William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben examined the collection of shoeboxes and loose-leaf notebooks that constituted Mrs. Marmelstein’s books. Since he’d moved into the room upstairs, Ben had tried to help her with varying degrees of success. Mrs. Marmelstein had moved to Tulsa in the 1940s (when the North Side was a swank neighborhood) with her husband, one of the oil barons of the early days. The Marmelsteins had owned properties throughout Tulsa, had been members of Tulsa high society, and had traveled all over the world. Mr. Marmelstein died in the late Seventies, and the oil boom died soon after that. Mrs. Marmelstein’s holdings dwindled to next to nothing. She still owned this building, a low-rent four-room house in the Bad Part of Town, but that was about it. Her only regular income of any significance came from rent payments. Unfortunately, Mrs. Marmelstein still thought she was as rich as ever. Ben did the best he could to stretch, save, delay, and otherwise make her limited income satisfy her creditors.

To make matters worse, Mrs. Marmelstein was a notoriously soft touch, empathizing with every hard luck story she heard, often permitting late payments or forgiving them altogether. Just as Ben might get the bank to accept a payment plan so he could make ends meet for the month, he would learn that Mrs. Marmelstein had pledged $200 to a telephone solicitor for the Fraternal Order of Police.

Why not? she would say. It was her God-given duty to aid those less fortunate. So true, Ben would say, pulling out his calculator and starting over again.

This time, the problem was much simpler. She just didn’t have enough money to pay the electric bill last month, so he’d set the bill aside, hoping the coming month would be more bountiful. He checked the envelope where Mrs. Marmelstein kept her petty cash. (Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, most of them illegal, her tenants preferred to pay in cash.) He found six bucks, hardly enough.

He glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Marmelstein was sitting in the La-Z-Boy recliner beside her bookshelves, lined with Readers’ Digest Condensed Books and every volume of the Warren Report. She was absorbed by the television, trying to come up with the name of a Fictional Character that fit SNO_ _HIT_. Ben withdrew his wallet, removed three twenties, and slid them into the envelope.

He walked back to the living room. “I don’t know how I overlooked that electricity bill,” he told her, “but it’s hardly worth worrying about. You can pay it out of the petty cash envelope. Since this man is in such a hurry, why don’t you walk it over to the PSO office tomorrow?” He smiled. “You’ve been saying you need to get more exercise.”

“I guess I have time to do that,” she said, as if mentally checking her calendar.

“Good.”

“Anything else in the mail of interest? A…party invitation perhaps?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh.” Her hand fluttered against her cheek. She never quite understood that Tulsa high society had passed her by. Or perhaps she did.

“It’s really too early in the year for the big social events,” Ben said. “Perhaps next month, when it’s cooler.”

“Perhaps so.”

“I’ll stop in and see you again tomorrow.”

“Oh, Ben—”

“Yes?”

Mrs. Marmelstein took a small plastic vase from the table beside her door. The vase was filled with fresh-cut flowers, mostly peonies and daisies, obviously from her garden.

“These are for you.” She put the vase in his hands. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Marmelstein.” He brought the flowers to his face and inhaled deeply. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, well,” she said, patting her bodice. “I had some extras.”

The last thing Christina remembered clearly was the scent of her mother’s perfume. How strange, she thought. It made her feel like a little girl again, watching her mother plant her begonias and hyacinth, listening to her hum “Annie Laurie” over and over, seeing her agonized expression when asked for the millionth time when Daddy was coming home. It was Mother’s perfume, all right. She never knew what it was called, but that’s definitely what it was; the aroma was unmistakable. And then she could smell…nothing.

Then she was asleep. No, not asleep; she couldn’t be asleep because she could still see— blurred, sketchy images, bathed in the blue glow of the flickering television screen. Someone was there, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t focus, couldn’t tell who it was. Her eyelids closed, and she was back in her mother’s garden. They were smiling and laughing, planting tulip bulbs for the following spring, until suddenly, there was a tremendous explosion. Her eyelids struggled to open, to see what was happening.

She had no idea how long it took. It was the whiteness that finally parted her eyelids a little. She tried to comprehend the indistinct figure before her. It was—Frosty the Snowman? It was, but it wasn’t, too. There was something wrong with him, something bitter, something malignant. Another violent explosion rocked the room, then another, again and again. His face began to melt, to change to something else, something horribly different. Christina closed her eyes and saw herself running, as far and as fast as she possibly could. And then she was swimming, drowning in his melted remains. The waves were crashing all around her, but then she remembered she couldn’t swim, and she was sinking.…

She opened her eyes. Where was she now? She wasn’t sure, but at least she seemed to be on dry ground. The scent of perfume was fading; in its place, she detected a new odor, a nauseating, putrid smell. The room seemed altered, strange.

With considerable effort, she pushed herself to her feet, then congratulated herself on this supreme accomplishment. And then she saw his body sprawled on the floor, just a few feet away. Who was that— Tony? She kneeled beside him and put her hand over his. It was still warm.

It was then she noticed his head, or more accurately, the place where his head should have been. She tried to suppress her gag reflex; she had to stay in control, to find out what had happened. A large star-shaped crater replaced the right side of his head; she could almost see straight through. A puddle of blood formed a grotesque halo around what was left; bits of skull and brain tissue were splattered on the floor.

She saw a gun nearby. She picked it and held it close to her face. It was still warm, too, or so she imagined.

The sound of the door slamming open was like a thunderbolt crashing in her head. She jumped, startled, and screamed. The gun fell to the floor.

Several men rushed into the room. Was it three? Four? It was too hard to focus, too hard to see.

“Freeze!” one of the men shouted. “Put your hands in the air.”

What? Everything seemed shadowy, unreal. What is going on? Why are they pointing at me? I can’t under stand you.…

“I said, put your hands in the air,” the man yelled, even louder than before. “Jim. Go.”

A second man rushed forward. He forced his hands under her shoulders, pressing the heel of his palms against her breasts. He jerked her to her feet and slammed her face first against the wall.

She began to cry. She felt his hands slapping her body. Why is he hurting me? Why is he here? Why can’t I understand anything?

“My God,” she heard the man say, “look at this!” There was a short silence, and then the man was back, pressing his face next to hers. “You killed him!”

She stared at him, barely comprehending. “I killed him.…”

“God Almighty!” the man shouted. She could feel the spray of his spittle against her face. “What kind of monster are you?”