Episode 8
No sound, except our breathing. The space reeks of industrial strength disinfectant. Behind me, Ernie stuffs our blanket under the doorway and I imagine us suffocating in our sleep. A faint grayness fills a wide doorway, so there must be another room with a window. I start forward to open it. Stumbling into a desk, I bang my already bruised knee.
Then light shoots into my eyes and bounces around inside my head. “Ow! That’s bright.”
“Keep your voice down.” Ernie goes to the open shelves where boxes of bandages and other medical stuff sit alongside a clutter of lost and found items.
Limping, I pass a sink and a rest room stall in a cubbyhole between the dispensary and the infirmary. This room is like a barracks, three army cots with sheets and pillows without cases. The window opens easily, and I draw in long breaths of rain-cool air. There’s an old metal screen. No bars.
When I return to Ernie he’s prying at the lock on an upper cabinet. I tell him what I’ve found. He warns me, “If you use the toilet, don’t flush.” Sounds like he’s had a taste of community living, too, with plumbing that talks. I try to guess whether it’s boarding or military prep. He looks too young for college.
“If there’s any pain killer, I could use some of that.”
“I thought you never felt better.”
“I lied.” Almost every part of me aches or stings for one reason or another.
“You’ll feel worse in the morning.” The lock snaps and the cabinet doors swing open. He picks a small bottle of children’s aspirin and tosses it to me.
“This stuff is dangerous,” I say, and pop half a dozen into my mouth. The orange flavor brings memories of being sick and helpless. Chewing them would make me gag, so I head for the sink.
“Want a cup?” He holds up a plastic tumbler.
And risk every kiddy germ known to man? “Unnn-unnn.” When I lean over to catch the water in my mouth, it washes the tablets right down the drain. I stagger toward him, giggling.
Ernie’s reaching for something at the back of the second cabinet, which he’s just broken into. He gives me a one-sided smile. “You’re still drunk.”
“Yeah, I must be.” I wheel out the desk chair and make myself comfortable.
As he liberates a thin stack of comic books, a small white sandal falls on his foot. He bends, picks it up, turns it this way and that. It looks slightly familiar to me but I don’t have any reason to recognize a single shoe belonging to a fourth grade girl. That doesn’t stop my mouth. “I bet I know where that came from. A one-legged midget lost it on the playground when she was running to catch her bus, and a teacher found it and put it there in nineteen-forty-nine.” That’s the date carved into the front of this building. “The bus wrecked and everyone was killed and nobody thought about the shoe ever again.”
He lays it on the cabinet shelf. “Francine had a pair like this when she was nine. She used to carry around a story book called ‘Dependable Fran’ and try to make me read it to her.”
His voice breaks on the last few words, and I’m sorry for making a crummy joke. The shoe is familiar : Fran was wearing white sandals in that picnic park, when I first saw her. “Give me some more aspirin.”
“You’ve had enough.”
The giggles bubble up and I clamp my hand over my mouth, though I’m pretty sure these walls are thicker than those at East Wind and that night watchman’s halfway down the hall from here.
“What’s funny now?”
I don’t tell him, but empty out another half dozen tablets. Toss them one by one like popcorn, trying to catch them in my mouth. They’re heavier than popcorn, and my timing is way off. Ernie laughs and shakes his head as they roll across the floor like little live things. Then I catch one and chew it just enough to swallow. Somehow the aspirin bottle gets away from me and crashes into a tin wastebasket.
Ernie leaps a foot in the air. “Help me move the desk,” he says. We place it against the door. He’s carrying Hoodoo’s gun in his waistband again, since the bed roll is doing duty as a light blocker. He hits the switch anyway and we lean on the desk in the darkness, straining to hear footsteps. I don’t believe he’ll shoot even if the old man manages to push into the room. Nobody tries, so he turns the light on and we relax.
After changing into dry clothes, we sit around reading the boring assortment of comic books. “Prairie Home Companion” must have finished its time slot. What follows? Maybe the watchman has changed the station, or gone to bed. I feel like I’m back at East Wind, with a new roommate.
“Wish I had a library book.”
“Doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”
“And a million dollars.”
“I’ll settle for a good night’s sleep.”
We take turns at the sink to brush our teeth. In the dimly lit mirror I can see the skinned place on my chin, another on my elbow. Ernie peers at my reflection. He lifts my other arm and inspects it. “Both of them.”
He rummages in the dispensary cabinet and returns with a tin of pink ointment that smells sweet and old-fashioned. He smears it on the scrapes, and I can tell he’s had experience doing this for Fran before they grew up.
“You’re a great brother, Ernie,” I say. “Wish I could come live with you when you go home.”
He tenses. Hands me the salve tin. “Who says I’m ever going home?” Halfway into the barracks, he calls, “Switch off the light, will you?”
