Free The Tenor Wore Tapshoes by Mark Schweizer

heart's content. It's music to type by. You can hum along to the songs—even sing them if you know the words. This recording was different. I didn't know yet if I liked it or not, but it was one of those works that commanded my attention.
    I finished my sandwich and turned off the desk light. Then I took my beer over to my leather chair, put another log on the fire and settled in, cigar in hand, to listen to the recording. And, to be fair, I started it over.
    The symphony begins very softly with the basses, then cellos, and then slowly progresses through the orchestra in what one critic called a "canon of despair." It is of the genre labeled "mystic minimalism." Not my cup of tea, but I could see why Meg liked it. The beginning was quite beautiful. I closed my eyes. I might have dozed off.
    "So how's my old typewriter holding up?"
    I opened my eyes and there he was…again…sitting in my desk chair, his pipe smoking vaguely—although I didn't notice the smell of pipe tobacco—his eyes bright behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
    "The typewriter's good," I said, staring.
    "You know, sometimes I used a blue ribbon. Just for fun."
    "I didn't know."
    "So how's the story coming?"
    "Okay, I guess. I've got some really first-rate prose ready for the Bulwer-Lytton Contest. I'd really like to win it this year."
    He clicked on the desk light. "You know this is pretty good bad writing," he said, flipping through the pages on the desk next to the typewriter.
    "Well," I said with a modest shrug. "Thanks."
    "But your plot creaks like a broken shutter in an October wind."
    "Hey, that's good. Can I use that?"
    "I'm sure you will."

    * * *

    I woke up with a start. The Gorecki CD seemed to be stuck and my cigar had fallen into my lap, burning a hole in my sweater. As I patted out the smoldering ash, the symphony reached its final chord and I realized that the CD hadn't been stuck at all and that I had been hearing the same three-chord progression for the past five minutes. I vowed then and there to never again listen to minimalistic music with a lit cigar in my mouth. Then I looked at Baxter. He was standing up, the hair on his back bristling, his gaze firmly directed at my desk, and a low, almost inaudible growl in his throat. I walked over to the desk. It was different than I had left it. The papers beside the typewriter were ruffled and out of order.
    And the light was on.

Chapter 8

    "You should have seen it! It was so cool," said Moosey.
    I had driven up to Ardine McCollough's place on Saturday morning to pick up a couple of apple pies that she had made for me.
    Ardine McCollough lived with her three kids in a mobile home up near the Pine Valley Christmas Tree Farm where she worked. She was a single mother and struggled to make ends meet. I helped her out occasionally with groceries and clothes for the children, but she was a proud woman and had informed me early on in no uncertain terms that she didn't take charity. Every time I took the McCollough family anything, the gift was reciprocated. I had taken Bud, the oldest, a couple of my old-—but still good—sweaters. I was getting a couple of pies in exchange.
    Ardine's husband was abusive when he lived with them. No one had seen him for several years and no one asked where he was. He was one of those people that were never missed once they disappeared. In fact, the entire town breathed a sigh of relief when he stopped frequenting the local establishments. The only interest he ever took in the three children, other than knocking them around, was to name them—which he did—after his only friends. Beer. Bud was fifteen. His sister, Pauli Girl, was twelve. The almost-seven year old was a gregarious little boy named Moose-head. Moosey for short.
    Moosey met me at the truck, and, as soon as I stepped out of the cab, he started frisking me with practiced ease, looking for the candy bar I always brought with me on my visits.
    "You should have seen it," he repeated.
    "Seen what?" I asked.