#1: You Can Run, But You Can't Hide    table of contents  

Viola walked up the path in the growing darkness, looking down at the small scrap of paper in her hand. She continued walking until a cottage became visible through the trees, its general appearance one of neglect and desertion. Undismayed, she tucked the paper into her pocket and turned down the overgrown track that led toward it.

She rapped on the door and waited. Nearly a minute passed before she heard the sound of someone on the other side.

The lock scraped and a dark patch appeared, opening into an interior even more gloomy than the dusk outside. “Why, Viola!” The man glanced past her into the darkness, then turned his attention back to her and smiled, swinging the door wide. A glint of red flickered in his good eye. “I see you received my note. Do come in; I hardly imagined you would respond to a second invitation from me — but here you are, as clever a little monkey as ever. May I take your wrap?”

“Yes, thank you, Diogenes. And I'll have something to drink if you you've got it.”

Diogenes raised an amused eyebrow. “Of course you will,” he said smoothly. “Do make yourself comfortable.”

Viola moved deeper into the small cottage. The only light came from a fireplace in a sitting room whose windows had been carefully blacked, all crevices stopped to prevent light from escaping. She settled on a sheet-covered love seat next to the only chair in the room beside which lay the remains of a frugal dinner, and looked around. The place was quite charming actually, and really only appeared to suffer from the lack of a woman's touch.

Diogenes appeared a moment later with a glass in each hand. “Ah. Perhaps the other one, dear,” he said with a wink, as she reached for the glass in his left hand.

She laughed and took the left one anyway, and Diogenes suppressed a faint smirk.

“Let me get to the point of why I've come, Diogenes.” Diogenes tented his fingers before himself and settled back in his chair, his expression as contented as a cat's at finding a mouse in its dinner bowl.

Viola took a deep breath. “The truth is, I thought about all of those hurtful, unpleasant things you said, and I realize now you were saying them for my own good. No one has ever cared for me enough to say those things to my face, but you... you really do care, don't you.”

Diogenes' eyes gleamed on her. “I called you empty and unloving.”

“And unlovable, yes. You were under a great deal of stress when you said those things, I see that now. It took me forever to understand what you were really trying to say.” She sighed. “Oh, Digi. You made me face what I am; I don't know how I could ever stay angry at you. The memory of our time together has just played itself over and over in my head since we were parted.” She hesitated. “Please — do tell me again how you were going to kill me — and use that voice. You know the one; it was ever so convincing. It made me positively shiver.”

Diogenes blinked, nonplussed. “But... I am going to kill you, Viola dear.”

Viola sighed blissfully and leaned back on the love seat. “That's the one. Oh, Aloysius certainly never spoke to me like that! He was all wrong for me, you know. Now say something else. Something — something really dreadful.”

Diogenes leapt to his feet with a stifled yelp, just in time to avoid the toe snaking toward his pantleg. “Viola, really — this is...”

She sat up, her eyes glowing in the light of the fire and Diogenes backed away slowly, his face betraying a trace of alarm.

“Diogenes, where are you going?” she asked, as he gained the door.

“Out for cigarettes, my dear. I'm certain you're more than familiar with the euphemism of that phrase.”

#2: Love's Curse    table of contents  

Diogenes bit off a piece of duct tape with his teeth, which promptly got stuck in the facial hair of one of his disguises. He yanked on it, and the beard peeled away from his left cheek.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed.

“Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast!” His shoulders hunched forward at the sound of a woman's voice and he turned around sharply. “I thought we agreed that such language does not befit our status.” He smiled, showing his teeth, but Viola remained undaunted as she pointed. “Curse jar. Now.”

His feral grin subsided as he looked forlornly at the ruined piece of duct tape. “But I'm all out of mask adhesive, you vile creature — you used the last of it to hang those blasted heart decorations on the wall for Valentine's Day. And hearts aren't pink with lace frill on them; they're not even “heart-shaped” at all! Any imbecile knows that. They're red, and so wonderfully... supple... red. Beautiful... red...” His voice trailed away wistfully, and he took a moment to regroup. “I can't leave the cabin looking like this!!” He indicated the hanging beard. “You're going to have to go to town and pick up another bottle from the craft store for me.”

“I don't see why you have to run around in these costumes, Digi. Honestly. You're a grown man, not a... not a bloody child going out to trick-or-treat on Halloween. Can't you just forgive your brother? I'm certain he would welcome you back with open arms! Then we could move out of this... charming little cottage and start our real lives together.”

Diogenes muttered something and Viola turned white, pointing again to the pickle jar on the counter, labelled in flowery script: “Curses Drain Our Purses”.

He ignored her. “After you purchase my mask adhesive, will you please stop at the hardware store and obtain the following items for me?”

Viola took the list and scanned it, her lips moving as she read:

rope (natural fiber)
an axe
2 buckets
2 sacks readi-mix cement
more duct tape
earplugs

She nodded as she finished reading and laid the list on the counter, reaching for a pen. He watched warily as she added to the bottom of the list: Pickles — 64 oz.

“But Viola — I despise pickles.”

“I know dear,” she sighed. “But we really need a bigger curse jar.”

#3: Seeds of Destruction    table of contents  

Diogenes leaned on the shovel, gazing down at his handiwork with a look of grim satisfaction.

A mound of dirt lay at his feet, roughly as long and wide as a woman’s body, and at its head a rough wooden cross had been splinted together. He allowed himself a smile. “Rest in peace,” he murmured, smirking as he planted the shovel into the loose dirt near his feet and stretched his shoulders. He heaved a deep, almost peaceful sigh, then turned and strolled back toward the small cabin, still smiling.

“Diogenes?” He was halfway to the cabin when a voice interrupted his progress. With a sigh, he stopped and lifted his face briefly to the sky, shaking his head. “Look at this; you’ve mixed up the seed placards!” He turned back around in time to see Viola standing over the last planting bed he had been working on, exchanging the plant marker with the plaque hung over the cross on the mound next to it. “I said I wanted carrots on the end; you’ve hung the ‘peas’ sign on this marker. Honestly. One would think you were trying to get out of finishing this garden properly.”

“I was never cut out to be a farmer,” Diogenes said negligently, ignoring her grumbling.

“Well, never mind.” Viola straightened having rearranged the plant stakes to her satisfaction, and dusted her palms together. “I would like for you to begin clearing the ground for the vineyard tomorrow, and perhaps the olive grove would be best placed on the south side of the cabin?”

Diogenes stared at her in amazement. “My dear woman — you are deluded. This is not a balmy temperate zone!”

Viola fixed him with a gaze that usually indicated a trip to the swear jar was in order.

“Balmy is not a swear word in America,” he said hastily.

“No, it isn’t that,” she said thoughtfully. “It just happened to make me think — I believe there’s enough money in the curse jar to buy a rototiller. There may even be enough for a bit of gasoline to run it. I believe I’ll run out and purchase one for you this evening so you don’t have to till all that earth by hand.”

Diogenes’ color had deepened as she spoke, his mismatched eyes firing to unholy pinpoints of light. “I prefer the satisfaction I get from working with my own two hands.” His long fingers flexed as he gazed at her throat in restrained fascination but then he blinked abruptly and drew himself back, tilting his head in an attitude of contemplation. “However a rototiller does present some interesting possibilities. Yes. Very interesting indeed. I should have thought of that myself.” The smile was back on his face.

She sighed aloud. “I don’t know what you’d do without me here to think for you, Digi. I’m beginning to see how difficult all those years without me must have been. One wonders how you managed at all.”

He returned his focus to her, his face once again composed. “My dear, your bullyragging and browbeating continues to prove to be the singular goad that drives my existence. Without it I believe I should find my exile and perhaps even life itself too dull and tedious to bear. I find it extremely therapeutic to dwell on how I shall repay you when it is no longer necessary for me to remain here in hiding.”

Viola waved a hand at him, coloring with emotion. “Oh, Digi. You don’t have to thank me.”

Diogenes smiled again, a wolfish look flitting over his lean features. “Oh, but I insist,” he said softly.

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it, Viola dear.”

“Pish. The things you say... By the way, the Garretts are coming to dinner tomorrow.”

Diogenes blinked. “The — the ‘whats’?”

“The Garretts. They’re our neighbors down the road. Don’t tell me you haven’t met them. You really should take the time to introduce yourself to people, you know. They’ve been under the strange impression that you’re some sort of dangerous lunatic.” She laughed. “It’s a shame, because anyone who gets to know you as I have will see what a soft-touch you are. They’ve even been afraid to let their dog out in the yard — can you imagine? Apparently the last two have gone missing and they think it’s foul play. Isn’t that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?” Viola laughed again.

Diogenes smiled, looking darkly bemused. “Yes — ridiculous.”

“Oh, and they have a child.”

“A what?” Diogenes’ grin went slack.

“Her name’s Lucy — she just turned ten. She’ll be coming as well. I should warn you though, she’s — well, she’s a bit...different, but once you get past that she’s a perfectly charming little creature.”

“You invited a child — here?” Diogenes’ clenched hands were white-knuckled, his face distinctly pale.

“Yes. Well I could hardly tell them to leave her at home, could I?” Viola cleared her throat delicately. “And — about children, Digi... I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You’ve been such a gentleman. Sleeping on the couch these past months...it’s really more than any man I’m around should have to bear.”

Diogenes gazed back at her stoically. “There is only one bedroom, my dear. It is far easier for me to deal with a crick in my own back from sleeping on the couch, than it was for me to hear you complain incessantly about the same.”

“Yes, well, about that.” She looked at him sidelong, her expression coy. “There’s no reason you can’t sleep in the bed, you know.”

Diogenes continued to stare at her, unblinking. “You wish to try the couch again?”

She blushed. “Of course not. Now you are being silly. That’s one of the things I love about you, Digi. Your deadpan humor.”

His eyes narrowed, a glittering look of barely disguised irritation on his face. “I am — not generally known for my sense of humor,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice.

Viola laughed and patted him fondly on the arm. “I tend to bring out the best in people,” she said. “And you know I do try so hard to be modest about it, but it is a gift.”

Diogenes glanced down at the hand still resting on his arm and frowned, his expression revealing, if possible, a faint anxiety.

#4: A Beautiful Friendship    table of contents  

The Garretts were due to arrive for dinner at six o’clock.

The cabin had been scrubbed, the black-out drapes vacuumed and the recently-purchased rototiller polished, all to within an inch of their lives. Viola put the curse jar in the cabinet after a protracted warning to Diogenes about politeness and keeping up appearances for company, to which he had nodded and even smiled slightly, in time with the stropping stroke as he sharpened a beautifully wrought antique knife.

“Yes, Viola,” he said absently. “As you say.” When reminded that the Garretts had a child, however, he had grown silent, visibly retreating into his task.



