Free The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault

open beer can.
    I rang her buzzer, and she appeared almost immediately.
    “Hi. Oh my God, Billy. I found one. I found another one.”
    “You started without me?” I followed her up the stairwell.
    “I started last night. But who cares? It’s working!”
    “What’s working?”
    “Nineteen fifty!”
    Her apartment was on the third floor. She led me into a small but immaculate kitchen. Off the kitchen, I could see a large old-fashioned pantry. Boxed macaroni and cheese, rice pilaf packets, and ramen noodles were arranged in an elaborate pyramid.
    I handed her the paper bag with the Coke and rum in it, but she set it on the kitchen table without looking in it.
    “You want to see what I found?” she asked.
    “Aren’t you going to give me the grand tour first?”
    “C’mon. Sit down.”
    She sat down with me at her kitchen table and pushed a little white paper toward me. “So read it.”
    I did:

maven
    When the papers went crazy, I knew everything might very well explode. Still, I resigned myself to the stern presence of my fellow word
mavens
. There was at least an odd comfort in submitting to the long silence of the day. Reliable and insistent, it served as a kind of protector. I was reading a book about drug slang, underlining the word “stash,” and you came to my desk. When you saw what I was reading, you said, Nowyou’re talking. You said that junk slang was your favorite, and wanted to know if there was a chapter on junk. Then you asked if I’d finished that other book yet. No, I whispered. I was unraveling fast. Was it a trick question? What exactly had been in that article that I hadn’t had time to read? Was there something suspect near the corpse? Were you smiling, Red, because of something you knew?
    Dolores Beekmim
The Broken Teaglass

Robinson Press
14 October 1985
32
    I read it over a couple of times. Mona went to the refrigerator, got out a beer, and quietly placed it next to my hand.
    “That’s yours,” she said. “You can drink it, if you’re so inclined.”
    “I think that’s a good idea. Now that we’re dealing with a corpse and all.” I snapped open the can.
    “I
know
.” Mona sounded pretty thrilled. “Isn’t it great?”
    “Great? Well, I don’t know about
great
, but—”
    “You know what I think is interesting about this one?”
    I took a long sip.
    “What?” I said.
    “Don’t you find the mention of the corpse a little casual? I mean, it’s mentioned almost like an afterthought.”
    “I wouldn’t say that—”
    “Come on. Corpse? Mixed up in some conversation about junkie slang? I think this is supposed to be amusing.”
    “Amusing?”
    “You know, like British humor.”
    “British humor?”
    “Yes.”
Mona was growing irritated. “Like someone uncovering the corpse you buried is just a
bother
. Just a dreadful
bother.”
    “I don’t read it like that,” I disagreed.
    “You want to know what I think this is, Billy?”
    “What?”
    “With all the washed-up English master’s degrees that pass through Samuelson, there’s got to be a half dozen wannabe novelists floating around the editorial office at any one time, right?”
    “I guess.”
    “Yeah. A
corpse?
With some telltale clue next to it? I think someone decided to write a pulp mystery novel and have it take place at Samuelson.”
    “Okay. And that’s interesting to you? What’s so great about that? A bored editor writing a trashy novel?”
    “Well, obviously with this 1950 thing there’s got to be some kind of additional inside game to it.”
    “Mona, do you want a drink? I brought you some stuff.” I showed her the little bottle of rum. “Where do you keep your glasses?”
    Mona hopped up again.
    “I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I prefer to mix my own drink, thank you.”
    “Well, make it a strong one.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because I have a theory for you. And it might be a little much for you.”
    “Lay it on me,” challenged Mona. She poured a little trickle of rum