The Octagineers

Pinky squeezed in next to John and the booth shrieked in protest. The two men sat, physically and conversationally uncomfortable, respective fat cells fighting for leatherette territory.

“Where's Sully?" Pinky asked.

"He don't want to be called that no more," John said.

"Why the hell not? We've been calling him that for fifty years.”

"He say his grandkids fuck it up and call him 'Silly'."

"If the shoe fits, huh?" Pinky said, laughing, "Well, where is he? Get him on the god-damned phone."

John sheepishly made a signal to call the waiter, but pinky slapped his hand down. "What year is it? You still using house phones?"

"You ain’t?" John asked.

"Don't ya have a cell phone?"

"I don't want to use my minutes."

Pinky glared at him and took a slender phone from inside his coat.

"Say, that's a nice one,” John said, “Rita, she got me this Jitterbug? Honkin' big thing. ‘Need a fuckin' purse just to carry it."

"What the fuck is a Jitterbug?"

"It's a phone," John mumbled, embarrassed.

"Mary Mother of God," Pinky said, then punched a button for the speakerphone, "Maureen? How are ya', sweetheart? Is Sully there?"

“He’s on his way to meet you. He ain't there yet?" Maureen yelled on the other end of the line, making the phone seem ready to self-destruct with the vibrations of her voice.

"Nah, "Pinky said making an exasperated motion with his hand, "he’s probably on his way."

“You tell him to call me when he gets there. And tell him to pick up some eclairs on the way home. But don’t forget to tell him to call me first so's I know he got there okay."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, bye" Pinky tapped the off button, "Was she always like that?"

"No, but since their nephew got arrested, Sully say she been naggin' him something fierce."

"Well that could break a man."

"She got the soul of a saint, though," John pointed out.

Pinky glared at him, then looked toward the door. A man walked in who was as large as John and Pinky put together. He stood for a moment at the bar, panting. He wore an oxford cloth shirt that was as soaked as if he'd been in an abrupt rain shower. His face looked like a cartoon of a boiler that huffs and puffs until it starts to blow. There were rivulets of sweat that he mopped up with a fistful of cocktail napkins and he gazed around the bar with a look of disorientation that would concern any heart doctor.

John started to get up, but Pinky got Sully’s attention and Sully ambled over, telling the bartender to bring his drink. Tables and chairs became casualties along his route as his hips and belly knocked them aside.

"Jesus, you look like hell," Pinky pointed out.

"What the fuck were you expecting, Miss Lackawanna?" Sully wheezed.

The waiter brought over Sully's drink and started to leave with an air of disdain for the three oversized men.

"’What ya’ say you bring us a pitcher of water, garcon?" Pinky called after him. The waiter skulked away.

"What's up with this place?" Sully asked, sponging his forehead with what appeared to be a scrap of bed sheet.

"’Ain't been the same since Dodgy sold the place," John pointed out.

The men appeared to not want to talk about such devolutions, so the three sat crammed unnecessarily into the booth, waiting for the insolent waiter to return.

"So, what do I owe the pleasure of seeing youse two again?" Sully asked after it was apparent the waiter was not coming back.

Pinky looked around suspiciously. Satisfied there was no one eavesdropping in the empty bar, he said, "I got a job for us."

"What are you talking about? We retired," Sully said.

"Yeah," John said, "I’ve been enjoying watching my grandkids in the above-ground I bought 'em. I ain't interested in goin' back to the clink."

"Gentlemen," Sully said with finality as he rose to go. The table shook nervously.

"Sit back down," Pinky said, "what's your hurry? Let's have another drink.”

Sully sat back into the booth and the leatherette groaned.

"Sir," pinky said in the direction of the waiter who was lounging by the bar. The waiter sauntered over, speaking into a cell phone.

Pinky handed him a hundred dollar bill, "bring us a bottle of Jack with all the trimmings and keep the rest for yourself. "The waiter hung up the phone, took the bill and scurried to the bar. "And a pitcher of water with some cut lemons for my friend here," Pinky called after him.

"What the fuck, Pinky?" Sully said, "who you paying off at the social security office?"

Pinky faced the triumvirate – the last members of the Dixie Mafia. His expression remained gruff, "this is what we need to talk about.”

**********************



The Savannah sun was angry. There were too many white bodies below, too many faces and shoulders and backs in need of skin cancer. Anita, being black and Puerto Rican, was not one of these bodies. She and the sun got along just fine on most days. But Anita, too, was angry. Mrs. Shapiro insisted on sitting in the back of the small car because she'd seen on 20/20 that the back seat was the safest place. And now, both Anita and the driver couldn't get her out. Anita knew better than to put her there, but she got sick of arguing with Mrs. Shapiro over petty things. And now the old woman was stuck in the back and the angry sun was laughing above them.

"Just put your foot here," Anita said to the old woman.

"Hanh?"

“Put your foot here!” Anita said louder.

“Where?”

“I’m going to push from the other side,” Anita told the driver, “you pull.”

“Hanh?” Mrs. Shapiro said.

Anita went to the other side of the car where she gently pushed the old woman. Somehow, Mrs. Shapiro fell to the floorboard and was now wedged between the front and back seat with her legs hanging out. The old woman growled in response. Anita hit the seat with her fist.

“You made it worse,” the driver pointed out, “we gonna have to call the police or the fire department or something.”

“No we ain’t,” Anita said.

“Hanh?’ Mrs. Shapiro said.

“Hush a second, Mrs. Shapiro.”

“My service finds out I had to call the po-lice to get a woman out of a car, I’m goin’ get fired,” Anita said.

“You ain’t gonna get fired, “ the driver said, “no one gonna know.”

“Sunday Girl?” Mrs. Shapiro said.

“My name is Anita,” Anita said.

“I don’t think I have the keys to my apartment,” Mrs. Shapiro said.

“You don’t need to worry ‘bout that right now,” Anita said.

“I’m calling the fire department,” the driver said, wandering off.

“But if I don’t have my keys, how am I gonna get into my apartment?” Mrs. Shapiro said from the floorboard.

“Well, since the fire department is comin’ we can get them to open the door,” Anita spat.

“I don’t want them tearing down the door, now,” Mrs. Shapiro instructed.

“We need to worry about getting you out of the is car before anything else.”

“Hanh?” Mrs. Shapiro said over the wail of the fire engines.

The firemen came in a hook and ladder, a tanker truck, a rescue unit and they were followed by two police cars.

“Why you bring the whole damn calvary? Anita asked the man who descended from the hook and ladder, “this ain’t no kitten stuck in a tree.”

“We just get the dispatch, m’am.” The fireman said. By that time there were nine of them gathered around in full gear. Two of them went into the car and freed Mrs. Shapiro within seconds.

“Did you take my handbag?” Mrs. Shapiro asked the fireman closest to her.

“It’s right here,” Anita said.

“Give that to me,” Mrs. Shapiro said, grabbing the huge purse.

As the two fireman started to leave, Mrs. Shapiro grabbed the coat of one, “you need to open my door,” she lisped and Anita suddenly noticed she didn’t have her dentures in.

“You’re locked out of the apartment?” The fireman asked Anita accusatorily. Anita shrugged. This was their show now; se was just a spectator. One of the firemen went to the hook and ladder and grabbed an axe.

“You can’t use that on my door!” Mrs. Shapiro said. He put the axe back and walked with Mrs. Shapiro and Anita to her apartment.

“’Mind if your Sunday Girl checks your purse before we work the door?” The fireman asked Mrs. Shapiro.

“My name is Anita,” Anita hissed.

She took the mammoth bag from Mrs. Shapiro and immediately found the keys in the front pocket. She opened the door, and Mrs. Shapiro ambled in without a further word to the firemen.

“Thanks for your help,” Anita said.

“It’s nothing,” the fireman said, “we get a call like this about three times a week.

“You always bring so many people?”

“You never know what you’ll find.” Anita looked over at all the firemen, two policemen and three vehicles. She felt like they were about to have a spontaneous picnic.

“Well, thanks then,” Anita said and closed the door.

* * * * * * * *



““Zidocain...Lithium...vitamin B–don’t want that–Demoral...Darvocet...” Gooselyn shook the pills out of the bottles and put them on the counter. One of them bounced off onto the floor and he picked it up and put it in his mouth.

“Goose, you have that pill cup for Mrs. Damiani?” Dr. Avo called through the window.

Goose looked at the pile on the table, swept the pills into his hands and put them into his mouth as if they were Pez. He swallowed them without water, but some didn’t make it down his throat so he just chewed them instead.

“Goose!” Dr. Avo said through the window.

“Right here. Got ‘em right here,” he said, shaking out a couple of vitamin C’s into a small paper cup.

“Where’s the Lorcet?”

Goose took a quick inventory of the pills he had just swallowed, then decided Mrs. Damiani’s Lorcet was probably in the mix, so he grabbed a bottle from the cabinet and dispensed another white pill into he paper cup.

Dr. Avo grabbed the pills and sauntered down the hall. Goose took another pill from the Lorcet bottle and swallowed it as well. After about ten minutes, there was a knock on the dispensary door. Goose opened it and let in Dr. Avo, the resident doctor. The resident settled into a battered leatherette chair and started to open a sandwich, “I hope you’re marking those meds down,” he said.

Goose held up a pen triumphantly. “That means nothing, you know,” Dr. Avo said and Goose grinned. “Hand me that bottle of Demoral,” the resident said and swallowed two of the pills followed by a bite of the sandwich.

“When’s Mrs. Schwartz’s open heart surgery?” Goose asked.

Dr. Avo stared at him, “Last week, Goose. She died.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Goose said, looking forlorn.

“You haven’t still been dispensing her Fentanyl, have you?”

“No. Yes?”

“Goose, you’re going to get yourself fired one of these days,” Dr. Avo said.

The door to the dispensary opened again and Trish came in looking flustered.

“Isn’t this door supposed to be locked?” Dr. Avo asked.

“Technically,” Goose answered.

“Oh my God,” Trish said, “Mrs. Lichfield had the water too hot in the shower.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah, she said she ‘burned her bird’. Can you get over that? Burned her bird! Anyway, last night, Doreen and I, we go to this midnight showing of Play Misty for Me –“

“That’s a good movie,” Goose interjected.

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t know.

“Wait, Mrs. Litchfield is okay, isn’t she?” Dr. Avo asked.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Trish said, waving him away, “So we’re outside the theater and Babs and Donna show up. Doreen knows Donna from – somewhere– and so would you believe we end up in this wacked-out threesome with Donna sitting there watching. I mean, she was all into it at first, then decides she’s not, so she’s sitting there just bawling her eyes out while I’m going down on her girlfriend. Dykes, you fuckin’ can’t trust them and their screwy emotions.”

Goose shook his head like he knew and Dr. Avo looked bemused.

“We got three men incoming today,” Trish said taking some of Dr. Avo’s sandwich that he had put down. He slapped her hand. “Men. We haven’t had men on this ward since Donald Brown.”

“Oh, I remember him,” Goose said.

“Yeah, you better remember him. He just moved to independent living two days ago,” Dr. Avo pointed out.

“That long ago?” Goose asked.

“Goose, seriously, maybe you should cut it down to one-for-them-zero-for-you instead of the one to five ratio you have going on now,” Dr. Avo said.

“Yeah, why don’t you hand me one of those Vicodin,” Trish said, “It’s prn.”

“Who said it’s prn? Dr. Avo asked.

“You did. You wrote me the script, remember?”

“That was two months ago, Trish. Dammit, you guys have to watch yourselves. You’re lucky Doc Edelstein hates the smell of old people.”

“Fuck him. He spends all his time at Central “observing” the cosmetic surgery patients and ignoring us.” Trish said.

“You know, I think he has a fetish–” Goose offered.

“Ignoring you,” she said punching Dr. Avo.

“–I’ve read about such things,” Goose continued, “people who have a sexual attraction to people who’ve been through surgery and the like,” Goose continued.

“I mean – you’re a young doctor, right?” Trish said, “You need nurturing. A father figure.”

“That would be known as an Oedipal Complex. Can you have Oedipal Complexes between men?” Goose asked.

A buzzer went off at the nurse’s station, “ Gotta get back to work,” Trish said, “Three men in one day. Unbelievable.”



* * *

“I thought you said we was gonna be getting an apartment,” Sully said heaving his weight onto the small bed, “this is like a fuckin’ hospital.”

“How was I to know your blood pressure would be so high they think you run risk of heart attack?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see you waltzing around the independent living part of this dump,” Sully said, “And ol’ John there just had to mention his hernia.”

“It’s been acting up!” John said. At least I don’t smoke five packs a cigarettes a day.”

“Yeah, you ain’t gonna be doing that no more,” Sully said to Pinky. Pinky coughed in response.

“If I knew we were gonna be having summer camp, all us stuck in the same room like this, I’d never agreed to coming. Plus, it’s hotter than hell in here,” Sully said getting up and pushing past John to find a thermostat.

There was a light rapping on the door and a nurse came in with a stack of papers.

“Don’t you people know how to knock properly?” Pinky said.

The nurse ignored him and started writing something on a white board, “My name is Patricia Conway. You can call me Trish. I’m gonna show you some things about this room, then take you down to the cafeteria for lunch. Who’s Richard Sullivan?”

Sully grunted.

“You going to need a wheelchair?”

“What the fuck?” Sully said.

“Let me see you walk across the room.”

“I can walk just fine.”

The nurse checked her paperwork, “says here you got onset rheumatoid arthritis. I’ll get you a walker.”

“I don’t need a fuckin’ walker,” Sully exploded, “what I need is for you to make this room about 20 degrees cooler and get the fuck out. And take these guys with you.”

“You want privacy?” the nurse said, “You’re gonna pull these curtains like this,” she said, creating barriers between the three beds. “Your daytime nurse is Anita Castiglione. She’s gonna be in soon. If you want to reach her in the morning or afternoon, or me at night, you just press this button.”

“What else do I get if I press that button at night?” Pinky said wolfishly. The other men laughed in response.

The nurse ignored them and kept on talking, “TV control is right here. You got one TV for the three of you, but I got a feeling you guys like the same shows.”

“How long ‘til we get to go to –“ John broke off, not knowing what it was called.

“Independent living?” Trish said for him, “That’s up to you. All three you guys need to stay away from fatty foods, cholesterol, alcohol, smoking and you need to be walking at least twenty minutes a day. You get up, do the early bird exercise program, stay away from the coconut cream pie, eat plenty of oatmeal and yogurt, and you could be in independent living in a couple of weeks.”

“How we get to the store, for, you know, necessities?” John asked.

“Your loved ones are welcome to visit you as often as they like and can bring with them anything you need that the ward does not provide. Cigarettes and alcohol are prohibited. We’ll probably keep you here one to two weeks until we see a change in your prognosis. When you’re ready we’ll move you to assisted living.”

Sully groaned, “you sayin’ I can’t leave here?”