The knock on the door came promptly at 6:17, Diogenes noted with some irritation. Not even fashionably late, by any standards. Just plain old bumpkin tardy... He had seen novelty clocks sold in the local hardware store whose faces had been painted not with actual numbers but with inane sayings like “Whenever”, and “Time to go Fishin’”. The Garretts had apparently purchased one of those clocks and used it faithfully. Pity he hadn’t given in to his fleeting impulse to overwrite “Go Visit your Neighbors” with “Time for Exsanguination”...

“Answer the door, Diogenes.” Viola’s voice interrupted his mental grumbling. She was right behind him waiting to greet their guests, and he turned the handle before she could poke him again, pulling the door open wide.

He drew himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height and paused, gazing down on them like a hawk surveying mice in the grass, giving them a moment to huddle together in fear. Mr. Garrett edged gratifyingly closer to his wife. “Good evening,” he intoned severely. Viola prodded him, and he sighed. “Welcome to my — ow! — our humble abode.” His second attempt was hardly less ominous and Viola elbowed him again in the ribs with a practiced, almost absent-minded ease.

“So pleased you could come,” she gushed, insinuating herself in front of Diogenes.

“I’m Janette, and this is my husband, George,” Mrs. Garrett introduced herself and indicated the reed-thin man at her side. Mrs. Garrett herself had the size and build of a dock-hand, making her husband look even smaller than he was. “And of course this is Lucy...she just turned ten.” She pulled forward a slightly chubby, unassuming-looking child with glasses, freckles, and pigtails who stood before them blinking, holding a pink Barbie lunchbox in her hands.

“Why hello, sweetheart!” Viola cooed, reaching down and pinching the round cheeks. “Oh, aren’t you adorable...” she said, as her parents beamed.

Undaunted by Viola’s cheer Diogenes gave her a subtly menacing smile. “What a sweet-looking child.”

At the sound of his voice directed at her Lucy fixed her gaze upon Diogenes, her magnified eyes focusing weirdly through thick layers of glass. She tilted her head at him slightly. “My last name is a homonym for the word that means ‘to strangle’,” she announced matter-of-factly.

Diogenes blinked, looking mildly startled. He scrutinized her more closely but Viola tittered. “Oh my, the things children say!” she said, looking delighted. She reached down and gave the plump cheek another squeeze, then patted her on the top of the head for good measure. “Well, come in! Come in!” The Garretts trailed after her down the short hallway toward the kitchen but Lucy remained behind, clutching the lunchbox in her hand.

Diogenes tilted his head suspiciously at the box as if listening. “What have you got there?” he queried, blocking her path with a knowing expression on his face. “Barbie dolls?”

The child stared up at the towering, ominous-looking man, undaunted. “Hey mister, why are your eyes different colors?”

Diogenes smiled at the blatant subject change, showing his teeth. “Why, the better to see you with, my dear,” he said in a low voice. The girl’s gaze didn’t waver from his and his eyes narrowed on hers discerningly. He paused then pointed at the porch and ordered in a cold, steely voice, “Leave the lunchbox outside.”

Lucy considered him for a moment, then obediently retreated and set the lunchbox carefully on the stoop outside as Diogenes watched, making sure the lid was tightly fastened. She returned to the hall where Diogenes waited, then without warning reached up and slipped her small cool hand around his dry, lean fingers.

“Ugh.” Lucy looked up at Diogenes’ inadvertent exclamation and he glanced down his long nose at the plump, pig-tailed girl who stared back at him fixedly through glasses that magnified her eyes by a factor of two.

Diogenes relented after a moment. “Very well,” he sighed, curiously making no attempt to disengage his hand. “I can see you are unfortunately past the fear of cooties,” he said as they strolled down the hall together. “But have you perchance heard of the flesh-eating disease? Most tragic. Quite disfiguring...”



“What is this?” Diogenes stared down at the colorless, triangular loaf sitting half-heartedly next to the drooping mound of steamed cauliflower. Everything on the plate appeared to be white, with the exception of the ubiquitous olive oil and freshly baked bread. Even the wine, one of the last bottles of the most recent Capraian vintage, was white.

“It’s tofu, dear,” Viola said airily. “Didn’t I tell you the Garretts are vegetarians?”

“Vegans, to be precise,” Janette corrected primly. Diogenes turned two shades paler.

“We use vitamins to supplement the nutrients that we don’t get from food,” George confided to Diogenes. “Being the man in the house I thought it important to take a stand for the health of my family. Janette didn’t want to at first, but gosh darnit I finally got firm and put my foot down. I’m sure you can understand that. Being a man, and all,” he said with a conspiratorial wink.

Diogenes glanced at the pile of no less than fifteen pills beside each of their plates, a wan, nauseated look on his face.

“Yes, a...a man. You don’t eat meat — at all? No...blood?”

“Oh, we get iron from the vitamins, no problem. And vitamins A through Z.”

“How very — nourishing. Very satisfying,” Diogenes said, looking and sounding genuinely faint.

“We believe that the taking of life, even that of eggs — they’re unborn chickens, you know — is immoral. We don’t eat eggs, cheese, milk, or even honey.” Janette ticked the items off on her fingers.

“Who are we to take honey away from the bees, who labored so hard to make it?” George said in an earnest voice.

Diogenes stared at them both, his face a curiously stricken mixture of blankness and utterly dumbfounded amazement.

Lucy broke the silence. “I hate tofu,” she said clearly. “I want a hamburger.”

“You can have a veggie burger when we get home,” her mother chided.

Lucy glared. “Can I have it rare?”

“Lucy!” Janette laughed nervously. “She’s at that age, you know,” she said confidingly, glancing around the table. “I don’t know where she gets these silly ideas; she’s never eaten meat a day in her life!” A crafty look came over Lucy’s face, but she said nothing. “Now eat this nice dinner Viola has prepared for you.”

Viola cleared her throat. “When you’re finished, I have a special treat for dessert — do you like tofu ice cream?”

“I want to be excused,” Lucy insisted. “Now!” Her father cringed, and her mother sighed.

“I apologize,” Janette said. “Perhaps it would be better if we let her go...” Lucy was already out of her chair and headed for the door.

Diogenes watched Lucy make good her escape and cleared his throat delicately. “Excuse me, I just remembered a pressing errand—”

“NO.” Viola glared at him. “Eat your dinner.”

He returned his attention balefully to the unappetizing pile on his plate. “What a perfectly charming child you have, Mr. and Mrs. Garrett,” he murmured politely, lifting a small piece of wilted cauliflower to his lips. “Certainly resourceful. One wonders how she came to be so intelligent.”

“Lucy is home schooled,” Mrs. Garrett announced, visibly swelling with pride.

“Yes,” Diogenes repeated. “One wonders indeed.”

Viola seemed to recover at this, the color returning to her cheeks as she seized on the topic of conversation. “Oh, yes — children! Digi and I were just talking about children last night. I want lots of children — well, at least two or three. Not so many that I lose my figure, of course. Single children tend to be so self-centered and spoiled — they think the world revolves around them. There’s too many selfish people in the world these days, if you ask me.

“Why, just the other day I was at the grocery story and old Mrs. Laineau — you know the one with the walker? — she insisted that someone help her out to her car with her groceries. I was left standing there for two minutes just because someone wanted extra attention for themselves. It’s one of the things that’s wrong with the world, in my very humble opinion.” The Garretts nodded their vigorous approval.

“Siblings are overrated,” Diogenes inserted dryly, waving a hand dismissively. “You are an only child yourself, aren’t you Viola dear?”

Viola ignored him.

“Of course, Lucy is an only child as well,” Mrs. Garrett pointed out. “But that’s hardly her fault. It’s not socially responsible to have more than one child these days, but we had planned on having at least one more anyway — company for Lucy, you know. We were in the process of trying when we found out about George’s low sperm count.”

George gave a nervous laugh. “Now, now, Janette. Let’s not leave out your side of the problem.”

Diogenes laid down his fork with a clatter and Viola shot him a warning look. “Darling — perhaps you had better go outside after all and make sure Lucy’s playing nicely — not getting her clothes dirty or anything like that? And it’s nearly dark out anyway; perhaps you should fetch her in. Tell her she can have her ice cream now if she’s been good.”

“A most excellent idea.” Diogenes pushed back his chair, not waiting for a second invitation to leave his anemic, congealing tofu loaf and the equally revolting topic of conversation.



The evening air was cool as he pulled open the door and he took a deep lungful of it as he stepped out onto the porch. Freedom...

The blow came out of nowhere, staggering him sideways into the porch railing. He righted himself, dazed, and found Lucy standing before him, gazing up at him with the end of a rope in her hand.

She blinked at him myopically. “Oh. I thought you were Viola.”

Diogenes’ gaze went over the trap with a calculating eye, from the strung rope to the weighted bucket, now swinging lazily on its tether. He rubbed his bruised bicep idly, frowning. “If you were aiming for her temple, your calculations were off by two inches,” he drawled.

“I didn’t have much time to set it up,” Lucy said unapologetically.

“Yes. Well.” Diogenes cast her a sidelong look as he flexed his arm then let it fall relaxed to his side, convinced there was no serious damage. “What a precocious little urchin you are,” he ventured.

“Urchins have poisonous spines.”

“Indeed they do.” Diogenes looked thoughtful, his eyes glinting with amusement. “However in their raw sushi form — Uni is the term — they taste wonderful. What a delightful coincidence.”

Faint snippets of conversation from the dinner table drifted through the partially open door as man and girl contemplated one another silently on the porch. Fortunately the topic of conversation had shifted away from the Garretts’ inability to further procreate; apparently it was a short subject.

...it was awful, as if wild animals had attacked poor Marmaduke ...Second time it’s happened in four months... We got another dog for Lucy’s sake... George’s voice came to them clearly from inside. ...didn’t tell her, of course; it would break her heart. Fortunately the pound had another dog that looked just like him...

“Can you get rabies from biting a dog?” Lucy asked in an offhand tone.

Diogenes’ eyes pinned on her. For the briefest moment he appeared taken aback but then he recovered, raising an eyebrow to look at her in speculation.

A faint smile came over his lips. “My, my, little Uni.” He spoke in a low, quiet voice. “What are we to do with you?” He eyed her as Padre Martini must have first appraised the young Mozart. “A person’s gifts require training and cultivation, if they are to grow and blossom as they should,” he said carefully.

He indicated the rope which she still clutched in her hand. “For starters, it is generally inadvisable to be so open about ones intentions. Indeed, it is the greatest faux pas to leave any traces at all — unless of course you are trying to send a message. Never, ever get left holding the bag, or the other end of the rope, as the case may be.” He came forward. “Here, you see...” He took the rope from her gently and lifted it in his hand as an example. “You certainly don’t want to be caught red-handed.”

At that moment the door swung open wide and Viola stepped out.

“Oh, Digi, there you are; I was wondering when...” She stopped short at the sight of Diogenes standing next to Lucy with the rope in his hand. Her eyes followed the trail of the rope, over to the booby-trapped door and its weighted payload. She went white as she made the connection. “Diogenes!” she gasped. “What are you teaching that poor, innocent child?!?”

