Coopers Crossing: Sequel to Coopers Hollow

By Daniel Cross

WHY IS COOPERS CROSSING GROWING SO FAST?

JACK VAN CAMP, charming mayor of the booming Indiana town, isn’t telling where all his new townsfolk are coming from. He likes to think of it as his little secret.
BUT WHEN attractive visitor Mrs. Zimmer expresses an interest in settling there, he reveals some of the town’s stranger aspects in a day-long tour. A tour complete with “tales“ of twelve of its more interesting “citizens.“ Quite strange tales, in fact. They might even be true.
ONLY AT THE END of the tour, as night falls, does he discover that quiet, demure Dilly Zimmer has her own tale to tell, her own little secret. A secret involving a missing childhood . . . A deathbed whisper . . . And a very peculiar old typewriter.
NOW MRS. ZIMMER has come to Coopers Crossing to set things right. One keystroke at a time.

Fourteen more tales from just
beyond the edge of the ordinary.

Check out the author’s books at danielcrossbooks.com.
Write to him at [e-mail].

Cover design by Leah Diekhoff.
Write to her at [e-mail].

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532063381

Daniel Cross

Daniel Cross is the pen name of J. V. Shepherd, an author living in Indianapolis with his wife Anne. Among Daniel Cross's novels: A detective trilogy, Lou Baltimore, P. I. A. set in Indianapolis. The first book of the series, Falling Objects, appeared in 2009. The following novels, Blues for Lefty and Tea for Three, are in manuscript and are scheduled to be published in 2019 and 2020. A suspense trilogy with elements of fantasy, Windmill, Indiana. The first book, Welcome to Windmill, appeared in 2010, followed by Rabbit's Foot in 2016. The third book, Sweet Dreams, is in manuscript and is scheduled to be published in 2021. A trilogy of story-novels titled The Cooper Trilogy. The first book, Coopers Hollow, appeared in 2011. Its main story continues though a sequel, Coopers Crossing, to appear in early 2019. A third-and-final volume, Coopers Valley, is in planning. All three books offer a continuing story of mystery and revenge incorporating shorter related stories, all with a "Twilight Zone" taste. All Daniel Cross books are set in Indiana.

Book preview

Coopers Crossing

More tales from just beyond

the edge of the ordinary

Sequel to Coopers Hollow

Daniel Cross

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Coopers Crossing

Sequel to Coopers Hollow

Copyright © 2018 J. V. Shepherd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-6337-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6338-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/20/2018

This book is for my grandsons (in order of appearance)

Ethan, Hector, Noah and Evan

THE COOPER TRILOGY

Tales from just beyond the edge of the ordinary

COOPERS HOLLOW

COOPERS CROSSING

COOPERS VALLEY

CONTENTS

PRELUDE: MR. VAN CAMP AND MRS. ZIMMER

TALE 1. ELIOT

Some lamps produce a lot more than light.

INTERLUDE 1

TALE 2. SEVEN MINUTES AHEAD

Ever have one of those days

when you just feel out of sync?

INTERLUDE 2

TALE 3. STRANGERS ON A PLANE

Rex a nd Cliff had a lot in common.

Much more than they realized.

INTERLUDE 3

TALE 4. ERNIE OF THE BURNING SANDS

Note to old-time silent-movie viewers:

Don’t annoy the cast. They might come after you.

INTERLUDE 4

TALE 5. THE MERMAID IN THE FOUNTAIN

Love appears in the most unexpected places,

and takes the most unlikely forms.

INTERLUDE 5

TALE 6. PRESTO! PIZZA

Travis thought the pizza deal was too good

to be true. Then it got even better.

INTERLUDE 6

TALE 7. RED ROVER, RED ROVER

Maybe Heaven is just over that rise.

INTERLUDE 7

TALE 8. STAR LIGHT, STAR BRIGHT

Kate forgot that long-ago wish,

but the universe didn’t.

INTERLUDE 8

TALE 9. ONE DAY AT A TIME

Kevin’s thrilling vacations didn’t cost him

a cent, but they were far from free.

INTERLUDE 9

TALE 10. LITTLE YELLOW BALLOON

Was it love that bound them? Or just

a hopeless case of static electricity?

INTERLUDE 10

TALE 11. CHANNEL 99

Lula’s TV set came back from the shop

with an unusual new feature.

INTERLUDE 11

TALE 12. THE MIDNIGHT MYSTERY THEATER

Some radio shows are too, too real.

INTERLUDE 12

TALE 13. THE STRANDED MAN

I started a new story the other day . . . 

TALE 14. EX MACHINA

Words thou art, and unto words shalt thou return.

POSTLUDE: THE DELETED MAN

In machinam.

Welcome to COOPERS CROSSING!

The Town of a Thousand Stories

. . . . .

Leonard Ott, mayor of Coopers Crossing (formerly Coopers Hollow), to a newcomer there, summer 1955:

 . . . Which brings me to your situation, friend . . . You see, I started a new story the other day. It’s about a fellow who develops car trouble and gets stuck in a small town. I still don’t know how the story turns out, but I do have the title. I call it ‘The Stranded Man’ . . . What do you think of it so far?

. . . . .

COOPERS CROSSING: BOOM TOWN

From the Terre Haute Tribune-Star, August 20, 1958

By Gary Funk, Staff Reporter

Lola Markum remembers when there was nothing here but a big farmhouse, a railroad siding and an old salt lick.

