Lancelot's Lady (46 page)

He almost opens his right hand. And then he remembers.
The remote.

Teeth chattering, he prays harder than he
'
s ever prayed.
"
Please let this work. Please!
"

He can barely feel his death-tinged fingers, yet he manages to cradle the remote in one hand as he pokes at the memory button.

He
'
s instantly transported back to the safety of his living room and the clock on the wall tells him that the game ended about ten minutes ago. He could have shrugged this off as another
'
zoning out
'
period except for two things—he is ice cold and dripping wet. Arctic water pools around his feet, while his teeth continue clattering loud enough to wake the living dead.

Or Beatrice, at the very least.

She appears on cue in the doorway, her weary eyes blinking to adjust to the light, her arms folded across her tattered gray housecoat. It was blue when he
'
d bought it for her last Christmas.

He watches her, wondering how long it will take her to realize that all is not right.

"
Harry?
"
Blink…yawn…gasp!
"
What in God
'
s name is going on here?
"

* * *

Beatrice searches the room for the source of the water. There
'
s no leak in the ceiling and the kitchen sink isn
'
t overflowing.
So where
'
d all that water come from?

Her eyes narrow in suspicion as she steps closer to Harry.
"
Did you go outside?
"

It
'
s the only thing that makes any sense to her, yet the rain had stopped about half an hour ago.

Harry gives her his
'
you
'
re so dense
'
glare, then releases an exasperated sigh.
"
Of course I didn
'
t go outside.
"

"
Then why are you standing in the living room soaking wet?
"

Ignoring her, he pushes past and waddles toward the bathroom.

"
Just like a man,
"
she mutters.
"
Avoid the question and run away.
"

While he
'
s gone, Beatrice cleans up the water on the hardwood floor. She searches for the remote control so she can turn off the TV, but it
'
s nowhere to be found.

"
Harry?
"
she calls out.
"
Where
'
s the remote?
"

He appears beside her, the remote firmly grasped in one hand.

She holds out her hand.

"
I
'
m not done watching TV,
"
he says.

"
But it
'
s almost eleven-thirty.
"

He looks at her, raises his eyebrows.
"
And your point is?
"

"
You always go to bed by eleven when you have a job in the morning.
"

"
I know.
"
He glances at the television.
"
But I have a plan that is sure to make us rich.
"

She rolls her eyes.
Another one of Harry
'
s
'
plans
'
. Oh goodie.

"
I have an idea,
"
he continues,
"
that
'
ll make you wish you
'
d never doubted me.
"

"
What
I
wish,
"
she snaps,
"
is that you
'
d stop all your wishing once and for all.
I
wish that you
'
d stop pressuring me to work more hours and figure out a way to fix this mess we
'
re in. In fact, I wish that you
'
d just leave me alone!
"

Beatrice turns on one heel, but his portentous words follow her.

"
Be careful what you wish for, dear Bea.
"

* * *

Harry is desperately afraid. Afraid that he
'
s imagined everything, that he
'
s had a stroke or something and temporarily blacked out. Terrified in a way that makes his heart race with anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he hasn
'
t dreamt it up after all.

There
'
s only one way to find out.

It
'
s now just past midnight and Harry has changed his clothes, toweled off his hair, and his skin has returned to its normal color of malnourishment. Leaning forward as far as his tire tube belly allows, he sits in his recliner and contemplates how he can use his new best friend to make all his wishes come true. His pudgy hands are glued to the remote, as if his life depends on its close proximity.

"
Okay, RC,
"
he says.
"
Let
'
s see what you can really do.
"

Now don
'
t forget how smart Harry is. He
'
s already thought this through. If everything that happened was real, then he has somehow found a kind of portal. And portals can be very useful—if one can figure out how to use them.

"
I was transported to the same hockey game I was watching on TV,
"
he says.
"
I was actually there. Then I changed channels and went to the Arctic, just like the documentary.
"
He shivers.
"
Bad move there.
"

Needing something safe to test his theory on, he channel surfs.

"
There!
"

The screen shows dozens of digital cameras, flat screen TVs and laptops. Tonight
'
s news is featuring a piece on the grand opening of a Best Buy store in southeast Edmonton. According to the reporter, the grand opening sale is on
'
NOW
'
.

