Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 3

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

The linen room’s lighting was more yellow-gray than white, and the same could be said for the linens. Carts of sheets, pillow cases, and towels lined one side of the room next to a bank of washing machines built into the walls. Dryers on the adjacent wall leaked enough waste heat and humidity to make the room a bleach-scented sauna. The room’s only recommendation was its lack of staff and its location across the hallway from the medical supply room. Corncob wiped his forehead and tried to focus on the problem at hand.

“It’s one of those card reader locks, the easiest ones to fool,” he said.

“Yeah, if we weren’t trying to fight with both arms tied behind us,” Michael said. “I’m never agreeing to dampen my magic for even five minutes if we get out of this.”

“Big if. Tommy’s probably calling the cops right now.”

“Maybe he’ll figure we left on our own.” Michael tugged at the front of his t-shirt a few times, trying to coax in some cooler air.

“When did you become the optimist?” Corncob asked. Michael glared, but didn’t have any other response.

“It’s a steel door, hinges on the inside, with a reinforced latch cover. Can’t pry it open, can’t break it down.”

“What if we started a fire? Doesn’t fire code require the doors to unlock?”

“I think the door always opens if you’re on the other side. Sprinklers might turn on, but nothing otherwise. Besides, then what would we do with everyone evacuating and the fire department coming?”

“Improvise,” Michael said. “Same as we always do. What if we cut the power?”

“Nope. Those locks are probably fail-safe. They need electricity if you want them unlocked.”

“Well, hell.” Michael pulled his flask and unscrewed the top. Corncob put his hand on Michael’s wrist.

“Not now, Michael.”

Michael wrenched himself free and gave a little grin. “If not now, when?”

Corncob may have been able to stare Michael down, but their battle of wills was interrupted by a clomp-clomp and click-click-click coming down the hallway. Michael closed the flask and put it away. They peeked around their linen cart blind just in time to see Thora wave her ID at the scanner by the door. The lock buzzed, and Thora entered, leaving the dog outside.

“Back off,” Michael whispered. “The dog might smell you and start barking.”

“Through all this dirty laundry and bleach?”

“Maybe see you, then.”

“It can probably hear you, so shut up and get ready, I have an idea.”

“I’m going to request separate cells at the hearing,” Michael said.

Corncob groped in the linen cart and withdrew a towel. He coiled it around his hands and gave it a snap. Wilhelm’s ears perked up, and the dog took a step towards the linen room’s open door. He stutter-stepped and looked behind him, seemingly reluctant to leave the storeroom door. Wilhelm sniffed the air and took another step forward. Corncob’s thighs strained from the squatting, a slow fatigue that began burning. He focused on Wilhelm’s jowls, masking teeth that had been bred to take down wild animals, animals larger and fiercer than any human. He wondered if he could somehow jam the towel in Wilhelm’s mouth if it came to it, or wrap it around the dog’s head. He tried visualizing how he could do such a thing, but stopped every time he pictured the dog’s teeth sinking into his arm. Blood would coat the walls, the floor, the lights. His legs, now cramping, would collapse as he slipped in the stuff.

Wilhelm took another halting step, and Corncob knew his muscles had frozen. Michael said something, but the words made no sense to him; it might as well have been in another language. The dog took another step, its nose now sniffing along the doorjamb. Any minute now, it would bound in, snarling, probably lunge for his throat and –

The door across the hall opened, and Thora clomp-clomped out.

“Wilhelm,” she said, and snapped her fingers. The dog wheeled about and came to her side. She set off down the hall, and Corncob came to his senses. The door to the supply room was closing, and he whipped the towel across the hall. It sailed with a slow tumble and hit the door jamb, sliding to the floor. One corner wedged itself between the door and the frame, leaving a finger’s width gap.

“Hurry,” Corncob said, “there may be an alarm if the door doesn’t close in time.”

Michael rushed over and held the door while Corncob hobbled behind, promising his legs they could stretch and relax in just a few more seconds. Michael yanked him through the door and pulled it shut.

“You nearly missed,” Michael said.

“Been a long time since high school ‘ball.”

“Track and field too.”

“Let’s just get on with it.”

Numbered and lettered shelves ran through the room filled with alien-like plastic-wrapped objects, syringes, and little white boxes with no-nonsense black lettering. They ignored the first few shelves and moved to those with the boxes, staring at labels and trying to decipher their meaning.

“Why does everything end with ‘HCl?’ “ Corncob said.

“I don’t know, I only made it through high school chemistry by blackmailing the teacher.” Michael said, he reached out for a box, but Corncob slapped his hand.

“You don’t need oxycodone, Michael.”

“I was just reading the warning label.”

They made their way to the end of the aisle, and Michael clucked his tongue. “Here we are.”

He reached down and grabbed a box. He frowned, and picked up another. Then another.

“What?” Corncob asked.

Michael tossed a box over his shoulder, and Corncob struggled to catch it.

“You idiot! I could have – oh.” Corncob hefted the box in his hand.

“Empty. Every single one.” Michael said.

“Yeah, but they just replaced everyone’s dose on the floor,” Corncob said. “That would account for most of this stock.”

“So they take the meds out and leave pristine boxes behind? Do you leave empty boxes in the pantry when you’ve finished your crackers?”

“Okay, so what does it mean?”

Michael looked away, chewing on his upper lip. “I don’t know. It can’t have been like this for long. The first legit staffer coming for morphine will notice it’s all missing”

“Maybe the thief panicked and they’re clearing the stock before they make a run for it.”

Michael turned back and raised an eyebrow. “And leave the other stuff like oxycodone behind? If you were robbing a bank, would you only take the tens and not the twenties sitting right alongside?”

“If you’re going to call me an idiot, just say it. Don’t put it in the form of a question.”

“Just humor me. If you were robbing a bank … leaving a fat stack of twenties on the table …”

“If I were in a hurry, maybe.”

Michael grinned. “Then you’d be a terrible bank robber, Corncob. At least on your own.”

“Thank goodness I have you then, right?” Corncob said, deadpan.

“Absolutely. In fact, we should be leaving the scene of the crime, so to speak.” Michael got up and headed for the door.

“And then where?”

“Archie’s room. Let’s see if we can’t find his stash.” He pushed on the door latch and turned right into Tommy, holding a card up to the lock reader. The other man startled, then reached for his pocket and pulled out a phone.

Corncob shouldered Michael aside and slammed into Tommy. He bull rushed the larger man into the linen room as Tommy tried to get his feet under him. They crashed into a folding table, and his grip loosened for a moment. Tommy recovered first and grabbed Corncob in a headlock. The man’s grip was like steel, and he felt himself being maneuvered around the table. Tommy jerked and heaved Corncob toward the wall, and Corncob realized that Tommy was going to run him head-first into the concrete.

Corncob’s hands flailed for something to brace against, but every time his fingertips brushed something, Tommy jerked him away. He pummeled at the man’s ribs and back, but it was like hitting bread dough. Fighting every step, they were getting closer to the wall of dryers. He reached up and tried poking Tommy’s eye, but the other man leaned away, and he only grazed an ear.

“Corncob!” yelled Michael, who pushed an empty linen cart in their path.

