped in, saying, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said just that. The man does nothing about the condition of these wrecks. Did you vote in the last election?” Shirley ignored her.

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Ottus thrilled at the turn that the conversation was taking, hearing the tin-plated leaders of dinky Pilsen (a ghetto?) made larger than they were. “Our town a ghetto? Listen, I’ve been to the ghetto recently, and I can tell you -“ Shirley ignored him. She said, “Our so-called mayor, Mayor Tingley, is a big playboy!” Ralph Tingley was, in fact, a retiree from the railroad, a grandfather, married and faithful to his wife of forty years, and he was in his sixties. Not a playboy. Sal said, “Now when I was a girl, we had a great mayor, Mayor Wilson - Whip-Em Wilson. He did not abide any nonsense, and the town was better for it even if he didn’t let the colored in town.” The Burchens’ and Jenny’s eyebrows raised. Ottus said, “That’s horrible. What kind of place - ” “Now Mayor Wilson didn’t mistreat them. They had their own places where they lived. I don’t know where. And they had their own places to get food and things I’m sure,” Shirley explained, so that no one would think anyone racist. “But if they couldn’t even come to town, that is not very nice,” Ottus pointed out. Sal’s expression, though retaining her cheerful benefice, grew philosophical, and she said, “Sometimes, I think it’s gotten so the colored people have more rights than the white people do!” “That’s insane,” Ottus asserted, his face reddening. Sal ignored him, saying, “I think back on the good old days when we were all so happy.” She proceeded to tell him about how happy she and her mom and dad and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends used to be before things like the colored people came to town. On and on she prattled. And Shirley blathered without pause to Emily, and Howard revealed his very own unending story. Ottus smirked. Ottus watched the silent

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man, still gazing in the direction, if not directly at the birds splashing in their bath. The surrounding garden. Gladiolas zinnias, mums and petunias colored the courtyard yellow red purple blue and green. Ottus knew this fellow somehow. He recognized him. He had been a physics professor at George Pilsen Junior College. Ottus racked his brain. “Dr. Morris?” he said. No response. Outside, a dozen birds frolicked in the birdbath. The other residents continued talking and talking. “Emily nodded and nodded, as did Jenny. Otus squirmed and forced himself to smile.

Ennus hadn’t consciously wanted to get high since less than a week after he’d arrived, when the drugs had left him and he’d started to dream. Now he was at the point that he figured he would never get out. The other residents didn’t want to hear about his plans, about his vision of digging into his ancestral farmland and his intention of presenting Moo-Moo in he state fair. They said - well - they said all sorts of ridiculous stuff, but one of many the reasons they kept him was that they said his plans weren’t practical. Practical. “So why do you get high?” the minor league baseball team meth addict asked Ennus. He was the millionth person to ask him that since he’d been there. He’d told them every reason he could think of, reasons that had been good enough in earlier rehabs. But these people were breaking him for the sake of breaking him. Ennus looked at the athlete gone to seed, Tony Parks. “Get in touch with your feelings,” he advised Ennus. Everyone in the group looked at him: the head of the group - the counselor - a one time cocaine addict; the trustafarian heroin girl; the twin alcoholics; the housewife crack smoker; the unemployed meth addicts 1 & 2; the barbiturate dependent bank manager woman. Ennus said, “You all know why we get high.”

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“You need to own why, your reason,” the trustafarian said. She was white, in her twenties and had white dreads. “I don’t know what you people expect me to say. What do you want to hear? It’s like a doctoral thesis where I have to come up with an original idea. If I could do that, I would have gone to college,” Ennus said. The head of the group, now large from having replaced cocaine with food, said, “I hear that at one time you had great potential. That in high school, you were the golden boy of The 4H Club.” “Now we’re getting somewhere,” unemployed meth addict 2 said.

CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME Cheyenne tried to enlist both of her nephews in her volunteer-ism project with the poor of Pilsen, but only Otus was any help. She wanted Ottus to put together a leaflet advertising her evening of chicken and dumplings followed by a heartening talk. He did, but Cheyenne did not care for the images of dead chickens and maniacs with Cheyenne’s own head on a chicken, flying over the bedlam inmates and saying, “Eat of my body!” as she excreted what seemed to be a photo of fecal matter but which was labeled dumplings. But Otus she corralled into helping her cook the chicken and dumplings for the event, and she asked Reverend Bill to send over any nice poor people he might know. Otus hated agreeing, but he did. Jenny volunteered, but Cheyenne demurred, innately turning down the help of a

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woman. Cheyenne preferred being around men, when she had to be around anyone at all. Aching reluctance filled Otus’s soul as he drove to his aunt’s house, morose as Hamlet. Once there, he dragged himself to her door, hoping he’d find her too ill to have him help her perform the dreary task of making a big batch of chicken and dumplings. He could take her to the emergency room. Drop her off. He knocked. “Come in,” Cheyenne called. Ennus came into Cheyenne’s immaculate, plastic covered house. He hadn’t been back since he and Emily had stayed there in the late spring. Otus walked through the long sun filled front room, living room, parlor, and dining room on the vinyl pathway to the kitchen. Cheyenne was busy preparing the flour and boiling the chicken. Wearing a white apron over a yellow dress, she looked like a very white Aunt Bee. “You like volunteering don’t you,” she said. “No I do not,” Otus informed her, but it didn’t matter what he said because Cheyenne wasn’t listening. Just looking at the boiling chicken stock filled Otus with weariness. “How many homeless people are we expecting?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think they’re all homeless, just poor. Maybe they are homeless. I don’t know. They must be nice people though. That’s what I asked Reverend Bill for. I don’t know how many will show. Who knows?” Cheyenne hooted, sounding like Aunt Bee. “However many come, we’ll feed them. We will nourish them by filling their stomachs and their hearts.” Otus heaved a woebegone sigh. He said, “So we don’t know how many we’re cooking for. That makes everything so much easier.” Life darkened by the second. “Do not worry. Did Jesus worry about having enough fish at The Sermon on the Mount?” Cheyenne asked in a too bright tone. A glass, nearly empty but for telltale dandelion brandy dregs told the story. The weight of the next several hours bore down unbearably on Otus,

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making his forced smile flatten into a grim line. “These folks need an inspiring word. How are they supposed to lift themselves up by the bootstraps if we don’t tell them what to do and show them by our example,” blathered Cheyenne, who had never held a job or suffered any sort of deprivation. Otus shrugged as he rolled up his sleeves and approached the flour. Cheyenne poured herself another drink. Otus spread the flour so he could mix it in the middle to start his dough, an enormous amount of four. How many dumplings? “What these people need is a little helping hand instead of a kick in the pants - like my sister would give them no doubt. She’d probably bulldoze all their poor houses, knowing her,” Cheyenne yammered as Otus kneaded. “I see it as my Christian duty to get these people back on track! Why shouldn’t they be able to work and share in the American dream?” She asked, and Otus shrugged, rolling his eyes. Cheyenne said, “I want the poor people to leave my house today with nothing less then their lives changed! What do you think of that?” He thought it an idea bourne from the fevered booze-inflamed brain of an intrusive neurotic old biddy, but instead of stirring the crap, he said, “That’s something all right,” as he checked one of the big pots of boiling chicken. He pulled it off the stove. Time to shred. “Otus, I can see right now that I have to teach you how not to be a slob. That’s your mom’s influence,” Cheyenne hectored, getting off the subject of what she intended to do for the poor people who would come by for dumplings very soon. “Yes, Emily never was much of a housekeeper. The biggest slob you ever did see. And you’re just like her.” “Actually, Dad was the famous slob,” Otus said, shearing boiled poultry off the bones, careful not to get any of the meat off the platter holding the birds. “Well then you come by it honestly. Me, I like an orderly living area.” Otus nodded.

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Cheyenne’s expansive spirits lasted until the first of her guests arrived. Our hostess was jaunty enough when the knock came, having just downed another slub of the liquid fire. She put her hand to her ear and said, “Hey, there’s a lost soul reaching out. Let me answer the call.” As she flounced out the room, Otus sucked the inside of his cheeks, irritated. He busied himself rolling out the dough, glad his aunt had left, but in less than a minute, she was back, her hand clasped to her chest, her good will gone. She said, “It’s a poor woman!” “Who did you expect? The Queen of England?” Otus snapped as he worked the rolling pin. “As soon as this lady got inside, she asked if she could use the bathroom.” Cheyenne’s eyes darted around the kitchen in panic. “What if she steals my pills?” Otus looked up from his rolling pin. “What are you on for heaven’s sake?” he asked. “Blood pressure medication,” Cheyenne said. Otus shook his head and started cutting dumplings. “I don’t think anyone will steal that. So when whatever lady who just came in gets out of the bathroom, just go in and get whatever you think might be a temptation for a person prone to thieving.” “What was I thinking? I had this woman take her shoes off at the door. Otus, her shoes looked so poor. And I just know her feet are dirty. She’s walking in my house in her bare feet!” “Tell her to put her shoes back on then. You’re not going to want all these people walking around your house barefoot.” That was certainly true as Cheyenne’s bulging eyes witnessed. She rushed out of the kitchen, and Otus closed his eyes, relieved to be alone. As he dropped cut raw dumplings in the boiling stock, he heard someone knock at the door again.

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Cheyenne reappeared. “I cannot do this,” she gasped. Otus paused and fixed his aunt with an appraising dagger look. He called Jenny. She picked up on the first ring. Otus said, “Sweetie-poops, I need ooo,” he semi-baby-talked. “I’m at my aunts, like I was telling you. Don’t be long. Drive. Don’t take the golfcart. There isn’t time! Byeeee.” He hung up. Poured his aunt another glass of dandelion brandy and handed her a towel for when she started drooling. “You can do this. Help is on the way,” he said. In less than five minutes, Jenny parked her jeep in Cheyenne’s front yard and ran up the steps, letting herself in. She began hostessing as soon as she entered the front room, serving bowls of dumplings that were just now ready, introducing herself to the guests, and making sure people stayed on the vinyl pathways and the plastic covered furniture. There were seven poor folks there for dumplings and the inspirational talk from Cheyenne. Cheyenne was bunkered in the kitchen. No matter, Jenny did the meet and greet duties. “I love your boots,” Jenny said to the poor woman who had frightened Cheyenne. The woman said, “I got them at the Salvation Army. Some lady made me take them off then put them back on. My feet do not stink!” “That would be Cheyenne. Sorry. She’s a little tightly wound up maybe, but she’s very good. And very wise. You’re eating her dumplings. She’ll be giving the talk.” “She didn’t seem wise. More like scared of me. I’m not a threat!” the poor woman said. In the kitchen, Otus stirred the simmering dumplings as Cheyenne shored up her courage, sitting in her chair contemplating one more drink. She held a dishrag to her dribbling mouth. Otus wiped sweat out of his eyes. “Everybody has been served. We have way too many dumplings,” he said, lifting his toupee to mop his sweaty pate.

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Cheyenne downed her last drink. Holding her rag to the side of her mouth, she said, “I’m ready to help these poor poor people.” Otus held Cheyenne’s elbow, steadying her as they toddled out of the kitchen to the sight of poor people slurping down bowls of dumplings and Jenny, standing next to the boot woman. Jenny nudged the poor boot woman and said, “There’s my boyfriend. Isn’t he a hottie!” The poor boot woman looked at Jenny as if she were joking. She said, “I like his wig. He get it from the Salvation Army?” Jenny would have vehemently protested, but her boyfriend spoke. Otus said, “Ladies and gentlemen - your hostess, Cheyenne Hall - the woman responsible - with myself - for the dumplings you’re eating this very moment. We hope you like them. And now Miss Hall, my aunt - someone whom I consider to be a true lover of mankind - here to...uh...fill your hearts with some edifying words.” The seven poor people slowed their eating to look at their benefactor with varying mixtures of indifference, contempt, and shame. No one clapped nor did Cheyenne begin her edifying speech. She gazed at the seven and swayed where she stood, more or less held up by Otus. When it was evident she was not going to say anything yet, he said, “Dear - shy Aunt Cheyenne will now say something that I’m sure will inspire you all. So uplifting just knowing this woman! Without further rambling on my part, Aunt Cheyenne?” One eye open more than the other, Cheyenne did not take her cue. She swayed, looking out at the assemblage of poor people in her front room and dining room, squinted one lid at them - all bad nutrition, bad choices, deprivation - all of them. Poor people! The sight of the sad poor people alarmed Cheyenne in a way she could not say. Otus nudged her and said, “Say something, Aunt Cheyenne.” She waved a hand in a dismissive manner as if he were a fly, and he gave her a sharp

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shake. “What?” She said, daubing at the side of her mouth with her rag. Otus nodded at her audience. She began, saying, “Uh...thank you all for the chance for me to, in my own humble way, to help you get your miserable lives out of the gutter, out of the pathetic messes you’ve gotten yourselves in - with this delicious dumpling feast I have prepared as well as...not only with...” Cheyenne lost her train of thought. “Inspirational words,” Otus prompted. Cheyenne sighed. She said, “Reach for the...no, hitch your wagon to a star and reach for the - wait a minute. What I want to tell you is that when you help someone else, you really help yourself in a bigger way. You help yourself by helping others. Why is that so hard to get? An open heart loving everybody.” The seven poor people went back to eating as Cheyenne, warmed up now, yammered, “If anybody has the love in their hearts to help someone, or to forgive someone, I promise you, what you give comes back as love. And love is stronger than anything just like Jesus said. We must love everyone, including our enemies, and only then will we be complete as human beings who have, through love, lifted ourselves to our highest level.” Cheyenne did not hear the knock at the door. On the ball Jenny discreetly went to answer it. She was surprised by who she saw. “Dumplings?” she asked, smiling in panic. Cheyenne closed her eyes, thought of holy matters, and spread her arms like Christ on the cross as she said, “For what would Jesus or Mohammed or Buddha or Hindu-man or Einstein have us do? But to spread love. To love our fellow man unconditionally.” Cheyenne genuflected, opening her eyes to see Charlie Craine sitting there eating a bowl of dumplings. She took a sharp breath, and for seconds swayed like a frozen drunk. Cheyenne’s face

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hardened. She said, “Sometimes, however, you have to draw the line. You know? People will...” Cheyenne looked at her vinyl covered floor and shook her head, nearly pitching forward but for Otus’s steadying hand. “People will take advantage won’t they?” Cheyenne bit her lip and frowned. Charlie Craine did not pick up on the hostile hatred in the room. The other seven poor people, however, noted the lively change in Cheyenne’s message and tone. “Guard yourselves against unscrupulous so called friends who will rip you off and go back on their word. But then, what does a person’s promise mean in this day and age? Nothing evidently that’s what. “If anyone has the right to be bitter it’s me,” Cheyenne, who had inherited everything she owned and that was a lot, said to her seven impoverished guests. “Well, at least you’re not bitter,” Otus tried. Cheyenne said, “If you want to know what it’s like to suffer, read the Book of Job. Betrayal, bad luck, bad health! Did he let it get him down? No he did not. Job knew what I know. Know what that is? KARMA IS A BITCH!” Otus, still holding her at the elbow, tried to lead her back to the kitchen. Cheyenne shook her fist at the sky and snarled, “What goes around comes around, baby!” Otus pulled her toward the kitchen. He said, “Thank you for your kindly words of encouragement. I know I’ve got something to think about for the rest of my life.” Otus wrestled her into the other room, leaving the poor people to resume eating their chicken and dumplings. From the kitchen came Otus’s muffled voice, followed by Cheyenne, screaming “That G-D S.O.B. can go to fucking hell!” The poor boot woman turned to Jenny, putting her empty bowl down. She said, “What was wrong with that lady’s drooly lip?”

