Welcome to my first experiment in serializing fiction on my website! This first story is “officially” just for newsletter subscribers, but if you came across it some other way that’s fine, too! (You should definitely subscribe, though, so you always know when the next update drops!)
This is an older story of mine that I recently gave a new update/polish to re-publish. I’ve decided to serialize it here before releasing the ebook, so you get to see it first!
New sections will be added the same date each newsletter comes out, so every other Friday.
Better Not Tell You Now
“Good morning, ma’am. May I speak with Mrs. Bogart?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, Mrs. Bogart. This is Preston with U-Tel-Us, Incorporated. I’m hoping you have a few moments to share your opinion with us.”
“Hmm… I don’t know. What are you selling?”
“I’m not selling anything, Mrs. Bogart. I’d just like to ask you a few questions regarding your most recent trip to the grocery store.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Percy.”
“It’s Preston, ma’am. U-Tel-Us is an independent company contracted to conduct consumer surveys. Your answers will help our client, a major food store chain, to improve the shopping experience to better suit the needs of customers such as yourself. I can assure you there’s nothing personal in the questions.”
“I still don’t know. What sort of questions do you want to ask me?”
“Well, Mrs. Bogart, the first question is: Are you the primary grocery shopper for your household?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m the only person in my household. Surely you know that; you called me.”
“I apologize, Mrs. Bogart. The only information I have is your name. I know nothing specific about you or your household. So, I’ll put that down as a yes for primary grocery shopper. The second question is: do you shop primarily at a locally owned store, or at a national or regional chain?”
“A regal what?”
“A regional chain. In other words, a large store with many locations, either across the country or at least across one or more states. A store like Walmart would be an example of a national chain; stores like Safeway, Kroger, and Piggly Wiggly are examples of regional chains.”
“Oh, I just love the Walmart, don’t you? The little girls at the registers are all so nice. And, you know, I think the man who stands at the door is a little bit sweet on me. Never gets fresh, of course, but he’s always got a cart ready for me when I walk in, and always says ‘hello.’”
“So, you do your grocery shopping at Walmart, then?”
“Oh, heavens no. That store’s way too big. I only go in there for the pharmacy.”
“All right, Mrs. Bogart. Where do you do your grocery shopping?”
“Well, where do you think? At the grocery.”
“At the— All right. Which grocery store would that be, exactly?”
“The one over on Hudson.”
“I apologize, Mrs. Bogart, but I’m not familiar with your neighborhood. Do you know the name of the store?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bag and Buy, I think? It’s the one on Hudson. Between the laundry-mat and that little store that sells all the candy. You know the kids that stand in front of that place, they smoke cigarettes, can you believe that? Why, when I was a girl I’d never have dreamed of doing such a thing. And in public even. It’s just—”
“I don’t show a store called Bag and Buy in your area, Mrs. Bogart. Are you sure about the name?”
“Bag and Buy, Cash and Carry. Something like that.”
“I see a store called Foodland?”
“Yes, that’s it. Food Town.”
“All Right, Mrs. Bogart, let’s continue. How often do you shop at Foodland?”
“Well, every time.”
“No, I mean, how often is that? Once a week? Every two weeks?”
“You know, young man, your questions are a bit strange. Why do you want to know all of this? You’re planning to hide behind my car and rape me, aren’t you? I watch the news, I know what goes on. Nancy Grace did a whole special on people like you.”
“Did she now?”
“Yes, Mister, she did. I’ll bet you were one of those perverts she showed, too. I’m not going to shop at the Bag and Carry ever again, so you’ll never find me. How do you like that?”
“Never having to see you? I’d like that a lot, I suspect, you crazy old bat.”
“What did you call me?”
“I called you a crazy old bat. A paranoid, senile, waste of space who doesn’t even know the name of the store she shops at every single week. And that guy at Walmart? He’s called a greeter. It’s his job to say ‘hi’ and give you a cart. You’re nothing special to him; you’re just the addled crone who’s too decrepit to walk all the way to the back of the store.”
“Well, I never—”
“I doubt, Mrs. Bogart, you’d remember if you had.”
Wanted: Telemarketer. Call center experience a plus. Must have excellent people skills.
It was the last listing on three pages full of what looked to Preston like the exact same ad. And they were all the same as the one he’d answered to get the last job, the one he’d gotten himself fired from. He figured he should be looking at something other than phone jobs, but he wasn’t qualified for anything else that paid worth a damn. He was smart, but his one semester of community college did nothing to prove it.
He threw the paper aside, picked his jacket up from where it lay on his grandmother’s old, flowered sofa, and slipped it on. It was faded and threadbare, but still fit the same as it had when it was new, ten years before; his skinny physique had changed little since he was a gangly sixteen-year-old.
He looked in the basket by the front door and found a matchbox car, a few of pieces of mail, some rubber bands and paperclips, a small light bulb, and a metal number five that had fallen off of his apartment door.
His keys were not in the basket. It took half an hour of digging before he located them between the cushions of the third-hand sofa.
An hour later, he dumped three plastic grocery bags of frozen dinners, cans of Chef Boyardee, and packs of ramen noodles into the back seat of his car. He’d put things like groceries in the trunk until a few months ago, when it had stopped wanting to close all the way once it was opened.