Corncob grunted and put his shoulder into Tommy’s stomach. He surged forward and Tommy called out as they toppled into the cart. Corncob braced his hands on the cart’s opening and wrenched himself free. Tommy scrambled to get up, but was buried under a sudden avalanche of grey towels, sheets, and blankets.

“Quick, in there!” said Michael. He ran to a storage closet and opened the door. As the mountain of laundry churned, they pushed the cart into the closet and slammed the door just as Tommy’s arm found its way free. A folding table’s legs squealed and stuttered across the floor as Michael and Corncob maneuvered it in place, jamming the door shut.

“Thanks,” Corncob said, and took a swig from Michael’s offered flask. Whatever the contents were, it burned all the way down.

“De nada.” Michael took a swig of his own before screwing the flask’s top back on. The closet door boomed as Tommy slammed against it, but the table held.

Michael picked up Tommy’s phone. “Well that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“No recent calls out. It doesn’t look like Tommy called the cops.”

“Maybe he used the phone at the front desk.”

“If you had the sheriff on speed dial, would you haul yourself even across the room to use a land line?”

Corncob looked around for a handy towel to throw at Michael. “You’re doing it again, Mike.”

“Michael, you mean. Sorry, fella. Come on, let’s go see Archie.”

The pounding and muffled cursing continued behind them as they closed the door. Michael shook his head.

“What now?” Corncob said.

“Tommy. He’s shouting lines from the movies. If a man’s going to use death threats, he should at least make them original.”

The door to the linen room closed, and the two headed for the stairwell.

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 2

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

“Get away from there. That’s very expensive stuff. Expensive,” Tommy said.

“What’s he on morphine for?” Michael asked.

“Can’t tell you.”

Michael raised a hand to his eyes, getting as far as looking between the middle and ring finger before he remembered that he couldn’t scan Tommy’s thoughts.

Tommy scowled. “That some kind of fancy way of flipping me the bird? You flipping me the bird?”

“It’s a nervous tic he has,” Corncob said. “We’re Erasmus’ nephews. Can’t you tell the family why he’s on this stuff?”

“You got a POA?”

Corncob looked at Michael, who seemed as perplexed as Corncob felt.

“No you don’t,” Tommy said. “If you did, you’d know.”

“What’s a POA?” Corncob said.


“It’s a medical power of attorney,” Thora’s voice said as she entered the room. “It’s a document that lets you make medical decisions for another person.” She smiled at them. “Without one, I’m afraid we can’t discuss your uncle’s medical treatment for confidentiality reasons.” Wilhelm padded in behind her, and wedged himself between Corncob and the IV stand, forcing Corncob to take a step back. Wilhelm sat on his haunches and looked to Thora.

“They were messing with the drip,” Tommy said. “Maybe they’re the ones.”

Thora peered at the machine on the IV pole. “Looks fine to me. And I doubt they’re who you’re looking for, Tommy. They just got here.”

“Could be part of a gang. Would explain a lot, if they were a gang.”

“Well it looks fine to me, Tommy. Don’t worry, Wilhelm will help me keep an eye on them.” She winked at Corncob as she said it, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

Tommy grunted and walked to the doorway, stopping as he looked at the clock. “Visiting hours are over in twenty minutes, got it? Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes, Corncob.” Michael said and wiggled his phone. Corncob understood Twenty minutes until we miss Erasmus’ window for who knows how long?

“I’m sorry about all that,” Thora said. Michael arched an eyebrow at her. “Tommy’s a little on edge lately.”

“Seems like he was accusing us of something,” Michael said.

“I really can’t go into it,” she said. “Confidentiality and all that. Just take it from me that Tommy’s not a bad a guy, really.”

“I can understand that,” Michael said. He leaned back in a chair and spread his hands. “Normally, Corncob and I are quite confident that Uncle Erasmus is in great hands. However, I’m quite sure no one in the family was consulted on the morphine drip. Did you ever hear anything about morphine, Corncob?”

“No, Michael.”

Michael’s voice went quiet. “Now I can’t go into specifics about the family, I can say that if any member authorized this treatment, they would have informed us. Likewise, I cannot specifically talk about what the family has or has not done in situations such as this. In general, I can imagine an investigation and quite possibly a lawsuit developing.”

Thora’s lips tightened. Wilhelm stood with ears pricked forward. “I see,” she said.

“Now, without getting into specifics,” Michael said, “I can talk about the situation in general, if you take my meaning, Thora.”

Thora’s shoulders relaxed. “I think I do.”

“Good!” Michael said as if they were best friends, “Now in general, if Tommy were to get overzealous and we found ourselves in the custody of the police, what do you think we would be charged with?”

“I think you would be charged with trespassing, theft, and possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute.”

Michael sucked in air through his teeth. “Well then, I’m grateful that you came to our rescue. So how long would this have been going on?” Thora tilted her head and smirked. “Theoretically, of course,” he added.

“I only know what I’ve seen on TV,” Thora said, “But on those shows, I get the idea that people start noticing after about three months.”

“Any clues?” Corncob asked.

Thora shook her head. “Whoever they are, they know how to get around all the security checks.”

“Would that also have to do with why our Uncle is on medicine he doesn’t need?” Michael said.

Thora reached out, and patted Erasmus’ hand. “I don’t think so. A few weeks ago, he was in such pain, the doctor prescribed the drip. I don’t know how any thief could manage that.”

Corncob opened his mouth to say something but Michael caught his attention and gave the barest head shake.

*

The vending machine was one of those old-fashioned jobs that didn’t take bills. Corncob recognized that it used purely mechanical means to count his coins rather than sensors and a miniature computer. It was a machine that he could understand intuitively, even without his magician’s gifts. It also meant that even if his gifts weren’t dampened by the red pill Michael had given him, he still wouldn’t have been able to convince the machine to give him back his money.

“No chips for you,” Michael said, taking another swig from his flask.

“Gimme a quarter,” Corncob said.

“Do I look like a bank? He-ell no.”

Corncob slapped the machine and collapsed into a padded vinyl chair. “Mister Mortimer is not going to be pleased.”

“Mortimer can kiss my ass. Someone somewhere screwed the pooch, and it sure as hell ain’t my fault that Erasmus is hooked up to opiates. At the very least Mortimer should have given us one of those POS things.”

“POA,” Corncob said.

“Whatever. I say we leave. Tell Mortimer what happened here and let him send someone to deal with the morphine in time for the next window.”

“We need to figure out what’s going on. What if Erasmus has a warning?”

Michael leaned forward with a scowl. “In his state? He’d probably tell us to be on the lookout for jazz-crazed narwals coming to take our gummy bears. His predictions are useless until he’s detoxed.”

“And yet, I still listen to you,” Corncob said, eying Michael’s flask.

“Damn straight. Take it from me, I’m an expert.” He took another drink.

Again with the bottle, Corncob thought. Michael didn’t even need the alcohol to quiet the voices, since he had taken his pill too. Just a drunken, stubborn man now that couldn’t think straight. The thought led to an idea.

“I don’t think we have that kind of time,” Corncob said. “Erasmus is one of us. If we were him, we’d want us saving us.”

“Huh?”

“We’re supposed to be the Brotherhood, not the punt-it-to-leadership association.”

“Would you feel any better if we changed our name to that?”

