Ruby covered her eyes. She managed to say something that sounded like “…so hard.”
“Tell me the truth,” Lois said. “Are you using this stuff?”
Ruby looked at her then, her eyes wet and red.
Lois reached under the seat for a tissue and passed it to her.
Ruby blew her nose, then nodded. “I used it. I didn’t set out to. I was trying to do a favor for a friend, my old cellmate from Dwight. I helped her get a little apartment and took her to a NA meeting. If you read the letter, you know she couldn’t stay where she was.”
Lois nodded. She wanted to believe Ruby, but experience told her to be cautious.
“She stole a stash from the dealer up in Berwyn. I helped her sell some of it for money to get a place.”
After a short silence, Lois said, “What’s in the bag, Ruby?”
“Cocaine. She gave me some for helping her. I thought one time wouldn’t hurt me. The next bag I paid for.”
“I was hoping this would work out,” Lois said. “I had my doubts, but I also had hopes. You’ve violated parole in about a dozen different ways.”
“Please. I’ll do whatever you say. I won’t do this again. I promise. Please don’t tell Sophie.”
An image of a little girl on the bank of the river came to Lois. She’d been trying to teach Ruby to fish, but the child didn’t want to touch the worm, and when she pulled in a small sunfish and tried to get the hook out of its mouth with shaking hands, the little fish succumbed. Ruby had pleaded that day. “Please don’t tell Sophie that I killed that fish.”
At length Lois said, “You have bigger things to worry about than Sophie. You better hope your parole officer doesn’t drop you.”
“I know. I’ll do better. You’ll see. I can do this.”
“Where does this Tia Johnson live?”
“I helped her get an apartment at the St. Peter’s Hotel, right downtown, you know? They have efficiencies they rent by the week.”
Lois nodded. She knew the place.
“I promise I won’t have anymore to do with her.”
“I know you won’t.”
“If you want me to, I’ll sell that bag and pay you back.”
“No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll get rid of it for you.”
Ruby hung her head and said softly, “Can we go on, then?”
Lois sighed. “We can go on. But you talk to your sponsor and get honest about this.”
“I will.” Ruby reached across the seat and embraced Lois. “Thank you. Believe me, this won’t happen again.”
Lois held her.
Finally Lois put the truck in gear and pulled in back of the building. There she wadded up the letter and tossed it in an open dumpster. Then she picked up the bag of powder and held it outside the truck’s window, letting the wind scatter it into nothing.
Ruby watched. As they pulled out of the huge parking lot, she asked, “Do you ever wish you’d left me in Vietnam?”
“No,” Lois lied. “Never.”
Chapter Ten
Morgan Holiday watched the rain. The wipers were on intermittent, certainly not enough to keep up in this downpour. When she’d pulled in the parking lot at Tallulah’s an hour ago, she’d seen no sign of rain. But before she could convince herself to go inside, sprinkles came, driven by gusts of wind that blew in dark clouds. Then all hell broke loose. To keep the windows from steaming up, she’d restarted the car and let it idle.
Morgan had stopped after she left work and bought a coffee at a Java drive-through. When she’d picked it up from the cup holder, the top was loose and she’d spilled it. She pulled over and used half a box of tissues to soak it up, but she and the car still smelled of coffee. She’d almost talked herself into going into the bar. Now she sat there watching as cars pulled in next to her and women got out and dashed to the door. Did lesbians own umbrellas? Hers was in the trunk. What did that make her? Rain hammered on the car’s roof. How wet would she get if she made a run for it?
Morgan relaxed a bit. It was Friday night and she was weary from a long, stress-filled day. That morning she and Redick had caught a domestic-violence killing. When they entered the trailer, an Iraq War veteran just home from his third deployment waited, cuffed to the kitchen table, drunk and in tears. She examined his wife lying in the living room floor next to a playpen. The woman (just a girl, really) was dead. If her neck hadn’t been at such an odd angle, Morgan might have thought she was sleeping. While they waited for Social Services to take the little boy, he’d climbed out of the playpen twice. Finally Morgan picked him up. A female uniform brought the kid a bottle of juice.