I drop my jeans and put ointment on my skinned knees. I can’t remember what day tomorrow will be, but I ought to call Jerry or Steve, even if that sends me to D-hall for the rest of my life. Not knowing what’s going on there is worse than not knowing where I’ll be tomorrow night after dark.
He’s lying on the farthest cot, arms over his face like a shield. I’m exhausted, too keyed-up to sleep. A strong cool breeze spatters light rain against the screen. Ernie’s restless, and I want to try to smooth over the stupid things I keep saying. “You’re like me.”
“Oh, yeah? How?” There’s interest in his voice, like if he was mad earlier, he’s not now.
“You always want to do the right thing.”
“Like running away and carrying a concealed weapon and breaking into a kiddy school,” he says, and I can feel him smiling.
“And letting that trashy girl get me drunk.”
He laughs, so I know he knows I’m teasing. Thunder in the distance grows fainter. The storm is passing, only an occasional lightning flash to remind us. That, and the lingering wet-dust smell that follows.
* * * * *
Ernie’s working the screen off the window when I wake. Summer heat’s coming in, promising a scorcher, and it’s barely June. Or is it August? I’ve lost all sense of time and reality’s rapidly leaving. The lumpy blanket and my duffel bag wait on his cot.
‘My bags are packed and I’m ready to go’ runs through my aching head, and the effort to come up with the next line threatens to split it in two. I wish I’d chewed those damned aspirin last night. If wine does this to me, I’ll never drink anything stronger.
“What’s the plan?” I suspect there isn’t any, but I’m curious about what he’ll say.
“Be long gone before the security guard starts patrolling.”
Considering that we’ve breached most of the security here without getting caught, and that night watchman likely has gone home to breakfast, I leisurely perform as much of my morning ritual as these limited circumstances allow. Are the guys back in the dorm hovering near that pay phone in the lobby? Being grilled by old Collie — or worse, thrown in chains by O’Leary himself?
“Aghhh!” The screen twists out of Ernie’s grasp and falls with a clatter to the ground below.
We freeze, him kneeling at the window sill, me just leaving the stall. By tonight, the smell in here is more likely to alert the old man than any noise.
“Let’s go!” Ernie throws our gear out the window and straddles the window ledge.
The last thing I see is his hands gripping the weathered wood, and then he drops. I reach in and flush the john. As I’m ducking under the window frame, I hear the door knob rattle and a hoarse voice yells, “Come out of there, you little bastards. I’ve called the cops.”
Fearful he has a gun and might shoot through the door, I let go . . .
. . . and land in an ankle-wrenching bed of pea gravel. Ernie shoves the duffel into my arms and I run after him, surprised to find myself on a sidewalk, hedged on the side, a canopy of old trees shaking hands over the roadway. It’s a residential section, but I’m fleeing and can’t pay attention to the houses except to sense they’re middle-class or better, with gates and flowers and big trees. The kind of place I’d like to live one day.
The kind of place the counselor at East Wind once dangled like a candy bar in front of me so I’d eat my carrots and not cry at night. Well, I ate them and cried only in my nightmares. I decide not to call my brainless friends. Let them get what’s coming to them.
Then I change my mind again. So what if Jerry wanted a good laugh? He did me a favor. The least I can do is return it. I’ll call Collins and tell him the prank was all my idea. That I’ve found a good home and not to expect me back or try to find me. It’s a nice thought, anyway.
Ernie has slowed to a walk. Good thing we’re not still running, because in another minute a Public Safety car with two guys in it sirens by at twice the speed limit.
I figure we’re about 8 blocks away from Haw Creek Elementary, safely minding our own business and in sight of civilization, when ahead the coughing of a lawnmower gives Ernie an idea. He jogs half a block and stops in a driveway.
“Need help?”
The man raises his head, peers at us. His face is blotched and sweat rolls down his red cheeks. “Damn thing won’t start.” He kicks a front tire. Tosses Ernie the pull cord. Stands back.
Instead of wearing himself out, Ernie tinkers with levers and switches, or whatever those things are that adjust stuff. Jerry would know. And cuss when nothing he did worked. Whatever Ernie does, works. One pull and the engine lets out a blast and starts to roar.
The man’s face smooths into an almost-smile. I can’t hear any words, but with their lips moving and gestures, Ernie settles some kind of deal. The man goes into his house, wiping his forehead and neck with a large dirty handkerchief. Ernie starts mowing the modest front lawn.
He’s on the last lap when the man comes back out, swigging from a tall frosty glass. I expect money to exchange hands. Maybe I’ll have an omelette with my orange juice.
Ernie shuts off the engine and the scene turns ugly. The man’s face is red again, this time with anger. “You said you’d cut the lawn. You’ll get the price we agreed on when you’re finished.” He goes to a high wooden fence attached to his house and opens a gate. There’s a back yard, a big one, enclosed in the same style.