“Are we supposed to look out for each other or not?”

“We … dammit, Corncob, it’s not that simple.”

“Well explain it to me while we’re on our way.”

“Our way where?”

“Checking out a hunch.” Corncob hauled Michael up from his chair and pushed him into the hallway. “I’ll look left, you look right. Count how many patients are hooked up to morphine drips. If it’s under a dozen by the time we reach the stairs, we can go home.”

Corncob’s heart sank while they walked down the hall. It was so easy to lead a drunk, just get them off balance and give them a push. Michael hadn’t even realized they were heading away from the stairs.

*

“I still say you cheated,” Michael said. “How do I know you weren’t padding your tally?”

“You don’t, but you still counted fifteen yourself, so shut it.”

“I still don’t see how this is our problem.”

“It’s like an opium den around here, and you’re not worried about what it could do to a battlemage?”

“Ex-battlemage.”

“Sedated battlemage in a lot of pain and unpredictably disoriented should he ever awake.”

Michael opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Point.”

Corncob allowed himself a small smile. “Thank you.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Normally, I’d ask the morphine drips to tell me what they knew, but that’s out, as is you rifling through the memories of the staff.” Corncob pounded the back of his head against the stairwell. “I don’t know.”

Michael looked to his left, and stuck his head into the hallway. “What if I told you I just saw someone sneaking out of a room that was definitely not its drugged resident?”

“Who?”

“Our pal Archie.”

Corncob smiled. “You mean the one resident currently not drugged or playing Pai-Gow?”

“The very one.”

*

They hid around the corner as they watched Archie dart from room to room, spending no more than a minute in each. The old man moved with a speed and agility of a man twenty years younger, though his eyes didn’t seem capable of seeing Corncob peeking through the holes in a nearby sculpture.

“What I don’t get is what the guy’s taking,” Corncob said. “He’s not carrying anything in his hands, and his pockets aren’t bulging as far as I can tell.”

“Maybe he’s just an old perv,” Michael said.

“He’s going into both male and female rooms.”

“Maybe he’s a very liberal old perv, or at least not very picky.”

“He could be stuffing it down his pants.”

“That’s what I was saying,” Michael said.

Corncob looked back at Michael and narrowed his eyes. “Not that, you fencepost. Maybe that’s where he’s hiding the morphine.”

“Ew.”

Archie disappeared around the far end of the hallway. Corncob waited a moment, and then motioned Michael to follow. As they peered inside the rooms, the lid to each resident’s morphine drip stood open, the display scrolling SUPPLY EMPTY … ALARM MUTED.

“It doesn’t add up,” said Michael. They stood near the stairwell, speaking with low voices. “I don’t care how sneaky the old bugger is, he can’t have gone this long without getting caught.”

“Well, let’s go upstairs and ask him about it,” Corncob said.

“And why would he tell us anything?”

“He already thinks we’re spooks of some kind. Think you can convince him that we’re the kind he wants to cooperate with?”

Michael smiled. “The easiest thing in the world is to confirm a paranoid’s delusion that everyone really is out to get them. You just stand behind me and look large while I do the talking.”

But as they reached the top of the stairs, Tommy stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Have a good visit gentlemen? Good visit?” he said.

Michael put on a smile. “We just stopped for a quick snack. I’m hypoglycemic, you see, and if I don’t eat I get a little uh,”

“Unstable? Annoying?” Corncob murmured.

“Excitable,” Michael said.

“Yeah, I’m on low carbs myself.” Tommy patted his ample stomach. “That caveman thing with lotsa meat. What do they call it?”

“Neanderthal?” Michael said.

Tommy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Paleo. That’s what it’s called, Paleo.”

“Well it sure looks like it’s working,” Michael said. “Anyway, we’re going to pop back into our uncle’s room, if that’s all right.” He took a step toward the door, but Tommy didn’t budge.

“Visiting hours are over,” Tommy said. “Ended at 4:00.”

“My phone’s in his room. We’ll only be a minute.”

“Visiting hours are over, that means no visitors.”



Tommy took out a phone and held it out. “This is my phone. It has the sheriff on speed dial. While I’m getting your phone from your uncle’s room, you two are going to wait in reception. When I give you your phone back, you are going to leave, right? You’re not going to make me use speed dial?”

Michael sighed and turned to head downstairs. Tommy stayed in the doorway until Corncob followed suit. At the next floor, Michael looked back, and ducked into the hallway.

“Mike! He’s going to be looking for us if we aren’t in the reception area when he can’t find your phone.”

“Michael,” Michael said absently. “We’ll say we got lost on the stairs.”

“We’ll be arrested.”

“For what? Getting lost on the stairs?” Michael waved him off. “I thought I heard something.” He did a double-take as he passed a resident’s room, and then turned in.

“We were just in there,” Corncob said. “Archie’s already hit it.”

“Lookie here, Cornelius.”

Corncob followed Michael into the resident’s room. The woman hadn’t moved as far as Corncob could tell. She lay under a thin sheet, mouth slightly open, chest barely rising as she took in slow breaths. Pictures of grandkids in stilted elementary school portraits, a crucifix s over the bed, and a TV tuned to a reality show – sound muted. Nothing seemed disturbed, even the morphine drip was happy.

“Ah,” Corncob said.

“We were gone, what, two minutes? Who replaced the meds?”

They walked down the hallway, glancing in each room, finding full and happy morphine drips.

“I wonder where the supply room is for this stuff,” Corncob said.

“Just look for a solid door with a reinforced lock. It usually says AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY.”

“Know a lot about drug supply rooms?” Corncob asked.

Michael gave a little shrug.

Heavy footsteps came crashing down the stairwell.

“Well, we better find it fast,” Corncob said. “That’s Tommy.”

to be continued ...

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

Black grease coated Corncob’s hands, forehead, and now his neck as he rubbed at a spot just below his hairline. He looked at the broken Chevy as man would a rabid dog. The car’s grille lay scattered across the trail like broken teeth, fluorescent green liquid puddled underneath the radiator. Michael sat on a stump and arched an eyebrow at his friend.

“Weren’t you a car mechanic for twenty years?” Michael said. “Can’t you fix it?”

Corncob scooped up a glob of mud and chucked it at the smaller man, who had already sensed his intention and leaned left as soon as the mud left Corncob’s fingertips.

“Maybe if I had a full shop with tools instead of being stuck out here with nothing but rocks, sticks, and a skinny moron, I could do more,” Corncob said.

“Would it help if the skinny moron gained weight?” Michael leaned to his right as another mud clod sailed past his ear. “Well now that we’ve got that out of the way, I suppose we’ll have to go on foot.”

“We should call a wrecker. I can fix this.”

“It’s a rental. We’ll leave it and let ‘em know where to pick it up.”

“You going to tell them about the deer?” Corncob asked.

“I won’t if you won’t,” Michael said.

“You were driving.”

“Me? Drive? I should hope not. The judge took away my license long ago, my friend. That’s why I reserved this car under your name.”

Corncob’s jaw worked. “Mine? But you had to show the girl behind the desk an ID.”

“I did. Yours.”


“You don’t look a thing like me.”

Michael shrugged. “The camera loves some people, but alas, not me. Fortunately, I am much better looking in person.”

