“You have got to be the most irresponsible, childish excuse for a man I’ve ever seen!”
Peter looks at the cold plate of congealed risotto sitting alone on the table and says nothing.
“You knew I was cooking tonight. You said you’d be home by six.” Sharon glares at her husband and sniffs. “Is that beer I smell?”
“I had a rough day at work. Mr. Withers was on my ass all day.” He tries for defiant, but it comes out as a whine. “I forgot. I’m sorry,” he says without sounding sorry.
“It’s every damn night! If you were really sorry, you’d try harder.”
“Hey, I’m yelled at all day at work, so why should I rush home for more of the same?” Peter snatches his plate of cold rice and stalks down the hall.
Sharon follows. “You have a child. It’s time you grew up, yourself.” Her voice fades as he slams the door behind himself. Soon, the sounds of Call of Duty come through the closed door. “If you don’t shape up, I’m taking Jimmy and going back to my parents,” Sharon yells through the door, drowned out by the sounds of synthesized gunfire. On the other side of the door, Peter grimaces and shovels a spoonful of what was probably once a very nice mushroom risotto carelessly into his mouth.
“I’m serious, Peter. Your family needs you. This has to stop!” Her voice is shaking with anger, but she doesn’t open the door.
Peter tries to focus on his game, but he can’t. He’s angry now, too. Everyone is just out to get me. Screw this! He throws down the controller and slams the door open.
“I don’t need this. I work hard to provide for this family. I deserve some time for myself.” He gathers his car keys and stomps to the door. “I’m going out.” As he pulls open the car door, his wife is still yelling, “This is not how an adult behaves. You get back here.”
He drives away. His friends are probably still at the bar. They’ll listen to him.
It’s after midnight when he parks the car askew in the driveway and stumbles into the house. The lights are off.
In the morning, he wakes on the sofa in his game room, still in the clothes he wore to work the day before. It’s 9:43 AM. “Shit.”
#
The employee parking lot is full. Of course it is. At nearly 11:00 in the morning, he is sure to be the last person to arrive. The old Dodge sputters unhappily to a stop as though it has no intention of ever starting again, the old engine wheezing as it cranks a few more times and dies with a cough. Swinging his legs out of the car, Peter realizes too late that his socks don’t match. One dark blue and the other brown. Neither matches his shapeless grey polyester suit. Grasping his throbbing head, he thinks, is it really only Tuesday?
The boss’s office overlooks the parking lot, and the boss must have been watching like a hawk because he is waiting in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Withers. My alarm.” HIs voice drifts off.
“Damn it, Peter. It’s month-end. We’ve got payroll reports to get out. The Abrams account is hanging by a thread. What do you think happens to us if they miss payroll because you can’t get your ass out of bed?”
Each word is an ice pick between Peter’s temples.
“I know, Mr. Withers. I’m just having a rough time. Sharon is all over me for every little thing and it’s screwing with my sleep.”
“Let me guess, you’re as useless at home as you are at work. That’s not my problem. A lot of people are depending on you here. So shape up! Because if we lose Abrams there will have to be layoffs, and you can be sure where we’ll start cutting.”
Safe in his cubicle, Peter powers up his terminal. The glow of the old CRT, combined with the flickering florescent bulbs above, makes him look as sickly as he feels. He opens the spreadsheet, Abrams_June_2006_PR.SDW, and starts copying hours from the stack of timesheets in his inbox into their respective cells, the clunk of the old IBM keyboard beating in time with the throbbing in his head.
“Heya, Pete! Wanna grab a hair of the dog that bit you after work?” Josh calls over the cubicle wall.
“I don’t know, Josh. Doesn’t feel like a good idea today.” Who is he kidding? By 6:00, that’s all he’ll be good for.
The day drones on, followed by more of the same, until…
“Is it finally Friday?”
“You made it, buddy,” Josh kids. “One more week down, the rest of your life to go. Grab a drink after work?”
“Not this time. My marriage is hanging by a thread and Sharon gave me a shopping list. Her parents are coming this weekend and she’s cooking. I can’t blow it again.”
“Good luck, bud!”
