Garden of Sin

By Keith Crews

Welcome to Orchard Cove, a sleepy seaside community that’s unknowingly sitting atop an ancient source of evil. However, Cyril Emery, a 78 year old senior is beginning to remember the town’s haunted past. But if he will be able to stop the cycle of death and the Travelling Man before the next incarnation will remain to be seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Crews
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780986824579

Keith Crews

Keith Crews was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. He has written several novels which are currently being converted into audiobooks. He hopes you enjoy the read(s) :)

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Garden of Sin

A Novel by Keith Crews

Copyright © 2012

All Rights Reserved

ISBN#

978-0-9868245-7-9

Smashwords Edition

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to all the people that have and continue to support me.

Without you I am lost.

Special thanks to Gavin Bennett for proofreading this manuscript.

A chore if ever there was one to be had.

Garden of Sin

Chapter One

Prescription Remedies

(1)

They sat in the palm of Cyril’s hand like wingless fireflies, two pills that glowed with the promise to make everything good again. At least that’s what the Travelling Man had said they would do. Fix what ails ya, had been his exact wording. And judging by the wicked grin that had laid upon his mischievous little face, Cyril Emery knew they would do just that. It had seemed a ridiculous notion at the time to suggest such an outrageous claim but the more he stared into the soft ethereal glow of that supernatural prescription, the more the possibility intrigued him. All right again---right as rain even---no more misery.

The temptation to gobble them up was near ravenous and to make matters worse he could feel that wondrous magic bleeding out of their translucent skin and into his hand like a dry leaf welcoming a soothing rain. But then there was more to it than that, it felt religious---no---worse---self-righteous. There was a mysterious danger inside those jade cocoons. Yet despite knowing better, he had not flushed them down the drain for how could he dispose of that which could make everything right as rain.

Lord, give me strength, he whispered.

It had proven an incredible battle of will, but he had finally managed to set the emerald pills down onto the sink. Six years ago he had passed a kidney stone and the passing had entailed the kind of pain that you could never prepare for what Cyril likened to a real nut buster. He had howled like a scolded dog that day but nonetheless remembered that wonderful feeling of relief that had followed shortly thereafter. It was the kind of moment when your knees turned into wet spaghetti. That was the kind of sensation he was feeling right now: that dreamy calm after the storm.

Saints be praised, he muttered as he wiped at his brow. His gaze met the deceptive pills on the porcelain. Their appearance had changed. The caps had lost their ethereal brilliance as if they somehow knew they had just been bested, humbled by a simple senior citizen who had been able to thwart off their incredible temptation, that which could make things as right as rain. As Jesus resisted Satan in the desert, Cyril said, as he recalled the temptation of Christ by Lucifer as written of in the bible. And the church said amen.

He suddenly had a vision of Galan Whicker as the Devil. The pharmacist raced around the burning streets of Orchard Cove, cackling like a madman, which of course he was. He danced a weird jig, his heels merrily kicking in time with his nasally laugh. He was a strange sight to behold, a lanky little devil out on a wild tear, his slightly hunched back rolled up inside a pair of red long johns, a three pronged pitchfork clutched firmly within his bony hand. This, while the wood tacked homes and dime-store tourist shops of Orchard Cove burned to the ground.

Cyril placed his arthritic hands upon either side of the sink and gently leaned in closer toward the bathroom mirror. A set of bloodshot eyes surrounded by a withered old face stared back at him. How had he come to be so old, so useless, and so alone? Those hazel eyes that used to smile so long ago were lost for an answer. Now they just looked questioningly out of the mirror, as if waiting for that final hour to pass so that they might never have to look upon themselves again, nor look upon that deep rooted pain. Those eyes had seen too much sorrow in their 77 years of life. His wife of 40 years had gone into the hard obstruction from malignant breast cancer and his one and only son had fallen victim to a drunk driver on the province’s infamous Highway 101. Both of those events had been difficult to deal with, and were the sort of emotional damage that only hurt when you breathed and boy hadn’t Cyril thought about remedying that condition. To stop breathing once and for all and to lie down inside the cold damp earth where nothing else could harm him. That temptation had easily rivaled that of the pills, and he still hadn’t completely backed away from that idea yet. But then what would be the point? The grave was close enough as it was. There was no need to buy a ticket on that train when the final destination was on the next street over.

