The Alphabeet

At bedtime, Susie always asked for her mother to read to her from The Alphabeet. The Alphabeet was a children’s book about a spunky little beet—still embedded in rich, compost-nourished soil, still growing—that had somehow developed a deep and abiding love of the English alphabet. The little beet, whose name was Cynthia and who possessed a child’s sense of wonder along with an aging artist’s debilitating fear of cultural irrelevance, would spend her long days rattling off each letter of the alphabet, linking each letter with a word or phrase that held some special significance to the beet. A was for abundant sunlight. B was for beet (of fucking course). C was for carcinogens that leach into the soil from buried plastics. And so on.

The fucking in of fucking course was obscured by a band of particularly dark soil. But Susie’s mother knew it was there. And so did Susie, apparently. Susie would mouth fucking whenever her mother read that part; her mother could see her lips moving.

All the words and phrases spoken by the little beet were contained within expansive thought balloons that extended from the beet’s deepest roots into the surrounding soil.

Susie loved The Alphabeet. She couldn’t get enough of it. Susie had asked her mother if they could plant beets in the backyard, and her mother said sure, maybe, when the weather got nice again.

D was for debilitating fear of cultural irrelevance.

E was for earthworms.

F was for Fred, who should have known better.

Susie and her mother had puzzled over the F spread for months. Who was this Fred? Another beet? A person? The Alphabeet offered no answers; it simply continued on to G, which was for glistening beads of dew upon my exposed stalks.

I think Fred was murdered, said Susie one night.

What? said her mother. Are you sure? Moidered?

Her mother didn’t know why she’d said it like that.

I think Mr. Daniels killed Fred, said Susie. And I think I know where the body is buried.

Susie sat up and put on her glasses. She pointed to the author’s name on the cover of The Alphabeet: Clive Daniels.

Let’s look at the facts, said Susie, pulling a tattered journal from the drawer in her bedside table. As she flipped through the pages, her mother could see that they were filled with notes and sketches, photos and news clippings, maps and timelines.

Wow, you’ve really done your homework, said her mother.

I’ve been working on this particular cold case for as long as I can remember, said Susie. I mean, I’m only five. But I think I’ve finally gathered enough evidence to prove my hypothesis. Fred’s family deserves closure.

Susie’s mother rose from the bed.

I’m going to put on a pot of coffee, said Susie’s mother.

Good idea, said Susie. And get the commissioner on the horn. I know it’s late, but she’s going to want to hear about this. This is big, Mom. This is the case that’s going to make or break my career.

Susie’s mother nodded and went into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet and took out the bag of French roast. She rinsed the dregs of old coffee from the pot and began to fill it with fresh water. Standing at the sink, she closed her eyes. She breathed deeply as water from the faucet poured into the pot. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out. In, out. She opened her eyes. Water spilled over the brim of the coffeepot. She turned off the faucet. A crescent moon was visible just over the tops of the neighbor’s elm. Majestic elm, she thought. Towering elm. Standoffish elm. She wondered if the moon was waxing or waning. She wondered if she would live long enough to see Susie go to college. She wondered about tomorrow’s lunch meeting with the patent attorney from Consolidated Frisbees. Could you copyright a Frisbee? By God, she was going to find out.