#
After work, Peter pulls into the Piggly Wiggly and fishes out the wad of paper in his jacket pocket. Asparagus, parmesan, eggplant, bread crumbs, red wine. Carnival music catches his attention. Half of the store parking lot is fenced off, and one of those little traveling carnivals is flashing and beeping and bleating off of a bank of humming generators. Peter takes a walk through the chaos to take his mind off of his troubles.
“You’re in trouble, fella.” A carny is looking him up and down. “I’ve seen trouble, and you’re in it.”
“What do you know about trouble?” Pete grimaces.
“I knew it. It’s oozing off of you. And I have just the thing. You’re scared. You expect the worst. Allow me to introduce Madam Rose. She’s the real deal, sir. You want to know what’s around the corner for you? She can tell you. Just five minutes and $2. What have you got to lose?”
What have I got to lose? Peter thinks. My job, for one. My wife and my son. That’s all. He looks to where the carny is pointing and there sits a woman too young to be a fortune teller. Dark green eyes pierce through an olive face that gives away nothing. She seems to be staring right through him. She’s beautiful. He’s reminded of the Afghan girl on that National Geographic that he stole from his parents' collection and hid under his mattress when he was a kid. He can’t take his eyes off of her.
“Yeah, only $2. Why not?”
Those eyes bored into him. They don’t blink. Long, dark lashes frame green eyes, bright in the center with a dark forest-green ring around each iris. They widen for just a moment, showing whites, and the young woman frowns. “You’re a troubled man.” Her accent is vaguely Eastern European. Her gaze discourages a response. “Let’s see if your fears are justified. Give me your hand.”
He stretches out a hand.
“No! The other hand, please.”
Peter feels chastised, like he was facing Mr. Withers and not some dark stranger, and he extends his other hand.
She grasps it and pulls it towards her. He is forced to lean forward, feeling awkward and suddenly a little scared.
She has lost interest in him, and she is intently focused on his hand, which she turns and twists like he were a mannequin. Then the piercing gaze is on him again.
“It’s your marriage, isn’t it? Your wife is no happy with you. It’s the drinking.”
Peter stammers, “Yes. Sharon threatened to leave...”
She stops him. “I know. She’s angry about the drinking.” When Peter moves to agree, she stops him. “That’s not all. She believes you are irresponsible. Undependable.”
“Yes, but...”
“Quiet! Your wife’s name is Sharon.”
“How did you know?”
“I see into your heart. I know all. And there’s more. There’s a child.”
“Yes.”
“I see a little...” she glares at him, and he nods, mutely. “A little boy.”
“That’s right, Jimmy.”
“Sharon has threatened to leave you and to take Jimmy with her. It is true. She will leave you. You are going to lose your wife and your son. I’m sorry. But that’s not all.”
“No, it gets worse.”
“I know. Your job. It is also at risk.”
“That’s right. Mr. Wither’s said I’d be laid off if we lose the Abrams account. He may fire me anyway. He hates me.”
“Yes, I see this, too. And I am sorry to tell you,” she looks into his eyes and almost seems sorry. “But you will lose your job, too.”
“No!”
“It gives me no pleasure to bring you bad news, but I think you already knew these things, did you not?”
Peter begins to sob. “I did. I knew it, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Oh my god, I’m going to lose everything!”
She leans in closer. “I’m very sorry. Listen, there may be a way to forestall this fate or even to avoid it completely.” She looks both ways, aware that the carnival hawker is watching. “I should no do this. Is not what the carnival pays me for. But I think I can help.”
“How?”
“Come back in half an hour. Meet me behind this tent, and I will tell you. Now, go. And don’t look so distraught. You’ll arouse my manager’s suspicion.”
The carny is watching them intently now. Peter drops his eyes. “Thank you so much. I’ll be back. Thank you.” He chokes back tears and forces a smile and says loudly, “Thank you. That was an excellent fortune. Two dollars well spent.”
“Don’t overplay it. Just go.”
“Thank you,” Peter stage whispers and walks woodenly away.
Too anxious to face the crowds in the Piggly Wiggly, Peter returns to his car and lights a blunt he’d left unfinished in the ashtray. His mind whirls around visions of angry faces. Mr. Withers threatening to take his son. Sharon telling him he’s fired. When he looks at his watch, forty-five minutes have passed.