When he saw the red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, Preston was faced with a decision. About a year before, he’d forgotten his license was about to expire. By the time he noticed it, it was so far past due he would have had to pay a large fee and take the written test again. Rather than go through the hassle and expense, he’d chosen to keep driving without it.
Knowing he was going to jail for sure if he was pulled over, he decided to take the one chance he had at avoiding that: He fled.
He slammed on the gas, then took the next turn without signaling. He turned into an alley, then another. When he was back on a straight road, he chanced a glimpse into the rearview mirror. No cop.
I got away with it, he thought to himself. It’s about time something went right for me. He relaxed and looked down to turn the radio on, smiling to himself.
He looked back up just in time to stop for the two police cars blocking the road in front of him.
The court-appointed attorney arranged Preston’s bail through a bond agency and, not long after his failed car chase, Preston found himself again sitting on his flowered sofa looking at the want ads. They were all the same again, and he found himself unwilling to apply for anything until after his hearing anyway. You couldn’t very well start a new job with explaining to your boss you were going to miss a few weeks of your new-hire training class because you were going to jail.
His eyes wandered from the job listings to the personal ads. Much like the want ads, the personals also all sounded alike. Everyone in the world, it seemed, wanted someone they could take long walks with, talk with, share jokes and romantic dinners. Someone stable, dependable, responsible. Someone who was not him, not even remotely.
After the personals came the garage sale ads. He read a few, then tore the page out of the paper and stood up. He couldn’t afford many entertainment options at the moment, right when he found himself with a large amount time on his hands. He saw the irony, but failed to be amused by it. Hopping yard sales could be a nice, cheap way to kill his afternoon. To further the irony, the keys to his currently-impounded vehicle were in the basket for once.
The first sale was almost all clothes, most of them kids’ sizes. The next had several things he’d been interested in until he opened a kitschy cookie jar shaped like an owl and a cockroach the size of a brazil nut skittered out of it.
The third sale wasn’t any better, at least not at first. There was a big cardboard box labeled “BOOK’S” on the ground in front of a table full of knick-knacks. He glanced into the box, but wasn’t sure he trusted the literary tastes of someone who didn’t know how to spell books. He moved to a table of miscellaneous crap, mostly toys and games. He wound up a little plastic Woodstock and watched him hop across the table until he hit the edge of a battered Payday game box and continued to hop in place.
A Rubik’s Cube sat beside the board game. He gave it a couple of turns, remembering when he could match up two full sides and all the centers. This was exactly the type of time-waster he was in need of. He was about to buy the cube, but then he saw… it.
Next to the Rubik’s Cube was another plastic toy, about the same size, but round and black. A Magic 8 Ball. He reached out and picked it up. There were some scratches on its once-glossy surface, but it seemed to be in working order.
He knew the Rubik’s Cube was the smarter purchase, that it would better suit his needs, but he felt drawn to the Magic 8 Ball. He held it in his hand, its round shape fitting his palm as though it were made for it. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I buy you?”
IT IS CERTAIN, said the Ball.
“Should I have spaghetti and meatballs or ravioli?” Preston asked. The two cans sat on the countertop, the Ball in his hand. He flipped it over.
REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN, it said.
Preston rolled his eyes. Did he think it was going to say, YOU SHOULD TOTALLY EAT THE RAVIOLI, DUDE? “Should I have the spaghetti and meatballs?” he asked.
AS I SEE IT, YES
Satisfied, he opened the spaghetti can and dumped it into his only clean pan to heat it up.
“Should I do the dishes now?” he asked the Ball when he was finished eating.
YES, DEFINITELY
Well, he thought, looking into the kitchen. That one was sort of a no-brainer.
After the dishes were all washed and put away, Preston found himself feeling a lot better about things than he had before, as though a good-sized helping of his stress had rinsed down the drain with the dirty water.
He walked back into the living room, where he’d left the Ball on the coffee table. He regarded it for a moment. It was earlier than he usually turned in, quite a bit so in fact, but nonetheless he asked, “Should I go to bed now?”
OUTLOOK GOOD, the Ball said.
Preston had never gotten up before ten o’clock unless a job forced him to. That morning, he bounced out of bed at seven, amazed by how good he felt. He showered and dressed, then went into the living room and picked up the Ball. “Do I feel this good because I went to bed early?” he asked.
IT IS DECIDEDLY SO, the Ball informed him.
“Thanks,” he said. It occurred to him he was having a conversation with a plastic toy, but he decided to amuse himself with it a while longer. “Should I go out for coffee?”
YES, the Ball said.
“Large orange mocha,” called the barista. Preston picked up the paper cup with his right hand, the Magic 8 Ball still cradled in the palm of his left. He cast a surreptitious glance down at the toy, flipped it over, then turned to find a table. He figured carrying around a frivolous item like the Ball wasn’t so unthinkable, but using it to decide whether to sit down or take his coffee to go was a bit over the top.
He pulled a paperback book out of his messenger bag. He started to drop the Ball into the bag but hesitated. Another subtle peek at the Ball’s window confirmed he should keep it close at hand.
He found his place in the book and began to read as he took his first sip of the mocha. It wasn’t his usual drink and was more than he needed to be spending on his morning coffee, given his present financial situation. But when he’d seen it listed as the featured beverage of the day, he’d asked the Ball.
“You like the mocha?” asked a voice nearby. He looked up to find the girl who’d taken his order, cleaning up the table next to his.
