The Package

Ruby has dumped her abusive boyfriend, but now an unexpected package has arrived.

Approximately 4000 words

The Package
by
Max Griffin

I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.   
     Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

         When Ruby stepped into the hellish heat of the call center's parking lot, the first thing she saw was Roscoe kissing Mindy. The late Monday afternoon sun blazed while he pressed her against an orange Nissan Rogue and she fondled his biceps.  His muscles stretched his too-tight T-shirt as he ran his fingers through her floozy hair.

         Ruby tried to ignore them, but Roscoe pulled his tongue out of Mindy's mouth and sneered, "Well, if it ain't the Pillsbury Dough Girl.  Dumb as a sack of marshmallows and twice as puffy."  A devilish grin split his handsome features, and Mindy emitted a high-pitched giggle.

         Ruby rushed to her car without answering.  The bastards.  It was just last week that she'd caught the two of them, her live-in lover and her supposed best friend, screwing. She'd kicked his ass out, but she couldn't avoid either of them at work.  Now it was almost like they'd planned this little end-of-shift tryst just to taunt her.

         The freeway traffic was the usual tangled mess.  Ruby hunched over her steering wheel and tried to twist the knot out of her neck.  The dreary song playing on the radio didn't help her mood any.  She'd couldn't wait to get home.  A gin and tonic was just what she needed to unwind.

         She glanced at her watch.  Almost six already. She sneered at the expensive timepiece.  Another reminder of Roscoe. He’d "given" it to her, but it turned out he'd paid for it with her credit card.  It was too valuable to just toss in the garbage. Maybe she could sell it on eBay.  She’d have to get rid of the cheesy locket attached to it, though. 

         She imagined burning the photo that was inside the locket.  The thought of flames consuming Roscoe's image brought a grim smile to her lips.

         The female DJ's whisky voice rasped from the car's speakers.  "That was Gary Jules and his interpretation of 'Mad World.' Up next is the classic 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia,' from the Charlie Daniels Band. For all you commuters out there, the BA Turnpike is stop-and-go due to an injury accident at Memorial.  Other area freeways report normal Monday afternoon rush-hour traffic."

         Insane fiddle music thrummed from the car's speakers, and the vocalist sang the Devil's tale.  If only she could make a deal with Satan.  She didn't care if Roscoe went to Hell, so long as he wasn't around to torment her anymore.

         Ruby peered ahead and spotted the sign for her exit.  Not long now, and she'd be out of this snake pit.  She clicked off the radio, eased out of the traffic, and turned onto her exit.

         Five minutes later, she approached her home, pressed the button on her visor to open the garage door, and slammed on the brakes.  A box, a couple of feet on each side, rested smack in the middle of the driveway.  "Damn," she muttered.  The delivery person must have left it there instead of on the porch. 

         Thing was, she didn't remember ordering anything.

         She heaved a deep sigh and stepped out of the car. 

         A fat tabby cat stropped against her ankles and buzzed his welcome.  She let a smile bend her lips.  "Hello, Mr. Lucifurr. I brought a treat for you."  He meowed while she fished a can of cat food from a sack in the car, peeled the lid off, and put it on the driveway for him.  He'd been showing up every few days for a couple of weeks now, looking for a handout.  Ruby wished she could adopt him, except she was pretty sure he must be a neighbor's pet. That would make it feel like kidnapping--or catnapping--much as Ruby would have liked to give the little guy a home. 

         That bastard Roscoe had wanted to take him to the pound. He'd raged at her for feeding him.  She fingered the bruise that still lingered on her cheek.  She was glad she'd stood up to him for a change. Mr. Lucifurr's innocent purr made the beating he gave her bearable.

         She knelt to pet the cat, and he paused eating to stare at her.  She scratched under his chin, and he responded by closing his eyes and looking indecently pleased. She cooed, "You're the best kitty."  With a shake of his head, he started munching again.

         "Okay, I can take a hint."  She wanted to get inside and relax anyway.

         She nudged the package out of the way with her foot.  Damn. The thing was heavy. 

         After she parked the car, she carted the box into the kitchen and dumped it with a thud next to this morning's dirty dishes.  It was addressed to her, but that didn't mean anything.  Roscoe was always using her credit card to order crap, so it came addressed to her even when it was for him.  The return address was a PO box in someplace called Pokol, Iowa. No sender name, though.  She decided to deal with it later.