“Shit!” He stubs out the already long-extinguished joint and scrambles out of the car. Fast-marching across the parking lot, he catches himself and tries to act nonchalant. There’s a gated chain-link fence behind the main tent of the carnival, and waiting there is the fortune-teller, looking impatient. She puts on a poker face as she sees him.
“You waited. Thank you.”
“No, I knew you’d be late, so I’ve just arrived.”
“Wow, you’re good.”
“I shouldn’t be doing this, but I like you, Peter. You seem like nice person. You don’t deserve what’s going to happen to you.”
“I know. What can I do?” His voice is pleading.
“There are powerful forces aligned against you, Peter. It may be beyond my abilities, but there is one chance to change your fate and I want to give it to you.”
“Give it to me?”
“No for free, of course. Magic such as I have to offer is going to cost you, but what is money compared to your family, to your career?”
“I don’t have much. We’re still paying off the mortgage. It’s paycheck to paycheck. All I have is,” he thinks of the hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, all that remains of this month’s grocery budget, “fifty dollars.”
“Then I can no help you. I am sorry. This is a powerful talisman which I have carried from the old country. I would not part with it for less than two hundred dollars.”
“I don’t have two hundred dollars,” Peter whines. “I’ve only got a hundred fifty.”
The woman looks hard at Peter for a long moment as a drop of sweat drips down his temple. Finally, she says, “I will do it. For you, Peter.”
“Oh, thank you. What is this Dalmatian?”
“Talisman, Peter. It’s a cleansing life force that can draw your misfortune into itself and cleanse it, just as it cleanses the air we breathe.”
Turning and stooping to lift the edge of the tent, she extracts a small plant in an ornate brass bowl adorned with rhinestones.
“This plant, Peter, has the power to take your ill fortune upon itself and turn it into good fortune. Or, at least, something less dire.”
“A plant?”
“Not a plant. A talisman blessed by my grandmother in the old country. She was a powerful healer, far more attuned to the spirit world than I am. She gave me this to keep me safe in America, and it has done that for me. I arrived with nothing. No money. Not even visa. I might have ended on the streets or worse, but look at me now. This talisman has been my savior, and for one hundred and fifty dollars, right now, it can be yours.”
“I don’t know.”
“You must make decision now, Peter. The carnival leaves tonight. When you lose your job, and it will be soon, this money will seem like nothing compared to your financial woes.”
“You’re right. Okay. Let’s do it.”
Peter fumbles for his wallet and pulls out everything he has, thrusting it through the gate. She takes it and secrets it into her bodice, which catches Peter’s eye. It’s a nice bodice.
She bends down, Peter’s eyes still on the bodice, and picks up the plant reverently.
“There is one thing, and this is crucial. your fate is now tied to this talisman. So long as it flourishes, fate will favor you. But if it suffers, or dies, the evil forces aligned against you will face no opposition, and they will destroy you.”
“Shit.”
It’s late when Peter pulls into the driveway. The porch light is off, but the bedroom light upstairs is on. He opens the door gingerly, the plant cradled under one arm. He carries it to his game room, and moves the PS2 to make a space for it on his gaming desk.
“What are you?” and then “What have I done?”
He takes a seat in his gaming chair and stares at the plant. “I’m counting on you. And I won’t let you down.”
Afraid to face Sharon, he takes off his suit and drapes it over the chair, then lays down on the old sofa in the game room and pulls the afghan to his ears, and falls asleep.
The light upstairs turns off, and the house is silent, and peaceful. Peter sleeps like a baby.
#
“You did what?!”
In the harsh light of day, yesterday’s adventure feels like a dream. A bad one.
“I’m so sorry, Sharon. Please, there are bigger things at play here.” The words sound hollow now.
“Bigger things? My parents are coming for dinner tomorrow, and we have nothing to cook! I know you’re a disappointment, but now my mother will, too.”
“We can fix this. Let me think.”
Peter didn’t drink last night and he slept well, and so he finds himself thinking more clearly than he’s used to, and an idea dawns on him. “Pizza. Everyone likes pizza. Let’s make it a pizza night.”
“What?”
“Yeah, pizza. We have flour, and tomato sauce. And you can put anything on pizza and it’s good.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Are you going to make it? I don’t know how to make pizza.”