“I—” Diogenes stopped and looked at Lucy. “That is, we were just...”

He dropped the rope.

“I think,” Viola said severely, “that you will be sleeping on the C-O-U-C-H for quite a while longer.” She enunciated each letter of the word as she spelled it.

“I know how to spell,” Lucy pointed out, managing to look faintly irritated behind her thick glasses.

Viola swelled at Diogenes. “Oh. Have you been teaching her that as well?” she cried.

With an audible huff Viola turned away, but in the next moment her temper turned to terror as a heavy rain of large black beetles cascaded down onto her head, their chittering, horned bodies and spiked legs catching in her luxurious tresses. She let loose a horrified shriek as she bolted past Lucy and Diogenes out into the yard, running as if she could escape the burrowing insects on foot, thrashing her hair about in a way that would have made a shampoo model envious. In response the beetles appeared to grow even more agitated and intent on tunneling deeper, clinging with tenacious pincers the harder she tried to dislodge them. Diogenes casually deflected an insect fortunate enough to have been thrown off by her flailing and crushed it delicately beneath his toe.

“Secondary trap,” Lucy said modestly, in response to Diogenes’ querying look. His eyes went to the Barbie lunchbox that hung above where Viola had been standing, now swinging unhinged and empty. He nodded slowly.

“Oh help, get them off get them off get them OFF!” Viola’s cries reached them from the direction of the garden. There was a muffled thud as she tripped over one of the planting beds, followed by more sobbing and shrieking.

“Impressive.” Diogenes paused, crouching to nonchalantly skewer a stray beetle on a rusty nail as it scurried toward them. He stood and held the impaled body up, his mismatched eyes fixed on it as its helpless legs beat out a slow, upside-down tattoo in the air. “Very creative indeed.”

“That one was called Luther,” Lucy said. “And can I have my lunchbox back, please?”

Diogenes glanced at her. “’Tis a better fate than you spared for its fellows.” She shrugged and he smiled. “My condolences.” He handed the nail to her gravely then reached up and easily snared the pink box free, handing it to her as well.

She placed the dying beetle in it and closed the lid, then set the box aside.

“You are a very interesting child, you know,” Diogenes said evenly, keeping his face emotionless.

Lucy blinked up at him innocently. “I like you too,” she said simply.

Diogenes looked up over the darkened path and garden and pursed his red lips, a strange expression struggling to find a home on his features. Viola’s wailing came from somewhere off in the darkness, finally fading away into the distance.

“I believe, Lucy,” he said, breathing out slowly, “that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

#5: Ladies First    table of contents  

“DIOGENES!” Viola strode across the yard to where a hammock had been erected between two trees, set in the dappled shade and out of earshot of the house. “There you are; I’ve been calling you for ten minutes! Couldn’t you hear me? The neighbors finally rang to complain about the noise so I thought I’d better come look for you in person.”

The lean man lounging at his ease in the tranquil air lifted his head as she neared and glanced up from the book he was reading, smiling beatifically. A single ginger-colored eyebrow arched in languid inquiry, but he said nothing.

She stared at him suspiciously. “Are you wearing earplugs?”

“Of course not, dear.”

Her brows met as she looked closer. “But they’re bright green! I can see them!”

Diogenes reached up and plucked one neon foam insert out of his ear, tilted his head at her. “Eh? What’s that?”

Viola pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring in ire. “Diogenes Dagrepont Bernoulli Pendergast! I specifically asked if you were wearing earplugs and you said no! You aren’t going to start lying to me now, are you? After all we’ve been through together?!”

Diogenes held up an elegant, long-fingered hand. “My dear,” he said soothingly, “calm yourself. I was reading your lips; I thought you said: ‘Should I continue to make a nuisance of myself?’. It was an honest mistake.” He leaned back in the hammock again, ignoring Viola’s steaming presence as he returned his attention to the Roethke, adding, “It must be that ridiculous accent, twisting your lips into funny shapes. Very difficult to read what you’re saying. I will remember to adjust for that when attempting it in future. By the by, Lucy will be coming along shortly.”

Viola frowned again. “I think you’re spending entirely too much time with that Garrett girl. She’s been a terrible influence on you, taking your attention away from your duties here. All of your duties.”

Something glittered in his good eye in response, but his face remained bland and disinterested. “Yes, dear.”

But Viola would not be put off so easily. “You do know what I’m referring to, don’t you? Since you’ve gotten along so brilliantly with Lucy I assumed you would want to start sharing the bed with me — now that you’ve seen what fun children can be.”

Diogenes waved his hand absently. “Your thought process is, as usual, fundamentally flawed,” he drawled. “There are some activities where the end simply does not justify the means.”

Viola stared at him as if running through a repertoire of responses in her head, finally settling on one. “You don’t...it’s just that...” She burst out crying suddenly, and a fleeting, harrowed look of weariness and disgust crossed Diogenes’ features.

“There, there, now,” he intoned dryly. He turned away from her and picked up his tea from the small table nearby and sipped at it, watching warily as she wound herself down.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “It’s just that — I need validation, Digi.” She plopped herself down on the hammock, dangerously disturbing its balance. Diogenes’ tea splashed out of the cup and over his hand and he set it aside hastily, stiffening as she crowded in beside him and their bodies came in contact. Diogenes looked stricken as she laid her head on his shoulder and her arm came to rest on his chest.

“Ah...”

“I talked to Janette, Digi, and she thinks we need professional help.”

Diogenes rolled his eyes, trying to extricate his arm trapped beneath the weight of her body and the mesh of the hammock. “Yes, the vineyard project is a bit much for one person, you must admit.”

Viola sniffed. “Well, I never realized how much Paolo and his family actually did for me on Capraia, tending all those vines all the time while I was away, and the olives...” she trailed away mournfully. “I was so self-sufficient when people took care of things for me.”

Diogenes sighed and gave up on his arm, lying perfectly still as she nestled closer.

“But I was talking about us,” she went on. “We need help. Couples counseling. Janette said it did wonders for her and George when they were trying to have another child and couldn’t — they kept arguing over who was to blame. They were able to work out their issues when George finally admitted to wearing tight underwear which raised the temperature of his private parts and consequently lowered his sperm count. But of course by the time they figured that out Janette thought she was too old to conceive so as she points out it really is George’s fault, though now that they’re no longer trying to have any more children she admits that she rather likes the leopard print thong he wears on special occasions...but I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Janette,” Diogenes said coolly, “is a crackpot. And we do not have issues.” He paused, considering. “At least none that will not be resolved in due time.”

Viola fixed him with a speculative eye. “You’re not...you know...intimidated by me, are you? Some men can’t perform — if they feel they’re not worthy of my beauty, my breeding — well, you know they make pills for that now.” She traced her finger down the front of his pressed shirt, lingering over the buttons, but Diogenes’ eyes were still distant, a faint smile playing over his sensuous lips.

“I have no problem performing,” he said softly. “When the time is proper...” Diogenes’ eyes returned to focus on a point just past his feet, and for a brief moment what could only be described as wry delight passed over the controlled, sardonic face. He sighed deeply and reached up casually, unobtrusively, to twine the fingers of his right hand through the mesh above his head, making sure of his grip.

“That Lucy, now...” Viola went on, “she’s such an odd child. I think she needs serious help. It’s so hard to understand since Janette and George are both such wonderful people, but...”

At that moment the foot of the hammock collapsed, the rope slithering free of the supporting tree and sending them both into freefall. Suspended by his tight grip high on the hammock Diogenes landed lightly on his feet, but Viola was rudely dumped backwards onto the ground, arms and legs sprawling.

Diogenes released the supporting mesh just as casually as he had taken the grip in the first place and gazed down at her. “My, what an unfortunate...accident. I apparently failed to tie a knot sufficient to support the weight of two people.” He shook his head sadly. “I fear the Boy Scouts are to blame; they had no patches for the skills I displayed as a youth, and grew tired of my creative suggestions for new ones. I was unceremoniously asked to leave before I could acquire my patch for tying knots.” He tsk-tsked. “It is apparently more delicate a task than I assumed. I did, however, take to heart the Scout motto: ‘Be prepared’.”

As he spoke Lucy sidled out from behind the tree where the end of the hammock had been strung a moment before. “Hi, Miss Viola!” she called out in a loud, almost alarmingly cheerful voice.

“Ow!” Viola exclaimed, as the pain finally triggered the synapses in her brain. She looked stunned.

Lucy came closer, ogling innocently. “Did you break your coccyx?”

Diogenes held a hand down belatedly to help Viola rise. “Are you hurt, Viola dear?” he asked in a silky, solicitous tone.

Shaken, Viola accepted the hand.

“Just — just the wind knocked out of me, thankfully. Thank you.” She rose shakily to her feet. “You’re so very kind.”

“Not at all,” he said graciously.

She stood, rubbing her bruised rear. “Well,” she said, brightening. “I’ve known worse.”

Diogenes’ lips twitched.

“We’re going fishing!” Lucy announced.

Viola smiled. “Why how perfectly charming!” she exclaimed. “Just the two of you?” She glanced significantly at Diogenes, but missed the look that passed between he and Lucy. “May I come along?”

“Yes,” Lucy said, staring at her fixedly, like a cat creeping up on a bird.

“No,” Diogenes said at the same moment, then continued smoothly, “No. Perhaps you would prefer to remain here and tend to your tender posterior...?”

“Oh, but I love mud!” Viola insisted. “I go tramping all over the estate in Cornwall, in the spring.”

Lucy peered at Viola slyly. “What’s a tramp?”

Diogenes reached out and laid a restraining hand on Lucy’s shoulder, still smiling. “Children. They are the most insightful, literal of creatures.”

Viola turned to him. “Please, Digi. Don’t shut me out like this. Think what good practice this will be, for a child of our own. It will be a...” She stopped, thought for a moment: “...an experiment.”

Lucy’s eyes took on a distinct glow and Diogenes grimaced at the choice of words, his hand tightening briefly on her shoulder in warning. She held up the bucket in her hand, which smelled of noisome earth and mud. “You can carry the bait and collect some more.”

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea, Viola,” Diogenes began, but Viola cut him off and took the bait.

“Oh, pish. Do you think I’ve never baited a hook before? Why I’ll have you know I’ve worked with more than a few dangling earthworms in my day...” She paused, glancing into the bucket. “What are these things?”

“Leeches,” Lucy grinned.

“Leeches,” Diogenes echoed.

“Leeches!” Viola exclaimed. “Don’t leeches...er...”

“Suck blood,” Lucy supplied, looking rapturous. “We’re going to need a lot more,” she added, measuring Viola with a calculating eye. “It’s a very big fish.” Viola looked at her uncertainly.

Diogenes chuckled lightly. “Be at ease, Viola dear. Exsanguination using leeches takes rather a long while, but it’s virtually painless. Needless to say, it is not my preferred modus operandi.” He lifted his arm toward the narrow path that led off through the trees, and the lake beyond. “Ladies first.”