“I do,” he said, closing his book. “I’ve never tried one before. To be honest, I thought I’d hate it, but I decided to try it on a whim.” His hand involuntarily stroked the smooth plastic sphere as he spoke.
“I know what you mean,” she said. There had only been a couple of cups on the table, which she’d already thrown away, and she’d straightened the chairs, but she continued to stand and talk with him. “It took me forever to give in and try one, too, then when I did I couldn’t believe I’d resisted.” She smiled, her blue eyes crinkling at the edges.
When she walked away, Preston glanced down at the Ball. He picked it up. “Should I leave now?” he asked it.
MY ANSWER IS NO
Twenty minutes later, he noticed the girl walking out from behind the counter again, her dark brown ponytail swinging as she moved. He reached for the Ball, about to ask it if he should initiate a conversation with her, but she came straight towards him. He put the ball back down just as she approached. “What’re you reading?” she asked.
Preston had never seen the point of that question. Why ask what book someone was reading in passing, when they could reasonably give no more than title? That only worked among people who read books from the top of New York Times Best Sellers list, or that had been featured on Oprah. He was quite certain a response of “I’m reading the new David Welllington novel,” would earn him nothing but a vacant stare. So instead, he did what he always did when asked this question, and simply lifted the book to show her the cover. He waited for the look of disgust that always followed revealing the cover of one of his gruesome horror novels.
“Oh, my god,” she said, her eyes widening. “I didn’t know the new one was out yet. Is it good?”
“Holy shit, you read Wellington?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Until right now, I’d have said he’s one of my favorites, but since I didn’t even know the new one was published, I guess I can’t claim that anymore.”
“It’s only been out a few days,” he said, closing the cover again. “Your fandom is safe.” She giggled. Her eyes crinkled again. MY ANSWER IS NO, the Ball had said.
“Another orange mocha?” the girl asked.
“Yeah,” Preston said, smiling. “I think I have a new favorite.” The Ball was in his bag this time, but he hadn’t left it behind. He’d asked it if he should return to the shop, what time, what to wear, and whether or not he should bring the Wellington book that he was now finished with.
“One sixty-five,” she said.
An orange mocha was $3.85; she’d quoted the price for a regular house coffee. He looked askance, but she just winked.
He handed her two dollars, then dropped the change, along with an extra dollar, into the tip jar. “Thanks,” he said, sharing her conspiratorial smirk.
It was past the morning rush, and she was the only employee there. He watched as she moved from the register to the bar to make his drink.
“Did you get the new book yet?” he asked.
“No,” she said, drawing her mouth into an adorable pout. “I tried like three stores, and nobody had it.”
Thank you again, Ball. “Want to borrow mine?” he asked, retrieving it from his bag. “I’m done with it.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I know where to find you,” he said with a smirk. “And this way I’ll have someone to discuss it with; I don’t know anybody else who reads Wellington.”
She seemed to consider for the time it took her to put the whipped cream on his coffee. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll take you up on that. I’m Anna, by the way.”
“Preston.” He traded her the paperback for his cup.
A week later, Preston saw Anna again. She looked up from the bar as soon as she heard an order for an orange mocha called out. “Hey, there,” she said to him, smiling her crinkly-eyed smile.
“Hi,” he said, moving to the pick-up counter.
“I have your book for you,” she said.
“Did you like it?”
“Of course I did,” she said. “It’s in my bag in the back. Are you staying a while? I’ll bring it out to you when I have my break if you are.”
“I am,” he confirmed, thinking how he’d wait all week if he had to.
“Here you go,” she said, about thirty minutes later.
Preston thanked her, accepting the book. “Don’t forget, you promised to tell me what you thought.”
“I did,” she said. She pulled out the chair across from Preston and sat down.
They started discussing the book, but continued to move onto other tangents until Anna was almost ten minutes over her break. She hurried off from his table when the glaring of her co-workers became all but constant.
After she’d retreated to the back room, Preston reached into his bag for the 8 Ball. “Should I ask her out?” he asked, under his breath.
IT IS CERTAIN
He wasn’t even all that surprised when she said yes.
MY SOURCES SAY NO.
Preston stared into the little round window, chewing his lip. He squinted, rotated the Ball at different angles but, no matter what direction he turned it, there was no other way to interpret the words: It was telling him no. This was the first time since the Magic 8 Ball had come into his life that he’d considered ignoring its advice. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered to ask it a question with so obvious an answer.
He’d asked whether he should go to court for his hearing.
It was ridiculous to even consider not going to court. His bad decisions had gotten him arrested, and now he didn’t know whether it would be his own bad decision to listen to the ball… or not to. There was a Hamlet joke in there somewhere, and things had not worked out for Hamlet. He turned the ball over and shook it. Hard.
He thought the words rather than saying them aloud, as he was sitting on the bed and Anna was asleep beside him. Her presence was yet another reminder of all the good the Ball had brought into his life in such a short period of time.
Should I go to court today? he thought, the words like a scream in his mind.
OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD
Trying another approach, he rephrased his question. Should I skip court today?
WITHOUT A DOUBT
Fuck.
He stood up and left the bedroom. He went into the living room, then looked over his shoulder and decided Anna was still too close to risk what he was about to do. He stepped out into the hall in his boxers, and closed the apartment door behind him. “Should I go to court today?” he asked the Ball, out loud this time.
MY REPLY IS NO
“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t go to court?”