         She pulled a dirty glass from the sink and filled it with a quick couple of fingers of gin.  It tasted of stale orange juice. She gulped it down, made a face, and rinsed the glass out.  She filled it with ice, grabbed the bottle, and headed to the bedroom to get comfortable.  She shed clothes as she went, not caring where they dropped.  Her skirt flopped next to a broken picture frame containing a smiling photo of her and Roscoe.  It was right where it fell after she'd thrown it at him last week. 

         The memory made her scowl and brought a lump to her throat.  The abuse was bad enough, but cheating with her best friend Mindy was the last straw.  She'd screamed at him to go straight to Hell and had thrown the photo.  At least he'd left, even if reminders of him still lurked everywhere, like cockroach droppings. She stopped to kick the frame.  Shards of glass and wood splinters scuttled across the floor and wound up under the sofa.

         The antique clock on the mantle chimed six.

         The clock was another reminder of Roscoe. His grandmother had brought it with her from the old country when they were refugees in the fifties, and she'd given it to Ruby. Her grandson had said something especially nasty that day, and the old lady must have felt sorry for her. She'd held Ruby's hand in hers and said, in her thick, accented English, "It's special gift, just for you." She'd glared at her grandson, then turned a gentle gaze back on Ruby.  "When trouble come, speak to it. It listen." 

         An antique that listens. Right. Superstitious poppycock. Still, Ruby liked the old biddy and didn't have the heart to toss her gift out with the other Roscoe rubbish.  She ran her finger across clock's ancient, filigreed surface.  The gargoyles and demons engraved there leered at her.  Memories of anise cookies, too-sweet tea, and better times made her blink back a tear.  If only Roscoe hadn't turned out to be such a dog.

         In the bedroom, she rummaged through detritus scattered on the carpet and settled on a pink, flannel sleep shirt with a white kitten embroidered on the front.  She sniffed it and shrugged. It didn't stink too bad and only had a couple of crusty pizza stains on the front.  She surveyed the clothes, dirty dishes, and empty take-out boxes that littered the room.  A rat's nest, just like her life.  She supposed she should clean it up but couldn't think of a single reason to bother.

         She heaved a sigh, poured herself another drink, and lay down in her unmade bed.  She tried playing solitaire on her laptop computer, but heavy eyelids defeated her.

         Sometime later, she jerked awake.  The computer weighed down on her lap. She must have fallen asleep.  She counted chimes sounding from the clock in the living room.  Ten.  That must be what woke her.  The computer's clock read midnight, so she must have slept through the first two chimes.  She grabbed the gin bottle and her glass and headed to the kitchen.

         Once there, she scowled at the package and filled her glass with fresh ice from the door of the refrigerator. 

         Something clicked and started to buzz. 

         She frowned. What the hell? 

         It was that damned box.  Something inside was buzzing.  Wait.  She leaned closer and tipped her ear. There was something more.  A squeaky sound, almost like a voice. 

         The buzzing deepened and swelled in volume. 

         Okay, this was too much.  She had to know what was inside, if only to shut it off.  She put her glass on the counter and attacked the box with a peanut-butter-encrusted knife, slicing through the packing tape.  When she opened the flaps, the sounds became more distinct.  A high-pitched voice piped muffled nonsense syllables.  "Engedjenek ki!"

         Plastic peanuts cascaded to the floor as she dug into the box and exposed a metal cube, black as a cast iron skillet and twice as heavy.  The nubbly surface was unmarked except on one side, where a keyhole and a what appeared to be a door were the only features.

         She set it on the counter and stepped back.  The nonsense syllables were more distinct now.  They sounded familiar, like a foreign language.  Hungarian, maybe? The buzzing continued unabated.  The ice in the glass she'd left on the counter rattled in response.

         Maybe there was a packing slip or something in the box. She dug inside and a bulky object resisted her fingers.  A key.  No packing slip, though, and no answer to the mystery of the sender. 

         She examined the key, turning it over and over.  She tested it in the keyhole in the box.  It fit.  The buzzing stopped. The voice inside chittered, as if agitated by whatever the key turned off.

         "If you can't speak English, just shut up already," she snapped, feeling a little foolish at her churlish tone. It wasn't like there could be a person in the box.