“I’ll learn. I’ve got to do some research today. I’ll add making pizza to the things I have to learn, and quickly.”
“How?”
“I’ll go to the library. It’ll be okay. Trust me, Sharon.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Peter showers and dresses. He checks on the plant, still looking happy enough in its brass pot. He feels a sense of purpose. Today, he’s going to learn all he can about this plant, and about how to make pizza from scratch.
In the library, Peter finds a librarian. “I need to learn how to care for a plant.”
“What kind of plant?”
“I don’t know. How do I figure out what kind of plant a plant is?”
“Is it a garden plant, or a houseplant?”
“It’s in a pot.”
“Then it’s probably a houseplant. Let’s find some books on houseplants.”
“Also, I need a recipe book with pizza. And I guess I’m going to need a library card.”
Back home, with a stack of books, Peter jokes, “Now I really am a bookkeeper.” Sharon shakes her head. “What are you up to, Peter?”
“Trust me.”
“You keep saying that. It’s making me nervous.” Peter just smiles and carries the books to his game room, pushing aside the monitor to make room.
He starts with Houseplants for Dummies.
“A fern, huh? So, you’re from Boston. My dad was from Boston.”
Pushing the gaming monitor and controllers out of the way, Peter makes room on his desk to spread out the books on plant care. How to Houseplant. Houseplant Warrior. The Green Thumb Guide. Talking to Plants: How to Become a Great Hortoconversationalist.
Shadows glide across the room, and Peter works from book to book, double-checking and cross-referencing recommendations and advice.
“You’re still here?” Sharon is surprised to find him quietly poring over his glossy assortment of books. “I heated up some leftovers. Will you join us?”
“Of course, dear. I lost track of time.”
“Are you going out tonight?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got some more reading to do.” But in truth, Peter had read that Nephrolepis exaltata requires special fertilizer every two weeks. Even if he could manage to scrape together enough money for bowling and beers, there certainly wouldn’t be enough left for fertilizer.
At dinner, Peter sits beside Jimmy, encouraging him to eat and wiping his mouth when he becomes over-enthusiastic. In between caring for his son, he enjoyed Sharon’s spinach lasagne, the cheese nearly hot enough to burn the roof of his mouth.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been home for dinner.”
“Clearly my loss. This is terrific, Sharon.”
“Are you going to be ready for dinner with my parents tomorrow?"
“I’ve got a plan. I raided the pantry and searched all morning at the library for recipes that we could make with what we have in the house. I found the perfect thing in Jamie Oliver’s 30 Minute Meals.”
“If you pull this off, no matter what you make, I’ll be very surprised indeed.”
Peter just smiles and wipes a dribble of Gerber Blueberry Buckle from Jimmy’s chin.
#
Raiding the pantry, Peter finds flour, instant yeast, olive oil, salt, and garlic powder. That’s everything Jamie Oliver says you need for a pizza crust. The fridge has an eggplant, a couple of tomatoes, some onions, an old red pepper that looks to be on its last days, and half a jar of pesto. Perfect. It’ll be pizza night with the in-laws. I can make this work, Peter thinks.
From around the corner, Sharon watches first with alarm, then with surprise, and finally with amusement as Peter goes to work and this unlikely pile of ingredients begins to resemble a large pizza, filling the sheet pan.
“What are you going to do about the cheese?” Sharon ventures to ask.
Peter looks worried for a moment, then brightens. “I’ll tell your parents I’m on a diet. I could stand to lose a few pounds, after all, and cheese is fattening.”
“Clever boy. I think they’ll buy it. Now, who’s going to clean the kitchen?”
Peter’s feeling more confident than he has in a long time. He ventures a peck on Sharon’s cheek. “I’ve got it, honey. You can go get ready for your parents.” That earns him a suspicious look and a slow smile.
#
“You did it. That was one of the best family dinners we’ve had in a while.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised, Sharon.”
“But I am surprised. What’s gotten into you? You’re home, you’re sober, you haven’t played video games in three days or gone out drinking with your friends, and now you’re cooking and charming my parents.” She squints playfully. “Who are you? What have you done with my husband?”
