Rip Your Heart Out

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "When terrorists start attacking cardio rehab facilities, it's time for us to dig an underground bunker and move into it." While I spoke, I topped off Rip's glass of orange juice.

  "Not a half-bad idea."

  "Itsy also made a good point that hadn't occurred to me yet."

  "And what was that?"

  "Mabel's last will and testament hasn't been altered in a number of years. She wasn't deemed of sound mind and body since she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Her gift of this house to the cardiac center stemmed back to the heart attack she suffered ten or eleven years ago. Remember Sydney mentioned that to us when I was concerned that whatever happened to cause Mabel's death might happen to you, too?" I asked.

  "Yeah. I recall her saying Mabel had something called mycranial fracture."

  "Yes, that's right. Although it's actually called myocardial infarction. Mycranial fracture sounds more like a complication from falling down a flight of stairs."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right." Rip took a bite off his piece of toast and washed it down with juice. "So what's your point?"

  "Adelaide and Tasman Combs have accused Sydney of coercing Aunt Mabel to change her will after her recent bypass surgery. But she made the decision to donate this house to the heart center around a decade ago."

  "Surely Sydney's aware of that, too. Why hasn't she brought that to her siblings' attention?"

  "I dunno. Maybe she has and they're just in denial. They probably refuse to believe a woman, who raised them like her own after their mother died, wanted anyone but them to have all her money when she passed. But according to Itsy, there was a falling out, and Adelaide and Tasman were the last two people Mabel would have wanted to benefit from her death."

  "Well, dear, I guess you'll just have to accept that it is what it is." Rip had been stirring his bowl of hot cereal for over five minutes as if thinking the unappealing globby crap would eventually morph into a big pile of biscuits and sausage gravy if he played with it long enough. Oatmeal to Rip was like a unicycle to a goldfish. The two just did not go together.

  He had at least acknowledged the fact he'd have to make some lifestyle changes and was making a half-assed effort to adjust. But I wasn't certain a half-assed effort was going to be enough to keep him alive, and that's what kept me up at night.

  I turned my attention back to Rip as he said, "Speaking of Tasman, he was here for about an hour last night while you and Itsy were at church."

  "Doing what?"

  "I don't know. But I did hear him talking on the phone. I overheard him say something like, 'I'm worried they'll find out.'"

  "Who was he talking to?"

  "How in the hell would I know?" Rip barked gruffly. Somebody needed a nap already, and he hadn't even finished his breakfast yet. I listened as Mr. Grumpy Pants continued. "I'm not even sure I didn't misunderstand what he said. It's not like I could go ask him to repeat the conversation for me. He didn't know I was anywhere around when he made that remark."

  "Hmm. That's interesting." I was naturally curious who Tasman had been conversing with and what he was afraid someone would find out, but I knew I'd gotten all the information I was liable to get out of Rip. With his hearing impairment, and his aversion to wearing his $5,000 hearing aids, it was possible the boy had said nothing of the sort. Tasman could have said something like, "I'm worried my pot supply is about out." Or, for that matter, even something as ludicrous as, "I'm worried the snowman will thaw out."

  When the doorbell rang, I got up to welcome the cleaning crew, who were slated to finish up the job by noon. It was Thursday, Sydney's customary drop-by day, and she'd informed me she'd be by to pay them around eleven and check in on Rip at the same time. I suspected she might have another round of treasure-hunting in mind, as well. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Adelaide and Tasman show up, too. As far as I was aware, the gold had still not been unearthed—for the second time in its existence.

  That thought made me wonder if Mabel hadn't buried the gold somewhere on the premises, a practice quite common back in the days of old. My pappy kept a Mason jar buried behind the chicken coop when I was growing up. But rather than two million bucks worth of gold, his jar had contained a handful of small change. He had a tendency to dig the jar up and clean it out before the coins could add up to more than a couple of dollars. It was definitely not from my pappy that I'd inherited my financially conservative nature.

  * * *

  When I responded to the ringing doorbell, I was surprised to find Itsy Warman on the front porch rather than the cleaners. I greeted her with a smile. As unpredictable as the lady was, I knew if I'd had a sister instead of all brothers, I'd have wanted her to be just like Itsy. She was fun to have around and would have kept me on my toes.

