“Hold on. I’m comin’ back up there to git ya.”
Bobby stood on the branch below her. “Here, grab hold of my hand.”
“I caint.”
“Yes, you can. I ain’t gonna letcha fall. Now grab hold.”
It took a good half hour of coaxing, encouraging, holding onto Bobby with one arm and the tree trunk with the other before Vicky was finally able to place her feet on solid ground.
“Promise you ain’t gonna tell anyone about this.” Vicky said to Bobby after a humbling thank you.
“I promise. It’s just I don’t git it. This ain’t like you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just wanna stay in that ol’ tree. I don’t wanna go home. Maybe I ought to just build me a tree house and move up there–stay there forever.”
Bobby placed a reassuring arm around Vicky, and spoke more quietly and seriously to her this time. “Remember, I told ya what to do if your Daddy whups ya agin?”
Vicky nodded her head and heaved a sniffling sob.
“Don’t let him see ya cry. Bite on somethin’ hard if ya have to. Remember, you got Shawnee blood. Be brave. Bobby reached in his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. “I got an idea.” He lifted his shirt, revealing his skinny frame, belly button, the waistband of his white underwear and the leather belt which he always wore in order to keep his britches up. He took the pocket knife and began sawing away at his leather belt until he was finally able to pull off a piece of it.
“Here.” He handed her about two inches in length off the tip of the belt. “You bite on this. It ain’t as hard a rock or nothin’ so it won’t hurt your teeth none. Just make sure you don’t choke on it. Just close your eyes, bite on this, and imagine me all grown up comin’ back to whup your Daddy’s ass.”
Vicky stuck the piece of leather in her pocket and smiled at Bobby.”
“So how’d ya get down the last time this happened?” Bobby asked.
“I jumped.”
“You dang fool. You say you’re scared of fallin’ and then you go jump?”
“I figured it was the only way down.”
“And ya didn’t hurt yourself none?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Shoot, you was just plain lucky.”
“Well, it wasn’t as tall a tree as this one here, and besides, I landed on my feet. You know they’re tougher n’ hide.”
“Now I know you’re fibbin’.”
“Yeah, the truth is I landed on my butt. It was black and blue and purple fer weeks. Worse than any whuppin’ I ever got.” They both laughed and Vicky forgot her fears, at least for the time being.
“Ah Bobby, whatever happened to you?” Vicky said inside the dumpster. “You still remember me? Wonder if you’re even still alive. I never climbed another tree after that. But how come I could get up that tree but couldn’t get back down again. Just like now. I can get in the dumpster but I can’t get out. Story of my fuckin’ life. I get into messes but can’t get back out.” She laughed feebly.
“Said the F word again. Owe ya a quarter. How many does that make today?” Vicky deliriously rambled on and on, an endless stream of unedited thoughts, not asleep but not conscious either. She was vaguely aware that it was snowing again. Little snowflakes landed on her cheeks and eyelids. “Ah, no, I gotta piss.” A warm stream of urine rolled down her legs. She began to cry. The crying jags always came toward the end of a drunk. She sobbed and sobbed thinking how she would be found dead the next morning covered in garbage, snow, and urine.
The familiar squawk and intermittent static of a police radio filled Vicky’s ears and became louder and louder until she realized it was coming from the alley. Headlight beams suddenly flooded their lights in her direction. The squad car was in the alley. Vicky heard two car doors slam. She decided then and there that spending the night in jail was preferable to spending it in a dumpster buried beneath a half foot of snow. She didn’t care if it was the meanest cop on the beat, she had to find some way to get their attention. She banged on the side of the dumpster and hollered as loud as she could. “Hey pigs! I’m in here. Somebody get me out.”
They shined their flashlights down on her.
Vicky looked up and saw the figure of two cops standing over her. “Is that you, Fat Ass?” Vicky hollered up, squinting into the glaring lights.
The two men laughed. “If you’re referring to Officer Jones, he works days now,” replied one of the cops.
“Thank God. I’ve had enough of his shit.”