“Of course you may leave. This is a voluntary hospital. If you do wish to check out we will have to do the formal paperwork to dismiss you and your insurance company will probably suggest at that point that you live with one of your loved ones.”

“So you’re sayin’ if I leave, I can’t come back?”

The nurse sighed, “When you have a heart attack Mr. Sullivan, you will be in a hospital, but I assure you it won’t be this one.”



* * * *

Trish returned to the nurse’s station just as Anita was starting her shift. “Three incoming in one morning? You been busy,” Anita said.

“Doing what you should be doing. Why are you late?

“Had to get Cherise to make-up. She in a pageant this weekend. Last one we did, one of the judges, Thomas Kincaid, the painter? He say her make-up too dark. I took her to the Mary Kay lady and she say we doin’ everything just fine. I think that Kincaid needs to stick to paining.”

“You know, most mothers just take their kids to doctor’s and dentist’s appointments,” Trish pointed out.

“Cherise’s teeth are fine,” Anita said, “Now what’s with the three incoming?” Anita asked picking up the charts and scanning them, “that’s a lot for one morning.”

“Yeah, well, I think they expected to be here on vacation. Anyway, they’re your problem now. Have fun.”

Trish took her bag out of her locker and decided to visit Goose to see if he had any extra Vicodin that maybe dropped on the floor. Goose was asleep on the counter and Trish had to shake him to wake him up.

“Bad news,” he said, yawning.

“Bad news you handle by sleeping?” Trish asked.

“No, sleeping ‘cause I was up late watching a bowling championship. Bad news is that Dr. Edelstein’s coming back.”

“You’re kidding. I thought we lost him to Swan Pavilion.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta friend over at Swan who says Edelstein can’t hang around there anymore. Apparently the new chief thinks he’s dodging his duties with us.”

“Of course he is. He hates old people. Everyone knows that,” Trish said,

“Yeah, well, the Swan staff thinks he’s in the way. Of course, he doesn’t think that. He’s sayin’ he hasn’t done enough research on epidermic healing and that The Journal is expecting an article, which we all know is a bunch of bullshit. The chief says Edelstein’s had six month’s transition to do the research, and he says - get this – that we ain’t getting our paperwork done correctly. Doesn’t that just beat all?”

In Trish’s mind it did. She felt she ran a tight ward. She learned early on that you can get away with a whole lot if you do as you’re told. That meant over-delivering on red tape. Doing paperwork was the same as making good grades in school. You have it in on time and complete, and there’s nothing to complain about. Sure, you had to take care of your patients, that was a given. But when everyone was happy, including the pencil pushers, you had a lot of time left over to do what you wanted, which could mean everything from hour and a half lunches to exploring Goose’s dispensary when the need arose. And Goose was probably the red flag. Trish knew every trick to forging prescrptions and Goose did too. She had trained him in the art of dispensary tricks, but he was showing the signs of an addict. Pills were the unspoken perk to healthcare. Everyone knew that. It was like insider trading for CFOs or boondoogles for politicians. But, you had to control it or it would control you. She watched as Goose slumped in his chair. Clearly, he wasn’t controlling anything. And that was going to have to change.

* * * *

Dr. Avo meandered toward the daylight room. He wasn't in a hurry and the bustling and talking ahead did nothing to speed his steps. He looked wistfully at the dispensary's closed door and wondered if Goose had gone to the meeting yet. Probably not. Dr. Avo thought about knocking, but decided it wouldn't look good for the head resident to be popping pills on the chief's first day. He hoped Goose had the good sense not to come to the meeting high. Trish said she wanted him to have a talk with Goose. The idea made him uncomfortable because then he'd be too much like a boss. He wasn't anybody's boss. But better he do the talking than the chief, who wouldn't be doling out second chances.

The chief was standing at the front of the room trying to quiet the staff. No one was paying attention, but when Dr. Avo walked up to shake Edelstein's hand, the room hushed.

“Good to have you back,” Dr. Avo murmured noting the chief’s Breitling watch.

"Why don't you give me an introduction?" Edelstein whispered in his ear. Edelstein was young, older than Dr. Avo, but only by a few years. He was good-looking, with a chiseled face and greying hair. Trish said he was handsome enough to be an actor, that he was like a doctor on a soap opera. Patients thought so too. At least until he opened his mouth.

"Well, I -" Dr. Avo stammered, "I don't really do introductions."

"You'll be fine," Edelstein said, bouncing on his heels.

Dr. Avo turned to the crowd, "We are gathered here today," he started and Trish sniggered from the front row, "Ahem. For a man who requires no preamble, I give you, Dr. Bruce Edelstein," he waved his hand front of Dr. Edelstein as if he had just materialized him in a magic trick.

Dr. Edelstein didn't take over however, but instead whispered, "tell them about how I am a diplomate and how I'm writing a paper for the New England Journal."

Dr. Avo turned to the staff, who were now giggling outright and mimicking both him and Dr. Edelstein.

"Um, Dr. Edelstein has made many accomplishments, including writing a paper for the new medicine and, uh, taking over this ward."

The staff began howling and clapping unable to contain their energy any longer. Dr. Edelstein smoothed down his lab coat and cleared his throat. For a moment, Dr. Avo felt sorry for the chief. Edelstein had no idea that the staff weren't clapping for him and that this meeting was more of a type of variety show. They were there to be entertained. And then he felt sorry for the staff. They didn't realize that the year-long party they had enjoyed under Dr. Avo's unwitting management was about to end.

Dr. Avo walked to the side of the room and the chief stood in front of the staff with his hands fig-leafed in front of his crotch.

"Everyone, I realize this is a long time in coming. We all know I was slated, at least on paper, to take over this leadership role a year ago. Because of my many commitments - as a researcher, published expert, head of the rhinoplasty committee and in charge of the transition for Dr. Toledo to take over the Swan Pavilion, which, as you may know, was my former leadership position - I was not able to move into my role here a quickly as I hoped. However, I was able to make many process advancements at the Swan that I look forward to implementing here with the help of your head nurse, Trisha Conwitty..."

"Conaway," Trisha whispered.

"...and Dr. Stephen Avo."

Applause and cat-calls filled the room and Dr. Avo frowned as Edelstein half-bowed.

"Now, I will ask you to go about your normal duties while I shadow you throughout the week. Thank you, and I look forward to working with each and every one of you."

There was sprinkled applause and much talking and moving of chairs as the staff got up and went back to their posts.

"Where's Goose?" Dr. Avo asked Trish.

"Don't know. Five o'clock." Trish said as Dr. Edelstein approached.

"Dr. Avo, if you could follow me to my office," he said and Dr. Avo gave Trish a helpless look as he walked with the chief down the shiny corridor.



*****

Sully looked right then left down the hallway, then scampered back into his room. He drew his privacy curtain closed, sat on his bed, and opened a Ghiradelli bar that the guy who gave him his blood pressure medication had gotten for him. Good guy, Sully thought, as he gobbled the bar in two bites, then started in on a family bag of Cape Cod Chips. Good taste in snacks and he didn't even ask for anything for his troubles. It was nice to enjoy something other than tapioca pudding for a change, but then the privacy curtain opened and John stood in front of him.

"Don't you fucking knock anymore?" Sully thundered.

"It's a curtain. How am I supposed to knock on a curtain?" John asked, "Where did you get that?"

"Don't you worry about it."

"You're not supposed to be eating that kind of stuff you know. Anita said so."

"Anita can shove it up her ass." Sully said.

"But don't you want to get healthy? Anita says you need to lose thirty pounds. I’ve already lost fifteen."

"Fuck off,"

"I'm just sayin' it's easier than you think."

"Since when are you the spokesperson for Jenny Craig?"

"I'm not," John said, " I just feel better is all. Lighter. My knees feel better. Can you believe that? I haven't been able to run in fifteen years, but you know what I did this morning?"

"Let me guess, fucked a chicken?"

"You don't have to be so cranky. I'm tellin ya’, give up those chips and you'll feel a whole lot better too. It's time for Jazzercise. You want to come?"

"Get the hell out," Sully said, crumpling the bag of potato chips and putting it under his bed.

"What was that sound?" Pinky asked as he walked in the room, "was that potato chips?"

Sully retrieved the bag from under the bed and handed it over to Pinky. "I gotta connection," he said.

"Yeah?" Pinky asked digging his paw into the bag, "Who?"

"The drug guy."

"He a dealer?"

"In what?"

"Drugs!"

"I don't know about that," Sully said, "you know, I think these people have enough drugs around here. But you know what there's seems to be a market for? Snacks."

“What do you mean?" Pinky asked.

"Supply and demand. What do these people got? They got tapioca fucking pudding and mashed carrots. What do they want? Snickers bars."

"So?"

"You been in this looney bin too long, Pink. We get this cat in the drug room to buy us Cheetos, M&Ms, Little Debbies and the like then we upsell 'em to the inmates and take a cut. Just like they do on Rikers."

"That's high school shit. We’re here to get some glass. Keep your eye on the prize," Pinky said.

"Show me where the glass is and I’ll get started," Sully said.

"I’m working on it. These things take time."

"Well, I don't see you doing a whole he'll of a lot besides hanging around the daylight room watching that exercise teacher, who looks like she might just keel over herself, incidentally." Sully said.

"Fuck you. I got my eye on someone who, if we play our cards right, can get us out of this place and in a villa on Crete,” Pinky said, “Tonight at the square dancing party…this old bag's gonna be there and I will woo her with my cosmopolitan ways."

"James fuckin' Bond at the rooster fuckin' round up."

More here.

*****

"I don't remember signing up for none of this farmer shit," Anita said as she dragged a haystack into the daylight room.

"Goose?” Trish said, “What the hell are you doing? Could you maybe help us here?"

Goose was tending to his own haystack, combing through it with his fingers, "I’m looking for the needle."

"What needle?"

"I thought they came with needles. Like prizes."

"Goose, you keep it up and we're going to be admitting you for an OD." Trish said.

"That boy outta his mind," Anita pointed out, "but I don't need to be moving no straw around, I got paperwork to do. The new chief actin’ like this some amusement park. This shit all for show, all so the cats at Swan Pavilion think he's accomplishing something."

"Trish Conwitty?" a man asked, wearing overalls and a cowboy hat.

"Conaway," Trish said, laying out a stack of bandanas on the folding table, "what do you need?"

"I'm Stewart Milliken, the caller."

"Who you callin'?" Anita asked from Trish's side.

"I'm the caller. For square dancing?"

"Oh, we got one of those?” Trih said, “I guess put your stuff here; residents will be coming in shortly."

"Where do you want the band to set up?" the caller asked.

"Band?"

"The Down and Out Fiddlers. They'll be here in a moment. We thought there would be a stage."

"It's a rec room, not Carnegie hall.” Trish pointed out. As she spoke, a group of ten kids came in wearing old t-shirts and ripped overalls.

"These are The Down and Out Fiddlers," the caller said.

“Where are we supposed to put all of them?” Tricia asked no one in particular, “there’s not going to be any room for the residents.”

“I’d put ‘em in the monitoring room and open the window,” Anita said.

Trish looked at the monitoring room. It resembled a rental bungalow at the beach. It was the length of the day room, yet wide enough to only hold the chairs of the monitoring attendants. There was a garage-type door that folded up and down. It would be tight, but there were no other options. Tricia put Anita to work setting up the fiddlers while she tried to ward off the patients who couldn’t understand why it wasn’t a normal bridge day.

*****

Pinky looked in the tiny mirror and attempted to tie his tie. He couldn’t see his face and torso at the same time, so he had to keep bending down to make sure the tie was long enough. Pain ricocheted through his knees and he wondered for a moment if there was anything to what the doctor had said about the arthritis. He waved the thought away. Thomas O’Riley Pinke was a businessman. He’d been accused by the state on a RICO allegation, but there was insufficient proof. He had escaped prison; he wasn’t about to let some doctor damn him with bone degeneration. Doctors made this stuff up anyway just so they could get insurance money. It was the way the world worked. And if anyone knew how the world worked, it Thomas O’Riley Pinke. He was just sore because of that dumb hospital bed. He had to sleep on his side all night with a pillow over his head to muffle Sully’s snoring. He wouldn’t have signed up for this gig if he had known he’d be roomies with his business partners. Sully had a penchant for burping and farting like he was at home. And John, well John wasn’t so bad, except he was just so happy all the time. You’d think he was on a cruise ship from the way he acted. But this place was no holiday. It stunk of old people – old people skin, old people powder, old people perfume. He still had many good years in him before he was checking into this purgatory. However, it made a man think. After this stint, Pink would have himself bumped off before he’d ever die in a place like this.

But there was one thing you could say about Forgotten Gardens – or whatever the hell this place was called. It wasn’t cheap. Sure, social security paid a part of it, but hardly the whole thing. Pinky could tell that a lot of these people led former lives enjoying cocktails at The Mansion and dinners at places a lot more upscale than Red Lobster. But his idiotic business partners didn’t seem to notice. Sully was as fixated on getting a hold of potato chips as a kid during Lent. And John, John was flitting around like he was at summer camp. The two of them didn’t bother to focus, to see what was really going on here. Pinky found himself constantly pointing it out to them. A lot of these birds still wore their finest as if they were off to dance at The Hyatt. Like that old Jewess who wore every single piece of jewelry she owned just to gum banana pudding in the day room.

He had seen the old Jewess wandering around during Bingo hour. Her head had sunk far down into her body, so as to remove any whisper of neck. Her right shoulder jutted out so far it was like a clipped wing. She colored her hair a light red, but she wasn’t foolin’ anybody. It looked like the hair of a guinea pig. She wore make-up, but the mask seemed somehow like paint on a child’s face. The most impressive part of her was, of course, the ice. She wore the Crown Jewels to Bingo just to put a piece of plastic on B-5. And if Pink knew anything, he knew rocks. He could tell cut and karat from 15-feet away with his naked eye. The tricolor earrings she wore were probably .61 carat weight yellow diamonds. If he had to guess, he’d say the 18-karat yellow gold ring on her right hand was set with a 1.7ct cushion-cut Tanzanite and 1.37 carats of baguette and round brilliant cut diamonds. Strangling her swollen wrist was a gold Omega watch with an opal face like iridescent bubbles in an aquarium. And finally, there was the necklace she pulled out for special occasions like tonight’s hoedown. It was the most delicate of tree branches – like fingers of coral stretching out across her liver-spotted chest. The design could only have come from the DeBeers Company and he would’ve guessed there were around 436 brilliant-cut diamonds in a prong and grain setting. Given a loupe, he could tell you that her five-karat diamond ring had a clarity rating of VS2-SI1. Its countenance beckoned to Pinky like a lover. And love her he would.

The ice was, of course, what he was originally interested in. But he now realized he could be set up for life, and not a life in this dump. He suspected there were some children and grandchildren who were jockeying to get their inheritances early. If Thomas O’Riley Pinke had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t get their inheritances at all.

