The Broken Teaglass (25 page)

After our meeting with Mr. Phillips
, Mona called me at home for a debriefing. She said she too was now convinced he didn’t know any more about the cits than we did. And she’d be waiting for me to pick her up at her apartment at seven-forty the following morning. Our correspondence-file raid would proceed as planned.

Cliff’s phone rang the moment I
sat down at my desk the following morning.

“What’s that, Sheila?” he said through a yawn. “Of
course
they are. Yup. That’s what I’m here for. For senior citizens who play Scrabble at eight-thirty a.m. Dial ’em on through. Line three. Wonderful.

“Hello, Editorial. Yes. Yes, our secretary gave me the background, ma’am.

“… ‘Exec.’ Yes, that’s in our dictionary as a noun. It’s not an abbreviation, not in its present usage. It’s accepted as a standard noun because—

“… Listen. I don’t make the rules, ma’am. Who makes the game? Parker Brothers, correct? Maybe—

“… Believe me. I understand. That ‘X’ can be a killer. What, is he on a triple-word score? Double? Aw, just let him have it! It’s
standard
.

“… It’s a noun rather than an abbreviation when people begin to pluralize it like a standard noun and—

“Hello? Ma’am?”

Cliff put his receiver back in place.

“Fine,” he muttered.

I gazed at my new phone. No calls for me yet. All week it had remained ominously quiet. Maybe Sheila hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

The official getaway car was to
arrive for Mona at 8 p.m. We had synchronized our watches, but I left a little early and arrived with two minutes to spare. I parked behind the building and stared up at the dark second-story windows.

I hoped Mona was okay up there in the pitch blackness. She’d insisted upon using a flashlight. About half of Samuelson’s employees lived in Claxton. She said she didn’t want anyone driving past the office later and noticing that Mr. Needham’s office window was lit.

I turned on the radio and considered circling the block. But I didn’t want Mona coming down and freaking out to find me missing.

At 8:01 the glass door opened and Mona fluttered down the steps to my car.

“Go! Go!” she yelled, getting in.

“Alrighty,” I said.

“Wait. Put something a little more badass on the radio first.”

She hit my Scan button.

“Shall I peel out of the lot?”

“Please do.”

I stepped on it and cut the wheel. The tires squealed as we cruised out of the lot.

“Real nice, Billy,” Mona said, settling on Dire Straits for her getaway song.

“Did you find anything?”

“Yeah. Wow. I feel like I just broke into the Watergate building. I’ve never done anything like that before. Hey—Jesus. Let’s not overdo it. You’re driving like a maniac.”

“You need to let me have
my
little rebellion. I didn’t get to do any toilet-standing, or breaking and entering.”

“Where exactly are we headed? You wanna hang out for a little while? I actually got quite a few letters.”

“You’re kidding. Derek Brownlow letters?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what they say yet, of course.”

“Wow.”

“So are you game?”

I hesitated.

“Your place or mine?” I said.

“What’ve you got to eat?”

“A frozen pizza. And I think there’s some lettuce. Salad dressing.”

“I’m down to ramen myself,” Mona confessed.

“My place, then,” I said.

Mona had looked through the
correspondence files from 1980 through 1985. The first letter from Derek Brownlow was dated December 1983. The handwriting was small and neat, with a slight slant to the left.

Dear Sons of Samuelson,

My friends here doubt my explanation of “one fell swoop.” “Fell” is clearly defined as “deadly,” “savage,” or simply “evil.” “Swoop,” I have explained, is an instance of “swooping” or “sweeping,” as in a single swift and precise sweep of a scythe. Hence “one fell swoop.”

I recently used the word “fell” to describe an especially
vicious act (“the fell rape and murder of the McCarthy woman”) and was met only with perplexed glances.

Is my parsing correct? Is my use of “fell” off the mark?

Gratefully,

Derek Brownlow

“Nothing too unusual,” Mona said. “Blowhard looking for confirmation.”

“Maybe a touch macabre,” I pointed out. “For correspondence.”

We examined the response:

Dear Mr. Brownlow,

I’m writing in response to your question about “fell” and “one fell swoop.” Your analysis of the phrase is impressive and essentially correct. I do, however, have some additional information about these terms’ origins that you might find illuminating.

