Careful What You Wish For Page 3

  “Don’t call me anything!” Oh hell, I thought, I have to be dreaming. I fainted or something. I must have hit my head. This can’t be real. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”

  Gene rolled his eyes at me and said sotto voce, “Me, I had to get a hysterical one.” He took a deep breath. He stood tall. He seemed to take over the room. I could even smell him: He had a sort of salty, sweaty odor that reminded me of being at the beach on a hot day. He caught me staring at him. He stared back. “Look, lady. Why don’t you sit down. I’ll explain, but from what I’ve seen of you so far, you aren’t going to believe me.” I swear he was trying not to smile.

  I felt behind me for the couch and settled onto it without taking my eyes from this Gene guy. “All right, but don’t you come one step closer or—”

  “Or you’ll attack me with that thing you’re holding?” Gene coughed to cover what I was sure was a laugh. “Really, lady, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not going to hurt you. I have to obey you. That’s the deal.”

  This guy, whoever or whatever he was, obviously didn’t take me seriously. Since he wasn’t threatening at all, I was beginning to feel more annoyed than scared. “I don’t know who you think you are,” I huffed, and sat up very straight, “but I am a member of the bar in the state of Pennsylvania.”

  “I’m trying to tell you who I am. And you might try to keep an open mind, Miss Hoity-Toity Member of the Bar—”

  “Excuse me!” I broke in, instantly taking offense. I never had anybody in my dreams insult me before. This is getting weirder and weirder. “You are a trespasser,” I said sternly. “In fact, your being here uninvited might even be called a home invasion. You are in big trouble, buddy, or Gene, or whoever you are. So start explaining, and make it quick or I’m going to call nine-one-one,” I growled.

  “Lady,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating way. “Before you go calling anybody, hold on a minute. Listen to me. I am a genie. I am your genie. I’m not a trespasser.”

  “Yeah, sure. You’re a genie. And I’m Santa Claus. You know what,” I said mostly to myself, “you have to be a figment of my imagination.” Anxiety washed over me. Maybe I wasn’t dreaming. Maybe I was having a breakdown. The abrupt loss of my career, the return to Noxen, the baby and all those weeks of fatigue—they evidently had affected me more profoundly than I thought. I looked around for my cell phone, wondering who to call for a reality check.

  The genie had been watching me. “You know, your eyes are sort of twitching. Try not to get upset,” he said with a hint of concern.

  “What do you mean ‘try not to get upset’? I am upset. I don’t understand this—you—” Tears threatened to stop my words.

  “Bloody hell. Now she’s going to cry,” the man said under his breath. He stooped down in front of me, offering me a handkerchief that seemed to appear out of nowhere like a magician’s trick. I took it and blew my nose.

  His eyes were level with mine and I looked into their blue depths. I got a funny feeling in my stomach. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Go away.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “Look at me.”

  I opened one eye. “Why?”

  Even with one eye, looking at him looking at me made my stomach dance.

  “Let me explain,” he said.

  “What possible explanation is there? I’ve lost my mind,” I wailed and turned my head away.

  The genie muttered, “‘Hope not for mind in woman,’ as John Donne once said.” To me he said, “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “Overreacting! I am not! And for your information I have a mind. A good one!”

  The genie started to laugh. “I’m sorry. I just said that for fun. I couldn’t help myself. You look cute when you get mad, even if your nose is all red,” he said and winked, then stood back up before I could respond. “Look, let me talk a minute before you jump to any more conclusions. To start off, I’m a jinni, or as you might say, a genie.”

  “Yeah, right,” I interjected, folding my arms across my chest. “A genie is a mythical creature.”

  “Ah, lady, I only wish they were mythical creatures. Then I couldn’t have been turned into one.”

  “What do you mean you were ‘turned into one’?”

  “I had the bad luck to get on the wrong side of some desert caliph. He had me put under a spell and stuck me in a bottle. No, don’t look like that. It’s the truth. It was in the middle of W-W-Two—that’s World War Two, you know—”

  “I know!” I broke in. “Get on with this ridiculous story!”