“I’m Peter’s secret twin brother. I got bored with my life and so I’m taking over his.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Peter’s brother. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“Does that invitation extend to the bedroom?”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
#
As the weeks pass by, the fortune teller’s predictions have come true. The plant is thriving, and so is Peter. Every morning he checks in on the plant before his first cup of coffee, ensuring that it’s positioned to get the day’s sun through the trees outside the window, but not too directly. He checks that the soil is moist and spongy but never wet. If the root ball of a Boston fern ever dries out, even for a day, that could be the end of it. But Peter must also beware of root rot from excessive watering. A fertilizer calendar beside the fern counts the days to the next dose of 20:20:20 diluted to 50% of the standard dose. Only when he’s sure that all is well, does he go to the kitchen and make coffee for himself and Sharon. He repeats the ritual each day when he returns from work, and he always drives straight home, anxious to verify that all is still well with the plant and his new lease on life. Some evenings, after dinner, he sits with the plant and talks to it about his day, and about his hopes for the future. Peter isn’t sure that plants like being talked to, but he’s sure it can’t hurt. He checks again after his evening shower and then climbs the stairs to crawl into bed with Sharon.
“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly developed a green thumb, but I like this hobby much better than your others.”
“What others?”
“Drinking, bowling, drinking, gaming, and drinking.”
“I’m sorry about that, honey. I didn’t see how hard it was on you. I’m so much happier now, and I’m glad you are, too.”
“If it takes a fern to give me my husband back, I’ll take it. She’s a welcome addition to the family.” Sharon draws closer. “But...”
“Yes?”
“I could be happier.”
“What can I do?”
Sharon pulls Peter closer, tossing a leg over his hips and sitting upon him, a hand on each of his shoulders. She leans down for a kiss and then whispers in his ear, “You can use your imagination.”
Peter places a hand behind each of her thighs, draws her up to him, slides lower in the bed, and gets creative.
“Oh, Peter!”
#
A bird at the window wakes Peter with its singing twenty minutes before the alarm. He’s starting to get used to waking up without a headache. This isn’t bad. He makes two cups of coffee and offers one to Sharon as she drifts into the kitchen in her bathrobe.
“Good morning, stranger.” She’s glowing.
Memories of last night come rushing back, and for once, they’re not unpleasant. Just the opposite. There’s nothing he’d do differently.
Suddenly, a panic grips him. “Just a sec, dear.” He sets his coffee on the counter and hurries to the game room. The fern sits on the table in the glow from the rising sun, looking just as he left it. Peter breathes a sigh of relief. He didn’t even check on it last night before following Sharon up to the bedroom. “You and me, buddy. Living the good life, am I right?”
There is only one car in the employee parking lot, and as Peter pulls in beside it, Mr. Withers climbs out of the driver’s seat.
“Peter, what are you doing here so early? Did Sharon throw you out?”
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Withers. I just woke up early and thought I’d get a head start on the day. Abrams doesn’t expect the monthly reports until the end of the day, but if I can get them done by lunch, he’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“So would I, Peter.”
Five o’clock rolls around. On his way out, Peter hears Mr. Withers calling from his office.
“Peter. I just got an email from Abrams. He had a call from the board this afternoon and he was able to answer their questions thanks to the reports you delivered early today. He thanks us for delivering above expectations. Good job, Peter.”
Peter tosses his boss a thumbs up and heads to his car, eager to check on the fern.
“Hey, Pete!” Josh calls. “A drink after work?”
“Can’t tonight. Sorry, Josh.” Peter has to save his beer money for fertilizer.
#
It’s only the third Tuesday of Peter’s new life, but it already feels like an ordinary Tuesday. An ordinary, wonderful, Tuesday. After breakfast with his family, Peter looks in on the plant and heads out to work.
Mr. Withers is no longer surprised to see Peter in the office before him.
“How’s my best junior accountant doing today?” he asks.
“Nurturing dreams of being your best senior accountant, Mr. Withers.”
“That’s the spirit. Keep this up, and it’ll happen for you, Pete my boy. Listen, you’ve done such a great job on the Abrams account. Could you give Josh a hand with Peterson? I’d sure appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Withers.”
The day glides by, and Josh doesn’t even resent the help. He welcomes it. Pete’s the new rising star, and affection is turning into respect. “Can I buy you a drink, to thank you for the help?”