His weathered hands rubbed at his eyes, soaking up those tears that had not yet fallen. Everything felt on edge now, both nerves and sanity. Yes, death was on the next street over but from the curb’s view it still looked a million miles away. Perhaps if he was lucky God would spare him that walk and just strike him dead with a massive heart attack, although he knew when it came to handing out favors the big cheese upstairs was notoriously cheap.

You clever fiend, Cyril muttered Cure a rainy day indeed.

Again his eyes found the pills. They were unremarkable now. Lackluster in appearance. But they still possessed a strange sort of treacherous beauty like a rattlesnake’s eyes. This was the Travelling Man’s patented snake oil, tools of an old charmer who poured bee taffy into everyone’s ears and blew smoke rings up their backside. To Cyril, Galan was nothing but a used car salesman who worked on commission. The question, however, was what kind of a percentage did Mr. Whicker receive for doping up the entire town on his special brand of whammy juice? Regardless of the answer it would still prove that the Travelling Man was morally bankrupt, for he was an agent of spiritual bondage, and as such was evil to the core.

A few days ago, Cyril would have thought that such a notion was crazy, but ever since he had landed on the other side of the coin, he had come to understand a great many things. Of course deep down he had always suspected the little pill pusher with the tiny round spectacles had been up to no good but he had nonetheless ignored that mistrust of Galan, for, at the time, he had had no grounds on which to justify his suspicion. In fact Cyril had felt that his judgment of Galan’s character was no doubt a result of his bias towards the medical community for having failed his late wife. All those poisonous chemo drugs they had given her, the ones that took away her hair, her vitality and intellectual reason. He had come to learn during those days that there were no miracle drugs, just miracles, in which case he and Patricia had both been passed over by the Lord.

Here, the Travelling Man had set up shop 13 years after Patricia had gone into the ground, and Cyril still couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the town’s most popular drug dealer might in fact have some special remedy stashed away inside a glass jar that could have saved her. He had laid awake many a night thinking about just that, and every time his hand wandered through that cold emptiness on the other side of the bed he couldn’t help but curse the name Galan Whicker. If only the old fool had pushed his cart of tonics into town earlier then perhaps she would still be alive today. But no, that son of a bitch with the dull moronic grin had arrived late and now there were only those lingering questions of what might have been.

But then there had been more to it than that---much, much more, for the Travelling Man was always on time and Cyril owned more of his wife’s demise than anyone.

At the time he had tried talking to Maude about that bitterness towards Galan but for some unknown reason he had kept his silence. He guessed that there were just some things that sounded more reasonable in the hub of night than in the light of day. Maude probably would have understood that too, but then again there were just certain things a man had to keep to himself, especially if they were borderline loony tunes. Besides the idea that Galan had cures for cancer stashed away inside his potion bottles because in truth he was some sort of a demonic wizard was not something you actually told a friend but rather told a good psychiatrist. As for Cyril he had no desire to ride the Freudian couch and so he had kept his suspicions to himself. But then he did have those pills on the sink, didn’t he? Weren’t they proof incarnate that supported a supernatural connection to the pharmacist who called himself Galan Whicker? After all, what kind of medicine glowed whenever you touched it? What kind of prescription whispered sweet nothings into your heart and promised to set everything right again? However, such modest evidence was pale in comparison to this version of Orchard Cove for he was on the other side of the coin in a world that was his hometown and yet was not. It was the Land of Oz and the Travelling Man was the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful wizard! If he had any doubt to the contrary then he need only look out the window.

His fingers hovered above the capsules to which the pills flickered to life, the magic inside waiting to be ingested. What harm could there be? It wasn’t like it was rat poison? And maybe just maybe if he ate them the world would soften and his eyes would smile as they once had. But no! That would be taking the easy way out. His fingers wound up into a tight fist. Lord, give me strength. He opened the bathroom mirror, hauled out an ivory handle straight razor and snapped open the blade. You’ll not tempt me you soulless bastard. It’s time to find out what makes you tick once and for all.

He held a pill between his forefinger and thumb preparing to perform a makeshift forensic dissection. Again the colorful light bled out through the translucent skin basking the bathroom porcelain in an ethereal shade of jade. The razor’s edge touched the tiny cocoon dead center to which the caplet replied with a barely audible squeal. The damn thing was crying out not to be cut open but he would have no part of that plea. He was determined to find an answer and this seemed like the only way to get it. Besides if he could discover the secret medicinal ingredient inside the prescription then he would discover the source behind Galan’s mysterious power, or so he thought.