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SOMEWHERE LOST No one at the Burchen residence heard from Cheyenne in the week after her charity event until she called her sister, in desperate need of help. Emily listened for a minute, her eyes widening, then hung up the phone and turned off the television. “Otus, come here,” she called from the front room. Otus and Jenny checked the time they had left on their corn souffle. They went to Emily. “Yes, Mom?” Otus said. “I need to go to Cheyenne’s house,” Emily said, meaning that Otus needed to drive her there. Otus and Jenny exchanged glances. “Da oosy pakoody wooky woo?” Otus said, scratching at the hem of his wig. “Faddooby dooby pooter,” Jenny replied. Unable to communicate, Otus resorted to standard English. “Can we hurry this souffle up a little without ruining it?” “It don’t think that we will hurt it,” Jenny said, putting her hands around his neck. They hurried to the kitchen and took the souffle out a little prematurely, ruining it, but Emily was not to be denied. On the way to Cheyenne’s, Otus said, “Why didn’t you just take the golf cart?” “I need to rescue Cheyenne and we might need to make a quick getaway.” “What do you mean?” Otus asked. Jenny, pressed against him as he drove, squeezed his knee, making him accelerate. “Slow down!” Emily commanded. “Cheyenne said there is someone trying to break in

her house. She hears the person right outside in the front. One of those poor people she had over at her house last week no doubt!” Otus and Jenny bugged eyes at each other. Otus fixed the tilt of his straw farmer’s hat, throwing his wig off. “What do you intend to do?” “I’m going to threaten him,” Emily said, meaning Otus was expected to threaten whomever was scaring his aunt. Otus grinded his teeth. Sibling violence notwithstanding, he did not practice nonviolence on philosophical grounds but rather because he was a big coward. He feared being hurt and humiliated in a tussle, although he admired stories about people not afraid to fight. But he could no more brawl than he could fly or fix a hydraulic lift - or fix anything. He sighed and Jenny patted his leg. She said, “Ootsy pootsy deedle doo.” Otus whimpered. What did they expect as they drove? Otus envisioned various big, mean, crazy men punching him. Jenny imagined an old, toothless coot refusing to get off the property. Emily pictured herself addressing a group of thuggish young men, perhaps some of those FFA boys from the high school, her telling them off, one of them saying something ‘cute’ and Otus slapping him in the mouth. She would tell them they ought to be ashamed and they would hang their heads in shame. As soon as they pulled into Cheyenne’s driveway, they spotted the man. “I don’t believe it! What is he doing?” Emily said, a broad smile spreading from her mouth to her eyes. Charlie Craine knelt in Cheyenne’s flower bed pulling weeds. Otus slipped his hand on Jenny’s thigh and she fluttered a little inside. “This is fantastic,” Emily said, catching her breath.

“It appears that he’s doing yard-work,” Otus said, relieved that it was Charlie Craine and not some drunk or high brute itching for trouble. Cheyenne cracked one of her closed blinds and peeked, but from where she was she could not see who was in her flower bed. Charlie Craine was barely five feet tall and in his mid-seventies like Emily and Cheyenne. He wore bib-overalls too, but his weren’t as new or clean as Otus’s and Jenny’s, nor were they ironed as were Otus’s. When Charlie saw them pull up, he stopped weeding and pushed himself off the ground. From behind the window, Cheyenne let go of the blind, and it snapped shut. Otus parked. Emily said, “Go see! Go see! Hurry!” No longer afraid of getting in a fight, Otus sniffed and said, “Certainly.” He got out. “Be careful, coochine,” Jenny cried. “Deet bee boo, sweetsie peedle,” Otus called back, shutting the door. “He’s so brave,” Jenny sighed as Otus approached Charlie. “Hi there,” Otus said in a friendly way. Little old poor Charlie Craine waved, and in a raspy voice said, “Hello, Otus. I just thought that I’d clean up Cheyenne’s flower bed.” Next to him was a pile of pulled weeds. The flower bed looked beautiful, the hollyhocks, geraniums, mums and marigolds no longer obscured by the tall weeds that Cheyenne neglected. “It looks lovely,” Otus said. He clasped his hands behind his back and pivoted the ball of his foot as if stubbing out a cigarette. “Cheyenne was so kind to have us in her house. Made us dumplings and talked to us,” Charlie said. Had the man heard nothing of the invective Cheyenne had hurled at him? Charlie had not listened to a word of her unfortunate rant.

“I know. I was there,” Otus reminded him. Charlie nodded and said, “Yes you were, and I thank you too because I can’t tell you how much it meant to me. I think Cheyenne is an angel.” Otus sucked in his cheeks like a model. Blue-steel! “Do you think I’m an angel too?” Charlie looked off to the side of the house as if studying something. He said, “Sure. Of course. It’s just, I kind of like Cheyenne, but don’t say anything.” Pleased to be confidant to a middle school crush between the down-on-his-luck Charlie Craine and his aunt, who hated the man, Otus’s mouth formed an excited ‘O’ shape. “I won’t say a word,” Otus lied, admiring his aunt’s flowers. “You know she’s mad at you because of some insurance claim,” he said. Charlie Craine scratched his head. “Her water heater. I remember she seemed a little riled when I couldn’t get her a settlement, but I swear it wasn’t me. It was the company. She can look it up,” Charlie said. He looked so sad when he said, “I’m back on my feet. I’m living at the Hart Hotel in town and working on the Simpson farm. Cheyenne - and you - made us feel human again. If I could just explain and - and show her.” “I doubt that will happen. When she saw you there, I thought she would burst a vessel,” Otus said. Charlie wiped a tear from his eye. “That one time I was there in Cheyenne’s house eating dumplings - dumplings like my mom used to make - and listening to her angel voice, for me, marked a change in my life. Sometimes it takes one thing to change things,” Charlie explained in a cryptic and repetitious manner. Otus looked at the window from which Cheyenne peeked again. He resisted telling

Charlie that he had done most of the dumpling cooking. “I say bless your heart, Charlie. Carry on.” He turned to Emily and Jenny and waved for them to get out of the car. Cheyenne needed no rescuing. On their way inside Cheyenne’s house, Emily stopped to greet Charlie. “So good to see you, Charlie. And what a surprise. Why don’t you come right on in -“ ”I know Cheyenne is mad at me, but maybe if you could talk to her. I told Otus here that the reason she’s all mad - it’s a big misunderstanding that wasn’t my fault, and I can prove it! But I don’t want to upset her. Just tell her,” Charlie looked at Otus, “tell her what I said about her dumplings and about how if she gives me a chance, just a chance, I can explain.” Emily nodded. “I promise, you will have an audience with my sister, Charlie,” she said magnanimously. “Hi Mr. Craine. You’re doing a beautiful job,” Jenny said. “Hello, Jenny.” He nodded to them all and went back to work. Emily knocked. It took Cheyenne a long time to answer. When she let them in, Cheyenne cracked open the door as if she were afraid a hurricane would blow into her house, opening it only enough for Emily, Otus, and Jenny to get in. “You’ll never guess who’s out there pulling weeds,” Emily said. “Guess,” she commanded Cheyenne. “I don’t know. One of those poor people I imagine.” “True, but who?” “How should I know?” Cheyenne looked at Otus, who wanted to tell, but a quick look from Emily closed his mouth. Emily opened the blinds and raised them. Light flooded the room. Emily said, “That

poor man. He’s just doing it to show his appreciation for you treating him, as he said, ‘like a human being.’” Emily and Otus and Jenny exchanged secret smiles. Cheyenne stayed away from the window. “He’ll ask for a glass of water, or he might want to use the bathroom,” Cheyenne shuddered. “Who is it?” “He’s got a job now,” Jenny said. “All he’s trying to do is say,’thank you,’ Aunt Cheyenne. Won’t you be a little gracious?” “Whoever it is scares me.” Emily threw her shoulders back in triumph and looked down her nose at Cheyenne. “See? See?” Cheyenne frowned. “See what?” she said, her fearful tone taking on an undercurrent of aggravation. “You are afraid.” Cheyenne edged to the wall and lowered the blinds. She shut them and the long catacomb of the front room took on gauzy shadows. “Well, you don’t know what having those people in my house was like for me. That was a big mistake. I had to have the house professionally fumigated.” “Did you use Mcree’s Cleaning Service? They fumigated after Ottus let Foovier use the toilet all over the house.” “Of course I used Mcree’s Service. Who else does that around here?” Cheyenne snapped, cracking the blinds. She still couldn’t see Charlie from the window. “That was a dark time. Our government’s agency that played that hoax - they have much to account for, which they never will. Not when it’s common people they’re harassing,” Emily

whanged. She sidled to the blinds and, while Cheyenne vainly tried to see who it was, Emily raised them again. Cheyenne jumped out of the window frame and pressed her back against the egg colored wall, careful to keep her feet on the vinyl walkway. “Aunt Cheyenne, remember why you helped in the first place,” Otus said. Jenny twirled a lock of his toupee on her finger. He looked at Jenny and held very still as she toyed with a wig curl. “I’m just saying that this poor man - it’s not as if he’s outside throwing rocks or exposing himself. We should act in good faith and welcome our fallen brothers and sisters when they make an effort to turn their lives around,” Otus declared. Jenny kissed him, causing his wig to tilt. “Oooo sooo smartsy wartsy, pussy-poo,” she said, drawing looks of embarrassment from Emily and Cheyenne. “You two really must STOP BABY TALKING!” Cheyenne yelled. “I can imagine what it’s like when you’re by yourselves. ‘Teety toody weedy woosy pitty peter dinky tallywacker... Good heavens. Do you put diapers on each other too? Besides, isn’t it time to admit to the world and to yourself?” “Sorry about baby talking. Gosh, we’re just expressing our love. And we have no trouble understanding each other,” Otus said, not catching his aunt’s opinion of his sexual orientation. Otus said, “I only just told her, ‘I love you, sweetheart’ and she told me the same thing, but sorry. We’ll have to find some other way to show our love.” “Not really - no, you don’t need to do that at all,” Emily said. She tilted her head and said, “Aren’t you curious who’s out there? You can’t guess can you. It’s Charlie Craine!” Cheyenne behaved as if someone punched her in the stomach, hunching over. “I’m calling the police,” she muttered when she was able to speak.

Otus said, “Wait, Aunt Cheyenne. He explained that it was his insurance company that rejected your claim about the water cooler. He said to tell you that he could explain it all if you’d just give him a chance.” “Not a water cooler! A hot water heater! I’m not giving that crook a chance. I’m calling the police.” Emily snapped, “And tell them what? There’s a man weeding your flower bed? For once, be charitable. Be a good Christian and let go of this - this anger toward poor Charlie Craine. At least hear him out. At least let him weed the flower bed, even if you insist on blaming him.” “Never!”

No one was overjoyed that Ennus was done with rehab. While there, he was not only safe from the allure of drugs but out of their hair too. Emily, Otus, and Ottus had been dealing with Ennus’s addictions, rehabs, recoveries, emotional problems, and relapses for decades. Although they all wanted the best for Ennus, things were easier when he was in rehab - locked up - neither high nor bothering them with his recovery enthusiasms or relapses. After previous rehabs, besides animal husbandry, Ennus had obsessively pursued cigarette smoking, astrology, and civil war re-enactments among other things. Whatever his thing, he always managed to aggravate his family to the point that they were subliminally relieved when he went back to medicating himself because, for a time, he behaved more normally than he did - well - normally. Ennus in recovery was a mixture of needy and bore-ish. So when he came home, they knew to be on guard. Yes, they were all nice to him, some more than others, while at the same time keeping their distance.

As much as they dreaded it, the day came when Ennus emerged from rehab. The crops were ripening in the fields, and the state fair was approaching. Ottus, Otus, Jenny, Emily, and Barry Daye drove to Rose Glen to pick him up. Of course, Emily loved her son in a mothery way, so she was less jaded where Ennus was concerned and more willing to put herself out. “When we pick him up, I want you all to seem happy,” she said, fixing her eye on everyone in the red truck. “Oh I’m sooo happy,” Ottus said, rolling his eyes. “Glory beeee!” he cried. Emily swung around in her seat and slapped his forearm. “Ouch,” he said. Otus sighed. Jenny would have touched the nape of his neck, but on this trip, Emily rode between them. Jenny said, “I’m glad to see him, and I’m proud that he’s back in recovery.” “Yes, yes, it’s nice that Ennus isn’t springing up biohazard drug labs anymore, but what I’m really happy about is my small role in Ottus’s portfolio,” Barry Daye said, beaming at Ottus. “I never would have done it without the stocks,” Ottus said, gazing out the rear cab window. Emily turned in the front seat, and Ottus jumped anticipating another smack. Emily said, “You’re just lucky - very lucky you didn’t lose those cd’s and your annuity and, oh my God, everything you borrowed against.” She glared at him so he pushed himself against the wall panel and crossed his legs. Barry Daye didn’t notice Emily but continued, all the time looking at Ottus in a loving way. He said, “That was the most daring - a Ouija board!” Barry shook his head. Emily shook her head too. She said, “Investing by what a Ouija board said - that is the stupidest thing ever. If I had known, I’d have killed you before letting you do that. How did you not lose that money?”

“I very well might have, and the worst thing would have been facing you, but making money or losing money was beside the point because it is a GO-GO ART CONSTRUCT, a paradigm of our existence in layers of meaning, both real meaning and symbolic,” Ottus said. Emily took another swing at him, but he dodged her. She snarled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about but you better thank God that you didn’t lose your inheritance or - or you would have been at the mercy of your brothers.” Emily turned back around in her seat. “I know you have not come to me wanting anymore stocks, but are you still consulting the Ouija board ever?” Barry asked. Ottus shifted his gaze from the passing roadside to the back of Emily’s head. He said, “No, I’m done with the Ouija board. I left it in Ennus’s bedroom. Hopefully he’ll obsess on that for awhile.” Although she didn’t turn around again, Emily disapproved. She said, “That’s a bad idea. You know how he gets. Hopefully he won’t do something as asinine as ask the Ouija board investment advice and claim it’s an art project, but you know how ‘brain challenged’ drug addicts are.” Even Barry picked up on Emily’s dig. He defended Ottus, saying, “Ottus’s instincts proved really really - really profitable and now his principal is past going through the roof.“ ”I know. I know,” Emily said. She stared razor blades at Ottus. “You just make sure you’re nice to Ennus when we get there.” She looked at Otus and poked him in the ribs. “You too.” Otus sighed and Ottus sulked. Barry Daye beamed at Ottus. They arrived at Rose Glen. The street people paid no attention to them. “Pay no attention to them,” Emily said to Ottus, who eyed the women in their short skirts. “I can’t help being a GO-GO ARTIST. I’m trying not to be anymore, but it’s in my

blood,” Ottus said, making everyone except Jenny and Barry roll their eyes. “Just remember, be nice to your brother when you see him. Hug him,” Emily demanded. Ennus’s departure from Rose Glen occasioned no fond farewells, no fanfare. The patients and staff thanked their higher power he was leaving. For his part, Ennus was hap-hap-happy to leave. He had been living in sober slow-time since the nurses had thrown away his drugs. He wanted to go home, be in his own room. He wanted to take a long hot shower in the dark. Not be called Queen Baby - Nash was crazy. Most of all, Ennus prepared to carry out his plans. He sat in the waiting room of Rose Glen, the same room where he’d checked in; he sat there and considered his vision, grooming Moo-Moo, entering the state fair, digging with the John Deere and - finding something. Jane and Nash were on duty, Nash snickering about Queen Baby due to relapse. Jane looking at him. What did they know. Ennus closed his eyes and thought of beautiful Moo-Moo’s big face. He was entranced in his reverie when his family came in. “Son!” Emily cried, running up to Ennus and hugging him. “Mom!” Ennus said. Otus gave Ennus a closed smile and a pat on the shoulder. Jenny hugged him. “You guys,” Ennus said. “Nice to have you back,” Otus said with as much enthusiasm as he could, which probably registered in the negative integers of enthusiasm. No matter to Ennus. He held no grudges. Forgive them for they know not what they do. Jenny stepped away from Ennus and encircled Otus’s waist with her arm. She said, “We’re all so proud of you.” Otus shut one eye, rolled the other, arched his eyebrows and nodded. Ottus faked a punch, making Ennus flinch. He said, “Ottus!” Ottus gave his brother a