YES
“Will something worse happen if I go than if I don’t?”
IT IS CERTAIN
Preston thought back over the past few weeks of his life, and then over the year or more preceding them. Making his own choices, even when they’d seemed like the only option, like the best possible solution to the situation at hand, had done nothing but land him broke, unemployed, and arrested.
The Ball, on the other hand, had done nothing but improve his life. He still didn’t have a job, and was still facing this hearing, granted, but not one new thing had gone wrong since he’d started listening to the Ball. Not one.
And he’d found Anna.
“You’re positive?” he asked.
IT IS DECIDEDLY SO
In the end, Preston had sought a compromise with the Ball, his unease at skipping his court date too great to just stay home. The Ball had agreed it would be all right for him to drive to the courthouse, but not to go inside. In fact, the Ball had seemed to think it was a very good idea. And so, at nine thirty, half an hour before his scheduled hearing time, Preston stepped off the bus across the street from the county courthouse and sat down on a bench.
At ten fifteen, the courthouse exploded.
“Should I go help?” he asked the Ball, when people began to pour out of what was left of the building, some running and screaming, some shambling.
IT IS CERTAIN, the Ball replied.
Preston hurried across the street and headed toward an official-looking woman carrying a clipboard. “Were you inside?” she asked, glancing from his face to the sheet she held.
Preston considered saying “yes,” but decided against it, wishing he could pull the Ball out of his bag and consult it. “No,” he said. “I should have been, but I was running late.”
“Your name?”
“Preston Jarvis.”
“Were you scheduled for a hearing today?”
“Yes.”
“Jarvis, Jarvis,” she muttered as she ran her pen down the page. “Here you are,” she said, ticking something on the sheet. “I’ve got you down as present…” she said. Her expression darkened as she continued, “…and accounted for.”
He nodded, understanding what that meant. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
She gave an exhausted smile. “That’s such a generous offer,” she said. Preston noticed she made another, longer, comment on his sheet. “I’m only checking for surv—” She interrupted herself to start again. “For who’s here,” she rephrased. “But they might be able to use your help over there.” She gestured to a spot about twenty yards up the sidewalk, by the far corner of the building. Preston saw another person with a clipboard there, this one a man, and noticed most of those approaching him were in uniforms. “Thank you again,” he heard the woman call after him.
Preston spent the rest of the day as an impromptu Red Cross volunteer, handing out blankets and cups of water to people waiting for medical attention, or recovering from the shock. Though the fire department hadn’t made any official ruling, word was it appeared a gas line had burst somewhere in the basement of the courthouse, directly under the courtroom where Preston’s hearing was to have taken place. So far, they’d found no survivors who’d been in that room.
When he got home that evening he was exhausted, but it was an accomplished fatigue, having spent the day in such rewarding pursuits. Anna was waiting for him in the hall outside his front door. She flung her arms around his neck so hard and fast she left the ground and hung from his body like a child before he even had a chance to say “hello.” After a minute spent adjusting her position so he could breathe, he noticed she was sobbing.
He struggled to push her back, so he could look into her face. “I saw what happened on the news,” she choked. “I was afraid you might be— that you might have—” She burst into fresh tears.
“Shh,” he breathed into her hair, stroking the back of her head. “I’m fine.”
“Where were you all day?” she asked.
“I was at the courthouse,” he said. “I wasn’t inside when it happened, but I stayed and helped. I should have called and let you know I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t think; I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sniffing. “You really stayed and helped all day?”
He nodded, still stroking her hair.
She looked into his eyes, staring as though she was seeing him for the first time. Or rather, like she’d just seen something in him for the first time. “I love you,” she said.
Two weeks after the explosion at the courthouse, Preston received a certified letter. It advised him that rather than being rescheduled at the temporary courthouse facilities the city had set up in the nearby community center, his hearing had been cancelled. The letter explained that due to the limited capacity of the makeshift facility, and the drain on the county’s resources the restoration of the courthouse was going to be, they’d decided to dismiss all pending misdemeanor charges rather than reschedule them.
Preston’s alleged crimes, the letter went on to explain, did not fit the criteria of dismissible charges. However, his show of good faith in staying and assisting with the relief effort had earned him a spot on the list.
Preston felt as though the weight of the collapsed courthouse itself had just been lifted from his back. Before he called Anna to tell her the good news, he picked up the Ball and kissed it.
Now that he wouldn’t be going to jail, Preston resumed his job hunt. Following the Ball’s advice, he applied for a job as a receptionist at a small manufacturing company. Not only did he get the position, it paid twice as much as the phone survey job he’d lost. As soon as he received his first paycheck, he paid the fines and fees, retook the test, and was once again a licensed driver.
To his surprise, Preston found this new line of work quite bearable. More than bearable, in fact; he actually enjoyed it. He was promoted after only six months, and again after another three. Each promotion brought with it more money, more respect, and power.
Rolando del Fuego, the company’s owner and founder, took the time to get to know him, and to discover Preston’s intelligence and abilities despite his lack of formal education. Three years after starting with the company, Preston was named Vice President of the small firm, second in command only to Rolando himself. As Rolando was the last of the del Fuego family, when he died in Preston’s second year as Vice President, he willed the entire company to Preston.