“Fell” means, as you say, “sinister” or “deadly.” A “swoop” might be more accurately described as a “carrying off” as a bird of prey does with its victims. But your connecting of “swooping” and “sweeping” is appropriate. “Swoop” was initially a variant of “sweep” in Middle English, derived from the same Germanic roots. “One fell swoop” was first used by Shakespeare in
Macbeth
.

Your use of the word “fell” is correct, and if anyone questions you on it, you should perhaps direct him to a dictionary. It’s not a common word in current English, however, so if clarity is your aim, you might want to consider replacing it with “savage” or “sinister” in casual conversation.

Good luck.

Sincerely,

Daniel Wood

Samuelson Editorial Department

“Looks like young Dan did what he was supposed to,” I offered. “Kept it brief, informative.”

Mona refilled my soda, looking a little wan.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Doesn’t it make you a little uneasy? That Dan knew this guy? What does that mean? I had figured she was keeping something secret about this Brownlow guy. But now that doesn’t seem possible.”

“Well, this one letter doesn’t exactly mean Dan knows Brownlow,” I said. “Maybe they both wrote to him.”

“But there’s a lot more,” Mona said, flipping through the letters. “And it looks like it was Dan pretty much the whole time.”

Dear Daniel,

How delightful to get a response from a namesake of Mr. Samuelson. I wasn’t sure if I should hope for a reply and behold! My prayers and questions were answered tenfold!

Now to my next question. Why does the word “carceral” not appear in the standard Samuelson dictionary? I actually use that word often in my regular parlance. In my current situation, I have frequent occasion to use it. Just the other day, I recall remarking on the unappetizing nature of “carceral cuisine.”

Thanks in advance for your erudite response.

Cordially,

Derek Brownlow

“So he’s writing from jail.” Mona shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could Brownlow be in jail and then turn up dead in a Claxton park?”

“It’s all in the timing, I guess,” I said. “Is there a return address on the letter?”

“No. And we don’t keep the envelopes.”

“So we don’t know where he’s writing from. Except that he’s writing from some prison or other.”

“I guess he got out. Lucky him.”

“Really, not so lucky. Maybe he would have been better off if he’d stayed there. It doesn’t sound like he met a very pleasant end.”

Dear Mr. Brownlow,

“Carceral” has been in the English language since the late 16th century. Just like its more frequently heard relative “incarcerate,” it comes from the Latin root “carcer,” meaning jail. Likely you already know this.

Indeed, I can imagine that “carceral” has a number of useful applications. But I’m afraid we have little record of actual use of the word. For this reason, its definition appears only in our unabridged dictionary.

We are, however, always collecting new evidence for new editions of our dictionaries. If you happen to come across the use of “carceral” in any of your personal readings, we’d be happy to accept copies of the material for our citation files.

Sincerely,

Daniel Wood

Samuelson Editorial Department

“All right,” Mona said. “Still kindly. Typical Dan.”

I nodded.

Dear Daniel,

Thanks for your offer to bring me into the dictionary fold. I will read with special care, keeping my eyes open for any uses of “carceral.”

Unfortunately, they do not allow us access to a copy machine. Should I come across a noteworthy use of the word, would a handwritten record of my findings suffice?

Yours in lexicography,

Derek

“Okay.” Mona shrugged. “A little obsessive here, but nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Right,” I agreed.

The letters went on for several months in a similar vein, Derek asking usage and etymology questions, and Dan replying succinctly and politely. The last two letters were dated January 1985.

Dear Mr. Brownlow,

Thanks for your recent letter. Due to pressing editorial duties, Mr. Wood is no longer able to respond to correspondence—but I am happy to answer your question.

You were correct to question your cellmate’s use of the word “irregardless.” Use of that word is generally considered substandard.

Sincerely,

Mary Anne Wright

Samuelson Editorial Department

Dear Miss Right,

Who are you and what happened to Daniel?

I have little patience for strumpets.

DB

The handwriting of the last letter was almost illegible.

“Now, that’s a little off,” I admitted.

“Poor Derek,” Mona said. “Lost his only friend.”

