Beside me, Katie shook uncontrollably, biting her lip so fiercely to suppress laughter that tears streamed freely down her cheeks.
“Grandpa,” she whispered hoarsely, “Grandpa, the dye is remarkably vibrant. Look at his face.”
“I see it clearly.”
“Grandma is cheering upstairs right now.”
“Undoubtedly,” I agreed, casting my gaze momentarily down into my coffee cup as heat prickled my eyelids—though laughing had nothing to do with it.
Clark and Denise engaged in a ferocious, open-air argument on that porch. Details remain private marital business, but the core issue was unmistakable: Denise suffered profound mortification. For her, social reputation represented paramount currency, and now the entire community recognized her husband as the nocturnal scavenger preying upon the adjacent elderly widower.
“Do you grasp what everyone will say?” she harangued continuously. “At school functions? At church? The entire neighborhood knows now, Clark.”
Social exposure proved the ultimate corrective—surpassing pigment staining, foul odors, or basic apprehension.
Which validated the entire objective.
Visits to my doorstep ceased that day and the days following. Reports indicated he spent considerable time unsuccessfully scrubbing the industrial pigment off his skin—courtesy of Ellen’s potent Easter formulation—retaining faint bluish undertones for weeks, necessitating long-sleeved shirts well into September, a detail providing my conscience a minor, dark satisfaction.
Yet narrative arcs evolve beyond mere retribution.
Approximately a week subsequent to the porch incident, a sharp knock resonated at my front entrance.
Opening the door revealed Clark standing alone. Skin tones normalized mostly, save for a faint azure shadow framing his jawline. He kept his hands positioned defensively like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office.
Denying entry was unnecessary; I held my ground in the threshold.
“Frank,” he began, trailing off before staring down at his footwear. A man unaccustomed to speech hesitation over six years suddenly found vocabulary entirely absent.
“Yes,” I prompted, leaving him suspended in the awkward silence.
“I… well.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “That operation—you managed quite a checkmate.”
“Denise maintains an ongoing commentary about it, and my children consider it legendary. My daughter sketched a blue caricature of your face; it’s currently pinned to her refrigerator.”
