The Theory of All Things

By J E Murphy and Jim Murphy

A paleontologist from the distant future travels to 21st century New York to discover what caused the extinction of Homo sapiens, but finds himself having to choose between saving the human race or his own species.

 

Fromme, however, is much more interested in meeting the most famous human in history – the woman who wrote the quantum physics paper upon which all future science is based. However, Fromme's efforts to meet Zenobia Malmud trigger events that make it increasingly less likely that the paper will ever be written.

 

The Theory of All Things is a darkly humorous tale of humanity's end days and the participation in same by prophets, dragons, time travelers, space aliens, world leaders and very ordinary people. This light-hearted look at human extinction ultimately answers the nagging, overriding question: Why is there evil in the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Portraits of Earth Press
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201043674

J E Murphy

J E Murphy (Jim Murphy) is a retired network and computer analyst. He has spent much of his personal life in a comparative study of religions, and in pondering the nature of reality, humanity and what makes us human. His writing, while fast paced, and full of physical adventure, also explores the adventure of the mind and the soul.

Book preview

c-1 M@RONs

Fromme’s future bosses had given him one job to do, which was to uncover additional information in an ongoing investigation as to why Homo sapiens had allowed itself to become extinct. Fromme, however had something he wanted to do for himself first. Fromme’s personal ambition was to meet the woman who had written the quantum physics paper upon which all future technology was based. It would take Fromme a million years to fully come to terms with the fact that his selfish pursuit had caused this woman’s father to take a bullet through his head.

As Fromme followed Professor Malmud through the teeming streets of New York City, he did give some passing thought to the topic of extinction. He thought about how these throngs of people would all be gone soon enough, how easy it would be, then, to walk the uncrowded streets, if one could only stand the heat, but for now, the crowds were blocking his view of the suspect. Fromme could not determine which way the man had gone.

Fromme was sure that the man he had been following was the father of a woman he had wanted to meet since he had first read about her and her famous physics paper, The Nature of Quantum Reality. He had gone to her place of work – the only address he had for her -  but she had not been there for weeks, and no information from her employer was forthcoming. Fromme’s detective work had uncovered this man, whose similar name and profession made him a likely candidate to be a near relative. The man’s age suggested he might be her father, or possibly an uncle.

Lost in thought, Fromme had also lost the man as they turned around the last corner. Fromme walked another half block down the street, searching for the man who had seemingly vanished.

As Fromme vainly searched for the man he heard loud voices at a hot dog stand on the sidewalk and turned just in time to see the man holding a hot dog in the air like the Statue of Liberty. And then he was dead – shot down in front of him.

The image of the man collapsing on the sidewalk in front of the hot dog sign was burned into Fromme’s memory.

The sign read:

HOG DOGS

GENUINE WHOLE-HOG BRATS ON A BUN

And now, lying sprawled in front of it with a hot dog still in his hand was Professor Manny Malmud. Fromme was certain it was him.

Great stinger of death, Fromme muttered as he took a photograph with his phone.

What he had just witnessed made no sense to Fromme, but from Fromme’s current world view, very little did.

Fromme had turned in time to see the actual shooting. The professor had stepped backward out of the crowd, still holding the hot dog in the air. The other man had turned and grabbed a spoonful of pickle relish and had thrown it at the professor who seemed to deftly catch it on his bun.

Both men seemed slightly astonished at this, but the professor did not have much time to react, as the other man then drew a pistol from his jacket and shot the professor through his head, the bullet clearly smacking into the brick wall behind Doctor Malmud as he fell down, dead.

Fromme quickly called his newspaper boss to report what he had seen. Working for the newspaper was how Fromme paid his bills – that and the fact of his inheritance from the real Fromme Marrs, deceased, also known as Spider to his friends.

Hello? This is Ms. Narkhon, Chronicle news desk, Fromme’s local-time boss answered the phone.

Hello, Miss Narkhon, Fromme said. This is Fromme Marrs.

Hello, Fromme. What can I do for you?

I saw the shooting, he spoke in an excited whisper into his phone.

