By the end of the week Reba and Walt were engaged. It was the work of John Schatz. What had he done?
We may never know. Personally, it wouldn’t surprise me if the man, in the privacy of his rented room, put on a pointed wizard’s cap and sat before a boiling cauldron. A dash of bat’s wing here, a pinch of wolfsbane there. That ought to do it. What is wolfsbane, anyway?
“He wanted to speak to Reba,” Walt said.
“And you let him?” I was incredulous.
“He said he could help.”
“That’s what he does,” I told my friend. “It’s an old sales trick.”
“I didn’t know he was selling anything.”
“He’s always selling something.” Clearly, Schatz had worked his magic. Reba was dead-set against marriage. Now, she couldn’t marry Walt fast enough.
I ran John Schatz down at the Lake Harriet band shell. Literally. We went for a jog and Schatz, in his competitive way, had pulled well ahead. When I caught up with him he was sitting in a bleacher seat, admiring the empty stage. “Won’t it be nice,” he said. “When they have concerts again? You can almost hear a Tchaikovsky march.”
Almost. “John, what did you say to Reba?”
“Ah, Reba. She won’t listen to me.”
“But she and Walt are engaged.”
“Yes. But it’s not anything I said. I tried to talk her out of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told her marriage was the worst thing in the world.”
“What?”
“I told her not to do it. To stay single. Never tie herself to one man. I said, if you have any faith in me at all, take my advice.”
“What did she say?”
“She hung up on me.”
I let this sink in. “John, you are a wizard.”
“Not really. But I know women. Or shall I say, Reba.” He got up and stretched. “I’ll race you to the ice cream stand. Loser buys.” While he tied a shoe, I got a good jump on him.
I don’t have to tell you who won.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com