Corncob reached down for more mud, then reconsidered and picked up a stick. Michael yelped and took off down the gravel road, keeping just out of Corncob’s reach.

*

Four hours later, Corncob stomped his boots against a brick pillar. A sign at eye-level proclaimed they had reached the Buckthorn Elder Retreat. There was a quote from Thoreau, but Corncob couldn’t be bothered to read it, as Michael had thrust a red pill under his nose.

“Got any water to take it with?” Corncob asked.

Michael shrugged and held up a metal flask. “It’s mostly water.”

“No thanks.” He dry swallowed, and aimed a clod of mud from his boot in Michael’s direction. Michael watched it sail past as he took his pill with a swig from the flask.

“Seems like overkill to me anyway,” Corncob said as he waited for the pill to take effect. “It’s like asking someone to turn off a flashlight because it might upset a blind man.”

“The way I understand it, it’s more like asking someone to please stop spraying salt water around the burn unit. Don’t worry about it. We’ll be in and out soon enough then you can go back to communing with your toasters. In fact –” Michael was brought up short as a mud ball spattered against his face.

“Mmm. Medicine must be working already if you can’t read minds anymore,” Corncob said. “Shall we go see Erasmus now?”

Michael wiped the muck from his face and gave a little bow. He smiled as Corncob pushed past, making Corncob suddenly nervous about falling asleep when night came.

The man behind the hickory-and-granite desk was dressed in white scrubs, gold chain, and nametag that said TOMMY. His chair groaned as he passed Corncob and Michael clipboards.

“Read it if you want, it just says that you guys promise to behave yourselves and not disturb the guests, okay?” He leveled a stare at them. “Don’t disturb the guests.”

“Got it,” Corncob said.

“You are family, right? You’re family?” Tommy said.

“We’re his nephews,” Michael said. When Tommy’s gaze swept from Corncob to Michael and back, Michael put on a smile and added, “We’ve different mothers.”

“Right.” Tommy said as if he didn’t believe it. “Just don’t disturb the guests. It’s about three o’clock now, visiting hours end at four. You know where you’re going?”

“Room 411?” said Corncob.

“Down that hall, then left, right, left, up the stairs and right. Got it?”

Corncob frowned. “Down the hall, left, right, what?”

“We’ll manage,” Michael said, grabbing him by the arm.

As they left, hidden speakers filled the hallways with Tommy’s voice, announcing that the day’s baccarat and pai-gow tournaments would be starting in half an hour in the Champion’s Hall, followed by a lecture on the influence of Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne’s essays on thinkers through the ages up to today’s bloggers. Then there would be a seminar on how to set up one’s own blog. Classical guitar music took over where Tommy ended, though not loud enough to mask the squeaks of Concob’s wet boots on the polished floor.

“I feel like we’re on a cruise ship,” Michael said.

“Without the seasickness.”

“If we finish up with Erasmus early, I wonder if they’d let us sit on that Montaigne lecture.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Corncob asked, finding that if he stepped just so, the squeak was somewhat muffled.

“Jordan Montaigne, the bank robber. He’s the one that modified a tommy gun to spit fireballs and tried to become the next John Dillinger.”

“No relation, I suppose,” Corncob said. He tried to make his gait look natural, while eliciting the smallest squeak possible.

“Surprisingly, a direct descendant. Parts of the family settled in New Orleans and got involved in voodoo, though Jordan was the end of that little experiment.”

“What happened to him?” Corncob stepped gingerly with his right foot.

“Got caught while trying to steal morphine from a dispensary. The cops surrounded him and he tried fighting his way out, except a ricochet broke a bottle of ether just as Jordan fired a burst from his tommy gun.”

Corncob nodded. “Boom.” He thought he was getting the hang of the new walk; the last two steps had been squeak-free.

“Just like the Hindenburg,” Michael said. “Now if you’ll stop prancing around, let’s get a move on.”

*

They got lost. Somewhere along the way, between dodging fountains and ornate statuary at every intersection and making way for dazed residents that walked, tottered, ambled or wheeled their way through the hallways, Corncob and Michael found themselves in a plain room with white cabinets and plastic fold-down tables. A commercial coffeepot sizzled away in the corner next to a refrigerator with a sign reminding staff that items left longer than five days would be thrown away.

“I didn’t see a stairway,” Corncob said.

“Maybe if you quit rubbernecking at the décor, you might have noticed one.”

“Do you know how hard it is to match up an inlay pattern from the floor onto wall paneling? That ivy looks like it flows from one side of the hall to the other and the panels are seamless. I’d ask the building how it was done but, you know.” The part of his head that talked to machines felt as if covered by a heavy blanket. But for the drug’s effect, the building would tell him all its secrets, including the exact location of Erasmus’ room.

“Yeah, if I could read minds I could scan the staff and figure out how this place is laid out, too. I suppose I’ll just have to do it the old fashioned way,” Michael said.

“Which is?”

“I’ll ask for directions.” Michael scowled.

“I must mark my calendar,” Corncob said. “Well hurry it up, he’ll be awake soon.”

Another voice made Corncob jump. “Who will wake up soon?”

They turned to find a woman in white scrubs alongside what appeared to be a pony masquerading as a Great Dane. A tongue lolled from its mouth, long enough to lick a grown man’s arm from elbow to fingertips.

“We’re here to see our uncle,” Michael said. “Erasmus.”

“Oh,” she said, “do you need directions?”

“We got some at the front desk,” Corncob said, “but… God, that’s a big dog.”

The woman absently rubbed the dog’s head. “Wilhelm is rather imposing, I suppose, but the residents just adore him. He’s the best support animal I’ve ever worked with.”

“You mean he’s supposed to calm these geezers down? I’d be afraid he’d rather eat me than ask for a belly rub.” Corncob said. The woman’s face darkened.

“Cornelius! Forgive him, Miss – Thora,” Michael said, reading her name badge. “Corncob here is spooked rather easily. My goodness, Miss, those shoes are just amazing.”

Thora relaxed a little and turned her leg to show off a clog-style shoe covered in an iridescent alligator skin pattern.

“I like them,” she said. “You say you’re Erasmus’ nephews? He certainly does seem to have more than a few that like to visit. No wife, kids, brothers, or sisters, but plenty of nephews.” She gave them a bland smile.

Michael smiled and shrugged. “We’re not an especially close family, but we do believe in keeping our obligations. If you could just point us in the right direction?”

“Follow me,” she said,” I was heading that way already. Wilhelm, trail.”

As Michael and Corncob fell in behind her, the dog took up a position behind them. Corncob noticed his shoes had stopped squeaking, leaving only the solid thunks of Thora’s clogs ahead and exhaled whuffs of breath from a giant muzzle and the clicking of nails behind.

*

“Here you are, gentlemen,” Thora said. “Wilhelm and I will be making our rounds on the floor, so come and find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Michael said. “We will be sure to do that, miss.” She waved with fingernails painted to match her shoes, and walked away, Wilhelm giving Corncob a final sniff before following. A placard outside the door read IRSAY, ERASMUS.

“Let’s get in and get out,” Corncob said.

“You mean you don’t want to stay and pet the nice doggy?”

“That’s not a dog, it’s a pony that eats meat.”

“This should only take a minute,” Michael said.

