Christmas came and went, and the New Year dawned, and the days began to pass without incident. Everyone got busy with their routine lives, and little Hank Greenhorn became busy with his school. But the other children didn’t speak with him anymore, and he didn’t speak with them either. He kept to himself even as they played on the street outside his house, never caring to join them. They wouldn’t have taken him in even if he had asked, but he never asked.
It was ten days to Christmas. The sleepy neighborhood of Wishing Cross was undergoing its annual transformation. All through the year, people here led simple lives minding their own hectic business, but come December and they would all be out decorating their yards in the most amazing ways possible.
On this particular December afternoon, three families, children and all, were out in their yards decorating them with all the festive adornments they could gather. The Junebottoms had built a wonderful nativity crib, detailed with real cacti and dates hanging from the fake palms. The Ginmallows had lighted up the fir tree in their yard with a brilliant shining star, for which Mr. Ginmallow had to climb all the way to the top of the tree on a rickety ladder held in place by his wife. The Hammonds had put up lights all around their picket fences and built asnow-house with Santa riding his sleigh outside it.
Mr. Junebottom placed the statues in his crib — all except Baby Jesus — and stood back to admire his creation. “Why aren’t you keeping Jesus?” asked his four-year old son. “Oh, my cutie Percy,” said the mother kissing him. “Dada will place him on the midnight of the 25th. Jesus isn’t born yet, is he?”
Mrs. Ginmallow came out and stood beneath the bedecked fir tree. “That’s fantastic, Shelly,” she said intertwining her fingers with her husband’s. “I am sure in the evenings, when the lights come on, this tree will be the talk of the town.”
Mr. Hammond put on the lights to test them and his whole house lit up. The other families turned to look. His Santa had red lights all over his costume. Regardless of the daytime, the bright red lights shone through, leaving no doubt as to the magnificence his handiwork would display when evening came on.
The neighborhood was so brightly done, even Saint Nicholas would have a difficult time ignoring it during his annual visits.
Little Marsha Ginmallow was inside the house, having a little afternoon siesta. Hearing her mother call her out, she arose rubbing her eyes, and came out reluctantly. She came holding her cuddly teddy bear in her left hand, its foot dragging along the floor, and stood at the doorstep. Still rubbing her eyes, she turned her head upwards along the height of the tree and blinked at the shining star.
And just then, even as she was looking at the star, she saw something come whizzing by and hitting the star, smashing it right there into little pieces that flew all over the place.
She screamed.
“It’s the Greenhorn boy,” shrieked her mother.
Marsha saw him. Hank Greenhorn — the little terror of Wishing Cross — sitting on his bike and smiling evilly at the mess he had created. Mr. Ginmallow ran to grab the boy, but the man was portly and couldn’t run as fast. In a trice, the boy bounded off on his bike and came right up to the Junebottoms’s doorstep.
“Don’t you dare!” screamed Mr. Junebottom, seeing Hank Greenhorn standing near the crib in his yard. But, Mr. Junebottom was away from his crib at that moment, and it did not take any time or hesitation for Hank to pick up one of the statues. It was a shepherd holding a lamb across his shoulders.
“No you don’t,” warned Mrs. Junebottom.
However, Hank had no intentions of letting go. Holding the shepherd by his legs, he smashed it against the gate and held it out for everyone to see. Mrs. Junebottom let out a scream of anger, and Mr. Junebottom ran out in pursuit of the puny rascal.
With two grown men hot on his chase, Hank sped up his bike and came up to the gate of the Hammonds. He already knew what he had to do here. Fishing out a ball of mud from a pocket of the overalls that he wore, he took a careful aim right at Santa’s head.
It took a moment for the slow Mr. Hammond to realize what was going to happen. When he did, the mudball was already plastered on his beautiful Santa’s face and beard, now looking uglier than ever. Not just that, the impact of the ball loosened the light streamer that ran through Santa’s hat and a whole portion of it fell off from its perch on the picket fence.
***
Mrs. Greenhorn had never expected much from her son Hank, but when she saw three adult men dragging him by the ear to her doorstep, followed by their ladies and children, she knew she was in for a big problem.
“Mrs. Greenhorn!” yelled Mr. Junebottom, the tallest of the three men. “Come out this instant.”