Through a combination of the Ball’s advice and a previously untapped talent for business, Preston built his inherited company up from a small, but successful, firm into a large corporation with multiple locations, thousands of employees, and interests in several different industries. Five years after Preston took the helm, the company went public and doubled in value overnight.
Preston still trusted the Ball for almost all of his decisions, both in business and in his everyday life. He’d even stopped having to hide the fact, now that his elevated status qualified the habit as fittingly eccentric. He was known for the Ball; it was a joke that had run from his friends and colleagues all the way to the cover of Time magazine featuring his photo brandishing the Ball with a smirk. To the rest of the world, it was his quirk, his gimmick; no one knew the secret.
No one knew it wasn’t a joke at all.
“Preston, will you put that thing away? You do not need a Magic 8 Ball to tell you whether to order the linguine or the risotto.”
“It’s my good luck charm,” he countered. “Would you tell a boxing champ he doesn’t have to bother wearing his lucky trunks?”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s how I met you.”
“What?” Anna’s face contorted with sarcasm.
I’d just bought the Ball when I met you, and I asked it if I should try to talk to you, if I should ask you out, if you’d go for it the first time I tried to—”
“Yeah, well,” she interrupted. “You were already interested in me, right?”
“Of course,” he said, closing his menu. He’d be having the risotto.
“So, all that Ball did was give you the balls to do what you already knew you wanted to do.” There was a pause, and Preston knew she was replaying her last sentence in her head, realizing the horrible, unintentional pun. “Shit,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and trying to repress a grin.
“You might not have been interested in me, though,” he said.
“But I was, and if you’d had any confidence in yourself, you’d have been able to see that without a stupid toy telling you so. It’s absurd. We’re sitting in a restaurant that charges nineteen dollars for a cup of soup, and you have a toy sitting on the table.” She sighed, and rolled her eyes again.
“Should I tell her?” Preston asked, getting ready to leave the office for the evening. “Is it time?”
CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN
He hated those non-answer responses. He always got them when he stupidly asked a nonspecific question or, as he’d just done, asked more than one question at a time. He re-constructed his query and tried again. “Should I tell Anna about the courthouse?” he asked.
OUTLOOK GOOD
That was better. “Will she believe me?”
REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN
“Damn it. Okay, will she believe you saved my life in that one, single instance? Not necessarily believe you have any sort of consciousness, but believe that I’m alive because I trusted what you told me?”
YES
“And will she believe you have a consciousness?”
ARE YOU KIDDING?
What the fuck?
Preston stared into the little window for several minutes. He’d been using the Ball every day, dozens of times a day, for over a decade. He was certain he’d seen every response it had to offer. There was definitely—definitely—no ARE YOU KIDDING? response. It wasn’t even the type of phrase the thing contained. The answers all boiled down to yes, no, or a refusal to answer.
“Did you just say something that’s not on your floater?” Preston asked.
MAYBE
MAYBE made more sense; it fit into the category of the non-response answers like BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW, but he’d never seen it. Is it so crazy, he asked himself, to think it might be able to say something other than what’s on the floater? When you take into account the thing’s given you one hundred percent accurate advice, in even the most unpredictable circumstances, for over ten years? Is it really too much to believe it might be able to do that?
Yes, he answered himself, without hesitation. Yes, it is.
After a quick internet search, he located a list of all possible responses within a Mattel Magic 8 Ball. The floater inside was a twenty-sided die with a different response embossed on each face. There were ten positive responses, five negative responses, and five of the non-answer types. Among them was no Maybe, and certainly no ARE YOU KIDDING?
There was a chance, he supposed, that his Ball was an off-brand knockoff with some different responses in it. He inspected, but couldn’t locate a manufacturer’s logo. The problem with that theory, though, was he was well acquainted with all twenty responses on the official list.
So, unless his Ball had a larger floater than a normal Magic 8 Ball and he’d somehow managed, in all his years of constant use, not to come across these two answers while seeing all the others, thousands of times each, the Ball was beginning to assert itself. He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.
Still, it had never steered him wrong, and having access to a wider range of responses could only make it more capable, and useful, than before. “Okay,” he said, getting his bearings. “Just to clarify, I should tell her about the courthouse, right?”
IT IS CERTAIN
“And I should not expect her to believe you have any special power, only that I got very lucky one time and finally understand, to some degree, why I trust you?”
INDEED
“Okay, now you’re just showing off.” A bit surprised by how fast he’d adjusted to this new development, Preston slipped the Ball into his briefcase and headed home.
That night, he and Anna sat in bed side by side, him going over papers from work, and her reading a novel. It was something about zombies, Preston had noted with approval. While he’d not had much time for reading fiction himself for several years, he was delighted Anna was still interested in the sort of edgy monster novels they’d first bonded over.
He put his papers down, and turned to her. “We were talking about the Ball yesterday,” he started.
She looked up from her book, doing a halfway decent job of masking her irritation with the subject. “Yes?”
“Do you remember back when we were first going out, when I was almost blown up in the courthouse?”
She shuddered, setting the book on her nightstand. “Of course I do,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you before we ever had a chance.”
He traced a finger along her arm; he knew how she felt. “Well, I never told you why I wasn’t inside the building that day.”
“Yes, you did,” she countered. “You were running late.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he told her. “I lied to you, just like I lied to the court officer after the explosion. I got there a good half hour early.”
“Then why—”
“The Ball told me not to.”