Someone hissed from the room across the hall. A wizened face poked out from the darkened room next to the placard labeled DUBNER, ARCHIMEDES. The man scanned the hallway then beckoned them closer. Corncob looked at Michael, who shrugged, and stepped closer.

“You know why those guys have seatbelts in their wheelchairs?” the man asked.

Corncob shook his head. “To keep them from falling out?”

“Nah. It’s to keep them from chasing the women. They don’t like it when you do that here.” As Corncob tried to figure out how to respond, the man said, “You’re from the brotherhood, right?”

Corncob blinked, not knowing what to say. How did this old fart know about the Brotherhood? Was he some kind of spy?

“The what?” was all Corncob managed to say.

Michael laid a hand on Corncob’s forearm, and cocked his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man held a finger to his lips. “Brotherhood, Feds, CIA, IRA, NRA. You have the look. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. We all have our secrets, yes? But lemme tell you something: they’re all crooks in here. The nurses, they steal medications and sell them on the black market. The orderlies go through our pockets and wallets for every last penny. That nurse Thora and her trained attack dog steal jewelry and sell it in Amsterdam on the weekends.”

Michael smiled, and winked at Corncob. “Isn’t there anyone to report this to? What about that Tommy fella?”

The man spat on the floor. “Tommy’s the worst, everywhere always with his beady little eyes. Gets kickbacks from the rest of the staff. He’s mafia, you know. That Godfather movie is based on his great uncle. They rob us blind in here. Meanwhile, the rates for our little rooms go up, up, up!” He stabbed a finger at the ceiling. He glared at Corncob.

“Sounds tough,” Corncob finally said.

“Don’t worry about old Archie,” the man said. “I made it on my own for twenty years in the East before they locked me up in here. These guys are amateurs compared to the Hong Kong Triads. I’ve got my own ways of making the rent. You boys just make sure you don’t leave anything valuable around when you leave, and keep up the payments. Erasmus is the best neighbor a guy could ask for, and I’d hate for him to leave.”

“Will do,” Corncob said.

Archie laid a finger to his nose and closed his door.

“Funny guy,” Corncob said.

“See what you have to look forward to in your dotage?” Michael said.

The floor of Erasmus’ room was made of alternating light and dark woods that curved from the edges in, coming to an oak leaf motif in the center. Soft light fell from frosted glass sconces on each wall and reflected from polished mahogany furniture. But whatever aesthetic the builders had been going for had been ruined by the beige plastic-framed hospital bed and a stainless steel pole festooned with IV bags, surgical tubing, and bleating plastic boxes with glowing green readouts. In the bed lay a man with closed, sunken eyes and a hooked nose, his chest taking shallow breaths but otherwise motionless.

“Shouldn’t he be awake?” Corncob asked.

Michael glanced at a wall clock and frowned. “Maybe Jupiter hasn’t reached the fifth house yet. When it does, Magister Erasmus will come out of his fugue.”

“He’s been under for three months. Maybe he’ll sleep through it.”

Michael shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that.” He reached for Erasmus’ hand, but stopped, seemingly thinking better of it.

“I don’t think he’ll bite,” Corncob said.

“I know our magic’s dampened, but what if he senses me through skin contact? I’d hate to hurt the guy.”

“Oh. Maybe you’re right.”

Erasmus had been a magister for the Brotherhood. Not only a heavyweight battle-mage in his own right, he had been entrusted with dangerous knowledge to give insight to prophesies and omens. The Brotherhood sent Erasmus places where the barriers between the mortal and eldritch worlds were thin. He guarded against the tentacled-beings that might breach the skein and wreak havoc on humanity, put down vampire factories, quashed zombie uprisings, cut off the heads of pharoh-litches. Then on his last mission, Erasmus had been subjected to a naked mystical energy burst that left his body intact but flayed his senses. Afterwards, for Erasmus to be in the presence of even the smallest display of magic induced agony along his every nerve. Euthanasia would have been kindest, but Erasmus held centuries of knowledge that could not be replaced. The elders decided to put him in a fugue state; asleep, but aware of the universe. He observed signs and portents as if he were living in an apartment under the cosmos, puzzling things out from footsteps, music, arguments, and shoes dropping to the floor. At certain times, Erasmus’ fugue faded, and he reported his findings.

To be chosen as the Brotherhood’s representative to Erasmus was supposedly an honor. Michael grumbled that it was also a sign of how expendable a member was, given how they had to become virtually defenseless and enter a magic-free zone. Michael would rather have stripped himself naked, coat himself in duck fat, and go pull whiskers in a tiger cage. In the man’s presence, Corncob couldn’t blame his friend. Erasmus still radiated power like heat from an oven: still dangerous even if turned off.

Michael pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen. After consulting a real-time star map, he shook his head. “He should be awake by now. Jupiter’s alignment won’t hold for long.”

Corncob looked at the IV pole and the machines connected to the tubes and grunted.

“What?” Michael said.

“Does Erasmus take pain medication?”

“Not that I know of. The fugue state is its own pain block.”

Corncob tapped at a plunger locked inside a plastic box. “I think this is a morphine drip.” The machine beeped, green numbers on its display incrementing as the plunger depressed a fraction.

“Oh crap,” Michael said.

“Hey! Get away from there!” said a voice.

They turned to find Tommy standing in the doorway, glaring at them.

“I thought I told you not to disturb the guests,” he said. “Now we have a problem.”

Should've Seen That Train Coming - Part II

By Bettyann Moore

Despite all the information and questions swirling in her head, Andra actually fell asleep after going just a few miles. Her dreams were peppered with images of faceless beings trying to drag her off, but every time they tried, Desiree pulled her back. She awoke when the soothing rhythm of the road noise stopped. Another potty break, Andra figured.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Desiree said. “We’re here.”

“Here? Here where?” Andra sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“We made it all the way to Council Bluffs. I’ve stayed at this hotel before,” Desiree said, nodding at the double glass doors they were parked in front of. “I am so in need of a shower, a drink, some dinner and a bit of gambling. In that order. How ‘bout you?”

Andra didn’t gamble and though she liked a drink once in a while, she certainly never felt the need for one. She was starving, though, and a shower sounded wonderful.

“I can’t believe we got all the way without stopping for bathroom breaks,” she said, climbing slowly out of the car. Everything seemed to hurt.

“Oh, but we did stop,” Desiree said, coming around the car, “a couple of times, but you never even stirred. You’re some sleeper. I remember that now. When we had sleepovers, everyone else would be dancing and yakking and you’d be passed out. Wish I could do that.”

“Albert used to say I slept the sleep of the innocent,” Andra said.

“No wonder I never seem to sleep!” Desiree said, laughing. “Come on, let’s get a room.”

“Um … I’d prefer two rooms, if that’s okay,” Andra said.

“Don’t be silly,” Desiree said, leading the way into the hotel. “Why spend the extra money? We’ll get two beds; it’ll be just like the old days!”

Andra was going to insist, really she was, but the point was academic; the hotel only had one room left. By the time the two women unloaded the car and carted everything up to their room, they were exhausted.

Desiree flopped down onto the nearest bed, shoes and all, while Andra puttered about, hanging up a few blouses and putting on the slippers she had packed.

