Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

Tom kept his eyes on the door until Sam left. “Asshole.”

“Dad!” Dylan gasped.

“Can’t help it, he is,” Tom said.

Mick smiled. “And you wonder why I like your Dad. But…” he tossed his hands up, “guess I’m out of luck. I was gonna see if you wanted to hang out and watch that concert with me.”

Again, before Dylan could respond, Tom did. “Oh, sure she can, Mick. My wife wanted to work tonight anyhow. So come on and pick her up about eight.”

“Dad!” Dylan turned to him. “I can’t afford to lose the hours.”

Mick laughed. “Two hours? Hell, I’ll pay you what you lose.”

“Isn’t that prostitution?” Dylan asked.

“Better to get paid for it, than to give it away.”

“Isn’t that a Lars line?” Mick asked.

“Could be,” Tom answered. “All the good ones are. And speaking of Lars, I have to get on the horn with that dealer. None of Lars’ favorite movies have arrived and he’ll be showing up in a little bit for his month-long visit. Everyone else in town is preparing.”

“Tell me about it,” Mick said. “Heard Jean’s Diner is ordering that Italian desert. Tara-something or other.”

“Tiramisu,” Dylan corrected. “And that’s not what she ordered. She ordered cannelloni.”

“Whatever.” Mick tossed out his hand. “So you going with me or not?”

“Not.” Dylan answered then smiled. “Sure. Why not.”

The door to the video store opened once more, and Tom turned his head. “Ah, Mr. McCaffrey,” he said.

Mick had heard the name, but hadn’t met the man. Not that he wanted to, but when Dylan’s attention quickly shifted from him, he wanted to see the guy. He blinked in surprise when Patrick’s appearance failed to match his name.

“Evening,” Patrick said holding his video case.

“Hi, Patrick.” Dylan smiled while tucking her hair behind her ears in a flirtatious manner.

“Stop that.” Mick pulled her hand down then untucked her hair.

Patrick smiled and laid the case on the counter. “Just wanted to drop this off.”

“Are you…” Dylan tilted her head, “gonna rent something else for maybe you and your wife this evening?”

“My wife?” Patrick asked.

“You know, a woman you possibly live with,” Dylan fished.

“Stop that,” Mick snapped.

Flinging her hand at him to hush him, Dylan smiled again at Patrick. “Video?”

“No. Not tonight,” Patrick answered. “I’m planning on taking in that concert.”

“Possibly with your… girlfriend?” Dylan questioned.

“Stop that,” Mick said again, louder.

“For crying out loud!” Tom’s hand slammed to the counter. “If you want to know, Dylan, just ask the man if he’s involved.”

Horrified, Dylan just wanted to duck behind the counter.

“Mr. McCaffrey” Tom faced him, “are you married?”

“No.” Patrick shook his head.

“Engaged? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Homosexual lover?”

“Dad!”

Patrick chuckled. “No.”

“So…” Tom continued, “you are an available heterosexual man?”

“Yes.”

“Meet my daughter, Dylan. Estranged from her asshole husband, attractive woman, nice, outgoing…” Just about the point where Tom received a blushing smile from Dylan, he erased it with more rambling. “Nice girl. Good heart. She’s also deeply involved here with…” Tom held out his hand toward Mick, “the Chief of Police. Mr. McCaffrey, meet Mick Owens, our Chief.”

Dylan groaned and slumped.

Mick stood up straight for the first time and extended his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you.”

“Whoa.” Patrick looked up. “Remind me not to break the law in this town.”

“Or the next,” Tom added. “And speaking of breaking the law, I have to work on those trial films I want in for Lars. Excuse me.” Tom waved and walked off toward the back of the store.

“Well, I’ll see you tonight.” Just as Patrick started to leave, his eyes skimmed the return cart. “Wait.” He backtracked and pointed. “Is that the new horror flick?”

Dylan looked. “Oh, yeah, just came back.” She lifted it. “Did you want to rent it?”

“You know what?” Patrick said. “Yeah. I’ll watch it after the concert.”

“Great.” Dylan smiled. “Any candy?”

Mick moaned.

“Um… sure. Chocolate covered peanuts.” Patrick pointed.

Dylan snidely shifted her eyes to Mick then grabbed a box. “Four dollars.”

Mick’s attention was caught. “Whoa. Wait. You didn’t ask for his video card.”

“Don’t need to.” Dylan told him. “I know him.”

“You know me and I have to show my card.” Mick argued.

“You’re the worst customer we have.” Dylan returned to Patrick. “Four dollars, please.”

“This isn’t right.” Mick lifted a finger. “And, busy with Lars’ films or not…” he took a step back, “I’m telling.” Turning, Mick walked in the direction Tom had gone.

Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Dylan replied.

“I’ve been in town a week,” Patrick said, “Everyone is going nuts, getting ready and making arrangements for someone named Lars. Who is this Lars guy?”

Andapa Village

Madagascar, Africa

Lars Rayburn’s shoulder-length hair was at one time considered his most attractive feature, but that was when Lars was under the age of forty. In his fifties, the long blonde hair had become stringy and grey, balding far back at the temples and crown. But Lars didn’t care. A thin man of average height, he never was vain, nor was he one to care what people thought of him. Perhaps that was what made Lars so likeable.

In the humid heat, sweat formed heavily on his chest as Lars, wearing only a pair of tattered white pants, finished his examination of the five-year old boy. He lifted the child, adding a joke in the native language just before handing out candy that could only come from the United States of America.

Pleased, the boy ran away, and the child’s mother stammered her gratitude after Lars told her the child would be just fine.

Time for a quick break.

He thought he caught a breeze through the window opening in the metal shed he generously called a clinic. Lars inhaled it, appreciating the momentary relief from the heat. More patients waited outside, as they always did. They traveled far for the free care he provided.

One thing was true about Lars, and everyone knew it. He made his money from royalty checks he received from romance novels he penned under the name of Madeline Welsh. That was no secret.

Outwardly and officially, Lars was a man, a doctor who fled the heaviness and evil of the United States to bask in the beautiful world of Madagascar. He donated his time, efforts, and knowledge to those who could not afford proper medical attention, thriving on the pleasure he received from helping others. He was nothing less than a saint to the natives and government of local communities.

That was outwardly and officially.

Unofficially, Lars was there for other reasons. An observer in Madagascar, a data, statistic and sample collector for the World Health Organization with whom he had been employed for over twenty years, he gathered the true and rarely known facts that were desperately needed, dirtying his hands in the field he not only loved but considered his specialty. Each year, without fail, he monitored and delivered the painful truth to the World Health Organization that the Bubonic Plague was alive, well, and still claiming lives at an astronomical rate in his chosen home of Madagascar.

Lodi, Ohio