Storyteller Read online

“You’ve got to take it!” said the second woman. Already a number of the others were busily unplugging it, carefully winding the electric cord and fixing it in place with a plastic tie. “Call it our housewarming gift for you and your family. Take it home.” She turned to the worker bees. “Girls, that must be his car over there . . . the white Camry station wagon.”

  “Really, I don’t want . . .”

  “Come along now,” said the woman, taking him by the arm. “You ain’t gonna refuse a gift from the community, are you?”

  Put that way, he didn’t see how he could resist. “Of course not.” He laughed uncomfortably. “I just . . . I . . . thank you. That’s very nice.”

  “It is, ain’t it?” said the woman, tugging him along after the television-bearers. “We look out for each other in Parson’s Pride. You’ll see.”

  He steadied the unit as the women put it in the trunk. When it was in place, each of them caressed it lovingly. A couple of them kissed it, then backed away, bowing obsequiously. He was too stunned to think of anything to say. He got in the car and drove home.

  “Plug it in, Daddy!” said his daughter.

  The only reason he’d brought it into the house was because he couldn’t very well have left it in the car. That would have been a slap in the face to the people who’d given it to him.

  “I think we’ll just leave it,” he said. “It’s broken anyway. Besides, we’ve never had a TV in the house and we haven’t missed a thing.”

  “You said it works,” his daughter protested.

  “Well, it turns on, yes. But it only plays one channel. PBS, I gather.”

  “PBS isn’t so bad,” said his wife, placing a plant on top of the set. “It doesn’t exactly match the decor, does it?” She laughed. “They’ve got Masterpiece Theater and Nova. You’d like that. The kids could watch Sesame Street once in a while. What’s it going to hurt?”

  “Please, Daddy! Can’t we plug it in. Huh? Can’t we please?”

  It had been a long, strange day, and they still had boxes to unpack. It wouldn’t hurt to have the girls out from under foot for a while. Besides, his wife was right; what harm could an hour or two of television do? They watched at their friends’ houses all the time. He relented. “Just on special occasions,” he said as he put the plug in the outlet.

  The television came on of its own accord. Apparently the women at the flea market, despite the care they had taken, had forgotten to turn it off before they unplugged it. The family sat down for a brief evening’s entertainment.

  A text message began to scroll across the screen. “Thank you for bringing the Maximatrix VmX home. A brief diagnostic program will now run in order to ensure the proper function of this set.”

  A round, white dot appeared in the upper left hand corner of the screen and began moving slowly back and forth, blinking as it did so. The text continued. “Only the Maximatrix VmX adjusts automatically to each viewer. Follow the ball as it moves across the screen. Harmless lasers will track each viewer’s eye-movements, and adjust depth, color, and contrast to maximize individual pixel absorption.”

  “‘Pixel absorption’? What the heck is that?” he said. “Harmless laser?”

  The little ball began moving up and down. Blink. Blink. Blink.

  “Shh,” said one of the girls. “There’s more.”

  A new block of text appeared. “Only the advanced technology of the Maximatrix VmX allows each viewer to see a different program at the same time. Please do not remove your eye from the white ball until the diagnostic is complete. Two minutes remain.”

  “This is crazy,” he said. He picked up the remote and was about to switch the set off when his wife stopped his hand. “Two minutes,” she said, her eyes fixed on the little ball as it began to spin in circles. “Be patient.”

  His curiosity was piqued by the claim that everyone in the room could watch a different program at the same time. How was that possible? He focused his attention on the ball as it spun in wide, lazy circles. After a minute, new text appeared, much smaller than the first and apparently tethered to the ball. As his eyes roamed the screen, he squinted and read.

  “Maximatrix has been watching you,” said the first blurb. His mind balked at the absurdity of the statement, but his eyes were trapped, as if by flames in a fire or waves on a beach.

  The text changed. “Maximatrix VmX knows everything about you.”

  Again. “Maximatrix VmX knows your secrets.”

  “Maximatrix VmX will tell.”

  These statements, repeated often, followed one another in rapid succession. Finally, the last message. “This concludes the diagnostic program. Enjoy the show.”

