people who want to leave their mark on the world. They’s so driven they’s could be considered insane. That’s ya’ll.”
“Could be,” admitted Stacy. “But those people have free will, as do we.”
“I’d not be a solid citizen if I didn’t call the cops right now!”
Like a jack-in-the-box Stacy Baumeister sprang to her feet. “Lawton Smythe! You will do no such thing! We have been respectful and helpful neighbors for almost five years! And it is not your place to influence what we do with our lives! If we want a better life for our family and this is the way we see fit to give it, I expect you to respect that! With the estate tax coming back it will cost our family millions! Yours too! But not if we die now! You have a right to think us crazy, that’s fine!” She slammed the table with her palm and literally screamed, “You have no right to prevent this!”
Smythe bristled as his obstinacy retreated and he spoke sullenly. “Ya’ll are educated. What that nut wrote appeals to you and makes sense. Not me.” He shook his bowed head and got up. “Ya’ll knock yourselves out. And I’ll let myself out. I wants no parts of this. I’s don’t even wants to sees Nick type up that document. I’s trusts ya’ll. But people like ya’ll go down in history with bad names.” With a look to Pete Bussing that half invited him to join him in the desertion, Smythe stalked toward the door.
“Lawt, wait!” said Stacy. “There’s more.” But Smythe ignored her. The common room door eased closed behind him. Bussing stayed put.
Stacy’s shoulders relaxed. “I very much hope there is no one else thinking of reporting us. Those of you who have chosen not to die…we again ask for your understanding and respect. Do we have that?” One by one her eyes picked off those opting out. None spoke, but Stacy was satisfied in saying, “Good. Thank you.” She allowed a let’s move on pause to linger before saying, “If any of you reconsider, now or in the future, Frank Lightner has bravely volunteered to hold on to the leftover Quaaludes. I don’t think eleven will need three hundred.” Lightner, a new resident of Harbor Palm, popped us his hand as if deputized. “Brave I say because he is risking arrest and certain criminal conviction. So I must dutifully ask for your help in this conspiracy, and unfortunately put all of yourselves at risk. When questioned by the authorities, please tell them there are no more Quaaludes, that we ingested every one. Feel free to say Nick obtained them through his old medical connections, which you do know nothing about. They will search our condo and find just enough to make them think they found the remaining stash.” Stacy looked around the room with a kind of sorrow. ”It grieves me to ask this of you.”
“Yeah,” said Pete, “Pretty damn presumptuous. On a couple levels.”
“I know,” said Stacy.
“Wait until Lawt finds out.”
“I tried to stop him.”
Pete Bussing pondered. “I’ll take care of Lawt.”
Nick Baumeister gave Emily Harrigan her living will. Michael Lansing crouched beside her so they could read it together. Nick took to composing the disclaimer Lawton Smythe insisted on.
Stacy soldiered on with her mc’ing by adding a cheer to her voice. “We would ask those of you not participating to join us in a toast. The champagne is cold. Barry?”
Barry Wycombe, a former golf pro who until recently could shoot his age, rose from the table and with several wiry frame steps arrived at the countertop next to the sink where eight bottles of Great Western chilled in a large ice-filled cooler. He had been on the fence but chose to stick around because he thought he could get back to shooting his age with a swing change. The old partier certainly paid attention to the Frank Lightner announcement and where the ‘Ludes would be. He untwisted the metal holding a plastic cork and with practiced touch held the cork and rotated the bottle until it popped and to the delight of some it bounced off the high ceiling. He filled six glasses until starting on the next bottle. Not wanting a production, Stacy stepped in.
“While Barry is prepping, let’s talk about Lawt’s request for us eleven to acknowledge the disclaimer. I support it. A show of hands to support.”
No hands hurried but those of the ardent moved first. In varying degrees every eleven made it.
“Thank you all,” said Stacy. “May you trust Nick’s expertise that has gotten us this far. He will have the right language.”