*****

Dr. Avo attempted to maneuver around the party. He tripped on Mrs. Blankenship’s walker, then stepped on Hank Moore’s foot. The residents were crammed into the rec room, some seated five to a little table. No one looked happy. Dinah Armstrong couldn’t turn her hearing aid down, so she held it in her hand like a precious snail. The residents tried to visit with each other, but couldn’t hear over the Down and Out Fiddlers. There was only one man attempting to dance, and he was having a time of it considering it was a partner dance and none of the ladies were willing promenade. Dr. Avo felt sorry for him, until he noticed he was doing some type of shuffle that had nothing to do with the caller. Nevertheless, he looked like the only person in the room who really wanted to be there. Goose came up beside him chewing a piece of wheat.

“I think that’s supposed to be a prop,” Dr. Avo said.

“Tastes good. I see why farmers munch on these all the time.”

“Just don’t swallow it.”

“No sir! Hey, what’s John O’Keefe doin’ out there?”

“I’m not sure,” Dr. Avo said.

Goose walked away from the doctor and joined John on the tiny dance floor. His moves made less sense than John’s, but the two men looked like they were having fun. They tried to convince some ladies to join them, but were met with looks of anger and slaps to their hands. So they danced with each other. John’s moves were shuffling and oafish. Goose looked like he was at Woodstock.

As Dr. Avo watched, he was joined by Thomas Pinke.

“Having fun, Mr. Pinke?” Dr. Avo asked.

“Just got here. Is that John out there?” The man asked squinting to look at the dance floor.

“Yes, looks like he’s having a time, doesn’t it?”

“He looks like an idiot. Curly the Stooge dancing with a noodle.”

“You two were friends before you came here, weren’t you? How long have you known each other?”

“Many, many years, doc, many, many years,” The large man shifted uncomfortably and seemed like he wanted to change the subject. He smoothed his hair and stood up a little straighter. “Have you seen that nice woman, Mrs. Shapiro?”

Dr. Avo couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time residents had fallen in love on his ward. He supported it. It created contentment and serenity. Amazing how the human body, after eighty-some odd years on this planet, could revert back to the longings and pettings of teenagers. Sometimes those pettings got out of hand, sure, but in Dr. Avo’s opinion, geriatrics had a right to consensual sex. He had walked in on it many times and walked right back out the door again. The problem, of course, came with those who had dementia. Always an awkward situation to have Mrs. Long figure out she’s having sex with Mr. Osbourne and not Mr. Long. Dr. Avo was also impressed by the way the elderly ceased stereotyping each other. Age was the great equalizer. Take Mrs. Shapiro and Mr. Pinke. Jewish and Irish-Catholic, but it didn’t matter in the twilight of their years, although Mrs. Shapiro’s night would be coming a lot sooner than Mr. Pinke’s.

“I think she’s over there by that stuffed horse.”

The horse took up a full three table’s worth of space. As Mr. Pinke pushed his way over to Mrs. Shapiro, Dr. Avo wondered where the horse had come from. Where had all of this come from? Did Edelstein blow the quarterly budget on this hoedown to make himself look good for The Gardens’ newsletter and maybe The Savannah Tribune? There were certain things the members expected and those things took funding. Bi-weekly Bingo was always a big draw. The resident-tended garden was actually one of the home’s selling points and got frequent mentions in Coastal Living. Many of the more mobility-impaired seniors enjoyed the papermaking and writing classes. Then there was the yoga and Jazzercise. Suddenly, Dr. Avo wandered if this innocent square dancing party just cost the residents their month’s worth of activities.



*****



Pinky had never been good at this high school crap. It was the logistics that tripped him up. There was Mrs. Shapiro, squeezed into a table with about five other ladies who all looked miserable. There was no space on either side of her. He wondered if she would go outside with him so he could at least make conversation. Maybe she was a former smoker who would enjoy a cigarette. Thanks to Sully’s efforts, he had a few of those on hand. He jostled through the walkers, rickety bones and dirty looks to get to her chair. He stood right behind her.

“Mrs. Shapiro,” he yelled over the whining fiddle, “may I introduce myself? My name is Thomas Pinke.” He held out his hand, but she didn’t respond. Didn’t even take her eyes from the commotion on the stage. He stood there, hand out, feeling foolish before he realized she didn’t hear him. He touched the jutting bone of her shoulder.

“Hello. I believe you are Mrs. Shapiro? I’d like to introduce myself. I am Thomas Pinke.”

“Hanh?” she said cupping her hand to her ear in a motion as emblematic to elderly people as a soldier’s salute.

He bent down over her, his large frame miniaturizing her sunken body.

“My name is Thomas Pinke.”

“Hanh?”

“She’s hard of hearing,” one of the other ladies said ferociously.

He felt silly. And hot. He patted his breast pocket for a pen and paper and scrawled something on the back of a receipt. He handed it to her. Her face looked like it had become one with her chest. Her neck had been slowly stolen by Father Time. She smacked her lips a few times over the piece of paper, then looked up at him with bleary eyes.

“Next week,” she gasped, then turned back to the fiddlers.

*****



Five days after the square dance, the staff was still finding straw throughout the facility. Residents had dragged it out on their shoes and the clean-up crew seemed very adept at ignoring it. Trish dropped by the pharmacy on her way to the staff meeting and noticed that Goose had taken a bunch of the straw and placed it in a vase at his desk like a bouquet. Many of the ends were chewed.

“Goose, “ she said, “you got any Vico so we can make it through this meeting?”

Goose pulled two tiny, white pillows from his pocket and handed them to Trish, then put two in his own mouth. Trish watched as he stood up, smoothed his lab coast and hair, then held out his arm to accompany her.

“The day I need you as an escort, you can just take out 200 mg of propofol and pump it into me. Let’s go.”

She was halfway down the hall before she noticed Goose wasn’t with her. She ducked back into Hank Moore’s room and found him sitting on the end of the man’s bed, chatting.

“Goose, this staff meeting is mandatory. Come on.”

Goose stood up, offered his arm again, and she took it, if only to make sure he made it into the meeting.

The staff was seated in a large circle. Trish found two chairs, deposited Goose, then went to get a cup of coffee. When she returned, Goose was asleep with his head back, his ample Adam’s apple jutting toward the sky like an offering. She tapped it with two fingers.

“Goose,” she whispered, “you’re not so good at your job that you aren’t replaceable. Get it together.” The statement was like a prayer to a deaf god. It was the one thing they said over and over, but never got a different result.

Dr. Edelstein entered then, followed by a group of white-coated residents like a band of courtiers. The residents surrounded Edelstein at his podium until he motioned for them to sit. Why was there a podium in the first place, Trish asked herself.

“Everyone, Thank you for coming,” Edelstein said.

“Like we had a choice,” Goose whispered.

“Shush, she said, knocking him with an elbow.

“Where is Dr. Avo?” Edelstein asked the circle. Avo raised his hand like a dutiful schoolboy and Edelstein nodded in return.

“You all have my agenda, I believe. So, let’s get started.

“It’s my understanding that you have traditionally had this meeting once a week. With all respect to my distinguished colleague, Dr. Avo, and in the interest of pure transparency –“

“Transparency?” Goose whispered to Trish.

“– we are now going to have this meeting bi-weekly.”

This was meant with grumbling of course. One of the nurses raised her hand. Edelstein nodded to her as if he was granting a Parlimentarian permission to speak.

“Doctor, we barely have enough time as it is to take care of the residents, write up charts and fulfill the government paperwork. Another hour meeting will mean taking work home.”

Dr. Edelstein smiled at this, “I understand that. And that brings us to our first issue on the agenda. The 110% Rule. I’m going to ask all of you to start thinking of the 110% Rule in everything you do.”

Trish watched the doctor. His mannerisms reminded her of a television evangelist. Smile speak, blink, blink, blink; smile, speak, blink, blink, blink.

“My predecessor, Dr. Carrigan, instituted the 110% rule at The Swan Pavilion and I think it created an incredible atmosphere of efficiency, support and even delight among that group’s staff – a staff, I’d like to point out, that was not much different from you all before Dr. Carrigan and I put many of our exciting initiatives into effect. They, too, did not always see the light at the end of the tunnel. But now, they trust implicitly in the many slogans we have posted all over the facility. The first being, ‘110. Remember. Always.’”

“Sounds like the Vietnam Memorial,” Trish said under her breath.

The doctor continued, “we will be posting similar slogans in this facility as well. In fact, as we speak, there are fifty such posters at the printer’s ready to be framed. I think you will all enjoy the positive energy they’ll infuse around here.”

Dr. Avo timidly raised his hand. “Perhaps this is more of an internal discussion,” he said, “but where is the budget coming from for things like square dances and posters?”

Dr. Edelstein smiled benevolently and began blinking again. “Excellent question, Dr. Avo, but one that is probably better addressed in an offline discussion. I appreciate that your staff is busy and I don’t want to take up their time mucking around with budgetary details.

“Now, everyone, if you’ll refer to your agendas, Item Two states –“

Trish looked over and Goose was asleep again.

*****



Sully had gotten fat. He found himself tugging and tucking flesh to get his pants on and a new layer of skin stood in the way of the button and the buttonhole on his shirts. He wanted to call his wife. She always knew what to do when he had gained a few pounds, which generally meant some kind of cleanse passed down from one of her women’s magazines. They ranged from disgusting to sparse, but they always seemed to work. He couldn’t call Maureen, though. She thought he was on the lam in Arizona. His paranoia had sent him on the lam many times, even when the Feds just saw him as more of a charming relic than a threat. It was a testament to his relationship that his wife no longer questioned it when he took off for three months. In business relationships, Sully may have pissed on every caterer in Savannah, but in matrimony – never.

He had gotten into funeral services after the last racketeering accusation closed his gentleman’s clubs. He owned two funeral facilities in Georgia and one in Florida, but people didn’t die as fast as he would’ve liked and the homes didn’t turn that much of a profit. So, he bought a catering hall and called it O’Callaghan’s Fine Banquets and Events, after Maureen’s maiden name, but his clientele – participants of Holy First Communions and weddings – just called it Cally’s. Catering suited him. He secretly enjoyed watching an empty space come alive with damask linens and silk flowers and music. He also enjoyed the spotlight by making dessert flambé and crepes right in front of the guests.

Cally’s was soon taking business from the American Legion and overbooked, so he opened up one of the funeral homes for functions on the off-days. Maureen took to the task like a turtle to sand. She made the Piazzo Room positively regal by commissioning a painting of a fountain on the main wall. She got into the act herself by painting flowers on the Pergo floors of the Magnolia Room. Then she had actual components of a New Orleans city street added to the Serenity Room with vibrant, oversized masks adorning all the columns. It was also her idea to showcase the linen choices to prospective couples by draping them over the unused caskets. The brides were none the wiser and the caskets really did make for a nice display.


Sully had gotten fat. He found himself tugging and tucking flesh to get his pants on and a new layer of skin stood in the way of the buttoning his shirts. He wanted to call his wife. She always knew what to do when he had gained a few pounds, which generally meant some kind of cleanse passed down from one of her women’s magazines. They ranged from disgusting to sparse, but they always seemed to work. He couldn’t call Maureen, though. She thought he was on the lam in Arizona. His paranoia had sent him on the lam many times, even when the Feds just saw him as more of a charming relic than a threat. It was a testament to his relationship that his wife no longer questioned when he took off for three months. In business relationships, Sully may have pissed on every caterer in Savannah, but in matrimony – never.

Sully had gotten into funeral services after the last racketeering accusation closed all his gentleman’s clubs. In addition to the strip joints, he owned two funeral facilities in Georgia and one in north Florida, but people didn’t die as fast as he would’ve liked and the homes didn’t turn that much of a profit. So, he bought a catering hall and called it O’Callaghan’s Fine Banquets and Events, after Maureen’s maiden name, but his clientele – participants of Holy First Communions and weddings – just called it Cally’s. Catering suited him. He secretly enjoyed watching an empty space come alive with damask linens and silk flowers and music. He also enjoyed the spotlight by making dessert flambé and crepes right in front of the guests.

Cally’s was soon taking business from the American Legion and became overbooked, so he opened up one of the funeral homes for functions on the off-days. Maureen took to the task like a turtle to sand. She made the Piazzo Room positively regal by commissioning a painting of a fountain on the main wall. She got into the act herself by painting flowers on the Pergo floors of the Magnolia Room. Then she had actual components of a New Orleans city street added to the Serenity Room with vibrant, oversized masks adorning all the columns. It was also her idea to showcase the linen choices to prospective couples by draping them over the unused caskets. The brides were none the wiser and the caskets really did make for a nice display.

He really didn’t need the money from this scam, he just came along for good ol’ times. But there was nothing good about this place. The residents were like used wrapping paper carelessly discarded after a holiday. There was a smell of lives exhausted that permeated the paint and the people. Death seemed to be sneaking around every corridor and no amount of square dances or morning exercise could exterminate him. The wheelchairs, the walkers, the canes – it was like Death had provided them not as instruments of mobility, but to assist the residents to come to him that much faster. And the residents seemed to want to go.

But Sully didn’t want to go, at least not into the arms of Death. He missed Maureen. He missed her eggs and bacon in the mornings, the feel of her housecoat next to him in bed. He missed the catering hall – the Mexican chef that didn’t speak English, but always knew what to do; the scratchy feel of laundered linens; the excitement of young parents on Christening days. He even missed the smell of the bathrooms after a wedding, which usually included some sort of beery vomit.

Sully looked at his face in the mirror. He and his men had done a lot together. They’d served in wars of their own creation in the name of money. And they’d enjoyed it, sure. But he had a feeling those days were over. He knew John was nearly destitute and that Pink was here just for the excitement. But why was he, Richard Sullivan, here? To be sneaking Snickers bars in an effort to get in touch with the life waiting for him outside this stucco building? This wasn’t easy by any means. In fact, the meeting with the Abercrombie drug lords was favorable to this, and in many ways felt less dangerous.

Sully brushed the remaining hair over his bald pate. It may not be as full as it was when he was twenty, but it was still there. Just like him.

The Remnants

Chapter I
2008

“Donate to the dogs?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?” she said, looking at the two German Shepherds on leashes, drooling happily.

“Donate to the dogs?” he said again. His eyes were the seafoam green of a Matchbox car and his skin a ruddy olive, but there was something about him that looked like a made-up corpse, like he might melt in the 95-degree heat of this little town.

She had left Colorado when the snows started and there wasn’t anything else to do. She considered driving through Memphis and Tupelo but in the end decided to go straight through Atlanta. The city was a disappointment – bloated highways and tired buildings, rather than the Antebellum mansions she had seen in the movies. She figured she’d just keep driving south until the highway ended in Miami or Key West or wherever. She had stopped in Vidalia to get gas and saw the signs for the Onion Festival. Hillbillies would celebrate anything, she thought. She hated making left turns into traffic, so she took a right and ended up in the town square. It was a grey old thing. With dusty stores that seemed to sell nothing. The whole town had turned out for the festival – middle aged men and women and screeching kids that you would find anywhere else. The traffic headed back to the highway was brutal, so she chose to look around and find some festival food for lunch. She was standing in line for a fried onion sandwich when the man with the green eyes and the dogs came up to her.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“They’s strays. Need shots so they don’t give anyone the rabies.”