What shooting? Why are you whispering? Are you in danger?

I don’t know. I thought someone might be listening since I had to call the main number.

Well, even if someone else was on the line, they could hear you whispering just as well as I, couldn’t they?

I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that. Telephones are sort of mysterious to me.

Tell me about this shooting you witnessed.

Two guys got into an argument at the hot dog stand and one of them shot the other guy in the head.

That’s just a summary. I need who, what, where, when, why, and how. Do you know their names?

No. Well, I think I know the guy who was shot, but I can’t be totally sure.

You’re a reporter, Fromme. Why aren’t you asking questions about what happened? You’re not going to find out what happened from me.

It seemed rude to ask. A man just died. I would feel like I was imposing.

It’s your job to report, Fromme. Reporters report. They report facts. So, go find out some facts. Remember: who, what, where, when, why, and how. When the police get there, shut up and listen to them. After the police take the assailant away, interview the crowd. Find out everything you can.

Thanks, Miss Narkhon. Can I have the follow-up?

We don’t know how much of a story there is here, yet. Get to work on what you’ve got. We’ll see where it goes.

Miss Narkhon?

Yes, Fromme?

Thanks again for the job. I’ll do my best.

I know you will, Fromme. She disconnected the call and turned to the managing editor sitting beside her. That’s what worries me, she said. His best may not be good enough.

Are you afraid you might have to fire him? the managing editor asked.

No. I don’t plan on giving up on him. He’s a fast learner; he just still has cognitive problems. But he has other qualities that make up for that – he’s like a walking dictionary, although with a lot of pages missing. But he can’t continue to live off of charity. I’m not going to fire him, but I’m afraid if he doesn’t improve quickly, somebody else might fire both of us.

That would be me, the managing editor said, and I’m willing to let you have your autonomy with this. He’s your headache, Ima. What little salary we pay him is the least of our worries. Sales are trending down, and I don’t see them turning around. Nobody reads newspapers anymore. We need some big exclusives, or we’ll all walk out of here together before too long.

Ima Narkhon had given Fromme his job with the Chronicle after his discharge from the hospital, where he had been recovering from extensive brain injuries. She had offered him the job while he was still partly incapacitated after she had seen articles written about him in the Chronicle, as well as other publications. He was a hero to his Army unit, but his act of heroism had left him childlike in many ways – as if he was still learning how the world worked. She hired him not because he had any journalism background, but because he was a well-known voracious reader in the hospital, and also because it had always been her philosophy that those who do good in the world deserve the same.

After the managing editor left, Ima sent Fromme a text message: Who what where when why and how. Take notes.

Fromme had some difficulty finding out anything worth putting in a news story. He used his phone to take some pictures of the dead man lying sprawled on his back with his right hand still holding a hot dog in a bun as if using it to point to the bullet hole in the brick wall behind him. A clean bullet hole also penetrated the corpse’s head from one side to the other.

A group of people had taken the shooter’s gun away from him, and were holding him for the police, who were swiftly approaching by the sound of the distant sirens.

The shooter was trying to shake free from his captors, shouting, Let me go, you sons of bitches. I did you all a favor. If you knew what I know, you would be carrying me on your shoulders right now. That man was an alien.

Mister, one of his detainers said, we all come from somewhere else.

Fromme was just beginning to interview the bystanders when the police arrived and began their own interviews. Fromme tried to stand close enough to hear the conversations.

One of the policemen stared at him and said, Step back a little. I’ll get to you in a minute.

However, Fromme’s hearing was excellent, and even from a distance he could still understand most of what was being said.

Did you see what happened here? The policeman asked the first witness.

Yeah. I saw the whole thing. I was next in line. It could’ve been me he shot.

Line for what? The policeman asked.

