Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘Echo Falls Series’

Sunday: Elvis and Ingrid

How do I know it’s Sunday? Elvis gospel on the radio. We like Milky White Way the best, me and Bernie, but they haven’t played it yet. Meanwhile, Bernie says the Plunderers have been discussing the Extras. Here is some of the Extra from Into the Dark.

Dear Reader:

Welcome to extras. Extras! Just another feature, beside how cheap they are, that makes paperbacks great. I hope you enjoyed Into the Dark.

Mr. Samuels, editor of The Echo, interviewed Grampy shortly after the events described in the story. I was able – by methods that must remain secret – to lay hands on a copy of the interview, transcribed from the original tape.

Sincerely,

Peter Abrahams

From the files of Mr. Samuels, Echo editor

Interview Transcript with reporter’s notes: Subject – Aylmer Hill

Samuels: Morning, Aylmer. Been a long time.

Hill: Since when?

Samuels: Why, uh, since we had a sitdown together, you and I.

Hill: When did that ever happen?

Samuels: Well, perhaps not formally – maybe making this a little more special, if you see what I mean. (Note: AH says nothing. Describe his gaze, clear and icy. Omit or at least tone down its disquieting effect.) Care for a Danish?

Hill: Nope.

Samuels: Must be why you stay so trim. If you don’t mind my asking, how’s your health these days?

Hill: Tip top.

Samuels: Probably feeling especially good right now, I’d imagine.

Hill: Why?

Samuels: What with your recent exoneration in the Thatcher murder and all. (Note: no reply, just the gaze again) Um, a splash more coffee?

Hill: Nope.

Samuels: How do you feel about the way the case was handled?

Hill: Been around the block.

Samuels: You’re saying you’ve been around the block?

Hill: What I said.

Samuels: Meaning, ah, in terms of the case, that …

Hill: Been in worse situations.

Samuels: Ah, let’s get into that. I take it you’re referring to your experiences in World War Two. (Note: again no reply, but possibly a slight nod) I’m sure The Echo’s readers would be interested in your account of those adventures.

Hill: Adventures?

Samuels: Ordeal might be a better word.

Hill: Think so?

Samuels: What word would you choose?

Hill: (Note: long silence during which AH’s eyes seem to cloud over) Long time ago.

Samuels: Meaning the memories have faded?

Hill: Nothing wrong with my memory.

Samuels: So when you think of the Bataan Death March –

Hill: I don’t.

Samuels: But if you did, right now, for example, as a matter of historical record for Echo readers, what would your thoughts be? For example, do you feel bitterness toward the Japanese?

Hill: (Note: an even longer silence) Only some of them.

Samuels: What’s your reaction to those who say that once the dogs of war are unleashed anything goes?

Hill: (Note: the disquieting look) Then we’re just beasts.

Samuels: So there should be restraint even in war?

Hill: (Note: perhaps another slight nod)

Samuels: Changing subjects a little bit, did you happen to catch your granddaughter Ingrid’s performance in the Prescott Players’s recent production of Hansel and Gretel?

Hill: Yeah. (Note: a sudden laugh) I snuck in the back.

Samuels: You snuck in the back?

Hill: Got a problem with that?

Samuels: Well, why not just take a normal seat, like anyone else? (Note: an icy look that goes on and on) Moving on to the play itself, what did you think of Ingrid’s performance?

Hill: (Note: After a sudden quick smile that changes his whole face) My family is a private matter.

Samuels: Meaning?

Hill: None of your damn business.

Samuels: So you’d like me to keep the Ingrid part off the record?

Hill: All of it.

Samuels: I’m sorry?

Hill: (Note: covers the mike with his hand) All of it. It’s all off the record. Every single word.

Samuels: But I don’t understand. You said that – (Note: subject has risen and is leaving the room.)

Sundays With Ingrid: Friday Night Lights

The black-and-silvers tried the flea-flicker on their second play. Ty started to come forward, started to take the bait like everyone else, and then—yes!—saw what was really happening. Blessed miracle. He backpedaled, found the receiver, matched him stride for stride. Ball in the air. They both leaped, hands outstretched, a frozen moment under the lights. And—19 came down with it! Ty! He turned upfield, dodged a tackler—

“Run! Run!” Dad was jumping up and down, beside himself. They all were.

And dodged another tackler and shifted into a gear Ingrid hadn’t known he had. Maybe Ty hadn’t known either. He just blazed, right down the sideline, maybe not graceful like Assistant Coach Trimble but even faster. Crowd on their feet. Touchdown. He raised the ball high but didn’t do any embarrassing dancing or stuff like that. The best moment of his life, Ingrid just knew it. She almost cried, which was so weird.

Sundays With Ingrid

After school, Ingrid carried Mom’s for sale sign—RIVERBEND PROPERTIES, CALL CAROL LEVIN-HILL—down the block to 113 Maple Lane. It was really blowing now, twigs getting ripped off the trees, dead leaves making tornadoes in the air, low dark clouds speeding across the sky. Nigel whimpered the whole way.

“Suck it up,” Ingrid said.

One thirteen was set back deeper than the other houses on Maple Lane, its shingles aged almost black, the whole front overgrown with bushes and vines. Ingrid found a good spot near the road and stuck the sign in the ground. The metal pole had a sharp end and a little footpad for pressing down on. It went in real easy.

She stepped back to check it was straight for traffic coming either way. Nigel picked that moment to cross the lawn and lift his leg in front of the garage door, making a puddle that spread and spread.

“Nigel. Get over here.”

Instead he found a dry place and curled up like a sled dog trying to survive a blizzard.

“It’s just a little wind.”

But he didn’t budge. And then came a particularly strong gust. Nigel closed his eyes as though getting ready to die, like with Scott at the South Pole. Ingrid went after him.