  "Howdy, neighbor! What brings you over this morning?"

  "I'm in a bind and was wondering if you'd be willing to take me into the city this morning. My car's in the shop getting a new alternator put in, and I need to drop something off at the bookie."

  "Bookie?" Just when I thought nothing about Itsy could surprise me, I find out she's a gambler. I reiterated the word to make sure I hadn't misunderstood what she'd said. "Did you say bookie?"

  "Yeah. It has to be today. It absolutely cannot wait another day."

  I nodded my head slowly. I tried not to sound critical when I replied. "I'm surprised you'd have anything to do with something like that."

  "Why's that? They say it's an activity that's helps keep an aging mind sharp."

  "If you say so." I shrugged. I'd have thought gambling would keep an older person broke, rather than sharp. "You never cease to amaze me, Itsy. Anyway, I'm available, but the truck's not. Rip's going to need it to drive to the rehab center."

  "Ain't the rehab center only two blocks up the street?" Itsy asked. She acted offended and probably thought I was looking for an excuse to get out of helping her. I felt bad, because she'd been willing to go to church with me the night before. But it's not like attending a Catholic mass was comparable to dealing with a bookie, which I wasn't even convinced was safe. I was embarrassed to ask Itsy if she was on top of her debt, or was in so deep she couldn't pay off her obligation. I've heard bookies could be downright brutal to clients who tried to renege on a losing wager. Itsy's insistence made me wonder if she'd been threatened with bodily harm if she didn't settle a debt today.

  So, afraid for Itsy's well-being, I decided to help her out as much as I could. "Yeah, the rehab facility's nearby, but Rip's really limited about how much energy he can expend right now. In fact, today's the first day Rip's been allowed to drive. He'll be taking our only vehicle, but that doesn't mean we can't call Goober to come pick us up."

  "Goober? Who's that?" Itsy asked. "Other than the mechanic on the Andy Griffith Show?"

  "Good grief, girl. You've never heard of Goober? You are dreadfully out of touch, my friend. Have you not had any contact with the outside world in the last decade, or so?"

  "Why would I want to immerse myself in the depressing reality of life any more than I have to? I'm happier not knowing what's going on in the world."

  "You make a good point, Itsy. But burying our heads in the sand won't get us to downtown Seattle anytime soon. Goober is like a modern day taxi cab, I hear. You call them and they send a car to pick you up and take you wherever you need to go."

  "Hmm. Never heard of it. But then, I've never ridden in a taxi cab before, either."

  "Wow! You have led a sheltered life, Itsy. Well, I'm almost sure the taxi company is called Goober. You just need to call the company and have them swing by and get us."

  "I don't know how to call Goober, Rapella. I have this flip-top Jitterbug phone I got ten years ago. Can't you call them?"

  "I don't know their number. Don't you have a phone book?"

  "Gee whiz, Rapella. Even I know you won't find Goober in the phone book. Didn't you say you had a pod?"

  "Huh?"

  "A pod," Itsy repeated with a touch of indignation in her voice. "Or is i
t called an iPod? You know, that thing you use to Boggle things to find out more about them."

  "It's Google I use to research different subjects. And you're talking about an iPad. I believe an iPod is one of those trailer things you can store stuff inside in lieu of renting a storage unit."

  "Oh. Now that you mention it, I think I've seen one of those. The Nowacks down the street rented one of those iPods when they moved a couple of months ago," Itsy said. "Then the iPod company towed it to the Nowacks' new house when they were ready to unload their stuff and move in."

  "Very convenient. Now wait here while I go Google Goober and make sure Rip feels comfortable not having me nearby for a while."

  I was beginning to see Itsy's and my affiliation turning into the same kind of relationship that had probably existed between her and Mabel Trumbo. Itsy probably welcomed me as a replacement for her late neighbor, who'd most likely been the closest friend she'd had in the world whether she'd admit it or not. I was content knowing I filled some kind of void in Itsy's life, even if it was only destined to be for the next couple of months.

