Chapter 19: A tough case

Glubwart wondered: that worked so well -- why didn't it work in that other case? What was the name -- Mary, I think it is? I must see what can be done about that. It may be that case can still be salvaged.
____

Joe made up his mind. He would try again -- he had to. He had been so close.
He drove over to Miz Gryder's house, got out, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
“Yes? Oh, hello, Joe,” Miz Gryder said. She looked at him closely.
“Mary's home, but she's not feeling well.”
“Could you please tell her I'm here, Miz Gryder? I really need to see her.”
“Very well. You wait here.”
Miz Gryder walked down the hall and lightly tapped on Mary's door.
“Yes?”
“It's that Langston boy again,” Miz Gryder sighed. “You want me to tell him to come back later?”
“No. No, don't. I'll come. Just a minute, please.” Mary hurriedly put on a fresh dress and quickly touched up her hair. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Miz Gryder had let Joe in. He was waiting in the parlor.
“Hi,” they both said at the same time. After that was a long, embarrassed silence.
Joe broke the silence first.
“So -- are you off today?” Of course he knew she was off; that's why he came; that's why she was here instead of working at Hungry Jim's. Brilliant, Joe.
“Yes.”
“You -- you want to go for a walk?”
“All right.”
Joe carefully closed the screen door behind them. It squeaked a little, nevertheless. It had been raining, and the door had swelled, making a tight fit.
Without a word, they went down Miz Gryder's front porch steps, turned left and walked past Miz Jones' house to where the street curves to the left, then back and runs into Oak Street. There they turned right and walked all the way to Three Notch Street. He didn't touch her. By mutual, mute agreement, they turned left and went down the hill. At the bottom of the hill a stream ran under the road.
They left the road and walked down a steep bank that ended in a gully leading to the stream. Mary followed Joe. Picking their way past brambles and briars, they emerged onto a short, sandy bank at the edge of the creek.
It was quiet, except for the gurgling of the water as it came out the culvert under the road, and the occasional humming of tires of passing cars.
They sat down on a log and stared at the dark, tea-stain-colored water swirling in whirlpools past the sandy bank, turning black and going under an overhanging bush with tendrils touching the surface.
They sat for a century.
“I-I'm sorry.”
They blurted out simultaneously, both turning their heads at the exact same instant and staring into each other's eyes. They laughed and looked down at their feet.
“I acted like a jerk,” Joe said.
“No, no, you don't understand,” Mary answered. She put her hand over his. A warm tingling started there and rushed all over his body.
“Don't understand what?”
“Never mind. It's all right now.”
“More mystery,” Joe kidded her.
“Do you like mysteries?” Mary asked.
“I'm beginning to.” He was more serious now.
Mary looked at him carefully. Was she finding her way home? Must be cautious. Don't be in a rush.
“I used to come here all the time,” Joe said, changing the subject. My buddies and me would come wading here and catch crawfish. Once, my dad hid some money in the sand and made me look for it. I believed I was really finding lost treasure! How naive!”
“I think that's cute,” Mary said. “Your father must love you very much.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I never knew my father. And my mother never had much time for me.”
“Is that why you left?”
She ignored the question. “Come on, let's go,” she said. They took the long way back to Miz Gryder's, stopping at the Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone.
-----
Glubwart slipped into Mary's dream as slick as a snake slides into its hole.
“Mommy, mommy, why did I run away? I can't go back home. I want to go back home. But I can't go back home. I already studied, Mommy. I cleaned it already, Mommy. But it's not clean enough. I know. Mommy, why can't I go out with Johnny?”
Mommy's face faded away. In its place was 'Uncle' Fred. “Now, listen up. Your Mommy's gone. She's never coming back. It's just you and me. Be nice to me and we will get along fine; just fine.”
“No no no. I want my Mommy.”
“Shut up, kid.”
Mary awoke with a scream. Miz Gryder's face was looking down at her, wrinkled in worry.
“You're home, child. Everything's all right. But it wasn't all right.
-----
“I'm telling you, chief, this girl's got me buffaloed,” Glubwart complained to his boss. “I turned the other one, who'd been through a lot less, a lot easier. I've tried everything I know…Chief?”
“I'm here,” Screwtape answered testily. “I was just thinking. You say she has a boyfriend?”
“Nothing serious. He seems interested, though.”
“And her? What are her feelings?” Screwtape wanted to know.
“She's even more undecided than he is.”
“Well, that seems to be the only thing you've got going now. The dream crawling doesn't seem to be getting you anywhere. I'd push the boyfriend angle - try to make something happen there. That opens up all kinds of possibilities.”
“Yes sir.”
“Anything else?”
“No sir - I've pretty much concentrated on her case lately.”
“Well, don't waste your time. Sometimes you have to cut your losses. Don't get sucked into a losing situation. I know you've got a lot invested and you think you can still break through somehow. But that's a trap. You wind up wasting your energy on a fruitless quest, while other plums are ripe for the picking. Don't pass up a few easy jewels while you're following a difficult case.”
“Yes sir.”
Click. Screwtape hung up abruptly. Glubwart was left listening to ether. His thoughts turned to Joe. Got to make something happen.
-----
Joe felt caged. His brain raced around like a gerbil on a treadmill.”Should I go to her house? I'll go to her house. I won't go to her house. Do I love her? Why should I love her? She's not even that pretty. I love her. I don't love her. Hah. I'm like some stupid fourth-grader. I love her, I love her not.”
He started toward Miz Gryder's house. He got partway there and turned back. He went back again, got there, and drove around the corner. He went around the block several times. He stopped the car. He sat. The gerbil made several more laps in his treadmill.
Joe got out of the car. He walked toward Miz Gryder's house. He got within sight of the roof, turned on his heel and walked back to his car. Spun on his heel, walked back, saw Miz Gryder's kitchen window and whitewashed lapped plank wooden siding. He turned and went back. He walked on the sidewalk right up to Miz Gryder's house -- and kept on walking. He walked around the entire block. He walked around the block again.
Joe broke out in song. He was singing a solo from a popular Broadway romantic comedy. He felt like a fool. He stopped feeling like a fool. He felt great. He felt a storm raging through his body. He felt unconquerable. He was terrified.
He walked back to his car and drove home.