hug. Ennus said, “What’s with the normal clothes?” “Thanks for noticing. It’s a long story.” Ottus went on to tell the long story of his GOGO ART CONSTRUCT. Ennus pretended interest, so eager was he to regain the good graces of his family. Everyone but Barry was dying after one minute of Ottus’s GO-GO ART blathering. When Ottus paused, not because he was through talking about himself but because he needed to take a breath, Barry interrupted. He said, “Your brother is a genius.” Ennus responded by knitting his brow in perplexity as he picked up his suitcase. “This is fascinating stuff,” Ennus lied edging toward the door. “Bye-bye, Queen Baby,” Nash called. Jane said nothing. A few of the residents smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the lounge glanced at Ennus but said nothing. Ennus did not even look at them. “Shall we?” he said a little too brightly. They left. “Best of luck,” Nash called. Emily looked back and said, “Thank you for helping my son.” “You’re welcome,” Jane said. “Hope we don’t see him again,” Nash joked, and they all laughed in a way that wasn’t real laughter but signified something else. In the big red truck, Ennus sat in the rear cab between Ottus and Barry. Once they were out of the parking lot, he said, “It sure is good to be going home. Miss me?” “Most awfully,” Emily said, turning in her seat and pinching Ennus’s cheek. “Awful being the operative word,” Ottus added, earning a swat on the leg. Otus sighed, and Jenny said, “We’ve all been praying for you.” She turned around and

smiled as Emily did. Barry chucked Ennus on the shoulder. He said, “Personally, I was glad to see you in rehab. It gave your family a break. You really should see what Ottus accomplished in the months you were gone,” Barry said. Ennus looked at Ottus and said, “Didn’t we go over that?” Ottus said, “Oh, it’s just GO-GO ART with a financial model as THE CONSTRUCT. The perpetuity of dividends stands in place of the eternal, as well as symbolizing decay. I mean what is more decadent than immense wealth and what it represents, what it can buy - money to be never used except as a kind of virus or or or - can’t you see that’s the most decadent real thing as well as -“ ”Such a genius,” Barry assured Ennus. Ennus scratched his neck. “So you’ve got lots more money than before?” “Not in cash lying around that someone could steal,” Ottus clarified. “That’s unnecessary,” Emily snapped, turning long enough to slap Ottus’s hand. “Ow,” Ottus cried. “Sorry. I know that now you’re in recovery and you’d never dream of thieving, but what I meant was all the money is tied in a way that it will continue to compound forever, the interest being reinvested.” Ennus thought. “What good is it?” Ottus said, exasperated, “Didn’t I explain it? It’s a metaphor.” “A metaphor, a symbol,” Barry echoed. He shook his finger at Ennus and added, “Not to be touched - in perpetuity forever and ever.” Ennus said, “Well well. Hey, sorry for burning down your studio.” For moments the angel of silence reigned over them until Emily said, “Honey, the loss of

the building and Ottus’s art was awful.” “Awful,” Ottus said. “Yes, that was awful, but of course, the important thing is that your disease could have killed you and you could have died in that very fire,” Emily said. “True,” Otus interjected, shuddering at the mention of death. “You destroyed - oh, never mind,” Ottus said, irritated at the thought of his GO-GO ART having burned. He comforted himself with the thought that his new GO-GO ART had made him economically lower-upper-class or possibly upper-upper-middle-class, almost having amassed as much wealth as his mother. “So I was wondering about my animals,” Ennus said, tired of GO-GO ART and Ennus’s pretensions. “What?” Emily asked. “Moo-Moo and the others. Have they missed me? Has Moo-Moo been sad since I’ve been gone?” Ennus asked. Otus said, “They’re fine. Moo-Moo has to share a space with Ottus but she’s fine. We can’t keep her out of the yard or Mee-Mee out of the hen house, but really, they are all fine.” “I’ve been thinking about Moo-Moo a lot,” Ennus said, making everyone except Jenny and Barry exchange meaningful glances. “Tell me, does Moo-Moo miss me?” “Oh sure,” Otus said. “As much as an animal can have human emotions like missing someone, dear,” Emily said. She turned in her seat and patted his hand. Her boy - perhaps he wouldn’t go back on the drugs this time. One can dream. Ottus forced himself to be sweet. He faced Ennus and smiled. He said, “So what have

you learned in rehab this time?” “Not to get high I guess,” Ennus said. Ottus nodded. “Very good. And you’re not going to NA meetings again right?” His eyebrows raised and his smile widened. It wasn’t so hard to be nice. It was rather like being mean, and Ottus decided to be nice all the time. It’s nice to be nice to the nice. “Nothing against the losers in NA and rehab, but I’ve got better things to do than waste my time driving to and fro to whatever stupid town the nearest NA meeting is.” “I do not blame you - damn them. Maybe you’d like to go with me and Otus and Jenny and Mom to Shady Gardens?” Ottus said. “God, no. You’re not going to try and have me committed there are you?” Ennus said, his heart racing. Otus and Ottus laughed. Barry Daye was thinking about some municipal funds he could structure for Ottus. Jenny and Emily turned in the front seat and said, “No. No, of course we’re not going to do that.” “Are you checking in, Mom?” Ennus asked. “No! Good Lord, do I look like I’m ready - no! We’re going to go there to visit the poor old people.” A quizzical furrow wrinkled Ennus’s brow. “What do you do there?” he asked. “Talk to them. They are so interesting,” Otus lied. “No thanks. That sounds like torture,” Ennus said. “I know. You have better things to do,” Ottus said. “When we get home, you should have Benito and Sebastian show you Moo-Moo, and Mee-Mee, and Poo-Poo, and Pee-Pee,” Otus said. He wished Jenny were next to him.

“I’m sure they’ve missed you,” Jenny said. Ennus said, “I’ll see them tomorrow. I want to get out on the John Deere tomorrow too.” The doctors had told Emily about Ennus’s preoccupation with Moo-Moo and bulldozing. They had felt it a way for Ennus to evade ‘the real work’ he had to do on his sobriety. “How very interesting,” Ottus said. Ennus closed his eyes. “Right now I just want to take a long hot shower and slip into my own bed. I dream so much,” he said. “You always do when you quit taking drugs,” Otus said, tired of Ennus already and wishing both his brothers would shut up. Ottus was not finished being nice, however. He dead panned, “You’re dreaming? Fascinating. Why don’t you tell us about them?” making everyone except Jenny and Barry wilt a little inside Ennus brightened. He said, “Oh, you don’t want to know,” although it would have hurt his feelings to know he was right - he was absolutely right. No one wanted to hear. The problem with describing dreams is that listening to them is boring. Unaware of that universal truth, Ennus said, “Last night I was moving dirt, and from the hill I was digging at, a head crawled out - a woman’s head.” No one encouraged him to continue, not even Ottus, trying to be nice. Their silence made no difference. Ennus was so happy to be going home, telling his family about his dreams. Going to be a happy star today. Ennus said, “It was as if she was a head and neck and she crawled like a snail. After that I dreamt that I’d used the bathroom and was wiping but I couldn’t get my ass clean. Calling Dr. Freud huh?” “You would be amazed,” Otus said, trying to change the subject, “by how much the old people at Shady Gardens talk.”

“Yes, it’s so cute,” Jenny said. “You would think they were having their last conversation,” Emily said. Ennus pictured the very old people talking. “That’s depressing,” he said. And just like that, he was sad. Very sad - a sad star today. Roller Coaster emotions - manifestations of Ennus’s very real emotional problems, surfaced with sobriety. “So bleak,” he sighed. “You’re sure right about that,” Ottus said.

As Ennus stated, when they got back home, he went upstairs to his room where he threw off his clothes, redolent of the hospital, and took a shower in his bathroom. Ennus kept off the lights and let the hot spray wash away the last five months. Great to be home. Not being high? Fine. Whatever. The tools. He had to remember the tools. He knew the key, finding joy in the little things such as a hot shower, and keeping occupied as he would be with Moo-Moo and the John Deere. He relaxed. Tomorrow Benito and Sebastian would get his animals together. Before rehab, for so long, Ennus had neglected his animals, preoccupied with drugs and crime and all. After renewing his bond with Moo-Moo and the others, Ennus planned on driving the tractor and moving dirt. He did not know yet where he would dig or what he would unearth. He knew he had to do it. It made him happy, having purpose and being home. Too happy. Not being high was like being high. After his shower, Ennus sat at his desk, the Ouija board lying under the blue table lamp where Ottus had left it. Branches from the oak outside brushed at the window next to Ennus, who looked at the Ouija board. He put his fingers on the placard. He looked through the window, seeing part of the crescent moon through the branches. Ennus said aloud, “Is there a

reason for me to move the dirt?” The placard moved to YES, and the hair stood on Ennus’s neck. “I have many questions,” he said to the air and the shadows. Tears filled his eyes as the gooseflesh ran down his back. So happy. Ennus spent several hours asking the Ouija board questions, and even though he got to bed late, he was energized the next morning when he made breakfast for his family - omelets. Otus was up at six, and as he sat at the kitchen table in his early morning daze, Ennus beat an egg with garlic powder, pepper, and tarragon. Otus stared as his young brother slipped the egg into a hot skillet and put on toast. Ennus firmed the edges of the omelet. He said, “I found that board - the one Ottus used to pick stocks. I guess it belonged to Lena Donna.” Otus groaned. He said, “That stupid, stupid thing. I wish I’d never set eyes on it, and I’d like to warn you away from it.” His wig slipped to the right a centimeter giving his doo a jaunty tilt. He arched an eyebrow and said, “It has devilish implications.” Ennus flipped the omelet and said, “Whatever. It told me I should dig in the meadow next to the pond - that I’d find something. Don’t know what it might be, but I can’t wait. And it told me it’s not too late to show Moo-Moo at the state fair.” He dished the eggs and slapped the plate in front of Otus. Otus sniffed at the omelet. “Tarragon! Well - nice,” he said and took a bite. “Very good. State fair. Hmmm.” Ennus served not only Otus but Emily breakfast as well. Ottus got up late, at around eight. By then, Ennus was looking at his animals. Poo-Poo and Pee-Pee were fine. Poo-Poo fixed him with a gimlet eye and came over so that Ennus could pet her. Stricken with shyness or

fear perhaps, when he first saw Ennus, Pee-Pee ran and hid in a mouse hole in the yellow henhouse. When he saw Poo-Poo make up with Ennus, Pee-Pee emerged and strutted up to Ennus for his pet. Sebastian and Benitio led Moo-Moo from her stable in Ottus’s GO-GO ARTIST STUDIO to the east pasture. Mee-Mee rode on Moo-Moo’s shoulder. When Moo-Moo saw Ennus, his hand resting on Poo-Poo’s crown, Moo-Moo stopped and took a bite of grass. Ennus looked deeply into Moo-Moo’s giant eyes. “Have they missed me?” Ennus asked. Benito looked at the sky and Sebastian at the ground. Finally Benito said, “Sure.” “How have they been doing. Really doing?” Ennus asked in a meaningful manner. Ennus wanted to dance he was so happy being back with his sweet animals, which might have panicked them and irked Benito and Sebastian, so he didn’t. Still, he teared up. Sebastian kicked a tuft of grass and said, “They been doing okay. The Mee-Mee get in the chicken pen. The Mee-Mee chase the Pee-Pee till the Poo-Poo get mad and chuck him out. Not nice of the Mee-Mee, but, you know - everyone okay.” Ennus picked up the wee rooster and said, “Poor Pee-Pee.” He puckered his lips and pulled in to kiss the darling little cock on his tiny rooster head. Instead, Pee-Pee pecked Ennus in the nostril and hopped down. He ran behind Poo-Poo and hid somewhere in her humongous rear feathers. “Precious boy!” Ennus exclaimed. Benito said, “Pee-Pee little and he run away sometimes but he ain’t no pussy either.” Pee-Pee stuck his head out from behind Poo-Poo and crowed. Ennus wiped away happy tears and rubbed his nose. “I guess it’s been very hard for PeePee,” he said. The teeny-weeny cock tilted his head, glared in a ferocious manner and again disappeared in Poo-Poo’s tail feathers.

Ennus blew him a kiss and rubbed his cheek against Poo-Poo’s formidable beak, large and powerful as cable cutters. Sebastian and Benito took in breaths and looked at each other. Crazy whites. If Poo-Poo plucked his eye out and swallowed it, what could they do? “Yes, very hard for the Pee-Pee,” Sebastian agreed, kicking at the same tuft of grass he had been gazing at. He said, “The Pee-Pee good - not like the Mee-Mee or the - the Moo-Moo.” Sebastian frowned at the cow mountain, who turned her head to look at him, staring as if she could not quite remember who he was. Sebastian and Benito genuflected and looked away. Ennus walked over to Moo-Moo, who looked at him with her melon sized eyes, her emotions reflecting - what? Bovine ennui? Ennus pressed his face against her muzzle, squashing his nose as she chewed her cud. He reached as far as he could and stroked beneath her ear. “Moo-Moo, you are America,” he pronounced. Benito and Sebastian rolled their eyes. Ennus turned to Sebastian and said, “I heard about the accident, and I have to tell you how sorry I am.” Sebastian coughed and scratched but did not reply. He and Benito exchanged looks. Ennus said, “First a dream revealed to me and then the Ouija board told me that I should enter Moo-Moo in the state fair.” The significance of Sebastian and Benito’s look deepened, and, still maintaining eyecontact with Sebastian, Benito said, “The Ouija board told you?” “Yes, and it told me to start digging in the field by the pond, the east field. I’ll be looking for, well, I’m not sure what. My dreams told me I should get on the John Deere and go totally archeologist.” Not only Ouija boards but dreams. Sebastian rubbed his face, and Benito turned away. Sebastian said, “That sound like a good idea. Just so we on the same page about the state fair though, I not taking that devil-cow anywhere cause that bitch crack my rib, so I sorry but I can’t

help you on a long trip with the Moo-Moo, and I think I talk for Benito.” Benito, his back still turned to them, nodded. From her great height, Moo-Moo gazed at the talking people, her expression a canvas of nuance. “Well, okay,” Ennus said. “That reminds me of a dream where Reverend Bill was home from the sea and he wouldn’t help me breed Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee.” “How that gonna happen? You have to hold the Mee-Mee right up there in the MooMoo. That one crazy dream. It might have a strange meaning, you know,” Benito speculated. “Ho-Ho! Tell me about it,” Ennus said, eager to tell them about all his dreams. Benito and Sebastian knew this, however. Benito said, “That so interesting and all, but we going spray some beans.” “Yeah, and we don’t want keep you from talking to your animals and getting on the John Deere and - doing what you got to do. Like I said, it sound deep, and anything better then you being on them drugs. And for you being - normal - again, like we all thank God, but right now, you know, if we don’t do this, it ain’t going get done,” Sebastian explained, all the while backing away with Benito. After inching about ten feet away, they ambled off at a quickening pace. “I don’t think you guys are too old to breed are you? Well, maybe,” Ennus said, thinking back over the Moo-Moo and Mee-Mee of years gone, and it made him so sad, he sat in the pasture and wept before the merry capers of a little squirrel dancing on a tree branch cheered him and he went off to bulldoze.