The woman came out demurely. She had faced complaints about her wayward son before. She had no illusions about her son whatsoever. If she played silent, this problem, whatever it was, might just pass.
“This has gone too far this time,” continued Mr. Junebottom, his fist shaking in the air.
Mrs. Greenhorn came ahead and took Hank in her arms. The boy didn’t show any sense of regret or shame. He actually smiled at his mother, and that’s what made matters worse.
“See the boy! See the boy!” fumed Mr. Hammond. “Is there any shame in him?”
“What did he do?” asked Mrs. Greenhorn, taking care that her voice didn’t sound defiant in any manner.
“What did he do, you ask? What did he do?” said Mr. Hammond. “He spoiled our Christmas, that’s what. This year again! Don’t you know that by now? Every year, we put up our decorations and there this little scoundrel is, ruining our labors for Lord knows what reason.
“Did you do that, Hank?” asked Mrs. Greenhorn.
The boy only grinned at her. Then he winked.
“He winks!” Mr. Ginmallow put his hand on his balding head. “He winks! You people know what that means? His mother is on to it. The whole family is out to ruin our Christmas.”
“It is not like that,” protested Mrs. Greenhorn.
“Where is his father?” Mr. Ginmallow demanded to know.
“He’s at work.” Mr. Greenhorn worked at the supermarket, and his job entailed packing bags for customers at the billing counter.
“When he’s back,” said Mr. Hammond, “tell him about it. That boy doesn’t need your love. He doesn’t need anyone’s love. What he needs is a good spanking. Tell his father I said that.”
Mrs. Greenhorn nodded.
Mr. Junebottom now came forward, his breath almost running into Mrs. Greenhorn’s face. “No, you don’t understand. This is the third year he has done that. We don’t care he is just twelve. The next time he does that — and I mean it — we are not going to drag him here. We are going to carry him right to the police station. Let them keep him with the murderers and the robbers, for that is where this ruffian belongs.”
A small tear left Mrs. Greenhorn’s eye as the angry crowd stomped out of her house, muttering and cursing under their breaths.
And that night, when the other families repaired their decorations and lit up Wishing Cross, one house remained unlit. It was the house of the Greenhorns. Only a faint flicker of an incandescent bulb was seen through one of the windows, and the dark silhouette of a little boy on his father’s knee, yelling from the spanking he received for his misdeed.
When he touches me, my hair stands on end
How then can he be just a mere friend?
Hector says I have strange powers. I can understand why he says that. At times, he has caught me staring into the distance, looking at something he cannot see; or seen me react to a faint sound somewhere, a sound that he cannot hear. There is no doubt that I have better senses than he has. That is perhaps why I have been able to take care of him thus far.
At times, when he is walking on those long country paths, immersed in thoughts of his characters and his stories (for he is a writer), I accompany him. I give him his space. Though I walk with him, I never intrude upon his thoughts. When he thinks, I do not disturb. I occupy myself looking at those lovely woodsy sights that we pass along. I love being out in these misty woods anyway; I do all I can to smell each flower, hear each chirp and see each tree.
Sometimes he walks much ahead and then turns back to look for me. With mild irritation, he says, “Julie, you have to be quicker. Buck up!” And then I leave whichever bush I am admiring at the moment and run along to catch up with him, the smell of the earth still fresh upon me.
When he left home three years ago to come down and settle in these woods, it was only me that he took along. He said, “Julie, we are going to make a home together, out there in the woods. Would you like to be with me—only you and me?”
I was touched. I had never cried before that—I didn’t even know what crying meant—but those words brought some moistness to my eyes. I didn’t have words to express my feelings for him; I just tried to kiss him clumsily with my mouth, the way he liked. And he played with my soft hair the way I liked it.
The house wasn’t big, but it was enough for the two of us. While he typed out page after page of his stories, I kept myself entertained, never treading in his path. I made sure the house was exactly the way he liked it. He loved things to be in a particular way, and I made sure that even a pen wasn’t moved from its place in his absence. It was a happy home, for the two of us. We didn’t have much to eat or drink, but we kept ourselves happy.
