Andrew R. Clark
A traveler in the forest
Discovered a hole in the ground
Covered in moss with upright sides
Its edges perfectly round
From the pit arose a moan
Terrible to hear
Fleeing the woods he came upon
Some people working near
The thing that came up out of the hole
Was broken and covered in mud
It’s my brother one of the workmen cried
I owe you all of my blood
#
“Stop calling me!” the old man screamed into the phone.
“Uncle, it’s me, Omer. We just landed at London City Airport.” Only a slight buzz returned down the line. “I wrote to you. You wrote me back.” There was still no response. “I’m here with my family.”
“Family? What did you do that for, you fool?”
“Uncle—” The line went dead.
#
Molly seemed set this time, arguing for a family trip to Europe. Previously, he’d managed to change the subject before any plans were made. “You’re always talking about going home,” she said.
“Am I?” Honestly, he hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, all the time. You keep repeating your grandmother’s stories or poems or whatever they are and describing places from your childhood.”
“Those stories have a purpose,” he replied a little defensively. “It’s ancient people trying to communicate with us, telling us what they thought was important. It’s not primitive. Their minds were just as sophisticated as ours, just as insightful. It’s my duty to pass them on.” Even he could hear the pomposity in his voice, so he shut up.
His wife stared at him blankly, not helping.
“Well—” he scanned the terrain for a better position but couldn’t locate one. “You may have a point. Maybe I do miss where I grew up. And maybe Beth is getting old enough to benefit from travel too.” And so it was decided.
#
Up early and a direct flight to Paris. In the hotel room, they dropped their luggage, and without discussion, everyone found someplace to lie down. A conference was held upon waking, and all admitted secretly wanting room service and a shower and then to bed.
In the morning they took the train south through fields of wheat and yellow oil flowers. Switching at Libourne and turning east, they rolled across a plain covered with grape trellises, lined up like Napoleon’s army, rank upon endless rank marching toward the sun. It was mid‑afternoon when they reached Bergerac, and they again conceded to collapse, in a little hotel a short walk from the station.
Bravely defying jetlag they strolled the evening, finding a café with a view of the river. Omer translated the menu choices. Molly wanted sole meunière, and Beth and her father both had ravioles de crevettes.
When he finished ordering, Elizabeth remarked, “You never said you could speak French, Dad.”
“Vous n’avez jamais demandé. You never asked.”
His daughter just made a face at him.
For a couple days, they relaxed and toured the old town, visiting shops and museums and exploring the narrow streets. With resolute dignity, Omer suffered the inevitable comparisons to the city’s most famous character, but he drew the line at being photographed alongside the statue, its nose bright from regular rubbing. A man’s face is given to him; he can only do his best with it. And after all, the real Cyrano had been quite a fellow. Who knew, maybe they were related. Why not?
They rented a car and drove into the hills, climbing north out of the valley, a picnic basket and blanket packed in the trunk. Single‑lane roads wound through woods and rocky farmsteads. Eventually recognizing something in the shape of the land, the troll pulled over at a cluster of buildings crowding either side of the way. A teenage girl went to get her father.
Yes, they could look at the old shed. No, he knew nothing about the people who had lived there long ago when it had been a house. Emotion surprised Omer as he showed Molly and Beth where, as a child, he’d lived with his grandmother. It was a small place, a few rooms in a hut of stacked stones, the roof changed but the outline still there as in memory. It sat on a hump overlooking a meadow, two ponies munching grass near the stream at its bottom.
“It’s pretty here,” Beth said.
“Tell us one of your grandmother’s stories, sweetheart,” said Molly.
“Oh, they’re just stories, really. What I remember best is being here with her, talking and eating and doing things together.”
They climbed the hill and picnicked under a grove of trees near his mother’s grave. He’d thought he might tidy it up and had purchased a pair of hand clippers for the purpose, but the site had blended in so completely with its surroundings he decided to let things be. On the drive down out of the hills, Molly and Beth fell asleep in the car. Clearing the trees, fields opening up below, sunset bathed the valley in golden light.
#
Bergerac sits in a bend of the Dordogne River, retaining a certain maritime charm. Though today mostly used by vacationers, its ancient boatways sit ready to accommodate medieval barge or fishing fleet. On their last day, they rented kayaks and paddled about on the river, distinguished old buildings looking down on them. Circling a fountain anchored out in the water, letting the current bring them back to the pullout, they got caught in the spray by a gust of wind.