That was 14 years ago.

Lola, a lifelong resident here, calls the growth of the town here, now known as Coopers Crossing, a wonder.

Lola is hardly alone in her wonderment. People throughout this little patch of Hoosier farm country still don’t believe that what was once a humble country intersection shaded by a grove of beech trees now is home to more than 2,000 souls, with an average of two families a week joining the community.

And with an average of about one new business every month coming to Coopers Crossing, the town, which was recently designated a city, has achieved a rate of economic growth that is unparalleled, says Murray Harris, a professor of business development at Indiana University in nearby Bloomington.

Coopers Crossing’s spectacular growth has drawn the attention of neighboring towns, who marvel at (or envy) the town’s performance.

I don’t know how he’s done it, says Zephyr Anderson, mayor of nearby Windmill. But I have to hand it to Mayor Van Camp. At a time when small towns are losing people to the big cities, he’s not only keeping his population, he’s growing it. We can learn from him.

Others are not so admiring. Bob Lee Healy, mayor of Shepherds Bend in neighboring Faulkner County, claims that Mayor Van Camp is using underhanded means of attracting business and residents.

He’s giving the businesses some kind of local tax breaks, no doubt about that. Paying them to come is what he’s doing.

But if Van Camp is paying businesses to settle there—a perfectly legal thing to do—then where is the money coming from? No one seems to know. And how to explain the arrival of so many new residents, some of them almost overnight? Is he paying them too?

It’s just common sense, Van Camp explains, with characteristic confidence. He laughs. It’s not like I’m making people up out of thin air! You create a welcoming atmosphere and business comes. When the businesses come, the people follow. It’s all about jobs.

Maybe part of the community’s growth comes from curiosity: Van Camp has launched an informal campaign touting Coopers Crossing as The Town of a Thousand Stories.

According to a flyer put out by his office, many of the residents of Coopers Crossing have had some extraordinary experience or other, with an accompanying tale to tell about it. Some observers have speculated that the very slogan itself, true or not, might well attract people who think they have had such an experience.

It’s just a herd instinct, says Roy Boynton, mayor of nearby Hicks. You tell the world there’s a town full of crazy people, and more crazy people will come. You can bet on it.

Whatever the attraction, there is no doubt that people and businesses are cropping up at a phenomenal rate in this once-sleepy Hoosier farm village. And whether or not everyone in Coopers Crossing has had an out-of-the-ordinary experience to tell about, there is no doubt that Mayor Van Camp believes so.

Come visit us, he boasts, standing on the steps of the new Town Hall and gesturing at the busy intersection there, much as an orchestra conductor might direct the string section in a Beethoven symphony. I’ll give you a tour. You’ll see and hear for yourself.

Mrs. Markum perhaps best sums up the general attitude toward this town-turned-city’s mysterious growth. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s kind of spooky.

. . . . .

THE TOWN THAT JACK BUILT

From The Coopers Crossing Daily Chapter, July 6, 1959

Thousands Attend First Annual Cooper-Fest

By Ned Whitacre

More than three thousand visitors attended Coopers Crossing’s A New Chapter festival marking the second year of this booming community’s status as a city.

Visitors from as far away as Indianapolis and Louisville spent the day enjoying carnival rides, tasting dozens of delicious local foods, visiting agricultural and commercial exhibits—and marveling at tall tales told by locals . . . True tall tales, they claim!

With a population approaching 2800, Coopers Crossing, once a sleepy crossroads village nicknamed Coopers Hollow, now qualifies as a city, and boasts annual population growth of a staggering 106 percent, making it the fastest-growing community of any size in the Midwest, according to the Sycamore County Business and Tourism Bureau.

Mayor Jack Van Camp, Coopers Crossing’s mayor and self-proclaimed Booster-in-Chief, welcomed visitors to the festival and encouraged them to consider resettling here.

Come to Coopers Crossing, he told the crowds. Whether you’ve had an ‘out-of-the-ordinary experience or not, come to ‘The Town’—I should say ‘City’—‘of a Thousand Stories!

A highlight of the day-long event was the Grand Opening of the new 5,000-square-foot Coopers Crossing Library, literally erected overnight, and offering over 4,500 books. It was one of dozens of new businesses and homes that have sprung up in such short time they have given this City of a Thousand Stories a certain story-like mystery of its own . . .

. . . . .

March 2, 1960

Mr. Jack Van Camp, Mayor

100 Cooper Boulevard

Coopers Crossing, Indiana 14

Dear Mr. Van Camp,

I have heard and read so many good things about Coopers Crossing that I am eager to visit and take a look around, with an eye to settling there.

As I understand from newspaper accounts that you are not only the city’s mayor but also something of a mover and shaker behind its phenomenal growth, I would like very much the opportunity to meet with you and perhaps impose upon you for a short tour.

Eagerly awaiting your response, I am,

Respectfully,

(Mrs.) Dilga Zimmer

. . . . .

March 9, 1960

Mrs. Dilga Zimmer

57 Pine Road

R. R. 12

Zepha, Indiana

Dear Mrs. Zimmer,

I thank you for your kind words about Coopers Crossing, though I hasten to say that I have little to do with its growth, and am hardly a mover and shaker, as you say.

For this reason, I regret that I must decline your request. I can probably tell you no more about the place than any other resident.