“You take him.” Morgan lifted the baby to hand him over, but the sleepy toddler let out a scream. So she gave the kid his juice and sat and waited, holding him until her arm went to sleep. By the time the social worker got there, the kid had been asleep for a while and the mother’s body had been removed. Redick was ready to transport the husband.
Morgan handed the kid over, stood, and noticed a wet spot on the thigh of her best-fitting jeans. All she could do was ignore it. Outside, Redick stood alone, leaning against the fender of their car. He motioned to her.
She sighed. What now? As she approached she saw that something was wrong. “What’s the problem?”
“I know this guy. I could take his statement, but I’d feel better if you did it.”
“Are you kidding me? He’ll be more inclined to confide in you.”
“Look,” Redick said. “I know what this guy’s been through. He doesn’t know where or who he is anymore.”
“Good. Then use it.”
“No. He’s not denying anything. My grandma could get this confession.” Then he walked away.
She nodded wearily. “Fine.”
Later, in an interrogation room, the husband, still drunk, still weeping, made a statement and attempted to write it out, but all he scrawled was, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She’d have to wait and try again.
Morgan started the paperwork and didn’t leave until after seven. The stress of the day still weighed on her neck and shoulders. Images of the woman and baby wouldn’t leave her.
A door slammed and she opened her eyes. The rain had lessened. Had she fallen asleep? A bit disoriented, she noticed a woman a few cars down hurry up the four steps into Tallulah’s. Morgan thought it might be the woman she’d met at Big and Beautiful. With a current of emotion, she swung the car door open and stepped directly into a puddle. Cold water soaked into her socks as she skipped toward the sidewalk. Looking down at herself, she made a quick assessment: coffee and urine stains on her best jeans and her shoes covered with mud. Wonderful.
Inside, music was blaring and the lights were low. Posters of divas lined the walls. The place had the customary sour and yeasty smell. Several tables were taken, so Morgan slid onto a bar stool.
A young man who didn’t even look old enough to drink asked her what she was having.
Morgan shivered. “Got any coffee?”
The kid pointed to a pot on the back of the bar and said, “It’s probably a little strong.”
“I like it strong.”
“You got it.”
Morgan turned around and watched people dancing: women and women, and men and men. Then she saw the consignment-shop woman at a table with two guys. Chelsea. Morgan wouldn’t forget that name. An inner voice told her to go over and say hello and, if that went well, ask her to dance.
“That’s two dollars.”
Morgan turned, digging in her shoulder bag. She tossed the money on the bar and lifted the coffee cup to her lips. The first sip was bitter and strong, but after a minute she was used to it. With something warm in her gut, she felt a little more confident. She looked again and Chelsea was still at the table. Another guy had joined them. The argument went on in Morgan’s head—what if she’s straight—what if she has a lover—why can’t you just stand up and walk over there—you don’t have to mention sex tonight—just say hello. But she rem
ained immobile.
“Hey, Zach, draft beer.”
Morgan turned toward the voice and found Chelsea standing right next to her. Turning away so as not to stare, Morgan told herself, just say hello. Her heart was pounding. Her mouth was dry. Just say hello and ask if she still works at the consignment shop for big women. Of course she won’t remember you. She sees new customers all the time. Well, you can fucking say hello, can’t you? Start fresh.
Zach slid the draft beer across the bar and Chelsea laid the money down. She noticed Morgan looking her way, so she smiled cheerfully and said, “Hi.”
Morgan’s tongue was like sandpaper. She couldn’t speak. She nodded and smiled, and Chelsea picked up the beer and hurried back to her friends. Morgan finished her coffee and left.