Chapter 18: A learning experience

MUMMY DEAR
My hands were white white white
Now they're red red red
My eyes were coals, now they're diamonds --
Now you're dead dead dead
My stone face laughed
Into your dead silent face
Do you recognize me?
You created me
You twisted my soul into your twisted mold
Looks like you made a monster, Mummy.
Looks like you got a dose
Of your own medicine, Mummy dear.
How does it taste?

Screwtape read over the macabre poem once more, enjoying the implacable hatred pouring out of it. This was more like it! Some good news at last. Nice meter and cadence, too. There was a letter attached -- from Glubwart, detailing his latest coup in glowing verse:
My dear Sir:
I am pleased to present you with FOUR (4) sweets, delivered. (None for the Enemy.) The mother, the “victim” in this case, repeatedly sold her underage daughter to the mother's adult boyfriends, who in turn supplied the mother with money, drugs and alcohol. The girl ran away from home twice, but returned each time, to be abused again.
The case drew to its climax when the daughter, now a teenager, found a serious boyfriend. The mother refused to let the daughter see the young man, because it would have interferred with her arrangements with her “gentleman callers” for drugs and alcohol.
The daughter's rage reached a boiling point. She plotted with her boyfriend and one of the boyfriend's pals to kill her mother. (Can you imagine a sweeter scenario, sir?)
The trio approached the sleeping woman with baseball bats and knives. Her demise was most painful and horrible, I assure you, sir. A lot of hysterical, desperate screaming, a lot of blood. The woman knew what was happening to her, and who was doing it to her. She woke up after the first blow and tried, horror-stricken, to defend herself, but the knives kept coming, sticking, gushing.
Oh, it was lovely, sir! I wish you could have been there! I have enclosed a poem, written by the daughter before the murder, for your enjoyment. The mother's soul, of course, has already arrived. The other three are on the way, to be delivered immediately after their executions (the state made an exception in this case, and ordered the death of all three, despite their youth).
There's a footnote, sir -- we have a good chance of getting one more sweet out of this case. The girl's father -- the mother's first boyfriend -- disappeared after she became pregnant (a cliched, but fulfilling tale!). He is now deep in cocaine and alcohol addiction, and steals to support his habits.
I can virtually assure you that we will have him, too.
Your obedient servant,
Glubwart

Scewtape put the letter aside, sighed contentedly and leaned back in his huge leather chair. He lit up one of his favorite Cuban cigars, poured himself an extra large glass of brandy and slurped greedily. That Glubwart! What a rascal! I knew he would come through! We must give the old sod a call.
Screwtape leaned over lazily flipped the switch on his intercom. “Yes, Mr. Screwtape?” Desiree Caliente's voice asked.
“Get me Glubwart on the line, Miss Caliente.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Glubwart's barely contained exuberance reported itself on the phone.
“Yes sir? Glubwart here.”
“Well done, my boy,” Screwtape beamed. “A real coup! It looks like you've finally learned something.”
“Yes, sir. We certainly came out on top this time! Four sweets for us -- maybe five -- and none for the Enemy! Zip. Zero. Nada. Nichts.”
“No more of that five to one stuff, eh, Glubwart?” Screwtape teased. “Looks like I won't have to eat you after all, Glubwart. Good thing, too. I don't think you'd be too tasty. Hah, hah.”
Glubwart's laugh on the other end of the line was a bit strained. “Er...Thank you, sir,” he said, awkwardly. There was hardly a proper response to the news that one is not to be devoured by one's superior.
Screwtape felt tempted, but refrained from calling the Boss immediately. There would be time. Let the Boss call me to complain about some petty failing, and I'll spring this on him. Of course, Screwtape would take credit for the incident. [“I was deeply involved personally in this case, Your Lowness. I instructed my underling in every detail.”] It was only fair. Chief demons always get blamed for their underlings' incompetence, shouldn't they also take credit for their successes?