Cristal

Summons

by Vivian Darkbloom

The man facing Oliver on his front doorstep wore jungle camouflage. Oliver saw that two large, black Humvees had parked in his driveway, behind his silver Tesla.

“John Henry Oliver?” asked the man at the door. Oliver glanced around and saw two other uniformed soldiers in sunglasses, one in each corner of his small front yard. They were each looking furtively around with an odd air of mock innocence. The man in front of him had four stars on his shirt. He was older, but his hair, though greying, was still full. Which gave it the suggestion of having been made of steel. He was short, but wide, and only a fraction of his bulk appeared to be fat. The majority was muscle and bone.

“Yes?” replied Oliver, puzzled. Were they sending the army in to rescue abandoned young girls nowadays?

“I’ll need to see some identification,” said the army officer.

“Do you mind my asking what this is about?” asked Oliver.

“Top secret. I’ll need to see some form if identification first. And a thumb print.” The man lifted up a slick imitation-leather briefcase and took out a thick stack of forms, and a leaking black ball-point pen. “I’ll need all of these filled out in triplicate.”

He handed Oliver the stack. “For your protection, you will be under twenty-four hour surveillance and guard for the duration of the operation, or until such time as you receive authorization to cease such precautions.”

“Um,” replied Oliver, flummoxed. He looked at the forms, shaking from nerves.

He did not notice the white Prius making its way slowly down the road in front of his house, and coming to a stop after having pulled as far off the road is it could into one of the dirt turnouts.

The form was about as dense and unreadable as a government form was capable of being. Oliver never thought he would prefer filling out his annual tax forms to anything else, but he was on the verge of changing his mind.

Neither of them noticed the woman emerging from the Prius, her large brown eyes coolly regarding the situation. She was dark and beautiful, with long black hair down almost to her waist. She was dressed for business, in a formal white blouse and matching burgundy coat and slacks.

“This is going to take a while to fill out,” said Oliver. “And I still don’t understand what it’s for.”

“You’re being recruited for a special project. Assuming you are in fact John Henry Oliver. I need to see some identification.”

“General Wentworth,” came a voice from behind the man in uniform. Oliver leaned to one side, and noticed the beautiful dark woman for the first time.

“Can’t you see, I’m busy?” growled the general, chomping the stub of a cigar in his mouth as he lit a match, causing a bright red ember to burn red. Pungent smoke filled the air. Oliver coughed.

“May I have a word?” she said.

“Women,” muttered the general under his breath. He half turned toward her. “One word.”

“Over here, please,” she said politely.

The general sighed and stomped over to where she stood in Oliver’s front path.

Oliver was left holding the clipboard and leaky pen. He surveyed the abnormally high population of his front yard. The two uniformed men were still furtively looking all around from behind dark glasses. Oliver glanced back at the house. He saw the front window curtains flutter. That would be Cristal, watching discreetly. Good. He was hoping she wouldn’t appear at precisely this instant.

He over heard bits of the conversation between the general and the beautiful woman.

“. . .following standard protocol for handling a valuable asset,” the general was saying. “If the project fails on account of my failure to follow strict guidelines—”

“General,” she cut him off. “The project is virtually guaranteed to fail if you remain here to implement your current plan. My directions were very clear.”

“And I don’t care if you’re with the IRS, or the BBC, or which goddamned bureau you’re from. This is our jurisdiction, and we have the responsibility to--

A cell-phone had rung, and one of the two men in sunglasses was talking on it. He interrupted: “General,” he said.

“WHAT?!” yelled the general. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“The commander,” said the sunglasses.

The general sighed, and traipsed over to get the call. He was silent for about a minute, listening. “Yes, I see.”

It was at that moment that Cristal appeared, dressed in her bathing suit, a bikini. It was in a shade of magenta with bright yellow triangles that Oliver could not look at without seeing vibration. She hid behind him, clinging to his waist.

The general exploded. “But sir! This colored girl, it just isn’t right. Who does she think she is? Meddling with. . . Yes, I see. But sir! Yes, I see. All right, sir. I will do that. Yes I heard. Sensitivity training, 0600 hours Monday morning. Yes sir. Yes sir. All right sir. Immediately.” He jabbed the phone with his finger, and handed it back to the sunglasses who had given it to him.

The woman regarded him with an oddly sympathetic smile.

He walked back over to her sheepishly. His face was bright red. He spoke between nearly clenched teeth. “I’ve been ordered to relocate my resources. Immediately.” His cigar had gone out.

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “You can get your gorillas out of here, along with these hideous guzzling wastes of taxpayer dollars.” She gestured at the Humvees.