“They don’t have their shots? They look very well cared for,” she said, reaching down and rubbing the larger one’s neck. Both dogs had heavy brown leather leashes.

“Need to be fixed so’s they don’t breed,” the man said, “$60 should do it. These dogs breed and then they run in packs, see? Then they try to eat…things.”

She couldn’t really give up sixty dollars; she needed every cent to get to Florida. “Is there a Humane Society around here?” she asked, thinking she could give a few bucks in the name of the dogs.

“Humane Society 60 miles away. I was gonna drive ‘em myself once I got the money.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “I can’t afford sixty, but maybe this will help?”

His face illuminated and he took the money from her hand. “That’s fine! That’s fine! I’ll get their balls snipped this very afternoon.” As he walked away, she could see that the dogs did not, in fact, have balls at all. They were either female or already fixed and she bet on the latter. She watched the man open the hatch and the dogs jumped in as if it was an old routine. He tethered them to a ring, then backed the truck into the festival traffic.

She remembered all the scumbags she held her garter open to. The geezer who thought it was funny to flutter the dollar in front of her face then snatch it away. The college kid who folded his like a fan and waved it in front of her g-string yelping about the smell of fish. She was too smart to be taken by a stupid redneck. So she got into her car and followed him into the line of traffic.

He drove through a convolution of suburbia and 1950s ranch houses. Over the years, people had tried to add their own touches, a portico here, shutters there, but by now these ornamentations were as decimated as the houses themselves. In the front yards, each property was strewn with cars, boats and engines. It as if the houses had given birth to a litter of machines and no one was able to give them away. One neighborhood looked like the other, but he eventually turned by a crumbling sign that said Eaton Manor. The houses here were born of the same architect as the others, but they had been sliced in half, tiny renditions of their big brothers. The slums of the suburban slums, Deanna thought. The truck started to slow and he turned down a dirt road that seemed to just appear. The path was circuitous, but she trailed him, staying camouflaged in his dust. When the road ended, she parked her car on the edge and got out. She didn’t intend to follow him, she meant to get just march right up to him and demand the money back. But she became fascinated by his house and wondered about his place in it. He went around back and disappeared. The dogs followed without the trepidation of strays.

More Here The house was the type she expected to see of the old south. But the upkeep had been minimal and the house was in sorry disrepair. Downspouts hung from the eaves and the exterior resembled driftwood in its decay. The garden whispered of a time when someone tended it, but that time was long past. A tangle of vines and wildflowers were attempting to overtake a bench with the seat collapsed in front of an arid fountain and a trellis being consumed by the earth.

She felt anger well up in her – that the owner of this mansion, albeit a crumbling one, would dare swindle money from her. She tromped up to the screen door and rang the bell. She heard nothing in response, no chimes, no barking dogs, no running footsteps. She pressed the button again, and was again greeted with silence, so she gingerly opened the door and poked her head inside.

“Hello?”

It occurred to her that he could be waiting behind the door with a baseball bat or a machete, but when she saw the foyer, she thought twice of it. The inside was a monument to wealth. She stepped on a threadbare Persian rug that upon closer inspection would reveal tigers and palms and sultans perched on elephants who had once gallivanted through better times. Crevices were built into the walls to house two porcelain statues, one of a prince handing a bird to a maiden, the other of a princess tending to a lamb. One of ht prince’s hands had broken off and there was a ragged stump. A dusty chandelier loomed overhead, its crystal stacked like rock candy.

“Hello?” she said more loudly.

“Missus?” His voice. Suddenly, she felt stupid. She must’ve misunderstood. He was probably the town’s doctor or lawyer who was raising money for the Humane Society, for all dogs, not the two full-bred shepherds he obviously owned.
She turned to go, when his shadow appeared on the upstairs landing.

“Missus?” he said again.

“Hello? This is Sarah? I gave you money back at the festival?”

“And?” he said, descending the staircase and pulling at what she thought was a pair of heavy work gloves. God only knows what important project she was taking him away from.

Think quickly, she thought to herself. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I mistakenly thought you were getting those two shepherds neutered and I thought you could use some help.”

“So, what do you want?” he asked and as he came down the stairs, she could see they weren’t work gloves at all, but rubber dishwashing gloves.

“I just wanted to – um, check to make sure you didn’t need any help.”

“Help?” he repeated, his voice liquid southern.

As nervous as she was, calling this man to task for her misunderstanding, she felt the anger well up in her again. It was the same anger that trumped her humiliation at the Cherry Creek Country Club. She had jumped out of an elaborately constructed cake to the disapproving looks of women bedecked in Prada handbags and Vuitton sunglasses. She came to discover some of the husbands had wheeled the cake into the Ladies’ Historical Preservation Meeting as a joke on their attending wives. The husbands had given her a thousand-dollar bonus, after she again jumped out of the cake to a more appreciative audience, but it didn’t snuff her anger any. And she had given some of that money to this strange, wealthy man with the yellow dishwashing gloves. He had no right making her feel like a second-class citizen.

“I’m obviously quite mistaken. I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said turning to leave.

“Come in,” he said, and closed the front door behind her.

He must think I need a receipt or something, “Please don’t worry about a thing. Again, I’m really sorry to have bothered you,” she said.

“They was having a special, “ he stammered, rushing from the front door to a massive oak door with a burnished doorknob. He hesitated in front of the door and she could again see his waxen face and the dull, seafoam green eyes. “At the Humane Society. It was free. Today only. I’ll get you your money back. Come in here and wait.”

He opened the oak door, and led her into a room that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. Everything was covered with white drop cloths. She could make out the outline of a sofa and chairs; tables and lamps; and a piano; all set as if at any moment someone was going to whip off the covers and begin a cocktail party. She wondered what the sofa looked like under its burqa. He left and the sound of nothing surrounded her. There were no other cars in the driveway. But of course there wouldn’t be. This place probably had a five-car garage. And this room – it was doubtlessly only used for company. His mother must be on the way over and he didn’t want her to see that he had a guest.

But something felt wrong. Her skin became clammy and her stomach pitched as if she was on a falling elevator. She had followed him here straight from the festival. How would he know if the Humane Society was having a special? And did Humane Societies have neutering specials anyway?

Her stomach dropped another five stories as she realized one knew she was out here. I could scream and scream and scream and no one would hear me, she thought, looking through the huge picture windows at the woods beyond. Perhaps this man didn’t live here at all. Perhaps he had killed everyone who originally resided there and had taken the house to be his own. He could murder her and make her body into another decaying ornament in the garden that might be full of bodies already. In this room, she could detect none of the usual sounds of a home, no footfalls upstairs, no skittering of dog claws on hardwood floor. Where had the dogs gone? More importantly, where had he gone?

She heard a creaking and saw him enter from another door at the far side of the room. He held the twenty-dollar bill in his hand.

“Here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take your money. I only meant to take a coupla dollars, but then I thought of the airplane I could buy and I didn’t give it back. Don’t tell Missus, ‘kay?”

An airplane? She thought.

“Missus said I couldn’t…can’t have an airplane ‘cause I’ll get it stuck in the tree again, but I thought if I had twenty I could buy two airplanes and if I got one stuck, she wouldn’t know.”

Toy airplanes.

“But it’s okay. One day I’ll have as many airplanes as I want. Would you like some juice?”

“No, thank you,” she said, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you take the money and buy the two airplanes. It sounds like you need them very badly.”

“I do! I do!” he screamed. He sat on the couch and began to bounce. His adult weight causing the springs to weep in response.
He got up and rushed to the door where he came from. “I’m gonna get you some juice!” he said, and disappeared.

She decided this was her chance. The man was harmless enough, retarded in some way, but didn’t seem to want to hurt her. She started to think about the events leading up to this and how silly she’d been. But she could berate herself later. Now, she had to get back on the road. She was making horrible time. She went back to the front door but, but it was locked, a bolt lock that fastened from the inside with a key. Only there was no key. She’d just have to wait until he got back, then. They probably kept it locked and usually left the key in it. In his excitement, he must’ve taken it out.

In a moment, he was at the top of the stairs again, this time holding a glass. “Juice,” he said, and walked down the stairs very slowly, with a styrofoam cup held out in front of him. She took the cup and looked inside. It was only half full of red liquid and smelled of chemical coconuts. A red powder clung to the edges like eroded sand. Kool-Aide. She had given up on all social graces. Thank you, she said, setting the cup down on a stair without drinking it.

“No!” he screamed, making her jump, “No! No! No!” Missus says it will leave a ring. Missus says always hold the glass and never put it down!” There was something unnerving about his voice. As if it was a piano that had been over-tuned. He seemed to be on the threshold of escalation, so she picked up the cup and wiped the spot where it had been.

“It’s a lovely day,” she said, using her head for once, “let’s enjoy the juice in the garden.”

“No. Missus says can’t go out unless it’s work hours. Is it work hours?”

“Sure,” she said, unsure of what Missus’s decrees meant, and even more unsure of the ramifications of breaking them.

“Then let me get my shoes,” he said, tearing up the stairs as quickly as his adult body would allow him.

Clearly, something was very awry in this household. Either this man was so undeveloped that he needed extreme supervision, or someone – Missus – had been so strict that he hadn’t been permitted to develop properly. Either way, this funhouse was no place for her. There had to be another way out. Missus probably wouldn’t bolt all the doors from the inside – what if there was a fire? She thought about waiting for him, but then decided she could be hanging out with him for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night. She was not Curley’s wife. With once glance up the stairs, she went back into the room with the drop-clothed furniture. There was a door on the other side that opened easily enough and led to an enormous kitchen. Everything about it was exquisite, expensive and unused. Someone had put craft paper over all the windows. There was a door at the far end, but with a board of plywood bolted it to the wall. She could feel little scarab beetles of nervousness patter through her stomach. She went through the hallway of a butler’s pantry and found herself in a child’s playroom. The toys were neatly assembled, and looked as if they had been played with rather than discarded. She bent down to examine at them and was alarmed by what she saw – The Six Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Women, both in perfectly preserved jumpsuits. There was a Barbie camper that looked like a rounded Microbus. Inside was a Wonder Woman doll, complete with lasso and golden crown. In a bin, laid out like a child’s drawer, was layer upon layer of Barbie clothes, each neatly pressed and folded. There was a dearth of Han Solos and Luke Skywalkers and there were no board games.

“You want to play with my toys?” said the voice behind her.

She turned to see the man standing there, with a pair of battered Adidas Stan Smiths in his hands.

“Let’s play with them in the garden,” she suggested, hoping he would load up his pockets with the Holly Hobby figurines and open the front door and that would be that. She could almost feel the gauge of her steering wheel in her hands.

“Missus says we can’t take the toys outside, but we can play with them here,” he said dropping his shoes and lunging for a crate of Barbies in individual boxes.

“Where is your Missus? Is she upstairs? I would like to meet her.”

“She can’t come down now, but she said to stay and play with me. We just have to put the toys back up.”

She had never liked babysitting, and here she was doing it for what appeared to be a 35 year-old man, and for no money. Kids were manipulative, right? So, she had to think like a kid. She grabbed one of the dolls – a Barbie Gold Medal Skier.

“Let’s take her out back and make her ski!” she said, mustering as much excitement as she could.

The offer was obviously very tempting. She could see the slow processing, the icicles of thought forming, then melting, “No,” he said taking the doll from her, “we need to stay in here or Missus will get mad.”

He plunked down on the floor and started building a hut with Lincoln Logs. She sat down to join him.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Christy,” he answered.

“Christy. Is that a family name?” And is this where all the trouble started?

“Don’t know. What’s yours?” he was so childlike in his off-handed manner of asking, an aside when there was nothing more important than the construction project in front of him. It reminded her of quite a few “normal” men she had met in her life.
She almost told him her professional name out of habit, but reverted to the one her mother treasured so greatly, “Deanna.”
“De-Anna,” he said measuring the syllables and vowels against each other as if it was a word he was hearing for the first time.
“How old are you?” she asked.

“Don’t know. How old are you?” he parroted.

“Thirty-two.”

“Oh,” he said and continued to play with the Logs.

“Is your Daddy home?” she asked.

“No.”

“Just your Missus.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Is she in bed, Christy?”

“Yes. Do you know how to make these two stay together? They won’t stay.”

She took the logs in her hands. One had been masticated, whether by dog or human she couldn’t tell.

She had to see ‘Missus’. Maybe this woman didn’t even know she was here. Maybe the mother was fully aware of her son’s disability and would be embarrassed if she knew Christy was keeping her here. The mother would probably escort her to the door with sundry apologies, But she had to get beyond this stupid playroom and wake his mother up.

“Christy, does your mother like tea?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why don’t we take your Mom a cup of tea? As a present?”

He raised his head with a grin on his face.

“A present!” he repeated.

“Sure, let’s go in the kitchen and we’ll boil some water and bring her tea.”

He abandoned the Lincoln Log project and was leading the way to the kitchen. They started rummaging through drawers and cabinets, but there was nothing. How could they live like this, she thought. He obviously ate. He wasn’t malnourished and seemed in fact, extremely healthy. To the point where one of the girls at the club might even find him good-looking. And he was good-looking – tall, broad shoulders, small waist, cut jaw. And the seafoam green eyes that glowed like they were backlit. So, he was obviously eating, but not in this kitchen. Which led her to believe there was another one, perhaps in an in-law suite. Houses like this had such things.

“It seems you’re all out of tea down here. Maybe there’s some in the other kitchen,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers.
“No other kitchen. No tea for Missus.”

Dammit, why hadn’t she said cookies, or crackers, something a canteen would actually have. And maybe that was the point. Perhaps his family didn’t call it a kitchen, or perhaps they were in the kitchen and the other one was called something else.
“Do you have a canteen, Christy?”

He looked at her, puzzled.

Other words for kitchen – come on think, she said to herself, “A galley? A mess hall? Where do you make your peanut butter sandwiches?”

“In the cookroom!” he said, finally understanding.

“Good! Let’s go there.”

“Missus says I’m not allowed in there alone.”

“But we’re going to make a present for her. She won’t mind if it’s for her, I promise.” Besides, you’ll be with me.”

“Okay! I’ll be with you!” He led the way up four flights of stairs and down another three. They roamed several hallways before they came to what seemed like a different house altogether. He led her into a miniaturized duplicate of the other kitchen. Instead of kraft paper on the windows, there were no windows. And of course, there was no tea, but there were cooking utensils. She found a kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. She motioned to him to sit at a table with her.
Christy, is your mother sick?”

“Yes. No? I don’t remember,” he said not meeting her eyes, but fiddling with a splinter of wood from the table.