Furthermore, I might add that the place has become quite busy, and you might wish to find another small town that offers many of the same charms without the hustle and bustle.

Wishing you luck in your search.

Regards,

Jack Van Camp

. . . . .

PRELUDE: MR. VAN CAMP AND MRS. ZIMMER

Nine o’clock

I have a confession to make, Mrs. Zimmer."

But I’m not a priest, Mr. Van Camp.

That’s funny! . . . No, my confession is hardly a church matter. It’s more a sort of personal apology.

Ah.

You see, when I saw your letter week before last, and the name ‘Dilga Zimmer,’ I must admit I had an—shall we say—unflattering picture of you. We should never judge people by their names, but of course we do. Everybody does. And I pictured—shame on me!—a rather dowdy, late-middle-age woman with peppery gray hair in a bun, orthopedic shoes and maybe a pair of those glasses on a chain. You know what I mean. What do they call them?

Glasses on a chain.

That’s funny, Mrs. Zimmer. I see you have a sense of humor. I like that . . . Anyway, I pictured someone like the woman in the Marx Brothers movies. You know who I mean?

Margaret Dumont.

That’s her. Anyway, now that you’ve come to Coopers Crossing (in spite of my discouraging letter which I’m glad you ignored) I can see how very wrong I was! I was not at all expecting so young and (if I may say without seeming forward) attractive woman. Such eyes! . . . So—will you kindly forgive my prejudgment?

Of course.

Thank you . . . Now, before we start off on our tour—Will Mr. Zimmer be joining us? I saw no mention of a husband in your letter.

Mr. Zimmer died in Korea.

Ah. I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Zimmer. It must have been a terrible blow.

Yes.

And both of you still in your twenties!

Yes.

Dear Lord . . . Thank you for sharing that. Here, take my handkerchief. There, there . . . Ready?

Yes. Thank you.

All right then, we can be on our way. Just let me get my hat . . . Ah, after you!

Thank you . . . 

. . .

" . . . A lovely day, isn’t it? I like to say that a pretty day is just a pretty day, but a pretty day in a small town—Excuse me, small city—is something special. Don’t you agree?"

Indeed.

And this small city is something special, too.

I have no doubt, Mr. Van Camp.

Oh, you’ll see, Mrs. Zimmer. And I don’t say that just because I’m the mayor. I say it because I’ve been here for five years, ever since this place was just a little crossroad with a handful of houses, and with the humble name of Coopers Hollow. So I like to think I have a sort of special relationship with Coopers Crossing."

So tell me more about yourself, Mr. Van Camp.

"Oh, I’ll talk more about me later, if you like. But there’s not much to tell. I’d much rather talk about you, and what brings you to our fair city."

Just say I’m looking for something.

Now that’s certainly mysterious! That sounds deep. ‘Meaning of life’ and all that. Well, whatever you’re ‘looking for,’ you’ll surely find it in Coopers Crossing. You see, we have a vibrant community here, Mrs. Zimmer. We have a strong economic base, with a booming economy. We have thriving neighborhoods. And plenty of jobs. Manufacturing. Retail. Entertainment and the arts . . . You name it. Whatever you’re ‘looking for,’ Mrs. Zimmer, you’ll find it here!

That’s all very encouraging. And what brought you to Coopers Crossing, Mr. Van Camp?

"Another question about me. You make me blush! But like I said, there’s not much to tell. Let’s just say that I, ah—found myself here about five years ago, liked the place and decided to stay."

‘Found yourself here’?

In a manner of speaking. But I’ll get into that later on.

You’re being awfully evasive.

Oh, hardly. I’m just a plain fellow, Mrs. Zimmer. Or may I call you Dilga?

Dilly, if you like. It’s a nickname I got as a child.

Dilly. That’s cute. And you can call me Jack if you like.

Jack . . . So where does our tour begin?

Ah, yes, the tour . . . Now, I didn’t have a plan in mind because, well, I didn’t expect you to show up. But since you did (and I am glad of it!), let’s just wander about as you want, and I’ll fill you in on the many points of interest. So this won’t be a ‘PR’ tour like I usually give to prospective companies, and so on.

Good.

"No, this will be your special tour, and you can pick the route, and I’ll fill you in."

You seem to be very knowledgeable about the place.

"Oh, yes. I know a ton about the town and its people. Why, every person has their own story, if you think about it, don’t they? And I know them all. I know at least one story, and sometimes the whole life story, of just about everyone here, except the ones that moved here, of course, and—

‘The ones that moved here’? Didn’t they all move here?

"Well, no, since we’ve had a dozen or so births here in the last couple of years. But what I meant was, ah, not all of the people of Coopers Crossing came from somewhere else. Some of them just kind of—well, just were here. It’s rather complicated. Maybe I can get into that later."

Please do. You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.

Yes, well . . . 

. . .

" . . . Ah. The business district begins here, Dilly. And what better place to start that right here. Get a look at this."

‘Lamps A-Plenty.’

The biggest lamp store in the state. Right here in Coopers Crossing! And brand new!

Impressive.

We have people coming all the way from Evansville. Even from Champaign, Illinois!

Those look like very expensive lamps.

They are.

Aren’t they a little rich for the people around here?

Maybe. But not to worry. We have another store for people with more modest means. And it’s new too. Right this way . . . 

. . .

 . . . Voilà. Our brand new Woolworth’s? Pretty nice, huh?