Whether questioning farmer, taximan, waiter, clerk, or rental agent, Omer hadn’t heard any name he recognized, anyone he remembered. But despite that he felt satisfied. Though the people and even the landscape had changed, he still fit in, somehow.
In the morning a cab to the airport and the hop to London.
#
“What’s wrong?”
He saw Molly looking so came right out and said it. “My uncle might be nuts.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to stop calling him.”
“So …” Molly shrugged her shoulders.
“Let’s check into the hotel. Tomorrow you and Beth can go sightseeing, and I’ll try to figure out what’s the problem.”
#
Elizabeth was sitting in her room—cross‑legged on the bed, looking down at her phone—when Omer peeked in. “Let’s get your mom coffee and a pastry,” he whispered. “Unless you don’t want a pastry.”
They followed their noses down to a sitting room overlooking the fenced back yard. Atop a lace covered dining table, a platter of scones rested next to a bowl of cut fruit. Under shiny silver covers, chafing dishes held hot sausages and eggs, sliced tomatoes fanned out under a glass lid sitting alongside. They loaded up plates, managing to get all three back upstairs without spilling.
Molly sat up, rubbing her eyes, as Elizabeth plopped down next to her on the bed. Omer cleared off the side table and set down a plate and a cup. “Rise and shine, beautiful.”
#
Above the door of a little shop, almost hidden in an angle created by the misaligned streets, hung a painted sign in curling white script on a dark green background.
The Wizard
We Fix Anything
Omer tried turning the handle, but it was locked. Through a pane of glass in the door, the shop’s interior was hidden in gloom.
“Looking for the owner?” A young man stood a few steps away. He was dressed in a fuchsia track suit with white stripes, a Queen’s Park Rangers hat shading his eyes. “He ain’t been ‘round.”
Omer guessed he knew the young man’s type, working the angle of neighborhood watchman. “Do you know Jasper?”
“Everybody knows the Wizard. When I was a kid, my dad ran over my toy truck. He was a cheap bastard and wouldn’t get me another, so just being a kid, I brought it to the Wizard. He fixed it and didn’t charge me nuffin. Some parts were different, but the wheels turned and everything.”
Maybe the young man was more than a hoodlum. “My name’s Omer. Jasper is sort of my uncle.”
“I think he’s up there, but I’m not sure,” the young man said, looking toward the upper‑floor windows. “He hasn’t opened shop all week. I try the bell, and he doesn’t come, but I think I’ve seen the curtains move once or twice.”
“Can I give you a few quid to keep an eye out for him?” Omer asked. “Here’s my number.” He scribbled it on a piece of paper from his pocket, folding it around a £20 note. “We’re visiting from the States. He was supposed to be at the airport. He’s always been eccentric, but I’m worried.”
“I’m Billy.” The young man stuck out his hand, receiving the paper. “I was looking in anyway. There is one thing. I’ve seen a bloke around here a couple times. Nice clothes but not posh, more formal like. Not sure if it means anything.” As Omer shook the outstretched hand, for just a moment he thought he recognized something in the young man’s face, but it was gone again. “Cheers.” The young man, Billy, turned away, sauntering down the busy sidewalk, joining the morning foot traffic.
Omer approached the side door, to the flat above the shop, and pushed the button, hearing a muffled chime somewhere overhead. After a few minutes, he knocked. Still no answer. He stepped back, looking at the curtained windows of the upper story. Having had tea at a shop across the street, he tried the bell again. “Uncle Jasper, it’s me, Omer. I’m at your door.” The phone mailbox accepted the message, but seeing little else to do, he returned to the hotel.
#
His wife and his daughter were stepping out of a black car just as Omer’s rideshare pulled up. “We toured the Tower of London,” Beth began, “and saw the ravens and where they used to keep the menagerie and where the poor little boys died, and I went into the room where Princess Elizabeth was held prisoner—”
“Yes, you did,” Molly picked up the narrative when Beth ran out of breath. “And then we had finger sandwiches at the cutest cafe near Covent Garden and heard Big Ben ringing in the distance. We were going to go to the British Museum next, to see all the stolen stuff, but we both got sleepy and decided to take a proper London cab ride back here.”
“The cabby talked the whole way, pointing out stuff. He seemed really proud,” said Elizabeth.
“He was funny, with a real cockney accent, though he looked African. Beth and I are going for a lie down. You come too. You look tired. Wait until dinner to tell us about your crazy uncle, okay?”