Reassured by his words Viola smiled and squared her shoulders confidently, restored by the apparent use of her title. She started in the direction of the path only to be stopped by Diogenes delicately clearing his throat.

“I do beg your pardon, Viola,” he said in a soft, apologetic tone, his eye glinting. “But my use of the term ‘Lady’ was literal, not figurative. I was referring to Lucy.”

Lucy glared at him, looking thwarted at being denied access to Viola’s unprotected back. He gave her a knowing wink and waved her along.

“But—” Viola’s bottom lip quivered.

“On with you now,” he said with a grim smile, watching them both impassively as they obeyed, each displaying varying degrees of unhappiness.

With a sigh Diogenes glanced up at the pale, clear gray sky and bright clouds against which the dark, shifting gray of branches and leaves high above tossed fitfully in the warm breeze, and spoke aloud, too softly for anyone else to hear.


In a world always late afternoon,
In the circular smells of a slow wind,
I listen to the weeds' vesperal whine,
Longing for absolutes that never come. ++


Shaking his head slightly, he laid the book he still held gently on the table beside the tea and strolled off down the path after the girl and the woman, whistling.

—
++ from ”What can I tell my bones?” — Theodore Roethke

#6: A Bedtime Tale    table of contents  

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a little girl who was afraid of the dark. She was so afraid of the dark that she asked her father, who also happened to be the king of the realm, for every light in the city to be kept lit all night.”

The reader glanced at the small, huddled lump beneath the covers before turning the page and continuing.

“The doting father sent out a decree that every household was required to keep their lamps and torches burning at all hours. As a result of this, however, there were several terrible fires that swept through the city. A pall of burning constantly hung over the once-beautiful land.

In addition to this hardship, the smell of roasting flesh attracted the attention of the local dragon, who proceeded to swoop down on the town night after night and eat up the all the able-bodied people (as he preferred his meat rare), until one day there was no one left and the town became just a decaying, burnt-out scar on the land and was overrun by the forest.”

The shadow beside the bed paused, gazing at the page.

“Eventually it was paved over and became a strip mall and part of a Walmart parking lot. The End.” He closed the book with a snap.

A soft giggle came from under the covers of the bed. “It doesn’t say that.”

Diogenes glanced up, a look of mildly amused indulgence on his face. “I confess I find it necessary to embellish the dreary prose to keep from truly going mad. Was there ever a more insipid genre created than that of modern children’s literature?”

The bed covers came down and Lucy’s dark, pigtailed head emerged. Even without her coke-bottle lens glasses there was something slightly unnerving about her eyes.

“I didn’t start that fire,” she said cagily to the man sitting beside the bed in a relaxed pose, book over one knee.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said carelessly, without hesitation. “The important thing is that your parents escaped from the shed with only minor burns and smoke inhalation.”

She sighed. “I’m glad I could stay here.”

“Yes, well. They’ll be out of the hospital in another day or so, then you’ll have to go back. This is not a healthy environment for an impressionable child.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the door.

Lucy smiled. “Viola’s not snooping outside any more.”

He tilted his head, listening carefully. “Quite right. You have sharp ears.”

“The better to hear you with, my dear,” Lucy intoned.

Diogenes snorted softly and dumped the colorful children’s book unceremoniously behind his chair. Ignoring the book-filled tote bag beside the bed emblazoned with “Lucy’s Bag of Approved Books” in flowery cross stitch he picked up an old, ancient-looking tome full of graphic illustrations that appeared to be bound in the skin of some rare, foul creature, and opened it. A faintly unpleasant smell emerged. “Now. Where were we — surgical disembowelment?”

“No—” Lucy yawned. “Just past that. But you can read it again; it’s my favorite part so far.”

“Just so.” Diogenes smoothed the page and began reading in meticulous detail the different instruments and techniques used in organ extraction, specifically without the use of anesthetic. He progressed to bloodletting and amputations, lowering the book only as Lucy’s eyes began to flag.

“Tell me the one about the princess and the island,” she murmured. “The one with the grape vines and the olive oil and—” Lucy paused, yawning hugely. “That’s such a nice story. I love the way that one goes, but it can’t go on much longer, can it? It’s a shame, but even a fairy tale princess can’t survive all that.” A note of awe crept into her voice. Diogenes chuckled.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how long you can keep someone alive against their will.” He lifted his head alertly at the soft step outside the door.

“Did you make that one up too?”

“In a manner of speaking, little Uni,” Diogenes said, rising and drawing the covers up to the girl’s chin, tucking her in. “That one is a true story, but it is a work in progress and the ending will have to wait until another time.” He patted the small shoulder gently. “Sweet dreams.”

#7: Independence Day    table of contents  

“Scalpel.”

“Scalpel.”

Diogenes leaned over the draped, brightly-lit table and brought the honed instrument into a focused beam of illumination, its mirroring flash across his face revealing oddly mismatched eyes as he turned it this way and that. After a moment he interrupted his admiration of the blade’s edge and visibly drew himself back to the present, then glanced at the serious face of his assistant. Her young eyes appeared large, magnified and strange in the stark light reflected through lenses as powerful as any surgical loupe. She was watching him intently.

“You do of course realize that a bone saw would normally be employed at this stage,” he pointed out calmly, “however it is imperative that one learn to improvise with the tools one has to hand. Take, for instance, alternate methods of maintaining cooperation: strong rope is every bit as effective as a sedative — at least during, ah — less delicate procedures. For more intricate work...” he gave a negligible shrug accompanied by a dry chuckle. “...the patient eventually weakens and tires, and stops squirming of their own accord. In those situations it helps to have a book handy to read while you wait. Ah. And earplugs, of course. Ready, Lucy?”

“Ready,” came the steady reply. “What if she wakes up before we’re done?”

Diogenes paused. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said, then laughed. “Fortunately, we do have plenty of sedative.”

“And rope,” Lucy muttered.

She leaned closer as Diogenes made a sure vertical incision into the firm, perfect flesh. The skin drew back beneath the sharp knife, parting to reveal a deep, beautiful red beneath. “Oooh. Pretty,” she breathed.

Diogenes grinned at the exclamation. “Yes, isn’t it? Rib spreader.”

Lucy reached dutifully to her right and slapped the instrument expertly into his palm. “You’re quite good at this, little Uni.” Diogenes turned the gleaming metal tool over in his hands lovingly, then handed it back to Lucy. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “you would care to do the honors?”

Her face lit up. “Shouldn’t we use the bone chisel just a little? You know — wedge it open a bit more to fit the spreader claws in?”

He chuckled indulgently. “Hardly necessary, but in operations where there’s no hope or concern for the patient’s recovery, there really is no such thing as overkill. By all means.” He gestured toward the well-tended array of antique surgical tools.

Lucy picked up the bone chisel and a mallet, positioned the chisel, and gave it a prodigious whack, the motion and force behind it more suited to chopping wood.

“Easy,” he cautioned in a careless tone, as she positioned the spreader in the now less-than-surgical-looking opening. She gave another tap with the chisel and mallet then cranked the spreader open several degrees. A wet sucking noise of flesh being rent shuddered through the air, coupled with an ominous splintering and cracking that indicated structural failure.

Diogenes tilted his head as if listening. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid the sedative’s wearing off...”

She cranked once more and a scream erupted suddenly as the rib spreader collapsed from the strain with a sodden fracturing sound and dropped into the ruined, gaping cavity. The air filled with ripe gobbets of red flesh that were flung outward to strike the ceiling and splatter gore along the opposite wall where the door now stood wide open. The shriek came again as their patient subsided with a watery groan, oozing red life force and innards that dribbled down over the table to puddle on the floor.

Diogenes lifted his head placidly and turned it toward the doorway, his features composed. “Viola, dear,” he acknowledged coolly.

“Di-ogenes Dag-repont B-bernooooli Pendergast!” she wailed. “Is this what’s been happening to my prize-winning heirloom organic watermelons? You said we had raccoons!”

“We do,” he said smoothly. “At least there was one dead in the road the other day.”

“Too much tension on the spreader. Sorry,” Lucy said in a small voice.

“An innocent mistake.” Diogenes cleared his throat. “How was your nap, dear?”

Viola blinked through the watermelon ichor dripping out of her hair and swayed a little. “I feel a trifle dizzy, to tell you the truth, though no worse than usual. I’m sure it will pass by the time the Garretts arrive for dinner with the tofu casserole and potato chips.” She recovered enough to give Diogenes a severe look. “I’ll have you know I chose that watermelon especially for the picnic; there’s no salvaging it now. You’ll have to go pick another and hope there’s time left to chill it before the...” She stopped suddenly and paled, her eyes going to Lucy.

Diogenes’ eyes narrowed on her. “The... fireworks?” he asked, reading her apprehension perfectly.

Viola gasped. “Are you sure it’s wise to use that...you know...that word... F — I — R — E? Around...” A desperate look crossed her features. “Around...you know, L — U — C — Y?”

“Fire?” Lucy asked. “I like fire.”

Viola lost another shade of color beneath her tan.

“Now, now, dear,” she soothed. “No one’s accusing you. The police report wasn’t conclusive. And your parents weren’t harmed, so...well, there’s no harm done. You mustn’t take such blame onto your young shoulders. Put it from your mind.” A spot of color warmed Viola’s cheeks once more as her attention returned to Diogenes. “I surely hope you haven’t been filling her poor head with ideas that she was in any way responsible for that wagon rolling in front of the shed door and blocking it with her parents inside, right after the fire started.”

Diogenes’ eyes remained narrowed. “On the contrary. I have been teaching her the basics of fire safety.”

“Did you know that only amateurs use gasoline?” Lucy piped up.

“Oh.” Viola blinked, refocusing on her. “That’s — very good to know, then. One can never be too careful.” She smiled, looking reassured. “Well, now — you two go on out and pick another watermelon while I clean up in here. You do know how to tell if it’s ripe, don’t you?” Lucy recoiled against Diogenes’ side as Viola tipped her a playfully conspiratorial wink, and he placed a comforting, protective hand on her shoulder. Viola rapped a knuckle on her temple and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “A ripe melon sounds rather like a person’s head — somewhere between water-logged and hollow when you thump on it. Here, why don’t you give it a try — a tap just like this, so you’ll know. Go on — you needn’t worry; it won’t hurt me. Don’t be shy, now.”

Diogenes pinned the mallet to the table just in time as Lucy seized and tried to drag it away by force, managing to make the restraint look casual. She gave up after a moment, scowling at him fiercely, but his face didn’t lose its fixed smile. “I think Lucy’s had enough practice for one day. When things get too easy boredom ensues and it’s time to move on. Run along now, Lucy, and I’ll join you outside in a few minutes — after I clean up in here.”

“Honestly, I can take care of your toys, Digi,” Viola said, coming forward as Lucy cast one last glare at her and slunk out. Diogenes’ smile broadened and he showed his teeth as he moved to intercept Viola’s reaching hand. “No one,” he said in a soft, territorially-charged voice, “touches my instruments without permission.” Viola blinked and withdrew, and the menace faded as quickly as it had come, his tone turning silky again. “However I do have an idea...why don’t we go back to the bedroom and finish that nap of yours? I have a very special instrument in mind — just for you.”