“Another time. I’ve got to get home tonight. Sharon’s making lasagne.”
“Peter, can you come to my office?”
“Sure, Mr. Withers.”
“I just got a call from Abrams. He got a heads up from his cousin in the state Department of Labor. They’re sending an inspector to review his payroll tomorrow and he’s worried. You remember the issue with his last secretary, who threatened to sue him and he kept her on payroll for three months after she quit? He’s afraid that’s gonna come back to bite him.”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Withers. I’ll lose my license if I help him fudge the books.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, Pete. But could you make sure all the i’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed? I don’t want anything blowing back on this firm.”
Pete hesitates, but he knows what has to be done, and there’s nothing illegal about it. He just worries about disappointing Sharon.
“Let me call my wife.”
“Sure, Pete. Do what you have to do.”
When Peter gets to Abrams’ office, his key client is in a panic. The sun is setting and the office is empty, but for Peter and Mr. Abrams.
“It will be fine, Mr. Abrams. You’ve done nothing wrong. All they care about is if you’ve reported the income correctly and paid the social security.”
“Even so, thank you for coming after hours to help me prepare.”
“Let’s make sure everything is ready to go smoothly. I’ll take a look at your payroll records as though I were a labor inspector.”
“Thank you. That’s a great idea. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem, Mr. Abrams.” Peter begins to pull open filing cabinets and spreads the last six months of payroll records across several tables.
“Okay, these are a little out of order, but we can fix that easily enough.” Peter scans each document, one by one. Half an hour later, he collates them neatly and returns them to six manilla folders and places those into two green hanging folders. “That’s it. When the inspector comes tomorrow, just show him this cabinet and point him to these two hanging folders. They contain everything he’ll need to review the last six months’ payroll, income, and social security taxes.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s not a problem. Wait a minute. There’s one more thing we should do.”
“What’s that?”
“Labor inspectors are trained to find mistakes. It’s their job. If they don’t find mistakes, they’re not doing their job.”
“So what does that mean?”
“If there are no mistakes to find, they won’t be happy. They might dig deeper, and if they dig deep enough, they will find a mistake, even if it’s ten years back.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We can’t manufacture a mistake that will get you into any trouble or one that doesn’t match your past bank records. I suggest we tweak your Form 941 for this month, so that it shows you plan to overpay social security. When they find it, you can thank them for saving you a lot of fuss. They’ll tell you to be more careful in the future, but they can’t penalize you for almost overpaying your taxes.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Have you signed it yet?”
“No, not yet. It’s not due for another two weeks.”
“Then it’s incomplete. An accidental mistake on an incomplete form isn’t illegal, so long as it’s fixed before you sign and submit it.
“Brilliant, Peter. You’re a genius.”
Peter pulls out his laptop, pulls up the IRS 941 form and makes a few changes, and sends it to the printer. He swaps out the form in the file. “Now you’re ready for an inspection.”
On the walk to his car, Peter texts Sharon.
--Just finished. Home in 20.
--Dinner will be waiting. xox
It’s late when Peter walks into the kitchen, but Sharon is just pulling the lasagne out of the oven.
“Where’s Jimmy?”
“I’ve put him to bed. Tonight is just for us.” Sharon serves the lasagne and gives Peter a kiss. “Welcome home.”
It’s not until after his shower that Peter realizes that he hasn’t checked on the plant. Padding downstairs in his pajamas, he sticks his head into his game room and flips on the light, and freezes in horror. The plant is dead.
#
The leaves that are still on the slender fronds are yellow, but most lay on the desk and on the floor. Rushing into the room, Peter examines the soil. It’s wet, far too wet. And . . . sticky? As he knocks into the chair, a Pepsi can clutters to the floor. It’s covered in small, Jimmy-sized, sticky, strawberry jam fingerprints.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no no no!” Peter frantically lifts one limp frond after another, searching for signs of life. More tiny yellow leaves flutter to the floor.
In a panic, Peter gathers the dead plant to his chest and backs out of the room, eyes dancing wildly from side to side, seeking any kind of hope of salvation. In his mind, his world is already falling apart. Sharon is leaving. Mr. Withers is going to fire him tomorrow. Everything he’s learned to love about his life is about to fly out the window, leaving him with nothing but a dead plant and a PS2 that’s been gathering dust for the past three weeks.