“And Ennus didn’t have to come here with us why?” Ottus asked, standing with Emily, Otus and Jenny at the door of Shady Glen. He held her blow-up pool ring. “He’s busy with his things, you know. He is preparing Moo-Moo for the state fair, and

he said he was going to dig a hole,” Emily explained, ringing the bell at the front entrance. “Digging a hole for no purpose. Yes, that sounds really important,” Ottus said. “Digging a hole for no purpose. Maybe he’s becoming a GO-GO ARTIST,” Otus said. Ottus shrugged and riffed on Warholian philosophy. “What can I say. You’re right. So what? My last project made money, lots of it - so there. Mom, is that doorbell working?” Emily rang again. “We don’t want to rush them. They’re very busy,” she said. Otus looked at Jenny. “Cashooby sha-“ ”No baby talk!” Emily snapped, making Otus jump and Jenny look at the ground. “Really, no one wants to hear that!” Emily barked. Otus and Jenny touched pinkies and looked at the ground. “Thank you, Mom,” Ottus said. Then a nurse answered the door, a different nurse than the previous visit. She smiled. “I called earlier about visiting. And we were here before,” Emily said. This nurse, older with shorter greying hair than the other, pulled the door open and beaconed them to come in. “Sorry it took so long to answer,” she said. “We know you’re busy,” Emily said. “Always up to our necks. I’m Sarah. They sure enjoyed your last visit. You’ll see the same folks. These people are set in their routines, and the ones who napped last time are napping now.” She walked ahead of them. “The folks we met last time were delightful - so sweet,” Jenny said. Otus took a stick of gum from his bib-overalls. He unwrapped it and put the wrapper in his pocket. He said, “I didn’t think they even noticed us all that much.” He popped the gum in his mouth.

Sarah paused. “I don’t understand.” “He means they talked us nearly to death without letting any of us get a word in edgewise,” Ottus explained. “It was as if they were afraid they’d never get to talk again. Except for that one man. He looks like a professor that used to teach at George Pilsen Junior College, Mr. Morris, I think. What’s wrong with him?” She paused and put a hand on Ottus’s shoulder. Sarah said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Morris. He has late stage Alzheimer’s. He hardly ever says anything, but the day after your last visit, he told the night nurse, Sandy, that his son came to see him. They didn’t know who he meant until he mentioned you reading something vile to him, then we figured it out. He thinks you’re his son. His boy has never been here. Lives in another state with his family. You’re right. Mr. Morris used to teach Physics at the college.” That explained the silence. “That’s okay if he believes that. I don’t mind,” Ottus said, taken aback for once in his life. They stood where the residents gathered. Sarah smiled at the corners of her mouth. She said, “They like to talk. Maybe they do it to keep from dwelling on dying.” The old folks gazed in the middle distance or watched the news with an air of jaded disinterest. Something in the world bad was happening - like always. At this talk of mortality, Otus wilted, leaning against Jenny. “Oh, Lord bless those poor souls,” he gasped, unnerved by the thought of the old people trying to be brave by yammering to keep their minds off death. Otus sighed in grave dismay, feeling the blood drain from his face. He wanted to say something in baby talk to his sweetie-pie, but as everyone had put their collective foot down, he did not. Nor did Jenny baby talk, though she too fought the urge to coo something comforting to him that would undoubtedly infuriate everyone else with its infantile incomprehensibility.

Instead, in front of them all, she kissed him - not the ordinary kind of kiss she often kissed as a sign of affection when people were around but a most loving and intimate soul kiss - Frenching him for a long time. At first his eyes widened. Then his lids lowered half-mast as his eyes rolled back and, leaning back in Jenny’s embrace, he raised his leg in lover’s ecstasy. So everybody except Mr. Morris looked, many in astonishment, disapproval, and dismay. Emily looked away. Ottus was pleased at the display in the way one is pleased when someone does something uncomfortably embarrassing, and he curled his lip Elvis style, or so he liked to imagine. “Lovely,” he muttered. Howard, Beverly, Sal and Shirley saw. Professor Morris, facing the courtyard flower garden missed the action. The angel of silence reigned o’er all in the room and finally the lovers disengaged, their cheeks rosy. Otus’s toupee rode two inched higher on his brow than it had before the smooch. His eyelids fluttered. “Sodom and Gomorrah around here,” Shirley groused. Ottus shrugged and sat between her and Sal where he could watch Mr. Morris better. Emily sat near Beverly, who today wore an ermine white helmet-hair wig to go with her salmon house dress. Beverly said, “Those two need to get a room.” Emily looked at the floor, half-sorry she had said anything about them baby talking. Jenny, a little proud, led Otus to a couch near Howard. Otus, when he regained his senses, said to Howard, “Well, sir, how have you been?” It was a rhetorical question, and were Otus not dazed with love he would have known better than to have asked. “Not as good as you, but all in all, I can’t complain. What’s the point? This morning at dialysis, I got that slow Jeanine. Slow and rough. When she got the needle in my arm today, she

worked it back and forth in my fistula - gouging me!” Otus’s flush of amour paled at Howard’s ‘needle-gouging-arm’ talk. “That sounds remarkably painful,” he gasped. “Oh it wasn’t so bad. Not great, no. I twitched some, but the lidocaine helps. I’d have rather had Shiela tend to me, but she was working on Mrs. Turner. Danny Adams was working on Mrs. Delany. Franklin was working on Stanley Irons.” Howard went on to name each nurse who worked with each of the two dozen plus dialysis patients. Pleased at her more adult manner of showing the world her and Otus’s love, Jenny nodded and affected the smiling frowning expressions of the sympathetic listener. Otus, the glow of the make-out kiss fading, forced a pained smile and wished Howard would stop talking. Howard dug into his ear as he talked about dialysis, saying, “I know my time will be coming when I see Madeline finish up on Mr. Raymond. First - Chen finishes will Willard. Willard doesn’t get there first. Mrs. Williams gets there first, but Willard only has to go three hours and Mrs. Williams has to go five.” Howard proceeded to inform Jenny and Otus how long each patient had to endure dialysis. Otus’s fake smile cracked into a grimace of real agony as Howard reeled off the names he had just reeled off minutes ago. Otus squeezed Jenny’s hand. Triggered by Otus and Jenny’s kiss of passion, Beverly whittered at length about young peoples’ lack of common decency. Beverly said, “It’s nothing for these young girls and boys to to screw and make babies. Babies having babies. There’s no shame! Sex going on even here at Shady Gardens. Those two -“ and here Beverly glowered at Otus and Jenny, “Those two have no shame. If it feels good, do it. What the hell!” Otus and Jenny would have been proud to know they’d been lumped in with all the other immoral young girls and boys although pride was not Emily’s predominant emotion at having her son and his girlfriend singled out as lust crazed

youth. She thought of saying something in their defense, that they were really good kids something, but instead she pretended not to know them very well. Just some crazy kids who happened to come on the visit to Shady Gardens - what were they thinking? By all means take it to a room. Pink poofter-haired Shirley took up the cause, saying, “Sex sex sex sex sex and screw screw screw screw screw that’s all these kids care about.” She jerked her head in the direction of the ‘kids’, who were busy feigning interest in Howard’s time-table of when dialysis patients checked in, when they finished, and who their nurses were. “Look at them,” Shirley said, her tone filled with flat venom. “They’re thinking about screwing right now,” she informed Emily. Emily thought it prudent to purse her lips and stare at a corner of the blue couch. “Well,” she whispered. Shirley said, “Sex and clothes that show the breasts and that long hair that hangs in their faces. Like the girl who does my hair! She does not know what she is doing! Look at my hair! Does this look like a perm?” The pink froth atop her head barely looked like hair, more like a pink tinted hair ball coughed up by a large kitty. On the screen, Diane Sawyer talked about a crisis in the distant land of Zhazhuzha. She looked serious. Sal watched the screen and smiled as she had throughout the last visit, but she said little, keeping her eyes fixed on the broadcast. Shirley lamented, “I told her how I want it. I’ve showed her a picture. I want a mature looking pixie-cut. But unless it’s a style where the hair is falling in your eyes (hers wasn’t), she doesn’t know how to do it.” Shirley picked at the fluff around her scalp. “That girl pushed my hair over to one side.” That wasn’t true. “She made me look like I had a stroke.” She did have a

stroke a year ago, a minor one, but still. Shirley gnashed her teeth in a bitter way. “Hair that makes me ugly, then I have to see those two all but screwing on the floor.” She again glared at Otus and Jenny, who remained oblivious, lulled by Howard’s narrative. “Sex,” Shirley hissed. Sal picked at her collar. Emily stared at the floor. “At least they weren’t baby talking. Count yourself lucky,” Ottus said. He had the camera lens of his phone fixed on Professor Morris. Outside, the annuals were brightening the courtyard. Birds splashed in the birdbath. Sal tapped Ottus on the shoulder. “Would you turn the news up?” she asked him. “She wants to watch the news. She’s not feeling good. She got some bad news today,” Shirley explained. Ottus turned up the volume. “Is this okay?” he asked. Diane Sawyer said, “We continue with our ABC exclusive, live from Zhazhuzha where our Christa Anon is speaking directly to Mawah Shateewah, leader in turmoil of his country. Now - live from the capital palace in Zhazhuzha. On the television, Charista Anon stood on a sandy plain with a fierce looking man in a black suit. The reporter said, “Sir, how do you answer the international opinion that you need to step down. That you have massacred over three quarters of your own people in the street and being a U.S. ally how do you -“ ”That man there, he is just exactly like Fred Ross, my old boss. I slaved at that place for years,” Shirley complained so that she drowned out the news. Emily was relieved. Shirley said, “Fred was nice to your face, but he would stab you in the back in the wink of an eye. I was supposed to be sent to school to learn about investment, but he sent Molly Lenly instead. Molly Lenly!

“After that, I knew. I knew how things were going to be. Oh, he liked Sal,” Shirley said. “Yeah, he let her into management finally, but me - Fred Ross hated me. Just like that dictator and just like Clint Buchanan and just exactly like Todd Manning!” Sal picked at a flake of dead skin on her calf. Her voice was weaker and more quavery than before. She said, “Fred didn’t hate you, dear. He always spoke well of you.” Her eyes glittered.

“Hey, fellows!” It was Ennus. Sebastian and Benito looked up from the partially dissembled combine carburetor they’d been fixing on the floor of the tractor barn. Pain filled their hearts at the sight of him. “Ennus,” Sebastian said in greeting. Benito frowned. Because he was so happy and excited, Ennus did not notice the weary expressions on their faces. Ennus said, “Are you guys really really busy? I’ve got something you’ll both think is interesting.” Sebastian and Benito looked at the walls, the ceiling, the ground, everywhere but at Ennus. Finally Benito said, “We got to fix this.” He nodded and pointed at the pieces on the concrete. Sebastian shrugged. They gazed at their task with longing. “You’ll never guess what I found while I was digging,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. That neither of them responded didn’t phase Ennus at all. “I almost didn’t see it, and if I hadn’t - well - I would have smashed it while I was moving dirt. I knew there was some reason I was supposed to dig.” “Hand me number sixteen socket,” Benito said to Sebastian, who fished through a giant tool box until he found the socket set. He held it like a pearl as he handed it to Benito.

“I may need some help,” Ennus said, eliciting sighs from the workmen. Benito put down the wrench. They both got off the floor. Sebastian said, “What you got going on?” Ennus, so proud and happy, said, “I uncovered a desk.” When Benito and Sebastian’s tired, half-lidded eyes did not light up, Ennus spread his arms. He said, “Not just any desk. There are papers in the drawer. It’s Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk!” “Who that?” Sebastian asked.

THE PURSUIT OF WHOLESOME GOALS “I do not want to go,” Ottus asserted. Emily,s head shot around and she locked him in a steely stare. Ottus met her stare and pointed at Otus. “He doesn’t want to go either.” Emily’s head shot around to gaze syringes of acid at Otus, who twiddled his fingers and looked away. Jenny licked the inside of Otus’s ear to give him courage. His eyes rolled in pleasure and he jiggled his knee. After this public display of affection, she smiled at an unamused Emily and said, “I’ll go. I love going. Otus will go too.” When Otus recovered, in a cowed voice he said, “I don’t mind it so much.” Emily, aggravated at all of them, gritted her teeth and pressed her thin lips together. “Get ready then,” she said, rising from her green chair. “The nurse I talked to said we’re all those old people talk about to the other residents. Ottus, get my donut.” She toddled to her bedroom to get her good shoes. “If they like us so much, how come more don’t come. And why doesn’t Ennus have to go. It’s not fair,” Ottus said. Emily turned in the doorway and pointed at Ottus. She said, “The others are taking naps because that’s what they do. And your brother has been carried away with digging and fooling around with that cow. He’s been in such a tizzy since he found Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk that he can’t think straight.” “Oh well, maybe he’ll relapse and be normal for awhile,” Ottus mused. Otus sighed and got up. Jenny ran her hand up his thigh making him jump.

It was true that Ennus suffered when he found out that the Eisenhower of his desk

was not President Eisenhower but rather Eisenhower of the long defunct Eisenhower’s Feed Store. The deep sadness had drained color from Ennus’s world and he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep. This valley hurt in a way not unlike coming down from harsh stimulants though not as severe, his bad moods drumming like a nagging loop, a cat-of-nine-tails lashing the inside of his brain. Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk - what a breathtaking disappointment. Ennus breathed, watched the shadows across his bedroom ceiling and walls shift into clouds and flames, faces hidden in the half light. Ennus’s plans of presenting the desk at the state fair version of The Antiques Road Show headed by Reverend Bill were ruined . Now his dream heckled in the stillness of his room. Ever be happy again? His mood disorder guaranteed it. Sure Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk destroyed him for a day and a half, but then, as Ennus languished, the stillness broke at the far away call of the four-o’clock train whistle. The sound was so lonesome and pleasurable to him that, again, as quickly as he’d become despondent, he was happy again. Of course, he was more happy, much more happy than hearing the train whistle warranted. For moments, the golden light of the train whistle sculpted the shadow faces into smiling babies. Like a drunk emerging from a car wreck, hurt but shaky, Ennus got out of bed. So happy. The train sounded again, filling Ennus with the warmth of the sun. Since his mom and brothers were visiting at Shady Gardens, Ennus had the house to himself. He walked downstairs on the balls of his feet, tingling at the luxurious solitude. He turned on the tv. Ennus, rapt, watched a McDonalds commercial showing young sophisticates at McDonalds, eating burgers and dancing in their seats. At the end of the ad, Ennus wiped away a happy tear and, along with the couple featured, said, “I’m lovin’ it.” The ad sparked two older associations which boosted his happiness to tingling extremes.

Two commercials that he had loved. In his fevered brain, Ennus imagined the Clairol Herbal Essence commercial from when he’d been in high school. As he sat in the dark living room of the Burchen farmhouse, Ennus could all but hear the deep synthesizer refrain that played before the part where Brooke Shields pitched the shampoo. The second association was another commercial. Ennus’s blood pulsed euphoric. He closed his eyes and heard the jingle as if it were playing: N-E-S-T-L-E-S...Nestles makes the very best. Sweet dreams I can’t confess...N-E-S-T-L-E-S...Carnival lights from ferris wheels spun in Ennus’s mind as tears fell from his eyes and he sang, “N-E-S-T-L-E-S...Nestles makes the very vest...Sweet dreams, are made of this.” Overcome, Ennus stretched out on the floor. So what if Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk wasn’t what he’d thought. He was supposed to find it. God’s will. Ennus threw himself off the floor and scrambled upstairs. He sat in the dark at the table in his room and put his fingers on the placard of the Ouija board. Dappled sunlight shone on his face. He said in a portentous voice, “Is there a reason I found Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk even though - you know? Any reason I should take the desk to the state fair anyway, just because or something? Tell me, Oh, mighty Ouija board.” The Ouija board scooted to YES. Ennus walked outside, the haunting herbal essence ad and the Nestles songs echoing. It was a pretty day. Somewhere on the vast Burchen farm, Sebastian harvested the ripe corn in giant tractors, the distant hum like aural comfort food to Ennus. Pee-Pee pranced into his view, catching his eye and tilting his wee rooster head in greeting. For a moment, Pee-Pee smiled, the corners of his yellow beak grinning right at Ennus. Then Pee-Pee flapped his little wings and bird panic seized him. He jumped into Ennus’s

arms. At Ennus’s feet, little Mee-Mee bucked and snorted. He was after Pee-Pee again. Benito followed. He reached down and grabbed the tiny bull, tossing him into an open sack. He said, “The Mee-Mee got in the chickie pen again. And he chase the Pee-Pee once more.” Benito did not return Ennus’s happy face No matter. Ennus was so happy. He cradled the bird. “Benito,” Ennus said, “You are just the fellow I need to see. Think Sebastian could stop what he’s doing and help me with a tiny favor?” Benito cast his eyes to the ground and his mouth tightened in despair.