The hot dog stand, the witness said. I was going to get a hot dog for lunch. That man there, the one with the hole in his head, he was right in front of me. He had just gotten his hot dog and was walking away when this other man, that man cursing over there, came and broke in line in front of me. He asked the hot dog vendor guy for his hot dog. The guy said he was out of cooked ones, but was cooking some more. The man with the gun said he had called ahead for a reservation. The hot dog stand guy said that man, the other man, the one that’s dead now, had bought the last one. The man with the gun yelled at the other one that he had his hot dog because he had a reservation. The other one turned and looked confused. ‘I see by your hat that you belong to the M@RON party,’ the man said. He pronounced it ‘moron.’ This really made the other man mad. Then the guy with the hot dog said, ‘It is people like you who have brought poverty upon yourselves with your unenlightened politics. However, if you need money for a hot dog, I can pay for one for you.’

So, the officer interrupted, the man without a hot dog shot the man who was going to buy him a hot dog?

Yeah.

That’s crazy, the officer said.

Yeah. And then the crazy man said he wasn’t going to stand there and be insulted, and he picked up a spoonful of pickle relish and threw it at the other man.

Pickle relish? the policeman asked.

Yeah. You know, that chopped up green stuff you put on hot dogs.

Got it. Food fight. Then what happened?

The man, the dead one, he caught that relish right on his hot dog – right on the meat – right between the buns. He couldn’t have done better if he had been a circus clown.

Fascinating, the policeman said, but he didn’t look fascinated; he looked bored. So, then what?

That crazy man froze when he saw that – like a statue. It was like he was in shock. That’s when he pulled his gun out and shot the other man.

Because the other man caught the pickle relish on his hot dog?

Best I can tell that was why. Then the crazy man started yelling, ‘I got one! I got one! Cut his head off. Quick.’

He wanted to cut the dead man’s head off? The policeman was finally showing some interest. Did he say why?

Yeah. He said, ‘They can’t live without their heads on.’ Crazy, right? I mean who can?

I’m not allowed to comment, the policeman said, but a lot of people never use their heads for anything but chewing their food.

An ambulance had arrived immediately after the police cars, and Fromme wandered over to where they were loading the body in the back of the van. Another policeman was talking to a paramedic.

Probably died instantly from the concussion, the paramedic was saying. Although, the hole was especially clean, so there would probably have to be an autopsy to say for sure. The shooter must have used an armor piercing round to make a hole that clean.

Armor piercing, the policeman said as he took notes.

Two other policemen had handcuffed the shooter and were stuffing him into the back seat of a patrol car. I hear they serve hot dogs a lot in prison, one of the policemen laughed.

A boy came out of the crowd with a red hat in his hand and gave it to one of the policemen. It’s his, the boy said, pointing to the man in the back seat. The policeman held it up and studied the monogram across the front.

M@RON

It looks like it says ‘moron’ to me, the policeman said. Some people just go out looking for trouble.

The next morning, Fromme attended the initial hearing and managed to find a seat in the courtroom. At the hearing, the judge was also curious about the hat.

Mr. Skidmore . . . the judge began.

Excuse me, Judge, the man said. You can call me Eddie.

The judge stared at Eddie for a few seconds. In the third place, Mr. Skidmore, you may address me as ‘Your Honor.’ In the second place, you need to take that hat off in this courtroom. And in the first place, I want to know if you are calling me a moron with that hat, or if you are self-proclaiming, although I will grant that both things could be true.

Neither one, Your Honor. It’s the name of a group I belong to. ‘Make America Return to the Old Normal.’ I’m the president.

Did you have that hat in the cell with you?

No, Your Honor. My friends brought it this morning. Eddie pointed to a row of men in the audience. They waved at the judge.

Why aren’t they wearing moron hats, too? the judge asked.

They’re too expensive to buy one at a time, but I’m working on a business plan to buy them cheaper and sell them myself, if you’re interested in getting one for yourself.

Why would I want a hat that says moron on it? the judge asked.

It’s pronounced ‘may-ron,’ Eddie said.

Because you used an ‘at’ sign instead of an ‘A’ for ‘America?’ What’s the point of that? Is it a mistake?

No, Your Honor. It’s encrypted.

Encrypted? Is it a password?

No, Your Honor. It’s just encrypted. It’s to show how smart we are.

Well, I don’t see the point of encrypting a word and then wearing it on one’s hat.

