Whale Season

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Authors: N. M. Kelby
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and bow ties, slicing the tops of boxes with razors, stocking the shelves. Their acne is angry. Their hair, surprised. Leon hardly notices. He’s too busy looking, but doesn’t think to read the signs, or ask someone.
    The store is as large as an airplane hangar; his footsteps echo. Hardware. Auto Repair. Lawn and Garden. The endless tombs of frozen foods. He knows he’s getting closer. Two dozen kinds of brownie mix. Fluffy. With nuts. With white chocolate chips. With artificially flavored mint frosting. Fat free. And then he sees it. Shelf stable and the color of chalk. The pearl of fish eyes watching him alone. So he puts it in his cart. Case after case. Tapioca. Premade and ready for anything.

Chapter 10

    â€œT his is a Kodak moment if I ever did see one,” Jimmy Ray says, beaming. His blue pin-striped suit is immaculate, despite the early hour. His silver hair glints like a department store diamond. He is coconut oil clean.
    It’s a good day, a strong day, Dagmar thinks, and feels happy. The week before, Jimmy Ray had some trouble getting out of bed. His skin was ashen.
    But today, he looks like the old Jimmy Ray, the one who used to boogie woogie with her when she was small. The Jimmy Ray who used to tell her stories of Mardi Gras. Used to tell her about the time he rode in the parade with Louie Armstrong who was crowned King of Zulu and they both wore traditional blackface, like everybody around them—“Those New Orleans Zulu are white folk after all,” he’d say and wink. Used to tell her about Professor Longhair, and the rest of the Blues Jumpers—how they would roller coaster their way through a creole of Caribbean and blues while masked ladies in crinoline spun across the dance floor like peach blossoms in strong wind—“Such lost beauty,” he’d always say. That Jimmy Ray: the one filled with life.
    â€œDagmar, honey, your elf cap is a little crooked.”
    Jimmy Ray has Dagmar and Jesus posed in front of the Christmas tree. Dagmar is still wearing her green elf cap, which sets off her hair, makes it seem redder than it is. And Jesus, looking a little sleep deprived, is in his sheet. Dagmar adjusts her cap.
    â€œJimmy Ray, hurry up,” she says and put her arm back around Jesus, his bony shoulders. He pulls back slightly. Skittish.
    She didn’t mean to bring Jesus home to Jimmy Ray for Christmas, but when they pulled into the driveway, Jimmy Ray was standing outside waiting for her. Hands in his pockets, kicking stones with his well-shined shoes. It was a lonely sight. How long he’d been standing in the morning fog was a question too sad to ask. So she didn’t.
    But when Jimmy Ray saw Jesus and Dagmar he let out a great yelp. “Who you got there, sis?”
    Jimmy Ray was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. The sight of Dagmar in her elf cap and Jesus singing show tunes in a sea green Mercedes convertible with its top down was just too much for him to handle. This was not just a chuckle, but eye-watering laugher. Spitting laughter. He could hardly catch his breath, limped a little on the way to the car.
    â€œSis,” he said, “when you said expect a little surprise on Christmas morning, you meant it, darling.” Then he turned to Jesus and extended his hand, “Pleased to meet you—”
    â€œJesus.” The man was serious. Jimmy Ray didn’t expect that. Up until that moment, he thought the sheet was a joke.
    Dagmar shrugged. “He needed a ride.”
    â€œYou were hitchhiking like that on Christmas?”
    â€œI don’t have a lot of choice,” Jesus said.
    For a moment, the three were unsure of what to say. In the quiet morning, they could hear the snap and pop of Jimmy Ray’s police scanners coming from his tiny house. It’s a cacophony of violence and mayhem that he seems to find reassuring these days.
    After his heart surgery, and conversion to Buddhism, he filled his house

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