Who Made Stevie Crye? by Michael Bishop

typing paper and one of your own severed ears. Or maybe one of the monkey’s. At the moment this is a Mexican standoff, but I’m going to be the first to blink. I know it.
    “Listen,” Teddy piped up, “if he doesn’t want that five dollars, I’ll be glad to look after it for him.” A monkey, a motorcycle, a gentleman caller, a dispute over money—why, this was a regular amusement-park tour for the boy. Six Flags Over Georgia in his own backyard. His grin was more wondering than avaricious.
    Seaton turned toward Teddy.
    “He gets an allowance,” Stevie said. “Don’t you dare give that to him.” She stepped forward and relieved their visitor of the bill. “You’re being foolish, Seaton. This was really yours.”
    He seemed gratified to have won the contest. He plunged his hands back into his fatigue pockets and rocked on his heels. “That’s not the only reason I came, though.”
    “It’s not?”
    “No, Mrs. Crye. If you’d like me to check your typewriter, this could be a service call. Is it working okay?”
    “Why shouldn’t it be?” The hostility in her voice surprised even Stevie. “You fixed it, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Then there’s no reason to look at it again, is there?”
    “Not if you don’t want me to, Mrs. Crye. I just thought—”
    “What?”
    “I brought my tools. The timing might’ve slipped a little. I wouldn’t mind just giving it a look. For free, I mean. I’m not giving back that five dollars just to charge you more for something else. I don’t do that. I’m just—”
    “—being neighborly.”
    Seaton Benecke scuffed the soles of his combat boots on the twiggy grass and looked at the ground. “I read your article on the Ladysmith cancer clinic in yesterday evening’s Ledger . It was really good. You really got deep into that stuff—thermograms, nuclear medicine, and all. Really good. I always try to read what you do.” He looked up without engaging Stevie’s eyes. “I guess I just sort of wanted to see what your writing place looked like. I’ve never seen a writer’s place before, how you’ve got your typewriter and all set up. But I would’ve worked on it even if you wanted to bring it out of your office to the kitchen or something—if it needed it, I mean. I would’ve checked it out for you. Sometimes you can catch some things before they go wacky or really break.”
    Teddy said, “He can stay for lunch, can’t he?”
    Oh, Lord, not that trick again. Stevie glowered at the boy. How many times had she told him not to invite a friend to the house without first consulting with her in private? She could only appear ungracious if she refused such a request within hearing of the disinvited party. Teddy never learned. He issued invitations the way some people threw confetti.
    “He’s come forty miles,” the boy pointed out. “It wouldn’t hurt for him to just check your typewriter.”
    “I know how far he’s come. I’ve made that trip a few times.” Was Teddy being obtuse on purpose?
    “That’s okay,” Seaton Benecke said. “I was going to eat when I got home. It’s hard to stop anywhere when you’re traveling with a monkey.”
    “You’re welcome to stay,” Stevie said tightly, still trying to communicate her ire to her son. “If you don’t mind hot dogs or fried-egg sandwiches. That’s about all we’ve got.”
    “We love fried-egg sandwiches,” Seaton Benecke declared flatly. “At home, Mrs. Crye, I fix them all the time.”
    “Did you say ‘we,’ Seaton?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Look now, please don’t think me rude, but although I’m prepared to have you for a guest, I don’t think I’m ready for your monkey.” Just like I’m not ready for a train carrying toxic waste to derail in downtown Barclay. Just like I’m not ready for a reprise of Ted’s last two months on earth.
    “He’s housebroken, Mrs. Crye. He’s neater than some people.”
    The gall of some people, thought Stevie, was a poison they