Very impressive.

Yes, just went up last month. You can see the straw on the strip there with the grass seed. Brand new!

Rather large store for a town this size, isn’t it?

Yes, I suppose. But we expect continued growth here in Coopers Crossing. And I can be very persuasive when it comes to luring businesses here.

So it seems.

Nice window display, don’t you think?

Interesting lamp there on the left.

I saw you roll your eyes! Yes, it is certainly, er, eye-catching! And not in a good way! Funny that you should notice it.

Why?

Because I happen to know that a lamp just like that one also caught the eye of one of our citizens recently.

Yes?

"Yes. It was my good friend and sometime bridge partner Clarice Newsome, a charming young lady who is vice president of the Coopers Crossing Poetry Circle. She also occasionally publishes a poem in our little daily paper, The Coopers Crossing Daily Chapter. I thought up the title myself. I liked the sound of it. Kind of literary. You know, ‘Town of Stories’ and all."

Yes . . . You were saying about the lamp?

Ah, yes. Well, Clarice saw one right there, exactly like it, let me see, one month ago, on a Tuesday morning. Clarice, you see, being a poet and something of a Bohemian, has an eye for the odd, the unusual, the, er, out-of-the-ordinary . . . And that lamp there in that very window caught her fancy, so she bought it. She didn’t know what she was in for . . . 

. . . . .

TALE 1. ELIOT

Some lamps produce a lot more than light.

I t was the ugliest lamp she had ever seen. Clarice knew at once she had to have it.

Desk lamp. Definitely chic. Round polished aluminum base. Flexible gooseneck in black. Yellow plastic lampshade spangled with purple starbursts. A pull-cord of hanging plastic beads.

Perfect for my Studio.

She bought it. Two-fifty cash, right there in the brand-new Woolworth’s on Cooper Boulevard, between Mel’s Transmission Shop and Mel’s Deli Shop. (The two Mels were not the same man; they were not even friends. They were in fact engaged in a long-running dispute about which of them should change his shop’s name; both claimed that customer confusion was harming their business. That’s a whole other story.)

Arriving home with her prize purchase, and humming a tune she could never recall the name of (It was The Theme from The Apartment), Clarice bore her prize through her front hall adorned with colorful paintings. She particularly liked the matador in his silver and gold outfit (with real sequins pasted on it). The sad clown with the drooping carnation was a close second, though.

Bearing the lamp through her living room—stepping between the stacks of old magazines, and carefully skirting the cute little yellow hutch with the blue knobs—she passed down the narrow hall flanked with more paintings including her favorite of all: A gigantic paint-by-number rendering of the Sermon on the Mount. (The two fish were both color number 15, but the five loaves all had different colors, which didn’t seem fair to Clarice; but no matter.)

Past that and the other paintings, (most purchased at Second-Hand Rose, a shop owned by a woman whose name was not Rose but Fay), Clarice entered her favorite room. It was designed as a dining room, but Clarice had deemed it to be her Studio, with a capital S.

Here she stood a moment, admiring the room’s contents: Her stacks of bargain books . . . Her collection of ceramic bears . . . Her homemade collage of pictures of Judy Garland (cut from magazines) . . . Her ash tray ensemble (she didn’t smoke but found some of the items interesting anyway) . . . Her seven Toni dolls . . . Her collection of Commemorative Plates representing The Thirteen Colonies, hung carefully and neatly on the wall. (She had spent a lot of time figuring out how to arrange 13 plates in a way pleasing to the eye, but without much luck) . . . The cute wind chimes hung in front of the west window, and made of Coke bottle caps strung on fishing line, nine of them all hanging from a needlepoint frame, itself hanging from the ceiling. The sound the thing made in the wind was hardly chime-like (more like a bunch of knuckles cracking all at once). But she liked it.

Into this busy room she brought her lamp and placed it proudly on her desk, in a space already waiting for it. (Her previous lamp had quit working. It would go to the Salvation Army store; they might be able to fix it.)

A round the new lamp she artfully arranged the things on her desk: Her pen mug (really a coffee mug) announcing MARENGO CAVE in sweeping boldface. Her tray labeled STUFF TO DO . . . Her two-inch high stack of new legal pads, resplendently yellow . . . Her antique blue-glass quart Mason jar containing ten freshly sharpened pencils, all alertly pointed up and each one bursting with at least a dozen fine short poems . . . Her starfish-in-glass paperweight . . . Her plywood five-slot standing organizer containing recent letters (mostly rejection letters from poetry magazines) . . . And her single slim published volume of verse ( Dawn Visions and Other Poems ) supported on both sides by burly bricks (said to be from the foundation of Emily Dickinson’s house, but who could take such things seriously? Still, it was charming to think of it.)

She stepped back to admire the arrangement of things around the lamp and nodded with satisfaction. Then she knelt, crawled behind the desk and plugged the thing in. She rose and dusted herself off.

There. She pulled the beaded lamp cord.

The lamp flickered then beamed. The warm light showed through the yellow shade, highlighting the starbursts. The light cast a warm pool on its own shiny metal base and on the polished wood of the desk top.

Perfect.

But wait. The scene was not perfect. On the base of the lamp, beneath the bath of light from above, the scribbled price $2⁵⁰ glared in black China marker.

Can’t have that.

She fetched a paper towel and rubbed the price mark off with six firm passes.