“I’m too tired to even think about going out to get something to eat,” Desiree said, flipping through the hotel’s book of amenities. “Let’s call out for pizza.”

“That sounds good,” Andra said. “Why don’t you do that and I’ll take a shower. I like everything except anchovies.”

“Does anyone like anchovies?” Desiree wondered.

By the time Andra was done with her shower and dressed in a new pair of flannel pajamas, the pizza was there and Desiree had somehow procured a bottle of rum, cola and some ice. She handed Andra a drink that she didn’t really want, but she sipped on it anyway. It was surprisingly good. Before she knew it, she’d eaten three slices of pizza and downed two drinks.

“Whoa!” she said, grabbing the arm of a chair. “I didn’t see that train coming.” She sat down heavily, her head spinning.

Desiree threw back her head and laughed, a bit too heartily, Andra thought.

“It’s not that funny, Dez,” she said, using her friend’s old nickname. “I don’t usually drink.”

“No, no, I’m not laughing at you, really,” Desiree said. “It’s just … hey, you ready to hear the rest of the story?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Andra said, then surprised herself by holding out her glass for another shot of rum.

Desiree poured the last of the pint into the cup and leaned back against the headboard of her bed.

“Like I said, we were only married a year, but even that was too long. By the time I packed up a few things and knocked on the door of the women’s shelter, he’d sprained one of my wrists, broken a pinkie finger and pretty much destroyed the hearing in my left ear.”

Andra took a big gulp of her drink.

“God, Dez,” she said, coming as close to swearing as she ever had, “I’m glad you got out.”

“You and me both, sister,” Desiree said, upending the rest of her drink. “But he wasn’t done with me yet.” She pointed to her own face. Andra started wishing for another drink.

“That was back in the days when shelter locations were secret and before domestic violence meant an automatic arrest,” Desiree went on. “The maximum stay was six weeks. I wanted a divorce, but I couldn’t afford a lawyer. I wanted to go back to Colorado, but couldn’t afford that either. Jeffrey controlled all the money and I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have anyone to call; you know how my parents were.”

Andra remembered that Dez’s parents were usually drunk and mostly absent. She nodded.

“And you couldn’t call me,” she said, remembering how long she held onto her anger, had, in fact, only recently felt its hold loosen. “Why … why’d you marry him anyway?” she asked quietly.

Desiree swung her legs off the bed and stood up a little wobbly.

“Better me than you,” she said, then hurried on. “Lust, love … I, we, were just kids!” She started pacing. “It doesn’t matter,” she added.

“So what happened then?”

“I did what could have turned out to be really stupid,” Dez said, sitting back down on the bed. “I called Nancy Sinclair.”

“Jeffrey’s mom? You called Jeffrey’s mom?”

“I know, I know, pretty risky, huh? I called when I figured her husband – my father-in-law – was at his office … as if he ever actually did any work there.” Dez snorted. “It was the hardest call I ever made, but of anyone, I had a feeling she’d understand. What did I have to lose? Anyway, she was quiet while I told her the story. My stomach was in knots. I was in this secret location, but I kept expecting Jeffrey to come breaking through the door.”

“Oh, Dez, you were always so brave!” Andra got up and came around the bed to sit down next to her friend.

“To this day,” Dez went on, “I have no idea what strings she pulled or who’s loyalty she bought, but within days I had a hefty bank account in my name and within weeks, I was divorced without ever having to see Jeffrey’s face again.”

“Wow,” was all Andra could say.

“Yeah, wow. Of course, that wasn’t the end of it.” Dez leaned back on her elbows. “By that time I was hiding out in a hotel until the divorce was final. I’d bought a one-way ticket to California. I’d always wanted to go there. I couldn’t wait to put Minnesota behind me.”

“But you didn’t leave.” Andra stated the obvious.

“Never got a chance to and then didn’t have the need to,” Desiree said. Andra cocked her head.

“It was a Friday night,” Desiree said. “I just wanted a burger and the hotel kitchen was shut down. I cut through the back alley, heading for this mom-and-pop burger joint nearby.”

Andra felt her whole body tensing up.

“Suddenly, I find myself flat on my back, a dirty rag stuffed in my mouth and some big goon kneeling on my stomach, slashing at my face with some kind of blade. The only thing I could think to do was to protect my eyes.” Desiree lay her hands on her thighs and for the first time, Andra noticed the shiny scars on her hands that mimicked the ones on her face. She gasped and put her hands over her friend’s.

“He just kept cutting and cutting,” Dez said, her eyes closed. “It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Then he stopped. I still had my hands over my eyes and I felt his stinky, hot breath against my cheek. ‘Jeffrey sends his love,’ the guy said, then put his full weight on my stomach as he got up. I didn’t dare move. I waited until I heard him walk away. Then I crawled to get help.”

The two women cried and held each other for a long time. Desiree cried for the young girl she had been and Andra cried for her as well, but she also cried with relief. That could have been her in that alley.

After a while, Desiree sat up and wiped her face with her sleeve.

“I couldn’t prove Jeffrey put him up to it, of course, and they never found the guy,” she said, “but Mrs. Sinclair came through again, paying for the best surgeons money could buy. They did the best they could.”

Andra sat up, too, but went to get some tissues for the both of them.

“But you still didn’t leave?”

“Funny thing, that,” Desiree said. “I was still in the hospital, doing well enough to read the paper. On the front page was this gruesome picture of a car, completely mangled and burnt. Even so, I recognized it. It was Jeffrey’s.”

“My God, what happened?”

“The autopsy said that his alcohol blood level was twice the legal limit. The car got hit by a west-bound freight train.”

The women were quiet for a minute.

“He didn’t see that train coming,” they both said at the same time.

They looked at each other, then turned away at the same time.

A few seconds later the bed was shaking. They hated themselves for it – just a little – but the two woman couldn’t control their emotions. Before long they were rolling on the bed, howling with laughter, ready to continue their adventure, together.

Should've Seen That Train Coming - Part I

By Bettyann Moore

Andra Lewis stood patiently at the car rental counter. All the paperwork was done; she just needed the key and she could be on her way. Her clerk, who was also the manager as it turned out, had been pulled away and was engaged in a heated discussion with another woman. Andra tried not to eavesdrop, but there was something about the woman’s voice that kept drawing her attention, a certain cadence that sounded vaguely familiar.

The woman was old, like Andra, though Andra’s daughter kept insisting that at the age of 57 she most definitely was not old. Since turning 35, Sophia didn’t like to be reminded that she had an aging mother. That’s what Andra figured anyway. And maybe she wasn’t that old. After all, here she was getting ready to drive across three states – alone – to attend her 40^th class reunion, something she both dreaded and looked forward to. Andra was afraid of flying. Sophia insisted that her mother rent a car, though, and not chance driving her 1994 Toyota all that distance. It was fine for tooling around town, she said, but not all the way across the barren Nebraska landscape. Since Sophia put her money where her mouth was, Andra didn’t argue.

The discussion at the other end of the counter was becoming more animated by the second. The other woman, dressed in a pink linen suit and colorful patterned blouse that would have looked better on someone younger, was waving a sheaf of papers over her head and using words like “lawsuit” and “lawyers,” as well as swear words that made Andra blush. Andra hating swearing. The manager said something in a low voice and the woman abruptly calmed down. Andra was alarmed, however, when their eyes turned to her, and even more so when they both approached her from their respective sides of the counter. What in the world did they want with her?