“And you don’t live here with anyone else but her?” she asked.

“Do you like licorice?” He said, sitting up straight.

“Christy, listen to me, how often do you leave the house to go to work?”

“I dunno,”


“Where do you work?”
“In town,”

“And what do you do?”
“I talk to people.”

“Did your Mother teach you how to talk to people?”

“No. The tea’s whistling!”

So the family must’ve lived off his swindling. Why didn’t they just sell this massive property? Because the mother was probably too sick to do it. It was time to see her to get some answers. She started rummaging through the cabinets, but of course there were no tea cups or mugs.

“Christy, where are the cups you used for the Kool-Aide you gave me?”

He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“The juice?” she said.

He went into a pantry and threw around a few things, then came out with a battered Styrofoam cup. She washed it out and poured the hot water into it. She saw a used paper napkin peeking out from behind a toaster. She grabbed it and quickly folded it into an origami flower, which she set to float in the hot water. It made no sense, but it looked present-like and might prevent Christy from backing out of taking her to his mother.

“Can I carry it?” he asked.

“No, it’s a little too hot and I don’t want you to spill it on the stairs, but I’ll tell you what, when we get into her room, you can give it to her.”

He bounded ahead like a dog and led the way up the stairs to a dark corridor. The walls were bare, no wallpaper, no pictures. The floors were hardwood and squeaked when they walked. They passed other rooms with closed doors. He stopped at the end of the hall. He didn’t knock on the door, but pushed it lightly and it gave easily. And then there was the smell It was the odor of dental floss if the user hadn’t flossed in a long time. The word, ‘putrefaction’ came to mind, yet she couldn’t recall where she had learned it.

“Can I take the tea now?” he whispered.

She was ready to hand it over and run, but she had to get in there, speak to Missus, no matter how sick she might be, and talk her way out of this infernal house.

“No, Christy. I don’t want you to burn yourself. You can hold it as soon as we get in the room, okay?’
“Okay, okay, okay.”

She went in. The smell intensified, like the smell of a wound when a Band-Aid is torn off. It permeated her nostril cavity and she couldn’t understand how Christy could stand it. There was no light, only a small nightlight in the corner, beaming a sad, weak glow. When her pupils adjusted, she could see the figure. It looked like a full size Barbie doll that someone had tramped on in the dirt. She could see the head, and a ragged American flag quilt was askew revealing a limb. The mouth was agape.
Keep playing along, she told herself. No matter what this is, you have to keep playing along.

“Is this your mother, Christy?” she asked summoning her best party voice.

“No. This is Marion, my sister. It looks like Missus has gone out. Can we keep the tea hot for when she comes back?”

“Your mother – has gone out? I thought you said she was sick.”

“She is. She goes out everyday to get the sis.”

“But your sister, is…here…do you have another sister?”

“No, the sis. Where they take the peas out and put it back in.”

Pea? P.? Pea P.? Pee. Dialysis. But was he telling the truth? Did he even know what the truth was? What if there was no mother. Or, what if she was dead in another room like the sister? Once again, DeAnna had the feeling that there was no one else in this house but she and Christy. Did this girl die of natural causes or did he kill her? He didn’t seem capable, but accidents could happen and this man wasn’t even aware of how to make Kool-Aid.

She had to call the police. This was no longer just a misunderstanding. Why did she leave her cell phone in the car? She came up with another tactic, “maybe we should wait for your mother in the front yard and give her the present as soon as she comes home.”

“Can’t.”

“Where is the key,” DeAnna asked almost too desperately, “does your sister have it?” God forbid that she does.

“No. Missus has the only one. But she’ll be back soon. Why don’t you teach me how to play dominos? Sister has some –“

“Christy?” It was a female voice from the landing, “Christy, you get down here this instant.”

Christy did not move.

Chapter Two: 1977
All three children were wailing, their mouths gaping holes of despair and their eyes scrunched up like Chinese babies.
“Bonitaquee?” Louisa called down the stairs. Where were those damn women? “Bonitaquee?”

She would have to get out of bed again. What was the point of having all this help if no one was there when she called?
“Bonitaquee!”

“They’re out in the yard having a family reunion or something. You need to control them better, Louisa.” Mawmaw Amelia hobbled in, made her pronouncement and hobbled out again. Of course she didn’t ask what Louisa needed.

“Could you call them for me, Mawmaw?” she pleaded from the bed that Doctor Johnston insisted she must not leave. But Mawmaw was deaf and couldn’t hear her any more than Quee could, playing out in the yard.

“Bonitaquee!” she yelled again, tossing the American flag quilt to the side that Auntie Blake had made to celebrate both Marion’s birth and the birth of their nation, a nation which, in Louisa’s opinion was fizzling like an exploded firecracker.
“Stop that yelling this instant,” Momma Stance said, coming in the room in a small hurricane of dressing robes and Chanal No. 5. “What have you done to these children, Louisa?” she scolded, scooping Millie and Emory up and placing Marion, the newborn, in bed with Louisa, “Where’s Quee?”

“She and Bonita are out in the front yard. Momma, take Emory, and give me Millie. Millie, come here and lay in bed with Mommy.”

Momma Stance ignored Louisa’s request and absconded with Millie and Emory to the hallway. Louisa could hear her yelling out the open window, “Bonitaquee? Bonita! Quee! What are you doing out there? Get in here right this instant.” She placed Millie and the still-howling Emory back in the playpen cage and rustled out of the room, her dressing grown dragging the floor like dead leaves.

Louisa could hear Momma Stance chastise Quee in the hall, “What are you people doing out in the yard? I swear, just because Mr. Conway is out there with his little firework show doesn’t mean my whole household has to be out playing with them, too.”
“We weren’t,” Louisa heard Quee protest, “we was unloading the groceries.”

“It don’t take five of you to unload groceries. Bonita is perfectly capable of doing that herself.”

“Bonita has the arthritis –“ Quee started.

“That’s enough, Quee, get in there and help Missus with the children.”

Quee rushed into the bedroom and took Millie into her arms, being sure to gather her cape around her. The cape was a remnant of polyester cloth, orange with the stains of clay from playing in the river.

“You poor child,” she said stroking the six year-old’s head, “did that mean ol’ Emory hit you again?”

“Quee, please don’t pit my children against each other,” Louisa said, over the howls of Emory.

“Missus, I was only tryin’ to comfort her – “

“And take that dirty ol’ tablecloth off of her,”

“It’s not a tablecloth, Mommy,” Millie said.

“Yes, it is, Millie, now come get into bed with me and Quee’s gonna take Emory and the baby downstairs for breakfast.”
“Can’t,” Quee said, holding on tighter to Millie.

“What do you mean?” Louisa said, angrily. Why couldn’t these women respect her the way they did her mother and grandmother? “Are you sassing me, Quee?”

“No ma’m, but Momma Stance said you need to nurse that youngin’ and told me not to feed her table food. She said to take Miss Millie and Mr. Emory down to breakfast.”

“All right,” Louisa said, just to get the screeching Emory out of the room, even though the thought of nursing Marion was deplorable to her. But she couldn’t let Quee leave without giving her dear Millie a kiss.
“Leave Millie a second, Quee.”

Quee put Millie on the bed and the girl scrambled into the crook of her mother’s arm.

“It’s not a tablecloth, Mommy,” Millie said, lazily rubbing the cloth against her mother’s neck, “Momma Stance says I look like Princess Grace.”

“You look exactly like Princess grace without that dirty old thing around your neck.”

“It’s breakfast time,” Quee said scooping up Millie and her cape again, ”Come on you,” Quee said, grabbing Emory by the hand.
“I think you look beautiful in your cape,” Louisa heard Quee whisper.

“Quee, be nice to Emory. And don’t carry Millie everywhere. She’s big enough to walk on her own,” Louisa called, wondering why she felt like she worked for them instead of the other way around.

* * *
Bonita stood over the stove, stirring hot cereal in the pot her own grandmother used when the house was the crown jewel of land that spanned all the way to xxxxx. Quee placed Millie in a wooden high chair, and Emory in a metal one that was slightly too small for his oversized four-year old body and restrained his movements.

“That Missus is getting bitchier as the days wear on,” Quee said.

“Quee! How many times I gotta tell you not to talk that way in front of them children?”

Quee moved her heavy braids out of her eyes and settled in front of Millie to spoon-feed the cereal, “How’s my little girl? How’s Quee’s little girl today?”

“Quee, you need to let that baby eat on her own. She way too old for you to be feeding her like that.”

“I can do it myself, Miss Quee” Millie said, gently taking the spoon from Quee’s hand.

“See what I’m saying? Whyn’t you let Millie be a big girl and you go on and feed Emory?”

Quee snarled in Emory’s direction, “I don’t trust that boy. You feed him, Momma.”

Millie started banging the tray of her highchair, “I don’t want to be in chair-chair anymore! Quee, can I get down?”

Bonita shuffled Quee out of the way, and bent down to be eye-level with Millie. “Miss Millie, I tell you what, you be good, sit still in chair-chair and let Quee feed you. Tomorrow, we let you eat all by yourself at the table like a big girl.”

“Mom-ma!” Quee whined from behind her while Emory started hitting his metal tray with his fists.

“That’s the way it’s gonna be, Quee. She gotta grow up sometime. Now don’t you give me no backtalk.”

“Okay, Bonita. I’ll be Quee’s today, but tomorrow I’m a big girl,” Millie said, sweetly.

Behind her, Emory started to bounce angrily in his highchair. His substantial weight caused the chair to teeter uneasily on its legs.

“Quee, control that boy. Give him his doll.”

“But, I’m feeding Miss Millie,” Quee whined, then started looking around for the ragged Bionic Woman figure that once belonged to Millie.

“Don’t you backtalk me, girl. Leave Millie be and get that boy before he –“

Bonita watched in horror as Emory bounced the chair and the metal leg bent causing the chair and child to topple.

“Quee – see what you did!” Bonita shouted, rushing over to Emory and gathering the wailing child in her arms.

“Boy did it to himself,” Quee whispered over the screetches.

As Bonita picked Emory up, he pulled the kerchief off her head and hit her with his impressive fists.

“Now, boy, I know you angry,” Bonita said gently, “but you gotta get with the program.”

The boy wailed in response, a sound that pierced the tympana of all humans and animals within a one-mile radius of the Altama Plantation. Bonita tried to settle him on her lap, but Emory only responded by kicking her shins with his heavily braced legs.

“Okay, boy, I try be nice to you, but we goin’ to time out. You ain’t hurt. You just yellin’ to yell.”

“And he did it to himself, Momma,” Quee added.

Bonita gently lifted Emory and took him to his time-out area. As Emory’s tantrums became longer and more violent, the women all agreed that he should be quarantined in some way. Bonita enlisted Lamont to clear out an area in the mudroom under the stairs. He erected a small gate making the space just big enough for Emory to stand up in, and just bare enough for him to know he was in trouble. Bonita sat on a small chair outside the gate and started to sing:

Do you fear the gathering clouds of sorrow?
Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus.

Quee picked up on the melody and joined in:

Are you anxious what shall be tomorrow?
Tell it to Jesus alone.

Emory started to calm and stopped rattling the bars of the gate. “You better now, Emory? Here’s your doll,” Bonita handed him the Bionic Woman doll and he clutched it in his fist. She picked him up in both arms. “I ain’t young like I used to be. My back’s goin’, arthritis settin’ in, and I’m still carryin’ around Mr. Emory.” She led the boy to the overturned highchair, picked it up, placed him in it, and commenced to feed him cereal.

“He shoulda died when he was born, that’s what shoulda happened, Momma,” Quee said from the sink where she was washing Millie’s bowl.

“Shut your mouth, Quee. I didn’t raise you to be so insolent. This boy a gift from God, just like you is to me. His Momma loves him.”

“It don’t seem like she love nobody too much, lest of all him.”

“That’s enough outta you,” Bonita said, lifting Emory out of the chair, “Take Miss Millie and Mr. Emory out and show them the firerackers Mr. Eaton settin’ up in the yard.”

“Fireworks, Momma,” Quee corrected.

“I want to see the fires,” Millie said, drawing circles on Quee’s arm with her finger.

“Come on junebug,” Quee said, “Mr. Emory, get on over here.”

Emory had taken a seat on the floor with his legs splayed on either side of him. He was tapping the Bionic Woman doll frantically against his mouth. Quee grabbed Emory’s hand and dragged the boy across the linoleum, his braces scraping the floor.

“Quee!” Bonita yelled, “pick that boy up and treat him like a human being. I swear, if I’m not runnin’ after these children, I got to be runnin’ after you, too. Now you all go find somethin’ to do and get out of my kitchen.”

Quee took the children to a rise on the property where Mr. Brodie and Lamont were setting up the fireworks.

“Boy, I don’t know what you think you doin’ out here with Mr. Brodie,” Quee teased Lamont, “Ain’t like you know your way ‘round a firework, noways.”

Lamont drew himself up to his full six feet, “Mr. Brodie couldn’t be doin’ any of this if I wasn’t here,” he said, “Ain’t that right, Mr. Brodie?”

Conway Barbor Brodie ambled over, still wearing his golf shoes and sipping from a plastic tumbler.

“Good afternoon, Quee,” he said, shading his eyes from the sun to look at her.

“Hello Mr. Brodie,” Quee said.

“Hey, Emory, come on over here, I got somethin’ to show you,” Conway said and they all followed him to a stack of wooden crates. He put his drink on one of them and opened the lid of another.

As if he was doing a magic trick, Conway withdrew a Bic lighter from his pocket and pulled out a sparkler from the crate. He lit it and the children’s eyes became moons in their sockets. Emory started to howl, fearful of the flames, and Millie began to cry. Quee picked Millie up and stroked her head.

“You want to hold it, Emory?” Conway asked, extending Emory’s left hand, and placing the stick in it.

Emory howled at first, then reached out his hand to touch the shooting light, as if the sparks were crystals that could be held and played with. The sparkler died down and Emory started to howl again. Conway held up a finger to him and put the lighter in Emory’s hands. He showed him how to light it, briskly drawing the tiny gear down with his thumb. With a few tries, Emory sparked the lighter himself. He was mesmerized by the orange flame and watched it with rapture. Then, Conway withdrew another sparkler and showed Emory how to light it. He handed the stick to Quee who festively waved it around for Millie. Conway withdrew another sparkler form the crate and handed it to Emory and everyone watched as Emory lit it himself. The three adults roared with celebration and Emory laughed and waved the sparkler, mimicking Quee.

“You better put that out, Mr. Emory. Misses see that and you gonna be in a world of trouble,” Quee said, conspiratorially,
“Misses wouldn’t know a good time if it bit her in the ass,” Conway said, picking up his drink again and wandering off toward the house.

* * *

“Ooooooeee, that Mr. Brodie is somethin’ else!” Lamont said, laughing and slapping one of the crates.

Quee laughed, too, bouncing Millie in her arms, “Shhhhh-eeee! He got Misses’ number, that’s for sure!”