“Yes, of course,” said Holly Saul from the furthest sofa. She adjusted her posture in preparation to speak. It was the first thing the matronly lady said since walking in the door. She was someone that knew the power of silence. And she held a kind of arbiter sway for it, as a person whose lack of words was known to come from an analytical mien. She was the natural spokesperson to address this concern. “We are sensible people who thought clearly about putting our fates into the hands of sensible people. Stacy, you and Nick are those people.” Barry suddenly realized he better stop turning the bottle for this one. “All of us are of sound mind. Nick made sure of that and we have the documents to prove it.” She put her hand on the shoulder of her husband Justin. “We are all proud to join you in this noble act every step of the way! We trust Nick.”
It was a uniting few words that did much to relieve any cold feet. Holly Saul held her head high without holding it high. “We, too, want the best for our families. In these competitive and uncertain economic times, for us to live like this when we may otherwise improve their lot in life and give them some advantages makes perfect sense to me. And well, before Stacy and Nick approached me with this…well, I have had conversations with several of you who mentioned you could die knowing you have provided for every generation of your family. I feel the same way, but I am taking it a step further. We will go with dignity, in our homes, inebriated to death yes but not like these people in Arizona. Privately, with no…bombastic jumping into the Grand Canyon video. Dressed like lemmings. Public spectacle. But it did bring The Cull to light. I am proud to be part of the thinned herd. And a little creature’s story touched my heart.” Her lips pursed ever so smaller. She was done.
Around the room heads nodded. More than a few privately wished Lawton Smythe had read far enough to experience the manifesto’s moving allegory about the desperate mother lemming and how she saved her kind.
“Thank you, Holly,” said Stacy. She looked to Barry to pick it back up and Barry, a turn and half from interrupting Holly Saul, had the next cork off in a blink. Sensing Stacy wanted to coattail on the sprit de corps Barry had the next six glasses poured and was on the next bottle. “If you please,” said Stacy, waving them over to the champagne. “Barry is handling himself with aplomb.”
“Two more bottles. You’ll have ‘em in a jiffy!” said Barry. It did not take him long to have twenty four glasses filled.
Every one of the doomed eleven took a glass, and only Cora Jean Derstine of the others chose not to partake as her diet did not allow it. She would pay her respects by taking it to her lips. When all had their glasses raised Stacy said, “A toast. To our freedom of choice.” Pete Bussing downed his flute in three gulps and rose to pour another. This one, too, he inhaled. He arrived back at the table with his third which showed some promise of lasting and said to Nick, “You done with Emily’s will? I need to write some convincing to Lawt so he knows to follow the plan. Barry, see that he gets it?”
Everyone digested what it meant…Pete would not be convincing Lawton Smythe face to face. Bussing began to cry. “You talked me into this Nick. Goddamit!”
He seized his friend of many years and Nick Baumeister, too, broke down. They gripped each other, two rocks fused by time and mutual wisdom. Pete Bussing’s voice ached with a higher tenor. “I’m not doing this for the love of a rodent. You’re right about the kids.”
“I know,” said Nick. “I know.”
The two unclenched and sprawled in their chairs and their tears were the rooms’. Indeed the laments might have been one as the common room broke down.
As if at that moment, everyone agreed to die. Except for Barry Wycombe who stood dumbfounded by the sink. When the flood of grief ebbed to what he deemed an appropriate measure he took a steadying sip of champagne and said, “Sure, Pete. Sure. I’ll take care of that.”
“I need to get myself together,” said Pete after a time. “I actually have two notes to write.” He issued a head clearing sniff, gave a nearby copy of the manifesto an index finger shove, and said, “Well, maybe the mother lemming thing was the kicker.”
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. I very much hope you liked it and if so if you’d take a further moment to write a review at your favorite retailer? Thanks again!
Other Titles:
A Novel: Sleazy Street. A Tawdry Moral Dilemma
A Short Story: