CONSEQUENCES
Mr. Flitcrab was a fiftysomething real-estate agent who worked for a small firm in Sacramento. The company’s brochure claimed that his specialty was “handling residential properties,” but he didn’t like that description. “Handling” sounded too much like “fondling,” and he feared it would give people the impression that he was some kind of real-estate pervert. He had lobbied the office manager to change the wording to “specializes in residential property,” but to no avail. “Those brochures are expensive,” the office manager told him, “and we are not going to alter the text until all of the current brochures are gone.” A dozen or more heavy boxes of brochures monopolized one corner of the office supply closet. Mr. Flitcrab estimated that they contained enough brochures to last another five years or more.
Six months ago the company had hired a new receptionist, pert young Angie McComas. For Mr. Flitcrab it was infatuation at first sight. He liked the coconutty way she smelled; it reminded him of tropical sands and lapping waves. He liked the way she always wore flat shoes even though she was a fairly small young woman. He thought it showed that she was comfortable with who she was. But what he found most endearing about Ms. McComas were her many odd superstitious beliefs. One Friday morning he strolled into the office and found her sitting at the reception desk and trimming her fingernails. “You were doing the exact same thing last Friday morning when I came into the office,” he said to her.
“I trim my nails every Friday,” she told him. “Trimming your fingernails on a Friday guarantees that you’ll never get a toothache.”
Mr. Flitcrab laughed at this. But Ms. McComas, as it turned out, was serious. Her German grandmother had passed on a lot of Old World superstitions to Ms. McComas, and she believed in every one of them. “I think there’s a bit of truth in all superstitions,” she told Mr. Flitcrab. “Otherwise, why would they be superstitions?”
A few days later, as Mr. Flitcrab was preparing to leave the office for an appointment, Ms. McComas suggested he take an umbrella with him. Mr. Flitcrab looked out the window.
“But there’s barely a cloud in the sky,” he said.
“I know,” said Ms. McComas, “but last night I dreamt that I was playing badminton with King Tut.”
Mr. Flitcrab’s face lost all expression. “King Tut,” he repeated.
Ms. McComas nodded. “My Grandma Friedenhagen says that when you dream of a dead person as if they are alive, it means it will rain soon.”
Mr. Flitcrab went back into his office and grabbed his umbrella.
One day, when the two of them happened to be in the break room together, Ms. McComas asked Mr. Flitcrab if he had any superstitious beliefs of his own. Hoping to establish a bond with the young woman, Mr. Flitcrab claimed that he did have a few superstitions.
“What are they?” asked Ms. McComas. “I’m always interested in acquiring new superstitions. I figure that at least one half of all the old superstitions are true. So the more of them you observe, the better your luck.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Flitcrab had no real superstitions. Black cats, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors – none of these things bothered him. He was an eminently rational man. However, he was not a terribly creative one. And now he needed to make up a clever superstition or risk losing the opportunity to make a connection with Ms. McComas. He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.
“Garden shovels,” he said. “I believe it is bad luck to leave an unattended garden shovel standing upright in the ground.”
Ms. McComas was instantly intrigued. She had never given Mr. Flitcrab such rapt attention as she was lavishing upon him now.
“Garden shovels,” she repeated. “Is that an Old World superstition, something you learned from your parents or grandparents?”
“Uh, yes,” he said. “I learned it from my Grandpa Flitcrab. He tended gardens for the royal family of Lithuania back in the early part of the twentieth century. He learned this particular superstition from the head gardener.”
Ms. McComas nodded her head as if she’d never heard anything so fascinating in her life.
“And what are the consequences?” she said.
“Consequences?” said Mr. Flitcrab.
“Of leaving a shovel standing upright in the ground,” she said. “Will it make your teeth fall out, or cause your skin to break out in a rash, or plague your garden with weevils?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Flitcrab, horrified to discover that it was now necessary to invent a second lie so soon after the first one. All his life, Mr. Flitcrab had been a truthful man, not out of any innate sense of honor or decency, but because of this tendency of one lie to beget the necessity for another.
“Well?” said Ms. McComas eagerly. “What are the consequences?”
“Pets,” said Mr. Flitcrab.
“Pets?” said Ms. McComas.
“Yes. If you leave an unattended garden shovel standing upright in the ground, you or someone you love will lose a pet.”
Ms. McComas mulled this over for a moment or two. Finally she said, “Yes, I can see how there might be a connection between those things. Shovels can be used for digging graves, and graves are all about death.”