Don’t hesitate you old fool, just do it.

Carefully, he applied a gradual cutting weight to the pill.

Chapter Two

Sunny Days

(1)

It had been the driest summer on record. 30 plus degrees Celsius for the entire months of June, July, and in a couple more weeks August would be a clean sweep as well. As a result lakes were low, air conditioners were in high demand, ice cream cones had taken a fifty cent price hike, and most lawns had an unhealthy tendency to crunch underfoot. Gas had also gone through the roof, although its steep climb had nothing to do with the dry weather in town but rather a political dispute in the Persian Gulf.

As for Cyril, his blood pressure had gone up: 170 over 115. Not the greatest bit of news considering he was pushing 77 years uphill with a bad knee and a faulty kidney. But then what was an old codger to do? If he listened to what the quacks had to say then he would end up stuck inside a plastic bubble till the day he died, or worse a nursing home. Then what good would he be? Sure he may not have dug any drainage ditches lately but gosh darn it he could still tend to most household chores. Well not anything that involved climbing up a ladder, but if you needed the lawn mowed, the garden weeded, or the veranda painted, then Cyril Emery was your man. Hell he even helped his next door neighbor, Maude Landry bring in her groceries and trim her hedge on a regular basis. Although the summer heat had pretty much killed most of her grass, and as for that hedge it looked more like a brier patch of thick unruly thorns than a plush garden fence. Not much work there. But as for carrying in those groceries, well that was a weekly staple, and as a reward Maude would always fix Cyril a tasty treat for being such a considerate gentleman. Bear claws, strawberry shortcake, and by far his most favorite, tea biscuits. Together they would sit on the porch swing and talk about the old days, like when the road used to be little more than a gravel path and the elementary school across the street had been a dairy farm, or when the milkman still used to deliver bottled milk to the doorstep and the local doctor still made house calls. But more often than not their talks would inevitably turn to their late spouses.

Maude’s husband, Harold Landry had passed away ten years ago from a sudden brain aneurysm. God rest his soul. He had been 68, big as a bull moose and had worked at the OC Lumber for thirty years where he ran the plank saw and wood planer. He had never been the sort of man to say an unkind word to anyone and the words Maude often used to describe her late husband were: a good Christian man.

As for Cyril’s wife, Patricia, she had passed away 13 years ago from a long battle with breast cancer. In life she had been a Catholic spitfire with an ingrained talent for reciting biblical scripture at the most inopportune times. Words of wisdom she had often used to help keep her husband on the path to righteousness lest he fall by the wayside and be consumed by the fires of Hell. True, Cyril had never been accused of being a good Christian man but then he felt Patricia had done enough praying for the both of them. Besides he never did anybody wrong, at least not intentionally, and that alone was probably why Patricia had put up with him for as many years as she had. Who knew? But then, overall, he wasn’t a bad guy he supposed. Sure he liked to drink his beer and who in their right mind didn’t bet on the Super Bowl for Christ’s sake. In the end he had been a good husband, loyal, affectionate, and sympathetic to his wife’s needs. He didn’t need some guy in a toga and sandals telling him how to live a decent life because to a man like Cyril Emery that kind of know how was a given. As for Patricia she had understood him like no one else could and Cyril couldn’t help but think that she probably knew him better than he knew himself. There were just some folks who had a gift for reading people and when it came to Patricia, she could read her husband as easily as a grocery list. She alone knew how to work him and she had even been so kind as to let Cyril think that he was actually doing what he had originally wanted to do in the first place. That took people skills and Patricia had those in spades. But she was gone now and so too was Maude’s Harold. And aside from those occasional neighborly pleasantries and those old familiar trips down memory lane, they were both very much alone.