“Can I get down, Quee?” Millie asked, trying to disentangle herself from Quee’s grip, “Can Emory and I go play in the sandbox?”

“Yes’m, but you stay right in that sandbox, you hear me? Don’t you two go wanderin’ off like last time.”

“No m’am, we won’t.”

“Momma Stance sure is mad at Mr. Brodie this mornin’,” Quee said, stepping closer to Lamont.

“Them women don’t like Mr. Brodie too much,” Lamont observed.

“He don’t seem to like them too much neither,” Quee said, “Don’t know why Mr. Brodie ever marry Missus. Seems to me he coulda gotten a much nicer girl in Athens. Someone at least prettier.”

“Well, you gonna know all about that soon enough, ain’t ya’, Quee?”

“I ain’t gonna pretend I ain’t nervous.”

“You gonna be the best nurse they is,” Lamont said, hoisting one of the crates of fireworks onto his shoulder, “why’s you nervous, Quee?”

“All them white women thinkin’ they’s smarter than me. Actin’ like just cause their Daddy’s payin’ for the school, they better than me.”

“You’ll show ‘em, Quee. You the smartest girl I know.”

“Mr. Brodie says not to look at it like he doin’ me any favors. He says that in the old times artists would have a patron, and that patron pay they bills and buy they supplies. He say he my patron. And I don’t never need to pay back my tuition or nothin’. But I’m gonna pay it back. I’m gonna pay back every cent cause I don’t want to owe nobody nothin’.”

***

Emory flicked the lighter and nothing happened. Emory flicked the lighter again and nothing happened. Emory flicked the lighter again and a flame shot up, then died down. He flicked the lighter again and nothing happened. His finger started to hurt so he put his finger in his mouth, and found a stick to play with. The stick wasn’t as much fun as the lighter, so he flicked the lighter again and the flame shot out and he put the flame to the stick like Daddy did and the stick became the flame, but then the stick got hot, so he dropped it. Then Millie started screaming.

***

Chapter Three: 1977

Bonita was washing dishes. The sink looked out on the yard and she could see Quee and Lamont talking and the kids playing in the sandbox. She wished Quee wasn’t so attracted to that Lamont. Quee was going places. Lamont, well, he was nice enough, but he was gonna die on this here property just like she herself was. Quee knew Lamont’s momma and daddy – they was good people just like Lamont – but ain’t none of them been to school. Bonita was valedictorian of the high school. Lamont didn’t even finish seventh grade. But what was she gonna do, go out there and break them up? That’ll make Bonita want him even more ‘cause that’s just the way the world worked. Better to stay quiet. After the summer, Bonita be going to college and she’ll forget all about Lamont.

Bonita continued looking out the window, thinking of nothing in particular but how hot it was outside and wonderin’ if Missus was ever gonna air condition this place. And that was when she saw it. It was as if someone had turned the sandbox into a fire pit. One minute, the children were playing, the next – there was a big orange and red ball where the children had been. She dropped the plate she was washing and raced to the yard. Lamont had seen it too. He stepped into the curtain of flame and came out with a charred little doll that neither screamed nor struggled.

Bonita’s shrieking caused everyone from the house to come running. Even Misses was there, though she wasn’t allowed out of bed. For a fleeting moment, all Bonita could think about was how Misses shouldn’t leave that little infant alone by herself. Lamont still held Millie as if she was an offering. When Misses saw her daughter, she grabbed the body from Lamont and held her against her breast. Quee could see that the girl was nothing more than a shell, her dark hair and sweet face were replaced by the charred and melted features of a baby doll. There was a tiny part of her yellow jumper that was still intact and suddenly, Quee was reminded of when her own mother had passed and the way her fingernail polish looked on the dead hands that would never hold a baby or a Bible again.

Bonita howled along with the other women. It was an involuntary sound, a primal surge that had been passed down from the first cave woman who found her young ravaged by tigers. It was Millie, dear Millie who was one of the sweetest children Bonita had ever cared for. And poor Bonita. Bonita loved that child as if she were her own. Conway tried to take his daughter from Missus and she all but growled in protest.

“Louisa,”said Conway calmly, “there ain’t nothin’ we can do now. Let’s put her in the bedroom and call Murchison’s.”

“No, she’s not dead, Conway. She’s not dead. Call the fire department, call for an ambulance. They can save her. She’s not dead.”

Quee watched as Conway hesitated a moment. The fire had burned down, so there was no reason to call the fire department, Quee thought. But calling Murchison’s did seem very final.

“I’ll call the am-blance,” Quee said, turning toward the house, “the hospital gonna know what to do.”

That evening, after the ambulance took Millie’s body away, Missus was back in bed. She’d been given a sedative at the hospital and Bonita wished the doctor had given sedatives all around. She’d been forced to give Quee a home remedy of ground nutmeg and milk and honey until she finally fell asleep. Emory had disappeared after the accident, so Conway and Lamont had gone out to find him. Darkness was encroaching and neither the child nor the search party had turned up. Momma Stance and Mawmaw Amelia sat in the den in front of a fire. Certainly, it was much too hot for a fire, but Momma Stance insisted that Bonita build one anyway. Auntie Blake rounded out the circle, furiously knitting as if her needles could repair the damage of the afternoon.
Bonita came in and set the tea service in front of them. Momma Stance was, of course, the calmest of them all. She wore a pair of Halston wool trousers, a muted blouse, a wide-brimmed straw hat rested superfluously on her head.

“I’d like to know exactly how this fire started,” she said, brandishing her teacup almost convivially. Auntie Blake nodded in agreement, Mawmaw Amelia sat up to hear, then slumped back down again.

“I mean, it’s not as if this child just erupted in flame,” Momma Stance continued.

Auntie Blake shivered and said, “It’s God’s will. The Lord wanted that sweet baby by his side.”

Momma Stance cut her a look and continued, “Obviously, Emory got ahold of some matches. But that boy can’t even buckle his belt, so how in the world is does he know how to use matches?”

“Maybe it was more like the burning bush,” Auntie Blake offered, clicking the needles together more furiously.
Momma Stance narrowed her eyes in Auntie Blake’s direction, “this is no time for tea,” she said, gulping the last from her cup, “Bonita? Bonita!” she yelled in the direction of the kitchen, “fix me a bourbon.”

“Yes m’am,” Bonita said, meandering to the bar and clinking ice cubes. She brought the drink to Momma Stance.

“Use the crystal, please,” Momma Stance said politely, handing the drink back to her, “I’m not Conway, running around with these damned tumblers.”

Bonita returned to the bar and transferred the drink to a highball class that looked like a contrived ice sculpture.

Momma Stance took the drink and downed it as she had the tea.

“Tell you what, Bonita, why don’t you just set the ice and the bottle over here. Make things easy on yourself.”

Bonita filled a decanter of bourbon and a bucket of ice. She set another glass on the tray in case Mawmaw Amelia wanted a drink as well. She knew from habit not to put a glass down for Auntie Blake.

Momma Stance swooped down on the tray and made and tossed back another drink, this time without ice.

“I guess that wasn’t very civil of me, was it, Bonita?”

“It’s as civil as one can expect given the circumstances,” Bonita said.

“Would you like a drink, Bonita?” Momma Stance asked.

The question was not so very odd. Bonita had been working with Momma Stance’s family since she was fourteen. She and Momma Stance had grown up together and had actually shared their first drink together as teenagers when they snuck a bottle of whiskey from Daddy Jenkins’s cabinet.

“Yes, Connie, if you don’t mind I think I will.”

“Bonita, you’re the only one with sense in this family. What do you think happened out there?”

Bonita shook her head, morosely.

“You think it was some act of God that would cause such a thing?” Momma Stance knew exactly what Bonita thought, of course, but she wanted a co-conspirator against Auntie Blake and knew Bonita wouldn’t refute her.

“I don’t know, m’am,” was the best Bonita could muster.

“I mean, what kind of God would let a young child die so horrifically? Tell me that.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Auntie Blake mumbled under the clacking of her needles.

“I mean, what kind of God would want an innocent young thing like Millie to burn like a pig on a spit?”

Her intention was to goad Auntie Blake, but it was MawMaw Amelia who sat up to argue, “you hush your mouth right now, Constance,” the eldest women said, “you never been one to follow the word of the Lord, but that don’t mean the rest of us feel the same way. It was an accident, plain and simple. Can’t blame nobody, least of all God.”

“Amen,” Auntie Blake muttered.

MawMaw Amelia settled back into her chair and began to fall asleep. Momma Stance rolled her eyes and turned her accusations away from God to the members of His flock who had actually been present.

“Then I guess if it wasn’t God who gave her those matches it was maybe Lamont,” Momma Stance said, pouring another glass of bourbon for herself and one for Bonita, “Or maybe it was that dumb Conway. I warned Louisa not to marry him; I said Flag Darby was a much better choice. But Flag was too ugly for her. So what if he’s so ugly he’d make a freight train take a dirt road? Flag now owns half this town and what does Conway own? This bottle of bourbon, and that’s about all.”

“I don’t think Lamont would’ve given a child matches,” Bonita ventured timidly.

“Then it was Quee?” Louisa was started in slur.

“No m’am. I think you know as well as I do that Quee loved them children like they was her own. Quee’d never do such a thing.”

“No, you’re right, Bonita. Quee has more sense than most members of this household. You and Quee both. That’s why my Daddy loved you all so much. My poor, poor Daddy. If he was here, this never would’ve happened.” Momma Stance’s eyes threatened to well up with tears, but she damned the flood and turned her attention to the bottle, “One more then I think it’s time to retire.” She splashed the bourbon into her glass and licked the side where some had spilled. She attempted to affect a countenance of sobriety, but her head started to loll over to the side and soon she was asleep. Bonita took the glass from her hand and cleared the tray. It was best if it looked like nothing had happened.

***********

Bonita felt a little wobbly as she ambled down the stone walkway between the Big House and the Little House where she and Quee lived. On the ridge, she could see the embers glowing from a cigarette in the dark. She left the path and found Lamont dismantling the unextinguished fireworks and putting them in the flatbed of the truck.

“Lamont,” she whispered so as not to startle him. “You talked to Mr. Conway, yet?”

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice hoarse, “I talked to him when he got back. Little Millie’s dead.”

“I know she is. I know she is,” Bonita said, nodding even though Lamont couldn’t see her.”

“We shoulda never let Mr. Emory light that sparkler,” he murmured.

“Now you tell me exactly what happened out here this afternoon.” Bonita said.

“Mr. Conway didn’t mean no harm. He thought it’d be fun to show Emory how to light a sparkler.”

“Now you pay mind, boy and tell me exactly what happened. And I mean exactly.”

“Just like I said, Mr. Conway showed Emory how to light a sparkler with his matches. Little Emory loved it.”

“Did he take them matches back?”

“Back from where?”

“Back from Mr. Emory.”

“Oh, I don’t recollect. But guess’n from what happened, I’d say he didn’t.”

“And they wasn’t your matches?”

No ma’m, they was Mr. Conway’s. ‘Guess we all shoulda known better than to let Mr. Emory light a sparkler hisself. But we all thought it was nice, the way Mister Emory watched that sparkler, his eyes all big, laughin’ and carryin’ on. ‘Guess we all just forgot he had the matches.”

“Don’t you go sayin’ that, Lamont. Don’t you say anything of the kind, you hear me?”

“What you mean, Miz Aiken?”

“If anyone asked you what happened – the Sherriff, Missus, Momma Stance – anyone, I want you to come get me before you make a peep, you understand me, boy?”

“I guess so.”

“Aint no guessin’ about it. Guessin’ is what got all ya’ll into this mess.” She gathered herself and turned back toward the path, “Don’t you talk to no one, Lamont. I’m serious about that.” She went off toward the little house where she hoped Quee was still sleeping.

“Why would they be callin’ the sheriff?” he called after her, “It was an accident.”

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” was all she said in return.

*************************

The next day, the sun shone brightly in open defiance of the Brodie tragedy. Bonita was up first and she bathed and dressed to go about her duties. There were two other children to feed and a house full of adults who would be expecting breakfast, death or no death.

Quee still slept soundly in her room. Bonita didn’t want to wake her. Bonita, herself, experienced that first moment of realization upon opening her eyes. It was like putting oil in a bowl of flour. For a moment, the oil rests on top, but then slowly, it sinks. And there’s no way to separate that oil and flour again. She wanted to put off her own daughter having that morning epiphany for as long as she could. Quee would be expected to work today. They were now employed in a house of mourning and that meant double the amount of chores. But it wasn’t the sadness that Bonita dreaded waking Quee to. Like a sage, Bonita could see down the path, around its curves and over its hills. And she didn’t like what she saw.

She went into Quee’s room and gazed upon her baby, a grown woman with gorgeous skin and braids fanning out from her beatific face. She thought, strangely, of Quee’s eyeballs. She had heard once that, unlike feet or fingers, eyeballs didn’t grow. A baby’s eyeballs would be the same eyeballs she’d have as an adult. Bonita liked thinking of those eyes under Quee’s lids. Beautiful brown eyes that had not changed in eighteen years. Her legs had gotten longer and her breasts had gotten bigger, but those eyes were the same. As she looked at her daughter, Bonita could hear the buzzing of the lights in the silence. It was a rare sound, one Bonita used to treasure when Quee was young. It meant that the day was done and she had a moment to herself. But soon it would mean that her own baby was gone.

Bonita decided to let Quee sleep. Whatever needed to be done, she could do it herself, at least for the morning.
It was 10:30 and the house was still quiet. There was an otherworldly lack of sound considering what had happened the day before. It unnerved Quee. She got out the pans, taking care not to make any unnecessary noise. The longer she could prolong the calm, the better. She opened the back door to gather eggs in the henhouse when she heard it, the shriek like a baby being born, the roar of a human being ripped from the warmth of the womb. Missus. And obviously, Momma Stance didn’t bother to get up to be with Missus when awakened. The image of oil and flour hit Bonita again and she rushed up the back stairs to Missus’s room.

“No, no, no, no!” The pleading was guttural, harkening back to the centuries of mourners who had seen their children killed in wars and floods and firecracker accidents.

“No, no, no, no!” The woman wailed. Bonita charged in and grabbed the American flag quilt from the chair. She wrapped it around Missus’s shivering body and held her as she had when the woman was a child.

“Bonny, Bonny, Bonny!” she whispered into Bonita’s shoulder, “Bonny, why?”

“I don’t know, Missus, I don’t know.”

“My little girl. Bonny, my little girl,”

“Shhhhh, shhhh,” Bonita could feel the tears in her own eyes, “you lay back and let me go make you some tea.”
She continued to clutch Bonita and Bonita held her tightly.

“Do you think it hurt? Do you think she was hurt? What could’ve gone through her little mind? Oh, Bonita.”

“No, Missus. She wasn’t hurt. God wouldn’t let her hurt.”

