The Schwa Was Here

He held a fireplace poker in the air as he rolled the chair for­ward with his other hand. His hair was gray and slicked back. His jaw was hard and square—it looked like he still had all his teeth, which is more than I can say for my own relatives that age. He wore a white shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, where loose skin flopped around like on a turkey—but mostly it was the poker that held my attention. The thing looked heavy, the thing looked sharp, and people in wheelchairs usually have lots of upper-body strength.

"Which do you want?" I said.

"What?"

"You said 'get out of here,' and 'don't move a muscle.' I can't do both."

"You're a wiseass."

Not at all happy with their master's tone of voice, the dogs were now baring their teeth at me, in addition to barking and growling.

"I can explain," I said, which I really couldn't, but don't you always say that when you get caught doing something you shouldn't be doing?

"1 have already called the police. They will be here momen­tarily to arrest you, at which time you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

Which was good, because it meant he didn't plan to kill me with the poker, or with the dogs. "Please, Mr. Crawley, I didn't mean anything. It was just a bet, see? On a dare to get a dog bowl. That's all. I would have given it back. I swear."

"The dog bowls are nailed down," he informed me.

"My mistake."

"How much did you bet?"

"Fifty-four dollars," I told him.

"You just lost fifty-four dollars."

"Yeah, I guess so. So can I go now? It's punishment enough, right?"

"Fifty-four dollars is hardly a sufficient fine for breaking and entering attempted theft, and the assault of an elderly man—"

"But... wait... I didn't assault you!"

He smiled viciously. "Who do you think the police will be­lieve, me or you?"

By now most of the dogs had quieted down. A few had wan­dered off, a couple came over to sniff at me, but the rest all clustered protectively around the old man.

"I really am sorry, Mr. Crawley."

"There are countries where delinquent children are caned for their misdeeds. Do you know what caning is?"

"Kind of like whipping?"

"Yes," he said, "but more painful. You'd probably choose a few dog bites over a caning."

He put the poker down across the arms of his wheelchair. "You can tell your friend to come out from behind the curtains now."

My heart sank. "What friend?"

"Lying does not help your case," snapped Crawley.

Before I could say any more, the Schwa emerged from be­hind the curtains, looking sheepish, like a dog who just dirtied the rug.

"How did you know he was there?"

"Let's just say I'm observant," said Crawley. "I don't usually keep sneakers poking out from beneath my curtains."

Four out of five people didn't notice the Schwa. It figures Crawley had to be a fifth person. He stared at us there, saying nothing, waiting for the police to arrive.

"I ... I didn't know you were an invalid," I said, which is a pretty stupid thing to say, but my brain tends to become spongelike when under stress.

Crawley frowned. I thought he already was frowning. "I broke a hip," he said, annoyed. "The wheelchair is only temporary."

"Sorry."

"Sorry sorry sorry," he mocked. "You sound like a broken record." "Sorry," I said, then grimaced.

"What's your name?"

"Wendell Tiggor," I said, without missing a beat.

"Very good. Now tell me your real name."

This guy might have been old, but he was as sharp as a shark tooth. I sighed. "Anthony Bonano."

He turned to the Schwa. "And your name?"

I had hoped he might have forgotten the Schwa was there, but luck was in short supply today.

"Calvin. Calvin Schwa."

"Stupid name."

"I know, sir. It wasn't my choice, sir."

I could hear sirens now, getting closer. I supposed Wendell and the Tiggorhoids had all deserted. No one in that crowd would risk their necks, or any other part of their anatomy, for us.

"Well, there they are," said Crawley, hearing the sirens. "Tell me, is this your first arrest, or are you repeat offenders?"

As we weren't actually arrested at the American Airlines ter­minal, I told him it was a first offense.

"It won't be the last, I'm sure," he said.

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me, sir, but I think it will be."

"Will be what?"

"I think it will be the last time I'm arrested."

"I find that hard to believe." He leaned over, scratching one of his dogs behind the ears. "Can't change breeding isn't that right, Avarice?"

The dog purred.

Breeding? Now I was getting mad. "My breeding is fine," I told him. The Schwa, who's still mostly petrified, hits me to shut me up, but I don't. "If you ask me, it's your breeding that's all screwed up."

Crawley raised his eyebrows and gripped his poker. "Is that so."

"It must take some pretty bad genes to turn someone into a miserable old man who'd send a couple of kids to jail just for trying to get a plastic dog bowl."

He scowled at me for a long time. The sound of sirens peaked, then stopped right outside. Then he said, "Genes aren't everything. You failed to take environment into account."

"Well, so did you."