Emily led the twins and Jenny, following the nurse, this one named Sharon, into the main room. The television was on the ABC World News with Diane Sawyer, who was broadcasting from a boat somewhere. Sharon said, “They’ve so been looking forward to your visit.” As Emily and the others joined the residents, except for Professor Morris, they watched tv, watching but not listening to the words, oblivious. Emily, Ottus, Otus, and Jenny noticed that Sal wasn’t there. Otus’s heart raced. Sal’s absence alarmed Otus. Ottus less so. He turned the camera lens of his phone on Mr. Morris, who gazed into the courtyard garden. Without thinking, Ottus said, “Hi Dad. Hope you’re okay.” Mr. Morris kept looking at the birds in the birdbath, splashing and playing together, a dozen birds, wild canaries, yellow as the sun, and bright red cardinals. Outside, the lilies had played out but the gladiola were in full bloom, pink, yellow, salmon, and crimson. Otus kept looking at the empty place. Howard acknowledged Otus and Jenny by directing his stream of talk in their direction. He said, “Jan did my needles this morning, and she got it right off and she’s gentle but slow. Slow because she has to have conversations with all the patients but when it’s time to go, you’re

ready to go. You don’t want to sit there with two needles in your arm while Sharon is talking about her kids, but I was joking with her about her telling Doctor Lipp to knock fifteen minutes off my time.” Her pretty face a picture of grave concern, Diane Sawyer said,“Australia has vanished. Disappeared! Where has an entire continent gone?” Behind her, where presumably Australia had been, a pretty pink and yellow mist rose to the sky. Diane kept broadcasting, but the Shady Gardens residents talk drowned her out. “I like her hair!” Beverly proclaimed about Diane. She pointed at the icon and said, “If I could find a wig like that, I’d pay thirty dollars easy.” Shirley touched the faint pink puff atop her own dome and glared at Diane Sawyer. “She’s so lovely,” Shirley spat, taking exception at having nothing about Diane Sawyer’s appearance to savage. “I like her hair because she doesn’t look like one of those other sluts you see on the tv,” Beverly emphasized. “You don’t see her hair in her face with her flipping it all the time, which drives me crazy to see them doing.” Shirley patted her poof. Diane Sawyer leaned forward and bugged her eyes for the close up as she said, “Scientists are baffled! Australia and its people have vanished! What - what can have happened to an entire continent and population? This is an unfolding tragedy on a scale that we have never seen!” “Now I’ve quit taking my Clonodine on my dialysis mornings because it makes my blood pressure go down, that’s what Clonodine does, but it goes down anyway from the treatment. And I asked my doctor and he told me to keep taking them anyway, but I’m not. When my pressure drops, I get so sick. And one time I passed out right in the vestibule. So no thank you,”

Howard said, not at all panicked at the disappearance of Australia. Otus glanced at Sal’s empty spot again. Was she in the hospital or maybe hospice? Sweat beaded under Otus’s toupee, and he breathed in shallow, panting puffs. Jenny caught a drop of sweat trailing down the back of his neck on her tongue. Everyone noticed that. Shirley muttered, “Whore,” as Otus’s eyes rolled back. “The whore and her pimple,” Shirley murmured. “You mean the whore and her pimp,” Beverly corrected. Shirley waved her palsied, liver-spotted hands in a dismissive gesture. “And how would I know about such things?” she asked. “And I should?” Beverly asked, looking a bit affronted. Neither Jenny nor Otus heard the insults directed at them. Howard’s story about his bad morning at dialysis drowned out conversation as well as the news broadcast. “Old Joe told us all about him and his cousin eating potatoes - then planting potatoes. Joe, he’s only forty-nine but his brother is six years old!” Otus couldn’t keep his eyes off the empty spaces. The light in the room brightened, and he felt hot. Ottus tried to pick up whatever he could from the broadcast, for the most part drowned out by the other residents talk. Australia vanished? Crazy. He leaned toward Mr. Morris. Ottus looked into the elderly professor’s empty eyes and, so none of the others could hear, said, “Terrible about Australia, huh Dad?” As Shirley prattled, she reached under herself and said to Ottus, “Mr. I don’t know your name, but why don’t you make yourself useful and do something for me.” With fascinated repulsion, Ottus watched Shirley pull out a deflated pool toy, a chartreuse ring like Emily’s except for the color. She handed it to Ottus, who held it like it was a dirty rag. “Blow it up,”

Shirley urged. With profound misgivings, Ottus obliged. He opened the valve and, fully aware he was putting his lips where Shirley’s ass had rested moments ago, he blew. It was hard, but Ottus kept huffing. The other residents watched him as they talked. He blew and blew, his field of vision filling with twinkling pin-pricks of light. Shirley said, “I see that lady uses one too. I need mine to keep sores off my behind.” Ever eager to find common ground, Emily said, “I use mine to help with my terrible sciatica. I don’t know what I’d do without mine. Where did you get yours?” Shirley glared at Emily then looked away. Ottus’s eyes crossed and his face turned red as he inflated the ring. Though Shirley did not look at Emily, she said, “You can buy a foam donut to sit on but they’re too hard. The only thing that works - the only thing is an inflatable pool toy. When I worked at the bank, I stood, and I thought it was a shame when they let the tellers sit on stools. I told them, ‘I don’t want your stool. I’m not lazy!’” Otus sweated ropes pondering Sal’s fate. Jenny saw his discomfort and said, “Think of the souffle we’re entering in the state fair.” Otus tried thinking of different recipes they’d experimented with: bison souffle; partridge in shingo souffle. Sweet and Salty Bugles with dill and rosemary souffle. He pictured dill and rosemary. Otus took deep breaths. “We’ll do well,” he gasped, trying not to think about death. Jenny removed his hat and fanned his face. “He’s like a Roman Emperor over there - like Todd Manning - the pretty one,” Shirley said. Emily forced a smile and studied the blue linoleum floor. Howard did not notice Otus’s condition though he continued to speak in their direction.

“They had me on that one machine that I don’t like, ever since it stopped on me last month and they had to unhook me and then re-hook me to the new machine. Now the new one never messes up. That’s the one I always hope to get even though you never know which machine they’ll put you on, but all’s well - ol’ Betsy didn’t give out. Why I didn’t even bleed,” Howard said, and for a moment he focused on the people he’d been looking at, his eyes plaintive. Afraid. They were too busy concentrating on keeping Otus from swooning to notice Howard’s quiet sadness and desperation. Tempted to utter baby talk, Jenny ran her hand over Otus’s biboverall clad thigh. He managed a nervous though pleased chuckle. Shirley sneered, baring her yellow denture-fangs. “Why don’t they just do it right there in front of everybody. Did you see her?” Shirley rasped. Emily studied a small crack in the wall. Beverly said, “Why, she honked his knob!” She pursed her lips and smoothed her faded rose house dress. “A slut like the sluts on the news - except for Diane Sawyer,” Beverly pronounced. “Except for Diane,” Shirley agreed, adding, “Not like those two free-love debutantes with their pussies and ding-dongs! Why don’t they go right ahead and - and screw each other right here on the floor,” Shirley repeated. Emily shuddered. Ottus stopped blowing the pool toy long enough to gasp, “Said it before and I’ll say it again. Count your blessings it’s not baby talk.” He went back to huffing and puffing. “Sal loved baby talk. Thought it was cute,” Shirley said, her tone softening. Otus and Jenny started at the mention of Sal’s name. Shirley said, “Baby talk - or any kind of stupid talking or singing - bad singing - it made her laugh. I thought it was dumb. Nothing is funny. Nothing! Sal - before she died - she - aw...” No one but Jenny saw Otus squeak.

“Nothing is funny except The Jack Benny Show,” Beverly said. “Nothing except Jack Benny, but - even that - it’s more that I like Jack Benny than the show makes me laugh. No, not even The Jack Benny Show. Nothing,” Shirley concluded. Howard responded to Sal’s name. He paused in his story about dialysis and said, “Sal was so happy when she came back from hospice. She brought us all ice cream. She thought she was better. I had butterscotch. Then...” Howard rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Otus! Otus! Oh nooo!” Jenny screamed, holding up the limp Otus, his wig hanging half off and his eyes rolled so far back that only slits of white were visible. Fainted. “Someone get a doctor! Otus, can you hear me?” Jenny cried. Otus responded by murmuring in a melancholy way. No one was terribly surprised, not even Jenny, who nonetheless was quite upset, more than Ottus or Emily, who figured he’d awaken soon. Emily went to him and looked down. Jenny cradled Otus and fixed his wig somewhat. “He fainted from thinking about Sal’s death,” she cried, and the word ‘death’ made Otus bleat. Jenny rocked his head, making his toupee slip again, and in his ear, she yelled, “You poor sweetie pie!” “Looks like lover boy is quite the frail. Quite the hothouse flower. He probably has VD,” Shirley observed as the nurses rolled in with smelling salts. “He might have low blood pressure. It happened to me!” Howard reminded everyone. “Give him room to breath,” Jenny cried even though except for her, no one was crowding him. One of the nurses, Sharon, passed the salts beneath Otus’s nose. His nostrils flared and his eyes fluttered open. “Darling, say something. It’s me, Jenny. Can you speak? Oh say something to me, my poor brave little man!” Tears ran down her plump cheeks. Instinctively, Otus straightened his toupee.

His eyes widened, and Otus moaned. “Whoooo,” he said, struggling to sit up as he blinked into consciousness. He sneezed and his eyes went from Jenny to Emily. As if he had returned from ethereal realms, Otus sighed, “Jenny?” “Yes my darling!” Jenny cried. “Is - is my hair?” “It’s fine, sweet boy,” Jenny said. Emily and Ottus smirked. Until Jenny planted a big wet one right on Otus’s mouth, further enlivening him. The kiss also outraged Beverly and Shirley. Emily and Ottus looked away in embarrassment and revulsion. Neither Howard nor Mr. Morris took notice. When Otus was able, Emily, Jenny and Ottus helped him up. As they walked him out of Shady Gardens, Ottus took a moment to bend down so he was in Mr. Morris’s line of vision. “Bye, Dad,” Ottus said. No one noticed the photograph of himself that Ottus slipped inside Mr. Morris’s pocket. The elderly man looked through him as if he were not there. In the courtyard, one blue jay, still as stasis, sat on the lip of the birdbath, looking through time. (Space) Aside from leading Moo-Moo short distances between her barn/Ottus’s GO-GO ART STUDIO and the north pasture, Benito and Sebastian refused to help with the humongous cow, who would be the one livestock that Ennus would take to the state fair. They feared the MooMoo. So Ennus tethered her to the old oak tree next to the corn silos. He used shampoo and special conditioner on Moo-Moo’s red and white bovine hide and fed her red apples, which she loved. Moo-Moo stood quietly and chewed as Ennus dried and combed her. He combed and teased her forelock so it fell over her giant eyes in an insouciant way. The new doo made Moo-

Moo sassy. She tossed her head, catching Ennus with a fender sized horn and knocking him off his feet, nearly breaking his ribs. “Owwww,” Ennus yelled, lying down holding his side. Moo-Moo looked at him and nudged his foot with her gigantic white nose. Ennus sat up. He was so happy. “Could you learn any tricks, Moo-Moo?” he asked. Moo-Moo looked away and chewed the apple in an enigmatic way. Ennus picked himself up and leaned against her leg. “Probably not,” he answered himself, his breath catching with pain. He patted Moo-Moo on her pillar sized flank. She stopped chewing to give Ennus a lick on the cheek, which knocked him back down. Ennus was so happy.

BUCKET LIST OF ‘WHAT-COLOR-IS-YOUR-PARACHUTE?’ DREAMS The corn was harvested. The soybeans, ready too, radiated health, green and lush with the pods lightening in color, the wheat shimmering golden in the long summer breeze. Benito and Sebastian would get to them very soon. Ennus trotted Moo-Moo back and forth, exercising and training her, practicing her catwalk swing just as they had twice a day for the last couple of weeks before the state fair. Moo-Moo didn’t appear to mind being put through her paces. Ennus high-stepped to avoid her flying hooves, big as anvils. He had tried to get Benito and Sebastian to help, but they refused. They said Moo-Moo was evil. Of course she wasn’t, just big and unaware of how easy it was for her to hurt someone without meaning to. “Yes, Moo-Moo, come on,” Ennus cried, dodging the warp and woof of her long gait. “Think runway, Moo-Moo. Remember, you are America, Moo-Moo - America.” Every five to ten minutes, he fed her several big red apples. From the kitchen window, Otus and Jenny watched Ennus running Moo-Moo back and forth. “I don’t know about Moo-Moo in the state fair. I mean, aside from being freakishly large, I’m not sure how great Moo-Moo really is. Plus, she is getting a little long in the tooth,” Otus sniffed as he and Jenny’s scallops and shrimp souffle rose in the oven. “Moo-Moo is a sweetie,” Jenny said. “When we thought the devil was in our house, I thought she might be possessed - not that I normally believe in possession. Benito and Sebastian think she’s bad. She hurt one of them. I forget whom,” Otus said, resting his head on Jenny’s shoulder, where he noticed a grease stain on her collar. “What’s this?” he asked. Jenny pulled her shirt out so she could see, and when she did, she turned red. “Oh, I

dropped my coin purse behind the workbench and I got this smudge I guess,” she lied. She had removed a dull blade from one of her bush-hogs earlier that day. Otus scrutinized the stain. “Have you been working on a motor or something?” he demanded. “Did you do something earlier that I could have helped with and you didn’t call? Again?” he accused. Jenny’s cheeks turned bright red. “Of course not darling. You know I’d have given you a ring,” she fibbed. ”Oh sure. I’d buy that except you never want me to help do anything except - well cooking and sewing and - you know,” Otus sighed. “I never need any help on the farm, dear. The machines are all fine. The place really runs itself.” “No machines are always all fine. Machines do break down. I’m not a fool,” Otus said, crossing his arms and watching one of Moo-Moo’s gargantuan legs fly sideways and knock Ennus over the corral fence. Jenny stepped behind Otus and pulled him to her. “You’re my lover and never a fool.” Jenny nuzzled the back of Otus’s head, pushing his toupee down to his eyebrows. Otus squirmed. “Stop, you’ll get us started and we’ll ruin the souffle,” he fretted, making a halfhearted effort to remove himself from Jenny’s grasp, but she slid her hands into the hip pockets of his bib-overalls and held him fast. “Come on. Quit. I don’t care if you don’t think I’m handy,” he huffed, reaching up to straighten his wig. “You’re better than handy, darling-man!” “But what about the souffle?” “To helllll with the souffle,” Jenny said in a low and husky sex-voice.

“Mom might come in. Or Ottus,” he protested. “Are you trying to excite me?” They were on the floor when they smelled smoke from the souffle, flat and now burning from having collapsed during Otus and Jenny’s rigorous bouncing. Jenny jumped up and took out the smouldering dish, smoke pluming through the kitchen. Jenny tended to the mess as Otus ran to the bathroom to freshen up.