Then his book was published, and people came to know him. It was wonderful that first night! We had a party, a house full of people, for the first time. Everyone wanted to meet him, talk to him. He introduced me to a few people, and I smiled politely at them. But not all his guests were good people. Some of them looked at me with odd looks, as if wanting to say, “What is he doing with that bitch?” I understood their feelings even if they didn’t say it out loud. And it was understandable. He was a remarkably handsome man after all, now even famous, and I had him all to myself.
But then, the happy bubble slowly began to burst. It was a very cold night when he brought the woman home. Yes, I will only refer to her as ‘the woman’ though I know her name. She was the real bitch, if you ask me. With those long eyelashes and pretty dolled up face and short skirts, she seduced my Hector. The first time she saw me, she looked down at me and, putting a very fake smile on her face, said, “Good to see you, Julie!” As though she meant that. I didn’t even answer her. Her perfume suffocated me. I looked away as a mark of protest.
Not that it made any difference to her. She began visiting us more and more, and she changed my poor Hector. She sat down to dinners with us, but I stubbornly refused to leave Hector’s side. Why should I give up my place to her? He didn’t tell me anything either, nor did she. They kept on their lovey-dovey talks right in my presence, in low whispers. They thought I couldn’t hear. But Hector seemed to have forgotten about my strange powers.
Then one night, he took her into his room, to his bed. That bed was mine! I had always slept on that bed with him. How dare he do that to me? He shut the door, and told me, “Julie, you don’t mind, do you? Why don’t you sleep on the couch tonight?” And he shut the door. I kept looking at him, thunderstruck.
I should have done something, maybe run away and never come back. I could not stand being treated like dirt in this manner. But I hung on. I knew Hector was misguided. I knew this would pass. He couldn’t abandon me just like that.
And I wasn’t wrong.
A few weeks later, the woman stopped coming. I don’t know what had happened between them. I tried asking him several times about her, but I could not express myself properly. That has always been a big issue with me—I can never say the things I want to say. I expect people to understand me.
But Hector did not. He only started wasting away. He didn’t write anymore. He only sat by the window and reeked of smoke and alcohol. But I sat by him, silently, soaking in his misery. Assuring him that I would always be by his side, come what may.
Weeks passed, and slowly he came out of his shell. I was very happy when he took out his typewriter again. I followed him in delight till he told me to leave him alone. That night, he wrote furiously till a very late hour, and when he could not sit anymore, he came and slept on the bed beside me. It was just like the good old times once again.
His second book was also a big hit. He was a changed man, rugged and more handsome in my eyes now. His guests began accepting me too. They seemed to say, “Yes, she is the one who gives him strength. She is his muse.” And then they laughed. I did not understand the laughter, but it was a compliment nonetheless. I grinned from ear to ear all through that night.
Tonight, I am on the bed, and he is sleeping beside me. I see his beautiful sleeping form and I snuggle close to him. He places his arm over me, still asleep. My eyes are drooping too.
Then I hear it—
A slow scraping sound at first, which begins to grow louder.
It is coming from the hall outside. Hector is still sleeping. He’s tired, I won’t disturb him. I get out slowly from the bed, without troubling him, and move toward the source of the sound.
I see it now—a window is open. There is someone inside. I can feel him. He has a strong smell of beer upon him. I can smell the bad beer.
I go back into the room where Hector’s sleeping. This is where the smell is the strongest. It takes a while to attune my vision to this darkness. And then I see him— the intruder. He has tiptoed into Hector’s room, and now he stands over his sleeping form. He raises his hand. He has something in it. A dagger. Its blade glints menacingly in the moonlight.
There is no time—
He is just about to strike.
And I lunge at him.
There’s nothing else I could have done. He was too far from me, and I was unarmed. He hadn’t seen me, and I took the benefit of it.
But it is too late.
Hector is up, writhing in pain. The man has stabbed him, right across his chest. I can see the gaping wound. Hector is passing out, collapsing.
The man has dropped his weapon in the scuffle. I try to take the weapon and finish him once and for all, but I cannot. I am blinded with rage. He has hurt my dear Hector. I am not going to leave him. But I let the dagger be on the floor. I don’t want any dagger for this wimp; my brute strength and my anger is enough.
