All characters, locations and incidents are fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any situation is purely coincidental.

 

The entire contents is Copyrighted, 2009 by Charles A. Petterson

 

GENOA

 

Charles A Petterson

 

“To be found, stand in one place.”

            Chinese saying

 

“Mr. Fulmer!  Mr. Fulmer!”  The voice was irritating.  Irritating in a way only the voice of a busy-body old woman can be.  They never have alluring voices.  Their voices look like their screwed-up-in-a-perpetual-state-of displeasure faces.

 

The voice came around to face Peter Fulmer, who sat on the east bank of the Mississippi making a  sketch of the river scene.  The scene has never been dramatic and no one except a local sixth grader would waste a grain of pastel or a fiber of drawing paper on it,  the western bluffs being several miles distant and the river only occasionally punctuated with a raft of lily pads or a clump of cat tails. 

 

“Mr. Fulmer!  I will not stand to have you ignore me!  Look at me!”

 

Without looking at her face he reached out and casually pushed her to the side, as if to regain his perspective on the river.

 

“Mr. Fulmer, how dare you.  Mr. Fulmer I’m going to call the Sheriff on you.  You’re a dangerous man, Mr. Fulmer!  You’re insane and should be put away for your own good and our own good.”

 

Without looking at her he replied in a soft, unemotional voice. “I am insane, Mrs. Elliott, and you are right to call the Sheriff.  Is there anything else I can do for you today?  How is your cat, by the way? Did it come home last night?”

 

Mrs. Elliott’s irritation with the artist was further aggravated by Peter Fulmer’s attitude.  Her normally irritating voice became a shriek as she started yelling and cursing the artist. One would be hard pressed to believe any creature could create such a sound and form words at the same time.  Perhaps you will just have to experience it yourself.  Spend a few hours in Genoa, Wisconsin, and you will suffer the privilege, odds are.

 

“We’re signing a petition, Mr. Fulmer.  We are asking the Sheriff to remove you from the county.  We’re going to the court to have a restraining order placed on you!  Your days are numbered Mr. Fulmer.”

 

The threat was no big deal to Peter Fulmer who held the opinion every living being is only allotted a finite number of days, or whatever your favorite measure of time is.  Busybodies or not, Peter Fulmer had few days remaining in any event.

 

The voice departed. The shriek continued, but headed away.  A passing train would have been nice right about then; the loud horn would first drown out her noise, then the roar of the diesel engines would continue masking her words and the clatter of the wheels of the following hundred or so freight cars would more than likely keep anyone from hearing the voice for another minute or two.  She might even be hit by the train.  That would be fair.

 

A young lady, perhaps in her thirties, approached the artist. Rumor had it she was the only person in Genoa who communicated with the odd man on any regular basis. She’s acknowledged with, “Oh, Hi Cindy! I am insane.

 

Cindy, Miss Cindy Lagano, RN, offered a smiling shake of her head in dispute of the statement.

 

“It’s nice for you to join me.  Did you get the full effect of that display?  The campaign to run me out of town just started two days ago.  I really don’t know what prompted it.”

 

Peter Fulmer folded his sketchbook and placed his materials in a well used Cub Foods cloth shopping bag. “Ironic, I think.  Her accusing me of being insane, that is.  I’m sure she was just using the term in a generic sense.  You know, like folks who say, ‘If you do that I will kill you,’ and then they laugh at the joke.” 

 

He smiled at her pleasant, always fresh-scrubbed olived-hued face, “But, I AM insane and I think you realize that.”

 

He stood from the aluminum and webbing folding lawn chair, not really the furniture one expects a real artist to use, “I don’t want you to think that my claim or admission, if you will, of insanity is a ploy to elicit sympathy or to pave the way for some future benefit.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  My actions have been erratic and irrational.  I am not in denial, nor am I defensive about the situation.”

 

He sighed, “I noticed you were looking at my sketch.  Yes, it’s poor.”

 

She started to politely protest, but he wouldn’t have any of it, “No, no! It’s terrible.  The sketch pad’s just a prop as far as I’m concerned.  I’m no artist.  The sketches are just cover.  People ignore you if they think you are doing something while you are sitting around all the time.

 

“Go ahead.  You can say it.  Say, ‘That is really bad.  My six year old niece could do better.’  Go on, you won’t offend me.”

 

She laughed, “I’m not an art critic, Mr. Fulmer, but I don’t think you will win any contests.”

 

“See.  That wasn’t hard, and I’m not reacting in an upset fashion.  Betty at the café is so stupid.  She wants me to display these sketches and sell them.  She says tourists from St. Paul will snatch them right up.” 