*
Morgan wasn’t surprised to be awake in the middle of the night. She squinted at the clock, telling herself that the sound she’d heard was part of a dream. It was three or eight something—probably three since the room was dark. She turned over and punched her pillow. That’s when she saw the floating whiteness, an apparition in the open doorway. She lay still and listened. Yes, someone was definitely in the room with her. She could hear breathing. Her weapon was on the other side of the room, in its holster, beneath the blazer she’d draped over the back of the rocking chair.
Then came a single word from a familiar voice. “George?”
Morgan reached for the nightstand and fumbled for the light. When it came on she blinked, and so did her mother. The old woman’s gray hair was in frantic curly ringlets, and a wet nightgown clung to her soft frame. Her feet were muddy and bleeding.
“Who are you?” her mother demanded. “Where’s George?”
Even though her father had been dead for several years, Morgan said, “He’s out of town. Don’t you remember?”
“I guess—I…”
Morgan then heard knocking at the front door. Had she left it unlocked? How did her mother get in? She couldn’t have remembered the key beneath the doormat. Morgan stood and went to the window. A cab was in the driveway, its headlights on and windshield wipers running. The banging at the front door grew louder. Then a man shouted, “Lady. Hey, Lady.”
Morgan grabbed her robe and her wallet.
At the front door, the cab driver was angry. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he said.
Morgan asked, “How much?”
“You can’t let that old woman walk around in the rain like this. This time of night, it’s probably forty degrees.”
“I’m sorry,” Morgan said. “How much?”
“She belongs in a home where they have alarms on the doors. You’re lucky she remembered her address.”
Morgan pulled a twenty from her wallet.
That caught his attention. “Twenty-six seventy.”
Morgan dug deeper.
“I picked her up on the other side of town, at a gas station. The kid who was working called for a cab and handed me this address. You’re lucky it’s been a slow night. I wanted to call the cops, but she knew the address. I figured someone was here, you know, keeping care.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said, passing him two twenties.
“I do understand.” The cab driver spoke in a kinder tone. “My grandpa, he had it. Kept my grandma up all hours. Forgot it was night. Got so tired she was sick. That’s when we had to—”
“Thank you, again.” Morgan stepped back inside and closed the door before he could say more.
Turning, she saw the light in the kitchen. She hurried into her bedroom and picked up a pair of jeans, still coffee-and-urine-stained, from the overflowing laundry basket. She put one leg in and hopped toward the kitchen, trying to walk and dress at the same time.
Her mother was at the sink filling the coffeepot with water.
“You making coffee, Ma?”
She said, “I’m so cold.” Then she eyed Morgan more carefully. “Who are you? Where’s George?”
“He’s out of town.” Morgan had given up telling her that he was dead. At first she wouldn’t believe it. Then she would cry. By the time Morgan calmed her down, she’d forgotten and needed to be told again.
Her mother reached to the top shelf for the coffee canister. All this time and it was still kept in the same spot. Those things she remembered.
Morgan noticed the kitchen floor. Smeared muddy footprints with spots of blood went in every direction. But her mother wasn’t anxious. Morgan had seen full-blown anxiety attacks. Maybe it was the medicine, or maybe it was just being at home that calmed her. Surprisingly, she got the pot of coffee going.
Looking down at her nightgown, she asked, “Why am I all wet?”
“The rain,” Morgan said, pointing at the window over the sink. “You need a hot shower and some dry clothes.”
“But the coffee—”
“It’ll be ready when you’re done.” Morgan touched her mother’s shoulder and began to steer her toward the hallway, off of which were the doors to two bedrooms and a bathroom.
But she stopped. “Who are you? Where’s George?”
“I’m Morgan, your daughter. Dad has gone fishing.”
“Morgan?”
And so it went. In the shower, her mother stood stoically with a blank look in her eyes. Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the tub while Morgan worked on her feet, removing imbedded gravel, putting antiseptic on the small cuts and scratches. Once she had her mother in a dry nightshirt and settled in the kitchen over a strong cup of coffee, she stepped into the living room and called for an ambulance. A thousand things could go wrong if she attempted to take her back on her own. She had started to dial the number of the nursing home when her mother called out.