For a moment I think Ernie might slug him, but he just stands there hands on his hips, thinking. Then he nods me to follow, and pushes the silent mower forward. I pick up our bedroll and duffel. Once we’re in, the man closes the gate behind us.
“Did he lock it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Ernie cranks the mower and walks it across the grass, cutting a wavy path. He kicks a back gate open, and we race through a dozen yards, stopping only when we no longer hear the engine.
So we’re in another unfamiliar town, with no money. Back on a sidewalk, we pass a shady park bench. Squirrels are busy finding bits of food thrown down for them by nice people. “Stay here,” I tell him. His words “Where are you go–” trail after me.
I turn a corner and am in front of a jeweler’s store. A dozen other businesses line this side, and across the street are their twins. Bonanza.
Leaving on my sunglasses, I hold my hat in front of me and enter a clean and brightly lit place where thick carpet mutes my steps. A bell tinkles my presence, but I’m at the counter a long minute before a young woman looks up from a stapled bunch of papers. “Can I help you?” she asks doubtfully.
“Yes, Ma’am, I think you can.” I abandoned my Boy Scout-on-a-Hike story on the way in, so fly by my shirt tail. Holding out my hat to receive money, I tell her, “I’m collecting donations to help pay hospital expenses for my older brother. He needs — he gave a — kidney — to his best friend, and the insurance has run out.” It sounds okay, considering I have no idea whether hospitals make live kidney donors pay, or if insurance policies cover that kind of thing.
Evidently she doesn’t know, either. She picks up a little brown purse and takes out a five dollar bill. “I hope he has a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. Then I crumble under guilt and blurt out, “I’m sorry, that’s all a fib, but we don’t have any money for breakfast and if you want it back, I’ll understand.”
She stares at me, startled and uncertain. Then she laughs. “Well, I get paid tomorrow, so take it. You look like you could use a hearty breakfast. And a pair of shoes.”
My little toe sticks out of the right sneaker, my great toe out of the left. That landing in the gravel pit. “You’re on the money there.” I grin and salute her.
“Don’t go next door,” she cautions me. “Hit the computer people farther along.”
“Thanks!” I take her advice and after telling the computer people mostly the truth, I have another five. Should I keep going while I’m on a roll, or take a break and feed Ernie before he faints?
From the relieved look on his face when he sees me, I’m glad I cut my begging short. “The lady in the computer store said there’s a coffee shop just across from the old court house. Best pastries in town, and a latte to die for.”
“Not sure I want to be near a court house.”
“It’s a museum now. The real one’s across town.”
“What are we waiting for?”
We’re in a booth, eating a sensible breakfast of eggs and whole wheat toast, when two men in suits enter and sit right behind me. I don’t pay much attention until the near one says, “How’d you do at East Wind?”
I choke and miss part of the other man’s answer, but it ends, “–escape with my life.”
“And not much else, I bet,” says the near man.
“Nobody’s talking. If word gets out, they lose their funding.”
“And you lose your reputation.”
“Yours isn’t too secure. Find Burand yet?”
The last is a dig, from his tone. I wonder who Burand is. But I wonder more who the speaker is, who’s been nosing around East Wind. Looking for me?
“Vin–”
I make hushing motions, and Ernie blinks. He’s ready to pay the bill, and I don’t know whether to stay and try to hear more, or run out the back exit as fast as I can. One of those men probably knows my name, and might be carrying my photo.
He says, “If he doesn’t turn up by Monday, I’m going to write that story just the way I told you.”
“And get yourself shot out of the saddle.”
Since what I’ve heard doesn’t make sense, especially the part about losing their funding, I listen harder.
“Poor bastard’s probably on a fishing trip, doesn’t even know his wife’s been murdered.”
“Why do you care?”
“His brother is paying me to find him. Break it gently.”
“If he doesn’t break your skull with an axe handle. That’s what he used, wasn’t it?”
He can’t be talking about me. They’re after Burand, my ghostly Actor, better known as John, who bashed his wife with an axe and threw her down the abandoned well. That’s why he was asking questions at East Wind.
I motion Ernie to pay the bill, and drink the last of my latte. It’s delicious.
To be on the safe side, I steer my adopted older brother out the back door of the coffee house and into the alley. Across a parking lot and into a green shady park. Leaves overhead rustle in a sweet breeze. We eat the pastries there, with a regular coffee to-go, and life is fine. I’m still puzzled about the funding, but figure it doesn’t matter.
Ernie sits up from a snooze on the grass and stops mid-stretch. “Oh-my-God.”
“What?” I’m lying on my back, dreaming of watermelon. Make a mental note to find a farmers’ market before our money runs out.
“There’s that pink Caddy.”
TO BE CONTINUED!