They all went upstairs to their cozy rooms, Elizabeth just through an adjoining door.
Hand in hand, swinging their arms back and forth, Omer and Beth preceded Molly down the sidewalk. He’d inquired at the desk about any local vindaloo houses and had been directed to this corner.
“Should I order medium spicy?” Molly asked her husband.
Omer scanned the room, seeing mostly families of South Asian descent. “No, I think I’d order mild with extra yogurt sauce.”
#
He couldn’t hold out forever—he needed groceries—but neither did he want to confront the man who’d been coming to the shop. Nothing suspicious happened on his trip to the store, but on the way home, coming around the back way, he spied a figure peering into the window, a man in a dark suit.
Carefully retreating, he set down his bags in a doorway and took to his feet. After a few minutes dashing from shadow to shadow, he neared the train tracks and crouched in the brush by their side, listening, unsure what to do next. The man might be right behind him. Keeping east beside the tracks awhile, he found a spot to scramble up out of the trench.
The night was quiet, but then he heard heels behind him, clicking on the pavers. A footpath diverged from the street, squeezed between houses, and he slipped into it. Unable to help himself, he ran down the twilight lane, reckless of being seen. Entering under the cover of trees, he slowed his pace, regaining some nerve. Why was there no outlet? It occurred to him, he was in Vinegar Alley, secluded and narrow, with no exit for blocks. There it was again, a noise from behind. He charged down the dim tunnel, lost from his mind. Pain burning his lungs, tombstones passed by on either side, timeworn and tilting.
Shafts of light shone through the trees, spotlights on honey‑colored sandstone pillars. On the steps of Saint Mary’s Church, the old man broke down sobbing, “I can’t bear it anymore.” He heard someone coming and wished he remembered how to disappear.
“Mr. Wizard, are you okay?”
A young man in silly clothes was crouching at his side. “Do I know you, son?”
“No, I expect not,” Billy replied, “but I’ve known you since I was a kid. Let me help you up. I’ll walk you home.”
It was a stroke of luck no one had found his grocery bags and he was able to retrieve them. Back in his flat above the shop, he made dinner with the lights off.
#
“Liz wants to take a real English double‑decker bus ride. One stops close by and goes right to Walthamstow. Let’s see if we can find your uncle, and if not, we’ll walk down to the market and eat and goof around. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much.”
“Yah, Dad, we have to go on a big red bus. And the market’s supposed to be the longest one in the world. It’ll be fun! Say we can go.”
Omer wasn’t sure what to make of his uncle’s situation. He was wary of letting Molly and Elizabeth near it, but he also felt guilty about ignoring his family on their vacation. “Sounds like a great idea. Walking shoes and sunscreen.” The bus let them off at a corner on Hoe St., a few steps away from the little courtyard facing The Wizard. “It’s around back.”
Beth skipped ahead, sitting down on a bench under a ginkgo tree growing up from an opening in the sidewalk. Omer and Molly peered through the window in the shop door. Their daughter got up and joined them when they walked over to another door, set at the side. Omer pushed the buzzer.
“I could get you in there if you want.” All three of them jumped.
“Billy, you startled us,” Omer said to the young man, today dressed in a checkered sport coat and ironic bowler.
“Apologies, ladies.” The young man doffed his hat in an unexpectedly elegant bow.
“This is my wife Molly and my daughter Elizabeth. Girls, this is Billy.”
“I could get you in there if you want,” he repeated.
Omer stood silent a moment, weighing his choices. “How?” Beth’s eyes grew wide as she listened.
“That’s korma, easy peasy.” When Omer reached into his pocket, intending to slip the young man another twenty pounds, Billy waved him off. “This is friends and family.” He looked around then stepped up to the side door, leaning over the handle. In a few seconds the lock made a satisfying click, and the door swung out.
“You’re okay with this, Molly?”
“Be careful,” she said, taking ahold of Beth’s hand and stepping back, joining Billy on the bench.
He called up the dark stairwell, “Uncle Jasper, it’s me, Omer. You remember, here from America for a visit?” Leaving the door open behind him, Omer mounted the steps. There was a second door at the top. It wasn’t locked, and he slowly pushed inward. “Uncle …?”
Two long black barrels and behind them, two squinting, bespectacled eyes, all four staring straight at him.
“Is that an elephant gun, Uncle Jasper?”
