Charlie Zelnick, Dorie's high school journalism teacher, is introduced. Dorie attempts makes another break for it.

Chapter 2
Josef Mengele’s Double
"His face is the worst thing about him.”
--Shakespeare - Measure for Measure, II,i,167


Most people shunned Charlie Zelnick. Couldn’t get service in a bar; sales clerks refused to wait on him. He had this feeling people were standoffish because he resembled Josef Mengele, the notorious Nazi doctor who’d experimented on twins at Auschwitz. Like Mengele, Charlie’s hairline started at the tip of his ears, giving him a rather Neanderthal countenance. He let his thick, luxuriant hair grow until he looked like some yokel just off the turnip truck, and the gap between his teeth rivaled Mengele’s. His grandmother had always said the gap meant he was going to be rich. She was a regular Nostradamus.
There was something else he had in common with Mengele. Charlie Zelnick believed scientists should experiment on human beings to improve the human race. Case in point–-his neighbor Matt Tschelanne over there across the street starting his truck. It was one of those big ones with the row of red reflectors mounted on the top and oversized tires. Tschelanne gunned the truck in neutral, in the event that someone in the neighborhood remained asleep.
Tschelanne did this on a regular basis. Another bone of contention was the Tschelannes’ ten or twenty kids who constantly invaded Charlie’s yard, and a St. Bernard named Tiny who did his business on his lawn. “The dog goes like the dinosaur in Jurassic Park,” Charlie muttered.
When Tschelanne roared off down the street, Charlie went back to his recliner to read the rest his newspaper. No sooner had he sat down than the doorbell rang. Naturally the cat went to the door--he thought it was the milkman. Two boys wearing maroon and grey, Hydrangea High, letter jackets with the big "H” stitched in italics were standing on his stoop.
The freckled one said, "Good morning, sir. We’re selling insurance--tonight is Halloween, if you didn’t know. There’ll be troublemakers out egging and toilet-papering people unless we watch their houses.”
“It’s all for a good cause,” the other one said. He wore a gangsta-style baseball cap with the brim pulled way down over his eyes and a faint trace of a goatee. “We’re raising money for SADD. That’s Students Against Drunk Drivers.”
“It’s only a buck,” the freckled one said. "Mr. Tschelanne gave us five dollars. We’ll take change if that’s all you’ve got.”
The bandwagon approach. Someone had done a damn impressive job drilling these boys in effective sales techniques. “I can’t give you any money for SADD,” he said. “I have a DWI on my record; I’d feel like a hypocrite.” Charlie’d learned to dissemble during his twenty years teaching.
“Okay,” freckle-face said, “but don’t be too surprised if you wake up tomorrow morning and find that spruce tree TPed.”
“Is that a threat?” Charlie said.
“Take it any way you want,” the other one said. They turned and walked down the sidewalk, Freckles staring daggers at Charlie over his shoulder.
Charlie’d never seen these two particular incorrigibles before; they were probably too young for high school when he’d quit teaching four years earlier. One of them might be one of the Rheingold boys; they were all freckled with red hair.
He settled back in his chair, feet up on the arm of the sofa. Charlie wrote occasional features for the Hydrangea Shopper, so he found himself with lots of time on his hands. Not so hot working for his mother, though.
Usually, he got up about seven, read his newspaper and drank a gallon of coffee, bitching about the newest aggravation on the front page.
The cat padded by with a mouse clamped in its jaws. Without the cat Charlie’s house would be overrun by rodents. He could hear them running around in the walls at night. He’d heard them so often they didn’t even scare him anymore. He couldn’t concentrate on the paper. Those two confidence men selling Halloween insurance were bugging him. He sprang out of the recliner, hurried to the kitchen phone, and dialed Mrs. Blowser, who answered in her usual perky tone. “Mabel, it’s Charlie next door. Did you give those two boys money for Halloween insurance? They seemed kind of fishy to me.”
Yes, she’d given them a dollar to get rid of them. Before he could hang up, she invited him to dinner. She thought he was an eligible bachelor, even though she was ten years older with more kids than the Tschelannes. Either that or she was running a day care. He politely declined and hung up the phone.
Should he call Angela Martin? Angela volunteered at the school. If there was a fund raiser for SADD, she’d know about it. She’d have turned those two miscreants in to the cops faster than the town gossips would know about a divorce. He decided against it. She’d recently spurned his invitation to see Hamlet at the Guthrie Theater in the Cities, one of many such humiliating rebuffs.