“Oh...” Viola’s eyes widened, then dewed up as she made a leap of logic. “Oh, Digi, yes!” She leaned forward and kissed him before he could react. “Yes! I only need two minutes to slip into my negligee! I just knew spending time with Lucy would bring you around to the idea of having children. Just give me two minutes, and no peeking — you don’t want to ruin the surprise!”

She winked and Diogenes arched a ginger-colored eyebrow in response, his lip curling. “Surely not,” he muttered as she disappeared down the hall, humming happily to herself.

He gazed after her, his expression a strange mixture of bemusement and boredom, then roused himself and shook his head slightly as if to clear it. With a sigh he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a hypodermic and a vial of Versed, pierced the rubber stopper with the needle, and casually drew a few units of the vial’s contents into the syringe. He recapped the needle then dropped the vial back into his pocket, palmed the hypodermic, and strolled leisurely down the hall toward the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, his smile restored.

#8: In a Pickle    table of contents  

“Does this make me look fat?” Viola accosted Diogenes in the narrow hallway as he entered the small cottage, draping an outfit that appeared to be a size 2 up against her elegant body.

Diogenes walked past her in restrained silence and she trailed him into the dinette area near the kitchen, where he set the paper grocery bag he had been carrying down on the table.

Viola immediately abandoned the clothes and began rummaging enthusiastically through the sack. “But Digi — you’ve only gotten steaks, tea, apples, rubber gloves, duct tape — did you forget the Important Items I added to your list? Didn’t you get a pregnancy test kit? Baby formula? And what about diapers?”

“You’re not pregnant. But yes. In the interest of peace, I did obtain a pregnancy test kit. It assures 97.2% accuracy, so when the results come back as negative I expect a commensurate reduction in the number of times you raise this absurd subject. Frankly, even 2.8% is too much; you will be silent — one way or another.” He laid the apples and duct tape on the table, eyeing her.

Something in the bag caught her attention suddenly, and she drew out a bar of dark chocolate. “Ooh, Valrhona. I love Valrhona.”

“That,” he said, nipping it from her and laying it safely aside, “is mine.”

“But I need chocolate,” she simpered. “Digi. If I don’t get the proper nutrition it could arrest the baby’s development and it could turn out to have...you know, problems. What if it’s just a bit...slow?”

“Mentally defective, you mean?” He gave her a piercing look. “Certainly a possibility when you factor in genetic predisposition. But you’re not pregnant.”

Her lip quivered, and at the sign of imminent tears he set his teeth and added graciously, “However if you were pregnant I’m certain it would be a beautiful child.”

The cloud disappeared from her face. “Well there is that,” she said brightly. “Beauty does make intelligence seem rather insignificant, when you think about it.”

“Hmm.” Diogenes frowned.

“You didn’t forget the paint, did you?”

“What’s that?”

“Paint. For the baby’s room. I asked for pink. I’m sure it’s a girl. We’ll call it ‘Mandolin’ — Mandy for short.”

“Viola, dear — you are not pregnant,” he repeated yet again, sounding weary. “I don’t know how someone with your level of education can come up with such a patently ridiculous idea in the first place; pregnancy requires a level of intimacy that we have thankfully never engaged in. And while untangling your hair from the shower drain is quite intimate and frankly more personally revolting to me than most people would find performing vivisection on an unanaesthetized living mammal, it is not a viable activity for producing children. As for other options, even you must acknowledge that the possibility of an immaculate conception was eliminated nigh on twenty years ago, in the back of a limousine owned by a member of the House of Commons.”

“Oh, now.” Viola fluttered her hand at him. “They were in the House of Lords, not Commons. I do have my standards, you know. Yes, there’ve been other men in the past, but you needn’t be jealous of them. I’m completely committed to you now. Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing during all those ‘naps’ you insisted I take,” she smiled, tapping the side of her nose. “A woman knows.”

Lucy came in at that moment, lugging a grocery bag in her arms that was nearly as large as herself, and Viola followed her with rapturous eyes. “What a dear little child,” she cooed serenely. “So helpful and polite. Our Mandy will be just like her.” As Lucy staggered to the table Viola turned away and asked, “What about pickles? Did you at least pick up the ice cream and pickles? The baby book said I might crave pickles.”

Diogenes gave her a long look. “One could say you’ve already been in and had more than your fair share of pickles over the years.”

“That’s true enough,” Viola avowed. “I’ve always made my own pickles, you know. There’s simply nothing worse than a limp pickle — sometimes you just have to take matters into your own hands if you want it done right. Some of my most pleasant memories are of hot, sweaty summer afternoons spent in the kitchen with everything spread out all over the tables and countertops, pickling. Pickling, pickling, pickling.” She laughed. “At the end of days like those I didn’t want to see another pickle let alone eat one, but I always woke up the next day ready for more. Some days I felt like a pickling machine.”

“Yes, yes — Viola — “ Diogenes interrupted her, looking pained. “Your prowess in that regard has already been well-documented. It barely taxed my resources to discover your penchant for — pickling.”

“Why didn’t you get ice cream?” Lucy demanded irritably, having upending her grocery sack on the table and shaken it to make sure nothing was hiding in the bottom.

“Because it’s a dairy product and your parents are very strict about you breaking your vegan diet, not to mention the sugar. It makes you cranky,” Diogenes said with a droll primness, and Viola nodded her emphatic adult approval. Lucy glowered at him, and with a smirk he reached into the depths of his bag and nonchalantly tossed a Nutty Buddy ice cream treat onto the table in front of her. She seized it and tore off the wrapper, taking a huge bite as he went to put the package in the freezer.

“Of course,” Viola said blithely, “I used to make my own ice cream by hand as well. Now that was warm work let me tell you — manning the crank — all that churning to get everything to stiffen, and for the cream to come out just right it takes a lot of elbow grease...”

“This topic is hardly suitable for a ten-year-old,” Diogenes said crisply, turning away from the freezer.

Viola blinked, looking momentarily confused at his tone, but then she softened in understanding. “Dear Digi. You’re just uptight about the prospect of becoming a father — I can tell this is going to be difficult for you. You’re one of those men who is so sensitive he experiences the pregnancy sympathetically. I should have known. Your mammary glands will probably become enlarged and you’ll have mood swings right along with me. We’ll lactate together — won’t that be fun!”

Lucy’s eyes bugged eagerly and she shrank back from Viola at the look on Diogenes’ face, wiping the remnants of vanilla ice cream from her mouth as she did so. For a moment utter silence reigned, then Diogenes seized his candy bar from the table and stalked out of the cottage.

Lucy caught up to him at the fence bounding one edge of the forest where he had settled against the old wooden railing and was stoically, meticulously breaking off and consuming squares of his dark chocolate, a faraway look on his face. She hitched herself up onto the top support and sat kicking her feet against the lower rail, silently watching the grim progress of him eating, her eyes following the chocolate from hand to mouth.

“Can I have a piece?” she asked at last, when there was a single piece left.

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed on him and she interrupted him from putting it in his mouth by chanting, “Digi and Viola, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I...”

Diogenes grimaced and handed her the chocolate.

“You’re whipped.”

He promptly took the chocolate back from her and hurled it into the trees.

“...and socially and developmentally maladjusted,” she continued clinically, unphased. Her magnified eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon him. “That’s how a seven-year-old would react to simple juvenile taunting.”

Diogenes didn’t look at her, and when he spoke it was in a low, ominously flat tone. “You are swiftly treading into waters that are well over your head. I hope you can swim, little Uni,” he said softly. “And be wary of the undertow.”

“Studies show that emotional development stops at the age of a specific youthful trauma,” Lucy continued, undaunted.

“Fascinating.” He said it in a dry, bored tone, but there was an unsettled glimmer in his good eye as his gaze slid to her.

She smiled broadly. “I want to be a psychologist when I grow up.”

A flicker of good humor returned to Diogenes’ expression, relaxing the dangerous set of his features. “Ah. Well. You certainly have all the earmarks to make a spectacular specimen of the profession. Perhaps even a leader in the field.”

“Though as of today I have a sudden interest in obstetrics.” Lucy peered at him almost severely. “You know — even I know what a condom is.”

Diogenes sighed and waved a weary, dismissive hand. “What a repulsive implication. Disgusting even aside from the very real danger of — ah, cooties. Viola is simply exhibiting classic symptoms of pseudocyesis, no more. False pregnancy. Wish fulfillment.”

Lucy shrugged nonchalantly. “She looks fatter to me.”

“A physical manifestation of a purely psychological condition,” Diogenes replied, then paused. A glint of idle, wicked amusement came to his eye. “Although — I am certain any salvos aimed at her svelte model’s physique would give her an entirely new set of potentially debilitating psychological hurdles to overcome. All protestations of modesty aside, I believe she is very content with the benefits that perfect body has brought her way. My brother, for instance. It’s preposterous to suppose that he fell in love with her mind at first sight.” He snorted. “If for no other reason, simply because there’s so very little to see.”

“My mom has about 100 diet books up in the attic. I’ll go borrow some now.” Lucy dropped down from the railing and dusted off her sundress. “It’s always good to get a head start on the next twenty pounds — at least that’s what she always says.”

“What a wonderful philosophy to share.” Diogenes paused. “I think that’s a remarkably kind gesture, Uni,” he said, bemused. “Almost uncharacteristically kind of you, in fact.”

He gazed after her with something akin to affection as she made her way off through the woods on the shortcut that led to her house.

She paused suddenly beneath the trees and bent down to pick something up from the forest floor. As he watched she held it up, studying it critically from every angle. Apparently satisfied, she brushed off the chocolate square, popped it in her mouth, and continued on her way.

“Digi!” A shrill sound interrupted his contemplation and with a sigh he turned his attention back toward the cabin. Viola was running toward him. “Digi, look! Look!” she cried breathlessly, her eyes shining. She rushed up, waving a small white stick in front of his face.

“Good God, woman!” he burst out, seizing her by the wrist to stop her from flailing the urine-soaked pregnancy test stick under his nose. He caught sight of the end and went suddenly, absolutely still.

“I told you, didn’t I tell you? I just knew your ponies could run!” she said, glowing.

Diogenes stared at the test in dumbfounded disbelief. The pregnancy marker clearly indicated “positive”.

“But that’s impossible,” he muttered.

“Oh, Digi!” she gushed, throwing her arms about him and almost knocking him backward over the fence. “We’re pregnant!”

#9: Trial by Fire    table of contents  

It was raining, the soft pelting against the cabin making a low drubbing noise on the windows and roof.

Indoors, a low murmur of voices came from the kitchen where a man and a small, bespectacled girl sat at the table, poring over a book. The hurricane lantern resting near the man’s elbow supplemented the rustic lamp overhead, its cheerful flame cutting through the dreary light and casting a warm glow over the sheet of writing paper, where he was notating something.