  I asked Itsy to wait in the foyer so she wouldn't follow me into the kitchen. I didn't think our next-door neighbor needed to see a chubby, bald guy with a fresh zipper down his chest who was wearing nothing but a well-worn pair of boxer shorts and trying to choke down a bowl of what was now stone-cold hot cereal.

  "Be careful," he said, after I informed him I was going on an errand with the neighbor. "Itsy doesn't sound like she'd be the safest driver on the planet."

  I hadn't bothered telling him her car was in the shop and we planned to contact a transportation service called Goober for a ride. Like Itsy, he made no effort to keep up with current events, and I didn't have time to explain those new-fangled taxi cabs to him.

  "I shouldn't be gone long." I kissed him on the top of the head and grabbed my purse off the counter. "I'm just tagging along on her quick little trip downtown. I'm sure I'll be back well before Sydney arrives at eleven."

  I also didn't think Rip needed to know we were going to pay a visit to a bookie. He'd want us to wait until he could accompany us, and waiting was not an option. I didn't want Rip doing more than he should that early in the recovery process. It's not like he was in any condition to kick some bookie's behind should we be threatened. Besides, this would just be a speedy, uneventful trip into the city.

  I didn't know it at the time, but it wouldn't be as quick a trip as I'd thought it'd be, and it certainly wouldn't be uneventful. Had I known what was in store, I would have faked a migraine, and stayed home to work on some mindless task all day. But I didn't. So off I went, like a heedless lemming racing toward the sea.

  Chapter 23

  "Regina? This is your mother," I said into the phone after I'd failed to find the transportation company on my iPad. When I'd Googled "Goober", I only found articles about the beloved TV character, peanuts, and a Nestle's candy product. As a last resort, I'd placed a call to my daughter.

  "I know who it is, Mom. When you call, your name and photo pop up on my screen. Even if they didn't, I'd know it was you because you and Dad have your own personal ringtones."

  "Oh?" It was flattering to hear our daughter had assigned us each our own tune so she'd know when we were calling. She must have wanted to make sure she'd never miss an opportunity to speak with us. "That's so sweet of you. And what are they, sweetheart?"

  "Well, Dad's is Toby Keith's 'Who's Your Daddy'? And yours is 'Crazy Mama'."

  "'Crazy Mama?'" I asked. I tried not to sound as offended as I felt.

  "It's not what you're thinking, Mom. You know how much I love the Rolling Stones, and the title does have the word Mama in it, so–"

  "Oh, never mind, Reggie." Itsy was waiting for me in the foyer, and I didn't have time to dissect her reasoning behind the song choice. The fact she never wanted to miss a call from me was gratifying enough for now. "The reason I called is that I'm going with a friend to see her bookie and I can't seem to find Goober on my phone."

  "Who? What? Her bookie? Did you say Goober?" Regina asked. She sounded agitated, as if I'd caught her at a bad time. "Your friend's bookie is named Goober?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Goober as in The Andy Griffith Show?"

  "Now you're starting to sound like Itsy."

  "Itsy?" Regina asked, clearly confused. I was even more convinced I'd caught her at an inopportune time; in the middle of a manicure, a real estate closing, or perhaps an argument with her cable TV provider.

  Goodness sakes. She might have even just been in an accident, I thought. "You weren't injured were you, dear?"

  "What? Was I injured?" Now Regina sounded more worried than flustered. "Mom, you haven't been cooking with sherry again, have you?"

  "No, dear. The last time I tried that, it didn't turn out so well. Let me start over. I'm a little flustered at the moment."

  "Yeah, no shit. I think that went without saying." My daughter's sarcastic response only goes to show why calling her was a last resort. Impatiently, Regina asked, "What's going on, Mom?"

  "My friend, Itsy Warman, and I are trying to nail down a lift to town with that new Goober company that provides taxi service."

  "Good Lord, Mother. It's not called Goober."

  "Well, no wonder I couldn't find it on the Internet. What is it called?"

  "Does Dad know about this?" Regina replied, instead of answering my question.

  "Of course he does, sweetheart."