“Don’t be daft. It’s a Beesley boxlock, for game birds. A real beauty, too. Here, have a look,” he said, handing over the shotgun. “Now go back down and shut the door. And lock it.”
Omer did as he was told, leaning the gun in a corner at the head of the stairwell. When he reentered the flat, the old man was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, a round end table beside it, working on stuffing a pipe. Focused on his task, he seemed to have forgotten Omer altogether.
“How’ve you been?”
“Ehhh? Forgive me. Have a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink.”
“Nothing for me, Uncle Jasper.”
“Nonsense! Just a moment.”
The old man plunked down his pipe and levered himself out of the chair. He was soon back from the kitchen with a silver tray. Two squat crystal tumblers teetered back and forth across its surface, half‑filled with sloshing amber liquid, joined by a ramekin each of sugar cubes and lemon wedges, accompanied by small tongs, all sliding and skittering about. The old man somehow deposited the tray without calamity, clattering onto a sideboard.
“Whiskey Fizz, that’ll cheer you up!” Jasper, Omer’s sort‑of‑uncle, plucked white cubes out of their dish and plopped one each into the tumblers. He followed, again one for each, with a squeeze of citrus. After poking about on the tray, apparently searching for something, he shrugged and used the little tongs as stir stick. “Bottoms up, Nephew!”
“So now you remember relations.” Omer took a sip of the proffered potable. “It’s delicious, Uncle Jasper. I didn’t know you were an expert bartender.”
“You never asked.”
“Please, Uncle,” Omer said, setting down his drink, “is something wrong? What happened? When we talked before about the trip, everything sounded fine.”
The little old man gulped down the contents of his glass, lapsing into panic. “He’s trying to kill me. He wants my head!”
Omer decided he might need the rest of his whiskey after all. “So who’s this he?”
#
“I thought of a gift I want to bring home, or I suppose have shipped home,” Molly said to Omer as they were waking up, dawn squeezing around the edges of the shades.
“Say it’s not a piano.” She punched his shoulder.
“There’s a famous old gallery nearby that sells Victorian wallpaper. I want to get some for Ida.”
“You’re okay with this?” Omer asked, “I mean the whole day?”
“I’ve got it all figured out. I’m renting a car and Billy’s agreed to chauffeur us around.”
“You’re really sure?”
This time she kissed his cheek. “It was supposed to be a family vacation. This is family.”
Beth was stirring in the other room, so they rolled out of bed.
#
A tall casement clock began striking seven, and Omer started down the steps. The ridiculously big loop of keys was heavy in his hand—it must have held every key Jasper had ever used in his lifetime, hundreds of them—but he’d marked the important ones with tape. He opened up the shop, tapping a rubber wedge under the door to keep it from closing, and finding the lights, clicked them on. What a clutter of jumbled objects, piled and shelved and leaning.
Like a hardware store, small bins were filled with various nuts and screws, rivets and nails. There were spools and spools of wire, set up on racks, dowels running through their centers. Small appliances of every description and generation filled corner and cranny according to size. Drawers held mechanical parts and obscure paraphernalia, meticulously ordered. Against the far wall, a beam of morning light fell upon a mahogany cabinet, and Omer went over to inspect its contents, peering through beveled glass.
Amethyst light refracted off a shimmering geode, filling its shelf like the inside of a stained‑glass cathedral. A long, heavy bone rested on a wire armature in front of a sketch of the leviathan it had come from. In a rosewood specimen case, a collection of odd bugs—long bodies with iridescent wing covers, skewered at the ends of long pins—hovered over a black velvet background. And on the top shelf, nestled on tissue paper in a pasteboard box, rested a chalky dome the size of your hand.
After half an hour, a middle‑aged woman walked in, squinting at him. “You’re not the Wizard. Has he sold out or something?”
“No, ma’am. I assure you, Jasper is still fixing everything. I’m his nephew, helping out for a bit. If you drop off your order, signing the slip as usual, things will get fixed like they always do. It’s our guarantee.”
He closed for a few minutes to get lunch but kept watch from the bodega across the street. A few more customers came in that afternoon. “You’re open again, thank all! The Hoover won’t go, and the missus is getting cross. It’s probably the switch, but you’ll know better. Give a ring when it’s done. Hey, you’re not the usual chappy.”
Near closing, just as Omer was about to lock up, a man dressed in a dark suit came to the door. “Is Mr. Jasper here?” he asked.
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but he’s not in for a few days. I’m his nephew, helping out. Can I be of assistance?”