The general scowled at her, but said nothing. Oliver handed him the sheaf of papers, and soon they had all climbed back into their vehicles, departing in a cloud of exhaust.

Which left Oliver standing with the mysterious woman in his front yard. Cristal came out from behind him.

“Well, hello, precious,” said the woman. “I didn’t see you earlier.

Oliver was leery. “So if you don’t mind my asking,” he began.

“You’re wondering what this is all about?” She strode over and held out her hand. “My name is Amaryllis.”

He was hesitant, if tentatively grateful. He shook her hand. Her grip was soft but firm. “Not very often that I get to shake hands with someone who can talk down a four-star general,” he said. “And I seriously doubt that your name is actually Amaryllis, though it’s a very pretty one.”

She smiled.

Cristal tugged at his shirt. “Can I go swimming?” she asked.

“Not right now, sweetheart,” he said. “Later on. Don’t you have a book to read or something?”

She nodded her head ‘yes’ but still clung to him, hanging on to his wrist now.

“I have to apologize,” said Amaryllis quietly, rocking on her heels demurely. She must have been about thirty years old.

“What for?” asked Oliver, laughing.

“It’s my fault that your theories keep being denounced, and that grant money is continually denied. Though it looks like you’re not doing too badly.” She glanced over at the Tesla.

He narrowed his eyes. “I made the down-payment right before my last contract was canceled. It’s been hell paying it off.”

She smiled weakly. “Sorry. See, the problem is, you were right. But we couldn’t let that information get out into the general public. Especially under the control of a left-leaning civilian who might pursue his own agenda. . .”

His initial shock had turned to anger. “So much for freedom,” he said. “For self-determination. For the kind of transparency that is necessary for a true democracy to function.”

“I was just following orders,” she said. “I’ve read all of your papers. You are truly brilliant.”

He laughed cynically. “And now you need my help.”

“The world needs your help,” she replied.

“All melodramatic, now,” he said. “The fate of the entire civilized world, I suppose? Rests on my decision? The answer is ‘no.’”

She watched him cautiously. Cristal was still holding on to his wrist, but less insistently now. Finally Amaryllis spoke. “If it makes you feel any better, you can check your bank account. I’ll wait.”

He frowned. His stomach knotted. And he still hadn’t had breakfast.

“Good news or bad news?” he asked.

She smiled mysteriously. “I’ll wait. Just go check.”

He turned, and went back into his house, with Cristal along side him. He slammed the front door. “Can’t I get any peace around here?”

“Sorry,” said Cristal.

“No,” he said, annoyed. “Not you. Just everyone else.”

“What about your bank account?” asked Cristal.

“Well, let’s check it,” he said, opening up his laptop and waiting for it to spin up. He entered a password, then opened a browser, entered a URL, and another password.

In a few moments, he gave a low whistle.

Cristal leaned toward him with a smile and raised eyebrows. “Good news?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered softly. Enough to pay off the rest of the Tesla, and then some. He looked her in the eye. “Love,” he said. “Would you mind going out and asking the lady in?”

“OK,” she replied, and jumped up. He heard the front door open. “He says you can come in now,” Cristal told her.

“Thank you,” replied the lady.

Soon they were all sitting around Oliver’s round wooden kitchen table.

Oliver watched Amaryllis as she settled in her chair, waiting for her to speak.

“We have an urgent need. . .” she began.

“So do I,” he replied. “I need to eat breakfast.”

Amaryllis was taken aback. “At this hour?”

“Maybe if I had regular work, I would be more inspired to get up earlier,” replied Oliver caustically.

“And we don’t have any raspberry jam,” chimed Cristal.

Amaryllis laughed. “Well, we can just send away for some. Do you have a particular kind that you like?”

“Unh hunh. Raspberry.”

“I see,” replied Amaryllis. She took a phone from her pocket, and tapped a few places on the screen. “Kelly?” she spoke into it.

“Yes?” said a voice from the phone.

“You can come in now. And we have a mission for you to accomplish.”

“Mission?” replied the voice.

“Someone needs some raspberry jam. And you can bring in the hat box now.”

“Hat box?” echoed Oliver, getting up and going to the refrigerator, getting out the ingredients of French toast.

“Be there in a minute,” replied the voice.

Oliver looked over at her. “You’ll notice I didn’t say ‘yes.’ I only invited you in to talk. You can hardly expect me to trust someone who spreads lies about science.”

Amaryllis leaned forward with a coy smile. “You mean to say that you’re not even the slightest bit interested to see what I brought?”




To be continued. . .



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