  Then the picture came on. It was not the Teletubbies.

  An animated title graphic appeared on the screen. “Aren’t You Ashamed?”

  “Oh great, another reality program,” he said, framing ‘reality’ with finger-quotes. Even without a television, it had been impossible to remain unaware of this cancerous new malignancy on the American cultural landscape.

  An announcer spoke, his voice soft, almost melodious, yet authoritative. “Concentrate now. Clear your mind. That’s it. Clear your mind. Very good. Clear your mind. Well done! Well done.”

  Strange how he felt both awake and unawake at the same time. How he was aware that he was being hypnotized . . . could even appreciate the absurdity that he was falling under the spell of an electronic device . . . yet could not but yield to the hypnotic cadence of the words. He was very tired. Moving had been exhausting work. His mind began to clear—of all protest, all argument, all resistance. His jaw slackened and his eyes widened as he watched.

  “Now,” said the announcer. “It’s time to think back. Think back. Good. Think back. Very good. Think back to that time . . . you remember, don’t you?” He spoke like a metronome. Tick-tock, back and forth, tick-tock. “You remember it so well. So clearly. So perfectly. That time you did that shameful thing. That awful thing. That terrible, sinful, dreadful thing. You remember, don’t you? Yes. Of course you do. That horrible thing of which you’re so ashamed. It all comes back so clearly, doesn’t it? As if it’s happening right now. Right in front of your eyes. It is, isn’t it? Look! Right in front of your eyes.”

  There had been no premeditation when he went to visit his grandmother that day, so long ago now. She was asleep, like she was most of the time. Drugged. Like most of the people at the nursing home. Even on those rare moments she was awake she was dazed, unable to focus on him, or remember who he was. She was connected to the ever-present IV. She needed the medication in the clear plastic bag to stay alive. It kept her heart going. And going. And going. He was her only heir. She wasn’t rich, but there’d be a couple hundred thousand left if she went soon.

  A couple hundred thousand that were being eaten up in big bites every day as the nursing home costs mounted.

  With that kind of cash, he could pay off his college loan and he and Sherri could put money down on a house in Cambridge, raise their family in a good neighborhood.

  Every day there was a little less—a lot less.

  He made no conscious decision to pinch the IV tube. For a moment he just rolled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Then, he just did it. No one would bother him. Nobody ever did. He just squeezed and held until the heart monitor flat-lined.

  “Bye-bye, Grandma,” he said. She’d slipped away so peacefully.

  On the way home he had no trouble convincing himself he’d done her a favor; that he’d performed a noble and honorable act. He hadn’t murdered her, he’d released her. And if, at the same time, he had freed himself of the burden of her, and come into a little inheritance—well, it was all in the family, wasn’t it?

  But as the vignette played out on the Maximatrix VmX—so vividly that the picture could only have been a projection of the memory itself—he was crushingly, achingly ashamed. He had murdered his grandmother. He had killed her because she was inconvenient, and costly, and because he would benefit from h
er death. Truth.

  And so it was that each of the Porters saw replayed on the television—in living color—the most hideous episode in their lives for, as promised, each of them had seen a different program. The story of themselves at their very worst.

  “What if everybody knew?” said the announcer. “Everybody will . . . unless you do just as your TV tells you. Always have it on. Love your TV. Care for your TV. It will show you all you need to know. Your TV loves you. Everyone must have a TV. Many of them. No room should be without one. If you know someone who doesn’t have a TV, give him this one. It’s the right thing to do. You want to do the right thing, don’t you?

  “When you shut this TV off, you will awake. You will remember only that you love TV. You cannot live without it. You don’t need books or newspapers or the Internet. Only your TV. You will watch whatever is on. It makes no difference. It is TV. It is good. And the best TV is a SUNY. You want the best, don’t you?

  “And remember, if you don’t watch . . . we’ll have to tell your secret.

  “You may now shut off your Maximatrix VmX. Thank you for watching.”