“Is that you Vicky?” The other cop inquired.
“Who the hell did you think it was? Oscar the Fuckin’ Grouch?”
“Okay, Vicky, let’s get you out of there. Can you stand up?” said the first cop.
“No. Hey you wanna kill that light, Officer Friendly!”
“You better watch that smart mouth of yours,” said the second cop.
“Or what? You’ll charge me with Public Intoxication again?”
“No, Vicky, we’re way beyond that,” said the first cop, reaching an arm down into the dumpster and pulling her up. “Just be a good girl and come along quietly. Don’t make any trouble for us and we won’t make any trouble for you.” The second cop grabbed her other arm and together they helped her out of the dumpster. Cop number one ran quickly to the squad car where he fetched something out of the trunk. It was a blanket. He returned and placed it over her shoulders. “Here you go, Vick.”
“Thanks Bobby,” Vicky said as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Bobby! Who the hell’s Bobby? I’m your old buddy Officer Graves. Remember me?”
“You don’t have to shout. I’m just drunk. I ain’t deaf.” She thought he was repulsed by her kiss. She could tell by the look on his face as he wiped it off his cheek. “I had you worried. You thought I was gonna rape ya, didn’t ya. So now you gonna charge me with sexual assault?”
“Just get in the car, Vicky. It’s nice and warm in there.” The first cop said holding a hand over the top of Vicky’s head to shield it from bumping as she scooted into the back of the squad car.
“Sexually assaulting a police officer? That’s a good one, Vicky,” said the second cop laughing.
“I wouldn’t wanna sexually assault your ugly ass.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
“Now c’mon, Vicky honey, don’t go gettin’ snippy or we’ll have to cuff you. We haven’t had to cuff you in a while,” said cop number one, sticking his head in the door.
“I ain’t your honey.”
“Lucky for both of us,” said cop number one as he leaned further in and strapped her in her seat.
The officers got in the squad car. A thick sheet of plexiglass separated them from the back seat.
“So tell me, Vick. You got a home these days?”
“What’s that?”
“A home. As in place of residence. Abode. Domicile. You got some place to live?”
Vicky shook her head. “You just made me leave my newest domicile.”
“Sorry Vicky, but it didn’t look to me as if the heat was workin’.” Cop number one radioed the police station and told them to prepare a cell.
“By the way Vick, yer damned lucky, “ cop number two said as they backed out of the alley way into the streets of downtown Lamasco.
“How’s that?”
“We just passed a garbage truck at the Chinese restaurant down the street. His next stop’s the alley where you was sleepin’. Hell, had we not retrieved you from that dumpster, you’d been squished in the recycle bin.”
“I bet if ol’ Fat Ass was working he would’ve let ‘em. He’d a had ‘em haul my sorry ass off to the dump.”
“You’re more than likely right,” said cop number one. They all laughed.
Vicky was beginning to fall over to one side. The shoulder strap of the seat belt chaffed against her neck, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t sit up straight if she tried.
“You all right back there, Vick?” said cop number one eyeing her
in the rear view mirror. “You need to yark?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You sure? Cause we’ll pull over if you need to yark.”
“I don’t need to yark,” Vicky said more insistently.
“Just don’t yark in the car again. Okay? Last time you yarked in one of our squad cars it took months to get the odor out.”
“Still ain’t out a hundred percent,” cop number two added.
“You keep aggravatin’ me, I’ll stick my finger down my throat and make myself puke.” By now Vicky was as horizontal as one can get while strapped into a seat belt. “You guys ain’t gonna stick me in the drunk tank again tonight, are you? That place is disgusting. Just take me straight to my cell. Will ya do that for me?” She called out her request through a thick tongue and a throat that felt and sounded as if she’d swallowed sand.
“If you promise not to yark all over it.”
“Look, I promise not to puke. What do you want me to do, take a dang oath? I, Vicky Lee Dooley, do hereby solemnly swear not to yark tonight, anywhere on or near the property or premises of the Lamasco Police Department. So help me, God.” She let her raised hand drop with a thud onto the seat.
“Now if I’m a good girl and I don’t back talk and I don’t puke, will you grant me one more request?”
“What’s that?”
“Could you bum me a cigarette?”
“You make good on that promise and I’ll be more than happy to bum you a cigarette. Not until we get back to the station, you understand. And you gotta sit upright to smoke it.”
Vicky smiled all the way into an unconscious state.
You couldn’t really call it sleep, this fitful state of unconsciousness that overtook Vicky when the booze finally ran its course. It was a state somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. What real people would call a lousy night sleep, Vicky often thought. Her semi-consciousness was much more real and alive than her wakeful states, and without a doubt more frightening. She could achieve numb while awake, but never in this in-between state where memories and regrets and reality closed in on her. It was in such a state that she flopped restlessly from side to side and mumbled aloud to no one but herself in the small cell of the Lamasco jail.
The image of two people, a man and a woman, appeared before Vicky each time she closed her eyes. The woman was an attractive blond in a full-length fur coat; the man was tall, distinguished, and dark haired. The woman walked fast up and down the halls of the jail, her blond shoulder length hair bouncing right in time with each stride, and her little black purse which hung from a gold chain perched upon her shoulder danced about her hip as she moved quickly. She seemed to be running from something. The man moved much slower than the woman and lagged sorely behind her as the two paraded back and forth in front of the bars of her cell. He had the air of wealth, class, and aristocracy about him, but his shoulders were not held erect with pride as one might expect from such a man, but rather, were weighted down with something.
She recognized their movements first, then their faces. “Why, of course, if it isn’t Mr. And Mrs. Frank Hamilton. Remember me, your ol’ buddy Vicky? Remember me, Frank? Except you were never Frank to me. You were Francis. That’s what your I-talian mama named you. If it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. You were Francis to me. My Francis. What the hell kind of a name is Frank for a guy like you? Probably suits ya now. You done grown into it. Fuckwad Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Fuckwad Frank.” Her laughter turned into a hacking cough which she couldn’t control. The cough along with the pained laughter came from deep within her gut, it was so hard it made the veins in her neck and temples feel as if they would burst.
“Haven’t changed a bit, Allison,” the words squeaked out of her throat in one great wheeze. “Still running. And Francis still draggin’ ass behind her. Haven’t changed a bit. I wasn’t good enough for either one of ya, was I? I was never good enough. Wasn’t good enough to be your friend, Allison, and I sure as hell wasn’t good enough to be... yours, Francis.”
Vicky felt another crying jag come on, but she wouldn’t let this one take over. “I’ll be damned if I shed any more tears for you, Francis,” she called out, mustering all the fight she had within her. “Frank the fuckwad,” she cried out triumphantly. Anger had won out over self-pity this time, and it felt good. “Mr. and Mrs. Frank the fuckwad Hamilton. Mr. Frank fuckwad and his lovely bride of fucking Frankenstein. So, how many quarters do I owe ya now, Francis? Is that why you couldn’t loan me a buck or two for a cheap ass bottle of booze? Figure I owe it to ya in quarters after all these years of sayin’ the F word? Ain’t none of us got nothin’ to be proud of. You’re yuppie scum and I’m a fuckin’ drunk. We ain’t got nothin’ to be proud of.” The anger spent itself, and exhausted, Vicky fell back on her cot.
“Ah shit, not again,” she said, raising a shaking hand in front of her face. “Hold still,” she said slapping one shaky hand with another shaky hand in a vain attempt to hold her hands still. “Here he comes again.” There in the darkness outside her cell the dark phantom appeared. It wasn’t the usual faceless hooded phantom like the Grim Reaper. It if was, then she would have a right to be scared, but it was a shapeless overgrown blob. Sometimes it would shrink very small then suddenly grow large again. It had a comic face like a cartoon character; a face which laughed at her and mocked her. It only laughed, it never spoke, and its laughter would fluctuate from very high and squeaky when small, to low and deep when large.