After Moo-Moo’s training session, Ennus readied Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk. As he had asked them to, Benito and Sebastian had set it on a large block table in an unoccupied tack barn, otherwise empty. Green fiberglass skylights threw a green glow on the desk. As he did every day for two hours, Ennus went over the old buried wood with damp felt and big Q-tips. He worked over the grooved seam of the desktop surface in the late afternoon. Next to Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk was the Ouija board. He put down the felt cloth and placed his fingers on the Ouija placard. Ennus didn’t necessarily believe in spirits, but he liked the mysterious nature of the semi-occult toy, and Ennus felt guided, whether by intuition or the oversoul or spirits. He looked at the skylight and said, “Am I really really really for sure doing the right thing entering Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk in the state fair’s antique show - even though it’s not President Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk but, you know - the feed store Eisenhower. I must know for certain!” The heart shaped piece of plastic moved to YES. Before Ennus could ask another question, the placard moved to the area of the board that had letters. It trembled to the letter H and stopped, then stuttered to the letter A. HA. What could that mean? HA could mean the spirits were laughing. Ennus left the board and returned to his task. “HA,” Ennus muttered, his voice echoing through the empty space. He lowered his

face to the wood.

Otus, cleaned up, had moved to the dining room where he was at his Singer sewing machine, putting pleats on some new white taffeta drapes for the front room. The machine hummed as he ran the fabric through. He paused and said, “Of course Ennus is crazy. That’s as much a problem as drugs. You know how he is. The only time he ever acts normal is after he’s been sober awhile, and you think - now he’s normal, except he’s started getting high by then and has his planets in alignment drug-wise for awhile until he loses control. But he’s crazy.” Jenny flushed the souffle pan with hot soapy water in the kitchen, but the burned food stuck to it. “Sweet-sweet, this pan is giving me the hardest time. Could you help me, a bit?” Otus put down his sewing chore and said, “I’m on my way, Queen-Love-Girl.” Together, the old couple scrubbed the pan, both of them elbow deep in hot soapy water. They worked the burned bottom, turning the dishwater black. “You say he calls Moo-Moo America? Is he a right wing conservative?” “No, he means it as in she symbolizes things he thinks of as American - in, I think, a cultural sense,” Ennus said. “Right wing conservatives usually hate drug addicts. I think he’d have to hang himself if he were right wing,” he added. “I see,” Jenny said, clawing at the scummy sides of the pot. “Well, after all, what is more American than a cow in a meadow?” Otus shrugged. Jenny giggled. She goosed him with a wet soapy hand. Otus jumped, splashing water everywhere. “Oh you big silly. Now don’t start again already!” Otus squealed. Jenny threw her arms around him, making him squeal. “I can’t take it!” he cried, laughing.

Ottus and Cooter were nurturing their GO-GO ART CONSTRUCTS at The Bank of Pilsen, where they kept their certificates of deposit, tax-deferred municipal bonds, their stretch IRA accounts, blue chip stock, and their gold. And their mutual fund portfolios - the stately instruments of perpetuity. They stood in the vault and studied the various financial documents next to their lock boxes, open on long tables, everything made of steel. Deep silence prevailed. Otus held up a bar of gold. He wore dark green slacks and a blue polo shirt. His hair was cut. “Gold has really gone up,” he commented. “Maybe I should buy more.” Cooter spread his laminated CD’s in front of him. He wore an expensive grey suit and metallic red tie. “Maybe you could sculpt something out of your gold,” he joked. “That would be sublime,” Ottus joked. GO-GO ART JOKES. Ottus smirked and replaced his gold. He held a series of CD’s like a hand of cards. Most of them would mature in the distant future, some when Ottus would surely be dead. “I saw Professor Morris at Shady Gardens. I filmed him,” Ottus said. Cooter arranged his CD’s chronologically by when they matured. “Who’s that?” “He was some sort of science professor when I was in school. He doesn’t say anything.” “You filmed him? GO-GO ART?” “No. I mean, I did film him, but not for GO-GO ART. Not sure why I did,” Ottus sighed and put his cd’s back in his lock box and examined a few stock certificates. He said, “The nurse told me he thinks I’m his son. His son never visits. Professor Morris has Alzheimer’s, the last stage. He doesn’t say much I guess. He never said anything to me, but he asked where his son had gone after we left one time. Sad.” Ottus did not mention slipping the

old man his picture. Maybe it would - what? Stir pleasant memories in the old man of his son who wasn’t around? Be a painful reminder? Ottus stacked his stock in a pile. He said, “Oh, and I got an e-mail from Mr. Ames.” Cooter looked up from his cd’s. “Oh my gosh. Anything about his ART?” “No, he wanted advice on investments. He said he was inspired by the aesthetic possibilities of finance as a medium, but really, you know he just wants to use his savings to make a bunch of money and call it an art project,” Otus said. He put everything back in his lock box and closed it. Ottus laughed in a way that sounded as if he were forcing a laugh, a rather uncharitable laugh. He said, “I told him that he should get into day trading. I recommended that guy my aunt listened to online.” “The one who ended up helping her lose a lot of money?” “Yes. I forget the name right now. Anyway, maybe Mr. Ames will have luck.” Again the mean-spirited laugh. “If not and he loses his life savings, I’m sure he won’t be sad. It will help him be a starving artist. He’ll be back in touch with his roots.” “Like us,” Cooter said. “Well, except without money, but what does an artist need with money? What good is my money doing me?” Ottus asked. “Well, you do live off your mom, so you don’t really need your money do you?” Cooter pointed out. And they both laughed in a nasty way that wasn’t funny at all.

Emily parked her gold-leaf golf cart on Cheyenne’s front lawn. She smelled chicken and dumplings and heard the clattering of pots and pans coming through the open windows of the kitchen window. The flower beds, the shrubs, and the sidewalks were pruned and trimmed like

heaven’s garden. Emily walked around the farmhouse and marveled at the sharp edges of the bushes as well as the vitality of the annuals’ blues, yellows, and pinks. Cheyenne must have made up with Charlie Craine. Emily went up the front steps, carrying her inflated ring, flanked by geraniums blooming around the stone lions. A newly painted porch greeted her, a deep chocolate color. Without bothering to knock, Emily popped in. Did she hope to see something? That unworthy thought occurred to her. Emily strode through her sister’s long front room, making sure not to step on the plastic vinyl pathways. Emily regretted there was not mud on her shoes. If she were younger, she might wipe her nose on the curtains, not out of meanness - out of love, misguided love and badjudgement - that old devil bad-judgement. Emily tip-toed through the expanse of her sister’s living room, hearing Cheyenne in the kitchen, the clanking of pots and pans and her loud voice. Cheyenne said, “When I call the Event Horizon Company, I’m going to tell them that we’ve looked at Wal Mart, at Target, at Home Depot, at Do It Yourself Center, and we cannot find a wall mounted phone. And now I have this open phone jack in the wall that’s just ugly and what do they expect me to do?” The smell of chicken and dumplings fogged the room. Emily paused, not quite in the doorway. “I think I can find you one,” Charlie said. Emily glided into the doorway. “Hello,” Emily trilled, enjoying Cheyenne and Charlie’s’s startled jumping responses. Cheyenne dropped the ladle she was holding. “Good grief,” Cheyenne shrieked, lifting a hand to her bosom. Charlie picked up the ladle he’d dropped, and he wiped the drops of dumpling juice off the floor. Cheyenne glared at her sister and said, “You ever heard of knocking? I nearly had a heart attack. My doctor would

not like me being scared like this. What’s wrong with you?” “You surprised me too,” Emily said, looking at Charlie and smiling. He blushed and hurried to the sink where he rinsed the ladle. “Well - life is full of surprises isn’t it. Charlie’s helping me make my dumplings even better for the state fair,” Cheyenne informed Emily, taking the clean ladle from him. “Did you walk on the vinyl?” she asked Emily. “I always forget. Sorry. Help with your dumplings? I thought they were perfect already,” Emily said. “They are, but I have to take them to another level since I’ve entered them in past years. I’m making them perfect plus,” Cheyenne explained, going to her stove where pots of stock and chicken boiled. “What are you entering?” she asked. “Surely you’ve got time now that Shady Gardens asked you not to come back.” Emily approached her sister and the boiling pots. Charlie left the kitchen as Emily sidled next to Cheyenne. Emily said, “I’m focusing on helping Otus and Jenny with their dish this year. Helping them - so I’m taking a back seat for the kids’ sake. Passing the baton as it were. And the nursing home was just concerned that Otus might, well, faint again, as I’m sure you heard.” “I heard about their make out antics,” Cheyenne crowed Emily took a teaspoon and tasted one of the stocks. “Tasty. Perfect plus,” she said. “Otus and Jenny are kids in the bloom of love. They’re going through a phase. Speaking of antics, I must say I’m happy to see that you’re expanding your boundaries somewhat. Makes me wonder what you’ve been up to.” Cheyenne’s white face was red. “Such a thin line. Such a thin thin line between love and hate isn’t there?“

”Oh give it a rest,” Cheyenne said, setting her jaw and rolling her eyes.

Ottus and Emily drank iced tea as they watched One Life to Live. Emily squirmed on her inflated pool toy. She wore a bright white linen dress, and she said, “I wish you would go back to painting like you did when you were a little boy. I know you needed work on you technique, but at least I could tell what you were painting and - why - you were painting something. I mean it gave you such purpose.” Ottus lounged in his new comfort clothes, a grey v-necked velour sweater and black cashmere pants. On the show, the actor who played Rex had sold his dying wife Dee Dee’s heart to Clint Buchanan, the father who never claimed him. Rex raged at the old villain, trying to make his new heart fail. “Poor Rex. He is not the best actor in the world,” Ottus critiqued. “He is one of the few likable characters though,” Emily pointed out, and Ottus nodded. “Say, would it bother you, Ottus, if I entered your painting of the sailboat I keep in the bathroom in the state fair?” Incredulity furrowed Ottus’s brow. “As endearing as I suppose it is for you to want to do that, don’t. I do mind. Seriously. Don’t.” On the screen, Rex leaned over into Clint’s face and told the old man that he didn’t deserve to live. The boy who played Rex’s son, Shane, squinted his eyes and clinched his fists. “Rex’s son Shane is showing more maturity than he is,” Ottus pointed out. “These people make me angry. It’s one story after another and it takes forever for anything to happen,” Emily carped. “It’s a soap opera, and God bless One Life to Live. I think it’s the most perfect show

ever.” “Guess you’ve never seen Gone With the Wind,” Emily said. “Or The Thorn Birds.” On the soap opera, Rex chewed up the scenery in the hospital room set, giving Clint Buchanan some well deserved hell as he sweated and rolled his eyes at the heavens. Emily said, “Your old teacher, Mr. Ames called again. He sounds upset.” “He is upset. Very angry, mad in fact. He’s mad at me. I gave him bad financial advice as kind of a joke, and he took it, and now he’s all mad about losing his money. What did he want me to do? Tell him to buy a Ouija board? It is not my fault.” On OLTL, Todd Manning #2, the pretty one, and his son Jack, who was responsible for Dee Dee’s death, came into the hospital room. A donnybrook erupted, Shane fighting Jack, and Rex fighting Todd, with Clint Buchanan sweating and sighing in his hospital bed. Ottus smirked. He said, “I can’t believe Ames took what I said about day trading seriously. Is it my fault he took my joke seriously?” “I believe that, yes, as a matter of fact, it is your fault,” Emily argued. “What you did was awful. I thought you liked Mr. Ames.” Ottus scratched under his velour-ed armpit and said, “He’s okay I guess. Heck, I did him a favor. Losing his money is not only better ART but it will make him a better ARTIST.” “The way he sounded on the phone, I wouldn’t tell him that.” “You’re right. I don’t intend to tell him anything. I’m going to avoid him forever. Foevah!” On their soap opera, Detective John McBain and Officer Brody burst into the room and began fighting with the other guys. “This is great. I love One Life to Live so much. And I think it’s big of John to forgive Brody for getting his fiancé Natalie pregnant and hiding it from him. Except we know it’s really John’s baby! Oh heavenly manna from heaven,” Ottus cried. “Why

can’t One Life to Live be on all day and all night?” Emily shook her head. “You’d better talk to Mr. Ames and smooth things. And not be a smart aleck. When he calls back, what do you want me to say?” she said. Ottus laughed in a way that didn’t signify anything funny but was a gesture of nervous nerves. He had deleted without reading the e-mails Mr. Ames had sent, e-mails with upsetting subject headings such as, ‘You have ruined me’, and ‘An eye for an eye’. Things best not dwelled upon. Ottus made a sour taste face. He said, “Tell him I’m not home.” Otus and Jenny came in bearing tv trays loaded with plates of crab and truffle souffle. They served Emily and Ottus. “Oh! I can’t believe I’m missing this,” Otus cried, looking at the melee, now joined by Natalie Buchanan and Jessica, the two of them fighting because of Brody’s having been Jessica’s fiancé when impregnating her sister, Natalie - except he hadn’t really. The medical records had been tampered with by the insane and jealous Marty Seabrook. “Whew!” Otus said sitting on the green couch and pulling Jenny beside him. “The high point last month was seeing Clint coming face to face with David and Bo,” Otus said. Jenny, who cared not for OLTL rubbed the small of Otus’s back. “That was beautiful, and seeing Jack get in trouble was fantastic although he hasn’t paid nearly enough!” In unison, Emily and Otus said, “Poor Shane and Rex.” Ottus sneered and said, “Shane - come back Shane.” No one noticed the old reference. He tasted the souffle. “This is so good. This is so good, but have you considered lobster and fresh tarragon?” he said, taking another bite. Otus and Jenny looked at each other. “Where can we get fresh tarragon?” Otus fretted. “We can get lobster and dried tarragon at Kroger, but fresh?” Jenny mused. “We should try the hippie co-op in Tilling. I’ll drive, of course. Up for a road trip?” She said to Otus, who

tilted his head, pretending to think about it. “What about my show? Plus, I look awful!” He was wearing an old burnt orange plaid cotton cowboy shirt with pearl buttons. “You’re handsome. I think you’re - a sex machine,” Jenny growled. “Please do you mind? We’re trying to eat this delicious souffle. You’ll have no trouble beating Cheyenne,” Emily said. “Is she trotting out her dumplings again?” Otus said. “Yes, and she has a helper. Can you guess who? He was there in the kitchen. I wonder if they’re sleeping together now!” Emily said. “Oh my gosh, besides the thought and mental image of - of that being suicidally bleak, would you all stop talking and watch our show?” Ottus yelled. They all quieted down. Jenny, who thought OLTL a pain, whispered to Otus, “We should go right after this is over.” In answer, Otus pinched his girl’s broad bottom, making her squeal and earning her looks from Ottus and Emily. On their show, the scene shifted to Blair Kramer, Todd Manning’s ex-wife, in bed with Tomas Delgado. Tomas was Tia (Todd Manning #1's current wife) Delgado Manning’s brother. “Can I trust you?” Blair whinnied. They made daytime tv love. “Blair is a slut. Natalie is a slut. Jessica is a slut. Even Starr is a slut. Kelly too even though I like her and she’s classy looking. All of them are sluts except Dee Dee, who’s dead - and Vicki.” After a sex session between the sheets that made Otus and Ottus vaguely uncomfortable, Tomas, involved in a secret plot involving both Todds, said to Blair, “Of course you can trust me.” The show cut to the show’s last commercial for the day.

“It’s over,” Otus said. “We can go.” They rose. Jenny said, “We’re off to get fresh tarragon.” When they had left, Emily said, “They didn’t need fresh tarragon. You’re the devil.” Otus thought of saying, “I’m the devil,” in the devil voice he’d used to scare everyone during the spirit cleansing ritual. Instead he shrugged. The phone rang. “Can you get it Mom?” he asked. Emily answered, and her eyebrows arched. She glared at Ottus. “He’s not here,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head at her son.