“Balthasar Hubmaier,” Lucy said, glanced up warily as Viola entered the room and began rummaging in the refrigerator.

“Oh my, yes. That’s lovely,” Diogenes murmured.

“Joan of Arc?”

Diogenes grimaced and tilted his head this way and that, then shrugged and added the name to the list. “Very well. Though she’s a trifle overdone.”

Lucy snorted, following Viola with her eyes as the woman straightened and closed the freezer door. “Digi, we’re out of ice cream again,” she frowned, setting her bowl of gherkins on the table.

Diogenes’ gaze flicked over her absently. “On the contrary, Viola dear. There is actually quite a lot of ice cream in the room, as you would realize if you were familiar with a wonderful little scientific ditty that postulates that matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is merely transformed.” He paused. “What are you doing?”

Viola sat down in the chair across from them and unscrewed the jar of peanut butter then looked up, blinking at the pair of dismayed faces. “We’re out of ice cream, and I’m hungry.”

“You’re not going to...” She dolloped a large spoonful of peanut butter on top of the pickles and Lucy made a quiet gagging noise.

“So what are you two up to on such a dismal day?” she asked obliviously. “I would have thought you’d be out digging up bugs or collecting worms to show to me later.”

Lucy held up the battered book, appearing momentarily incapable of speech. The cover read, Burned at the Stake, being an Illustrated Recounting of... The rest of the title had been obliterated, showing distinct signs of singeing.

“Oh, how nice. A history lesson?”

“Baby names,” Lucy managed, looking disgusted as Viola stirred the concoction in her bowl into a fragrant and lumpy, gooey mess.

“A childhood book of mine,” Diogenes supplied. “I always considered it light reading.”

“How wonderful.” She took a delicate bite of her snack, holding her nose as she crunched on a pickle.

Diogenes shuddered and forced his attention back to Lucy. “Ann Askew,” he said.

Lucy dragged her gaze back to the book, looking green. “Who’s that?”

“Tortured, then burned as a heretic for preaching from banned books. Too crippled by months on the rack to walk to the stake. Quite unfortunate.”

Lucy nodded approvingly, recovering. “Okay. Um...John Bradford?”

“Too bland.” He smirked. “Although, There but for the grace of God go I.”

Her brow furrowed as she scanned the pages. “Ramihrdus of Cambrai.”

“Very nice,” Diogenes said, notating it. “Ram-ihr-dus.”

“Rowland Taylor. We don’t have many girl names yet,” Lucy pointed out.

“No. Too many witches had rather boring, upstanding Christian names.”

“I beg your pardon,” Viola interrupted, licking the peanut butter off her lips, “but whatever sex the child is, it will have a musical name. It’s a tradition in my family.”

“And unusual names are a tradition in mine,” Diogenes countered, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. “If you can come up with a strange muscial name...”

“...of someone who was burned at the stake...” Lucy inserted.

“...then perhaps we will have an accord.” Diogenes smiled.

“Well—” Viola sniffed, “Viola’s a musical name. And it’s rather unique. Or at least I think so. If it’s a girl I should like for it to be named after me.”

Diogenes turned to Lucy. “Has there ever been anyone burned at the stake by the name of ‘Viola’?”

Lucy focused her eyes on Viola. “Not yet.”

Diogenes gave a regretful shake of his head and turned back to her. “There you have it.”

A long silence fell as she pondered this. Diogenes turned the pen leisurely in his long fingers, keeping half an indulgent, amused eye on Lucy, whose look had turned crafty.

After a moment Viola brightened. “Oh, nevermind, I’m sure we’ll manage to find someone by that name who’s been burned, by the time the baby’s due. Now...I have some wonderful news, that I’ve just been bursting to share.” She turned to Lucy. “Your mummy’s going to be throwing a baby shower for me next weekend, and I’m going to take you into town tomorrow to make sure you have a proper outfit for the occasion.”

Diogenes blinked at the announcement and perked up, smiling broadly as he straightened in his chair. “Well now this promises to be interesting.”

Viola turned to him. “You’re coming too.”

“But...”

“While Lucy’s being fitted for her dress we’re going to pick out a nice suit for you at Arthur’s Bring and Buy. It’s a shame we’re not in New York or Paris, but we’ll just have to make the best of it; at least you’ll be the best-dressed man at the party. Of course the only other man there will be Mr. Garrett, but I guarantee you’ll be the envy of all the dowagers in town.”

Lucy snickered and Diogenes instantly leveled a glowering look at her. “I think Lucy will look positively adorable in pink,” he sneered.

“The party dress is already picked out, Digi,” Viola said airily. “This is just a fitting, though of course we’ll need to accesseorize. You do like dressing up, don’t you darling? Jewelry, earrings?”

“No,” Lucy snapped.

Viola tsked. “Oh, well, stuck way out in the middle of nowhere like this it’s no wonder; you haven’t had the chances to shop like a normal girl would. We’ll see what we can’t do to wake that desire in you tomorrow, all right?”

“No.”

“You can buy whatever you want; it’s my treat.” Viola added blithely. She turned to Diogenes. “Digi, I’ll need to borrow the checkbook.”

“Of course, Viola dear.” Lucy turned betrayed eyes on him and he smiled. “But I’m afraid I will have to claim Lucy from your clutches by 10 a.m.; you see, we have a previous engagement that simply cannot be rescheduled.”

“But...the stores don’t open until 9 a.m.! That only gives us an hour to shop and bond with one another!”

“Yes...well, it is a tragedy, but I’m sure with your nonpareil shopping skills you’ll manage to throw something together in half that time. Shall we meet at 9:30 in front of the General Store, then? That’s next to the Big Scoop Ice Cream Parlour and gossip den, I believe,” he added.

Viola paused, visibly considering. “Y-yes. Yes, I guess that would work. But Digi — what about your suit?!”

“I’m sure I have something in mothballs that will make the sort of impression you desire. No need to bother Arthur with disrupting his dusty racks looking for something that would fit me.”

“Oh. Well that’s all right, then. What are you planning on doing tomorrow, by the way?”

Diogenes waved a lean, long-fingered hand negligently in the air. “Excavation of ancient ruins. A whole civilization, in fact, down by the creek. Lucy found bits of a skull the other day, didn’t you Lu?” Lucy nodded mutely, giving him a look of mingled resentment and gratitude. He smiled cynically.

“Well, that sounds interesting.” Viola’s brow furrowed for a brief moment, then she smiled hopefully. “Not quite as fun as shopping of course — I don’t suppose there’s any chance at all of rescheduling? I do so hate to dash Lucy’s hopes, when I’ve just lit the fire of passion in her for shopping. She’ll be dreadfully disappointed now.”

Lucy tensed, but Diogenes didn’t even look at her. “I’m afraid not, Viola,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll agree that teaching a child the value of keeping ones promises, no matter how onerous and burdonsome they may be, is worth far more than a morning and afternoon of fun with you.”

Viola sighed. “You do have a point, Digi.”

“Oh I promise I always do, my dear. I always do.”

#10: Ladykiller    table of contents  

There was a weight of expectancy in the air, heavy and silent as the atmosphere at a chess match, with each opponent waiting for the other to make a game-ending mistake.

Three glasses containing clear liquid sat on the table before Diogenes’ folded hands. Across from him, Lucy studied the setup carefully. In front of her sat six unmarked beakers, each filled with similarly innocuous-looking clear fluid. She lifted one and leaned forward.

Diogenes cleared his throat. “Be careful,” he said, just as she brought the beaker lip to the glass on her left. She paused, raising her eyes to scrutinize his face with the keenness of a high stakes poker player, then with pointed deliberation dumped the contents into the glass she had chosen. The liquids swirled together, instantly turning the combined ingredients a virulent, roiling red. Dense white smoke boiled off the surface, spilling coldly down the sides of the glass.

“And?” he prompted, with an unconcerned tone of urgency. Lucy calmly picked up another beaker, added it to the mixture, and the liquid in the glass turned clear once more, subsiding. “Excellent. Most excellent.” Diogenes declared, and Lucy glowed at the praise.

“Lucy, there you are! What’s that you’re doing? It looks ever so interesting.” At the sound of a woman’s cultured voice both man and girl turned to face the doorway, their smiles fading abruptly to be replaced by an expression most often associated with nails being drawn over a blackboard.

Diogenes leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “It’s a game, Viola, requiring wit and nerve. While you have an overabundance of the later, I fear you suffer from a substantial lack of the former.”

“Piffle,” she scoffed, waving him off as she came forward. If a child can do it, surely I can manage.”

His eyes widened. “Viola, you mustn’t...”

Lucy slid under the table like an eel and Diogenes leapt back with alacrity, knocking his chair away as Viola blithely picked up a beaker at random and upended it into the middle glass.

The explosion that ensued rattled the dishes in the cupboard and sent a roiling curl of sulfurous smoke toward the ceiling as the adjacent glass and beakers shattered simultaneously, setting off a second miniature explosion with an accompanying poisonous green cloud, and the tablecloth caught fire, the red and white checked plastic melting and curling in on itself and adding a greasy black pall to the air.

Diogenes exhaled sharply.

“Isn’t that pretty!” Viola clapped. “And you thought I wouldn’t be good at this. Didn’t I tell you?! Whatever I put my hand to, no matter how hard it is, it always comes out spectacularly!”

He grimaced. “Viola, I feel compelled to remind you that there are delicate ears in the room,” he said tersely. “Not to mention a young child.”

A pair of unnaturally magnified eyes materialized over the rim of the table, appearing mesmerized behind the flames reflecting in the thick glass. Diogenes stepped forward, lifting Lucy safely away from the fire with one hand and tossing a handful of nearby powder onto the small blaze with the other and covering it with the lid of a cooking pot, smothering the smoldering mess.

“Well, that was fun!” Viola exclaimed. “Can we have another go?”

“No,” Diogenes said acidly, removing his hand from the smoking lid. “Most certainly not.”

“Oh.” She looked momentarily disappointed, then her eyes fell on Lucy and she brightened. “Never mind. I was just coming to fetch Lucy, anyway.” She reached out and snared Lucy’s small, pudgy hand in her strong tanned one. Lucy tried pulling free, to no avail. “Come — you’re going to help your Auntie Viola prepare for her baby shower this evening. If you’re very good I’ll even let you help me do my nails and hair.”

The girl suddenly stopped struggling against the older woman’s limpet grip, and smiled.




Diogenes glanced down at his timepiece, frowned at the arrangement of the hour and minute hands, then knocked on the bathroom door again. “Viola, dear...we’re going to be late.” There was no answer. He tried again. “While I have made my feelings regarding this party quite clear, I despise tardiness even more. Are you...” The door opened suddenly, and Diogenes took a step back. “Oh...my.” He waved a hand delicately in front of his nose to dispel an acrid, burning odor and Viola stepped out, moving stiffly. “Goodness, woman — what happened?!”

