Chapter 32
Dr. Sloan began to wheel Chet Chandler toward the front door of Eveningside. John followed along behind her, sputtering in protest. Chet lolled in the chair, all dead weight and dead to the world as well.
“What do you think you’re doing?” John said with a rasp. “How are you going to explain this mess?” He was pointing at Chet’s slumbering, muscle bound frame and tugging urgently at Sharon’s sleeve.
A covey of Eveningside pilgrims stopped near the front door just before entering and stared at John as he queried the Warrior Queen. Their eyes were narrow and sharp with suspicion; it was a practiced look so, obviously, they were Free Will Baptists. Dr. Sloan smiled in their direction and nodded pleasantly before turning back to John.
“There’s nothing to explain,” she whispered to him, smiling for the benefit of their audience. “We’ll merely report finding this man hors de combat in the parking lot and angrily inquire if the Reverend Cooker routinely employs drunkards.”
“Fine. But what do we do when he wakes up?”
Dr. Sloan laughed. “No worries, my Dear Heartbreak. Or should I say, ‘Elementary’ my Dear Heartbreak? Let me educate you.
“The Tasmanian Devil Detonator is,” she began, “a secret wrestling hold that when applied correctly by professionals--such as moi--renders its targets comatose for 15 minutes. Upon awakening, Vics immediately begin exploring their innermost and secret desires. In Chet’s case, I’m betting he’ll be in bunny slippers and a housedress by the time the dinner bell rings. By sundown he’ll be feeding the choir a tuna hot dish.”
“Good Lord,” John exclaimed. “You’ve turned him into a Methodist!”
“In the mean time,” the Warrior Queen continued, ignoring John’s interruption, “you and I will be forgotten in the general shock and awe over Chet’s transformation from steroid raging lunatic into a kindly Methodist auntie. The entire Eveningside Security Force will descend on Chet like white on rice—to use an old Texas favorite, ha ha—thereby providing exactly the diversion I need to raise the curtain on Act One of my Grand Fandango.”
John nodded.
Then:
“May I ask how you know that this…this…preposterous scenario is possible?” he asked, in disbelief. “And what’s with the Tasmanian Devil thing? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
Dr. Sloan sputtered. “Well…,” she began, confidently…and then stopped. She looked upwards, then left and right for an answer, but came up empty.
“I guess I’m as mystified as you are,” she said, after a lengthy pause. “I have no idea how I knew about the Tasmanian Devil Detonator, or why I can apply it with such authority. But let me say,” she continued, “that I’m enjoying my Warrior Queen Powers, however they’re derived.”
“I think this entire episode is absurd.”
“Let me remind you,” she said, “That we are in a novel. Many things are possible in novels.
“But it is complicated,” she agreed. “What’s happening right here—right now—in Blue Eye, Missouri, is occurring simultaneously with my writing a snotty letter to the State of Tennessee about the new Sand Hill Crane hunting season. Such is the nature of parallel universes. I’m really back in my cottage along the Kings River slapping the heck out of my keyboard. Can’t you hear the muffled clacking?”
John cocked his head and tried to pick up the mushy sound of fingers striking a keyboard. He wasn’t able to, of course, but counted that as a blessing. Clara Jane Smith—now Clara Jane Staley—had often complained about hearing the Authorial I (that would be me) typing away off stage while she tried to carry on a conversation with Mrs. Heartbreak, or to hear one of Pastor Turner’s fine sermons. Sometimes, it nearly drove her to distraction.
John couldn’t pick up on the typing because of his deafness, of course, and other characters in the book, like Mrs. Heartbreak or Alexander Virden, assumed the subtle racket was something happening at the Tyson Plant just north of Berryville. After a while it was just white noise to them. But Clara Jane, who was constitutionally incapable of ignoring subtle environmental messages, heard every single key stroke.
John simply missed everything.
“Are you able to hear the Authorial I typing?” he asked, finally.
“Of course I can,” the Warrior Queen answered. “Between his clacking and my own clacking it’s a wonder I can hear anything else. The background noise is the worst part about being in the book, now that you mention it. I wish he would give it a rest, frankly.”
John shook his head. “You don’t really want that,” he replied.
“The minute he stops typing, we’re stuck. If he goes to the bathroom—we’re stuck. If he pops a cup of Earl Grey into the microwave, we’re on hold for at least two minutes and twenty seconds. Imagine standing here forever, me with my hand on your sleeve and you shepherding Chet’s wheelchair. Not pretty to think about.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Dr. Sloan said. “What happens if the ugly old toad dies?”
“You don’t want to think about it,” John said. “But I’m sure it doesn’t help calling him an old toad. How would you like fall in love with Pastor Cooker and become the New Tomi?”
“He wouldn’t dare!”
“One never knows, do one?”
“I did not volunteer to be an object of ridicule! May I say that I suddenly find the whole idea of parallel universes to be rather odd, especially when my parallel self is subject to the random whims of Whatshisname?”
“The Authorial I,” John corrected.
“Whatever. Obviously, I should have consulted with an agent prior to making an appearance in this book. At the very least I should have negotiated some agreement about the minimum amount of Cooker’s ill gotten $6,000,000 that is acceptable as payment to me.
“Hear it now, Heartbreak! I won’t take a dime less than four million two. Otherwise, I’m walking right off the page!”
“I can’t see what you’re complaining about,” John retorted. “You get all the best lines, say all the smart things and you get to be a Great Warrior Queen. I, meanwhile, am constantly referred to as dull, old, and deaf. I’ve become your dagnabbed ‘sidekick’ gosh darn it. Which, I’ll have you know, I resent!”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s not fair!”
“But you are dull, old, and deaf, while I am witty, bright, and courageous. Surely you can see that our leadership Zeitgeist is entirely rational and natural?”
“I see no such thing. I have half a mind to walk off the page myself!"
“Don’t be too hasty,” Dr. Sloan said.”If you weren’t in the book all you’d be doing is going to funerals and thinking that visits to the doctor are recreational. Certainly you prefer hobnobbing about with fierce Warrior Queens to that?
“I mean,” she continued, “the fact that I can render a Neanderthal such as Chet unconscious with a single Tasmanian Devil Detonator is really rather splendid. I’m having a great time, actually.”
“Hmmn,” John mused. “It is sort of fun...mostly…
“…but when we open our detective agency we’re going to call it ‘Heartbreak and Sloan’. My name first!”
Neither John nor Dr. Sloan was aware that the staring Free Will Baptists had gathered forces as they argued and were staring even harder. Who was this insistent woman, and why was she berating that apparently vulnerable old chap, and with large words too?
Luckily, Chet began to moan, quietly at first, and then rather loudly as his revolving red eyes popped open.
“Ohhhh, my neck,” he said, rubbing it with his hand. “What happened?”
Moving quickly, Sloan reached under Chet’s elbow and jerked him to his feet, then propelled him into the middle of the approaching Baptist crowd.
“Chet,” she said with a cheery bray, “let me introduce you to the newest group of Pilgrims come to see Reverend Jake and the Lovely Lulu"
“Darlings,” he exclaimed. “How are you? Welcome to Eveningside! Oh my God, you look famished! Can I get you some hot dish! Tuna?”
Sloan smiled as Chet ushered the by now bewildered Free Willers into Eveningside.
“See?” she said.
Chet shrieked out to them, “Where did I get this awful suit!”
Dr. Sloan smiled again.