With the last pass, the bulb blew out with a blinding flash and a bang like a car backfiring.

Clarice jumped back, startled. Her ears rang with the bang, and a miniature sun danced behind her eyes. She closed her eyes and waited, heart racing, for the little sun to fade. She had known bulbs to blow out, of course. But not so spectacularly! Ah, well, she had others in the kitchen drawer. Or were they in the cupboard? Maybe the garage . . .

W hen she opened her eyes she was astonished to see a young man sitting on the edge of her desk, beside the stack of legal pads, his arms crossed, ankles crossed, looking at her with a peculiar expression.

She stepped back, frightened not so much at his appearing there but at the suddenness of it. Where had he come from? What did he want?

Who are you? she stammered, taking a step back and drawing her caftan around her.

He said nothing.

What do you want?

He didn’t reply, but merely glanced about the room casually, even a little boredly, his eyebrows arched.

Say something.

She backed into the doorway to the kitchen, preparing to dash out the back door. Or maybe grab her big knife. Where had she put it? She had been using it to pot a fern—

The young man continued to look around.

Get a good look at him for the police report, she told herself, continuing to back out of the room, and making a point to study him. A man about her age, 35, but dressed all in black. A rather wasp-waisted man with plucked eyebrows and a tightly-cut suit. His hands appeared to have been manicured, and his tiny shoes, the size of a boy’s, ended in smart points.

Say something!

H e looked around once more, then glanced at her. Then he closed his eyes and pinched them with fingertips and sighed.

Not again. He shook his head. He seemed to be speaking to himself.

Who are you?

He ignored her question. He opened his eyes and glanced at the lamp beside him on the desk. He shook his head again and looked at Clarice for a second time.

"Don’t tell me I was in that . . . thing." His nasal voice had a bit of whine in it.

What thing? Who are you? Where did you come from? What are you talking about?

That lamp. He closed his eyes again. "Dear God, it is simply dreadful."

Who—? What—? How—? Clarice stammered, as her questions elbowed each other aside. What has that lamp got to do with anything?

You don’t get it, do you?

Get what? Clarice demanded, now feeling more annoyed than frightened. What do you want? My purse is there by the radio. She pointed to the large white vinyl purse with the beadwork sunflower.

He glanced at the purse, then winced. I don’t want your purse, he said. "And certainly not that purse."

What’s wrong with my purse? If you don’t want it, what do you want? Eyes fixed on him, she backed far enough into the kitchen to feel then grab the turquoise phone off its wall hook. She brandished it.

Don’t come near me!

He sighed.

Don’t touch me! I’m calling the police! She dialed a number at random by way of threat.

I don’t, ahem, want to touch you.

What?

He shook his head, then tilted it to one side. Do I look like a dangerous person? He opened his arms as if inviting scrutiny.

She studied him. I guess not. I guess you’re not. I mean, I can see that you’re . . . You know.

Y es."

But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.

"I’m here—wherever here is—because of that. He indicated the lamp with a tilt of his head. The lamp."

If you’re here to take it back, I paid for it. I have a receipt.

No.

I’ll show you. She started for her purse.

Lady, I’m not here to take the lamp away. He glanced at it and rolled his eyes. "God knows I’d like to. Take it to the dump, that is."

Mister, you’re not making any sense at all. From the phone in her hand she heard The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check—

She turned and hung it back up. When she turned back, the man was gone.

Hey, where—? she called, looking around. She went down the hall. In the living room she found him lying on her brown Naugahyde couch.

How did you do that? she asked. Go from there to here like that?

Rather than answer, he said, "You live here?" He glanced around disapprovingly.

Of course. But—but how did you—? Why are you here?

I’m here to grant your wish.

My wish?

Right. He pointed through the doorway into the Studio, recently exited. The lamp.

I don’t get it.

He sighed. "You rubbed the lamp. Boom. You released me. Poof. I’m here. He looked around. Unfortunately, here." And he gave a little tut.

Released you? I still don’t—

He cut her off. I’m the genie of the lamp, lady. How dense can you be?

I beg your—Genie? She sat down on the purple wicker chair with the built-in rhinestone-encrusted cup holder. You’re a genie?"

Who else? The Tooth Fairy? Ah ah! No fairy jokes, please. Believe me, I’ve heard them all.

No, I believe you. She wasn’t sure she did, but she thought she’d play along. But I always thought that the lamp would be a little oil lamp, you know. And the genie would be a giant with earrings and silk pantaloons and a turban. Named Akbar or Abdul or something.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake.

What?

My name is Eliot.

Really?

He sighed again, closed his eyes, and said nothing.

And, she went on, I thought the genie, whatever his name, would grant three wishes, like in the books.

Still no reply.

Eliot?

She waited. Across the room from her, on the brown couch with the purple throw pillows, the young man in his all-black outfit continued to lie there, almost motionless. His right arm was folded (more like draped) across his forehead, and his left elbow pointed in the air while the thumb and forefinger of his left hand slowly massaged his closed eyes at the bridge of his nose. His pose reminded her of a lithograph of the poet Shelley—or was it Byron? More likely Oscar Wilde, she thought.