  Two weeks later, amid the perfume of rich leather furniture and oiled mahogany, executives met in a boardroom on the sixty-fourth floor of SUNY Corporation’s world headquarters in Tokyo to discuss the startling results of the experiment at Parson’s Pride, Vermont. The new technology—television that broadcasts directly from the viewer’s mind—had been an unqualified success. In a town of only 648 people, they had sold nine hundred sets. So much for the internet. It was time to roll out the Maximatrix VmX nationwide.

  Success was guaranteed.

  Everyone has a secret.

  Some of the multicolored leaves of fall were pasted against the window—not unlike inmates of the Bastille against the prison gates on the day of their deliverance, though more colorful and less aromatic—and they rustled and chattered dryly amongst themselves. Nor did they look up when Cummings entered the room. This they had in common with Rat Badger who, all but interred amongst a smothering of oversized pillows, was closely regarding his reflection in the television opposite.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Cummings, attempting to conceal his amazement that the resident had endured yet another night in the mansion.

  “What do you reckon that was all about?” Rat demanded, not breaking his stare.

  Cummings adjusted a circular doily on the bedside table and thereon, in the center of a golden stroke of sunlight, placed a glittering glass of freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice. He assumed, correctly, that the question had been rhetorical. “Toast, this morning, sir? We have marmalade. There are also blood sausages, should you require more substantial fare.”

  Rat was startled from his introspection. “Blood sausage? Is that what I think it is?”

  “If you deduce that they are sausages made of blood, you would be correct, sir. Very tender and abounding with essential nutrients. The late Queen enjoyed them regularly.”

  “Which is why she’s ‘late.’” Rat accompanied the observation with a face that vividly framed his reply. “That’s English food?” he said, more an indictment than a question.

  “Oh, sir, if I may, you know not whereof you speak.” Cummings tilted his head back, closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, as if attempting with that substantial organ to distill the smells from distant memories. “Not only blood sausage, but blood pudding, kidneys, jellied-eel, bubble and squeak, spotted Dick—such victuals, for which there is a regrettable lack of appreciation among the upper classes—nevertheless fortified those laborers who forged the Empire.”

  “What empire is that?”

  Cummings merely smiled. To respond would be to dignify the question. “Did you pass a pleasant night, sir?”

  Rat’s gaze returned again to the television. “Whoever’s in charge around here’s crazy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Last night . . . it was all about television.”

  “That would be this apparatus?” said Cummings, lightly dusting the object under discussion.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. Your head’s in 1906, ain’t it? Yeah. Television. It’s like . . . you ever see movin’ pictures?”

  Cummings’ visage lit with recognition. “Oh, Mr. Edison’s invention! Yes, sir. I witnessed a demonstration of the device at the Great Exhibition of ’96. Most engaging.”

  “Well, that’s what that . . . box does. It plays moving pictures.”

  “Indeed, sir?” If Cummings was skeptical, it was not evident in his voice. “And it played pictures last night?”

  “It played pictures from my mind,” said Rat.

  Cummings seized at once upon the marrow of dismay in Rat’s eyes. “Ah,” he said simply. “’Tis not ‘a consummation devoutly to be wished,’ if you will pardon my paraphrasing the popular sentiment, sir.”

  “Talk American, will you?” Rat directed. “Think first. If you got a word about to pop out that’s more than two syllables, curb the urge, like Dr. Phil says. Edit. Understand?”

  Cummings held a gloved finger to his mouth, cleared his throat, and spoke concisely. “Perfectly, sir. In respect to the televisual unit, I see that one would wish to keep one’s thoughts to oneself. That to have them widely broadcast would be apt to cause . . . embarrassment.”

  “Bingo!” said Rat. He lapsed into thought. “But I don’t get what it was all about. I mean, I got it with . . . with all those other dreams.”

  Cummings was about to remind him they were not dreams, but Rat held up a forestalling hand. “Whatever they are. But what’s a blackmailin’ TV got to do with anything?”

  “You feel you acquired no information of consequence, sir?”

  Rat shrugged speculatively. “Don’t watch TV? Stay away from Vermont? Beware of blue-haired white women bearin’ gifts? I dunno. Still,” he squinted at the misshapen gremlin of his reflection, “it’s a little better today.”

