In Laymon's Terms

The nice lady with the shopping cart came by and she knew you shouldn’t leave me in here. She tried to break the back window first. I guess I could’ve opened the door but it was more fun to watch her try, first with her boot and then with a broomstick. I could’ve told her the stick wouldn’t work. I opened my eyes once, my head against the backseat and she started to cry, all because you left me in here. It was quiet again for a few minutes until the tall parking lot security guard showed up.

You were nowhere to be found, mommy. I played it up, like you taught me. You said men are dumb and you’re right. It’s so easy to play the helpless little girl. “Oh, OH...” I started, so he could hear. He was so handsome, mommy, dark hair and black eyes, just like daddy. I almost opened the door when I saw him. The shopping cart lady was with him and she cried out, “Please do something!” I wished she would go away because I wanted him all to myself. Finally, the guard shouted, “Honey, if you can hear me, get down on the floor, okay?” Excited because he called me honey, I rolled onto my stomach, but I hid my face, giggling hysterically, and fell to the car floor.

I suppose you’re mad because of the broken window, now. Mommy, what did you expect? You left me all alone.

Broken glass rained over me. I was still on the floor when the guard lifted me into his strong, hairy arms. His cheek was warm and itched my face with his stubble. He smelled like sweat and his back was damp. I pretended to be exhausted from the heat and he held me tight on the backseat for a moment. He sent the shopping cart lady to get help as I hoped he would. I just wanted him to myself for a moment, mommy. I nuzzled closer to his neck and dared to taste the salty sweat across my lips.

He was so big and strong, mommy, just like my daddy but you ran daddy off, didn’t you, with your nagging and your threats? This man was MINE and he rocked me. He told me, “You’re going to be just fine,” and I believed him. I sighed, “Hold me closer.”

I reached my arms up to encircle his neck, as best I could. I can’t wait till I grow up. I could feel his heart beat faster and thump harder, against my chest. He wanted to comfort me but he was scared of me, mommy. That made me so mad.

So, I had to do it, mommy. I didn’t want to but there was no other way. His beautiful dark eyes bulged from their sockets when my little hands gripped harder and tighter around his neck. He looked surprised, like the others, but you can’t blame me. All the anger I have, mommy, just like the doctor said. It was easy.

Gary Brandner

MET DICKIE LAYMON, as I knew him, in the legendary Pink Tea writers group. He took my place as “the kid” of the group. There was an immediate rapport between us for the best of reasons: we laughed at the same things. Throughout life the best friends and sweetest romances are those who share our sense of humor. Dickie and I laughed together at the pretensions and pontifications of others, and at our own failings and foibles as well.

Coincidentally, Richard Laymon’s first published story appeared in the issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine that carried my second. Since I already liked the guy, I was pleased to find he was a damn good writer.

We were both single at the time, and roistered around together a good deal. There were parties and pranks and foolishness that helped break up the long, lonely hours a writer must spend at his trade. I cherish the memories.

Whereas I am a little reticent about meeting people, Dickie was a natural. If there was a celebrated writer we both wanted to meet at some function he would yank me along and introduce both of us. Some firm friendships started that way.

Dickie loved Halloween. Trick-or-Treaters at his house got a bonus when a crazed killer stormed out roaring and waving a bloody axe. Many of them did not wait around for the laughter that followed.

He was best man at my wedding. His easy-going sense of humor kept me calm in the hotel room before the ceremony. His friendship in the years that followed was a treasure. I miss him.

Gary Brandner

FLAME DANCED AND crackled on dry evergreen boughs in the center of a small forest clearing. A young man sat on one side of the fire, three boys across from him. Four pup tents were set up at the perimeter pointing in four directions.

Neal Baines was the young man. He had blond hair cropped short and soft blue eyes. He wore jeans, a white sweatshirt and a quilted jacket. It was Neal who had insisted on the canvas pup tents, holding that lighter nylon shelters were not manly. He grinned now over the fire at the three boys.

“Okay, troopers, we’ve had hot dogs and beans cooked over our own fire. Pretty darn good, right?”

There was no response from the boys, who were attired in a mixed collection of new outdoor clothing.

Neal tried again. “What do you say to some toasted marshmallows?”