The man remained in the doorway, a dark outline in a dark suit. “Maybe you can. I’m from the British Museum, and I’ve been trying to get Jasper to sell something to me. It could be very important. You might think we know all there is to know. But really, there are so few examples each one is priceless.
“I first came in a few months ago with an old microscope I wanted to get working. I collect scientific equipment, you see, and a colleague recommended this fixit. As we discussed the details of fine machining, I began scanning the shelves. And there it was, in that curio cabinet. I almost fainted. But he won’t even let me examine it. And I feel terrible saying so, but there are legal ramifications around these things and how they’ve been acquired. I’m sorry, but I have an obligation to inquire.”
Omer thought he was beginning to understand.
“Why don’t you give me your card, and I’ll see if I can figure something out.”
That evening, Omer asked a few questions and made a phone call.
#
“We walked through a big park and had stuffed buns from a food cart and watched kids doing tricks on skateboards and went to this fancy house filled with really beautiful stuff—”
“We certainly did.” Molly again took the baton when Beth ran out of breath. “The William Morris Gallery is right next to Lloyd Park, so we did both.”
Before dinner, as Beth napped in the other room, Omer asked, “So how was Jasper?”
“He was a perfect host. I don’t see why you’ve been so worried.” Omer started to reply, but his wife cut him off. “Elizabeth has a crush on that Billy character. The two of them, Jasper and Billy, were like some old comedy duo, Billy playing jester to Jasper’s crazy Lear. It was quite a performance.”
“I hope it lasts. You didn’t hear him frightened and crying.”
“I know, honey. And I’m proud of you for caring.”
After their daughter woke up, they all walked a couple blocks over to an Italian place the tattooed kid behind the counter recommended. On the way back, sticking doggedly to key points of her presentation, Beth argued the meatballs had been the best thing they’d eaten the whole trip.
#
A few days later, right on time for his appointment, the man in the dark suit entered the shop. “Mr. Omer,” the troll let it pass, “I was so glad to get your call, and we’re ever so grateful for the donation. Your country, I guess I should say Mr. Jasper’s country—you’re a Yank, right? or is it Canadian? Anyway, I’d like to extend my deepest appreciation for your gift to the Museum.”
The man had been edging toward the cabinet all the while he spoke, creeping closer crabwise fashion. “Well, let’s get you on your way,” Omer replied, removing the ring of keys from a drawer behind the counter—he’d tried clipping them to his belt, but they pulled down his pants—picked out the right one marked with tape and opened the glass doors of the case. “You’ll make sure to call us if there’s an honor or something?”
“With my assurance.”
“I’ll let you do the handling,” Omer said, stepping back.
From the highest shelf, under the crown of scrollwork at the cabinet’s head, the man lifted out a small pasteboard box, its lid open, revealing the top of a skull. He walked to the counter and carefully set it down. Donning thin white gloves, he lifted up the remains. Taking a step into better light, he scrutinized the object, slowly turning it back and forth. After a minute he placed the yellowed orb onto the counter and took off his gloves, plopping them down beside it. Picking it back up with bare hands, he tapped the bone with his fingernail. It made a satisfying tone.
“It’s resin, from a 3D printer. Then someone crafted it and applied textures and pigments. A nice job …” his voice trailed off.
“We never knew exactly what it was. Some kind of fossil? Anyway, it’s all yours, and we’re so proud. You will remember to keep in touch, won’t you?”
Slipping the plastic skull fragment into a pocket of his dark suit, the man left the shop without further comment.
#
Up early and fill travel mugs, wrapping pastries in paper napkins. Stand in the little circular drive at the front of the hotel, gray sky suggesting drizzle. A long Mercedes sedan crawls in from the street. When it pulls to a stop, Billy springs out. “Let me help with the bags.” Today he’s dressed in trench coat and sportsman’s cap, jackboots and tall stockings, an inch or two of blue and black kilt extending below the coat’s hem.
“A good dodge with the museum man,” Billy said to Omer. “Put that one in my books.”
He realized who the young man reminded him of. “Have you ever heard of Cyrano de’ Bergerac?”
“Sure, sure … bloke in a movie. I’m partial to the José Ferrer version myself.”
“Right you are.”
It was mid‑afternoon when they got to St Asaph. “Let’s get you settled into your room. The young people can tote the cases.” Molly lightly held Jasper’s elbow as he climbed out of the car.