  “Righto. Here’s the whole tale, short as I can make it.” He came over and sat down next to me on the couch. I felt the sofa cushions shift under his weight. He was big, male, and undeniably attractive. I inched away from him and hugged the arm of the sofa.

  Gene stretched out his long legs. His eyes were wide open, yet he didn’t seem to be looking at anything, except maybe his memories. He had joined the RAF in 1940, he told me, and by 1942, his squadron was chasing Rommel through North Africa, first in Algiers, then in Morocco. Wherever the Desert Fox ran, Gene and his men followed. One night he was flying a P-38 Lightning fighter and went out on a sortie along with ten other planes. They flew deep into the Sahara before they spotted a line of German tanks and started a strafing run. The Nazis fired back. Ack-ack fire hit Gene’s plane, tearing through the right wing. It must have hit the fuel line, because all of a sudden the plane was on fire and started diving to earth in a death spiral. Gene yelled to his crew to bail out. He watched their parachutes clear the plane before he ejected.

  “I never saw any of those chaps again,” he said. He glanced over at me, then his eyes went to that far-off place again. He said he’d come down hard and the chute dragged him through the sand, banging him up “bloody good.” His leg broke, and a couple of ribs too. He managed to cut loose the chute and bury it. All that night he hid from “the Krauts,” thinking that any minute they’d spot him and he’d “cark it.” But when dawn broke, they were gone. Gene was alone out there in the sand, the sun frying him “like a shrimp on the barbie.” After a day in the desert with no water, he was out of his head and dying of thirst. That’s when he got picked up by a tribe of Bedouins.

  “On camels.” The genie laughed. “I thought I was dreaming, but they saved me life.”

  “Okay,” I broke in. “It’s a good story—”

  His voice got hard. “It’s not a bloody story. It’s what happened. It’s the truth.”

  “If it did,” I said, “if what you say is true, this happened over sixty years ago. That makes you, what, pushing ninety?”

  “Lady, look at me. I ain’t seen thirty yet. Do you think you can stop interrupting?” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” I said and pretended to lock my lips.

  Gene glared at me for a moment, then continued. After a couple of months, when he was feeling good again, he wanted to get back to his squadron. When he asked the headman, the tall robed chieftain shook his head. But Gene wouldn’t quit badgering him. Finally the chieftain took him to a palace in an oasis somewhere.

  “I think it was along some river…” he said, lost in thought and falling silent. Then he turned his head toward me and looked at me with smoky eyes, his voice turning lazy again.

  “Before I go yabbering on with a geography lesson, let’s say I was still stranded, but having a fine old time until I got caught boffing one of the wives of the chap who ruled the place. Naturally, he was mad as a cut snake. Before I knew it, I was stuck in a bottle. Since then I’ve tossed around the Seven Seas and pretty much been knocked all over the world in my prison here. Nobody ever set me free until you did.”

  “You have got to think I’m gullible,” I interrupted. “But go on, you have quite an imagination. You’d make a great defense lawyer. How did you end up in that Diaper Genie?”

  “Oh, that. It would be more fun to tell you about the time my bottle got picked up by a polar bear—”

  “Spare me the t
all stories. Say something I can believe.” But in truth I didn’t believe any of this. I squeezed my eyes shut again. I mentally counted to ten and told myself to please, please wake up. But when I opened my eyes, the genie was still there, staring at me with an insolent smile. I raised my chin and composed myself. “Please continue,” I instructed. “Tell me how you ended up in a Diaper Genie.”

  Gene rubbed his face with his hand and hunched over in thought. “Let me see, now. That kink in the unraveling thread of fate happened maybe a year ago.” Gene had been reclining in his bottle in the dark of a hall closet, tossed in there among a bunch of old boots and forgotten for ages. He was bored, and the days marched past without light or hope. Then one afternoon a little girl opened the closet door. In the room beyond the closet, Gene could see a bunch of women sitting around. One of them was squealing in a piercing voice while she opened presents. Before he saw much more, the “ankle biter,” that is, the little girl, sat right down on top of the bottle and hid behind some coats. Then he heard somebody calling, “Paulina, where are you? Paulina!”

  The girl refused to answer. She sat there giggling.