"
Then
NOW
is the best time,
"
he says with a wry grin.

He never stops to wonder what will happen if he selects a commercial that has been pre-recorded in a store that is now closed. But he does do two things. He wishes and waits.

Nothing happens.

"
What the hell?
"

He holds the remote out in front, points and changes channels quickly, from a beer commercial back to the Best Buy ad, wishing with all his might for fame and fortune.

Still nothing.

He turns the television off, then on, and tries again. Point…wish…click channel button.

Disappointed that he
'
s still sitting in his chair, he says,
"
Why won
'
t you work?
"

Scowling, he scratches his chins and replays previous actions in his head, thinking of everything he could have possibly done.

Finally, he smiles.
"
Ah-ha! I touched the TV.
"

Thankful he hadn
'
t reclined his chair, he begins to rock. One…two…three! Up he goes.

Weebles wobble, but they don
'
t fall down.

As a last thought, he grabs a hooded jacket he
'
d flung over the couch earlier that day. He doesn
'
t bother to zip it up—he couldn
'
t have even if he wanted to. But he does pull the hood over his head and fastens the top snap under his chins.

He shuffles to the television and touches the faded black plastic. Making his wish, he switches back to the Best Buy commercial. In a single heartbeat, he sees his arm and hand disintegrate.

Then Harry vanishes completely.

* * *

He
'
s staring into a pitch-black cave. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realizes that he
'
s inside the Best Buy store—after closing. Not even a night janitor is around.

"
It works!
"
He jerks as his voice echoes through the cavernous building with its high, open ceiling.

Harry is stunned. He
'
s tempted to hit the memory button and return home to collect his thoughts. But then it hits him; he should be collecting something else. He
'
s standing in a store filled with expensive electronic equipment. Stuff worth thousands of dollars. Per shelf. Stuff he could keep—or sell. And best of all, there
'
s no sign of a break-in, and there
'
ll be no evidence of his departure.

He glances up, sees a security camera sweeping the area and pulls the hood tighter.
"
Security!
"

Chuckling at his brilliance, he stares at his good friend RC and strokes the small black box.
"
Can I take really something back with me?
"
He remembers something.
"
Well, I brought back some of the Arctic Ocean, didn
'
t I?
"

Makes sense to him that objects can be transported just as easily as water.

"
This
'
ll be a reconnaissance trip,
"
he decides, thinking of the movie Ocean
'
s Eleven with George Clooney and a host of other big name actors.
"
It
'
ll be a dry run, and I
'
ll be Clooney.
"

He waddles down one aisle, grabs a Canon camera and wraps the strap around his neck. Then he shoves four small digital cameras into his jacket pockets, two per side. He grins. With a skip and a bounce in his step—well, as much as his three hundred and sixty pound frame will allow—he lumbers into a second aisle and scoops a laptop up with one hand.

Then he sees it, the most wondrous thing in the store.

A forty-two inch Panasonic flat-screen TV.

Shuffling toward his treasure, he practically salivates at the sight, and he makes a decision that will make one of his routine wishes finally come true. He hugs the flat-screen, squeezes his eyes shut and says a quick prayer.

"
There
'
s no place like home,
"
he says.

He tries to click his heels, but his marshmallow thighs won
'
t let him.

So he presses the memory button on the remote instead.

* * *

Harry stands motionless in his living room. His pockets are stuffed with stolen loot and the flat-screen he
'
s holding makes his arms ache. He rests his new treasure on the couch and groans at the physical exertion. He stares at it and his jaw drops. A drip of drool slides from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and disappears into the unshaven folds of his face.

Harry
'
s eyes widen in comprehension.
"
I did it.
"

He realizes something and puffs up his already expansive girth. He
'
s no longer just Harold Fielding, plumber extraordinaire. Now he
'
s a thief, a criminal, a wanted man.

He grins and holds himself more erect. It feels good to be wanted, to be somebody special. A tingle of anticipation gives him a delicious shiver as he thinks of the police investigation that will follow. They
'
ll wonder how someone got in and out without touching the doors or windows.

They
'
ll think I
'
m amazing.

He empties his pockets.
"
And I am amazing.
"