It was mid-morning. The summer heat had yet to reach its zenith. That would come in a few more hours, and when it did, it would be time to retreat back into the house and crank up the living room air conditioner. As for now the front porch was just comfortable and offered up the kind of dry heat that not only soothed an old man’s bones but drove the arthritis out of his aching joints. He felt 20 years younger this morning. A scrapping 77 year old who only thought he was old. But that would change by midday when the heat zapped away his strength and laid him out like a sun baked jellyfish. Most mornings began on the bungalow’s front porch where Cyril sipped store bought lemonade while he watched the neighborhood kids play baseball on the elementary school playground which sat directly across the street. As for that strip of leisurely real estate, it was a source of both entertainment and aggravation. When the sun went down the teenagers would gather and then it would get noisy and sometimes even violent. The sounds from the car stereos often made Cyril wish he were losing his hearing and not his hair. Many a night he had watched the cop cruisers round up the drunken trouble makers and then whisk them off to wherever it was that cops took kids when they had too much to drink. But other than the occasional brush with the local rowdies, the neighborhood was an overall good place to live.

Seniors populated the better part of the street. Their houses by in large had picket fences, tacky lawn ornaments, and porch hung wind chimers. Their daily news came from the morning paper and the good old reliable CBC on the radio, not that damnable contraption called the internet, whatever the hell that thing did. And as for the music that was often heard wafting out between the pie cooler window sills, it either rang of Christian gospel or from those old country and western greats such as Johnny Cash and Tommy Hunter. Overall things were tame for the most part on Harp Street, except when it came to Saturday nights. That’s when even the old fogies let loose and walked across the street to the elementary school to gather for a serious hand of poker. Then it would be a no hold bars event of beer drinking and table drumming excitement. It was also a ripe breeding ground for gossip, and as for that bit of poorly spoken etiquette, as of late it largely centered on Orchard Cove’s newest resident: Galan Whicker. But aside from the odd bits of speculation about the local pharmacist, there was that ever present rumor mill that delighted in the old grind: Who had died recently? Who just had surgery? Who had gone into Dexter’s Nursing Home? Who had said what ill word and done what social slight to whomever? It was a veritable sewing circle set to the tune of second hand cigarette smoke, alcohol, and the old school fist pounders who slapped their cards down onto the poker table whenever they had a good hand.

It seemed the card games were all Cyril really had to live for these days, that safe little sanctuary of the poker tournaments. It was the place where he could forget that he was alone for a couple of hours. As for Patricia, she had never gone to those God awful things. A fine Christian woman such as herself would never have been caught in there. After all the tournament was a smoky den of iniquity, although at heart she equated its place in the grand scheme of things as being inconsequential. So she had allowed her husband to go to the tournaments, not only because it was a small transgression, but it also served to get him out of the house for a few blessed hours. Even a good wife such as Patricia needed a break from the old stick once and awhile, because the key to a successful marriage wasn’t so much about always being together, as it was about spending some time apart.

As for the poker tournament: today was Friday and the game wouldn’t be until tomorrow night. So what Cyril had to look forward to this morning was watching the kids play baseball, and in a short while he would help Maude Landry carry in her weekly stash of groceries. That would prove the old fool still had some worth, perhaps not enough to climb a ladder but enough coin to haul a couple plastic bags up a few steps.

In the distance the sharp crack of wood connecting with leather made the kids across the street go wild. Whatever the young fellow’s name was he had just hit himself a real grand slam of a homerun. Now the kid was showboating, strutting around the bases with his hat waving victoriously in the air. Cyril cracked the slightest grin as his thoughts wandered down memory lane. He had once been a hell of an athlete in his youth, a fastball pitcher with a killer curve. He had also been a competent quarterback in high school where he had played on a team called The Orchard Cove Pumas. P-U-M-A-S…goooo Pumas! That’s where he had met Patricia. She had been a cheerleader with great gams, pretty face and a tight uniform sweater that really showed off her assets. Back then he had asked her out after the Pumas had lost a particularly tough game to the Stellarton Storms. Later on in their courtship she had confessed to having felt sorry for Cyril seeing as he had fumbled twice in one quarter. Truth was it was raining that day and even the Storms QB had let the pigskin slip out of his hand at least once. Whatever the reason she had said yes to his invitation and when high school was over she had also said yes to his proposal.

It was funny how the mind looked at the past. Sometimes it had a tendency to exaggerate the mundane until a person had convinced themselves that a particular event had some cosmic significance. With Maude it had been romanticized so much that Cyril had eventually fooled himself into thinking that their meeting had been love at first sight when in fact he had first pegged Patricia as a good lay. Hardly gentlemanly and not at all romantic but it was the truth. Secondly, and this was one of those horrible secrets that he had never told anyone, at the time he had been very much in love with another. She had been the Anglican Minister’s daughter and a high school hockey player’s steady girlfriend. Back then her name had been Maude Shirley and she had stolen Cyril’s heart with just one glance.

Maude had been prettier than Patricia and to Cyril she seemed to be the whole package and then some. What the guys used to call a walking wet dream on roller skates. However, back then Maude had never given him the time of day, even though they had sat next to one another in Mrs. Bixby’s English class for their entire senior year. (Cyril had almost failed that course because of Maude by the way.) But now Maude smiled whenever she saw him and even brought him bear claws, strawberry shortcake, and by far his most favorite, those delicious tea biscuits. Yes, life was indeed funny with how it twisted, turned, and then wound back onto itself. Long ago there have been a time when he would have done anything to be with Maude, but now with 20/20 hindsight he would not have traded one day with Patricia in favor of his former flame, not one. Patricia had been his girl, and no one, not even Maude could ever hope to replace her. Tea biscuits or no tea biscuits. And that notion gave him pause for consideration: perhaps there really was such a thing as fate, and whenever you looked back to yesterday and romanticized events you were in fact regarding them through destiny’s eyes. It seemed a wonderful sentiment and when you were as far along the path as Cyril was perhaps you had a tendency to sum up things in a way that allowed you to set your house in order before the Lord finally called you home. Anything that could rationalize away those failed choices and missed opportunities.

Across the street the homerun kid strolled past home plate and slapped a teammate a high five salute. The game was over and the score by Cyril’s count had been 11 to 10. The players slowly filtered out through the chain link fence behind the backstop, some on bicycles, others on skateboards, effectively emptying the neighborhood to the lonesome whine from a nearby power line transformer.

The mercury on the porch post thermostat read 22 degrees but that reading was still in the shade. Cyril figured it would shoot up at least another 10 points once the sun got a good hard look at it. The buzz of the power lines stopped and was replaced by the sound of a car engine rumbling down the street. It was Maude’s Impala. She was back from the supermarket with her haul of goodies. Cyril climbed slowly out of the porch swing, the bones in his left knee popping under the effort. His hands straddled his waist as he stretched out his spine like an old cat that had just awoken from a long nap. As the Impala rolled into Maude’s driveway he picked up his cane and walked down the front steps past the thorny hedge that separated their properties while the sun blasted his eyes and cooked his well-seasoned skin. He hadn’t put on any sun screen this morning, and knew that if he dawdled outside for too long, then he would end up peeling like a spoiled onion.

Maude stepped out of her air conditioned car and into the slap of what was shaping up to be one hell of a scorcher. She wore a wide brimmed hat over her silver hair, a white carnation pinned to its pinkish band, a white cotton dress hanging over her slender shoulders. To Cyril she looked like an angel, the one that got away, and for a brief moment he thought about how he would not have traded a single day with his beloved Patricia for anyone. Well perhaps in Maude’s case one evening wouldn’t have been out of the question. And then there it was: that old fool’s sentimentality, and he had to admit that even after all these years he still felt something for her. Although the sexual heat once associated with his youthful fancy had mellowed into a heartfelt fondness that a man of advanced years kindly tended.

Maude smiled upon Cyril with an attention that was not in itself without some hint of mutual attraction. Gonna be another hot one Cy.

Melt the icing off a cake, I’d reckon.

Or the snowshoes off an Eskimo.

Cyril smiled warmly.

How’s the knee today?

He liked it when she asked about his health. It showed she cared, although, he always put up a front that said he was as strong as an August gale. Knee’s a regular kickstand, thank you kindly.

But could it stand a kick, Maude replied with a clever smile.

Nope, the only kick I could stand is a kick in the pants.

Playful familiarities had always been a form of foreplay with Cyril and Patricia, and as he stood beneath the sweltering sunlight exchanging pleasantries with Maude, he couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty, as if he were doing something wrong, like cheating on his departed wife. A ridiculous notion, but it was nonetheless how he felt.

Come to my aid once again, have you?

That’s what we men do, my dear. We carry.

And get carried away too, if I do say.

Cyril chuckled and Maude opened the car trunk.

(2)

Inside the house, Cyril piled the groceries onto the kitchen table while Maude stored them away. After all the wares had been placed into their designated nooks she went to the cupboard and took out two tall glasses and filled them both with ice tea from the fridge. The pair then sat down together to have their routine chat.

Do you think this heat’s ever going to end? Maude took a sip of her ice tea and gave a sigh that displayed her exasperation with the ongoing heat wave.

Come Christmas, by the looks of things.

If only it would rain.

Yep, need a real good thunderhead to clear the air. Sky’s about as backed up as a tavern toilet on cigarette butts.

Maude gave him a tilted eyebrow which said just how tasteless she thought that last analogy was.

I heard Victor McFadden fell down yesterday and broke his hip.

Cyril nodded as he watched the ice cubes inside his ice tea slowly disintegrate. Probably drunk as a skunk on that potato moonshine he likes to make so much. They say that stuff would make a maggot sick.

Well, if that’s the case, then I guess he didn’t feel any pain.

I don’t know what would be worse: the broken hip or the hangover from that crap he brews up.

Maybe he should stop by and speak to Galan.

Cyril fixed Maude with a peculiar stare, one that conveyed a certain opinion on that particular subject.

What is it, Cy?

Nothing, Cyril replied as he waved his hand in a nonchalant fashion.

However, this time it was Maude who offered up a peculiar stare. My good man, how long have we known each other?

Cyril sighed reluctantly because he knew she would keep on him until she had an answer. It’s just that everyone seems to think that Galan Whicker is a miracle man. Nobody, aside from the King of Nazareth can cure a rainy day.

It’s just a sign, Cyril, Maude said. An advertisement over the pharmacy door. No one, least of all Galan, would suggest that he could actually cure a rainy day.

Cyril shook his glass slightly, a man troubled by unspoken thoughts.

There’s more, isn’t there? Maude probed. What is it, Cy? Tell me.

At this point, Cyril’s feelings towards Galan Whicker had not yet fully taken form, at least not into something he could intelligently articulate. It was just a strange suspicion and perhaps a form of misdirected resentment. But why would he feel that way towards a man he had never even met, let alone laid eyes upon?

Honestly…I don’t know, Cyril confessed. There just seems to be something---

---Off about him?

Yeah, that’s it…maybe…I don’t know.

Have you spoken with him yet?

No. Have you?

I’m thinking about checking out the store, Maude replied with a bit of curious excitement. Beth Montgomery said she and Ike had gone in there a few days ago to get some rheumatoid medicine, and now they’re both feeling incredible. No pain at all. Can you figure that? After seeing all those fancy high priced doctors in the city who couldn’t do anything for them, here, a pharmacist in a small town comes up with the answer.

Cyril smiled softly. He liked Beth and Ike well enough and was glad that they had discovered something to help alleviate their aches and pains. Suddenly, his hand began to rub his knee, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something good old Galan had stashed away inside his snake oil shop that could put out that miserable fire beneath the burred plate. Well…good for them.

But? Maude could sense the provision in his response.

Cyril gave an indecisive shrug. Like I said, I don’t know.

That was the truth.

Well now, I’ve never known you to form a preconceived opinion about someone you had yet to meet. Her blue eyes almost looked wounded, as if she couldn’t believe that this kind hearted man at her kitchen table could ever do anything wrong. What’s with you? Are you sure that something else isn’t bothering you?

Patricia’s headstone jumped into his forethoughts. The image came with memories of the hospital cancer unit, his wife’s mastectomy, and those poisonous chemo drugs that stole her hair and made her sick to her stomach. All those expensive pills and sharp needles with their modern day wonder drugs weren’t worth shit at the end of the day. Was his bitterness with the medical establishment and those purported experts who worked in that field? Hell yeah! But still---Galan Whicker---just the name itself put Cyril on edge, made his gut tighten, his eyebrows hunch. Why was that?

I’m getting old Maude, Cyril replied. It was yet another truth spoken, one that was aware how the mind went when you climbed over a certain wrung on the birthday ladder. My ideas are borderline senile. Like you said earlier, men get carried away.

Her expression was concerned for a moment, but then lightened. Yes. They most certainly do.

Cyril took a sip of his ice tea and then set it down on the table. You’re going to see him?

Maude nodded. "I was curious about what the store looks like inside. They say it’s