          Whatever was in the box squeaked, "Why didn't you say you spoke English?  Let me out of here."

         Ruby jumped back.  Electric needles jittered down her spine and a ball of ice gripped her belly.  "What in hell?"

         The box answered, "Exactly. Now let me out."

         "What are you?"

         "Let me out and you'll see."

         "Shut up and let me think."

         "Your species is crap at thinking.  Just let me out and I'll think for you."

         My species? What the hell did that mean?  She checked the return address again.  It still read someplace in Iowa. Pokol, wherever that was.  It wasn't like Iowa was another planet.  "Where did you come from, again?"

         "Pokol.  It's on the package. Your deductive powers must be defective even for a human."

         Ruby narrowed her eyes.  That was too much like Roscoe, calling her stupid. "Shut up."  She stalked to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and picked up the notebook computer from where she'd left it on her nightstand.  Whatever was in the metal cube continued to yammer.  She pulled up Google Maps and searched for "Pokol, Iowa."

         No hits. 

         Another Google search gave a translation almost at once. "Pokol" was Hungarian for "Hell." Why Hungarian? 

         Roscoe's grandmother was from Hungary.

         She cupped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her nose.  What was going on? This had to be some kind of prank.  That two-timer Roscoe must be behind it.  The cube had to have a radio inside, and he was playing with her head while laughing his ass off.  The jerk. 

         She'd show him. 

         She stomped back to the kitchen and retrieved Roscoe's Glock 19 handgun from its hiding place behind the pots and pans. She scanned the still-chattering box.  The key waited where she'd left it, in the hole in the cube.  She turned it and opened the door.

         A tiny, two-legged troll hopped out, bowed with a flourish, and slapped a cone-shaped red hat on its head.  It was less than twelve inches tall and looked for all the world like a garden gnome.  "He," not "it." He had a full, white beard.  He stroked it and simpered, "Hívj Ishamelnek."

         Panic flared and adrenalin sent prickles up Ruby's arms.  She gripped the Glock with both hands, waved it in front of her, and shrieked, "Keep away from me, you, you...whatever you are."

         The troll rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "Typical.  This is the thanks I get for coming all this way?"

         "Get back in the box.  Or I'll, I'll..."

         "You'll what?  Shoot me?  I'd like to see you try. I'm quicker than you."  With a flick of his eyebrow and a puff of air, he stood a dozen feet away on the kitchen table.  "I'm smarter, too."

         "How the Hell did you do that?" He was so quick.  Impossibly quick.

         "I exploited a tensor in the local Calabi-Yau manifold, not that a mere human would understand what that means.  Let alone an airhead like you."

         More gibberish. She ignored the insults.  After all her time with Roscoe, she expected them. They just washed across her, like dirty bathwater.  "What are you doing here?" She kept the gun pointed at him.

         "Why, you invited me, of course.  Is your memory defective too?"  He wiggled his eyebrows again and suddenly stood next to the clock in the living room.  "Where did you get this?  Did Szelanya give it to you?"

         "Who?  No.  It was from a friend's grandmother. A former friend."  Ruby lowered the weapon, but didn't let go.  "Who's this other person? Shelly-something?"

         "Szelanya.  Through the ages, she and her Magyar forebears have used this device to invoke whirlwinds.  Like me.  And now she gave it to you?"

         Magyar. He must mean Roscoe's Hungarian grandmother. "Yes, it was a gift."  Ruby frowned.  "She said it listens.  It didn't make any sense."

         "Oh, but it does. It's like a radio.  The golem on Pokol heard your summons and sent me here as fast as it could."

         "I never summoned anyone, least of all you!  I just want you to go away."  Now she had two things tormenting her.  First Roscoe, and now his troll. 

         "Are you sure you never asked for me?  Maybe you invoked me by mistake."  He held a finger against a cheek and gazed at the ceiling.  "Let's see.  Szelanya would have spoken in Hungarian."  He brightened.  "Do you know Hungarian?"

         "No."  Ruby really needed a drink. She eyed the bottle, then put the gun on the counter within easy reach, poured herself another glass of gin, and swigged half of it down.  "Just go away."

         "I guess it could have been in English, then.  Did you try to send something to Pokol, maybe?"

