Clouds scurried across the night sky, obscuring the stars. The wind rippled through the leaves, and a loon’s call carried across the woods. But the serenity didn’t last long.
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Cloyce pounded on the Wilts’ front door and yelled, “HEY! Anyone home? It’s Cloyce! Ya’ know, Othmer’s cousin? Come on, let me in!”
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Inside, a different scene played out. Marigold and Othmer rushed here and there, hiding silverware, money, heirlooms, a fruit bowl, anything that could be pawned or sold.
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Panting, Marigold approached the front door. “All right, Ottie. I’m opening the door.”
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Marigold opened the door a crack and peeked down at Cloyce Russey, clad in his signature black sleeveless vest. He was a short fellow and looked pretty similar to his cousin, except Cloyce had large fluffy cheek and didn’t wear glasses.
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Marigold brushed her hair back. She forced a smile and chirped, “Why, Cloyce! You arrived in perfect time. Late as usual!”
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Cloyce beamed at her. “Howdy there, Marigold ole’ gal! Lovely to see you again. I’ve got splendid news!” he announced, puffing out his chest. He barged past her, shoving her into the wall. Yammering on, he looked around for Othmer, “Won’t you be a doll and grab my suitcase? OTHMER!”
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Spying Othmer, Cloyce flew to him and squeezed his arms around Othmer’s head, covering his mouth. Cloyce laughed, “How’s my favorite relative?”
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Othmer tried to shake free. “Mmmf!”
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Breaking free of Cloyce, Othmer shook himself and groaned, “Don’t forget, I’m your only living relative.”
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Marigold walked to them, carrying one little suitcase high in the air. “I don’t mean to pry, Cloyce, but this suitcase is awfully light. Didn’t you pack anything?”
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Looking at Othmer, then back to Marigold, Cloyce replied, “Nope! The suitcase is all I own!”
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“What?” Othmer and Marigold gasped in unison.
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Cloyce wrapped his arms around Othmer and Marigold’s necks, forcing Marigold to stoop to his level and causing her to stumble. Cloyce led them away from the suitcase and toward the lumpy old sofa. “See, I lost my job at the diner, and had to sell everything to make ends meet!” Cloyce explained.
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Othmer ripped himself away from Cloyce. Hands shaking and forehead burning, he snapped, “Stop. You lost your job? The one Marigold got you? How did that happen?”
“I really don’t know why,” chuckled Cloyce. “Must’ve been all the days I didn’t show up to work. You know me, I’m a free spirit.”
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Cloyce flopped onto the sofa. He bounced a bit and grinned even wider. “Since I don’t have my apartment anymore, I need a place to stay! And the perfect place to stay is—” Cloyce patted the sofa cushions, looking around and raising his voice, “here!”
Othmer fainted. Marigold rushed to his side and gasped, “Othmer!”
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Cloyce tilted his head and scratched his eyebrow. “Huh. Never seen him faint before.” Springing up from the sofa, Cloyce ran out of the living room and barreled up the stairs, calling, “I claim the room at the end of the hall!”
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Othmer started to stir. “What…what happened?” He held his head in his hand, his vision swimming. Cloyce had said something terrifying, but he couldn’t recall what it was. Something about mold in his apartment, if Othmer was remembering correctly.
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“Cloyce said he’s out of work and needs a place to stay,” Marigold chose her words carefully as she helped Othmer to his feet.
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Othmer squinted at her. Her image swirled around him. He gripped her sleeve, steadying himself and murmuring, “Because of the mold?”
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“What are you talking about?” Marigold said.
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“Hey Othmer!” Cloyce shouted and popped out of the room he had claimed. “I’m gonna use your toothbrush. Hope you don’t mind!”
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As Cloyce vanished back into the room, Othmer faced Marigold. Everything Cloyce had said returned to him like a bad nightmare. He leaped to his feet, snarling, “I’m gonna KILL him!”
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“Ottie! It’s just a toothbrush!” Marigold gasped.
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The urge to barge upstairs and kick Cloyce out of the house—from the second story window—burned within Othmer. Feeling the weight of Marigold’s hand calmed him down somewhat. He shook his head, snarling, “It’s not that. It’s everything!”
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Othmer paced to the stairs and pulled at his antennae. “How could he do this to us? After all the strings you pulled to get him that job! It was the fourth one you got him, too. And what does he think our home is, a hotel?”
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Marigold blocked his path and attempted to calm him down. “There, there, Ottie. We’ll think of something,” she soothed, casting Cloyce’s room a quick glance. “He can’t stay here forever.”
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Cloyce poked his head out of the room again, wearing a grateful smile and one of Othmer’s old suits and top hat. “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about me. Do you mean it? I can stay?”
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Marigold and Othmer widened their eyes at Cloyce as he clapped his hands and spun around the hallway, chirping, “Oh, joy! This is terrific! Thank you, thank you!”
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Othmer felt about ready to faint again as Cloyce droned on: “You won’t even realize I’m here! I’ll never leave. We’ll have so much fun! I’ll never need a job again! By the way, I need a bit of cash.”
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***
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That night had been the longest night in Othmer’s life. He lay awake, listening to the usual night time sounds: owls calling from the trees, the wind whipping the leaves against the window pane, and Marigold’s gentle snoring. These sounds were interrupted by Cloyce tossing around in the cot Marigold had set up for him in the other bedroom. Cloyce had stayed awake very late, and Othmer had heard him rummaging about in the hall closet, tossing things out and trying things on. Cloyce had a habit of talking loudly to himself, and had chatted on and off until he had jumped into the cot for bedtime. It had almost cracked under the force of his descent.
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Othmer didn’t know how Marigold slept through the cacophony that was Cloyce’s nighttime ritual. He was sleep talking (or rather, sleep yodeling) and was quite off key. Othmer buried his head under the covers, recalling his and Cloyce’s childhood. Both their parents had died in the same car crash, and they had been raised by their elderly aunt. Othmer and Cloyce had shared a room, even though their aunt’s mansion had multiple bedrooms and they both could have had separate rooms. That’s when Cloyce’s sleep yodeling habit had started.
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Othmer turned over on his side. A flickering glow emanating from Cloyce’s room greeted him. Jumping to his feet and fearing the worst, Othmer ran to Cloyce’s room only to find that the ominous light came from a tiny candle, not a roaring rogue fire. Othmer slapped his hand to his face. He had forgotten about Cloyce’s fear of the dark.
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Shutting Cloyce’s door, Othmer stumbled back into bed. How was he going to get any sleep? And what if the candle’s flame started to spread to the curtain? Othmer spent a half hour debating whether he should get up and blow the candle out or leave it. He didn’t feel like getting out of his warm bed again. Tossing and turning, he figured that it would only make perfect sense for Cloyce’s candle to be the thing that would set the house ablaze. Eventually sleep claimed Othmer, but with it came a nightmare of the house burning down with Marigold trapped inside.
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The morning came like a slap in the face. Marigold and Othmer rushed to work as fast as they could, leaving Cloyce asleep in his room. Othmer stifled a yawn as he and Marigold stumbled into the factory.
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Once they had entered, Othmer spied Errol, who was going over some paperwork with Claudette and another co-worker. Noticing Othmer, Errol marched away from Claudette, calling, “Othmer! Let’s take a look at those pencil designs. I believe it was 500 new designs I had requested.”
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Othmer dragged his hands along his face, thinking, Today is going to be long.
