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Trolls: A Story in Five Phone Calls
By: Nicholas Ozment
September 13, 2007
I. HOME 5 23 11 41A INCOMING 507 *** 5431 3.0 P
“Hello?”
“Cindy, it’s Samantha.”
“Hey sis. What’s up?”
“Not much. You free for a margarita at Tequila’s tonight? Two-for-one.”
“I’d love to, Sam, but Bob’s working late and I have to take Clarice to band practice. Maybe next Tuesday.”
“Cindy, have you been by Mom’s lately?”
“I took her to lunch a couple weeks ago. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. You know she’s collecting trolls?”
“You’re kidding. Those ugly naked things with the hair that sticks straight up?”
“No, god no, not those kitschy things. These are made by Scandinavian folk crafters, I guess. They’re made of, it looks like real braided hair—some kind of dyed twine, probably—and beads and bark and acorns and stuff—nothing plastic. They’re actually kinda neat.”
“Just a sec, Sam…Okay, I’m back. Needed both hands to get this industrial-sized can of beans in the cart. I don’t know why I buy this stuff in bulk—it’s enough to feed a cattle drive, so you have to pack up the leftovers.”
“Just to save a few cents.”
“Value for convenience. I think I saw those trolls somewhere. Maybe they were selling them on the Home Shopping Network. Aren’t they kinda spendy?”
“Yeah, but she found one at a garage sale and got hooked.”
“At least she’s not collecting doilies or porcelain clowns or something, whatever old people collect.”
“Remember Alice Peterson? When her mother died, Alice went into her house and her mom had like twenty years of newspapers. She never threw anything out. Going through her house was like walking through a maze, all the junk she’d kept. There were aisles you could just squeeze through—but most of it was worthless, couldn’t sell at auction so they had to rent one of those big dumpsters and throw it all out.”
“Well, Mom’s never been a packrat. If she stops tossing out stuff we’ll know she’s going senile. Gotta go, I’m at the checkout line. Have a margarita for me.”
“I’ll be thinkin’ of you. Tell Clarice her aunt Sam said hi, and to keep practicing that trumpet.”
“It’s saxophone. I will. Sayonara.”
“Ta-ta.”
II. HOME 5 24 12 47P WINONA 507 *** 5431 4.0 P
“Hello, you’ve reached Sam, you lucky devil. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave a message after the beep.”
“Sam, if you’re there, pick up. I went to see Mom yesterday and—“
“Hello?”
“Hey. You sound like you just got up.”
“I probably shouldn’t have gotten up today.”
“One margarita too many?”
“Two-for-one, so if you have three you’re gonna have four.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re really gonna have to stop missing our Tuesday night dates; I need you to help me drink the extra ones.”
“It’s been a month since I’ve had a margarita. I don’t know why that sounds so good right now, it’s only one o’ clock in the afternoon.”
“Oh god. It’s that late already? So what’s up with Mom? I haven’t talked to her since I stopped by last week.”
“She said she was very glad you stopped by. She said she doesn’t see us enough.”
“Did you remind her we have lives?”
“Now now. Anyway, you weren’t kidding about that troll collection. She’s got about fifty of ‘em.”
“Heh, I told you she had a lot.”
“Sam, I’m talking literally. She bought more since you saw her. They’re all over the damn house. Everywhere you look there’s a pair of beady eyes staring at you.”
“Fifty? Can she afford that?”
“She bought a couple larger ones—they’re like three feet tall. She’s got one by the couch. I was sitting there watching Oprah and suddenly out of the corner of my eye it’s like something’s staring at me. I practically jumped out of my skin.”
“You don’t think she’s pissing away our whole inheritance on those things, do you?”
“We’ll inherit a nice troll collection. Like you said, they are kinda neat.”
“Tell you what, you take the trolls and I’ll take the hutch.”
“You’ll take the antique hutch? You don’t even have a place to put it—“
“Sis, you’re cracking up. I gotta go—and find some Tylenol. Sayonara.”
“Sam! Sam? …that little shit.”
III. HOME 5 27 1 30P INCOMING 507 *** 5431 3.0 O
“Sam?”
“How’d you know—oh yeah, cell phone. I stopped by Mom’s. I am starting to get a little worried about her, Cindy.”
“More trolls?”
“She’s keeping those Norwegians in business all by herself. She said something that creeped me out: she called them her children.”
“Her what?”
“Her children.”
“Oh, you know that’s just a figure of speech.”
“She probably said it to guilt trip me.”
“Look, I’ll swing by there after I drop Ben off at soccer practice and check in on her. Anything else? How was your date with that hunk Anthony?”
“That hunk turned out to be a lunk. Just wanted to get into my pants.”
“Did you let him?”
