Free Dan by Joanna Ruocco Page A

nobody. But maybe he didn’t see her as a nobody, maybe he saw her as Melba Zuzzo, and, as such, peculiar and unassociated, unlikely to share his secrets with others.
    She pushed back through the door and marched to the counter to face Don Pond, who had pulled several paint squares from his shirt pocket and was holding them up in different combinations.
    “Do you see me as a person alone, isolated from intercourse?” demanded Melba, blushing.
    “Intercourse, Melba?” said Don Pond delicately, stacking the paint squares and sliding them back into his pocket.
    “Dealings,” said Melba. “You know how secrets spread through Dan,” said Melba. “It’s like wildfire! Or butter! What do you call that if not intercourse? But sometimes intercourse skips a person, an isolated person, a person so unlike other people that that person is on the brink of extinction. Is that how you see me? As a person skipped by intercourse? On the brink of extinction?”
    “I think there would be signs if you were on the brink of extinction,” said Don Pond, shocked out of his modesty by her outburst. “Think about it, Melba. There would be special protections. You wouldn’t be allowed to just come and go, all day and all night, riding around Dan on a bicycle, springing animals from traps. You’d be kept in a special facility until you reproduced, and not with just anyone, with a family member, Melba. I don’t mean biological family,” said Don Pond quickly as Melba recoiled. “I mean a person who shares your most jeopardized quality. Do you even know what quality that would be?”
    “I am psychic,” said Melba Zuzzo.
    Don Pond whistled. He had a very nice, full whistle, so nice that his whistling might be considered a quality in its own right. But Don Pond did not stop to comment on his whistle. He was focused on Melba. Melba stood with her arms straight at her sides while he admired her.
    “Well, that’s it, then, Melba,” said Don Pond. “Psychic. Wow.” He shook his head. “I don’t suppose anyone knows about that, or I’d have heard. It’s only fair that I tell you my secret, not because of intercourse, just because you told me one of yours.” He shut his eyes. For a long time he didn’t speak.
    “There was no splinter in my classmate’s foot,” he said at last. “Oh, I showed her a splinter alright, but it was a pencil shaving from my own pocket. I dug in her foot purely for my own gratification. I’ve slapped people, too, Melba, hundreds of times, during mosquito season. ‘Hold still,’ I’d say. ‘There’s a mosquito.’ Then bam! But do you think the mosquitoes were really there?”
    “Not always,” said Melba, generously.
    “That’s right,” said Don Pond, slowly. “Not always. So you see,” he continued, “I don’t deserve anything, not compared to people who’ve never slapped for no reason. I don’t know why I’m so favored in this life. It’s not in reward for my sterling character! I suppose, Melba, we were all of us given paths to walk in life, and some paths are lucky paths that lead you where you want to go in advance of the hordes. Shortcuts, if you will.”
    “Your house is very close to the bakery,” Melba agreed.
    “I don’t know if it is,” said Don Pond. “But my path is shorter. Luck has nothing to do with where a man builds his house. That’s a zoning issue. I’m talking about getting from A to B. What if there’s an ocean between A and B? It would take you a little while to cross that ocean, wouldn’t it Melba?”
    “It would,” said Melba.
    “Well there is no ocean between me and the bakery,” said Don Pond, and let the matter rest there.
    Now Melba almost cried out with relief as Don Pond strode across the bakery. To face Don Pond across the counter—surely this was normal! He did not look at all tentative in his dark knit cap and earring.
    “Thank you, Don!” gasped Melba extending her hands. Don Pond grasped them. His hands were ice cold and Melba noticed