can’t decide on the punctuation. An exclamation point? Too frantic. A period? Too formal.
He hears a car coming up the street, and it scares him that he might be seen. He can’t remember ever being caught doing anything wrong, not even being reprimanded at school. He has spent so much of his life avoiding being rebuked, yet here he is defacing abuilding in the center of his hometown. How would he explain himself? Momentary insanity? Continuous insanity?
He sets the teddy bear against the door and slips sideways a few steps into the alley, leaving the single word to stand by itself, no punctuation needed.
RAPIST
Simon stood outside
the front door to the
Register
staring at the word. Beside him, the paper’s photographer raised his camera to his eye. Simon turned quickly, knocking his arm. “No pictures, Ron.”
The young man regained his balance and readjusted the Nikon dangling from his neck. “Why don’t you want a snap, boss? This would grab the eye on page one.”
“Did anyone else see this?”
Ron turned half around as an old woman shuffled past, her head down. “Sure, I mean, anybody who goes by can see it, if they look over.”
“Any staff?”
“Most of editorial is already here.”
“How about the production people?”
“Nobody except Rigero. I saw his truck parked in the lot.”
Simon ran his index finger over the letters, and a little of the black rubbed off.
Ron held out a battered old teddy bear. “I found this leaning against the door, like a calling card. You know, the
Teddy Bear Vandal
—good headline, huh?”
Simon took the flimsy stuffed animal. It was pressed in at the face, as if stepped on, and cut open in the belly, a small, ragged slit.
“The police will be over in a few minutes,” Ron said.
Simon whirled on him. “You called the police?”
“Yeah, they always check out vandalism.”
“This is just a little graffiti, probably from some bored kid. Get something abrasive from the janitor’s room and we’ll rub it off.”
“That’s bad business, that’s what it is.” The voice came with a wooden cane shaking between their heads. Simon and Ron leaned out of the way as Erasmus Hall jabbed it toward the door. “It’s a sign,” he said, “repent before it’s too late.” He held out a tract. Simon took one from his tremoring hand and then stood in front of the word until it could be washed away.
“
Mr. Howe, can I talk
to you a minute?”
Simon looked up from his desk and saw his recently hired pressroom man standing over him. He smelled ofafter-shave, some strong metallic scent. “Sure.” Simon scanned the newsroom. “We could go in the conference room, that would be private.”
“I don’t need private. This is okay.”
Simon gestured to the seat across his desk, then leaned over it. “The writing on the door—I guess you saw it.”
“Yeah, there was kind of a crowd out there when I pulled in, so I took a look.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “We scrubbed it off as soon as I got in.”
“You’re sorry?”
“That you had to see it.”
Rigero shrugged, his shoulders sticking up longer than usual, like a child who hasn’t quite mastered the gesture. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me. Nobody knows what I was in for except you,” he said, his voice a little lower, “and you didn’t tell anybody, did you, Mr. Howe, because that would be like invading my privacy, wouldn’t it?”
He’d told Amy, but wives didn’t count. Everyone presumed you shared secrets with your spouse. “Of course I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Then nobody else would know.”
Simon nodded. “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I was making up the For Sale page and saw your ad for the piano.”
“You play?” The question popped out of Simon with more surprise in his voice than was appropriate. “I mean, you didn’t mention that when we talked about your hobbies at the interview.”
“It’s not for me. I got a sister up in Brunswick
He hears a car coming up the street, and it scares him that he might be seen. He can’t remember ever being caught doing anything wrong, not even being reprimanded at school. He has spent so much of his life avoiding being rebuked, yet here he is defacing abuilding in the center of his hometown. How would he explain himself? Momentary insanity? Continuous insanity?
He sets the teddy bear against the door and slips sideways a few steps into the alley, leaving the single word to stand by itself, no punctuation needed.
RAPIST
Simon stood outside
the front door to the
Register
staring at the word. Beside him, the paper’s photographer raised his camera to his eye. Simon turned quickly, knocking his arm. “No pictures, Ron.”
The young man regained his balance and readjusted the Nikon dangling from his neck. “Why don’t you want a snap, boss? This would grab the eye on page one.”
“Did anyone else see this?”
Ron turned half around as an old woman shuffled past, her head down. “Sure, I mean, anybody who goes by can see it, if they look over.”
“Any staff?”
“Most of editorial is already here.”
“How about the production people?”
“Nobody except Rigero. I saw his truck parked in the lot.”
Simon ran his index finger over the letters, and a little of the black rubbed off.
Ron held out a battered old teddy bear. “I found this leaning against the door, like a calling card. You know, the
Teddy Bear Vandal
—good headline, huh?”
Simon took the flimsy stuffed animal. It was pressed in at the face, as if stepped on, and cut open in the belly, a small, ragged slit.
“The police will be over in a few minutes,” Ron said.
Simon whirled on him. “You called the police?”
“Yeah, they always check out vandalism.”
“This is just a little graffiti, probably from some bored kid. Get something abrasive from the janitor’s room and we’ll rub it off.”
“That’s bad business, that’s what it is.” The voice came with a wooden cane shaking between their heads. Simon and Ron leaned out of the way as Erasmus Hall jabbed it toward the door. “It’s a sign,” he said, “repent before it’s too late.” He held out a tract. Simon took one from his tremoring hand and then stood in front of the word until it could be washed away.
“
Mr. Howe, can I talk
to you a minute?”
Simon looked up from his desk and saw his recently hired pressroom man standing over him. He smelled ofafter-shave, some strong metallic scent. “Sure.” Simon scanned the newsroom. “We could go in the conference room, that would be private.”
“I don’t need private. This is okay.”
Simon gestured to the seat across his desk, then leaned over it. “The writing on the door—I guess you saw it.”
“Yeah, there was kind of a crowd out there when I pulled in, so I took a look.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “We scrubbed it off as soon as I got in.”
“You’re sorry?”
“That you had to see it.”
Rigero shrugged, his shoulders sticking up longer than usual, like a child who hasn’t quite mastered the gesture. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me. Nobody knows what I was in for except you,” he said, his voice a little lower, “and you didn’t tell anybody, did you, Mr. Howe, because that would be like invading my privacy, wouldn’t it?”
He’d told Amy, but wives didn’t count. Everyone presumed you shared secrets with your spouse. “Of course I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Then nobody else would know.”
Simon nodded. “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I was making up the For Sale page and saw your ad for the piano.”
“You play?” The question popped out of Simon with more surprise in his voice than was appropriate. “I mean, you didn’t mention that when we talked about your hobbies at the interview.”
“It’s not for me. I got a sister up in Brunswick
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