“Brilliant!” he exclaimed, stretching his back. “Omer’s no fool, that’s what I tell people. A man who can pick a good woman probably has other talents.” Arm in arm like old chums, they walked together to the door of the inn.
Beth would sleep on a cot. “There’s a room with double beds available.”
“No, this is the right way to do it,” she insisted. “It’s like being on safari.”
#
Having set alarms, they were up and ready before dawn. In an hour, again ensconced in the car, they pulled up a single‑lane road lined by dense hedges. The bank fell away to the right, the River Elwy visible through patches of fog. Winding through close‑cropped meadows, the narrow track confronted a conical hill. A light on a poll revealed a house and farm buildings, and Billy pulled off into the pebbled yard, stopping beside a row of parked vehicles.
As they exited the car, they were greeted by a woman with a nimbus of frizzy, red hair. “I can’t tell you how glad everyone will be to see you. We’re down in the equipment shed. Come along with me.”
Billy and Molly helped the old man across the slanting driveway, toward the outbuildings.
“It’s funny, Dad, this kind of looks like where we were in France.”
Low clouds skittered over the hills, shining the stones with light mist. Contours of the Welsh landscape, emerging in the predawn, did echo the country he’d grown up in.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Is it true what Jasper says?”
“And what’s that?”
“Some council is going to put him in jail.”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s house arrest at worst,” he chuckled, squeezing her hand.
“Come inside and warm up,” the woman who’d been leading the way said, checking her watch. “We’ll be going in ten minutes!” she announced as they entered the large open shed. Some folks stood just under the edge of the roof while others clustered around a tall heater that resembled a giant silver mushroom. Everyone smiled and nodded. On a folding table next to a stack of paper cups, Omer and Beth located a thermos containing tangy cinnamon cider.
“If it isn’t my nemesis?” A man with a big mustache gave him a bear hug.
“Demetri! You must learn your picketing and posting. I’ve beaten you three times in a row now.”
They’d been playing a game against each other for years, a kind of long‑distance checkers.
“I have a plan, but you’ll have to wait and see.”
Their cups were just getting cool enough to sip when the woman who had greeted them said, loud enough to get everyone’s attention, “First light is rising!” They all filed out of the shelter, up a tree‑lined path toward the mound. It ended at heavy iron doors set into a stone lintel, and they gathered in a semicircle before the entrance. “On this damp morning—as on every morning of our lives—we are blessed by our ancestors,” the woman again spoke, everyone quieting. “We gather to thank them for all they endured so we could be here today. We also come to welcome a new member into our family.”
All eyes turned to Elizabeth. She looked up at her father, not understanding. “It’s okay. That’s my Aunty Emlyn, and these people are all related to you one way or another. There aren’t many of us left, so you’re kind of a celebrity.”
“But before we welcome our little sister, an item of old business needs attending to. Jasper, come forward.”
Tentatively, the old man stepped to the center before falling to his knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he wailed miserably. “I was lonely. I’m ashamed of myself. I knew it was wrong.”
“Cousin, no one is angry with you.” Aunt Emlyn pulled him back to his feet. “We all know what it’s like to be lonely. I only ask you to look for comfort here in the present, with your friends and family. Billy, please bring the box. Now let’s put your father’s bones back where they belong.”
#
They napped on the drive back to London—it’s tiring riding around in planes and trains and cars. At the airport, at parting, Jasper again shed tears, but this time with dignity.
After unloading the luggage from the car, Billy smiled, shaking his head, politely refusing the offered tip. “I’m indebted to you,” Omer said. “Your help was invaluable. Do me one last favor. Take this and bet it on a horse.”
This time the young man accepted the bills. “You’re right. I can be a selfish twat. Tell you what, Uncle Omer, if we come in, half is yours.” They shook on it.
The return trip was a blur, but they finally got home. A few days later, getting back into daily routines, Omer sat down at his desk to do some paperwork. “Dear, I was checking the phone bill,” he said, coming into the bedroom.
Molly had her head in the closet, looking for something. “Yes?” she responded, her upper half hidden.
“There was an overseas call, a London number. Jasper and I never talk on the phone. We do all our communicating by email.”
“That Billy called me,” she said, retracting her head from the closet. “I don’t know how he got my number, but he explained who he was and the whole situation. He said you were the only one Uncle Jasper would listen to. It’s why we went on vacation. Didn’t I tell you?”
Endnote
For Nick Saloman, the real Wizard of Walthamstow.