But it’s not a word, Your Honor. It’s a kind of a nacronym. It’s where each letter stands for a different word.

You mean an ‘acronym.’

That’s right.

Your Honor, The judge added.

You don’t have to call me Your Honor, Your Honor, just cause I’m smart and all.

After a pause, the judge said, Well, Mr. Skidmore, you will take the hat off and we will proceed with this hearing. You are accused of shooting a Mr. Manny Malamud through the head, causing his death. How do you plead to this charge?

Fromme noticed that the judge had mispronounced Manny’s last name, but did not give it a second thought at the time.

Your Honor, Eddie Skidmore said, my lawyer told me to keep my mouth shut, but since you asked me a direct question and this ain’t my first rodeo, I’ll tell you the truth – I didn’t kill no human bean.

Mr. Skidmore, there is a street full of witnesses who saw you do it.

I know that’s what they thought they saw, Your Honor, but he wasn’t human.

Taking the last hot dog doesn’t make someone inhuman.

No, Your Honor. I mean he was an alien.

Being from another country doesn’t make someone less than human, either.

No, Your Honor. I mean he was a space alien.

So, is this your way of pleading ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ then? Is this how your lawyer told you to play this game?

No, Your Honor. I don’t listen to lawyers. I’m telling you the truth. He was a space alien.

How did you come to realize this?

By the way he caught the pickle relish, Your Honor. Everybody knows that space aliens have lightning-fast reflexes. Only a space alien could have caught that pickle relish that way.

Or it could have been a freak accident, the judge said.

Oh, no, Your Honor. You should have seen the way he did it. He was showing off. He stared at it like he was proud.

He appeared very human in the police photographs – except for being dead, of course. Everybody else seems to think he is human. The people at the morgue have no doubts about him. At the moment, he has no reflexes what-so-ever to test him with, so I am forced to rule that he is and was human. It also sounds as if you are admitting that you fired the shot that killed him.

Your Honor, you’ve got to listen to me. I can prove he is a space alien. The human-looking body is something they grow in a vat. The real space alien is inside.

Inside the human body?

Yes, and it’s a nasty looking thing too, Your Honor. It’s like a cross between a lobster and a giant centipede. If you open up the head, you will see the space lobster inside the brain. It’s horrible.

Have you actually seen one of these space lobsters?

No, but I have a friend whose half-sister’s second husband’s uncle saw one once.

Mr. Skidmore, I am about to hold you in contempt of court.

What did I say, Your Honor?

You are making a mockery of this court with your outlandish tales.

It’s all true, Your Honor. Don’t believe me – check it out for yourself. Look inside the head.

And if there is no space lobster, what then?

I’ll plead guilty, Your Honor. I’ll admit I made a mistake, and no harm done.

No harm done, huh? The judge leaned back in his chair, looking very tired. After a few thoughtful seconds, he called the bailiff over. Bailiff, call the morgue and see if they have done an autopsy yet. If not, order one done.

Thank you, Your Honor, Eddie said. You will see that I was simply doing my patriotic duty by protecting the planet from aliens.

Mr. Skidmore, while we wait, do you mind if I ask you a few auxiliary questions?

No, Your Honor, but I don’t know anything about cannons, but my uncle on my momma’s side was in the auxiliary in World War Two.

The judge looked puzzled at this response. Mr. Skidmore, he said to Eddie, are you having fun with me?

Well, Your Honor. I think we are getting along just fine, but I wouldn’t call it fun, exactly.

The judge sighed. What I would like to know is why you used an armor piercing bullet to shoot Mr. Malmud. That is not a round that is normally used for self-protection.

Objection! shouted the lawyer from the courtroom. Leading the witness.

Off the record, said the judge. Besides, the accused has already admitted he shot the man.

Not officially, Your Honor, the lawyer said.

The judge nodded. Why armor piercing? he asked Eddie.

The lobsters are really tough, Your Honor. Most bullets just bounce off.

Do you have a permit for armor piercing bullets?

No, Your Honor, the Supreme Court ruled that it is unconstitutional for a state to require any permit for any weapon that might be used in self-defense.