#
When Dorie woke up, the nausea from the drug was gone, and she was famished. She went to the refrigerator, got some eggs and some bread out of the bread box, fried the eggs, took a cartoon of orange juice out of the frig, and had herself a nice little breakfast or dinner, whichever. After she’d drunk the juice, she realized he could have spiked that, too.
As she scraped the omelet down the disposal, she felt much better. There was a TV set after all, and Oprah was on.
A couple of hours later, after her soaps were over, she heard a rap on the door, followed by the jangle of keys. He stood very close to the door, shifting his feet, doing a little dance.
“I b-brought your purse,” he said.
“I suppose you took out all the sharp objects,” she said. “So what’s your name? That’s right, you said it was Marv, didn’t you? It looks like I’m going to have to be here for awhile until you come to your senses. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try to get to know each other some. So what do you do for a living, Marv?”
“I w-work with trees,” he said.
That’s where she’d seen him. He worked around the apartment. And she was pretty sure he was the same guy she’d seen in the park with the dog. She’d bet any money old Rex was a German shepherd. She took a few steps toward him, and he moved back towards the door, reaching for the knob. She stopped.
“You’ve got a good job,” she said. “You don’t mind my asking how much you make in a job like that, do you? I’m barely getting by myself.” He looked surprised; everybody thought you were rich if you were on television.
“It d-depends on the job; landscaping pays p-pretty good.”
“Why don’t you come in here and sit down; I’m not going to bite you.”
Marv’s eyes begged for understanding, and though he had to know she was up to something, the fool sat on the edge of the black leather couch. She could read him like a large-print book. They’d get to know each other and before she knew it, they’d fall in love, just like the frog and the prince stories in the funny papers. She plopped down towards the middle, trying to edge closer as she did so.
"So what do you like to do, Marv? I see you got me a TV. What are your favorite shows? Hee Haw, I’ll bet you like Hee Haw.”
His expression sagged like a deflated beach ball. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you? Well, I read books. I read all of Grisham.”
Mr. Z. had hated Grisham so much. Said he wrote the same book over and over. The kids all thought he was just jealous. She moved a little closer; he didn’t seem to notice. She was almost there.
“Move back over there on the other end of the couch. I’m not going to give you another chance to kick me.”
She moved over a few inches. “So, Marv, tell me about your family. Got any brothers and sisters? I’ve got a know-it-all older brother.” She crossed her legs and was able to make up the space she’d lost. She was about a yard away. Damn stubby feet; she wasn’t sure she could reach the gun from here.
“I’m the y-youngest of eleven children, nine boys, two girls.”
“Your poor mom,” she said. “I’ve only got one brother and he was certainly trial enough.”
“My b-brothers were all six footers. I’m only five foot three. Ma says I’m so small cause I was a preemie, born in the seventh month of her pregnancy.”
My God, the man was talking her ear off and he’d stopped stuttering.
“Ma says she didn’t expect me to live. We were always poor. We never had more than a small truck farm. Potatoes, tomatoes and sweet corn, which we sold at a roadside stand.”
What was he doing, playing on her sympathy? She’d never heard a man open up like this. Of course, this guy wasn’t really a man.
“My dad was always falling down drunk when he was home, never called me anything but 'runt’, when he noticed me at all.”
Dorie unzipped the back of her dress, pulled it over her head. "We can have sex now, Marv, and you can take me home. What the hell, I’ve done it with strangers before, why not you?”
“You have not; you’re a good girl.”
“I have so. Want me to give you a blow-by-blow account?” She reached back and unhooked her bra. "You can take your clothes off now, Marv. Don’t be bashful.”
Marv’s eyes bugged out like one of those wolves in a Disney cartoon, but when he undid the top button of his shirt, she lunged, trying to scratch his hand and get him to drop his weapon. She saw black, then a swirling palette of colors, and finally, a dog licking her face. He’d backhanded her with the gun butt.
“S-sorry I had to do that,” he said. “Rex, c-come away from there.”
She had a bad headache. He brought her a towel with some ice rolled up in it. She could see herself in the full-length mirror across the way. A pathetic little girl, naked, holding a wadded up towel to a bump on her head the size of an ostrich egg.
“I think you better get me a doctor. You hit me so hard I could have a concussion or even a fractured skull.”
“N-no more tricks.”