 

“They are different. I don’t think I am familiar with the medium.”

 

“It’s called silverpoint.  Instead of graphite I use a pointed piece of silver.”

 

“Why not just a soft pencil or charcoal? That’s what most sketchers use.”

 

“How is that?  I really don’t know what artists use.  The shop I went to said this is what I needed.”

 

“Is it really silver? Pure silver? Isn’t that expensive?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know how pure the silver is.  I don’t know if it makes any difference for anything.” 

 

Cindy wasn’t so sure, and challenged the need for a piece of silver as large as she saw him using.

 

“Yes, it’s quite a piece, it’s nearly a foot long.  It balances nicely while I’m sketching.”

Ignoring any need for a segue Peter Fulmer said, “I think I will go back to my room now and take a nap.  These long summer days suit me just fine.”

 

“May I walk back with you?”

 

“Certainly, you may walk across with me.  I love your company.”

 

“What about your chair? Don’t you want to take it with you?”

 

“No, leave the chair where it is. It isn’t mine.  Somebody named Knutson left it behind.  He may return for it someday, although I’ve been using it since Palm Sunday.”

 

“Mr. Fulmer, I have a personal question to ask”

“Yes?”

 

“Mr. Fulmer, do you have cancer?”

 

“Yes. It’s in an arrested state at the moment.”

 

“I thought I noticed a spot on your wrist.”

 

He said nothing.  They walked until they reached Highway 35, where they waited for three cars, spaced out just far enough that they can’t cross in front of them. On the other side of the highway Cindy said, “I’m a nurse, Mr. Fulmer.  I know about cancer.  I know about melanomas.  Yours hasn’t changed since I first noticed it over a year ago.”

 

Mr. Fulmer made no reply.

 

“Mr. Fulmer, your type of cancer doesn’t get arrested, as you say.  It’s either eradicated or it continues to spread.”

 

He nodded, “Arrested was a poor choice.  Suspended is more accurate.”

 

She started to protest. Her lips moved a bit, forming the word ‘suspended’ without making a sound.

 

They finished the walk to Main Street in silence.  Mr. Fulmer had a room on second street and two blocks south, Cindy lived a block north on Main street. As they started to part she asked, “Mr. Fulmer, will you be at the café tonight?”

 

“Yes, my dear, I’ll be there.”

 

“May I sit with you? There are some other things I would like to ask.”

 

“I’d really rather you did not.  Tomorrow I’ll be at the river if it doesn’t rain.  You may ask then.”

 

Cindy nodded.  She added his response to the behaviors she had been observing for months: sitting alone at Betty’s Bar every night until closing time, never without his silver rod and sketch pad.  She broke her reverie long enough to give a cheerful ‘see ya later’ and then headed toward her house.

 

Peter Fulmer roomed with Mrs. Larson, the perfect landlady in Peter Fulmer’s mind.  Her husband ran off with a stripper from La Crosse, leaving her with the house and a mildly retarded daughter, Darla, to care for.  She fixed up the basement to rent out.  It suited Mr. Peter Fulmer perfectly.  Mrs. Larson didn’t attempt to mother him or act as a surrogate wife.  She didn’t pry, never asked where he went, why he stayed out until closing every night or where the money came from for the rent. 

 

She didn’t know that Peter Fulmer, every night when he quietly returned to his bed, prayed for Darla.

 

Local sunset that evening was 8:47 and Peter Fulmer was at his regular spot a few minutes early.  He pondered about his promptness being a waste of time.  Twilight lasted so long.  Did twilight count as daylight? He couldn’t take the chance.

 

His regular spot was at a high, round table set against the front wall and the panel forming the storm portico.  He could hear the door every time it opened and saw the back of every person as soon as he or she walked in.  The stool was high; high to the point that he was nearly standing.  To walk away he just needed to push forward.

 

The setup was ideal.  He searched for nearly a year to find it and had been on the stool every night for over two years; waiting for the right body to walk through the door.

 

The crowd was thin.  It was thin every night, except Fridays and Saturdays.  Perhaps one could speculate how Betty kept the doors open, but that really wasn’t the story.  Nobody bothered Peter Fulmer or tried to engage him in conversation.  It had been that way since the first month passed.  He was the town eccentric and the other customers left him alone.  And that satisfied him.  When the time came, he didn’t want there to be anyone in his path.

 

10:35 was marked by Jay Leno appearing on the television.  The younger guys, who had families to go home to, drifted out. They gave a nod Peter’s way as they passed.  The half dozen closers formed up in their usual knots.  A game of Whist started.