Mr. Flitcrab breathed a huge sigh of relief. He got to his feet and prepared to leave before the necessity for another lie arose.
“I guess I’m lucky that I live in an apartment,” said Ms. McComas. “I have no garden and I don’t own a shovel. But I’ll file away what you told me for future use. If I ever do have a garden, I’ll never leave an unattended shovel standing upright in it.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “Well, back to the old grindstone.”
That afternoon, Mr. Flitcrab sat at his desk and focused his thoughts obsessively on Ms. McComas. He knew that his infatuation with her was one-sided and a bit ridiculous, that even if he were not married, she would never be interested in a man at least twice her age, with too much waistline and too little hair. He knew that he could never possess her in the biblical sense, but still he longed to leave some kind of lasting mark on her, to claim just one small part of her for himself. And as he pondered this desire to influence her life and character in some small way, he realized that her belief in superstitions offered him the opportunity to do exactly that. His lie about upright garden shovels had been stupid, an opportunity wasted. Ms. McComas didn’t own a garden or a shovel. And even if she did someday, years from now, own a garden and a shovel, how often would she have an occasion to remember his bogus superstition about never leaving a shovel upright in the ground? Virtually never. He needed to invent a more commonplace superstition, like throwing salt over one’s shoulder if it spills, or knocking on wood to bring good luck, something she could conceivably end up doing once or twice a week for the rest of her life, even after he was long dead and she was an old, old woman.
***
That night, at dinner, Mr. Flitcrab didn’t eat with his usual gusto. His wife, Lena, noticed this and asked him what was wrong.
Mr. Flitcrab smiled sheepishly, as if he had been caught passing gas. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “It’s silly, but I believe I’ve mentioned our receptionist before, Angie McComas?”
“Once or twice,” said Lena without much interest.
“Well,” said Mr. Flitcrab, “she’s a very superstitious girl. For instance, she believe that trimming your nails every Friday will prevent toothaches.”
“Sounds like a dingbat,” said Lena. “The firm should look for a new receptionist before she starts scaring away clients.”
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “She’s a model employee, very conscientious about her work. Her superstitions are all fairly innocuous. She believes that if you dream about King Tut it’s going to rain – or something like that. Anyway, she’s very susceptible to suggestion, and I thought it might be amusing to pass along some phony but harmless superstition to her, just to see if she falls for it.”
Lena’s interest level grew a few notches higher. “What kind of phony superstition did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “I’m not very good at that kind of thing. I was hoping you might be able to help me. You’re a librarian. You’re surrounded by fictions all day long. You must know something about making things up.” He then proceeded to tell Lena about the upright-shovel superstition he had passed along to Ms. McComas.
Lena nodded and looked impressed. “That sounds like it could be a legitimate superstition,” she said.
“Sure,” said Mr. Flitcrab, “but there’s no way to see its effect on Ms. McComas. It may be years before she ever has an occasion to leave a shovel standing upright in a garden. I’d like to pass along some superstition that will have a small but fairly immediate effect on her behavior.”
“But why would you want to do that to the poor girl? You’ve never been the kind for pulling practical jokes.”
Mr. Flitcrab knew that his answer to this question was crucial to his effort to secure Lena’s assistance.
“Because,” he said, “if I can get her to believe in a phony superstition for awhile, and then reveal that I made the whole thing up, maybe it will undermine her entire belief system, show her what a silly waste of time it is to perform so many useless rituals in the belief that they will ward off toothaches or hair loss or evil spirits.”
Lena made a facial expression that conveyed her approval of Mr. Flitcrab’s plan. “Okay,” she said, “how about telling her that she should never cash a check on a Wednesday.”
Mr. Flitcrab sat silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Or what?”
“What do you mean?” asked Lena.
“I mean there have to be consequences to violating a superstitious belief. What bad thing will happen if you a check on a Wednesday? Will a loved one get sick? Will a fungus grow between your toes?”
Lena looked confused. “How could cashing a check cause a fungus to grow between your toes?”
Mr. Flitcrab felt himself growing exasperated. He took a deep breath. “You only came up with one half of a superstition. There always have to be consequences. The more bizarre, the better.”
“So,” said Lena, “you want me to think up consequences for cashing a check on Wednesday?”
“No,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “Let’s forget about cashing a check on Wednesday. There’s no way I’ll be able to discover whether or not Ms. McComas observes that particular superstition.”