“Are you coming to bed, honey?” Sharon calls down the stairs.
Terror grips Peter’s throat, and he can’t find words to answer. This can’t be happening. What to do? The fortune teller. She’ll know what to do. Peter grabs the car keys from the kitchen table and lurches to the door. He rushes across the lawn to the driveway, climbs into his car and places the plant on the passenger seat. As an afterthought, he pulls the seat belt around the brass pot and buckles it in place. He starts the car, revs the engine, and careens into the street.
“The Piggly Wiggly.” It’s after 11. The Piggly Wiggly closes at midnight. “Please still be there.” Peter prays.
By the time he gets there, it’s after midnight. The lights in the store turn off as he swerves into the parking lot. There is no sign of the carnival.
A tall man with a shaggy head of unkempt blond hair and wild eyes stumbling out of an old car, wearing pajamas. That’s what the middle-aged, somewhat dumpy and doughty woman locking the door of the Piggly Wiggly sees when she turns around towards the dark parking lot. Understandably, she lets out an involuntary shriek that stops Peter in his tracks.
“No, no, no no. It’s okay. I’m not crazy. You’ve got to help me!”
“We’re closed.”
“I don’t need to buy anything.”
“What do you need, then?”
“The circus. The carnival. It was here, three weeks ago.”
She presses her back against the door. “Yeah. I remember. But it left weeks ago.”
“Are you the manager?”
“I’m the assistant manager.”
“Where did they go?”
“The manager?”
“No, the carnival! Where did the carnival go?”
“They’ve got a deal with corporate, so they probably went to another Piggly Wiggly. They only stay three days, so they’ve been through a bunch of Piggly Wigglys by now.”
“How many Piggly Wiggly are there?”
“Just one in each big city. Here, there’s a map of the stores in the region on the back of the sales flier.” She unrolls a stapled flier advertising ham on one side and points to a map on the back.
“Do you know where they are now?”
“No. I don’t know the schedule. I just knew when they were arriving, so we could block off half the lot for them.”
“Were you here the day they left?”
“I work most every day.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
“Let me think.” She looks like she’d tell this crazy man anything just to get rid of him. “That way, I think.” Then she remembers. “No, I remember seeing the trucks pulling out. They went that way, toward the interstate.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods vigorously, “That way.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much!” He leaves the stupefied woman gaping in the doorway and runs back to the car, climbing in beside a dead plant. Tires screech as he speeds out of the parking lot.
#
Driving down the road toward the interstate, Peter’s phone tweets and Peter lets out a yelp of surprise. “Sharon” shows on the screen, but Peter doesn’t answer. What could he tell her?
Instead, he opens the map and makes his way to the interstate.
The night passes in a blur. One dark grocery store parking lot becomes another and another. At some point, he passes a sign that reads, “Now entering Arkansas.”
From the map, Peter knew that Piggly Wiggly was only in a handful of states, and most of them in the south. No state had very many of them. They seemed to have a policy of not competing with each other. No city, regardless of the size, had two Piggly Wigglys. That is what made this drive take all night, but it is also what gave him hope. There were only so many places the carnival could be.
Looking at the map, he saw two options. Turn south to Magnolia, or continue straight to Hope, Arkansas. He was just thinking about hope. That must be a sign. Pulling off the shoulder and back onto the highway, Peter drives straight on into the night, until the first glow of dawn illuminates the sign, “Welcome to Hope.” Welcome indeed. Peter hopes this sign is a sign.
Too frazzled by fear, anxiety, and exhaustion to think, Peter cruises down the streets of Hope until the welcome view of those pink ears and pinker nose announces a Piggly Wiggly ahead. Half of the lot is fenced off and within the fence stand weathered trailers, a few once brightly-colored tents, and a handful of rusty, lamp-encrusted carnival rides mounted on the backs of flatbeds. The dashboard clock reads 4:47 as Peter screeches to a stop outside the turnstiles and leaps out of his car.
At the squeal of his brakes, a few yellow lights pop on inside the trailers. A rickety trailer door cracks open as Peter jumps over the turnstiles in his blue-striped sateen pajamas and fluffy slippers. Seeing the crack of light from a door, Peter makes a beeline to accost the owner, none other than the small man who was barking at his own hometown Piggly Wiggly just three weeks before.