         "Pokol?"  Google Translate flashed in her memory. "You mean Hell?"

         "Ah, you do know at least some Hungarian.  Yes, Hell in your uncouth tongue."

         "I told my ex to go straight to Hell.  I wouldn't mind if he burns forever, in fact."

         "Oh, well, our climate is quite warm I assure you.  Tropical, even. But, if you wanted to send him to, uh, 'Hell,' well, yes. If you were emphatic enough, the golem would have gotten the message.  Were you emphatic about it?"

         "This is ridiculous." She finished the gin in her glass and refilled it.  "I screamed at him.  The bastard cheated on me."

         "Really?  Were you playing cards?  I can't abide a card cheat, myself.  I once--"

         "He slept with my best friend, you ninny." 

         "Oh."  He blinked. "Oh!  You mean they had coitus."

         "Yeah.  Behind my back.  Lots of times. Like rabbits."

         He shrugged.  "I'm indifferent to where they did it or what species they chose to emulate.  Humans are so boring that way.  The important thing is that you sent for me.  I'm here to escort him to Hell, as you say.  Where is he?"

         "How should I know?  I kicked him out."  The creature's squeaky voice was scraping on her last nerve.

         The troll managed to look both exasperated and disappointed.  "If you don't know where he's at, how can you expect me to take him to Hell?  Do you maybe have a talisman of his, or something to help me locate him?"

         "A what?"

         That got her another eye roll.

         She snapped, "I'm getting pretty sick of your condescending attitude." She gulped down more gin-flavored courage and replenished her glass.

         "Don't be so sensitive.  Do you want him to go to Hell or not?"

         "Yes. May he rot there forever."

         A delighted light glinted in the troll's eyes. "Can do.  But I need to find him.  Is there anything of his here, maybe?  A lock of his hair, perhaps?"

         "His razor and comb are in the bathroom.  Would that help? Like DNA?"

         "DNA?  How quaint.  But, yes, that will do nicely.  Can you please bring them to me?"

         Ruby took another quick jolt of gin before she staggered to the bathroom.  For some reason the apartment kind of spun around her. 

         When she got back to the kitchen with Roscoe's razor and comb, the troll was sitting on the counter with his legs dangling over the edge.  He gripped her gin glass with both hands and took a big swallow.  "Weak stuff, if you ask me, but it'll have to do."  He put the glass back on the counter next to the Glock, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, and held out the other. "Give to me."

         He discarded the razor but sniffed at the comb.  Then he licked it, plucked out several strands of hair, and ate them.  He made a face and stuck out his tongue.  "Nasty.  You lived with this creature?  How did you stand the taste?"  He dropped the comb on the counter next to the razor and the gun.

         "I didn't eat him. We just lived together."

         "Oh, right. I forgot your species' bizarre customs."  He stood, held out his index finger as if pointing, and began to spin on one toe, like a tiny troll ballerina.  In seconds a dust devil whirled about him.  He came to a quivering stop with his finger pointing at the corner of the living room. "Found him."

         Ruby looked.  "There's no one there."

         Another eye roll and head toss.  "No, not there.  But in that direction.  He's with someone.  A female." He cocked his head as if listening.  "Her name is, 'Oh Baby.'  Or maybe 'Mindy.' Kind of hard to tell."

         He must be pointing at Mindy's place, a couple of blocks away.  "Her name's Mindy.  Screw both of them."

         "You want them both to go to Hell, then?"

         "Yes. I mean, no.  I just want to be rid of them.  I don't care how."  It wasn't like this annoying midget was capable of actually doing anything, anyway.

         "You're sure, now?  It's a one-way trip.  You can't wish them back, you know."

         "I'm posh--posh--positive.  Sorry."

         "Have more of the stuff in that glass. I'm sure it'll help improve your faulty motor skills."  He simpered at her. "You know, taking care of two of them will cost more."

         "Cost?"  What was he talking about?

         "There's always a price.  Those who seek vengeance must pay its wages. Do you have any gold?"

         The room kind of moved in and out. She couldn't quite follow what he was saying. Another drink would help.  "There's this watch." She held out her wrist to show him. "Roscoe gave it to me."  He'd put her in her the hospital that time, months ago, but then had shown up with the watch and its attached locket.  He'd promised to never do it again. Like a fool, she'd believed him. "Based on the charge to my credit card, it must be valuable."