She gave him the dirtiest look she could contrive. “I’ll show you tricks. I’m going to nag you worse than your mother ever did. You’ll wish you never saw a news program. That’s a stupid-looking belt buckle you’ve got there. I’ll bet you do too watch Hee Haw.”
The kicked dog expression returned.
The diesel engine was back. “What’re those trucks doing out there? Is this place some kind of construction site?”
“It’s a l-landfill. No use to scream, though. This room is s-soundproofed.”
Dorie gaped at the panels in the ceiling. Just like a goddamn elementary school. “You’re too smart for me, Marv,” she grumped. "I’ll bet you spent years planning this caper, fixed this place up for me just like the one in The Collector. I’ll bet you’ve seen that, haven’t you? Samantha Egger was in it. Good-looking British redhead.” His jaw dropped like a steam shovel. She was too smart for her own good. Guys hated wise-guy broads. She’d never learn.
He reached behind him, grabbed the doorknob and let himself out. Rex trotted out behind him.
She went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, found a small bottle of Tylenol. Why in the world hadn’t she checked in here before? Coulda drugged the little bastard, tit for tat. She took a handful, washed them down with a glass of water, peeked at the knob on her head. The horn growing on that side of her forehead would make a mountain goat proud.
Wait though! There was glass in the mirror. Next time they tangled, it would be a different story. She’d cut off his balls.
Gingerly exploring the bump with her index finger and thumb, she settled back down on the couch with her feet up. A little vacation might be good for her. Now, what had she always wanted that she’d never been able to afford? Marv would get it for her.
She went to the refrigerator, got herself a pop, then flipped on the TV. “Wheel of Fortune” was on. Just a few minutes into the show, programming was interrupted. KARE TV interviewing a detective at her apartment. A police wrecker in the background spooling in her little red Mazda. The detective, wearing a black Stetson with a little red feather in the band, said, “We’re been doing a door-to-door. So far, nobody’s seen anything.”
“Across the street, nitwit,” Dorie yelled at the screen. “Third floor, the bozo with the orange wig.”
“And now for a report from Richard in Hydrangea, Minnesota,” the reporter said. The camera did a panorama of the town. The twin steeples of St. Stanislav, the grain elevators, Miller’s Pond on the north side of town, the water tower with the Hydrangea flower cluster painted on its side. Then another reporter was interviewing Dorie’s mother on the sidewalk in front of their ranch house. That did it--this newscast wasn’t about some other blonde newscaster who’d been kidnapped. It was about her, and her mother was crying, and behind her stood her best friend in all the world, Jill Jondura, cradling her newborn baby in her arms. Jill, who’d always been trouble. There’d been that time they’d gotten new skates for Christmas. Jill could barely skate, and she kept falling. Dorie wanted to practice that dying swan spin she’d seen Dorothy Hamill do on TV, and it was a pain to always be having to help Jill up. There was a “thin ice” sign out towards the middle of Miller’s Pond, but as Jill gained more confidence in her ability to stand, she said, “Let’s race?” and as usual, before Dorie got a chance to say yea or nay, Jill got off to a head start. Jill had never beaten Dorie at anything, so in no time, she was up to speed and gaining on Jill, when the ditz went through the ice. Dorie caught Jill’s hood just as she was about to go under. They’d been blood sisters ever since. Went to the prom together, attended the same college. Jill had spent exactly one year at St. Cloud State before she’d quit to marry Ben Jondura. And Dorie had never forgiven her for it.
The newscast had switched back to her apartment house. “It doesn’t look good,” the detective said. “We found her hair dryer and her car keys next to the car.”
Dorie’s hands started shaking and she fumbled with the off button on the remote, but the little fleck of light refused to die. The cheap, mail-order room began to close in on her. Why did everything always happen to her? Being kidnapped wasn’t even the worst thing.
On the night Jimmy Musielewicz died, she’d been reading the Little Lulu comic book that her Aunt Maggie had given her. Aunt Maggie was the only adult she knew who’d saved everything from her childhood: she had all of her Barbie dolls and their accessories, her doll buggies, about a thousand marbles, and the comic books which included Archie, Blondie, Dick Tracy, as well as Little Lulu. They were so much better than the new ones.