Her shoulders dropped. “Oh, come on, Preston. You’re not trying to tell me tha—”
“I’d been asking it before I made any decision, before I took any action at all, for weeks at that point. It had already started to turn my life around, including finding you. I was beginning to trust it; or, at least, I was trusting it more than I trusted my own judgment. So, more out of habit than anything else, I asked it that morning if I should go to court. And it told me no.”
“Then why were you outside the courthouse?” she asked.
“I was in trouble in the first place for doing stupid, irresponsible things,” he said. The thought of doing another one was terrifying, and I couldn’t bring myself to just sit at home on my ass and wait for them to issue a warrant for my arrest. I went to the courthouse because I wasn’t sure whether I was going to listen to the Ball or not. I’m still not sure I would have in the end. I think, at some point, the stress would have gotten to me and I’d have run in there and apologized for being late. But before I had that chance, right when my hearing would have been underway… boom.”
She just looked at him.
“The Ball saved my life. Or, at least, listening to it did. I know you don’t believe there’s anything special or magic or whatever with the Ball, and I get that, really I do. But can’t you understand, even just a little bit, why after that I’d get… attached?”
She continued to stare at him. Her gaze started out cold and disbelieving but, after a minute or so, it softened. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. “I get it,” she said softly. “I still think you’re crazy,” she added, smiling. “But I get it.”
He squeezed her hand back.
Preston continued to follow the Ball’s advice for another decade. Anna hadn’t instigated any more arguments about the it after he told her about the courthouse, but it was still obvious she thought his “eccentricity” to be ridiculous.
The Ball had advised him not to tell her it had begun saying things outside the list of “official” responses. He hadn’t needed that particular bit of guidance, of course; he’d have assumed anyone making such a claim was either a liar or a madman, too.
While sitting at a red light on the way home from a rare early day, Preston noticed a flower vendor on a crowded city corner. He reached over and picked up the Ball from where it rested on the seat beside him. “Should I get Anna some flowers?” he asked. She’d been strange lately, distant. He thought she might be depressed about her approaching fiftieth birthday, even though she still looked like she was in her thirties.
KILL HER, the Ball said.
He stared at the ball, ignoring both the green and the chorus of blaring horns that followed. He’d grown used to the Ball issuing nonstandard responses over the years. It had even, on a few other occasions, given specific instructions beyond yes-no-maybe answers.
But this…
He turned the ball over, pushing its window away from him as though it were a bright light shining in his eyes. He blinked and then, with the cars still swerving around him, their drivers honking and shouting, their tires squealing, he shook the ball and looked again.
KILL HER
Preston hurled the Ball away from him. It cracked the passenger side window, but the Ball itself remained undamaged as it bounced and rolled onto the floor. Shaking, Preston drove home.
He left the Ball in the car, something he’d not done since the day he’d purchased it. The next morning it was there, on the car floor, as though waiting for him. He stared down at it, afraid. He’d not made a single decision without the Ball in twenty-five years; the thought of heading into the office without consulting the sphere first filled him with a dread that bordered on panic. The Ball’s counsel had helped him to avoid a tornado, two bomb threats, several unexpected (and undesired) visitors, and even one, pretty major, fire.
Unbidden, an old image of an exploding courthouse flashed in his mind, and he couldn’t ignore it. He reached down and retrieved the Ball. “Should I go into work today?” he asked.
AS I SEE IT, YES
A positive response; one from the standard list, even. Preston felt the tension in his shoulders relax somewhat, felt the first flutter of hope that he’d just imagined the nightmarish advice the Ball had given him the day before. In fact, he thought, maybe that was just it: a nightmare. Maybe he’d dreamed the whole thing.
He maintained his normal routine, checking with the Ball throughout the day as decisions came upon him. By the time six o’clock rolled around, he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing. Without even thinking about it, he pulled out the Ball one last time before heading out of his office. “Should I make reservations for Anna and I for dinner tonight?” he asked.
KILL HER
He fell back into his chair, dropping the ball. It banged against his desk before hitting the floor and rolling several feet.
He closed his eyes, struggling against passing out. When he tried to stand, his legs wouldn’t support him; he landed on his office floor with a thud. He reached for the ball, touching it only with his fingertips, feeling that it had become something vile and tainted. Once the familiar plastic shape was in his hand, however, it slid into his palm, its natural home. “Why?” he asked, his voice coming out as a choked whisper.
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW, the Ball replied.
Preston hurled it across the room and into the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster. Of all the non-committal responses, that one was his least favorite. It wasn’t even a “maybe” or an “I don’t know.” It was “I know, but I’m choosing to withhold this information from you.” As a powerful man, Preston had little patience with having anything withheld from him.
“Mr. Jarvis?” a voice called over the intercom built into his desk phone. “Is everything all right?”
Damn. His admin, Marla, must have heard the damned thing hit the wall, assuming she hadn’t heard him land on the floor. He clambered to his feet and pressed a button on the phone. “It’s fine,” he said, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice.
Now that he was on his feet, he crossed the room and retrieved the Ball. “Why can’t you tell me?” he asked. He didn’t expect it to answer such a question; it never had before.
ASK AGAIN LATER
“Goddamn it,” he growled, shaking the Ball. “Fucking answer me!”
MY REPLY IS NO
Preston roared in frustration. The thing was not only refusing to answer him, but also taunting him by sticking to standard responses when he knew goddamned well it could have spelled its reasons out like the fucking Gettysburg Address had it wanted to.
