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Authors: Marlys Millhiser
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bar embedded itself in the front of Maggieâs house. And if Charlie had thought the world a strangely quiet place when the compound filled with emergency and official officials to investigate the murder of Jeremy Fiedler, it was totally without sound now. She couldnât hear herself swallow, or the sound of her shoes as she staggered to her feet and wove her way toward Ed, who lay sprawled across her front step.
Heâd let go of the security grate and it had slammed shut, but it didnât matter because the front gate was open to all now. Permanently. Charlie giggled and couldnât hear it either, her ears should be ringing. Panic at the thought of a permanent disability seeped into her consciousness with an odd and horrid tingling.
âEd,â she felt her mouth and tongue and vocal cords say.
His eyes were open and blinking. Blood on his forehead trickled off into the inverted V of his hairline to one side of his widowâs peak. Charlie collapsed to a sitting position next to him and blinked back.
Just around the corner, the girls had jumped into a waiting car which had no discernable license plate and whose driver laid rubber for a block getting them out of the neighborhood. Now she knew why.
Ed was talking to her, struggling to pull a cell phone the size of a thin billfold out of his shirt pocket. Pretty soon youâd be able to make a phone call on a pinky ring.
âI canât hear you,â she told him, and couldnât hear herself. Was she making sound?
Maggie and Mrs. Beesom appeared as one out of the void and Ed handed Maggie the cellular billfold. Ed was a good-looking fiftyish, in a prosperous wayâ
That doesnât make sense, Charlie.
I know. At least I can hear myself think.
Ed sat up with Bettyâs help and gave Charlie a pitying look. What, her nose had been blown off, too? She was almost blind without her contact lenses, couldnât hear, no noseâwhat else? Well, she could smell. She could smell blood.
And Charlie could feel. She could feel herself tipping over where she sat.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Jeremy Fiedler sprawled on the lounge on Charlieâs patio stroking Tuxedo and Jennifer. One of them purred. Jennifer sat alongside him and Tuxedo on his lap. He stroked the nubile on the head just like the cat. Jennifer hadnât grown into her nose, her hair was untidy, and her eyes red, but her legs were well shaped.
âWhat do you see in girls young enough to be your granddaughter?â Charlie asked him.
âTheir acute intelligence,â Jeremy said and Tuxedo grinned and Jennifer smiled with her reddened eyes and her whole face. She looked triumphant and transformed. And suddenly lovely.
Charlie sat in a morning grid on the 405 talking to Joe Putnam at Pitmanâs in New York about Keegan Monroeâs novel. âSo, what do you think?â
âKeegan Monroe canât write novels, Charlie, you know that. But I love the films he pens.â
âYou have read the manuscriptââ
âI donât have to. The buzz is screenwriters canât write novels. You know that. He could always do a novelization, but heâs too famous. Call me back whenââ
Charlie was halfway into her pantyhose when traffic started up again. She almost spilled her coffee. And people used to obsess over being taken to the hospital in dirty underpants. Her shoes on the seat beside her, the foot on the gas wearing one side of the pantyhose to the knee, the one on the brake side bare, coffee cup in one hand and steering wheel in the other, and the cell phone in her pinky ring rang and she spilled coffee down her front to answer it but it was the wrong hand and how the hell was she supposed to show up at the Universal meeting in a ruined suit and she switched to the hand that held the wheel to answer her other pinky and Jeremy said, âJesus, Charlie, watch outââ and there was this semi headed for her windshield and
Heâd let go of the security grate and it had slammed shut, but it didnât matter because the front gate was open to all now. Permanently. Charlie giggled and couldnât hear it either, her ears should be ringing. Panic at the thought of a permanent disability seeped into her consciousness with an odd and horrid tingling.
âEd,â she felt her mouth and tongue and vocal cords say.
His eyes were open and blinking. Blood on his forehead trickled off into the inverted V of his hairline to one side of his widowâs peak. Charlie collapsed to a sitting position next to him and blinked back.
Just around the corner, the girls had jumped into a waiting car which had no discernable license plate and whose driver laid rubber for a block getting them out of the neighborhood. Now she knew why.
Ed was talking to her, struggling to pull a cell phone the size of a thin billfold out of his shirt pocket. Pretty soon youâd be able to make a phone call on a pinky ring.
âI canât hear you,â she told him, and couldnât hear herself. Was she making sound?
Maggie and Mrs. Beesom appeared as one out of the void and Ed handed Maggie the cellular billfold. Ed was a good-looking fiftyish, in a prosperous wayâ
That doesnât make sense, Charlie.
I know. At least I can hear myself think.
Ed sat up with Bettyâs help and gave Charlie a pitying look. What, her nose had been blown off, too? She was almost blind without her contact lenses, couldnât hear, no noseâwhat else? Well, she could smell. She could smell blood.
And Charlie could feel. She could feel herself tipping over where she sat.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Jeremy Fiedler sprawled on the lounge on Charlieâs patio stroking Tuxedo and Jennifer. One of them purred. Jennifer sat alongside him and Tuxedo on his lap. He stroked the nubile on the head just like the cat. Jennifer hadnât grown into her nose, her hair was untidy, and her eyes red, but her legs were well shaped.
âWhat do you see in girls young enough to be your granddaughter?â Charlie asked him.
âTheir acute intelligence,â Jeremy said and Tuxedo grinned and Jennifer smiled with her reddened eyes and her whole face. She looked triumphant and transformed. And suddenly lovely.
Charlie sat in a morning grid on the 405 talking to Joe Putnam at Pitmanâs in New York about Keegan Monroeâs novel. âSo, what do you think?â
âKeegan Monroe canât write novels, Charlie, you know that. But I love the films he pens.â
âYou have read the manuscriptââ
âI donât have to. The buzz is screenwriters canât write novels. You know that. He could always do a novelization, but heâs too famous. Call me back whenââ
Charlie was halfway into her pantyhose when traffic started up again. She almost spilled her coffee. And people used to obsess over being taken to the hospital in dirty underpants. Her shoes on the seat beside her, the foot on the gas wearing one side of the pantyhose to the knee, the one on the brake side bare, coffee cup in one hand and steering wheel in the other, and the cell phone in her pinky ring rang and she spilled coffee down her front to answer it but it was the wrong hand and how the hell was she supposed to show up at the Universal meeting in a ruined suit and she switched to the hand that held the wheel to answer her other pinky and Jeremy said, âJesus, Charlie, watch outââ and there was this semi headed for her windshield and
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