If Jack's in Love by Stephen Wetta Page B

The red ring, that’s right. And did you kiss her?”
    â€œShe slapped me when I tried.”
    â€œAh,” Mr. Gladstein said. He placed his hands on his thighs, perplexed. “The bane of man’s existence, Witcher.”
    â€œYes sir,” I said. I guess he meant women. “Are you married?” I asked him.
    â€œThere once was a Mrs. Gladstein, but she passed away. Then I moved to this place. That was a long time ago.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    â€œAnd now you have your life. It is the time for youth. Old men must step aside, that is the way of the world. The torch has been passed to a new generation, as our late president once said.”
    I wiped my forehead, already filmy with stagnant air. What he had just said depressed me.
    Gladstein held forth his hand. “Let me see the ring. I assume she refused it.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    I handed it over.
    Gladstein examined it. He turned it back and forth.
    â€œStay here.”
    He rose from the stool with a soft yodel and headed for the back room. The dogs back there yapped and whimpered riotously, as though they hadn’t seen him in weeks. I heard clicking, whooshing, and what might have been a refrigerator door slamming shut.
    Gladstein returned. He pulled the rear door to and climbed on his stool.
    â€œNext time you see Myra try this.”
    He handed me a ring set with a clear crystalline stone large as a buttercup. I had never seen anything so magnificent.
    â€œThis is a diamond!”
    Gladstein winked. “Looks genuine, right?”
    â€œIs it fake?”
    â€œIt’s crystal, but she’ll never know. How old is she, twelve? Try that one on her.”
    â€œShould I give you money? I don’t have any.”
    â€œIt’s a trade, Witcher. Remember? You paid fifty cents.”
    I stared at the stone.
    â€œAll right, let’s go through this routine once more. What are you going to do when you see her?”
    â€œGive her the ring.”
    â€œAnd when she has accepted it?”
    â€œKiss her.”
    â€œAre you imagining that in your mind?”
    â€œYes sir. I’m trying.”
    â€œGood. Now go. And this time don’t come back until you’ve kissed her.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œGo!” Gladstein boomed.
    His voice could have filled a cathedral.
    I opened the door. The prissy bell tinkled.
    â€œWitcher!”
    I looked back.
    â€œWhat’s your mother’s name?”
    â€œMargaret.”
    â€œI saw her at the drugstore yesterday.”
    â€œYes sir, she told me.”
    â€œCome here,” he said.
    I went.
    He whispered a syllable into my ear, an incantation he had devised. I was not to divulge the syllable. Ever. To anyone. I was forbidden to utter it aloud. Doing so would bring me harm. Wonderful things will come to those who respect the power of words, he told me.
    I left the shop, silently chanting my syllable.
    And I never did reveal it. Not once. Not to anyone.

11
    THE NEXT TIME I SAW MYRA she was in her usual place on the Coghill steps.
    The Coghill beauties had arranged themselves in a circle in the sun. Johnny Pendleton, one of the neighborhood’s more virulent Witcher haters, was loitering about their yard, amusing the girls with his native wit and sophistication. He was wearing madras shorts, loafers and an alligator shirt he had purchased at Gary’s Fine Clothing for Men, an upscale haberdasher located in the shops at Dogwood Downs, on the way into town. Not quite sixteen, he was between my brother and me in age, although by rights he was Stan’s contemporary. His great distinction in the neighborhood was that of being younger brother to Gaylord Joyner’s best friend. It made him a peer of the realm.
    As I passed I made a purely subliminal attempt to signal Myra to meet me in the woods behind Dickie Pudding’s house. This dire message I endeavored to communicate with facial tics and eye movements, and