I pin him to the ground; surprisingly, I am too strong for him. I never knew I had this strength myself. The rage is so strong within me that I can think of nothing but revenge. Using just my arms and my teeth, I rip the man apart to shreds. I keep up till he is gone. Just a mangled mess on the floor.
Then I go up on the bed to my poor Hector. He is still breathing.
I can still save him.
I hop off the bed, and plan to leap out of the window to alert someone’s attention.
And as I am about to leave the room, Hector calls out to me, and says with halting words:
“Julie… my dear Julie… you are the best dog a man could ever have.”
That’s all the gratitude a four-legged friend like me wants. I will save his life, I will.
END
The Death of Parker Greene also appears in Neil D’Silva’s short story collection Bound in Love. 
And, sometimes, the sanest of us do the wickedest of deeds
And weep in repentance till the heart bleeds.
What would you feel if you knew you had only ten minutes to live? If you knew that in just ten minutes, your eyes would turn inside-out, your organs would fail, your body would stiffen, and you would die a nameless, ignominious death, leaving all those tasks undone, all those dreams unaccomplished? It would be the most excruciating ten minutes of your life. If you weren’t sure about your impending death, you would wish to die already.
Well, what would you feel?
But Parker Greene only felt thirsty—very, very thirsty.
The thirst began as a tingling sensation from the back of his mouth, then started to prick at the palate, and finally moved down his throat. He felt the rough-edged discomfort of wanting something to sip—it could be any liquid, it just needed to have the fluid consistency that could enliven his throat. In a few minutes he would turn blue and it would be all over, but why did he have to suffer this inexorable thirst before he popped out? Maybe it was part of the process.
He sat on the floor and tried to swallow his saliva to compensate for the dryness, but it didn’t work. He didn’t have any saliva left.
Almost gasping for breath now, he looked up at the bed. And then he began to forget about the thirst.
The first thing he saw of her was her feet. They were tiny and cute, and he had always remarked about how dainty they were. Just like the tight feet of a Japanese geisha, so fair and so delicate. But they had now turned blue. Like the rest of her body.
He slowly craned his neck to look at her.
She lay on her back on the bed in completely consuming and everlasting sleep; and she was a sick shade of blue, but still she looked lovely to him. He could see a portion of her face. An open eye still pleaded to him, begged him to save her, and the lips that had now turned dark blue were slightly parted, as if they were making a final request. Quite fittingly, her dress was dark blue too, and it was beset with shiny satin threads. It was a special dress he had gifted her that she wore only on special occasions. Could dying be considered a special occasion too?
But she didn’t know she would die. She was, in fact, surprised when she saw him at the house—this house, away in the woods, an investment they had made when things had been better. He had stood at the door with a smile on his face and a bouquet of very special roses in his hand. But the smile was just a façade—in his mind was dark, bottomless anger, anger for all the secrets this beautiful form had hidden behind his back. And the roses were just an illusion—within their thorns was the essence of poison of a thousand venomous snakes.
Plotting his wife’s murder had pained him more than his own impending death did. Berenice had been his sunshine for three years. She had taken him out of the depths of despair and drug addiction. She had sobered him up, and then given his sober life true meaning and joy. The beautiful caregiver that she was, she knew what life meant. Not only did she live each moment to the fullest, but she made everyone around her live to the fullest too. With her by his side, even the withdrawal had been easier; he had been born again.
But recently, Berenice had been drifting away. He had sensed it. A new man had entered her life. He was Timothy, his own best friend, with whom he grew up in that small neighborhood, and who knew every one of his secrets. Why did Timothy have to do this to him? Timothy, dear old Tim, of all people! Timothy always had had better luck with women. They were silly putty in front of his charming ways, and he molded them whichever way he wanted. He had seen that happen countless times before, in bars and clubs and even in the real estate firm where they briefly worked together. However, he did not expect Timothy would seduce his own wife with his easygoing charm.
Berenice was all he had—and she had been slipping away like dry sand from his fingers.
Lately, Timothy had been coming to their house often. What rankled him more was that these visits were mostly in his absence. There were small signs that he noticed—two water rings left by two glasses on the coffee-table, two dining table chairs pulled out irregularly, the stubs of his favorite brand of cigarettes in the ashtray, the big prints of shoes on their suede welcome mat, and once even the commode lid was fully open. She spoke of Timothy more often too, and when he asked probing questions, she just laughed them off. Something was definitely brewing between the two.