“There was an...a bit of an incident with the hairspray and one of my homemade olive oil candles.” she sniffed. “Lucy found this wig in your closet before she went home to change for the party; she said you can hardly tell any difference.” She pushed the lopsided hairpiece further askew and looked at him hopefully. “What do you think?”

“Oh, my,” Diogenes repeated, reaching up to cover an ill-disguised smile with his fingertips. “Good old Menzies. It’s quite...becoming. A pity, though, that you were unable to find a matching eyebrow pencil.”

“Yes. Well I suppose all the women in town will want to copy the fashion now, though not everyone can pull off this style — fortunately I have the bone structure and well-bred cheekbones to manage.” She sniffed again. “Frangelico would simply die if he saw my beautiful hair in such a state. He’s the best stylist in all of Rome, and says he’s never seen such naturally beautiful tresses.”

“It’s just as well he can’t see you now, then,” Diogenes said gallantly, and held out his arm for her. “If we don’t leave now you will give new meaning to the phrase ‘fashionably late’, though unfortunately at the moment you are flagrantly neither. Shall we?”

Viola reached for his proffered arm then stopped, as if seeing him for the first time. She looked him up and down, blinking at the sight of him standing resplendent in a wine-colored formal smoking jacket with braided trim and intricately knotted frog closures, perfectly tailored to his lean form.

Her eyes lit up. “Why Digi,” she breathed, “you look positively smashing!”

He lifted a languid eyebrow at her reaction. “Naturally. The very last thing I wish to do is embarrass you in front of everyone on an occasion of such significance to you. We must get there, first. At any rate, I thought it important that one of us look our best.”

“Oh, Digi...”

“Now, now...” He smoothed the front of his jacket with one hand as he held up the other, forestalling an embrace. “You mustn’t muss me, or you really will be late,” he warned.




As Diogenes drove up the Garrett’s long drive they saw nearly a dozen cars already parked out in front of the house.

“It looks like the whole town is here!” Viola said excitedly. “I do hope this means lots of presents. Or better yet, perhaps they all pooled together and bought me something nice. That baby rattle from Tiffany’s was quite adorable. Or the silver spoon. I expect the gift will be something practical like that, anyway. If nothing else, these are very practical and down-to-earth people.”

“Yes; the genuine article will certainly be a breath of fresh air,” Diogenes said dryly.

The door was opened by an elderly woman.

“Mrs. Townsend-Garrett,” Diogenes said at once, inclining his head politely. “Lucy’s grandmother, I believe?”

The old woman held out her hand. “And you must be Diogenes. Call me Adele. Lucy has told me so much about you.”

Diogenes took her hand and laid a courtly kiss against the papery skin. “Adele. The pleasure is all mine.”

Viola glared at him. “And I’m Viola,” she said, shouldering him aside and holding out her hand with a dazzling smile.

Adele’s eyes narrowed on her. “Lady Viola, isn’t it?”

Viola colored prettily and gave a small laugh. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact...but I don’t like to talk about that.”

Mrs. Townsend-Garrett looked her over severely. “I should think not. Very undignified, not to mention difficult, trying to say it with a straight face. You’re right to want to keep that to yourself.”

Viola’s blush turned a deeper, less pretty shade, and she lifted her chin. “It’s very important to me to make people realize that I’m no better than they are, even though my great-grandfather was a master violinist and my great-grandmother was a Duchess,” she said, her tone dripping with aristocratic curlicues.

Lucy’s grandmother stared at Viola, appearing dumbstruck. “Goodness,” she managed at last. “I thought Lucy was fibbing about you.”

“Yes, well,” Viola said magnanimously. “It does take a while to realize that it’s who I am that makes me special, not some silly title or the inheritance and estate in Cornwall or my bungalow in the Tuscan Isles. She did mention that I’m an Egyptologist for a couple months out of the year, didn’t she? I’m very dedicated to my career, you know; nearly as much as I am to nurturing this baby.”

The old woman looked dazed and Diogenes intervened smoothly, steering her gently down the hall.

“Lucy mentioned that you have a fascination with pain,” Adele said faintly, leaning on his arm for support, “but she neglected to mention the great personal tolerance you have for the excruciating. And what is that thing on her head?”

“The style is all the rage among the professorial and law enforcement types in New York,” Diogenes offered. “Though unfortunately the fashion is from last season’s lineup.”

“Well. I don’t approve of people wearing dead animals, even if it’s done tastefully — and that certainly is not. It looks as though it’s been run over by a train.”

As they approached the living room the voices of several women reached them, all chattering in excitement.

“I heard he’s a kindergarten teacher.”

“No, no... A doctor. My hip’s been bothering me; I wonder if he would mind taking a look...”

A hue and cry arose as they appeared in the doorway. “Here he is! Here’s our mystery man! Oooh, and he’s a red-head!” A blue-haired woman barged up to Diogenes, taking his other arm and batting eyelashes heavy with clumped mascara at him. “My first husband was a red-head. In-satiable! A real tiger in the...” She paused, peering up at him. “You are a natural red-head, aren’t you? The rug does match the curtains?”

“I guarantee, Madame,” Diogenes began, keeping his poise as the other septuagenarian and octogenarian women crowded round and he was jostled, “that I am quite the...”

“This is the father? Where’s the ring?” A severe-faced woman accosted Viola, who had just come up behind Diogenes and Adele. “You are getting married, aren’t you?”

“Well. He hasn’t exactly proposed yet,” Viola said modestly. “I’ve actually been proposed to several times, as you can imagine, but you could say I’ve been holding out for just the right man.”

Diogenes smiled thinly. “I would venture to say that ‘holding out’ isn’t the operative word, nor the general problem.” He turned to the grim woman. “Mrs. Woodard. Might I comment on your own rather stunning ring?”

“What, this old thing?” the matron exclaimed, her hatchet-wielding mien softening. “My late husband gave it to me, God rest his soul, before he dragged me from New York to this social black hole. Died two days into retirement — fishing, if you can believe that.” Diogenes’ eyes gleamed as she allowed him to take her hand. “It’s a blue diamond,” she added, “surpassed in rarity only by red diamonds, or so I’ve been told.” For a brief moment Diogenes’ hands appeared to tremor, then he mastered himself.

Viola cleared her throat noisily and continued in a louder than usual voice, “Yes. As I was saying, I haven’t been given a ring by the right man yet.”

“At least five carats,” Diogenes murmured, “if I am not mistaken. An old Asscher-cut...beautiful. Quite remarkable.”

Mrs. Woodard glowed at him. “You know your diamonds, young man.”

“Digi did offer me a diamond once,” Viola interjected, squeezing herself in between Diogenes and the second woman, reclaiming his arm. “While we were courting. Didn’t you, Digi darling?” She looked down her nose at Mrs. Woodard’s ring. “It was at least six carats. He presented it to me with the most beautiful, romantic speech of how I reminded him of it.”

“Twenty-two carats,” Diogenes said absently. “It was twenty-two carats. As I recall, you hurled it at my head, screaming the most vile imprecations. Regrettably, I was forced to return the stone to its previous owner. The entire experience was extremely — profoundly shattering.” He smiled.

There was a horrified gasp from the gathered women at this revelation, and much head shaking. “You poor man,” someone behind Mrs. Woodard clucked. Diogenes calmly reached into his smoking jacket and withdrew a cigar.

“Now, Digi. You’re smart enough to know that I was just playing hard to get,” Viola cooed, ignoring the hostile stares. “Any man who wants to be with me must pass the test.”

“The ranks of Mensa would be enormously engorged were they to include passing your ‘hard to get’ test in their acceptance criteria.” He trimmed the cigar and pulled out a box of cedar matches, tapping the end open casually as he scanned above the heads of a dozen or so women craning to get a closer look at him. “Now, if you will excuse me for a moment...I have a matter of utmost importance to attend to.” He strolled forward and their sighing ranks parted to let him pass, then sealed once more in his wake.

“Excuse me,” Viola said from behind them, but no one moved.

Diogenes stopped in front of a nearly-bare card table set up in a lonely corner of the room. Lucy stood beside it, wearing a pink satin dress on which sequins and frills competed in a ruthless, garish war for dominance. A pink grosgrain choker around her neck and cubic zirconia tiara perched atop her braided and pig-tailed hair completed the outfit, every bit of it looking distinctly incongruous in contrast to the immaculately drab and colorless room, to say nothing of her expression.

Around the edge of the table a brilliant, hot pink chicken-feather boa had been strung, an apparently impromptu decoration that seemed to be glued on with sagging green bubblegum.

On the table itself sat a single plate of hors d'œvre consisting of little cubes of tofu wrapped in wilted lettuce and speared with anemic celery, topped with melted and re-congealed soy cheese that dripped down the sides like molded plastic. A sparse sprinkling of sesame seeds that had been added while the cheese was still warm had settled into the unnatural-looking surface, glinting like aggregate pebbles in concrete.

Next to the hors d'œvres sat a pitcher of water and a single glass with a note rubber-banded to the side: “Visitors: Please share glass to save washing and conserve natural resources.”

The only thing of color on the table was a cigar box full of yellow and green bubblegum cigars, clearly marked “SUGAR FREE” and proclaiming “IT’S A _______!!!” The word that had been penciled in had nothing to do with gender. With the exception of two green cigars missing from the box, everything on the table appeared to be untouched.

Diogenes’ eyes roved over the entire scene, finally settling on her. “My, don’t you look lovely, Lucy,” he said, looking down his nose at her with a staid reserve fully befitting his formal attire. “Cute as the little urchin you are.” He paused expectantly. “Aren’t you going to offer me a refreshment?”

“Bite me,” she said.

Amusement flickered in his good eye as he narrowed his gaze on her. “Oh I would, yes,” he drawled smoothly, “but you’re such an overwhelming confection, and I fear I’ve left my insulin at home.”

Lucy folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not speaking to you.”

“Ah, but you obviously are speaking to me,” he pointed out, “though pushing your lower lip out like that does little to improve your diction.”

“This is all your fault,” she scowled. “You...you touched her. You made a...a...thing with her!”

Diogenes looked mildly taken aback. “All my fault! My dear Lucy. Such hero worship, while not undeserved, is slightly overstated. And as for touching her...” His lip curled in genuine disdain. “I did nothing of the sort, though I admit it is sometimes necessary when searching for a vein.”

Her expression remained stony and he sighed, eyes straying to a small table just behind her, set against the wall. The hand-lettered sign above it proclaimed “GIFTS”. Below the sign a single package lay, no larger than a small Tiffany’s gift box, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied with a silver ribbon. “A gift,” he said, sounding surprised.

Lucy’s nose wrinkled. “Mum made me get something for her. I’m at your house so much she said I had to.”

“Indeed!” Diogenes’ eyebrows rose higher. “From you? I’m sure Viola will be driven to tears by your thoughtfulness. I hope it’s returnable.”