I must have slept through that one.

That’s right, Your Honor. I’m going to get a flame-thrower next Christmas, and if I see one of those space lobsters, I’m going to make lobster Theodore out of him.

Thermidor, the judge said. Lobster thermidor.

That too. I’ll cook him up good.

The bailiff came into the courtroom and the judge called him over.

The corpse has run off, the bailiff said.

Run off? the judge asked. The corpse has run off. I believe that may be the first time that sequence of words has ever been uttered in this courtroom, or possibly in any courtroom ever. I am trying to digest that information, bailiff. Could you help me out with some additional information?

Your honor, the bailiff began, No one had ordered an autopsy because the cause of death was obvious. While the corpse of Mr. Malmud was lying on a slab in the morgue, he seemed to wake up. He sat up, looked around, jumped off the slab and ran out into the street before anyone could stop him.

Your Honor, we request immediate dismissal, shouted the defense attorney, on the grounds there is no corpus delicti.

Not so fast, the judge said. We need to get to the bottom of this. Are we sure this was the corpse of Manny Malmud?

The morgue said it was the man who go shot in the head, the bailiff said.

This is New York City, the judge said. It could be anybody.

The bailiff shrugged his shoulders in response.

Where did the alleged Mr. Malmud go? he asked the bailiff.

Home maybe, Your Honor. Or possibly to a hospital. I don’t think anybody knows.

Call all the hospitals, clinics, and doctors in the vicinity. Send a patrol car to his house. Send someone over to the morgue with a photograph of Mr. Malmud. We need to ascertain if it was really the victim who ran off, or if we are having some sort of bureaucratic mix up with our corpses. Mr. Skidmore, I am going to have to send you back to your cell until we can sort this out.

Your Honor, I object, the attorney shouted.

Keep your britches on, the judge said. We don’t know for certain if it was Mr. Malmud who jumped off the slab, or some vagrant who wandered into the morgue to take a nap.

Oh, it was him, Eddie said. I knew we should have cut his head off. Also, Your Honor, one more thing.

What’s that, Mr. Skidmore?

If the corpse has split, you must acquit.

c-2 Spider Counsel

Most of the people in the courtroom were reporters, and at the announcement that the murder victim had reversed his own prognosis, they jumped up, scrambling to get their cell phones out, and rushed for the hallway, where cell phone calls were permitted.

One person, however, did not jump up. Fromme had noticed this person from across the courtroom, and had thought she did not have the same bored look as most of the reporters. She, instead, looked as if she might tear off a chunk of the wooden rail in front of her with her bare hands. Now, she stood up shakily and lurched, head-down, for the door as if in a blind panic. Fromme followed her into the hallway, but she had wended her way through the crowd, and he could not see which way she had gone. He suspected he knew who she was - the daughter of the professor who had been shot – the woman he had always wanted someday to meet.

Doctor Manny Malmud had been, according to Fromme’s best information, the father of Doctor Zenobia Malmud, the woman who Fromme, as well as others like him, considered to be the most important human being who had ever lived. Most people had never heard of her, but Fromme idolized her to the point that he had been following her father in hopes of finally meeting her.

Zenobia Malmud was well known to have astonishing mathematical abilities, constantly amazing her colleagues with her grasp of abstract models of particle physics, but had never produced any work of significance, herself. She was considered by those who knew her to be somewhat psychologically fragile lately. Perhaps, as she herself thought, she might be coming loose from her moorings. Fromme’s acquaintances had told him he would be able to identify her by her recognizable limp, which they described for him. This limp was the result of a near-fatal shooting incident in which her mother had also been shot. Since that time, she had become reclusive and difficult to find.

Fromme went down to street level and saw her running toward a taxi parked down the street. She ran with a limp, as if one leg did not swivel properly at the hip, but had to be thrown out to the side in order to swing it forward. He ran after her, but she slipped into the taxi and sped away.

He called in his updated news story to the news desk, and asked if someone would look up the home address of Manny Malmud, and also see if he had any close relatives living with him.