         The troll unsnapped the hasp, removed it from her wrist, and bit the watch's glittering bracelet.  "Gold, all right."  He read the inscription on the attached locket, his voice heavy with saccharin warmth. "'For Ruby, with all my love.  Roscoe.'"  He popped the locket open and revealed a photo of a smiling Ruby and Roscoe, embracing.  "How sweet."

         Memory tasted bitter.  She tried to wash it away with gin.  "Take it.  I don't want it."

         "Done."  He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the Glock.  "Maybe you'd like to accompany me?  Help me out?  Make your satisfaction more personal?"

         "What do you mean?"

         His grin revealed pointy teeth.  "Pick up the gun and you'll see."

         She hefted the Glock.  Its weight dragged on her arm. It comforted her, empowered her.

         "That's my girl."  The troll's eyebrows waggled, Groucho-like, one last time.  The kitchen and Ruby's memory vanished in a fog.

         

#

         Ruby woke the next morning, alone in her bed with a headache, clutching an empty gin bottle and the Glock. 

         She groaned and sat up. She must have blacked out.  She remembered feeding Mr. Lucifurr when she got home, but nothing after that. 

         Her mouth felt like she'd been chewing on dirty sweat socks and tasted like she'd been sucking on toe jam. She stumbled to the bathroom and swished it out.  Bloodshot eyes stared back at her from the mirror.  Her hair exploded in a Medusa-like tangle.  Coffee.  That's what she needed.  She plodded to the kitchen.  Her bare feet crunched on Styrofoam packing peanuts.

         A hideous clay garden gnome squatted on the counter in a beam of sunlight and leered at her. 

         Last night was coming back but was still fuzzy. She vaguely remembered something involving a sarcastic troll and Roscoe. 

         She really shouldn't drink so much, not if it was going to give her whacked-out nightmares.  She rapped on the gnome with her knuckles.  It responded with a hollow thunk. She picked it up and hefted it.  It was clay, all right.  It even had a Francoma Pottery stamp on the bottom and a date, 1956. 

         For sure, it wasn't going to start insulting her. She put it back on the counter, next to Roscoe's comb and razor.  They were exactly where the troll had dropped them. 

         Memories came flooding back.  Vivid and detailed memories, but crazy, too.  Too crazy to be real.

         The gnome was real.  It was right here.  But it was made of clay, not living flesh.  The rest of it was nonsense.

         It had to be a dream.  A gin-addled dream. Wish fulfillment, maybe.  It would be awesome karma if a troll took Roscoe and Mindy off to Hell, but that wasn't going to happen.  That old clock must have brought it on, along with this stupid gnome.  Roscoe had probably ordered the ugly thing.  He was always screwing around with the yard, ordering crap. That was the only logical explanation.

         She dumped the gnome in the trash.  Time to put all things Roscoe behind her.  She clumped back to her bathroom to get ready for work.  Life had to go on.

         By the time Friday night rolled around, the relentless gloom that had weighed on her was mostly gone. It helped that Roscoe and Mindy hadn't been at work since Monday. Without him hanging around and tormenting her, she had a chance to get her life back to some semblance of normal.

         Maybe he was avoiding her.  Maybe he even felt bad about abusing her, instead of blaming her like he always did.

         Nah.  He was a jerk.  He'd find a way to blame her.

         But deep down, she knew he'd be wrong. None of this was her fault. 

         No one deserved to be miserable.  Not Roscoe. Not Mindy.  And certainly not Ruby.

         What mattered now was that they were out of her life. She resolved to clean house tomorrow.  She'd cleaned up her life, after all. Now it was her home's turn.

         Early the next morning, while she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, the doorbell rang.  Strange.  She checked the clock. No one visited at 8 AM, especially not on a Saturday. 

         When she opened the door, a pair of nondescript, dumpy-looking men wearing rumpled suits confronted her.  One held up a badge and said, "I'm Otto Jaeger with the Tulsa police.  We're investigating a missing person case.  Friends of yours--a couple, Mr. Roscoe Kutya and Ms. Mindy Chienne.  No one's seen them since Monday."  He held up a plastic baggie containing the locket from her watch.  "We found this in a pool of blood in Ms. Chienne's apartment.  Would you mind telling us how it got there?"