“Stop it. Stop it. Stop laughing at me. I’ve swept bigger dust bunnies than you out from under my bed. Now go away,” she said closing her eyes and placing her shaking hands over her ears to stop the sound of the laughter. Booze was the only thing that would make it go away and she didn’t have any booze. Maybe if she screamed one of the matrons would come in and take pity on her and get her something to drink. Most likely not. She was stuck with the stupid phantom unless she became unconscious. Maybe she could bang her head against the wall to induce a state of unconsciousness. Maybe not such a good idea. “Knowin’ my luck I’d bang my head too hard and wind up a damn vegetable.” She closed her eyes and tried to will it away. “I could always cast it out in the name of Jesus. Right Grandma?” She squeezed her eyes tight and willed herself to remember the face of her grandmother. She could no longer see the phantom though she could still hear it laughing at her. “If I see a friendly face then I can’t see its face. Right?” She said trembling, afraid to open her eyes. She touched the small key which hung on a chain around her neck. It was the key to her grandma’s hope chest–all she had left in the world.
She squeezed her eyes tight, rubbed the key, and tried to call to mind the little country church that she so often visited with her Pentecostal grandmother. The memory became more vivid as the laughter outside her cell door continued. “I ain’t here. I’m far far away. Back at church with Grandma. You can’t reach me here.”
She remembered the uncomfortable wooden pews that caused her back and bottom to ache. Mostly she remembered the hardwood floor which invariably bade her to lie upon it when she’d finally had her fill of sitting up straight during the long services. She’d unabashedly hop off the pew and lay on that floor staring up at the ceiling of the church, with its wooden planks smartly painted white, arching up and up and up to the sky. The sound of the piano rang in her ear along with the voice of her grandmother, half whispering, half not. “Vicky Lee, get off that floor right now. You git right back up on this here pew. Now c’mon be a good girl. I don’t wanna have to take a switch to yer hide.” So Vicky would obey. She always obeyed her grandmother, unlike her mamma and daddy. Her grandmother would then place a large flabby arm around Vicky’s shoulder, it was better than a cushion, and Vicky would snuggle against her sagging breasts which hung over the belt of her Sunday dress. Her grandmother smelled like Ivory soap and the fresh air of line dried clothes. All the while the voice of her grandmother and the rest of the congregation would swirl about in her head.
What a fr
iend we have in Jesus
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit
O what needless pain we bear
All because we do not carry
Everything to God in prayer!
Vicky opened her eyes. Her head was clear and the phantom was gone.
“Oh, so now you’re gonna be my friend, after all the shit I’ve put up with. Don’t you think it’s a little late? Leave me alone. I don’t believe in you. Who the hell am I talkin’ to? Myself, myself, always my damned self.”
The anxiety returned. Of course it did. Vicky knew it would. And with it came the apparitions of Francis and Allison, pacing back and forth in the hall outside her cell, completely oblivious to her imprisonment. “Oh, shit! Not you assholes again. Go away and leave me alone. I’m expecting another visitor. Maybe you’ve seen him. He’s a twelve foot tall dust bunny and he eats drunks for supper.” Vicky shuddered at the idea of the dark phantom returning. Then she got an idea which made her laugh, cough, and hack all at the same time. If the phantom returned, she’d simply command him to eat Allison and Francis. “Sic ‘em! Go on and sic ‘em,” she laughed uncontrollably, not noticing the figure of the female guard standing over her.
“Vicky, are you all right?” She heard the voice say, sounding as if it was coming from inside a tunnel. “You’ve been making quite a ruckus.”
“Grandma, is that you? I’m sick, grandma. I don’t feel so good.”
“Oh, my gosh! Shirley, get in here quick,” Vicky heard the voice holler out to someone. There was commotion inside the cell, footsteps moving fast, two figures now standing over her, their voices hushed yet filled with concern. She only caught a word or phrases here and there. “Covered in sweat... A seizure?... No, not a seizure... Tremors... Hospital... Need to call an ambulance...”
ODD NUMBERS Page 3