He thought he would confront Berenice about it, but what would be the use of it? No self-respecting woman would accept that she was in an extramarital affair. No one could elicit that out of her. For a while, he chose to ignore the dalliance, hoping it would be just a passing phase. That she would return to him.
Then one day she asked him what gift he would like for his forthcoming birthday, and he actually thought she had begun caring for him again. He sensed the warmth in her question, like there was no one else she cared for.
He would have happily chosen to live with that illusion. As long as Berenice loved him and was with him, he could choose to be a little blind to her ways outside. True love is forgiving, and he could forgive. But then the next day he overheard something that did not sit well with him at all.
It was a phone conversation, and he did not need to know who was on the other line. Berenice took the phone and moved out of the room, but he tailed her, and stood outside the door and eavesdropped.
And he heard it—she was planning to meet him at the cottage in the woods. She doubly promised him that she would be there. She told him that Parker wouldn’t know of it; he never went that way in the woods anymore.
The affection in the voice, the silent whispers, the planning behind his back—it all added up to a monstrous surge of anger in Parker’s chest. He felt he would explode. He could not have this scheming going on. It ate him from within, his head felt fit to explode. He had a sick feeling in his abdomen as if it would rupture with anger.
But he checked it.
He had learnt to keep his anger within himself.
He would have the final strike though, there was no doubting that.
Parker Greene had spent the previous evening visiting an herbalist’s shop that he had once seen in a shady corner of the town. The herbalist’s fliers had proclaimed that he had all kinds of medicines for all kinds of illnesses, however lethal they may be. He had also proclaimed to have a cure for cancer. But the thing that had caught his eye was the small line at the bottom of the flier—stocking all poisons and their antidotes.
He did not want the latter, and he paid a hefty price for the former.
Then, in the early morning when she had left, he stayed behind. He bought a bouquet of special roses from the florist outside his church and started to meticulously daub their thorns with the essence of the poison he had bought. The herbalist had told him that one drop would be enough to bring a slow painful death in a few minutes, and death would be quicker as soon as it hit the bloodstream.
When she had seen him at the door of this cottage about an hour ago, she had a puzzled expression. He was certainly unwelcome. Parker had hoped to catch both of them together and he had brought the remaining poison in its bottle, but that eventuality did not arise. She was alone when he knocked.
Still with the smile on his face, and without a word, he had offered her the roses. She had said something that he did not quite catch, and took the roses. He had made sure they hit their mark. He had seen the poison-smeared thorn pressing into her white flesh. And then he had seen her retracting horrifically, grasping her throat at once, falling on the bed and twitching to her death in the most merciless manner.
Then it hit him.
The loss. The tragedy. The end of everything that meant anything to him.
Berenice was gone—what was left for him? He cried with a hollow sound. He sat on the floor, froglike, with his head buried between his knees, refusing to see her fallen form, and saw the darkness within himself.
There was nothing left for him.
Slowly, he took out the remaining poison from the bottle still with him and placed one unholy drop of it on his outstretched tongue.
The impact wasn’t as immediate though since the poison didn’t mix into the bloodstream all at once. It took its own time, making him suffer every imaginable pain of his death.
And when his vision was starting to become blurry and he realized that his suffering would soon come to an end, he heard the knocking on the door.
He had closed the door behind him as he entered and the windows had never been opened. The knocking continued, almost insistent. For a moment, he got a nagging feeling that he should open the door, but he couldn’t even open his eyes now.
When his tongue began to hang out, and his body collapsed to the ground, unable to ever rise again, he heard Timothy.
From a slight opening in the window, Timothy shouted out:
“Berenice! Berenice! Open the door. I have brought the decorations and invites for Parker’s surprise birthday party tomorrow.”
END
The Death of Parker Greene also appears in Neil D’Silva’s short story collection Bound in Love.
They walked, hand in hand, like two lovers. It was uncharacteristically early for him, the sun had not yet reached its zenith in the sky. He had scarcely seen the environment at this time in the morning, and he found it lovely. The beach with its soft cool sand slipped beneath his legs and the early morning breeze rejuvenated him.