“Then why would He do this?”

“Because she was an angel,” Bonita said, believing it, “she was too good for this here Earth and He wanted her with Him.”

“Yes, He wanted her with Him,” Missus repeated. “Where’s Conway?” she asked, finally pulling away. “

“I don’t know,” Bonita answered.

“Well, is he in his bedroom?” she asked and Bonita could hear a familiar note of acrimony in her voice.

“I’ll check, Missus.”

“And it might be a good idea for you to get breakfast started,” she said, composing herself.
“Yes m’am.”

“Where’s my dressing gown? Where’s Quee? There’s going to be a house full of people here today and I need my dressing gown.”

Bonita plucked the robe off the back of the door and held it open for Missus. “Quee be around presently.”
“Send her up here.”

Bonita headed back downstairs and picked up the phone.

Chapter Four 1977

It seemed that the whole town had heard of the Brodie tragedy. The day after an accident or death, it was customary to quickly drop off a casserole or a bowl of ambrosia, then pay one’s respects at the wake. But sympathizers to XXXX found the Brodie women propped up in the living room like children on Christmas morning. They remained in their nightdress well into the afternoon, too busy receiving the regretful to have time to change. Even Momma Stance wore a hibiscus-colored Dior nightgown that made the dust on the floor scurry when she walked.

Bonita juggled dishes of tuna casserole and Tupperware cake plates. She raced around, filling glasses with iced tea and brewing coffee. Occasionally, one of the Brodie women would ask her where Quee was, but mostly, they were consumed with tears and hankerchiefs. Bonita had gone back to the Little House to rouse Quee, but again, she was sleeping so tranquilly, Bonita couldn’t bear to wake her up. So, she trudged back up the hill and began the process again of answering the doorbell, refilling the cookie platter, and making sure Momma Stance’s iced tea had more than a splash of bourbon. She heard a car pull up, not to the front drive, but to the back garage. Conway. He entered the mudroom dragging a set of golf clubs behind him.
“Bonita,” he said, setting the bag down in a small closet, “don’t let Missus see these, okay?”

She shook her head and followed him into the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“They in the living room. They be asking about you.”

“I’m sure they have. If anyone says anything, tell them I was at Murchison’s checking on the arrangements.”

“Yessir.”

Conway marched into Bonita’s kitchen and began to refill his tumbler with ice. “You got any Jack stashed in here?” he asked.
“No sir, it’s in the bar with everything else.”

He shrugged, went to his golf bag, located a silver flask and poured the contents into the tumbler.
“How ’bout some Coke-Cola?”

She fished a plastic bottle from the pantry and started to open it when he took it from her, “I got that, Miss Bonita,” he said, “now, tell me what’s going on in the other room.”

“The Herrings, the Willetts and the Vanns all come by. Mrs. Godbee is in with them right now.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go wash up. Remember, out little secret,” he said, gesturing to the golf clubs.

Bonita nodded somberly, but didn’t respond. She guessed that all people handled sorrow differently. And of course Mr. Conway was sad. Unless…but there was no way he could know of Missus’s secret. Only she and Missus knew. And besides, yesterday he saw the life of a little girl end. He watched her die. No, Bonita surmised, Conway hadn’t had a sober moment in days. When, or even if he did sober up, the sorrow would come crashing down on him, just as it would on Quee when she woke up. And at that, Bonita decided it was indeed time. She went into the other room to check on the women, then she drifted down the path to the Little House.

When Bonita opened the front door, she was surprised to see Quee up and dressed. She was sipping a cup of coffee and looking out the window.

“Momma,” she said evenly.

“Quee, baby.”

“She dead?”

“Yes, Quee."

“That’s what I thought. What’s going on at the Big House? Them bitches drunk and carrying on like the fools they is?”

“Now, Quee,”

“They find that stupid Emory?”

“Yes, they found him last night.”

“They send him up to Milledgeville?”

“They gonna take him tomorrow.”

“Hope they lock him up and throw away the key.”

“Now Quee, that little boy can’t help that he got the demons.”

“That’s a bunch of horseshit and you know it, Momma. He may not be able to help it, but they shoulda kept him at Central a long time ago. Doctors were crazy to ever let him out.”

“Quee, he was getting better.”

“Yeah, so much better he lights his sister on fire. I hope he dies up there in Milledgeville with all the other crazies.”

“Quee, I know you’re sad, and I understand that, but that boy is a child of God, just like his sister, and while you still living in my house, I ain’t gonna have you talking like that.”

“This house ain’t even yours Momma. They let you live here. They tell you when to wake up and when to go to bed. You eat they food, you wear their hand-me-downs.”

“We gonna start that again?”

“We gonna start it and start it and start it as long as you livin’ on they property and fooling yourself that you ain’t a slave.”
“Okay, Quee, I know you’re upset, but I’m not gonna have you actin’ like this some Roots plantation. As far as I know, you ain’t gone to college yet and you still gettin’ a paycheck. So, when you’re done feelin’ sorry for yourself, you get on up to the Big House and get to work, you hear me?”

And for the third time that day, Bonita hobbled up the path to the Big House.

*****************

In the kitchen, Bonita grabbed the coffee pot and took it to the living room to bring Mrs. Godbee a refill. When she entered the room, Mrs. Godbee was gone and the family had moved their chairs into a conspiratorial circle. They became quiet when she walked in.

“Bonita, where is Quee?” Missus asked her.

“She at the Little House gettin’ somethin’ but she be up presently.”

“Could you send her in when she arrives?” Missus said and there was a formality to her voice that made Bonita suspicious.
“I’m right here,” Quee said behind her.

“Ah, good, everyone is here,” Conway said uncomfortably, “Quee, Bonita, why don’t ya’ll pull up a couple chairs? You want something to drink?” he asked rising and going to the kitchen.

“This isn’t a cocktail party, Conway,” Momma Stance said.

Conway said nothing, but floated out of the room to the kitchen.

“Quee, could you tell us exactly what happened yesterday, to the best of your recollection?” Momma Stance said.

“My recollection is quite accurate,” Quee said, “what do you want to know?”

Momma Stance bristled at Quee’s response. “Just start at the beginning, Quee.”

Bonita began to feel very hot. The Brodies had designed this room after a trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville. The curtains were a heavy, flowery brocade, like an azaelea bush that sagged under the weight of its own blooms. Bonita felt as if she were mummified in the velvet upholstery chair. There was a painting of two children playing in a garden of tulips and forsythia and dogwoods that overtook most of the wall. Bonita always hated that painting.

Conway tripped back in the room with a coffee cup in his hand, but he didn’t ask Quee to pour from the carafe that she had set on a lace doily.

“Bonita?” Momma Stance suggested with an eyebrow raised.

“Conway was settin’ up for the fireworks. We was all watchin’. He showed a sparkler to Emory. And that’s it.”

“How do you think Emory got the lighter?”

Conway remained silent in the corner. ‘Say it baby, say it,’ Bonita chanted to herself.

“He probably got it outta Mr. Conway’s pocket. That boy is tricky.”

“Don’t you talk about Emory that way!” Missus interjected.

“Amelia, calm down and let’s get to the bottom of this,” Conway whispered from across the room.

Bonita cut him a look. She didn’t like his words or the way he used them.

“Quee, why weren’t you watching the children while they were in the sandbox? Where were you, exactly?”

Bonita sensed trouble, “That’s enough, Connie,” she said, “now if this is going to turn into some courtroom, we gonna get Mr. Hines down here.”

“Calm down, Bonita. There’s no need for lawyers. We’re just having a friendly family discussion. Quee?”

“Mrs. Jenkins ,” Quee said, taking on a formal tone, “you know as well as I do, having raised two children yourself, that kids are gonna play where they gonna play. Now, I ain’t sayin’ that I let them go down to the river by theyself, or go in the front street whenever they get a hankerin’. I always make sure them kids are where I can see them. They play in that sandbox all the time cause it’s safe. And I was no more than fifty feet away from them, as I always am.”

Quee turned toward Amelia as if she were an actor and only the two of them existed on stage, “Missus, I’m truly sorry for the accident. You know I loved that little girl like she was my own, but what happened out there was an act of God that can’t be blamed on nobody.”

Bonita wanted to jump up and clap.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Quee continued, “Unless you tell us otherwise, I believe there’s gonna be a wake and there’s a lot of things Momma and I need to prepare.”

The family said nothing as Bonita and Quee left the room.

**************

The women worked all day making biscuits, ham, potato salad, deviled eggs and cookies. They cooked on instinct and without consulting each other. The foods were the same that their parents and grandparents had made for similar times. They finally took a break when the sun threatened to set at 8:30.

“Come on, Momma,” Quee said, “I need to see.”

Bonita walked with her daughter to where the sandbox had been. The grass was scorched black as if God had been finger painting on the lawn. Quee bent down and touched the charred blades.

“Momma, it ain’t fair.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“That little girl…why couldn’t it been dumb ol’ Emory?”

“Now Quee, you better stop talkin’ that way. Mr. Emory can’t help the way he is. And God took Millie because he needed her by his side and that’s just the way it is.”

“She probably woulda turned out just like the rest of ‘em anyway.”

They turned and started walking down the path to the Little House. Bonita became aware of just how tired she was.
“What do you mean?”

“You said yourself that you’n Momma Stance were friends when you were younger. But you can’t be friends with them. They too mean and hateful. And Millie probably would’ve been the same way, bein’ raised around them, becomin’ homecoming queen, gettin’ in a sorority and findin’ some snotass man to marry her.”

There was no moon, so Bonita and Quee didn’t see Conway at the edge of the path where the fireworks had been.
“BonitaQuee,” he said, startling them.

“Mr. Conway, what you doin’ out here?” Bonita asked.

“I need to talk to Quee.”

Bonita felt a shiver even though the night was balmy. She knew what he wanted, but continued walking anyway. She stopped when she was shrouded by the dark, yet still within earshot.

“Quee, honey –” Conway started.

“I know what you gonna say, so don’t even say it,” Quee said.

“I tried, honey, I tried.”

Quee said nothing. Bonita’s skin crawled at the term of endearment this man was using with her daughter.

“They think you gave Emory the lighter,” he continued.

“And you didn’t tell ‘em otherwise?”

“Now Quee –“

“You a rat, Mister Conway. I thought you was different. I thought you had a heart up in you, but you ain’t nothin’ but a rat like the rest of them.”

“Quee, watch yourself, now.”

“I ain’t gonna watch nothin’ ‘cause I don’t work for you no more, so what does it matter. You know damn well where Emory got that lighter. From your own hand –“

“Now, that’s not quite how it happened, Quee,” Conway said, raising his voice.

“Yes it is. It’s exactly how it happened. But you ain’t got the balls to tell yo wife and mother-in-law that you was so drunk you don’t remember even giving him the lighter. You probably don’t even remember showing him how to use it, that’s how much of a drunk son-of-a-bitch you is. You killed your own daughter, who may not even be your daughter in the first place and now you tryin’ to blame it on me. You yellow, Conway, that’s your problem. You yellow all over.”

Bonita couldn’t see Conway, but she feared for her daughter. She knew Conway had been drinking throughout the day and his moods were impossible to predict.

“I shoulda never offered to help a girl as impertinent as you. They all told me you’d be ingracious. That you were entitled. I chose to ignore that, but, I guess they were right.” Conway turned and walked up the path. Bonita rushed to her daughter’s side.

“Let him go,” she whispered, “he’s just tryin’ to be hateful. Let him go.” Bonita put her arms’ around Quee’s rigid soldiers and walked her to the Little House. She could feel Quee’s anger give way to sadness, and she wished she could silence the wailing as she rocked her daughter’s body.

*********************

The Toombs County Courthouse had been built in 1964 and looked like something out of a Lego set. It was a flat building bolstered by holly bushes that looked as bored as the building. The inside smelled of institutional food and commercial floor cleaner.

Marion walked her mother up the four small steps to the doors. Her arm was acting as unnecessary support for her mother and she wanted to shrug it off, but didn’t dare. It wasn’t only her sense of propriety, but the fear of her mother’s acrid tongue that forced her to keep the arm where it was.

“Marion, slow down, for heaven’s sakes,” her mother said, picking her way up the steps, even though, as Marion knew, she could walk perfectly well on her own. Her mother had aged before her time, her hair was graying and she cut it short and close to her head. But even though she battled with illnesses of her own invention, she kept her carriage erect and had adopted Momma Stance’s fashion sense. Amelia wore the decade-old St. Laurents and Nipons cast off by Marion’s grandmother. The couture was still beautiful, albeit a little less fashionable. And although Amelia was a handsome woman, Marion rarely felt pride in her presence. Amelia’s weight on Marion’s arm felt like an old handbag and her wool St. John jacket scratched Marion’s skin, who only wore a t-shirt in the 85-degree weather.

“Mother, couldn’t you have just mailed these papers in?”

“No, I could not, Marion. I need a notary. Besides, I do not trust these people with important documents. You have to watch their every move or nothing will get done.”

They arrived at a counter guarding a woman in a long blue-jean skirt and an oversized wool cardigan.
“May I help you?” she asked dutifully.

“Yes, I need to make a name change. The paperwork is all right here,” Marion’s mother said, patting her large – and in Marion’s opinion gaudy – Vera Bradley handbag.

“May I see it?” the woman asked.

“Are you the person who will be able to make the change?” Amelia asked.

“No…I…I have to check the paperwork to make sure it’s complete.”

“It is most certainly complete. Now where do I go?”

The woman was too flustered to argue, as most people rarely argued with Amelia. Instead, she pointed down the hall, “Public Records, two doors on the right.”

“Yes,” Marion’s mother said by way of thanks and draped the handbag over her arm as if it was a stole.

Marion looked at her mother quizzically. “Who’s name are you changing and why?”

“Please don’t start a scene here, Marion. Let’s just put this in front of the right people,” she said with a glare back at the receptionist.

“I’m not making a scene, Mother,” Marion said, “I would just like to know what you’re up to.”

Marion’s mother started walking down the hall by herself, further proof to Marion she only needed assistance when it was convenient for her. Marion trailed along, not wanting to be a part of her mother’s newest caper.

The Office of Public Records was barricaded by a closed half door topped with shatterproof plexiglass. A round hole had been cut into the glass and there was a small opening at the bottom for the exchange of documents. Marion knew her mother detested barriers of any sort, and indeed Amelia got right up to the hole and managed to put her whole mouth in it.
“I need to speak with someone regarding a legal name change,” she said.

“Back away and I can help you,” a sturdy black woman said from the other side of the door.
“You don’t seem to understand,” she repeated, over-enunciating with her mouth still pressed to the hole, “I need to speak with someone regarding a legal name-change.”

The implication of this statement was that the woman she was talking to was not the person who had the power to assist her, and this was exactly what Amelia intended. Marion watched the whole scene with disgust, yet refused to end it by taking the envelope form her mother and conducting the business herself, as she so often did. She had to see what her mother was up to first.