THE GRAND FINALE The winds barreled through southern Illinois as if from the corners of Mars on the sunny first day of the state fair. Emily, in an elegant black dress and her pearls, rode with Otus and Jenny in Jenny’s car, Otus watching the mobile oven in the back seat. He kept his hands on its top and sides to keep it steady as Jenny drove at 30 mph. The oven in the car was rigged by Ennus, based on his working knowledge of mobile drug labs. Ottus and Cooter drove in the big red truck, hauling Ennus, Moo-Moo, and Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk, Ennus riding in the trailer with the cow and the desk. Ottus rode on the passenger’s side, having Cooter drive. Ennus was a happy star today, feeding lovely red apples, red red apples to Moo-Moo, who ate them with typical bovine understated relish. True, Moo-Moo was not the spring chicken, but - she was so big. She was sure to win the blue ribbon. Ennus gazed into her brown, softball sized eyes with love. “Moo-Moo, you are America, and I love you. I wuv ooo,” he told her. She batted her gigantic eyes, munching the apples as if they were raisins. In the Emily-Otus-and-Jenny car, Jenny said, “I remember one time when Ennus planted hundreds of bulbs, iris, lilies, and tulips. He’d gotten out of rehab then. Those flowers were so beautiful.” Otus sighed. “That was okay compared to when he became, not just a cigarette smoker but a connoisseur of cigarettes. He’d smoke things that smelled worse than Foovier’s turds.” Otus craned his neck so he could look in the oven window. “I guess Ennus’s addictions have been good for something.” “Don’t talk about your poor brother that way,” Emily warned. Without anything to say about Ennus that wasn’t bad, no one spoke until Jenny broke the

silence. She said, “I think our souffle will be done right as we park.” “That will be perfect,” Otus said. “The way this souffle is going to turn out. It’s a cinch we’ll get first place blue ribbon. Oosie poosy poo!” Ottus couldn’t help relapsing into baby talk. Emily turned in the seat, looked at him and said, “Don’t!” They listened to the radio the rest of the way, and Jenny parked close to the food pavilion. A minute hadn’t passed when the mobile oven timer dinged. “You’ll beat Cheyenne,” Emily predicted. “I don’t care whether we win or lose, I’m just deeply happy to be here with my sweet sweetie-pie,” Jenny cooed,. Emily shook her head in disgust. “Oh really,” she muttered. Otus got the souffle out of the oven and handed it to Jenny. “Nothing can spoil this,” Jenny said. Otus squinted to read the number of their booth. “Our spot is 114,” he said. Jenny checked. “That’s 176,” she corrected. “When will you get bifocals?” “When I need them,” Otus snapped, leading the way through the throng of people. The closer they got to the food pavilion, the more people they saw carrying dishes of their own offerings. Carnival music shot through the fair, the wind distorting the calliopes and making the blue and silver fair lights swing like neon zeros. Emily walked behind Otus and Jenny, and when they reached their spot, she spread out an old red and white checked tablecloth. “Watch out for Cheyenne and Charlie Craine,” she said as Jenny centered the souffle on the tablecloth and Otus unwrapped the china plates and silverware. “Yoo hoo,” Cheyenne brayed. She was across from them, about five tables down. Already set up, Cheyenne had her tub of dumplings bubbling on a hot plate behind a set of heavy

ceramic black bowls. With Cheyenne was Charlie, the sight of whom visibly thrilled Emily, who smiled and flounced where she stood. Cheyenne said something to him. He nodded and she headed toward Emily, Otus, and Jenny’s booth. Through her smiling teeth, ventriloquist style, Emily hissed, “Good heavens, she’s got that poor man with her. I’d be embarrassed.” The pleasure she experienced made her seem fifteen years younger as she stood there, the Mars-like wind tossing her grey hair making her appear a callow girl. “Cheyenne, I can smell your delicious dumpings from here. And what is it you added this year? What’s that smell? Viagra? Oh, and I see your ‘boyfriend’ is with you,” Emily cooed squeezing both of Cheyenne’s hands when she was close. As Otus arranged the plates and forks, he leaned over and whispered in Jenny’s ear, “Maybe Cheyenne and Charlie are just friends.” “And maybe we’re just friends,” she answered sotto voice, and they both giggled, drawing hot-tempered looks from both Emily and Cheyenne. Cheyenne wore her cornflower blue dress with the strawberry print and green low heels which made her white white skin glow like dry parchment over her blue veins. She looked down her nose at Otus and Jenny’s souffle and said, “Is that a big old omelette? Why it is! I guess I don’t have a chance with my poor old dumplings.” Otus rolled his eyes and one corner of his mouth hitched. Jenny rubbed his butt cheek, making him jump. Emily said, “You are so quaint, Cheyenne. It is a souffle, dear, a lobster and tarragon souffle.” “How fancy. Like I said, I’m sure my common dumplings can’t compete with your own royal gourmet fare.” Emily nodded her head at Charlie, who was busy tending to the bubbling pot. She said,

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cheyenne. After all, I’d still say you must have what it takes to attract a man, even though it’s a man you hate and he’s been down on his luck lately but what do you care? Beggars can’t be...well, you know. And it’s always good to see you trotting out your precious dumplings as you do year after year after year even though you’ve never won anything with them, delicious as they are. They are a good in and of themselves. And they are common fare, as you say - common as grease.” Cheyenne flushed. “Nice to see you too dear,” she said. “I wasn’t being mean,” Emily protested. “If I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry,” she further lied. “What you do is no concern of mine. Marry the man if you’re so crazy about him. At least we know you two won’t be having any wee bundles.” Cheyenne drew herself up to her full five feet, and she said, “Charlie says that he and I knew each other in previous lives.” Emily could not have been more pleased. She was a breathless girl. “That is wonderful news! You must tell Lena Donna and Roses Rosemary and Terry Mallory!” “Well, it was great to see you all. Good luck, Otus and Jenny,” Cheyenne said, wilting, her eyes glistening. “Got to go,” she squeaked and trundled off. “Pop on back over and bring us some dumplings. We’ll save you some of our omelette,” Emily called, waving to Charlie, who gave her a timid wave back. When Cheyenne was out of earshot, Emily said, “Score. Especially when I said that thing about them having a baby.” Jenny threw her arms around Otus and said, “Otus and I could be expecting - well, if I wasn’t post-menopausal.” Otus and Emily’s turn to blush. Emily said, “Thank you so much, Jenny, for letting me know that.” She shuddered as Otus fidgeted, red faced like a nervous rabbit. Jenny - willfully ignorant or simply clueless -

kissed Otus on the neck. At the area where the antique collectors set up their offerings for the show, Cooter parked the big red truck and trailer. Ennus spread an old blue blanket on the table before Ottus and Cooter set it down. Ennus centered the desk. He was so happy. Ennus turned to Ottus and Cooter, not to thank them - that never occurred to him. Instead, as he headed toward the trailer, he said, “Will you guys stay here with the desk while I take Moo-Moo to the livestock area?” He assumed they would. “No,” Ottus answered, but Ennus was too far away to hear. And too happy, so very happy with the way things were going. Happy to figure they would be happy to be a part of his plan to show Moo-Moo and get some sort of vindication for finding Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk, even if it were the feed store Eisenhower. Of course they’d be eager to help him make his vision come to fruition. The sight of Moo-Moo inspired him to even greater, more manic happiness. Ennus fed her the last of the red apples. “Moo-Moo, it’s your time to shine,” he whispered in her plate sized ear. She glanced at him as she chewed, and he kissed her above her eye as he hooked the lead rope to her custom made halter. “Let’s go,” he said, guiding her out of the trailer. “You!” he said. Moo-Moo batted her basketball sized eyes. Everyone smiled as Ennus and Moo-Moo proceed down the promenade under the multicolored lights, the bulbs playing crack-the-whip against the sky, clouds starting to form on the purple horizon. The fair goers gawked and smiled. It was nice to see such an outlandishly big cow; well, it was until Moo-Moo, seeing a red ribbon blown by the wind, thought it an apple, a dancing apple - and chased it. The merry red ribbon flew into the air over the heads of the running people and soared

among the wind-shook blue, green, and pink lights. For fifty feet, Ennus held the lead rope, dragged beneath Moo-Moo. A flying hoof to the shoulder sent him flying off to the side. She continued trotting after the pretty red ribbon. Moo-Moo crashed through the wall of a pig pen, sending six porkers squealing into the crowd. The ribbon, as if a thinking entity, flew over the area partitioned for the cooking contest. “What is that noise?” Emily asked, seconds before Moo-Moo exploded through the plywood back wall of her sister’s booth. Moo-Moo noticed Cheyenne and Charlie not at all as she pursued the red ribbon, which was back on the ground and skittering among the tables of food. “Yikes!” Cheyenne cried, thrown to the ground as Moo-Moo missed running her over by inches. Charlie saved himself by instinctively jumping backward when the giant cow smashed past. Moo-Moo sent both the table, the bowls and spoons, and the pot of dumplings flying, the tureen bouncing off concrete twenty feet away. “Oh oh,” Emily said. Cheyenne, in shock, sat on the ground in a puddle of dumplings. As suddenly as she had taken an interest in the ribbon, Moo-Moo promptly forgot what she was chasing and struck a nonchalant pose. Ennus caught up, limp-running. He took her by the lead rope. “Ennus!” Cheyenne cried. “Well this is awful. Pretend you don’t know Ennus or Moo-Moo. Let’s just hope they don’t see us and come over here,” Emily said. Otus nodded, but a line of troubled thought formed between Jenny’s eyebrows. Ennus waved to his aunt and was about to make an inauspicious get away when a stout old man with a mustache came up, accompanied by several other middle-aged authority types. His sienna plaid shirt bore a badge identifying him as head of the committee of livestock judges.

“This your cow?” he grunted. “Yes.” “Get it out of here. This is a menace,” the head judge commanded, looking up at the cow Goliath and sticking out his lower lip at Moo-Moo. He pulled the end of his moustache. “But we’re entered in the show,” Ennus said. The judge pointed at the smashed walls and an escaped pig still running loose and being chased by about a dozen laughing FFA boys. “Not any more,” he said. No longer so happy, Ennus trudged away with Moo-Moo, who allowed herself to be led. “It’s okay,” Ennus said in a sad voice to her. “It’s not your fault,” he sighed. This time people looked scared and backed away from them. No one smiled. All the fear and sorrow was lost on Moo-Moo, who enjoyed the zooming colored lights and the echoing, tinny calliope tune, “Moon River”. Ennus found Ottus and Cooter gone from the trailer and the booth where Eisenhower’s secretary’s desk lay. Several men and women, Reverend Bill among them, gathered around Ennus’s entry in the antique show. They seemed to be fussing. “Oh great, what now?” Ennus asked Moo-Moo as he led her into the trailer. For the first time since the second week of rehab, Ennus wished he could get high. He chewed the insides of his cheeks and locked in Moo-Moo. What could the problem be? Was the desk in the wrong place? Ennus checked the ticket. It was the right spot. When he got closer, Ennus saw that the people were excited in what appeared to be a happy way. Reverend Bill saw Ennus and stepped away from the others. “Is this your desk, Ennus?” He asked. “It is,” Ennus said holding out his ticket.

“Come here,” Reverend Bill said, and he led Ennus to the desk, where the others were chattering among themselves. Reverend Bill said, “With your permission, I’d like to inspect your splendid piece here.” Ennus brain exploded with rapture. “Sure,” he said. Like a magician, Reverend Bill spun the desk around. With a sweeping gesture along the top seam, he unlatched a secret compartment which fell off the back into Reverend Bill’s other waiting hand. “Oh my gosh,” Ennus gasped. Reverend Bill reached into the compartment and removed a cache of letters that were tied with a pink ribbon. With care, Reverend Bill untied the knot and examined the letters. “This is incredible,” he said. “I’ve never been a party to anything like this. This desk belonged to Lincoln.” People gasped and made appreciative clucking sounds. Ennus head spun as he thought of the Ouija board’s message, ‘H-A’ - Honest Abe of course! “I should have known. Abe Lincoln,” Ennus said. “No, sorry, Ennus - sorry everyone - not President Lincoln. This desk once belonged to Evelyn Lincoln, who was President Kennedy’s secretary and, uh, uh, some say his procurer of, uh, uh, women when Kennedy was in The White House. Which these letters would seem to somewhat indicate. Here’s one to Kennedy from a famous actress he was supposed to be having an illicit extramarital affair with behind Jackie Kennedy’s back.” Reverend Bill squinted to read. He said, “The letter says, ‘Dear John, even though I will forever treasure our talks on foreign policy, people are getting the wrong idea, so perhaps we shouldn’t see each other anymore, innocent as we are. Sincerely, Marilyn Monroe!’” Everyone gathered around the desk murmuring with excitement. What a find! Ennus beamed. Ouija board notwithstanding, now Ennus knew he had done what he was supposed to, the proof was in the desk. Ennus radiated

glad feelings, not unlike being high. A very happy star indeed. Otus and Cooter strolled past the rides and varying shows and contests. Smoke from the food stands vaporized in the blasting winds, tossing the purple and rose lights like blazing satellites. In the west, dark clouds banked, a backdrop for the careening lights. “I just don’t like being here anymore. I can’t stand it,” Cooter sighed. “Oh I hate this fair too,” Ottus agreed in a cheerful way. “No, I mean I want to move,” Cooter said, sidestepping a large man wielding an enormous cone of blue cotton candy. The rural grinned at Cooter, looking him up and down, and he said, “Ah hate yew!” before going on his way. “I don’t want to try enduring this place even ironically. I can’t, and I just don’t care about anything anymore.” “Me either! Don’t worry about that,” Ottus chirped. “Like even GO-GO ART, all art - it just all seems so stupid.” Ottus scratched his forearm. “True,” he conceded, shrugging. “I’m glad I went in with you on our last thing together, the money thing. I mean, if it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t be able to leave. Sheesh. Thanks.” “Where are you going? To the gay ghetto? Boystown?” Cooter rolled his eyes, thinking it not a bad idea, but rather than voice enthusiasm, he said, “I don’t know. Anywhere. But you could go too. You’ve got money.” “I won’t be touching that. Money, a good in and of itself and something to apply a - a sense of conservatorship towards. The perfect old money paradigm forever embossed like growing amber, or maybe gold,” Ottus blathered until he noticed Cooter’s eyes widening in

horror. “What’s wrong?” Ottus asked. He turned to where Cooter was staring wide-eyed. Mr. Ames stood in front of them pointing a gun at Ottus, holding it low so that no one but Cooter and Ottus saw. He said, “When I called earlier, one of your brothers said you’d all be here today. You had me invest my life savings in penny stocks I found day trading online, and I lost it all.” Ottus and Cooter exchanged looks. Ames had probably talked to Ennus. Ottus said, “Sorry, but who can predict these things?” Mr. Ames stepped in closer. The fair goers finally noticed the gun and, appropriately, ran away yelling, but Mr. Ames kept his eyes focused on Ottus. He said, “I found out that everyone considers day trading a joke.” “Not everyone, and gosh, what did you want me to tell you - to consult a Ouija board like I did. I’m sorry, but like I said, no one can predict -“ ”A bigger joke than representational art,” Mr. Ames snarled. A shot! A splash of blood flew through the air - Ottus’s just rewards for ruining Mr. Ames but also for pretending to be the devil, for being a GO-GO ARTIST, for making fun of everyone, and for every snotty thing he’d ever said, thought, or done. His just desserts - almost. Ottus dropped to the ground moaning as Cooter leaped forward and dropped Mr. Ames with an elbow to the jaw. When Mr. Ames was down, Cooter kicked the gun away, out of the mad artist’s reach. To Ottus he said, “Are you okay?” “I’ve been hit,” Ottus groaned, crying in a pitiful manner. “Can’t you see the blood?” Cooter looked Ottus over, and he said, “You’re not the one who was hit, you idiot. I was. That fool shot me in the wrist. That’s my blood. See? It’s around me. See? You jerk.” He

cradled his bleeding wrist. Cooter was a whiter shade of white. Ottus looked himself over, felt his torso and legs. He wasn’t shot. He got up. Mr. Ames sat up. “No one asks if I’m alright?” he said. Cooter stepped over and kicked him in the leg, making him yelp. “You shot me,” Cooter reminded Mr. Ames. “Ever been shot?” “Ever had a gun pulled on you?” Ottus cried indignantly. “I was there for the performance when Chris Burden had that guy shoot him in the arm,” Mr. Ames said. “Being shot at or shot isn’t that big of a deal.” Cooter kicked the other leg. “Owwww! Would you stop that?” “I have never been more scared in my life,” Ottus told the gathering crowd. Mr. Ames said, “Just think of it as GO-GO ART. And you deserved to get hit Ottus. I didn’t mean to hit your friend. Sorry - what was your name?” Cooter kicked Mr. Ames in the ribs, making him howl. He said, “My name is Cooter Jarvis, Lord Dickhead! You missed Ottus and hit me!” “I said I was sorry didn’t I?” Mr. Ames said, covering his ribs and pulling his knees to his chest. Sheriff Tom came up. Mr. Ames said, “Oh great. Guess I’ll be arrested now. It figures. This is my life.” “You’re under arrest,” Sheriff Tom said. Mr. Ames sighed in disgust. “What exactly do you expect? You need to be under arrest,” Cooter yelled as Sheriff Tom brought Mr. Ames to his feet and handcuffed him. Sheriff Tom held Mr. Ames and got the gun, grunting as he bent over to pick it up. Mr. Ames stared in a most hateful manner at Ottus, and he said, “You’re the one who ought to be arrested.” Ottus shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” Sheriff Tom said leading Mr. Ames away. “I need a doctor,” Cooter said, staring at his swollen, shaking wrist, now turning black and blue. And still bleeding.

