Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [179]
“And the spaceship?”
“You’re in it,” Macfadden Eward said.
An hour later, Ellickson found himself back on the phone to his friend Lester. “Lester,” he said, “I think you need to come over here. Pronto. I’m in trouble again. I talked to my wife and I’m in serious trouble.”
“All right,” Lester said. “But I’m in the middle of something.”
“And could I ask you for a favor?” Ellickson asked. “Would you please bring your stethoscope?”
“It’s pretty rusty,” Lester told him. “I don’t practice medicine now, as you know.”
“Bring it anyway,” Ellickson said.
Fifteen minutes later, Lester pulled up in the driveway in his Buick. He came into Ellickson’s living room without knocking or ringing the bell, with his stethoscope flapping against his chest. He was a small compact man, with a full and slightly unruly head of hair, and a face on which great intelligence and comical sadness were usually visible—the expression of quizzical wit seemed to animate everything. But Lester also had a distinctive overbite, the attribute of a character actor who will always be left out at the end of the show.
He rushed forward and shook Ellickson’s hand, pulling him forward into a tentative hug. “So. What’s happened?”
“Lester,” Ellickson said, “my chest feels like it’s going to explode.”
“Pain? Chest pain?”
“No, it’s more like a weight.”
“Well, you know, we should get you to an emergency room. I’m not really a practicing M.D. anymore.”
“I want you to examine me. Please.”
Lester gazed at Ellickson with his comically sad chipmunk expression. “Me? Okay,” he said. “Take off your shirt. I want to listen to your heart.”
Ellickson did as he was told. Lester put the earpieces in and pressed the stethoscope against Ellickson’s chest.
“Lester, my wife’s pregnant.”
“Shh.”
“She won’t let me talk to Alex.”
“Shh. I’m listening to your heart.”
“The guy next door is a murderer who lives in a spaceship. And all I want in this life is to have a drink.”
“Would you please shut up?”
Finally Lester lowered the stethoscope. Outside the screen door, a cardinal sang in the linden. The air smelled of moisture, of a thunderstorm brewing just out of sight underneath the line of the horizon, and despite the sunlight, Ellickson thought he heard the rumble of thunder. “Well,” Lester said, smiling. “There’s good news and bad news.”
“Tell me the bad news first,” Ellickson said.
“You’re still alive,” the doctor told him.
“And what’s the good news?” Ellickson asked.
Lester shrugged. “Same thing,” he said.
Mr. Scary
FOR RICHARD BAUSCH
THERE WAS SOME SORT of commotion at the end of the checkout line. Words had been exchanged, and now two men, one tall and wide-shouldered, the other squat and beefy, were squaring off against each other and raising their voices. Their shoes squeaked on the linoleum. The short one, who had hair from his back sprouting up underneath his shirt collar, was saying a four-letter word. The other man, the tall one, shook his head angrily and raised his fist. An elderly security guard was rushing toward them. He didn’t seem up to the task, Estelle thought. He was just a minimum-wage retiree they had hired for show.
“Good God,” Estelle said to her grandson, “there’s going to be a fistfight.”
The boy didn’t glance up from his phone gadget. He held it in his palm and was rapidly clicking the letters. “They’re just zombies,” the boy said quietly and dismissively after a glance.
“Well, how do you know that?” the grandmother asked, trying for conversation. “I’ve never met a zombie.” The men seemed to have calmed down a bit. They were just rumbling at each other now.
“Zombies like discount stores,” the boy, whose name was Frederick, said patiently, as if he had to explain everything. He still wasn’t looking at the two men. “They eat plastic when they can’t get brains.” The boy glanced up, showing his grandmother