“Poor Mary Anne,” I added.

“Mr. Needham was not amused,” Mona said, pointing to the top of the letter. Mr. Needham had initialed it and scribbled
No Response!

“I wonder if she secretly responded,” I said. “Not that there’d be much reason to.”

Mona got up without replying and threw our pizza crusts in the garbage. Instead of sitting back down, she stood there in the middle of my kitchen, plate in hand, staring at me.

“What?” I said.

“Let’s put all this stuff away,” she said softly.

“Away?”

“Just for the night. Come back to it tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because … it’s disturbing. Now that we’ve found something here, I wonder if I’d prefer to be left in the dark.”

“Oh, come on now. We’re just getting to the good stuff. Don’t back out on me.”

“Dan,” she said, dropping the end of his name into a sigh. The plate looked so loose in her hand I thought it might crash to the floor. She tried again. “Dan—”

She looked a little pathetic standing there by my overstuffed trash can. I stood up, took the plate from her hand, carried it to the sink, and rinsed it.

“Tell me a little about that,” I said, turning off the water. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Tell me about you and Dan.”

A blush crept up Mona’s face as it dawned on her what I was asking, and how bluntly I’d chosen to do it.

“Okay,” she said. “I will.”

I wiped my hands with a dishrag and waited, but she just gazed down at my grimy linoleum floor.

“Should we retire to the sitting room?” I asked, after a while.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just let me use your bathroom first.”

“Sure,” I said.

I flopped onto my futon and waited for Mona to finish in the bathroom. It took her a while. I began to wonder if she’d really had to go or was just in there getting her story straight.

“What is this?” she asked, when she finally came out.

“Oh,” I said, looking at the dog-eared paperback in her hand. “That’s … a joke book.”

“But I mean, what are all these little markings? Are you research-reading at home?”

“No … they’re like … ratings, I guess.”

“You rate jokes while you’re sitting on the toilet? This must be the dirtiest pencil in the world.”

“No, not on the toilet. I must have just left it in there when I went to brush my teeth.”

“Right, Billy.” Mona flipped through the pages. “What’s the highest rating? The plus?”

“Double-plus,” I admitted.

“I don’t see any double-plusses.”

“They’re rare. Finding a double-plus is like finding a four-leaf clover. You can look for one, but you shouldn’t really feel entitled to find one. You can sometimes go through an entire joke book without finding a single double-plus.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“It can be sometimes.”

“So … what would be an example of a double-plus joke?”

“Let me think about that,” I said. “I’ll get back to you on that. It depends partly on the audience.”

“Funny you should say that. I don’t recall you ever telling a joke. Are you a closet comedian?”

“Not really. There’s something addictive about reading these. You want to keep going until you find a good one. And when you finally find a good one, you get this rush. You want to find another one. Sometimes I can do it for hours. Hey! I just thought of this. You really should try it the next time you’re on an airplane.”

“Maybe. I’m not so sure it will work for me like it works for you. It sounds kind of like a personal thing. When did you start reading joke books?”

Mona had put the book aside. It was already mashed into the fold of the futon, by her knee. I gazed at the cover, all spangled with drawings of open, laughing faces. It was an old book—so old I couldn’t remember when I hadn’t owned it. But I couldn’t recall ever really considering the cover before, in all of its abstract glee.

“Weren’t we talking about Dan?” I asked.

It started last October
, she told me.

“When I say ‘It started,’ I feel a little ridiculous, because that almost implies that there’s something. I mean, something beyond what goes on in my head. And there’s really not that kind of ‘something,’ you know?”

I nodded. Probably it would make sense once she explained a little more.

“Late one night, I think it was a Wednesday. My mother called me up to tell me that my old cat Buzz was sick.”

“Buzz?”

“Yeah. I got him when I was eight. He was this great cat. He’d sleep by my head, follow me from room to room.” She sighed. “So Buzz was terribly ill. My mother was crying when she called, saying she didn’t want to worry me, that she’d already brought him to the vet twice but there was really not a lot they could do. He had some kind of feline virus, he’d stopped eating, and he’d been hiding in a closet for days. He’d cry when anyone tried to touch him.