  "Let me talk to him."

  I glanced in the kitchen to make sure Rip wasn't eavesdropping on my call. He wasn't. He was pouring his uneaten oatmeal down the garbage disposal and probably couldn't have heard my voice over the ruckus Goofus was making, anyway. I'd have bet the farm that ten minutes after I departed with Itsy, Rip would be eating cold pizza for breakfast that one of the Combs' kids had left in the fridge the previous night.

  "Your father's at his rehab appointment."

  "All right, Mom. Why don't you just let me arrange for the pickup for you two? I already have the app on my phone, and I don't have time to explain to you how to download it on yours and sign up for the service. I'll just need your current location and a destination address."

  "Our address at the Heart Shack is 666 South Hart Street."

  "Yikes, Mom. The number 666 is synonymous with the devil, you know."

  "Maybe that's why this place seems to be haunted." I hadn't even considered the significance of the house's address before, but then, I'd never been particularly superstitious. "Downtown Seattle is our destination."

  "Can you be a little more specific?" Regina asked, with a sarcastic tinge to her tone again. "Downtown Seattle's a little vague, considering the size of the city."

  "I don't know the address, dear. Can't Itsy just tell the driver when he arrives?"

  "I'll see what I can do," she replied. I detected a sigh on the other end of the line. I was beginning to wonder if she actually did answer her phone every time she heard "Crazy Mama" playing. She seemed to not have her phone with her quite frequently when I called. A few moments later, Regina said, "Don't worry about paying the driver. They'll just charge it to my account."

  "Thanks, sweetie. I'll have Itsy reimburse you."

  "Don't worry about it. It's really reasonably priced. Just have a good time and be careful. I can't believe daddy's letting you two make a visit to a bookie without him."

  "He's not concerned, dear, so you shouldn't be either." How could he be concerned about something he knows nothing about? I could have added.

  "Well, all right. You two need to get outside where the driver can see you because he or she should be there in no time at all. I'll email you a screenshot showing the driver's name, license plate number, and vehicle make and model. Make sure they match before you get in. Okay?"

  "Of course, dear. Thanks again."

  * * *

  "That blue car is slowing down. He looks like he's looking for someone. It must be our ride. Let's wave him down,
Itsy." We'd barely made it to the curb when we spotted the car.

  "Wow!" Itsy exclaimed. "That was fast. We ain't been standing here but a few seconds."

  "Regina told me they'd be here in no time at all."

  We both began waving our arms as if we were stranded on a deserted island and trying to flag down a plane flying overhead. The blue Chevy Cruze, which had a bashed-in headlight and mangled front fender, pulled over and stopped. The driver unrolled the passenger window and curtly asked, "Whaddya want?"

  The disheveled driver had a ruddy face and bloodshot eyes that appeared to be aimed in two different directions. I was glad we could help him out with a fare. He was so slovenly, it was obvious he needed the money to buy some new clothes and help to get his life back on track. He needed to bone up on his social skills and manners, too. But I reckon no amount of money can buy respectability and politeness.

  "We're your next ride, sir. My daughter said you'd be here soon, but that was crazy fast."

  "What?" He looked dazed and confused. I thought Regina told me he'd know we wanted to go downtown, but then realized it was probably my fault for not knowing the exact address.

  As the man stared at us with his mouth agape, Itsy and I climbed into the back of the Chevy and fiddled with our seatbelts. After we were buckled in, the driver continued to stare at us through the car's rearview mirror. He took a long draw from a flask he'd extracted from the console, which I assumed was water to help keep him hydrated on the warm day. I turned to Itsy, and said, "Give the gentleman the address."

  Itsy tapped the driver on the shoulder. He was still silently staring at us through the mirror with his misaligned eyeballs. Itsy said, "We need to go to the bookie."

  "What?" The man asked again. I knew by his incredulous tone he had no clue where Itsy's bookie was located. "Why should I take you there?"

  "I don't think the purpose of our trip should be of any concern to you. We're paying you to take us where we need to go, not where you want to take us. We have plenty of money to pay you, if that's your problem," Itsy said icily.