 

10:53.  The door opened and Peter Fulmer immediately came to attention.  A man walked in a few steps and stopped. 

 

As the newcomer, sensing someone behind him, turned to look, Peter thrust the silver rod in his throat as hard as he could. It wasn’t as one would expect, thrusting a pointed object into a throat. One would expect to meet the uneven resistance of skin, muscle and tendons. Peter Fulmer felt no such resistance as the rod smoothly penetrated until his grasping hand encountered the side of the throat.

 

Betty screamed.

 

The card players looked up and turned in their chairs.

 

“Jesus Christ, Fulmer!  What are you doing?”

 

“Holy shit!  Are you nuts?”

 

“Oh my Lord,” screamed Cindy.  “It’s true!”

 

The body slumped to the floor.

 

The body wasn’t settled when a smoky fog started to envelope it.

 

“What the ….?”

 

“Fulmer!  What is happening here?”

 

The fog slowly spread along the floor, rising in random wisps created by the ceiling fans’ breezes.  The stench was horrific.  The nearest patron at the bar got a whiff and immediately started spewing out an evening’s worth of beer and batter-fried fish.

In seconds everyone was retching as the stench touched their noses.

 

The card players pushed for the rear exit.  As they opened the door the burglar alarm sounded it’s artificial claxon.

 

For the few people still in the building there’s chaos:  the noise from the alarm, the smoke, the stench.

 

Peter Fulmer wasn’t expecting this outcome. He thought he would have a dead body to look over. Maybe he should’ve asked a few more questions when he was handed the rod.

 

Ignoring the sketch pad on the table, he stepped over what little solid material remained on the floor and walked out the front door.

 

A sheriff’s SUV pulled to a screeching halt.  Deputy Farino was first on the scene.  He was at the Kwik-Stop, just a block away, flirting with Kathy Barone.

 

Peter Fulmer took immediate notice of the outside air. It was sweet and carried an occasional pocket of coolness with it from the nearby forest. It was a beautiful night.   He looked to where he envisioned Heaven was. “Lord, can I trade me for Darla.  Can you do that, Lord?”

 

The deputy scrambled out of the vehicle.  His right hand unsnapped the strip of fabric holding the gun in the holster.  

 

Pain shot through every fiber of Peter Fulmer’s body.  His body lurched from the convulsions of the shock.  He felt the cancer coursing through his body, his arms and legs.

 

Peter Fulmer started writhing in pain as the deputy came  around the back of  the vehicle, but the deputy ignored him.

 

The deputy opened the door, only to be repelled by foggy smoke.

 

As Peter Fulmer collapsed Cindy Lagano came to his side and whispered, “It was the devil. That’s why the rod is silver, isn’t it?”

 

But Peter Fulmer only could form an affirming smile as his eyes rolled back into his skull.

 

There were seven witnesses.  They all told pretty much the same story, although not everyone saw who came in.

 

The stench couldn’t be denied.  It wouldn’t leave the café.

 

At sunrise the Wisconsin State Investigative Unit entered the café wearing self contained breathing apparatus and haz-mat suits.  They exited with a silver rod, pointed at one end, and a wake of yellowish atmosphere that clung to the plastic suits.

 

“This is all there is,” the voice inside the plastic suit said, handing a taped plastic bag to his superior.

The superior nodded and turned to another officer, “Do we have anything on the dead guy yet?  Make sure the M.E. gets a set of prints immediately.”

 

The next day at the forensics lab a technician reported, “The silver rod is clean.  There’s no blood, no fingerprints, no DNA.  All we have is a pure silver, pointed rod. Not 99.99% pure.  Pure, pure silver. The chemists claim it’s impossible.”

 

The State’s Attorney skeptically peered over his half-frame glasses toward the Chief Forensic Investigator as he heard, “I am telling you all we have is a pure silver rod and a stinky café. Our air samples are all over the board; a lot of sulfur. No two samples come out the same.  The floor is stained where the witnesses say the victim fell. The lab guys are trying to determine the properties of the stain. I had them send samples off to Washington and the Chemistry Department here at the University.”

 

“All right,” the Attorney said, “what’s the crime?”

 

“Well, I don’t know.  You tell me.  You’re the prosecutor.  The alleged stabber is dead.  Had cancer so severe the medical examiner doubts he could possibly have been ambulatory, let alone sitting in a bar all night.”

 

“No victim and a DOA alleged stabber. What do you think?”

 

“What do I think?  I’m writing it off as an elaborate stunt.”

 

“How are you going to do that?”

 

“Huh?  I’m ignoring the silver rod.  I’m ignoring the stench analysis. That’s how. This is just a hoax to put Genoa on the map.”