C larice continued to wait for a reply. None came. All she heard was the murmur of neighbors conversing next door, the slamming of car doors on the street outside her little bungalow and the pleasant clink and clatter of her Coke bottle cap wind chimes . . . And over it all, the deep, heavy, long sighs of the young man on the divan . The word had just come to her. True, the article of furniture was an ordinary couch . But somehow, with the slender young man all in black draped along it like a brooding Hamlet, the ordinary couch had suddenly become a divan .

Well? she said after a time.

What is that godawful racket? he whispered without breaking his pose.

What godawful racket?

"That."

What?

"That, that—clacking." He raised his right arm to wave vaguely in the direction of the Studio, then let it drop loosely back across his forehead.

She listened. That’s my wind chime.

Well, please do something about it.

What? I like it.

It’s driving me crazy.

And you’re driving me crazy with your—weirdness.

Please. I can’t concentrate.

Concentrate on what?

Anything.

I think you’re nuts, is what I think.

Please. He waved again toward the Studio.

If I stop the chimes will you answer my questions?

I already did.

I mean answer them better.

H e nodded.

Okay. She padded into the Studio and lowered the window softly, watching the rattling Coke bottle caps slow, then still. She studied the scene a moment, then raised the window again, all the way, and let it fall with a thud. The slam of the window shook the wall. The bottle caps clattered gleefully.

Aaaaah! came from the next room.

Clarice smiled and returned to the living room, resuming her seat.

So talk.

About what? he said petulantly.

Well, about being a genie. You claim to be a genie, so you must have some sort of history. Were you born? Hatched? Cooked up in a basement lab?

I don’t like your tone.

My tone? You’re the one who popped into my house and started insulting me and everything I own.

I didn’t ask to be here.

Tell me your damned story or I’ll call the police.

Clarice, a mild-mannered person by nature, was a little shocked at her tone, but also a little pleased. Way to go, Clarice! Make him work, the little—

After a long silence during which he gave her a reproachful glance, he heaved a deep, theatrical sigh. Then, without removing his right arm from his forehead but using his left hand to gesture now and then, he began his tale.

I n ancient Persia, he said, he was a courtier to the Caliph’s wife, but secretly desired to be a hairdresser. One day he had made a joke to another courtier about the Caliph’s wife’s bad hairdo, and his joke was revealed to her. The Caliph’s wife, as punishment, directed her own personal genie to turn Eliot into a ugly, crippled crow.

He lived as a crow for some days until a hunter caught him in a trap intended to catch nightingales (which he would have preferred to be, anyway. Who wants to be a crow?) The hunter was going to kill him and feed him to the dogs, but he begged for mercy.

The hunter told him that he would spare his life if he would perform a service in exchange. The crow agreed. The hunter said he would spare the crow’s life if he would return in seven days with a thousand pieces of silver. The crow, bound by his word to return within the allotted time, agreed. With that he was released and flew off.

Once he was free, however, he began to think of the folly of his agreement, so he flew away. But the hunter tracked him down and shot him, and he fell into the sea where a giant fish came and prepared to devour him. Eliot (in the form of a wounded crow), begged for mercy, and the fish offered him a deal.

The fish said that it was in fact a princess who had rebuffed the advances of the evil Caliph of a neighboring kingdom who had angrily condemned her to spend the rest of her life as a fish. The Princess-fish knew, however, that she could be transformed back into a princess if someone gave her a diamond in which had been trapped a moonbeam. She gave Eliot the Crow one week to find such an item and return it to her, whereupon she would, by virtue of the moonbeam, return to her former self as a princess and, in return for his kind deed, transform the Crow back into Eliot and give him a thousand pieces of silver that he could give to the hunter.

Eliot then went off looking for the moonbeam, and finally caught one. Then he went looking for a diamond large enough to contain it, realizing that he should have done things the other way around. Finally he saw a diamond lying on a mountaintop, but when he flew to snatch it up and put the moonbeam in it, he spied a weeping Prince, who was quite handsome. When he asked the Prince why he was weeping, the Prince answered that his beloved and promised maiden, whom he was about to marry, had been imprisoned in a cell deep beneath the mountain by an evil Giant because she had refused to give him (the Giant, not the Prince) a golden key to her Dowry Chest, which was buried far away beneath the desert.

I f only, the young Prince cried, someone would give him a single silver leaf from a tree growing in a secret cave beneath a grotto deep below an oasis where five rivers met, then he could use the magic leaf to release his betrothed from the cell, and give poor Eliot the diamond so he could take the moonbeam from his pouch and put it in the diamond, then take it to the Fish-Princess in the deep Sea, who would then grant his wish not to be eaten by her, and into the bargain, she would also transform him into a person again, preferably a Princess Hairdresser if he so desired.

But before he—that is, Eliot the Crow—could fulfill any of this long and complicated plan, he first had to find the cave under the grotto beneath the oasis where the five rivers met. When he did finally find the cave, he discovered that it was guarded by a giant Rok that had, as a chick, been attacked by a crow, so that it hated crows more than anything else in the Seven Worlds and Thirteen Seas.

As Eliot hid behind a giant boulder deep in the cave, trying to decide how to get the silver leaf from the tree guarded by the Giant Rok, he was accosted by an strange and terrifying beast with the head of a duck, the body of a badger and the tail of a pig. This giant creature seized him and would have eaten him on the spot, but Eliot pled for his life. The beast agreed to spare his life if he would—

This whole story, Clarice thought wearily, is starting to sound like The Thousand and One Nights. And taking just as long, too.

E liot."

What? He sat up.

Enough. Clarice looked at the brass and wood starburst clock on the wall, which revealed that 23 minutes had passed since Eliot had begun his tale.

But I’m just getting started.

I’ve heard enough. I believe you already. She didn’t, but thought such an assurance would settle him down and get him out of the house.

You’re just saying that. He flopped back onto the couch and gave a petulant sigh.

No, no. I have decided that your story is so outlandish you couldn’t have made it up. Therefore it must be true.

There’s a lot more. It gets worse.

No, that’s fine. I believe you.

Eliot pouted. Clarice sensed that he was disappointed she didn’t want to hear more of the story. Too bad.

There’s just one thing I’m curious about.

What?

The three wishes.

What three wishes?

The three wishes I get. For rubbing the lamp and making you appear.

You don’t get three wishes.

But in all the books, the finder of the lamp gets three wishes.

You get one wish.

What?

"One. Wish. Are you deaf?"

You don’t have to get nasty.

I used to be able to grant three wishes.

What happened?

Oh, I said something—something maybe a little snide, but true!—something about somebody, another genie, back in the Middle Ages. And word got out, and a bunch of the other genies, all bullies really, they ganged up on me and stole two wishes away. Bullies! And they made fun of me, you know, the way I—

Okay. Okay. Got it.

Eliot sniffed. Clarice was afraid he was going to start crying.

Let me make some tea.

All right. Do you have any Rose Hips? I’m allergic to regular tea. It gives me hives.

F ive minutes later Clarice sat, teacup in hand, watching Eliot daintily sip his tea, his little finger out stiff and pink as a new pup’s tail.

After some judicious moments to allow Eliot to calm down, Clarice brought up the topic of the wish again. She hadn’t even decided what it would be, but thought it would be nice to know that it was readily available.

Ah, when, exactly, do I get my wish, Eliot?

That again! he snapped, setting the cup down on the arm of the couch so abruptly that it spilled. He huffed, then again flung himself at length on the couch. I can’t work like this.

What do you mean?

Work under all this pressure.

What work? All you’re doing is rubbing your eyes and complaining. And as far as pressure, what pressure? You’re stretched out on my comfy couch.

"Comfy? Did she just say comfy? Oh, God."

What now?

Your clichés. And your constant chatter.

I don’t chatter.

And this place.

She looked around. What’s wrong with this place?

Forget it.

I will not forget it. What’s wrong with this place?

It’s hideous.

Hideous?

He nodded under his arm. "Hid. E. Us." He pinched his eyes again.

This happens to be my home.

Okay, okay.

And, I might add, I didn’t invite you here, I—

Well, actually, you did. When you rubbed the lamp.

Which, she swooped, I wouldn’t have done if I’d known such a big baby would come popping out!

Five long seconds of silence were followed by a sob, then a gasp, then a wail, then a bawl.

Clarice listened to him for a moment, very surprised.

Hey, she said finally. Hey, Mr. Eliot Genie.

He kept crying, though he interrupted his sobs long enough to say, What?

There.

He continued to weep, but more quietly now.

There now, she said, setting down her empty cup and crossing to him. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.

He nodded, still sobbing, then sniffed. I know. He reached out and took her hand, drawing her down on the edge of the couch—or, in this case, divan. I’ve always been sensitive to my surroundings, he sniffed.

Clarice nodded sympathetically. She looked around the room, wondering what was setting him off.

I t was a room carefully appointed with her thoughtful purchases of lively, colorful, eye-catching (and yes, clashing) home furnishings. It was a poet’s place, of course. She called her décor style Eclectic, though she had heard the word kitsch whispered now and then when she hosted one of her Poet’s Circle Reading Evenings. But she liked her place, liked her stuff. The critical words didn’t bother her.

Words certainly did seem to bother this Eliot fellow, however. Clarice patted his hand, and was surprised when he clasped her hand to his lips and kissed it liberally, getting tears and nose drip all over it. She withdrew it and wiped it discreetly against her dress.

After an awkwardly long time Eliot’s weeping subsided. He then fell to hiccups. She patted his back sympathetically but kept clear of his hands for fear he would clutch her again.

He didn’t. After a time he spoke.

I’m sorry. What a scene.

That’s okay. Sometimes a good cry is the best thing for you.

But men aren’t supposed to cry.

Well, you’re not exactly a man.

At this he began another round of crying. That was cruel, he sobbed. I can’t help the way I—

"No, no. I didn’t mean that. I meant you’re a genie. You know, not a person."

He stopped. He sniffed. Oh.

Yes . . . Let me get you some more tea.

Okay.

And I’ll bring you a Kleenex.

A what?

To dry your eyes. And your nose.

Thank you.

S he returned three minutes later with two steaming mugs of oat tea and a box of Kleenex. She handed him a mug. Hot.

What’s this?

Oat tea. It’s all natural. It fights free radicals.

What?

Free radicals. In your blood.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was talking about this. He held up the mug and pointed to it. What it’s in."

A mug.

"I know it’s a mug. But what’s it supposed to be?"

Why, it’s a top hat.

A top hat.

Yes. A green top hat for a leprechaun. It’s a St. Patrick’s Day mug. From Boston. Four years ago.

Boston? Leprechaun?

Yes. Isn’t it cute?

He closed his eyes, shuddered and set the thing down.

What’s the matter now?