The day was getting old, and Fromme did not think anyone would stay late at the office to look up an address for a cub reporter, so he thought it best if he also did his own search. However, he had forgotten to charge his phone, and when he started the display, it gave him a warning message and shut down.

By the time the taxi arrived at his apartment, the day was done. Fromme had a car but seldom used it, finding that driving in town was a nerve frazzling experience, and that keeping track of the maintenance took his mind away from things he preferred to think about. He shared his car with a neighbor who had a place to park it but no car of his own. The neighbor maintained the car for the privilege of occasionally driving his family to the beach or the park in it.

Fromme charged his phone, began his address search on the Internet, and soon had what he thought was the correct address. In the morning, he called the news desk and reported his finding to see if anyone had found anything else.

You found it? Donna, the administrative assistant was amazed. I couldn’t find the name ‘Manny Malamud’ in the entire state. And do you know how many people named ‘Malamud’ there are in New York?

Two things, Fromme said. His name is not ‘Malamud’ with a second ‘A.’ It’s ‘Malmud’ – two syllables. It’s a derivation, and there aren’t really very many people who have that last name. Also, ‘Manny’ is short for Emmanuel. I thought that might be his legal name, and I found a single Emmanuel Malmud in my search. That has to be him. I’m headed over to the address this morning. Would you tell Ms. Narkhon for me?

Sure. Good luck.

As the address was outside of New York City proper, Fromme retrieved his car from his neighbor’s yard, entered the address into the driving app on his phone and followed the directions. After a short while, he found himself out in the suburbs where people lived in houses instead of apartments. The houses weren’t very large, and they were so close together they might as well have been apartments, but to Fromme, it looked like affluence compared to his neighborhood.

Donna called Fromme back.

We cross-checked your information, she said. It looks good. Manny has a wife named Artemisia, and a daughter named Zenobia. They all list the same address as their residence. Zenobia and her mother were both critically injured in a random shooting incident in a grocery store. Artemisia is in a wheelchair now because of spinal injuries, and Zenobia walks with a pronounced limp.

Thanks, Donna. I really appreciate all the info.

Not a problem. By the way, Ima says you’re a genius.

Some people at the news desk felt close enough to Ms. Narkhon to call her by her first name, but Fromme was afraid to try it, as the result might be unfortunate for his career.

I don’t feel like a genius, he replied, and I don’t know what I would do without you and Ms. Narkhon. I appreciate all the help. I think I’m getting close to the house. I’ll call in later.

Zenobia Malmud was staring into her bathroom mirror as Fromme approached the house in his car. Zenobia’s mother, Artemisia, had rolled her wheelchair partially into Zenobia’s bedroom where she could see Zenobia as she leaned on the bathroom sink, arms stiff, head down.

She knew what her daughter must be thinking. Zenobia and Manny had worked together to help take care of her wheelchair-bound self. Now, it looked as if Zenobia’s work would be doubled without Manny to help her – more than doubled, as now it looked as if Manny would need full time care himself. Artemisia wished there was something she could do for her daughter, but what could she do?

As Zenobia lifted her head, Artemisia quietly rolled her wheelchair back into the living room.

Zenobia stared into the mirror. No one had told her life was going to be like this – like hell. Her career was floundering; her parents would now need her full time. How would she ever meet a man worth marrying? Examining her face in the mirror, she wondered if any man worth having would have her in return. She was very plain in the face, plump around the middle from her new food addiction, and she couldn’t even walk a straight line since the incident, not to mention the constant pain in her hip.

I probably wouldn’t even want a man who would sink to having me, she said to the mirror. She laughed at the absurdity. Why would she want a man anyway? It was just her hormones making her want a husband and a child. She really only wanted one thing out of life, but now it looked as if that would not happen. She put her face in her hands and began to sob. After a bit, she pulled herself together, combed her hair, and told her mom that she was going out to the back yard to refill the bird feeder.

When Fromme arrived, he was surprised to find that reporters did not surround the house. Perhaps they also had problems finding any listing for Manny Malmud.