“Sure you will,” said Lena. “If she cashes a check on a Wednesday, you’ll know your little lie didn’t work.”
“But what if she doesn’t cash a check on a Wednesday?”
“Then it will mean that she believed your lie.”
Mr. Flitcrab shook his head. “Or it could just mean that she doesn’t have any checks to cash. See if you can invent a superstition that is more…I don’t know, observable.”
Lena sat quietly for a moment. “How about, Never eat pork with a fondue spear?”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Lena, how often is Ms. McComas going to have an opportunity to eat pork with a fondue spear? My phony superstition has to involve something that occurs daily – or at least once or twice a week.”
“Well, then,” said Lena, “how about, Never climb into a bed between ten thirty-seven and ten forty-three p.m. Surely Ms. McComas climbs into a bed every night, doesn’t she? Oh, wait. I forgot. It has to be something you can actually witness, right?”
Mr. Flitcrab didn’t answer right away. He found Lena’s idea intriguing. If it worked, it would link him forever with Ms. McComas’ bedroom activities. He derived a secret thrill from the idea of influencing her behavior in that private realm.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “I kind of like your idea. But what would be the consequences?”
Lena scrunched up her face. “Let’s see,” she said, “Never enter a bed between ten thirty-seven and ten forty-three p.m. or…your hair will turn gray while you sleep.” She smiled, proud of herself, and looked to her husband for approval.
“Hmmm…” said Mr. Flitcrab, “I don’t know about that. I mean, what if your hair is already gray. Or what if you’re like me and hardly have any hair left?”
Lena cocked her head, confused. “I thought this was about Ms. McComas. Is her hair already gray? I thought she was just a girl in her twenties.”
“She is,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “But someday she’ll be old and she may have gray hair.”
“So what?” said Lena. “You don’t plan to let her believe in this dumb superstition for more than a few weeks, do you?”
Mr. Flitcrab sensed that the discussion was veering into a dangerous area. “No, of course not,” he said. “I just meant, we should make the consequences something more universal, something that could afflict anyone. I mean, why would a man like me even know about a superstition that could turn your hair gray? It might look suspicious if a I pass along a superstition like that?”
“Just tell her it’s something you heard from your grandmother years ago, when you were a little boy. I think it’s a good superstition. And the consequences are sure to frighten a young woman. What color is Ms. McComas’ hair now?”
Without reflection, Mr. Flitcrab said, “It’s a lovely golden brown, like clover honey.”
Lena reacted with a start. “Good lord, it sounds like you’ve fallen in love with her.”
But Mr. Flitcrab wasn’t listening to her. As if to himself, he said, “I like the idea of a bedtime superstition. I just don’t like the consequences being connected to her hair.”
“Why are you so concerned about Ms. McComas’ bedtime all of a sudden – and her lovely honey-colored hair?”
Mr. Flitcrab looked at Lena and noticed that her cheeks had turned red and that her eyes were flaring angrily at him. Sounding overly defensive even to himself, he said, “I’m not. You’re the one who brought hair and bedtime into this conversation.”
Lena slammed her fist down on the table between them. “Why don’t you just admit that you’re in love with her?”
“Because it’s not true,” said Mr. Flitcrab, although the words sounded rote and unpersuasive.
Lena sized up her husband through narrowly squinted eyes. “You want to divorce me and marry her, don’t you? That’s what all this stupid talk of superstitions has been leading to, isn’t it? You were just looking for a pretext to discuss your girlfriend, the receptionist with the honey-brown hair!”
“That’s nonsense,” said Mr. Flitcrab. “She’s way too young for me.”
“Oh?” said Lena. “So you’ve already thought about the differences in your ages, have you? I suppose that’s all that’s keeping you from running over to her house right now and proclaiming your love for her?”
“For goodness’ sake, Lena. Now you’re talking crazy. Forget I ever brought up this whole topic.”
Lena rose from the table and walked over to the credenza where her keys and her purse were lying side-by-side. “I will not forget it!” she yelled to Mr. Flitcrab. “I’m going for a drive. I think I just might spend the night at my brother’s house. Don’t wait up for me. And feel free to invite Ms. McComas over if you get the urge for company. But be sure to tell her not to climb into bed between ten thirty-seven and ten forty-three p.m. – or else!”
“Or else what?” Mr. Flitcrab called after her.
But Lena didn’t answer. She stormed out of the house and slammed the door shut behind her.