“Why do you want me to—” he stopped short, glancing towards his office door. The walls were thick, the door heavy, but the room was not soundproof. He couldn’t go shouting about killing his wife, especially when he knew Marla was listening. She knew better than to bother him, but she’d heard an odd noise, maybe two, and gotten a stilted response; she’d have her ears pricked for more. “Why do you want me to kill Anna?” he asked again, much quieter this time.
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW
He didn’t lash out; he took a deep breath and counted to ten. He did not get to where he was in life by being rash and impulsive. He was not easily rattled. He just had to approach this from a different angle. What could he ask that the Ball might answer? He placed it on the desk and began to pace.
After several circuits of the office, he picked the sphere up again, armed with what he hoped was a workable plan. In a low voice, he began his prepared barrage of questions.
“You’re advising me to kill Anna, correct?”
YES
“Anna Jarvis?” He could leave no room for doubt or error.
YES
“And there’s a good reason for this?”
YES
“It would be in my best interest to do this?”
WITHOUT A DOUBT
“Will it help me financially to do this thing?”
REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN
Preston reluctantly accepted the logic in the response. Anna had a life insurance policy; it would benefit him financially if she died, but that didn’t mean it was the reason for killing her. “Is the reason for me to do this that I will gain financially from it?”
MY REPLY IS NO
Okay, so he’d eliminated that much, at least. “Is the reason for doing this that it will benefit me in some other material way, such as a business interest?”
NOT ENTIRELY
A nonstandard response. That was encouraging; he was starting to ask the right questions. The Ball didn’t waste effort making up new replies over bullshit. “Will doing this ensure my personal welfare?”
YES
“How?”
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW
He’d expected that one. The Ball wasn’t stupid enough to be tricked into answering questions it had already refused to answer. Nonetheless, he tried one more time. “Why should I do this?”
For more than ten years, the Ball had given him accurate responses to his questions from Mattel’s list of replies. For another decade, it had given him equally accurate responses from a mixture of both the standard list and original phrases. Now, it gave him something he’d never seen in all that time: a blank die face. The Ball was giving him the silent treatment.
“Fine,” he muttered. He shoved the Ball into his briefcase and strode out of the office.
“Good night, Mr. Jarvis,” Marla said.
He ignored her.
“Why?”
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW
“Why better you not tell me now?”
ASK AGAIN LATER
“When is ‘later’?”
REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN
Preston slammed the Ball down on the desk in his home office. He knew he’d pick it up again within fifteen minutes; he’d not gone longer than that without grilling the thing in three days. He’d not bothered to ask it if he should go to work; he’d just stayed home. Doing anything without the Ball’s say-so was as unthinkable to him as leaving the house naked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop asking the Ball about the issue of killing Anna long enough to ask about anything else.
He’d been holed up in his office with the Ball for more hours each day than he normally spent at work, including commute times. Anna had become so annoyed by his behavior she’d been staying away from the house. By the third night, she didn’t come home at all.
KILL HER
Preston had taken to checking the Ball, without asking a specific question, first thing each morning. For the past two days, the Ball had given this as its wake-up response, so Preston wasn’t surprised to see it again. “Why?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t going to answer him.
KILL HER
That was new. The Ball had been refusing to answer his questions about why he should commit murder, but it had at least been replying. “Kill her” was not a response to the question why.
“Why should I kill her?” he asked.
KILL HER
“Insistent little fucker today,” he muttered, tossing the Ball down onto the bed and going into the bathroom.
When he returned to the bedroom, he picked the Ball back up, flipped it over, and looked at the window. It displayed three lines of text:
KILL HER
KILL HER
KILL HER
Cute. He called Marla to let her know he would be extending his absence another week, and asked her to please notify the board. He made it another four days before he found himself searching the internet for information about poisons.
The idea of killing a person, any person, let alone the love of his life, was abhorrent. And yet, the ball’s constant insistence was driving him so near the brink of madness that he was at last considering taking its advice and committing the deed.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself.
The truth was that in twenty-five years, the Ball had never once led him astray. Its every prediction, from “yes, you should have the spaghetti” to “yes, you should accept this multi-million-dollar deal” had been spot-on. It had taken a broke, unemployed loser facing jail time and transformed him into a captain of industry. It had made his fortune and it had saved his life. Even when it had given him instructions that had seemed ludicrous, such as skipping a mandated court appearance, it had been right. It had been spot-fucking-on. The image of that exploding courthouse was never far from his thoughts.
And so, he was considering murdering his wife.
It might not be so bad, he thought, to make a decision on his own for once. Sure, the Ball’s advice had never led him astray, but it had been so long since he’d made a decision for himself that he had no way of knowing whether or not his own judgment was still as poor as it had once been.
Then again, there was the added factor that he was not just considering making a decision without the Ball; he was considering going directly against the Ball’s advice.
“Should I take your advice?” he asked the Ball, knowing how insane the question was.
KILL HER
“I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied.” Preston had convinced Anna to come home for dinner. “I know that’s why you’ve been staying away. I don’t blame you.”
Something crossed her face, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Have we grown so far apart I can’t read her emotions anymore? he thought to himself. Or was I never able to? He didn’t remember.
“I’ll go get dessert,” he said, standing up.
The Ball loomed on the countertop beside the fridge. He checked it one last time before opening the refrigerator door.