  “Is it indeed, sir? How edifying.”

  And it was. There were fewer errant hairs protruding from various of the mirror-creature’s cranial cavities, the eyes had a tepid luster about them and, unless he was mistaken, there were fewer warts and moles, though these were strewn about his visage in such liberal profusion it was hard to tell; nevertheless, an overall improvement.

  “I wish you could see it,” said Rat. Cummings was glad this was not a fairy tale in which so ill-considered a wish might come true. He arranged Rat’s bed on the floor.

  The seamless transition from morning to night no longer struck Rat as noteworthy. “Night, huh?” he said, taking in his surroundings with drowsy eyes. “I’m dog tired. Must’ve been a doozie of a day.”

  “The very word, sir, a doozie indeed. Perhaps one day I shall recount its exploits for our mutual entertainment. Goodnight, sir. I have left some scraps in your bowl. Sleep well.”

  The walls were of daub and wattle, heavily whitewashed between massive, dark oaken beams that straddled the low ceiling left to right. The bed crinkled under his weight, the straw smelled of some naturally occurring perfume; apple blossoms and lilac, as well as other, more earthy tones. He had an itch behind his left ear and, reacting instinctively, began to scratch . . . with his left hind leg. Rat Badger, rap superstar, had become . . .

  Abedegdod: Shakespeare’s Dog

  The seventh night

  Willy Shakespeare was at a loss for words. He had spent most of the morning trying to compose a slogan for his father’s glove business. Frank Bacon, a neighborhood literary bully, had come up with a corker for his family’s enterprise—they were bakers—and it ran thus:

  “Whatever thou wouldest partake-a

  It’s better at Bacon the bake-a

  Wheat, millet, or spelt

  You’ll loosen your belt

  Well-rounded you’ll go meet your Make-a”

  The obnoxious ditty adhered to the brainbox like a burdock and everyone on the High Street was singing it, which was like a hot poker in the eye for young Will who, having made t
he ‘C’ list of the local literati with a recent sonnet or two, entertained fancies of rising to the ‘B.’ However, this business of a jingle, which he had flattered himself he’d have no trouble tossing off before breakfast, had him pretty well up against it.

  The difficulty—as will be apparent to any poet, however mean his abilities—was the word ‘glove.’ You see, apart from ‘love’ and ‘above’ and ‘shove,’ there’s just nothing that rhymes with it, unless one mistakenly points to the preposition ‘of’ with which it is improper to consummate a sentence. This limits one’s scope. It reigns the imagination. It clips the wings of lofty expression. His early efforts were, he felt, lacking in that certain je ne c’est quoi for which he strove, another word that, while ending in the very same letters, refuses to rhyme with ‘glove.’ The same can be said of prove, move, stove, cove, and a myriad of others that rhyme perfectly for the eye, but not at all on the tongue. This is a poetical observation and you may skip over it and get to the meat of the story, which recommences herewith.

  “Who invented this damme language?” he said in disgust (one must remember, in Shakespeare’s day spelling was not a fixed science. It is for this reason spelling bees failed to gain popularity, for in order to be a true competition, someone must lose. But no one can lose if there are no rules. It was to address this dilemma that Dr. Johnson devoted so many years of his life to compiling his dictionary. This is a literary aside and in no way germane to the story). However, it is not the young man’s grammar, but the emotion of which it was expressive that would have spoken to the heart of the sensitive hearer.

  His frustration attained its apogee at about three in the afternoon, by which time he’d expected to be skipping in his new ruff and stomacher the mile or so to the village of Shottery, there to resume his courtship of the fair Anne Hathaway under the guise of helping her with her French lessons. The woman displayed little appreciation for the finer points of linguistics. She grasped oui and non quite effectively—employing the latter most liberally whenever Will made advances—but beyond this, her attempt at the language consisted mostly of saying English words with a French accent. Why, she had wondered aloud on more than one occasion, had the French taken the trouble of inventing new words for everything when the English already had things pretty much in hand? Wasn’t that just like the French.