Could I just have it in a—teacup? You do have such a thing as a simple, ordinary teacup . . . Don’t you? China, if possible.

Of course, Eliot. She took up the mug. There’s your Kleenex, she said, indicating the box on the table.

He glanced at the box. Would you happen to have a handkerchief? Cotton? Or silk? He pointed at his nose, inflamed from crying. Sensitive skin.

Sure.

For the next hour and four minutes and ten seconds (She had begun to watch the clock after a half-hour, and had begun to count the minutes after an hour, before she fell to counting seconds, and there were many) Clarice listened to Eliot’s nonstop monologue about Being Too Sensitive for This World.

It turned out that he was allergic to most animals, especially rodents. He was sensitive to certain sounds, screen door hinges particularly. And smells: Newly-cut grass made him nauseous. Mint made him anxious. Onions gave him hallucinations. Then there were colors: Certain colors in the surrounding room, particularly chartreuse, gave him migraines.

"They can last for decades," he moaned.

I nto a moment of silence Clarice leaped. Eliot, I’m sure that life has been hard for you.

Yes.

Being trapped in one lamp after another for centuries and all.

Yes.

Especially a lamp you don’t like.

"Worse than you can imagine. And the tedium."

By the way—How did you end up in a lamp that was only made in the last couple of years?

I wish I knew. All I remember is getting drunk and insulting somebody. And the words ‘New Jersey.’ He shrugged. Then I was stuffed back into the lamp. He shuddered and pointed with his eyes. "That horrid thing."

And I’m sorry for your misfortune.

He sniffed theatrically.

But still . . . 

What?

My wish. When do I get my wish?

How can you even think about that at a time like this?

I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but—

Oh, go on. Everybody else does. Why not you?

That was unkind.

Well.

I was going to say that granting wishes is your job. She added gently, After all.

Wishes! Wishes! Is that all you people think about?

C larice was stung at being referred to as you people. She couldn’t let that go unchallenged.

‘You people.’ Who would that be?

People like you.

Meaning?

People who are always wanting wishes.

So the trouble with people who want wishes is—that they want wishes?

Never mind . . . Besides, you haven’t even told me your wish.

I’m still thinking about it.

Eliot muttered something Clarice couldn’t hear.

Look, she went on after a sigh, if you don’t like me, grant me my wish, and you’re free to go. Isn’t that how it works?

Go where? Back into that hideous thing? He pointed.

She glanced at the lamp. It’s not so bad.

I just want to die.

Oh, dry up . . . Look. What if I buy you a nice lamp? One you like?

That would be a start.

Okay. Then would you grant my wish?

I suppose. If it was a really nice lamp.

That sounds suspiciously like blackmail to me.

He gave a little cough and looked away.

All right, Clarice went on. You can pick it out. Fair enough?

I guess.

F eeling utterly silly, but thinking that this was the only way out of her predicament, Clarice, with Eliot close behind, proceeded under threatening gray clouds to Second-Hand Rose three blocks away. As they came to the shop, however, Eliot realized that it was a second-hand shop. He balked.

Nothing from there.

There are some very interesting lamps in there. And roomy.

I refuse.

You are impossible . . . Come on.

They went another three blocks to the new Woolworth’s, but Eliot would have none of it, either.

Kitsch, he sniffed.

This happens to be where I got you in the first place, she pointed out.

Well, I deserved better. And still do.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Eliot.

Clarice could not help but notice all the passers-by staring at her clad-all-in-black companion. She was normally immune to embarrassment, but she blushed when he began to flirt with male pedestrians coming their way.

To make matters worse, a rain began to fall, at first light then heavier.

Say, Eliot said, pointing down the street. There’s a lamp store right there.

Clarice looked. He was pointing to Lamps-A-Plenty

Too expensive. She had never been in the new store, but she could just tell looking in the window that the lamps were all overpriced, and behind each lamp lurked a hungry salesclerk ready to pounce. No thanks.

Eliot had other ideas. I insist. Anyway, we’re getting soaked. I’ll catch a cold, and it’ll be all your fault.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. All right.

A minute later they approached the lamp store, soaking wet. This situation led to even more whining from Eliot.

Look at me. Just look at me.

Stop complaining. If you had been satisfied with one of the other stores we’d be inside now.

But then we’d have to go out.

Hush. Here’s the store. Maybe they sell umbrellas too.

Ha.

They went inside. There they faced a host of stares.

Clarice ignored them; she was on a mission now. All right, she whispered. "Let’s find a lamp that suits your exquisite taste." She felt a tiny thrill at her sarcasm. She was new at it, and it felt good.

First I need to dry off.

"For Heaven’s sake, you’re a genie. Can’t you just will yourself dry or something?"

Just then the store manager appeared, wearing a frightened look and tugging on his tie. What’s going on here?

I’m here to buy a lamp.

You’re dripping all over the floor . . . You and that person.

Eliot sneezed.

That’s no person, Clarice commented.

I’m a genie, Eliot sniffed.

The store manager blinked. Is that person with you? he asked Clarice.

I’m sorry, but yes, he is.

That was snide came from Eliot, with a sniff.

Please ma’am, just get on with your business.

Wait a minute, Eliot protested, stepping up to the manager, who drew back, clutching his tie. She’s a customer. You can’t talk to her like that.

She hasn’t bought anything yet. So she’s not a customer yet. All she is now is a—wet person.

"Where did you get