“George, I’ve got this coffee ready.”
“Dad’s gone fishing,” Morgan said, reaching for an empty cup. “I’ll have coffee with you.”
“Who are you? Where’s George?”
*
Morgan phoned the ambulance company a second time when the sky started turning gray. By then her mother had polished off most of a pot of coffee and was snoring on the couch beneath her favorite afghan.
“I’m sorry,” the dispatcher said. “We only got one bus overnight and we’ve been busy.”
“When does the day shift come on?”
“Seven thirty.” The woman popped gum in Morgan’s ear. “Now if this is life or death…”
Morgan sighed. “It’s not.”
“Then I’d suggest you call a cab.”
Morgan hung up. The call to the nursing home earlier had gone about the same. The night nurse was upset that a patient was missing and relieved that she was found. She apologized several times—didn’t know how Mrs. Holiday could have gotten out of a locked ward, unless at shift change she followed the orderly through the door. They were shorthanded. It could have happened.
“Don’t you do an occasional head count?”
“Well, yes. But we had several call-offs tonight. We had someone over there who doesn’t normally work that ward.”
Although the night nurse hadn’t asked, Morgan said, “She isn’t hurt too bad. Some cuts and scrapes on her feet. Probably got a chill in the rain.”
“I am so sorry,” the disembodied voice said. “I’ll call the DON and see if we can get some antibiotics ordered, just in case.”
“Can you pick her up?” Morgan asked.
“Call an ambulance.”
“I did. They haven’t come.” At this point Morgan still hoped that they would.
“Do you have a car?” the nervous voice asked.
“I can’t handle her if she has a panic attack.”
“But the chances of that—”
“It’s happened to me twice.” Once on Mother’s Day in a restaurant and once in the car.
“I wish I could send someone. Honest, I do. But no one’s here to do it this time of night. Can you get through until morning?”
“How am I supposed to keep her calm?” When Morgan got off the phone, her mo
ther was still asleep.
Morgan heard the newspaper hit the porch at ten till six. She’d nodded off in the recliner. She double-checked the time, then picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Yeah, what?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Nah,” Henry said. “I got my nights and days messed up lately. Been watching Leave it to Beaver reruns. My nephew got me the whole first season as a retirement gift. Comes in a lunch box.”
“I need your help.”
“Sure, babe. What’s up?”
Not many people would answer that request without asking what the problem was. Morgan appreciated Henry more since he retired than she ever had. She let out her breath slowly. “It’s my mother.”
*
Morgan pulled off her jeans and wrinkled T-shirt, showered quickly—no time to wash her hair—and got dressed. This time with underwear.
When Henry arrived, Morgan met him at the door. “She’s still asleep.”
“Good. She might stay groggy.”
“We can hope.” But Morgan doubted it. “Come on. Let’s get her up.”
It started right away. “Where’s George?”
Henry was driving and Morgan was in the backseat of Henry’s Explorer with her mother. They were less than halfway across town when for some unknown reason she caught on. “Take me home.” She said it three times, each closer to a scream than the last. Morgan’s assurance that they were taking her home didn’t calm her. She didn’t recognize Morgan and didn’t seem to notice Henry. In the end, Morgan had to put her arms around her and hold her firmly while she struggled.
Two orderlies that Morgan recognized were waiting in the lobby. A frazzled- looking nurse came running toward them and said, “Hello, Mrs. Holiday. Say good-bye to your daughter. You’re home now.”
Morgan’s mother turned to her. “Take me home. I don’t like this place. Please.”
Morgan tried to respond with another lie, but it caught in her knotted and aching throat. The two orderlies grabbed the old woman, one on each side, and lifted her, still upright, at least a foot off the floor. Morgan could hear her screaming, “Morgan! Morgan! Morgan…” even after the locked door of the Alzheimer’s ward slammed shut. She wasn’t aware that she’d been crying until she felt Henry’s hand on her shoulder.
Retirement Plan Page 12