“I understand that,” the black woman said, clearly affronted, “I can hear you perfectly fine if you step away from the window. You got your paperwork?”

“Yes,” Marion’s mother said, her mouth still to the hole, “I will be happy to hand it to the person who can assist me.”

The black woman looked at Marion’s mother with a mixture of bemusement and hate. The woman didn’t budge and neither did Marion’s mother. Marion decided to break the stalemate.

“Mom, give me the envelope, and go sit in that chair,” her mother did was she was told, getting what she wanted all along.
“I apologize for my mother,” Marion said, handing the woman the envelope through the slot.

“She kinda crazy, ain’t she?” the woman said. Marion felt a moment of familial defensiveness, but let the comment pass.

“Okay, so you wanna change the name of Emory Brandt Brodie to Christy – no middle name – Brodie?” the woman asked.

“What?” Marion exclaimed, turning to her mother.

“I’m changing Emory’s name,” she said with finality.

“What are you talking about? His name is Emory.”

“No, it is Christy. At least it will be once these people get their act together.”

“Mother, you can’t just change someone’s name!” Marion said.

“I most certainly can; I’m his mother.”

“You gonna change a boy’s name to a girl’s?” the woman behind the glass asked, looking skeptical.

“It's a family name. Now you get that paperwork to the right people.”

“I am the right people,” the woman said, “but I dunno if I can make a change like that. What if he don’t want his name changed to a girl’s?”

“It is immaterial,” Amelia said, “he is a crippled boy and he is not able to make such decision son his own.”

“You’re gonna change the name of a crippled boy to a girl?” the woman behind the counter asked, motioning for some of her co-workers to come over, “naw, I dunno if I can do that. Rhea, go ask Mister Barnard if we can change boys’ names to girls’,” she said, instructing one of the women near her.

“Mother, you can’t do this,” Marion pleaded, “why do you want to punish him this way? Besides, it’s a complete waste of time and money. No one’s going to call him that.”

“Mr. Barnard say you can change a name to whatever you want as long as it don’t imply fraudulent intent,” the woman called Rhea said, sitting down importantly next to the clerk.

“You say he’s crippled?” the clerk repeated, “naw, I ain’t gonna process that.”

“You most certainly are,” Amelia said, standing up and pressing her mouth into the hole again. Then she turned to Marion, “if your brother insists on wearing dresses and carrying around dolls like a girl, then we will give him the name of a girl.”
“Woo!” the woman called Rhea exclaimed, “he wearin’ dresses?”

“It’s a hospital gown,” Amelia said glaring at her, “Mother, let’s go home and have this conversation over lunch. I think Bonita’s making chicken cutlets and rice.”

“Not to mention he’s carrying around those dolls everywhere he goes,” Amelia continued, “’Has a tantrum whenever someone takes it away. That boy does not deserve to carry on the name of your great-grandfather.”

“What kinda dolls?” asked one of the other woman behind the glass who was thoroughly enjoying this break in her workday.
“It’s not important,” Marion snarled.

“Let me see this Mr. Barnard, you’re talking about,” Amelia demanded.

“You don’t need to see him,” Rhea interjected. I’ll process your paperwork. You got everything in here?” she asked, rummaging through the folder. “We gonna need his signature.”

Amelia glared at the woman, “My son is not able to sign. I’m his guardian; I signed for him.”

“You gonna have to ask Mr. Barnard about that,” the first woman said, miffed that the task had been taken away from her.

“No I don’t. There a line for a guardian to legal sign and she signed. I’ll be sure this gets goin’ right away.”

“Thank you, I certainly appreciate that,” Amelia said, her voice as sticky as a crushed caterpillar.

********

The next day, Marion drove to Central Hospital. She went in the front of The Powell Building that looked like a giant marshmallow had been placed on its roof.

“Misty,” she said to the girl working the reception desk.

“Hello Marion, here to see your brother?”

“Actually, I have an appointment with Dr. Tilman.”

“He ain’t gonna help you without your momma present.” Misty said.

“Oh, I think he will.”

“You’re so responsible for your age. I wish my daughter was as responsible as you. I’ll buzz him right away.”

Dr. Tilman seemed very old to Marion. He was balding and wore slacks that were too tight at his pot belly and a lab coat with his name embroidered on the breast.

“Miss Brodie?”

She followed him to a large office, appointed with oversized cheap cabinets and faux Oriental rugs. Levitz decoration, Momma Stance would’ve said. He motioned to a leatherette chair and Marion sat down. He wordlessly cocked his head to one side by way of asking her to begin.

“Dr. Tilman, I’m sure you’ve met my mother.”

“Of course,”

“Well, you probably have figured out that she can be a bit, well, assertive.”

“Nothing wrong with a woman who knows what she wants.”

Marion’s heart sank, but she continued, “yes, well, she wants to change Emory’s name. And I’m not sure this is the best thing for him.”

“What does she want to change it to?” he asked curtly.

“Christy.”

“Family name?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look, Miss Brodie, this is not uncommon in any way. Many feel that when a family member has been admitted to a hospital such as this one, it is good to give that family member a fresh start. A name change might be exactly what is called for.”
Marion scowled at him, “you’re joking.”

“Quite the opposite. Look, your brother is suffering from impairment,” he opened a manilla folder and began to scan it, murmuring to himself, “developmental trauma disorder…affected cognition, perception, interpersonal relationships…extreme lack of motor and language development…some psychotic anxiety and depression…evidence of schizophreniform disorder and predicative psychotic symptoms in childhood and adulthood…continual stimming with a favored prop, in this case….a doll…
“Miss Brodie, your brother is so wrapped up in his own world of delusion, that it’s really not going to affect him either way what his name is. As long as he’s not suicidal, harming other patients, and carrying on the normal functions of eating, drinking…it’s really the best we can hope for.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Marion said.

“Miss Brodie, it is also completely normal for a family member to be in denial about the prognosis of a patient. At this point, I think it would be a good idea if your mother made an appointment for you with Mrs. McCart, our social worker. Now, I apologize, but this meeting has made me a bit late for rounds and I have a whole ward of patients who are expecting me.”
He held the door to his office open for her, “and don’t forget to have your mother call Misty to set up an appointment with Mrs. McCart.”

Marion was just young enough to be intimidated by titles and cheap furniture. So, she gathered her bag and went out the open door.

“Misty,” she said, as she approached the front desk, “may I have a visitor pass to see my brother?”

“It’s all ready for you,” Misty said, presenting her with a word cardboard tag.

*********

The Walker Building was red brick with front doors twice the size of any man and windows like stained glass with the color drained from them. In some ways, it reminded her of Park Hall at UGA and Marion always wished she were going there instead to visit Emory. She presented her pass to the front desk security guard and followed the turquoise hallway to the great room.
The Central State campus were designed to foster a sense of tranquility in the patients. The land rivaled any of Olmstead’s parks – pastoral and endless, and the red brick buildings could’ve been 19th century law offices or general stores. The clear kaleidoscope windows were intended to create a sense of calm with natural light, but they had an opposite affect on Marion and the light made her feel anxious. On cloudy days she felt it would be better to have no windows at all.

“Emory,” she said as she approached him from the back.

“Oh, hi there!” he said too loudly.

“Hi, what are you up to?” he had a phone book open in front of him.

“Just reading, how was your week?”

“Good, good. And yours?”

“Fine, now, we need to have a little talk.”

“Okay, well, tell me what you did this week.”

“Not much, I went to OT, you know, stuff like that,” he trailed off, “now, here’s what I need, it’s not a list, but it’s some things I need you to look into.”

“What’s OT?” she asked trying to avoid his endless to-do lists of menial tasks.

“Occupational Therapy. Now, listen to me –”

“I made a dinner plate,” a patient named Bernard interjected as he walked by.

“Hello Bernard,” she said to the hulking man.

“Do you have any Mountain Dew?” Bernard asked standing over her. Some spittle had dried around his mouth.

“Not today, no.”

“Well, let me know if you get any.”

“Marion!” Emory said tapping the air with stiff fingers that were like petrified tree branches, “pay attention, will ya?”

A few more of the patients pulled up chairs closer to her and some of the schizophrenics marched endless circles around the group like herding dogs. When someone came to visit, it was a big day.

“Okay, Emory, what were you saying?”

“There’s some things I need you to do,”

“I thought we agreed that you’d stop giving me to-lists and that we’d enjoy our time together instead,” she said firmly.

“This isn’t a to-list!” he insisted, “it’s not!”

“Okay, then –” she was at a loss. Mrs. Summers, Emory’s social worker, had told the family not to give in to Emory’’s chore-requests, but there was little to talk about otherwise.

Bernard loomed nearby, happy to have someone to talk to, “We made a pie plate, too. In OT.”

“That sounds nice, Bernard. Emory, did you make a pie plate?”

“Yes, now, I was wondering if you had some change on you.”

“Or some Mountain Dew,” Bernard chimed in.

Emory began to circle his head back and forth in frustration and tap his fingers to his mouth.

“Go sit down,” he said to Bernard, “I need to speak with my sister in private.”

Bernard was not offended, and simply moved his chair a few inches back.

“Now where, were we?” Emory said.

“You were telling me what you made in Occupational Therapy?” she offered.

“A pie plate,” Bernard murmured from behind her.

“Oh, I remember, you got any change on you?” Emory asked her, still tapping his fingers to his mouth.

“For what, Emory?”

“I need to use the phone.”

“You’re not allowed to use the phone.”

“I need it in case there’s an emergency.”

“Emory, come on, you know you’re in trouble because you called that librarian – what’s her name – twenty times in an hour. There’s no way they’re going to let you near a phone.”

“Her name’s Hazel,” Emory said, giggling.

“Okay, Emory,” she said, losing control of the conversation. There were certain names and words that launched her brother into a world of tapping and rocking and giggling. Once he got started, it was hard to bring him back. ‘Inappropriate behavior,’ Mrs. Summers had called it.

“Say 'Sweet April',” he said, reaching for her.

“Emory,” she warned.

“Give me kissy.”

“Emory, if you don’t shape up, I’m leaving.”

“Say ‘Sweet April’ first.”

Sensing a change in the air, Bernard stood up and loomed over her again, and the schizophrenics began to make tighter circles around them.

“Emory, tell her to get me some Mountain Dew,” Bernard bellowed.

Strangely, she wasn’t alarmed by any of this, but took control of the situation in a way no one had taught her, “Bernard, go sit down. Greg and Kevin, back up,” she said to the schizophrenics, “And Emory, stop saying that. Let’s try to have a normal conversation.”

Everyone did as they were told. Emory silently tapped his doll against his mouth. After a moment, he spoke up, “Hey Marion?”
“Yes, Emory.”

“Can you get me another Bionic Woman doll and keep it at the house? I’m worried that this one’s head might fall off again.”
She sighed, “It’s not going to fall off, Emory. Now, Emory, you need to listen to me. I need to discuss something important with you.”

“Is it bad?” he asked, his voice rising in panic and his head lolling back and forth faster.

“Of course not,”

“Whew. Well, go ahead.”

“Now, I want you to remember that no matter what–your name is Emory, okay?”

“I know that.” He said as if she was stupid.

“I know you know; I just want you to remember it.” She was struggling to explain without making him anxious.

“Okay,” Emory said, seizing his chance to change the subject, “now, I need you to do some things for me in return.”
“In return for what?” His quid pro quo drove her crazy.

“I just need you to remember that my Speak and Spell needs batteries. And while you’re at it, my tape recorder sounds a little funny.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said, bored by the same conversation they had every week.

“Okay, and don’t forget to get new batteries. You didn’t happen to bring any with you, did you?”

“No, Emory.”

“That’s alright. And can you look at my Bionic Woman doll and make sure the head isn’t going to fall off?”

She took the doll from him and pretended to twist the head into place. “Emory, did you ever think about maybe carrying something else instead of a doll?” she ventured.

“No!” he answered as if she had proposed he drive a fire engine around the room with lizards hanging off the back, “you’re not going to take this away are you?”

“Of course not, I just think you could find something a little more – appropriate to your age – that’s all.”

“This is fine,” he said, holding the doll at an angle in front of her, “now, when can you get me those new batteries?”

“I’ll get them next weekend,” she said, wearily.”

"That’s fine!” he said.

“Okay, Emory, I have to get going,” she said, rising from the chair, “Now you remember, no matter what anyone else calls you, your name is Emory.”

“All right. And don’t forget those batteries!” he said. She roughly hugged him, then left him in a pool of sunlight, rocking and tapping the doll to his mouth.



Chapter Next

1997
The door to the house on Pearl Street was stuck. When this happened, it necessitated him putting his weight against it and pushing with his shoulder. He had done this so many times, the paint was chipping off and the wood was warping, but he dared not lock the door. He got it open, put his wallet and keys on the counter and turned on the TV. A repo man was after the Aerostar, so he had traded the van with his daughter for the old Chevy. The best part of the Caprice was the way you had to lift all your weight off the seat to start it if you didn’t have the seatbelt fastened. And Conway never wore a seatbelt.

He fixed a drink and settled into his chair for the show about the hot girl who kills vampires. He was sad that Marion no longer wanted to watch TV with him, or discuss shows like Melrose and 9021. College had made her more like her mother and he missed the little girl who would ride around town with him making up stories. Marion had become as selfish as that bitch, Amelia. He was dying in this rented shack, cooking eggs off a hot plate with no job and no prospect of one. Could Amelia maybe reach into the family coffers and pull out a little bit of money to get him through? Of course she couldn’t. She sat on that big old plantation, barely even visiting their son at Central, without a care in the world but shopping, and volunteering and she couldn’t even come up with a couple hundred dollars to help our her ex-husband.

Conway shifted in his chair and downed his drink, then sucked on the ice cubes. He’d promised himself he’d wait until after the show to make another one, but thinking about his ex-wife got him heated, so he poured a little bit more Canadian Mist this time with a splash of Coke. What did it matter; he had nowhere to be tonight except in bed. He liked to go to bed early and wake up at 5:00. Always did. That didn’t change even though he didn’t have a job. He’d find something sooner or later. His neighbor, Harley (who was also very cute, too bad she had a boyfriend), told him that the Flowers company was hiring drivers for their bread trucks. It was perfect for old men who liked to get up early, she teased. He liked a girl who knew how to tease. Regina wasn’t so good at it. ‘Got hurt too easily when he made fun of her young age, or her Elton John boots. Speaking of, he promised Emory he’d get him that Elton John CD for his birthday. Now where was he going to find the money to do that? You’d think his mother would handle that kind of thing. Or his sister, who had gotten very high-falutin’ lately. He wondered if his ex-wife was putting money in Marion’s bank account and if he cold get a loan. Not for the CD. That didn’t cost a whole lot, but for the rent that was due in a week. He bet Marion had it and it was just a matter of asking. Besides, he’d given her a car. She owed him.

He woke up to the opening music of Martin, a dumb show if there ever was one. But that