“Mrs. Lewis,” the obviously uncomfortable manager said, “this is terribly unprofessional of me and unprecedented, I’m sure, but there’s, uh, a bit of a situation that you might be able to help with. The company will make it well worth your while, I assure you.”

“Me?” Andra asked, eying the other woman who was looking eagerly toward her. Andra noticed then that the woman’s face looked odd, like it’d been sown together badly. Plastic surgery gone awry? She turned her attention back to the manager – Alan Oswald, according to his name tag. “Is there something wrong with my rental?” Andra asked. “I really would like to be on my way.”

“Uh … no, your car is all gassed up and ready to go,” Oswald said, “it’s just that – this is so embarrassing – we overbooked and yours is the last car available.”

He paused, Andra thought, as if waiting for her to volunteer something, to offer a solution.

“I don’t understand,” Andra said. The woman next to her groaned and slammed her pocketbook and papers down on the counter.

“Look,” she said, touching Andra’s arm. Andra didn’t like being touched by strangers. “The idiots here at Shit-For-Brains Rent-a-Car, the only car rental place in town as I’m sure you’re aware, rented out their 12 cars to 13 people. I’m the 13^th person and even though I have a perfectly good reservation,” here she picked up the papers and waved them around again, “I do not have a car!” She emphasized each word equally.

“I still don’t ...”

“Mr. Manager of Shit-For-Brains Rent-A-Car here,” the woman continued, nodding toward Oswald, who was blushing, “tells me that he rented the last car to you.”

“So?”

“So, he also let it drop that you’re driving to Golden, Colorado. Well, so am I. Or was.”

The light finally went on in Andra’s head.

“You can’t be serious!” she cried, turning back to Oswald. “You want me to share the car? You want me to drive across the country with a complete stranger?”

“Pfffft,” the woman said before Oswald could answer. “It’s three states, not ‘across the country,’ and we’re not exactly strangers, Andra Sweeney.”

Now Andra was completely taken aback. Sweeney was her maiden name; she hadn’t been a Sweeney for 35 years. Who was this woman? She peered at her face again. For her part, the woman stood still and let herself be scrutinized. She seemed to be used to it.

Up close, Andra could see that it hadn’t been botched surgery, but something ugly and violent that had left a criss-cross of shiny jagged lines on the woman’s face. A particularly angry-looking one slashed down the right corner of her mouth and disappeared below the chin. It gave her a lopsided frown. All of the wounds were old and now part of the aging skin’s wrinkles. There was something in her eyes, though, that seemed familiar. Their color, hazel flecked with bits of gold. Andra gasped.

“Yep, it’s me, Annie,” the woman said, using Andra’s old nickname. “I recognized you right away.”

Desiree Imogene Loman. Her whole name came instantly to Andra’s memory. Dez Loman, her best friend, blood sister, confidante from second grade to senior year. Dez, who knew all her youthful secrets, who ate at the Sweeney table most nights, who’s fast-talking chutzpa got them out of all kinds of trouble. Desiree Imogene Loman who stole Jeffrey Sinclair, her heart’s desire, and whom she hadn’t seen or spoken to in 40 years.

As the two women stared at each other, their thoughts racing, Alan Oswald shifted from one foot to the other, a hopeful smile on his face. Maybe this whole debacle was salvageable after all.

“How nice!” he said, jarring the women. “You know each other and probably going to the same reunion and everything!” He whipped out new paperwork on the car, a small green Ford no one ever wanted to rent.

The mention of the reunion and why they were there rattled Andra.

“I didn’t say ...”

“Oh, come on now, Annie,” Desiree said, “why the hell not? We both need a way to get there. We’ll have hours to do some catching up!” The look on Andra’s face told her that might be a bad tack. “Or not,” she amended. “You can pretend I’m not even there. I’ll ride in the back. The trunk?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Andra said, though a small smile played on her lips. Desiree could always make her laugh, she remembered. Then she thought of Jeffrey and frowned.

Oswald sensed he was losing her. “I’ll take 30 percent off the rental,” he coaxed.

Desiree cut her eyes at him.

“Uh, 50 percent,” he said. “And I won’t charge you for the tank of gas that’s in there or make you bring the car back with a full tank.” He rattled the keys on top of the paperwork that he was amending.

“I’ll pay for all the gas there and back,” Desiree added. “And we can split the driving.”

Andra hated making rushed decisions. When her Albert was alive, he handled the details of their lives. The extra money would be helpful along the way, even if Sophia was paying for the car. She sighed.

“Fine!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I just want to be somewhere before dark!”

Oswald breathed a sigh of relief and Desiree clapped her hands and squealed like a little girl.

“We’re going to have an adventure!” she crowed.

As she signed the paperwork, making sure Oswald had made the promised changes, Andra knew it wasn’t too late to back out. She didn’t owe Desiree anything, quite the contrary. She could insist on taking the car on her own, or even saying to heck with the reunion and letting Desiree have the vehicle. No, she wasn’t giving up something that easily to her again. And she was a bit curious about Desiree’s life, those scars …

“Here you go, ladies,” Oswald said, holding out the keys. There were two of them, but they were held together with an unbreakable metal cable.

“Now that has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” Desiree said, snatching them out of his hands. “Why in the world would anyone want two keys that they can’t take apart? Do you have a metal cutter somewhere back there?”

“It’s okay,” Andra said.

“No, it’s notokay,” Desiree insisted. “What if one of us locks the keys in the car? Wouldn’t you feel safer if I had one and you had one?”

“I guess ...”

Flustered yet again, Oswald yanked open a drawer and pulled out a tiny hacksaw, part of a small, cheap tool kit the company had given away in a promotion. He just wanted these women gone and out of his sight. Truth be told, the shackled keys were pretty stupid.

After considerable discussion and experimentation, the two women figured out how to work the car and headed out of town with Andra at the wheel. Desiree dragged a plump purse onto her lap and pulled out some liquorice, a bag of peanuts and some beef jerky.

“Road trip food!” she said. “Want some?”

Andra shook her head. Every one of those snacks would hurt her teeth; she was looking at getting fitted for partials when she got back home from the reunion.

Desiree munched happily and watched the scenery roll by.

“You live here long?” she asked. “Funny we’ve never run into each other before.”

Had they done so, Andra thought, she would have run the other way.

“Only a few years,” she said. “Albert took early retirement and he always wanted to live by a good fishing lake.”

“Albert? Your husband? Where is he now? How come he’s not going to the reunion with you?”

So many questions. It was going to be a long ride.

“He died last spring,” Andra said, tears instantly springing to her eyes. “Heart attack.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Desiree said. “That must have been difficult for you. Kids?”

“Just one, Sophia. She lives in New Mexico.”

“Grand kids?”

“Oh, yes, two! Twins named Phoebe and Marta. I love being a grandma.”

“So, what keeps you here? Why don’t you go live in New Mexico near your grand kids?” Desiree upended the bag of peanuts into her mouth and chomped away.