NIGHT MUSIC The winds had given way to a steady rain that buffeted the Burchen farmhouse. Jenny and Cooter were spending the night in the guest rooms, it having been late when they’d gotten back from the hospital. Cooter, pain-pilled to the gills, soaked in a hot bath and stared at the ceiling. Otus, in his room, got ready for bed, putting on a long white nightgown and fluffy slippers. On his baldy head, he wore a John Deere cap, and he gave his wig a final comb before retiring it to its Styrofoam head for the evening. Emily, Ottus and Jenny sat at the kitchen table as coffee brewed. Ottus wore yellow pajamas, Jenny a blue terrycloth robe borrowed from Otus, and Emily still wore her black dress and pearls. Ennus, stripped to his tighty-whities, sat in his room at Kennedy’s secretary’s desk next to his window. Also on the desk was the Ouija board, and Ennus placed his fingers on the placard. “What do I do now?” he asked the ceiling. In the dining room, Emily said, “Ottus, let’s see what’s on the tv.” Ottus obliged, turning on the kitchen tv, which was now running a late edition of Entertainment Tonight. The announcer said, “And in soap opera news, we’ve gotten word that both General Hospital as well as One Life to Live have been cancelled!” Emily and Ottus looked at each other, jaws dropped. “Oh no! This is too much. First I get shot at, almost shot, and now this,” Ottus cried. In despondency and bitterness he turned off the tv. Emily was too stunned. “This is really some bad news,” Jenny said, trying to be sympathetic but secretly happy. As far as she was concerned, the entire family behaved stupidly over the show. Emily shook her head in disbelief. “One Life to Live is an old friend - losing it is just one more signpost pointing to our own deaths,” Ottus said. Emily looked at him.

She massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Well, that might be overstating things. And don’t point out that particular comparison when we tell Otus the bad news,” Emily said. “Yes, please do not mention the death thing to Otus. He’s sad enough about not even placing with our souffle,” Jenny said. “That’s right, don’t stir the mud. Don’t make things worse than they are,” Emily warned. Otus and Cooter came down the grand staircase. Cooter had borrowed old paisley sweats from Ottus. Otus accessorized his John Deere cap with a green kerchief. Cooter, looped, smiled at all, his eyes glistening in the nether light. Otus noticed the stricken faces of his brother and mom, and he said, “What has happened?” Ottus frowned and looked down at the table. “I’ll let them tell you,” he said. “Sweetie,” Jenny began, “you know how in our life at times maybe things, when they are ready to go from us - go.” “Are you breaking up with me?” Jenny jumped up from the table and threw her arms around his ponderous waist. She cried, “No, sweetie, never.” Otus looked confused. “Awww,” Cooter said. “It’s our show. They’ll be taking it off the air in January,” Emily said. Otus might have fallen over if Jenny weren’t holding him. His eyes rolled to the heavens, and he said, “No! Oh dear! I need to sit down!” Jenny carried him to her chair and sat him on her lap. Cooter walked into the china cabinet. “This is the worst day ever,” Ottus cried. “I’m alright. It could have been a lot worse,” Cooter said, slurring a bit. “A lot worse than losing One Life to Live? I’m not even going to be sarcastic,” Ottus spat

at the lad who had saved his life earlier that day. “Huh? I didn’t die. I still have my life to life,” Cooter told them. “Yes how fascinating,” Ottus said, not listening, the lines of his face souring. Cooter staggered over to where Ottus was sitting and hugged him. Ottus looked at the others and raised his eyebrows. Cooter said, “I wanted you to know you’re, well, my best friend.” Ottus patted Cooter on the shoulder and said, “That’s nice, but, you know, for me it’s different. Friendships are secondary to GO-GO ART. No, I did not choose to be a GO-GO ARTIST. GO-GO ART chose me. I tried to walk away, but I can’t - I can’t so don’t expect me to! And today made me realize how inherently disappointing friendships and romances are compared to my GO-GO ART.“ ”Well, thanks anyway,” Cooter said, still grinning but disengaging from Ottus to go sit on the floor in the corner. “So good to see you learned what’s really important after having a gun pointed at you and having Cooter risk his life to save yours. Lovely sentiment beautifully expressed, brother,” Otus snipped. Jenny rubbed his neck and shoulders. Though not winning something at the fair disappointed, Otus reeled, flummoxed from the One Life to Live news. He took off his John Deer hat and ran his hand over his bald pate. Everyone looked, momentarily roused from their depression to smile, until Otus noticed them and put the cap back on. He shook his head. “Our poor show. From now on, every second I watch, it will be under a veil of sorrow.” Jenny slipped her hand under the hem of his nightgown and ran it up his leg, making him squirm. Emily sucked her teeth in a philosophical manner, and she said, “What do you expect.“ The shadow of an angry smirk flashed. “I wonder if Cheyenne knows. I’ll call her. She’s

probably in bed with Charlie Craine!” She went into the front room and called. As soon as Cheyenne answered, Emily said, “One Life to Live is being cancelled. Soon, it will be gone forever!” From the kitchen, they heard Cheyenne’s shriek coming from the phone’s receiver. “Isn’t that like Mom, making lemons out of lemonade,” Ottus commented. Otus adjusted his kerchief, flaring the material, and he said, “I think you have got that backward.“ ”Oh shut up, I know what I said. What does it matter? What does anything matter now?” Ottus lamented, wiping away angry tears. Having accomplished her task, Emily rejoined the family, taking her place at the head of the kitchen table.

Ottus, red eyed, said, “Congrats on the

score, Mom.” “I was simply informing your aunt of the bad news. No scoring intended,” Emily lied, forcing herself to look solemn. Jenny, tender-hearted, took pity. She said, “Maybe there is some way you can save your show.” Her hand ran higher up the side of Otus’s thigh, making his eyes widen. “Where is that Ouija board? We can ask that for advice again,” Ottus mused. Otus straightened himself on Jenny’s lap, squashing her hand between both their big thighs. He said, “That thing is dangerous!” From overhead on the second floor, frantic ghost-steps pattered in quick circles. Then stopped. “See,” Otus said. “Protect me, darling,” Jenny said prying her hand, either tingling with love or from the circulation being cut off, out from between them and wrapping her arms around Otus despite her knowing that it was Ennus upstairs.

“Don’t be such a toody,” Emily said. “It’s just your brother.” “What in the world is a - a toody?” Otus asked, flinching under Jenny’s ticking fingers. “Of course it’s Ennus making that noise. Let’s hope he’s not having a drug jubilee up there,” Ottus muttered. Ennus descended the grand staircase, still only in his tighty-whities, his arms raised in triumph as he looked down on his brothers and Jenny. “I’m lovin’ it!” he exclaimed to nonplused looks from all. All except Cooter, who gazed at the middle distance in a thoughtful way. “The brown stuff again? Or are you going back to the other kinds of dope you so love,” Ottus pretended to joke. Above such trifling irritations, Ennus strode into the room and sat on the table, making everyone draw back. “Why the glum faces?” Ennus asked. “Please put something on,” Otus gasped. Ennus pulled a knee to his chest instead, partially exposing himself and making everyone push their chairs back even further, which took Jenny and Otus some effort. Ennus said, “The Ouija board indicated that I should work at McDonalds.” Even Emily thought that a bad idea, but it was Otus who struggled off Jenny’s lap to wave his finger in the air and say, “That’s crazy! That board has been nothing but - but a strange and evil influence, and I still say it’s nothing to fool around with - the spirit world - let alone base a choice like working at...McDonalds? You want to work at McDonalds?” Otus clasped his hands in a prayerful attitude and said, “Dear Lord, please take this bestial notion from my poor brother’s mind, and make him put some clothes on.” Otus looked at Emily and said, “Mom, make him put some clothes on.” He looked at Ennus and said, “Be considerate of Jenny

even if you don’t have any shame for yourself and get the heck off the table right now and put something on. Cover yourself, man! If you don’t -“ Ennus bit his thumbnail and stared at the ceiling. He said, “Big Macs, McCafe, The McRib.” He looked at everyone as if seeing them for the first time. “The McRib is seasonal. You can’t always get it.” Emily slapped Ennus on the knee and snapped, “Get off the table and put some clothes on, and...get off the table right now! People eat where you’re sitting! Go! Put on a bathrobe. You can think about McDonalds tomorrow. Right now, put on a robe!” Without a word, Ennus hopped off the table and started back upstairs. When he was out of sight, Emily said, “With his arrest record, we don’t have to worry about seeing him in a McDonalds uniform anytime soon.” Cooter perked up long enough to say, “But I’m alright basically.” His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the floor. “I’d like to sleep right here tonight if no one minds,” he said before conking out. “No one minds,” Ottus said. “That’s your friend, Ottus. You and your brother put him to bed,” Emily said. “All in good time - maybe,” Ottus allowed. “So, Mom, we heard Aunt Cheyenne scream over the phone.” He couldn’t smile, but he was interested. Emily smiled a wise and sad smile. She said, “My sister is even more ridiculous than you boys. She was crying. Crying.” So exquisite was the thought that it made Emily shut her eyes as if in pain. Her eyes opened wide, and she looked at everyone around the table and said, “Her man will have to dry her tears tonight!” She sighed a happy if not charitable sigh. “Oh, Mom, that was a score,” Ottus said. “Poor Aunt Cheyenne,” Otus sniffed, throwing an arm recklessly around Jenny’s neck.

“”Hush, Miss Priss,” Emily snapped. “At least I have heard that before. What’s with toody though?” Otus asked. “It’s Italian,” Emily lied. She turned to Ottus and said, “Take your friend to his room. I’ll make some coffee and we’ll heat up some of that delightful souffle.” Otus and Jenny exchanged looks, and Otus said, “Sounds lovely but it’s too late for me to eat.” “Me too,” chimed Jenny. “Plus, we’re going to go over some recipes - start early and all - and brainstorm a bit before we retire - Jenny to the guest room and me in my room, of course,” Otus lied. “We’ll put Cooter to bed first though. Ottus, don’t get up.” “Okay,” Ottus said. “Whatever,” Emily allowed, choosing not to think about Otus and Jenny’s capers of love under the pretense of brainstorming. “So what about some coffee and souffle with your mom, Ottus?” “Sure,” Ottus said, getting up to get their late snack ready. Otus and Jenny picked up Cooter with ease and carried him up the grand staircase. On their way, they passed Ennus, now wearing a blue silk robe. “Much better - gauche as it is,” Otus commented. “Thank you, brother,” Ennus said. “Good night, Ennus,” Jenny said. “Is Mom letting the two of you sleep together?” Ennus, asked, shocked at the thought. “We’re not sleeping together. We’re going to brainstorm for awhile in my room, and then Jenny is going to retire to the guest room,” Otus lied. Ennus’s nostrils flared. “That coffee smells good,” he said, not thinking but heading

toward the smell. “Much better,” Emily said, regarding Ennus. To Ottus she called, “Fix another plate and another cup of coffee,” The rain pelted the farmhouse in sweeping sheets. “This is like a McDonalds commercial,” Ennus observed. “Shut up with that crazy talk,” Ottus said as he came in bearing a rolling silver tray, at least a hundred and fifty years old, with the cups of milky sweet coffee and plates of hot souffle. Ennus picked at the frayed lapel of his robe and sniffed. He picked at his wiry, sparse hair and said, “I’m lovin’-“ ”Don’t. Would you like to go back to rehab because I’ll swear you’re on crack if you say another stupid thing about working at -“ Ottus snapped. Emily, loving her son more than Ottus did, took a gentler tact. She said, ”We know you’re excited about your new plans, but please think about them tomorrow. Think about them tomorrow, dear. Do not talk to us about working at McDonalds right now.” “Or ever,” Ottus added. A thud from the second floor. Otus and Jenny had dropped Cooter. Either that or - they were brainstorming recipes. Or something. Emily, Ottus, and Ennus glanced at the ceiling, then looked away in blue-steel hauteur. “I wonder if Otus leaves that hat on when they’re brainstorming?” Ennus said. “At least they’re not here baby talking,” Ottus said, eating a bite and washing it down with coffee. “Do we have anything for dessert?” “Please do not infer what I think you are alluding to while we’re eating or at any other time now that I think about it,” Emily said. Ennus shrugged and there was silence at the table as they sipped and ate. Finally, Emily said, “Isn’t this cozy.” In the distance, low thunder rumbled. “It is,” Ottus said, not being sarcastic.

Ennus said, “It’s so American.” Ottus and Emily rolled their eyes, thankful - Ottus less so than Emily - that Ennus still embraced his recovery, obnoxious as he was. “Think anything is on channel 3?” Ottus said, changing the subject. “See what’s on,” Emily said. Ennus turned the kitchen tv on. The news. The local weatherman, Mr. Jim Rasor, talked about the storms moving through. “They’re here, and it’s going to rain all night,” he assured everyone. Emily frowned. She said, “That old Jim Rasor is always trying to scare people with his weather, and he is so grim. Grim as death.” “News is always bad. Rain all night. One Life to Live is cancelled. Australia vanishing. It is always something. Life is too depressing to live,” Ottus moaned. “It’s just rain,” Ennus said. He was a happy star. McDonalds. He wouldn’t say anything else about it to them tonight. Tomorrow he would talk about McDonalds all day to anyone who would listen. Maybe he’d go to McDonalds. Ottus wasn’t happy so much as sleepy. One Life to Live - what a blow. He’d never get over it. But the rain lulled him despite his sadness. Emily was glad about making Cheyenne cry. Cheyenne was, as Emily had said in mockery, being soothed by Charlie Craine, who at that moment was listening to her complain about Emily, which made Cheyenne happy. And Otus and Jenny were happy too, maybe the happiest of them all.