KILL HER
It had been three days since it had said anything else.
He put the Ball down, opened the fridge, and reached a trembling hand inside. He pushed aside a half-empty gallon of milk, a plastic leftovers container of unknown content, and several random condiments. At the very back were individual servings of tiramisu in stemless martini glasses. The one with the extra long curl of shaved chocolate was for Anna. Assuming, of course, he decided to go through with it. He pulled out one for himself, placed it on a tray beside the Ball.
He looked back inside the fridge, the long curl of chocolate taunting him. A die face demanding Kill her floated up in his mind, followed by an exploding courthouse.
He reached in and grabbed the second tiramisu. He put it on the tray next to the first one, then headed back into the dining room.
When he returned, Anna had a white cardboard box on the table in front of her: a bakery box. “Oh, those look so good,” she said, a hint of regret in her voice. “But I brought something, too.” She opened the box and turned it around so Preston could see its contents.
He continued what he was doing, placing a tiramisu in front of Anna, while looking at the pastries she’d bought.
“They’re pear tarts in a polenta crust,” she said. “With a spiced goat cheese filling. The girl at the bakery let me try a sample of one, and they’re just incredible.”
“They do look good,” he agreed.
“But you made the tiramisu yourself, didn’t you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Shame to let that work go to waste,” she said. She sounded genuinely sorry. Their dinner had started out chilly, but things were warming between them.
“Fuck it,” he said, smiling. “Let’s have one of each.”
“Deal,” she said, smiling back.
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the Ball sitting beside his own tiramisu. When he turned back around, Anna was proffering a tart, which he accepted. Her blue eyes crinkled at the edges, something Preston hadn’t seen in months. Years, maybe.
A long chocolate shaving in the corner of his vision triggered a flashing montage of what seemed like every fond memory he had of Anna. Their first meeting at the coffee shop, their first date, their wedding, anniversary parties and romantic getaways; every moment of their lives together, as bright and vivid as the exploding courthouse had ever been. “Hang on,” he said, picking her glass back up. “I think I see a hair in this one. I’m going to grab you another.”
He put the tainted tiramisu down the garbage disposal, chasing it with gallons and gallons of water, trying to wash away the very thought of what he’d nearly done. Not until Anna called from the dining room did he turn off the tap and return with her replacement dessert.
He ate a spoonful of his own tiramisu, but it was too strong a reminder of the horror he’d contemplated, all but committed, and he couldn’t handle more. He started on the pear tart instead.
Anna was right; they were amazing. Even in his agitated state, anxious to the point of nausea, it was the best pastry he’d ever tasted.
“You like?” Anna asked. “Yeah,” he said. “You need to go back to that bakery and put in a standing order.”
“I just might do that,” she said.
Despite the fact that he was beginning to relax somewhat, the nausea was growing sharper. He put it down to the rich pastry, and continued to eat. If it made him sick later, so be it.
With only a few bites remaining, Preston dropped his fork in a wave of lightheadedness. He closed his eyes and gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear it. He picked his fork back up, and started to take another bite. He found himself lacking the strength to press it through the crust.
“Preston?” Anna said, watching him. Her voice sounded like she was talking through water.
He looked up; the room before him swam.
“Preston?” she said again. “Are you all right?”
He tried to talk, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth. Anna stood and walked to his end of the long, formal table.
Preston reached out and, instinctively, grabbed the Ball. He grasped it as he fell, clinging to it like a frightened child might clutch his security blanket. He looked up from the floor, seeing Anna staring down at him. Her blurry, swirling face grew larger; he assumed she’d knelt down before him, but lacked the visual acuity to be certain.
To his surprise, she smiled. “Wasn’t sure that was going to work,” she said. She sounded like a blown speaker, but he could understand her well enough. “Guess I got the dosage right after all.”
Preston tried to form the word why, but couldn’t work his throat to make the sound.
“Practicality, I’m afraid,” she said, answering his unvoiced question. “I know we don’t have a prenup, the benefit of marrying someone before they become rich and successful, but I can’t imagine living on whatever alimony I’d have been awarded. Especially when certain factors come to light.”
She continued, anticipating the question he had no ability to ask. “Of course there’s someone else. Someone who doesn’t work a hundred hours a week, someone who’d still spend a whole day helping the Red Cross on a whim. It’s funny, I suppose,” she went on, seeming now to be talking more to herself than to Preston. “The things I love most about him are the things that remind me most of you—or, at least, of the way you used to be. I have to admit, though, I also love having all of our money. Guess I want to have my cake and eat it, too. Or maybe I should say ‘my tart.’” She giggled. “This way, I get all your money, and I get to keep him the way he is, because he’ll never have to work at a career that destroys him like it has you. Good deal, huh?”
Preston had given up trying to respond to Anna, knowing he was much too far gone for words. He felt the Magic 8 Ball, still nestled in the palm of his clammy right hand. Was there any way other than killing her to have prevented this? he asked.
It took all the strength he had left to turn his hand over and look down. Through his dimming vision, he could just make out the letters, carved in hazy relief through the murky, blue liquid.
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW
2 Comments
Add Yours →Ooh that was a fun read! Rather creepy! I did suspect that maybe it was that she would kill him! Still seems rather extreme!
Thanks! 🙂 It’s one of my favorite older ones so I decided to revive it lol!