“Well, ya—there are worse fates. But now that he’s scored, I don’t think he’s gonna be that interested in playing anymore.”
“Sam, I hope you’re using protection.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I’m your big sister, gotta look out for you.”
“I’ll catch you later. Be a good sis and meet me at Tequila’s Tuesday.”
“We’ll see. Bye now.”
“Ta-ta.”
IV. HOME 5 30 5 20P WINONA 507 *** 5431 3.0 P
“Hello?”
“Hey Sam.”
“Cindy, you better be calling to tell me you’re going out with me tonight.”
“I promise next week. I’ll get a babysitter or something. Tonight I just can’t; I gotta be up at the butt-crack of dawn—“
“Whatever. So why are you calling?”
“Well, I think…I think maybe—“
“What’s wrong? Are you about to cry?”
“I think maybe Mom’s starting to lose it, Sam.”
“What, go senile? Did she take out a second mortgage for more of those fucking trolls?”
“She says—she swears she hasn’t bought any more, but there must be a hundred of them. She says they’re multiplying.”
“What?”
“She said ones are popping up that she can’t remember buying.”
“Get the fuck out. Omygod. Do you think we should take her to see a neurologist or something?”
“Maybe. Yes, maybe she’s showing signs of…god I don’t want to say the word.”
“You’re thinking Alzheimer’s? I saw on the news that you can have that for years before showing any real signs, and by then it’s already advanced stages.”
“I know!”
“Have you noticed if she’s been more forgetful?”
“Hell, I don’t know. No more forgetful than I am—I forgot the PTA meeting was last night; sometimes I can’t find where I left my cell phone. She’s going to be seventy-three; of course she’s forgetful.”
“Is she that old? I thought she just turned seventy.”
“Well, she does always lie about her age. I just haven’t had time—why haven’t you spent more time with her?”
“Oh, not this. You get along with her better; you’re her favorite.”
“I have a family!”
“Cindy, let’s not get into this.”
“You’re right, the important thing right now is what are we going to do about Mom, if she isn’t able to take care of herself anymore. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. You can make it up to me next Tuesday and buy the first round of margaritas.”
“God, Sam, you and Tuesday night at Tequila’s and Wednesday night all-you-can-drink at Rascal’s and Thursday night Captain and Coke at Brothers—“
“Cindy, I’m gonna hang up now.”
“I’m sorry! I’m just fucking worried about our Mom—Sam? Sam?”
V. LOCAL ROA 6 11 10 48A WINONA 507 *** 5431 6.0 O
“Sam?”
“Hey sis. How’s Mom? Did you get an appointment for her?”
“Yes, but I’m at the house right now, and she’s not here.”
“So?”
“I mean her car’s here and her purse, but there’s no sign of her.”
“Maybe she went for a walk.”
“I don’t think so. Have you talked to her lately?”
“Not since the last time I stopped by to see her.”
“Sam, that was like three weeks ago!”
“Where do you think she is?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I called you. My god, there are fuckin’ trolls on every counter top—how can she afford all these damn things?”
“Cindy, I got a weird call from her last night.”
“Now you say something!”
“It was late; I’d just gotten in—I was kinda drunk. She never calls that late. I’d forgotten it until just now.”
“Well, what’d she say?”
“She just said she wanted to apologize for not being a better mother, for being neglectful and all that. It was kinda strange.”
“Oh my god, Sam, do you think she’s done something?”
“Like what? What are you thinking?”
“What the hell—”
“What is it?”
“I’m in the fireplace room. It looks like something happened—there’s a chair knocked over, and an end table… She left the grille open. There’s a charred troll in there—there’s a lot of ash, too, I—phew, it smells like burnt hair; do they use real animal fur on those things? It looks like she was burning them.”
“Mom’s flipped. Did you check the basement?”
“I called down there but there was no answer.”
“Well go look, Cindy—she might’ve fallen down the stairs or something.”
“Okay… Mom? You down here?... Where’s that damn light? Here we go… Mom?... Shit!”
“What, Cindy, is Mom all right?”
“She’s not down here. I just nearly had a heart attack!”
“What’s going on down there? Did you see something?”
“Sam, you have got to see this. I kid you not: there is a troll down here; it has got to be five feet tall. Smack dab in the middle of the basement.”
“How the hell did she get it down there?”
“Well I assume she had the delivery man lug it down for her. Duh.”
“Why would she put it in the basement?”
“Sam…the hair. The braided hair looks kinda like Mom’s.”
“Okay, now you’re freakin’ me out Cindy.”
“Oh god. The stuff covering the body, under the twine, there’s a patch—it’s probably just tanned leather. Sam…it looks like skin.”
“Cindy? Cindy, I’m losing you. Come up out of the basement, you’re losing reception down there…
“Cindy?”
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