“You! It’s you! Thank God!” Peter cries as the man’s eyes grow wide with alarm and the door slams closed.
“No! No! No! Open up! It’s me! I need to talk to you.”
“I’m calling the police,” comes the quavering voice through the thin walls of the old trailer.
“Don’t do that! I just want to talk. I need to talk to Madame Rose.”
More lights are coming on now, and yellow, smoke-stained curtains are pushed aside. Peter runs from trailer to trailer, pounding on doors.
“Madame Rose! Madame Rose! Help! It’s the plant. Your plant needs you! You’ve got to help me!”
Suddenly, Peter’s eyes meet hers through the little window, and the curtains fall. “Kurwa!” the young woman mutters under her breath.
Angry and embarrassed, “Madame Rose” pushes open the door. “Stop it! Stop yelling, right now!”
Gathering his courage, the little carnival barker bustles out of his own trailer, tying a bathrobe around his waist. “Olga, do you need help with this crazy mark?”
“I can handle this, Alfonz.” Turning to Peter, “What? What do you want?”
“It’s dead. It’s not my fault. My son. I mean, I guess it is kind of my fault, but my son...Pepsi. I did everything right. 20 20 20 fertilizer, spongy, not wet. Never dry. Indirect light.”
“You’re talking crazy, shut up.”
Peter froze.
“Now, who are you, and what do you want?”
“Your special plant. You sold me the plant your grandmother gave you. The one that got you into America without a visa. This one,” Peter holds up the dead fern. “And I killed it. I’m so sorry. What do I do?”
Olga’s eyes widen as recognition dawns, and before Peter can finish, she bursts out laughing. Looking between Olga’s laughter and Peter’s astonishment, the barker laughs, too.
“Olga. Olga, what did you do? There’s a story here and I want to hear it. If it got me out of bed at ghost o’clock in the fucking morning, it better be good.”
With that, most doors open, and soon a group of carnies is watching Olga clasping her knees and guffawing like a grandpa. She catches her breath and smiles at the carny faces. “This mark shows up ‘cause his life’s a mess, all right?” Heads nod, knowingly. “And I sold him a ‘magic plant’ for $100.”
“It was $150 bucks,” Peter mumbles, as the truth begins to dawn on him. “It wasn’t magic?”
“Of course not. I bought it in the Piggly Wiggly garden section. And you’re not getting a damn refund, not after waking everyone up with your crazy antics.”
“But, if it’s not magic, why did it work?”
Olga just stares.
“I mean. My life was a mess. My wife was going to leave me. My boss was going to fire me. Now everything’s changed. Even my in-laws like me. I might get a promotion. Everything changed with the plant.”
“Listen, idiota. It’s just a plant. If your life got better, you must have done it yourself. But, hey, if you want another ‘magic plant’ just come back after the Piggly Wiggly opens. I’ll have one with an even better story for you. But this time, it’ll be $200.”
The circle of carnies laughs at the crazy mark’s obvious confusion.
“The plant’s not magic. I spent the weekends learning about it instead of gaming. I rushed home from work every day to check on it instead of stopping at the bar. I gave up drinking so I could afford fertilizer. . .”
“You sound like a treat of a husband. Lucky your wife hasn’t left you already,” the bearded lady sneered at Peter.
“The plant wasn’t magic,” Peter said again. “It was me. It was me! It was me all along!”
“No refunds!”
Peter freezes. “I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to tell Sharon.” He looks again to Madam Rose, “Thank you. You’ve saved my life. Thank you so much.” And with that, Peter runs back to his car.
On the road, he calls Sharon from his mobile.
“Where are you, Peter? I’ve been so worried.”
“It’s okay, Sharon. I’m really sorry. There was an emergency, but it’s all okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
But Peter doesn’t drive straight home. Along the way, he takes a detour into a Piggly Wiggly. Going to the garden section, he picks out a new Boston fern, ignoring the stares from the other shoppers.
“What is this? Walmart?” a shopper mummers under her breath as Peter, in his pj’s and slippers, marches happily out of the store, fern in hand.