  That was Margie’s firstborn, the very spoiled Paulina, I thought to myself as Gene went on with his tale.

  Then the closet door opened again, a lady’s arm reached in, and the child was pulled out, none too gently. The little girl grabbed Gene’s bottle and whacked the woman, likely her mother, in the shins. After getting a scolding, the child waited until nobody was watching and stuffed the bottle into this white plastic device. That’s where it had remained for the past year until my mother brought over the Diaper Genie and I unstoppered the bottle.

  The genie sat there and waited for me to say something. He was only a few feet away from me. I could see the sun-bleached hair on his legs above khaki socks that peeked out above his combat boots. The boots were white with dust, and sand was packed around the laces. I raised my eyes and looked into his. His eyelashes were bleached nearly white. He cocked his head and winked at me again. My stomach did this stupid little flip. I felt very strange indeed.

  “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “Crikey, lady, I told you—”

  “Hold on a minute. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this. I think I hit my head and I’m unconscious. This is merely a dream.”

  “Lady, you’re not dreaming. I’m real. Look, I’ll prove it to you.” He stood up and reached out, taking my hand. He pulled me upright until we were standing together very close. He put his fingers under my chin, tilting it up so our eyes locked again. My skin tingled where he touched me. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. Blood rushed into my cheeks. I smacked his hand away. It was flesh and blood, all right.

  “Keep your hands to yourself. Look, if you aren’t a dream I don’t know who or what you are. I think you better leave.” I stepped aside to put more distance between us.

  The genie looked exasperated. “I explained to you, I can’t leave until I grant you three wishes. Then poof, I’ll be gone. Go ahead, try it out. Make a wish, and I’ll grant it,” he said, his arms crossed defiantly, his combat boots planted firmly on the rug.

  “Sure you will,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted, as if I hadn’t slept well in weeks—and I hadn’t. That must be why I was hallucinating. “All right, buddy, I mean Gene.” I let out a deep sigh. “Here’s my wish. I wish I could sleep without interruption and wake up in my own bed on clean, freshly ironed, fine Egyptian cotton sheets—”

  “Any color preference?” Gene interrupted.

  “Make them robin’s-egg blue with a satin stripe.” I tossed off the first thing that came into my head. “And they have to match an expensive down comforter from Bloomingdale’s that’s keeping me warm. And when I wake up, I will feel happy, refreshed, and not the least bit tired.”

  “That’s it?” Gene asked.

  “That’s it,” I answered.

  “Your wish is my command,” Gene said, without a trace of sarcasm, and winked. Immediately I heard the tinkling sound of brass bells. The air around me began to fade to white; then it slid into a rosy, misty light. The next thing I knew I was snug in my bed and that rosy light was streaming through my bedroom window. Baby Kitty was snoozing comfortably against my leg, and I felt so good, I found myself smiling. I glanced over at the bedside alarm clock. Oh wow! It’s four thirty, I thought. I’ve been out for hours. Then I noticed the sheets. The material was fine cotton that caressed my body like silk. The sheets were gorgeous, the kind you find at those thousand-dollar-a-night hotels, and they were robin’s-egg blue shot through with a satin stripe. Atop the sheets was a lush matching down comforter. I sat up and heard Brady through the baby monitor, burbling and contentedly making nonsense sounds.

  I jumped out of bed and realized I had been sleeping in a nightgown instead of my usual old T-shirt. It was a beautiful garment in robin’s-egg blue made out of a fabric that resembled the satin stripe of the sheets. And I felt happy, ridiculously happy and totally rested. I remembered dreaming about a genie. Or at least I thought it was a dream. But if it was, how did I explain the luxurious bedding and my nightgown? I couldn’t.

  I quickly put on my jeans and a sweater and went to get Brady out of his crib, unable to shake the glow of sunny optimism which made my step light and energetic, even though I should have been a wee bit worried that there really might be a World War II Aussie flyer who said he was a genie in my living room.