He parked the car in the driveway and walked up to the small front porch. He rang the bell and waited.

Who is it? came a wispy voice from inside. He thought he saw someone peeking out from the bottom of a window curtain. It must be the mom, Fromme thought.

Is Zenobia here? he asked through the door.

She’s in the back yard, came the voice. The gate is not locked.

Fromme had seen the gate as he parked the car, and now he decided he would take advantage of this lucky break. The mom had obviously thought he was someone else – a friend of Zenobia’s, perhaps.

He saw Zenobia pouring birdseed into a wooden feeder. She turned at the sound of the gate opening.

Who are you? she asked, stopping in mid pour.

I’m Fromme Marrs, he replied as he walked forward.

Jesus! Do you think that’s funny? Stop right there. Turn around and get the hell out of my yard. We don’t need any more space aliens, thank you very much. Now go before I call the cops!

No, no, that is my name, Fromme said. They are real names, German, Old English, Celtic. I guess my parents had a sense of humor, but now I am stuck with the joke on me. I’ll leave if you want, but I just came to ask about your dad. Your mom said you were back here.

You talked to my mother? What did you say?

I asked where Zenobia was. I guess she thought we were friends.

None of my friends calls me Zenobia. I don’t care for it. Too fanciful – too historical. ‘Zen’ is too philosophical to suit me for a nickname, so I settled on ‘Obie,’ which is just plain enough for me. Call me ‘Obie.’ How do you even walk around with your own crazy name?

I have just had to live with it. There’s no way to shorten it -  ‘Fro’ maybe, but that doesn’t seem to fit me. Parents – right? Can’t live with them – can’t live without them. How is your dad doing?

Obie put down the sack of bird seed. He is in the hospital. You apparently know what happened. He was shot in the head and somehow survived. Why do people shoot people? The world is messed up. When I found out he was still alive, I searched everywhere for him and found him huddled in an alley. I called an ambulance and now doctors are examining him like a lab rat. How can someone survive being shot in the head? I think if I got shot in the head, I would rather not survive it.

It happens, Fromme said. There are many known cases of people surviving serious brain trauma – even after having objects imbedded in their brains.

Do you know a lot about this? She sat down on a wooden bench, and studied him with a quizzical look.

It has always been a favorite subject of mine – for as long as I can remember.

Is that why you are here?

"Partly. I’m a reporter for The Chronicle."

I knew it! Get the hell out. You guys prey on suffering just so you can sell ads. You’ve just been conning me. We are done.

I’m being honest with you. It’s not like I’m trying to keep my job a secret. But I do feel drawn to this story. I am concerned about your dad. I want things to turn out well for all of you. My job just gives me an excuse to be here.

She studied his face for a moment.

We’ll see. You promise nothing lurid in the news?

There will be nothing like that from me. I won’t even disclose your names or your address.

How did you find us when nobody else has?

He told her.

Only the family and really old friends call him Manny, his legal name. It’s a funny name – Manny Malmud. It sounds like someone yelling something before doing something crazy. Like ‘Yah hoo! Bad mud.’

Is that what you think ‘Malmud’ means?

’Mal’ means ‘bad,’ right?

In some languages. But in Hebrew, ‘Malamud’ means ‘teacher.’ ‘Malmud’ is just a variation of ‘Malamud.’ Both names mean ‘teacher.’

You seem to know a lot about names.

I have had a lot of time to read. I’m great at trivia games.

What does ‘Manny’ mean, then? I bet you don’t know that one.

It means ‘Yahweh is merciful.’

She stiffened and put her hand over her mouth. Tears began to swell in her eyes.

Merciful . . . she choked. Sorry. That’s a laugh. Except I’m not laughing. Right?

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

Things have been hard. And now I need a tissue. Do you want to come inside? You can meet my mother. She’ll make some cookies, and if you say you like them, she’ll ask you to stay for dinner.

She started to put her hand down on the armrest of the bench, but jerked it back and screamed.

Oh, my god! I almost put my hand on a spider. She jumped up from the bench, spilling bird seed. "Could you kill it for me, please? I