She’d been thinking about making some popcorn when she realized Jimmy’d been awfully quiet for the last hour or so. Usually he cried from the moment his mama left until she returned. When she checked on Jimmy, he was lying on his stomach. “Now how did that happen?” she remembered thinking. She’d set him on his back after she’d changed him, just as Mrs. Musielewicz had told her. When she turned him over, he was a funny blue color. She’d been in kind of a fog, but somehow she’d managed to find a mirror and put it in front of Jimmy’s mouth as she’d seen them do on TV. No breath. She reached for the phone and dropped it. She picked it up and dropped it again. Finally, she punched in 911 and a lady answered. “This is Dorie Bendix,” she said. “Send somebody quick. Jimmy’s not breathing.” All she could think of was a place to hide. Jimmy was dead, and it was all her fault. Mrs. Musielewicz was going to kill her. She began to hyperventilate. She’d heard that you should breathe into a paper bag when that happens, so she went to the cupboard where Mrs. Musielewicz kept the old grocery bags and breathed into one. The police officer who’d questioned her about what had happened had called her an unlucky little girl.
“That’s an understatement,” Dorie said. She got up and moved toward the wall. She tapped on the wall with her knuckles. Cement. How could she get through cement? As she was knocking on the wall, she heard a sound out there in the basement.
The furnace kicking in? She’d had enough quiet; she flipped on the TV. There was a commercial on about a couple arguing over which kind of toothpaste to get, a whitener or one with fluoride. Dorie started to laugh; she couldn’t seem to stop.
A Columbo rerun came next. The one-eyed detective was doing his level best to persuade a famous actor that he was not the principal suspect in the murder of the actor’s third wife. Columbo kept leaving, then returning to ask one more question. What would Columbo do in her predicament? Columbo’s thing was to act stupid and befuddled. She could do that.
#
After hours of staring at the computer screen trying to work on his novel, harassed by a balky printer, disappearing files, and a modem that refused to answer, Charlie decided to stretch his legs. He’d run down to the grocery to pick up some Tootsie Roll Pops for the trick-or-treaters.
Despite the snow dusting the streets and the temperature hovering somewhere around freezing, hordes of silvery ghosts, pointy-hatted witches, and rubber-faced Bill and Hillary Clintons paraded through the neighborhood accumulating groaning sacks of confectionary. Amazingly enough, these kids were actually better behaved than the ones he’d grown up with. "Trick or treat” had been a serious threat in those days, especially if you had an outhouse.
Occasionally one of the little monsters would say, “Hi, Mr. Zelnick.” This made him feel nostalgic for the teaching profession. Such a simple statement, but to a teacher, it sounded like, “I love your class; you’re my favorite teacher.”
Back at his house, he turned on the porch light and spent the next few hours feigning fear when some little, gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern knocked on the door.
Some teenagers showed up sans costumes, dressed in the baggy jeans, outsized sweatshirts and the ever-present reversed baseball cap, reminding him of the two boys selling Halloween insurance. If I’d tried a stunt like that when I was a boy, the neighbors would have drawn and quartered me, and my father would have sauteed the remains, he thought, sadistically dispensing oranges, the kind with the seeds, rather than the candy he’d reserved for the little ones.
About ten o’clock, when the trick or treating was over, Charlie went for a walk toward Angela’s house. He came to a skidding, stumbling halt, damn near twisting his ankle, when he saw the once-immaculate bungalow. Not only had they egged her house, but they’d also decorated the place with real estate signs, traffic cones, toilet paper and shaving cream. It would take hours to clean up.
Back at home, he called Mike Brown, the town cop. "Didn’t mean to get you up, Mike, but there’s been a crime . . .”
“What sort of crime you talkin’ about, Zelnick?”
When he’d been a teacher, Brown had spoke at the school for the DARE Program. Charlie had always teased Brown about the speed trap behind the billboard on the north side of town, where people would start to accelerate just before the 55 mph sign. Just kidding. Jonathan Edwards had more of a sense of humor in “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”.
"It’s Angela Martin’s house . . . it’s . . . ah--“
”Spit it out. What about Angela’s Martin’s house? I ain’t got all night; I need to get up early!”
Charlie clutched the receiver hard. “It’s been vandalized, and I know who did it. I’m pretty sure one of them was a Rheingold boy.” Charlie told him what happened that morning when the budding entrepreneurs rang his doorbell and how he’d been out for a walk and noticed the vandalism.
“Wouldn’t surprise me none; the Rheingold boy has had his fingers in every mess that comes up. Broke the windows on one of the vacant trailers at Brentwood Court. I’ll take care of it in the morning. Sorry I was so testy. I guess I’m getting too old for this job.”
Charlie said “Forget about it,” wondering whether he should ask Brown to put in a good word for him with Angela.