  Chapter 3

  With Brady in my arms I headed down the stairs and immediately smelled food. Chicken soup? Chocolate chip cookies? Maybe my mother had stopped by, or…It couldn’t be. It was impossible. I got to the bottom stair, made a sharp left, and there he was—Gene, the Aussie genie, standing at my kitchen counter, a spatula in his hand, putting fresh-baked cookies on a pretty blue plate. A pot of soup simmered on the stove. Brady stretched out a chubby hand and pointed his index finger.

  I stood there staring, trying to make sense of what my eyes beheld. The man wasn’t transparent. He didn’t look like a ghost. He looked like an ordinary young guy—dressed inappropriately for November, sure, but other than that, he looked real. Really real. I was starting to freak out again.

  “Want one?” Gene said lightly, extending the spatula holding a cookie in my direction. He was grinning at me.

  “This situation isn’t funny,” I said, trying to hold on to my squirming son until I decided to put him into his high chair.

  “Ba ba ba ba,” Brady chanted. I knew he wanted a bottle, but I didn’t have one ready. I grabbed a banana, peeled it quickly, and put a piece on the tray in front of him while I kept my eyes on Gene.

  My thoughts were racing. Gene looked real. The food looked real. Nothing made sense. Since I knew I wasn’t dreaming now, I thought frantically that I must be having a breakdown or that I was the victim of an elaborate joke. My hands were shaking, my breath was coming fast, my words spilled out in a rush: “What are you doing here?”

  Gene gave me a careful look, then said in a kind, even voice, “I’m cooking for you, but obviously I’m upsetting you. I gave the whole situation a good think. I suppose that having a genie pop out of a bottle is a shock. Do you want to talk about your feelings?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t understand this at all, but you can’t stay here.”

  “I explained that. I can’t leave. I belong to you. But I can go back into my bottle,” he said, pointing at the bulbous amber glass that sat on the kitchen counter. “I’d rather not be all cramped up again, but it’s your call. Just say the word.”

  “What word?” I said, not getting it. The bottle was about nine inches high. Gene was over six feet tall. I didn’t believe in genies. I didn’t believe in magic, which was sleight of hand and trickery. I looked at Gene. I looked back at the bottle. There was no way that big, solid, flesh-and-blood man was going to fit in there.

  “Lady, I don’t know what word,” Gene said and sighed. “You c
an say ‘Go back in your bottle,’ or something like that.”

  “Okay, go back in your bottle,” I said as fast as I could get the words out, then held my breath. As soon as I said them, invisible bells tinkled, there was a sound sort of like poof, and a stream of white smoke whooshed from where Gene had been standing and dove into the mouth of the open bottle. I rushed over and jammed the cork into its top. I let out my breath in a deep sigh of relief. Then I held the bottle up to the light. In the bottom of it a miniature man sat cross-legged. He blew me a kiss. I flinched. I opened a kitchen cupboard and put the bottle in next to the cereal boxes and slammed the door closed.

  Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, was all I could say over and over. Irrationally, I looked over at Brady to make sure he was all right. He was mashing down the piece of banana with his little fist, totally content. I looked around. Nothing in the room seemed out of the ordinary, except perhaps Gene’s homemade goodies. I picked up a chocolate chip cookie and bit into it. It was still warm and melted in my mouth. It was yummy, a classic Toll House cookie, made with the recipe right off the Nestlé wrapper.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I fixed a bottle of formula for Brady and poured myself a glass of milk. I stood there enjoying milk and cookies while I tried to make sense of the last few hours. I couldn’t. Nothing in my legal education prepared me for acquiring and/or using a genie. My rational, sensible life, which had started to become unglued when I met Jake, had collapsed entirely, and I didn’t know what to do.

  I took a deep breath and decided to focus on getting Brady his dinner—from glass jars containing strained lamb and strained peas. It wasn’t my idea of a gourmet meal, and Brady seemed to hate commercial baby food. Along with his bottle of formula, he preferred regular table food that I smooshed up or put in the blender. So I wasn’t surprised when he determinedly pushed the spoon of strained peas away and closed his lips tightly. When I tried the “here comes the truck, open up the garage” game, he clamped his mouth shut harder, squeezed his eyes shut and started to cry. The Patton will was asserting itself. I felt like bawling myself.