The Radio Magician and Other Stories by James van Pelt Page A

other, a long black-bladed knife. “What’s the holdup? We’re on a schedule.”
    “Mall security,” said the woman next to the curtain.
    The man in the sweatshirt glowered at Trellis. “Send the next one in.” He closed the curtain with an impatient tug.
    The woman closest to Trellis rose. “Excuse me.” She squeezed past him and opened the door. “Next.”
    The tie-dyed housewife shuddered. “Okay.” Trellis caught a glimpse of the man behind her before she climbed the stair. He put his hand on her shoulder. “God bless you,” he said.
    “He will.” She stood just inside as if afraid of fully entering.
    “How did you find us?” asked the ponytailed women next to the curtain.
    The tie-dyed woman rubbed her eyes. “I Googled ‘ban the bomb’ and followed the links. It was a lot of links.”
    “We get many that way. It’s not too late to go back. You can still change your mind.”
    The woman closed her eyes tight before taking a ragged breath. “No, this is the right time. It’s a good time in my life.”
    Trellis looked at the three of them, a strange tableau of women talking without making sense. Also, the hooded figure with a knife unnerved him. Trellis put his hand on his walkie talkie, but wasn’t sure that a better strategy would be to bolt for the door. None of them were paying attention to him. He’d never listened to a conversation that felt so charged with subtext.
    “You know it works?” said the tie-dyed woman “It absolutely works?”
    “Yes,” said both of the other women.
    “I’m in.” She took a deep breath, let it out, and then breathed again before walking to the curtain and through. The ponytailed woman closest to the curtain followed her.
    “What in the hell is going on here?” said Trellis, perched on the edge of his seat. His voice raised an octave by the end of the question, and his pulse drummed.
    The woman eyed him impassively. Finally, she said, “This isn’t a good way to start. We haven’t been introduced yet. My name is Jennifer.” She put out her hand.
    Trellis took her fingers in his own. She had a firm and pleasant handshake. “My sister’s name is Chastity.”
    “Trellis,” he said, then flinched, recalling his dream. “Chastity?”
    “My parents named the younger children after the virtues. My other sisters are Hope and Patience.” She paused as if thinking over the practice of naming children. “How old are you?”
    “Fifty-four,” he said without thinking. How much space was in the trailer beyond the curtain? By his figuring, there could hardly be room for three people on the other side. Whatever they were doing in there, they weren’t making any sounds.
    “Do you remember nuclear fire drills?” She rested an elbow on the table and the side of her face in her hand.
    “What does this have to do with you and whatever you and those people outside are doing?” His chest constricted, as if his skin had shrunk a couple of sizes, compressing his lungs.
    “I do,” she said. “I remember ‘duck and cover.’ I remember radiation shelters in the basements of public buildings. You’re old enough. Do you remember too?”
    She sounded so reasonable and matter of fact. Trellis concentrated on slowing his breathing. For a second he thought he’d just felt coronary twinges, his fate from eating most of his meals in Café Court for the last fifteen years, rotating from one fast food outlet to the next. He was on his feet all day, but he’d noticed the bulge of belly that hung over his belt more and more lately, and his mantra, “I’m big boned,” carried less conviction each time he said it. Yes, maybe it was a coronary.
    Not that a heart attack was any more comforting than being in a trailer talking to two strange women and a man with a knife.
    Trellis felt as if the mall were a thousand miles away, that the trailer existed in an alien landscape. He returned to a familiar script, but it sounded ridiculous to say it. “Ma’am, you can’t sit