Why not indeed, Andra wondered. In truth, she never thought about it. It had been exciting to pack up everything and move to Minnesota from Colorado, with Albert, but now it all seemed too big, too hard to do on her own. Leave it to Desiree to ask uncomfortable questions. Andra just shrugged.

“Geez, I really hate to do this,” Desiree said, “but if you recall, I have a teeny, tiny bladder and we were waiting in that shit hole forever. Do you think we could stop so I could pee?”

Andra cringed at the swearing and rolled her eyes. They’d only gone about 10 miles. It would be a very long trip indeed if this kept up. Nonetheless, she pulled into the next gas station she saw. She waited in the car while Desiree ran inside. She’d never do it, of course, but the thought did cross her mind to simply take off. She smiled.

Desiree was back in minutes carrying a white paper bag. She shook it at Andra as she got back inside the car.

“Hot popcorn!” she said. “I couldn’t resist.” She offered it to Andra, who once again declined, focusing on getting back onto the highway.

“God, do you remember how it used to be?” Desiree said. “We’d be driving around the foothills and when we had to pee, we just pulled over, dropped our drawers and squatted. Those were the days. Now I’d need a forklift to get me back up!”

What was it about Desiree that made Andra shudder and smile at the same time?

“I’m glad convenience stores have nice, clean bathrooms now,” she said. “I never did like urinating on the side of the road.”

Desiree snorted.

“Oh, please!” she said, turning in her seat to face her old friend. “You were a pissing fool! You used to be the best, the fastest and the loudest. It was like listening to a waterfall!”

Andra blushed, but couldn’t help smiling at the memory. Jeffrey used to say it was like hearing a horse pee on a flat rock. Jeffrey again. The 400-pound gorilla in the room.

“So,” she said, changing the subject, “what happened to you after high school? How come you ended up out here?”

Desiree turned back around and faced forward. She knew what Andra was asking.

“I married him, Annie,” she said. “And this was the most isolated place he could think of.”

Andra was confused, but oddly excited about finally finding out.

“Isolated?” she asked. “More isolated than the Colorado Rockies? And why would he want to be isolated?” Jeffrey’s family was loaded. They owned ski resorts, oil wells, you name it. She had often thought how wonderful it could have been, traveling, hosting huge parties, living the life of luxury.

“He didn’t want to be isolated,” Desiree said slowly. “He wanted meto be isolated, from family, from friends, from his family ...”

“I don’t understand.”

“We were married for one year,” Desiree said, shocking Andra, who’d long envisioned a life of easy grace that had been stolen from her. “Just enough time for him to move me here and to do this, among other things.” She turned and faced her friend again, holding her chin high. The cuts. She was talking about the cuts.

“Surely Jeffrey didn’t do that,” Andra said. “His family was ...”

“High ranking parasites of the lowest order,” Desiree interrupted. “And surely you’ve forgotten a lot of things about the Jeffrey and the all-mighty Sinclairs.”

Andra focused on the road ahead, but felt her face burning as if she’d been slapped. Jeffrey had been high-strung, to be sure. When their group got drunk, he got a little bit drunker than everyone else. When he’d teased, sure, it was a bit more cruel than it needed to be. But there was so much familial pressure. And when she’d lost her virginity to him and had cried to Desiree on the phone that night …

“But you’re right, Annie,” Desiree said, “Jeffrey didn’t do this, exactly.”

Andra sighed with relief. The woman had been exaggerating, had been scorned or something.

“No, not exactly,” Desiree continued, “he paid someone to do it.”

There was a wayside up ahead. Andra swerved into the right lane just in time, pulled into a spot and shut down the engine. Time to kill that gorilla once and for all.

“Desiree,” she said to her surprised passenger, “what are you trying to tell me?”

“I have to pee again,” Desiree said, opening her door. “How did you know?” She unbuckled her seat belt and headed toward the red brick building, leaving Andra bewildered and steaming mad. Andra pushed open her door and followed her inside.

“Desiree,” Andra said, her voice echoing off the tile walls and floor, “what you just intimated sounds really far-fetched. You have to understand that.”

Andra heard a rustling behind a stall door; then the loud automatic flusher kicked in.

“No, I don’t have to understand that, Annie,” Desiree said, hauling open the door and heading to the sink. “Your absolute denial and incredulity, now that, that I want to understand, given your history with Jeffrey Fucking Sinclair and his family. Have you truly forgotten?” Desiree stepped on the bar that served as a faucet handle and vigorously scrubbed her hands under the dribble of water.

Andra hadn’t forgotten, but she’d tried. His father cornering her in the kitchen at a party, talking about “keeping it all in the family,” Mrs. Sinclair’s silent acquiescence to any command from father or son, the painful, violent first time.

“I’m listening,” Andra said, wishing she had had enough guts to fly to the reunion, “tell me.”

“The first three months were the honeymoon,” Desiree said. They were sitting at one of the wayside picnic benches, even though Andra was worried that they’d never get out of Minnesota. Desiree saw the look on Andra’s face, but decided that telling the truth would do them both good. “I’ve learned a lot about that honeymoon phase over the years,” she said. “It’s part of the cycle.”

“The cycle?” Andra asked.

“The cycle of violence,” Desiree said, wishing she still smoked. “It’s a pattern that abusers follow. He was an abuser, Annie,” she added, seeing her old friend wince.

“You said ‘was’,” Andra said.

“I’ll get to that,” Desiree said, “don’t rush me.”

“Sorry.” Now that they were into it, Andra wanted it all at once.

“The verbal abuse came first,” Desiree said. “It often does. And he had the knack of making me feel like the crazy one if I even suggested he was being mean. ‘You misunderstood, my poor sensitive Desiree,’ he’d say, then make a joke about it.

“The first time he hit me, though, that was no joke.”

Andra huddled on the bench, hands between her knees, shoulders hunched over her ears, though she was definitely listening.

“He gave me a black eye; he wasn’t very good yet about making sure bruises didn’t show. I was isolated, though, and there wasn’t anyone to see it anyway. He certainly wouldn’t let me see a doctor.

“He blamed it on being drunk and, of course, on me. I provoked him. Isaid the wrong thing. He was so very sorry, though! He brought me flowers. Cooked supper for a week in a row. It was the honeymoon again and very confusing. Keeping your target off balance is part of the game plan.”

“Desiree,” Andra interrupted, “what you’re saying is so foreign to me. It’s like a whole other language.”

“Do you know what my job has been over the last 30 years?” Desiree asked.

“Your job? No, I don’t.”

“My job was to learn that language and to teach it to others, to give them the tools to heal. I ran a woman’s shelter. When I wasn’t begging the county and the state for money to keep it running, I did my damnest to help those women get free. And there were hundreds, Annie, thousands. Some kept coming back over and over again until the last time I saw them was at their funeral.”

Andra gasped.

“Happens more than you know,” Desiree said. She stood up and paced around the picnic table. “Hey,” she said, “We should get a move on, huh? We have a lot of daylight left. We should be able to at least get past Des Moines before dark. Maybe even to Council Bluffs.”

As if waking from a dream, Andra shook her head clear.

“But ...”

“I know, I know,” Desiree said, pulling her to her feet. “There’s lots more to tell, but we’ve got time. Come on, let’s go, girl! I’ll drive.”

To be continued ...