“My god!” The expletive slipped out of Larry’s mouth around the flavorful mixture of crunchy toast and butter.
“Yes?” the toaster answered sweetly.
Larry frowned and swallowed. This had gone on long enough. And yet … He took another bite as a delaying tactic and thought furiously.
Finally, he said slowly, “Well, I won’t deny it’s the best piece of toast I’ve ever tasted. Maybe you are the god of toast.”
“Great to have you onboard!” the toaster replied briskly. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there’s the matter of worship. I have a little program worked out. Various rites and sacrifices, certain holidays, rituals, that sort of thing. Of course you’ll have to quit your job for this higher calling but I’m sure—”
“Wait, slow down,” Larry interrupted. “I can’t quit my job, and I don’t have time for rituals, or any of that stuff. Remember, if I don’t work and pay the electric bill, they’ll shut it off. Where would that leave the ‘god of toast’?”
“Of course, for priests of the worker class such as yourself,” the toaster continued smoothly, “we have a more streamlined set of devotions.”
“Which consist of … ?”
“Ah … could I get you to bow three times to me each morning and say ‘All Hail the Mighty God of Toast’?” The words tumbled from the toaster in a rush, trailing off in an almost plaintive tone.
Larry contemplated the piece of toast in his hand. He looked at the toaster. He thought of the long delays for warranty repair for this type of appliance. His gaze even lingered momentarily on his slippers. He considered the fact that he lived alone, and who would know?
“It’s a deal,” he said.
So every day, Larry got up and performed his little ritual to his only expensive appliance, and every day it gifted him with an excellent side dish for his breakfast.
Sure, it’s a little embarrassing, he thought. But hey, it’s a small price to pay for perfect toast.
Copyright © 2001 Randall Coots
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Randall Coots has been a law enforcement professional for fifteen years. His writing career began in school with publication in county-wide anthologies, and continued through writing classes and workshops in college. His computer game reviews were published regularly for many years in SacraBlue Magazine. He currently resides in eastern Oregon.
In a Mirror
By Kim Fryer
8/27/01
Libby ran her hand over the viewer on the kitchen table, shivering in spite of her wool sweater. “Can I move the viewer someplace else if I want?” she asked the paralegal.
“Well, yeah,” said the paralegal, a tanned young woman wearing a sleeveless cotton dress. She frowned at the compact video screen—roughly the size of a notebook computer. “But you’ll pick up more alternates in places where you spend a lot of time.” She closed the tool kit that she had used to set up the viewer. “Want me to show you how to use it now?”
“What’s going on?” Roger interrupted in a quiet voice from the kitchen doorway.
Libby glanced at her husband, a tall, portly man with yellow rings under the arms of his white dress shirt. Her gaze slid to the clock on the wall beside the doorway. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Roger gestured at the video screen. “That’s a viewer, isn’t it?” His face was expressionless.
The paralegal looked from one to the other. “If this isn’t a good time—”
“No, no,” Libby said to her with a smile. “Let’s finish.” She came over to Roger and laid her pale, thin hand on his chest. “Dana is a paralegal with Mr. Tandor’s office. Mr. Tandor will take my case if I can find something on the viewer.”
“Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to do this?” Roger asked. He looked weary, with dark shadows under his eyes. “It’s too stressful.”
“It’s okay. Come look at the viewer.” Taking his meaty hand, Libby led him to the table.
“It’s pretty easy to operate,” the paralegal told Libby. “Turn it on here”—she pointed to the switch—”and adjust the tuner like so. You should be able to pick up at least a dozen alternate worlds and maybe more.”
“I thought the likelihood of finding Earths identical to this one was high,” Roger remarked, his voice flat.
The paralegal flashed him a sympathetic smile full of white teeth. “There’s always some differences, so there’s always a chance.” Handing Libby her card, she said, “Please call me if you find a world where you”—her eyes flicked over the colorful turban that Libby wore—”haven’t had the fertility treatments and you haven’t … become ill.”
Libby smiled. “It’s okay to say ovarian cancer.” Roger made a small sound and Libby looked up at him. “Not using the words gives them too much power,” she added.
A pained expression crawled over Roger’s face. “Isn’t there something else we can do? Something besides the viewer?” he asked the paralegal.
The paralegal shrugged. “There’ve been studies, but no conclusive ones that prove a link between super-fertility treatments and developing … cancer. So we need something more to show the connection if we’re going to file suit against the clinic that treated Libby.” She made an adjustment to a dial on the viewer, turning the screen toward Libby. “Be sure that this dial is set here, so the viewer will record what you see and hear through your alternate selves.”
Roger looked at Libby. “Are you sure?”
Libby patted his arm. “A settlement would mean you wouldn’t have to work a second job to keep us afloat. And you’d have the money when … when things take their course.”
“Libby,” Roger said in a strained voice. “I don’t care about money. Only you.”
Libby looked away. “The fertility clinic has to take responsibility for all those drugs they kept pumping into me, or else the doctors will keep doing it to other women.” She raised her chin, trying her best to give him a confident smile. “Don’t worry, honey. I can handle this.”
* * * *
Libby waited until Roger had left for work the next morning before she sat down in front of the viewer. She chose the kitchen to view, since that was where she spent much of her time. Before she fell ill, she’d run her small catering company from this kitchen. When her energy levels dropped too low from the chemo to continue the business, Libby drew comfort from the copper pots hanging from a beam and the rows of spices in large, clear bottles, arranged in alphabetical order on the faux granite counter. Sitting at the butcher-block table, she used to plan how she’d relaunch her business, but lately she was too tired to do even that.
Libby took a deep breath and flipped on the viewer. As Dana had told her it might, her screen showed only static. She played with the tuner for several minutes without success. She was about to take a break when the screen resolved into a picture.
She saw a kitchen that looked exactly like hers, from the industrial-sized, stainless steel refrigerator to the double ovens, side by side. The viewpoint didn’t change for several long minutes. Libby knew she wouldn’t be able to influence the other Libby—she’d only see and hear what her alternate self did. And apparently this other Libby wasn’t doing too much, just staring at the pots and pans.
The phone rang, and Libby welcomed the chance to get away from the viewer. She got up and went over to the phone by the refrigerator. She picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. Her phone wasn’t the one ringing. Libby looked back at the viewer.
The viewpoint moved to the refrigerator too as the other Libby slowly walked to her phone. She picked up the receiver, and Libby saw the other’s frail hand, paper skin stretched tight over bones, topped with short, broken nails. Libby wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She felt nauseous.
The other Libby glanced at the reflective surface of her metal refrigerator, and Libby saw the woman’s skeletal face, the inky circles ringing the eyes, making them appear sunken, and the fragile skull devoid of hair.
Her hand over her mouth to keep down her rising gorge, Libby ran from the room.
* * * *
When Roger came home late that afternoon, Libby was sitting at the kitchen table, cupping her lowered head in her hands, the darkened viewer in front of her.
“What’s wrong, Libby?”
Her back stiffened, but she didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
Roger put his hand on her shoulder. “We could set up the viewer for me instead. I can be the one to look.”
“No, this is something I need to do. You’ve done so much.” She didn’t quite meet his gaze.
“I’ll do whatever it takes. We’re in this together.” Roger squeezed her shoulder. “In sickness and in health.”