She shook her head, her look turning crafty. “Can’t,” she said cagily. “I found something I thought she would like while I was helping her fix her hair earlier.”

Diogenes grunted at that, his own expression darkening. “Ye-es, regarding that... What a resourceful little creature you are, rummaging through my personal belongings without permission.”

“I took all the necessary precautions,” she glowered back at him, ignoring the humorless, almost dangerous edge to his voice. “You shouldn’t worry about me. By the way, you need a better lock. A child could pick it.”

He batted an eye and started to say something in response, then caught himself and stopped, closing his mouth. For a moment his face was a deadly blank as he stared at her, then his serene mask slipped back into place and his lips twitched ruefully. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said mildly. “Might I add, you have a particular talent for improvisation in the face of disaster. Have you ever considered a career as a make-up artist, or perhaps a plastic surgeon?”

Lucy smirked in spite of herself and he tilted his head at her in response. The air seemed to warm between them again. “Shall we call it Pax?”

“You’re not stuck wearing this dress,” she countered.

He smiled. “A valid point. Here,” he murmured sympathetically, leaning closer. He held out his hand and she deftly plucked the car key out of his fingers. “There’s a sack for you in the back seat of the car. Fortunately Viola took a convenient little nap on the way here, so I didn’t have to explain the redolent odor of French fries and hamburger.” Lucy snorted and he straightened, composing his face once more. “And do try not to look so cheerful;” he admonished dourly, “it is especially unbecoming on an occasion such as this.”

“Extra ketchup?” she asked hopefully. “You did remember to ask for extra ketchup?”

He raised an eyebrow. “But of course. Off with you now, before the delicacy coagulates completely.”

Lucy scampered out, escaping by the nearest exit almost before the words had left his mouth.

With one last, baleful look at the beautifully wrapped gift on the table, Diogenes visibly girded himself, then smiled grimly and turned around to face his clustered and whispering gaggle of admirers. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and paused to light it, eyes crinkling at the corners as he surveyed the room and its inhabitants like a cat measuring brand new, unmarked furniture. “Ladies,” he purred.

Viola had managed to squirm her way through the press of women and stood panting before them from the effort but as Diogenes approached the women swarmed forward, amoeba-like, and she was sucked to the back of the room once more.

“Mrs. Halverson,” he said, handing the first woman a cigar. Another appeared in his fingers as if by magic. “Mrs. Whitman. What a lovely diamond necklace! Adele. Shall we all retire to the...ah, hermetically-sealed furnishings while we wait for the festivities to start?” He continued to hand out fragrant cigars as he made his way to a white sofa and matching side chairs, all of which were wrapped in a double layer of thick protective plastic, and casting a disdainful look at the lampshades which were still wrapped in their cellophane packaging from the store, settled in the center of the couch.

He was immediately surrounded on all sides by the bevy of powdered, perfumed and bejeweled older women maneuvering and pinching like schoolgirls to get closer or claim a seat beside him, the competition made more interesting by the presence and discreet yet viciously skilled use of canes. Diogenes, for his part, proceeded to trim and light cigars all around as they settled into their pecking order, as sanguine as if he were on a private yacht entertaining the most elite and cultured of glitterati. A cloud of smoke quickly accumulated around their heads.

“Do please be careful of that ash, Mrs. Pirini,” he remarked to the woman standing behind him. “It takes a terribly long time to get the smell of burning out of one’s hair.”

“Digi...” Viola had once again worked her way to the front, and stood before him looking slightly more bedraggled than she had when she first arrived.

“Ah, Viola — may I offer you a cigar?”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t. The baby, you know.” She turned to the other women and gave a conspiratorial wink. “He does so like to kid me about there being no baby at all. Preposterous, really. Doesn’t he have the most wonderful sense of humor?”

Diogenes sighed, turning his cigar over in his fingers as if inspecting it. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention that I took the liberty of obtaining a blood sample and it returned a negative for pregnancy?”

The woman surrounding him gasped.

She waved his words away. “Oh, Digi — don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’m pregnant! What about all those pickles I’ve eaten?”

Diogenes winced. “Viola, dear — delicate ears,” he reminded her in a pained tone. “Not to mention there are ladies present.”

“And all that peanut butter?” she went on heedlessly. “Mixed with marshmallows and mayonnaise? You simply can’t tell me I’ve been suffering through eating all those vile combinations for nothing! And what about the weight I’ve gained? I’ve been following the magazine instructions of foods pregnant women crave to the letter!”

“Now, now, Viola, there’s no accounting for taste. Case in point is your affection for my brother. Shall we be plain? I was never more than your second choice, and rather dismally further down the list than that if you look at your history.”

A dozen heads swiveled toward her.

“Digi...you aren’t trying to embarrass me in front of all these people, are you?” Viola laughed demurely. “What an absolute card you are!”

“Embarrass you?” He appeared momentarily weary. “A more monumental undertaking I have never faced, I assure you,” he said, then sighed and waved a hand through the haze of cigar effluvium, a spark lighting in his good eye as he drew on his cigar. His brow puckered. “Has anyone seen our hostess, the redoubtable Mrs. Garrett?” he asked hopefully, sending another stream of smoke toward the kitchen, where the clashing and banging of pots could be clearly heard. “Viola, dear, perhaps you would be so kind as to ask if she would like to join us for a cigar?”

She brightened. “What a brilliant idea!”

Before she could move however, the imposing frame of Mrs. Garret loomed in the doorway as if summoned, skillet in hand. “WHO is smoking in my house?!” she roared. She lifted the heavy pan higher as she spoke, then swung it in Diogenes’ direction with a shriek. “You! This is a baby shower — no men allowed! Don’t you know that it’s bad luck when a man attends a baby shower?!”

“I can’t imagine worse luck,” Diogenes intoned drolly as the women surrounding him shrank back.

Viola raised her nose and turned on him. “Yes. Everyone knows men aren’t supposed to attend baby showers,” she spoke up primly, echoing Jeanette. “How can you do such a thing to me, Digi? Here you are, offending our wonderful hostess when you know how special this day is to me!”

“You’re to sit outside on the bench with George — he was supposed find you when you arrived. Boy, when I catch him I’m going to give him holy what-for!” Jeanette waved the already dented frying pan ominously and Diogenes found his feet with alacrity.

“Mrs. Garrett, my most profound apologies.” He addressed the glowering woman with a studied expression of cool chagrin. “I assumed the plastic-wrapped furniture and lack of ashtrays was to allow the ashes to fall freely. My mistake. Ladies...” He bowed graciously to the gathering of disappointed women. “I take my leave of you. Viola.” He nodded. “Perhaps now would be a good time to open the ah...gift?”

“Oh, yes!” Viola exclaimed excitedly. “Gifts!”

“Not while he’s here, you don’t. OUT!”

“Madame, I am leaving,” Diogenes said, touching his fingertips gracefully to his heart as the pan twitched in Jeanette’s hand, “before my presence overtaxes your most generous desire to further extend your hospitality toward me.”




Diogenes walked across the small clearing, his manner relaxed, yet his head was raised and alert. He adjusted his course slightly to head directly into the light breeze, which led him to an old wooden bench on the bare ground beneath a singed-looking tree. A man was sitting on it with his hands clasped tightly around a green bubblegum cigar, looking extremely nervous.

“Good evening, George,” Diogenes said, approaching with the quietness of a cat not wanting to startle an already petrified mouse into flight.

“I heard the yelling...I’m sorry,” he stammered, as Diogenes’ shadow loomed closer. “I was supposed to tell you not to go in, but...I wasn’t allowed to go within a 100 yards of the house during the party...”

“Pray don’t mention it.” Diogenes held up a hand. “It is a brave man who will put himself in harm’s way to spare someone an agony he himself fears; shrewd men, like rabbits, do not mind the appearance of cowering cravenly upwind.” He lifted his head again as if testing the direction of the wind then gave a satisfied nod and settled on the bench next to Mr. Garrett. “No hard feelings.”

George appeared to relax and Diogenes leaned back, eyes narrowing on him as he drew on his cigar. The fat tip flared briefly, then he blew the smoke out through pursed lips. “Cigar?” he asked, the offering appearing in his fingers.

George’s eyes widened again. “Oh, no, no. I can’t.” He shook his head emphatically. “Janette would kill me.”

“Preferable to abstaining from life, such as it is,” Diogenes said lazily, shrugging as he slipped the cylinder back into his jacket. “But to each his own.”

George turned his bubblegum cigar over in his hands morosely, then ventured, “That Viola — she’s ah...quite a woman. Quite a Lady,” he amended hastily. “Whenever she’s over here for tea with Janette she won’t stop talking about the baby, and how she hopes the baby has your eye color. Well, the blue one, anyway — she says the other one makes you look unbalanced.”

Diogenes grunted, releasing another cloud of smoke into the evening air. “How perceptive of her. However — I feel it only fair to enlighten you, that Viola is not in fact pregnant.”

George stared at him. “She’s not pregnant?”

“I took the liberty of acquiring a blood sample during one of her naps, which negated the ‘pee and see’ test.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief! I mean...” George stammered to a halt and Diogenes raised an amused eyebrow at him.

“Yes?”

“Well, I mean...” George cleared his throat gruffly. “That is... I came over one day a while back when you weren’t there, and Viola was just waking up from a nap. I asked to borrow a cup of sugar and...well, one thing led to another and before I knew it...” He paused, looking dazed. “I hardly had a choice in the matter. I just...she was like a...an animal. I hope you won’t tell Janette. It was just the one time.” He shivered. “Janette never does anything like that. I mean, I didn’t know it was even possible to...” He stopped, looking suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry,” he went on, “she’s your woman and all, but — well, no offense, a woman’s got needs too. She sees how happy Janette is, it’s only natural she would be curious.” George puffed out his chest, surreptitiously inspecting Diogenes’ long, lithe frame like a stringy, pot-bound rooster measuring itself against a peacock.

“Of course. I’m sure she found the experience — memorable,” Diogenes said leisurely, studying his fingernails.

“Yep.” George sucked in his lower lip. “You satisfy a lady right the first time, and that’s all it takes. Just the once. That’s what Janette says, anyway. Women only keep coming back for more if they think you need to try and do better.” He nodded. “Yessir...George Garrett does things right the first time.”

“Yes...” Diogenes looked amused, almost reflective. “Well, there is Lucy to consider, I suppose.”

At that moment a deep, muffled boom echoed from within the house that shook the ground beneath them, rattling the windows. Screams broke out.

Neither man moved, but George winced slightly at the sound of hysterical pandemonium unfolding inside the house. “Yessir,” he repeated stoically, visibly trying to shut out the sounds of panic. He pushed the coke bottle lenses up on his nose. “Lucy’s a good example. I do things right the first time.”

As the first coughing, wheezing and weeping evacuees began stumbling out into the yard accompanied by swirling noxious fumes and smoke Diogenes chuckled, a low, dry sound that rolled from a place deep within his chest, and he laughed as he hadn’t laughed in a long time.

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